Kaleidoscope Joe

I met Jim Curtis at a church picnic in Iowa. When I saw his Veterans lapel pin I asked him about his service. He told a wonderful, awesome tale of his exploits in the U.S. 3rd Army as it pushed its way across Europe during WWII, He described the horrors of the war, and the persistent victory of which he was so very proud to have participated. He regaled me with comic remembrances of wartime antics, and touched me with heartfelt tributes to those who made the ultimate sacrifice. But the most impressive story he shared with me that day took place after the war. I have tried to recreate it from a notoriously faulty memory.
“Right after the war ended in Europe, I was with the 3rd Army in Germany. We had a lot more time on our hands with the fighting ended, and it was easier to get a pass for a three day leave. So me and my two buddies Al Whiting and Bob Devers, we had all come through the whole thing unscathed, decided to put in for a three day pass. Well, we got the pass and decided we would take a train to Frankfort. A couple of the other guys in the outfit had been there and said there were some parts of the city that had missed any kind of bombing or fighting and looked very much the same as it must have in the 1600s. So we decided that would be a good place to see. When we got there, we headed to a town square, or platz, as it was called there. When we got to the platz, I saw him there.”

He was seated on the edge of a fountain in the middle of the square when we approached; he was peering into a tube. My buddies split off to check out a beer garden; I told them I would catch up to them in a few. I walked up to him and said, “Hey Mac, whatcha got there a telescope?” He continued to stare into the device and replied, “No Sir, in his thick German accent. It’s a kaleidoscope, and with that, he held it out in my direction. I took it from him and took a peek. I saw patterns and colors all seeming to tumble together in a magical pattern as I twisted the tube the same way I had observed him doing moments before. As I watched the little spectacle unfold inside the tube, the stranger said, “and it imitates the life of a man.” I lowered the tube and looked at the stranger; I was pondering his words, and had formulated my question.

I held out my hand, “Jim Curtis,” I said, “Corporal in the U.S. 3rd Army, we're just out sightseeing.” “Yes”, He replied, as he shook my hand, “Germany was beautiful before the war. Joseph Knapp is my name, recently a conscript in the German 10th army. There are still a few places, like this, where you can come and imagine how it was before it was destroyed.” “How does it do that?” I Asked. “How does this… scope imitate the life of a man?” He took a long puff on the pipe he had gripped in his teeth, and as the smoke ran out, he began to speak.
“You see my friend, all of us, every one, has a life that is very much like the kaleidoscope, filled with little pieces and fragments. Some are pleasant, some are not, some are smooth and shiny, others are dark and ragged, and still others are quite nondescript. They are made up of the memories and experiences we have had, as well as the things we believe and the things that we know by faith. But you see also, we have three mirrors, just like the kaleidoscope, only our mirrors are the heart, the soul, and the mind of man.” “Hold on a minute,” I said, “I thought they were all the same thing, the heart, the soul, and the mind” “Oh no,” He responded, "they are each distinctly different entities. The heart of a man refers to his disposition, his orientation toward life, toward God, and toward his fellow man. The soul of a man is the seat of spiritual reality; it is the repository of God’s existence and of His truth. It is man’s soul that connects with God. Even when the heart has rejected Him, the soul is still able to connect to Him. And the mind of man is the place where memories rest, and new things are viewed. It is that which processes our experience, and which interprets our world. The three together reflect all of our memories and experiences, just like the three mirrors in the kaleidoscope. If our heart and soul are right, and our mind is sound, then we see beauty, even through despair, we feel joy, even when persecuted. If any of these mirrors are corrupt, well, that diminishes or disrupts the image. When I was young, I saw much beauty in almost everything I beheld, and now, almost everywhere I look I see misery and destruction. It is only through this human kaleidoscope, where my faith allows God to fix my heart and guide my thoughts that I find the peace and joy necessary to push on, and to look for the happiness I know will return in time, In His time. And then he extended his hand, placed it on the kaleidoscope in my own and pushed it slightly toward me saying, “Here, you keep this, a gift to remind you of me, and of God’s power and love.”
“I took the present, and thanked him for his kindness. I tried to pay him for it, and even offered to trade my watch, but he refused; he said a gift could not be traded for. We shook hands once more, and I wished him good luck and went to find my buddies. They asked me who I was talking to back at the fountain. “Oh, him?” I said, “That was Kaleidoscope Joe.” Then I showed them my new gift. They looked at the kaleidoscope, and laughed at the name I had given my new acquaintance, but I meant it in the kindest, even the fondest way. And that’s how I’ve thought of him ever since, as Kaleidoscope Joe. In some sense, I got what Joe was saying, and it stuck with me. It stayed with me when I returned to the states. It kept popping back into my thoughts as I struggled to cope with the horrors of the war, and the unfamiliar feeling of peace. And it was in my mind when I finally turned my heart over to God, and found Jesus. And except for my precious Lord, the meeting of Joe at the fountain in Frankfort is, to this day, the brightest bit in my human kaleidoscope. Oh, I know, I married the love of my life, we had four glorious children together, hey, I even had the most wonderful in-laws a guy could hope to have, but if it wasn’t for Joseph Knapp and that meeting by the fountain, I don’t think I would be the same man I am today. I’m not sure if I would even be alive.
I meant to go back to that town, to see if I could find him again, and maybe talk some more. I had it in my mind that I was going to run into him and buy him lunch, at some place he would recommend, and we would have a great visit, and then leave as good friends. But orders came through and we were relocated to await transport home, so I never did get to go back. I thought of Kaleidoscope Joe from time to time, and wondered how he made out, but I never did see him again.

