Personal – Page 2

The World’s Most Unusual Trip, Part 2

November 7, 2022 by Dan Olinger 3 Comments

Part 1

Can’t rent a car without a driver’s license.

OK. What are my options?

It’s after 10 pm.

I could grab a cab here—they still have cabs at airports, don’t they? But my hotel is in Waltham, way out by the beltway (I-95 / 128), and that would cost—well, I can afford it, especially with all the money I’m saving by not renting a car for 4 days, but it’s still more than I’d like to pay.
I could Uber, but that would be pretty expensive too.
I have two sisters in the area, but they’re each 2 hours away. I’m not going to ask them for a ride this time of night.
One of the people coming to the reunion is from Greenville. I text him—“Are you in Boston yet?” “Nope. Flying up in the morning.”
Could I get there on the T? (That’s the MBTA, or public transit system. I used to ride it all the time, but that was, well, 45+ years ago … .) I call my hotel and ask if I can get there on the T. “Oh, sure. Take the Purple Line and get off at the Waltham stop. It’s a bit of a walk, but not far.”

OK then. I don’t recall a Purple Line, but I’ll give it a try.

Catch the shuttle bus to the T station—Blue Line—buy a Charlie Card, and consult the map.

Oh—Charlie Card, you ask? There’s an old song—I think it was by the Kingston Trio—about a guy named Charlie who gets on the T and doesn’t have enough money to get off, so allegendly (yes, I meant to spell it that way) he’s still down there riding around.

Well, the map shows all the colors of lines I’m familiar with, plus, I’m glad to see, a Purple Line. I need to take the Blue Line down to State Street—that’s where D.L. Moody got saved in a shoe store—transfer to the Orange Line up to North Station, and then catch the Purple Fitchburg Line out to Waltham. No sweat.

At North Station—that’s wheah Bahston Gahden is—I hit a kiosk to add more rides to my Charlie Card. Oddly, I don’t see any way to get tickets for the Purple Line, so I find a T employee nearby. She tells me to go down that tunnel ovah theah, which leads to the Purple Line; I can get tickets theah.

OK. Down the tunnel, which opens out into a nice big terminal. The Purple Line, it turns out, is the commuter rail system. The terminal is deserted, the ticket offices closed. The board shows the next train out at 5.35 am.

Commuter rails don’t run at 11.30 pm.

So why did she tell me I could … oh, never mind.

OK. Maybe I can get pretty close on the subway. I find another T employee—this one’s sitting inside an official-looking cage, so he must know what he’s doing—and ask, what’s the nearest T station to this address in Waltham?

Riverside, he says.

That’s music to my ears. I used to ride the Riverside Line (Green Line D) to my house. I’m in familiar territory.

“Now, the line’s getting worked on, but you can get to Rivahside by taking the subway to Kenmoah and then catching a shuttle bus to Rivahside.”

“Any chance there will be cabs at Riverside after midnight?”

“Probably. But if not, you can just Ubah.”

Sure, that’ll work. Take the Green Line—either the Boston College route (B) or Cleveland Circle (C), whichever shows up first—to Kenmore and catch the shuttle bus.

OK.

Which I do. Off at Kenmore—that’s the Fenway Pahk stop—and look for a sign to the shuttle bus. There it is. Upstairs, and there’s the bus, waiting at the curb.

There’s one other guy on the bus. Not a lot of cash flow for this route this time of night.

It sits for half an hour before setting out. Reminds me of the intercity bus lines in Africa that just wait until they have enough passengers to make a profit before they leave. Schedules are fiction.

Well after midnight we leave the curb.

Now, this is a shuttle bus replacing a non-running subway line. So it travels the surface streets, with stoplights and all, and stops at all the subway stops along the way. Which makes it, um, slower than the subway. Which is why they built subways in the first place.

I mentioned there was one other guy on the bus. He’s going all the way to Riverside too. So we stop at all the stops, and nobody gets off, and nobody gets on. We pass Eliot, my old stop (BTW, it’s named for John Eliot, the colonial-era missionary to the Wampanoag tribe), and we arrive at Riverside just after 1.

No cabs.

I’m not surprised.

OK, let’s see if any Uber drivers are taking passengers this time of night.

I haven’t used my Uber app for a couple of years. First thing it tells me is that my credit card is expired. Oh, yeah, had to replace it after a possible security breach. I enter the data for the new card and see it listed in the app. The green checkmark is still on the old, deactivated card. I press the newly added card. No response. I press it again. Still no response.

I mash it several times, hard.

No response.

The app won’t let me select the useable card.

