Day 68
Namesake
Halfway through the effort of researching and writing this book, I stumbled upon my namesake. A guy named William Dall is credited with discovering the Dall’s Porpoise. Yes, I certainly did experience a few moments when the hair stood up on the top of my head, startled by the strange coincidence of it all.
Bernie was a fourteen-year-old kid who lived in the neighborhood. Whether you actually know the Bernie I’m talking about or not doesn’t really matter. You’ve seen him. Most every neighborhood has one. He’s the kid who suffers from adolescent obesity. He’s loud, obnoxious, rude, sneaky and craves attention. He’s huge. He sweats profusely and wears XXXL tee shirts that are an attempt to disguise his girth. (Even the tee shirts he wears everyday characteristically have some detestable saying emblazoned across the chest). The Bernie’s of this world usually perform poorly in school, routinely avoid organized sports, always have pocket change and are vigilant about searching for and/or creating opportunities for fun.
Bernie was hanging out on the sidewalk with a group of his friends one hot summer night. A local gang-banger happened to drive by and stopped in front of them shouting, “Wanna go for a ride?” Of course, Bernie piled into the passengers seat. Less than two hours later, Bernie was being fingerprinted in the Santa Ana jail. He was charged with auto-theft, leaving the scene of an accident (they had side-swiped a parked vehicle) and gang affiliation. He was released on his own recognizance to his dad.
One of the neighborhood kids called our home and asked if I would come over to meet with Bernie and his dad because they couldn’t understand the paperwork they had been given. When they opened the front door to their one-bedroom apartment, the stench of urine hit me in the face. Lying on a foldout couch in the living room was an elderly woman hollering something in Spanish. They explained that this was Bernie’s grandma, his dad’s mother. She had a stroke several months earlier and was bedridden. Bernie’s mom and dad were divorced and were the only caregivers to grandma. Bernie’s father worked six days a week, twelve hours a day, at a car wash. Bernie had to come directly home from school everyday to feed and change his grandmother. I read and explained all the paperwork from the Police department to Bernie and his father (Bernie had to translate).
The next week, I happened to be walking down the hallway of the Orange County courthouse in Santa Ana, after attending a meeting with the Probation Officer of another student. I glanced to my right as I passed another corridor jam packed with people. I stopped as I recognized Bernie seated on a bench being handed a clipboard by a woman in a rumpled business suit. I walked up to the two of them and asked Bernie, “What’s going on.” He shrugged. The public defender asked me “who are you?” I lied (again). I told her I was Bernie’s youth pastor. She asked Bernie if she had his permission to speak to me about his case. He looked up and nodded his approval. The public defender explained that she had made a deal with the prosecuting attorney whereby Bernie would plead guilty, be sentenced to two years confinement in a juvenile detention facility and then be on two years probation, until his eighteenth birthday. She told me that this was the “best that I can do” and simply needed Bernie to “sign here” so she can move on to the next case.
“No deal!” I said. “I’ve known Bernie for several years. I know his family too. This young man has never been arrested previous to this incident. He has a bedridden grandmother he cares for 7 days a week. They have no medical insurance. His dad works six days a week. He is not a gang member and he has no mother or relatives in the immediate area.” I went on to explain that he is basically a good kid who made a very poor choice. Befuddled, the public defender said, “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared through a door into an adjacent courtroom, returning about ten minutes later with a tall white guy. “Are you Mr. Dahl?” he asked. “Yes I am,” I said. “Are you Bernie’s youth pastor?” (Needless to say, I lied again for the second time in eleven minutes). “Let’s talk over here,” he said. We walked ten steps down the corridor where I recounted for him what I had told the public defender. They amended the sentence and Bernie was fitted with a home detention ankle bracelet for 30 days, two years probation and one hundred hours of community service. Instead of spending the night in the juvenile detention facility (and the next seven hundred twenty nine nights thereafter), he went home to feed his grandma, change her bedding and her clothes.
Was it a coincidence that I was walking down the hall of the courthouse and spotted Bernie, bewildered, sitting on a bench with a woman who was attempting to sell him the best deal she could come up with on his behalf? I don’t know. For many reading this story, they’ll be appalled that I admittedly lied on two separate occasions. They’re right. I’m not advocating lying. I repent. However, over the years, I have become increasingly convinced that “It is difficult for a Christian to walk through the mud without getting dirty.” [i]
I wonder what my namesake William Dall would think? I wouldn’t be surprised if he spent countless days away from his family studying Dall’s Porpoise. Maybe, Dall’s passionate pursuit of learning and understanding drove him to a new appreciation of God, people and the environment. I hope Dall marveled at these Porpoise as if they were God’s creation, the same God that created the seas he explored and the One that created him. Every once in a while, I’ll bet that Dall had a thought about children like Bernie, who would have the opportunity to learn about Porpoise in school. Perhaps the following is what my namesake and I have in common: “Too often, we’re taught to ignore or excuse the pain inflicted on the distant and not-so-distant children of others. To be sure, we’ll always listen most attentively to our own children’s cries. But if we don’t heed the cries of others’ as well, America will be lost, and we’ll risk losing our souls.”[ii]
NOTES
[i] Schaeffer, Francis A. No Little People, Crossway Books – A Division of Good News Publishers, Wheaton, IL © Copyright 1974 by L’Abri Fellowship, p. 77.
[ii] Rogat Loeb, Paul. Soul of a Citizen-Living with Conviction in a Cynical Time, St. Martin’s Griffin, NY Copyright 1999 by Paul Rogat Loeb, p. 184.
