There is too much hatred and division in society today. No one seems to be able to get along with others because of the diversity in individuals. Yet it is possible to bond in friendship with someone in whom diversity exists. It is possible to find commonality with those with whom we don’t necessarily “geehaw.” In the fall of 1971, as a college sophomore attending Campbell University,  there came out for cross country a young man named Jerry Dodgion, nicknamed “Bugs.” He only had one year of college left as he had dropped out to join the Marines. After a four year hitch in the military, he returned to college to finish his degree. It turned out he had no athletic eligibility left because of his age, so since he couldn’t run on the team, he became the team manager. Jerry and I were as opposite as yea and nay. We were like light and darkness.   The likelihood of he and I becoming friends was slim and  none.

Yet, in spite of being polar opposites we became friends… good friends. We were as opposite as yea and nay. We were like oil and water. I was 19, he was 27. I was 6 ft ½ inch, he was 5 ft 9 inches. He was a hardcore Marine veteran who had served in Vietnam, I at the time was a pacifist. He was from Virginia, I was from North Carolina. I was a Christian, he was not. He was a math major, I was a religion major. I disliked math, he disliked religion. I was soft spoken, he was outspoken. I was an introvert, he was an extrovert. He was abrasive and said whatever he thought, I kept things to myself and bit my tongue. He was constantly drinking coffee for the caffeine boost, I detested coffee because of the artificial  boost it gave! We disagreed on most every topic we discussed.

The picture is from an article about a marathon Bugs and I ran together in January 1972.

We seemingly had nothing (and I mean nothing) in common, so how did we become good friends? There was one interest we had in common that we both loved….running. Running was our ground of commonality. We trained together, hung out together, ate together, ran races together. The picture is from an article about a marathon Bugs and I ran together in January 1972. We were almost inseparable. Where you saw one you saw the other. We added to the mosaic of who each of us were. We remained friends and in contact beyond our college days. He came to hear me preach several times after I entered the ministry, and the last time I saw him he had started going to church. Sadly, “Bugs” died in April 1996 of an unexpected heart attack. He was only 51. I still miss my friend…the friend in whom we had nothing in common!!

The point of my reminiscing is that it is possible to find common ground with those with whom we may have more diversity than commonality. It would truly be a better world if we laid down our hate, biases and prejudices, and sought to find the commonality in each other and to exhibit love instead of intolerance. It is possible….for “Bugs” and I are proof it can be done!


Dr. Dan



As Father’s Day approaches  I pause for  a time of reflection. My dad died in 2001, at age 88. I was 49 years old at the time. During those 49 years I never remember my dad saying to me the words, “I love you.” Those were words that did not easily flow from his lips. Did he love me? I never doubted that for a minute. He showed me love by his actions. Fathers-DayWords

My dad worked hard to make a living and provide for his family. It was his love for his family that motivated him to work hard to provide for us the necessities of life.

As a boy, when my father was not working, he would take me fishing and hunting. While I was never very good at either, I treasure the memory of those strings of fish glistening in the summer sun, hearing the sound of that covey of quail as they ascended from the thicket, and watching that squirrel jump from limb to limb as I missed my scurrying target.

As a lad some nights bad dreams would invade my sleep and I would wake-up hollering at the monsters that I knew were about to tote me off. My father would come into my room, assuring me they were not real. He would confidently say, “Go back to sleep. Everything is ok. You were just having a bad dream.” With those reassuring words the monsters would vanish for the night.

When in high school I ran track. I ran the mile. While my dad worked second shift from 3-11 p.m., he would get off work long enough to come watch me when I raced. In my mind’s eye I can see him now standing over by the corner of the bleachers waiting for me to run. I had no more than crossed the finish line and would glance back over toward the bleachers, but like a shadow at dusk he was gone. He had gone back to work.

While I did not think so at the time, he showed his love by disciplining me in a place that seemed to have easy access for this long reach. I see now his discipline was for the purpose of “teaching” me to make right choices not wrong ones. Wrong choices can bring hurt that lasts a lot longer than a lick or two on a certain part of the anatomy.

When I graduated from high school I received a partial track scholarship to college. I was not sure where the other money was coming from, but my father knew. He went and borrowed the money. I know, for he took me with him when he went to the bank. My dad only finished the ninth grade and he was taking out a loan so I could achieve an education he was not able to receive.

When I graduated from college my father bought me a car and told me he was proud of me. That may have been as close as he ever came to uttering those three words, “I love you.”

When I married he was my best man. As I left the church for the honeymoon he pressed some money into my palm as he shook my hand and said, “Drive carefully.”

My father was a master mechanic. He would always work on my car and check it out when I came home for a visit. Before beginning the journey home he would hand me some money and say, “Get you some gas before heading up the road.”

Through his retirement years he showed that same love to his grandchildren that he showed me. Every time the kids did well on their report cards he would give them some small gift, usually money, to let them now he was proud of them.

After my mother passed away in 1999, when I would call him to see how he was doing he would always inquire how the kids were doing. And being the mechanic he was, he would always advise me to keep my car in good running condition.

One spring day in late May of 2001, my father, who had lived almost fourscore and ten, stepped into the house after mowing his lawn and fell dead on to the floor he had walked upon for over four decades. Having worked all his life that was the way he had wanted to go.

Do I wish I could have heard my father say, “I love you?” Of course I do, but it doesn’t really matter. I can honestly say it was never an important issue with me. His love was shown by his actions and that was all that mattered.

While every day we should make sure we tell those in our families we love them, but even more importantly  may we show them love like my father showed me.


Dr. Dan