My Texas Odyssey: Part 6

Note: this is part of an ongoing series of blog entries centered around my recent trip to Texas. I'm publishing it as a series because it's too long to publish as one article.

If you are coming to this series here at the end, or if you have missed some parts, links to each of the previous parts of the series are below:

My Texas Odyssey: Part 1 (Introduction and Chapter 1: Journey To Blossom)

My Texas Odyssey: Part 2 (Chapter 2: Heartlight and Chapter 3: The Early Days)

My Texas Odyssey: Part 3 (Chapter 4: First Things)

My Texas Odyssey: Part 4 (Chapter 5: My Kids)

My Texas Odyssey: Part 5 (Chapter 6: The Vision of J.C.'s House)

And, now, the next chapter of My Texas Odyssey:

Chapter 7: Something About Henry

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Most of you are probably familiar with the question sometimes asked of people being interviewed where they ask the person to name the person they'd most like to have dinner with. Most of the time, folks name a famous person (Jesus is a typical answer) from history or a contemporary political or pop-culture figure.

If I was asked that question (and since this is my blog, I'll pretend I was), among a short list of folks I'd have to choose between, there is a man in Austin, Texas, named Henry who would be at the top of the list. You've likely never heard of him, unless you are in the happening scene of Austin, but if you ever met him, you would never forget him. And, like anyone else who's ever met him, even casually and in passing, you would have a story to tell about the encounter. It might begin with, “There's just something about Henry . . .”

So it happened, on this last trip to Texas when I had so many people I wanted to see and not enough time (there never is on those kinds of trips), on Friday, September 28, 2012, I drove 200 miles from Dallas to Austin to spend a few precious hours with this man called Henry. We didn't manage dinner, but we did do a fascinating and enjoyable lunch.

Unlike most of the people I have written about in this series, my history with Henry does not go back decades; indeed, it only measures a few short years. It began about 10 years ago, when my great friend, Terry Roberts, was living in Texas. He kept telling me about this man called Henry. I knew one day, I'd have to meet him for myself if possible.

And, one day, I did. Before I take you back there, though, I will go a little further back, to 2007. I was living in Rome, Georgia, at my Nanny's house (Nanny is what I call my grandmother, and that house will always represent “home” to me), driving a truck for a local company, trying to help delay the time when Nanny would have to go live in a nursing home. By then, Nanny had gone to live with my aunt, Joan, and I was ready to go back on the road, this time to team with my great friend Terry Roberts.

One of the things I had learned about Henry from Terry was that he was very liberal in his politics (I don't know if that's the term Henry would use to describe himself, but in broad terms it fits for my purposes here). I also learned that he absolutely hated Fox News (only half of which is true), and all of that dislike was iconified in their popular host, Bill O'Reilly. (And, for the record, I am also comfortable with being called a liberal or progressive in many areas, though, mostly for my own self-labeling purposes, I probably fall into more libertarian terms. I like President Obama and many of his policy positions, so you can label me what you will from that.)

Anyway, I decided it would be fun to mess with Henry. So I bought a coffee mug from the Bill O'Reilly web site, and it had the words “Bill O'Reilly” and “Patriot” on it somewhere (and for those of us who loathe the Tea Party and what they have done to the Republican Party, “patriot” is particularly an unfortunate word because of the fact that it, like other once-honorable and meaningful terms, has been hijacked by them as though they invented it, and especially when “subversive” would be a more truthful term, in my opinion).

So, I have this Bill O'Reilly mug. And I write this very nice letter to Henry, telling him how I've heard so much about him from Terry. Then I write something along the lines of how I know Henry is a “true patriot” standing for truth and defending the takeover of our country by “left-wing nuts”, and how I imagine that, like me, he loves Bill O'Reilly and Fox News and the service they are providing to our great republic. Laying it on thick. Everything I knew Henry stood for, I complimented him for being the opposite. And, by the way, Henry, here's a Bill O'Reilly Patriot mug to remind you of how you and I stand in solidarity in these things. And I mailed it. It was Henry's introduction to me.

As I expected and hoped, it wasn't long before Terry got a phone call from Henry asking him who this nut-case was who had just sent him a Bill O'Reilly mug. Sometime during the conversation, Henry got it. It was a joke. And there was laughter. And he got ready to return the favor.

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It was quite a while after Terry and I started teaming when I finally met Henry. We had been to Laredo, and were coming back up through Austin, on our way to somewhere I can't remember with our next load. We parked at a Cabella's that had truck parking, and Henry came to pick us up.