I open its info and make sure the data are correct. Try it again.

No response.

Well. Can’t use Uber.

It’s after 1 am, and it’s 6.3 miles to my hotel, and it’s raining.

To be continued, yet again.

Part 3

Photo by Phil Mosley on Unsplash

The World’s Most Unusual Trip, Part 1

November 3, 2022 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

Every so often on this blog I tell a story about an experience. I do that because I like to tell stories, and because some things just ought to be written down. This one has the advantage of being fresh in my mind, since it occurred just a couple weeks ago.

I graduated from high school in 1971. The 50^th year was last year, but we didn’t have a reunion because of COVID. This year the class of ’72, which was the class I was originally supposed to graduate with, kindly invited ’71 to attend, and I realized that I could hang out with both classes at once. Can’t miss that opportunity.

I have siblings in the area, so I booked the flight up to Boston for Thursday, before the reunion on Saturday. BJU’s fall break was the next Monday and Tuesday—perfect. Scheduled the flight back for Monday. Scheduled both flights to avoid leaving early in the morning or arriving late at night.

So well thought out.

Checked in at GSP in plenty of time. Showed my driver’s license for ID and tried to keep from slowing up the line by throwing everything into the gray plastic tray as quickly as possible. No objections from the guy at the scanner screen. Again tried to keep from impeding the flow by gathering up my things quickly and getting out of the way.

In the process the lady next to me asked, “Is this yours?” It was a folded piece of paper that I’d put into my shirt pocket—with my driver’s license—while passing the ID check. “It was under my tray.”

“Yep, it’s mine. Many thanks!”

Remember that exchange.

Put my clothes back on—you know, belt and shoes—and grabbed a bite to eat before heading to the gate.

Flight left on time. Connecting at DCA (Washington) for BOS, with plenty of time to make the connection.

Half an hour from DC the pilot said there was heavy rain there and that we were going to circle for a while to see if it would clear up.

An hour later he said we were being diverted to Richmond.

Landed there and waited on a taxiway for an hour for a gate to open up so we could take on a little fuel. Understandable, since we weren’t even supposed to be there.

Got a gate and waited for a fuel truck. Refueled and waited for the little truck that pushes us back.

We were originally scheduled to land at DC about noon. Now it’s 3 pm.

Short flight to DC, where my connection had taken off 30 minutes before.

OK, that’s fine. There have to be more flights from DC to Boston today, and worst case, if there aren’t any seats, I can fly tomorrow—or rent a car and drive, if I have to.

Providence. It’s all good.

The line for the airline service desk is an hour long. OK, the storm has caused a lot of missed connections, and the folks are working as fast as they can. It’s still all good.

I see a flight at 10, getting into Boston at 11.30. That’s wicked late, as they would say, and I’m not crazy about driving an unfamiliar rental car all the way across town after dark, in the rain, but God’s on the throne, right?

To my surprise, the lady at the service desk gets me on an earlier flight, leaving in just a few minutes. Great!

The flight is delayed taking off, and it has to circle over Boston Hahbah for a while because of weather and general congestion, and it’s after 9 by the time we land and taxi to the terminal.

OK.

I don’t have any checked baggage—just a well-stuffed backpack—so I follow the “Ground Transportation” signs and grab the shuttle bus to the Cah Rental Centah.

The line there moves along well, and soon I’m showing my reservation and getting ready to go.

“All right, all I need now is to see your driver’s license.”

OK. Pull out the wallet.

No driver’s license.

Remember that conversation in security at GSP?

In my hurry I had slipped my license into my shirt pocket where that piece of paper was, and a few seconds later I had emptied my pockets into the plastic tray. The piece of paper had come out of the tray somehow and gotten under the tray behind mine. The lady noticed the paper and gave it to me.

Apparently my driver’s license is still inside the scanner at the Greenville airport.

Bummer.

Can’t rent a car. Got to go to plan B, which doesn’t actually, um, exist.

To be continued.

Part 2 | Part 3

Photo by Phil Mosley on Unsplash

On Jumping

June 27, 2022 by Dan Olinger 2 Comments

Every so often here I just tell a story, something I’ve lived through that I think is entertaining. I’ve written on the almost-plane-crash, and on the time when my Dad threw bullets in a wood stove. There are other stories to tell, and today I’d like to talk about jumping off a bridge.

In God’s kind providence, I’ve had the opportunity to take ten different teams of university students to Africa. The experiences have been instructive, exciting, and joyous; I have fond memories of each team and each team member.

