THOUGHTS FROM MY HEART

COW TIPPING AND SNIPE HUNTING

2012-01-26T11:42:00.001-06:00

Two of our favorite pastimes in my preteen and early teen years were cow tipping and snipe hunting. It was a past time for the country since everyone knew that snipe don’t live in the city and most cities have ordinances that forbid keeping livestock within the city limits.

I had a good friend; Charlie, the frog, so named because of his resemblance to, you guessed it—a frog. Charlies' mother had a difficult time in delivering him. He was trapped in the birth canal for some 15 minutes and the pressure on his head from her frequent and powerful contractions caused his eyes to bug out and his nose to flatten. It was supposed to self-correct over time, but it didn't. Charlie’s daddy had a dairy farm just on the outskirts of town and ran a 80 or so head of cows. It was a short bicycle ride to the dairy where there were plenty of cows from which to choose.

On Friday or other non-school nights we would gather around dusk dark and ride out to the farm. There were always a couple of guys or gals that had never had the excitement of cow tipping so we would invite one or two along for the evening’s activities. The novices were sworn to secrecy on fear of being covered in blueish purple or purpulish blue paint—(the color of cowards) who couldn’t keep secrets. We actually had to paint little Jimmy Johnson for breaking the code of silence. No one ever let the secret slip after that fateful evening.

Anyway, as I was saying, we gathered around dusk dark and off we would go, the excitement building as we rounded each curve. It was pretty dark when we arrived at the dairy and by that time, Charlie the Frog would have picked out the objects for the evening’s fun. The larger the cow the better it would be. The best evenings were when the moon was full or nearly so which gave us enough light to see what we were doing. Actually we needed the light to keep from stepping right in the middle of a big old cow paddy.

Quietly and slowly, we headed out to the pasture and gathered near the sleeping cow. Now you have to understand that cows, when sleeping can lock their knees so they don’t fall over, but the locked knees make tipping possible because they can’t react quickly as they are falling over.

When we were all gathered, the first task was to paint the cow a bluish purple of a purplish blue. This had to be done with great care so as not to startle the cow. We painted the cow so that we could point her out as the victim of our stunt. “Just ride by the Pogue Dairy when the cows are at pasture and the one that is bluish purple is the victim,” we would say.

Next one of us experienced tippers would pair up with a novice, (cows are large so it generally took 2 people to push one over). We approached the cow from one side or the other, being sure that there were no stumps or big rocks the cow could fall on when she fell over. Then the two of us would place our hands about midway along the cow’s side and push. A quick push simply wouldn’t work since the cow would rebound to the upright position, if she wasn’t pushed past her center of gravity. Rather, it took a slow and steady push continuing to push as she went over.

The poor old cow would hit the ground with a thump, startling her awake. She would then moo, struggle to her feet and take off at a fast run. We always tried to choose a cow on the periphery of the herd so she wouldn’t startle the others and start a stampede. If we were careful and quiet we could tip two or three cows on cow tipping night.

Nights when we couldn’t go cow tipping we went snipe hinting, which was nearly as fun and there was no danger of being stomped by stampeding cows. No one ever heard of snipe running in herds. The very best times for getting good sized snipe is in late spring and early summer and then in late summer and early fall. The best size for eating was when the snipe has grown to 2-3 pounds. Snipe can’t fly so their breast meat is the very best. It is white, very tender and tastes sorta like chicken, but it isn’t chicken.

The object of snipe hunting is to catch a snipe in a brown paper sack. Plastic bags simply won’t work since the snipe are repelled when you rub the bag causing a buildup of static electricity. Snipe are funny looking birds with long beaks and moderately long legs. They roam around in the woods at night looking for small critters they can spear with their long beaks and then with a flip of the head, the snipe catches the potential meal in its mouth and swallows it. Snipe have a pretty easy life since no other animals predate them because they give off a god awful stink when threatened and then vomit and poop on anything foolish enough to mess with them.

We would find a nice, flat spot, build a campfire, and then gather the novices around. One of the most fun things about snipe hunting is that you can take several novices, not just one, or two. Each novice is given a brown paper sack and shown the precise way to open it; hold it between their legs, and gently stroke it along the side. Even though we can’t hear the ultra-high frequency that stroking the bag generates, the snipe certainly can and if any are near they come running. When the snipe sees the open mouth of the bag, they think it is their nest hole and run right in. Then quickly you close the mouth of the bag and you’ve got it. Now comes the tricky part. Unless you hold the bag just right, the snipe, if realizing it is caught will start to vomit and poop. Keep the bag flat, moving it gently and the snipe soon, feeling secure, will go to sleep.

When the snipe is in a deep sleep, you can gently open the bag, reach in and quickly grab the snipe by the beak, then you rapidly move to the chopping block and with a good strong whack with a hatchet separate the head from the body. It is important to immediately hang the snipe by its feet to a nearby branch so it can bleed out. One of the grosses things of which I am aware is trying to eat a snipe that has not been thoroughly bled. Unlike chickens, dove and other game birds, plucking the snipe is quite easy. Run your index finger of your right hand between the skin and the meaty part of the neck. As you do this, you push gently with your finger while rotating it around the neck, holding the body of the bird with the left hand. Soon the skin begins to separate from the body and then you can remove the rest of the skin and feathers just like taking off a sock. This needs to be done quickly since the next step is important. The minute the skin is removed you need to remove the entrails. Snipe become rancid quickly if the entrails aren’t quickly removed without spilling any intestinal contents.

Prepare the Dutch oven which is a cast iron pot with 3-4 three inch legs. The lid is made with a ridge around the top so that coals can be placed on it without sliding off. Fill the Dutch oven ¾ o0f the way full with water adding new potatoes, baby carrots, sliced onion, salt and pepper to suit your taste. Now sit the Dutch oven over hot coals and wait for the water to come to a rolling boil.

Dust the snipe thoroughly inside and out with Uncle Homer’s Spiced Mountain Oysters (Uncle Homer’s Spiced Mountain Oysters are sheep testicles which have been dried over an open hickory fire, then when thoroughly dried they are ground with nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice, cumin, thyme, coriander, crushed black pepper, and dried smoked cracked corn). It can generally be found on a lower shelf under the cash register covered with a denim cloth since it is illegal to sell, supposedly because there are no health criterion from which to determine its safety for human consumption. It can be hard to find unless you have to hire a local to make the purchase until you establish yourself as a regular in town. If you are fortunate enough to know a moonshiner, they usually have it available, or maybe even a Watkins Product salesman. Uncle Homer’s Spiced Mountain Oysters is not part of the Watkins line, but you know how salespeople are.

When the Snipe are prepared drop them into the boiling water, put the lid on the Dutch oven, place a goodly pile of hot ashes to cover the lid and then wait. It takes about12 hours for the snipe to be cooked to full tenderness and for the spices to fully permeate the meat. When the snipe is fully cooked it can be plated on a bed of poke salad with the juice from cooking drizzled over the whole thing. This is an important step since poke salad is poisonous unless treated properly. Add several slices of Colonial white bread, no other bread works as well, and you have a meal fit for a king. One snipe will feed two people quite adequately.

This is a wonderful outdoor event for friends and neighbors to share in the excitement of a hunt followed by the gratification that comes with fellowship over a meal that you caught and cooked over an open fire.

If you have any reservations about any of the above, check it out on Snopers.com, Urban Legions.com or the Mountain Guide to Peculiar Bird Preparation.

Copyright 2012, Jack deJarnette

SAVING MARTIN

2011-12-17T16:26:00.000-06:00

We developed an interest in herons years ago while experimenting with a koi pond. The pond was about 4 feet in diameter and 2 feet deep. The depth was supposedly sufficient to give the koi adequate depth to escape any predators. We also built places under which the fish could hide. When the pond was properly balanced and ready we added six koi. We started with 4 gold fish and 2 koi that were extremely elegant with long flowing fins and tail.

Over the next several weeks we enjoyed the pond and trained the koi to hand feed. One afternoon I went out to feed the koi and noticed that 2 of the smaller fish were missing. I searched around the pond, thinking they might have jumped out, but found no carcasses. Later in the week two more disappeared and then the last two. That afternoon, as I searched for the cause, I saw the shadow of a large bird fly overhead. Yep it was a large blue heron. He lit on the roof directly over the koi pond and walked back and forth examining the pond in detail. Ah, I thought, there is my culprit. He is the fish thief.

We tried several would be fixes to keep the heron from eating the fish, but he outsmarted us every time so finally I realized I was feeding this big old bird gourmet meals (my koi had cost $6.00 each) when hot dogs would serve as well. We trained the heron to come to the back yard, named him Henry, and developed an interesting relationship. Each evening between 5:00 and 5:30 pm, Henry would pay us a visit. We would sit on the patio and break up hot dogs for him. Henry became very tame and liked to feed from our hand. We never forgot that he was wild and always were very cautious in out interaction with him. His nine inch beak was a constant reminder of the damage he could do if he so choose.

If we were inattentive when Henry made his visit, he would walk over and tap on the patio door until we acknowledged him. I am sure that he would have walked right on in if we had allowed him to, but I doubted that he was house trained and if you have ever been near a heron when nature called you certainly would regret it if it happened in the house. The stench from heron poop is beyond gross.

We enjoyed Henry for a couple of years until the B.P. oil spill. He must have gotten caught up in it since one day he simply stopped his visits. We all miss Henry, especially out youngest granddaughter, Anna Catherine. This leads me into the story that Anna wants to tell, she dictated it on my tape recorder and I transcribed it for her, so mostly in her words here is the story of :

Saving Martin, By Anna Catherine Eiser, 7 years old:

(Anna and our other grandchildren call their grandmother BeBe)

“We were on a walk one day. And then we stopped at a park to have some lunch. And then we saw a heron who was not flying. And then I walked up close to him to see why he didn’t fly, then I ran back to BeBe. I told her that he had fishhooks stuck in him and was wrapped with wire and string. I was very very sad. He couldn’t fly or walk because the wire from the hooks was wrapped around his wings and legs. And then he just fell over on his chest and wouldn’t you know it, it was because of two of the fish hooks that got stuck in him. Bebe grabbed his beak and I started crying my eyes out because it was so sad. But we got some fish hooks out. We called the Wild Life Sanctuary and they told us how to get to their office and how to handle the heron, without hurting him or him hurting us. I named him Martin. We ran home and got eyeglasses, gloves and a blanket to go back to get Martin. Our friend Rev. Jeremy Mount who was visiting my grand daddy went with us. We were going to catch him and take him to the wildlife sanctuary, but when we got back he was a little bit stronger and could walk and even fly a little, but he still had a fish hook stuck in him, but we had gotten all of the wire and string off of him. As we walked toward him, he flew away and got far enough away that we couldn’t catch him. We prayed the he could get enough water and a few fish so he would be okay. I sure did want to help him and hope that he will be okay.”

When Anna finished telling me the story we discussed how wonderfully diverse nature is and how we are charged to care for it. The motive to end pain and suffering, even in animals, is a noble and proper attitude since they have been entrusted to us, as has the entire planet. Over the course of the afternoon, we had a couple more periods of crying for Martin, but then we said a prayer for him and agreed that God would care for him.

It was deeply moving for me to see the heart of compassion in this precious child. The episode started me thinking. How does compassion develop in some 7 year olds, but not in others? Is it nature or nurture? Are some children born with a caring spirit while others must be trained to care about others? I thought about my own life. I have a very caring spirit. I can’t remember when I wasn’t like this. As a child, I cared for injured animals in my neighborhood. Both of my careers have been devoted to caring professions.

I ask why because if there is an answer that we can find, maybe we can develop a more caring people, thus more caring societies, more caring national goals, ultimately living in a world where the hungry are fed, the thirsty have water, the homeless are housed, wars are ended and life is good for everyone.

I am not so naive as to think this will become a reality. As I look back over the ten thousand years of history, it is apparent that we haven’t made much headway, but who knows, it could happen. I dare to hope because without hope life seems ultimately meaningless.

THE BEST AND THE WORST OF TIMES

2011-10-29T16:45:00.001-05:00

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only”.

Charles Dickens, “A Tale of Two Cities”.

I read “A Tale of Two Cities”, the first time as a senior in high school. Dickens set the story in the days of the French Revolution, about 1775. Recently these opening words have repeatedly popped into my mind, which started me thinking of how appropriate they are to our America today.

For some it is the best of times while for others it is the worst of times. People can’t find jobs, house foreclosures continue at an alarming rate, people have to decide between life saving medications or life sustaining food. Everything seems to be getting more and more expensive while the value of our dollar is declining in worth. For far too many it is the worst of times.

For my wife and me, it might just be among the best of times. I am on medical disability with a reasonable income, we have a comfortable home, we have a wonderful married relationship and two super children. While my health is poor, we have the resources to provide the medicines that keep me reasonably healthy. My grandchildren are all well. Life has been most fulfilling. So things are better than just okay for us.

We live in an age of wisdom where more is understood about our solar system our planet, our bodies, and our environment than ever before. However, I question whether our wisdom is truly wisdom or mere knowledge. We know incredible things, but how do we use them for the betterment of humankind.

We also live in a time of blatant ignorance. We are looking to other countries for scientists and engineers since we are doing such a poor job of training our own. Countless children are being promoted and graduated from school without basic skills. We are determined to let political correctness prevent our recognition of some basic facts about nutrition, home life, and discipline, which keep us from taking the necessary corrective actions. When college graduates cannot identify France on a world map, something is terribly wrong. We have technology that literally puts the world of knowledge at our fingertips, but how do we use it?

We claim to be a people of belief, but are actually a people of unbelief (incredulity).Eighty-three percent of Americans profess to be Christians yet only fifteen percent claim that their belief has any significant impact on their lives. Thirty-seven percent say they are Evangelicals, yet where is the evidence of the belief system they (we) profess (Census and ABC poll). With all the hateful stuff that so many “born-again” Christians say and do, I am almost ashamed to admit that I am one of them.

The season of Light or Darkness simply depends on where one happens to live. Inner-city ghettos may be cesspools of darkness where drugs and violence rule the night (and day) and that darkness is encroaching on our middle class neighborhoods. The internet is rapidly becoming a place where the most heinous crimes are being planned and committed, while bringing us the opportunity to be more enlightened that ever in history. Even people in the least developed countries often have internet access which brings them into the light of discovery.

Think through the rest of Dickens’s statement and see the parallels for yourself. It is patently obvious to me that we must see and acknowledge where we are. For without self-awareness there can be no change and if there is no change, we are doomed to the same fate as the civilizations that have gone before us.

This isn’t a political party issue. Democrats, republicans, tea-partiers, wall-street campers, independents, nor libertarians are going to correct these problems. The only solution that I see is that we must get in touch with whom we once were and return to those values. Values that bind us together not drive us further and further apart. Values that recognize every human being as persons of sacred worth, values that see the education of our children as our future and not just a drain on our economy, values that assure an honest day's wages for an honest day's work, values that recognize happiness and fulfillment in life are worthwhile achievements to pursue.

I am not deluded enough to believe that our country has ever perfected these values, but we believed in them as a people and many gave life and limb to protect the values that we professed.

President John F. Kennedy said it best in his inaugural address when he said, “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country”. We must find our way from being a nation of takers to being a nation of givers. It is the only way reclaim our greatness once again.

I don’t have a clue as to how we get there, I just know that if we are to prevail, we must find the way. As America becomes more and more divided between those having the worst of times and those having the best of times the danger of revolution grows ever more likely and that potential seriously frightens me.

TREASURES

2011-09-30T22:20:00.000-05:00

Today I read a thought from a friend about treasures. It started me thinking. When I was 9 or 10 my best friend in the whole world, Georgie Rast, and I found what appeared to be a cave on the side of a creek that ran through the woods near our neighborhood. We knew without a doubt that we had found the entrance to a Confederate cache. There was no telling just what treasures were to be found simply by digging into the creek bank. We were certain that some battle had fought there during the War of Northern Aggression since we often dug minie balls from trees in that area.

Each afternoon after school, we headed for our secret cache. We took turns digging into that creek bank for all we were worth. As we dug, we discovered what appeared to be a fairly large hollow space. It was at the base of a huge pine tree growing right on the bank of the creek. That encouraged us to dig even more fervently since that very tree had yielded several minie balls. The digging was arduous since as mere boys, we didn’t have any tools except our hands with which to dig.

Determined to find a better and faster way to dig, we thought about what might be suitable tools. I found an old Plymouth hubcap from a 1949 automobile, actually it came off of my Mother’s car one evening when she and Daddy were away at some church function. They figured it must have popped off when Mother hit a pothole. Mother drove that car with three hubcaps until I returned the “borrowed” one at the dug’s end. Ah, potholes, that’s a topic for another day.

Georgie had a number 10 can that he snitched from his mother’s pantry. He opened the top with one of those can openers that you can no longer find. You stuck a pointed tip through the can top and then worked it up and down around the can until the top was almost liberated. If you unzipped the lid too far it fell into the can and then removing it was hazardous. With the last upward pull, the can tip lifted up just enough to get a fork tine into and pry it up enough to work back and forth until it broke free. Having worked the top loose one had to be extremely careful in removing it. Even more caution had to be used in handling the can since the edges were covered with pointed spurs. Georgie, then dug a hole in the backyard and poured the beets into it. It is a statement about canned beets in those days that my dog, “Blackie”, didn’t dig them up to eat.

Blackie my wonder dug, being part hound, had an incredible sense of smell and loved nothing better than digging up really, really rotten stuff to either eat or roll in. It didn’t much matter to him which he did, but he kept several feet away from the buried beets.

Anyway, with our newly found tools, Georgie and I dug with a new furor. We couldn’t dig every day since we went home covered with clay and dirt. Our mothers questioned how we got so dirty and we didn’t want to divulge the secret of the Confederate cache, we made some feeble excuse. We decided to dig every other day and on non dig days we would recline on the creeks’ edge by our

hoped for our treasure trove and dream of what we would do when we were world famous treasure hunters and independently wealthy.

We could go to downtown Atlanta on our own in a limousine driven by our own man who wouldn’t tell our mothers and daddies what we were doing and eat all the Krystals our stomachs could hold. We could eat all the B B Bats, Red Vines Licorice, Charms, Necco Wafers that we could stuff into our mouths. We could buy R.C. Colas and Moon Pies by the case and we never had to return the bottles a silly 3 cents refund. We could buy our own super constellation and fly to exotic places like Xanadu. We had no idea where Xanadu was, but by gum, we wanted to go there. We knew all about Super Constellations from watching the mousekateers on the black and white TV. (We were just slightly to young to appreciate the beauty of Annette Funicello. That would come later).We spent hours smoking candy cigarettes just thinking of what our fortunes would allow us to do. We thought it would be wonderful to buy our own home and only allow our mothers and fathers to visit at Thanksgiving and Christmas. We would not have to invite our younger sisters and brothers at all.

On our dig days, we worked at a furious pace since our dig time had been dramatically reduced and we had to be home by suppertime. We didn’t get out of school until 3:30 pm so we only had a little time to dig. As we dug, we continued to find evidence of small openings. They were small and torturous hollows in the dirt and encouraged us to keep on digging. I being the bolder one did most of the digging while Georgie hauled away the cast off and dumped it discretely in the creek. We didn’t want anyone to notice the increase of sediment downstream, which might give us away. I don’t have a clue how we knew that, but we did.

We dug so deeply that I was in the hole up to my knees and vision became a problem. When I squirmed into the hold, my body blocked the light and kept it from coming in. Both my Mother and Georgie’s had some candles, so we snitched what we dared. Both of our fathers smoked so we could get matches without a problem. We put a candle in an old RC bottle and lit it. Then I held it in front of me as I squirmed into the cave. Within a couple of minutes, the candle went out and I got short of breath. We tried it a second time and the same thing happened. We decided that I should just dig blind. I didn’t need to see what I was doing.

One afternoon we really got excited. I was surely almost to the cache. I had to contort my body in strange ways to continue to dig. Then, I saw a glimmer of light, gust a glimmer, but it was there for sure. It never occurred to us that our cache, being underground would be as dark as night. We had to stop since dark was rapidly approaching and we knew if we didn’t get home in time to clean up for supper, there would be no supper, only early bed time and restriction for a week. We both ran as if the very devil was chasing us and barely made the deadline. Georgie was going to spend the night with me since it was a Friday and we could get an early start the next morning.

When we awoke at sunrise on Saturday morning, we could hardly contain our excitement. We knew that this would be the day. We would leave my house poor as paupers and come home in the afternoon as multi-thousand-aires. (In those days no one spoke of millions). Mother made us eat breakfast in spite of our protests. As we ran through the living room, Daddy called to us from behind his paper and reminded us that there was to be no running in the house. We slowed to a walk and as soon as we hit the sidewalk, we were off again knowing that by that afternoon we would have our own house and could run all we wanted to.

We got to the creek bank; I took the hubcap, squirmed into the hole, and started to dig. I was in the darndest contortion that you could imagine seeming to constantly be drawn to the right. It was okay since I was right-handed and laying on my left side was the best digging position. As I dug there was more and more light and I became more and more excited. Suddenly, the dirt in front of me fell away and I looked up in awe and amazement to see Georgies’ face staring at me with sadness and disappointment filling his eyes. There might have even been a tear or two. I had dug a complete circle around the base of that huge pine tree. Sadly, there was no tunnel, no Confederate cache, no vast amount of treasure and we had to go home to our “no running rules” and “nickel a week allowance”. We were devastated.

How often do children dream of buried treasure? Everyone did in my childhood days. However, of greater interest to me today is why adults spend their time dreaming of treasures; digging in holes, going in circles hoping for that cache that would bring ultimate fulfillment only to come to the end of the tunnel and see Georgie’s face staring at you with sad, disappointed eyes. It is not Georgies’ face at all, but only our own face looking back from a mirror.

The truth is that treasures are all around us every day of our lives. Have you ever stopped to watch the sunrise through some high cumulous clouds or if you like me, a sunset? Who could seek a finer treasure? Flowers bloom in all around us. People plant wonderful flowerbeds and never stop to view the magnificent colors and inhale the incredible smells. Birds singing in the morning awaken us as they sing their love songs to hopeful mates and fledging babies, do we stop and listen? Mornings, even the rainiest and gloomiest awake us with a wonder that cannot be described or captured by the finest artists. These are the treasures that are free for the taking.

To awaken in the morning without pain is a treasure. To awaken in the morning with pain is a treasure. To breathe, to eat, to drink; all are treasures that we take for granted until we are denied them. Work is a treasure, medicine is a treasure, transportation is a treasure, electricity is a treasure, friends are a treasure, children are a treasure, and grandchildren might just be the treasure of all. Yet, if we aren’t careful we miss them while digging pointless holes in the ground seeking what can never bring true fulfillment.

Sometimes I want to scream, just stop! Stop digging, stop dreaming, stop seeking, and enjoy what is. Don’t mistake me, work is good, ambition is good, but the greatest things are ours free for our enjoyment. We must protect them, nurture them, and most importantly enjoy them. The greatest treasures in the world are free.

A MEDICINE THAT HEALS ALL DISEASES

2011-09-21T20:04:00.001-05:00

"Praise the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits--

who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion, who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's."

Psalm 103:2-5 (NIV).

"Praise the Lord, O my soul," is my song this morning and I truly want it to be my song every morning. Praise Him, bless Him, honor Him, worship Him, glory in Him, adore Him and love Him with all my heart.

"And forget not all His benefits," for they are endless. He gives me air and water, light and darkness; from his wealth I enjoy provisions and shelter, clothes and comforts. My car runs on his oil and rolls across r the ground on his rubber. My desk is made of his wood and the cloth of my chair is made from his fiber. Those are just the simplest of things. The roof over my head, the food that I eat, the wife that I love, the children who have honored me with their being, grandchildren I adore, are all part of his benefits to me. I could go on for pages, but I challenge you to complete the list for yourself.

"He forgives all my sins." Not just yesterdays sins, or the ones I confess, or the ones from which I repent, but ALL of my sins. Oh my, what a wonderful word "all" is. Because the Psalmist was inspired by God's Spirit to write "all," God means every single solitary sin from the least to the absolute worst. Not only does he forgive them he removes them as far as the east is from the west. Because of what Jesus has done, my Father blots my sin and transgression from his memory. Thank You, O my Lord for surely, if you did not do so I would surely be consumed.

"He heals all my diseases." Think about the word disease and see it as it really is dis-ease. The word does not necessarily mean illness. It means a state of spiritual uneasiness. It means to be ill at ease or to be in a state of unrest. All people, including Christians will die of a disease, but we don't have to die dis-eased, we can die at peace, at rest. Over the years of my life I have attended many people as they shed their earth suits and left this gnarly old world behind. My Christian friends died at peace, often in extreme pain and horrible cirumstances, but at peace.

"Who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion." What a God is our God. Have you ever been where I have, sitting at the rock bottom of the pit of dispair? The only way down is death and the only way out is up? But there is no way to go up alone. The walls are slick with the slime of the life I created. I was in a pit of my own making. Fast living filled with every excess had led me down and down while I believed all the time I was going up. Incredible success was mine, but I simply didn't have the moral fiber to resist the temptation for more and more.Then one day I looked in the mirror and was sickened at the face that liiked back at me. It was my face, but the me that I had been raised to be was not looking back at me. No, I saw a face that terrified me and I realized where I was, in the pit. Dear God, if you are there please help, I cried out and something happened. He lifted me from the pit with gentleness and compassion. He didn't chastize me, he didn't browbeat me, he crowned me with utter and absolute love and said, "My son, I have waited for you to come home. I've been with you all the way, but you wouldn't take my hand."

"Who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's."
He did just that. First, He restored the joy to my soul, he changed my desires and as they changed, he fulfilled them. I didn't get young again, but my spirit began to soal like that of an eagle. Higher and higher I flew. Life became as beautiful as God always intended. Still today, there is part of me that is young, fresh, filled with enthusiasm and love and I know that even at this place in life, my purpose is not fulfilled.

Here is how it works. God is absolute sovereign over all things so simply believe, call on him, open your heart to him and in some mysterious way Jesus will simply slide up beside you and be the one who sustains you. He will nurture and nourish your soul and give you peace, the peace that passes all understanding. The Holy Spirit will join with your spirit and teach you wonderful and mysterions things, things you could never know and will empower you to do incredible things, things that bless you and others in ways you may never realize or understand.

"PRAISE THE LORD, ALL MY SOUL."

WORDS, OH WHAT THE HECK

2011-09-14T22:19:00.000-05:00

How often do you stop and think about the impact of the words you use when speaking to others? Not only do words make a difference, the tone and volume with which you speak them make a great difference also.

Remember that saying your momma taught you the first time you came home with your heart broken from something someone said to you: "Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words will never hurt you". That is a well-meaning lie. Since sticks and stones can break your bones and words can rip your heart out in a way no stick or stone could ever come close to doing.

Similarly, a kind and gentle word, spoken from the heart can literally turn the bleakest of days to radiant sunshine.

I once heard a nationally known educator use the illustration of seeing everyone you meet as carrying a basket of rocks on their backs. You can add another rock or take one out of the basket thus adding to the load or diminishing it. How simple.

