The Insanity Of Air Travel

July 25, 2022

I don’t like writing about problems if I can’t offer some ideas for solutions; it seems like a waste of time and energy. I’d rather discuss ideas, or at least inspire some introspection. This won’t do any of those, and may only serve as a form of catharsis for my fellow road warriors. Hopefully it will at least provide some entertainment value. After all, you have to laugh at some of this stuff, because it’s beyond absurd.

As a frequent flier, I thought I had seen it all until two recent trips through Europe. The lines at Schipol and the baggage fiascos at Heathrow have become absolutely mind-boggling. We waited several times through security lines over 3 hours long, one of which stretched almost two miles outside the airport. If I didn’t have video evidence, no one would believe it. One friend missed his flight despite checking in over 4 hours early.

Unless you’re taking a shorter flight to/from smaller airports, the entire air travel experience feels hopelessly broken most of the time: It’s stressful, claustrophobic, chaotic, and uncomfortable. It might as well be addressed in the Geneva Convention as a legitimate form of torture. While the following is just one set of scenarios you might experience, there are many others: hours-long tarmac waits with no food or air conditioning; canceled flights, broken toilets, lost bags, overcrowded airports, and lots of cranky people. And while this may be an unlikely compilation of “greatest hits”, I have experienced every one of these things countless times. Most are the norm and occur almost every time I fly.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF AN INTERNATIONAL TRAVELER

You start your day by getting up at 3:00 AM for your 6:00 flight and grab a quick shower, which is useless given what you’re about to experience. You pull up to the curb which is a chaotic scene, walk inside the stiflingly hot terminal packed with thousands of people, and take your place in a long line to check in and hand over your bags. You then proceed to the security line, which could very well occupy the next 3 hours. Finally, it’s your turn to take off half your clothes, belt, and hat, revealing your less-than-flattering, sweaty hat-hair. So much for that shower.

Next, if you’re a musician, you get to empty two large carry-ons full of delicate and carefully-packed laptops, iPads, electronics, cables, and adapters into 6 large trays in order to show it all to a baggage screener, attempt to explain what it all does, and then quickly try to repack it all while your still-beltless pants keep falling down. All of this provides simultaneous amusement and frustration for everyone behind you. You should have played the flute.

After you’ve endured the security gauntlet and start running to your gate, you quickly join the sea of people walking (painfully slowly) to theirs. Most of these people are blissfully unaware of anything or anyone around them, staring at their phones like zombies and pausing inexplicably to do who-knows-what. This is where the “character building” starts to kick in. At your gate, the time comes to start boarding, so you join the claustrophobic cluster of 200 or more people who all ignore their boarding group number so they can try to board the plane first and get their bags on before everyone else. You’re in boarding group 3, but you have the pleasure of seeing the guy in front of you - with boarding group 6 on his ticket - get waved through while the agent wishes him a “pleasant flight.” Frankly, I wish him the aftermath of eating an entire bag of Haribo Sugar-Free Gummy Worms. If you’re not familiar with that phenomenon, Google it.

Congratulations on making it past those outer circles of Hell. You’ve finally boarded a stiflingly hot airplane, only to be stuck standing in First Class, watching those around you enjoying their martinis and extravagant amounts of legroom, with full sets of metal silverware at their disposal. So much for that 3-hour security line you endured so they could throw away your grandpa’s Swiss Army Knife, which you forgot to leave at home. You’re stuck here because people ahead of you are slowly getting situated, pulling their iDevices out of their carry-ons, and proceeding to wrestle their larger-than-legal bags into the overhead bins.

