What Can I Do To Help?

In October of 2003 I took a working vacation to the mountains of central New Mexico. I flew out of Lindbergh Field on a sunny afternoon typical of fall in San Diego. Each morning I read newspaper reports of wildfires throughout the Los Angeles area; yet my home town was safe. Little did I know when I saw my hometown again it would be an inferno of Hollywood special effects proportions.

My first tip came when my cell phone rang just as I checked my bags at Albuquerque International. My sister was on the other end, informing me that the San Diego back country was being devastated by a wildfire of its own. My flight was scheduled to layover in Phoenix; where I would transfer planes with the original plane flying north to Salt Lake City.

The desk attendant at the airline I was flying with informed me that there were no planes flying into or out of San Diego and that our best bet was to fly to Phoenix and wait out the firestorm. I was quite surprised by the attendant’s aloofness, it appeared that she didn’t care whether my fellow passengers and I made it home or not. Undeterred, I made a few more calls in an effort to get a more accurate description of what was going on in Southern California. The final call was to a friend of a friend who happened to be working in a building near Little Italy. Her office was on the fifth floor and working a rare Sunday afternoon, she informed me that the airline we were flying with had planes landing at and taking off from Lindbergh.

Excitedly I informed my fellow passengers that we did indeed stand a chance at making it home that night. I relayed this information to the woman at the desk and she responded with a snide comment about how I was making her look bad. An older couple I had been chatting with between phone calls spoke up to the woman before I got a chance to; the husband said “We care about getting home tonight, even though you couldn’t care less.” The wife added “We’ll be sure and let your supervisor know.”

Moments later we were airborne, twenty thousand feet above the New Mexico desert and soon we were above Arizona’s Mogollon Rim. The Phoenix layover originally planned for ninety minutes was increased by over two hours, giving me nearly four total hours before my connecting flight was due. I waited anxiously at the gate, receiving periodic text messages from assorted relatives and friends from throughout San Diego County. My friend in Little Italy kept assuring me the airline I was flying with was still landing planes although it appeared some of the other major airlines had suspended flights into San Diego altogether.

The Marlins and Yankees were in the World Series that year and I sat in the bar watching Game Two. Usually, if I don’t gave a rooting interest of either team I still tune in. After all, it’s the World Series. Yet the Marlins were skippered by “Trader Jack” McKeon and even if drafting Tony Gwynn was his only achievement for the Padres, he deserves my eternal respect. On top of that, I love a good pregame ceremony.

Even with the excitement of the World Series; I kept a close eye on the clock and after paying my tab on the three beers I had, I made my way back to my gate. Shock and confusion overcame me as I saw the empty waiting area; all my fellow passengers, the people I assured that we had a fighting chance at getting home that night, were gone. I double-checked my boarding pass and realized that yes, I was indeed at the correct gate. By this point, I wasn’t concerned at missing the flight as I was by the thought of losing out on the money I paid for the ticket. A flight attendant walked through in search of any stragglers and informed me that the departure gate was changed at the last minute and naturally, I did the old fist-pump when I learned I didn’t miss my flight.

 The flight attendant led me towards two doors and I opened the one on the left, which was connected to the jetway. “Excuse me, sir?” the flight attendant called out to me. “It’s this way.”

The door she led me out of opened to a corrugated metal stairway of the type I’ve seen on aircraft carriers. I found it odd to be led out of the building and onto the tarmac, a part of the airport I had seen but never set foot on. I looked for my plane among the large jets in the distance, paying no mind to the small, private-plane looking jet with the markings of the airline I was flying with.

“There you are sir” the attendant said, gesturing to the puddle jumper that was to be my ride home and would soon become one of the most thrilling experiences of my life. This plane was too small to use a jetway and to board it I had to walk up a few steps that were affixed to the rear of the door hatch. There was an eerie quiet as I boarded, everyone was speaking in hushed tones. I moved slowly down the aisle and counted the seats as I walked. Looking at the number on my ticket, I spotted my seat a few rows down and I immediately noticed the big red markings above it; EMERGENCY EXIT. My seat was one of three next to such exits. The flight attendant spoke to each of us, asking if we were physically able to operate the exits and mentally willing to do so if need be. Mustering as much stoicism as I could I looked her in the eye and said “Absolutely.”

More passengers piled on, each with a look of concern shared with those of us who were already seated. I noticed one young woman carrying an infant and had a toddler in tow. Two rows ahead of me and across the aisle sat a family with a boy of about seven and his little sister of around four years old. I looked again at the exit handle. I prayed silently, asking for my own safety only in the event of it providing for my ability to help those children should something go horribly wrong.

