In the movie, “Children of a Lesser God”, teacher James Leeds (William Hurt), falls in love with a deaf adult student, Sarah (Marlee Matlin). One night, she says something in conversation and he responds by making a joke that she doesn’t understand. He explains that it’s an inside joke – to himself.

She signs to him, and he repeats back, “I can’t communicate with someone when my mind is busy amusing itself.” He apologizes and listens closer to her.

People need to know that someone’s paying attention to them. My wife and I have often caught ourselves joking too much when the other person needed us to pay serious attention. Knowing that someone’s listening closely means knowing that they care about our concerns.

When we have burdens that need lifting, we trust those people who show they care about the little everyday things. That small talk isn’t always so important. What’s important is knowing that the other person is genuinely listening – paying attention to all the little things, as well as the more significant things, in our lives.

Try listening a little closer this week to those you care about. Not just the words, but the body language and emotional needs being expressed. The biggest emotional need we all share is to have someone acknowledge us – to truly listen. You might learn something you had never known about your closest friends.

But only if they can trust you to hear it.

 

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I never saw “Old Yeller” until this past summer. But I watched “Savage Sam” several times in my childhood, never knowing it was the sequel, produced seven years after the classic film. I remember “Savage Sam” because they played it once or twice a year on “The Wonderful World of Disney” TV show. We also owned a record album that told the entire story using audio clips from the movie. (For those who don’t know, a record album is similar to a really big CD!)

I also remember a particular scene from “Savage Sam” that’s always stayed with me.

With their parents away, Travis Coates (Tommy Kirk) is left in charge of the farm and his little brother, Arliss (Kevin Corcoran). Arliss, who’s still obstinate and obnoxious after all these years. Since Arliss has no interest in submitting to authority – especially that of an older sibling – he winds up bickering with Travis daily. Their yelling finally builds up to a critical level, when Arliss decides to start hurling rocks at his bossy older brother. Travis warns him to stop (somehow thinking that might have an effect on Arliss?) but finally flees to the outhouse for safety.

Fortunately, the boys’ Uncle Beck (Brian Keith) comes by, having heard their shouts from up on the next hill. He asks Arliss what kind of wild animal he’s throwing rocks at, and acts surprised to learn that it’s Travis.

Arliss explains how Travis keeps bossing him around and working him like a slave.

“Well, I don’t blame ya for rockin’ him, then,” Beck says.

Arliss is shocked, and a little excited. “You don’t?”

“No, sir. If it were me, I wouldn’t stand for it one minute, either. Because I know what you’re goin’ through, Arliss. Because your papa used to treat me exactly the same way when I was little. Every minute of the day, somethin’ like this: ‘Beck! You go chop the wood!’ ‘Beck, go fetch the horse!’ ‘Beck, go slop the hog!’ ‘Beck, go milk the cow!’” He leans over close to Arliss, and growls near his ear, “That’s why I wanted to kill him a thousand times!”

Arliss’ eyes pop wide open. “Who, Papa?”

“You betcha!” Beck bellows, loud enough for Travis to hear him. “Anythin’ makes me killin’ mad, it’s some great big lazy overgrown boy workin’ his poor little brother half to death!” Beck looks around, getting a sudden inspiration. “Let’s get us some brush! We’ll set fire to it and burn him right outa there!”

Arliss blinks hard. “Burn him?”

“Sure! Be like smokin’ a possum out of a hollow log!”

“You mean, do that to Travis?”

Beck reconsiders, not wanting the fire to spread and burn the entire farm. Instead, he draws his pistol, spins the chamber, and slaps it into Arliss’ hand. “Well, here you go. Use this! Blast him outa there with that! Now it’ll make some holes in that door you can pitch a dog through!”

“But that’s Travis in there!”

Ignoring his hesitation, Beck stands behind Arliss to help him aim the gun straight at the outhouse door. “Now keep that arm steady, boy. Steady. See now, get that front sight down. Make her set right in the middle of that groove. Remember you gotta squeeze that trigger. You aim about a foot below the top of that door and you’re gonna catch him right smack between the eyes on the first shot!”

Arliss pulls away, shocked and outraged. “You crazy or somethin’? You think I wanna kill my own brother?”

