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Fort Worth Star-Telegram
March 7, 1999
Section: HOMETOWN STAR-NORTH
Edition: ARLINGTON AM
Page: 1

For Cal's sake

Arlington rallies around young cancer patient
Ryan Sanders
Star-Telegram Writer

Cal Naughton could miss a lot of things growing up. He may miss seeing perfectly, or batting .300 on the Martin High School baseball team, but if he takes a cue from his parents, he won't miss any optimism. And if he treats others like Arlington has treated him, he'll give more than his share.

COURAGE

Cal turned 1 year old on Valentine's Day. His father, Chris, is a soccer coach at Martin High School, and his mother, Paige, is a home making teacher at Arlington High School. Cal is their only child. In January, Chris and Paige got some news that would forever change their son's future, and their relationship with the people of Arlington.

"Cal has retinal blastoma," Paige said dryly, sitting in her living room where scattered baby toys give no hint of her son's problem. "He had tumors in his eye."

Paige and Chris asked a doctor about Cal's eyes after they noticed that his left eye didn't always follow his right. They thought he had a lazy eye. They wish he did.

"We found out about the tumors on Jan. 18," Paige said. "They took his eye on Jan. 26."

Cal crawls at full speed around the Naughton home, a bandage covering the socket where a plastic ball has replaced his left eye.

Now, the couple is praying for the right eye. It is affected, too, but not as severely as the left. Doctors hope to remove all the malignant masses with laser surgery. But the first round of laser treatment brought no improvement. Cal will go back Tuesday.

Chris and Paige hold out hope. They are not angry or pitiful.

"I don't think we have the right to be angry," Chris said.

They talk about Cal's condition with courage. And they ogle at him and brag as if they don't have time to mourn his eye while they wonder at the rest of him.

Paige's words may best represent the couple's optimism and grace.

"One child in Texas per year is diagnosed with this," Paige said.

"Hopefully, Cal is it for 1999."

Indeed, the disease is rare. But so is the Naughton resolve. Cal's full name is Callan Andrew Naughton.

"His initials are CAN," Chris said. "He can do anything he wants to do. Maybe that sounds goofy, but that's us. We still believe he can do anything."

COMMUNITY

Almost as impressive as young Cal and his parents is the response from family, friends, co-workers and even strangers. If the young couple's own courage wasn't enough, Arlington's encouragement has buoyed spirits in the Naughton home.

Chris said they have received at least one gift or card every day since Cal lost his eye.

"It's just been incredible. There is no way to thank all those people," he said.

There have been gifts.

"We've got flowers, toys, you name it," Chris said.

There have been cards - more than 200 of them. On the kitchen counter, a stack of the greetings has grown too big to manage. They slide off to the floor.

And there has been money.

The first effort to help Chris and Paige was meant to be anonymous.

A group of friends who grew up with Chris established a savings account for Cal at Bank One. Chris' lifelong friend Chad Crow opened the account. Crow's daughter, Madison, was born a month before Cal.

"It's just devastating," Crow said. "That night, when I found out about it, I went in and looked at Madison, asleep in her crib and I just thought I can't imagine having to deal with something like that.

But if anyone can, it's Chris and Paige."

Crow said more than 50 people had made donations before he signed the account over to Chris. By then, the secret was out.

"We set it up as a savings account and got an ATM card on it," Crow said. "I stuck the ATM card in his box with a note that said something like, `Here's your official Cal card. Use it however you think it can best help Cal. "' The note, like the account, was intended to be anonymous.

"Chris and Paige are the type that would refuse anything you try to do for them," Crow said.

But Crow was too close to Naughton to keep the secret.

"I knew Chad's handwriting on that note," Chris grinned. "I grew up with the guy. I knew he was behind it."

COOKIES FOR CAL

The giving didn't end with family or friends. What followed was a show of support from every organization where the Naughtons are involved, and some where they aren't.

The Junior League made a donation. The Knights of Columbus contributed proceeds from a dinner. Their Sunday school class at Trinity United Methodist Church brought cards and meals. Even perfect strangers sent along checks and best wishes.

"It's hard to take people's hard-earned money," Chris said.

Even the strangers' gifts may not have been as remarkable as another group that has raised money for Cal - high school students.

"Martin was gung-ho," Chris grinned. "They just started doing all this stuff. They had `Cookies For Cal,' and they sold out. I know they passed a hat or something around at every banquet and game for weeks. And they wanted to do a lot more."

Martin students worked until 11 p.m. and midnight some nights, filling cookie orders to help Coach Naughton's son.

At Arlington High, students decorated the hallways with posters asking other students to "Help Cal," and "Care For Cal."

A team of students led by the student council and teacher Jamie Cisneros went door to door collecting money in classrooms. By the time they made their deposit in Cal's Bank One fund, students and faculty had given $2,500.

"I'm really proud of our kids and our faculty," Arlington Principal James Adams said. "I've always felt like Arlington High School kids were something. They care about each other and they care about other people, and they really opened their pocketbooks for Cal."

Adams and Martin Principal Steve Jacoby even considered a joint fund-raiser for students from both schools - an event that would show goodwill for the rivals, as well as for Cal. But Chris discouraged that idea.

"That was right after we had made our donation and Martin had just made theirs," Adams said. "I don't know if he was just feeling overwhelmed or embarrassed, but he said he would rather we not do it.