That’s my Mom

When I was growing up, I was the second oldest of nine children. Our house was small by the standards of that day, tiny by today’s standards. We were a little cramped, but we were a family. Dinner was on the table every evening. The house wasn’t always clean; (you try keeping up after nine tornadoes every day) but it was safe, and comfortable. We were a family, firmly ensconced in the low-to-middle end of the Middle Class. My parents sometimes struggled to get the bills paid, sometimes struggled to keep us in clothing and shoes, and to keep enough groceries around for the pack of constantly growing, ravenous critters they called theirs. But we never knew real hunger, never spent a day wondering where our food would come from, never went shoeless, or dressed in rags. And we were wealthier by far than many children in the world because we had our whole family together, all of us, a complete unit: both parents, all the kids, pets, and with the bonus of a pair of wonderful grandparents right next door. We also had a history. We grew up in the same community, in the same neighborhood, in fact, as my Mom. We had a sense of belonging that kids who move a lot miss out on. We played with other kids whose parents had played with our mother, or at least had grown up with her, and knew her.

I recently had a neighbor who told me he had a plan to move every three years. The plan was quite elaborate, and included estimates of his upward mobility in his career, his wife’s position in her career, the needs of their children, etc.  It projected moving to a better house, in a better neighborhood, each time. The home he lived in at this time was a 2,300 square-foot, three-bedroom home. Why he felt he needed this constant improvement in circumstances escapes me now, I’m not sure if he ever tried to explain it to me, but I remember feeling sorry for the kids. Every time they began to feel settled among neighbors and friends, they were to be uprooted by a family plan that was designed with their betterment in mind, but neglected to provide for their emotional security. Today, we are a mobile society, and I am convinced that the lack of this “sense of belonging” has contributed, in no small part, to our societal decline.

The main focus, as I reflect on this upbringing, is not so much the setting, and I don’t think I could have had a better one, but the activity. My mother was tried to the outer boundaries of her personal and emotional resources; the envelope was not only stretched, but shredded. Sometimes, when I consider what a fiasco it can be just packing a couple of kids in a car for a trip to the supermarket, I marvel anew at the sacrifices Mom made for us. She was committed to making sure that we were not deprived of happy childhood experiences just because we belonged to a large family.