Henry greeted Terry as an old friend, and then turned his eye to me, looking me up and down, as though he wasn't quite sure about me yet. Then, he said, “Allan, I've got a gift for you that I know you'll appreciate.” Uh-oh. I half expected to get the pieces of the smashed Bill O'Reilly cup I'd sent to him. It was even better. It turned out to be a worn copy of The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx.

We both howled with laughter, and Terry smiled and shook his head. At that moment, I knew Henry and I would be friends.

We decided to go eat at a Chili's restaurant that was nearby. And I got to witness the phenomenon that is Henry. We were greeted by the hostess at the entrance, and Henry began casting about to see where he wanted to sit. A place with not too much noise (so we could talk), not too much or too little light (for the right ambiance), plenty of room. In ten seconds, after charming her and making her smile, that young lady would have taken us back into the kitchen if Henry had directed her to do so.

Our server came over, expecting a boring, slow-afternoon table of sedate diners. What she got was Henry (for her, after that first moment, Terry and I were just set-pieces). Henry regaled her with his charm, told her some stories, and in under two minutes knew her story. She was in college, studying I-don't-remember-what, but when Henry was finished with her, she was inspired and challenged to do her best, pursue her dreams, and do it with laughter.

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Henry is one of those people who enters a room, and immediately all conversation stops, and people lean in to each other to whisper, “Who is that?” We've all seen people like that. Sometimes, the result is that all the oxygen and energy is sucked out of the room. Such people are boorish, social vampires who feed on the energy of others and leave them empty, lifeless.

Henry is just the opposite. He brings energy with him, and when he's around, there is more life, more animation. He transmits a zest and love for life that is absorbed by anyone in his orbit.

Henry was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Miami, Florida. As a young man, he joined the army, and was stationed in Germany much of that time. After leaving the army, Henry stayed in Europe, visiting in 21 countries. He helped excavate at Masada in Israel and worked at a bank in England.

When he returned to the United States, he joined the civil rights movement, and he was part of the protest in Washington against the Vietnam War in 1967. Eventually, he found his true passion and calling in photography, ended up in Austin, Texas, and began a long, productive career as a professional photographer.

Henry has also been a college professor, and he hosted a radio show in Austin for several years. But all those biographical details do not explain the essence of what makes Henry the person he is. Henry is not just someone you know; he is someone you experience. And at the end, perhaps the best explanation of Henry is just this: “there's something about Henry.”

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My great friend, Terry Roberts, who introduced me to Henry, recently wrote a poem about Henry that conveys very well the spirit of “there's something about Henry”, and I include it here with his kind permission.

There is a man in Texas whom if you had met when he was a child in Brooklyn or Miami you would not have asked the question "are you from Texas?"

 

There is a man in TX whom if you had met at boot camp you would perhaps find as angry as some young men you knew from TX, but would never have asked "are you from TX?"
 

There is a man in TX whom if you had been nursed to health by while recuperating in an army hospital in Germany he may have reminded you of compassionate and skilled men from TX, but you would never have said "you must be from Tx."

 

There is a man in TX whom if you had offered a lift to as he backpacked across Europe your first question would have been. "American?" But most undoubtedly the second would never have been "Texas, right?"

 

There is a man in TX who while excavating Masada met Ariel Sharon, ,........ you may have heard them say,"ah yes, the American" but none would have dreamed of TX.

 

There is a man who while teaching the first photography program at a summer camp in CT (which the program remains til this day, which was 44 years ago at the time of this writing for the present year is 2013 and that year was 1969) took a date who would later become wife number 1 and last, to a picture show in Manhattan to see "Midnigt Cowboy". But even then no one certainly would have supposed he may be from TX.

 

There is a man in TX who once took a self portrait upon the pallet of a moving bus as he once again discovered the certainty of Newton's law of gravity. A moment in time capturing a panicked man as his camera collided with concert sidewalk. If you were on the bus, diving by in car, be it your own or a taxi, or better yet a limosine, since this was on Wall Street, or perhaps a pedestrian you would have grieved for the poor boy or perhaps laughed. But never in you wildest imaginations have said,"that Texan just dropped his camera."

 

There is man in TX whom upon meeting for the first time while the both of you are in TX you know immediately and without the slightest equivocation he indeed is not a Texan.

 

But an Austinite?! Indeed and from the 04 of course where else could such a man exist?

