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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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"Thursday's Fare"

Image is Everything?

Image is NOT everything and clothes do not make the man.

But don't tell son George that. I'm not sure where he got it, but at age 6 George actually cares about what he wears. Things must be the proper color, patterns must "go together," certain days require certain attire. In short, things must match: they must be "right."

OK, I lied. I actually do know where he got it. It was from his mom, because it certainly wasn't from me. I am soon to be 39 and one thing I have NEVER been accused of is being a "slave to fashion." I suspect I am still considered a pretty lame dresser in the eyes of most who pay attention to styles and trends and whatnot -- and likely in the eyes of those that don't as well.

I defer to the basics. Jeans or shorts with a T-shirt or polo shirt on days when I have no meetings and feel the prospect of the impromptu one is pretty low. If the weather's going to be cool I'll add a sweatshirt around my waist and head out the door. If I'm teaching or a meeting is planned or possibly in the works, I'll "step out" in a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt.

I think people call them oxfords.

I'll also trade the Nikes in for a pair of Justin boots on such days. The boots are deemed to be slightly dressier and are actually more comfortable than the tennis shoes. Their only drawback is you can only run about 2 miles per hour in them. They also make for the occasional unexpected skate across parking lots and wet floors. I have windmilled my way into people's hearts on more than one occasion. People feel sorry for young men who clearly can not dunk a basketball much less walk safely from one place to another.

I own five "Sunday go to meeting" outfits and one blue blazer that I probably wear 9 out of the 10 times something more formal is required. But the suits do come in handy when I want to look like I belong in the business world or more at home with others at certain social gatherings. Given the option, however, they stay in the closet. I think there is a tux somewhere in the back but I haven't seen it in a while.

I get exceptional tie mileage as most of mine have been in and out of style at least three times. That's the great thing about ties -- you can just keep wearing them because sooner or later you're looking good again.

I remember wearing a pair of maroon bell-bottom pants in the 5th grade so many times that a girl asked me if I owned any others. "Sure," I responded, "But why wear anything else when I like these best?"

She looked at me kind of funny and walked off. It seemed like a strange question to me, but I took the hint and only wore them three out of five days the following week.

I have a picture of me and my girlfriend Kelly before some high school dance in the mid '70s. I have my arm around her and we are both smiling like it is our honeymoon. She is wearing a very attractive light peach chiffon number that could be worn by any woman, any age, any time in the last 100 years and have been well received. I, on the other hand, am wearing PLAID RED AND WHITE PANTS with a matching RED TIE, WHITE COAT and RUFFLED SHIRT. The ruffles of which are TRIMMED IN RED. My hair complements the suit nicely. Someone has apparently been rubbing balloons on my head. I look like a cross between Danny Partridge and Julius Erving.

Every time I look at that picture, which is not often, I think, "My God what was she doing with me?"

If I had later wanted to ruin her wedding plans, I could have done so by producing that picture for her husband to be. Reasonable doubt would have been more than well established. No one would have blamed him a bit if he had cut and run. Come to think of it, Kelly would likely pay big bucks for that thing even now.

I'll hang on to it in case this writing thing ever goes south.

Which leads me back to son, George.

He came into our room this morning all dressed for school. He had on a pair of dark tan khakis and a T-shirt that sported a soccer ball and a pair of cleats on the front. As is the norm with George, the colors of his selections actually matched, but the shirt was about two sizes too small and was coming apart at the seams. It was 38 degrees outside and raining. He didn't make it three paces into the room.

"You need to change your shirt, George." He stood silently and listened to our list of reasons.This was followed by a heavy sigh and sulk from the room. I could remember my own such feelings as a child -- "Why are they telling ME what to wear?"

So often our parents reminded us that its what's on the INSIDE that counts, but when it came to personal appearance we had better be up to social expectations. It was a lesson that was confusing from the start and further complicated by reality.

Down the road in life we all meet people who are not what their cover advertises them to be. Good-looking, well-mannered individuals turn out to be crooks and cheats and the real slobs of life, while folks we initially wouldn't trust with a friendly greeting become life-long friends. At the same time, the opposite is true. Their are plenty of people who genuinely represent themselves: flying their true colors regardless of whether their nature is good or bad.

How is one to know?

One isn't. The trick is simply to avoid forming too many preconceptions. The proper balance of trust, intuition and prudent inquiry can go a long way.

Unless of course the guy is wearing red and white plaid pants -- in which case run like hell and don't look back.

Someone could have a camera.

had the opportunity to help a young refugee couple from Bosnia settle in the Roanoke Valley. At the time I figured it would be a "nice thing to do," a way of responding to the horrific pictures that flowed from the war torn region as well as satisfy in some way the call of my faith to serve others in need. I had never answered that call very well before and had little idea of what to expect. New lives were found to be sure -- and in many ways one of them was mine.