Beck pauses, thoughtful. “Well, Arliss, that’s the general idea I got from the way you was whammin’ them rocks in there.”

Taken aback, Arliss argues quietly, “Well, I didn’t aim to kill him.”

Beck nods, trying to understand. “But you kill squirrels with rocks, don’tcha?” he asks.

Arliss hangs his head.

“And you killed that big turkey-gobbler with a rock. Didn’tcha?”

Arliss nods slowly, ashamed.

Beck nods and straightens up, satisfied. “Now if it was me, I believe I’d just go wash the dirt out of that bucket and finish milkin’ the cow.”

“Yes, sir.”

We all have people in our lives that irritate us. Those people who rub us the wrong way, because they don’t do things the way we do.

We wouldn’t say that we actually “hate” most of those people. We just avoid contact with them, or refuse to smile when we see them. Or we secretly hope that things won’t go well for them. Or we might, occasionally, tell our friends how little we think of that person. And for those particular people who we just can’t stand, we harbor a secret wish that they would somehow disappear – leave town, leave the workplace, or leave the family – and make our lives a little bit easier.

I’ve recently found how guilty I am of this. It’s so easy to write off certain people, because we just don’t like the way they talk, or act, or think. We want nothing to do with them, so we certainly won’t attempt to act friendly toward them.

But who gets hurt by our hatred? It’s rarely the other person. And most people we hate aren’t actually doing us any harm. Most of us aren’t actually under attack from those people. We just don’t like who they are.

But hatred is really a spirit of murder. A secret animosity toward someone, that either wants them to vanish or to suffer somehow. The difference between the haters and the murderers is that the murderers choose to act on their unchecked emotions, making their dark wishes come true.

When I was about five years old, I got really angry at my little brother, Robert. I found a nice rock and chucked it at the side of his head. I was pretty proud of myself for having such good aim.

I wasn’t so proud a few minutes later. I went inside and found Robert sitting on a stool between my parents, as they cleaned up the blood. It wasn’t a big gash, but it was still a gash. My parents explained to me that rocks could actually kill a person. I had no idea. I never threw rocks again.

I just harbored hatred toward people.

Everybody has weak points. Everybody has personality quirks. Everybody has something they can improve about themselves, to be a little more sensitive to the needs of others. What good does it do me to hate them for their current flaws? Especially when the only person most deeply affected by my hatred is not them, but me.

I’m the one who gets uptight when that person comes around. I’m the one wishing evil on someone and consuming my mind with negative thoughts. Since I have no plans to murder anyone, harboring this spirit of murder just builds up tension in me that can never – and should never – be released.

Until I choose to release the hate itself. I can choose to be glad when those “hateful” people succeed in their goals. I can choose to have friendly conversation with them instead of sarcasm and spite. I can choose to ignore some of their bad manners and nasty remarks, and accept them for who they are, and where they are in life. And perhaps someday, they’ll change. But the changes have to start with me.

We’ve heard that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. I say that people shouldn’t throw stones if they don’t want to become a stone-thrower.

Don’t follow a path of hatred or a spirit of murder. Release people from the prison of hatred you’ve locked them in, and you’ll find that you’ve actually freed yourself.

 

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Travis Coates (Tommy Kirk) never wanted the mangy old yellow dog in the first place. But like a lot of strays, “Old Yeller” soon wins over his new master. Travis comes to love Old Yeller like he never thought a boy could.

Of course, Travis isn’t just a boy. He’s a boy on his way to becoming a man. When his father (Fess Parker) went away on a cattle drive for a few months, he left Travis in charge of helping his mother (Dorothy McGuire) keep up the farm. “You’re the man of the house while I’m away,” Jim Coates tells his eldest son as he leaves.

Travis takes his new duties to heart, plowing the field with their mule, Jumper. Until that mangy yellow dog wanders onto their property and chases after Jumper, sending the mule through most of the Coates’ fence and over the next hill. Travis chases the dog off with some well-hurled rocks, then storms back into the house. His first day as “man of the house” didn’t go so well.

When the stray keeps coming back and eating meat off of their front porch, Travis’ mother suggests that they keep it. Travis doesn’t want the “thievin’” animal anywhere near their farm, but he can’t convince his mother.

