Character – Snail Trek Blog

Fitting In

I am not like my mother—she prayed for everything. She prayed for friends, for waiters, and for the food they brought us. For refrigerators. For roadkill.

She even prayed for parking places. When a car finally budged from its space as we circled like vultures seeking carrion, she would beam, “See? He cares!”

My prayers are more modest. I might seek divine intervention for a missing sock, a cell phone, or a shopping list gone astray in the grocery store. When I was young, I prayed for my pets—right up to the moment of death. Still, now and then, I’ve prayed for someone’s health and watched them become healthy again.

So, I was surprised to find myself—with my hand resting on the shoulder of a young man I did not know—praying aloud for him at a bus stop as passengers milled about.

I had brought my cousin to the Greyhound station so he could board a bus to take him home. We waited—pacing, standing, sitting on cold cement benches until our backsides went numb.

Two hours later, a bus finally arrived. Surely ours. But no; the driver told us my cousin’s bus had been canceled. Another one would come “in an hour or two.”

All around us, mothers changed babies’ diapers on the stone-cold benches. A grizzle-bearded gentleman used his cane to prop up his nodding head. Children overturned suitcases, which occasionally burst open in a soft explosion of clothes and toys.

As darkness approached, the replacement Greyhound bus arrived. A heavyset young man near the front of the line shuffled toward the door. The driver opened it, invited him in, and spoke with him privately. Moments later, the young man stepped back out.

After engaging him in small talk, I asked, “Why did you get on and then come right back out?”

“I was measuring,” he said plainly. “I wanted to see if I could fit in a bus seat. It’s less embarrassing to find out now than when the bus is full.”

His candor took me off guard. I searched his eyes, tucked away behind heavy cheeks.

As we talked, he began to open up. “I’ve eaten my way through my misery. My family treats me like an outcast. Eventually, I dropped out of high school. I’m barely a survivor. And that’s all I am. So, I’m leaving.”

His eyes divulged emptiness—a soul leached of hope. What remained was a broken spirit, searching for a place of healing.

When I reached for his arm, he didn’t resist, didn’t even question my intent. A tremor passed through him—and into me. What was I doing? His burden wasn’t mine. His shame, his fear—they weren’t mine to carry. And yet I couldn’t let go.

There was only one thing to do—pray.

Yet, at that moment, I shared a twinge of his fear. The bus crowd might stare. I might not fit in.

Still, I prayed.

When I opened my eyes, his face was wet with tears. He rubbed his knuckles in his eyes to clear them. Storm clouds had broken; a comforting rain had begun to fall.

And then he suddenly announced he was turning a page—away from bitterness, from anger, from self-loathing. Toward healing. Toward beginning again. After all those years, he believed that finally he, too, could be loved.

And in that moment, I learned something, too. My overweight friend and I were both out of our depth—he, for his weight, and me, for my very public prayer. Like him, I needed to risk not fitting in.

Expressing love is a splurge—an extravagant act that risks embarrassment. It’s a leap off the high dive before you’re sure you can swim.

And sometimes, by taking that one courageous step, we budge both heaven and earth.

Curtain Call

In sleep, Dad might wander a path, inhaling the fragrance of pine trees, or he might revisit familiar, cozy places he held dear. But now he was aging, and naps brought confusion instead of release. His body faltered, and he grew irritable. A uniformed nurse at the assisted-living facility stepped in to give him medication, easing his agitation. As his mind relaxed, so did his muscles. Soon, his lungs would forget to expand; finally, his heart would forget to beat.

We were still on our way to see him when the message arrived—Dad was gone. Only the night before, we had returned from visiting our daughter and her family halfway across the country. I kicked myself for poor timing: I had missed Dad’s departure from Earth by forty-five minutes.

At 106, Dad would often ask, “Why am I still here?” He had lingered on, outliving friends and family. Each time we parted, we knew it could be our last. Still, we shared a secure peace; if it were our final goodbye, neither of us would have regrets.

We cared for him during the nine years after Mom died. Many weekends meant a two-hour drive to see him, tending to his needs, followed by a weary drive home—and then preparing for another long workweek. The rhythm repeated, week after week.

