Twenty-six seats...

“The attempt to quantify the human 

condition leads to a barren field.”

– Author unknown

There were 26 seats in the waiting room. They were full, save one.

Upon arriving, my cellmates had already been assigned a number and were waiting to be called. Mine? 276.

There is something unbecoming about being reduced to a number. We all have thoughts…feelings…personalities that are unique. Digital identification in some ways seems like an attempt by the dark side to say, “See, even these people know you are a fake…a fraud…” 

They, of course, know nothing about us, but they think we have no legitimate feelings.  We are less than a sneeze in cosmic time – a gossamer spot withering from existence like the drop of water momentarily sizzling on a hot rock in the desert sun. That's why you only get a number from them.

A bit of an over exaggeration, but nonetheless…

Veteran’s health care has a system…

I got that assigned series of numbers when checking in at the automatic kiosk, a humorless device. With nary a welcoming nod it spit out a small piece of paper upon which was printed in large bold type: "276."

Thank God for those Indian/Muslim scholars who rescued us from Roman numerals - imagine keeping all of those letters straight. 

Even under the Unary notation system, my assignment would have been two hundred and seventy-six diagonally slashed lines (e.g.,///…///). Picture how complicated it would be for folks trying to keep track of their number of slashes so as to not miss their appointment.  

“I’m sorry sir,” the disinterested clerk would say. “You miscounted. You will have to come back tomorrow”.…I digress.

The process…

As I sat down, a mechanical speaker barked, "Number 260, your testing is ready." It would be a while.  For those inmates hard of hearing, two large TV screens displayed their numbers ready to be seen.

The man beside me had a black female Labrador lying at his feet (His number - 274). She was a big one that appeared to be nearly seventy-pounds. There were two black leather handles – one attached to her harness and the second to a neck collar. An attached leash lay slack on the floor and a disengaged muzzle dangled loosely from the side of her head. She had gorgeous wavy black hair. Calling her coat fur would not do justice to its glistening sheen – poetic license.

An ethereal calm drifted from her as she lay quietly at her master’s feet. She exuded a sense of comfort and safety to those of us nearby giving the impression she might be a celestial angel in disguise, sent to bring peace to the world, or at least to the mind of this veteran. 

Unencumbered by the need to have learned an arcane numbering system and other accouterments of her human counterparts, she reclined with ease as though time meant nothing. She was a comfort dog, suggesting volumes as to the vestiges of distant theatres of conflict into which the man had been thrust and partaken…parts of which he had taken home, lodged inconveniently within the confines of his mind.

A man in a wheelchair sat in the open space between me and the seats directly across the way. He was elderly with hearing aids and a prosthetic right leg. I imagined a battle in some distant land that probably seemed essential to somebody at the time. Because he looked to be in my age range, his military service would have been in a jungle somewhere east of Cambodia/Laos and South of China, decades ago. A younger woman was with him, somewhere in her upper thirties, whose once youthful attractiveness had, by now, been covered by too much attention-getting makeup. She looked bored as she kept her eyes on her phone. When she spoke to him, his first response was, turning his head toward her and saying, “Eh?” His voice was weak, and he looked tired, defeated really. His number was 286. He was going to be there awhile.

The chairs were arranged in a U shape. They held bodies whose minds were filled with stories, if honestly told, might edify and horrify. Yet there they sat like libraries with locked doors. There, not for personal revelation, but for maintenance to the machinery in which ‘they' were housed. The older ones sat with vacant stares; the younger glued to their smartphones. All of them taking up space in the familiar hurry up and wait process part and parcel to military custom. Their present mission had no guns, bombs, or battles. That was an earlier day. Now it was a blood draw, or x-ray, or some other health care procedure looking to manage the tendrils of time and gravity that had impacted their physical and mental health.

Time slipped away as I glanced from person to person imaging what had brought these comrades to this communal moment and these uniquely assigned numbers. The man and his Labrador slipped away from my side unnoticed.

