UPFRONT April 9, 2007 Issue

Stretching for humility—on the very top shelf

KIM SHIPPEY, SENIOR WRITER

As a rookie radio announcer at a noncommercial station, I landed the least desirable shifts. I often opened the station at 5.00 a.m. with bird calls and "suitable music," and regularly closed the transmission with "suitable music" (including the national anthem)—with a zillion menial tasks in between.

I would never have survived or been promoted to prime time had it not been for the station's record librarian, Charles—the shyest, gentlest person I've ever worked with. He had soft brown eyes and a laugh that tinkled like the brooks that crossed his beloved Yorkshire moors, where, I believe, he was born. He didn't talk much about himself. His life purpose, I gradually realized, was to serve God—and his fellow broadcasters—as promptly, humbly, and efficiently as he could, day or night.

I only had to hint at my needs for a show, and without saying a word, Charles would climb to the top of the library ladder, stretch for a record sleeve, and carefully clamber back down, cradling the vinyl disk as though it were a two-week-old baby. As he descended, he would evaluate the performance, suggest what I might learn from such artistry, and then say quietly, "And what else can I do for you today?"

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