During those nine years, Dad cared for us, too. His humor cleared our career-compressed fog. His devotion to beauty, art, and faith pressed us to look inward, outward, and upward. He remained delightfully quirky: every dog he greeted received a firm rumple of its nose pressed lovingly together. While he never received a nip at this greeting, the canine communion mystified both the unsuspecting dog and its surprised owner.

But eventually, like his own father’s gold pocket watch, the spring broke. No amount of winding its crown would have any effect. Its time, like Dad’s final nap in his small bedroom, had run out.

But this was not Dad’s first dance with death; it was his curtain call. Fifteen years earlier, while shopping at Costco, he left us the first time.

He had stood in the long prescription line among other shoppers, heads bowed over lists and membership cards. Suddenly, Dad simply tipped over—a toppled mannequin. Like a felled tree, without flexing to break his fall—he was dead on his feet. His heart had simply stopped, as if to say, “I’ve had enough.” Flat on his back, the fluorescent ceiling light cast a blue tint on him, contrasting the red blood draining onto the concrete floor from beneath his head.

On his way down, he had nearly struck the woman standing behind him—a providentially placed nurse who immediately began resuscitation. Then, paramedics—shopping a few aisles over—rushed over to help, trundling him into their ambulance, lights ablaze and sirens wailing.

When Dad’s head had hit the cement floor, ever the artist, he might have enjoyed a foretaste of the beauty offered by his beloved artists—Monet, Klee, and Van Gogh, ushering him into God’s ultimate glory, appearing just ahead. Earth’s painted canvas retreated behind him, while before him stretched a new, unending one.

Then came the command: “Clear!” as the ambulance team attempted resuscitation. Somewhere between Costco and Sharp Memorial Hospital, the EMT’s defibrillator jolted Dad’s heart alive.

The glorious images on the divine canvas faded from Dad’s vision. It dissolved into cold stainless steel, a vinyl gurney, and IV drips as Dad shuttled back to Earth, bouncing along in the ambulance.

Revived, he arrived back from his first death.

Dad’s later years were bookended by his two deaths—the first in Costco, into the waiting arms of a nurse and ambulance crew, the second, the curtain call, in his cozy assisted-living bedroom.

The Psalmist reminds us, “The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places.” Certainly, Dad’s lines had fallen in pleasant places. His life’s boundaries had quietly expanded, stretching out like hidden markers beneath the snow.

My father leaves us his story, this dog-loving artist marked by a star-shaped scar on the back of his head. And he would ever encourage us—no, he would insist— that we keep asking ourselves his favorite query, “Why am I still here?”

Sculpting Granite

Terry was a slab of granite—six-foot-six and broad enough to swallow the hallway light as he approached my office door.

The Texas Rehabilitation Commission had assigned me to be his employment counselor. His diagnosis unsettled me: intermittent explosive disorder. His psychiatric and criminal records confirmed what his presence suggested—volcanic outbursts, sudden and violent.

He carried fear like a scent, the byproduct of deep, unhealed wounds. His boiling point was impossible to predict.

Counseling sessions became balancing acts. When he demanded benefits the state didn’t allow, his anger surged. I rearranged my office furniture. If his temper erupted, I needed a Terry-free escape.

As a young man, Terry had been convicted of murder; he served years in prison. Not long before becoming my client, he was released after committing another murder.

Yet here he was, looking for help.

“I was in a pawnshop when this guy pulls a gun and holds up the place. There I was—a felon—with a gun in my face. What was I gonna do? I’m not even supposed to have a gun! But instinct took over. I pulled out my hidden revolver and shot him.”

“And then?”

“I got down on the bloody floor with him. I held him in my arms … and prayed for him until he died.”

Prayed for him? I wondered if beneath that rage there might be a gentler man.

My next meeting with him ran into the evening. My co-workers had gone home. The sky had blackened. Soon his demands also turned dark and unreasonable. I pushed back as gently as I could. His brow knotted as his voice grew heavy and guttural.

