Tribute for Gary

        Gary was my personal alarm clock my senior year in high school. Our junior high was condemned Gary’s junior year, my senior year which meant the first bell rang at 6:15am each day. My undiagnosed sleep apnea meant many mornings I slept through my alarm clock. Gary was faithful to bang on my basement window to drive me out of my slumber. Gary’s mischievous, infectious smile was another memory I have of my friend. His passion for basketball, which were manifest in one-on-one games on his slanted driveway at Richards-Gebaur AFB, were a constant demand of our friendship. His laugh, which was more of a chuckle, and the proverbial peace sign were all part and parcel of Gary’s nature. I am grateful to have shared a short span of life with Gary and his positive nature. I have included an excerpt from a short story/memoir that I wrote recently recanting some of the adventures we shared together.

An excerpt from “Front Wheel Drive Mudding”

Time generally changes all of us but more so during our high school years by virtue of the car and its freedom, allowing us to broach our coming adulthood with a new level of independence. Many times, God’s grace prevents tragedy, other times our own recklessness and stupidity exact an expensive cost. Recently, we lost our mentee, Gary, to non-Hodgkin’s cancer and the brutal impact of Covid. I took it hard when I found out about his passing as I had begun to write a series of short stories recounting some of the tales we shared this past summer on Gary’s back porch in Athens, Ohio. He had picked me up at a nearby campground where Jane, my wife, and I were staying. We were passing through on our way to an extended trip to the Great Lakes but I had purposedly amended our trip to have a day with my old friend. I hadn’t seen Gary and his wife Margie since they showed up for my surprise 40^th birthday party, planned by Jane. Gary proudly showed me around Athens before we had lunch and then settled in for some catching up at his house. He gave me some tips for my travel to lower Michigan. In particular, he pointed out some great things-to-do around Silver Lake, an area where his mother had grown up and where his family continued to vacation at for years. As our time wound down, I pressed him on the issue of joining us for the 50^th anniversary of the class of 1973 at Belton High School in 2023. At first, he was non-committal but relented somewhat when we both agreed that his connections to our high school was stronger with me and Tim, other than his classmate and friend, Keith Parks. He said he would certainly think about joining our upcoming celebration and that I should keep him posted. After our visit, I talked with him by phone, sensing his fragility, and desiring to keep our renewed connection fresh. Seeing requests for prayers for Gary by Margie on Facebook, which I unfortunately checked irregularly, I called Gary’s mobile phone only to have the call go straight to voicemail. Intuitively, I knew before I searched the Athens obituaries but the confirmation of his passing still hit me in the gut and took my breath. Tears flowed as I read the account of my deceased buddy that was so alive just months before and sat with me on his beautiful enclosed back porch. As memories of Gary flooded back, I recalled the front wheel mudding tale of Tim’s Fiat and the horse laughing we enjoyed at his expense. It was then I realized death doesn’t destroy our memories, it merely crystalizing them in order to preserve the genuine joy we share in each other’s presence.        

 

              

 

 

                                                   Tribute to Master Chief Wesenburg

As a new deck hand aboard the USS Kalamazoo, I was unfamiliar with the preventive maintenance routine for the multiple stations topside on the oiler. I was a green horn in so many respects when I was assigned to grease the ¾ inch steel braided cables used to transport fuel and stores to other ships. MCBM Wesenberg saw my lack of commitment as I tried to coat the cable with grease. I was concerned about the small fissures of steel that were breaking off in my hand and getting crud on my new uniform. Honestly, I was doing more dabbing of grease than I was coating the cable. It wasn’t more than a couple of minutes into the detail when the Master Chief of the Command inserted himself into my world.

“You afraid to get dirty?” he asked rhetorically. Not waiting for an answer and while still decked out in his clean khakis, he reached down into the bucket, grabbed a handful of black sludge, and began properly coating the steel cable.

“Don’t be concerned about overcoating this line” he instructed to the neophyte who was more concerned about not getting dirty than getting the job done.

After a quick minute he nodded for me to join him in the work. Truthfully, his demonstration challenged me rather than instructed me. His clean uniform, full of service medals as well as his name tag, did not encumber him as he intently showed me that he was not above doing the lowest, nastiest job on the deck.  Once I started mimicking Master Chief, he found a rag, wiped his hands, but continued to encourage me while I pressed on with my work.

The impact of those short 10 minutes of instruction were many. First, Master Chief’s attention to detail was spot on. Secondly, he could have easily derided me but he chose to challenge and encourage me. Third, he could have used his rank and prestige as a means to avoid a tough work situation rather he relished the chance to use his seniority as a way to define expectations for his charges. Finally, we connected on a more personal level as my time aboard the deck crew continued. He got me assigned to the Wardroom during mess cooking, ultimately, I got to serve as the Captain’s cook personal mess hand. Later, I struck for a rate change to serve as an Operations Specialist and Master Chief Wesenberg was an advocate for me.

During my professional career as an educator, I have shared this story many times, particularly when I taught Business Management at the high school level. The moral of the story was always, never get too big that you won’t do the toughest job. Thank you, Master Chief Wesenberg for humbling yourself to teach a new deck ape not only how to grease a cable but more importantly, what real leadership looked like.

Detestable

Munching away at candy

Or anything handy

When her bottom exceeds the chair she plops into.

Insensible

The way her arm reaches for more

Like the hour before

Her moves instinctive not reasonable

Unhealthy

Her body sits unmoved hours on end

Seemingly only to bend

For additions rather than deletions.

Why?

She is quite pretty in the face.

Why?

She seems to be complacent.

Until she returns to the overwhelming silence of her room

And looks into the mirror at the gross,

Feels tired, alone and dries her tears,

 Relaxes her fears,

With another mouthful.