We went to several different countries: initially Kenya and South Africa, then Zambia, and eventually several teams went to Ghana and Tanzania. Ministering in countries in three different regions—East Africa, West Africa, and Southern Africa—taught us a lot about the cultural diversity of the continent, dispelling several myths common among Americans—but that’s for another post.

On one of the trips (the second, in 2010), we went to Zambia, working in several churches, an orphanage, and a Christian school in the Copperbelt, the northern part of the country. It was a delightful experience with a really talented and focused team.

I’m sensitive about tourism on these trips; we don’t go to be tourists, and I try to weed out those students early in the planning process. But on most trips there’s been time and opportunity to do a little touristy thing. We visited Amboseli in Kenya, Serengeti in Tanzania, Mole in Ghana, and even an amusement park in Johannesburg (in winter!), where we had the place pretty much to ourselves and rode the roller coasters until we could hardly see.

Zambia has one of the Seven Wonders of the natural world, Victoria Falls, and the missionaries we were working with thought it would be worthwhile to take 3 days to drive to Livingstone and back, with a day at the Falls. I was inclined to trust their judgment. : – )

The Falls are spectacular. They’re as wide as three Niagara / Horseshoe Falls, and you can hike right up to the very edge of the precipice on the Zambia side; I bent down and put my finger in the first inch of the cataract. You can hike around to the front of the falls, and I very much recommend the raincoat rentals.

There are associated activities, among which we gave the team members options. Several opted for the whitewater rafting, while others chose the bridge package. Just downriver from the Falls there’s a bridge between Zambia and Zimbabwe, from which you can bungee jump or ride a giant swing, and nearby there’s a zipline. At the time, you could do all three for $100.

When I showed up with ten customers, the guy comped me.

All three, for free. Cool.

The bridge is about 150 meters above the Zambezi River, with class 6 rapids in the gorge, and crocodiles just downstream.

Any number of ways to die.

I had posted on the team blog, which is typically read by parents and other interested parties, that we were going to have this opportunity, so that parents could interact with their progeny if they had concerns. When we got there, I watched the staff very closely, and they were professional, methodical, careful, with frequent checks and doublechecks.

OK then.

You could jump solo or in tandem. I opted to go alone.

You stand on the edge of the platform, raise your arms to the side, look at the horizon, and the crew member says, “1, 2, 3, bungee!” and gives you a slight nudge in the back.

Down you go.

It’s sensory overload—the peripheral landmarks speed by, the wind is rushing in your face, the water is roaring louder as you approach, and you’re upside down for the additional joy of utter disorientation.

It’s a 110-meter freefall before you max out the cord (essentially a 6-inch-thick rubber band), and then oscillate to equilibrium. There’s no discomfort to the maximum extension—it’s a rubber band, not a rope—but I found the extended time upside down, with blood rushing to my head, mildly uncomfortable.

When you’ve stopped boinging, a crew member comes down on a cable and ties into you, and they haul you back up.

At the time, this was the second highest bungee jump in the world. (The highest was in South Africa.) A few months after we jumped, an Australian woman had the cord break and dump her into the Zambezi—and she survived.

Knowing that, I don’t know if I’d do it again.

But it sure was fun.

Photo by Jeremy Bezanger on Unsplash

… and Back Again

May 16, 2022 by Dan Olinger 2 Comments

Ten weeks ago I tested positive for COVID, and two weeks later I took a break from blogging. The disease wasn’t overly bad for me—just a noticeable sore throat and some coughing—and I’m glad that I didn’t appear to get the Long variety. (I know a few people who did.)

But I could tell that the brain wasn’t at 100%, and I didn’t want to be posting my thoughts publicly when I was more likely even than usual to say something I’d later regret.

Providentially, right then we entered a point in the semester where I was crazily busy, busier than at any other time during the year. Fortunately, it’s a time I can see coming and get prepared for, but for several days it’s just Katie bar the door.

After that, the papers started to come in.

I’m one of those teachers who believes fervently in the importance of assigning writing, and specifically writing that requires thought (as opposed to those “discussion posts” you see the kids cranking out in their sleep for their online courses). As every teacher knows, the inescapable consequence of assigning thoughtful writing is that at some point you’re going to need to grade, or at least read, the output. Some of it grades pretty easily. But not all, my friend, not all.

My school used to have a policy that all major papers and projects needed to be due a few weeks before the end of the semester. That policy doesn’t exist anymore, but I still hold to the practice, for a couple of reasons. First, I need time to grade the work effectively, and the kids (or their parents) are paying a pretty penny for my due diligence. And second, it gives the students an opportunity to see their post-project grades when there’s still enough time in the semester to do something about them.