"We're still looking at that. I think the students would like it," Adams said. "They're our rivals, but a lot of our kids know Martin kids."

Chris used to coach at Bowie High School. The students there made a donation, too.

"You know you always think of teens as being, you know, not like that. But here they are, very mature and giving," said Chris' mother, Kay Naughton. "They have written cards and letters and beautiful prayers. They have been very supportive."

FAMILY TIES

Chris said he's not sure the donations have come because of his job as a coach or even Cal's plight. He gives credit to their friends and neighbors - people of Arlington who, he says, take care of their own.

And he credits mothers. Chris and Paige were both raised by single mothers in Arlington.

Chris said he has always been impressed with their effort, and he thinks the community's support has been at least partly inspired by respect for Cal's grandmothers.

"I think it reflects the type of people these two women are," he said.

Paige's father died when she was 7. His name was Andrew - Cal's middle name.

Paige's mother, Barbara Tapp, remarried 10 years ago. She's the principal at Williams Elementary School.

"Strength comes not from disappointment and hurt, but from how we handle ourselves and who we turn to in those times," Tapp said.

"Paige has come through some tough times and that probably has given her some backbone and character."

After high school, Chris at Arlington and Paige at Lamar, both went to Texas Tech. Chris played football there and they both earned degrees before returning to Arlington. It wasn't until then that they started to date.

Kay Naughton raised three children by herself. Ironically, her younger son, Brian, lost sight in his left eye in an accident not long ago.

"It's ironic that that happened," Paige said. But the couple hopes Brian can be Cal's "coach."

"He may be able to help him learn to do things," Chris said.

OUTLOOK

The cancer, doctors say, is contained in Cal's eye so there's little danger of it spreading. But the right eye is still in danger.

If laser treatments aren't effective, doctors will have to use more severe techniques.

Cal may need to see a specialist in Philadelphia, and he may need chemotherapy.

"We don't know what he'll need," Paige said. "This kind of cancer has a tendency to come back."

Soon, he'll get a false eye, like a contact, that will fit over the ball that replaced his left eye. Already, his nerves and muscles have attached to the ball, and he'll be able to move his left eye, making it hard to detect his handicap.

Chris and Paige are still getting used to all of that.

"We've seen an oncologist, retinologist, surgeons. We've seen a lot of doctors," Chris said.

The Naughtons have health insurance under Harris HMO. They said they've been pleased with the insurance and the doctors.

Paige has filed for family and medical leave, and spent every day with Cal since the first surgery. She said the doctor visits have made him more "clingy."

"He hangs on more. He wants to be with me all the time, doesn't want me to leave the room," she said.

But other than that, her son is just as happy and energetic as ever. Doctors say he's not in pain and his half-toothed grin certainly doesn't reveal any sadness.

"He's a tough little guy. He doesn't slow down," Chris said

Fort Worth Star-Telegram
November 1, 1998
Section: HOMETOWN STAR-GRAND PRAIRIE
Edition: ARLINGTON AM
Page: 9

Repent and be healed

Confession cleanses conscience and soul
Ryan Sanders
Star-Telegram Writer

Father Jim Gigliotti eyed the shotgun nervously. The butt was perched between his penitent's knees, the muzzle under his chin.

"He's been asking for a priest," a police officer told Gigliotti. "I think he wants to confess."

Gigliotti's approach was gentle, but he caught the young man off guard.

"Where does it hurt?" he asked.

"What?"

"People don't kill themselves unless they're hurting," the priest said softly. "Where does it hurt?"

That was all the boy needed. From the deepest, most wounded parts of himself, he spilled out confessions and regrets.

His girlfriend left him.

His parents kicked him out.

He lost his job.

As he went on, he became more relaxed, and held the gun more loosely. Eventually, he put the weapon down so he could light a cigarette.

After 45 minutes of talking, the boy was finished, empty. He bent to pick up the gun, but Gigliotti stopped him.

"Would you mind if I took that? It's really making me nervous."

"Sure."

SOMEONE TO LISTEN

Episodes like that have assured the pastor of St. Maria Goretti Catholic Church that confession, no matter how difficult, is important.

"Sometimes, people just need conversation," he said. "That young man just needed someone to listen. Confession is where healing happens."

The doctrine of confession is as old as sin to be confessed. God himself heard the first confession after Adam and Eve sinned.

In the Roman Catholic Church, confession has gained a lot of trimmings since Eden - confessionals, kneelers, robes and screens. Gigliotti said the purpose is the same.

"It's the emptying out of one's sins to be filled up then with God's grace," he said. "It gives grace to turn away from sin and toward God."

Gigliotti said he has heard confessions in some unorthodox places. The young man with the shotgun was standing in a mall parking lot. The priest said he's heard confessions over the phone, in his office, or just wherever someone opens up to him. The traditional method, of course, is in a confessional, though even that has changed.

In 1973, the Catholic Church added a face-to-face option to the sacrament of confession. At St. Maria Goretti, where there was once a priest's booth with a screen on each side, now there is an open room to one side where penitents can sit with the priest to confess.

"A lot of people now prefer to confess face-to-face," he said.

"But the option is always offered of anonymity."

In fact, Gigliotti said many parishioners protect their anonymity by going to other churches to confess.

"I know I'm getting a lot of people from other parishes," he said. "It's something of a pilgrimage."