Then he exploded—leaping to his feet, towering, trembling, fists clenched. I measured the distance to the door. I slid my chair back, inching toward escape.

Next came the threat.

“Yeah, you need to be afraid!” he bellowed. “Run! As fast as you can! But I’ll get you before you reach your car! You won’t make it home alive!”

He stormed out, footsteps pounding down the stairwell—the same stairs I would need to take.

I called my wife. “If I’m not home in an hour, call the police.”

I waited, then ran—three steps at a time—across the parking lot, scanning shadows. No Terry. I dove into my car, engine roaring as I tore out of the lot.

Somehow, I made it home alive.

Terry was soon ejected from the program. Eventually, a new job took me from Texas to Southern California, half a continent away. I tried to forget him, assuming he’d never find work—or that he’d killed again and was serving life, if he was alive at all.

Nearly twenty years passed.

One day, a Facebook notification popped up. I almost ignored it, but the profile photo caught me—gray hair, face like a ravine, and … was that a clerical collar? I clicked. A white square at the neck, indeed, a clerical collar.

The message read: “Hello. I am trying to locate Craig Dahlberg. He was a great blessing in helping me. Pastor Terry.”

In the photo, he held up a certificate of ordination, smiling.

Pastor Terry? Could it be?

When we connected, he told me he’d turned his life around. That he was sorry for the man he’d been, sorry for how he’d treated me. Patience, kindness, and care, he said, had eventually won him over. He’d discovered that God could love a felon, even a two-time murderer.

“I’ve changed. I went to Bible school. Now I’m a pastor, helping others change their lives. I wanted to thank you. It’s all worked out so well.”

At our very worst—when fear and fury cling to us—can even our most consequential, terrible choices be redeemed? Can the raging river of life finally deposit even the worst offenders, the most troubled souls, on the peaceful shore?

Terry’s eyes told me they can. However life had sculpted him, he eventually found the Sculptor’s sure and gentle hands.

Audacious

I stood before a small door, hinged within a massive one—both built from gnarled timber. For centuries, the large door had opened to horse-drawn wagons, heavy with farm tools, fresh vegetables, and weary laborers.

The smaller door groaned as I leaned into it, inching it open.

Inside the cavernous, windowless entry to the farmhouse, I blinked against the darkness. A single, bare bulb hung overhead, its dim light barely breaking the gloom.

I’d spent the night in my one-man tent, pitched just outside the East German border.

As dawn broke the horizon, I packed my tent into my rented Volkswagen. My Bible, wrapped in my underwear, was hidden from view—concealed from the East German guards whose concrete watchtowers loomed ahead.

A truly incoherent situation: A country in collapse, being invaded by the theater of the absurd. Like East Germany, my life’s main road had just washed out; I was searching for a new road, a new career, a new horizon.

Two guards—machine guns slung casually within reach—demanded my documentation. They studied my American passport as if I had just floated down from space. One peered at me and murmured in awe,

“Ein echter Amerikaner!”

A real American!

Then the steel gate clanked open, and they waved me through. I was in East Germany—my bag unchecked for either drugs or Bibles.

East Germany swallowed me whole—its colors drained. I had walked out of Kodachrome into black-and-white. Weeds pushed through cracked concrete on the crumbling Autobahn. East German Trabant cars coughed and sputtered; mopeds with bronchitis.

I was here on a covert operation, my own “Your-mission-Craig, should-you-decide-to-accept-it …” assignment. A map on my lap, I searched for a town called Rötha. There, I hoped to find Manfred, a man I’d never met. I was not sure he even existed.

Blacklisted by the regime for being a pastor, his mail was cut off and all contact with the West was forbidden. His friends didn’t know if he was dead or alive.

Having grown up in West Germany, I spoke fluent German. So, as an American searching for Manfred, I drew less suspicion. But alone on those pitted roads, my confidence wavered.

Rötha seemed frozen in time. Bombed-out buildings leaned wearily against one another, survivors of World War II. Bullet holes still marred their bricks, untouched since the war.

Without a person or single street sign to help me, the town felt abandoned. I saw no one.