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So, now you know a little about Henry, at least as much as my feeble attempt to translate Henry into words on a page can convey.

Special thanks to Shannon Roberts for permission to use a college research paper she did on Henry to glean some of the details of Henry's early life.

Here's Henry's web site (and it's well worth a visit): http://www.friedmanphotog.com/

And, to conclude, a couple of pictures (both properly Photoshopped and approved by Henry).

Concluding Thoughts: The Odyssey Continues

As I write this, it is now five months since the trip to Texas which inspired this series of reflections about my love affair with Texas and people who live there. The personal history, character sketches, and thoughts I've written about have confirmed one thing to me: I still love Texas, I love the people there who have captured my heart over the years, and for me, the personal journey which is My Texas Odyssey will never end.

For me, nothing could conclude a series about Texas any better than Tanya Tucker's awesome tribute “Texas (When I Die)”, so I will leave you with that. Until next time, be well, and thanks for joining me on this journey. (And Go Cowboys!)

My Texas Odyssey: Part 5

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Note:  this is part of an ongoing series of blog entries centered around my recent trip to Texas.  I'm publishing it as a series because it's too long to publish as one article.  If you come to this in the middle, I will post links to the first, previous and next articles each week.

If you missed Part 1, here's the link:  My Texas Odyssey:  Part 1

For Part 2, here's the link:  My Texas Odyssey:  Part 2

For Part 3, here's the link: My Texas Odyssey: Part 3

For Part 4, here ya go:  My Texas Odyssey:  Part 4

Chapter 6: The Vision of J.C.'s House

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There is much about my trip to Texas that brought joy to my heart, and there is much in writing this recounting of my love for Texas and the people there that continues to do so. But there is no joy more full and complete for me than this part of the journey.

On Thursday, September 27th, my second full day in Dallas, I actually went about an hour and a half southwest of Dallas, to Cleburne, an unassuming small town.  It is also the heart of a vision bigger than Texas and as timeless as eternity. It was birthed, in human terms, in the hearts of my cousin Chris, and his wife Deb, who live in Cleburne.

But, as with all the people of whom I write in this series, their story doesn't begin on this trip. It actually begins over 30 years ago in the little town in Georgia where I grew up . . .

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I didn't grow up around my cousin Chris very much of our childhood. His Daddy, Jackie, was in the Army, which carried him to far-away places for long periods of time. One of my favorite people in the world, my great-aunt Mary (Chris's grandmother; “Granny” to him), went to those far-away places also.

But, occasionally, they would come to Georgia, and it was during those times that Chris and I became as close as brothers, the best of friends.

It was during one of those visits that Chris taught me to play chess, a game which I love to this day, but which I am still very lacking in for skill. No doubt, he could still beat me easily.

During that same visit in the 1970's, between his living in Okinawa and Maryland, we created memories which we still love to recount again to this day.

Chris's little brother, Shane, whom I also dearly loved, was about 5 on this particular trip to Georgia. Chris and I discovered a wonderful secret about Shane: he would repeat anything we told him to say, without reservation or fear. And, since both Jackie and Mary were no strangers to casual cursing, we couldn't get him to repeat much of anything he hadn't already heard. So Chris and I thought how hilarious it would be to send Shane into my Nanny's house, where all the adults were playing Aggravation (a board game that was a hallmark of any typical day in my Nanny's house back then), and repeat one of these witty curses which we had been having private fun with all morning long. Chris and I would be free of blame, and we figured they probably wouldn't get after Shane too much because of his age.

I never said we were geniuses.

We made sure Shane had it down what he was supposed to say, and then we sent him in the house to make his pronouncement. We hid in the back yard behind the storage shed, and Shane ran across the back yard, flung open the back door, went in and yelled, “Shut yer damn mouth!”

For a rare moment, there was silence around the table. Then, Aunt Mary, who by-God wasn't gonna hear something like this from nobody's kid, especially not one of her damn grandkids, pushed the chair back. Shane knew the wrath of God Almighty was about to descend upon him, so he did what any intelligent boy would do in that situation. He blamed Chris and me (which happened to be the truth, but we all know that wouldn't have mattered in any case).

Chris and I were laughing at the cleverness of our little scheme when we heard the back screen door slam open. Uh-oh.

“Chris! Allan! Git yer asses up here NOW!”   It was Aunt Mary.

I don't remember what we said, but it was something approximating, “Oh, shit”.   As my Nanny might say, “Y'all just as well as signed your death warrant to git Mary riled up like that.”