At St. Joseph's Catholic Community, confessions are done by appointment only. Father Jim Miller said his parishioners get more than just absolution.

"There are tremendous psychological impacts, as well as spiritual benefits," he said. "One of the lowest suicide rates in the world is among practicing Catholics because they don't have to carry their guilt around with them.

"If you talk to many Catholics, a lot of them will tell you when they come out of the confession, it feels like they're floating about a foot off the ground."

TOUGH LOVE

Immaculate Conception Catholic Church in Grand Prairie offers confession to more than 1,600 parish members. Father Denny O'Mara said he sees opportunity through the screened confession window.

"I find it to be a great opportunity to encourage people to believe in God's forgiveness," he said. "Sometimes, people find peace or help or strength they need in life. So I find it to be a good ministry."

Confession isn't just about forgiveness and good feelings. Gigliotti said he has heard confessions of murder twice.

"In that case, I ask to see them afterward," he said. "And they agreed both times. When they come to confess that, it's a cry for help. They're tormented and they want help."

Of course, priests can't report offenses to police, but Gigliotti said penitents in those situations are often willing to admit their crimes publicly.

"You're still held to the seal of confidentiality," he said. "But you work with that person and try to get them some counseling."

In fact, Gigliotti said he often recommends counseling to parishioners. Likewise, local therapists will sometimes recommend confession as part of a patient's therapy.

"Often therapists know this person has their faith and the person will bring up a need to feel forgiven," he said.

Gigliotti said the church recommends monthly trips to the confessional. He recommends more frequent confession for people in therapy or recovering from addiction.

"One of the first rules of coming out of addiction is, `Don't keep secrets,' " he said. "So if someone is an alcoholic or a sex addict or something, I recommend weekly confession to get them through the harder parts of overcoming their abusing something."

PENANCE

Even forgiven sin has consequences. Gigliotti recommends an act of penance to everyone who confesses. He said the penance should fit the sin.

"I'll ask them to do an act or say a prayer," he said. "If they've stolen something, I'll ask them to return it or, if that's not possible, to give to the poor or a charity the amount that was taken and then some. If the person is having an affair, I'll ask `Is it terminated? ' If not, we'll need to talk further. In confession, it's understood that we're trying to amend our lives."

That's the positive side of the rite.

"It's a celebration. It's not to focus on one's terrible self," he said. "Never to be frightened or fearful of God, but to pray together and heal."

CATHOLIC CUSTOM

For Catholics, hearing confession is reserved for priests, but Protestant churches practice confession, too, minus the kneelers and screens.

"The difference between Protestants and Catholics is that we believe Jesus is our high priest. We can go directly to the Father through Jesus. So we don't feel like there's a need for that extra step to take your sins to a priest," said Pastor Dan Grindstaff of South Park Baptist Church in Grand Prairie. "But I understand our Catholic friends. Sometimes you just need someone to talk to, and there is something therapeutic in baring your soul to someone else."

Grindstaff quotes James 5:16, which says, "Therefore, confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed."

"We need to have an accountability partner that we are real and transparent with, but not especially someone in the clergy," he said. "Confession is definitely good for the soul."

Whatever the context - confession booth, living room or parking lot - local clergy say confession can be one of the most rewarding, if not humbling, disciplines of the Christian religion.

Father O'Mara said, "I think Jesus Christ knew what he was doing when he said the sins you forgive will be forgiven and the sins you hold back will be held back."

Fort Worth Star-Telegram
April 11, 1999
Section: HOMETOWN STAR-SOUTH
Edition: ARLINGTON AM
Page: 2

What if men ruled the world?
Ryan Sanders
Star-Telegram Writer

Last week, one of my editors and his wife celebrated their 20th wedding anniversary - the platinum anniversary. I tried to think of anything I would want that's made of platinum. A platinum golf club?

No. It would probably be too stiff. A platinum tool box? Plastic works just fine. How about a platinum screwdriver? No, better save that one for the military. Maybe a platinum big screen TV? Sounds like a bit much.

Of course, when I asked my wife, she rattled off a platinum wish list, starting with jewelry. I considered other anniversary gifts - silver, diamonds, linen, lace. All materials that my wife values more than I do.

All of that brought me to this conclusion - the anniversary list is sexist. Sure, it seems innocent with stuff like wood and steel until you consider what's not on the list.

Why is there is no duct tape anniversary? How about graphite?

There should definitely be a graphite anniversary.

If men had compiled the anniversary list, husbands wouldn't have to beat the bushes for a gift made of coral or jade. We could shop thoughtfully and selflessly for our Gore-Tex anniversary.

In fact, my wife would be amazed at how thoughtful I could be if our next anniversary was to be celebrated with fiberglass or Freon.

Yes, I think a new anniversary list could save marriages everywhere.

No more glass, crystal or china. We'll buy cordura, remote controls and WD-40. And for the really big years like 25 or 50, we can proclaim the electronics anniversary and the internal combustion anniversary.

Dogs will replace perfume. Satellite TV will bump ivory. And explosives will blast pottery.

Appropriately, it was my wife who grounded my high-flying anniversary dreams. When I asked her to fax me a list of anniversary gifts (she carries one in her day planner), her cover sheet made me realize why women have gotten away with a sexist list for so long.

It read, "Now that you have the list, I'll be expecting some things. ... It looks to me like you have a little catching up to do."

They wrote the list, because they make the rules.