Finally you make it back to 36A, your little 18-inch wide slice of hard plastic and woefully under-padded purgatory. 36A is the aisle seat you chose so you’re not trapped in a middle seat or window. Yes, window seats can be nice on shorter flights, especially for we traveling introverts. That is, until those 2 cups of airport coffee and bran muffins kick in around 90 minutes into your flight and your seat mates are sound asleep. And of course one of them wears a CPAP machine that makes Darth Vader sound like he’s softly crooning Sinatra, while the other is about 200 pounds too large for the middle seat and consequently spilling over into 6 of your precious 18 inches of horizontal space. At least you can stretch your legs… assuming you’re only 4 feet tall. We 6-footers are out of luck; I’ve inadvertently played footsie with pretty much everyone in front of me over the years. Not to worry; they always repay the favor by reclining their seat forcefully into my sternum. So much for trying to redeem some of this time by getting some work done on my laptop or watching a movie from the screen 2 inches in front of my nose.

Soon the real fun begins, especially if you’re even slightly grossed out by other people’s noises, smells, coughs, sneezes, nose-blows, or toots. Yes, it’s a veritable cornucopia of the full human experience, all within a few cubic feet. If you’re at all claustrophobic, this is it: you’ve arrived in Hell itself. You start attempting to breathe deeply and suppress the thought that you’re trapped in this 12-inch wide “seat” (I use that term loosely) for the next 9 hours. Or 17 if you’re headed to South Africa. The attempt to stay calm is quickly interrupted by the inevitable battle for armrest supremacy, of course.

But wait, there’s more! The person next to you (who should probably skip a few meals and ponder showering) keeps falling asleep and involuntarily flopping over onto your shoulder, while snoring and making other occasional noises. Then there’s the guy in front of you who really enjoyed his greasy garlic pastrami sandwich & fries just after boarding, which filled the whole cabin with an assault on your olfactory system. As if that were the end of that particular storyline, his meal revisits the cabin about an hour later, and with a vengeance: he probably farted an entire John Grisham novel between JFK and Halifax. Some of this was silent, but all of it was deadly.

Right about now, the toddler behind you starts screaming for the next hour - probably due to the damage inflicted on his still-developing nervous system, thanks to a certain pastrami sandwich - until finally he goes unconscious.  This is just after filling his diaper with something so toxic, it cannot be of this world. His parents must be oblivious or used to it, because they never change him. Your mind is only diverted from this latest olfactory offense when he wakes up and starts kicking the back of your seat. Meanwhile, there’s more uncovered coughing, burping, sneezing, and nose-blowing all around you, so you wonder what disease(s) you will develop over the next few days. Finally, exhaustion sets in and you start dozing off, despite the headrest pushing your cranium forward instead of allowing you to relax into the posture of a normal human being.

After a few moments of relative quiet, an elderly lady nearby starts rifling through her purse and loudly rustling plastic candy wrappers from those mints no one likes, which must be left over from Halloween 1956. This reminds the guy a few seats over that he has a snack of his own, so he starts wrestling with a bag of Doritos for the next 30 minutes. I’m curious - just what properties do plastic wrappers have which allow them to violate the laws of physics, and be louder than a Rolls Royce jet engine at full throttle?

Now, it might seem crazy to think that an airplane lavatory might be a place of solace and refuge - but desperate times call for desperate measures. You get up and make your way back there to stand in line behind 6 other people awaiting their turn. The noises you hear coming through that door make you rethink your plan, but at this point the desperate need for personal space wins out. 25 minutes later you get in there and start the “drop your pants dance” in a space one fourth the size of Clark Kent’s phone booth.

At this point it’s worth noting for those of you who are less-traveled: LEAVE YOUR SHOES ON, because the floor of that bathroom will trigger the fight or flight reflex. Why can’t people aim?!? Anyway, you don the rubber gloves you smartly packed and cover the seat with an entire roll of toilet paper, and sit down for a few moments to collect what remains of your sanity. Just then, the captain comes on the PA to warn of turbulence and asks everyone to return to their seats. You think to yourself “Fat chance, Cap’n, this IS my seat now.”

