Seeking Fairness

My blog has stood silent for several months – in part due to many responsibilities, and in part due to choosing other options at times that could have been used to write. And then a week ago, a moment occurred that crossed three generations. It has taken a week to get away from not just the daily busy-ness but the unexpected and unwanted. Tonight my wife and daughter attended a mother-daughter Valentine’s activity so we men – my two sons and I – were left to ourselves. The boys were helpful, obedient, and had some fun, too. My mind suddenly found an open spot and last week moved right back in. Thus, I tell the story with the perspective of a week’s “simmer time.”

“Daddy, it’s not fair!”

My middle child – Quentin, my youngest son – came to me in tears. His brother Schyler wasn’t being fair. It seems that Schyler – two years older – had made a deal with his sibling. “If you help me unload the dishwasher,” he said during the afternoon, “I’ll help you load them after supper.” Quentin happily agreed. Having secured Quentin’s help the chore was completed quickly. But when it came time to load the dishwasher, Schyler refused to help and went off to play with little sister Alina.

“It’s just not fair!”

I gave Quentin a hug for a few moments before I went to deal with Schyler. But in those moments, across my mind and heart, I saw a thread, a bond between three generations of my family. Thankfully, the bond is one to be proud of, but also one that still causes consternation today. Of my children, Quentin has by far the sweetest nature. He believes and lives out in his six-year old way, being fair and honest and good to others. He believes that each should have a turn, each should get the same amount of a snack, and each should do his /her share of chores. What a great attitude for such a young child.

But the frustration comes when, of course, others don’t play fair. It’s an issue of justice I think. Not the “justice for all oppressed people” but just doing and receiving what is right and appropriate. It is so difficult for Quentin to understand why classmates don’t share or may not want to play at recess. And in those moments last week – in that time of agony at the injustice handed out by big brother – I saw Quentin’s grandfather – my Dad – a man that went off to eternity long before any of our kids were born. My father would be proud of his first grandchild who was named after him (John – Schyler goes by his middle name.) He’d adore and spoil Alina since he had only sons. But he’d find Quentin to be his kindred spirit. And in between them, well, there’s me, the middle link in this family chain that cries out for fairness and justice in daily life.

My father made it through 7th grade before he had to go to work to help his family. World War II was the defining event in his life. I am proud to have his Purple Heart and Bronze Star from his participation in the Battle of the Bulge. They’ll be handed down to the kids one day. After the War, he worked in electrical construction on such diverse jobs as nuclear power plants and cotton mills. He was a dedicated Christian and rarely missed church. Even if his job-of-the-moment had him working out of town, he’d find a church on Sunday while his working buddies slept off their hangovers. He was quiet and unassuming. Yet, he dealt with people with honesty and integrity. It chafed at him when people did not return good for good, right for right. Even as a child of the segregation era in South Carolina, he never looked down on the “colored workers” as did some of his colleagues. He’d say everyone was there to do the same job.

Whether the issue was a family concern or a world political crisis, he grew frustrated if it could not be solved fairly. He was not unrealistic but a person of beliefs and hope. He lost use of his left eye in a workplace accident. While he struggled with adjusting to one good eye, he never looked for revenge. He, instead, did wondrous living with a single eye for the next 25 years. He read voraciously with that 7th grade education, always closing his day with a book, then some Scripture. Those devotional readings strengthened his resolve that what God taught was the right way to live.

My whole family grieved as Alzheimer’s began to take away his ability to enjoy life and to care for himself. The only consolation was that he no longer had to struggle with life’s unfairness even in the midst of the most unfair of situations. I’ve always believed that in his latter days, he was already at peace in the presence of God.

My father’s honesty and sense of right was affirmed at his funeral. I could not believe the number of people that attended – co-workers from decades past – all colors and ages – some from out of state, local folks and neighbors, all who comforted my family with stores of Dad’s goodness and trustworthiness.

My father’s sense of fairness and rightness, and his quiet demeanor, were passed down to me. I, too, as a child, believed in doing right, playing fair, taking turns, etc. And, as witl all kids, I met those at school and in the neighborhood who held a less cooperative view. At times I struggled with doing right and feeling unappreciated for living in such a manner. (It took the concept of grace a long time to sink in, and it still does at times.) Through the academics of college and seminary, relationships sought and often not gained, even watching my lifelong sports teams from the University of South Carolina lose year after year after year, I wondered about fairness and rightness in a self-focused world.

As Quentin sniffed and sobbed on my lap, I was immediately drawn to an episode just a couple of months earlier when I felt my own frustration with issues of justice. I was told “If ‘a’, ‘b’, and ‘c’, then ‘d’ will happen.” When the circumstance arose, and ‘a’, ‘b’, and ‘c’ were in order, ‘d’ was not the result. Even months later, I feel that sense of injustice, lowering of trust, and frustration. I held Quentin a bit closer as my own recent struggle resurfaced in my mind and heart. No doubt, the soft-hearted, right-living grandfather was looking down on his son and grandson in that moment with a heavenly hand resting on the shoulder of each of us.

Quentin, of course, recovered quickly – six-year olds do that kind of thing. He was busy playing with Schyler later in the evening. I wish I could turn it off that easily but I’ve got a few more years and a life’s worth of memories, good and bad, on seeking to do right. I’m proud of what my father modeled for me. I’m glad I still get annoyed and emotional when injustice rears its head in the common life. And I’ll never let Quentin be any other way. It’ll be tough at times but his character will only grow as he continues to look for and expect the good.

Jesus once spoke to a crowd on a hillside. The crowd was not made up of celebrities but of the lower class, the unwanted, the uneducated, the unimportant. To that crowd, Jesus started his talk with phrases such as, “Blessed are the merciful; Blessed are the pure in heart; Blessed are the peacemakers; Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.” There is a blessing to a life that seeks those right things, that pursues the dreams even when the world knocks those dreams around. And maybe my father’s dreams of a just and fair world are in some sense being lived out and carried on by this son and this grandson, we two, who are his most kindred of spirits, the current and future generation seeking to do what’s right.

I’ll be stopping by Quentin’s room on my way to bed in a bit. I know he’ll be sound asleep with that face of innocence and trust; that face filled with hope for a good day tomorrow. And I’ll leave his room renewed for the challenge of living that life alongside him when the new day dawns. And grandpa will say, Amen.