Every time I look at the back of my right hand, and see that two-inch long scar, I think of “Scottie”. He was a “bull dog-bird dog” mix, the kind of dog that people give away if they can find anybody who wants one. But to a boy, his dog is the greatest thing in the world. A loyal dog will adore its owner, who may have many shortcomings, but to the dog he is a god. The same respect is returned to the dog only by little boys.
We got Scottie when he was just a puppy, and I could not believe my dad when he said he was “free”. “THIS dog had to have cost hundreds of dollars, dad. Who would GIVE away such a smart and beautiful and sweet puppy?” From the time I was six he was my most trusted friend, always wanting to go wherever I went, and I would have taken him to school with me if I could. Once I did, and they made me take him home. My teachers were so narrow-minded.
Anyway, here’s the story of how I got the scar on my hand. I was somewhere around thirteen, and puberty was making me think my folks were stupid and I knew more than they did. I talked back to my mother in a loud voice one night, and she told me to go outside until I could “straighten up”. I slammed the door, and then for good measure I put my fist through the window glass, ripping a huge gash in my hand. But I was too proud (or maybe too angry) to go back inside, and Scottie and I took off away from home. Wrapping my hand in newspapers, I walked eight miles through Birmingham, from Ensley on the west side to Woodlawn on the east side of the city. Of course Scottie was right there with me, never more than three feet away. We walked through downtown, past the steel mills, through the neighborhoods, to my grandmother’s house. It took us four hours.
My grandmother gave me a hug, took me inside, bandaged my hand, and called my parents to let them know that I was okay and would be staying the night with her. Scottie, who had never been to her house, lay down on her front porch as I went inside. It was by now past midnight.
The next morning I woke up feeling fine, but Scottie was gone. I called him and walked around the yard and through my grandmother’s neighborhood, but Scottie could not be found. He had been my closest companion for seven years, and now I had lost him, and all because of my own rebellion against my mother, and my stubborn attitude which made me walk eight miles rather than turn around and apologize. I prayed and I cried and repented. “Please, God, all I want is my little dog back! I will be better from now on, I promise!”
Sometime around noon my grandmother drove me on a sad trip back to where I lived. But upon arriving home, as we were coming up the steep steps in front, there was Scottie, waiting for me on the porch. He was so tired, but he was home! My mother said he got there just before we did, and he had collapsed from exhaustion, so weak that he had bumped his head as he lay down.
Looking down at this faithful little animal on my porch, I wondered how many miles Scottie had walked as he sniffed his way through the city of Birmingham for twelve hours. I thought about how many times he must have come close to being hit by a car as he sought his way through the downtown traffic. I wondered what had driven him to keep going, and how he could find his way at all, with all the confusing noises and smells of the city. But I was so glad that he had made it, and was so grateful that he was back with me! Lying down on the porch beside Scottie, I put my arm around him, amazed at the resilience and instincts of a common, mixed-breed, “free” dog.
Today I am still amazed that the best things in life are indeed free. What we can earn or achieve or purchase are nothing compared to what God provides for us at no charge. It’s called “grace”, and it really is free. And it really is, as the hymn says, amazing! And, just as a reminder of His faithfulness, He has given us these wonderful creatures that never knew their daddy, and forgot about their mama, but they wag their tail and think we are the greatest thing since sliced bacon.
Looking back, I ask myself some questions about what really happened that day. Did God really answer a boy’s panicked prayer? Did almost losing my canine companion make me appreciate him more? Can humans learn from animals something about loyalty and determination? As I grew up, would I ever do anything that stupid again?
The answers are yes, yes, yes, and “are you kidding?”
See that same hand? Someday I’ll tell you about the other scar!
Ten years ago I felt compelled to try to buy a radio station and turn it into a Christian ministry. I didn’t have the money, but I still wanted to do it. As we sometimes say, it was really “on my heart”. So I got a home-equity loan, sold my truck, borrowed a little from my mother, and finally scraped up enough for a down payment on a little country AM station. I also signed a ten-year note for three thousand dollars a month.
Looking back now, I laugh at how I brought a trunk-load of Gospel “records” into the studio to play. (Do you remember records, played on a turntable?) I had never even touched a CD, much less a computer! Even in 1995, I was hopelessly out-of-date. But here I was, “owner” of a radio station. It didn’t take long for “buyer’s remorse” to set in. All alone in that little studio, “over my head” in debt, all of my doubts and fears surfaced. “What if I have made a huge mistake? What if nobody will listen to a little Gospel station? What if I can’t sell any advertising? What if I go bankrupt? What if I lose my house? What if we go broke and I can’t pay this bill and my wife leaves and my dog starves and my friends say they don’t know me and my grass grows up because I don’t have gas for the lawn-mower and people say they knew all along I was a loser, and what if……?” I began to cry. Exhausted, confused, and terrified, I wept over my lost safety and security. I wanted to turn back, but it was too late.