The mind has a way of blocking out traumatic events, so I can't say for certain what happened after that. But I know we didn't ever tell Shane to repeat anything ever again.

Another memory from that time: my Daddy had given me an old Sony reel-to-reel tape recorder to play with. And Jackie had scores of old 45 rpm records from the 60's that we somehow got access to. So, sitting in the floor of the living room at my Nanny's house, we created our own radio shows, with us as DJ's. We'd spin records, do interviews, commercials, all on tape, which we would then play back with much delight.

Yet another memory: I had gotten a replica of the bridge of the starship Enterprise from my favorite TV show Star Trek, along with dolls for Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy, and Mr. Scott, for Christmas. Chris and Shane came over to spend the night with me several times, and during those visits, we loved to act out scenes from our favorite Star Trek episodes. And we created our own episodes . . .

Mr. Spock approaches Captain Kirk on the bridge. They are alone.

Spock: “Captain, I've got to admit it! I can't hide it any longer! I've always loved you, Jim!”

Captain Kirk: “Oh, Spock, I've been waiting for years to hear you finally say it. And it's true for me, too, you handsome pointy-eared Vulcan, you. Come here.”

At that point, to our 10-year-old-perverse-delight, the Captain and Mr. Spock would come together in a sloppy-kiss embrace that could rival anything in any romantic drama ever to come out of Hollywood.

On one of those periodic visits also, in 1977, Chris's mom Bobbie (whom I still love to this day), took Chris, Shane and I to see the original Star Wars movie.

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At some point when they were older, Chris and Shane went to live with their mom in Fort Worth, and they were all still living in Fort Worth part of the time I was in Dallas, so we got to see each other occasionally, and I took the kids there more than once on a visit.

That was another thing, among many, that Chris and I had in common: we both loved Texas, and came to adopt it as our home of choice in our young adult days.

Perhaps the most important thing we discovered about one another was that, around the same age, we had both gotten serious about our faith, and we shared a sense of God's call on our lives for ministry and service. To discover that we were not only cousins and best of friends, but brothers in our faith, was a joy and delight to both of us that remains so to this day.

One thing that will always mean a lot to me is that when my granddaddy Boe passed away in March, 1988, Chris was there at Nanny's, along with our cousin Kristi, giving what comfort and care they could in Boe's last hours. I will always be grateful that Chris was there that day, and that was one more thing that cemented my love and appreciation for Chris over the years.

Another point of memory for me: I had come from Dallas to visit in the summer of 1991, before I lived on the streets of Fort Worth, and before I moved to Chicago and Jesus People USA. Chris was living in Rome at the time, but was moving back to Texas. So, in the pretense of helping him move, I got a ride with him back to Texas. That was a special time for me that I will always treasure.

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In 2002, when I made my visit to Texas during one of the darkest periods of my own life, I met Deb for the first time. And, from that first meeting, she wasn't just married to my cousin Chris: she was my cousin, as much as if we were knitted together by flesh and blood. I love and admire my cousin Chris, who is a great man, but I will have to admit that this is one of those cases, as I have experienced in my own marriage to Charlotte, where Chris married above himself in this precious woman named Deb. She is a treasure in the earth if there ever was one.

I discerned in both of them a love and partnership rooted in their faith and passion for people that was far more than just chance and choice; they bore the mark of destiny, a shared destiny, an eternal partnership.

During our visit, the encouragement, strength and hope I received from them renewed my own hope and gave me strength for the hard days that were yet before me. I will always be grateful to them for their friendship and love during that time.

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So, on to the present. Chris and Deb both work full-time jobs, but their real vocation and passion is the ministry they have to teenagers. I have seen teenagers at their home and when they are there, it is their home, too. And they know it. They are just as comfortable in this home (perhaps moreso) than any home they name as their own.

Chris and Deb love their kids, and the kids know it. Chris and Deb are literally giving their lives – all that they have and all that they are – for the vision they have to be a place of refuge for teenagers in need, whatever the need.

Their name for this vision: J.C.'s House.

As Deb has told me more than once, if they had the room, they'd move every teenager they know who needs a safe place into their house now. And, over the past few years, there has never been a time when they were not providing a home for at least one of their youth group, and many times more than one.

On this last visit that I enjoyed, along with Chris and Deb, there was Chris's daughter Maegan, a young man from their youth group who has lived with them several years, and a precious woman of God from their church named “Little Eagle”, who blessed me with her contagious humor and love of God and people.