Recently I have developed a bad habit. When I go through the check-out line at a store, I routinely ask the checker how they are. The answer that most often comes back is, “Okay”, or “Just Fine”. As I ask the question, I attempt to look in the eye of the responder. So often their face is pinched or there is an almost tear forming. When I see that, I follow up with something like, “Really, are you telling me the truth”. The responses are incredible. Only once or twice has someone told me the story of his or her pain. But, at other times, I have heard something like, “Thank you for asking”. I know then that I have taken a rock out of a heavy basket. I call it a bad habit because I sometimes hold up the line. When I do that I look at the person behind me and smile. I’ve never been physically assaulted but, I suspect that I’ve come close. I have had people bump me with their carts and when that happens I say a popcorn prayer for them.

I believe that in our society today most people are carrying a basket so heavy that one or two more rocks will simply break their back. We all need a bit of unloading and it is so easy. A simple sincerely spoken, “Thank you”, can make a huge difference. A smile can unwind a ton of tension. Just offer one and see what comes back.

It is extremely sad that we live in a society of isolation. Unless a person is well connected to a church, a social group, a community, or some other kind of organization we live and die with our pain, never having another to assist us in carrying the load.

When I grew up we knew everyone in our neighborhood. Not just next door, but around the corner in both directions and for a block or two beyond. When there was pain in a family, we all knew it and helped in some way. The same was true when I entered the ministry 30 years ago, but today, gosh what a different story. I know a couple of our neighbors, but certainly not all. Several years ago we attempted to start a Christmas Open House, visiting each neighbor for a bit of refreshment and fellowship. It worked for two years, but then it fell by the wayside. We knew the same few we did when we started.

I don’t have any answers, just a deep sadness that the changes we are experiencing as a society are allowing us to drift further and further apart instead of closer and closer when, more that ever we need each other.

Oh well, just remember to lighten a load when the opportunity is presented.

THE MIRACLE OF PRAYER

2011-09-11T22:19:00.000-05:00

I have been plagued with abdominal pain for years. A number of years ago the doctors decided my gallbladder should come out and that would fix things. It did, come out, but it didn’t fix anything. Several years later, it was determined that my problem was related to diverticulitis. Thirteen inches of colon were removed and the pain increased, didn’t diminish at all. For the past two and a half years or so, the pain has often been so intense that I simply couldn’t function. I have been to specialist after specialist and had every test that could devised with no diagnosis. Doctors simply scratched their heads and said, “hum”. (You have probably experienced that yourself). After a pregnant pause would come a, “Well why don’t we try this?” “This” whatever this was, didn’t work and occasionally even made things worse.

For the past four months, Percocet has kept the pain within tolerable limits. It was never gone, but was bearable. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in months. It became almost impossible to do stuff like write or think clearly. Beverly wouldn’t let me near the driver’s side of the car and even hid the keys. God forbid that I got on the internet and pulled out a credit card. I was a pitiful excuse of a human being. I couldn’t even enjoy the grandchildren when they came for the weekend and missed a family week at the beach. Now I hope you are feeling really bad for me and you have shed a tear or to. But, I implore you to read on.

Last Sunday, September 4^th, I awoke to a totally different experience. I opened my eyes, sat up in bed and thought, “What’s wrong?” The alarm hadn’t gone off, the phone hadn’t rung, Mitzi hadn’t barked, but there was something that startled me awake. I reached over to the bedside table, put on my glasses looked around and then it hit me like a ton of bricks. The pain was gone, I mean just flat gone.

Today is the eighth day that I have not had pain. It is almost like being born again. We have actually had fun this past week. We’ve been to movies, visited with friends, made a trip to Magnolia Springs to have lunch with a classmate and I just don’t know what all. I can actually think right clearly, well, as clearly as ever being A.D.D. I am excited about writing again. Mitzi and I won’t need two naps every day and life looks bright once again.

Last week at Bible study my pastor was reviewing the history of the Jewish people leading up to the exiles and he used the phrase, “Period of exile”, and I realized that is exactly what I have endured. I have no idea why. I’m sure that I learned some things, but until I have had some time to think about them I won’t be able to communicate them. But, there is one thing that I can say for certain that I have learned. I have learned how chronic pain can rob you of life. It steals joy. It steals vision. It steals hope. It steals interest. Chronic pain can put one in a place of lifelessness.

Today I am more thankful for the past eight days than I could have ever thought possible. If I awake tomorrow with the pain having returned, I will still rejoice for the past eight days.

Now to the real substance of what I am writing about. It wasn’t medication that cured me. It wasn’t medical expertise, although I am thankful to every doctor that I saw for their care and persistence in trying to help me. The only conceivable reason for the relief that I am enjoying is the prayer of God’s people. Once again, I have experienced a miracle. It isn’t because of my faithfulness or deserving. It isn’t because of my love for Jesus and dedication to him! It is because of the prayers of others that I find myself in this wonderful place.

I want to encourage everyone who reads this to hear the plea of others. When they ask for prayer, pray for them. When you think they might need prayer, pray for them. When you sense a prompting, pray for them and for yourselves also. Some wise person said that we don’t receive more answers to prayer because we stop praying one prayer to soon.

I do not understanding why prayers are not immediately answered sometimes, maybe it is to teach us to persist. Whatever the reason, as the apostle Paul said, “Pray without ceasing”. (1 Thessalonians 5:17). Who knows what wonders you just might experience.

WHERE HAS INTEGRITY GONE?

2011-09-08T06:22:00.000-05:00

In a recent editorial, Cal Thomas wrote, “…the expectations of our culture are now so low that we no longer honor and value people of integrity, only celebrity”. (June 16, Pensacola news Journal). Right off the bat let me state that I am a Christian although so much mis-information has been attached to that word I’d rather say that I’m a student of Jesus. I am not right wing, left wing, or fanatic. On some issues I am extremely conservative while on others I am just as liberal. I am not a tea partier, nor a fundamentalist, neither Democrat nor Republican. I strive to understand the issues and the people behind them and use my influence accordingly. I like some of what Cal Thomas says as I do Susan Estrich, Leonard Pitts, and Charles Krauthammer.

Thomas’ statement, however, has cost me a great deal of energy as I have wrestled with the truth of his pronouncement and while I do not always agree with him, I do think he is on to something. Integrity which means: “the quality of possessing and steadfastly adhering to high moral principles or professional standards” (Encarta Dictionary {North America}) seems to be a lost concept in America. I am not thinking of the integrity of the diligent 3^rd grade school teacher who works his/her heart out week in and week out, year in and year out to develop young minds. Nor am I thinking of the physician who spends sleepless hours in an effort to give relief to suffering patients. I’m not thinking of the pastor who stis at the bedside paying for the dying parishioner. In fact, I’m not thinking about the average American at all. There are people of integrity at all levels of society and in all professions. No, I’m thinking of how often we become aware of the lack of integrity in national and international celebrities, yet continue to hold them in high regard instead of those who deserve our veneration.

Just possibly, it has always been so and now it seems so prevalent because exposure is immediately available due to the proliferation of the various news outlets. On the other hand, maybe it seems there is a lack of integrity because of the egregious examples where we continue to hold the perpetrators in high esteem. I just wonder. Maybe it has always been so, but with a lack of media attention, many of us were not aware of it.

I remember a president protesting loudly, “I am not a crook”. I remember a president looking directly in a camera and sating with absolute conviction, “I did not have sex with that woman”. I remember a debate over what “is,” “is.” I remember the first so-called comedian that crossed the line with words you can’t say on television. I remember a New York Governor who was fighting sexual crimes in his city while being entertained by a prostitute. I remember so-called preachers whose ministries were destroyed by inappropriate sexual follies or stealing from their congregations, or even covering up grievous sexual deviations; athletes of all sports guilty of taking kickbacks, receiving special favors, or being pumped up on illegal drugs. This list could go on infinitum, but part of Cal Thomas’ point is hereby made.

I just saw a cell phone commercial where a girl was answering questions on a game program while simultaneously texting for the answers. The carrier was boasting that no other carrier could let you talk and text at the same time. In another day that would be called cheating and certainly wouldn’t be celebrated as a reason for purchasing a product.

You can get a bill from a service company today with small print that says, “If you don’t want this product, indicate so by checking the box. Leave the box unchecked and cost of the product, often worthless, is added to your charges. That is called exploitation.

How many people have lost their financial security through dishonest financiers? In addition, is 15, 18, 25, up to 40% interest on credit cards anything but robbery? How many people are living off the largess of the government who honestly don’t need it?

What about those we elect to govern us, some have entire machines to present their candidates to us as being something they are not?

Now turn your thoughts to those who we celebrate (venerate). Movie stars whose moral standards Caligula could have defined; athletes who are dishonest, corrupt, engage in dog fighting, take play enhancing drugs and lie about it.

My issue here is that so often we overlook these character flaws and venerate these people as if they are gods. Let me be clear, I am all about forgiveness and offering grace and restoration, but only when the grievous wrongs are admitted, and adequately atoned for. Even then, we need to carefully consider whom we want to venerate.

Think about the television shows that demonstrate all sorts of behaviors that illustrate moral deficiencies. I’m not speaking of shows where homosexuality is revealed, I believe that is a normal phenomena and should no longer be hidden, but I am thinking of shows where people engage in and celebrate illicit affairs, and the like. The stuff like Jerry Springer produces should never be allowed in our homes. I’m not suggesting that the great watchdog in the sky should censer them, I’m saying that if we had integrity we would censer them ourselves. I am so sick and tired of going to movies where “fuck” and its variations are sprinkled through the dialogue for some other value than reality. Soldiers in battle use the word as and adjective or adverb which I understand and there are scenes where those kinds of expletives are real, but not used for sake of using them.

I recently spent an afternoon watching old reruns of the likes of Jonathan Winters, Bob Hope, Carol Burnett, Tim Conway, and George Gobel and laughed until I actually hurt and not a single curse word was uttered. I simply can’t sit through an episode of comedy central without being grossed out.

What has happened to us that we have rejected that which is excellent and embraced that which is garbage?

I wonder if I’m just getting too old or if there really is a phenomena of degradation and decay in our dear land.

RELIGIOUS WRONG

2011-09-06T13:12:00.000-05:00

“Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from a religious conviction.” Blaise Pascal

1 Corinthians 11:26-30 “For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes. ²⁷ Therefore, whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord. ²⁸ A man ought to examine himself before he eats of the bread and drinks of the cup²⁹ For anyone who eats and drinks without recognizing the body of the Lord eats and drinks judgment on himself. ³⁰ That is why many among you are weak and sick, and a number of you have fallen asleep.” (New International Version)

In my first parish, I discovered that the dear people of that congregation had not observed the sacrament of Holy Communion for the past 7 years. After some inquiry, I found that a minister who preceded me had taught that to take communion unworthily caused death and illness. These dear saints of God were literally afraid of the holy meal. On Communion Sunday the minister was the only one who ever took communion.

I saw this as an example of a good man doing evil from a religious conviction. I believe that to deny anyone Holy Communion is evil because it denies one a “means of grace”. None of us is “worthy to kneel at the Lord ’s Table,” yet he invites us to join him. It is at this table that we experience the deepest form of grace. We experience anew the sacrifice that Jesus made of himself to assure us of the forgiveness of our sins.

What greater gift can there be than having the dirt in our lives and the putrid garbage of our lives (it is called SIN) washed away to be remembered no more. “But wait,” someone will say“,I am not all bad, in fact I am pretty good. I do good things, I go to church every Sunday, I give to the poor, I read the Bible, I pray. So why am I called a sinner, why do I need to be purified?”

The answer is simple. Every one of us breaks God’s law every day of our lives. We exaggerate a story, that’s lying. We pass on a story about another, that’s gossip. We see a gorgeous woman or man and we think thoughts we shouldn’t, that’s lust. We drive faster than the speed limit, that makes us criminals. We take pens or paper home from the office, that’s stealing. We have someone in our lives, we despise, that’s hate. We eat more than we should, that’s gluttony. Need I go further?

The Apostle Paul, in the 1 Corinthians passage tells us that to participate in Communion properly, we need to be aware of these sins, to be open to God acknowledging them and then repent of them. Repentance is a two-part process—we turn away from the wrong and turn toward the right. Often, we have to repeat the process repeatedly until, with the help of the Holy Spirit, we finally get it right.

We are not unworthy only because we do these things, we are unworthy because we ignore them or we deny them and then are dishonest with God and ourselves about them. So examine yourself and be authentic with God. That’s all he asks.

PRAYER: Dear Gracious God, thank you that you don’t keep score of our failures. Keep us from hearing the deceitful lies of the evil one in whatever form they come to us and grant us grace to be authentic before you and our brothers and sisters of faith.

THE HELP

2011-08-28T14:35:00.000-05:00

I read “The Help” by Katherine Stockett soon after its publication several years ago. Having grown up in the South in the 40’s and 50’s Stockett stirred some long forgotten memories, but soon they were again stored away in the recesses of my brain, then came the movie—wow.
My Father’s family was “Old Money” Atlanta Aristocratic Socialites. I never saw my grandmother in public without white gloves and a little veiled hat. The deJarnettes of Atlanta had a summer home on Saint Simons Island and their own 1^st class rail car. They lived in the swanky North Side. My four aunts had all attended the finest finishing schools and along with my grandmother were southern ladies of the finest order.

Here is the “wow” of “The Help”. My grandmother and aunt who lived in Atlanta had servants. The role of the servants in my Grandmother’s house could have been the basis for the servants in Sockett’s story.

Fanny had her servant’s quarters in the basement of grandmother’s house, having never married she lived there. Fannie was a large woman with the blackest skin you can imagine. She wore starched dresses of blue or white with a white apron and preformed all of the domestic chores: cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, grocery shopping, and yes, silver polishing. Each time I see the picture of Aunt Jemima on a pancake box, I think of Fannie. She did have an additional job. She was the surrogate mother for any children born into the family or living there. I only lived at my Grandmother’s (Actually my Aunt Mary’s) house for a prolonged time just after Daddy got out of the Army following WWII; but then only occasionally for a month or two at a time. I did live there for one summer while Daddy was away training for a new job.

My relationship with Fanny goes back as far as I can remember. That wonderful black woman (I was forbidden to call her a lady) loved me as deeply as one person could love another and I loved her back. When we were at Aunt Mary’s I was either in Fanny’s arms or tagging at her feet, often holding the hem of her dress. When thunderstorms came Fannie would hold me ever so tightly nestled up in those huge breasts where I felt safe and secure. When the big people went to the table for dinner, I got the best seat because I got to eat in the kitchen with Fanny. She always saved the sweetest of the sweets for me and when I was big enough to eat adult food, I got the crispiest chicken parts and the best pieces of pie. Often when my naptime came, I would go to Fannies’ quarters, and we would cuddle up in her bed, she only long enough to get me to sleep. Oh, the stories, she told me. They weren’t the kind of stories one read in a book, but stories out of her vivid memory of her childhood and stories that had been passed down from the time of slavery; always good stories, never bad stories.

On February 21, 1949, my heart was absolutely broken, as was Fannie’s. My relationship with her was severed. No longer was I allowed to eat with her, but had to go to the “big table” with the adults. No more naps in Fannie’s quarters or hearing her stories of childhood, no more being cuddled when I was afraid. Fanny was no longer permitted to be my best friend, playmate, protector, or comforter. It is as if a steel barrier had been dropped between us. From that date on Fanny treated me with the same formality she treated the adults. No matter how much I cried, pouted, fussed or pled, I was cut off from my best friend in the whole world. I didn’t understand that until years later when I started to understand racial prejudice.

“The Help” took me back to those most hateful of times. From the time I was a young man, possibly from the time I turned six I knew there was something dreadfully wrong in my family’s attitudes to black people. Mother and Daddy called them “niggers” which, even then, caused my skin to crawl. When I was 16, I asked my Daddy why they so disliked black people and he went into a lengthy explanation.

“Blacks”, Daddy said, “simply aren’t like us, they don’t have souls”. There are inferior creatures that God made to serve the white races.” He told me about their low morals and intelligence and said they carried all kinds of horrible diseases Daddy predicted that eventually they would begin to intermarry with whites and would dilute the white races. Society would regress to the lowest common denominator and ultimately everyone would be diminished and society would regress. This is why the black races and white races must not be integrated. Even at my young age, I knew in my heart that he was wrong. However, how could I really know since I had no knowledge of blacks except for Fanny and the black maids that Mother hired. I remember once when I was 9 or 10 Mother had a maid named Beatrice who asked me something and I answered, “Yes, mam”. Boy, did I get it for that, I was not to respond to blacks with “mam” or “sir”.

My folks didn’t believe in being cruel to blacks, they simply believed blacks were inferior and while they should never intermingle with whites they should be treated decently. Sadly, they never accepted that the only difference between the races is pigmentation.

In my 11^th grade year, I remember that my Dad was head usher at our very large Methodist Church and I attended an usher’s meeting where Daddy was laying out the plan of how to resist if blacks tried to integrate our church. An attempt would not have been pretty and I remember thinking how terribly wrong that was.

Now I am stirred up and shall continue with my anti-discrimination rant, just because I want to.

When I first went to work at Grady Memorial Hospital, it was completely segregated. Two wings of the hospital were whites only and two wings were black only. There were separate emergency rooms, surgical suites, O.B suites medical floors, and surgical floors, identical but separate. The black nurses and doctors were restricted to the black areas while white personnel worked the entire hospital except white females never worked with black males. I worked there for a year then it was off to college at Emory-at-Oxford, a division of Emory University, there were no blacks there.

After two years at E-O-A, I went in the Army so that I could finish school at government expense. There I was in constant contact with people of every race. I was a squad leader at basic training and two of my guys were blacks. They were both fine, intelligent men. I went through medic’s school then advanced medic training at Ft. Sam Houston, TX where my best friend was a black guy from Philadelphia. We became the best of friends and spent many hours playing chess and engaging in philosophical and religious discussions. I used to get mad at him when we went to San Antonio. We would walk into a restaurant, bar, or store and if he even discerned the least bit of prejudice he would buy a pack of gum, or ask an innocuous question then leave. He said that fighting it (racism) wasn’t worth the effort. When we graduated from school, I was assigned to Ft. Bragg and him to a unit in Germany. I had a 16 hour layover in Atlanta while he had an 8 and knowing that I could not take him home (I lived just a few miles from the Airport) I spent those precious 8 hours at the airport with him. I am so thankful for that special time because he was killed in a freak accident seven months later.

Following my hitch in the Army I went back to work at Grady and ultimately became Director of Respiratory Care and Life Support Technologies. At its zenith my department had 60+ employees equally divided between black and white. We had several conflicts in my neighborhood because a couple of times a year we hosted department parties at our house and some of our neighbors were quite belligerent about it.

Years later, I entered the Methodist Ministry and our first church was in a rural part of the Florida Panhandle. The folks there were lovely and gracious to us, but with very little education. One Sunday after we had been there 6 months or so, one of the church leaders walked up to me after church and said, “Preacher, wha’d you do if a nigger wanted to join our church?” I answered, “Well, I’d meet with him and if he was sincere I’d receive him into membership”. My parishioners’ face scrunched up, turned bright red and the most evil look came over him as he replied, “You ever do and I’ll blow his black ass and yours out of this world”. In that moment I realized that I had said the wrong thing.

The Klu Klux Klan was very active there and occasionally when we drove into the parsonage driveway we could see a glow over the hill (called nigger hill) behind us and could hear the KKK chants. I found that very unsettling. I confess that I never had the courage to preach against the evils of racism due to fear for my family. I realize today that it is just as well since I certainly wouldn’t have changed anyone’s mind.

Today I enjoy many friends of all races and I am so grateful that God protected my heart from the hatefulness of prejudice. When I meet someone, I simply see that person. I am not aware of skin color, eye shape, hair texture, I simply see a soul that God loves.

Over the years I have learned that most racial prejudice is rooted in fear and ignorance, and is never rational. I have read somewhere that it is rooted in tribalism and was about maintaining one’s possessions, hunting grounds, or agricultural lands. Differences in dress (costume) signaled the enemy and so people learned to fear those who are different. I have no idea just how correct that theory is, but it al least gives me some rational reason for such an irrational way of thinking.

In closing I highly recommend, “The Help”, by Katherine Stockett, both book and movie.

THE MIRACULOUS ALMOND TREE

2011-08-01T17:07:00.000-05:00

Our house sits on a large plot of land, much larger that a normal sub-division lot. Several years ago, we decided to use some of the land for something productive. We were also tired of keeping it all mowed and edged. Because of the high salt content in the air (we live half a mile or so from the Gulf of Mexico) we had no success with vegetable gardening; so we decided to plant some fruit trees. I did some Googling and found a nursery in south Florida that had excellent prices. We really enjoy fruit and already had two peach trees, a brown turkey fig, and a pecan tree so we decided to get two apple trees, a Satsuma, a kumquat, two blueberry bushes, a blood orange, and a Meyer’s lemon. I wanted something unusual so I included an almond tree.

We plotted our property and planted the trees with adequate perimeters so that they wouldn’t encroach on the needs of the others. We planted the almond tree near the patio so that we could watch it’s development, thinking it would be unique.

One of the apple trees died, the kumquat died, the Meyer’s lemon died, the blood orange died, the blueberries died but we made a bumper crop of peaches. One of our peach trees made a hundred peaches or so, but they were about the size of a lime. The other peach produced about 25 peaches but they were the size of a large orange. The peaches were finished and harvested by early June.

Meantime the other trees except the apple tree produced blossoms and started making fruit. We were really excited about the almonds. The tree was filled with beautiful flowers of pink and white. Of course, the apple tree didn’t bloom and it’s just as well since we only have one and it takes two to cross pollinate. As the almond tree developed, I became curious since the blooms looked familiar. I read an article about almond trees and discovered that it takes two to produce, much like apples. I thought, oh shuckydarn, I don’t guess we’ll have almonds.

Strangely, the almond blooms turned into little knobby protrusions. These continued to grow larger and larger. I couldn’t imagine what was developing so one afternoon I cut off a fruit about the size of a pecan. I cut it open and when I got to the center, I found a rough nut that resembled an unshelled almond. The fruit continued to develop taking on a red and orange hue.

The strangest thing was happening. I researched almond trees online and the fruit on my tree looked quite different from the fruit of the trees I saw on line. I was really puzzled, what was going on. I looked through my files and confirmed that I had ordered an almond tree. The identifying tag on the tree clearly said, “almond”. But something just wasn’t right.

The fruit continued to develop and grew more yellow with tones of red and orange. One afternoon a squirrel ran across the backyard with a fruit in its mouth. It perched on a tree limb by the back fence and commenced to eat the fruit. Occasionally it would bite off a piece and drop it. I went to the base of the tree and found some scraps and it didn’t look anything like an almond, in fact it looked more like a piece of peach. I went back to the almond tree and pulled off a fruit, broke it open and it looked just like a peach, and in fact, it smelled like a peach. I took it in and asked Beverly what she thought it might be. She looked at it, smelled it then tasted it. She looked at me with the special twinkle that she has in her eye and sweetly said, “Sweetie, (she calls me that a lot) that’s a peach”. And, by golly it was. That almond tree made more peaches than either of my other peach trees and its peaches were larger and sweeter than any peach from the other two.

I studied that tree and the more I looked at it, the more like peach bark its bark appeared, the more like peach leaves its leaves appeared. It still proudly wore its yellow almond tree tag so I can only come to one conclusion. Right there in my backyard a miracle had occurred. It is as significant as the face of the Virgin Mary on a toasted cheese sandwich. It is as amazing as any crop circle. It is as wonderful as the healing water in Lourdes, France. Right there in my backyard, God had caused peaches to grow on an almond tree.

Now I am a bit concerned as how to keep the miracle a secret. We have worked very hard over the years to develop a nice lawn with lush green grass and the very thought of pilgrims coming from all over the world to see the miraculous almond three.….and then all of the representatives of the various forms of the news media, oh my. I think I have a solution, though; what if I remove the tag that says almond tree and replace it with one that says peach tree.

As I think about it this isn’t the only tree miracle God has done in my yard. There is the dogwood that was transformed into a pecan, but that’s a story for another time.

SHAY'S STORY

2011-07-20T19:06:00.000-05:00

I received this story in an email forward. I’ve read it before, but it is worth reading again and again. It especially touches me because one of my best friends growing up had Cerebral Palsy. Skeeter had great difficulty in talking and walking along with having other spastic motions in his arms. We were best friends from about age 11 on. I went to Boy Scout camp as Skeeter’s mentor, helping him with bathing, dressing, crafts and the other activities that happen at all wilderness camps. I witnessed firsthand the cruelty of people as well as the graciousness of others. I’m printing this story as a reminder that we each have the opportunity to make one of two choices many times a week. I don’t know who the original author is, so I can’t give proper credit, but reproducing it might be credit enough.

A response on Snopes.com criticizes this story as teaching pity and deceit by creating a false sense of accomplishment for one with disabilities, instead of praising the disabled for what they learn to accomplish within the limitations of their disabilities. I reject that notion altogether and often saw the pride and joy when accolades were lavished on Skeeter. He fully understood the circumstances as they were in reality, but gracefully accepted the congratulations of others knowing that they were applauding his efforts, regardless of the lowered standards. Think about special Olympics.

Two Choices

What would you do?....you make the choice. Don't look for a punch line, there isn't one. Read it anyway. My question is: Would you have made the same choice?

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves children with learning disabilities, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its

Dedicated staff, he offered a question:

'When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does, is done with perfection.

Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do.

Where is the natural order of things in my son?'

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued. 'I believe that when a child like Shay, who was mentally and physically disabled comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.'

Then he told the following story:

Shay and I had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, 'Do you think they'll let me play?' I knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but as a father Ialso understood that if my son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

I approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, 'We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning..'

Shay struggled over to the team's bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt.. I watched with a small tear in my eye and warmth in my heart. The boys saw my joy at my son being accepted.

In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three.

In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands.

In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again.

Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.

At this point, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game?

Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the

Plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact.

The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed.

The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay.

As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.

The game would now be over.

The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman.

Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.

Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman's head, out of reach of all team mates.

Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, 'Shay, run to first!

Run to first!'

Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base.

He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

Everyone yelled, 'Run to second, run to second!'

Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base.

By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball . The smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team.

He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman's head.

Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, 'Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay'

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted, 'Run to third!

Shay, run to third!'

As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming, 'Shay, run home! Run home!'

Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team

'That day', said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, 'the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world'.

Shay didn't make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making me so happy, and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

AND NOW A LITTLE FOOT NOTE TO THIS STORY:

We all send thousands of jokes through the e-mail without a second thought, but when it comes to sending messages about life choices, people hesitate.

The crude, vulgar, and often obscene pass freely through cyberspace, but public discussion about decency is too often suppressed in our schools and workplaces.

If you're thinking about forwarding this message, chances are that you're probably sorting out the people in your address book who aren't the 'appropriate' ones to receive this type of message Well, the person who sent you this believes that we all can make a difference.

We all have thousands of opportunities every single day to help realize the 'natural order of things.'

So many seemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with a choice:

Do we pass along a little spark of love and humanity or do we pass up those opportunities and leave the world a little bit colder in the process?

A wise man once said every society is judged by how it treats it's least fortunate amongst them.

PONDERING THE MIND OF A DOG

2011-07-11T17:25:00.000-05:00

Today just another day, like the ones that come every week. On the other hand, it’s not quite like others, one of my doctors started me on a new medication with a warning. He told me that it might work just the opposite of what he hoped. His warning wasn’t a warning at all, but rather it was a prophecy. This afternoon has brought nothing but intense abdominal pain and liquefaction of my intestinal tract.