So, you finish your alone time and return to 36A, where the occupant of 36B is now fully lumped over into your seat, and you have to figure out how to wedge yourself into the 9 remaining inches available to you. You eventually doze off again, and because you’re leaning into the aisle (thanks to 36B), the drink cart comes barreling down the aisle and makes impact with your skull. The blunt force is a lesson in both physics and biology.

Eventually the plane lands, and so begins that inexplicable ritual where everyone jumps to their feet before the engines have even spun down - as if you’re going to be able to disembark within the next 10 minutes, let alone from 36A. But doggone it, people are determined to prove a plane can be disembarked in 30 seconds, despite the group of elderly passengers up front who all have bags in overhead and need a little more time than might be ideal.

Finally you make it off that aluminum tube of tribulation into the arrival gate, which must be in compliance with an unwritten rule that airports should be a stifling 85 degrees and 98% humidity. And that’s just in places with air conditioning; if you landed in Europe or other parts of the world, just plan on not being able to breathe. Thankfully it’s only a 4 mile walk to customs, down a completely barren corridor. Don’t worry though, there are restrooms - after you’ve completed the customs and immigration process. Another note to the less traveled: use the plane’s restroom before the end of the flight.

Now you arrive at baggage claim, which is your next opportunity to delight in the full human experience, with all its sights, sounds, and smells. This a great time for the sport of people-watching, though. I’ve been long-winded enough, so I’ll just provide one observation here: there are precious few people on the planet who should ever contemplate wearing yoga pants, let alone 12 hours past their prime. If you must prioritize your comfort, please consider the eyesight of others. You can’t unsee some things, people.

So, bags now in hand (unless you’ve drawn that short straw and have to stand in another line at the baggage office), you head for the exit. It’s like a shimmering oasis in the desert; you can see sunlight and imagine that first breath of fresh air. Your pace quickens. You try to speed through the rotating door, but your bag gets caught. All things considered, this is a minor detail at this point. With superhuman strength and determination, you wrestle it free and burst through the other side.

Your journey through one of the worst experiences devised by modern man has come to an end, and the moment arrives. You gulp two lungs full of air and sunshine… but there’s one last cruelty to endure: the thick cloud of cigarette smoke you can’t avoid. All those desperate nicotine addicts are finally able to give way to their cravings. And after all we’ve just been through, I can’t blame them. There are few things I abhor more than cigarette smoke and the inconsiderate, cancerous clouds the rest of us have to walk through at this point in our journey.

Frankly, I’m about to take up smoking myself; I’ll just need something stronger than tobacco. Good thing we just landed in Amsterdam.

In the words of the great Seinfeldian poet Frank Costanza: “SERENITY NOW!!!”

Synth Streamlining

It’s no secret that I adore vintage synthesizers, and I have thoroughly enjoyed collecting some real icons; particularly those that inspired me in my youth. I also adore bacon - and vintage synthesizers are like sonic bacon. I could eat bacon every day. But I have a confession to make: after a steady diet of bacon (or any other good thing), you get very familiar with it and you start hankering for a bit of huevos rancheros to go with that bacon! It’s time for me to admit that vintage synths, as much as I love them, are always going to be confined to a certain family or “flavor” of sounds, whether that be from subtractive synthesis (like most analogues) or FM (like the Yamaha DX series). 

So, having thoroughly loved a lot of vintage synths (and I haven’t stopped!) - I’m at a point where I want to change things up a bit in the Fortress of Synthetude. Make no mistake, I will always have my 70s & 80s-era Yamaha, Roland, Sequential, and Moog stuff - but I’m done collecting old technology for the most part. I’ve owned just about anything I ever cared to, and I’ve also had the repair bills and reliability issues to go with them. Of course some of them were worth it, but I’m really wondering how much I’ve been motivated purely by nostalgia, at the expense of the present.