Cleburne, Texas, doesn't seem like a place that would warrant much attention from people who are not from there. But it is truly a bright spot in the earth that is the focus of heaven itself, and where a work of eternal significance is taking place.

I'm just glad I'm getting to watch it happen.

Next time, I will talk about someone named Henry, and what it is about him that could make me drive 200 miles just to spend a couple of hours with him . . . I hope you will join me.

My Texas Odyssey: Part 4

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Note:  this is part of an ongoing series of blog entries centered around my recent trip to Texas.  I'm publishing it as a series because it's too long to publish as one article.  If you come to this in the middle, I will post links to the first, previous and next articles each week.

If you missed Part 1, here's the link:  My Texas Odyssey:  Part 1

For Part 2, here's the link:  My Texas Odyssey:  Part 2

For Part 3, here's the link: My Texas Odyssey: Part 3

Chapter 5: "My Kids"

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So, to sort of reset the context of things for you, since I am jumping around in time so much in this series, it is Wednesday morning, September 26th, the beginning of my first full day in Texas on this last trip. After visiting First Baptist Church, I am sitting in my car wondering where to go next. I had texted several people to let them know I was in town (finally), and hadn't heard from anyone yet.

While I was pondering my visit to First Baptist, reliving in memory all that happened there so many years ago, my phone rings. It is Perla.

Joy floods my heart at the sound of her voice. She gives me her address, and I head from downtown to the place she lives now, which is not all that far from where it all began . . .

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The last Sunday In February, 1985, I ran the regular Sunday morning Pleasant Grove route as I usually did. Two of the girls who had been coming for a while, Gracie and Trini, brought their cousin, Maria, then 9, to church with them. She lived with her family in Oak Cliff.

That Tuesday, after school, I went by to visit them. They lived in a duplex apartment on Poinsettia in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas. The kids were home, but the parents were still at work. Besides Maria, there were five kids: Lorena, 13; Alex, Maria's twin brother, 9; Junior, 7; Perla, 6; and Marcos, 4. I stayed for a while, and I remember playing with the kids and them all wanting to jump on my back, wanting me to pick them up, chase them. Just like hundreds of other kids. Lorena had a guitar and had learned some songs, so she played the songs she knew and we all sang them. I talked to the kids about church, God, and school.

The kids told me that there were two other kids who lived in the apartment upstairs, sisters: Roxy, 9; and Sandra, 8. They weren't home then.

After a while, when the parents hadn't come home from work, I found out what time they came home, and told the kids I'd come back the next day to meet them and talk to them about picking them up for church. Maybe I could meet the kids upstairs, too.

I remember that day so vividly because I wrote about it in my journal that night. I wrote about how, even in the course of doing the normal work the ministry involved, sometimes you just knew something special had happened, even if you didn't know what it was. Meeting that family was such a special occurrence.

The next day, I went back over, met the parents, Lupe and Rosa. I also met the kids upstairs, and their mom, Orie (whom I wrote about in Chapter 2). Orie was a single mom, a godly woman who already went to church. But she agreed to let the girls go to church with me.

Before long, I became more involved with those two families than any of the others. It was some combination of circumstance, needs that presented themselves, and something more than words can quantify. I became friends with Lupe and Rosa; Orie and I became best friends and as I became more involved in the lives of both families, it wasn't long before I loved those kids as much as if they had been my own flesh-and-blood children. It was nothing I could explain then, and I can't explain it now. There was just a special connection with them, and I knew they would change my life forever.

It wasn't long before I started calling them "my kids". And I meant that in every way those words could convey; in some way different from the hundreds of other kids, they were my kids. I would talk to my family in Georgia about "my kids" and they would tell me that it would be different when I had kids of my own; but I knew it wouldn't. I loved those kids, was as committed to them, as if they had been my own. I loved all the kids and families I worked with, but there was something special and unique about my relationship with them.

I never tried to replace their fathers, and never tried to quantify exactly how the kids saw me, but they loved me as much as I loved them.

Eventually, both families moved away from Poinsettia, but I kept track of them, and my relationships with them continued to grow and thrive.

I remember the first time I kept the kids. By then, Rosa and Lupe were not together any longer, they were living in Irving, and Rosa worked at night sometimes. Lorena had moved out of the house on her own. I had went by to see the kids, and learned that Rosa had to work that night, and didn't have anywhere to take the kids. The kids begged me to stay with them so they wouldn't have to stay alone. I told Rosa I would do that if she wanted me to.

