Several months ago, I wrote about Delbert, my elementary school principal who demonstrated hard work in the face of adversity and the quiet kind of spirit that I aspire to have. At the time that I wrote that reflection, another encounter I had with Delbert came to mind, and I would be remiss if I did not share that one, too.
This one happened when I was a full-grown adult. (I'm still a full-grown adult, but I mean this in contrast to my elementary school years and young life from whence the last reflection took place.)
I was one of those kids who routinely went back and visited my teachers. Truth is, I still needed the encouragement in my life that they provided, and it was the one place I very rarely felt judged. My teachers saw all my best qualities, and even though they were aware of my struggles, too, there was something about the way they always made me feel stronger that kept me coming back. Add to that that Delbert was, after all, a friend of the family, and our connection was just so profound.
Especially after working together on those construction projects for so long, too.
Delbert had retired by this point, but I'd gotten wind that he was going back to the old elementary school to help put out the annual Christmas decorations - a tradition for this little school. So, of course, I drove over to say hey and lend a hand. The two guys who decorated those school grounds every year were the kinds of men that I needed in my life, and I took every chance to see either one of them. This would give me both.
I showed up and walked into the shed where they were pulling out cut-outs of angels and singers and Christmas trees and all the trimmings, and I just hopped right in and started helping. It took a few seconds, but they recognized who I was and a happy reunion ensued. Once we got everything loaded up in the back of Delbert's pick-up truck (a fairly new-looking truck compared to what I'd known him to drive previously), he very casually threw me the keys and said, "I'm gonna ride back here and hold these decorations down. You drive."
He hadn't seen me in a few years, at least, but here he was, throwing me the keys to what I'm sure was at least a $50,000 truck, maybe more, and wholly trusting me to get us where we were going.
Honestly, I chickened out. I've always been a very good, safe driver, and I can drive pretty much anything on wheels. I was the designated driver for some of my summer work because everyone else was too scared to try a cargo van or a 15-passenger, but I got this. But there was no way I was risking at ALL messing up Delbert's truck. I didn't want to be responsible for anything that might go wrong. Honestly, I couldn't afford to be. So I handed the keys back to him and told him I'd ride in the back and keep things steady, and he could drive.
He agreed.
That moment has stuck with me. Obviously, the trust that he had in me after a lifetime of relationship was meaningful. It still is. But something about how that relational asset that we had built together trumped the value of his worldly goods has stuck with me even harder. As a person who has lived on very little, depended on the kindness of strangers, taken care of my stuff, and struggled to have some of what we call "material comforts," it's hard for me to think about putting something I own in jeopardy. It's hard for me sometimes to be generous with my things because I've felt the scarcity of life without them.
But that moment with Delbert reminds me that things are things and persons are persons and to never confuse the two. Relationship, human beings, persons are the greater gift, and especially when you've built up that relationship for a good measure of time, you have to learn to hold the things of this world with open hands so you can embrace the better thing - the person - that is right in front of you.
I'm working on it. And you know what? I've been finding that being generous is really fun, too. Living with open hands brings so much more richness into my life.
I bet Delbert already knew that. That's how he could just do it so easily, just toss me those keys.
Given the chance again, maybe I'd drive.
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