Month: June 2015

I’m So Very Hungry

I was ready to be home. I’d been in my office all morning and afternoon and I followed that with a long band practice that night. As I left the church, I debated making my customary stop at the nearby RaceTrac to take advantage of my free Sodapalooza refill. I decided to splurge and get a Dr. Pepper. As I walked out of the gas station indulging in my favorite soda, I caught sight of a disheveled man looking at the ATM. He was just standing there looking at it…no attempt to grab a wallet or reach into his pockets.

He noticed that I had noticed him and began patting the outsides of his pants and jacket as if he was searching for something. I immediately recognized it for the act that it was. I walked past him toward my car when I heard him speak up from behind me.

“Excuse me, sir.”

I stopped.

“Excuse me.”

I turned around. He stumbled over his words as he began informing me he had forgotten his wallet at his house down the street. He spoke of his embarrassment. I mentally prepared myself to inform him that I didn’t carry cash.

“Sir, I’m so very hungry. I haven’t been able to find any food today. Would you mind if I asked you to buy me a sandwich?”

I was pretty shocked. I have a standing rule that I don’t give cash to strangers approaching me in parking lots. Both because I have no idea what their real intent is for the cash and also because it is genuinely a rare occurrence that I carry cash. I typically offer to purchase them some food, something to drink, put gas in their car…help them in the way they say they need help. Sometimes, people accept. Sometimes, people decline. Sometimes, people get angry. This was the first time someone had just asked me for food.

His eyes were sunken. He look tired and hungry. I couldn’t tell if he was as old as he looked or if a rough life had just taken its toll on his physical body. I asked him his name.

“George, sir.”

I laughed a little on the inside at his insistence on calling me, someone so very much younger, “sir”.

I took George inside. We stopped at the sandwiches in the cooler and I told him to pick one. He asked which one he could have and I told him whichever one he wanted. He looked for a second before settling on a simple ham and cheese on wheat.

“George, I don’t know about you but I don’t like sandwiches without chips. Why don’t you pick out a bag?”

He looked surprised but didn’t hesitate to seize the opportunity. He talked about his love of BBQ chips as he grabbed a bag.

“You’re going to need to wash that down with something. Let’s grab you a drink.”

We walked over to the fountain drinks and I grabbed the biggest cup they had. “What’s your favorite?”

He looked at me and hesitantly responded, “Coke, no ice please, sir.” I filled his cup up and we walked to the counter.

“What’s your favorite candy bar?”

He stood for a moment staring at me like I was about to drop everything and walk out on him. He didn’t respond.

“Do you have a favorite candy bar? I can recommend a couple if you don’t.”

“It’s been an awful long time since I had a candy bar. I do like a Hershey Bar.”

I walked over to grab a Hershey bar.

“With almonds.”

I grabbed the Hershey bar and put it on the counter with everything else we had accumulated. I paid the cashier and asked her for a pen and a slip of paper. I wrote my name and number on the paper, handed it to George, and told him about the church right up the road that had breakfast on Sunday mornings and dinner on Wednesday nights. I told him to call me if he was hungry or if he needed a ride. He promised he would as he thanked me.

I didn’t buy that food for George because I’m a Christian. I didn’t buy that food for George because I consider myself to be morally superior. I didn’t buy that food because of any inherent “goodness” I have. I bought that food for George because he was a human being who approached me broken and hungry.

I didn’t ask George his thoughts on gay marriage. I didn’t ask George what his opinions were concerning the Confederate flag. I didn’t ask him how he intended to pay me back. I didn’t ask him his thoughts on the welfare system. I didn’t ask him when was the last time he held a job. I didn’t ask him if he was or ever was on drugs, when was the last time he possibly used drugs, or if he planned to use them in the future. I didn’t ask him who he voted for or if he could vote at all based on any criminal record. I didn’t ask him about any of his political or religious views. He didn’t seem concerned with mine either.

You see, while we were arguing about who has the right to marry who or which flag should be flown where…while we argued about whether or not a baker should be forced to make a cake for a wedding they don’t support, George wasn’t eating. I’m sure George would have eaten any cake he was offered.

I would give up my right to marry if it meant George didn’t have to go hungry again. I would stop flying any flag if it meant that everyone would not have to experience the deep pain of malnourishment. I have a feeling there are a lot of people who wouldn’t. The sense of selfish entitlement in this country, both amongst liberals and conservatives alike, is deeply embarrassing. It’s shameful.

