Steve Enyart:
CLASS OF 1959
California High SchoolClass of 1959
Whittier, CA
Steve's Story
Since retiring in 2006 God has allowed me to enjoy my passion living and working with migrant and orphan children in Baja.
Other things I like to do include dancing with my wife as long as she doesn't laugh, finally finishing my next (and first) best seller, rock climbing anything that's safe, and breaking and entering old buildings.
I have a dream.
A passion that is driving me and changing my life.
It is this. That we, the world's richest and most developed nation (or at the very least, we who claim to be followers of Jesus) will solve the terrible blight on mankind that allows 25,000 innocent children to die every day from starvation and curable water borne diseases. We can and WE SHOULD fix this!
Shame on you! and shame on ME! if we don't!
Then, when every child can go to bed with a full stomach, THEN, we can worry about our important quality of life issues: those terribly important kitchen remodels, new cars, vacations, IRAs, club memberships, clothes and sports.
We can do this. You and me.
Open for ideas.
Contact info available on Facebook. Or, use steveenyart [at] gmail [dot] com.)
SINCE GRADUATION:
Here's an authorized, shortened autobiography. Yeah, I know, WAY too long. But nothing compared to the plenary uncensored version which was too large to load up.
Recommendation: Skip everything after synopsis.
SYNOPSIS
Native Californian. Transplanted to Whittier from Ojai, CA at age 3-months. Wife born at Whittier Murphy memorial hospital. Three kids. Four years in U.S. Navy. Forty years at same company. Retired three years. Unpublished author. Unrepentant (and uncaught) lover of nocturnal breaking and entering of abandoned buildings. Yea! (Fingers crossed!) In good health (But had to quit running. Knees, you know.) LOVE to dance! (When Sandy's not looking and laughing!) And TOTALLY Love the orphan and migrant worker children in Mexico. (Be still my beating heart.) Said beating heart recently shredded (gloriously ruined) over poverty and disease issues in Africa. (My soul is weeping.) Lover of God. Follower of Jesus. (Trying!)
THE EARLY-CHILD-DEVELOPMENT YEARS
Life has been good. After Calhi I worked in the Whittier post office for one year after being asked not to return to Mt. Sac and Fullerton J.C. My two-year tenure at those institutions was unwelcomed, apparently. I'm sure you didn't know this (it was a well-kept secret at the time.) I was a terrible student. Lazy. (And irresponsible.)
After serving my penance in the P.O.D. I was turned down yet again for admittance to Mt. Sac. Still not sure what they couldn't believe about my confessed rehabilitation.
UNCLE SAM CALLING
Anyway, Uncle Sam beckoned. My dad had been a sailor, and like Popeye I knew some day I wanted to eat my spinach and be a sailor-man too. I spent a year in an electronics school and three years sailing the South Pacific and Far East. Cool stuff, that. My younger brother Dave was in Vietnam in the 101st Air Borne, and there was no way I wanted any part of that. Because the Navy's food's better. That and they tend to take really good care of their ships. (We actually hid behind Islands to run seaplane ops in 'Nam!)
The military was a good maturing place for me. Being that I was such a dunce in school and great success in college, it came as a complete surprise when I scored off-the-charts on the military's IQ and math entrance tests in boot camp. (OK relatively high, at least) But it encouraged me greatly. I think my self-esteem peaked about that time. And the rest of my company were talking about me. (OK maybe it wasn't my test scores.)
But for once in my life I started loving education and learning. I met a friend at the electronics school in Great Lakes, Illinois. He and I took top academic honors, and it was exhilarating. Gotta realize this kid had never aced a test in his life, before this. I was from California (did you know this?) and John was from New York (Jersey, actually). Because we were good students we were eligible to join the precision drill team at the base. Marched in a few parades in Chicago and other places. Fun!
After electronics school, John went to a carrier in the Mediterranean and I got a seaplane tender on the west coast. Yeah, seaplane tender. What's that? The main thing I liked it was big. Big target is not good, but it rode out heavy seas nicely. While on board, I took a few military correspondence courses between getting steam baths and massages and buying souvenirs on our deployments in the Far East.
