Drayton Riley 5/24/24 Drayton Riley 5/24/24

Lost Then Found

Being an introvert, I value my alone time. As a kiddo, I would use up daylight hours exploring fields and woods alone. At that young age, these were big adventures, and it stuck. Throughout my adult years I have been engaged in sojourns to nowhere in particular. Now in my mid-70s, these free-form travels continue to be one of the biggest blessings of my life. Left or right? What’s over the next hill? It’s the joy of not knowing where I’m going that matters.

One particular getaway comes to mind. It was February 2017…an unusually moderate winter, and I caught the itch. My wife, Alberta, was used to these impromptu diversions and even encouraged them. I packed all my camera gear and essentials, and with a kiss and promise that I would be back sooner than later, off I went.

I had been exploring the Flint Hills off and on for a few years, and there were areas to the south I had not traversed yet. This broad, sweeping plain, its flint rock fields time-molded by weather and glaciation, spans an area in east central Kansas from the north near the Nebraska border and south into Oklahoma. This land beckons me…its landscape is blanketed with long blue-stem grass that rolls like waves in stout winds and birch, sycamore, cottonwood, and other trees that cluster in the draws and along the rivers and streams. There are fences, power lines, massive wind farms, and oil rigs here and there, but still, the landscape is mostly primal and has the feel of being undisturbed for centuries. There are some relatively substantial cities along pass-through highways, but mostly small hamlets, like Matfield Green, Alta Vista, Beaumont, and many more, where people live in uncomplicated, relative solitude.

On the third morning of the trip, after spending the night in a tidy little motel in Winfield, I pointed my Jeep Wrangler alternately east and south, staying off the grid, knowing eventually I would end up in Oklahoma. Somewhere east of Tisdale, I got myself lost along the flint rock roads in Cowley County. My phone’s GPS lost connection. Not that it mattered—I had nowhere in particular to go and no time to be there. Along the way, I snapped some photographs, among them the flint rock ruins of an old homestead on a sweeping hillside and a group of Texas longhorns, their wide antlers spread prominently, where they were lying in the tall grass. (I titled that image The Eat More Chicken Steering Committee.)

The roads were meandering, and I was taking lots of time. It was a calm, sunny day and comfortably warm. I came to a creek bed crossing and pulled to a stop on the rock bed amidst the shallow flow. Both my door windows were open, and I could hear the water gurgling over stones. The wind rushed through a tall sycamore tree, its bleached white branches creating a stunning contrast against the fallen leaves, brushwood, and clusters of red cedar on the slope ahead of me. I stayed there a good long time, and my mind clutched onto a curious thought. What was it like for the indigenous people who populated this land centuries ago? Day after day, season after season, year after year—perhaps in this very spot—they listened and saw and smelled and felt this ecosystem, learning its movements, its rhythms, its nuances, and understanding in their way that this land did not belong to them, but that they belonged to it.

Sitting in my jeep that morning, straddling the creek, the daydream had become intimate. In these conceived memories, I felt a harmony and connection with this land and its native people. A pair of blue jays jeered urgently nearby, and a strong gust caused branches above me to creak and groan. I was in no hurry for this to end, and I let it play out as it would. And, eventually as I moved on, I felt not lost, but found.

Drayton Riley 4/29/24 Drayton Riley 4/29/24

Champagne Spoiled

It was in the autumn of 1977 that such a thing I will never forget happened. It was October 9, a Sunday. The Kansas City Royals were engaged in potentially the biggest game in its early franchise history, and I had a very unique vantage point from which to watch the game. I had been hired for the summer to manage a security post in the bowels of Royals Stadium. I was positioned as a gatekeeper in front of the Royals clubhouse, and a dozen strides in front of me across the lobby was the door to the visiting team’s clubhouse. It was my job to be a checkpoint for media, writers, and various muckety-mucks. On this day, the visiting team was the New York Yankees. The winner of this game would represent the American League in the World Series against the National League champion, the Los Angeles Dodgers.

The Royals had home field that day, and they had Paul Splittorff as their starter. Splittorff entered the post-season playoffs after a very good regular season, leading the league with the best winning percentage among starting pitchers. This game held the prospect of being Splittorff’s moment, his legacy. No Kansas City team had ever been to a World Series and the city was euphoric anticipating the possibility. A good performance by Splittorff, resulting in a Royals win, would earn him lasting prominence as one of Kansas City’s sports legends.

