Purposeful Pausing in Anxious Times

In our anxiety-ridden world it’s really difficult to talk about anything without causing a ruckus. It’s almost as if you can’t say the word “love” without offending somebody. So, as tempted as I am to talk about civil rights for gay and transgendered people, racism and the dangers of being Black in America, the removal of confederate monuments and renaming forts, kneeling during the national anthem, proper policing, should we wear masks or not, how to do church restarts and prevent COVID spread in the community, I’m not going to take on any of these problems. They’re important, don’t get me wrong. They are life and death issues, but I would rather tell you about my father-in-law, Guy Mobley Godwin.

I’m not kidding. Narcie, our Methodist preacher daughter, used her “Gandaddy” in her sermon last Sunday. Without collaboration with his sister, our Methodist preacher son, Josh used him in his sermon last Sunday, too. Two different stories, and Cindy and I can’t get him off our minds either. We’ve been talking about him off and on for weeks. Why? At first, I thought it was the fact that Father’s Day is this Sunday, but other Father’s Days have come and gone since he died in the fall of 2000. He’s always been on our minds, but this year it’s been a lot more.

The reason why hit me this morning. In the midst of the societal, personal, and worldwide dilemmas that I mentioned at the outset, Mr. Godwin would have been the one we would have all turned to for advice and wisdom. He was “Mr. Godwin,” because he had been an educator and principal for decades. Hardly anyone of any age called him anything different. It was out of respect and admiration, not lack of closeness. He was the best man that I have ever known. I love my own Daddy, but Mr. Godwin was tops in every way.

He was the principal of Kingstree Senior High during desegregation. Mr. Godwin was nicknamed “McGarrity” as in “Hawaii Five-O” because he knew who did what in his school, and had a knack for slipping up sight-unseen at just the right moment. He lived Black Lives Matter. Mr. Godwin was deeply compassionate. He had a special needs high school student who was a savant of sorts, and Mr. Godwin connected with him through chess. He set up a chess board and pieces in the trophy case in the middle of the school so that he and the young man had a running game all day long. He wanted other students to recognize the young man’s uncanny intelligence.

Mr. Godwin was so smart himself. He could fix anything. We all called it, “Godwinizing.” He envisioned things in his mind, used his slide rule, drafted things out, and made it work, whether it was an added back seat to his station wagon so the grandchildren could go to Disney World, or his special lawn-mower pulled train that he made out of old school bus seats. He added wheels to each seat so that the children had their own “car” as he pulled them through “Godwin World” on a trail in the nearby woods where he had hung different eye-catchers from the trees. He was so inventive, and he loved his grandchildren. Gandaddy was their hero. He walked slower than Moses wandering in the wilderness, but he was always the first one to get up from a table at a restaurant so he could take the children outside. They went exploring while they worked off their energy under his watchful eye.

Good Lord, Mr. Godwin even taught our Rotary Club International exchange student and our children how to drive in an old dilapidated car as they barreled around one of his fields. He was a Daddy-figure to countless students and adopted children. When they came home, most of them would make a loving pilgrimage to see Mr. & Mrs. Godwin. He was a true mentor. Mr. Godwin was a quiet man of few words, but when he did say something, you made sure that you listened. He loved Mrs. Godwin, also an educator, so very much. Their banter was priceless. He adored his “Buggah’s,” Cindy and Guyeth. He endured his two preacher son-in-laws, and taught us how to be good men, too.  When he asked you if you wanted to go for a ride, you almost didn’t want to go because it would be hours of non-verbal travel from farm to farm, to his school, or a farm implement and parts store, or to Lee Cemetery where he and Mrs. Godwin lie in repose now, but NONE of us would want to miss the chance to be close to him, so we went. It was truly an honor to be asked.

It was such an honor to be left with him in the ER when Cindy and her mother talked to the doctor when, at age 67, he had his last heart attack. He asked me to take his shoes off. I never felt so unworthy in my entire life, and yet so close to the man I admired more than any other. He had 5 heart by-passes when he was 52, and 4 more when he was 57. His father died of a heart attack at 43, his next oldest brother with a heart attack at 39, and his mother died of the same thing at 52. Mr. Godwin’s physical heart may have been less than stellar, but the width and breadth of his love knew no boundaries.

So, Mr. Godwin, you’re on our minds a lot right now, not because of Father’s Day, but because you would be the only person with the wisdom to make sense out of this crazy time in our world. Your students’ first nickname for you was “Rock,” for that was what you were, and still are. You pondered, reasoned things through, and excelled in purposeful pausing. We need more people like you, but, I want you to know how much I see you in your girls and grandchildren, even great grandchildren right now. They are so much like you. It’s the highest compliment I can give them. It makes me cry with appreciation for your life. Thank you.

Thank God for Educators and Schools!

Summer schedules are changing for a lot of people this coming week. It’s already begun for educators who are already back at school having team meetings, professional development days and school or district wide pep rallies of sorts. On top of that I am sure that many educators are sorting through the previous year’s supplies and spending more than a little extra money to get new materials so that their classrooms will be in tiptop shape.