Before takeoff we were informed by the attendant that if need be, our seat cushion could be used as a flotation device. I don’t know about you but that never gives me comfort when flying over the desert. Next thing I knew we were airborne and heading home to California. Once we reached altitude the pilot informed us that there were indeed some major wildfires in San Diego County and while the plan was to land at Lindbergh Field, there was chance we could be diverted to another airport.

Does anyone remember the 1996 movie “Independence Day”? There’s a scene where alien ships arrive and before they are exposed, the ships are covered in fire and smoke. That’s what my hometown looked like from four miles above the Earth. As we flew closer, the wall of smoke grew. The pilot made an arcing right turn, setting us on a course leading directly back to Phoenix, and blue skies. Another attempt was made to head west, only to turn back a second time, to the left. This left turn took us over the InKoPah Mountains; with the famous lookout tower in view down below. Our third attempt at the smoke took us into a virtual war zone; the only areas that weren’t black and grey with ash were covered in red and orange flame.

Yet another turn had us heading due north along the edge of the wall of smoke. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky on that afternoon but we couldn’t see anything west of us more than a quarter mile away. Throughout the flight I sat next to a woman coming home from a family reunion in Michigan. Her fiancé was waiting for her at Lindbergh and I could tell she was more than a little nervous. Hell, I was too but I knew that it would help no one for me to show it. I talked about smell of the fires seeping into the plane, and how it brought back good memories of sitting by the campfire as a young boy. She remarked at how it was odd that I could seem so at ease with all the destruction taking place below us.

We had flown in a complete circle, part of which took us directly over Lake Cuyamaca. The vivid green of the trees was a sharp contrast to the burning land to the west and north of us.

Again we made an attempt to fly in, this time from the south. I looked out the window and saw a lot of the roads I biked on in high school, surrounded by burning or already burned-out wild land. Our descent slowed and it looked like the burn areas were a lot closer to the ocean than we thought. It was something of a relief to see unburned neighborhoods; yet the smoke brought a haze that limited visibility in a way none of us had ever seen, and some of my fellow passengers were from LA and were very familiar with smog. Our final descent commenced and we all held our breath.

Cheers erupted through the plane as we heard the familiar screech of the tires touching the runway. I held my breath a moment longer, until I was certain the front tires had made contact as well. As we departed the plane, many of the passengers shook my hand and said “Thank you.” I couldn’t understand why; especially since I was the only passenger they were thanking. The girl I spoke with during the flight elaborated “You seemed so at ease, and it helped the rest of us stay calm.” I admitted my initial motivation; talking about past flights and sharing what knowledge I had of the land under us at any given point kept me calm. I did recognize that it helped the girl sitting next to me and knowing I was helping her made me feel even more at ease. What I did not know was that due to the small size of our plane, the majority of the passengers heard our conversation and they also benefitted from it!

I think of that flight often and whenever we are faced with wildfires, the memories come back a little more vivid than usual. When I started writing this blog I wasn’t sure about how I was going to close it. Initially, I was going to write about the moron who started the fire, and the ridiculous slap on the wrist he got for killing fifteen people. But I’ve ranted about him in a past blog and even a brief mention here doesn’t help the situation.

I also thought about closing out by sharing my knowledge of disaster preparedness, but I think that is incumbent on you to know such things before disaster strikes.

Then it came to me; I couldn’t do anything about the fires while I was in the air, nor could I be of much help on the ground. But for a few hours jammed in a metal tube with thirty or so complete strangers flying above scenery much like we’ve seen on the news the past few days, I was able to make a very stressful day a little less stressful for all of us.

Even when you think there is nothing you can do, there is always something you can do…

Trolley God

Several years ago while riding the Trolley to work I had a very interesting conversation with a man. His intention for the conversation is not what made it interesting, nor did I learn what he was trying to teach me. But what I learned helped set the stage for a complete overhaul of my Spiritual Life in later years.

He opened the conversation by mentioning the AC/DC shirt I was wearing. In no uncertain terms he told me that I was living in denial of God and furthermore, I was showing allegiance to the Devil. I laughed it off, assuring him that I was doing nothing more than showing my appreciation for good Rock & Roll. He shook his head and said “No, you hate God and love the devil!” I was stunned at first; how could this guy who knew nothing about me decide how I feel and what I love? Furthermore, how could he know anything about me when his only response to my words was shaking his head in disagreement every time I spoke? With no acknowledgement that he even heard my words he continued, calling out the so-called “devil horns” hand signal associated with heavy metal fans. I spoke to him of that as well, saying much of the imagery was no different than a comic book or movie for most of those bands. Besides, most of the heavy stuff I listen to appeals to me due to the actual music, not the lyrics.

