I was first attracted to the picture. It looked like a school dining room. In the foreground was a young, white,
redheaded, adolescent guy and across the table sat and older African-American
man. The older guy looked like he was
eating pizza, but I could not tell what the younger boy was eating. It was clearly lunchtime in the
cafeteria. I am not sure what it was
about the picture that drew me into the scene.
I was ready to move on to other articles. But my eye caught the caption above the
picture and I stopped to read it. It
proclaimed, “FSU’s Travis Rudolph Eats with Boy with Autism, Inspires Powerful
FB Post.” Maybe I spend too much time on
sports, but I immediately knew it was a story about a Florida State University athlete. I assumed it was about a football
player. For a long time FSU has been a
football powerhouse. But it is also a
program that has flirted with trouble.
Some of us who are cynical about college sports suspect that not all
football players at places like FSU are true student-athletes. Too many of them go to college as a stepping-stone
into becoming a professional football player.
My attention was captured.
Quickly I moved to read the accompanying article written by Thomas
Duffy. His opening line was catchy. “Sometimes, it’s the little things that are
most powerful,” he pronounced. I
wholeheartedly agree. Soon the context
for the picture was provided. The FSU
football team decided to visit a middle school.
Duffy continues to inform that junior wide receiver, Travis Rudolph,
opted to join Bo Paske for lunch. Bo has
autism.
Learning that makes a huge difference. I can guess that Bo would have sat alone
throughout the lunch hour if Travis had not decided to join him. This simple act of inclusion---Travis
including Bo in eating lunch---inspired Bo’s mother to post an extended message
on Facebook. Reading that post was very
touching. The mother’s words drip with
pathos. Rightly, she is concerned for
her son. Middle school is bad enough in
its own right. For example, she comments
that Bo “doesn't seem
to notice when people stare at him when he flaps his hands. He doesn't seem to notice that he doesn't get
invited to birthday parties anymore.
Maybe his autism shields him from minding such things.”
Bo’s
mother did not know about the lunch partner Bo had until a friend sent the
picture and told what happened. She
says, “then I had tears streaming down my face.” As I read on in her post, her words touched
me, too. She acknowledges, “I'm not sure
what exactly made this incredibly kind man share a lunch table with my son, but
I'm happy to say that it will not soon be forgotten.”
A
powerful act becomes a powerful memory.
And the power of memory means every time Bo’s mom remembers that action,
the action becomes true again. I assume
she never met Travis Rudolph, but she does not have to know him to call him an
“incredibly kind man.” There are many
reasons to like this story, but part of the power of the story for me is the
racial piece. Remember, Bo is a white
boy and Travis is an African-American.
Sadly,
the pernicious racism of American culture still prevents too many of us from
seeing African-Americans---men and women---as “incredibly nice.” It’s a great symbol and story of inclusion. The final line I quote from Bo’s mother adds
a great conclusion. She states, “This is
one day I didn't have to worry if my sweet boy ate lunch alone, because he sat
across from someone who is a hero in many eyes.” Travis is a hero.
All
he did was have lunch at a middle school because some coach decided it would be
a nice thing to do. The problem with
putting it this way is it belittles every aspect of the act. It would be like saying Jesus had supper with
some of his guys! In fact, I like the
analogy of the Last Supper and Travis sitting with Bo over a meal. Who is to say the lunch with Travis was not a
sacred moment?
I
like the fact that in the story I read there is no comment about why Travis did
it, what he thought, etc. He did
it. The boy was alone and Travis
befriended him. He included, which is so
different than being excluded---the fate of so many of us. Surely, it was an act of care, which might
have become compassion at the point when Travis knew Bo was different. Travis is a hero to Bo’s mom. Travis is a model of mercy and ministry to
me.
Every
human being longs to be included, cared for and loved. The best spiritual traditions promise to do
this. It’s not always easy or convenient
to do. We fail for a thousand
reasons. For whatever reason Travis
models behavior that succeeded. He
included. He cared and, maybe even,
loved a little. I would like to think I
would do this, but I am not so sure.
Travis
challenges me to step it up and encourages me that I can do it. I can be spiritual; I can include
anyone---for lunch or anything else. Thanks Travis!
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