During the season, I had gotten to know Splittorff well enough to be on a first-name basis with him. Royals starters would chart pitches during the game prior to their next start. In between half innings, Splitt, as he was nicknamed, would often hop down from his box seat behind the home plate screen and make his way up an access tunnel to the lobby, where I sat listening to the game’s radio broadcast being piped in over the ceiling speaker. We’d have brief little chats about the game, about hitting, pitching, ballparks, and big moments. It was heady stuff for me, and I always looked forward to Splittorff’s turn in the rotation.

This was a classically beautiful autumn day and the stadium filled up early. The crowd was fizzing with anticipation as Splittorff took the mound and tossed his warm-up pitches. The game proceeded. As Royals broadcasters Denny Matthews and Fred White called the game, I paced. I bit my fingernails. I leaned into every pitch. I hustled down the ramp to a position behind home plate and watched a few at-bats, then hustled back to my station at the Royals clubhouse door. At the end of seven innings, the Royals held a 3-1 lead. Splittorff was on his game, and the moment was getting bigger and bigger.

Suddenly, a working crew from the network appeared and toted plyboard sectionals and light fixtures into the Royals clubhouse. I looked in to see what was happening, and within minutes, a stage was assembled for the obvious purpose of presenting the Royals with the American League Championship trophy. I then stepped out of the way as a cart loaded with boxes of champagne was wheeled into place as well, the foil on the necks of the bottles gleaming in the glare of the lighting. The moment was at hand, portending a Royals celebration. I could feel my heart thumping.

Then, in the eighth inning, Splittorff left the game after allowing a lead-off single. It was now up to the bullpen. The Yankees tightened up the game, coaxing a run across, and the Royals failed to score in the bottom half of the eighth. Still with a 3-2 lead, heading into the ninth, there were just three outs to go.

But in the top of the ninth, the Royals bullpen collapsed, and the Yankees rallied for a 5-3 lead. Then, I witnessed a dreadful omen. The network crew reappeared. The stage and lighting were disassembled and carried rapidly across the lobby into the Yankee clubhouse. But the worst of it was watching the champagne being carted out of the Royals clubhouse, the bottles clanking together in cruel distress. The Royals' speedy little shortstop, Freddie Patek, tried hard but failed to beat out a throw to first base for the third out in the bottom of the ninth, the cruel ending completed.

An hour or so later after the Yankees whooped it up, popped corks, hoisted their trophy, things settled down. No one had told me how long to stay, and one by one, Royals players and personnel had been filing out, the clubhouse door opening and emanating an awful silence from within. I entered the clubhouse to make a final check and see if any media was still present. I spotted Frank White sitting on the floor in solitude, his legs outstretched, his spikes off, and his jersey unbuttoned. A picture of despair.

And then I spotted Splittorff. Bespeckled in his glasses and dressed in his civies, he was gathering personal effects out of his locker, his season over. It felt intrusive to go to him, but I did it anyway. I had no idea what to say. He didn’t notice me at first, but when he did, I reached out to shake his hand. He swallowed hard, and my throat thickened as well. I teared up. He teared up. We shook hands, the motion solemnly slow. No words were spoken. It was a solemn moment, and the communication between us was pure, simple, and clear. Nothing needed to be said.

I made my way back to the lobby and to the elevator, wiping moistness from my eyes with the heels of my hands. There, against the cinder block wall, rested the stage panels, the lumber blotted and soaked with damp stains. Champagne.

Drayton Riley 4/29/24 Drayton Riley 4/29/24

Make It Personal

I attended a Zoom interactive webinar a few weeks ago, and it got me thinking. Its title was The Preferential Options for the Poor. Mike Matteurzzi hosted the event through the ministry he created after he had turned 50 and the upward trajectory of his success story as a lawyer and businessman fell apart. Mike’s pathway to the ministry he created, Contemporary Spirituality, took him from a silent retreat at St. Benedict’s Monastery in Snowmass, Colorado, the day after his divorce was finalized, then to Richard Rohr’s Living School and then to Ron Rohlheiser’s Spirituality of the Wisdom Years Program.

What got me to thinking during and after the webinar was how I personally relate to charity, introspectively considering my level of commitment to really making a difference in a world so heavily populated with marginalized people. And it got me to thinking about my friend Michael Brecke.