When we were young, quite young, Mom took us trick-or-treating on Halloween. That meant getting all of us dressed in costumes (I was a pirate!); she even dressed up herself, and herding us around the neighborhood like a pack of wild cats in a windstorm. Things wouldn’t have been too bad, except for one warped neighbor in a bear costume, a very realistic bear costume (at least to a six-year-old), who thought it would be funny to open his door quickly and shove his head out with a huge roar. Unglued, or unhinged, or perhaps both, would be words appropriate to describe my reaction. Did I mention that he lived in a second floor apartment? Did I also mention that I happened to be the one standing right in the doorway when it flew open? His door was at the top of a long stairway, in a creepy, dimly lit hallway. I’m not sure, but I think I set a record for getting myself down those stairs (and right out into the middle of the street; thank God no cars were coming) an event more like a steeplechase than a footrace, since I had to go over the heads of a couple of adults, even as I alternately passed under the skirts of a few others. In the end, there were kids running out of the building in a panicked mass exodus, screaming and tearing off into the streets, while anxious adults, some of whom had shoe marks on their scalps, or had had their most personal privacy rudely violated, were trying desperately to pull themselves together and collect their children before further mayhem could ensue. Me? I was trying to catch my breath, and feeling my heart racing like the motor of an Indy race-car. And what did Mom do? She wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes, said something about not even being out of sight of the house yet, and continued trick-or-treating with her kids. What a woman! What a Mom!

Over the years we took trips to the beach, to the zoo, we went on picnics to state parks, to the drive-in movies, visiting with friends of hers and their children, even took family vacations. In other words, we did all the things other parents do with their children but with way more of us.  I can, almost with a certainty, tell you that there is a story, similar in its own thread, to the trick-or-treat story, connected to every one of these trips. And I will never fail to appreciate the depth of commitment, the grand scale of fortitude, and the sheer perseverance it took for one overwhelmed woman to keep her commitment to give her children a great childhood, as secure in its foundation as it was rich in experience.

Thank you Mom; you did a magnificent job.

The Colossal Crash of 1988

I have told a few stories about my college roommate Dave, and his impossible mishaps with ketchup.  I apologize now for any misunderstandings, but I have apparently left the impression that the problem with Dave was one concerning ketchup. Understand that ketchup was not the important element in those stories; rather, it is what happened to the ketchup when introduced into the presence of Dave. Think of it as one of those experiments where they drop a couple of Mentos into a bottle of Diet Coke, it’s kind of a reaction. Except that with the mentos, the reaction is limited to a specific combination of ingredients, otherwise it doesn’t work, whereas with Dave, almost any inanimate object will do (or perhaps even animate objects, but most of them, by now, know enough to steer clear, so we may never know).

The story about Dave that I have not yet shared, is the one I call “The Colossal Crash of 1988”. It is not a reference to the stock market, although it had an immediate and decided economic impact on a local level. It is also not a reference to a car wreck, but it possessed some of the grandeur, if not the magnitude of a train derailment. No, The Colossal Crash of 1988 was about plates. That’s right plain every-day dinner plates.

Almost everyone has dropped a plate at some time. We are all aware of that sick feeling that comes as the plate slips from our fingers and that brief freeze in time that occurs from the instant we realize that the plate is falling until it impacts the floor. And we have all sighed that deep sigh as we reach for the cleaning supplies. Once more I feel it is necessary to remind you that, with Dave, as always, it is a matter of scale.

By this time, Dave was working in the school cafeteria. He was as good an employee as the Cafeteria Manager could want. Dave was a conscientious worker, a willing worker, a cooperative worker. He always did whatever was asked of him. But then, he was still Dave, and that’s like being the best grizzly bear in the world, because in the end, you’re still a bear. And when a bear does what bears do, it’s better if people are a safe distance from them.

I was seated at a table, having my breakfast one Saturday. Well, not just any Saturday, this was the Saturday before M.R.I., or Minister’s Refresher Institute. A conference for ministers of affiliated churches, and hundreds of church pastors from all over America, and even some international locations, were about to descend on the school for a week of lectures, seminars and sharing. The school administration and employees had all been working hard and long to make the school a showplace, to put our best foot forward. Enter Dave:

In the cafeteria line, there was a counter about six feet long where the plates were stacked. The counter was about two feet deep, had a shelf built on top that was about one foot deep, and another shelf that ran along the front of it below the level of the counter top. This last shelf is where the problem occurred. Dave had been bringing clean dishes from the dish room, and stacking them on the counter for the morning breakfast crowd. He had stacked a large number of plates on the counter, but had not paid attention to the physical dynamics of the task. Because the shelf at the front of the counter extended beyond the base, it was of prime importance that the bulk of the dishes be stacked on top of the counter before any were put on that shelf, otherwise the whole thing would be overbalanced and cause it to tip over. No one had bothered to train Dave on this small, but important detail.

