Hope on Hilltop
It’s my opinion that we as a whole have a mixed up notion of what true success, fulfillment, and contentment really is. I don’t write this to cast judgement because I’m sure it is a shared offense. In our culture today there’s so much emphasis on self help, living your best life, likes, @ mentions, followers etc, I’m afraid we miss where real purpose comes from. It’s my belief the afore mentioned and purpose really come from living for someone or something other than yourself. What if the purpose of your life was actually not your life but someone else’s. Not only have I experienced the sustaining power to continue in the direction of hope by helping, now that you are on this journey of hope don’t go alone. Grab some friends, find the one in need of hope and bring them on this journey with you. And maybe, just maybe they will find hope because you chose to share this journey with them.
It was 1981, we were living in Tacoma Washington, the City of Destiny, Tac Town, Grit City, The Dusty Old Jewel of the Puget Sound. We landed here, poor, sad and broken. Our family unit shattered and hopeless grasping at the pieces to put it back together again. What was my mom going to do, single with three young wild boys? She did what she knew, she took us to church. Not just on Sunday morning, she took us to church every time the doors were open. If there was an activity, an event, a choir rehearsal, bible study etc... On Sundays, church day, we would attend multiple services on Sunday morning and then go back on Sunday night at 6pm for the evening service, and if that wasn’t enough after service ended at the “white” church we would drive to New Jerusalem Church of God in Christ in Hill Top pastored by Bishop T.L. Westbrook where there were usually only four Caucasians in attendance, my mom my two brothers and I. In this culture of church music is a major part of their expression. It was passionate, expressive, euphoric, and driven by rhythm. You could not help yourself regardless of your age or spirituality to be enamored by how the sound filled the room and the hearts of the people in it. This is where I fell in love with the drums. Ill never forget how mesmerized I was by Pat Hill sitting behind the drums expressing his devotion and motivating others in the room to do the same in the way he banged on these round barrels and mental discs. I was so caught up with the drums I would just stand there and stare hoping this part of the service didn't end because I didn't want Pat to stop playing. At some point that feeling that somebody is watching you must have caught Pats attention because he would look over at this little toe headed white boy during the service and give me a smile, letting me know he knew I was watching. After a number of weeks of this silent interaction between Pat and I, he came to my mom after a service and said he had noticed that I was watching him play and would she like to drop me off some time so he could show me a couple things? I overheard the conversation and almost jumped out of my skin in excitement. I had already been going home and making a drum set out of pots, pans and suit cases playing one of my moms Black Gospel records as loud as I could and beating the heck out of my makeshift drum set with a couple wooden spoons. Granted I had no idea what I was doing but I remember it would make me so happy.
A week or two later, my mother drove me to the church on a Sunday afternoon between services to meet up with Pat. I would love to tell you I was a child prodigy and the moment I sat down with Pat to learn to play I was immediately a drumming sensation, but that was not the case. Actually, he spent the entire afternoon teaching me how to stomp my foot on 1, clap on 2, stomp my foot on 3, and then clap on 4. And yes, it took all afternoon. But something greater happened that day that no one could have ever imagined. You see, sitting in that empty auditorium in Hill Top Tacoma that afternoon was a man with a simple gift and a lost and broken little boy. And something was taught in that holy place that day. A man made time for a hurting human and without ever having to say it, he told me I was somebody, that I mattered, and because of his generosity and willingness to share a small part of his life with me he gave me hope in the middle of my hopelessness.
I want to imagine that Pat felt sent to me, maybe because of his religious back ground, maybe it was a pay it forward moment inspired out of someone taking time for him. I don't know but he didn't show up with a sense of entitlement because of his giftedness, no, he showed up with humility and simply shared a small portion of his life that I’m sure could have been spent better somewhere else. And his open-handedness gave me hope.
Purpose (your ability to make a difference) may not always come in the big moments of life. Sometimes purpose is revealed in the little things you choose to do generously. You have something to offer this world. You have hope to share. And almost every world religion or spiritual thought shares the principle of sowing and reaping. Some call it Karma, but in principle what most of us would agree on is, what you give away in someway comes back to you. This might be the greatest hope hack of them all in sustaining hope over the long haul. The life span of hope is lengthened when you choose to share hope with others.