Beverly and my three granddaughters left a while ago to attend my grandson’s 14^th birthday and since I dared not leave the porcelain throne, I stayed behind. It is quiet here at home and I’m alone with my CLWD (cute little white dog) who diligently stays very close to me knowing something is wrong. I have no idea how she knows, but she does. When either Beverly or I are in physical distress, Mitzi shows intense attention and affection to that one, as if to somehow mediate our discomfort.

Well, that started me thinking. At times like this when the hose is quiet my mind often wanders into places of frivolous fancy. I started wondering what is in Mitzi’s tiny mind. I know canines don’t think in the same way as we do. Someone said that they only live in the moment, but I know that isn’t true. Once when Mitzi was a small puppy, she jumped off our bed. It is quite high and while she didn’t hurt herself, she remembers and still is reluctant to jump off the bed without some sort of step land on first. She remembers where we used to keep her treats and where we keep them now. She remembers that when she goes outside to potty she gets a treat when she comes in. She remembers to ask us when she needs to outside. When we visit my brother, she remembers to run to his back door and ask to come in. She remembers when the Vet comes at her with that triangular thing to obtain a stool sample. She remembers when water is running for her bath. She is not just living in the moment.

How does that little mind work? Here is a real mystery; my backyard neighbor has a great Dane named Diesel. He weighs ten times than Mitzi does and is at least ten times larger, yet she can accomplish the same tasks that he can. She can’t do them as big, but she can do them as well. They love to run to the fence and call each other. If Diesel is the first at the fence he calls her with his deep bark. If she is the first, she calls him with her delicate bark. When they meet, they delight in running back and forth along the fence talking to each other in their doggie language. Diesel makes about 20 jumps to Mitzi’s 100 or so, but back and forth they run until one or the other tires of the game. Then it’s back to the air conditioning. How does a tiny brain accomplish the same stuff that the giant one does? Is Mitzi’s brain just wired tighter than Diesel’s? Are her neurons simply smaller than his? Regardless of their size, how can they accomplish the same things?

One on the things that puzzles me the most is one of Mitzi’s stranger behaviors. Sometimes she simply sits and looks as if in deep contemplation. She sits like that for several seconds to many minutes. She is almost catatonic. This is not unique to Mitzi since I’ve seen my daughter’s dog do the same thing. What is going on then?

Mitzi often dreams. It starts with her sleeping quietly, and then she begins to breathe deeply suddenly she starts to bark, but in more of a whimper than a bark and starts running movements. Sometimes it lasts for only a moment and other times it lasts for a minute or more. Is she chasing or being chased? Is it a frightening or a fun dream? I can’t help but wonder. Is this dog’s mind filled with ancient memories of what life was like before domestication or is she remembering chasing Diesel just this afternoon? Is something fearful after her or is she catching her dinner? Maybe her dreaming isn’t in her mind at all, but is simply muscle memory winding itself down.

Mitzi is capable of problem solving. Beverly keeps her toys in a large wicker basket against the wall in the family room. If Mitzi wants a toy that is out of reach she pulls with her paws until the basket is far enough from the wall for her to get to the other side where the object of her desire is.

We don’t understanding some of these things about the human mind, much less dogs. If I were young again I might spend some time trying to find the answers to these questions (I have googled them, but found nothing very satisfying), but the time I have left is limited by age. I’m not sad about that. My life has been full, fun, and fulfilling. I am blessed with a wonderfully loving wife and family. While I’m not wealthy in terms of money, I have a roof over my head, a comfortable place to sleep, food on my table, a big screen TV, and shoes on my feet. Thankfully, I have had many opportunities to make a positive difference in the lives of others and I have a CLWD that is loyal to me. My faith in God is strong and I have a home in heaven. I’m really pretty satisfied with my life. Certainly, I would like to have done some things better and some things not at all, but then I wouldn’t be who I am today, would I?

It is good to have times when I can simply sit and ponder the wonder of a dog’s mind and sometimes even my own.

PARAPROSDOKIAN SENTENCES

2011-07-07T21:39:00.002-05:00

THIS CAME TO ME FROM A CLASSMATE WHO GOT IT FROM THE WEBSITE RAMANON.COM. I THINK THE WISDOM NEEDS TO BE SHARED) SO:

A paraprosdokian is a figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe or reinterpret the first part. It is frequently used for humorous or dramatic effect.

Ø   I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn't work that way. So I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness.

Ø    Do not argue with an idiot.. He will drag you down to his level and beat you with experience.

Ø    I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather. Not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car.

Ø    Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.

Ø    The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But it's still on the list.

Ø    Light travels faster than sound. This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak.

Ø    If I agreed with you, we'd both be wrong.

Ø    We never really grow up; we only learn how to act in public.

Ø    War does not determine who is right -- only who is left.

Ø    Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

Ø    The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

Ø    Evening news is where they begin with 'Good evening,' and then proceed to tell you why it isn't.

Ø    To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research.

Ø    A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. My desk is a work station.

Ø   I thought I wanted a career; turns out I just wanted paycheques.

Ø    Whenever I fill out an application, in the part that says "If an emergency, notify:" I put "DOCTOR."

Ø    I didn't say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.

Ø    Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?

Ø Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut and still think they are sexy.

Ø    Behind every successful man is his woman. Behind the fall of a successful man is usually another woman.

Ø    A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.

Ø    You do not need a parachute to skydive. You only need a parachute to skydive twice.

Ø    A diplomat is someone who can tell you to go to hell in such a way that you will look forward to the trip

Ø    Hospitality: making your guests feel like they're at home, even if you wish they were.

Ø    Some cause happiness wherever they go. Others whenever they go.

Ø    I used to be indecisive.. Now I'm not sure.

Ø    When tempted to fight fire with fire, remember that the Fire Department usually uses water.

Ø    You're never too old to learn something stupid.

Ø    Nostalgia isn't what it used to be.

Ø    Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine.

JULY 4th 2011

2011-07-02T16:22:00.000-05:00

This is my 68^th Fourth of July and I am indeed thankful for each one of them. As I get older, I am becoming more sentimental and thankful for I realize more and more the incredible blessings that we enjoy as Americans.
I have my grandchildren this weekend, which is not an infrequent occurrence, and we decided, at their request, to watch the Chronicles of Narnia Series. The story starts with the evacuation of children from London as the Nazi bombing starts during WWII. It made me realize just how blessed we are in that we never had to send our children away to keep them safe. God forbid that it should ever happen.

I proudly hoist the American flag in front of my house in the mornings and lower it in the evenings. I have no fear that I will be persecuted because of it. It is my right. It is important to note that I have just as much freedom to fly any other flag that I should choose, or to fly no flag at all. When I take my flag down and put it up, I am careful that it not touch the ground because I respect what it stands for, yet, I am free to trample it underfoot if I should choose.

In the morning, my family and I will go to church to worship as we choose, what a blessing that is. Whatever my faith I can practice it in utter confidence that there will be no interference from the government. Interestingly my church will be starting a beach service at the Flora-Bama Lounge and Package Store, now that’s true freedom.

I went to the grocery store and purchased all kinds of fruits, vegetables, meats, condiments, and dairy products. Most anything that I wanted was available for a price that I could afford. Bev and I even enjoyed king crab clusters for dinner last evening.

I was free to marry the woman I chose and I am free to unmarry her, or she me, if I were stupid enough to do so. We shared the joy of having two children, but could have had twenty had we so desired. We were able to provide an excellent education for our two children and are participating in doing the same for our grandchildren.

I had the honor of serving my country in the military as did my son. We could have worked our way up the ranks as far as we chose without having to bribe someone, or depend on family connections.

Since I was thirty five, I’ve experienced one medical catastrophe after another. Thankfully, I’ve had adequate insurance to cover most of the expenses to enable us to receive the excellent standard of care with which we are blest. There are so many places in the world where I had been born, I would not have survived.

I am thankful that throughout my life, my wife and I have been able to provide a good standard of living for our family. My children were never hungry or cold from necessity.

All of these things that I have enjoyed are because a group of noble, brave, and wise men wrote a document that contained the line: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

I realize that my experience is not even a blip in the overall experience of human kind, but from my perspective, I feel that little by little these “unalienable rights” are eroding. I don’t believe there are evil people with evil plots seeking to destroy our way of life. No, rather I believe that good, well-meaning people are attempting to equalize the quality life for all. In doing so, however, it seems to me that the destruction of our society is bound to be the end result. In all of history no system of government has survived when government, no matter how benevolent, attempted to equalize the quality of life for everyone.

In spite of the wrongs in America, it is the most benevolent society that has ever existed and can only remain so if the freedoms that our founding fathers gave us as their legacy continue to be our guiding principles.

Dear God, thank you for “the home of the brave and the land of the free,.” may our, "Land continue to be bright with freedom's holy light."

For your reading:

Declaration of Independence

Here is the complete text of the Declaration of Independence.
The original spelling and capitalization have been retained.

(Adopted by Congress on July 4, 1776)

The Unanimous Declaration
of the Thirteen United States of America

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security. --Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his assent to laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
He has refused to pass other laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of representation in the legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.
He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.
He has dissolved representative houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.
He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the legislative powers, incapable of annihilation, have returned to the people at large for their exercise; the state remaining in the meantime exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.
He has endeavored to prevent the population of these states; for that purpose obstructing the laws for naturalization of foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migration hither, and raising the conditions of new appropriations of lands.

He has obstructed the administration of justice, by refusing his assent to laws for establishing judiciary powers.

He has made judges dependent on his will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, standing armies without the consent of our legislature.

He has affected to render the military independent of and superior to civil power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his assent to their acts of pretended legislation:

For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by mock trial, from punishment for any murders which they should commit on the inhabitants of these states:

For cutting off our trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing taxes on us without our consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of trial by jury:

For transporting us beyond seas to be tried for pretended offenses:

For abolishing the free system of English laws in a neighboring province, establishing therein an arbitrary government, and enlarging its boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule in these colonies:

For taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our governments:

For suspending our own legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated government here, by declaring us out of his protection and waging war against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burned our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large armies of foreign mercenaries to complete the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow citizens taken captive on the high seas to bear arms against their country, to become the executioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves by their hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian savages, whose known rule of warfare, is undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these oppressions we have petitioned for redress in the most humble terms: our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends.

We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent states may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.

New Hampshire: Josiah Bartlett, William Whipple, Matthew Thornton

Massachusetts: John Hancock, Samual Adams, John Adams, Robert Treat Paine, Elbridge Gerry

Rhode Island: Stephen Hopkins, William Ellery

Connecticut: Roger Sherman, Samuel Huntington, William Williams, Oliver Wolcott

New York: William Floyd, Philip Livingston, Francis Lewis, Lewis Morris

New Jersey: Richard Stockton, John Witherspoon, Francis Hopkinson, John Hart, Abraham Clark

Pennsylvania: Robert Morris, Benjamin Rush, Benjamin Franklin, John Morton, George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, James Wilson, George Ross

Delaware: Caesar Rodney, George Read, Thomas McKean

Maryland: Samuel Chase, William Paca, Thomas Stone, Charles Carroll of Carrollton

Virginia: George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Jr., Francis Lightfoot Lee, Carter Braxton

North Carolina: William Hooper, Joseph Hewes, John Penn

South Carolina: Edward Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Thomas Lynch, Jr., Arthur Middleton

Georgia: Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall, George Walton

Source: The Pennsylvania Packet, July 8, 1776

ON COMING HOME

2011-06-19T17:38:00.000-05:00

As life’s journey carries us on, we come home again and again. We go on a trip and at the end of it we come home. We go off to college and when all of our clothes get dirty, we come home. We might have served in the military, peace corps, on the mission field and when out tour is over we come home. Homecomings can be a wonderful experiences, however there are times when they might not be so wonderful. I remember when I came home after my dad died, not a good homecoming, never the less there is nothing quite like returning to that place where you are loved, feel secure and connect to friends.
In August 1978, I experienced a coming home. Bev and I grew up in the church then due to some garbage that we were caught up in, we left the church. We were teaching a teen Sunday School Class as a young married couple. The Easter lesson was on lying. I mean, come on—Easter and the focus is on lying. Well, sir, Bev and I decided it was more important to teach about the resurrection. After the lesson, the Sunday School Superintendent chewed us out royally. Those were the days when the Methodist Church was moving into the social Gospel to the exclusion of the saving Gospel. We left the church, thinking we could be better Christians without it. It didn’t take us long to experience the fallacy of that nonsense, but it took us fifteen years to recognize it and on August 6^th, 1978 we returned home, we attended church.

We had come to Pensacola to spend a month with Nan and Pop (Bev’s mom and dad) prior to moving further south in Florida. We went to Ferry Pass United Methodist with them and it was like coming home. We knew immediately we belonged there. There was a sense of peace, joy, and security as we walked in the door. God had called us home and home we were. That homecoming led to my next thirty years of ministry, praise God.

Today, June 19^th, 2011 I experienced a new homecoming. In June 2008, I went on incapacity leave due to kidney failure. Mentally, I wasn’t ready for that. I loved the church and preaching was my life. Physically, I had to step down, I simply didn’t have the energy to get through one service. After my transplant, I found it more and more difficult to attend church. I have no idea why. I loved Darren’s preaching and teaching. People constantly showered us with love, but Sunday after Sunday, it became harder and harder. I used many excuses, not feeling well, medication difficulties, but truth, be told, many of those Sundays, I could have gone, but it became easier and easier not to. I wasn’t angry at God, I wasn’t angry at church. My problem was that I had no sense of belonging. My Spiritual gifts were gone. I was an ok administrator, a passable pastor, but preaching and teaching, ah, those were my things and they were gone. I couldn’t seem to find a place in which to fit.

A month or so ago I read a life changing book. Timothy Keller’s “Counterfeit Gods”, spoke to me so deeply that it really shook me up and caused me to begin to really think about my relationship to my God. I started praying again and decided to read through the Bible once again. As I read, the Holy Spirit began to speak to me again. That hasn’t happened in quite some time, because I wasn’t listening. I must also acknowledge that the book, “The Shack”, by William P. Young reminded me that the God I had come to expect isn’t the tame familiar God that I had come to think of. No, no, no, God as God is, will not fit into our preconceived notions. God simply will not be put in an ordinary box, God is dynamic, changeless yet ever changing, so far beyond our wildest imaginations that we cannot begin to conceive God’s personhood. Revealing God was part of Jesus mission to the world. “If you know me, you know the God that sent me”, he said. (John 14:7) I had forgotten that.

This week, one of my classmates, the Rector of an Episcopal Church, wrote an awesome article in his weekly newsletter about the navigation aid of sailors before GPS. It was called a binnacle. He wrote of how without the binnacle, sailors became lost at sea and couldn’t find their way home. I realized that I had thrown my binnacle overboard.

This morning our new associate pastor preached about the “Forgotten God”, who is the third person of the trinity, the Holy Spirit, and the Holy Spirit’s role in gifting us (and wooing us back home when we have wandered into the wilderness). As Jeremy was preaching, I realized that I still have my Spiritual Gifts, God has not simply put me on the bench to live out my life in forlorn emptiness. No, my giftedness has simply shifted into a new medium, writing instead of speaking. I also can be an encourager and a witness to God’s incredible love. It has been there all the time. Today, I came home, once again. Praise God from whom all blessings flow!

50th HIGH SCHOOL REUNION

2011-06-01T12:17:00.002-05:00

My 50th high school reunion was far more that I could have imagined or hoped. We started gathering in College Park, GA, the hope of our Alma Mater in Thursday evening. The first person that I met when arriving was my very best friend and the second had been my executive officer and his wife.

The weekend was chock full of wonderful activities and a great deal of time to be together and reminisce. I had 107 classmates, 21 have died and 58 were in attendance. That was a marvelous turn out and one of the largest in the school’s history. On Saturday afternoon, we were inducted into the “Golden Eagles Club”, which is only open to a small group of people (those who have been graduated 50 years or longer). Exclusion is only by dying before the 50th reunion.

Saturday afternoon was also had a Memorial Day service of remembrance. There a monuments from each of the wars since 1900 when the school was founded through Iraq/Afghanistan. Wreaths were placed at each monument and then we joined in prayer for all who have given their lives in each war. Finally we had a time of remembrance for our classmates who have gone before us. It was a powerful time since most of us are veterans.

It was good to sit and share stories of our deeds and misdeeds. We spent a great deal of time laughing together and even a moment or two in weeping as we remembered our lost brothers. I don’t imagine that we will have a 100th reunion, but we certainly will get together a time or 2 more. The most noticeable things were how many of us can’t hear it thunder and how old THEY had gotten.

ONCE IN A LIFETIME

2011-05-25T20:29:00.000-05:00

May 26 is an exciting day for me. We’ll leave Pensacola about 10:00 on the way to Atlanta to celebrate my 50th high school reunion. I, along with 115 others had the distinctive honor of being graduated from Georgia Military Academy in 1961. We are a unique group of people, not because we are among the last of the graduates before G.M.A. became the highly regarded Woodward Academy, but because we were the representatives from the State of Georgia to march in John F. Kennedy’s Inaugural parade in Washington D.C. Of course our various personalities contributed to our uniqueness as a group.

We had some other unique honors. One of our classmates went on to become a U.S. Senator, another was the Capital Reporter for A.B.C. News for several years. Three of us are clergy, while others are physicians, atourneys, and dentists. Our guys achieved success in every conceivable business from a custom rod and reel shop to financial management companies.

One of my best friends was the son of a State Senator and another was the son of an ambassador from South America. Susan Hayward’s (a great star of the 50’s and 60’s) twin sons were part of our class. The rest were from families all over the U.S. and from all social strata’s.

We have lost 21 of our number to death, several in the Vietnam conflict. There is a memorial wall on campus with a listing of those names along with the names of those lost to other conflicts.

Georgia Military Academy was founded in 1900 as a high school and prep school for young men. The philosophy was to teach young men integrity, honor, military discipline, physical fitness, patriotism, and academic excellence, which it did until 1964. In 1964 the Academy became co-educational while maintaining its same ideals and eventually terminated the military aspect of its curriculum. It still maintains the reputation of being one of the finest private schools in the country with students from kindergarten through high school.

My father attended GMA and was graduated in 1939. He was the commander of “A” Company in his senior year as I was and had some of the same teachers that I did. Daddy taught our history teacher’s oldest son how to walk which I hoped would bump my grade up a point or to. It didn’t!

I was not a particularly outstanding student, struggling with Attention Deficit Disorder long before it was recognized, nor was I much of an athlete, since my butt was far too low to the ground and I wasn’t heavy enough to play lineman on the football team. My lack of height prevented me from basketball and when it came to running, well, it was just funny to watch. I did put the shot and threw the discus. My areas of excellence were military science and leadership. I commanded “A” Company as my dad and commanded the Colquette Rifles, a silent command exhibition drill team. Oh, I also played the bass drum in the marching band until my senior year. Dad did that also, although I held the school record for breaking more bass drum sticks than anyone else. I also marched out of a shoe during a Sunday Parade and marched the whole thing wearing just one shoe. MY mother said that she saw it happen and was mortified for the rest of the parade. I had the honor of commanding the provisional company that marched in Kennedy’s Parade.

In the center of campus was the bull ring. Demerits were given each morning at morning formation for such offenses as unpolished shoes, not shaving, bad haircuts (PeeWee was the campus barber and knew about high and tights long before the Marine Corps thought of them), dirty fingernails, and such stuff. Each morning the platoon leaders inspected his troops and delighted in giving demerits for offenses. Occasionally the company commander came behind him and gave him demerits for any offenses he had missed. When a troop had collected 25 demerits he walked the bull ring with his rifle for one hour per demerit. Bull ring time was on the weekends and evenings when others could sign out and leave the campus. Those who were unfortunate enough to accrue 100 demerits could have them switched off by the commandant, Col. John R. Burnett, nicknamed “Dumb John). He loved switching off demerits which was accomplished by a member of the disciplinary committee holding the hands of the switchee across “Dumb John’s’ desk while he administered one stroke per 10 demerits using a fishing rod. The punishment was not nearly as bad as it seems since the strokes were really quite gentle. The switchee was instructed not to tell about the punishment. The fear factor was the deterrent.

Sunday Parades, ah what a treat that was; on each Sunday during the spring the corps of cadets, called a battle group, marched in review. We had five companies of 128 men each from eighth grade to seniors. The band played and then we passed in review. It was quite a spectacle. Occasionally a cadet would stand too rigidly and faint, simply collapsing like a limp towel. We could always tell if he was faking because if it was a real faint, he simply fell on his rifle without regard to injury, the fakers padded their fall. The Sunday prior to graduation was sponsor’s day and each cadet officer paraded his sponsor before the reviewing stand and then stood with her to watch the troops march by. The girls were dressed in their finest anti-bellum formals with crinolines and big matching hats while the cadets were dressed formal class a uniforms. I still love remembering those parades.

Well, that’s enough of that stuff I suppose. The point is that I loved my four years at GMA and only wish I had more. Many of the life skills that I find so valuable today, I learned there. One remembrance that I must include were our chapel services. Once a week we gathered in the auditorium and had all kinds of inspirational speakers from ministers to other distinguished people. Occasionally the Commandant, Col. William R. Brewster held a class on etiquette. He had a special table made with very short legs in front and formal dinnerware mounted to the table. Those sessions are where I learned which fork was to be used for what purpose. I have never been embarrassed at any dinner, no matter how formal because of that training. We learned other such esoteric stuff such as standing when a lady entered the room and how to seat a lady at the table.

For some reason, my classmates have remained connected to each other through the years and so I am extremely excited about seeing them and having time to be together. Two of our guys have put together a biography of our stories since leaving the academy which should prove fascinating. I am excited about this once in a lifetime event!

LEARNING FROM SQUIRRLS

2011-04-18T11:22:00.000-05:00

"God gives the nuts, but he does not crack them." Franz Kafka

Squirrels are constantly doing squirrel work in my back yard. We have a large pecan tree from which the squirrels gather a generous bounty of their winter food. It is fun to see them running across the fence to their home tree where they store the pecans. They also like to bury pecans. I’ve never figured out just how they find the pecans after several months of being buried in the ground, but they do. Occasionally they miss one and in the spring a new pecan sapling sticks its head above the ground.

The squirrels do have to contend with a major hurdle to their nut gathering. My CLWD (cute little white dog, Mitzi) is on constant guard and if she sees a squirrel, she immediately goes into attack mode. She has never caught a squirrel, but she has put dozens up the tree. If I were a squirrel hunter, she would be a marvelous squirrel dog since she can track squirrels from tree to tree. We call her a CLWD, bucause she is supposed to be a Shih Tzu, however her bloodline was corrupted along the way, we don’t care we delight in her anyway.

While it is true that the pecan tree produces the pecans, God puts life in the tree so that it can grow. He gives it water from the rain, he provides nourishment from the ground, and carbon dioxide for the trees metabolism. The tree produces pecans, but God gives and sustains the life of the tree.

When the squirrel gets the pecan to its squirrel home, its work is not yet done. Before it can eat the fruit of the pecan, it must crack it. The same is true for us. We gather the pecans under the tree but before they do us any good, we must crack them.

So much for nuts, I think Kafka had a much deeper thought in mind. He seems to me to be saying that God gives us life resources, but we have to obtain and use them. Someone is born with a talent of singing, but for that talent to be realized, it must be used. The singer must sing. God gives one a talent for building, for the talent to be any good, that person must build.

Take it a bit deeper. God gives grace through the bible, for that grace to be effective in one’s life one must know what is available. To understand what is offered as a free gift one must read the bible. God gives us the privilege of prayer but for prayer to be effective one must pray.

The bottom line is that God gives us every resource that we need to live an abundant life, however, that abundance is never realized if we don’t utilize the resources.

THE BUTTERBEAN PATCH

2011-04-12T18:59:00.001-05:00

It was 4:30 am when the phone rang. On the other end was our neighbor and faithful parishioner Woodrow Gilmore. “Preacher”, he said, “Get your buckets and you and Miss Beverly get dowe here, the butter beans are in”.

“What?” I stammered. “The butter beans, they’re ready, we need to get on them before it gets too hot. I dragged myself out of bed having not yet adjusted to country living, but suddenly I understood what I was taught in the “Beginning Minister’s Workshop.

For many years the tradition in our Annual Conference was that ministers going to their first parish had to attend the “Beginning Minister’s Workshop”. The workshop was conducted the weekend before we went to our appointed stations. It was taught by senior ministers and consisted of two days of esoteric information that would help us get off to a good start in our parishes. We were taught the kind of car that was acceptable in country parishes; we should always leave the parsonage in a coat and tie least we bump into a parishioner in the grocery store. If we were poorly dressed the parishioner might be offended if he/she wanted to introduce us to someone. One of the most important bits of information was that we should learn the pulse of the parish as soon as possible, most importantly, what time did the farmers get up in the morning. Having made that important discovery we must get up, turn on the front porch light, walk outside, and stretch. It was okay if we went back inside and returned to bed, as long as folks knew we were awake.

So, when Woodrow called I wasn’t too surprised. I woke Bev up and we climbed into our clothes. This was one of the times that I didn’t leave the house in a coat and tie. We got our buckets, walked about 100 yards down the road to the butterbean patch were we met Woodrow and Robie. There was one of those dense fogs hanging low to the ground and we could barely see our neighbors.

Woodrow said that Bev was to pick a row, I was to pick a row, Robie was to pick a row, and he would pick a row, so we got started. If you have never picked butterbeans, you should know the bushes only grow about thigh high and require a great deal of bending to get the harvest. Woodrow and Robie quickly left us in the fog since they were experienced. I was moving along at a decent clip and suddenly I realized I didn’t see Bev. I gently called her and she answered several bushes from where I was. I walked down to see how she was making such dramatic progress and was appalled at what I saw. She was sitting on her bucket and instead of picking the butterbeans off the bushes she was pulling the bushes up, picking the ripe beans and dropping the bushes back on the ground. “No, no”, I said. “Sweetheart the bushes stay in the ground, they will continue to make butterbeans”.

“Oh,” she said, “I’ve never picked butterbeans before”. I spent the next several minutes going back and replanting the bushes she had pulled up. We picked several quarts of butterbeans and then went to the Gilmore’s to shell the harvest, enjoy some fresh biscuits, mayhaw jelly, and hot coffee.

Occasionally, through the rest of the summer Woodrow would point to the replanted bushes, scratch his head, and say, “I don’t know what’s wrong with those bushes. They haven’t made a single butterbean since we first picked them.” I simply chuckled inside but wasn’t about to spill the “beans” on my precious wife.

A POULT OF TURKEYS

2011-03-24T20:32:00.000-05:00

We were sitting on the porch rocking lazily and watching the little ones playing joyfully in the sand. There were piglets, chicks, kittens, and poults everywhere. Robie and Woodrow, our neighbors raised them to sell. It was a sweltering, muggy summer afternoon, the kind where you want to just sit and watch life as it unfolds. We lived next to Robie and Woodrow for four years while we served our first parish.

Suddenly this apparition emerged from behind the barn. It was obviously a bird, the feet were a dead giveaway, but what stood on those feet was a different matter all together. I have never seen a more pathetic looking creature in my life. Its head was drooping, its wings were dragging on the ground and its feathers were stuck out in all directions.

With a cry of alarm, Robie shouted at Woodow, “Woodrow, what’s wrong with my turkey”? The apparition was her prized tom turkey, the father to all the poults (baby turkeys) running around the yard.

“Umm, he got caught in the electric fence,” Woodrow replied in his slow southern drawl.