So after cutting a few pieces loose (which I confess wasn’t easy, but purely because of that nostalgia), I’ve made a decision to be a better steward of my studio space and the “bandwidth” each piece occupies. You see, every piece of gear you bring into your studio occupies different types of bandwidth: sonic, creative, practical, and financial. We synth lovers can get a bit infected with GAS (Gear Acquisition Syndrome), and before you know it, you can end up surrounded by gear that looks cool and impresses people, but it can also slow you down with options overload. After all, there are only so many different flavors of analogue synth basses, pads, etc. - and I don’t need 18 different synths to do those things.

So, while I will always love my “sonic bacon” and keep the major flavors on hand, I’m shifting my focus a bit. No more vintage stuff. What I do want is new sounds and possibilities I haven’t heard yet. New approaches to synthesis. New ways to control and interact with those sounds. 

There are some incredible new tools out there that truly break new ground in sound and/or performance. Here’s my short list of synths that have my attention: the Arturia PolyBrute with its blending of superb analogue sounds and unique architecture and controller features; the ASM Hydrasynth with its fresh approach to wavetable synthesis, insane modulation possibilities, and polyphonic aftertouch/ribbon controller; the Sequential Pro 3 which might be the most wicked monosynth since the MiniMoog; and finally, the Dreadbox Typhon and Moog Subharmonicon as incredible desktop sources of inspiration. A few of these will be replacing some of my beloved vintage synths soon, and I look forward to new sounds and inspiration!

Again, I can’t emphasize enough that if you’re just starting out, it’s great fun to have a few vintage icons in your collection - to a point. It’s not popular to say, but many vintage synths can easily be matched by modern alternatives without the maintenance and reliability headaches. On the other hand, having a gorgeous, iconic vintage synth in your studio can be incredibly inspiring, so there’s definitely a balance. But that’s another blog ;-)

Speaking of other blogs… I’ve talked before about how I’ve come full-circle over the years: selling off all my synths in the early 2000s in favor of plugins, then collecting hardware again to the point where I’m surrounded by it. I’ve found that I get VASTLY more inspiration out of interacting with hardware. I’m at the point where I now reach for plugins last when I want to truly be inspired. How about you? What synth gear is really getting your creative fires stoked?

Boundaries vs. Business

Top: my ideal life; living in the wide open beauty of Wyoming. No cell phone, no distractions. A studio in an old barn, writing music all day.

Bottom: my actual life on days like I’ve had recently where I’m trying to get work done, but my phone is blowing up with calls, texts, emails, Facebook messages, etc.

It’s good to be busy, and generally good to be “needed.” But I’m learning I’ve developed some really unhealthy ways of dealing with that. This particular struggle has been waging war on my life for a long time, and I feel like I’m close to a meltdown if I don’t get it under control. 

Probably because I have a ridiculous amount of tech & gear trivia rattling around my brain, I seem to be on speed dial for a LOT of folks when they need help or advice on something. Combine that with the insidious people-pleaser in me who wants to be liked and needed, and this is a recipe for really unhealthy living. Somewhere along the way, I’ve confused unhealthy boundaries with good business sense. My internal monologue probably goes something like this: “If I keep being everyone’s go-to guy, I’ll be respected, and it will keep me on people’s radar for future opportunities.”

There are weeks (like this one) when I get dozens of calls, texts, emails, and direct messages from people who all want my opinion on something; a gear recommendation, a how-to question, career advice, the occasional “will you listen to my music” inquiry…. and just one text can turn into a whole thread. Multiply that by dozens. And since I released my BackStage Pass software last year, there are always questions coming in about that, too. All of this in addition to the calls, emails, and texts from my employers and peers about current obligations… and some of those alone can fill much of a workday.

Here’s the dilemma: I truly love helping people, but the sheer volume of it vastly exceeds my available “bandwidth.” There were 2 days this week that I hardly got any of my own work done because I made myself available to everyone else as soon as possible.  And I’ve learned that phrase is a big part of my problem: it doesn’t mean what I’ve believed for so long.