So. COVID, then post-COVID, then crazy busy, then paper-grading season. At that point I decided to just let the blog lie until the semester was done.

Commencement was a week ago, and we sent our 650 graduates off to take the next step. I had several faculty responsibilities that occupied the week following Commencement. But this past Friday I completed the last of those, and now it’s Summer Vacation.

When I began teaching full-time in 2000 (at the age of 46), I was delighted to discover that I had options for how I spent the summers. Early on I decided to look for opportunities to teach pro bono (as the lawyers say) in small Bible colleges overseas that could use some help. The first was in the summer of 2000 in the area of Cape Town. It was delightful, and not just because of the rooibos, biltong, and koeksisters.

Other opportunities followed. Saipan. Mexico. China. St Vincent. India. Haiti. And several delightful summers leading BJU student teams to minister in Africa, from Ghana to Kenya to Tanzania to Zambia to South Africa.

For six years I was my father’s caregiver during his dementia, and I was privileged to do that. Having the summers free really helped.

Well, the pandemic put the kibosh on international teaching, and in much of the world the situation’s still iffy. It’s simple enough to go teach overseas, but what if they change the rules in mid-trip? What if we can’t get back? These are not questions to dismiss lightly.

So this summer is a sabbatical. Not working anywhere officially. Teaching a handful of classes at my church, serving there in other ways as well. I have a study plan laid out, with fair amounts of reading and thinking and planning. And best of all, no inflexible deadlines. No reason not to be interrupted. Something needs to be fixed? Well, why not? Need something at the store, and traffic’s pretty heavy right now? No problem. All the time in the world. Smile and wave at the other drivers, and let that guy cut in.

Now, that environment’s just perfect for getting back into the rhythm of writing two blog posts a week. I’m looking forward to it.

Drop by the site in the days ahead if you care to.

Covid …

March 21, 2022 by Dan Olinger 3 Comments

I got Covid. It was pretty mild, but since then I’ve had some issues that have led me to decide to set aside the blog for a bit. Publishing things publicly when your brain isn’t at its best just doesn’t seem wise. :-)

So let’s see what happens. I’ll be around.

On Bible Conference

February 21, 2022 by Dan Olinger 3 Comments

This post will be of more interest to people associated with Bob Jones University than to others.

Last week was the annual Bible Conference at Bob Jones University. It occurred to me that it was my 50^th Bible Conference, and that milestone led to some reminiscing.

There are cherished memories that I will never experience again—

Standing under the low sidewalk cover in front of Rodeheaver Auditorium for an hour before each service—that was the only way to get a seat—and singing hymns and gospel songs with no leader, just ad hoc. Those were some of the most genuinely spiritual times I’ve had with other believers.
After the Amphitorium was constructed, Dr. Gustafson leading a packed house of 7,000 voices in singing “Master, the Tempest Is Raging” and “Wonderful Grace of Jesus.” The spirit was palpable.
Ian Paisley. He was unlike me in almost every way; he was an Ulsterman, a Presbyterian, and big, and he had a love for finding chiasms in biblical lists where I just didn’t see them. His sermons were long, mostly because his massive voice moved so slowly. But boy, could he move his hearers. He would open the invitation, and people would flow down the aisles with no hectoring or manipulation. I suspect that his standard pre-sermon prayer for the power of the Spirit had a lot to do with that.
Dr. Bob Jr. talking about the toothpaste tube before the offering.
Specific sermons that I remember decades later. J. B. Williams. Charles Smith. And more.
All that time for socializing. Students called it “drop/add week” because of all the relationships that began—or ended—because of the extra time spent together. Some realized (fortunately!) that they just weren’t that compatible.

As years go by, things change. That’s a universal principle. But another principle is Providence, by which God’s hand continues to direct in our affairs, for our good and his glory.

Old preachers die, and new ones come along. This year’s slate of preachers, both in-house and invited, was outstanding. Mike Redick’s closing sermon (starts at 44:10), energized by the Spirit, brought students down the aisles as certainly as any of Paisley’s.
Old songs welcome newer ones, and the repertoire is expanded and enriched. Dan Forrest’s setting of “Amazing Love,” sung by the school’s combined choirs in the final service, I found particularly edifying.
There are fewer services per day now; 50 years ago there were 6 per day, and now it’s down to 3—which allows time for meditation, lingering over meals, fellowship, and rest. I think this is better stewardship.
There are 3 days now instead of 5. I miss the full week, but there were good reasons for making the change. (See under “Providence” above.)

