Meeting on the Way

     The last Monday of February, 1980. It’s a miserable day in intermediate school. A skinny, slouching kid in a green windbreaker drags his feet past the classroom doors. His backpack is hanging off one shoulder. He had hoped for no math homework. But he's got three pages of multiplication. He’s in the second lowest math class and can never seem to concentrate on the problems. He would like English more if he didn’t have to spell well. He likes science, but gets marked down because his work is so sloppy and hard for the teacher to read. He likes band, but can’t really take a snare drum home to practice and doesn’t have much passion for it. In fact, he doesn’t have a lot of passion for anything other than trying to be different than everyone else. If he’s learned anything in school, it’s that being an outcast is easier if it’s a choice.

     He has missed the bus because he had to stay after school to do extra math. It’s about a mile and a half walk home, all downhill. He doesn’t mind. Sometimes it’s better than riding the bus anyway. So he walks out of the school grounds and starts the quiet walk home down Lahainaluna Road. 

     There is little traffic until a gleaming silver car seems to burst out of nowhere. It skids to a stop, gull-wing doors open and a man bumps his head as he gets out. The man looks at the boy and smiles.

This is it, the boy thinks. The aliens that are from my true home are here to take me home.

Instead, the stranger walks to the boy and looks around. He's quiet and rocks on his toes. Finally he points to the vacant fields all around and speaks.

     “Someday this will all be houses. That sugar mill down there will be gone. It’s all going to go away. Nothing stays the same, kid. You had a lousy day at school today?”

     The kid nods. What, is this stranger a time traveler? No, that car looks like it ought to fly like the ones in the stories he’s made up. The stranger continues:

     “I’ve got news for you. You’re not an alien from another planet, okay? I know that’s an easy thing to imagine. And when you think that, it kind of exempts you from the responsibility of trying to get along. I mean, it’s okay to be an introvert. But you’re not as different as you think. Even those popular kids have anxieties.

The boy looks from the car to the stranger. The man wears glasses and a long black coat, jeans and boots. The man goes on:

I just wanted to come along and tell you, it gets better. You are a lot smarter than you think, just because you freeze up doing three-digit multiplication, that doesn’t mean you’re stupid. You’ve got a great imagination. You know those stories you make up with your toy cars and spaceships? Yeah, I know, you’re not too old for toys, don’t worry. You keep doing that. It exercises your mind to create worlds like that. Don’t ever stop.

     The boy is shocked. This stranger knows about the worlds.

     You made up a story the other night too, as you were going to sleep. You do that also. The story was about two guys doing a rescue mission to a strange planet.

     The stranger sits on a low wall. He looks at the boy with the look that is sad, but proud.

     “I shouldn’t have come and done this. So I’ll just tell you the truth and then fix it. It’s true, David. I did travel back in time. I thought I would come back and see you on the week of your 13^th birthday and then I couldn’t resist saying something. I mean, I remember what it was like. And I wanted to tell you that it will get better. You’ll make some new friends. In a few years, you won’t have such a miserable time every day at school. And when you grow up, oh man, your wife will be the prettiest, sweetest girl ever.

     At this the boy makes a face.

“Now calm down. I know you still don’t like girls now right? At least that’s what you like to think. But here, I’ll prove I’m you from the future, something you never told anyone. That girl who looked out the school bus window at you? I know her name, so do you. Yeah, I know how you feel, that little crush. No, you won’t marry her. At the end of this school year, you’ll never see her again.”

The boy’s knees feel weak. But more than the gelatinous fright he feels, there is a thrill of relief. This person really does understand everything. Questions start bubbling up in his mind. What other advice could his future self give?

“I’m not going to tell you anything else. Well there is a lot more I wish I could tell you. I would like to tell you that in your future, you should make better choices. If it’s something that feels good right away, but you regret it later, then you shouldn’t do it at all. I wish I could tell you so much. Buy stock in Apple, learn to drive a stick shift, don’t watch the movie Serenity until you’ve watched the Firefly series. But no, you’ll have to make your choices and live with them. Anything I tell you to do different, it might compromise you meeting and falling in love with her, the one.  

The stranger beckons the boy close, pulls off his eyeglasses and points to the blue of his eyes.

“Look here. You’re going to forget we met. But you’re going to feel better today. You’re birthday will be fun this week. Life will get better. Forget everything else I said.”

The stranger almost stands, but looks back at the boy.

“But remember this too. Write that story down. The story about the space rescue mission, it’s not publishable, but get a notebook and write it down anyway. You are going to find that you love to write. It’s a better escape from reality than what you do now. You were born on Earth, deal with it. Go on home now. Happy Birthday.

The kid in the green windbreaker turns and walks down the hill and the stranger watches him go. The kid is still slouching and dragging his feet. But he’s looking up.

The Walls have stopped, can you step out?

The first time I saw the movie Star Wars, (it didn’t have the subtitle of A New Hope in 1977) my favorite scene was one that had made me laugh. After their harrowing ordeal in the trash compactor with well placed camera angles and the musical score compelling the viewer to hold their breath, the little droid R2D2 manages to stop the converging walls from killing them all. The heroes realize this and start shouting and whooping for joy. C-3PO, hearing this exultation thinks they’re screaming in pain and dying. I thought this mistake on 3PO’s part was hilarious. And maybe when I laughed out loud in the theatre part of that was relief also.




The way the intrepid heroes were able to laugh while still in the bowels of the universe’s most evil battle station also amazed me. In fact it reminded me of Gilligan’s Island. The castaways not only had to put up with being stranded on an uncharted island, but often times they were in mortal danger. Once they thought the island was sinking. Another time they were the target of a ballistic missile. Always in the end they learned that they would not be killed off and live for yet another week of wacky adventures. As the show closed the cast would cheer and shout for joy that they were not going to die after all. And as a young child watching them I considered something: They should be like that all the time.



I thought about how an escape from death shouldn’t be the only reason to be happy that you’re going to live. You should always be happy that you’re going to live. That’s what I thought anyway. I had not experienced life’s harsh realities like having an admired mentor sliced in half or a series cancelation. My youthful simplicity couldn’t comprehend that there ever would be a reason not to be happy to be alive another day. Maybe there is a lot to say for that child-like innocence. Maybe that’s why we’re supposed to be like little children to the kingdom of God.



Some times you can't bring yourself to take joy even in much at all.  This deep and dark December is taking its toll as usual. We as a family are trying not to overschedule. I try to stay busy at whatever I’m doing at home or work. But like I wrote last week, the feelings can slowly ambush you. Even if the walls stopped closing in, you still are sitting there in the muck and darkness with only the prospect of more hurt once you’re out of this. You begin to think that you’re better off just staring the walls up again. Because there will never be a way out.



When you go out this month, you may be feeling joyful or you may be down at the other end. For the people on the high side, consider that person in line at the store with you. They could be sharing a bench with you somewhere, in the car next to you, behind the counter smiling though the pain, or in your own home. I have no specific suggestions for when you meet these folks. You can stop the walls and even open the doors. But the tractor beam. That invisible force field that gets stronger every moment it’s engaged must be shut down. But if you’re one of those who has escaped there is something you can do. I just can’t say what. Everyone has something they can do. Maybe it’s something extra in the tip jar, a thoughtful favor, a kind, patient word or just a smile. At the very least, they might see that someone is standing outside and there is a way out for them too.



I’m standing outside. I don’t feel quite like shouting for joy yet. I’m still covered in garbage and face obstacles ahead. But I’m pretty sure the tractor beam is off. It can be done.