I first laid eyes on Bred and Dina and their 4-year-old son, Aden, as they stepped off the jetway at Roanoke Regional Airport. They had been on planes and in airports for almost three days but were wide awake with adrenaline as they stepped out to see the new faces that would take them to their new home. The previous night had been spent at LaGuardia Airport in New York where they had discovered to their horror that smoking was "illegal" in the United States. No one was smoking and there were these big universal "No Smoking" signs everywhere. It was a fairy logical conclusion.

Bred hoped no one would find the carton of cigarettes stowed in his bag. Could he be deported? He wasn't sure.

When we arrived at the modest apartment that our small group had prepared for them, the tears flowed and hugs were again given to all. The overwhelming feeling they had was based on the fact that someone would be so nice as to let them stay here a couple of nights. It took a while to convince them that the apartment and all that was in it was theirs. But when we finally did, the hugging ceremony repeated itself for the third time. I remember thinking that this was going to be an emotional job to be sure.

But the biggest expression of amazement came when I (a smoker at the time) pulled out a cigarette and firing it up extended one towards Bred. His head jerked back on his long neck and his eyes blazed wide with shock, "Smoke?!" he exclaimed.

"Sure," I said.

He and Dina looked at each other in amazement and we all laughed long and hard as they struggled in halting English to tell of their plight and the very real fear of being deported for smuggling. Bred reached into the small green duffel that contained everything he owned in the world. He handed me a fresh pack of Bosnian cigarettes. I handed him my crumpled pack of Marlboros. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but it was symbolic of a what I would later come to know as the "paradox of discipleship" -- the unbalanced return we get in small service to others. More than a pack of not very good smokes, it was the beginning of what would be a friendship for life.

The next several weeks were difficult as our group did its best to settle the Sehovics into the day to day tasks of life, as well as to began preparing them for job interviews. The primary obstacle facing all of them was learning "A-mer-can," as Aden would say. I had read somewhere that writing the names of objects on Post-it notes and pasting them all over the house was a good idea. The "student" would not be able to take the note down until he or she could identify the item while the note was shielded from view. Dina was extremely proud of her new home and is a fastidious housekeeper, so when I explained the "new rule" to her, she squinted her eyes at me and said only half jokingly, "I not like this game and you know this Stuart. I learn these words fast." And she did. Within two days she could name virtually everything in the house and she made no small point of letting her husband know that she now knew more words than he.

Two days later I received the first of several "emergency" phone calls. I had told Bred to call me anytime of night with whatever problem he may have. It was about 11:30 p.m.

"Stu-airt"

"Yes"

"Der es a moose in the hoose."

"A moose in the house?" I exclaimed. What in the hell had happened? Was there a deer in the apartment? I had heard of them jumping through windows before. "What did you say?"

"Yes -- I tell you der es a moose in the hoose! Dina she is scared, very much fear, much afraid -- she stands on the su-fa and the moose is beneath."

I began to laugh pretty hard and then calming myself said, "Bred is their a MOUSE in the house?"

He repeated himself, "Yes a moose in the hoose." He began to laugh at the unexpected rhyme in English. He had no idea what a moose was.

"Get a broom and chase him out," I said. "What did you do with them in Bosnia?"

"We not have moose in the hoose in Bosnia." he replied

"Oh," I said, still trying to contain my laughter, lest he think I was laughing at him, which I wasn't.

"I will get this moose," he said, and then hung up.

Since the "night of the moose" we have had many hilarious moments together and many poignant ones as well. Bred would later tell me about losing his father and sister in the war and about the night he led Dina and Aden over the mountain range between Bosnia and Croatia as rifle shots and mortars sounded along the darkened ridges around them.

He spoke of Aden asking him if bombs would fall here, too, as he tucked him into bed that first night we met. He would also speak of the incredible sense of community that he and his neighbors had shared in the small town where he had built his house before the hate and mindless rage of civil war swept over the countryside like some unstoppable firestorm. It is a sense he has as yet fully recaptured here. But he speaks with excitement and devotion for the freedom and progressive spirit that is America at its best -- and he is immensely thankful.

He is thankful to Catholic World Services, Second Presbyterian Church and a man named Kirk Lunsford who thought helping him get here would be a good idea. He is thankful that he and Dina have been able to find good jobs that pay them well enough to have purchased their own home and two cars since they arrived five years ago. He is also thankful that his son will grow up in a safe and secure neighborhood with the promise of a quality education ahead of him.

Simply put, Bred and Dina are very thankful to be alive. Probably more so than most because they know how quickly things can change and how fragile life can be.

Thank you, guys, for the life giving example of your new beginning and the grace with which you have carried yourselves. I am truly blessed to count you as friends.

Now if you could just figure out how to handle a moose ...