Today was one of those days where most of my time was spent on buses, travelling from place to place and from errand to errand. At one stop, a couple came on. The man was a burly, shaven-headed archetypical working class Londoner, aging, but clearly still vigorous, the kind you imagine working in some house that was being renewed, or drinking beers with his mates afterward. The woman was not so easy to categorize; there was a slightly dusty and bewildered look about her. Then I realized that, though she was perfectly decent in dress and hairdo, I could smell urine, and it became clear that she was in the last stages of senility. And at the same time I realized that the man was completely concerned with her, gently telling her exactly where to go and where to sit down, with a patient affection that did not suggest the least possibility of exasperation or tiredness, and which she followed without question. When the time came for them to get off, he asked the driver whether they could get out by the front where they had come in, and I guessed that it would have bewildered her not to go through exactly the same way she had done coming in. And he was taking care that she should not be bewildered even to that extent.

This man had seen his woman vanish in front of his eyes, till she was barely able to understand and incapable of changing a routine or of staying clean. And all the while, I thought, he had treated her with that affectionate, undemanding patience that I was seeing in that London bus. And what was there for him at the end? No earthly reward, that is for sure; nothing but continuous care for someone who could barely respond, and who demanded attention every second of the day; work without end and without the possibility of any positive result - work at preserving a dignity already lost, a personality already gone, a mind already dead. And from all I could see, he was doing it without the shadow of a complaint, let alone any suggestion that there was anything better for him to do.

When I see something wonderful, and it would take too much or be out of place to say how wonderful it is, I make a military salute. I saluted this couple (making sure nobody noticed) when they got off. Such things are the light of God in this world. It's not only that the human mind cannot accept that such heroism should have no reward, should be futile and ignored; that it practically demands to see a supernatural reward for people who live and die like that. It is that he act itself is a thundering denial of any materialist or cynical view of man. A man who lives like that, without the prospect of reward and with the constant reminder of what he will never in this world have again, is a man who testifies to the whole universe that his nature is something else and something more than to eat and drink and sleep.

Probably the most important learning experience in my life took place when I was about eighteen. One part of it was a comics masterpiece, published just as I was falling back in love with comics. Chris Claremont, a man who has never since written anything remotely as good, indeed who has rarely written anything good at all, wrote one of the greatest comic-book stories ever published, the “Dark Phoenix epic” (Uncanny X-Men #125-138), in which the protagonist Jean Grey eventually committed suicide rather than become a monster. I read it chapter by chapter as it came out, and it pretty much dominated my eighteenth year.

This might in itself not have been so significant, but for the echo it raised in some very real and ugly events. This was also the time of rampant terrorism and mafia power in Italy, and only a short time earlier a particularly horrible crime had taken place. The Red Brigades – part of whose strategy was to become a sort of violent parallel trades union, taking the part of supposedly abused and endangered workers – abducted an industrial engineer called Giuseppe Taliercio, who managed a factory in which some industrial accidents had taken place. The terrorists tried to get him to support their ignorant, conspiracy-theory account of these accidents; Taliercio, knowing full well what expected him if he refused, still refused, and insisted on telling the story as he knew he had happened. So, after 46 days of hideous detention and torture, they murdered him. I read a stunning account of his last days in the left-wing weekly L’Espresso, which was followed by an infinitely moving letter of thanks from Taliercio’s sister, who thanked the journalists for their account of his courage, and concluded: “So long as one of us is left who is willing to die rather than lose his humanity, we are not finished yet.”

I don’t remember which I read first, the story of Jean Grey’s suicide or the letter from Taliercio’s sister. What I am clear about is that the letter, and in particular the unforgettable last line, made clear to me that, for all the mythological and science-fictional trappings, the story of Jean Grey’s choice to die rather than lose her humanity was about something very, very real - a choice that anyone might be called to make, that did not belong to fantasy characters and that had nothing to do with escapism, but which to the contrary dealt with the most serious and central issues of real human life.

And this is my quotation for the heroes of Flight 91: “As long as there is one of us left willing to die rather than lose his humanity, we are not finished yet.”

What was the most glorious moment in the history of England? Most of us, of course, would single out the awe-inspiring defiance of the summer of 1940, when, left with no allies and uncomfortably few weapons, the United Kingdom had to face an apparently invincible enemy coalition across three continents - and peace feelers from Germany were met with the response that of course Germany had the choice to surrender unconditionally! But ( Read more... )

What follows is a special column written for The Paris News in Paris, Texas (theparisnews.com) that was widely forwarded by e-mail. It's written by former Paris News sports writer Greg Thompson, now director of corporate communications for Chick-fil-A.

Thompson reflects on the extraordinary life of retired football coach Gene Stallings' son, John Mark "Johnny" Stallings, who died Aug. 2 at Paris Regional Medical Center of a congenital heart condition related to Down syndrome. Gene Stallings and Sally Cook wrote a book in 1997 on the subject: "Another Season: A Coach's Story of Raising an Exceptional Son."


ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED FROM JOHN

By Greg Thompson

All I ever really needed to know, I learned from Johnny Stallings.


You can go to the finest schools and get any advanced degree they offer. Or you can read all of the business and self-improvement books you want. But for a Ph.D. in true wisdom, take a look at the life of Johnny Stallings.

You may have never heard of Johnny. He had Down syndrome. When he was born, 46 years ago in Alabama, the doctors said he wouldn't live even a year or two because of a severe heart defect. Other well-meaning doctors advised his parents to put him in an institution. "In a year," they said, "you'll forget you ever had him."

But fortunately for all of us, Gene and Ruth Ann Stallings didn't take their advice. They chose to treat Johnny as a vital part of their family.

