A long time ago, when Henry Ford was the first automobile baron and the news media was more polite, Mr. Ford got caught in a bit of mischief and when he later was asked about his frolic, his reply was more of a classic than his Model-T. “I don’t complain and I don’t explain,” he said.

That one sentence should become every playful man’s creed. It was brought to memory earlier this week when a very colorful and lovable character was found with his beloved pickup truck in a ditch and four empty beers cans rattling on the floorboard.

Unlike the great majority to many who are caught after too much of the grape, his picture was splashed across TV sets and newspaper pages. When contacted, he very wisely had no comment. Most who are arrested “under the influence” slip under the public radar, their comeuppance coming from just the glare of the judge.

But in this case, because he was labeled by the media as “a high-profile attorney,” he drew an extra measure of scrutiny and, in my opinion, that’s not fair; we ought to treat all off those who stumble in the same manner. There is no need to add further disgrace to momentary disgust which brings up a greater point.

I have found that when things go bad – beer cans in a pickup, for instance – the hearty and hale are quick to change towards others while only the true friends stand firm. Nowhere in the world is that more illustrated than in just about any church you care to name.

My “indian name” at churches is “Howsyourarm?” I’ve written before that after a lengthy scrap with a bad elbow and subsequent infections my right arm is most ornamental. That’s been a problem that has drawn years of prayer, anguished deacons and sympathetic glances on Sunday mornings.

But a bad arm is a “good” kind of problem whereas a DUI charge, the preacher’s daughter getting pregnant, or a gay child with AIDS in just the opposite. Church people love broken legs, cases of hives and other “nice” maladies but like a lot of regular folk will actually change sidewalks before they’ll comfort a good guy who has gotten himself in an embarrassing position or a girl who suddenly must wear a scarlet letter.

My habit is the minute I hear of a fallen angel who I know, I try to send a card the same day. Oh, I don’t condone a friend getting drunk or a baby being born out of wedlock but God help me if I ever turn my back of a friend who has just made a mistake. Let me be the guy who dusts off the britches, who picks up the struggler and urges, “Let’s try a little harder.”

The greatest mentors I’ve had in my life were all “enablers,” people whose gracious grasp has found many a reaching hand and then made a difference in countless folks. No, it doesn’t work every time and, yeah, I’ve been conned before and I will be again. But I am meant to try in honor of those who have helped me.

I believe folks who misbehave must “pay the fiddler after the dance” and I believe that the trick to any mistake is to learn the lesson from it. But I’ll be the guy to drive ‘em home from the jail or hold their coat while they take their whipping because that’s where there are the most vacancies in all of life. It’s something indeed to “stand by your man” when he least deserves it.

As a matter of fact, if you’ll study the Bible you’ll soon find the guys that Jesus helped weren’t exactly bright and shiny. Go look at that collection of rouges and then try to convince me our goal, if we are to be Christ-like, is not to search out “the least of them” and show we care.

While I am disappointed when the mighty slip, I’m comforted by the fact that in most cases, including my pickup-truck driver, his contributions to us as a people far outweigh his transgressions and those who are quick to point should remember that had he been less of a public figure, the story line would have been diminished to its standard fare.

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