Fort Worth Star-Telegram
December 3, 1999 Section: METRO
Edition: FINAL
Page: 5

Southern Exposure
Arlington man saw Antarctica with Adm. Byrd
Ryan Sanders
Star-Telegram Writer

ARLINGTON -It's difficult to follow Guy Hutcheson's stories about his expedition, especially if you've never been to Antarctica.

Hutcheson talks about furs and pressure ice and "the winter night."

After a few minutes, though, you realize that Hutcheson has been to a place where winter and night are synonymous, where temperatures reached 72 degrees below zero, a place where few people have ever been.

Hutcheson was one of 56 men who spent 13 months in Antarctica on Adm. Richard Byrd's second expedition to the ice cap in the early 1930s. He's one of four who are still alive.

"There were several times when we thought we wouldn't come back," Hutcheson said, remembering the trip from the warm confines of the living room at his home on West Abram Street where National Geographic magazines are bundled in a corner and the TV is tuned to a film crew exploring Incan ruins. "But we all came home. Byrd never lost a man in the field."

Sixty-four years after his trip, Hutcheson doesn't call it to mind often. He said his five grandchildren like to hear his expedition stories, "when they can get me to talk."

When he is spurred to recall the trip, he does so with little braggadocio. "I don't think about it much anymore," he said. "It was a long time ago."

Byrd, Hutcheson remembers, was a stalwart leader.

"He was very smart and very fair," Hutcheson said. "He knew his job and knew how to handle men."

But Byrd was absent several months during that second expedition, spending the winter alone in a hut more than 100 miles inland from the main camp he named Little America.

"The base camp was still there from the first expedition, but all the buildings were under the snow," Hutcheson said. "You could enter them through tunnels."

Hutcheson said the first expedition, four years before, had left in a hurry - so much so that they left a pot of beans on a stove.

"We ate it," he said with a chuckle. "It was still good."

Hutcheson was 22 and fresh out of the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas (now Texas A&M University) when he went to Antarctica. The trip lasted from 1933 to 1935. He remembers the reaction from his family when he told them he was going to the bottom of the world.

"They thought I was crazy," he said. "I was the first one out of my company at A&M to get a job. I had a good job in Houston with the Texas Company and at that time, jobs were hard to get. But I went off and did this and it didn't pay anything."

Hutcheson was one of four radio operators on the expedition. He said competition for the chance to go to the world's coldest place wasn't too difficult.

"I had followed the first [expedition] and when I found out he was organizing a second, I wrote a letter to the admiral in Boston," Hutcheson said. "I gave him my qualifications. He needed a radio operator and so I got on a bus to go up there."

After the expedition, Hutcheson went to work for CBS in New York.

He worked there for 10 years before moving to Arlington to start a radio engineering consulting business in 1946. Arlington's population was 6,000 then, he said.

Hutcheson served on the Arlington school board for 19 years and when he retired, the school district named Hutcheson Junior High for him.

Hutcheson's wife, Ruth, died three years ago.

Though he speaks little of his once-in-a-lifetime trip, the spirit of exploration is still alive in him as evidenced by his interest in present-day expeditions in South America and undersea.

If he had it all to do over again, Hutcheson said he would, under the same conditions.

"I guess I would," he said with a smirk. "If I were young again.

And crazy."

Ryan Sanders, (817) 548-5566 rsanders@star-telegram.com

Fort Worth Star-Telegram
July 4, 1999 Section: TEXAS Edition: BULLDOG AM Page: 1
Burn, baby, burn
BBQ bosses fire up cookers for Texas taste
Ryan Sanders Star-Telegram Writer