I had a Hebrew exam the next morning that I needed to study for. I went home, got what I needed, and went back to Irving. I don't remember much about that night except that when it was time for the kids to go to bed, they all wanted to sleep out in the living room where I was going to sleep on the couch. They argued and fought over who would get to sleep on the floor closest to the couch -- and me. We finally solved it by fixing pallets on the floor and the kids slept with their heads toward the couch -- all equally close to where I was sleeping. I remember looking at them all laying there as I fell to sleep, and thanking God for bringing them into my life.

I woke up about 4:00 the next morning to study for my Hebrew exam before I had to get the kids up for school. I remember turning on a small lamp on the bar between the living room and kitchen, sitting on a stool going over my Hebrew vocabulary words I had written on index cards, straining to see and not fall asleep. I remember wondering what my studying Hebrew had to do with the reality I was living in, working with these families and kids who needed so much. I knew I wasn't going to spend my life in some musty old office, cracking Hebrew scriptures open to prepare sermons for rich white people.

I passed the exam that day -- barely.

As time went by, I would take the kids most weekends. Most of the time I would pick up Rosa's kids and we'd all go to Orie's and spend most of the weekend. Other times, I'd go by Orie's and pick up the girls and all the kids would go to my house. Many times, the kids would go with me as I did whatever work the ministry required, which was growing more and more.

One thing that Perla and I did when I was in Dallas was to go back to that old house on Poinsettia. It looked much the same as it had 27 years ago.

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And here is the house with Perla in front:

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The kids would go with me everywhere, and were my shadows whatever I was doing. When the time came that I left First Baptist Church, they went with me to the Spanish-speaking church I went to in west Dallas.

When my great friend Terry (whose story comes later in this narrative) moved up to Wapanucka, Oklahoma, to pastor a church up there, about twice a month (sometimes more, sometimes less), the kids and I would go up there for the weekends. Those trips to Oklahoma are still some of the memories the kids talk about most when we speak of those early days. In 1987, when I went to Georgia for Christmas, I was able to take Alex, Maria, and Junior, with me on that trip. I recently found an old video from that trip that my Daddy had made, and I will treasure it always.

Alex ended up living with me full-time for a couple of years (1989-1991), and Roxy lived with Alex and me during the summer of 1990.

When I left Dallas in 1991, to move to Chicago and Jesus People USA, the hardest thing about leaving Dallas was saying good-bye to the kids, Rosa, and Stretch and Orie. I never dreamed it would be over 10 years before I would go back to Dallas or see them all again.

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In 2002, I was living in Florida with my precious wife, Charlotte. I had just went through a year-long battle with a serious illness, and watched my life and everything I thought my life was about crumble before my eyes. I was angry, I had lost (or abandoned) my faith, my marriage was in turmoil, and there were times I didn't even want to live.

Late in 2002, I had reconnected with the people in Dallas whom I loved and hadn't seen for eleven years. My world was falling apart, and I didn't know what to do. I ended up driving out to Dallas during that time, and was joyfully reunited with Stretch and Orie, Rosa, and all the kids. Even though I was struggling, doubting, and so much had changed for me during those years, I was accepted, welcomed and loved as much as ever. My kids were all grown now, and most had kids of their own. (Roxy had moved to California, and I wasn't to see her until 2007. I wrote about that reunion here.)

After that visit in 2002, I lost touch with them again until 2009. Since then, I have been able to maintain contact with them, especially because of Facebook. And my connection with the larger extended family of Rosa's sisters, children and grandchildren, has blossomed again, and it has brought much joy to my heart.

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What I have found amazing over all these years is that the connection I had to these people has been passed on to their children as well. I will share 3 examples of this.

In 2009, when I went to see one Junior, one of his kids came running up to the gate of the fence in front of the house as I was getting out of the car. He had been a baby when I had seen him in 2002, and he didn't remember me from that time. But he grew up knowing who I was and the fact that I had been someone special in his dad's life. He ran up to me, hugged me, and said, "My dad said you were like his dad, so I guess I will call you 'grandpa'."

Also in 2009, when I visited, I was going somewhere with a couple of Perla's kids. Edith, the oldest, told me that she heard people in the family talking about me and she said, "I wondered what all the fuss was about. But I've just been around you for a little while, and I'm already used to you, like you've always been here."