“Bring me that Turkey”, Robie said, and get me the Wilsons liniment and a big spoon.

Woodrow went promptly about the business of corralling that pathetic creature. It wasn’t a pretty sight since God put every last bit of Woodrow’s goodness in the inside without even a dab left over for the façade. Woodrow stood about 6’6” tall, his arms reached from his shoulders down to just below his knees. He wore size 17 shoes and his pants hung down to slightly above his ankles. His lower lip protruded about an inch beyond his upper one and his false teeth clattered with every word he attempted to speak. When Woodrow asked Robie’s father if he could marry her, the answer was, Ya’ll are old enough and ugly enough to do whatever the hell you please.” I want to reiterate that their beauty, missing on the outside, was jam packed on the inside. They both were kind hearted, gracious, lovely people.

Anyway, Woodrow took off after the turkey; each time he got close the old tom would release a burst of energy and scoot between his legs. Poor Woodrow was about as graceful as a hippopotamus trying to walk on two legs. Finally, human kind prevailed over a so-called lesser species. Woodrow was exhausted and the turkey appeared dead. If you know anything about tom turkeys you know that they are adverse to being cuddled, but this one was absolutely flaccid. His head hung to the side and I could barely see his little red tongue hanging out of his mouth. Uh oh, I thought, no turkeys for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year.

Woodrow gently handed the turkey to Robie with a downcast look of sorrow and went into the kitchen to fetch the liniment and spoon. When he came out, I was appalled. What Robie had called a spoon must have held half a cupful and the Wilsons Red liniment was in a 12 oz bottle, was somewhere between red and orange, and thick as molasses in January. The turkey had not so much as twitched.

Robie laid the turkey in her lap, grabbed it by the head, pried open its mouth. While she prepared the turkey, Woodrow had poured half the bottle of liniment into the spoon. The air reeked with the smell of camphor, alcohol, capsicum, and oil of wintergreen. Large letters clearly said, “Not to be taken internal, FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY”. Robie took the spoon from Woodrow and poured every drop of that witches brew down the turkey’s gullet.

As the last drop dripped of the edge of the spoon, the turkey’s eyes popped open and he started to shudder. Robie dropped him to the ground where he lay for a moment like the boneless turkey they sell in the store. Then the explosion happened. Tom turkey was back. He jumped to his feet, every feather stood STRAIGHT OUT and he started to dance. If you have never seen a turkey dance, you have missed a sight. He stomped from one foot to the other and began to flair his wings, first the right one then the left. He cranked his head up straight and then extended it back over his neck; it was a sight to behold. Old Tom was on a mission and he was determined to impregnate anything that moved. He made his first pass at a rooster that quickly rebuffed his advances, then on to the old hound dog lying under the porch. Around the yard he went, dancing for one critter then another but none showed any interest until a hen turkey came out of the barn to see what the commotion was about. Old Tom and that hen slipped back into the barn and there was a bumper crop of turkeys for Thanksgivings and Christmases ever after.

Once when I was sick with the flu, Robie showed up at the parsonage door with her bottle and spoon intending to heal her preacher. Thankfully, my dear wife intervened and explained that I couldn’t take the liniment because it might interfere with my other medications. The truth is that she saw what happened with Old Tom and we had agreed that two children were quite enough for our family. I have heard friends talk about the little blue pill and how expensive it is. I think should the need arise for me, I’ll just get a bottle of Wilson Red liniment.

THE inFAMOUS MAIN STREET DRAG RACE

2011-03-21T21:14:00.000-05:00

Some names have been changed to protect the guilty and the innocent, both at the same time.
Once upon a time, my good friend Rusty Randolph and I had been hanging out Shoney’s Big Boy in College Park, Georgia. I didn’t get to hang out much since Daddy was convinced that boys hanging out were headed for trouble. I never did understand his reasoning, but the 11th commandment according to Daddy was, “Thou shall not hang out!”

This notorious event happened on a Sunday evening when Rusty and I had convinced our parents that we were going to youth events at church. Both of us had wailed long enough that we each got to drive a parent’s car.

My Mom had a 1949 Plymouth (this was in 1960) and Daddy had a fairly new Chevrolet Station wagon. He never let me drive his car without him in it because he was a traveling salesman and made his living out of his car. I got to drive Mom’s car pretty much anytime when she wasn’t using it, except when I wanted to go out to “hang out.” The Plymouth was in sad shape. When we turned left, the right side passenger door swung open. I saved my little brother’s life countless times by grabbing the seat of his pants as he flew out the swinging door. Daddy put used tires on it because they were cheap, so there generally was no tread, and the tires would slip if even the tiniest amount of dampness was on the street. I didn’t dare drive it hard because a rod knocked loudly when the engine was under strain. I got about 10 miles to the gallon of gasoline and 25 miles to the quart of motor oil. Consequently, we kept a supply of burned motor oil in the basement to keep the silly car lubricated.

Rusty’s family car was some kind of exotic model that his Daddy, a major in the Army brought back from Europe. The driver sat on the left side, opposite from American made cars. For the life of me, I can’t remember the make, but I do remember that it had an electric clutch, which was always slipping. Rusty would rev the engine, put the car in low, let out the clutch pedal and there we would sit, I started to say go, out of habit. It could take as long as 30 seconds before the tires would make the first revolution. The engine was about the same size of the one that powers my lawn mower. Eventually the clutch would fully engage and off we’d go at one third of the speed of light or twice the speed of a snail, which ever came first.

So having set the stage, “Now the rest of the story”; we both had let time slip up on us since we were eating strawberry pie and flirting with the gorgeous girls of College Park (I just realized we could have published a calendar featuring, Betty, Francis, Ann, Julie, Sandra, Sally, Becky, Ann, Janet, Tina, Robin, and Francine. We would have made a million, had we not found ourselves in jail. This would have been the first of its kind and later when Playboy was published H.H. might have bought it.). Anyway, we were later than we should have been leaving and knew we would be in trouble if we didn’t get home soon. We got into our respective cars and pulled out of Shoney’s parking lot side by side, Rusty on the left, me on the right. Julie told me earlier that she thought Rusty was cute so as we rode along side by side I was telling Rusty about her. We were literally two feet from each other and just having an innocent conversation. Suddenly, we heard the siren behind us and red lights flashing, the ever diligent Sergeant Wingo had caught us. I pulled up first and Rusty pulled over in front of me. We turned our cars off as Sergeant walked up to my car with his pistol drawn. He called to Rusty to join us in front of my car, holding his pistol the entire time.

Wingo was a rat faced, skinny type after which the writers of “The Andy Griffith Show” must have modeled Barney Fife. In his high-pitched nasal twang, as he bounced from one foot to the other, he proclaimed that we were under arrest for drag racing.

I could hardly contain my laughter, there was no way on God’s earth that we could have been drag racing in those pathetic machines we called cars. As I made the left turn on Main Street upon exiting Shoney’s’ I had to reach all the way across the seat and shut the passenger door before it slammed against a telephone pole.
Rusty, being fairly new in town didn’t know anything about Wingo and was absolutely terrified. He started to stammer and stutter, all the spit dried up in his mouth and tears started flowing. As soon as he could moisten his lips a bit, he started.

“Sir”, he said”, “We are good boys, we would never drag race, he’s an eagle scout and I’m an honor student. Sir if you arrest us, my Daddy could be discharged from the army and I will never be allowed to drive again. Please, please let us go, I promise we will never do anything like this again.” With that, he wet all down the front of his pants.

I stood there trying hard not to burst out in laughter. Rusty got louder and louder as I tried to get him to shut up. Sergeant Wingo became more and more agitated, waving his pistol around as he danced more frantically, on one foot then the other. I realized that if I didn’t do something, one of us was likely to die before the night was over. There was a moment when both Rusty and Wingo stopped shouting at each other so they could breathe and recognizing my opportunity, I jumped in.

I asked Sergeant Wingo to let Rusty sit in his car while we talked. He thought that was a good idea so Rusty was relegated to the back of police car and Sergeant Wingo and I talked. He shone his flashlight in my face and I said, “Sergeant, please put your pistol away, I am not going to resist you”. Reluctantly he did. “Let’s start over”, I said, “You have known me for years, and you know that I don’t cause trouble”. (I hoped he didn’t remember any of our previous encounters.) Obviously he didn’t. I continued, “Now sergeant look at those cars, you know there is no way we could have been drag racing, but I understand why you might have thought that we were. We pulled out of Shoney’s side by side. We drove along side by side while I told Rusty that he should call Julie for date.”

Sergeant Wingo looked at me like a doe looking into headlights, he scratched his baldhead and said, “I know you, you are the deJarnette kid, I heard about you; you saved that ladies’ life the other night didn’t you?” (I’ll explain that in a minute.) “There is no way you would be drag racing, you are a good boy, why you are even an eagle scout. But I don’t know about that other kid, he’s all mouth and talks like a Yankee, I think I’ll run him in just to teach him to shut up.”

I said, “Now sergeant, you really don’t need to do that He is a good guy and my friend and if you took him you would have to go see his family and write a report. Can’t we just call it lesson learned and besides Rusty wet his pants and it is getting on your car seat.”

“O, s--t,” Wingo said, and shouted to Rusty to get the hell out of his car. He instructed us to go straight home and that if he ever caught us again he would put us in jail.

Rusty and I remained good friends. Julie and Rusty dated for a while. Sergeant Wingo remained the senior deputy on the College Park Police Department as long as I can remember and we all lived happily ever after in a land that never was.

THE LADY WHOSE LIFE I SAVED.

I had just gotten off work from a swimming pool where I was lifeguard on Saturdays and Sunday afternoon. As I turned onto U.S. 29 south of College Park, I witnessed a horrendous wreck. Two cars ran together head on. I pulled to the side of the road, ran to the wreck, and started checking. One person was in the southbound car and seemed to be okay. The northbound car was a different matter there was blood everywhere. I quickly checked the man, who was just beat up, but the wife was literally spewing blood. Her head had gone through the windshield when the cars hit and then had been drawn back through at the secondary part of the crash. She was scalped from the back of her head all the way over the top and down to her nose. Several small arteries had been severed and she was weeping blood all over her scalp. I took off my shirt and made a compress with which to apply pressure.

I have no idea who called the police, but they showed up after a few minutes, as did Hemperlies ambulance. This was long before EMT’s and real dedicated ambulances. We were put into a funeral coach and I held pressure on the lady’s head all the way to Grady Memorial Hospital. The doctors at the hospital commended me for saving her life and I rode home in the ambulance. She had a complete recovery. Later we learned that she and her husband were good friends of my family.

Sergeant Wingo was the policeman who showed up.

I attribute my knowledge of what to do to first aid training given by the Boy Scouts of America.

Copyrighted © 2011 by Jack deJarnette

ADVICE FROM TONY CAMPOLO

2011-03-17T00:03:00.002-05:00

Recently I had the pleasure of hearing Dr. Tony Campolo. If you don’t know who Dr. Campolo is, I refer you to his web site, http://www.tonycampolo.org/. I have followed Dr. Campolo for years through his writings and and occasional speaking engagements.

In this talk, Tony told about a sociological study involving a number of people 95 years old and older. A number of questions were asked of the old people and then the responses were summarized into three things the old people would do if they had the opportunity to live their lives over. The first was to reflect more, the second was to take more risks, and the third was to do things that would live on after they were gone. He then illustrated each of the responses with various stories and scriptures. Since hearing Tony, I have given a great deal of thought to these ideas and have some thoughts of my own.

REFLECT MORE.
I don’t remember reflecting on much of anything when I was younger. I was far too busy doing. It is only in my latter years that I have started to reflect and in the last couple of years, I have done a great deal of it. I find myself wondering what might have happened had I made different decisions. Of course, that is a sort of silly exercise because any choice that was not immediately fatal could lead to countless results. The permutations would expand exponentially.

Suppose that on the night we had macaroni and cheese for dinner when my children were in elementary school, I decided to eat salad and not the macaroni and cheese. I would not have eaten molecules of fat in the cheese. Those molecules would not have been digested and absorbed into my blood stream to be deposited in my arteries as cholesterol. That lack of cholesterol on that night might have been just enough to prevent my first heart attack; so, no heart attack, no heart catheterization, no catheterization, no knowledge of the serious plaque choking the arteries supplying my heart, no awareness of the danger that I faced and then bam, the heart attack that killed me. Just think of how many possibilities there are from that one example. Absurd, isn’t it?.

My reflections are not so much about what might have or might not have been. I reflect more on things like why I do the things I do and think the things that I think. I am far more interested in motivations and what triggers certain things than I am about the things that are unchangeable. I think more about the here and now and the might be. I think more about the meaning of things that I read, hear, and experience. There are even times that I am quite content to just be; thinking of nothing in particular or maybe just nothing.

RISK MORE.
I have always been a risk taker of sorts, but I never thought of things in those terms. It is important to note that after I was married, I never took a risk alone. My dear wife was involved in every risk that I ever took and she not only participated in the decisions to take the risks, but supported each risk.

I took a risk when I quit a job while Beverly was in the hospital having just delivered our first child. Not only did I not have a job, I didn’t have a prospect of a job; just a burning desire to return to work at Grady Memorial Hospital which I did. I left a job making $3.75 per hour to $.95 per hour. I could never have imagined where that would take us.

I took a risk when I chose to be a Christ follower. I can't imagine where that will take me because my destination is beyond imagination.

We took a risk when we quit our jobs, sold what we could, and left Atlanta to move to Florida. I could never have imagined that would lead us into the United Methodist ministry.

I took a risk when I asked to be moved from my first charge after four wonderful years with people we loved and who loved us. I could never have imagined where that would take us.

We took a risk when we agreed to attempt to start a new church. Over the next twenty-five years, I took many risks and invited my parishioners to risk with me. Some would say there was no risk involved because it is what God wanted me to do, but believe me when the decisions were being made to do the new things, they sure felt like risks.

I took a risk when we went to Birmingham to consider a heart transplant. I could go on, but truth be told, my risk taking days are pretty much behind me.

I believe there are seasons of life and as we live, we move from season to season. At a certain age, it seems more prudent to take fewer risks and live more safely. However, as I write this thought, I realize how silly it is. Going to bed at night is a risk, getting up in the morning is a risk. Trusting that the economy will be stable enough to sustain me throughout my life is a risk. Climbing a step ladder is a risk. Driving is a risk. Just plain living is a risk.

DO THINGS THAT WILL LIVE ON AFTER I’M GONE.
I wonder just what I have left behind that has lasting meaning.

Recently I went to Emory University’s website, found that the Master’s program that I co-founded lives on, and graduates 20 Anesthesia Assistants (Anesthetists) each year. However, the question remains, how long must live on to really count.

The church we founded lives on. If it follows the life expectancy of the average neighborhood church, it should be good for 40 more years, but is that long enough to count.

I think those kinds of things are not so significant in the eyes of God. No, I think that the things that matter, the things that count are relational things. My children have produced children and their children share in many of the values that we treasured. It matters that the values live on.

The main things that Jesus involved himself in were strictly relational. He was diligent in his relationship to God and to the people around him. He taught others that discipleship is relational. Jesus relationship to others made eternal differences in their lives, as have the relationships of his disciples and their disciples and their disciples…

Over my life, I have had the opportunity to influence many lives. My prayer is that more of my influences were positive than were negative. The value in my influence is if the people who I influenced grew in relationship to God and then passed it on to others.

So, reflect more, risk more, leave something behind that will live on after you are gone and give thanks that God created you for those very purposes.

ANESTHETIST, IMAGINATION OR ANGEL?

2011-03-05T09:47:00.000-06:00

SOME NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED IN THIS STORY TO PROTECT PRIVACY.

August 9, 1997 became one of the most terrifying times of my life. Dr. Ray Benza came into our room at the University of Alabama Medical Canter Heart Transplant Unit and said, “I have mixed news. We have found a heart that is compatible with you, but there is someone ahead of you on the list. We will begin the process to prepare you for surgery, but unless he has a problem, he will get this heart and you will have to continue to wait for the next one”. About an hour later, he came back and said, “Good news, you get the heart”.

We had been waiting in Birmingham since the April 1st, 1977 in hopes of receiving a heart. Mine heart was damaged beyond repair by a series of heart attacks and two bypass surgeries, beginning in 1976.

By the time Dr. Benza came with the good news, I had been shaved from top to bottom, except my head and big toes. I had been scrubbed two times with surgical soap. We were waiting and suddenly, I panicked. My faith had dwindled to nothing over the succeeding months as my heart had deteriorated. My wife, who always knows just what I need, called for the chaplain who came immediately. Pitifully, I looked at him and said, “I can’t do this, I’ve lost my faith”. I only remember him taking me in his arms and hugging me as he whispered in my ear, “No you haven’t, He is still with you”. In that moment, a sweet peace settled over me. I was still frightened, but I knew if I died, it would be okay, and if I lived that too would be okay.

Soon several of the transplant team came, put me on a gurney, packed up the IV and heart monitor, let me kiss my dear wife, share a word of prayer, and off we went. I found myself lying in a cold hallway, just outside the operating suite where they would eventually hook me up to machines, put me to sleep cool my body to 80 degrees, open my chest, stop my heart, and remove it from my body. Then they would carefully stitch in the new heart, warm it to body temperature, and hope it would start. The outcome depended on how it responded.

There I was, extremely cold in that barren hall, under a sheet extremely cold, frightened, thirsty and experiencing a loneliness I suspect visits those on death row after the final appeal is rejected. My eyes were closed and I was just laying there shivering.

Suddenly, I sensed a presence. I opened my eyes, looked up and there she stood. I could only see her eyes. Her face was covered with a surgical mask and just a bit of blond hair peeked out from under her surgical cap. She looked directly into my eyes that saw into the very depth of my soul. Her eyes astounded me with their depth and beauty. They were a light blue and were virtually transparent. She said in a gentle voice, “Hello, I’m Helen, a nurse anesthetist, and I’m going to take care of you”. She went on, “You are thirsty and cold aren’t you?” “Yes”, I answered. Helen was gone for just a moment then she returned and gently covered me with warm blankets, carefully tucking them under me to assure no cold air could find its way in. I flashed back to my Mother tucking me in when I was a child. Then she started to tenderly swab my lips with sponges dipped in warm water. I thought that someone had done this for Jesus while he hung on the cross.

We started talking. I don’t know just how the topic came up, but she said. My son and daughter-in-law just had a baby, he was born July 9th and was six weeks premature. I do remember how it came, up, she looked at my armband and said your name is John Thomas, that is my son’s name then on with the story of her grandchild. She said that the baby was healthy. However, was of low birth weight and being held in the neonatal ICU.

I couldn’t believe it and told her that my son is named John Thomas, had a baby born six weeks premature and delivered on July 9th also. He was being held in the neonatal unit until he gained adequate weight. Helen’s grandbaby was named John Thomas after his father and grandfather. My grandson is named Ian Thomas, Ian being the Scottish name for John, because my son didn’t want to saddle him with the name John Thomas IV.
Helen stayed with me, conversing, nursing, encouraging me until we heard a radio call. My transplant surgeon flew his own plane and had gone to Mobile, Alabama to receive the heart that was offered by a grieving family. He said, “We will be on the ground in 5 minutes and it will take us another 13 minutes to get to the hospital. We have confirmed the helicopter is standing by. Begin the procedure”. Helen gently leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, said a short prayer and disappeared. I never saw her again and no one could place her when we later asked about her. She might have been nurse waiting for another case, or she might have been something far more spectacular than that, I am not going to speculate about who or what she was, I’m just going to say, that I can never adequately express my thanks for the comfort she brought me.
Things then went into high gear then; I was quickly whisked into the operating suite. I was transferred to the surgical table, my arms were strapped to cross members that extended to either side of the table, powerful lights were turned on, machines started beeping and flashing. A man said I am the transplant cardiologist I will take care of your heart, another said, I am the transplant anesthesiologist, “Can you to take some deep breaths for me”.

Some five or six hours later, I’m not sure which, I opened my eyes to see my precious wife standing over me gently rubbing my forehead. She was saying, “It’s all right, it’s alright”. I could see my two children through hazy eyes as they stood in the background. Bev and I had agreed on our special signal before surgery since I had never been dead before and didn’t know what it was like and I wanted to be sure I was alive if I really was. After a few moments, I was back asleep.

The next day, I was wakened, had the breathing tube removed, and sat on the side of the bed. Soon they had me standing up. My only pain was a headache from increased blood flow to my brain. The only pain medicine that I remember taking was Tylenol for my headache. Later in the week, I had what might have been a tiny bit of rejection, which was quickly reversed. The next week I walked a mile, while pushing my dear Mommy in a wheel chair.

It took me a while to get over the fact that I got a heart that might have gone to a man who had been waiting for a year. He had been on a right ventricular assist pump the size of a shopping cart and had not been able to leave the transplant unit. Several months later, he received his heart and the last we heard he was doing well.

Seldom a day goes by that I don’t say a prayer for the grieving family who graciously gave their son’s heart and 7 other organs that other people might live. I long to see him in heaven and give his heart back.

The only difficulty with my recovery is with PTSD. After several months of periodically finding myself back in the operating suite shaking in terror, I finally saw a Psychiatrist who had had two previous kidney transplants. He diagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which shocked me, thinking it only applied to people who had been in combat. He showed me the parallels relating what I had been through to what soldiers in battle go through. While we were waiting for my transplant, several friends died before receiving a heart (friends killed). Survivor’s guilt (I received a heart that someone else might have received). Dear death experience (They literally killed me). Fear if imminent death (I was within a week of death when the heart came and had come very close several times before). Episodes were set off by certain smells, sounds, and light patterns. I still take antidepressants and sometimes medication for anxiety attacks.

In October of 2009 I required a kidney transplant due to long term damage done to my kidneys from the multiple catheterizations done to my heart plus the nephrotoxic medications given to protect my heart.

I hope people facing transplants of all sorts find this and take some benefit from reading it. Each experience is different, but within each, there are similarities. I also hope more people will agree to be organ donors, 87,000 people are waiting for hearts, kidneys, lungs, and intestines. Tissues can also be donated and can bless those who are in dire need. I don’t mind receiving emails about heart or kidney transplants at jackdejar@gmail.com.

A BLODLESS BATTLE

2011-02-23T12:18:00.000-06:00

This morning I was sitting in my easy chair reading the paper, my CLWD (cute little white dog) cuddled in beside me when suddenly I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up and outside the patio door; I saw a real life battle began. It was a battle over territory. The valiant warriors waved their battle flags, first one, and then the other and the battle began. It grew in intensity, each warrior determined to prevail. The battle raged for all of five minutes but in spite of their gritty engagement, not a drop of blood was spilled. It was over as quickly as it started. I could not tell what the defining moment was, but one of the warriors withdrew as the other stood waving his victorious banner for all to see. I was utterly amazed.

The warriors were about two inches long, seemingly equal in every way, yet one had some advantage over the other. What the advantage was I simply could not tell. Here in Florida they are commonly called false or Florida chameleons because they change colors from green to brown and back again depending on what background they find themselves on. Actually, they are not chameleons at all but are Anolis carolinensis, or green anoles. The battle that they engage in is one of head bobbing and flashing a red throat fan or dewlap. When the battle is between two anoles of differing size it is easy to predict who the winner will be, but when they appear to be equal in size the outcome is beyond me.

While my tiny warriors battled in almost microscopic scale, I wondered what it must have been like for them. They certainly didn’t see each other as two inch lizards, I am sure one must have appeared as Godzilla to the other, and while no blood was let, their battle was as real to them as that played out on any battle field. My tiny warriors live in a plant that sits on our patio, which can only supply a finite quantity of bugs. When bugs are in short supply as they surely are in the winter, the one that has primacy over the territory eats and the secondary does not. These battles really are a matter of life and death and not to be taken lightly.

I am fascinated with the struggles that are around us all of the time; struggles that we hardly notice as we go about our daily routines. As I observe them, and I try to on every occasion, I am reminded of the struggles between people. Just as the anoles fight over who controls territory, so do we. All of the wars of history are about who is in control. It is easy to forgive the anoles for their battles since they are hard wired for them; but it is much harder for me to forgive human beings for such stupidity since we have the capacity to learn and discover ways to prevent the necessity of struggles for power.

Consider for just a moment the incredible trillions of dollars that have been spent on wars, then of greater importance think of the men and women who sacrificed on the fields of battle. Not just wars fought on well-known battlefields, but also the battlefields in our cities. What are the battles all about? They are about control of the territory, whether over the possession of land or determination of ideology.

I am not so naïve as to think that wars are not going to be fought and that some are necessary. Nevertheless, I hate the senselessness of war. I spent time as a warrior in the United States Army, but after learning the myriad ways of killing and wounding another human being, I chose to become a combat medic. Fortunately, I was spared from putting my skills to use.
Human ingenuity and creativity are capable of feeding the entire world, we are capable of providing medicines to every person who is ill, we can provide clean water and the resources for indigenous peoples to have the necessary resources and education to adequately provide for themselves thus ending poverty and hunger.

I am not a pacifist, but having spent 30 years as a minister and studying human development I am thoroughly convinced that we have evolved in every way, but socially. Oh, some of us are more sophisticated than others. Some of us are more enlightened than others. Some of us are more intelligent than others. However, as a species we are still as primitive as we always have been. As a theologian, I have an explanation for our pitiful state. It is found in the creation myth. After Adam and Eve disobeyed God and ate of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, God’s punishment yielded the inability to evolve socially, not as individuals, but as a species. Legend, myth or truth; it doesn’t matter we seem to be stuck. To quote a famous saying, “nation will rise up against nation, and kingdom will rise up against kingdom…” (Jesus of Nazareth, circa 34AD)

As I finish this musing my tiny warriors are back at it. One day I might catch one and put a dab of paint on its tail, and then I can see which one wins or loses when they engage one another again. I would not be surprised to discover that they won alternately demonstrating the futility of war.

PIGEONS AND POOP

2011-02-05T20:20:00.000-06:00

My Dad loved me as much as any man could love a son so he was constantly dreaming up schemes for me to make money so that I could be self sufficient when I went to college. He was also determined to keep me out of trouble so while the other guys were “hanging out” Daddy found ways to keep me busy at home.

His first scheme was for me to learn to play the accordion. Accordionists were very popular in that day and time, but that is a story for another time.

The story today is about pigeons and poop. Daddy decided that I could make good money by raising squab. Squab is considered a delicacy to those who know about it. Two kinds of pigeons are the best producers of squab: white kings and silver kings. White kings as their name implies are solid white and silver kings are similar to the regular pigeons we see all over town. Both of these kinds of pigeon mate for life.

We had a two-car garage separated from the house that was perfect for a pigeon roost. Daddy, my little brother, and I built a first class pen with two different sides. Each side had twenty-five nest boxes and an enclosed fly pen just outside the garage. We made bins with four compartments for different grains. A couple of times a month we added grain to the bins, so that they never ran out of food.

The trick to harvesting squab is to carefully monitor the mated pair banded with matching bands. The mated pair chooses a nest in the coop and that remains their nest as long as they live. Nests have the same number as the pigeon’s tag. Detailed records must then be kept noting the date eggs are laid and hatch. I don’t remember the length of time, but the baby pigeons are harvested the day before they fly. Pigeons feed their young from a secretion in their necks (pigeon milk) so the squab are a good bit larger than their parents and are tender and succulent if harvested at the proper time.