His reaction to my every word reminded me of the crazy blonde lady on Mad TV who would speak gibberish and plug her ears whenever another person spoke. It was a funny skit but having this experience in real life was not fun at all. Soon I found myself on the defensive. Maintaining as calm a tone as possible, I explained the real meaning behind the song “Highway to Hell”. On the surface it’s easy to see how one would consider the song satanic. But the truth is the song was written about being in a band, playing gigs and partying hard. All the while, the man kept shaking his head and telling me I was wrong. I asked him “How can you say I am wrong, when you refuse to actually hear what I am trying to say?” His response was again “You are wrong, you love the devil”.

I shifted the conversation to another AC/DC song, “Hells Bells.” As many of you know, a large period of my life has been identified with that tune. Initially the term “Hells Bells” was an expression of shock and/or amazement. But between you and me, I don’t think “Oh Wow” or “Goodness Gracious” would have the same ring to it. I informed him that despite the title, the song was actually a tribute to deceased original singer Bon Scott. He continued on with his self-serving message of “God” while refusing to acknowledge my right to be heard in the conversation.

Finally, I laid out what I thought was my ace in the hole. I had no intention of proving him wrong or putting myself above him; I was merely determined to share what I knew to be the truth. I shared with him an account of one of the greatest experiences of my life. In September of 1998, I found myself discussing the whole “Hells Bells” phenomenon of that baseball season with my supervisor Tim Young and none other than Trevor Hoffman himself; on the pitcher’s mound moments after we clinched the 1998 National League Western Division Championship over the Dodgers. During our spirited conversation a well-known local clergyman joined us on the mound. Naturally, we were all feeling like kids in the principal’s office when he joined us. The priest noticed the awkwardness brought on by his presence and although he didn’t exactly put his stamp of approval on the use of the song, he did say “Well, it can’t be all bad if it brings so much happiness to so many people.” My fellow trolley passenger informed me that the clergyman too was wrong, adding “He is going to Hell with you.”

I’ve never been prone to violence but at that moment, I fantasized about smashing this guy’s face into the window in a way that would make Joe Pesci proud. I was fed up with his condescending, self-serving tone and memories of the barroom brawls I witnessed across the Southwest flooded my mind. But no, I had a ballgame to get to and wasn’t about to risk serious jailtime over some dumb conversation.

The conversation took an abrupt turn when he said “Look, I’m a Christian and….” Then and there I decided it was my turn to take hold of the verbal exchange and make him listen to me just as I had been forced to listen to him. Cutting off his “I’m a Christian…” comment I said “Let me guess, you go to (expletive deleted) Church, right?” The excitement in his eyes when he heard the name of the church was squashed when I added “I know many of your fellow “Christians””, doing the little quotation mark with my index and middle fingers in the air for emphasis. “And my experiences with many of them are the reason I feel that particular church is not the choice for me.”  As I understand it, two of the base principles of Christianity are compassion and understanding, neither of which this man was showing.

To this day, I would rather be a rip-snorting, arrogant practicing alcoholic than the type of person who would talk to a stranger in such a condescending and self-serving tone in the name of a higher power.

Every now and again, I think of that man and the conversation we had. I think of how his closed mind and open mouth seemed to be serving a purpose other than what he claimed. In talks with others about the conversation, I was told that the man was “witnessing” to me. In his opinion he was doing the right thing by trying to save my soul. But in my honest opinion then and now, his approach was all wrong. What I had to say, think or feel meant nothing to him; all that mattered to him was that I thought and felt what he said I should think and feel and that I was on my way to hell if I didn’t.

I blame no one but myself for my choices in life, good or bad. But I will say that I spent a lot of my time, energy and thoughts avoiding a spiritual path, Christian or otherwise. I didn’t want to be one of “them” if it meant I would end up like that man I spoke to that day.  What I gathered that day and in several other experiences before and after was that one who seeks a spiritual path is told he is “Wrong, wrong, WRONG!” if he chooses to think for himself instead of thinking what another person thinks he should thing.

I often wonder how many people have denied themselves a fulfilling Spiritual Life due to experiences like the one I’ve listed here. Just as often I wonder how many people freely give those experiences without realizing it. Sadly, I have observed the very thing and usually, the one giving the negative experience claims there is something wrong with the other. After all, one goes to church and the other doesn’t.

