WHAT LANGUAGE DO YOU SPEAK?

WHAT LANGUAGE DO YOU SPEAK? -THREE STORIES OF THANKFULNESS



I’m not sure I remembered his name right or not, but I remember Thran. Whenever I see a Vietnamese I think of the Viet Nam War and those little people... His coat size was probably a boy’s medium or men’34 – no bigger. Looked like a washed denim - three button - top button buttoned - stylish - nice denim pants, etc. He probably didn’t weigh 100 pounds. Nice looking boy, probably about 18 – 20 years old, max, maybe only 17.

He was with about 8-10 other passengers coming out of the International Arrivals Area at D/FW International Airport in July 2009. I work there at Gate 22-D International Arrivals as an Airport Ambassador – from 8:00 AM to 12:00 Noon on Tuesdays. The flight from Tokyo Narita (TJN) arrives at 9:00 AM every day in typical Japanese timeliness. Sometimes it takes a long time for all the passengers to get through customs and security. That was the case this day. It was 11:45 AM when Thran and his friends came through the exit doors. Everybody except he seemed to know where they were going. He looked hopelessly lost…

His connecting flight to The University of Alabama (probably on a scholarship?) to study Business Administration in Montgomery - departure time - 11:45 AM. He’s not going to make it, it's already 11:45 AM. First time in the US – young boy – frightened – unsure of himself – big scary imposing airport – big scary Americans – what’s an Ambassador to do? Take him (by the hand, so to speak) and get him to the American Airlines Ticketing area. Off we go…

Here’s the point up to now – without my direct intervention, Thran Hwong would not have been able to negotiate the steps necessary to get to his next destination. OK, there may have been somebody else to step in and intervene in the crisis, but maybe not – I was there so I intervened. There was a need and I met his need at that instant.

The spiritual application is that this experience mirrors the Christian’s responsibility as an Ambassador for Christ. As we encounter folks along life’s way who are lost, confused, afraid, intimidated and we can offer directions, how can we not give our help? The point is also that we know the way, they don’t. We have gone that we many times and it isn’t scary. Somebody was faithful to pass "The Way" on to us so we could faithfully use that knowledge and pass it along to somebody else. Are you seeing the pattern? I hope so.

Now as to the title of this little piece – “What Language Do You Speak?”. There are three personal applications of mine as a DFW Airport Ambassador. Here they are…

A very attractive lady heading to Orange County, John Wayne Airport is approaching the podium at speed. She is running late because it has taken two hours to find gas for the rent car. But that’s not the problem. She has “lost” her father. Seems she left him in a wheelchair somewhere – outside terminal D – “In the sun” – uh; this is Texas - in the summer. "In the sun" – and that’s a clue to his whereabouts? Not to worry. Off on an expedition to find dad. He is found after a run to the North end followed by a run to the South end and there is dad, cowboy boots, hat, cane; sitting in a wheelchair and definitely in the sun. “Where ya been?” Indeed… We got him and her luggage cart to the security check point with 10 minutes to go till departure and me with a pace maker – I will never make it through security in any kind of time. “You’re on your own, sorry but I can’t get through security fast enough to help you – so AA will have to work it’s magic.” I don’t know the outcome of this story except the “Language” of the event. “Thank you so much” – and I could see it in her eyes. Even though we may not have made it in time for the flight on their tickets, at least she found dad and he was OK. I hope they are home in Southern California, but my day was complete with this event.

Story two – Sylvia Munos (don’t know how to put the little ~ above the “o”..) has a problem. Same problem as Thran’s – late flight – connecting flight – not enough time to make connections – no hable English – no hablo Espanol – (same problem with the ~). Any way, Sylvia needs the same care to find AA Ticketing so I walk her (first ¼ mile) to the AA Ticketing Area – when we are almost there she exclaims – “No Wallette!” – i.e. the folder that contained her ticket and boarding pass for Colorado. I said for her to stand here – “a quie” – and I’ll go back downstairs and look for it (second ¼ mile). Bad news, no can find. I walk back upstairs (third ¼ mile) and take her to the Spanish Speaking Ticketing Agent and walk away – knowing she is in as good hands as she can find at the moment. After the fourth ¼ mile trek back to my station on the lower level of the terminal I see the folder (Wallette) on the trash can lid – and her passport! That’s probably important. I zoom back up to AA Ticketing – (fifth ¼ mile) and find that she’s disappeared. Got a new boarding pass and off to Terminal B. Agent calls the gate and finds out the plane hasn’t left yet and Sylvia is still in line. Off to the security checkpoint – pacemaker pat-down – on the tram and reach terminal B – Sylvia in line – I hand her the “wallette” - and passport. Her eyes widen – “Gracias” – “Mucas Cracias!” – “Mucas Gracias!!” tears in eyes and all. So now I understand Spanish and thankfulness in two languages. It’s not hard to spot.