Conservative Christians, you keep arguing that a man shouldn’t be allowed to marry another man. LGBTQ people, you keep suing those bakers who won’t bake you a cake. Northern liberals, you keep trying to outlaw a flag and southern conservatives, you keep daring to defend your right to fly it.

You do you. I’m going to go buy George a sandwich.

The Opulence of Not Giving

I have an acquaintance that started a charitable organization a few years ago. It’s not unlike him to do so as he is a really nice guy, eccentric at times, but nice. I won’t give names or specific details because my goal is not to publicly embarrass this guy. Let’s just say his charitable organization is moderately successful through his and his father’s connections, a pretty concerted social media effort, and the fact that his charity has the potential to do a lot of wonderful things for some human beings that are in desperate need.

I’ve never given any money to his charity.

Why? It’s not because I’m a stingy miser. I do donate to charities. But I don’t donate to his. It’s because of his lifestyle. Maybe I’m overreacting, maybe I care more than I should but this guy lives a ridiculously lavish lifestyle. He takes marvelously expensive trips multiple times a year spending (seemingly) more money than I make in that same year. I’m suspicious that some of his clothes cost more than the entirety of what comprises my closet. I’m fairly certain that some of the parties he throws costs roughly the same amount as that of the value of my car (which isn’t all that much so maybe a bad example).

Not only does he live this lavish life, he flaunts it.

Not a day goes by where I login to one of a variety of social media accounts that I don’t see any number of pictures/statuses/tweets/snaps about his latest expensive venture. I won’t deny it makes me jealous sometimes as I sit at my desk in my office and look at pictures of him in cities all around the world. I am human after all. But my fleeting jealousy is not what fuels this post.

Here’s the thing, I don’t completely fault this guy for spending his families money they way he sees fit. If that is the lifestyle he wants to lead, that is totally his choice. I vacation, I go shopping and eat out. I’m in no place to criticize those things. My problem lies in this fact: this same guy who is leading and flaunting this lavish lifestyle is the same one asking me to donate to his charity.

The charity’s most recent campaign was trying to raise $2000. It exceeded it’s goal, which is fantastic. As the campaign went on, I watched it’s CEO take a vacation to Europe. I couldn’t help but question how much the money spent on that vacation might have helped his organization’s beneficiaries. The plane ticket alone might very well have covered the entire campaign. As he flew to Europe, person after person dedicated $10, $15, $25 to helping others.

He is not alone.

In 2013, American households gave $241 billion to charitable organizations. I’m amazed at that kind of generosity. It’s heartwarming to see that kind of giving. There’s a catch though. In that same year, American households spent $621 billion directly on leisure travel. Individuals spent 158% as much on traveling for fun as we did on feeding the hungry, clothing the homeless, disease prevention, and educating the uneducated.

This isn’t intended to guilt you into canceling your vacation. I sure as heck am not canceling mine next month and I won’t feel one ounce of guilt as I play with my nephews on the beach. But I know that I also have a responsibility to live within a certain means so that I can help others. Maybe I even need to reassess what I spend on a regular basis.

Someone once told me, in regards to this argument I am making, “Trey, there is always more that can be done. You’ll never be satisfied.” And they were right, there is always more than can be done and I won’t ever be satisfied. I hope you won’t be either.

Child of God

I’m fortunate enough to live in a nice house in a nice surrounding area. Throughout the week, I go running along maintained sidewalks towards a nature preserve located about a mile from my house where I get to experience God’s awesome wildlife creation, both plants and animals.

Sometimes though (for example: the entire Month of May), it rains and I have to drive to my gym to get any sort of workout. I enjoy my gym, it’s inexpensive while still being a great facility and it’s only about 2 miles from my house. While the immediate area surrounding my house is nice with a low crime rate, my gym sits just on the outside of that area where the income level drops and the crime rate rises. As I get close to the gym, I see less cars and more walkers. I see less houses and more homeless.

I’m not going to lie, there are times when I’m leaving my gym a little later at night that I’ll see someone walking by and get a little nervous. If they’re in gym clothes, I don’t have much of a reaction. If they’re in street clothes, I become suspicious of why they’re walking around a parking lot so late at night. (This is the moment where my mom stops reading my blog and calls to tell me to stop going to the gym at night). It’s not always at night though, I see more homeless people out walking around in the day than I ever do at night.