I always figured it makes sense to get back to people as soon as possible. It’s part of the message we’ve heard on voice mail and answering machines for decades: “I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” But then there’s that little voice in my head that whispers “you need to impress people, even if that means dropping what you’re doing RIGHT NOW to help them. They will like you more if you do, and you’ll keep your reputation of being ‘the go-to guy.’” It’s been a painful realization, but that “go-to guy” has been costing me dearly my entire life. There’s a big difference between as soon as possible and right now.

There’s also the ‘F’ word: Fear. Especially since starting my little software side-business, I’m very sensitive to wanting to impress my customers. After all, they’ve paid me for something, so on the rare occasion someone has a problem or doesn’t understand some part of it, I’m afraid they’ll be dissatisfied - or worse - mad at me because they might think my hard work is defective, or because I don’t respond right away to help them. So when those calls and texts come in, you guessed it - I drop my own pressing work to help them right away when as soon as possible would suffice. Never mind that the majority of questions I get are answered in the manuals I spent hours writing, or the videos I’ve put together. There’s certainly room to grow there, but I digress…

Now I don’t want to give the wrong impression here. I never resent people for asking me for help or advice. I do genuinely enjoy helping people, and when it comes to my business, I certainly believe in supporting my customers in every way possible. However, I simply cannot keep confusing as soon as possible with right now. I cannot keep making myself available to everyone right now if that comes at a cost to my own obligations and productivity. I have to learn that sometimes as soon as possible means people I care about might have to wait on me.

I’m learning that the cost of not having healthy boundaries is all too real. You see, knowledge is never free; acquiring it always comes at a cost to someone. I shudder to imagine the amount of time I’ve spent in my life giving “free” advice. It must add up to a staggering amount. And it wasn’t free; I simply paid for it and gave it away. And it’s crucial to note that’s a good thing to a healthy degree - it’s part of being generous, which I also enjoy! But when it’s your entire way of being - constantly sacrificing your own productivity on the altar of perception or feeling “needed” - things get out of whack and the cost is immense.

So, I’m taking some immediate steps toward better mental and emotional health for myself and those precious ladies who have to live with me. When I’m at work in my studio, my phone will be on “Do Not Disturb” with exceptions for family and current employers. I’ll be sending out new guidelines for BackStage Pass customers detailing a new email-based support system like most companies use. And when other calls, texts, and DMs do come in, I’m going to be better about letting them go based on their urgency - or lack thereof.  And if I don’t respond, that’s probably an indication that the answer can be found the same way I find them: our mutual friend Google ;-)

Finally, this is part of my motivation for my new All Access Live series. I see that as a time where I can freely share what I’ve learned over the years, respond to questions, nerd out on gear talk, and ideally, learn from each other. I hope you will join one of those - they are a fun outlet for me and, I hope, valuable to my friends and customers!

The path of self-discovery isn’t always fun, but it’s necessary to grow and improve. I want to be a “better me.” Thanks so much for your encouragement, understanding, and friendship! And DO stay in touch - just know I might take a little longer than usual to reply!

Much love,

Jim

Remembering My Dad

A year ago tonight I got the phone call I dreaded for much of my adult life. We had just finished a show on the Michael W. Smith/Amy Grant Christmas tour in Everett, WA, and I had been selling my newly released album “Ad Alta” up in the concourse at the merchandise table. In fact, it was at this show that the album officially sold out. It was a great time for me, seeing the tangible results of a dream I had for many years. I remember my wife texting me to ask how the night was going, and I playfully flirted with her like I always do. Little did I know she was trying to figure out if I was available to take a phone call.

I made my way to the bus, where the band was enjoying some after-show food; fresh sushi this particular night. I grabbed a plate and sat down to eat. I had my phone sitting on my leg so I could see incoming texts from my wife. At 10:43 PM, it vibrated - but when I looked down I saw that it was my brother calling. All the blood drained from my head because I instantly knew there’s no good reason my brother would be calling me at 1:43 AM his time on the East coast. When I answered I could hear it in his voice. My brother, a pastor, has made countless phone calls like this, but this one was different. This was a call to his own brother, 2500 miles away, while he was surrounded by the rest of our family. His words were slow:

“Hey Jim… are you in a place where you can talk?”

