Taking the Time to Make a Difference

We used throw rocks at each other. Not metaphorical rocks. Real rocks. I don't recall exactly how our game developed-but I do remember that it was a lot of fun. It was, after all, a game - even though we were throwing real rocks at each other. I used to walk alongside the Gulf, Mobile and Ohio railroad tracks on my way to and from grade school. The tracks were level, of course, so it was an easy path to walk. There wasn't much to worry about, since passenger trains were fading from the railroad schedule, and eventually, the freight trains stopped running, too. And then there were the rocks. I learned later in life that these rocks were really some kind of cinder things - maybe made from the ashes left over when power companies burned low grade coal -that were used as ballast between the railroad crossties. The ballast held the wooden crossties in place. The ties held the rails in place. The rails guided the engines and the cars that ran on the tracks. The "rocks" were typically about half the size of a baseball, perfect for two fingers and a thumb to hold, spin and throw. Just imagine mile after mile of iron rails held by iron spikes into wooden crossties about a foot apart from each other, with the space between all of these crossties filled with little rocks, it was a playing field of biblical proportions. There was this other kid who lived somewhere near the railroad tracks, mid our afternoon game just developed somehow. He threw a rock at me, I wailed until it went by, and I threw a rock at him. He dodged the rock I threw, picked up another one, and threw it at me. It was a physical game, enriched by sight and sound. We took turns. There were no surprises. There was always time to watch the rock coming in the air, always time to get out of the way. At times you could even hear the sound of a well-thrown cinder-rock when it went by. Each rock was porous, and as it spun and flew through the air; it made a kind of whizzing noise. The other kid was older and stronger arm. He went to another school. I went to the Catholic school. He was, I am sure, a Protestant of some kind. I am not even sure of his name, since we always stayed at rock-throwing distance from each other. But I remember him with a certain amount of affection: he and I used to throw rocks at each other when we were children.

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This childhood picture came to mind in recent days as figurative rocks alt being thrown from different camps. From political viewpoints. From the vantage points of religious positions. Politics and religion can be much more dangerous than a rock-fight along the railroad tracks. I can't say that I learned everything I needed to know from some early experience, but I can say that my childhood rock-throwing adventures have some points to consider today. First of all, we have to acknowledge that the rocks we throw at each other have the real power to hurt. Second, it is important to play fair. It is not tight to sneak a second rock at the other kid when he is still dodging the first one. Third, each of us in the rock-throwing game should give the other kid time to react. Throwing is only half the game. Reacting is the other half. It would have been no fun at all if one of us threw rock after tock without waiting for a fair response from the other side, Fourth, a well-thrown rock deserves praise for the thrower, Fifth, each of us has an endless supply of rocks to throw at somebody else, but that doesn't mean we can't agree to stop for the day.

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Take the tine to reflect on the battles you face. What are the rules of engagement? In many a battle, I know this to be true: I believe I am right just as you know that you are too. Can we just take turns? Respecting each other can make a difference.

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