Jeff Shivers isn't comfortable without a pair of tongs in one hand and a drink in the other. With smoke rising from his pipe and stainless steel cooker, Shivers stakes his claim at barbecue cook-offs 20 times a year. He's one of many cooks who make a lifestyle, if not a living, from the sauce and smoke of Texas barbecue.
Among the sizzle and Shiner, there is a sort of brotherhood among the pack of traveling chefs at dozens of cook-offs every summer.
Pilots, salesmen, mechanics and cooks, they come from all walks of life and all corners of the territory to woo a table of people with one of Texas' hardest jobs - barbecue judge.
"It's like a big family, actually," said world champion bison cook David Higginbothum who makes his barbecue sauce and his home in Arlington. "At different places, you'll see different people, but there are 25 or 30 of us who go to all the meets if they're around close to here."
Actually, there are hundreds of barbecue bon vivants in Texas.
Arlington resident Lynn Shivers manages an association of 500 cooks called the International Barbecue Cookers Association, or IBCA.
There are four other such organizations in Texas and several around the world.
The IBCA, the largest of its kind in Texas, sanctions more events than any other in the nation.
"We go out and administrate the judging to make sure the cooks get a fair judging," Shivers said. "Year before last, we did 72 events."
Some of those events, like the annual October cook-off at Traders Village in Grand Prairie, draw more than 100 cooks competing for the best chicken, brisket and pork spare rib recipes, which are guarded more tightly than a royal flush.
"I learned how to cook brisket from one of the best," Arlington gourmand Cary Shady said. "My Papaw had seven cafes in his heyday and a barbecue pit at each one. He made his rub in a five-gallon pickle bucket and it called for a box of salt. It's a 50-year-old rub and I still use it."
Shady said he started cooking competitively after his daughter Corinne's second birthday party.
"I had three gas grills going out there and it seemed like I missed my daughter's birthday party because I was too busy cooking," he remembered. "I thought, `There's got to be a better way. ' So I bought one of those commercial smokers. Now I can cook and visit and enjoy a drink and even run down the street for an hour and everything's all right."
But once he and his father, Cal, entered their first cook-off together, Shady was hooked on more than the meat. He loved the barbecue circuit.
"They give trophies for best-dressed campsite," he said. "So we would be out there with our fifth-wheel, our carpet, tiki torches, lawn chairs, the whole shebang. What a great way to have a camaraderie, to visit with people while you're cooking some good groceries. That's what it's all about."
For some cooks, though, it's also about money.
"There are cash prizes at some of the events," Shivers explained.
"The largest payback is at a cook-off in Palestine that paid $15,000, but not all to one cook."
Most cooks can't win enough to make up for their expenses.
Higginbothum estimates a cost of $250 every time his cooker leaves his driveway.
"It can get pretty expensive if you don't win," he said.
But most cooks on the barbecue circuit aren't in it for money.
Shivers' husband, Jeff, has been competing for 15 years and won first place cook-offs from the Harris County Fair in Houston to the Waylon Jennings Invitational in Littlefield. He said he loses money every year on the hobby, most years somewhere between $5,000 and $8,000.
Jeff Shivers was one of nine founders of the IBCA. Last year, he and Lynn traveled 11,000 miles to attend 20 events - the farthest of which was the Jack Daniels Invitational in Lynchburg, Tenn.
"My husband keeps telling everyone the cooking is getting in the way of his socializing," Lynn Shivers said. "Barbecue cookers are like extended family. You make a lot of friends, people you run into on a regular basis."
Besides their recipes, barbecue bosses pride themselves most on their cookers. Most are mounted on trailers. Bigger is always better.
Many are custom-built and some are even custom-painted.
"It weighs about 3,500 pounds, custom-painted blue, purple, black and red," Higginbothum said of his pride and joy. "You have to see it."
But away from their weekend barbecue battles, these cooks talk - and eat - less shop than you might think.
Said Lynn Shivers, "Barbecue is one thing we don't go out and eat. '

Fort Worth Star-Telegram (TX)

February 12, 2000 Section: METRO Edition: ARLINGTON Page: 1 'I know God is at work here'Mission construction plans include rebuilt lives as well as newfacilities Ryan Sanders Star-Telegram Staff Writer Walt Vickers is supervising two construction projects at Mission Metroplex in Arlington, but the project he's most proud of is rebuilding his life.

Next month, the mission is scheduled to open a 15,788-square-foot community center at 1012 Thannisch Drive. The 2-story facility includes a gym, kitchen, multipurpose rooms, classrooms and office space. It was built entirely with donated funds on donated land. "It's amazing how God works to put things together," Vickers said. "I know God is at work here." Mission founder Tillie Burgin agreed, saying the building has been a gift from the beginning. About a year ago, the owner of two acres near Center Street and Randol Mill Road donated his land to the mission. Three months later, Burgin said, another man walked into her office and offered an even more impressive donation. "He was from an anonymous foundation," Burgin said. "He said, 'I know you have some land and I would like to give you a building.'" The foundation's donation was $600,000. Now with unpainted walls and ductwork and plumbing still exposed, Vickers said it may be hard to open the community center in March as planned. But Burgin and her staff have a long list of programs they'll host in the building: Bible studies, parenting and English as a second language classes, basketball leagues and the mission's Thanksgiving dinner, for example. The community center is the first of three projects for the mission. Ground has been broken on a 2-story addition to the mission's small front office. That will house counseling rooms for clients who are now being crowded into the mission's small reception area. The mission has also acquired land near Arkansas Lane and Browning Drive and hopes to build a similar, perhaps larger, community center there. "When you look at what God is doing, He's not moving us from here," Burgin said in her office at Center and Oak streets. "But he's giving us this place up north and we have a lot of work going on up there. And we've got land in the south. We're getting closer to the people we serve." A few months ago, Vickers was one of those people. In his starched shirt and Wranglers, Vickers looks more like a cowpoke than a construction foreman. But looks can be deceiving. His young, earnest eyes don't reveal a life that, only months ago, had its foundations shaken. "I've been a selfish person all my life," Vickers said. "I worked for that almighty dollar." Vickers met Burgin at Christmas time, when the mission is busiest. Vickers had come to stay at the mission's day shelter. He had a job, but no home. His estranged wife and daughter lived with her mother in Bedford. Vickers had been in and out of drug rehabilitation and detoxification centers for seven years. When he came to the mission, it was the generosity that impressed him. "He would just stand out there on the curb and cry," Burgin said. "He'd say, 'I can't believe this. I've never seen anything like this.'" In December, Vickers went to work for the mission overseeing its construction projects and teaching a Bible study in one of the mission properties. "God finally got a hold of me and put me where he wants me to be, doing exactly what he wants me to do," Vickers said. "I believe that." Vickers and his wife are on better terms too, and expecting a second child. "Before, I would hide from what happened in my past," Vickers said. "But I don't hide anymore. I face it every day. That's what this place is about. This place changes lives." Ryan Sanders, (817) 548-5566 rsanders@star-telegram.comPHOTO(S): Paul Moseley

Copyright 2000 Star-Telegram, Inc.