I pulled my Volkswagen into a small cobblestone square surrounded by centuries-old, thatched farmhouses.

Leaning my forehead against the steering wheel, I groaned a desperate plea: “Have I come all this way for nothing? You’ve got to help me here.” My plea sounded like the only voice in a dark and cold universe.

I stepped out of the car.

Then I saw her—a woman opening a third-floor window in one of the ancient farmhouses.

She was the first person I had seen in Rötha.

Simultaneously panicked and seizing the opportunity, I called up to her, grasping for any thread of hope.

“Kennen Sie Manfred Hoffmann?”

Do you know Manfred Hoffmann?

It was a long shot.

She froze, silent, unmoving, staring down at me, trying to make sense of what I had just asked.

Then, her face lit with shock.

“Das ist mein Mann!”

That’s my husband!

“I’ll send him right down!”

I had arrived in a ghost town, without signage or directions, searching for a man I had never met—a nearly impossible task. And the first person I encountered—was his wife.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness behind the weathered farmhouse door, a man’s face slowly emerged—wet with tears.

Then he stood still; Manfred was rooted to the stone floor, unable to move. He spoke halting German, barely able to speak through his sobs.

“I’m Manfred Hoffmann,” he said, voice catching. “I’ve prayed for someone to find me for a very long time… but I never imagined they’d come all the way from America.”

I stayed with Manfred’s family for many days. Eventually, the crumbling Autobahn led me away from Rötha. But I would never be the same.

Soon, the East German regime collapsed. After the wall fell, many letters passed between Manfred and me.

But the most enduring connection was forged that evening under the glow of a single bare bulb in a shadowed entryway.

“You’ve got to help me here,” I prayed. Or was that too visceral to be prayer? Perhaps God answers raw and audacious prayers ahead of polite and saintly ones.

Precious Years

A brother and sister, our children’s playmates, were a matched set—like miniature chess pieces—completely out of scale with other children their age. They were aging at a furious pace.

Their paper-thin skin stretched over their fragile frames. Tripping over a garden hose could be dangerous. A misdirected softball might shatter their brittle bones.

They both suffered from progeria, a rare genetic disorder that occurs in just one out of every four million births. Progeria brings stunted growth, abnormal facial features, and rapid aging. The average life expectancy is just 14.5 years.

Yet while these neighborhood children were trapped in old bodies, their spirits hadn’t gotten that message. They launched their miniature frames like carefree foals, sunlight dancing off their bald heads, their oversized eyes magnified behind thick lenses. Though their hyper-aged bodies may have been nearing the end of life, the children gleefully rode tiny bicycles down our street with the joy and abandon of most nine-year-olds.

They were the happy children. They seemed to savor every moment, free from anxiety, fully engaged in each passing day. Their joy seemed a deliberate rebellion against passing time. Though their coming years might be few, their spirits pushed progeria to the very edge of their lives.

Another image comes to mind: Judah’s King Hezekiah, sitting in the shadowed corners of his throne room. At 39, he had already lived twice as long as the expected lifespan of my young neighbors. He, too, suffered from a terminal illness—a painful, ulcerous disease. But unlike the joyful siblings, Hezekiah was consumed by despair. Despite his wealth and power, he felt abandoned and afraid.

In his desperation, Hezekiah cried out to God. And God answered, granting the king 15 more years of life. During that bonus time, he even fathered an heir to the throne.

Today, many of us enjoy an even greater bonus. With medical advances and improved living conditions, the average lifespan has climbed into the seventies—thirty years longer than that of a person in 19th-century England, and twice the years Hezekiah had been given.

Longevity is a luxury. But it’s also a test.

Will I spend this gift of time clearing e-mails, binge-watching forgettable shows, or fixating on ulcer-inducing headlines? Will I obsess over spreadsheets, hoping to avoid starvation and failing to keep up?

In contrast, I often recall the wholehearted outlook of my children’s progeria friends. Could their example teach me to invest my own years more wisely? Could I cultivate a heart that is more hopeful and grateful for the joys each day brings?