And, on this last trip, no moment was more special to me than when I went to pick Perla's kids up from school one day. She had not told them I was in Dallas yet. The kids came out of school, looking for their mom's car. It wasn't there, and they were looking confused. I got out of my car, and just stood there, waiting on them to see me. All of a sudden, Beonce, who's about 9 or 10, saw me. Her books and backpack went flying all directions as she dropped them, ran up to me, threw herself into the biggest hug, and shouted, "Allan! Allan! You finally came!"

Who could ask for a better legacy than this?

I could write for hours about my visit with the kids, their kids, Stretch and Orie, Rosa and that whole extended family, but space and time won't permit it here. I will just include some pictures of me and the kids from the old days (thanks to Roxy and my Mama for these).

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More recent pictures from this last visit (as well as a few videos) can be found in my pictures on Facebook.

Next time, I will talk about my visit to Cleburne with my cousins, and this thing called "J.C.'s House". I hope you'll join me.

My Texas Odyssey: Part 3

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Note:  this is part of an ongoing series of blog entries centered around my recent trip to Texas.  I'm publishing it as a series because it's too long to publish as one article.  If you come to this in the middle, I will post links to the first, previous and next articles each week.

If you missed Part 1, here's the link:  My Texas Odyssey:  Part 1

For Part 2, here's the link:  My Texas Odyssey:  Part 2
 

Chapter 4: First Things

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A Place I Used to Belong.   On that first morning I was in Dallas on this most recent trip, in addition to driving through the east Dallas neighborhood I called home when I first moved to Dallas in 1983, I went downtown to visit First Baptist Church. I had two purposes in mind: (1) I wanted to see the new construction. Almost everything that was part of the five-city-block campus when I lived in Dallas has been torn down, and the church is in the midst of a massive building project that will cost $130 million when completed, according to information on the church's web site. (2) I also wanted to try to find out about the lady I had worked for at First Baptist from 1984 to 1986, Libby.

I found a place to park close to the church, and got out of my car, amazed at how foreign this place looked that had once been so familiar to me. When I was in Dallas, Criswell College was located on the church campus. They have their own campus now, near the east Dallas neighborhood I used to live. I took some pictures, marveling at how everything I once knew here, with few exceptions, was different.

Where the old building was that used to house my office is a new facility, though it's not part of the new construction. I don't know when it was built, but it was after I left Dallas in 1991. I walked through the door of this newer building to be greeted by this formidable looking security station and several officers sitting on duty.

Was this part of First Baptist Church? Or had I walked into a bank or something by mistake? No, signs indicated I was in the right place, on the very ground where three stories up I had an office.

The security guards looked at me as if they wondered if I was homeless (and, once, I was, but not this day). I approached. They were professional and polite but not welcoming.

“Can I help you?” From a young woman who could have been one of the kids I worked with back in the mid-1980's, I suppose. Not the kind of “can I help you” that is the literal implication of the words.  It was the kind of “can I help you” that means, “I know you don't belong here, and my goal is to get you out of here as quickly as possible so I can go back to my Facebook or something.”

I explained that almost 30 years ago, I had worked here . . . on this very ground where we were, in the old office building. I had worked with Libby R., and I know she retired years ago, but could I find out how she's doing?

A phone call is made to someone somewhere in the depths of these new offices.   A few moments later, I learned that Libby was alive, but not doing very well, suffering from numerous physical and mental challenges.

I thanked the officers for their help, and walked in much sadness through the door back out into the streets of a city that used to be home to me, and in some ways still is. But, not here. I didn't belong here now. This wasn't my place any longer.

But there was a time I did belong here. And it all began with a phone call . . .

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It was June, 1984. I was home after finishing my morning classes at school before I went to work that night. Ben was asleep and Steve was at work. The phone rings. I answer it.

“Hello.”

“This is Libby R., from First Baptist Church. Is Allan Mills available?”

“This is Allan.”

She went to tell me that she was the director of Primary Education (1st – 3rd grades) at First Baptist, that she was looking for an intern, and that someone who used to work for her had recommended me. Could I come in for an interview? Sure.

I went in for the interview and found out that the internship was a 25-hour-a-week position that paid $500 a month. I would mostly be doing clerical and administrative things during the week, and would work in one of the Primary Department Sunday school classes on Sundays.

The pay was less than I was making at the library, but I was impressed by Libby and it was a chance to be on the staff of First Baptist Church, which I thought would look good on my resume when I got out of school.

I barely knew the guy who had recommended me to Libby. He was a former Criswell student who had worked for Libby before. I only saw him a few times in passing when I worked in the nursery at First Baptist sometimes on Sunday nights to supplement my income (they paid their nursery workers). His son was in the class I helped with a couple of times.