Children, youth, young adults, and others are also feeling the change from summertime schedules. Cindy is in her 28^th year of education, and comes from a family of educators. She has been easing back into getting up early and switching gears. This week she’s up at 5 a.m. and next week it will be 4 a.m. It takes a herculean effort for teachers, parents and students to make the adjustment. I especially think of those first-time college students whose parental alarm clocks will be replaced by digital ones, and I pray for those parents who are first-time empty-nesters as they send their children off to college. They’re probably the only parents who aren’t rejoicing that school is about to begin.

At church we have the Blessing of Backpacks this Sunday and will give out very nice identification tags that include a space for the owner’s name and also has the name and logo of the church. It’s an even better idea to let others know your identity as a Christian. Of course, that means that there are certain standards and expectations, but, best of all, I hope these tags remind students and teachers alike that there is a God who is always present and hears every prayer before a test.

In my mind, a new school year provides a literal clean slate, a fresh start: new teachers, new friends, new opportunities, and new challenges. Frankly, I am now convinced there is no such a thing as a clean slate. Every one of us brings knowledge and experiences forward from either our families of origin or previous classroom experiences. Our educational system is built upon those previous encounters, interactions, and building blocks of learning. We might have new surroundings, classmates or students, but we are standing on the shoulders of those who have gone before us. Our whole society rests on the bedrock of our civilization’s foundations when we promote education.

British historian Arnold Toynbee said that over the last 5,500 years there have been at least 30 different civilizations across the world, and 25 of them have collapsed. He said that the fallen civilizations weren’t destroyed by invading armies but by self-implosion. He put it this way, “Civilizations are not murdered. They commit suicide.” Toynbee summed up the stressors that cause such self-immolation in this way: “The number one cause of the fall of civilization is a loss of purpose. When a civilization’s leaders and their institutions lose their sense of purpose, they lose the energy to grapple with all the challenges to the commonweal. If leaders and institutions have no guiding North Star, no sense of cultural mission, they are reduced to currying favor with power or to satisfying the impulses of the masses. If the choice is to exist merely at the pleasure of power on the one hand, or of people’s whims on the other, then leaders and institutions begin to embrace a fatal nihilism.”

If our educational system doesn’t promote purpose then our whole culture is fated for destruction. Of course, it takes compliant students and supportive parents and communities to get it done. Teachers aren’t doling out facts as much as they are instructing students about life and how to be good people who make wise decisions.

Toynbee’s words are so true and frighteningly accurate: “We are only one generation from barbarism.” If teachers, parents, clergy, and the rest of society’s leaders fail to adequately communicate and transmit decent values then our culture is doomed and nihilism’s depressing grip creates an insurmountable death throe: living without purpose. If we want better lives, then our daily choices matter. We can try to turn the ship of state around through legislation and mandated educational benchmarks, but none of this takes the place of good old fashioned responsibility. Parents can’t pawn their children off to educators and expect them to undo parental mistakes or make up for a lack of adequate preparation.

Each of us must begin with our own personal responsibility and investment in community. New school years and weekly worship are two of the most effective ways to get our lives in order. When we go to church and start a new school year we are building on society’s best role models, heroes, pioneers, and paragons of moral virtue. Our society is only as good as our institutions.

We live in an anti-institutional age and that may very well be our culture’s downfall, but the start of every school year gives me hope for the future. So, I want to say thank you to all educators for their personal sacrifices that preserve our culture, and I pledge to pray for you because the stakes are so high. If this country or any culture desires to survive we must value those who carry the most responsibility. Too many in helping professions are underpaid, and you certainly are. None of us would know a thing if it weren’t for a teacher! God bless you! Thank you!

 

No Person Is an Island

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Sometimes I am like the heron in this picture. To many I seem like an extrovert willing to jump either into life’s frays or frivolities. The real me is more introverted. I take solace on Mt. Mitchell or the sofa. I need my “cave time” more than I would like to admit. I can and will get involved, but my energy is replenished when I’m absolutely alone. I look forward to walking every morning in the darkness when it’s only me and God, no cars, and only the faint shadow of a heron in the rapids.

Today I got off my rock and headed down town to Zion Baptist and marched to the Statehouse for King Day at the Dome. MLK, Jr. could have stayed in “his place” on his rock, but he got involved. We need to do the same in South Carolina about the deplorable schools in the “Corridor of Shame,” payday lending abuses, the lowest cigarette tax in the US, and many more justice issues. I am grateful for those who have the led the rest of us by example.

For instance, I was glad last night when Sandra Bullock won a Golden Globe award for her performance in the movie, “The Blind Side.” It’s a great film that depicts a family that isn’t about blood or color. My mother came to mind as I watched the movie and last night. My mother became the legal guardian for an older African-American gentleman, Frank Arthur, before I was even born. He lived with us. We were his family and he was one of us. My mother’s adoption of Frank saved my life in high school at Strom Thurmond H.S. I was the only non-African American in Phys. Ed. class, and I didn’t know when to keep my mouth shut sometimes. I remember one occasion when I said something stupid and some of the bigger guys came to my rescue saying, “Leave Tim alone, he’s ‘Miss Sadie Emma’s’ son.” Her fair treatment of Frank and others protected me from myself.

I’m grateful for Mother’s witness about race. Thank God she got off her perch and did something for Frank and others. On this MLK Day I am reminded to do my part, too.