Just Passing Through

      A poncho-draped sentry at the Fort Hood East Gate waved me through with an OD flashlight.  The wipers on my red '65 Mustang were working overtime as I peered through the night at my new surroundings.  Assigned to 1/9 Cav Hq/Hq Co 1CavDiv, I was told to take the main road to the end.  Half a mile down this road I came upon two hitchhikers, a common sight in 1973.  The pair of lean soggy soldiers slipped into the small back seat.

     "Where to?" I asked.
     "We'll tell you." one said.
     I thought, maybe I picked these guys up so I could tell them about Jesus.  I did a lot of that in those days, living with the Jesus People in Southern California prior to being drafted.  I didn't always feel comfortable about "witnessing" as it was called, but had this compulsion to do so.  I think it was guilt.  Perhaps I was trying to pay Jesus back for what he had done for me.  Or was I trying to sell Jesus?  Anyway, it was awkward and scary.  Oh well, here goes...
     "Do you guys know Jesus?  He's the one who died for you."
     A quick shot in my rear view mirror and I noticed them glance at one another. Silence.  The rain on the white rag top seemed awfully loud and I hoped we would arrive at their drop-off soon.
     I thought, "Maybe I should shut up sometimes."

  

     Coming to an intersection, I had the green light at 30 mph and suddenly I looked out my driver's side window to see a pair of headlights inches from my door approaching me at about 30, and this guy wasn't slowing down.  Certain that we would be T-boned, I instinctively turned toward the passenger side and raised my left arm to shield my head.  Suddenly, through the passenger window, I saw the taillights of this same car moving away from us at 30 mph.  No time to brake, no time to swerve, no reason to slow down, I continued to drive.

  

     The other driver ran a red light and I can't call the MPs because there was no accident.  If there was, I wouldn't be calling anybody.

     One of the silent ones spoke up in a somber voice, "He should have hit you."
      My heart was racing faster than a mustang's and I said, "Fellas, I think you just saw a miracle."  More silence.
     "You can drop us off at the next corner," said the other.
     It's been 37 years since that rainy night in Texas and just recently I reflected on a New Testament passage in the 13th chapter of Hebrews, "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."
      Hmm...

My Dad

     I was fifteen.  The yellow pine in our yard was ancient and needed to be taken down before it attacked our slate roof in the next Pennsylvania windstorm.  One Saturday morning, my father had asked his buddies from the club to come and help take down the tree, and he asked me if I wanted to help.
Feeling so much like a man, I said, "Sure."
     The men showed up about 9 A.M. as the sun chased the chill from the April dawn.  Someone fired up a chainsaw and the pocketa-pocketa-pocketa echoed off the houses.  I still love the smell of 2-cycle smoke and pine sap in the morning.
     The wood chips flew and I was determined to get into their stream.  They looked great on my blue tee.  My job was to hold the rope while someone else cut the branches.
     Everyone was busy except for this one man who just seemed to watch and do very little.   After a while, we all took a break and I remarked privately to my father, "Dad, that guy didn't do a damn thing."  (That was the first time I used the 'damn' word in his presence).

Delford C. Hesener, Sr.
by Fred Bees, pastel. 1966

     My dad looked at me and said, as-a-matter-of-factly, "Oh, Scotty, he was wounded in World War II."   His tone was not demeaning, but understated and concerned that I be given the information I lacked.

     Enough said.
     The man I criticized was a hero.  He sacrificed himself so that I could enjoy my family, my home and my freedom.
      I was fifteen.  That spring day I had my rite of passage.  My dad showed me all about manhood in a few powerful words and the way he spoke them.
      I learned another lesson that day--wear gloves when handling pine sap.