So he threatens the dog with its life if he dares steal any more meat. Then, with a sudden inspiration, he lowers the meat within easy reach, and turns in for the night. The next morning, Travis is surprised – and impressed – to see that the dog took his warnings seriously, and never touched the tempting meal. He then decides that “Old Yeller” isn’t such a bad dog, after all.

Old Yeller’s previous owner, Burn Sanderson (Chuck Connors) meets the family and privately warns Travis of a plague of hydrophobia among animals in the area. He warns Travis to watch for signs among his farm animals, such as staggering and slobbering. But he also cautions Travis to spot the early warning signals in such a rabid animal: sudden savage aggression toward anyone coming near it. “Now you take a bobcat and a fox. You know they’ll run if they get the chance. But when one don’t run or maybe makes fight at you, why, you shoot him and quick. After he’s bitten you … it’s too late.” Sanderson eyes Travis carefully. “Don’t scare you, does it, boy?”

“It scares me a little,” Travis admits. “But I’ll sure do like you told me.”

“That’s the way a man talks, son,” Sanderson encourages him.

Suburban city-dwellers like me can’t really appreciate the difficulty of shooting a rabid farm animal. For a farmer, it would mean the loss of food or income, not to mention the loss of an animal that he’s come to know and love, almost like a pet. But growing up means taking responsibility for the things under your care. Which means doing tough things. Things that sometimes hurt.

Old Yeller proves his value time and again. First he saves Travis from some angry hogs, a feat that nearly kills him. No sooner do Travis and his family nurse Old Yeller back to health than the faithful dog is called on again to rescue the mother from a wolf.

A wolf so crazed that the mother suspects it was rabid.

A wolf that bit Old Yeller.

She cautiously lays out the facts for Travis, knowing how much it will pain him. “… I’ll shoot him,” she offers meekly. “… if you can’t. But either way, we’ve got it to do.”

Travis won’t hear of it. Not after the dog just saved all of their lives. He insists that they wait to know for certain, and suggests penning Old Yeller up where he can’t hurt anyone. “We can’t just shoot him like he was nothin’! Don’t you understand?”

The mother agrees, and both she and Travis are delighted to find no signs of hydrophobia in their pet after two full weeks. But they need more time to make sure.

Then one sad night, when Travis brings Old Yeller his food, the dog begins growling at him, unprovoked. A dangerous, threatening growl. Travis eyes his old friend warily, painfully, then slowly shuts and locks the door.

Returning to the house, he warns his mischievous little brother, Arliss (Kevin Corcoran), to stay clear of the dog’s pen. Arliss’ mother sends him to bed, wondering at Travis’ sudden rage. Instead of heading to his room, Arliss sneaks outside to free Old Yeller, and nearly pays for his disobedience with his life.

Seeing the dog’s sad condition, the mother brings the rifle.

“No, Mama,” Travis pleads.

“There’s no hope for him now, Travis,” she urges. “He’s sufferin’. You know we’ve got to do it.”

“I know, Mama,” Travis acknowledges. “But he was my dog. I’ll do it.”

Travis has no choice. With tears in his eyes, Travis raises his rifle to the face of his cherished pet. He nearly breaks down crying. Then he collects himself, raises the barrel once more, and fires.

Upon his return, Jim Coates learns about what his son endured, and goes to talk with him. He recognizes that Travis, as a boy, has dealt with something far more difficult than most men ever have to face. “That was rough, son. As rough a thing as I ever heard tell of. But I’m mighty proud of how my boy stood up to it. Couldn’t ask no more of a grown man.”

Most of us won’t have to face that kind of choice. To sacrifice someone or something we’ve come to love so much, for its own good and for the good of those around it. Travis could have made the job easier on himself, though. He could have let his mother pull the trigger.

His courage and sense of responsibility were summed up in four simple words: “He was my dog.” As hard as it was, the job belonged to Travis, and Travis alone.

In the Bible, King David plans to buy something from one of his subjects, in order to sacrifice it to the Lord in worship. The man, grateful for David’s wise leadership, offers to give it to him for free. But David refuses. He says he won’t make sacrifices to the Lord which cost him nothing.

