The point of it all

There are times when you are planning a column, or even while writing it, that you have to guard against veering off from your central topic and chasing rabbits down attractive side trails, reminding yourself each time that this isn’t what the piece is about. So when I started to write about something that happened this past weekend, I was much tempted to brag about the event in which my daughter, Stacey, became the Reverend Doctor Stacey Simpson Duke. But that’s not what this is about.

The ceremony took place at Columbia Theological Seminary, a 189-year-old Presbyterian institution in Decatur, Georgia. Receiving her Doctor of Ministry degree was the culmination of six years of hard work, all while being wife, mother, church pastor, American Baptist campus minister at the University of Michigan, writer, and participant in countless drives, marches, and endeavors of social enlightenment. That she is a sort of theological Energizer Bunny is reflected in the fact that she received her degree at midday on Saturday, shared a meal with family in midafternoon, and prepared notes for upcoming church functions while on the 12-hour road trip back to Michigan that ended at 3 a.m. Sunday. She was in church for the morning service at 10 a.m., taught Sunday School after the main service, attended a luncheon after that, hurried home, and then went to the funeral home and preached a funeral at 5 p.m. She gets her energy, looks, and brains from her mother, so I take no credit, although I do brag. But none of that is what this piece is about.

I might also brag about the fact that she won an award for the excellence of her doctoral work in pursuit of her degree, but that’s not what this is about either.

After the 2-day whirlwind of baccalaureate sermon, reception, picnic, rehearsal, graduation ceremony, another reception, and much picture-taking, tears, and hugging, we family members chatted, tired but happy, through our final meal together. Then Paul Duke, my son-in-law, discovered that his iPhone was missing. He realized he’d probably laid it on the ledge outside by the sidewalk where he’d been standing before moving inside the restaurant. He searched. No sign of it. Not only was this an expensive Christmas gift from his wife, but it contained all the photos and videos of the last two days, irreplaceable treasures. The joyous recent events were now clouded over by this disaster.

As with most things these days, there’s an app for that. Stacey began a search from her own iPhone and, sure enough, the missing phone was several blocks away, seen on the screen of Stacey’s phone as it moved steadily away from our area. Calls to the phone got no response, not surprising, as the ringer had been silenced during the graduation ceremony. She activated the lost phone feature. A food server said there was a police station near the area where the phone was moving, so at least the loss could be reported there if it couldn’t be retrieved. But the outlook was not good.

We had all said goodbye and parted when Stacey received a call. The caller, who from the voice seemed to be a young woman, had just seen the “lost phone” notice on the phone’s screen. She said she had the phone and had intended to take it to the police station. She agreed to wait in front of the station and give the phone back. She asked for a description of the vehicle she should watch for.

When the Dukes eventually turned onto the street they sought, they saw in the distance two small figures standing in front of the police station on an otherwise deserted sidewalk. The two figures were African-American children, a girl about 12 years old, and her brother, who looked to be about two years younger. They were waving vigorously. They introduced themselves, were polite, and were visibly stunned when given a nice cash reward. They had walked a long distance in 90-degree heat to take the phone to the police station, simply because it was the right thing to do.

Maybe this was a small matter in a world of political turmoil, constant lying, threats of terrorism, possibility of nuclear war. But I think it was a highly important small matter, and my day was brightened considerably by it. These youngsters, especially vulnerable to suspicion and accusations of wrongdoing simply because of the color of their skin, exhibited outstanding character. It makes me proud to be a member of the human race with them.

That’s what this column is about.

This story was originally published May 25, 2017 at 8:00 PM with the headline "The point of it all."