Whether we face a shortened life, a fifteen-year bonus, or a thirty-year longevity bump, one question rises above the rest:

Not “How long will I live?”

Rather, “How will I fill the time I have been given?”

Offramp

Both sides had presented compelling arguments. Then, we were bussed to the accident site to examine the gasoline tanker truck’s black tire marks — long, abstract streaks of rubber distorted across the concrete, and a chaotic map of the truck’s doomed path. The twisted metal had shrieked against the concrete guardrail, and the explosion that followed had incinerated the truck.

The judge had commissioned the jury to untangle another mess: what caused the horrific accident, and who was at fault? The driver, for driving recklessly? Or the state, for an ill-conceived offramp?

The twelve of us jurors traded uneasy glances, unsure how to arrive at a verdict or how to even select a presiding juror. We fidgeted, we meditated, we evaluated, we fumbled. We were all new to this.

At last, I found myself seated in the presiding juror’s chair. I had been selected to bring twelve diverse perspectives together, and to guide us toward a unanimous verdict.

The youngest juror squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. During the courtroom proceedings, she had listened carefully as the truck driver’s family poured out their grief, speaking of the driver’s character and the void left by his absence. They wanted justice for his death.

So even before our deliberations began, she had already reached her own verdict.

But the case was not so straightforward.

The truck driver had overturned his truck while exiting a curiously designed freeway offramp. Instead of a gradual, predictable curve, its radius tightened like the ridges of a human ear. For an inattentive or a speeding driver, it was a disaster waiting to happen.

We had to decide—was the driver at fault for mishandling his truck? Or did the state bear responsibility for designing a dangerous offramp?

There was a complicating dilemma: Could both be partially at fault? If so, in what proportion?

We deliberated, drifting like a boat on an invisible tide. Blame shifted back and forth. But gradually, confusion collided with the evidence. The ramp may have been poorly conceived, but a clearly posted speed limit sign stood at the entrance to the offramp. If the truck had traveled at the posted speed, it could have safely navigated the offramp. But the truck was traveling at least fifteen miles per hour over the limit.

The driver was speeding.

We, the jurors, were nearly unanimous. All agreed that the ill-fated driver was at fault—all of us except the young juror, who eyed me with suspicion.

“I don’t agree,” she said, her voice firm. “This should have had a different outcome. The offramp design was fatally flawed. The state is to blame.”

I struggled. Yes, I felt compassion for the truck driver’s family. But I also wanted true justice, not simply an act of pity.

What is justice? I wondered. Where is the place of mercy?

We tried to reach a compromise for our split decision. A bidding war began—me against the young juror. I held the driver’s fault at 51%. She settled on 49% fault for the state. I won the bidding war.

But it felt like a hollow victory.

Yes, I believed that justice had prevailed. But I also desired comfort for the bereaved family, who had lost their loved one.

So I was left with questions that were difficult to answer.

When does compassion collide with justice? When does justice override compassion?

And perhaps most importantly:

Does prevailing by doing the “right thing” lead us to pride? Or can compassion and justice lead to a straightforward, ethical offramp that is both truthful and rich in mercy?

Friendship Afloat

The fight was on. Rick’s fists grazed my head as a giant, feather-engorged pillow collided with my face. Feathers exploded into the air, drifting throughout the cabin. When our pillows finally ran out of feathers, we called a time-out. It was 1958; we had just met aboard the SS United States.

Steam billowed from the four turbine engines as we cruised east across the Atlantic. Ford Motor Company was transferring our fathers and moving our families to Germany. We had five days of open seas before docking in Southampton, England.

Smoke trailed behind the massive twin red, white, and blue stacks as we prowled every deck and explored the ship’s innards like giant viruses. We strained to peer into the bridge, mesmerized by its massive brass gauges and outsized levered controls.

That day in 1958, I found a new friend in a pillow fight—a friendship that, 67 years later, remains my longest-enduring bond.