I guess it's okay to say this. The steam baths and massages were something I had avoided like the plague for about a year until finally my shipmates overwhelmed my resistance and convinced me to try it. Now you have to kind of let your imagination run wild here to imagine the terrible images a steam bath and massage by a young nubile thing invoked in a 21-year-old virgin. Yeah. This scantily clad young thing soaping you and then walking on your back. The latter sounded not too bad. Kind of interesting. But the bath came first. There was just no way it was ever going to happen.
Little did I know there had long been a conspiracy in our electronics shop. They had a secret pact to get Enyart a steam bath and also get him drunk. (Did I mention I was teetotal, too?)
Well they finally convinced me these steam baths were all harmless and innocent. It was mostly true. Only my dignity was damaged.
But I was hanging out the window of a taxi cab about a year later wondering why the world was upside down - and wet. Still had a lot to learn about alcohol. The fact our ship sailed the next morning and ran smack into those notoriously giant rolling-ground-swells outside the Golden Gate Bridge only added insult to injury. My "friends" are still no doubt laughing.
My wife Sandy and I married about a year before I left the Navy. The postage was getting expensive. I had met her when I was a senior and she was a sophomore at Whittier High. What a girl. Sandy was a DuPont, her best friend a Studebaker. My grandmother, a transplanted Okie, used to joke about me and my best friend dating the... yeah. Grandma I could handle. It was Sandy's two brothers I worried about. Older brothers. Both Whittier P.D.s finest.
BROTHERLY LOVE
Don't you just love memories of all those wonderful dating years? My, my, my. The music, the dances, sitting in the cars at Bob's on Whittier Boulevard. Or Whirlies. Skateland, and Girlies (well, boys, for you ladies) and first dates. Oh, those first dates! Corsages and sweaty palms. (And, Do I HAVE to meet your father?)
My first love, a lower-classman (female gender!) at Calhi jilted me. She then went on immediately to date my younger brother Dave! And then followed that with Sandy's older brother, immediately, too. And boy did she ever break our hearts.
But I guess I got even with Dave, though. He actually dated Sandy first, for a year in fact, before I lucked out and managed to steal her away. Not too cool to do to your brother, eh?
But I finally got my DuPont. (My friend got his Studebaker, too.)
BECKMAN
After the Navy, I went to work as an electronics technician for Beckman Instruments on Harbor Blvd in La Habra. Forty years later we had three kids and I was still there, working in Health and Safety now. Way, way above my competence level. Wow!
My post navy plans to go back to college and get a doctorate in electrical engineering slowly diminished as the responsibilities of raising three wonderful children grew. Sandy was a stay at home Mommy, so finances were always tight.
CREATIVE WRITING
I did earn about thirty units over the years, however. The subjects pretty much describing my vocational journey. Electronics and math at first, ending with theater arts and creative writing twenty years later. And yes, I am going to finally finish my first novel this year. I love writing. And if I hadn't discovered this crazy passion for children and orphans in Mexico, it would no doubt have been finished years ago. My two boys have these outrageous student loans we would like to pay off for them. Move over Clancy and Grissom. I'm coming.
Crazy, this. My probably worst subjects in school were history and English. (Well, OK, they were, actually) (I did fail Spanish twice though, fulfilling my foreign language requirement.) So why am I now writing? And why on earth did I fix my plot on a story about Haiti's war for independence from France? If I were a younger man, I would go back and take a lot of English and history! For now, however, I just live inside the wonderful world of encyclopedias - and Google. History sure wasn't this much fun nor as interesting in high school. Must have changed some.
FAMILY
Our oldest child, Jennifer, has a son and daughter, and is going through a terrible divorce at this time. Our oldest son, Jared, is a high school special ed teacher in San Diego. His wife's Chinese and they have two sons. Our youngest son, Joel, is a college pastor in Simi Valley. His wife's partly Indonesian and they have two lovely daughters.
My wife was forever on my back about ragging on our three kids to marry Asians. After Vietnam and the Far East, I was totally in love with Eurasian children.
But now I just smile. Two out of three's not too bad!
Sandy and I waited so long for our grandchildren, we thought maybe the day would never come. Now we've got six. It's absolutely incredible. Oldest is eight, youngest eight months. Can't wait until a few more years when they've all become little people. There's nothing like a child!