The other afternoon, I was driving home from my gym when I was stopped by the only traffic light I encounter. There was a homeless man walking toward the corner where I was waiting on the light. From the opposite direction, a father and son were walking hand-in-hand towards the same corner. I’m fairly certain they were not homeless but I’m equally certain they weren’t walking just because their Mercedes was in the shop.

The homeless man and the father-son duo arrived at the intersection at the same time. My windows were down and I briefly considered rolling them up so as to avoid any awkward money requests. As I was contemplating my window situation, the boy suddenly yanked his hand out of his fathers and walked up to the man.

The homeless man kept his eyes down and didn’t react. The boy looked up at him and without missing a beat held his hand up while saying, “You look thirsty. I don’t like it when I’m thirsty. My daddy gave me $2 to spend at the gas station but I’m going to give you one of my dollars. Then I can still get a drink and you can too.” It was at this time that the light turned green…or at least it was at this time that the car behind my honked and I noticed the light was green. As I pulled away, I saw the homeless man smile and take the crumpled $1 bill from the young boy.

I drove away thinking about the innocence of the moment. A child saw someone in need and did what he could to respond to that need…even when he didn’t have much himself. The father and I both shifted our eyes away from the unwanted opportunity to awkwardly decline giving the man money. We didn’t want to deal with the inconvenience of recognizing a need. The boy though, it was almost as if he couldn’t ignore the need.

Mark Miller wrote a song, “Child of God”. The lyrics are simple but an important reminder:

No matter what people say
Say or think about me
I am a child
I am a child of God

No matter what people say
Say or think about you
You are a child
You are a child of God

I think this is the mindset the little boy had as he handed the homeless man that $1 bill. I think this is the mindset I should have had as I contemplated rolling up my windows. I think this is the mindset I should have as I drive through the part of town in which my gym is located. I think this is the mindset I should have when I don’t want to recognize someone’s need over my convenience.

The next time someone or something makes me feel uncomfortable and I don’t want to deal with the problem, I pray that I remember that I am unbelievably fortunate to be a child of God. I hope and pray that no matter what I say or think, no matter what anyone else says or thinks, I remember that everyone I encounter is a child of God. Everyone I encounter is worth my time and my love. I hope and pray that I remember this boy’s innocence and his willingness to help another child of God.

My Name isn’t Frank

I was 11 years old when my grandmother passed away and my grandfather had to live with us because of his affliction with Alzheimer’s disease. I loved my grandfather. I had fond memories of working with him in his garden, going to “Tasty Dog” for a hot dog and chips, and sharing a Mr. Goodbar with him. When he moved in with us, I didn’t fully comprehend what Alzheimer’s had done to him. I envisioned us taking frequent visits to Tasty Dog where I would hear stories about the escapades of my dad and aunt when they were younger. The first time I was to really understand something was different was the day Pappaw called me “Frank”. My name isn’t Frank. My dad is Frank, I am Trey. At first, I thought it was just a slip. Who doesn’t mix up names from time to time? Besides, everyone always told me I looked exactly like my dad when he was my age. It wasn’t a slip up though, he insisted I was Frank and wanted to know where Rethell was. Rethell, my grandmother, had passed away several months before so I couldn’t understand why he was asking for her. He knew what had happened, he had been at the funeral. Why was my grandfather asking for her?

For the the next year, I watched as my grandfather confused names and occurences. I watched him forget what year it was, sometimes even forgetting what decade we were in. I watched a man who was very kind and quiet for most of my life become angry and verbally lash out at people. I watched as my dad had to help him shave, dress, bathe himself, and use the restroom. I watched as he had to hear the news of my grandmother’s death time and time again.

I have many fond memories of my grandfather that I will always keep with me. But the last years of his life, my last memories of him, were spent in pain and frustration. I didn’t cry at my grandfather’s funeral. I missed him and I loved him dearly but I found myself unable to cry. I couldn’t cry because I was too happy for him. I knew that while I would miss him, he was no longer constrained by this debilitating disease that changed him.

I don’t want others to experience what I experienced. I’ve decided to honor my Pappaw by participating in the Walk to End Alzheimer’s. As a part of the walk, I’ve pledged to raise $500 towards research funding for prevention and a cure. You can help by donating towards my campaign. If we work together, we can bring an end to Alzheimer’s.

DONATE HERE

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To learn more about Alzheimer’s Disease and the research being done to prevent it and cure it, visit the Alzheimer’s Association website.