Fort Worth Star-Telegram (TX)

February 13, 2000 Section: HOMETOWN STAR-NORTH Edition: ARLINGTON Page: 12 Church programs help families cope with divorce, get on with life Ryan Sanders Star-Telegram Staff Writer In 1989, Gloria Kidwell's church wasn't quite sure what to do with her.

"Churches weren't real supportive," she said. "It's not that they were turning their back, they just didn't know what to do." Now her church knows exactly what to do with her - let her teach. Kidwell's problem was her divorce. She had been married for 24 years when her husband surprised her by asking for a divorce. Not sure where to turn, Kidwell said her church in Fort Worth didn't offer any ministry for divorced people. But a year after her divorce, the church started a support group and Kidwell signed up. "Divorce was becoming quite common," she said. "Once churches started realizing that they had a real group to minister to inside their churches, organizations like DivorceCare came about." DivorceCare is the name of a popular Christian divorce counseling program used at Fielder Road. Participants meet every week to watch videotapes and then discuss topics like anger, loneliness, finances, new relationships and child care. "It's very intense, but very enjoyable," Kidwell said. "The people on the tapes are very graphic sometimes. Sometimes it's stuff you don't think is going to come from a church, but it does because this is real life." Now, Kidwell helps Dennis and Elizabeth Nixon lead the DivorceCare class. The Nixons, both of whom have been divorced before, have taught the class for seven years. They've been married for 25. "We really have a passion for it," Elizabeth Nixon said. "There is just so much pain. It's a real blessing to us to be able to help." Kidwell said the blessing she's thankful for is her church's attitude toward divorced members. "We have had people tell us that they were asked to leave churches. They were told, 'You're a bad influence on the rest of the membership and we would just as soon you find another church,' " she said. "And now they're at Fielder Road because we don't have that attitude. Our pastor has the attitude that everyone has a problem, and we want to minister to that problem." Of course, Fielder Road isn't the only church that offers divorce ministries. Pantego Bible Church offers the same 13-week DivorceCare course twice a year. "It really helped me," said Don Taylor, a former DivorceCare student who now leads the class. "I went through a divorce in '96 and I was in denial. I went to the class and finally started dealing with it." Taylor and Kidwell said that's the response most people have to divorce. "A lot of people won't admit that they're angry. They won't admit they've been hurt," Kidwell said. "What happens in the class is that we bring those issues to light. It's not that we want them to hurt, but to be aware so they don't go into other relationships carrying this baggage. "That's what we hear so many times, 'I never healed from my first divorce.' " Kidwell said her group is seeing more and more students from second or third divorces. They're also seeing more people whose spouses left to be with someone of the same sex. "We get people from all walks of life," she said. "We get ministers' wives, doctors, lawyers, housewives, street people, even marriage counselors." To encourage his students to open up, Taylor said he closes enrollment in the program after the third week of the class. The program at Fielder Road, on the other hand, accepts students at any point in their 10-week course. The program at Fielder Road also offers concurrent programs for children and youth. Kathy Arroyo said the DivorceCare program helped her a lot when she took it in 1996, but her children weren't in the class and she worried about their healing. So she asked the church to let her start a ministry to children of divorced parents that would meet at the same time as DivorceCare. "The kids need help, too," she said. "They perceive a lot more at times than we think. I know one little boy about a year ago whose mom said he was the only kid in his class at school from a single-parent home. After his first class here, he came out and said, 'Mom, there's kids just like me.' " Arroyo said the children do hands-on activities that help them talk about their feelings. "They're play therapy techniques," she said. "We always tie in crafts, snacks and stories. We talk about what to do when we are afraid. We try to rebuild communication between the parent and child. We tell them, 'When you want a hug, you may have to ask your mom.' " That's not too different from what the adults learn. "When you go through a divorce, you sort of go through another adolescence," Kidwell said. "You go back and discover who you are. Divorce knocks the props out from under you. You have to go back and kind of start over. "Society doesn't feel like you've hurt anything, but the Bible tells us that our souls join when we marry, and when we divorce there is a ripping of souls. That's why it hurts so bad. It's not the thing to do, just to get back in the saddle. There is healing to do." F.Y.I. Fielder Road Baptist Church 2011 S. Fielder Road (817) 460-2234 DivorceCare classes meet on Sunday evenings from 6 to 8 p.m. in the Family Life Center. Pantego Bible Church 2203 W. Park Row Dr. (817) 274-1315 DivorceCare classes meet on Sunday evenings from 6 to 8 p.m. in room 108 at the church. For more information, call Don Taylor at (817) 557-1063 or Micki Breedlove at (817) 466-2810.

Copyright 2000 Star-Telegram, Inc.

Fort Worth Star-Telegram (TX)

February 27, 2000 Section: HOMETOWN STAR-NORTH Edition: ARLINGTON Page: 1 Mission of mercyArlington doctor treats physical, spiritual ailments for free atChristian clinic Ryan Sanders Star-Telegram Staff Writer Patsy is glad Jesus is open for business. Patsy is a Grand Prairie grandmother with multiple sclerosis. Jesus is her doctor.