"Number 276, please report to the blood lab," a voice boomed over the loudspeaker, bringing me back to reality. I headed through a door where a phlebotomist (needle vampire) took my numbered ticket, asked me for the last four digits of my social security number.

“Sit here,” he said not asking my name and then drew my blood. I asked his name amd how long he had been doing this job.

“Brad,” he said with little enthusiasm. “Been drawing blood since the early nineties.”

Before I knew it, he was done, and I was out the door – three minutes tops. Had I not asked his name and how long he had been working in the field, he would have said nothing save checking to see if I were the correct veteran and asking me to bare my arm.  

There was no, “How has your day gone?” or “How about that great weather that we’ve gotten.” To this harried fellow, who did this mechanical job all day, every working day, I was number 276 and the last four digits of my social security number.

On the way home, I continued to think about those nameless faces, who found themselves with me, sitting long periods of time waiting for their moment of diagnostic bliss.

When I got home that night and walked in the door, Molly said, “Hey Ted, Glad you’re home safe. I was thinking about you.”

No numbers, just a simple, loving greeting. I’m pretty sure that’s the way it ought to be.

-ted

The seat was empty

“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby

some have entertained angels unawares.”

Hebrews 13:2

Over the decades and hundreds of thousands of miles of flying, I have had a lot of seatmates. Sometimes there was little to no interaction but more often than not thoughtful conversations have developed. We are a strange species. It’s surprising how diverse our interests are. Through these relatively brief interactions, I have learned a lot of things I would otherwise never have known. A few have been amazing and stand out above the rest. But then there was Brenda…

The woman was late getting on the flight. Sitting down beside me, she slipped a copy of Becoming (Michelle Obama’s book) into the seat back pocket. I have a small toolkit of questions as possible conversation starters when I am in situations with strangers. Seeing the book, I thought this would be enough. As it turned out, it only lit a fuse that would take a couple of weeks to unfold.

How it began…

We were flying from Tucson through Dallas to the East coast. Molly and I had not been able to get seats together. My seat-mate had not arrived, and I was just about to signal Molly to move in beside me when the woman came through the door, down the aisle and eased into the vacant seat to my right.

I was in the middle of reading The Ministry of Utmost Happiness a novel by the Indian authoress Arundhati Roy. On the advice of a colleague, I picked the book up and found the writing impressive. If nothing developed with my new riding partner, I knew I could get a good bite out of the book on the last leg of the flight. In truth, even though I have an appetite for hearing people’s stories, I was hoping the interaction with this woman would be brief so I could dig back into this book.

“How do you like Becoming?” I asked

“Oh,” she replied. “I’ve just started it.”

Continuing the small talk, I said, “Have you read Dreams from my Father” by her husband?" “No,” she replied.

“What kinds of things do you read?” I continued, marking time and fighting the urge to get back to my book as quickly as I could.

“Mostly professional things,” she said.

I opened my mental checklist by asking, “Are you coming home or going out?” – “Have you been on Business or with family?”

The exchanges were polite. Nothing special.

Okay, I’ll wrap this up with a couple more questions and shut it down.

Mists of enchantment…

I’m not sure what transpired next, but in the few minutes between taxiing and flight, something happened - a door opened. It was like a key slipped into a lock and the invisible tumblers fell into place. Before I knew it, we were fully engaged as though we were old friends catching up. It was not the content of the conversation, but the spirit which drove it. The Ministry of Utmost Happiness? It wasn’t going anywhere and besides chatting with this woman was compelling. As happens when in the zone, time goes by quickly, and so it was for us.

We had been at it for some time, before I said, “You must have a name.”

“Brenda,” she replied. “I’m Ted.”

Almost before the three-hour-plus flight began, it seemed like it was over.

“Do you have a card?” I asked as we taxied to the terminal.

“No, I don’t,” she replied looking for something to write on. I had a parking stub from Tucson in my wallet. She wrote her email address. "Send me your mailing address, and I'll send you a book," she said. I told her I would do that and send her one of my books as well.

