Holy Conversations

I was going to talk more about sanctification today—the process whereby God makes us more holy, after we come to know and accept his son, Jesus, as our personal savior. But instead, I want to talk about some “holy conversations” that I was blessed to be a part of, on our train trip to Chicago. I think we will see, along the way, how God is at work in each of our lives—wooing us to come follow him… justifying us, as we realize we have sinned and are in need of his forgiveness… sanctifying us, as he uses others around us to make us more holy… as he uses others to give us the opportunity to love him and his people more fully.

I only saw her through the reflection of the train window. She was seated in front of me, an older woman with short, gray hair. She began making comments when I was talking to Dakota about some of the buildings and things we were seeing along the way. Beautiful churches, and such. I could only see her reflection, as she spoke. And before I knew it, I was sharing photos of other churches in the area, on my iPhone, in between the space between the train window and the seat between us.          

Eventually, she moved forward and looked back, and we began talking about the things of God. She had an understanding of scripture that one usually receives when they have taken a course in theology… that scholars believe there has likely been a weaving together of writers in Genesis, who have contributed two stories of creation—one, focused on the creation of the universe, the other, focused on the creation of humankind. 

There was a connection there, between us… she was a member of the Free Methodist Church, which meant that women didn’t wear jewelry. She would paint pants on a photo of a doctor doing surgery out in the middle of Africa, so his bare legs wouldn’t show, in their denominational newsletter… because they were so modest. She also was a fan of the writer and theologian Henri Nouwen. I told her, you like Nouwen, you should read Thomas Merton. And Brennan Manning. And finally, she wrote her name and contact info on a piece of paper, and handed it to me between the window and the seatback. She wanted me to let her know if there were other books she ought to read. Later, Dakota would say, I knew you were gonna talk to her for, like an hour, when you began.

And then there was the younger woman sitting behind me, who was softly singing this song that sounded so familiar. I’ll try to sing it for you:

My God is awesome,

he can move a mountain,

keep me from the valley,

hide me from the rain.

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome.

She had her hair shaved on one side, dyed bright pink, and long, on the other. She was sitting across from her elderly parents, who had trouble smiling. At first, I thought it was because they were overhearing the conversation I was having with the woman in front of me… that they didn’t agree with, or approve of something I’d said. How often do we think that others’ actions are because of us, and they’re not? Amen?!

I talked to the young woman a bit about the song she was singing. Wanted to break out in song, there on the train, with her… and for some reason, asked if she knew another song I’d heard one afternoon in the hospital cafeteria. “Take me back, take me back dear Lord, to the place where I first received.” I hadn’t gotten a few measures into the song, when she started singing it with me. She got teary, said it was one of the most meaningful songs in her life.

She was from Liberal, Kansas, her parents, from Garden City. We saw them again, when we got to the waiting room at the train station, headed home. Oh my! We all said. How did we do this? Come to Chicago the same day, go back, the same day. They wondered that we would stay exactly the same length of time. Why were we there? They asked. For sightseeing, I said. Why had they come to Chicago? A celebration of life. Code name for funeral. But they said it twice, because they wanted us to know they had HOPE. Oh, I said… was this for family? Yes. For a woman. A niece, a sister? I asked. No, it was their daughter. Their oldest. Oh my, I said. Was it expected? Yes, she had battled cancer for 20-some years. She was only 52. I went over and asked the mother if I could give her a hug. Later, Dakota and I marveled that they had also put their luggage in the locker right next to ours. We were all supposed to be there, on both those trains, coming and going.

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome…

Before this, a man with dark, longish hair, ruddy complexion, sat down next to us in the waiting room. He pulled out a can of beer, and a red cup. He was talking to himself. He opened the can, poured it into the cup, and drank it straight down, all the while, talking. Then he opened the second can, poured it into the cup, and drank it right down, too. He was telling us that he had been on the train for two days, already. To get to Alabama, if I remember, he had to go all the way up to the northeast, down the east coast, and back west, to Alabama. He was heading home to California. Four days it took him, to reach his girlfriend, who was sick. If he’d flown, it would’ve only been something like four HOURS. I’m going to guess he had met her online. He was upset she hadn’t picked him up at the train station. It was because she had been in the ICU. But she was doing better. He just needed someone to listen to him. He was lonely.