The distinguished service of the SS United States expired long ago. Now a 72-year-old relic, the ship that convened my school of friendship, is being scuttled to serve as an artificial reef. Schools of fish will soon inhabit our old pillow fight venues. Stingrays might glide through the luxury ballroom, where we once stole glimpses of Steve Allen, Rita Hayworth, and the Aga Khan. Sea slugs may ooze across our dining tables. Aquatic life might gather, to be protected by the submerged swimming pool.

Friendships were simple then. Proximity was the great unifier, and shared experience outweighed any cultural or political differences. Living down the block or down a passenger ship’s shared corridor meant you were “in.” Even today, the memory of those shared moments brings the joy of genuine friendship.

But what becomes of older friendships? Do they have a shelf life, expiring like an aged maritime vessel scuttled to the ocean floor? Geographic distance, circumstance, or life-altering challenges can erode bonds. Or we may simply drift apart like melting icebergs.

New friendships are even harder to predict. They may bloom unexpectedly—sometimes forged through crisis or compressed by circumstance. Even among people with opposing perspectives, bonds can form in surprising ways.

Yet can we intentionally recreate that magic? After the uncomplicated friendships of youth, is it still possible to build deep, lasting connections?

In their duet, Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers remind us, “You can’t make old friends.” Old friends accompany us on long, challenging roads. We finish each other’s thoughts, anticipate a punchline before it’s delivered, and share comfortable silences. In winter’s chill, old friends bring warm bisque to our souls.

The central question remains: What qualities are essential for lasting friendships?

In his book, How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen, David Brooks offers essential insights:

“The real act of, say, building a friendship or creating a community involves performing a series of small, concrete social actions well: disagreeing without poisoning the relationship; revealing vulnerability at the appropriate pace; being a good listener; knowing how to end a conversation gracefully; knowing how to ask for and offer forgiveness; knowing how to let someone down without breaking their heart; knowing how to sit with someone who is suffering; knowing how to host a gathering where everyone feels embraced; knowing how to see things from another’s point of view.”

Brooks suggests friendships are not born randomly. Instead, creating high-quality relationships requires intentionality. Friendships are crafted when we model selflessness and genuine care for others. We shift our focus from “me” to “you,” providing the nutrients for new and enduring connections to flourish.

Ultimately, we become the kind of friend that others—and we ourselves—value. Just the kind of friend who is always up for a friendly pillow fight.

Smoke and Heart

The smoke pits are the beating heart of Terry Black’s Barbecue Restaurant. The aroma, thick enough to chew, drifts up over the pits like a fog bank.

After dinner, my natural curiosity pulled me to the smoke pits. I stood in the shadows, watching the pit-master, half-concealed by the smoky clouds, systematically lift the heavy pit lids, stoke the orange coals, and meticulously arrange the various meats. Like a conductor, he knew each subtle maneuver to bring each cut to perfection.

Fearing I was interrupting a religious rite, I gained his attention with a guarded wave. When he gestured an invitation back to me, I cautiously tiptoed among the rows of black, belching barbecue furnaces.

He introduced himself as Benjamin Behrends.

His face was youthful for such a high calling. Lockhart is Holy Ground for Texas barbecue, and he was serving as its altar boy. What had brought him here? He chose his words as carefully as he managed the pits.

“For nearly twenty-five years, I lived in San Diego with my mother, far from my roots in Austin. I started working when I was 14. I’ve never stopped.” He paused to gather his thoughts.

“New Year’s Day, 2002, wrecked my world. That night, my brother, seven years and seven days older than me, was shot dead—murdered.”

That New Year’s night also nearly took the life of his mother, who began a downward spiral. In her despair, she grew unable to care for Ben.

“She didn’t handle it well. She couldn’t take care of me properly. There were suicide attempts, drug use,” Ben explained. “I decided I needed freedom. So, I left.”

Then a pause, and a regret. “I now understand my reason for leaving was very selfish. I cared more about myself than I did about her.”

His mother drifted homeless on the streets of Tijuana. After unknowingly drinking contaminated water, she contracted hepatitis C. Eventually, she lost a kidney.

Her fast decline called for radical intervention, but Ben had already declared his independence.

Eventually, Ben chose humility and compassion over self-interest, a choice that brought profound consequences.

