Back Spray

In surfing there’s no worse feeling than the back spray off a wave that has just passed. The refreshing mist that trails a wave and falls on those who watched it go by only adds insult to the surfer who misjudged its magnitude in the first place. More often than not, I have found myself on the other side of some of these amazing waves, asking myself whether the surfers who caught these waves judged correctly or just took a chance and got lucky.

Each time that I feel the back spray coming off the peak of the wave, I am but constantly reminded of many of life’s waves that I too did not paddle for when they came my way. Sometimes I did not make those leaps of faiths out of foresight and others because of fear. No matter what the various reasons or excuses that I may have conjured up, I have felt the weight of the decisions that I have made fall heavier on my shoulders.

There’s a point when you fully commit to a wave when you realize that there’s no turning back. As the wave rises and lifts you up, there is nobody that can help you except the preparation, skill and faith within you. In a sense there is a freedom of the unknown and exhilaration in not knowing whether you are going to ride it to the end or if you are going to wipe out entirely. As sure as I know that I am a mediocre surfer at best, I can say without question that I’d much rather wipe out than not try at all.

At 25, I can see many similarities between surfing and life. Sometimes when I am out there competing for waves and fighting my way for position, I can sense that cut throat competition that I wished to escape in the first place. Other times, I’ll look around and find that it’s only me paddling in the wide open waters. Both extremes comfort me. I can neither accept one or the other at all times just as I cannot have both simultaneously. I must choose my own path and look inward for what it is that I wish to achieve.

I often wonder about my missed opportunities when I see surfers riding a wave that I should have been on. There’s a certain kind of envy that goes along with watching a wave break towards the shore.

I can’t help but be jealous of my former classmates from High School and College whose accomplishments I also see from a distance. I hear that some are starting families, finishing up graduate school or putting a down payment on a new home. Part of me is taken back to that passive observer sitting on his board, watching the waves go by with other people on them.

Three years have passed since I have been in the military and I often wonder whether I made the right choice to join the service. I think of some of the personal and career sacrifices that I have made because of this lofty vision to follow the footsteps of great leaders. As I look back to that naïve 22 year old who raised his right hand, I wonder how much of that young man I have sacrificed at the expense of my own individual goals. I wonder how much of my principles I have compromised due to my own ambitions.

It'd be realtively easy to play the blame game and second guess every decision that I have made. As much as sometimes I'd just assume give up my place in the water, I know that there will always be more waves to come. When it comes down to it, I must take control of my own wave and ride it to the best of my ability. When the ride is over, I’ll make sure to stay on my board and paddle out like hell for the next one.

Scent of a Wallflower

He was ten minutes late as the verse to the second hymn was being sung by a sea of worshipers. He found his way through the groups of families in their Sunday‘s best and stood beside another insecure man, in myself. I initially smelled him as he made his way into my aisle and knew that our similarities ended there.

After the song was over our pastor asked us to extend a “good morning,” greeting to our neighbors. But before I was even able to turn to the man standing next to me, I noticed that his head was dropped as if to save other’s the trouble of having to acknowledge his existence. I deliberately waited patiently, hoping that he would look up and after a matter of seconds he hesitantly accepted my hand.

It was nothing less than an awkward moment shared by two social introverts. After we shook hands, he took off his faded, mesh red trucker hat to reveal his long combed hair and it was obvious that this was his way of making an effort for his appearance at church. Little did he know, that the church nor its members would make no such accommodations for him.

I sat uneasy at times as I watched the small children around us stare in his direction and whisper to their parents like he was a sideshow at a circus. I began to feel a strange aura around us as if he were unwelcome. I was embarrassed for him.

He was the kind of guy that people pass on the sidewalk without stopping to say hello. For one, he most likely walked with his head parallel to the pavement and two, his body odor is such that people ignore him because of his scent. In fact, he probably had gone his entire life without saying as much as a sentence to anyone in a given week. Yet on this beautiful Sunday morning, this man attracted more glances than anyone in the congregation. Amidst all of the singing, praying and hoopla that was going on, my neighbor became something that he probably never asked for; the center of attention.

