WINSDAY WISDOM REWIND 10
I’m gonna tell you a story about my town…
Yeah, down by the river
Down by the banks of the river Charles
That’s where you’ll find me
Along with lovers, muggers, and thieves
Aw, but they’re cool people
Well, I love that dirty water
Oh, Boston, you’re my home
—Dirty Water by the Standells, also covered by Bruce Springsteen (The song is played during home postgame victory celebrations by the Boston Bruins’ hockey team and baseball’s Boston Red Sox.)
The flashing blue lights and siren startled us as the Boston Metropolitan Police car came flying off the interstate racing down the banks toward the River Charles which flows through Cambridge, Massachusetts, into the Boston Harbor. That’s where they found us. We were not lovers, muggers, or thieves. I did think we were pretty cool people.
We were just a bunch of first-year college students enjoying a springtime bonfire down by the river where the Ryan O’Neal and Ali MacGraw movie, Love Story, was filmed earlier that year. Our fun event entailed tossing the frisbee, roasting marshmallows, and lots of laughter with friends. It was a nice break from the studies routine.
Our frolicking festivities were temporarily interrupted by a couple of young adolescent boys running through the campfire group. They were just kids, but they might have been part of the “thieves” hanging out near the dirty water. They would grab the frisbee or the football. We would chase them and retrieve our stolen item. This snatch and grab followed by our catch and grab was executed several times. It became very annoying.
As time passed, my frustrated friend Joel established his own no-trespassing rule. He picked up one of the small branches to be used for the bonfire and issued a threat to the next intruder. They came and he chased. His stick was more for defensive purposes, but he did look like Thor wielding a mighty sword to protect the ladies in distress.
The delinquent villains ran away, and we all returned to the party. However, Joel was spent. The anger and energy had spoiled his social game. He retreated to the dorm for a shower. This time, we did not hide all his clothes. Going to Widener Library wearing only a towel was frowned upon, even in our liberal arts school.
The fun and games down by the river continued. The skies darkened and the bonfire blazed. Stories and laughter dominated the conversations. No one was spouting political jargon or printing banners for the next social protest. This was college…the way it was meant to be. Faces of friends shining amidst the fire’s glow.
Then we heard the sirens from an emergency vehicle. That was not unusual since the interstate was located near the river. We saw the flashing blue lights approaching. Suddenly, the police car swerved off the road and down the highway embankment toward our campfire alongside the river.
The speeding car squealed to a stop about fifty feet from where our group gathered. Two policemen jumped from the car. One approached us and ordered us all to stand still. The other police officer opened the back door of his car to let out a passenger. It was the little rag runt who had spoiled our party.
As the officer and the little kid closed in on our party of ten, the boy pointed at me and yelled out, “That’s him! That’s him!”
The lawman asked if the squealer was sure. You had to love his reply. “Yes, I’m sure. I remember that smirk on his face.”
My quirky smirk has been a trademark and nemesis throughout my life. It’s not a smile and it’s not a frown. I think it is usually a response of muffled amusement. Or that my mind is engaged in some planned retort that should never see the light of day. Some might call it a sheepish grin. Others would say it is distracting or judgmental in tone. It is just a defining funny look.
This kid stooge certainly pointed it out. The officer grabbed my arm and declared I was under arrest. He forcibly marched me to the patrol car. I was ordered to lean face first against the car and place my hands behind my back.
He handcuffed me. I was told I was being charged with Assault and Battery. Then the law enforcement officer read me my legal rights, especially the right to be silent.
This was Boston, not my little Midwestern hometown. No one had heard of Miranda Rights or the River Charles. If you wanted action, you went to the Fireworks stand or Tenkiller Lake. You could catch an occasional weekend fight at Sunset Corner.
Our town had only one Barney Fife deputy. Most of the time, he slept in the police car as the drag racers sped down the main highway. If anyone was guilty of anything in our small town, the police called your momma.
My major crimes in that hole-in-the-wall place never led to arrest, court sentencing, and hard prison time in the state penitentiary. Now that the statute of limitations has passed and my parents are enjoying heaven, I confess to a few unnamed misdemeanors.