My God is awesome
Heals me when I'm broken
Gives strength where I've been weakened
Forever He will reign

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome

And then, we got up to go eat dinner in the dining car, and as some of you know, they will often put you with other people so you make a fuller table. We were sitting down, reading the menu, when an older man of slight build came in. He wanted to eat by himself at the next table, but the dining car attendant, a woman, would not have it. So he sat down with us, right next to me. He was wearing old, good clothes… rather eccentric looking. We waited for his story to unfold. He was staying in a sleeper car. Said he had not worked a day in his life, as far as he was concerned, because what he had done hadn’t been work at all. I slowly pried it out of him—he was a composer, had written some songs of note. Would we know any of them? Do you like Christmas music? He asked. Yes, we said. Do you know “Santa Baby?”

You wrote that? We asked. Yes, he said. The music. He knew all kinds of people—Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Eartha Kitt. But most of his contacts had died. Santa Baby only really became extremely popular when Madonna recorded it, back in the ‘80s. Then, it had taken off, like wildfire. His daughter was in charge of the royalties and licensing for the song.

He wanted to know about us. Eventually he found out I was a pastor, had been a writer. Before I knew it, I was summarizing a sermon for him, at his request, that I had written last time I was in Chicago, about the beacon lights on a tower, and the presence of God in our lives. Sometimes the clouds are so thick in our lives, we cannot see him anymore, and doubt he was ever there, in the first place, even though we have seen him in the past. The man wasn’t sure about heaven. I said, we will know it’s true, someday, when we get there. He told us about a time travel story he was working on, hoping to see it become a movie, one day. He would invite our whole family to the opening, if it happened, before he died. He talked about a father who wanted him to be a pianist instead of a composer because there was more money in it. It is a sad thing, he said, not to have your father’s approval.

My God is awesome
Savior of the whole world
Giver of salvation
By His stripes I am healed

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome

And then there was the man two seats behind us, who I only discovered after the train stopped just beyond Kansas City’s Union Station, and the lights and power went out. Suddenly we could hear people talk, instead of the noise from the engine. He was worried his wife would be waiting at the station way ahead of time, because we were running late. He was headed to Needles, California. He had no cell phone to call her. So I let him borrow ours. He shared that he had been in Michigan, not by his own choice, but because he got thrown into jail for not paying child support. He’d been there, the past three months.

The clothes he was wearing were from a mission. There, he’d met a kind chaplain. The Michigan jacket was going to become a bed for his dog when he got home. Even thought it kept him warm, now, his time in Michigan would not be something he wanted to be reminded of, later.

He was diabetic, and needed something to eat. A man across the aisle threw a rice krispy treat his way. I found some pretzels and a bottle of water. I stood and listened to him tell his story. He had little, to no money. I gave him some extra, that I had from my trip. He was grateful, said, you didn ‘t have to do that. I said, I did—I’m a pastor. He threw his arms around me, told me about going to church at the mission, about a Bible he was carrying in his bag. God was providing for him, through his people. God was wooing him to him. (Prevenient grace, did you get that?)

My God is awesome
Today I am forgiven
His grace is why I'm living
Praise His holy name

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome

George Ablah: High risk, high reward

I received word this evening that George Ablah of Wichita had died. Years ago, when I was an editor for the Wichita Register magazine, I interviewed him; in a strange turn of events, the feature never ran.  If it were to appear in print, I would take more time to do some fine editing/rewriting. However, as it stands, I think the details about this gentleman's fascinating life are worth sharing and preserving. Thanks go to George's son, Jeff, for filling in many of the details.--KB

George Ablah

High risks, big reward

 

 

With George Ablah, what you see is what you get. The owner of Ablah Enterprises, he’s a freewheeler who can’t stand restraints. He typically won’t wear a suit and tie. And at a time when most people of his business stature won’t leave home without their Blackberries, he remains attached to a singular piece of paper. Ablah carries one around in his pocket, updating it constantly and filling both sides with everything he needs at his fingertips, highlighting what’s most important in several bright colors. 