 

2-18-1980

Daddy's Blueberries

The berry patch on the south side of the red clay hill

Looks strangely different from when Dad would still

Carefully transplant the first of spring’s early shoots

From the bushes that had stretched out their mindless, wandering roots.

The bushes are more open and clearer from my long pruning shears

And the shovel’s intrusion into the thickets that developed over years.

Small plants, grasses, roots, decaying mulch and fragile shoots

Are gently lifted by a rusting shovel assisted by muddy boots.

Dad began the task of thinning out the blueberry thickets

Long before I manned the shovel, he moved the tiny pickets.

“It’s good to share the wealth” he would always say,

As we lifted out a small sprout from the bramble fray.

At times the late frost and the cold were nature’s cruel way

To thin out the blueberries that were destined to go away.

Some years the bounty was too much, a teeming oversupply.

You never knew when or if and certainly not why.

But if we had plenty, oh, how our friends would enjoy

The little round berries, tasty mouthfuls of fruity joy.

By the quarts and gallons, those berry bushes would yield

A crop to share with many, their sweet treasure unsealed.

Dad knew the real treasure that he was willing to share

Was more than just the berries, their sweetness, their fare.

It was the bushes and the wealth of giving to another

The sharing of the plant, free berries for our brother.

So, when I give you blueberry shoots from Dad’s original patch

Plant them, cover well their roots, layer them with thatch.

I share them with you like they have been shared with me,

Daddy’s bushes and blueberries, a gift of love that’s free.    

 

Doug Gouge

March 2015

Thanksgiving as a Sacrifice

 

Verses

PSALM 50 7-15

PSALM 116 12-19

          Rarely do we think of Thanksgiving as a sacrifice. It is normally seen through the lens of massive amounts of food, fighting off the inevitable sleep due to the aforementioned food, football watching and the shifting on the shelves in our too small refrigerators to attempt to preserve the leftovers that usually get tossed after a few days. Thanksgiving is a time of excess, an expression of how we have been blessed and generally not a time of blessing one another other than our own families. Yes, there maybe some suffering involved: the once-a-year encounter with the dysfunctional relatives, the injured child from playing too rough with siblings and cousins, the bloated belly and blurred senses. These are merely inconveniences and not sacrifices. As we too quickly leave the season of Thanksgiving and enter the Christmas season, let’s reflect on Thanksgiving as a sacrifice.

          First, in Psalm 50 God Is speaking to His people, asking them to listen. What does God not need? (Physical sacrifices, bulls, goats etc.) Notice he doesn’t rebuke their mandated sacrificial offerings but God doesn’t need them. Psalm 24 1-2 reminds us that the earth is His and everything in it. God by His very nature is enough, sufficient. Verse 12 reminds us again of His completeness. What does He charge us as His people to do? (1. Sacrifice thank offerings and fulfill our vows to the Most High 2. Call upon Him in our day of trouble) We tend to do the latter first and forget to do the former.

          In Psalm 116 12-19 the writer is almost giving a response to the Psalm 50 charges issued by the Lord. His opens with a question all of us as believers should periodically ask ourselves. (v. 12 How can I repay the Lord for all His goodness to me?) We could mull over that thought for ages and I suspect that even in Heaven’s bliss that will be part of the wonderment of God. The writer points out several things he will do. What are these things? (1. Lift up the cup of my salvation 2. Call on the name of the Lord 3. Fulfill my vows to the Lord 4. Sacrifice thank offerings) Notice that in verse 15 he gives us the very familiar phrase “Precious is the sight of the Lord in the death of His Saints”. Why does the writer put this in the middle of the things He says He will do to “repay” the Lord? (Death of a loved one, his own death looming)

          The writer concludes with the statement “Praise the Lord”. This short phrase is the cornerstone of the thanks offering that both the Lord desires in Psalm 50 and the writer of Psalm 116 wishes to do to “repay” the Lord. Our sacrifice is not grounded in monetary offerings, our volunteer time at church functions, our attendance at Life Group or any other measure that do require some sacrifice of time, talent or treasure. Our thank offering of sacrifice is an attitude of praise no matter our circumstance. When life unravels, we become fragile, the enemy surrounds with storms of disillusions and distress does our praise diminish or disappear?

Let’s conclude with a story from a weekly newsletter I receive. The story demonstrates what a thank offering looks like in the midst of the Thanksgiving season.  Sheila Heil is the wife of the late Paul Heil, founder of the Gospel Greats broadcast heard on many radio stations. In the newsletter she writes:

Here's Jerri's story:

“Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. I love everything about it... The colors, the food, the traditions, the family time...ALL the things...even the "being thankful" part. That's where it gets real, really fast.

“When life has become a vastly different place than before, when the heart has not just broken, but shattered, when loneliness has become the norm, when hope seems lost, when the face staring back from the mirror looks strangely unfamiliar... that's when being "thankful" becomes a sacrifice.

“The Word tells us ‘in everything give thanks.’ EVERYTHING?!?! Yes... everything. It's so easy to be thankful when all is going well, but a greater challenge when your world has imploded into rubble at your feet.

“On many occasions, in prayer, I've had no words...just soul sobs. My mind couldn't conceive of what HE was doing nor why.

“This I can say with absolute certainty, however, HE makes no mistakes. HE has a plan and, someday, I'll understand. For now, I lean heavily on HIM, walking face forward, and holding tightly to HIS hand. HE is healing and restoring me. I look forward to what's next, knowing I can trust HIM.

“Thanksgiving has a new, deeper meaning to me now. To quote a great song, ‘...in the good times, praise HIS name...but in the bad times, do the same. In everything give The King all the praise!’ Happy Thanksgiving, Loved Ones! So thankful...so blessed!”