Special Consideration

I deserve special consideration.  At least, I think I do.

Honestly, it’s in my script.  I was born in America when only a fraction of my friends went to war.  A baby boomer; I attended school in a rich district, where being white got me benefits blacks schools did not get.  My church brought in Oxford scholars. I had an IQ to enjoy accelerated classes, was a doctor’s kid.  Nothing I earned.  All came unasked, undeserved.

I sensed I was called by God to serve Him, so I got to do that for years, with pay, and believed down deep, I got special considerations.  Get out of Jail Free cards.

The problem with special consideration, though, is that it has nothing to do with me.

Years ago, Jill and I boarded a Delta flight and were happily surprised to find the Captain was Darl Henderson.  We had been to his house often, eaten, and skied behind his boat while serving as a youth minister in Coral Gables.  I would never have known he flew C130s in Vietnam so close to the action that he got combat pay, if I had not wandered down a hallway to a bathroom (two were in use!) and seen photos on a wall.  He was quiet like that.

Darl was kind.  We found our seats and buckled in.  As we ignored the safety talk, a stewardess asked Jill and me to move to First Class and take new seats — at the Captain’s request.

We ate with real silver ware, a meal we only dreamed about in “last” class, and were too excited to sleep in the huge chairs while Darl flew.  Special Consideration.

I think I deserve special consideration, irrespective of any fact that I ever deserved any of it that has come before.

Between our two boys, Jill miscarried in the same month that her horse died.  We were devastated.  We fell from special consideration, but no more than the one in five pregnancies that abort universally.  Even there, at a prayer service where Mildred told us she had born two children full term to lose both, Charles Burnside quietly gave us a check — covering all our out-of-pocket costs to the odd dollar amount we would be billed for!  How could he know?

At the core of my faith, I believe, I hope, that beyond a special consideration of salvation, God in Christ plans for me, that He builds on, extends that special consideration.  And He does; just like 50,000+ names on a black scar of granite in a hill on The Mall; just like the 168 who died in the Murrah Building blast; or teens murdered in classrooms in schools across the country or on our highways.

You see, we denigrate the term, squandering it on temporary dwellings: bodily and material.  We denigrate it as we fear it: God’s special consideration means Heaven, with Him.  I want that, but fear it might be today, so, like Freud said, I binge on trivia and seek winnings, upgrades, great prices on steals, and so on.

I fear the ultimate upgrade, the last special consideration.  Not Darl.  Somewhere flying over battles covered in the Evening News collecting bullet holes in the fuselage except around his seat, he quietly found true special consideration.  Like God in Christ, Special Consideration is meant to push us to be creative in making it happen for others.




We held a reunion yesterday.  Follow Highway 33 east, four miles east of Drumright, turn south on Street 486 South (don’t feel bad if you don’t know where it is, Google Maps didn’t either.)

Follow the almost asphalt road past the grazing buffalo down in the valley and ignore the right turn in the road to drive into the Country View.  Park on the newly mown grass, and follow the sea of grass up into the long, low metal building and inside.  Look back over the valley as angry clouds threaten downpours, and barns and outbuildings dot the manicured valley.  Entering you find Terry and Tina, he in uniform, she in wedding gown, are in the middle of a hail of photos, and around them swirl family and friends setting tables, lighting electronic candles, caterers beginning to burden an elegant buffet combining Lebanese cooking with American barbecue.  A string quartet and a 30 piece brass ensemble start setting up as soon as the photographers yield the floor.

Outside life is simple.  Get seated early and get a chair.  Come later and enjoy a long, low, split rail bench.  Terry’s predicted 8 mph winds have amped up to 20.  The quartet has commandeered a van as a windbreak, but still need wind covers for the mics.  They are quite good.

And people have gathered here, in the middle of nowhere.  Okay, this may not be precisely the middle of nowhere.  That would seem easier to find.  This is more to the left of middle, past the tired cow on the left and the Hurlbaugh’s old place, you know the one he sublets to the niece, and up the hill a ways from Ms. Golds goat ranch she had back during the war.  World War 2.  It is all mowed grass now.

Caleb and Lydia are in from Turkey.  He will finish the last chapter in the book this week.

Neena has a daughter I have never seen, who is as tall as mom and 13, all elbows and knees and will be beautiful in that Medditerannean way.

And Balthazar married her and came back after all that education to find no jobs in engineering and runs a landscaping and mowing business in Edmond.  And Brian and Stacey moved to Arizona last year, out by Phoenix and she looks great.  Josh and Crystal have their four kids here and he will make another pass at the specialty rices and coffees in Myanmar and Laos this summer.  Mindi still administrates Eagle Heights church.  Rhonda will play in the band.  Steve is down from Kansas where he works for Cessna.  Jimmy and the doctor have their two little ones.  He quit the band when the first one was born, and will contract their home this summer.  And he still wears wonderfully “out there” colors and bow ties and now sells for Berkshire-Hathaway real estate.  And she and her Hubbie are up from Edmond and a dozen more.

We watch all the kids jump and cavort with the band’s loud and proud melodies from the big band era.  We catch up on each other and conjecture about another fifty people.

And the band is suddenly playing what feels like a soundtrack for a movie.  The sun’s light from under the clouds casts faces in a rosate glow, conversations slow down to inaudible, and people look genuinely happy to be here.  They laugh together at their children dancing together, they hug again as if the first was automatic and I want you to know this second one is heartfelt.

And I am struck by how wealthy we are.  To have invested spiritually and in time in so many, many lives and see where their worlds are expanding and their influence is growing; that is an elixir whispering that my life has had an influence, that my wife and I were right to let so many pass through our home, wear out the furniture, deplete the cabinets in the kitchen, and linger in the night discussing life and things that matter.

And it gives me another name for Heaven: reunion.  But this one outside of time has the great grandfather I never knew whose mules were Paul and Silas as he covered a circuit of churches preaching in each once a month or so.  This one outside of time enables me to take a turn at a table with Teddy Roosevelt, Sunday School teacher and President, and Teresa of Avila as part of my family.  Yes, mom and dad again, Mammaw and Pappaw and possibly the little one we never named, who would have been born between the two boys.  All at the reunion for each other, as it is in Heaven.

And when I sit with Nana at THAT reunion, she and I will have all the time she would have taken, and I won’t be in as big a hurry to let her introduce me to people from Alcester, and her mom the Sunday School missionary in downtown Minneapolis on scary streets.

The service was surprisingly funny and poignant.  The food was fantastic.  The music stopped people in mid-sentence it was that wonderful.  We were repeatedly surprised at how good it was, how beautiful the setting sun was over the valley, and how much fun we had.

So some weddings and receptions transcend the genre and become: Reunion.  Something to hold on to and enjoy.