“I moved my mother in with me. I became her in-home support provider.” Her doctor told Ben she had to be on total bedrest for five months. “I gave her medical injections. I changed her bandages.

“Her diet was horrid. She was addicted to the unhealthiest foods. So, I gradually changed her diet, removing all the unhealthy food she had grown dependent on.”

“How did you do that?”

“I found a cookbook with 30 gourmet recipes. That’s where I started. I prepared only the healthiest food for her. Gradually, I nursed her back to health. And you know, she’s become my biggest inspiration.” The pit-master paused, weighing his words.

“She went through hell. But can you believe it? She has not only survived, but she trained to become an Iron Worker and a Journeyman. She’s doing things 20-year-olds can’t do.

“I moved back to Texas, and I learned to work The Pit here at Terry Black’s Barbecue. I work 16-hour shifts, seeing my brisket from start to finish. I am only the fifth person—and the earliest—to achieve that. It’s like winning the Oscar for barbecue.

“I couldn’t be happier! But I don’t cook for the praise.

“No, my secret ingredient is love and passion. It’s for that simple smile after hours of sweat and blood, just to make sure ‘Y’all come back now!’” I love it. It’s a service to be proud of.”

Like the comforting aroma from a barbecue pit, the love of a willing heart remains. That kind of heart cares for family, encircles strangers, and reaches beyond our own tribe.

“Why do I cook?” Ben grinned. “That’s easy. I cook to feed and heal the soul. And I cook for my mom.”

Still Together

As I turned into the military cemetery, I was happy to know that Wes Dahlberg, my dad, and my mother, Dee, would finally rest together.

Their cremated remains sat side-by-side in my car’s back seat. Dad’s brass and mother- of-pearl cremation urn gleamed like a new sculpture. My mother’s identical urn showed nine years of tarnish as it awaited my father’s remains. All was now ready for their burials.

Inside the glass welcoming room, the muted military décor celebrated the service of those buried here. The receptionist sported an irreverent shock of fluorescent pink hair, a comedic contrast against drab military hues and the respectful displays of flags and military insignia.

He ushered me into the next room to complete the burial forms. “Is there anything I can do for you? Water? Soda? A candy bar? Goodness, I’m sorry for the long delay! You’ve been so understanding! You’ve made my day!”

Suddenly, I heard two familiar, though dead, voices. Like the cemetery voices in Thornton Wilder’s play (and movie), Our Town.

First, I heard my dad say: “Wow! Look at that hair! A beautiful shade, but perhaps it needs a bit more purple!” Dad loved extravagance and color.

Then, Mother’s voice: “Oh! How wonderful! We’ve made his day! And he is so patient and so kind to us! Let’s thank the Lord for him. Who wants to pray?” Dee Dahlberg always saw the best in everyone.

Before any of us could entreat the Lord’s blessing, Kyle, the attendant, walked in from his tidy office, dressed in suit and tie, administrative duties in hand. Kyle’s Louisiana accent graced his instructions.

As we chatted about his Louisiana roots after the service, Kyle admitted they could not even consider buying a home in California. Maybe he should have stayed in the South, he pondered aloud. We could see it had been a tough slog.

“Poor man!” exclaimed Mother. “With a family to raise! Let’s give him a little offering!”

“Louisiana,” Dad chimed in. “What a place! The architecture is just … odd. Half French, half Southern Colonial, and half … who knows what! I’m glad we’re being buried in California!”

Finally, at the burial site, the gravedigger met us. Ricky, a grinning, enthusiastic, and energetic man, seemed unbowed by his somber responsibilities.

“I love my job!” Ricky said. Even after digging war veterans’ graves for most of his life, he still loved it. “These are war veterans, and I’m the last person who gets to honor our heroes.”

Upon discovering Dad was 106 years old, he stood erect. His face morphed from joyous to resolute.

“A hundred and six years old? I never buried nobody that old! No, sir! Wow, what a life! What an honor!”

He gently placed Mom and Dad’s urns into plastic bags, and then into the holes we watched him dig. Then he invited me to take a photograph.