This is not an indictment of organized religion as a whole. That’s a rant for another time. This is about individuals; about individual thought and the right to think as an individual. I’ve said many times before and will say many times again that the allowing someone else to think for you is a form of slavery; and it’s just as real as being bound in physical chains. As an individual making my own decisions I led myself down a bad path and as an individual I changed my path and pursued a Spiritual Life. One of my closest friends, confidants and spiritual advisors is Christian to the core, inside and out. And he is one whose opinion I trust more than most and even more important, he was one of the vital keys in my own growth. Not as a Christian, although my Spiritual Life is rooted in a Christian foundation. But as a human being. A human being on a spiritual path.

Another dear friend is a devout Catholic who helped me tremendously in building my own faith in prayer. One thing they have in common is never once have they told me “You should think this” or “You need to feel that”. But each has shared with me their experiences of their own spiritual path; never preaching to me what I should do but being very open and honest about how they walk their own Spiritual Path. They, like me, are not afraid to admit that they are not infallible; unlike the man I later dubbed “Trolley God”; who carried himself as if he and he alone was infallible. To put it bluntly, I was finally able to develop a true relationship with God, as I understand God, only after I made the conscious decision to cut out the middle man. Maybe it’s my being a child of the 80’s and my memories of the Swaggart/Bakker scandals.

I saw Trolley God a few months later, under different circumstances. I was at my cousins’ house with a few other guys. We had been drinking through the afternoon and the man happened to walk by; pausing to look in our direction. I recognized him instantly but I was unsure if he recognized me. This time I was wearing a shirt of the band P.O.D., four men who follow God in their way and have always been a tremendous source of inspiration in my own Spiritual Path. Early in their careers, P.O.D. was offered a six figure recording contract from a large Christian recording company. Even though one band member was living in his car at the time and another was on the verge of being kicked out of his home, they respectfully but firmly declined the offer. The company had stipulations that they could not sing about certain things; life on the street, gangs, etc. Mainly, they were told they could not write and sing about the world they grew up in. In short, they were offered over a hundred thousand dollars in exchange for their principles. I sorely wanted to hear what Trolley God would have to say about P.O.D. I wondered what self-serving and condescending drivel he would spew out.

Instead I chose to pray. I silently prayed that he would just keep walking. I prayed that he would not approach us and preach the evils of our drinking and my t-shirt. I prayed this for some of the same reasons I didn’t follow through with my urges to physically respond to his words a few months before. Besides, National City is not the ideal neighborhood where a stranger should approach five men drinking in a front yard. On top of this, the other four guys would not have had nearly as much patience with his words as I did. He took a few steps, stopped and looked at us one more time and finally went along his way, never to be seen my me again.

In the years since, I have removed the burden of fear of a Spiritual Life I allowed others to place upon me. The fear has been replaced by faith in those who walk their own Spiritual Paths and have helped me on my own. I sought out those who live the principles of their chosen religions, rather than preach one thing to a person and do another. Each of us has the right to choose our own Spiritual Path and I have been blessed to find those who acknowledge that right and I consider them among my closest friends and confidants. They have been the difference in my life and if you’ve ever seen my posts about having no money in my wallet but being richer than Bill Gates in the things that matter most, now you know why. It saddens me when I talk with another person who has avoided a Spiritual Path due to such instances. The “Trolley God” experience was not my only experience with such thinking and doing but I felt it was one of the best in helping me relate my personal thoughts.

As with everything I write this is based on a combination of personal experience, observation and deep discussion with others. We don’t always agree in our discussions and that is vital to growth. How often do you have a conversation with someone you agree with one hundred percent on every subject? Rare as it is, it may be enjoyable but it’s highly unlikely you would learn anything from it or experience any growth. So on that note, I welcome any and all differences of opinion; we can both learn from each other and learning from each other means we are helping each other. And helping each other is something I am all for, whether Christian, Catholic, atheist, Buddhist or Jedi.

This blog began with the intention of telling the Trolley God story and initially I didn’t even know if I was going to share it. But as I wrote layer upon layer of thoughts were uncovered. It became a piece about how random strangers can rip into you with venomous hypocrisy. It became a defense for anyone who has been accused of listening to “devil music”. And it definitely became a double-middle finger to anyone who denies another person the freedom to worship as he chooses, or to not worship at all.

God/Buddha/Allah/Ned Flanders Bless Us All!

Rudy