I started to think about God’s message and the sole purpose of Christians like myself and the reason why we even attended places like church. And alas, just as the offerings were being passed to the man next to me who had no money to give, I saw the disconnect. For many in that church it was enough for them to listen to the preacher’s sermon, give their tithings and check off their good deed of having attended. These people were on their way to self-centered happiness with not a care in the world.

The prerequisites became clear as I scanned the room only to see the common attire of pressed aloha shirts, pagers clipped onto the belts and fancy strollers. Church all of a sudden seemed more like a members-only club than a setting for prayer. I began to wonder, “since when did Christians become a strictly middle to upper class social group?” I questioned what our mission was as a church and who we were called to serve if people like the guest who sat beside me was treated like the outsider I’m sure he felt like.

I noticed more unfriendly piercing stares from all directions and wondered if the quiet man to my left did the same. I scoffed at the idea that church had become something less about our neighbors and more about oneself.

Later in the service as people joined hands, I once again offered my hand to the man to my left. I held it there in plain site, hoping that he would reach out and grab it. Again he reluctantly gave in as if it were only the second time someone had ever offered. (To prove my theory, the lady beside him did not hold hers out). And so, we stood together, the homeless man and I. Neither of us sang but we stood shoulder to shoulder, praising our Creator, with humility, bashfulness but as equals.

I try to imagine how hard it must have been for that man to walk into a church filled with hundreds of people from a different walk of life and on opposite ends of the socioeconomic spectrum. While I felt that in a basic sense I could relate to his reticence, I don’t quite know where he came up with the courage to walk into a place filled with people who would just assume pretend that he wasn’t there.

I sometimes don’t know how to respond to people like my neighbor in church or how to act around them. I don’t know whether to ignore them like the rest of society and let them live a life of absolute privacy and isolation or to embrace them and show them even the most basic forms of courtesy. While I keep trying to figure that one out in each encounter that I have, I know that at the very least we can show them some dignity. And so what if that doesn’t mean rolling out the red carpet or handing them a stack of money. Maybe all dignity has to be is holding a strangers hand at church…no matter what they look like, where they came from or how they smell.

Called to Bunt

Clichés have a way of penetrating our language and as a result, our culture as well. If you do a quick search through your MP3, DVD collection or book shelf, you will be bound to find hundreds of labels that are nothing more than clichés.

The Gripe:

Before I started my blog, I knew that in order for people to read it, I had to have a title that was catchy, meaningful and original. Well, two out of three wasn’t bad. As it turned out, “writing the wrongs,” was not as unique of a header as I had first thought. As you can imagine, I was thoroughly disappointed. After entering the name of my blog into a search engine, I was saddened to see that my idea of the perfect name to my first ever blog had been abused to the point that the phrase had been rendered useless, tamed and forgettable.

It was because of moments like this, that I have always tried to avoid clichés, like the plague.

Sayings have a way of becoming the next pop culture buzz slang. However, rather than sulk about my misfortune and idea gone aloof, I decided to change the title altogether to a name less overused in everyday speak and more substantive.

My Solution:

In essence, I traded my cliché for a metaphor which could very well turn into tomorrow’s cliché. I first came across the idea “Called to Bunt” while reading, “All Too Human,” by former Clinton staffer George Stephanopoulos, when he recalled a passage that then Governor Mario Cuomo had passed to him from Ken Burn’s book on baseball: “I love the idea of the bunt. I love the idea of sacrifice. Even the word is good. Give yourself up for the good of the whole.”

The excerpt reminded me both of my parents who embody the very concept of this act as well as a purpose that I have been meant to serve.

If there was ever a better line that a fan of baseball and humanity like me could emulate or relate to, I don’t think I’ve yet found it. The thought of “bunting,” represents everything that a baseball player or person should strive towards. The bunt is a simple play but not one envied by those who wish to hit the crowd favored home run. It’s an act that often goes unnoticed. It is an act as selfless as the person behind it.