Daddy and I went to Elberton, Georgia where Daddy had discovered a pigeon breeder. We came home with twenty-five pair of white and silver kings, released them into the roost, and started production.

I won’t go into the gross details of preparing the squab for consumption, but the local grocery store was quite willing to purchase my squab for their poultry counter. We negotiated a fair price and my business began.

Actually, my business was doomed to failure from the very beginning. Since I have severe Attention Deficit Disorder, detailed record keeping was beyond my ability. The second problem with my business is that I couldn’t bring myself to slaughter the squab. They were beautiful birds and would look at me with their sad eyes and I simply couldn’t stand putting the knife to them. I also hated the task of plucking their feathers so I only killed a few to keep Daddy from being angry. I often left the pen door open so the pigeons could fly free. The problem with that is that they remembered where their nests were and where the food was so they wouldn’t fly away. They just went to our neighbor’s roof and waited for me to open the door to coop. Sometimes I would wave a large rag and try to shoo them away. Nothing worked.

After a couple of months a unintended and unanticipated consequence developed. Rattus Rattus (black rats) decided to move in with the pigeons. They relished the grain and they took little pigeons and even some grown ones. The rats made nests in the walls of the coop and produced litter after litter of babies. My little brother and became quite proficient with a bow and arrow with which we shot the adults when we caught them in the open. Often we found nests and destroyed them only to find them built back the next day.

Between the rat infestation and the over population of pigeons, Daddy decided the pigeon business wasn’t for me. The only profit I made was when we sold forty mated pair of white kings and 34 mated pair of silver kings back to the breeder.

I spent the next two weeks after school shoveling pigeon poop into my next Daddy dreamed project, a large garden. As to the rats, with the pigeons gone we put out rat bait and soon they were gone. The garden story is one yet to come.

THE HOME OF THE BIG RED APPLE

2011-01-22T22:22:00.001-06:00

My dear little Momma was born in 1913 and raised at 38 Yonah Street in the North Georgia town of Cornelia. My Granddaddy built the family home in the late 1800s or early 1900s. It was a large two-story house that sat proudly on its foundation and saw children born and children die. It lost its matron and patron during the thirties and forties. My two aunts lived there after the family was gone. One a widow and the other an old maid were part of the richness of my memories of that old house.

During my childhood days, we often visited Cornelia and even lived there for a period. I loved that old house and Cornelia in general. From the front porch, you could look toward the Northwest and see Yonah Mountain. As a senior Boy Scout I spent a week with the Army Rangers repelling and learning about cold weather mountain camping. It was in January and extremely cold. Yonah Mountain has a sheer rock face, which makes it ideal for repelling.
My Momma was my heroine. She was born with congenital hip dysplasia and in her day, the only corrective the doctors knew was to remove her mal-formed femoral head (the ball that rides in hip socket). This caused her a pronounced limp and so she was often mocked. I remember how angry I got as a young man when I saw people stop and stare at her when we were in public, but she never let it get her down. She was one feisty gal. She raised my sister, brother and me after my Father died prematurely. The stories Momma told us about her growing up in Cornelia were hilarious.

One of the things that I remember with great fondness about Cornelia was our weekly trip to the movies. We walked down the hill from Momma’s house, around the curve at the bottom of the hill, by the gristmill once driven by a water wheel. I can still smell the wonderful aroma of freshly ground grain. We continued up the hill across the highway (U.S. 441) and finally to the train station. Years ago, Habersham County was a major apple producer until a blight wiped out the apple trees, so the train station is marked with a huge red apple mounted on top of a white pedestal. We always walked through the station to experience the unique smells of rail traffic from years gone by.

We continued down Main Street past the five and dime where we walked through the toy department to compile lists of things we hoped Santa would bring or that we might receive on a birthday. The smell in the five and dime was wonderful since the floors were wood and treated with linseed oil. We walked on down the hill to the valley where the theater was located. It cost twenty five cents to get in, and that quarter bought an entire afternoon of serials like Buck Rogers, Whip Wilson, Gene Autrey (who once visited with his wonder horse Champion), Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. Then there were several cartoons and finally the main attraction, usually about cowboy and Indians. I still get cold sweats when I remember seeing “The Thing”.

I had three cousins who would go to the movies with me. Momma and Aunt Louise who lived there year around could scrounge up a dollar and maybe a nickel for each of us, but no money for popcorn. One year we had the brilliant idea of taking fried okra to substitute for popcorn. From then on we each made our journey for a Saturday afternoon of movies and fried okra. In those wonderful old days, theater owners weren’t trying to make money off of hyper inflated popcorn so there was no ban against taking fried okra.

After the movie we made the trek home after watching the evening train stop at the station to pick up and let off passengers. I can still feel the drive wheels of the engine pounding when the train started to move after the stop. The smell of the exhaust steam as it escaped the valves as the iron monster slowly passed by. People who have never experienced the awesome power and complex machinery of a 4-6-2 Baldwin Steam engine have missed a unique experience unduplicated today.

We visit Cornelia when we are in North Georgia and are astounded at the changes that have occurred over the years. The last time we were there that big old house at 38 Yonah Street was there, but had endured many renovations.

THE VALUE OF A SMILE

2011-01-19T23:03:00.000-06:00

"A smile is the light in your window that tells others that there is a caring sharing person inside." Denis Waitley

How long has it been since you have seen someone smile, more importantly, how long since you have looked at someone and smiled (:- )? Beverly just returned from a fun trip to New York City. She explained that she had figured how to navigate the hoards of people walking on the sidewalk. She said that you simply don't make eye contact. That got my thinker going.

When I go to the mall or grocery store, no one seems to look at anyone else except for a sometimes casual or surreptitious glance. I find that I am like that; seldom do I make eye contact. Without eye contact, you sure can’t give or receive a smile. Was it always that way or is this a new phenomenon? I certainly don’t know, but I wonder.

(A tribute to Charlie Chaplin taken from the stage version of "Smile")

Words Written by John Turner and Geoffrey Parsons.
Music Composed by Charles Chaplin.

Smile, though your heart is aching.
Smile, even though it's breaking.
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by
If you just smile.

Smile with your fear and sorrow.
Smile and maybe tomorrow
you'll find that life is still worthwhile if you'll just smile.

Light up your face with gladness.
Hide every trace of sadness.
Although a tear may be ever so near
That's the time you must keep on trying.
Smile, what's the use of crying
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you'll just smile

Smile, though your heart is aching.
Smile, even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by
If you just smile.

Through your fear and sorrow
smile and maybe tomorrow
you'll find that life is still worthwhile
if you'll just smile.
That's the time you must keep on trying
smile, what's the use of crying
you'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you'll just smile

I certainly couldn,t say it better.

STEAM ENGINES AND MAIL CARS

2011-01-12T22:59:00.001-06:00

Daddy was a traveling salesman. Each week he would board the train with his case of samples and head out for worlds unknown, at least to me. We lived in the country, in the middle of a field, by the railroad tracks, in a renovated sharecropper house.

World War II was over and Mother and Daddy, like so many other Americans were struggling to find their roles in a very different society than before the war. Daddy was a member of the greatest generation. He had survived the Battle of the Bulge, a supply officer who spent the horrible winter scrounging for any supplies that he could find for the man actually in battle. Daddy and his driver often went behind German lines to scrounge abandoned German supplies. Daddy told me that once he and his driver both had violent diarrhea. They stopped on the side of a road and ran into the woods to relieve themselves. His driver dropped his pants, squatted down to take care of business, and looked up into the face of a German storm trooper. He froze and shouted to Daddy to run. Daddy pulled his gun and ran over to check on his driver who was standing there with his hands in the air, his pants around his ankles, looking into the face of a dead frozen solid German. Daddy said after recovering they both had a good laugh, but from then on looked before they squatted.

Anyway, on most Sunday evenings Daddy would go to the railroad tracks with a pile of newspaper and wait. When he heard the rattling of the West Georgia steam engine, he balled the paper and lit it. When the engineer saw the little fire, he would stop the train and Daddy would climb aboard the engine to begin his sales route. Those were the days when many men hobo’d. Hobos were not tramps or bums, but men who travelled seeking work. Daddy had spent a number of years as a hobo before the war. As the train pulled away, I ran across the field to our house where Mother had stood carefully watching me.

When I got a little older, Daddy often took me with him on his sales trips. These were incredible experiences for a small child. Many times we rode in the engine and I can still remember the smells, the heat from the firebox, the chugging, and huffing of those wonderful old steam engines. Sometimes the engineer let me blow the whistle, and I still feel the frustration I experienced since I was too small to ring the bell.

We went to exotic places like Macon, Albany, Augusta, Valdosta, Columbus and places along the way, often we rode on two or three different trains. We stayed in big old hotels or boarding houses. Sometimes Daddy left me with the hostess at a boarding house while he made his sales calls. He travelled his routes many times and having never met a stranger, he knew everyone at the places he stayed. Daddy only travelled with one suit, his toiletries, and a change of underwear. At night, he would wash our dirty underwear and his white shirt and hang them up to dry so we had a clean change the next day. Sometimes the bathrooms were in our rooms, other times they were communal facilities down the hall.

Once about Christmas time, Daddy took me on a trip to Atlanta. I remember that it was Christmas because he had purchased a rocking horse for my sister. He finished his work a couple of hours before the train was to leave headed south so we went to the Fox Theater to see a movie. It was a cowboy and Indian movie and I remember a scene when the Indians killed many cowboys. I was terrified so I tucked my head under Daddy’s shoulder where I found a place of safety and went to sleep. Suddenly, Daddy woke me up in quite a rush and we hurried out of the theater with me in one hand and the rocking horse under his arm. We got to the train station just as the train was pulling out. Daddy took off running down the platform with me under one arm and the rocking horse under the other. He ran faster and faster until we were even with a large open door. Daddy threw the horse in the door, then me, and jumped in after us. It was the mail car and one of the postmen insisted that we could not ride in the mail car. Daddy said, “What do you want us to do, jump out?” By that time the train was moving quite rapidly so that settled it, we rode in the mail car.

The mail car was a fascinating place. There was a large block of ice sitting over a grate. It was the bathroom where the men peed. I thought that was just too cool and worked up a case of little boy pee so that I could christen that block of ice. The men were working busily sorting the mail. There was a large pile of hay in one corner, whose purpose I still don't understand, but it was a great place for a little boy to seep. The train rumbled and rocked and I fell asleep, suddenly Daddy woke me up, we were home.

Those were wonderful days, especially for a little boy with a wonderful Mother and Daddy. Mother told me years later how difficult times were, but she and Daddy loved each other deeply and that love spilled over to their children as we came along. I don't remember any bad times, but only being nurtured, safe, and loved with a fascination with steam engines.
I still love trains and steam engines in particular. With all the ridiculous, miserable crap (er, sorry) that goes on with flying today, I intend to take the train more often when I can’t drive. Every chance I have to ride a steam driven train, believe it, I'm all aboard.

DRIVE IN MOVIES AND POPCORN

2011-01-09T21:31:00.000-06:00

When I was young, sometimes Daddy would come in from work and start popping popcorn. We immediately knew—we were going to the drive in theater. That was a big deal for us because the drive in always ran several cartoons before the movie started then they showed the first half of the movie, there was an intermission, then several more cartoons, then the second half of the movie. Daddy would make pan after pan of popcorn. He and Mother got a large sized grocery bag, then there were a smaller bags for my sister, brother, a friend, and me. Daddy always let me take a friend to the drive in. We didn’t have to worry about running out of popcorn, Daddy would always gladly refill our small bags.

At the drive in, Daddy would always pick a spot between two empty parking stations. Each station had a speaker mounted on a pole with enough cable to reach into a car. Daddy’s strategic parking was important because of the way we watched the movie. My friend and I would get out of the car and stretch two blankets under it. We then crawled under the front end of the car with a speaker from the next station and our bags of popcorn. The cars parked on a 2-foot rise so the front of the car was higher than the back. Under the car was a perfect place to watch the movie since we could lie on our bellies and look up at the movie.

It was quite different for my sister who was born with congenital hip dislocations. She had a numberOF surgeries on her hips and the doctors actually cut both of her femurs into then rotated the hip balls joints 180 degrees so they fit into the sockets as they were supposed to. She spent many months in a body cast that included both of her legs and ran up to her upper chest. In order for her to get around the house, Daddy made a scooter. It was a rectangular frame made from 2x4s. Canvass was stretched over the frame, which was mounted on 4 casters. Sister laid on it on her tummy and used her hands to propel herself around the house.

Once Daddy came home with a bushel of special apples, each was wrapped in tissue paper. One evening we were going to have fried apples so Mother took several out of the box and unwrapped them. Each had one bite taken out of it. Mother went back to the box and started unwrapping apples. Each one had one bite taken out of it, then was rewrapped and placed back in the box. It turned out sister had wheeled herself up to the box and tasted every apple.

Back to the drive in, I sort of got lost thinking about my precious little sister and what she endured as a child. During the intermission, Daddy would give my friend and me a nickel so we could buy a soft drink. We would run to the snack bar, get our drinks then return to the car with drinks for Mother, Daddy, and my sister.

Years later when I was dating my wife to be, we went to the same drive in. I can’t remember a single movie that we saw, but we surely had a good time.

I still remember with great joy the family nights at the drive in, both as a child and as a young adult.

REJOICING FOR WHAT YOU HAVE

2011-01-05T16:16:00.000-06:00

“He is a wise man who does not grieve for the things which he has not, but rejoices for those which he has”. (Epictetus 50-120 A.D.)

Ageing has taught me a great deal. Every Chapter has brought losses and gains. Many of the losses have caused me a great deal of pain as I grieved them and only lately have I come to realize that to really live life during any chapter requires leaving things behind need not be painful. Rather than dwelling on what was, the key is to rejoice in what is.

I started realizing losses after my heart transplant in 1997. My favorite pastime was fishing. I had two boats, a 15 foot bass boat and a 23 foot Proline for offshore fishing. Every Friday I was in one or the other, up a river or out in the gulf unless the weather was horrendous. After my transplant, I had to give up fishing because the medications that were required greatly increased the danger of skin cancer from sun exposure. I am not certain that I have completely stopped grieving that loss, but on the other hand, I rejoice each morning and celebrate the fact that I have enjoyed 13 additional years of life. I would trade off fishing for life in a heartbeat.

In 2004 I suffered an intestinal problem that was never diagnosed. I lost 50 pounds and a great deal of muscle mass, which left me severely debilitated. Under normal circumstances, I would have simply built back up and carried on, but because I couldn’t digest food I was on an intravenous feeding and developed a severe infection that wracked my whole body ultimately causing kidney failure. When I finally recovered from the infection, my kidneys didn’t. I lost my ability to be active and had was approved for disability leave. Not only did I go on disability I had to stop my ministry, which I dearly love. I miss that terribly and grieved for a year. However, I rejoice and am glad that I can put my thoughts on paper. Occasionally I might even write something worth putting on paper.

I could go on, but I think I made my point. Whatever life brings us we have the choice of how we handle it. We can live in the loss and become bitter or we can rejoice in what we have gained and develop new ways to find fulfillment.

THEY RETURNED TO THEIR OWN COUNTRY

2011-01-02T17:02:00.000-06:00

Today, January 2, 2011, my minister preached from Matthew 2:1-12. He amplified the last phrase in the passage, which caused me to think about it after I got home. The last phrase says: (The wisemen) “returned to their country by another route”.

After their encounter with the Christ child, their lives were never the same is the notion that was drawn from that passage. After an encounter with Christ life is never the same, it is true. The Apostle Paul testifies to this truth. “17Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come. (2 Corinthians 5:17 ASV)

If I may be so forward as to use my own experience. Each encounter has caused some old to go and some new to come. However, for me it isn’t just a once and be done with it kind of experience. No, I have needed recurring experiences with Jesus. Each time I encounter him anew something changes and new parts of me are released, but not in totality. I need those recurring encounters. It might just be that I have needed so many changes that to do it all at once would be more than I can stand, so it has happened little by little. No trial has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tried beyond what you can bear. But when you are tried, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it. (1 Corinthians 10:13 NIV{tried is a suitable substitute for the word temptation})

I want to be careful not to mislead you. I have never seen Jesus face to face, and He has never spoken to me verbally. My encounters have been inside my own being. Some would call it in my soul, others would say in my spirit or in my mind or heart. I really don’t need to label where they have occurred, they just have.

It has happened in church, at retreats, in praying with others, in visiting at the hospital. There have been moments that were so holy they defy description. One happened for me today during Communion. As I knelt at the altar I felt a cleansing wash over me. It was brief, it wasn’t in response to anything said or done, it just was. I encountered, for a passing moment the one who bore my sins on the cross. I sensed that voice saying, “Father forgive him for he doesn’t know what he is doing.”

I believe that many people have these incredible moments but don’t recognize them for what they are. In our sophisticated, intellectually advance society, we simply have lost our ability to recognize Jesus when he comes. That makes me extremely sad.

Our world might be a different place if more of us were open to the work of God’s Spirit as the Spirit woes, chastens, corrects, leads, and comforts us. What would it be like if we had more faith in God’s word to us?

If you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord”, and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. (Romans 10:9 NIV) The Greek tense used to translate will be saved actually means will be being saved according to some scholars. This lends credence to the idea that the act of salvation is ongoing.

Be encouraged by those holy moments, they come to you quietly and softly, but that are from the God who came down to lift you up. Believe, trust, be open and we will be in the process of being saved together, each walking his/her own unique road.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

2011-01-01T11:59:00.000-06:00

Today, January 1, 2011 is a totally unique day, it has never been before nor will it ever be again. It is unique because it is the very first day of a decade and a year. 2011 began last night at precisely 12:00.

For me it is a day to look back on the past year and remember the victories and losses, the failures and successes, the illness and the wellness, the joys and sorrows, the things that I got wrong and the things I got right. I like to do that so I can be certain that I have done what I can to negate the negative things, and then release them. At the same time, I categorize the positive things in order to remember them. In doing these exercises, hopefully I learn something worthwhile.

As I look backward to what was, I don’t dwell there longer than is necessary to simply check up on the state of my soul, then I look forward. What will the New Year bring? Certainly, it will bring some of the same things, but also new things. There will be new opportunities to be a blessing to old friends and new friends yet to be met. There will be opportunities to overcome obstacles and thus gain strength and wisdom.

Many years ago, I stopped making resolutions. I would carefully make a list and then check it out with my wife to be sure I hadn’t missed anything. Before the new month was done, I was frustrated and so was she. She finally refused to read my list and comment on it. She said that reading it then watching me slowly but surely fail on each one made her frustrated and then her frustration turned to anger. I realized the same was true for me. My failures made me angry at me and for the rest of the year I was angry, not a violent, hurtful anger, but a deep seething kind of anger that lay just beneath the surface waiting to be released. It made no sense to live that way so I just stopped the resolution business.

Rather than resolutions, I simply work each day on being a bit better than the day before. If I fail, I simply go to beg thankful for what that day wrought and knowing that tomorrow I can start again.

Having said all of that, I am excited about what 2011 might bring. So enjoy the promise of a New Year with me and remember the encouragement of the Apostle Paul: “But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus”. (Philippians 3:13,14; NIV)

THOUGHTS ON CHRISTMAS

2010-12-23T09:26:00.000-06:00

Two times each year, I find myself in a quandary. It is sort of a chicken and egg problem- you know the one, “Which came first the chicken or the egg”? Of course, those of us who know God know the answer, don’t we. God made the chicken and the chicken mae the egg.

Here is my quandary—Which is more important in the Christian year, Christmas or Easter. If there were no Christmas then there could be no Easter, if there were no Easter there would be no resurrection. If there were no resurrection it would be as the Apostle Paul said, “We (who believe in Jesus and the resurrection) are to be pitied beyond all people. (1 Corinthians 15:17-19).

Of course I love both stories. I have a mental image of that young virgin and her much older husband as they were in the stable. Having spent some time in stables, I can imaging the sweet smells of hay and grain from the animals’ food and the not so sweet smells of the end result of the food the animals ate. I can hear the cattle lowing and the sheep as they bah, bah. A horse neiged and a camel grunted. They all moved in as close as possible as witnesses to the miracle that is unfolding before them.

Sweet Mary is whimpering as the birth pangs grow stronger. Gentle Joseph is attentively holding her and speaking soft words of encouragement. “Shhh, shhh, now breathe, and breathe”. At the miracle moment he says, “Push, Mary, push”. Suddenly a baby is born. Hear his first cry. I know the song says, “No crying he makes”, but this child is a human child, of course he cried and then Mary drew him gently to her breast and he suckled hungrily.

Angels announced his birth. The animals were astounded, even they knew they were seeing the King of kings and they looked on with adoration making their animal sounds of celebration.

Can you imagine that moment for Mary? I love Mark Lowry’s and Buddy Green’s song, “Mary did you know?” Think of the noble Joseph. He was charged with raising a son who would someday reveal the very nature of God to a world desperate for hope.

I love that special story and never tire of hearing it. I especially love the wonderful hymns that speak of the wonders of that earth-changing event.

I love the traditions of Christmas trees, and lighted decorations. I love the Santa Claus myth in its original form. I love the tradition of gift giving. At the same time, I hate the way the true Christmas story has been commercialized to the point that the birth of Jesus is overshadowed.

But I am still left with a quandary, as much as I love Christmas, I feel the same way about Easter. I suppose that it isn’t my responsibility to label them as more and less important. I just need to love and celebrate reach one in turn, and invite you to do the same.

So, Merry Christmas. No matter your state in life, you can give thanks for the gift you have been given. Jesus was born from the heart of God for you. If you were the only living person, Jesus would have died for you. God is love, receive his grace and be glad. AMEN

A STRANGE THING IS HAPPENING

2010-12-17T18:11:00.000-06:00

Strangest thing is happening. I am at home alone, Bev is out with two of the grandchildren. I am sitting in my favorite chair, warm and comfortable. The surround sound is cranked up fairly high and I am listening to some of the most wonderful orchestras as they play the marvelous Christmas classics. The Christmas tree is alight with ornaments that Bev made over the years. The nut crackers are standing guard as the Holy Family quietly gazes out of the Nativities that we have collected through the years. Santa himself has just descended down the chimney and stands there as a silent testimony to the gift that God himself gave us on the first Christmas. Beneath the tree the presents are carefully laid out encircled by the Christmas train. My loyal and precious CLWD (Cute little white dog) is cuddled in my lap. Bev and the grandchildren are due home in a while. What could be more perfect?

Yet all is not right. My heart is troubled. A dark cloud has settled somewhere in the depth of my soul. For a moment, I feel a chill. There is a vision before me. It is a hungry child, no, it is hundreds even thousands of hungry children, not just children, but also adults. They are not just hungry they are homeless. No Christmas trees to enjoy, no nutcrackers to stand guard, no chimneys for Santa to descend, no presents, no comfort, no food, just the miserable sameness day after day. They are all the same, no races, no particular ethnicity, just a sea of hurting humanity.

I am screaming at God, “Why, oh why must it be so. My heart is breaking. Take the vision away, please, please.” Out of the void, there is only silence. The deep silence that comes when one’s heart is breaking and I know a truth. As hurt as I am. God’s heart hurts worse; God doesn’t just see the vision, God is in the midst of the misery. God feels the pain, smells the horrible stench, hears the cries, knows the hunger, and holds the dying baby. Suddenly instead of screaming at God, I want to comfort God. Only if I could hold God’s hand or give God a hug. Then from the void I hear, “If you have done it for the least of these, you have done it for me”.

Thankfully, we have given generously to charity, we have been faithful to tithe to the church. Our gifts don’t bring me much comfort however. I know that we haven’t given all we should and could. I know that we are far too frivolous with the blessings we have received.

Now my mind is playing strange tricks on me. The vision is changing. I am seeing boys and girls, adults and old folks; all happy and filled, all with warm homes, all free from the utter hopelessness of abject poverty. And God says, “That has been my plan all along.” But you, my people just won’t cooperate. I have given you all of the resources necessary to feed and house all of my children, instead you continue to use those resources for your selfish pleasures. You judge the homeless and call them worthless, forgetting that they too are my children. You give but only so long as it doesn’t interfere with your pleasures. You see the misery around you, yet act as if your eyes are blind. You hear the pleas that are crying for help, but you act if your ears are deaf.”

Then God says, “In spite of your selfishness I have not given up on you. I still have hope that one day you will begin to see the vision that I have for a broken world and then you will start to partner with me and together we will heal the world.”

Now the vision is gone, I am still troubled in spirit, but I know there is hope and I am part of the plan to make the world better. We are beginning, but it is only a beginning. Each one of us able to read this can do a bit more, a bit more, and a bit more, increasing our giving just a bit day by day, year by year. Not just with money, but with time and prayer. Little by little, we can turn it around. Call me a hopeless romantic, but I will continue to do my part and encourage others to do the same. It can be and will better.

LETTER FROM JESUS ABOUT CHRISTMAS

2010-12-17T11:59:00.000-06:00

This came to me in an email today and I found it an appropriate followup to my blog of yesterday. I did not write it, and after a great deal of research, I believe the author to be unknown.

"Dear Children,
It has come to my attention that many of you are upset that folks are taking My name out of the season.

How I personally feel about this celebration can probably be most easily understood by those of you who have been blessed with children of your own. I don't care what you call the day. If you want to celebrate My birth, just GET ALONG AND LOVE ONE ANOTHER.

Now, having said that let Me go on. If it bothers you that the town in which you live doesn't allow a scene depicting My birth, then just get rid of a couple of Santas and snowmen and put in a small Nativity scene on your own front lawn. If all My followers did that there wouldn't be any need for such a scene on the town square because there would be many of them all around town.

Stop worrying about the fact that people are calling the tree a holiday tree, instead of a Christmas tree. It was I who made all trees. You can remember Me anytime you see any tree. Decorate a grape vine if you wish: I actually spoke of that one in a teaching, explaining who I am in relation to you and what each of our tasks were. If you have forgotten that one, look up John 15: 1 - 8.

If you want to give Me a present in remembrance of My birth here is my wish list. Choose something from it:

1. Instead of writing protest letters objecting to the way My birthday is being celebrated, write letters of love and hope to soldiers away from home. They are terribly afraid and lonely this time of year. I know, they tell Me all the time.

2. Visit someone in a nursing home. You don't have to know them personally. They just need to know that someone cares about them.

3. Instead of writing the President complaining about the wording on the cards his staff sent out this year, why don't you write and tell him that you'll be praying for him and his family this year. Then follow up... It will be nice hearing from you again.

4. Instead of giving your children a lot of gifts you can't afford and they don't need, spend time with them. Tell them the story of My birth, and why I came to live with you down here. Hold them in your arms and remind them that I love them.

5. Pick someone that has hurt you in the past and forgive him or her.

6. Did you know that someone in your town will attempt to take their own life this season because they feel so alone and hopeless? Since you don't know who that person is, try giving everyone you meet a warm smile; it could make the difference.

7. Instead of nit picking about what the retailer in your town calls the holiday, be patient with the people who work there. Give them a warm smile and a kind word. Even if they aren't allowed to wish you a "Merry Christmas" that doesn't keep you from wishing them one. Then stop shopping there on Sunday. If the store didn't make so much money on that day they'd close and let their employees spend the day at home with their families.

8. If you really want to make a difference, support a missionary-- especially one who takes My love and Good News to those who have never heard My name.

9. Here's a good one. There are individuals and whole families in your town who not only will have no "Christmas" tree, but neither will they have any presents to give or receive. If you don't know them, buy some food and a few gifts and give them to the Salvation Army or some other charity which believes in Me and they will make the delivery for you.

