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September 27, 2007

Overheard at a store this morning...

Posted by trevor at 12:17 PM | Comments (0)

September 25, 2007

I had an interesting experience a while back. I was waiting in my car and sketching in my journal to pass the time. I was drawing a bicycle that was leaning against the wall opposite my open car window.

An Asian man, who was passing, by suddenly stopped and came up to the window.

“You artees?” he said.

“I try,” I replied.

He looked into the window at my sketchbook.

“Ya. You atees. I see that,” He said, pointing at the sketch.

I nodded back.

“You draw me?” he asked.

“You?” I replied.

“Ya. Ya. You draw me.”

Before I could reply he went and stood against the wall in a stoic pose.

He did not move a muscle. He just stood in place.

About eight minutes later, I lifted my finger to indicate that I was done.

He raised his hand and said, “Tank you,” and walked away.

He did not even come over the see what I had drawn. I was amazed. He simply disappeared.

It reminded of a group if Buddhist monks I read about who spent five days creating an elaborate art masterpiece on a sidewalk by meticulously positioning millions of grains of sand in a colorful pattern. The piece was truly magnificent.

After they were done the monks said a small prayer and walked away from the work without even glancing back at what they had done, leaving the wind and rain to wash the art away.

Apparently the process serves as a way for the Buddhists to meditate, spread blessings and show the “temporary” nature of things in this world, even the beautiful ones.

This entry in my journal always reminds me to enjoy this magnificent life I have, instead of ignoring my blessings while searching for what I believe is something better.

It’s not.

“These” are the good old days.

Posted by trevor at 04:11 PM | Comments (0)

September 16, 2007

Today I was thinking about my fourteen year-old buddy Tylor. Tylor suffered from childhood cancer and even though he had his leg removed and suffered through more than forty surgeries (many of those to remove brain tumors) he still had the guts to stand at the door of death with a baseball bat and say, “Come and get me.”

Death accepted the challenge.

The game was on!

Life was pitching and, yes, you guessed it, Death was the umpire.

Tylor played his heart out but he simply ran out of steam.

Life pitched one final curve ball and Tylor went for it. He hit that ball as hard as he could, but he missed.

“Hah!” said Death. “Steeeerike. You’re outta here!”

“Yeah, right,” said Tylor, who grabbed his crutches and headed for first base. Tylor touched first base with his crutch and continued moving.

Death was fuming. “I said you’re out!” he yelled, as Tylor hobbled toward second base.

“Who died and put you in charge?” yelled Tylor over his shoulder.

Death stood at home plate seething. “What the hell is the world coming to?” he mumbled under his breath.

Tylor hit third base and headed home.

Death was waiting. And he was pissed.

Tylor hobbled as fast as his one leg could carry him. He did not slow down as he reached the home plate. He kept on running and bowled Death over in the process.

“What do you think you’re doing?” yelled Death, picking himself up and dusting himself off.

“Geeez,” said Tylor, “Get a life?”

Death glared.

“Besides,” said Tylor. “I wasn’t ready. I had some goodbyes to say.”

“Okay, okay,” said Death, “Like I’m sorry. You don’t have to get all snitty.”

“You’re killing me,” laughed Tylor. “Get it?”

“Very funny,” said Death, trying not to crack a smile.

“Okay, now I’m ready,” said Tylor, “Let’s go. I can’t wait to see what trouble I can get into in heaven.”

And he strode off.

“Wait up, wait up,” said Death hurrying after him. “You don’t even know where to go, dude.”

“Well show me,” said Tylor, reaching for Death’s hand. “Show me.”

Death gently took Tylor’s hand and put his arm around the boy’s shoulder.

“Now, there are a few things I need to tell you about,” said Death. “Firstly, the dude at the gate’s name is Peter. Actually he’s a saint. You’ll be able to tell by that yellow shimmering halo above his head. Now, don’t piss him off. At least not right away...”

“Okay,” said Tylor winking.

“Okay,” said Death. “Let’s go buddy.”

And they were gone.

I was blessed to have spent time at Tylor’s bedside while he was heading around the bases saying his goodbyes.

After I said farewell to him for the last time, I drove to the Cincinnati Airport and waited three hours for the delayed flight to take me back to Austin.

It was hot and stuffy and the people around me were agitated and frustrated with the flight delay. Fingers tapped. Feet dangled over crossed legs moving this way and that. Rotating. Tapping. Swaying.

Eyes rolled every time another flight delay announcement added to their discontent.

To pass the time I tried chatting to the people around me, but all I got were grunts in return.

Then I started thinking about saying goodbye to Tylor just a few hours earlier. A final goodbye. A goodbye whose image is burned into my soul forever. Then it struck me. I would never see this wonderful, warm, funny, caring kid again.

A deep sorrow began to fill my being like water slowly rising in an empty well.