Then there’s Thran. After handing him over to the AA Ticketing Agent there was the hand shake – very small hands – but firm grip – eye contact – bow of respect and “Sank You! Sank you berry much!” Now I understand Vietnamese too.

What a great job!

Purple Alligator Skin

I visited my brother in Ohio last week. It is always with trepidation that I make that call - sounds strange, I know but that's how it is. Consider this; "Bro" is 75 and has been in a "Home" for about 2 years now - full time - and about 5 or 6 years off and on. He has lots of ailments, not the least of which is cirrhosis of the liver and now kidney failure. Three times a week for dialysis on M,W,F with T,T for R&R - then the weekend, then Monday and dialysis again.

He had me feel the ports under the skin of his left arm, just above the elbow. When you do that to yourself you can feel your pulse, but when there is a port in your arm, you can actually feel the blood surging through your (his) veins. Most weird sensation I have ever experienced - even weirder than hearing my own heart valve in the still of the night when it snaps shut when it works. Titanium does that. Thank God it always works - at least it has for about fourteen years. And yes, it took some getting used to but Bro's vein port was above and beyond...

Sound exciting? Yes, but not really...

We did have a good visit though. We have gotten a lot closer than we were when we were younger. I guess that thing about percentages works out in terms of age too. Five and-a-half years when you are 10 and 15-16 is a pretty big difference. Little brothers are a pest at best and simply provide something to punch! Ha! Now at 69 (and a half) and 75 that difference seems smaller - I suppose it is. Well, this isn't getting very close to the title of this little essay, is it?

My brother's arms are purple - yes, purple! Livid, bright purple. From the elbows to the hands with white skin for fingers and purple alligator skin for arms. I wonder if when he looks at them he thinks something like - "where did those arms come from?" I think I would. I don't know if he thinks that, I didn't ask, but for me I think it would come as a surprise. Like "I don't remember them looking like that yesterday" - or - "Am I really THAT old?" - "Whose arms are those anyway?" I suppose I could make all the standard comments at this point like "Thank God for my health" - or - "When you have your health you have everything" - or probably any one of a hundred others. The truth is that we sometimes lose our health.

What do you think you would do if your arms turned to Purple Alligator Skin? I was once told there is a medical term for that related to all the illnesses Bro has had, but what difference would that make if it were yours or my arms?

And how would your days go? Would you look forward to your meals? How about your favorite nurse paying you a visit for pills, finger sticks, insulin injections, diaper changes, or a thousand other fun things? How about your favorite nurse - yes, I visited with her and she genuinely cares for him - not an erotic Greek "Love" - eros - but Greek Phileo love. Genuine caring love as a friend for a friend. Not quite Agape love, but close... She's leaving Magnolia Convalescent Center after twenty years. The economy has gotten to her and the drive to work has taken its toll. New place is two miles from her home and she must make the change. She told me with tears in her eyes that she really hates to leave. Twenty years at the same place and she has seen come characters in her time there but my brother takes the cake. In fact, he is the icing on the cake - her words. I know this will be hard on him, there are so few bright spots in his life and one is turning off. I hope he survives that...

But then there's the Purple Alligator skin. It never goes away and it's always yours. Where did it come from? I don't remember growing older like this. What would you say or think?

Then there is the rare visit from your "Kid Brother" from Texas. Tanned, walking straight - no walker, fairly "slim", taller than you are, able to control his bowels (Wow! is that something to be thankful for?) and then the highlight of your week - maybe of the last six months - carry in breakfast from McDonald's - Sausage, Egg and Cheese Biscuit with Potato Cake and Coffee (be sure to bring coffee - they use instant here - it's bad coffee...) with your kid brother. How's that for a treat!

If ever I get feeling sorry for myself - and I do - or you, dear reader for that matter - just remember Purple Alligator Skin. That should make your day... Agape to all.