With a brief chat at the luggage carousel, we parted, and that was that. 

That night I sent Brenda an email along with my mailing address, saying how nice it was to meet her. I was not prepared for what happened next.

A gift in the mail…

When we got home from our eastern tour, there was a package waiting for me. It contained two copies of the same book: Journey of Spirit Walk of Faith – Our Relationship with God, by Brenda and her hubby Franklin. What to do?

Over the years I have tended to not read what this book appeared to represent. Like self-help books, my experience with spiritual books has not been the best. Readers often set unrealistic expectations for their own lives, and rather than being helpful, they can damage. But I had met Brenda. We had shared several hours together, and I knew with this gift to me, I would feel obligated to read it and thank her in a passive but polite way.

Not what I expected…

I learned a few things about Brenda and Franklin. They both had doctorates and in the early 2000s taught at universities in California. They were hard working, successful academics, living the American dream, who in second marriages found in one another a rhythm of love that was sustaining and uplifting. She was a California girl, born and raised and Franklin from across the country. They were ‘start of the day coffee drinkers’ chatting about what lay ahead. Importantly, they were both people of faith, having grown up in the church. Okay for that.

One night, they both had a dream — the same dream. In it, they were to move from their lovely home and neighborhood to a place where a new house would have rolling hills and be situated on a pond. It was mystifying, but over the next few weeks, they followed what they thought they were to do and began looking for a new home. As it turned out, the ‘cupboard was empty.’ Sweet dreams – no door.

Family vacations were a big deal to them, and because they were both so busy, a summer’s break was an adventure they loved coordinating and taking together. This particular year, they had completely different ideas of where they wanted to go. She to Cancun; he, an eight-hundred-mile drive down the East Coast. Really?? There was tension, but they reached a loving compromise. One week in the East and one week in Mexico.

Go East, my people…

On this drive, visiting a relative, and through a series of apparently random events, they stumbled upon an undeveloped property in the Baltimore, Maryland area - miraculously a property they had seen in their dream earlier in the year.

Like Abraham of the Old Testament, they believed they were to uproot themselves from California — no jobs waiting — and move to Maryland. This they did and in little more than a year found themselves living in the East and depending on God to deliver. The home (they built it) on rolling hills with a pond was precisely what they had seen.

In California, Brenda and Franklin had given seminars on cultural proficiency, helping to open doors of communication within culturally diverse communities. During a new neighbor mixer in their new neighborhood, they met a woman who chaired the local school board. 

At the time the Baltimore school system had received a lot of negative press related to the decline in cross-cultural relationships. That chat ultimately led to a meeting with the District Deputy School Superintendent. This woman, as it turns out, had been praying for months for help in stopping the deterioration of race relations among students and the community. 

During that meeting, the deputy realized that a substantial part of this solution was sitting right in front of her in the persons of Brenda and Franklin. They have had and continue to have a significant impact in Baltimore and around the country with their professional seminars.

It is not possible to come close to giving this story its due. I can only say, in my lifetime, this is the most remarkable series of events I have ever known. These two people had the courage to exercise their faith and to get into the arena…to put their actions where their faith was.

By now they have been in the Baltimore area for a decade and a half. Their willingness to be willing led them into an unknown adventure that not only changed their lives but by now, the lives of uncounted numbers of people. This story is compelling on so many levels. We so often say how wonderful it is when we find a passion in life that matches our passion for life. This, however, was over the top!

I don't know what or who comes next into my life, but this story will be hard to match. Molly and I not getting seats together on that flight, afforded me not just a pleasant conversation but one of the greatest contemporary stories of faith I have ever read.

- ted 

I'm sorry...what?

“Pride goeth…before a fall”

(Or something like that!)

Proverbs 16:18

It was one of those small restaurants that dot big city neighborhoods. Molly and I were visiting her brother in Philadelphia and wanted a quiet dinner with a little quality family time. The meal was delicious, and the waitress did a great job - we paid by credit card.