As I took my first sip of coffee, it happened. A crash… of plates… plates… plates…plates… You see, as his roommate, by this time I didn’t even need to look up to know that Dave was at the epicenter of this quake. I have to say, though I can’t explain why, to this day, this event rates as one of the most memorable days of my life. Not in the same way as my wedding, or the birth of our daughter, or the day when we adopted our other children, those were special, cherished days. This was more like the day the Nazis invaded Poland; the awe of the blitzkrieg was unforgettable too. I will never forget the sound I heard, emanating from that cafeteria line. It was simply the biggest, grandest, most magnificent crash I have ever had the privilege to behold in my life. Hollywood could not have done better with all of the special effects at their disposal. The crash seemed to go on and on; it appeared to extended far longer than a crash could possibly go. And the volume matched the duration in both magnitude and impact.

As he set the last large stack of plates on that front shelf, the counter started to lean. Dave tried to stop it, but by the time he reacted, it was too late; the plates were headed to earth, and the act of stopping the counter only served to accelerate the motion of the plates. They didn’t just fall off in a pile though, they cascaded, one off the top of the next, like the team of precision swimmers in the old Esther Williams movies doing a synchronized dive into the pool.  Only it was happening simultaneously to multiple stacks of plates.  The small group of early diners was stunned into inactivity, just remaining where they sat, with blank stares. When it was finally over, there was a ringing in the silence, like when you turn off a lawn mower after an hour or so of running it. I’m sure there wasn’t any dust there, but the sense of dust settling filled the room. And there on the floor was an enormous pile of shattered dinnerware. There was enough broken porcelain there to assemble an entire Chinese terra cotta army. Dave had done it big.

The day before the college was to host a grand assemblage of its most important people: Alumni, contributors, advocates, and benefactors, Dave had done it big, really big. Figuring out how he had managed to pile as many dishes as he did on the entire counter and still overbalance it is a job for theoretical mathematicians, so I won’t even make the attempt. But I can tell you this; that day, Dave managed to break almost every plate that cafeteria owned, and every kind of plate too. He broke dinner plates, salad plates, fruit and cereal bowls, soup dishes… you name it, he smashed it.

The “butcher’s bill”  was high; when they called the cafeteria manager at home to tell him what had happened, he fired Dave, right there, over the phone, but not until he had cleaned up the mess (the president of the college later made them rehire Dave because, he explained, “It was an accident”). This time, the dustpan stayed in the broom closet, because this time maintenance had to show up with a couple of snow scoops, and it took two large trash barrels to contain the debris.

The school recovered, and M.R.I. was a resounding success, although I am sure that more than a few of the guests wondered why they were dining off of paper plates.  Dave was made to repay a portion of the cost of the plates, and returned to his job in the cafeteria. The cafeteria manager, who had always been a true man of God, became a valiant soldier of prayer, especially during Dave’s shifts, so there was some good that arose from the incident

They say that there are some very wealthy people who are willing to pay millions for the experience of travelling beyond Earth’s atmosphere in a spaceship. I would also love to have that experience, but will never have that kind of money, so I suppose the point is mute. I love Dave, he was, and he remains, one of my greatest friends, but you couldn’t pay me enough money to take that trip with Dave, because even the best spaceship is only a thing, and my friend Dave has this way with things…

The Pauses and the Cries

The people in the village paused their evening chores,

And watched the autumn haze rise off the fields,

And heard the bird’s songs marking-out their spaces,

Interrupted by a new voice in the world.

The newborn boy had filled his lungs at last

And then proclaimed His advent with a wail.

It was witnessed by the oxen and the sheep

That shared the tiny stable where He slept.

Unnecessary, since His coming had already

Been proclaimed among the shepherds far away.