But he told her that I was a hard worker and was good with the kids. So she called me.

I quickly grew to love Libby. She was one of the most dedicated and caring people I have ever known. And she was married to her job and to the church she loved with all her heart. She worked 14-16 hours a day during the week, and she expected anyone who worked with her to work as hard as she did. And I did.

I got into a comfortable routine and was thankful for the opportunity to work with Libby.

One of the things I did on Sundays was use a station wagon the church owned to go out to Mesquite, east of Dallas, and pick up a little boy who was in third grade for Sunday school. His name was Eric, and since he was going into 4th grade, and a different department, I would no longer be picking him up after September, 1984.

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Each year, around the time that school started, children were promoted in all the Sunday school departments. The director of the class I worked in, Charley, and I set up appointments to visit with all the kids that would be promoting into our third grade department that fall.

It was a Tuesday night, and our last visit had been to a family who lived in Pleasant Grove, near the intersection of Jim Miller Road and Lake June Road. We were done, and Charley was taking me home.

When we turned north on to Jim Miller Road to get to the freeway, we passed a house where there were about 10 kids playing in the front yard.

Without even thinking about it, I said, “I wonder if those kids go to church anywhere?”

Charley: “Wanna find out?”

Me: “Sure.”

So Charley made the U-turn in his pickup, and we went back to talk to the kids.

My thought was that since I was not going to be picking up Eric up for church much longer, I could pick these kids up if they wanted to go to church.

The house where the kids were outside playing was actually the grandmother's house, and the kids were all cousins, brothers and sisters. They didn't go to church, they said, and the grandmother said it would be okay if they wanted to church on Sunday.

That Sunday, I rolled up in the station wagon, not expecting too much.

Before I could even get out of the car to go knock on the door, the front door opened, and the kids started pouring out. Not just the kids Charley and I had talked to, but even more cousins. The station wagon was full.

Each Sunday, more and more kids came. I started picking up kids all over Pleasant Grove. Soon, I had to use a van to hold all the kids, and before long I was making 2 trips in the van because of all the kids that were coming.

Libby saw the potential for ministry in what was happening right away. She said we'd call this new outreach “Primary Plus” and she turned me loose to concentrate on that work full-time. My 25-hour a week job quickly turned into a 50-hour a week job, and it was hard to stay afloat at school.

But I was good with kids, and I felt like I had found what I was born to do.

In just a few months, the work we were doing with Primary Plus eclipsed everything else for me. Libby even got the unprecedented approval to hire a second intern just to work with me on Primary Plus. That was Greg F., who became my best friend and whom I love to this day.

By the time I quit working for Libby and First Baptist Church in July, 1986, we were working with over a thousand kids and families every week from all over the inner city of Dallas and surrounding cities, running programs on Saturday and all day Sunday, and every day in the summer. All because Charley and I made that U-turn on a whim.

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In my work with Primary Plus, I became engaged in the lives of the families during the week, and it totally changed my idea of ministry. My theology was changing, my passion to work with people was consuming me, and I loved what I did.

As the number of people we worked with exploded, the time I had for interacting one-on-one with all the kids and families was more limited, so I did what I could. I would try to take different groups of kids to the park or to McDonald's (where ice cream cones were a quarter) during the week, and as different families had needs, I would try to help them.

I am trying to be brief (“Oh, really? Is that what this is? Your attempt at brevity?”), and so must leave out much that my heart would include in this story. But the bottom line is that my view of ministry was changed, my theology was changing, and the passion of my life was to work with families on the margins of society, the forgotten ones.

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As I became more and more committed to the work I was doing with families in the inner city all over Dallas, I realized after a while that I no longer belonged at First Baptist Church. My theology and ideas about ministry had changed, and I felt like I needed to be closer to the people I was giving my life to serve.

So it was, in the summer of 1986, with much pain and sadness, but also joyful anticipation, I left First Baptist Church to start doing the same work at a Spanish-speaking church in west Dallas, and I moved from east Dallas to Oak Cliff to live with one of the families I had been working with for a while.

It was during this time that I met my great friend, Terry, for the first time. But his story comes later.

And so things come full circle.  I left First Baptist when I felt like I didn't belong there any longer.  And on this recent visit, I was reminded that that hasn't changed.

Next time, I will talk about the special connections I had with two families, and how those connections continue to this day.

Part 4 is here.