10. Finally, if you want to make a statement about your belief in and loyalty to Me, then behave like a Christian. Don't do things in secret that you wouldn't do in My presence. Let people know by your actions that you are one of mine.

Don't forget; I am God and can take care of Myself. Just love Me and do what I have told you to do. I'll take care of all the rest. Check out the list above and get to work; time is short. I'll help you, but the ball is now in your court. And do have a most blessed Christmas with all those whom you love and remember,"

I LOVE YOU,

JESUS

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

2010-12-16T15:51:00.000-06:00

My goodness how things have changed; I was doing my final Christmas shopping yesterday and was dumbfounded at the lack of the word Christmas to describe the season. My initial response was anger. I am a Christian and as such, this season for me is CHRISTMAS. It always has been and always will be and by God, no one is going to take that away from me, but they have. I don’t know who they are, but shame on them. It is not just a holiday it is Christmas.

Then I thought, now wait a minute that certainly isn’t a Christian attitude. What is behind the whole notion of using the word holiday instead of Christmas. The first thing that I did was to research the word holiday. I went back to its origin and found that it originated in the Middle English. I can’t reproduce the original word because my word processor doesn’t have the necessary characters, but it looks sort of like “haligdaeg” and literally means “Holy Day”. Therefore, if holiday means holy day, then I don’t have a problem with it.

Next I wondered what different religions celebrate around our Christmas time and I discovered that Jews, Mormons, Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, Baha’I, all have celebrations during what we Christians call the Christmas season. In addition there is Kwanzaa which is an original African-American holiday founded in 1966. Realizing all of this, I came to peace with the use of Happy Holidays as a greeting for the season.

Having said that, what am I to do with my belief that December 25th is the date designated for the celebration of Christ’s birth? I turned to Christian history to discover how December 25th was determined to be the day of celebration of Christ’s birth. I was astounded.

There are no official records of Christ’s birth since if it was recorded the records were lost long ago. For the first three hundred years of Christianity, the day of Christ’s birth was not celebrated at all since it was believed that only pagan’s celebrated the birthdays of their gods.

In 336 A.D. under the rule of Constantine December 25th was celebrate as the date of Christ’s birth. Church Father Origen with other leaders agreed to adopt two prominent pagan holidays; the Roman holiday natalis solis invicti and the Iranian celebration of the birthday of Mithras. In addition, the winter solstice was celebrated about this time. The church adopted these occasions to add the celebration of Christ’s birth in the belief that it would overshadow the others.

Over the years there were many debates about which date to use with them ranging from May 20th to January 6th. Finally, with the adoption of the Gregorian calendar December 25th was selected by most of the church, but not all. Only in recent years has December 25th been accepted by the whole church.

So looking at the history of Christmas day, I decided to get unbent about using the term Happy Holidays as the season’s greeting. For me and my Christian friends we will celebrate Christmas on December 25th and let others celebrate their holy days as they will.

Think how confusing it would be if every celebration was listed at the mall—Happy Pancha Ganapati (Hindu), Happy Rohatsu (Buddhist), Happy (actually sad) Ashura (Muslim), Happy Hanukkah (Jewish), Happy Kwanzaa (African-American), Happy Christmas (Christian).

I like a statement written by Ben Stein and quoted by him on CBS, on a Sunday morning in 2005. He said, “I am a Jew, and every single one of my ancestors was Jewish. And it does not bother me even a little bit when people call those beautiful lit up, bejeweled trees Christmas trees. I don't feel threatened. I don't feel discriminated against. That's what they are: Christmas trees.

It doesn't bother me a bit when people say, "Merry Christmas" to me. I don't think they are slighting me or getting ready to put me in a ghetto. In fact, I kind of like it. It shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year. It doesn't bother me at all that there is a manger scene on display at a key intersection near my beach house in Malibu. If people want a creche, it's just as fine with me as is the Menorah a few hundred yards away.

I don't like getting pushed around for being a Jew, and I don't think Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians. I think people who believe in God are sick and tired of getting pushed around, period. I have no idea where the concept came from that America is an explicitly atheist country. I can't find it in the Constitution, and I don't like it being shoved down my throat.”

So here is my conclusion: Far too many of us who call ourselves Christian feel that we are being pushed around by a non-Christian minority (76% of Americans profess Christianity). Instead, we should stop assuming that we are pushed around, but just possibly, we might be pushing others around.

If we who profess to be Christian live up to our profession, we wouldn’t be troubled by what a holiday is called, rather our witness through living would free us from our petty complaints.

So to my Christian friends, Happy Christmas; to all others, Happy Holidays and as my Jewish friends say, Shalom.

Carpe Diem

2010-11-29T10:30:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving is past and we are rushing headlong toward Christmas. This Thanksgiving was very special. Most of our family gathered for the traditional Thanksgiving feast—turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, squash casserole, sweet potato crunch, cranberry sauce, yeast rolls, sweet potato pie, wine, iced tea, and various goodies before we sat down for the feast.

The feast was wonderful, but the most wonderful thing was being together with family and good friends. I have so very many things to be thankful for this year that all I could do was to sit and ponder them. I don’t even know where to start listing my thankful thoughts, my mind is reeling with them.

Of all of the holidays, I love Thanksgiving. It’s focus is not on receiving or giving gifts. The focus of Thanksgiving is simply being thankful for what we have; not just the material things, but also the spiritual and the relational things.

I have come to that very comfortable place in life where I don’t desire any more toys, not even an IPad. Toys bring only a transitory joy. As soon as the newness wears off, well, they just are put aside until the upgraded model comes along.

No, rather than being excited about things, I am now much more interested in people. I have thoroughly enjoyed my relationships with other writers on “Like the Dew”. Each time I read a new piece I feel like I know the writer just a bit better and I like that.

Since I have been medically retired, I have had far more time to connect with people, but not face to face. I have met some distant relatives through Facebook, although trust me, I’m extremely careful what I publish there. I have kept connected to friends who are close and far away through email.

One of my most intriguing realizations is that everyone has a story. I have come to love people who I didn’t like initially simply by listening to their story. Each of us has reasons to celebrate and reasons to morn. We are all wounded in some fashion and all have dysfunctions. But, we also have areas of giftedness, some powerful and some quiet and unnoticed. I love people.

One of the things I have missed the most is being out and about engaging people on social occasions. I am not house bound, but because of my illness my going out is quite limited. One of the things that I enjoy the most happens on those days when I feel okay is a trip to Publix. I never go that I don’t see one or more friends which offers an opportunity for an impromptu visit.

I am indeed thankful for all of the ways that I can stay in touch with the larger world around me. Life is good—Carpe diem.

ABOUT THE BIBLE

2010-11-21T21:32:00.000-06:00

Did you know that the longest chapter in the Bible is Psalm 119 and the shortest is Psalm 117? Guess what, it gets even more interesting, the middle chapter is Psalm 118 and there are 594 chapters before Psalm 118 and 594 after. Still more interesting if you add 594 and 594, you get 1188, which divided by ten yields Psalm 118.8 which says: “It is better to take refuge in the LORD than to trust in man.”

Ok so it’s just Bible trivia, but is it of any value or importance; possibly so or possibly not. The Old Testament had no chapter and verse designations; in fact, the New Testament didn’t either until after the third century. Just suppose God planned it that way so that we could ponder it today and again be inspired by the wonder of the Bible.

I have long been fascinated by the history of the Bible. There is a story that the translation of the first Old Testament Bible into Greek, called the Septuagint, was done by seventy different monks. They worked in separate calls and had no contact with each other during the translation. When the works were completed, they were compared and found to be exactly identical. True or false, no one knows for certain, but it is an interesting story.

For centuries, the Bible was kept from the common people being only available in Latin. This meant the clergy, (scholars), and ruling classes who were educated could dominate the commoners. John Wycliffe translated the first New Testament into common English from the Latin about 1380. He died before finishing the Old Testament. William Tyndale was martyred for translating and issuing the New Testament Translation in English in 1525 and the Pentateuch (first five books of the Bible) in 1530. Tyndale was burned at the stake for daring to translate the Bible and making it available to the common people.

People have died through the years to preserve and protect this great Book and its treasures of wisdom. Similarly, it has been misused and misinterpreted to control people through guilt and fear. Horribly horrendous things have been done in the name of the Bible. The Crusades are but one example. People have used the Bible taken out of context to approve such evils as the Ku Klux Klan and the like. The Nazi’s used portions of the Bible, with approval of the clergy to persecute the Jews. (By the early 40’s the clergy had recanted its previous stance for the Nazi regime).

All of this is to say that the Bible is a uniquely precious treasure that must be handled with great care. That is why the Apostle Paul wrote to the young preacher Timothy saying: “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a workman who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth.” (2 Timothy 2:15).

Correctly understanding the Bible is essential to our spiritual well being while its mishandling has caused many to fall or be driven from the faith. Therefore, we ought to study, to read, to pray over the Scripture and then compare our understanding with that of the many others who have struggled with it. Commentaries are helpful, but not necessarily inspired; teachers can be helpful, but shouldn’t be taken as the final authority; preachers can be inspiring interpreters, but are not the final authority. If one is to correctly understand this Word from God, one needs the inspiration of the Holy Spirit balanced by the wisdom of those who have gone before.

Oops, sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away but the Bible is so precious and has cost so much that it is hard for me to stop speaking of my fascination with it.

IS SOMEONE HOLDING YOUR HAND?

2010-11-18T20:32:00.000-06:00

There I stood on the shore of a large body of water. It was larger than a river, but smaller than a lake. I had lost all sense of time, but I know that I stood there for some time. The sky was dark and the air was heavy with a misty fog, however visibility wasn’t impaired. I clearly see across the water. The mist lifted about halfway across.

I could hear a murmuring behind me. I couldn’t discern any particular words, but it seemed there were many voices. It might have been singing, or words spoken in unison, but whatever it was there was a wonderfully beautiful sound.

My right arm was extended backward to my right and was being held by an unrecognizable force. As hard as I tried to pull away, I simply couldn’t free myself.

On the other side of the body of water, a large crowd had gathered. They were dressed in light colored clothes and it was easy to see that a great celebration was underway. When I focused on them instead of the murmuring behind me, I could hear songs of great joy. Some were waving and signaling for me to join them. I wanted to leave the dismal place where I stood and cross the body of water with all my being, but try as I would, I could not pull away from the force that held me.

After a seemingly long period, I opened my eyes. The vision disappeared. I was in the coronary care unit, my wife was on the left side, and my brother held my right hand. He said something like, “You know that I’m not much of a prayer warrior, but I know that you are going to be all right and I’m going home”, he left.

A couple of days before, I had suffered a massive heart attack. After stabilizing me, I underwent bypass surgery to bypass the bypasses I had had ten years prior. I survived the surgery, but had a very bad night and early the morning after surgery, I started a downhill spiral. My wife was called in and my brother who had come from Atlanta for my surgery joined her.

In talking to my sweet Beverly, I found that as she was on the way into the hospital a call went out from our church and a large number of people had gathered to pray for me.

Many people will explain my experience in many ways, but I know what my experience was and my interpretation is this:

The body of water represented the abyss that separates earth from heaven. The darkness contrasting with light represents the contrast between heaven and earth. The celebration and joy on the other side like the darkness and light speak to the contrast between heaven and earth. The murmuring crowd was the voices of the people who were praying for me, and the force that kept me from going was their intercession concentrated in my dear brother’s hand.

From that point on, I made a dramatic recovery and was soon going at full force.

My Mother had come from Atlanta to be with us for surgery and stayed with us for several weeks. My car blew its starter a week prior to surgery and on the third week after surgery I decided to replace it. I jacked the car up, crawled under it, removed the old starter, and before putting in the new one, went in the house for a break. Mother asked what I was doing and I told her, “Replacing my starter”. She told me that if I went back under the car she would call the sheriff. I did, she didn’t.

Make of this what you will, but I hope you find some encouragement in it.

BILLY GEORGE RILEY, NAKED AS A JAYBIRD

2010-11-17T21:11:00.000-06:00

As I have mentioned in other pieces I had a desire to be a naturalist. It was my dream from childhood. For my eighth Christmas, I asked for book on snakes and dinosaurs and was disappointed when Santa brought books for eight year olds. I had something much more advanced in mind. None-the-less, my curiosity, and interest continued.

When I went to college, I met another guy who shared the same interest as I. Billy George Riley was from a small town in South Georgia, he grew up hunting.

My experience with the Boy Scouts, Explorer Scouts, and Walford Rentz had prepared me for wilderness adventures. Walford was a high school friend who kept quite a menagerie of snakes. He had a snake pit in his basement and a fascinating collection ranging from a totally benign hog nose snake to a big diamond back rattler. Of course, the rattler was separated from the others. Over the years of our friendship, I learned a great deal about snakes, overcame my fear of them, and even collected some of my own.

One of my snakes was a large gray rat snake. This species is not particularly aggressive, but will poop a foul smelling musk when threatened. Rat snakes will bite if pushed hard enough and while not poisonous they have hundreds of needle sharp teeth which do smart when they penetrate the skin. I kept my snakes on our screened porch in cages. Mother and Daddy tolerated my hobby until one morning my rat snake was missing. It had managed to push the lid off its cage and escaped through a drain in the porch. I searched for a while, but could not find it. That afternoon we heard screaming and ran outside. Our neighbor across the street, an 82-year-old woman was screaming and beating the ground with her hoe. Suddenly she grabbed her chest and keeled over. Poor thing had a heart attack as she cut my snake into pieces. She survived, but my rat snake didn’t. That ended my snake keeping.

Anyway, Billy George and I established a friendship almost immediately and managed to get a dorm room together. As we talked, Billy George told me about his experiences in the swamps. That sounded like something right up my alley, so we scouted around until we found a nice little swamp near the college. We spent every minute that we were free in the swamp up to our waists in swamp water. It was like being at home. The critters that live in swamps are innumerable: insects, arachnids, fish, snakes, beaver, possums, raccoons, deer, porcupines, skunks, bear, turtles, and of course, alligators, each with its own role to play in the grand scheme of things. (I am a Christian but I believe in evolution. I don’t believe in Darwinism, rather I lean toward the notion of intelligent design.)

Our objective was to observe and occasionally catch various critters to study more closely then release them. We caught lizards of various species, snakes and even a few very small alligators. An occasional leach would latch on; they especially liked the private places. We learned that if you just leave them alone they would drop off when they had eaten their fill.

We decided to make a trip to Colquitt, Georgia, Billy George’s hometown and get into the swamps big time. Billy George’s dad had told him that an alligator was getting a friend’s pigs from the pigpen. We thought we’d catch the gator.

That started the trouble. Hayward Williams had heard our tales of exploration and insisted that he go with us. We decided to take him because he offered to buy the gas. During our trip from Atlanta to Colquitt, we realized that Hayward had a digestive problem. Often the car filled with a rank odor. Thank goodness, there was no air conditioning so the windows were down. Repeatedly the purple cloud engulfed us. It was disgusting.

We finally got to Colquitt and after a night with Hayward, sleeping on the back porch we set off for our first real big swamp adventure. We used a large wooden johnboat with oars and set off into the heart of the wilderness. The deeper we got the more interesting things became; we saw more critters than we had ever seen before and the alligators were huge. Hayward sat in the front of the boat while Billy George and I took turns rowing. It was obvious that Hayward was getting more and more frightened.

As we travelled around bends in the creek, there were often moss pads on limbs that overhung the creek. Snakes liked to coil on them to warm from the sun. As we rounded a bend, Billy George casually mentioned that there was a large snake on a moss pad directly ahead of us. Hayward who was 6’4” tall and weighed 275 pounds stood up and literally ran backward through the boat knocking Billy George over the side and me down on the floor. Hayward’s quick movement set the snake off and it jumped into the boat. Fortunately, it was a harmless water snake and I quickly caught it and tossed it overboard while Billy George climbed back aboard. We then plopped Hayward’s big old butt in the back of the boat and dared him to move.

We had a double barrel 12 gauge shotgun in the back of the boat in case of an emergency such as an alligator deciding to climb in the boat with us or a bear attack. We ate lunch then continued on our excursion. Later that afternoon we headed back to the landing and as we rounded a bend, a snake fell into the boat. There was a plop immediately followed by a large boom. Hayward shot the snake and in doing so took the bottom out of the boat. Well, not the whole bottom, just a sizable hole. We tore a seat out of the boat, used our clothes as caulking, put the seat over the caulking and plopped Hayward’s fat butt on the patch then we rowed like the devil, naked as jaybirds (I never knew what being naked as a jay bird meant, but we were) to get to the landing before dark.

We got to the landing, pulled the boat out, and headed for home, Billy George’s house, where we got dry clothes, patched the boat, ate some dinner, and slept for a while. We planned to go out later that night to catch the pig eating gator. However, that’s a story for another time. Hayward and his purple cloud were on a bus back to college.

YOU ASK WHY I FOLLOW THIS JESUS?

2010-11-16T21:46:00.000-06:00

You ask why I follow this Jesus?
Why I love Him the way I do?
When the world's turned away from His teachings
And the people who serve Him are few.

It's not the rewards I'm after
Or gifts that I hope to receive
It's the Presence that calls for commitment
It's the Spirit I trust and believe.

The Lord doesn't shelter His faithful
Or spare them all suffering and pain,
Like everyone else I have burdens,
And walk through my share of rain.

Yet He gives me a plan and a purpose,
And that joy only Christians have known,
I never know what comes tomorrow,
But I do know I'm never alone.
It's the love that's always there when you need it,

It's the words that redeem and inspire,
It's the longing to ever be with Him
That burns in my heart like a fire.
So you ask why I love my Lord Jesus?

Well, friend, that's so easy to see,
But the one thing that fills me with wonder is
Why Jesus loves someone like me. (Author Unknown)

This came to me today in a e-mail from a dear friend. It speaks so deeply that I want to share it. Had I poetic skills, I might have written it because it captures my heart toward Jesus.

THE JOY IN LIVING

2010-11-15T18:36:00.000-06:00

Life is the most incredible gift that I have been given. Not just once, but I have been given it many times over; times of which I am aware and times of which I am not.

I have been spared from wrecks or worse when I was that stupid teen and young adult, willing to take any chance that came my way. I once drove down on an interstate at 140 miles per hour in the dark with my lights off. I can’t remember how many times I drove home from parties blind from alcohol consumption.

In my years at Grady Memorial Hospital, I was spared from catching fatal diseases. I served my time in the Army and except for a knee injury came through unscathed. More than once, I have ridden an ambulance through downtown Atlanta with the siren screaming and lights flashing. I flew on a Boeing 737 in Costa Rica that had lost hydraulics. I was misplaced on a mission trip to Quito, Ecuador with three large duffels of undocumented drugs (medical supplies but someone else had the documentation).

I suffered a widow maker heart attack at 32 and bypass surgery at 33. My right coronary was 95 percent blocked and my left was 98 percent blocked. I suffered another heart attack in 1980 and bypass surgery to bypass the previous bypasses. I was brought back from the brink of death in 1977. I had a ruptured intestinal diverticulum in 2001. I was blessed with a heart transplant in 1997. I survived a massive infection, a shutdown of my intestinal tract and kidney failure in 2004. I was cured from prostate cancer in 2008. I lost 13 inches of my large intestine in 2009 and was given a kidney in 2009.

Those are just the narrow escapes of which I am aware, how many other times have I been spared of which I am not aware? Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could see alternate outcomes by some method of twisting the space-time continuum?

I have learned something in thinking about all of this. It is how little control I have over life. Of course, I have the ability to make decisions about how I treat my body, what I eat, to smoke or not, what time I go to bed and get up, who I marry and a myriad of other things, but I have no control of those outside things that impact my life.

Once I had a car wreck. I was driving in a quiet neighborhood when out of nowhere a car slammed into my left side. The impact caused my car to swerve and hit a telephone pole. I was thrown quite forcefully into the steering wheel. My chest was bruised which precipitated my first heart attack. Because of the car wreck, my deadly coronary blockages were discovered before they killed me.

I was within days of hours of dying when the word came that a young man had crashed his car and that his family had made his organs available and I would get his heart.

I had no choice of my parents or the genes that I would inherit.

I could go on and on with the experiences that I have been through where I had no choice in the events that precipitated them or their outcome. However, I think I have made my point.

The other thing I learned is that my life must have some purpose to have been delivered through the minefields I have survived. Looking back, I can say that I discovered my purpose without even realizing at the time I was fulfilling it.

If life has purpose then it must be more than a simply biological process. There must be some intelligence guiding it. I have survived far too many near misses to call my survival mere circumstance. If life had purpose and is created by an intelligence, then what is that intelligence. I choose to believe the intelligence is what I call God. I have a friend in A.A. who calls this intelligence his higher being by the name light bulb. No matter what you call it there must be some benevolent intelligence higher than humanity.

Certainly, that raises all kinds of questions, both theological and philosophical. I am not raising questions of religion; I realized the foolishness of making that argument many years ago. I am not particularly religious, but I believe religious practices can have positive effects on life as well as evil ones. I chose to act out my spirituality through the United Methodist Church with all of its many faults because it allowed me to fulfill my purpose of improving my own spiritual life as well as the lives of others.

Therefore, here is my bottom line. I must believe that there is an intelligent design behind life. I believe the intelligence is in some way involved in life if we accept its possibility. I believe life has purpose and meaning. As I near the end of life I am thankful for all of my life experiences, both good and bad, that have brought me to this place.

My spiritual journey, theological and philosophical studies, and life experiences have led me to the certainty that the higher intelligence has revealed itself to us in the person of Jesus Christ. Not a restrictive, condemning, judgmental, limiting, dominating, Anglo-Saxon Jesus as taught by so many religions, but a gentle, gracious, accepting, loving person available to any who seek the truth.

Believing these things brings me great joy in living and in knowing that I still have a purpose for being.

MY UNBELIEF

2010-11-14T14:01:00.000-06:00

One of the devotionals that I really enjoy is, “Faith Alone” by Martin Luther. The other day was a particularly bad day and I was feeling very far from God. There are many days like that now and on those days it is really hard to pray. Why should one talk to one who doesn’t seem to be listening?

In my mind, I know God always listens, but on those kinds of days, my heart is far removed from my mind. I know that we should not base our relationship to God on emotions, but on our reason. However, I am emotionally driven, I know that it probably doesn’t show, but it’s true. I like to think of myself as logical, intelligent, and thoughtful; however, the little boy that lives in my secret place is shy, introverted, and extremely sensitive. That little one needs to be comforted, reassured, and even cuddled.

So there I was sitting on the pity pot having a pity party all by myself. The words of my sometimes-favorite song came to mind: “Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go eat worms; big fat juicy ones, little slick slimy ones, Oh how they wiggle and squirm…” I was sure that God had sent me to the outhouse without so much as a Sears Catalog.

I don’t know why I did what I did, but I did. I picked up my iphone and opened the app of Luther’s daily devotional. There I read these words” : “If we truly believe God’s word, a time will come when we finally wake up and open our eyes. But when facing difficult situations, our hearts might not be able to be as strong and confident as god’s word requires. Then, at the very least, we should keep on believing in a weak sort of way….” I was dumbfounded, this from the Father of the Protestant Revolution.

Then he continues: “We shouldn’t start complaining against God or grow tired of praying and calling out to him. In difficult times, we may not be able to believe God as strongly, praise him as wholeheartedly, and pray to him as sincerely as we do in good times. But at least we should believe and pray as much as we are able.”

“But at least we should believe and pray as much as we are able.” Here it is, do it as much as you can. I have read E.M. Bounds volumes on prayer and Reese Howells, The Intercessor. I have been to prayer retreats and seminars on prayer, but nowhere have I ever heard, “Just pray as you are able.” I came to believe that effective prayer had to intense, elaborate, and the more complex the better. I always felt totally inadequate in my simplistic efforts and the more I attempted to use the formulas that I had been taught, the less effective I felt.

Several days after reading the above, I read the following from the same devotional: “… the church fathers recommended short, whispered expressions of sorrow and prayers consisting of only a word or two. This kind of praying can be done anytime, even when reading, writing, or doing other tasks.
However, people who think of prayer as bothersome, difficult work will never find any joy or satisfaction in their prayer lives. Their only source of pleasure will be their continual rambling. If you try to pray, but you have no faith and you feel no sense of need, your heart won't be in it. And if your heart isn't in your prayers, but you still feel obligated to pray, then prayer becomes boring and difficult.”

My goodness, Martin Luther just spoke to me a true word from God. My popcorn praying is effective. God hears my heartache. God knows of my brokenness and pain. God is with me in my darkness and I can rest in him. As weak as my faith is it is enough. I am comforted, I am reassured, I am encouraged. I remembered what the father said after Jesus healed his demon possessed son, “Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.” Mark 9:24) That shall be my first prayer each day and my faith will grow.

HERE I AM

2010-10-25T20:23:00.000-05:00

Recently a dear friend said, “Pastor Jack must be feeling bad, he’s not writing anymore”. She had no idea just how true her words are.

I have been plagued with intestinal pain for many years now. It started well before my heart transplant. It lives on the left side of my abdomen, just under my rib cage. It is a constant companion, sometimes just a niggling little reminder that it is there and other times extremely intense. There is no apparent rhyme or reason for its mood. Sometimes it intensifies with eating sometimes it’s worse when I am empty. It has nothing to do with my bowel habits. It might be intense in the morning, evening, at night or all day.

Since my kidney transplant (one year ago tomorrow, October 26) the pain has increased in intensity and frequency and keeps me down a great deal of the time. When the pain is intense, I can hardly focus on anything else. Lortab helps, but even at its strongest dose it doesn’t completely make the pain hide.

I have had every test known to medicine and some that are not known in order to discover the source, but there have been no answers. I had my gall bladder removed, which should have fixed it, it didn’t. I had a stint placed in my superior mesenteric artery, which should have fixed it, it didn’t. I was treated multiple times for diverticulitis, which should have fixed it, it didn’t. I had 13 inches of my intestine removed in hopes of relief, it didn’t work. I often have sleepless nights or interrupted sleep patterns which add to my lack of energy, on those nights sleeping medication doesn’t help.

So here I am. I’m not seeking sympathy, far too many people have greater obstacles than I. (I do appreciate all of the prayer that I can get, I’m certain that it helps.) I am simply explaining why I am on and off again with my writing. I have so many things that I want to put on paper, but the pain is really getting in my way; if not the pain, then the Lortab.

This discomfort is one of the reasons that I am not in church every Sunday and you cannot imagine how I miss it. I miss the worship and I miss seeing dear friends. It seems that the times I get out are for doctor visits, lab tests and an occasional restorative visit to Publix.

It is difficult to talk to people because the first question is, “How are you?” I understand that it is a question of genuine interest, but I am so tired of trying to explain or just downright lying. I have learned from this, since I often did it to others, never realizing that I might be putting them on the spot.

I have had a crisis of faith, but I am over that. I know that God is in this, even though I don’t understand. I have had my periods when I withdrew from him being angry that he didn’t just fix me. God understood. I’ve had periods when I decided that I simply couldn’t go on, what nonsense, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I will go on!

Beverly has been an incredible source of strength and comfort through this dark time. She has missed far more than I have because often she just waits, hoping that I will find energy to do those things that we enjoy. Not once has she complained and frequently waits on me demonstrating her incredible love.