The young woman brought the receipt to the table and then leaned over to Michael and said with a smile, “I’m pregnant, but we’ll be open on Monday for business.”

What!! I mean, we didn’t even know this person. It seemed a little out of place for her to be confiding to total strangers something so personal.

I turned to Molly and said, “Did she say she was pregnant?”

“No! She said on President’s day, they would be open.” The three of us began giggling which quickly turned to howling laughter. Gathering ourselves, we headed for the door.

Our waitress was busing another table as we left. I said to her, “I didn’t have my hearing aids in this evening, and I thought you said you were pregnant, but that you would be open Monday." With that, she began laughing so hard she had to put the empty dishes down so she wouldn't drop them. It was one of those unexpected, unguarded moments that had us recounting the event for the rest of the evening.

The next night we attended the opera (Midsummer Night’s Dream). Michael is music administrator for Opera Philadelphia. In addition to having great seats, we got a post-performance backstage tour where we met some of the singers and the conductor. Michael reintroduced us to one of his colleagues whose first comment was, “By the way, I’m not pregnant.” I quickly replied, “But are you open on Monday?” Once again, we all burst out laughing. It was clear this story was going to have legs.

Paying the piper…

“I think you need to check with someone,” I said. “You’ve begun lisping, and sometimes I can't tell whether your words end in “-s” or “-th.”

“I don’t think it’s me,” she replied. “I think it’s your hearing.”

I, of course, knew there was nothing wrong with my hearing. The more I thought about it, though, there were certain people, mostly women who I had trouble understanding.

To ensure continued peace in the household and to pacify my wife, I got an appointment with a hearing specialist. I already knew the outcome. My hearing was just fine.

The audiologist led me into a small grey-walled soundproof room. After some brief instructions and questioning whether I was claustrophobic, she handed me a set of earphones and a thumb switch.

“Put on the headphones,” she said, showing me how to hold the thumb switch. “Every time you hear a sound, push the red button down.” With that, she was out the door.

This was going to be a breeze.

There were quite a few pings and lots of thumb clicking. Yes sir, no problem. I was thinking about how much fun it was going to be to let Molly know she was wrong. 

When both ears had been tested, the audiologist came back into the room and sat down. “Let me show you how you did.”  Hot dog, here it comes.

She turned on a small computer screen and up flashed a graph. It had a horizontal line that moved across the grid from left to right. About three-quarters of the way across, the line precipitously dropped and looked like the vertical edge of a cliff.

“The horizontal line indicates normal hearing,” she said. “These are frequencies you hear well. But you see where the line drops off? These are higher frequencies. You missed almost all of the pings once those frequencies were reached. You’re going to need hearing aids. I’ll get them ordered, and then you will need to come in and get them adjusted.”

Hearing aids! Hearing aids!! Are you kidding me? The data couldn’t be right. I mean, old people wear hearing aids! What a rude awakening!!

“Hearing loss,” she continued, “is not like vision changes. Hearing aids will not allow you to have better hearing, they will only enhance sounds, so they are clearer.”

She indicated that nowadays hearing aids were little computers that could make adjustments explicitly based on individual hearing deficits. She said a bunch more stuff, but I tuned her out. I got it, I was just another pair of ears to her. I mean, there’s a lot more to me than just a couple of ears!!

When I got home, humble pie in hand, Molly said, “If it’s any consolation, this is not a new thing. You’ve been hard of hearing as long as I have known you. I had been in denial. She had not been critical but just trying to help.

Everything begins somewhere…

I suppose it started in Vietnam where I was an air traffic controller and for a year was exposed to high-pitched airplane and helicopter engine sounds. A reality, but small consolation. The need for hearing aids was just another marker in the diminishing returns of getting older!

So, another small brick has appeared in the wall of my mortal journey. Another reflection that the once held belief I would live forever was fancifully adolescent.

I suppose the good news is that I am not pregnant and I will definitely be open for business on Monday!

- ted