“The headstones will be dug into the soil exactly 26 inches deep,” Ricky explained. They’ll arrive in a couple of months.”

“Hey,” Dad piped up, “What’s going to be inscribed on my headstone?” Ever the lifelong artist, we had expected his curiosity and wanted to please him.

I answered, “He Discovered God’s Beauty in All Things.”

“I love that,” he choked. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“What about mine?” Mother asked.

“Yours will say, ‘Loved God, Loved Others, Finished the Race.’”

“I did, you know! I really did love everyone. I sure tried to!”

“I know, Mom,” I assured her. “You did a great job.”

“One more thing,” she added. “Before you leave, could you place some Gospel tracts around the headstones of our new neighbors? We want them to know we’re all in this together.”

Who Does That Sort of Thing?

She had been lying in wait for me. Lurching from her seat half a train car away, an elderly woman flailed her arms to get my attention. This was not typical behavior in my adopted German homeland.

“Junger Mann, junger Mann, ich habe ein Geschenk für dich!” My brain’s translation center kicked into high gear—Young man, young man, I have a present for you. She waved an object above her silver hair. What? This woman had a gift for me, an eleven-year-old kid she doesn’t even know?

Trying to ignore her, I stared out the commuter train window. Then I heard her second summons. As I cautiously peered her way, she waved a brown leather satchel over her head. Pointing first to the satchel, then to me, back and forth in pantomime, her arms beckoned with the precision of a German cuckoo clock.

Working her way through the train car, she finally reached me, eager and wide-eyed, like a fish jerked from the water. In her hands was a brand-new old-school style backpack, hard leather with rounded ends.

Apparently, this was not the first time she had spotted me. As an American student living in Germany, my too-short Levis sprouted white socks and tennies. I carried my schoolbooks the American cool-kid way, the stack of books and notebooks braced on my left hip. Looseleaf papers belched from wounded binders. Respectful German children carried their schoolbooks in tidy backpacks worthy of teachers‘ inspections. Not me, a proud über-cool Amerikaner. It was hard to miss me.

She must have thought, Next time I see him, I’ll give him a new backpack…this impoverished junger Mann needs one!

Embarrassed by the kindness, I sputtered a weak “Vielen Dank,“ (“Thank you”) in rudimentary German. I exited the train one stop early, choosing to walk the rest of the way.

I can only guess how many train excursions she must have taken, each time carrying the backpack with her, hoping to spot me again. Selfless and caring toward someone she didn’t even know.

Perhaps she had been there all along. How long had she been waiting for me?

My brain fumbled. “Who does that sort of thing?”

How do you thank someone for a random act of compassion when she leaves no address, no phone number?

Our instincts for reciprocity urge us to repay acts of kindness. Or we may concoct a “pay it forward” plan.

But I learned three things about the spirit of generosity from my Commuter-Train-Riding Backpack-carrying friend. She caught something better, something higher:

1. Listen for the Whisper of Opportunity. After a mighty wind, an earthquake, and fire, God spoke to the prophet Elijah in a whisper. A micro-Voice, the Spirit, reaches into our souls. Like a pilot light, it is ever ready to ignite. A gentle sound or a fleeting image might grip our attention; we spot the need. Ignore lethargy and embarrassment. Respond; the wild and mysterious chase is on.

2. Wait for the Message. What is that gentle voice telling us to do? Follow its bread crumbs through the forest. How should we meet the need? Like the Nike basketball slogan, “Just do it.” Does the solution appear impractical, untimely, or awkward? Just do it. That courageous Backpack Lady on a mission “just did it.”

3. Resist Recognition. Afterwards—be unobtrusive, silent as slipping an overdue bill into a mail slot. Don’t talk about the secret mission. Just listen. The next whisper may already be on its way.

It has now been many decades since I encountered that lady on the train. Yet whenever I hear the clickity-clack of train tracks, I see a compassionate shotgun-riding, backpack-toting, silver-haired angel waving a book bag over her head.

And still I wonder, “Who does that sort of thing?” But then I face the real question: How can I be more like her?