If this is where I am to live for the rest of my days, I will do so with a glad and thankful heart. I am living an incredible life. My blessings have so outweighed my struggles that a thousand years of suffering still would not overwhelm the wonders and joys that I have experienced.

I am the husband of a wonderful wife, the father of two exceptional children both of whom married well. I have four grandchildren who are each growing into their own people. I have a CLWP (cute little white puppy) who gives me comfort at the worst of times. I have a precious sister and brother and their spouses who love me and whom I love. I had the joy of starting new beneficial programs in my previous career as well as making the lives of some better and the deaths of others less painful.

But no blessings, except those of family, can exceed the ones that have come from being a Methodist minister. I have had the blessing of serving hundreds of people in three churches. I have baptized babies and even more wonderful, adults. I have seen the lost saved from their darkness. I have sat at the bedside with friends and even shared some powerful moments before they made their final journey. I have joined women and men in marriage. I have officiated at funerals where I knew friends were discovering the eternal truths of heaven. Unbelievably God gave me the chance to birth a church and then to spend twenty years assisting it to mature from infancy to a mature, genuine bastion of God’s grace.

I have made grave mistakes and learned from them. I have unintentionally hurt people and possibly even their faith for which I have asked and received forgiveness, if not from the people I hurt, from God. I have taken myself far too seriously and been trimmed down to size where I belong.

At this point in my life, I have a few major goals:

I am going to relax in my faith and let Jesus minister to me so that I might grow in closeness to him.

I am going to write more even when I don’t feel, like it.

I am going to get out more as I am able and enjoy the wonderful life around me.

I am going get back to church.

I am going to more movies.

A TRIBUTE TO MY WIFE

2010-10-05T21:03:00.002-05:00

Today after our marriage of 46 years on October 5, 1964, I still marvel that God brought such a wonderful person into my life.

She came into my life on the Sunday Morning that I was leaving to go to college. A friend introduced us, “Jack”, my friend said, “I’d like you to met Beverly Funchess”. Beverly replied, “That’s Funchess like lunches but with a ‘F’.” I was BMOC (Big Man on Campus) so I greeted her with one of my most charismatic smiles and quickly excused myself and dismissed her. Miss Beverly Funchess, like lunches but with an ‘F’, was entering the eleventh grade and I was off to college. I must admit that I was less than overwhelmed.

As I walked across the parking lot to join my family, Beverly said she called her Mother to the window, pointed me out, and said, “Mother, there goes the man I am going to marry”. Her Mother said, “Oh, Beverly”, and dismissed the whole notion. Years later Mrs. Funchess would acknowledge the truth of Beverly’s statement. I was a marked man and didn’t know it.

My first year at college was fun, there were new women to pursue, and pursue I did. I won’t be boring with the intriguing details, just let it be said I was a hot item. I think it was because I won the most attractive knees contest during initiation week.

I went home for Christmas and don’t remember seeing Miss Beverly Funchess, like lunches but with an ‘F.’ After Christmas break it was back to college and several more months of skirt chasing, nothing serious, just good times.

When the school year was over and I returned home for the summer, Miss Beverly Funchess, like lunches but with a ‘F’. had changed and boy, how she had changed. She was one more beautiful young woman. No longer a girl, she was beautiful, sophisticated, charming, and intriguing. Our first date was to see Brigadoon at Chastain Theater under the Stars. It was a chilly evening and she allowed me to put my coat around her. That simple act alone stold my heart.

i need to back up a bit. Before my first date with Beverly, I asked her Father’s permission to date her. We were at church so he could hardly say no. With his permission given, I appeared at their front door on the specified night. Bev’s dad was a captain in the Army and I was attending a Military School, so I presented myself, as a young trooper should. “Good evening, Sir”, I said. “I am Jack deJarnette and have a date with Beverly.”

He stood there resplendent in his uniform having just gotten off duty. “So what”, he said.

In the background, I could hear Bev’s Mother shouting, “Invite him Bill, and have him take a seat”. Captain Funchess gave the order, “Come in, and sit down”. He said as he directed me to a skirted chair. Then he disappeared behind his paper.

Suddenly there was growling and nipping at my heels. It was Cindy, the families’ Chihuahua. I was sitting in the chair under which she had made her home. Cindy barked and nipped at my heels as Bill (Bev’s daddy) said repeatedly, “Sick him, Cindy, sick him”.

After an eternity of sitting at attention with my feet straight out, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen entered the room. My heart caught in my throat and I could hardly speak. After a few niceties and some small talk, we were on our way.

As we talked, I asked Bev what she wanted to be when she grew up. “A Grand Prix race car driver,” she said. That shut me up for a few minutes. I was familiar with Drag Racing and the beginnings of NASCAR (my cousin hauled moonshine all over North Georgia, Tennessee, South and North Carolina.) However, I knew absolutely nothing about Grand Prix.

The next question I asked was about her favorite music. She told me that she liked progressive jazz, especially Cal Tjader. “Yea,” I said, “I really like him too.”

The next morning I hightailed it to our record store to buy a Cal Jader album. The owner of the store had never heard of him, nor did he know what progressive jazz was so I was stuck in my aesthetic shallowness.

Throughout that summer, Miss Beverly Funchess and I dated, soon we were committed to each other, and our romance blossomed and grew into full flower. In the fall, I returned to college. I had no financial resources. I had been granted a $1.00 per day scholarship so I needed more money, a steady income of some sort. While at Georgia Military Academy, I had worked in the student laundry as part of my work ship so I was well versed in washing and ironing clothes. Therefore, I started my own business. I washed and ironed shirts for $.25 each. Washing only was $.10. My main need for money was so that I could talk to Beverly on the phone each weekend. We would talk for a while, and then the operator would announce that I had to deposit additional coins to continue. Cha-ching, the phone would eat my hard-earned cash until it was all gone then, the whole laundry process started again.

On weekends when Beverly would sometimes come to college for a visit, we had wonderful times together. It was on one of her visits that I got her to try a green persimmon. I got no more kisses that weekend.

That is how it all began. We were deeply in love and committed to be married someday.

In September, 1964. I was in the Army stationed at Ft. Bragg, N.C. when I received news that my Father had died. He was 52 and had suffered a massive heart attack. I went home on emergency leave and there she was. Dear Beverly spent every moment with my family and me giving us comfort and sharing her abundance of love with each family member.

Upon my return to Ft. Bragg I was due to receive orders to Germany. Beverly was halfway through Nurses training. As we talked, thought, and prayed together; we decided to get married prior to my return to Ft. Bragg. Our marriage had to remain secret since student nurses were forbidden to be married during their training. Part of our reason for getting married was that when she graduated from Nursing School, we could announce our marriage and the Army would pay for her to join me and we wouldn’t have to scrounge up the money to get her there. Of course, the major reason was that we were deeply, madly, completely in love, which we are even to this day.

We found a justice of the peace who would marry us the evening that I had to return to Ft. Bragg. We met him at his home after his Rotary meeting. It was about 9:00 pm. Three friends joined us and when he asked if anyone could show just cause why we should not be married; my best friend raised his hand. There was a moment of awkward silence then the justice of the peace continued and 10 minutes later we were husband and wife. That was the second best day of my life. The first was when I was became a Christian.

For 46 years now, I have had a lover, best friend, confidant, and partner. Our life together has been filled with moments of intense passion and deep sorrow. There were times of great fear as I faced health problems of various kinds including heart attacks, bypass surgeries, a heart transplant, kidney failure, and a kidney transplant. During every moment, Beverly has been there to offer care and encouragement. I can honestly say that I would not be alive today were it not for her, nor would I want to have struggled to overcome my trials without her by my side.

One special moment stands out as a most precious one. We were at UAB and I was very near death while waiting for a heart transplant. Beverly was sitting by me holding my hand. Her head was bowed and I had no doubt that she was praying. Suddenly I had an overwhelming sense that I would fight to stay alive with every bit of energy that I could muster. Later that night the word came that a heart was available and I would be transplanted before morning. She gave me that extra measure of determination to hang on just bit longer.

My most wonderful times with Beverly happened at the birth of our two children. We have been blessed with a daughter and son, both outstanding people in their own right, and four grandchildren—one grandson and three granddaughters.

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring but I am confident of two things. First, I am confident that Jesus is real and will always be with me and secondly, I am confident that my precious Beverly will continue to be the heart of my heart for so long as we both shall live.

Beverly, I love you with all my heart and thank God every day that he smiled on me that day when I met Miss Beverly Funchess, like lunches but with an ‘F’.

PROFESOR RACHFORD AND THE GINGKO TREE

2010-09-22T18:43:00.000-05:00

My goal of being a biologist or naturalist started with a bang and ended with a thud. I didn’t realize that to be an –ist of nature required one to take botany. I loved all kinds of critters from birds to fish and anything that lived in the space between. By everything, I mean everything that moved—winged, two legs, four legs, hundreds of legs, on the belly, finned or otherwise. The key to my interest was movement, therefore, things that were rooted to the ground held less than no interest for me; uh, botany, the study of inanimate things with leaves.

All was well for the first two quarters. General biology—good, human anatomy—good, physiology—very good, embryology—awesome, then botany—very bad. I knew that I wasn’t going to enjoy it, but I thought it would be a piece of cake. As a boy scout, I had learned to identify all of the trees in North Georgia. I could distinguish between poison ivy and Virginia creeper with a mere glance. I knew how to get water from a grapevine. What I didn’t know was there were annuals and perennials. I didn’t know a phylum from a genus and had no interest in doing so.

My botany professor was named Lucian Rachford. Professor Rachford was the typical absent-minded professor. He had a shock of mousy brown hair that was constantly falling across his forehead and over his eyes. His head was far too large for his diminutive body and huge horn rimmed glasses as thick as bottle bottoms covered his large eyes that saw everything within 360 degrees. He wore a dirty white lab coat with pens of various colors stuffed in the pen pocket over his left chest. He spoke with a distinct lisp and when he was excited, he stuttered. Many of my classmates often made fun of him, but I actually felt sorry for him.

The first week of class, we were told to choose a project that would carry the bulk of our quarter grade. I have never been creative when it comes to an assignment of that type, my creativity is in freethinking, but that was not going to work with Professor Rachford. Try as I could I couldn’t think of a worthy project. I was doing poorly on the regular tests, not being able to distinguish a pistil from a pistol. As the quarter rocked on, it became clear to me that I was headed for my first failure. My project was less than inspired. I was growing penicillium fungus for my project (bread mold) and just not cutting it. My final exam was catastrophic; I made less than 50%. A failure would mean loss of my scholarship and no more studies there.

I finished my exam, turned in my project and waited for grades to be posted. When grades were posted in the student center, next to my name was printed; no grade, see professor.

Reluctantly I went to professor Rachford’s office. He greeted me with a grim frown. He didn’t even invite me to sit. He said, “In all my years of teaching, I have never seen such a poor excuse for a project and I don’t believe that you even attempted to learn my material. I am furious,” at which point he started to stutter, “that you took up a space that could have gone to a real student. You wasted my time and I am just sorry that F is the lowest grade I can give you, because you certainly didn’t even earn that. Get out of my sight.”

I left, disheartened knowing my college career was over.

Throughout the quarter, Professor Rachford had constantly raved about a Gingko tree that grew outside his classroom. It was a special gift to him, given by a botanical society. While I hadn’t learned about botany, I had learned all there was to know about Gingko trees.

Someone must have hated Professor Rachford, because the day after graduation, that someone had girdled (skinned the bark off0 the tree about eight inches above the ground. They had struck the limbs with a sharp instrument and each limb was hanging by a thread of bark. I saw Professor Rachford actually weeping over his cherished pet tree. It made me very sad.

Later that day I went to the campus store, got some twine, paraffin and tore some rags into strips. In the evening, I melted the paraffin, dipped the rag strips in it, and sealed the area where the bark had been skinned. I tied the limbs up and sealed them with paraffin and rags. My roommate and a couple of other classmates knew what I had done, but beyond that, I didn’t think anyone else was aware and I didn’t care. I didn’t attempt to fix the tree to be recognized.

The next day we were to leave for summer vacation. I knew that I would have to meet with the Dean before going home so about 10:00 am I went to his office to get the bad news. His secretary told me that I would have to wait that he was in conference.

An eternity passed and then Dean Eddy called me in. I was surprised when I realized that Professor Rachford was sitting there. Dean Eddy asked me to take a seat. He told me that Professor Rachford and he had been in conference most of the morning. Professor Rachford had found out what I had done for his Gingko tree. Dean Eddy told me that it was strictly against school policy to change grades after they were entered on the books but they were going to make an exception. My botany grade was being changed from an F to a C. While I didn’t know a thing about botany, I did know something about plant husbandry and it was worth a C grade.

I went home for the summer with a song in my heart knowing I had been spared the wrath of my Dad and would be returning on scholarship in the fall.

"NO PROBLEM"

2010-08-28T17:30:00.000-05:00

“No problem.” The server said as I thanked her for refilling my iced tea glass. “No problem,” I thought, “Now just where did that come from?” I hadn’t been a problem for my whole meal. In fact, I thought that I had been downright pleasant. I left the restaurant wondering just why she had said, “No problem.” It bothered me so much that later that day I went back to the restaurant, sought her out and asked her what she meant by, “No problem.”

She giggled and looked at me as if I were strange and said, “Oh, sir, that is just something to say when someone says, ‘Thank you; it really doesn’t mean anything.’”

I said, “Hum, I wonder what happened to, ‘You’re welcome?’”

The truth is that I knew what, “No problem” meant all along, but I wanted to make a point. My point is that we should think about the words we use when we speak to others. Sometimes our words can convey thoughts that we didn’t intend to convey. Sometimes I use an inappropriate word when I’m preaching or use an expression that I had not quite thought through. Generally those come back to haunt me in some way and well they should.

Being thoughtless about words and their effects may have caused wars at the worst and hurt feelings at the least. We might express the wrong emotion for what we are feeling or cloud and confuse an issue rather than straightening it out.

Words are so important that James wrote, “Likewise the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark; the tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole person, sets the whole course of his life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.” (James 3:5,6 NIV). What we say is very important and it is as important to communicate what we mean to say in the way that we mean to say it.

I didn’t mean to get carried away with, “No problem,” but it has been an irritant to me for a long time and serves as a good example of thoughtless speech. Most of the time it really doesn’t make much difference what we say, but if we routinely treat our speech casually at a critical moment we may inflict great harm or appear more foolish than we really are.

Therefore, my admonition is simply this, “Say what you mean and mean what you say AFTER you have run it through the filter of love.”

ISLAMOPHOBIA

2010-08-23T18:29:00.000-05:00

The August 30 issue of Time magazine asks the question, “Is America Islamophobic?” Since receiving the magazine, I have thought intensely about the question and sadly I would answer, “Yes”. In answering yes, I feel the need to explain why.

It seems that there is a significant percentage of Muslims who have been and are being radicalized. I believe that the vast majority of Muslims are peaceful, but we don’t have much exposure to them. They are scattered over America, but I have never met one. Yet the truth is that many are radical.

Islam is the only world religion that preaches death to infidels. No other religion slaughters its own. No other religion uses its young people, including women and the handicapped to blow themselves up with the vain promise of incredible rewards in heaven. No other religion has wreaked the havoc on American soil and the soil of our allies that Muslims have. American youth are being recruited to join groups committed to jihad against Western values. Islam is one of the few religions that execute those found guilty of many offenses against the Koran by the horrible practice of stoning. Islam is one of the few religions that condemn those of other religions for trying to share their religion with Muslims. There are Imams that teach hatred and violence to bring the world under their control.

These characterizations may not be true, but the information that we receive from the media make it easy to believe them. I would argue that if Christianity taught the same doctrines Americans would be Christianophobic, or if Jewish Rabbis’ taught them we would be Judeophibic. Of course there are so called Christian ministers who preach hate, but they re such a small percentage that that the number is not even a percentage point and mainstream Christians reject their teaching outright.

It would make a huge impact if moderate Muslims would make a strong stand against the barbaric practices of the radicals, but for the most part, they remain silent, thus giving the impression that they are in agreement with the radicalizing of their people.

Of course all of this upheaval has been generated by Imam Rauf’s desire to build a Community center at ground zero in New York City. No thinking Amercian can deny that they have a right to build where ever they choose in compliance with the law. However, if Imam Rauf’s motive is to build bridges and encourage peaceful relationships he would move the Mosque to a less controversial location.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we lived in a world where we did exactly what Jesus taught—Love God, love one another.

FAITH IS ........

2010-08-19T09:15:00.001-05:00

Fantastic Adventure In Trusting Him—FAITH and it truly is a fantastic adventure. The writer of Hebrews says that, “Faith is the evidence of things hoped for, the substance of things unseen.” In some way, that idea communicates that true faith makes the invisible visible, it makes the future the reality, and it puts the unattainable within reach. The deal is this, when God makes a promise the promise is kept without fail. It is a sealed deal! If God says it is shall be so there is no doubt that what He commits to is no longer a possibility it is in fact a reality! Awesome, huh?

Therefore, here is how it plays out in practical terms. God told Abram that from his seed, He would raise up a great nation and all of the world would benefit from Abram’s offspring. It didn’t matter that Sarai was way beyond child-bearing age. It didn’t matter that the promise took several years to be fulfilled. It didn’t matter that God told Abraham to take that son of promise up on the mountain and offer him as a sacrifice. God told Abraham that he would be the father of nations and from that very moment on it was a reality. Abraham is commended for his belief in God’s promise and he had a fantastic adventure, as he trusted God.

A fantastic adventure took Abraham and his family from Ur of the Chaldees to Canaan. It was a fantastic adventure as Abraham bore a son with Hagar. It was a fantastic adventure when Abraham and Sarah had the child Isaac. It was a fantastic adventure when Abraham took Isaac up the mountain to sacrifice him and God provided the ram to take his place. It has been a fantastic adventure as the seed of Abraham has blessed the world. Like it or not the world has been a better place because there have been people called Jews living in it. It is a fantastic adventure that the most incredible Jew of all held his arms open wide and said, “Come unto me all you who labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.” The adventure continued when He said, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.” Today we are assured of our eternity because of the seed of Abraham, just as God promised. It is a done deal if we can simply remember the last part of the phrase, “Trusting Him”.

Trusting God is not so terribly hard. When you hear God, you know that it is God and when you know that it is God, it is easy to say, “Right on, Father God”. The problem it seems is with our audition. We hear so much noise that it is hard to discern God’s voice from among the cacophony of sound that assaults us; even our own thoughts and words assault our senses. Far too often, our own thoughts trick us into thinking God said it when He said nothing of the kind and we get in trouble. Too many times, we let our desires delude us so that we believe that God approves our selfishness or self-centeredness and our hopes are dashed. Many, many times we hear the voice of the enemy as he seduces us with an illegitimate offer and we are hurt by the consequences of our own folly.

So how can we possibly sort the whisper of God’s voice from the roar of the world? We must learn to be still and listen. We must learn to sense the prompting and tugging of God’s Spirit as He woos us. We must read and absorb the deep truth of the Bible so that we can discern the heart of God. We must listen to the counsel of our Godly friends and we must sometimes just wait.

It is almost to obvious to say, but the more we listen, the better we hear. The more we seek, the more quickly we find. The more we absorb the easier discernment becomes. In other words, practice leads to perfection. Since I took the first baby step in following God’s call into ministry, the fantastic adventure has only become more fantastic. When I have heard and acted, my endeavors have been fruitful. When I have acted impulsively and without discernment I have hit the brick wall, but with each victory and defeat, I have learned a bit more and have improved my skill at hearing. Don’t be discouraged when you get it wrong, learn from the defeat and don’t let pride carry you away when you get it right because pride will lead you into failure the next time. Just remember that “what the LORD requires of you is to act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with God.” If you are sure that what you hear meets those conditions then you can’t stray too far off the path.

MY COMPANION FOR 67 YEARS

2010-08-15T23:27:00.000-05:00

I was born with it, although I didn't know it or understand it. It has been a constant companion all of my life. Once I thought it a curse, today I count it a blessing. Its name is Attention Deficit Disorder. I resent that label since I believe that it is not a disorder at all, but just a different way of thinking. People with A.D.D. process information quite differently than so called normal thinkers. I grew up in a time when A.D.D. had not yet been defined. Those of us who thought in a different way were simply considered lazy, non-workers, and given other unkind labels. Sometimes I was called stupid. I knew that wasn’t true, my I.Q. had been measured at 138. Often I was told that if I had character I would study more and my grades would improve. There are two difficulties here--first there was no way I could study more and the second was that no matter how I tried I could not concentrate. My mind was good for maybe thirty seconds then it was on to something else. The harder I tried the worse it got. I felt like an animal trapped in a cage. I was not hyperactive; in fact, I was extremely well behaved and very compliant, I simply couldn’t concentrate.

In my early elementary school years I was an excellent student, however as subjects lasted for longer periods of time and classes were extended I realized that I was having more and more difficulty. I couldn’t stay focused for very long and so I stayed lost and confused. By the 7th grade I was really struggling. I passed all of my courses but with increasing difficulty. I didn't know what was wrong, but I knew something was. My Dad met with my 7th grade teacher, the meanest and most hateful teacher that I ever had, and suggested to her that I was bored and needed more work and a greater challenge and he was right. She refused his request go give me more to do with the argument that it wouldn't be fair to me. I just needed to learn to concentrate. Try as hard as I could, concentration for periods longer than 5 or 10 minutes simply escaped me. I could think of many things almost simultaneously, but not one thing for long.

My 8th grade year was an academic disaster. Courses were 9 months long and classes lasted for one full hour. I lived in a dismal fog of failure. Dad stayed on my back constantly which started my resentment and anger toward him. He didn't understand nor did I. I had to go to summer school that year where I excelled. Short classes and compressed time for courses, 8 weeks instead of 9 months made a great difference. My mind was in a state of swirling thought processes. I was multitasking before Bill Gates was born.

I went to Georgia Military Academy starting in the 9th grade where I realized a new phenomenon. We were graded every two weeks in our course work. I did very poorly on my bi-weekly grades, but made near perfect scores on my semi-final and final exams. I learned material very quickly, but it took a longer period to process. I couldn't recall in the short term, but seldom forgot what had been converted to long term memory. Even today I can recall much of what I learned in high school. It astounded my children that I could still show them how to work quadratic equations when they took algebra.

At the end of my senior year I had a high D average. Bi-weekly tests weighed 1/2 in grading while semi-finals and finals weighed 1/4 each. The big tests got me through and I graduated with a B+ average. I made in the high 500s in both parts of the Scholastic Aptitude Test, scored extremely high on the Academic Achievement Tests, and was in the 99th percentile on the Merit Scholarship exam.

The headmaster called me into his office and scolded me for not having applied myself saying that I could have graduated at the top of my class if I had the character to work consistently. His words, along with my Dad's admonition to work harder and study more devastated my self-confidence.

Because of my outstanding performance in the military arts, average grades, but exceptional test scores I was offered an appointment to West Point if I would spend a year in a prep school. With my confidence shattered I decided there was no way I could survive the academic rigors of the Academy, so I refused. Only many years later did I realize that God was protecting me from the danger of war so he could use me in the tasks that I was created to perform.

Today I am thankful for the gift of a cluttered, unfocused mind. Because of that gift I have been able to achieve and accomplish far more than if I had been born normal. In all of my endeavors, I have been able to see the big picture. I am extremely creative and able to function and work outside of the box, which while often-causing distress to other more conventional thinkers, has proved to produce that which rigid thinking could never have construed.

My encouragement to those blessed with Attention Deficit Disorder is to embrace it then learn techniques to work with it and achieve success. I would say to parents with children with A.D.D. try to understand what life is like for your child. Don’t be ashamed and don’t be in denial. The sooner it is recognized and accepted the more quickly your child and you can learn to accommodate.

I claim absolutely no scientific authority from which I speak. I’m simply one who has lived with a constant companion for sixty seven years.

I WONDER

2010-08-14T12:01:00.000-05:00

How often do you wonder? Not wondered about anything in particular, just wondered? I often wonder. I wondered about the lightening flash that blasted me out of bed this morning. I wondered about the thunder that followed the lightening. I know that the lightening and thunder are heavenly boxcars banging together, my Daddy told me so. I have been taught the physical science explanations that describe these events, but still, I wonder.

Do you ever wonder why you wonder? I sometimes wonder why people say the things they say or do the things they do. I wonder why I do the things I do things I do or say the things I say. I wonder why I remember things I should forget and why I forget things I should remember.

I wonder how the cosmos was really created, did God sneeze, and suddenly the cosmos appeared? The Bible teaches that it was God’s Word that brought all things into being. I wonder if God can just think it or if God has to speak it for it to be? Did God kneel in the dust of the ground and mold the animals as Adam named them or did Adam think them up and God made them for him? Sometimes I even wonder if God is.

I wonder how one person can be cruel to another and why small dogs have the same mental capacities as huge dogs. I wonder how an atom can be made up of particles smaller than it and how there are smaller particles of those small particles.
I wonder if I really have a soul and if I do, I wonder where it resides. It is just electrical energy bouncing between nerve endings. Is it in the chemical messengers that move between the synapses? Is it something that resides between the spaces in my brain? On the other hand, does it live in my heart?

When the soul leaves the body, how does it exit? Does it exit with the final breath or does it escape through the pores in the skin? Then, of course, where does it go? Does it live in outer space or is there a heaven? How does the soul get to heaven and where is heaven anyway? I don’t know, but I wonder and all of the reading, learning, and pondering doesn’t stop my wondering.

I wonder why I have a headache from all this wondering. I would go take a nap, but I wonder just how I could go to sleep since my mind is so active with wondering, wondering about the wonderful world in which we live. I could put my earphones in and listen to my iPod, but then I would wonder how the 1’s and 0’s of computer language could possibly recreate the symphony to which I am listening and how the composer heard the whole before conceiving its parts.

I am going to stop now before I drive myself crazier than I already am. I wonder just how in blazes I can shut down my mind? I wonder why………………

HENRY AND THE OIL SPILL

2010-08-07T16:39:00.000-05:00

He was one majestic bird. I say was because we haven’t seen him in the last couple of months. We live close to the Gulf of Mexico in Pensacola, Florida. One of our favorite visitors was a big Grey Heron. We named him Henry for some strange reason. It might just have been that on one of his first visits, Henry just seemed right.

Henry came by almost every afternoon around 5:00 pm for a visit. He was quite bold and if we weren’t paying attention, he would peck on the glass of the French door leading to our patio. Often we sat on the patio waiting for his visit and when he stopped in we fed him his favorite dish—hot dogs. Sometimes we had some leftover fish or bologna. Henry was peculiar in what he would eat. He didn’t care for bread at all but he did love his hot dogs. I know one should not feed wild animals, but come on, give me a break.

We first met Henry when Bev (my wife and best friend) and I had created a water garden in our front yard. After we got it working properly we introduced some koi. They were only about 2-3 inches long and were quite happy. Over time, they grew to 6-7 inches. We came in from shopping one afternoon and there was old Henry, standing knee deep in the water with a satisfied look on his beak. There was not a koi in sight.

Once I caught some small bream when fishing so I brought them home and placed them in the water garden. Not long thereafter, I saw a shadow fly by the front window. I walked into the living room and looked out the window. There was old Henry helping himself. We decided that from then on our water garden only needed plants, no more fish.

Henry would fly in, stand on the roof, and longingly peer into the water, wondering where his dinner was. That’s when the feeding began. It wasn’t hard to lure him into the backyard where hot dogs waited. He then became a regular visitor.

