A Sense of Justice

Mark 6:11
And if any place will not welcome you or listen to you,
shake the dust off your feet when you leave,
as a testimony against them."

Micah 6:8
He has showed you, O man, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.

The Deep South, Early 1960's

"Ok, here's the deal. YOU boys can stay here tonight, but he can't. Now, do you want the rooms or not?" The words must have struck the young pilots like an RPG...

The big mama shown above is an H-37, located at the Ft Rucker Army Aviation Museum. Several Christmases ago, we loaded up and made a visit to the museum with Grandpa and the grandkids. It was an amazing trip; my Dad recognized a number of these helicopters by serial numbers and told us where and when he had flown the particular aircraft. Recently, he shared a couple of stories that related directly to this husky transport helicopter, one recollection spoke to me of his sense of justice, his understanding of right and wrong, that exists in his life to this day.

This particular helicopter had a given name of "Mojave", however, it was commonly referred to as simply the H-37. Some government bureaucrats had given all the Army helicopters Native American Tribal names but the only one that stuck in my mind was the Chinook. The 37 was the last of the piston driven engine-type aircraft and with those two huge Pratt & Whitney 2100 hp pistons engines right beside your ears, my Dad said it was the main culprit for his hearing loss over the years. My Mom says he has "selective" hearing loss, a trait that the AllieCat says I possess, so it must be a Y chromosome thing, as I have only had one ride in a helicopter in my entire life.

From what I have read on the 37, it was a gas guzzler and the engines required a ton of maintenance. My Dad reflected recently of a time when he and his co-pilot, Capt. Rothman, a Jewish guy from NYC, had to set the aircraft down in "a place in time in America". They landed in a farmer's field as one of those big motors gave up the ghost. It was one of those Forest Gump moments: Meridian, Mississippi, where three young civil rights workers had been murdered and buried in an earthen dam by the hands of the local Klansmen. My Dad and Capt. Rothman waited the week out while the Army flew in a new engine for the 37. All week, they noticed the locals tailing them, and when returning the rental car upon the repair of the helicopter, they reported some minor damage to the car, dented hubcaps.
"Oh", the clerk laughed, "the Klan's been tailing y'all all week, they've been dentin' the hubcaps on rentals so they could keep up with you government men." The tone of this story was kind of "we took it all in stride"; the tone of the next one was not.

A group of pilots were ferrying a few 37's cross country and landed in the deep south for the night. Apparently, the Army had agreements with these podunk airports for refueling and it was time to feed these hungry beasts and let them rest for the evening. The pilots were in similar sorts and began to look for a place to stay. The opening dialog to this bog entry was common all over the South at the time. The words of "Jim Crow" the hotel clerk that pierced my Dad’s ears were due to the fact that Capt. Lemon, the one who couldn't stay in the hotel, happened to be black.
"So what did you do?" I asked rhetorically over the cell phone. I knew I was about to push a hot button.

"What do you think we did? Captain Lemon was an officer, United Stated Army! College educated...married to a college graduate, they had three kids just like our family...we told the clerk to STUFF IT and kept driving until we found a place that would take ALL of us!"
It is this sense of justice and fair play that I have witnessed time and again over the course of my Dad’s life.

It was obviously passed on to his grandson; the only fight I ever recall SteveO having was in the second grade at a Friday night football game. He put a fifth grader on his butt for bullying and rough-housing a sweet little classmate of his. Years later, I was browsing his school yearbook, and then a seventh grader, the little girl had written a note, "Stephen, I’ll never forget what you did for me..." Both are now sophomores, good friends and officers in FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes).

None of these stories are great, life changing events, but an aggregate of these episodes create an effectual existence. A little second grader remembered. I imagine Capt Rothman appreciated having a friend that week, seeing how one of the dead boys buried in that earthen dam was a Jewish kid from NYC, and I think Capt Lemon really did believe what was drilled into us growing up; the Army had one color, O.D. Green.

I love the scripture from Micah...What does the Lord require of you? The requirements from God’s Word are pretty straightforward. They become even clearer when your Dad and your Son have been some pretty good role models.

Help me apply these lessons of fair play in my life Lord; convict me when I fail to stand for what is right; walk with me on the path of Your righteousness, and I thank you for the life changing encounters on the road.

Mark

Prov 17:22