Oddly, when I think about bunting, I don’t think of baseball immediately. Instead, I think of my parents who have essentially “bunted their entire lives. The immeasurable sacrifices that they made to raise their children were not done by people who wished to be the center of attention. The desire to see all four of us succeed was the act of two parents who would have rather starved then to see us go without.

As a baseball player, I used to hate to bunt. I preferred to swing away so that I could get on base. Now a days I see that it takes special, humble individuals to lay down a bunt even when it often times leads to that person being called out. I think about all of the people that I consider bunters and realize how important they are to the functioning of our society. No, you will not find them in the newspaper or on the red carpet of an awards banquet. Their averages will not be on the top of the statistics leader board or names etched into the Hall of Fame. Bunters don’t do it for the glory or seek the limelight. They do it all for the team.

The name of my blog is “Called to Bunt.” It’s catchy, meaningful and for lack of foresight, original. Still, it is more than a title for a collection of my thoughts and essays, it’s my mantra.

Maybe I should copyright it!

Singled Out

I picked her delicate frame up out of the car seat with such amusement as our eyes met halfway in a moment that can only be described as heavenly. The feeling didn’t last long however, as I noticed the after-meal hard candy mint dripping down her tiny fingers while she extended her hand as to offer me the rest. Right then my immediate reaction was… “Oh no my seats!”

Selfish? Definitely. Although I assured myself as a 25 year old with minimal interaction with toddlers, my thought process was as common as any. Then again, I doubt there would have been a blink of the eye had I have been a single mother.

Her mom thanked me several times over throughout the drive home for taking her and the two kids out for a Mother’s Day dinner. Had I had half of the guts of her, I would have told her she had it all wrong, that she was the one that deserved all of the praise. The words “thank you,” coming out of her mouth in my direction landed on my guilty ears and ate my heart out. I couldn’t help but sheepishly reply, “You’re welcome,” as I glanced at my rear view mirror and saw the two beautiful children that she had raised up until that point.

On several occasions I have mentioned my list of heroes growing up. Atop the list have been soldiers, teachers, nurses, coaches’ everyday volunteers and pretty much any hard working person who doesn’t wear a tie and sit behind a comfortable desk all day. After my Mother’s Day dinner with the three best dates one could offer, I couldn’t resist adding another type of person to that list; Single Moms.

Talk about a hero and what great company for my list as she ranks with all of those people who I have grown so fond of and looked up to for all of these years. I don’t think any of them would mind either.

I’ve never really appreciated a single mother as much as I did during my dinner with her wonderful family. I watched her closely as she chose to feed her kids before herself. I saw soups, sauces, sodas and everything in-between fly all over the table and at times spill onto her clothes. Complaints? None. Don’t I feel ashamed now for some drool on my leather seats? In the end, she had the audacity to thank me with the kind of humility you would expect to hear from a Mother Theresa. I didn’t even know God made these kinds of people.

This particular single mother should have received a round of applause from that restaurant as she brilliantly orchestrated a complex evening affair of flying food, crawling babies, hyper children all the while carrying on a half way decent dinner conversation with the other adult at the table. Did I mention that we went to a cook-it-yourself- steakhouse, where she…. (Sound of trumpets) did the majority of the cooking?

Indeed, all single Mother’s deserve more than the hallmark holiday that they share with the rest of the Mother’s who have help. Single Moms deserve their own holiday and much, much more. If the expression “doing God’s work,” ever rang true, it does so without error for what they deal with on a daily basis.

In a world with so many dead beat Dads that refuse to accept responsibility; those acts ought to be thought of as criminal. My view of the world is so much deeper after having spent a loud, sometimes stressful but overall enjoyable dinner with a single mom and her family. I never thought that such an event would be so profound before it took place. I guess if I had to sum up the entire experience, I would say “A single Mom saved my world.”

Thank you to all of you Single Mother’s out there that may have stumbled across this blog. May you know that you are far stronger than you can even imagine. God bless and keep the faith!