At 16, he owned a gas station and a liquor store, and had traveled back and forth to Chicago to make real estate transactions. He did a stint at KU and WSU, but all the business acumen he would need was either already in his gut, or would be learned by trial and error. Along the way he learned perseverance, the importance of continuing, despite the odds. Ablah nearly died at 20 while working on a construction crew. A house jack he was manning snapped and hit him in the head. As a result, he lost the hearing in one ear. It affected his vision. But he’s never let either inconvenience stand in his way.

      The eldest son, he left his father’s business, Ablah Hotel & Supply, to strike out on his own. The company made everything from coffee mugs to dinner tables to restaurant floor plans. George worked until 2 and 3 a.m., drawing up designs. For a time, he and his wife lived with their young family in a College Hill duplex shared by his father and uncle’s families.

      With his wife, Virginia, working at his side for often six days a week, Ablah built a real estate and oil investment business that spans almost fifty years and every major city in the United States. There’s probably no metropolitan area in America that Ablah hasn’t considered a piece of property in. At 78, he’s got no plans of slowing down. Currently, he’s doing business in Memphis, North Carolina, Texas and Arkansas.

      By all newspaper accounts, Ablah seems to swoop in, quickly assess a property, snatch it up and swoop back out again, confidently decisive, holding onto the land or buildings only long enough to turn a profit. He is a true entrepreneur, a risk taker and a gambler. When others would balk at property based on the fact it’s one hundred percent vacant, Ablah sees clear potential, and buys it without a second thought.

      And his interests are diverse. Aside from oil and real estate, he’s had his hands in medical supply, steel, health care, computer software, restaurants and more. He goes to Las Vegas once a month, whether he needs it or not. And in his typically larger-than-life fashion, he’s managed to win $1 million at the table in one sitting.

      Time is one’s most valued commodity, he tells his grown children and those fortunate enough to hear his twelve steps for business and life. One way he saves time is through an uncanny ability of quickly scanning information to determine if a piece of property is worth pursuing.

      It was thirty years ago that Ablah bought Chrysler Realty with Charles Koch, dba ABKO. Ablah, realizing it would take him a year to visit two of the six hundred car dealerships each day, didn’t wait on his personal surveys or the written ones before he signed on the dotted line. Time was of the essence. Doing business as usual with a gentleman’s agreement, he took the word of the sellers that everything regarding the multi-million dollar holding was as it should be.

      Personally involved in more than $2 billion in real estate transactions, Ablah has never been in a lawsuit, a testimony to his personal ethics. While others burn bridges behind them, he knows he can look at himself in the mirror each morning. He also knows he can go back to the same people, over and over, and they’ll be happy to do business with him again. Perhaps another reason for this is that he tries to see things from the other side. Quite literally, he reads contracts from both sides of the table to make sure they’re fair, rising from his chair to sit on the other side of the table to look things over to see if he’d be comfortable doing business with himself.

      Locally, Ablah owned much of the land from Rock Road north of 29^th Street. He built Northrock Theatres and the bowling alley, Jimmie’s Diner, and the five-story building at 29th and Rock where Wendy’s sits. “He built that on spec,” his son, Jeff, says of the latter in amazement. “At the time, there was nothing there. I remember, because I was out hunting in the field across from it, where Walmart is, now.”

      Ablah donated land to the city for the K-96 Expressway with the stipulation that construction begin in 1992. Thus, commuters on the north end of Wichita have been able to fly to their workplaces every day for years, while those who work farther south still await the Kellogg flyover completion.

      Time is of the essence. Ablah starts his workday at 5 a.m. And every morning at 11:25, like clockwork he walks down his office hallway and offers to buy lunch for anyone who will join him at his big heart-shaped desk, and chat. He knows all about relationships. The loyal friendships he’s made throughout his life have helped carry him through any rough patches. Because even the best gambler runs out of luck sometimes. 