What happened next is something I shall never ever forget. (I promise you, this is exactly what happened!) Even as I was crying, at that very moment, there came a knock on my door. There stood a man I had never seen before. He asked me “What is this place?” I wiped my tears and told him it was a radio station. This strange man paused, looked me in the eye, and said, “Sir, I don’t know what you are trying to do, but as I was driving down the highway, a voice spoke to me in my car. I believe it was the voice of the Lord, telling me to turn around at once! So I turned around! I drove for a few miles, and then I had a strong impression to turn into your driveway and come to this building.” After pausing again, he continued. “I am here to tell you, sir, that you have NOT made a mistake! You are in the right place, you are going to be blessed, and He will meet your every need. Don’t be afraid!” He then said a prayer for me and drove away.
Beginning then, and for more than four years in that little radio station, those words were proven true. What a time we had there! We didn’t get rich, but we had so much fun and excitement! We worked hard, learned a lot, and the broadcasting helped a lot of people. And the payments were made on time, every time. I use this little story to remind myself, and you too, that unusual things will happen to us only if we are willing to be in a position where the unusual is what we need. When we “stick our necks out”, dramatic things can happen. When we do these things to help others, we may see a lot of what I call “divine coincidences”, or “minor miracles”. But they’re not “minor” when they are happening to YOU!
My challenge to you is not that you go do something impulsive and stupid. I’m not here to mess up your life, but to awaken it. I’m here simply to say, “Follow your dreams, take the chance, break out of the rut, attempt something special!” Trust me– you may cry, you may get scared to death, you might even fail. But in the end you will be glad you tried.
Lee Ann Womack puts it best:
“I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance- never settle for the path of least resistance
“Living might mean taking chances, but they’re worth taking. Loving might be a mistake, but it’s worth making.
“Don’t let some hell-bent heart leave you bitter- When you come close to selling out, reconsider.
“Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance. And when you get the chance to sit it out or dance…. I hope you dance.”
Can you hear the faint sound of music playing somewhere? If you can, this might be your song. Don’t sit it out!
He was a nine year old child in the body of a forty-four-year-old man. Whether there were any social welfare programs for him or not, I don’t know. We never thought about it. It was the fifties and I earned an average of about three dollars a day selling “cokes” at Rickwood Field, home of the Birmingham Barons baseball team. Malcolm also worked there, as he had for fifteen years or more. He also made three dollars a day walking up and down the steep aisles of Rickwood selling cokes, peanuts, popcorn and scorecards. The rest of us boys were probably eleven or twelve years of age. All of us were mentally ahead of Malcolm. “I’m forty-four!” he would shout. “Y’all need to respect me!”
It still pains my heart when I think of the times that we treated him with anything but respect. Of course we said it was “all in fun”, but Malcolm was an easy mark. He would fall for anything. He believed anything that we told him. Many less-than-holy laughs were at his expense. Of course we never hurt him physically because, though he shuffled along with one foot dragging behind, he was quite strong, but we must have hurt him in other ways with our taunting, our “practical” jokes, and our tricks.
Malcolm had been watched carefully by his loving “Mama” for a long time, but after she died, he was on his own, somehow managing to live on his three or four dollars a day, vulnerable to twelve-year-olds and God knows who else.
A few years later when I was in high school, I attended a Barons game and there he was, still selling cokes. I bought one from him. He remembered me, though he never learned any of our names. He always just called me “Hey Bud”. “Malcolm” was the only name we knew him by. I still remember his twisted face, his slumped shoulders and his cracked voice. If I heard his voice today I would still recognize it as Malcolm’s, but I’m sure I won’t hear that voice again. Unless he lived to be over a hundred, he has probably been gone a long time.
Yet, after all these years I am still haunted by his memory; maybe because, just like all the others, I was far from kind to him. Perhaps it is because, looking back now, I greatly respect him for working so hard to make a living with what little ability he had. But mostly, I am haunted because I found a better way to live than by taunting people that are different. I have no desire to join in a group that accepts only those who look and act and think as they do. I found that these giants of “peer-pressure” only make us phony and superficial. I found that none of us has the right to look down on others just because they don’t have what we have, or they can’t do what we do, or they don’t know what we know.
Actually, when I said that I “found a better way to live”, that’s not exactly what I mean to say. What I really mean is that I met a man who really cares for each one of these people that others would never invite to their social gatherings. This man doesn’t care what you’ve done or where you’ve been, or what color you are, or how smart you are, or what your reputation is, or how much money you have. To him it makes no difference how nice your house, your car, or your clothing is. He is as willing and ready to put his arm around a beggar as a senator, governor, president, or king. Maybe even more so, because broken, guilty, weak, wounded people are often more ready to receive his grace than the self-reliant, the self-important, even the religious. In a most stumbling way, I am following a man who never met anybody he didn’t love.
I believe that one day in the past, probably several years ago, this same man put his arm around old Malcolm, and said , “Put down your tray of cokes, my friend, today I’m taking you home!”, and Malcolm left Birmingham and went to a place where he can see and talk and understand better than you or I ever could. His body, his mind, and his spirit are whole now. God might even somehow let him know that, after all these years, you are reading and thinking about him- and that I am remembering him and writing about him, with the respect that he wanted and should have had from me back in the fifties.
But I was only eleven, maybe twelve. Maybe in some ways I still am. And some bright day, Malcolm, if they will let me, I would like to buy you a coke, in a cup, with ice, just like we used to sell at Rickwood. I remember it well. They only cost a dime.