Several years ago, Michael retired from a 40-year run as a Lutheran pastor. But that did not leave a vacuum for long. In his own words: “Retirement to me is not the end of anything. It’s a vocational transition to something else.” Something else became The Listening Post.

Michael learned much about relating to people during the years following his ordination after obtaining a Doctorate from the Divinity School at Yale University. The thing he honors the most is his skill at listening. “I think one of the most common needs shared by human beings is the need to be heard,” Michael told me at a three-weekend retreat we both attended last fall. He has coupled that belief onto his affinity for homeless people. It began like this.

He and three companions were traveling by car through the riverfront area on the northern edge of downtown Kansas City on a cold weekend morning. Their purpose was to distribute food, clothing, and blankets to anyone they could find who had a need, and in this area, they knew that would happen. Sure enough, they spotted a man on a triangle of land on Wyandotte Ave and Fifth Street. Michael exited the car with arms full. He noticed right away that the man had a huge stye in one of his eyes that clearly had gone untreated. He spoke to the man gently and offered him any of the items he had. They visited for a short while, and Michael proposed a ride to an emergency room where he could get treatment for his eye. The man declined that offer but accepted a blanket, some socks, a coat, and something to eat.

Michael paused the narrative and took a long breath, and said to me, “Then something happened.” The man’s posture changed. He stood straight-backed, and with the infected eye half closed, starred directly at Michael’s face. “It’s just like Matthew 15:32. This is what we are all called to do, to care for one another, to love one another. Some people have a lot, some don’t. But we all can share what we have with others.” In the telling of this, Michael’s voice quivered, and I could see that his eyes were rimmed red and moist.

Matthew 15:32 is the Gospel passage where Jesus told his disciples he would feed thousands out of a supply of five loaves and two fishes. Of course, as a minister, Michael understood the context immediately, and yes, he was surprised that this man, with no apparent resources, living in survival mode on the streets of Kansas City, would speak such words.

Humbled, Michael offered the man a handshake. Instead, the man opened his arms and offered Michael a bighearted embrace, which he accepted and wept openly on his way back to the car. For Michael, this moment was liminal, transforming. Michael did not expect that morning to be exceptional. He’d been engaged in this many times. But this encounter put Michael’s hand firmly on the rudder that would give his new ministry a bearing. Hence: The Listening Post.

Michael is comfortable in the discomfort of keeping the company of the homeless. He is not afraid to breathe the air they do, smell them, embrace them if they will let him, and he listens. Sometimes, listening leads to giving, like access to pro bono legal aid or medical attention through a network of giving professionals he developed or perhaps money or necessities. Most often, though, he gives them an experience of being treated with dignity and being heard. For Michael, what he receives in return is a gift that he keeps on giving. “It's joy,” Michael says, smiling broadly. I get back so much more than I give.”

This all goes to say that it’s got me to thinking about charity. In the collective, humanity has done much harm to humanity through indifference, cruelty, and exclusion. I ask myself is making cash donations enough? It feels distant, safe, and antiseptic.

I asked Michael once what he would tell someone who asked him how to make a difference.

“Make it personal,” he said.

Drayton Riley 4/29/24 Drayton Riley 4/29/24

Thanks For Asking

I have been attending Mass recently at St. James Parish in Kansas City’s midtown area at 39th and Troost. This morning, I pulled into the parking lot and backed into a space, which left me about three minutes to get into church for 10 a.m. Mass. Just as soon as I killed the engine, a young black man hurriedly approached my car toward the passenger side. He looked very intense and looked like he needed to communicate something to me right away. I thought maybe I had better not be parking in this space or something like that. I lowered the window next to me, and he hustled around to my side of the car. He leaned down and asked if I would be willing to give him a ride to church. That confused me.

I said, “We’re already at church.”

He said, “No sir, not this one. My church.” He pointed to the screen of his cell phone. The screen contained the list of routing points that display when you use the Google Maps GPS app.

I said, “I came here to go to Mass, and it starts in about two minutes.”

He pointed at this phone screen again and said, “This says it's 7 minutes from here.” He pointed toward Troost Ave, where there is a canopy-covered bus stop, and said, “The buses are running late.” He didn’t budge.

I sat there for a moment considering a lot of potentially negative thoughts about what his real agenda might be. I thought that if I let him in the car, he might make demands for money, pull out a gun. Who knows what. This is how people, especially old white-haired guys like me, get taken advantage of. I was afraid.

I looked him over. He said, “Please, sir.”