      And the true measure of any person in any setting is how they perform when things aren’t going their way. “When most would fold up their tent and say, ‘I’m done,’ he kept going,” says son Jeff, who works in the family business in investments. (Ablah has another son who also works at Ablah Enterprises and focuses on oil.)

      Each time, Ablah has come back, successful once again. Jeff remembers the day his dad “lost a huge deal, and went on with his normal day. ‘Don’t you want to go play some golf, or go home awhile?’ he asked his dad. But Ablah doesn’t waste time thinking about things he can’t change. Do that, he told his son, and “you lose that moment forever.”

      A bleu cheese dressing fan, when Ablah sampled a particularly tasty batch in Colorado, he immediately asked the restaurant owner for the recipe. He was led out to a barn, and was shown the large wooden bucket where it was made. Ablah wanted the recipe for himself, so he bought it and formed a company called Swiss Chalet. Even now, the mini croutons sold in grocery stores as Crispins, are the remaining signs of his salad days. When he sold Swiss Chalet, he briefly became the largest individual shareholder of the Clorox Company.

      There came a point in Ablah’s life when he sometimes flew to three different cities in one day before arriving back home in Wichita. And so, he became partners with Jack DeBoer, and bought out DeBoer Aviation. Then he made his pilot, Ron Ryan, a full partner, and formed Ryan Aviation. The pair later sold it to a public company called PHH before Ryan bought it back again.

      Along the way, he also became a golf course developer. Willowbend was to become the first for him, but so far, it’s his one and only. He simply wanted to prove one needn’t be a millionaire to enjoy the perpetually green scenery and spend time out on the fairways.

      Equal access is a theme that runs through another project, this one on a tremendously creative scale. When Ablah became the largest owner of Henry Moore sculptures in the world, he offered to loan several pieces to New York City. People who typically didn’t see the inside of an art gallery ought to see the inspiring works of one of the world’s most renowned artists, he thought. So he wanted to place the sculptures outdoors, in the city’s parks and boroughs.

      Fearing the priceless work would become victim to graffiti and vandalism, Mayor Ed Koch wanted to wall off the artwork with guards and fences. But Ablah said no, and took personal responsibility for the art himself. As if some divine force were protecting it, Moore’s sculptures remained untouched the entire year they were on exhibit. Time Magazine would publish a book about the unique outdoor installation, calling it the “Museum without Walls.”

      He met Moore, became a friend of his. And yet, over the course of his lifetime, through all his accomplishments, Ablah has been most proud of his family. First and foremost, he told his kids, you are Christian. The reason your family fled to America is because other religious groups were killing and persecuting Christian Arabs.

      The second thing he told them was, you are not Lebanese, you’re an American of Lebanese descent. Speaking English was important at the Ablah household. In fact, the only two Arabic words his son Jeff used on a regular basis as a child were jiddy, which means grandfather, and sitty (grandmother). It was important that George took one of his children to eat breakfast with sitty every Sunday morning. “Grandma had a premium influence on Dad’s life,” Jeff says.

      Ablah’s mother came over to America as a young girl with not much more than an orange, which was given to her with the advice to only eat it if she really, really got hungry. When Sitty died, her family found that orange in her dresser drawer, dried up and shrunk to the size of a marble.

      He may form a partnership with someone, but if the business has anything to do with real estate or something he’s very adept at, he won’t take a back seat. In fact, he won’t answer to a board of directors. He can’t ask someone for permission. He’s got to be on his own. And he certainly isn’t concerned with what others think. A true individualist, he tells his son, “I’ve gotta go when I’ve gotta go.”As Jeff says, “He’s so real, and he won’t put on any airs. He dances to his own song.”

      At this point, Ablah shows no signs of slowing down. His goal is to live to be 129, and all he’ll need, he says, is a new set of eyes and organs, and he’ll just keep right on rolling.