ORPHANS
Somewhere along the ride, about fifteen years before I retired, I began experiencing a growing passion for children. Especially children without parents.
As much as I love writing, there's nothing, absolutely nothing, that tugs at my heartstrings more (and breaks my heart, as well) than imagining a child growing up...Expand for more
and not having any concept what the words mother or father even mean.
It didn't take long, even for a college drop out, to realize we no longer have "orphans" per se here in the USA. But, thanks to Southern California, the International Border is just a couple hours away.
It must have been the Lord. After years of unsuccessfully trying to connect with an orphanage in Mexico (there was always some scheduling conflict when someone or some church was going down to Mexico) my son in San Diego calls me up one day the same month I retired (I was actually laid off!) and tells me a group of guys from his church were going down to this orphanage in Tijuana to assemble computer tables. Would I like to go?
Long story short, it was love at first sight, and I have been living and working there part-time off and on, ever since. (Which is as often as my wife will permit! I still haven't been able to persuade her to move there permanently! She loves the children as much as me, and in some ways is more of a natural with them than me, but has some heath problems that really pretty much preclude her staying there too long at a stretch.)
Did I also mention those two years of high school Español haven't helped one bit. After three years at the orphanage I've got "si" and "Buenos dias" down almost perfect. The rest? Forget it.
I can't wait until fluency comes (it does come by osmosis, right?) It'll be so wonderful to actually have meaningful conversations with these children. Find out what's working and not working in their lives.
AFRICA! WHAT? WHY?
Why suddenly a stirring passion for dying children in Africa? God only knows.
But there are 25,000 to 30,000 dying every day! (That's multiple 9/11s and you know how that changed us. Got our attention.) Even more pertinent, why now? My life is simple. I'm retired. All I want to do is finish a book and hug some kids in Mexico. And besides it's almost over... "the autumn of my life." Like Bobby Goldsboro sang.
So what's with this crazy thing, in Africa, anyway? I sure didn't understand what God was doing - or why. But there was no doubting it. He was shredding my heart and my very being over the plight of children in Africa! Why?
Well, of course, the statistics are staggering. And the stories and images are beyond description. But this was not really news. I know most of us have heard the numbers many times. I know I have. And surely these problems were being addressed. Right? So it wasn't my problem. The old "the-need-is-not-the-call" kind of thing. Africa was just too far away. Not real.
But it is real. Very real!
And it's not all that far from God's heart. So it shouldn't be from mine either.
For several weeks I mulled and agonized over the numbers, the sheer overwhelming size of the problem. And as I did, I slowly began to empathize with those affected.
I look at my own three children; I look at my six beautiful grandchildren; and I look at all my wonderful kids in Mexico; and I can't imagine watching even one them die of hunger, or a curable water borne disease and not doing something about it.
While all of this processing was going on inside something else was becoming clear as well, coming into focus. It was ugly! Truly egregious. Something that makes me angrier and angrier every time I think about it.
THE PROBLEM
The problem is that this should not even BE a problem! Not any longer, at least. Not in these modern days and times.
It's a blight on the people of the world, first of all. All of us. Especially we in the developed world. That means you! And that means me! And it's an even greater stain on the Body of Christ, we who claim to be followers of Jesus.
DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL (OR SLEEPLESS IN...)
This whole thing came to a head, in of all places, Mexico. When my son Jared, my three-year-old grandson Chase, myself and David (a friend of Jared's) were down there for three days recently.
It was a wonderful time. Chase was as much a natural with the kids as my first grandson Spencer had been several years earlier. Monday night came and we all turned in. A night that would forever change my life.
I couldn't sleep.
I was in one of the guest rooms on the fifth floor on the north side of the orphanage because Jared and Chase occupied my room. My room is actually preferable. For the view. It's on the south side of the new building and I don't have to look at San Diego out my window! My bed is against the sliding glass doors and when I lean over during the night and look out the windows I see a myriad field of cotton balls (without my glasses!) which are lights in the homes of my loved ones scattered around on the nearby hills here in Pedregal, a poor suburb of Tijuana.