Last month, Dr. Jesus Ramirez reopened his Christian Community Clinic after a year of closure. For Patsy, who asked us not to publish her last name, it was a hard year. "That year he didn't have the clinic, I didn't go to any doctor and I had four acerbations happen that year," Patsy said. Two days a month, Ramirez treats patients for free. Patsy has Medicare that pays for 80 percent of her doctor fees, but she's single with no income other than a disability check, so even Medicare is not enough. "When you have MS, your doctor bills are really high," Patsy said plainly. "They pay 80 percent but you still have that 20 percent, and when you see a doctor that costs quite a bit and you have to go a lot. You're tapping into what little resources you have." Patsy, and other patients like her, are one of the reasons Ramirez offers his services for free. The other reason is more celestial. "We felt like the Lord was telling us to start a ministry here in Arlington," Ramirez remembered. "My wife and I were looking at going to the foreign mission field, but the Lord told us to stay here and dwell in the land and cultivate it." Ramirez's reference is to Psalm 37. His story started in 1989. "We weren't sure because this area already had clinics at John Peter Smith and Mission Arlington nearby," he said, remembering their decision to open the clinic the first time. "But we did a 50-block survey and what we were getting was a linguistics problem, a language barrier." So Ramirez and his wife, Laura Chavarria-Ramirez, opened the clinic. Once a week, Ramirez and Dr. Alex Hollub treated patients at no cost. One of those patients was 9-year-old Jimmy Bolt. "I had never been to any type of free anything," Jimmy's mother, Tracy, said. "There was just no way we could afford insurance at the time. You don't find many people that do things just to help people and not for their own gain. It's nice to see that." But after six years of free Thursdays, Ramirez said his staff, his family and even his building needed to recharge. "We have three volunteers and they needed a break. They had gone solid for six years straight," he said. While his volunteers took some time off, Ramirez had the building renovated. The clinic, at 314 N. Center St., was in dire need of some repair. Ramirez spent $40,000 of his own money on the renovation. The clinic reopened February 3. Hollub is no longer there, and Ramirez can only take free patients on the first and third Mondays of each month. There is new carpet, new paint, new equipment and new reminders of the clinic's mission. On the walls hang paintings with titles like The Prodigal and Peace, Be Still. They show biblical scenes and Ramirez's motivation. "My focus is to see what God wants me to do - to see the needy, to address their physical needs and hope for the opportunity to meet their spiritual needs," Ramirez said. "Every time we have clinic, I get to talk to someone about the Lord." In fact, Ramirez said his patients get spiritual healing almost as often as physical healing. Last year, one or two patients were converted every Thursday, he said. Already this month one patient has adopted the faith. Ramirez said he doesn't press patients about spiritual or personal matters. Usually, it's the other way around. "They'll be interested," he said. "They already know what we are. They want to know why we're doing this for free and that's a great opportunity to share the gospel." And the gospel, at Ramirez's clinic, is for everyone. "We've seen the Cadillacs and Mercedes roll up in the parking lot," he grinned. "We look at that as a divine appointment from God to talk to them. We don't turn anyone away." For the most part, though, Ramirez said his patients are genuinely in need. They're uninsured or underinsured or they have a circumstance that forces them to come to him. "Some of them need to be seen immediately and can't get treatment that fast from their regular doctor," Laura explained. "We had one patient with a kidney infection. If he didn't get treatment, the kidneys could have just shut down." Laura volunteers at the clinic on free Thursdays and brings along her four children - the oldest three of whom she home-schools. "This is good for them," she said. "I think school should be about real life and service to our community and what we're going to do when we're finished with school." Patsy's MS is in remission, she said. But she'll be going back to Ramirez for help with other things. "He doesn't help with my MS because he's a primary care physician, but he can help me as far as other needs, like keeping my blood pressure down," she said. "Even if I get a cold, that can send me out of remission and as long as he can help me keep those primary things going, he helps the chances of my staying in remission." But the price isn't the only reason Patsy will continue to see Ramirez. "He has a heart for people. And he is a good doctor," she said. F.Y.I. Christian Community Clinic 314 N. Center St. (817)861-4672 Open first and third Thursdays of the month from 8:30 a.m. until noon. PHOTO(S): Willis Knight

Copyright 2000 Star-Telegram, Inc.

Chatter (the magazine of Irving Bible Church), December 2005
On October 1, 1987, Rex Greenstreet was baptized in a backyard swimming pool in Irving. He was carried to the water by friends and held afloat by IBC Pastor Andy McQuitty and, as his roommate John Roberts remembers it, he was terrified. It might have been the first time Rex had been completely submerged since a swimming accident 26 years earlier had left him paralyzed from the chest down.

Rex recalled the accident in a 2001 interview. “I dove for the water headfirst and hit bottom. I was immediately paralyzed from the neck down, but I never went unconscious. I thought I was going to drown lying there face down in the water. I couldn’t move.”

But despite his memories of water, despite being a quadriplegic, despite having every excuse not to venture into that pool, Rex did. Turns out, that wouldn’t be the last time Rex overcame fear with obedience.

Rex’s life mirrored his baptism in many ways. He had every reason to avoid obedience, to be bitter at the hand life—or God—had dealt him, to sit back and let others leave their comfort zones while he stayed in his familiar, if not ever entirely comfortable, chair. Instead, his ministry was so faithful and so courageous he became the first person ever to have an IBC ministry named in his honor. Rex died on September 25, 2005. He was 67.