I instantly jumped up and ran to the back of the bus where I could be alone, and heart pounding, I tried to brace myself for what I knew he was about to say: 

“I have some very, very difficult news. Dad …passed away earlier tonight.”

He paused, likely because he knew he had to let me take it in. And in that few seconds of silence, a flood washed over me. I had imagined this moment for a long time, knowing I would likely be somewhere on the road, and he would have to make this call. I guessed it would happen this way, and I dreaded it. After I hung up, the flood gates opened. I lost it in the hallway of a tourbus. My boss and friend knew right away what had happened - he lost his own dad almost the same way just 2 years prior. He just hugged me while I cried.

Dad had spent the previous night in the ER and had been in excruciating pain; he had a large kidney stone, a broken foot, and extreme back pain. On the way home, he wanted to go to his favorite breakfast spot with my mom - Queen City Diner. Despite all his issues at the time, he managed to crack some rather saucy jokes with my mom. On their way into their house he doubled over and said he had never felt so much pain in his back, which is saying something given what he endured for years. Still, he spent that afternoon watching his favorite football team, Penn State. He happened to ask my mom for one of his favorite meals - oyster soup, which he hadn’t had in years. A little after dinner, he got up to use the bathroom. My mom was in another room and heard him call for her, and she could tell by his voice that something was wrong. When she found him, he mumbled that he “felt woozy.” She got him on the floor, started CPR while calling 911 along with my brother and sister, who got there in minutes, around the same time as paramedics.

Although I wasn’t there, I can see this scene so clearly - almost as if it were a memory of my own. My brother looked down at Dad’s feet while they tried to revive him; he was wearing his usual white sneakers and socks, which we always teased him about. My brother kept thinking “what I would give to see him stand up in those silly sneakers right now.” My mom was holding his hand, stroking his ring finger. Knowing that our sense of hearing is the last to go, my sister whispered in his ear that her daughter - his granddaughter Ashley - was pregnant with a little girl of her own. Hanging on the wall above him was a gold album plaque I had made for my parents to thank them for a lifetime of support as I finally finished my dream project - of which my dad was immensely proud. Embarrassingly so at times - my mom tells me that for the last 5 months, Dad would drive around with the windows down blasting my album for all to hear. That was our dad.

Hard as it was, I believe there were many divine providences around this week. I had always worried that when this time came, I’d be overseas or in the middle of a tour. However, we just had one more concert to do the next day, and then we were off for all of Thanksgiving week so I was able to be with my family and not miss any tour dates. When I showed up on stage the next day for rehearsal, I felt an immense outpouring of love and support from all my “tour family.” One moment I’ll never forget is Amy Grant - who happened to share her birthday with my dad - coming up behind me and just wrapping her arms around me, telling me how much she enjoyed meeting my dad. That would have made HIS day - he was just a bit of a fan!  It was not an easy show to get through that night. There was one moment where Michael sang a new worship chorus called Miracles:

“The God who brings the dead to life… the God of miracles…”

It was extremely difficult. Yet in that moment, I knew it was true. I had a simultaneous sense of pain and hope - and assurance that my dad had the far better end of the deal. He was finally experiencing what he spent a lifetime preaching about, and I think in that moment, I started longing for heaven in a way I could only imagine before.

A week later, we laid my dad’s body to rest - the day before his 79th birthday. We put his birthday cards in the casket with him. I printed the cello score to his favorite song on my album, called “Prayer For Mercy” and put that in there with him, although I’m the one who needed it at the time. The line of people who came to the funeral wrapped around the church, and so many people told me that they came to faith because of my dad. What a legacy. When the moment came, leaving that cemetery was one of the most excruciating moments of my life.