I tried very hard not to cry, but I failed. I felt the tears run through my fingers and down my wrists.

I cried softly but very deeply.

The person next to me got up and walked over to another seat on the adjoining row.

Then the person across from me shifted a few seats down.

Slowly the people around me began to move.

Their discomfort showed as they quietly edged away pretending to need a snack or information or the restroom.

I finally wiped my eyes and looked up. Everyone had moved away from me, except for an old man, a few seats down, who slept soundly, snoring under his hat.

Posted by trevor at 04:45 PM | Comments (0)

September 11, 2007

Posted by trevor at 10:37 AM | Comments (0)

September 08, 2007

He reached under the bed and pulled me out.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"No." I replied.

"What's wrong?" he said, putting his arm around me.

"I miss you dad," I said.

"I miss you too," he said.

"I wish you were still alive," I sighed.

"Yeah, me too," he said, softly.

But, I'll always be in your heart," he said.

"I know," I replied. "But I still miss you."

"I feel the same," he said.

"Dad, is this a dream?" I asked.

"Unfortunately it is," he smiled.

"Why am I a little boy when I dream about you?" I asked. "Not the age I am now?"

"Because you're my little boy," he said, holding me tightly. " And you always will be."

Posted by trevor at 08:31 AM | Comments (0)

September 03, 2007

During my visit to the Congo and Burundi a few months ago I had the privilege of sharing art and stories with a group of orphans at the Don Bosco Youth Center in the North Kivu town of Goma. The only person who could speak English in the group (including the teacher) was a young nineteen-year-old Congolese girl who worked as an aide at the center. I believe her name was Gracia. She had a wonderful sense of humor and made it very easy for me to share a laugh with the kids in the classroom.

At the end of the day I waited at the buckled, corrugated-tin gate of the dusty center for my ride. Apparently there had been a spot of trouble in town with a roadblock and the driver who was supposed to come and fetch me did not arrive.

I sat on the box at the gate and was a little worried about how I was going to get back to the UN compound, which was some seven miles away. As I waited, I watched the sun setting over the poverty stricken and desolate landscape. A forlorn place which was devastated by a volcano six years ago and ravaged by four decades of civil war which ended only last year. The sun looked like a big red ball as it slowly rolled through the dust-covered sky and over the edge of the horizon.

I decided to stand on the box and peer over the fence to see if I could spot the white UN vehicle that was supposed to come and get me.

Suddenly I heard a voice behind me. It was Gracia the young lady who translated for me during the day.

I got off the box to greet her.

“Jambo,” I said. “Hello.” (The only word I learned in Swahili.)

“Jambo Mr. Trevis, sir. I came to tell you that you shouldn’t do that,” she said.

“Do what?” I replied.

“Put all of your good ideas in the big danger like that.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

“Well. I know from working with you today that there is many of good ideas in your head.”

“Yes, there is lots of stuff in my head,” I chuckled. “I don’t know how much of it is any good though.”

“You see if you stand on the box and put your head over the fence like that, then somebody is going to shoot your head. And if they shoot good there will be a hole in your head and all the ideas will fall out. That is not good.”

“No it isn’t,” I said, laughing at her great sense of humor and thanking her for pointing out my mistake. (Which is something I should have paid more attention to since I had passed the United Nations Security in the field course which mentions that one should not put ones face into places that might draw attention -or stray bullets - from drunken ex-rebels and warlords looking for target practice.)

The driver (who was delayed by a roadblock) arrived almost two hours later and Gracia refused to let me sit alone while I waited.

“You cannot sit alone,” she said. “It is our custom to look after our guests.”

Gracia and I sat together for those two hours and had an amazing conversation about life in the Congo. She told me that three of her younger siblings and her father had been killed in the war and that bad things had happened to her. She also told me that she was hoping to go to school one day to be a nurse, but she was now the family breadwinner and it was a struggle to save money for college.

The driver finally arrived and I hugged Gracia and thanked her for the great conversation. I wanted to give her something as a token of my appreciation and the only thing I had on me was a twenty-dollar bill. (Which is at least two months salary for the average earner in the Congo.)

I handed her the money and said, “This is for you.”

She looked at me and smiled. “Thank you but my father always told me I must ‘earn’ my money,” she said. “If I get money because people feel sorry for me, then the devil inside my head will trick me into trying to look for more money that same way and then I will forget how to work for my dreams.”

“I totally understand,” I said, shocked at her deep insight and the wisdom beyond her years.

My chat with Gracia was worth more than money can buy. What an honor to have been lucky enough to share time with such an inspiring and wonderful person.

I fingered the twenty-dollar bill in my pocket as we drove away from the orphanage and I thought, “How many times do I have to be reminded that it’s not about the money.”

Posted by trevor at 12:36 PM | Comments (0)

September 01, 2007

Posted by trevor at 03:45 PM | Comments (0)