Rex Wharton Greenstreet was born in Fort Worth and raised in Midland. He loved sports and the outdoors. In his youth, he was a cheerleader at Midland High School and a middle weight boxer, winner of Gold Gloves awards. He went to the University of Texas, played a lot of handball, married, took a job with Liberty Mutual Insurance and had a son. The photographs on display at his memorial service showed him young and strong, standing tall with broad shoulders and a broader smile.

Then there was the accident at Lake Lavon that severed his spinal cord. Rex was 23 when it happened; his son was nine months old. He spent three weeks at Baylor Hospital in Dallas and 10 months at Massachusetts Memorial Hospital in Boston. He was separated from friends and family. His wife left. The doctors said he would never walk and probably never regain use of his hands. Physically, emotionally, relationally, his was a paralyzed life.

Remarkably, Rex regained enough control of his body to return to work. He moved back to Dallas and to his job at Liberty Mutual where he became a claims adjuster. But Rex was convinced there was something more to do—something his life was missing besides strong legs. He started to watch Billy Graham on TV and listen to Charles Stanley on the radio.

“It seemed like every time I turned on the TV, those guys were on. And every time they were on, they were giving the gospel.” Rex said. But the gospel they were preaching was about humility and surrender—a message that didn’t sit well with Rex. “My dad was a survivor, and I was brought up to be that way. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Frankly, I had always thought that anyone in any religion was just escaping from the world. Just wimps.” Even from his wheelchair, Rex held to his strength. The prospect of yielding to anything—misfortune and God included—scared him.

But there was a night when Rex awoke in tears and gave his heart to Jesus. “That night, it just all came together,” he remembered. “I said, ‘God, I don’t know about all this, but I want you in my life.’”

Not long after that experience, Rex’s nephew invited him to IBC. Again, he faced a frightful prospect.

“You can’t really sneak into church in a wheelchair,” Rex remembered. “I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know if they were going to run me up to the front and try to heal me or what. I was scared.”

But the pattern of obedience over fear was being established in his life. Rex came to IBC and stayed. That first visit was in 1986. He was baptized in 1987. And soon after, he was invited to take on a ministry that would make him the voice of Irving Bible Church to thousands of visitors. Again, it was an invitation that terrified him. He was asked to take visitor cards from the service each week and call visitors at home.

“I was a claims adjuster for 26 years. Most of that time I was on the phone and it was always confrontational,” Rex said. “I didn’t want any part of phones. The last thing I wanted to do to serve the church was to call people.”

By now, though, Rex knew what to do with fear.

“People really appreciated me calling,” he said. “I just got to where I loved it.”

And he was good at it. Years of phone calls with insurance claimants had taught him to listen well and take copious notes. Soon, the church staff discovered the value of what they called “Rex Notes” for discerning visitors’ interests and ministry needs.

From 1988 to 2003, Rex called every IBC visitor—sometimes more than 50 calls per week. In the last five years of his ministry alone, Rex placed more than 20,000 calls, and prayed for as many people. “I always pray before I dial,” he said. Often, the calls were all protocol and information. But many times, Rex said, they were personal and poignant.

“Sometimes people are hurting and they just want to talk,” Rex said. “Most of the time, people just need someone to listen.”

Hundreds of people who are now serving in IBC ministries made their second visit to the church because of Rex’s call.

“I’ve had people come to me and say, ‘You know, Rex, the only reason I’m here at IBC is because of your phone call,’” he said. “That makes you feel like you’re helping.”

But the greater blessing may have been for those who knew Rex beyond the phone calls. IBC Community Life Pastor Nat Pugh can trace his ministry at IBC to the welcome phone call he received from Rex after his first visit. And Nat can trace the route Rex took through the IBC halls every Sunday, stopping for a cup of coffee that he placed on the make-shift rubber pad he had glued to the cover of his Bible so it wouldn’t spill. “He always stopped at the kiosk and got three butterscotches,” Nat smiled. “I’ll miss seeing him.”

His roommate, John, remembers Tuesday and Wednesday mornings as the highlights of his week. Those were the mornings after Rex made his phone calls on Mondays and Tuesdays.

“I couldn’t wait to get out of bed and go to the living room,” John said. “Rex would be there drinking coffee, and I would get to hear the stories about the phone calls. Imagine living with someone like that. You grow every minute you’re with him. Rex used to drive around the neighborhood and give out money or food. He used to mail his testimony to people blindly. One of his favorite verses was ‘faith without works is dead’. Rex was alive.”

When his failing health finally forced Rex to stop making phone calls, the church placed an announcement in the worship bulletin telling of the need for volunteers to take over the job. The project was named the Greenstreet Ministry. And it took eight people to do the work.

At his memorial service at IBC on October 5, the photos from Rex’s later years seem to look more and more like those from his youth. The broad smile is there. There is strength in his expression if not in his legs.

“I’ll miss that sparkle in your eyes that revealed the depth of your love for Christ. You gave so much to us and never complained about your situation,” eulogized Barbara Greenstreet, Rex’s sister-in-law.

But the most concise praise at Rex’s memorial service may have also been the most complete, from the man who baptized him in that swimming pool in 1987, a witness to Rex’s fierce obedience in the face of fear.

“I couldn’t imagine myself being in the position he was and having the level of joy he had,” Andy said. “Rex, you lived more powerfully and influentially, from your chair than most people do in perfect health.”

On September 25, Rex answered the call to come home. Now he stands—yes, stands—in the presence of God, his smile broad, his fear gone, his reward complete and, probably, with three butterscotches in his pocket.