Every time I tried to lie down I'd start thinking about the mothers of those children. The 7,000 children that would die before I woke up. That were dying even as I lay there in warm comfort with a full stomach. I couldn't imagine what those mothers must have been thinking. Or maybe I could, because I was overcome with giant tears and audible groans and sobbing. (Please don't laugh. Even my children acknowledge dad is getting maudlin in his old age!)
I kept thinking, what must all those mothers be praying for? Whatever the words, they must have been chained to my heart and soul. With hooks. Because they were shredding it. And apparently they had no intention of letting go! I was like, bleeding to death, lying in a brand new cozy bed with a full stomach and a warm blanket. In a brand new private room with a bath. In Mexico. For Africa. Go figure!
I'd sit up to try and get clarity and control of myself. And through the sliding glass doors across the room I'd see the lights of Coronado and San Diego. The USA. My country. It shone like a giant blur bathing the room in soft light, illuminating my distress. Because a really super big part of my anguish WAS my country, and what we are NOT doing. And the wealth of Coronado and downtown San Diego's giant buildings spoke loudly of what we WERE doing instead.
This cycle of lying down, weeping, sitting up and staring at the USA, went on for hours, all through the night and into the early hours of the morning. The salty tears felt good. Cathartic. It was the involuntary groans I worried about.
I wondered if I was disturbing David who was sleeping in the room next door.
I kept trying to sleep, but each time a new wave of groaning and weeping overcame me and I'd sit up and stare at the USA. And get mad. And madder. Mad at our country's obscene wealth. More poignant however was my rage and heated anger at the Body of Christ for not caring enough to stop this travesty. It's such a doable thing. It wouldn't even take much effort. Not even a lot of money per capita. No new technologies, no scientific breakthroughs would even be required. Just love. And caring enough!
Toward morning I tried to reflect and make some sense about what was happening. What - if anything - did all of this mean?
Not always a good time to make important decisions or vows to God, not in the midst of emotional turmoil, I know. But around four or five in the morning I did. I made some personal commitments and life-style changes. And even now months later it still feels right. (Among other things, I gave up my most favorite-in-the-world entree: steak. So that every time I see one it will remind me of starving children.)
WHERE TO GO FROM HERE
First, I'm exploring an idea wherein schools would take it upon themselves to sponsor a water well project in Africa. Similarly, churches, and other organizations could do this as well.
Second (and this is where I know I'll get in trouble), I am going to try and get the Body of Christ to open its eyes to this travesty. If we really begin to live sacrificially, we ALONE, just us, the Body of Christ, could solve this problem in one year or less. Think about it.
As a whole we the church in the USA are more interested in the maintenance of our status quo: remodeling our kitchens; grooming our lawns; and caring for our possessions: autos, boats, homes, and a million other things, like saving for vacations, while little babies and children die in poverty and hunger every hour. So how are we any different from anyone else? Shame on us! Shame on me!!!
That night in Mexico, I had visions of these thousands and millions of children in heaven asking me if I'd ever thought about them. What did I ever do about them? Yeah, yeah, that won't happen (maybe). But it's a good question, none the less. And I'm not too certain that someone else there might not ask the same thing.
This moral outrage has to stop. And it should stop now!!! If every follower Jesus decided to live sacrificially it COULD stop now.
We (Christians collectively) don't need all our "stuff". Large homes, new cars, club memberships, vacation homes, and on and on and on. I know I'm going to put my foot in it soon, because two good friends in our book study have either just finished or are in the process of these major kitchen remodels. Almost everyone I know in Mexico would love to have their old one! And it's certainly not any better in Africa!
Am I going to offend these friends? Almost certainly. But when I think of Africa I'm reminded of a famous quote by a famous American: Quite frankly my dear Scarlett, I don't give a damn! (Well, of course, I do, but some things have to be said. And the children in Africa have no voice.)
So, if you see me doing some stupid or unexplained things in the future, bear with me. It just might have something to do with all this.
Well enough! Not to be continued. This has gone on far too long.
Thanks for understanding (hopefully) and letting me bend your ear.
Your friend Steve.
PS I am soooooo looking forward to my next steak! Maybe it will happen in this life! Now wouldn't that be something!?
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