I shrugged. My gut said he’s no threat. I said, “Okay, get in. Let’s go.”

I pulled out of the parking lot and turned right on Troost.

He said, “Thank you so much, sir.” Then, “I go by T.J.”

I said, “I’m Drayton.” And, a bit further down the road, I asked T.J., “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you making such an effort to get to church like this?”

He answered, “I haven’t been to church since my grandmother died in 2017.”

Though that was hardly a revealing response, I left it alone.

He used his phone’s GPS to guide me through a series of rights and lefts and as we approached his destination on 63rd St. he, in a whispered tone, said to himself, “I need to pray.” He commenced a quiet but intense petition. “Give me strength.” Over and over again.

Clearly, he was confronted by something going on in his life. I pulled into the parking lot of the austere, little church; I couldn’t see its name anywhere. As he opened the door to pop out of the car, sensing his desperation, I said. Hey, T.J., you’re doing the right thing. You’re going to be all right.”

We shook hands. He looked at me with sad, shy eyes, then gave me a hint of a grin and said, “Thank you, sir.”

I arrived at Mass thirteen minutes late. The choir and congregation were making their way through Psalm 63, its response being: My soul is thirsting for you, O Lord my God. Words, I thought, that would resonate with T.J. whatever his circumstances might be.

I thought about T.J. during Mass. I wondered about what might be so confronting for him that he asked me (no, begged me), a stranger, to alter my plans for the inconvenience of giving him, a stranger, a ride to another church. Who does that? I thought about my confrontation in dealing with this unexpected intrusion, with its stereotypical threat, unwarranted as it turned out, but nonetheless, a situation loaded with plenty of logical excuses to beg off, play it safe. I could visualize leaving T.J. standing there with his seven-minute GPS plan in his hand. I didn’t like what that looked like at all.

When I chose several weeks ago to start attending Mass at St. James in this diverse crossroads area of Kansas City, Troost Ave being the historic red line that has separated white opportunity from black disadvantage for decades, I saw myself as this benevolent suburbanite sacrificing convenience to bless this modest congregation with my presence. My disposition, though subtle, was real. But St. James put me in my place. This congregation, young and old, Asian, African American, Hispanic, and white, co-mingled in the community so genuine, so unpretentious, so joyful, and so comfortable with each other. It turned my pride inside out. It wasn’t me they needed; it was they I needed.

And too, there is T.J…an unexpected gift. What would appear to be a one-sided transaction was actually a mutuality of giving and receiving. Both me and T.J. shared both sides of the equation in a blended reality.

T.J., thanks for asking.

Drayton Riley 4/29/24 Drayton Riley 4/29/24

Joy of Not Knowing Where I’m Going

Being an introvert, I value my alone time. As a kiddo, I would use up daylight hours exploring fields and woods alone. These were Big Adventures. Throughout my adult years I have been engaged in sojourns to nowhere in particular. Now in my mid-70s, these free-form travels continue to be one of the biggest blessings of my life. Left or right? What’s over the next hill? It’s the joy of not knowing where I’m going that matters.

I had been exploring the Flint Hills off and on for a few years, and there were areas to the south I had not traversed yet. This broad, sweeping plain, its flint rock time-molded by weather and glaciation, spans an area in east central Kansas from the north near the Nebraska border and south into Oklahoma. This land beckons me…its landscape blanketed with long blue-stem grass that rolls like waves in stout winds and birch, sycamore, cottonwood, and other trees that cluster in the draws and along the rivers and streams. There are fences, power lines, massive wind farms, and oil rigs here and there, but still, the landscape is mostly primal and has the feel of being undisturbed for centuries. There are some relatively substantial cities along pass-through highways, but mostly small hamlets, like Matfield Green, Alta Vista, Beaumont, and many more, where people live in uncomplicated, relative solitude.

On the third morning of the trip, after spending the night in a tidy little motel in Winfield, I pointed my Jeep Wrangler alternately east and south, staying off the grid, knowing eventually I would end up in Oklahoma. Somewhere east of Tisdale, I got myself lost along the flint rock roads in Cowley County. My phone’s GPS lost connection. Not that it mattered—I had nowhere to go and no time to be there. Along the way, I snapped some photographs, among them the flint rock ruins of an old homestead on a sweeping hillside and a group of Texas longhorns, their wide antlers spread prominently, where they were lying in the tall grass. (I titled that image The Eat More Chicken Steering Committee.)