A chorus of ten thousand angels told them

And they hurried to the place to see the child.

The people by the tomb gave pause to their grieving

And watched the Rabbi coming on the road

They had sent for Him, encouraged that He could save

The one who was His own friend and had loved Him,

But it had been four days, too late for even latent hope.

The Rabbi saw their grief and felt its depth.

Affirmed their sadness in “dakruo”, weeping silent

Tears which ran out freely down His beard.

Unnecessary, for He knew His Father’s power,

And thanked Him for His ear, (so they would know Him).

He promised they would bear witness to God’s glory

Bade them roll aside the stone, and it was so.

The disciples of the Savior paused from traveling

Upon the crest descending into Kidron.

And seeing Jerusalem they suppressed their own joy

Upon seeing Jesus weeping, “Oh Jerusalem!”

He foresaw the fate of those His chosen people.

A torment more than ever He could bear.

He cried aloud, a “klaio”, loud and anguished,

His heart broken for the ones He loved so much.

Unnecessary, for He Knew His great salvation

Would come soon and remove the pain His city

Was to come to as it waited for that day

When the Glory of His Kingdom Manifested.

The people had all paused their daily living

Enraged and watching their demands be met

The one who had proclaimed His deity must suffer,

And put to shame, was crucified by them.

His disciples had all run away and hidden

He suffered sorely, more than what man could bear,

If he were able to effect a ceasing, as Jesus could have done,

But He remained there, and took the suffering in humility.

Unnecessary, for He owed us not and we deserved not.

Then our Savior filled His lungs one final time

And proclaimed His exit from this world He so loved

He, with one final cry, said “it is finished.”

Words and Rakes

I don’t want to be a poet,

The words call to me,

“Take us out of the rack

Where you keep us stowed.

Put us to use

And make something beautiful. ”

I don’t want to own a rake,

Rakes are for working

Pulling through the dried, dead grass

Until blisters form on my palms.

And renewing the lawn,

To make something beautiful.

Words and rakes

Tools that become our master

Reposing in the racks where we stowed them,

Calling to us,

Come, pick me up, there is work to be done!

We must make something beautiful.

Their Window

Dust rimed glass, a rickety old sash,
Inside a broken frame,
With crackled, yellowed peeling paint
That somehow still remains.

The wall that holds this ancient work
Leans southward, quite a bit,
As though some cold, delinquent wind
Has tried to topple it.

But though the child has tried his best
To blow the old borne down,
Some force of nature, Providence?
Has kept it off the ground.

I viewed this rustic, leaning shack
With its single dingy glass,
And pondered on its occupants,
Were they too, of the past?

Or had they left just yesterday,
On some essential trip,
Returning to the window’s light,
To sit and laugh by it?

Perhaps I caught a movement.
Perhaps there was a sound.
A stillness, yet with living breath,
Was someone still around?

Had they never left at all,
Was I too dull to see
The spirits of a distant time
Inside, and watching me?

I stepped inside the dreary shed
And wiped the sullied glass,
To view another person’s view
To see another’s past.

I peered outside upon a world
That others once had know,
And wished, if only for a nod,
That it could be my own.

I Had a Thought, Once

I had a thought, once, a magnificent thought.

As grand as it was glorious, as profound as it was insightful.

A thought to be proud of, as intelligent as it was truthful.

A thought to be kept in the heart, and yet, to be shared with the world.

And I lost it.

Through some sad neglect, I lost it.

Through years of disuse, forgetfulness, denial.

Escape, distraction, confusion, rejection, I lost it.

Not with a single, great blow was it batted away,

But with a thousand insignificant, out of hand sleights,

I dismissed it.

And I am ashamed it is missing.

But it isn’t lost for good, great thoughts never are.

I will find it again, I know. I must look diligently,

Keep searching, among all the great thoughts.

Forbearing distractions, expelling confusion.

I cannot give up.

Because then, I know I will find it.

If I simply persist, with the help of the author

Of all the great thoughts, I will, again find it.

And renew the joy that once filled my soul,

And caused it to join with my heart and mind.

They rejoiced in a truth

Somewhere in the pages of my Bible.