Later that afternoon, I sat alone in this outdoor tabernacle in the woods where my parents met, and where they came full circle to live during the last 2 years of my dad’s life. It was under this roof that my dad heard God say “Bobby, this is your life’s work” when he was just a young boy. It was also under this roof where I played several concerts as a teenager with my band - and where just 5 months prior to losing my dad, I returned to debut my dream project “Ad Alta.” That was a sweltering, humid night in June, but hundreds of people showed up - and in the middle of them sat my dad - just beaming with pride. It was a defining moment for me. But now, here I sat on a cold, dark November afternoon, in tears, trying to comprehend that I no longer have my dad on this side of heaven.

The next day - Dad’s 79th birthday - I flew to Atlanta to resume the Christmas tour. I had asked my family if I could take Dad’s bible with me. It was one of his many, since he was a pastor for 50+ years. I randomly flipped it open to 2 Corinthians, where the margin was full of his handwritten notes. The passage he had highlighted reads:

“For the troubles we see will soon be over, but the joys to come will last forever. For we know that when this earthly tent we live in is taken down-when we die and leave these bodies-we will have a home in heaven, an eternal body made for us by God himself and not by human hands. We grow weary in our present bodies, and we long for the day when we will put on our heavenly bodies like new clothing.”

In the margin, he scribbled “what a great birthday promise.” Turns out he had read this passage and wrote that note exactly 2 years prior, on his 77th birthday. With that, I cried tears of joy. My dad was home. He was no longer in pain. And though the rest of my life won’t be the same without him, he left me everything I need to see him again someday. I hope and pray that your faith is in Christ too, so one day I can introduce you to the greatest man I’ve ever known. I love you, Dad.

Choosing Joy In The Unthinkable

64 years ago today, my dad, an only child at 15 years old, witnessed the murder of his parents on the steps of his church. This would be a life-defining moment for anyone. It should have defined my dad’s life - but it didn’t. Although it took time of course, he ultimately chose forgiveness - and joy.

My dad left us almost a year ago now on November 18, 2017, and I believe he is reunited with the parents he lost so many years ago. He left a legacy of faith for which I’ll be eternally thankful. At his memorial service, my brother “Bud” - also Robert Daneker - talked about how our dad gave him his name - but he gave us something more:

“Some time when I was maybe 10 or 11, my family took a trip to a cemetery. Mom & Dad told me we were going to put flowers on Dad’s parents’ grave. I had never met these people. I never thought of them as my grandparents. I had no faces or smells or feelings or memories to attach to these people. I rarely, if ever thought about them.

My sister and I found a way to entertain ourselves among the tombstones; I don’t quite remember how. Mom and Dad stood talking in front of a single gravestone, divided in half with 2 names. At some point, I looked at the names on the stones: Mildred and Matthew Daneker… and it struck me that they had the same last name as me.

Then I noticed the dates of their death: they both read “October 3, 1954” and I said, “Hey Dad, your parents died on the same day.” And then I heard, for the first time, the story of a double murder witnessed by a 15-year-old son.

That story should have defined my dad’s life. It should have - but it didn’t.

It did not.

That it did not is a testimony to his faith in Jesus, and to my dad’s character.

What did define his life was faith. Episodes of faith.

The faith of a 12-year-old boy who, while walking a friend down the aisle at Waldheim Park clearly heard a voice say, “Bobby, this is your life’s work.” And it was: introducing people to Jesus.

The faith of a young man who had to learn to forgive the man who violently stole his parents and the idyllic childhood he thought he had.

Faith led him to choose joy. Faith helped him to persevere through years of chronic pain. Faith enabled him to live with hope. Faith gave him the ability, all his life, to choose love.

So, my dad gave me his name.

But far more than that, my dad gave me a hero.”

My grandparents, Mildred & Matthew Daneker, with my dad, Robert Daneker Sr.