My enjoyment of fireworks and destruction included blowing up my little brother’s toy soldiers and beautifully detailed model airplanes with well-placed cherry bomb explosions. It was a fun way to teach the young man a life lesson. Sometimes, hard work and dreams just go up in smoke. Sorry, kid. Don’t cry.
My Uncle Derwin did jokingly, but shamefully, accuse me of taking money out of the church offering plate. I packed my bags that afternoon and started walking my six-year-old body to the bus station.
The point of these storied diversions is that I did not have the crime profile of a hard-edged criminal. I had been a reasonably good kid growing up.
Now here I was as a college student in the big city of Boston and under arrest. Oh, the shame and embarrassment. The officer turned me around and yelled in my frightened face, “Why did you hurt this young boy?”
I pleaded my innocence. The little lad kept crying and pointing at me. “That’s him, officer. That’s the guy who hit me.”
The two police officers were not in any mood for questions or explanations. It was just time to put away the hardened criminals, especially this one. They thought I might be one of those student protesters.
When Jesus was questioned with false accusations, He did not answer. I lacked the spiritual fortitude to withstand the attack. I was scared. I stuttered, “What did I do?”
The officer raised the shirt of the juvenile accuser to expose a large bruise on his side and back. The kid screamed, “That’s where he hit me with the big stick.”
Everyone was yelling and no one was communicating. The devilish delinquent was yelling. The policeman was yelling. My friends were yelling. I would have been yelling but my throat locked up from fright. At least, I don’t think I was smirking.
This is the point where the Prison Captain in the movie Cool Hand Luke speaks the infamous line to the prisoner played by Paul Newman, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.”
Thankfully, the girls in our group came to my defense. The guys remained silent for the most part. No gladiator stood up to defend my honor. They found the whole dilemma quite amusing.
My roommate, now a Harvard lawyer, did not remind the police to read me my Miranda rights. He just stood behind the group, contemplating the enjoyment of visiting me in jail. Andy would eventually reason with the officers about the mistaken identity of the accused.
The police were just doing their job. Abuse is an extremely serious issue. Every abused spouse or child needs protection. Every accused man declares his blamelessness. There was nothing different about this situation…except for the cluster of pretty women pleading my innocence.
Never underestimate the powerful pleas of a pretty girl. They convinced the officers that I was not the guy who had a run in with the terrible tyke. That person had left the banks of the River Charles and returned to his dorm. He was not guilty, and neither was the smirker. No one had touched the accuser who had infiltrated the bonfire party.
I wrestled with thoughts about jail time and how to tell my parents. After much discussion, the officers were convinced that I did not belong in handcuffs. Under strong questioning, the juvenile admitted that his dad had beaten him the night before. That is so sad and far too prevalent in this world.
The law enforcement car left the premises headed for the kid’s home. We returned to the bonfire down by the banks of the River Charles. We just chilled along with the other lovers, muggers, and thieves. The cool crowd had a story to tell.
Let’s all do better at loving first and most. You never know whom you meet along life’s highway or what they are facing in life. Some are guilty of self-centeredness, and some are victims of abuse. Some are falsely accused or socially abused. Some judge and condemn. Some hide in shame. Others struggle to survive.
The men and women in blue are much needed and should be much appreciated. They have their own family issues to deal with as well. A few might be black sheep, but that does not discount the mass of self-sacrificial guardians of our freedom and safety. Share a friendly wave. Be sure to make all five fingers visible.
Let us all be thankful for those precious moments with our families and friends. Let us all be mindful of those struggling in their family or involved with the wrong kind of friends.
And let us all be grateful for the merciful forgiveness of the Supreme Judge who does know all the wrong things we have said and done. We belong in an eternal prison of darkness reserved for the guilty, yet He treats us to the highest place of heavenly honor. Why? Our innocence was secured by the great love of Another willing to be bound and punished for our wrongdoing. It was not a case of mistaken identity. It was voluntary, substitutionary love.
Let us learn from Jesus how to love others first and most.
Oh Lord, help us not to be quick to judge or condemn others. Please help us to stop just saying we love people, but to show it by our actions.
I want my soul to sing and dance with the thoughts expressed in one of the greatest hymns written by those of us who stand accused by the adversary:
The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.
Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade;
To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.
Oh, love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure—
The saints’ and angels’ song.
—The Love of God by Frederick Lehman
LOVE FIRST...LOVE MOST 