There’s a cost to growing up. Sometimes we have to give up our own comfort, our own pride, our own cherished pets and family and friends, in order to do what’s best for them and others. Taking adult responsibility means taking ownership of a problem, and doing whatever’s necessary to resolve it.

No matter how much it hurts.

 

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As a kid, I loved “The Wild, Wild West”. It featured one of the most bizarre and intriguing premises ever posed on television: government spies operating in the Old West. The concept capitalized on the extreme popularity of both westerns and spy series in the 1960’s, and somehow made it all work.

Week after week, secret agents Jim West (Robert Conrad) and Artemus Gordon (Ross Martin) provided non-stop action, and always looked cool doing it! West somehow got into two or three spectacular fights each episode, and used special gadgets like a concealed boot-knife for special escapes. His partner, “Arty” Gordon, was a master of disguise who showed up to help him when least expected. Together, they faced off with an array of diabolical villains who sported enough big schemes and sci-fi weapons to make Dr. Evil jealous.

Of course, even Dr. Evil would concede that today, a lot of it seems a little silly.

But one episode stands out, more for its drama than its special effects or fight scenes: “The Night of the Big Blast”. Arty is pulled from his vacation to start a new mission, involving the bombing assassination of four cabinet members. Lyle Peters (Robert Miller Driscoll), a government agent, meets with him in his private government-issued train to explain the details. And to get answers from Gordon. When Arty asks why he’s considered the best agent for the job, Peters informs him that Jim West is dead. Killed in the explosion.

At first, Arty refuses to accept it. Peters explains that West was identified by a guard who saw him entering the maximum-security room with the Attorney General, who died in the blast.

None of this fits for Arty. “Are you trying to tell me that he deliberately blew himself up to get four high government officials?” he challenges. Disgusted at the idea, Arty throws up his hands and turns his back to Peters.

Peters poses his next question as delicately as he can. “I mean, hardly the sort of thing you do by accident,” he starts. “The work of a traitor?” Arty flashes back at Peters in a rage. But Peters persists, “You knew him. Tell us why.”

Arty looms over him, ready to explode. “There is no ‘why’, Mister Peters. He didn’t do it! And I’ll prove he didn’t do it! … Even if it kills me.”

In the world of spies, there’s a familiar credo: trust no one. Yet Arty ignores this when it comes to West. Perhaps it’s because he’s come to know something of West’s character. Something that convinced him that West would never sell out.

It’s hard to speak up on someone’s behalf when they’re not present to defend themselves. Doing so instantly places us in the line of fire. But if we don’t trust and defend our friends, are we truly acting as their friend?

Arty sets out to unravel the mystery of West’s death and to clear his partner’s name. He ultimately discovers that the culprit is Dr. Faustina (Ida Lupino), a well-mannered mad scientist who’s stealing dead bodies to use for her re-animation experiments. She used one of these Frankenstein’s monsters to assassinate the cabinet members who had refused to fund her work. After, of course, she had re-formed the creature to look exactly like her prisoner, James West.

“Facts” can sometimes be dressed up to make someone look bad. Listening to a bad report about someone means just that: we’re listening to a bad report. Until the actual facts are laid out, it’s just hearsay. We’re trusting in what someone else heard from someone else, who heard it from someone else.

The Bible cautions the church that they shouldn’t even entertain an accusation against an elder unless it’s brought by two or three witnesses. Anyone in a position of leadership or responsibility will be criticized and gossiped about. So we shouldn’t believe everything we hear about someone, especially when it contradicts that person’s demonstrated character. An honest man shouldn’t be considered a liar just because someone tells us he is. A sensitive woman shouldn’t be thought to have acted cruelly when there’s no proof of it happening. Demonstrated character outweighs a bad report, unless there’s something more to back it up.

While we’re at it, let’s consider the reputation of the person bringing this report. If they’re known to be a gossip, why should we believe them? On the other hand, if they’re known to be sincere, we should investigate their claim to confirm what happened.

West and Gordon escape and foil Dr. Faustina’s evil, complicated, wacko plot – which includes thwarting another assassination attempt by a re-formed “Artemus Gordon” bomb! – then return home to their private train to await their next assignment. Nothing is ever said about the risks that Arty took to his career, his life, or his own reputation in order to track Jim down and prove his innocence.

It’s just something that trusted partners do.

 

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