As I reflected on the Conference, it struck me that this one was more refreshing—yeah, that’s the word—than any other I remember. Drinking from a firehose is profitable and invigorating, but no one would describe it as “refreshing.” This one left me spiritually stronger, more joyous, more at peace, than before it started. It heightened my appreciation of God’s grace and my sense of his presence—an answer to a specific prayer from a week ago.

May God give us more such times until He comes.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Personal Favorite Posts

December 30, 2021 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

I’ve noted before that popular posts tend to be ones that incite. There’s a place for pushing people’s buttons if you want to encourage them to change their thinking or behavior, but I don’t think muckraking or demagoguery is healthy for either the writer or the reader, and there’s no shortage of bloggers these days eager to do that sort of thing for the clicks. That’s not me.

But I’ve found the personal discipline of writing 2 posts every week to be good for me—for my thinking processes, for my communication skills, for my character, for my soul. And I’ll confess that there have been some posts along the way that were good for me, and, I hope, good for the readers. Occasionally writers have the delightful experience of writing something that seemed to turn out better than they intended, or even better than they felt capable of.

Here are 10 of mine that I like, for various reasons, in no particular order.

Photo by HENCE THE BOOM on Unsplash

No Matter What

September 13, 2021 by Dan Olinger 3 Comments

I had an impactful experience recently that I’d like to share.

I’ve had a hearing problem since I was a boy and had a disagreement with a calf on the family farm; I wanted to ride him, and he disagreed. I landed on the right side of my head and heard something pop. That ear has been significantly impaired since then.

In recent years, with aging, the other ear has been declining as well. This summer I decided to get hearing aids, and I’ve been delighted with the experience; I should have done that long ago.

Six weeks later, one morning I woke up deaf. The “bad ear” was its normal self, but the “good ear” was just gone; it was now by far the “bad ear.” (I came to that realization when I flushed the toilet and heard absolutely nothing.)

Popped in the hearing aids—I’m glad I had them to fall back on—and found that when I cranked them all the way up, I could hear juuuust a little bit.

This was the first day of meetings for the returning faculty to start the school year, and I really needed to be able to hear at least some of what was going on. Made it a matter of prayer and headed off to work.

I managed to get through the day hearing enough to fulfill my responsibilities, but any of you with hearing aids knows that having them turned all the way up means that all the ambient noise is screaming inside your head all day, so it was fairly unpleasant. In fact, a colleague took me aside at one point and asked if I was feeling OK. I was surprised that my distress was noticeable and tried to make it less so for the rest of the day. :-\

That night I tinkered around with possible solutions, to no apparent effect, and went to bed.

Next morning, still deaf.

I did my usual personal devotional time, and in my prayer time I asked the Lord, if he was willing, to clear up the problem. I presented him with a couple of reasons why I thought my being able to hear would be better than the current situation—

I teach the Bible to Christian students, and they seem to benefit from it, and hearing their questions enables me to teach more effectively.
In times of worship, I’m much more inclined to rejoice when I hear the congregational singing of my church family—even though, truthfully, I don’t contribute much musical quality to it.

So I asked him to intervene.

And then.

I thought for a minute, and I told him something else.

“Father, if you don’t enable me to hear ever again, I’m going to serve you the best I can, without complaint. You have been unfailingly good to me for 60 years as a believer, and for several years before that. I trust you, and I will still trust you and serve you for every tomorrow. I’m with you.

No matter what.”

And I meant it.

That was a deeply significant moment.

I finished my devotional procedure and then, as was my custom, I took a shower. And during the shower, my hearing came back. I don’t want to get all TMI here—the queasy can look away—but the problem was a simple mechanical blockage by earwax.

So it was really no significant problem at all.

But I didn’t know that when I was praying, and I meant what I said. I will always remember the volitional significance of that experience.

And here’s what occurred to me then.

It was my ignorance that made the moment powerful. If I had known that this was just wax, and that the (completely nonsupernatural) solution was just moments away, I would never have faced the opportunity to make that significant choice.

God could have taught me that lesson by making me really deaf for the rest of my life—and that would have been fine, good even. But he knew he didn’t need to do that. All it would take was a little lump of earwax and a couple of days. And my limited knowledge. And so he did what it took.

He’s a gracious, merciful God, who brings good things even out of ignorance.

I’m all in.

No matter what.

Photo by nikko macaspac on Unsplash

Respect

August 9, 2021 by Dan Olinger

This weekend a great man and spiritual mentor passed to glory. In tribute, I recall a past post about how he changed my life.

Rest in peace, good doctor.

Dan Olinger

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