And we are all the better for it.

As his father advanced his football coaching career -- first at Alabama, then to Texas A&M, the Dallas Cowboys, Arizona Cardinals and finally to a national championship in 1992 at Alabama -- Johnny was an integral part of the team. To Johnny, the most important person was the trainer.

"Trainers take care of the players," he once said. "You can't win without trainers."

To the day he died, Johnny Stallings wore a massive, diamond-encrusted National Championship ring on his frail fingers, which were tinged a grayish blue from the lack of oxygen caused by his heart condition.

Johnny was front and center in that National Championship team photo. In fact, he was a part of every team his father coached, including the storied Dallas Cowboys. The players drew inspiration from him. When Johnny turned 40 years old, for example, his birthday party was attended by a Who's Who of former NFL stars.

Johnny had some accomplishments of his own. He was featured with his father on a popular national United Way TV commercial, has a playground named for him at the RISE center in Tuscaloosa, Ala., had the athletic training facility at Alabama named for him, and won a "Change the World" award from Abilene Christian University.

But perhaps the most important thing that Johnny Stallings accomplished is this: He taught us that it doesn't matter what awards you win, or what worldly accomplishments you achieve, it is how you live your life that matters most.

So what can we learn from Johnny Stallings?

• Every life matters.

The life of Johnny Stallings teaches us that God can use anyone, no matter how insignificant in society's eyes, to make an impact on others. Johnny had none of the things that you and I take for granted, but Johnny touched countless lives in ways none of us can even begin to imagine. Our materialistic, success-driven culture doesn't really know what to do with people like Johnny. Society certainly didn't know what to do with Johnny when he was born 46 years ago. But God did.

• See the good in everyone. "Be my friend."

When Johnny got to know you, you became his "friend." And he never forgot you. Despite being mentally disabled, Johnny never forgot a name or a face. Johnny literally saw no evil in people. Johnny had more friends in his short lifetime than any of us will ever enjoy.

• Walk openly, simply and humbly with God.

The Bible tells us, "And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." That describes the way Johnny lived. He could barely read or write, but Johnny Stallings prayed the sweetest prayers you ever heard. He didn't necessarily know the fine points of theology, but you could tell that he knew God. He walked with God, openly, simply and humbly. And everybody knew it, whether they acknowledged that God or not.

• Love unconditionally.

In Johnny's world, you didn't keep score or attach strings to love. He loved unconditionally, all of the time.

• Smile. Laugh. Hug.

The last time I saw Johnny, we brought him a T-shirt from Dreamland Barbecue in Tuscaloosa, one of his favorite places to eat. Johnny hugged us. He patted us. He smiled all of the time. Johnny was one of these people who always made everyone feel better just for having been around him. Who among us can say that about ourselves?

• Treasure every moment.

Johnny, of course, was supposed to be put away in an institution. Doctors told them Johnny wouldn't make it to age 4, and when he did, they then said he wouldn't live past 11 because of heart and lung issues common to people with Down syndrome. Then we always heard that Johnny wouldn't live past 16. And on and on. So with Johnny, you treasured every moment.

• Little victories are the ones that matter the most.

Everyone focuses on the championships, but with Johnny, you celebrated all of the little victories. Then, after a while, you realized that those are the ones that really matter the most.

• Trust God because He really does know best.

Despite being frail and disabled, Johnny Stallings wore a National Championship ring. Every member of that 1992 Alabama team will tell you of Johnny's impact on that team. Johnny Stallings literally changed the world and made everybody he met a better person -- if only for that moment.

Gene Stallings, a star football player, championship coach and tough enough to be one of Bear Bryant's legendary Junction Boys, probably used to dream of a son who would be an impact player, who would change the world, make a difference and someday maybe -- just maybe -- wear a National Championship ring.

"I prayed to God that he would change Johnny, but he changed me," Coach Stallings once said in a speech.

He added that if God offered him the choice of going back and having a "perfect" son without a disability or having Johnny, "I'd take Johnny every time."

Sometimes I forget just how life-giving music is - music in general, all good music, but Beethoven in particular. I was having a dreary, tiring time, and this wonderful piece just shot through me like new blood. I think that if giving people joy, energy, endurance, is good, then for that good alone Beethoven must be counted among the saints.

...these are the only pictures of Debbie I have. I drew them from memory a couple of years after she dropped out from my sight, when I had decided to write a superhero story featuring her.

The thing that struck me the most about the story of the trapped Chilean miners is the self-discipline and group cohesion that 33 men have shown, managing to survive for eighteen days in a rather small space and on minimal rations. There used to be a cliche' in Britain that miners were heroes; this lot certainly seem to be.

I have long known that Jack Kirby designed the costumes for a production of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar by a Californian student troupe. I did not know one detail, though. The producer had been pointed at Kirby by Stan Lee, and when he approached Kirby, he tried to say something about payment. "You couldn't afford me," said the King. "So I'll do it for free."

In Tenby, Wales, three lifeboat people noticed a large group of people - 36 children and 4 adults - in increasing trouble on a sandbank. They went into action as the children and adults fell into the sea, took them all to safety from choppy and treacherous waters, and performed first aid on a couple of children. There was not a single victim, but it is estimated that without their quick intervention and competent action, at least six people would have died.

Adam Pitman, Coral Lewis and Jon Johnson, the rescuers

More even than his exceptional coolness in a desperately difficult situation, it is the fact that Captain Chesley B.Sullenberger III, as the plane was slowly sinking into the Hudson, went through the aisle twice to make sure all the passengers and crew were gone, that tells us the kind of man he is.