Henry would come quite close when we fed him. I never let him eat from my hand, have you ever seen a heron beak up close, it is designed for stabbing. Often a feeding heron will stab his dinner with his beak, give it a flip into the air, and catch it on the way down. I decided that if I hand fed him I might be impaled, then we would be stuck since there was no way Henry could toss me into the air.

Several weeks ago Henry stopped coming around. It seemed strange because he had been such a regular visitor for several years. We only missed him during the mating season when I’m certain, because of his majestic appearance he could choose his mate from the finest of lady birds.

Henry has been missing long enough now that I am afraid he has become another victim to the damned oil spill that has caused so much damage along the Gulf Coast. I get so angry when I think of the misery that stinking black goo has caused. While Pensacola and Perdido Key have not had beaches blackened by tar balls and globs of oil except for a couple of days, contrary to the media hype, people have stopped visiting. Many people have lost their livelihoods and given up. Some have not only lost businesses, but homes. BP has promised to pay for damages, but people who live on the margins could not wait to make loan payments until BP money actually was paid.

Seafood providers have suffered the most. Generally, fisher folk, shrimpers, and oystermen live on subsistence incomes and don’t have the luxury of waiting a month or two for reimbursement. The government screwed up in a major way when they closed down perfectly good catch areas. It cost fishing guides and charter boat operators a tremendous amount.

Now we are told that 75% of the spilled oil is gone. That is a total fiction. There are still huge quantities of oil in the marshes and suspended in the waters of the Gulf. However, the beaches are and have been perfectly safe and clean. Cursed be the news media that have made things seem far worse than they were.

Countless people have been harmed by this horrible catastrophe and my heartbreaks for them, especially the families of the 11 who were killed when the Deep Water Horizon exploded. I am equally distressed at the misery the animals have suffered. We saw videos of birds and sea turtles literally drowning in oil. One bird was trying desperately to climb up on an oil boom before the weight of oil that coated it pulled down into the water. Sadly, it eventually drowned.

Oh, I didn’t mean to go there but this has been and continues to be such a trauma. We are a hardy people and have learned to pull together in times of tragedy and we will survive and overcome this one too. However, no matter how much BP and the government promise; it will be many years until the Gulf Coast is restored to its pristine beauty, if ever.

A tragedy for us is that Henry seems to be no more. BP can’t replace him, the government can’t replace him, he’s just simply gone. Our loss is only a micro-fraction of the loss to others. A prayer for the people of the Gulf Coast would be appreciated as would be a visit of a week or two.

Copyrighted © 2010 by Jack deJarnette

BANNED FROM SHONEY'S

2010-08-04T12:54:00.000-05:00

I grew up in College Park, a suburb of Atlanta, Georgia. College Park was quite different back then. It was a quiet, lazy town with a small town feel. Sergeant Wingo was the local gendarme. He diligently protected the citizens and occasionally had a counseling session with an unruly teenager, not that I was one of those.

Pup Phillips owned an old time drug store with a real soda fountain. He mixed medications from shelves of exotic powers and liquids. Pup sold us sulfur, saltpeter and powered charcoal from which we constructed fireworks and fuel for our rockets. Pups was a local hangout where folks gathered to share stories and sodas. My best high school buddy, Dusty Roads and I liked to hang out there and catch up on the latest gossip. One afternoon I heard a conversation about a big hairy spider at the Fruit Stand.

The Fruit Stand was just that. It was on the corner of Main Street and Mercer Avenue; they sold fruit along with other stuff. My friends who were in the know would frequently use the bathroom at the Fruit Stand since the nude picture of Marylyn Monroe hung on the wall there. It was quite an attraction for a fourteen-year-old boy. When I heard about the spider, I hopped on my bike and took off to see this strange creature. There was quite a commotion when I arrived so I shoved my way through a crowd and sure enough, sitting on the counter was a big hairy spider. When I say big, it was much bigger than my hand. Someone said it was a tarantula that had come in with some bananas from Central America. Unfortunately, it was quite dead. The brothers that owned the Fruit Stand knew me quite well due to my frequent use of their bathroom and so when I asked if I might have the spider they said sure.

The tarantula became my prized possession. I ran thin copper wire diagonally threw its legs and bent the ends into tiny hooks, then I sealed it in plastic spay. It looked very real and I could manipulate the legs so that they appeared to move.

I loved to shock people by hooking my spider to the back of my shirt and strolling down Main Street. People’s reactions ranged from acting as if it didn’t exist to screams of terror. Of course, it was a great attraction for girls who thought of me as some kind of exotic explorer.

One night I was at Shoney’s with Dusty Roads, Hukey Lambert, Georgie Bost, Liza Anderson, Robin Luke, and Tina McGahee. We were all on sugar highs from chocolate milkshakes. I had my prized tarantula with me and it struck me that it might be funny to frighten the cook staff with it. I think it was my idea, but it might have been Dustys. Anyway, with a lot of encouragement, I ordered a hamburger and when it came, I pulled enough bread out of the top of the bun to conceal the tarantula. Then I sent it back to the kitchen with the complaint that there was something in it.

We knew immediately when someone took the top off the bun. There was screaming that sounded like someone had died. Suddenly the kitchen door flew open and the entire cook staff came flying out with screams of terror. The manager went to investigate and when he came out of the kitchen, he came straight to our table, handed me the tarantula and said, “This must be yours”. I had a reputation by then because true to my love of biology I kept snakes, spiders and anything that crept, crawled, slithered, flew or jumped. In addition, the story of the dead dog boil had gotten around. The manager said to me, “Do not leave, I’m calling the police”. Suddenly my life flashed before my eyes. I knew if the police didn’t lock me up my Daddy would kill me or worse.

It wasn’t long until Sergeant Wingo pulled into the parking lot with lights flashing and siren screaming. He marched in the door and came straight to our table. “Come with me”, he said in his most authoritative voice, “And bring that thing with you”. We went outside and he made me sit in the backseat of his squad car while he went back in and talked to the manager. When he came back to the car, he called home. Thank goodness, that Daddy was on a sales trip, so Mother got the news. I knew Sergeant Wingo was going to put me in jail. Daddy had told me that if I was ever arrested I could rot in jail, that he would not come and get me out. However, I knew Mother would, after all, she was Mother.

I sat there in a panic as I awaited my fate. When Sergeant Wingo finished talking to Mother, he turned to face me and started to laugh. That’s the funniest damn stunt I ever saw he said.” “But”, he went on, “Still you have to be punished for creating a public disturbance. The manager and I have talked and I am going to ban you from Shoney’s for three months. You can only come here with your parents, oh and that includes the parking lot, now hand that bug over.” He let me out of his car, told me to get home, and took my spider. For weeks after that, there were rumors of a huge black spider showing up in the strangest of places.

When I got home, Mother and I had a serious conversation. Actually, it wasn’t a conversation—Mother talked, I listened. Being Mother and having a Mother’s heart of compassion for her firstborn son, as wayward as he might be, she decided that Daddy really didn’t need to know the story. I think she feared for my life.

So, I served my time, I lost my spider, but my reputation as one cool dude grew, and I escaped a fate worse than death.

Copyrighted 2010 by Jack deJarnette

DUSTY ROADS AND THE DOG SKELETON

2010-08-04T10:30:00.000-05:00

One of my best friends through high school was Dusty Roads. Dusty had an older brother named Rocky and a twin brothers named Bumpy and Brick. Bumpy and Brick were quite a bit younger and the bane of our existence. The twins were constantly in our hair and our business. Often we had to keep them while Dusty’s mom went on errands. I would like to say that we never took revenge, but…………

Dusty was too cool. If I couldn’t think up mischief and mayhem, he could. Dusty’s dad was a colonel in the Army investigating UFOs. Colonel Roads stuff was top secret and he said if we found out about it he would have to kill us. That just made us more curious. He had a steel briefcase with a padlock on it. He handcuffed it to his wrist when he left home. We would hide in Dusty's room and listen in when Colonel Roads got those strange phone calls. That is when we learned that a glass pressed between one's ear and the wall was as good as a microphone. Everyone was certain that aliens were visiting earth to do us great harm and according to Colonel Roads one had crashed and was being held somewhere out West. The Army was afraid that the aliens would mount an attack to free him.

The Roads were Catholic, the only Catholics that I had ever known. All the other neighborhood guys were gun-shy about Dusty since it was common knowledge that Catholics drank blood. However, I had always had an inquisitive and open mind so I wasn’t concerned at having a Catholic friend, even if he was a vampire.

Once I went to Mass with the Rhodes. Catholic Mass was all in Latin. The entire experience was strange to me. Bells would ring; Dusty said that was when Jesus appeared on the altar. Try as hard as I could I never saw him. The priest in his colorful robes would swing a thing with smoke pouring out and Dusty said that was the Holy Ghost spreading through the Church, which was somewhat frightening. I knew all about ghosts and there was nothing pleasant about them. Then they celebrated the Eucharist. The wafers they ate actually turned into Jesus’ flesh and the wine turned into his blood. I was delighted that I, a non-Catholic, could not eat and drink that stuff. I was glad to be a Methodist since we did ordinary stuff and our preacher spoke English. I will admit that I really wanted to taste it and several years later got my chance. Dusty and I found a way into the wine cellar at the Episcopal Church. It was gross tasting, but the high was real until the next morning.

In the tenth grade, Dusty and I had to do a Biology project. We went to different schools, but had biology at the same time in the year. We decided to collaborate on our project. After several days of thinking about what would do, we decided that it would be too cool to build a skeleton like those found in museums. The next challenge was what kind of skeleton to build. The only option we could think of was to find some road kill. We put out the word, "If you know of a dead animal let us know." We offered a $5.00 reward if the road kill was suitable to our needs. We soon got word from my little sister (the Princess) that a middle-sized dog carcass was on the side of the road several blocks away.

Dusty and I borrowed his dad's car (Actually, we stole it since neither of us was old enough to drive and certainly didn’t have permission to use it). We went to the dead dog site where we found an ideal specimen. The poor dog had only been dead for several days. It was rank, but we were intrepid biologists and not to be deterred by a little odor. We scooped up the carcass and gently put in the back seat of Colonel Road's car to take to my house. Little did we know that dead dog stink lasts for days. We only realized it when we took the car home and the stench remained. When Colonel Roads next drove the car, he was puzzled about where the stink came from. He actually took all of the seats out in a vain effort, certain that some wayward rodent had gotten into the car and died. Dusty and I were terrified that he would get wind (wind—get it) of what had happened, but God smiled on us and gave us a pass.

Having found our specimen our next problem was separating the rotten meat and hair from bone. I don't have any idea how we knew, but we did. The answer was to boil the carcass. I had a washtub, so we made a stand of cinder block, set the washtub on the stand, filled it with water, built a fire, and dropped the remains in. When the water started to boil the most horrible stench billowed forth. It was like witches’ brew issuing from the pit of hell, or something like that. Soon the neighbors started wondering about the fetid air that was wafting through the neighborhood. Rank grossness covered the neighborhood. Someone called the police, but since there was no ordinance preventing the boiling of dead dogs, the police couldn't do anything but laugh. Sergeant Wingo was the Chief Gendarme and knew Dusty and me from other encounters. He was mildly amused and told us to get it done as quickly as possible.

We boiled the dog for one day, then carefully separated the bones from the meat, grease and fur. We let the bones dry for a couple of days then painstakingly laid them out in their proper place. It became apparent that the dog had died from broken ribs that must have penetrated a lung. Several ribs on the left side were broken and had to be glued together. We carefully placed each bone in its proper location and joined them together with thin copper wire and glue.

Dusty took the finished skeleton to school first and got an A+, I took it to school next and got an A+. For years after that, I was known as the boy who boiled dogs.

Each Thanksgiving when the family gathers invariably, someone tells the story and once again, we relive the story of the boiled dog with hoots of laughter.

Copyright 2010 © by Jack deJarnette

BLACKIE AND THE CHAMP

2010-07-26T22:07:00.000-05:00

Daddy was a traveling salesman. He was one of the old school salesmen who travelled by train. Some of my earliest memories were going to train tracks with him. He carried a roll of newspaper and as the train approached, Daddy lit the paper and waved it in the air. The train would stop and Daddy would board for his sales trip. When I got older Daddy took me with him and we rode in the engine, the mail car, boxcars. Occasionally we got to ride in a passenger car.

Daddy was usually gone for a week at a time with occasional longer trips. When I was eight, Daddy came home from a particularly long trip. It was cold and Daddy had on a long overcoat. He greeted Mother, my sister, and brother. For a moment, I felt that empty pain in the pit of my stomach because daddy ignored me. After a few minutes, he called me over to his chair. He still had his overcoat on. I stood there for a moment with tears in my eyes, then daddy, with a big smile very carefully and tenderly reached in his pocket and withdrew a black and tan puppy. The puppy was so small that it was lost in Daddy’s big old hand. He handed the puppy to me and said, “What do you want to name him?” Instantly I said, “Blackie”.

Daddy smiled again. He called my brother over, reached in his pocket, and came out with a tiny white puppy. “What do you want to call him”, he said. My little brother thought for a moment and said, “Snowball”. Now since this isn’t Snowball’s story I’ll not mention him again.

I started to walk away while cuddling Blackie and Daddy said, “Where are you going, get back here”. I stopped, turned back, and Daddy again reached in his pocket and brought out a little kitten. The kitten was large for its age, yet still little and was colored in various shades of black, grey, and brown. In spite of his tiny size, he had very prominent cheeks.“Name him”, Daddy said. I said, “Champion”.

Now please don’t feel sorry for my sister, she was Daddy’s favorite and already had a cat.

Daddy helped me prepare a cardboard box for Blackie and Champion. He did the same for Snowball, but remember this isn’t Snowball’s story. From the very beginning, Blackie and Champion bonded. They were more like brothers than a cat and a dog. As Champion grew he often groomed Blackie who simply delighted in it. They loved to wrestle and chase each other. They ate from the same bowl. When it was cold, they curled up in a ball together. Both were relegated to the great outdoors and forbidden to come in the house. When Daddy was travelling, I would get up after Mother was asleep and slip them into my bedroom to sleep with me. I got up before Mother in order to get them back outside before she discovered. Only years later did Mother tell me that she had known all along.

As Blackie, Champion, and I grew, we grew closer and closer. By the time I was nine, wherever I went Blackie went and wherever Blackie went so went Champion. They would follow me to school where they waited curled under my classroom window until time to leave. Occasionally Champion would jump up in the window that was closest to my desk and signal me. We needed to get out of there, there were games to be played, at least that’s what I thought he said.

There were no leash laws in those days and dogs simply ran free. One afternoon we heard tires squealing, a sharp cry, and a thump. I ran from the backyard here I had been playing and there was my Blackie, lying in the street. The car had stopped; the driver was out kneeling over Blackie who was lying still. I knelt by him and gently lifted his head. There was no movement or response. His breathing was shallow and irregular. I started to cry feeling helpless. Mother was at work and there was no way I could get Blackie to the Veterinarian. I was sure he was going to die.

The lady who hit Blackie seemed as upset as I. In response to my distress, she offered to take us to our Veterinarian. Our Vet, Dr. Bob Montgomery, was a good friend of our family and I quickly agreed. We got Blackie to Dr. M who examined him while I waited breathlessly. After a few minutes, Dr. M said that Blackie had brain damage and might not survive, but he administered an I.V with some antibiotics. I had called Mother as soon as we got to Dr. M’s office. She left work, came and got us and we took Blackie home. Mother made a comfortable bed for him and gently placed him in it. This time Mother made an exception and let me keep him in my bedroom.

That evening, Champion started crying the most anguished meows a cat can make. Mother said that I could bring him in to see Blackie. I brought that big old cat in and he promptly jumped in the bed with Blackie and started to lick him. He purred and rubbed against that poor dog just as if he knew what was wrong. For two days, Blackie remained in a coma and Champion only left him long enough to go outside and relieve himself.

On the third day, it was obvious that Blackie’s breathing was better, but he had quite a lump on the top right side of his head. As I watched, it jumped up just enough to be noticed. Every second or two the bump bounced. Then I noticed that every time the bump bounced, Blackie clinched his jaws in rhythm. We never knew why, but the clinching and bouncing continued throughout his life.

Later that afternoon, Blackie started purposeful movements and then he opened his eyes and after a bit of struggle, he stood up. Champion had been there almost the entire time. Champion’s purr, as Blackie started to respond, was so loud it sounded like a growl and he rubbed his body over Blackie’s legs as if he were celebrating the return of his dear friend.

Blackie was never the same after that. He was still the sweet dog that he had always been, but instead of being active and playful, he was somewhat lethargic and shy. Sometimes he would just check out, stand there, and look at you with hollow eyes and that funny bump bouncing on the top of his head. I could call him or whistle and he would come out of his trace. This is when Champion became “The Champ”. He knew that Blackie was not all right and so he became Blackie’s caregiver and defender. The Champ almost never let Blackie out of his sight.

There were several dogs in the neighborhood, a couple of which had shown aggression to Blackie. Before the accident, he handled himself quite well, never being intimidated or fearful. After the accident, however, he was passive tucking his tail and whining when one of bullies came around. That’s when the Champ showed his true mettle. He would quickly impose himself between Blackie and the offender; swell himself up to twice his size with fur standing erect. Then he would start to spit and growl, he stood stiff legged with his tail straight up in the air. If the assailant wasn’t smart enough to take the hint after a couple of moments of this display, The Champ would make a sudden lunge and bat the offender across the nose. The Champ weighed twenty-five pounds and had front paws with six toes, each carrying sharp claws. His blow was devastating and he sent many dogs running for home with badly lacerated noses.

One especially dumb boxer simply kept up his harassment after The Champ had delivered his punch. In a flash, that cat was on the boxer’s back, biting his ears and clawing his shoulders for all he was worth. He rode that poor dog for a good half a block before dismounting and strolling home as if nothing had happened. Then he walked up to Blackie and started purring and rubbing himself against Blackie’s legs, comforting his dear friend. The Boxer never returned. (Many years later we learned that The Champ was a Maine-Coon cat which explained a great deal about his fighting ability).

Occasionally I would attempt to discipline Blackie and The Champ would quickly get between us and give me a look that said, “Go ahead and try to get through me, buster”. It was always that way. The Champ would let no one get to Blackie with an intention of harm.

One day, Blackie sneaked into the house with the Champ right behind him. When Mother saw them, she took the broom to them both and ran them out of the kitchen door. From that day on, The Champ hated Mother. If he could sneak in the house, he would seek out the clean clothes Mother had placed on the bed. Then The Champ would climb right into the middle of them and inundate them with his nasty smelling cat pee. He only peed on clean clothes, never just the bed. If he was in a particularly bad mood, he deposited something more solid and stinky. After leaving his gift to Mother, he would make a beeline for back door, which opened out and slip through it before Mother could catch him.

Late one afternoon Mother was standing at the kitchen sink preparing dinner. Daddy had gotten home early and we were sitting at the kitchen table while he entertained us. I heard the front screen door softly shut. It opened inward and we generally kept the latch on. If the latch was not on, The Champ seemed to know. He would slip through and slink into the house with one thing on his mind. Mother was going to get it. I knew there was trouble brewing, but I couldn’t imagine just how much. I should have gotten up, caught The Champ, and put him out, but I was too enthralled with Daddy’s story.

All of a sudden, Mother let out a blood-curdling scream and started dancing from one foot to the other. Daddy jumped up from the table-asking Mother what was wrong. After a moment of utter hysteria Mother said, “That damn cat peed on me.’’ It was true, The Champ, not finding clean clothes had quietly come in the kitchen, and like a ninja warrior with great stealth backed up to Mother and thoroughly sprayed her ankles. He then hit the back door on the fly.

Well, we all broke out in laughter, even Daddy. Mother headed off to her bedroom to get Daddy’s pistol. We weren’t sure just who she was going to shoot, but it was quite clear that if she had her way, blood would be shed. Thankfully, Daddy intervened and The Champ lived for another adventure. I’m sure that day cost him one of his nine lives.

Blackie and The Champ lived eight more years and then one day, as cats often do, he simply didn’t come home. Blackie moped and would sometimes visit their old haunts and whine a pathetic whine. Several months after The Champ disappeared, I got home from school, and Blackie was laying in the front yard. I think he simply lay down and died.

Some fifty years later, I still miss those two special animals. I’ve had other animals since then, but none ever were as special as Blackie and The Champ. Occasionally I dream of them and wake up with a feeling of loss. I confess to being Wesleyan in my Theology and John Wesley wrote in his diary that he believed his horse would be in heaven to greet him when he arrived, so why not Blackie and The Champ?

WORTHWHILE OR MORE JUNK

2010-07-23T15:09:00.004-05:00

"In general those who have nothing to say continue to spend the longest time doing it". Russell Lowell

"A small drop of ink produces that which makes thousands think". Lord Byron

"If you have anything worth saying, put it in writing because there is far too much junk already in print". Jacob Israel, M.D.

In writing my Thoughts, I wonder. Are they just more junk? Do they cause anyone to think? Do I really have anything worthwhile to say? I even wonder if anyone reads them at all. Then I remember, I am writing my Thoughts for me. If they matter to me then they matter. I would hope that someday my children and grandchildren will read them so that they might better know who I am, but even if that doesn’t happen it’s okay.

I must admit there is some ego in my writing. I would like to think that occasionally I write something meaningful. I would like to be a blessing to others. I hope my passion for my Lord Jesus shows through. I hope my passion for my country shows through. I hope my passion for my wife and family shows through. I hope my passion for life shows through. I hope I honor the people who I mention.

One of the people who I admired a great deal over the years past was Jacob Israel, quoted above. I suspect that from his name it might be obvious that he was Jewish. We established a friendship many years ago when we both sat on the credentialing board for Respiratory Therapy. Over an eight-year period, we saw each other two times a year for several days. In addition to being an anesthesiologist, Dr. Israel was a Rabbi. He was wise at so many levels that I simply enjoyed being around him.

The first several years that I knew Jacob he had a long graying beard. It hung down to mid-chest. One year when we met his beard was extremely short, maybe an inch and a half. I asked him what had happened. He said that a medical student asked him if he slept with his beard under the cover or on top of it. He said it was weeks before he got a good night’s sleep because he was constantly fiddling with his beard; under or over, under or over. Finally, to get some rest he had to trim it.

We had a great laugh. He is another of those people who had a great influence on my life.

For a laugh check this out: http://www.wimp.com/turffeinz/ (Copy and past to your taskbar in IE.)

THE VICTORY IS WON

2010-07-19T17:50:00.002-05:00

The background for the desktop on my computer is a high craggy rock cliff. It curves back on itself to make a circular enclosure with the front wall collapsed. There is mist rising from the valley below and the trees along the ridge give a sense of immensity. I seldom look at the scene without remembering Paul’s words in Ephesians 3:18, 19:“And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge--that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.”

Each time my desktop opens I am reminded of how wide, long, and high and deep is the love of Christ. I need this reminder and every other reminder that I can find because my forgetter is so efficient. Pressure builds, I forget. Distractions come, I forget. The enemy stalks, I forget. I act ugly, I forget. I get sick, I forget. Finances get tight, I forget. It is ironic that the times I most need to remember just how deeply Jesus loves me are the times I most quickly forget.

Of course, there is a reason for my forgetfulness and it isn’t age. There is a real enemy in the spiritual world and he has countless minions who run around looking for opportunities to delude, confuse, and distract us. His purpose is clear. It is to keep us from being victorious in the battle of life. Many times we are just one battle from ultimate victory and we are defeated by our own doubts. Many, many times we are within inches of achieving the goal, but because it is obscured in mist and fog and the enemy discourages us, we stop and turn back.

Yes, I need reminders because the theme persevere repeats itself repeatedly in the Bible. Persevere; keep on a little longer, climb a little higher, run a little harder, pray a little stronger and surely victory will come.

One of the most difficult things in our modern age is to accept the truth of a spiritual dimension where evil forces work, as well as good. It amazes me that it should be so because we certainly believe in the spiritual dimension of goodness. We believe in angels and the hereafter, why are we so slow to believe that there are opposite forces opposing God and goodness?

Now hang with me, I’m not going off the deep end here. I’m simply thinking through why it is so difficult to persevere in my faith journey and it is because I forget. There are spiritual forces that oppose my work and me and when I forget my source of strength, they win. These enemies have been around for thousands of years and know just how to wheedle into my mind. At those times, all I need to do is to remember, “greater is he that is in me (Christ), than he that is in the world (The devil). I can’t stand against the devils wiles, but Jesus can. I simply need to keep my eyes fixed on Jesus, since He is the author and perfecter of my faith.

That is where my desktop comes in. When I activate my computer, I see a picture of the love of Jesus, so wide I can’t get around it, so long I can’t find its end, so high it touches heaven and so deep there is no bottom. I am in the battle, but He has won the victory. He will make it mine if I simply persevere. That means I need to keep on keeping on with the last task that he gave me until he gives me another task. Like the little engine that could, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can and if I can’t then He will!

"I CAN ONLY IMAGINE"

2010-07-19T17:06:00.002-05:00

One of my favorite songs is, "I Can Almost Imagine", by Mercy Me. Often I sing the song to myself and simply ponder what it will be like when we see Jesus face to face. I am absolutely certain that we can not even come close to imagining, what that day will be like but I do like to think about. Read the lyrics and spend a few minutes wondering with me.

I can only imagine
What it will be like
When I walk
By your side

I can only imagine
What my eyes will see
When your face
Is before me
I can only imagine

I can only imagine

[Chorus:]
Surrounded by Your glory, what will my heart feel
Will I dance for you Jesus or in honour of you be still
Will I stand in your presence or to my knees will I fall
Will I sing hallelujah, will I be able to speak at all
I can only imagine

I can only imagine

I can only imagine
When that day comes
When I find myself
Standing in the Son

I can only imagine
When all I will do
Is forever
Forever worship You
I can only imagine

I can only imagine

[Chorus]

I can only imagine [x2]

I can only imagine
When all I will do
Is forever, forever worship you

I can only imagine

CHRIST IN YOU

2010-07-17T22:20:00.000-05:00

In reading the Book of Colossians, the following jumped out at me. “When you were dead in your sins and in the uncircumcision of your sinful nature, God made you alive with Christ. He forgave us all our sins…” (Col 2:13, NIV).

This describes completely the idea of the new birth, born again, being saved, or salvation. Before conversion we are “dead in sin”. Remember “sin is any attitude of heart or mind that is so stupidly selfish it leaves God out.” Hightower). When God is out of a life the person is already dead though they may still be consuming oxygen and taking up space. The death that Paul is speaking of here is spiritual death, not physical death.

It is in this state of spiritual death that God always finds us. No matter the process, God does the finding. We speak of seeking God, but God has, been seeking us. We speak of finding God, but God has really been revealing Himself to us. It is at our very lowest, most base point of being that God rescues us.

Alcoholics speak of “hitting the bottom”, and it is a good analogy. When we hit the bottom and look around, we find that the bottom is God’s hand. If we will allow, He will begin the process of giving us life. Remember how in the Garden of Eden, God breathed into Adam and he became a living being. Remember how when Elijah had preached to the valley of dry bones and they had come together, reassembled into a body, were covered in flesh, God breathed on them and they became an army. Remember how Jesus breathed on the disciples and the Spirit inspired (indwelt) them.

So, when we are at the bottom and willing, God breathes new life into us and in that very moment we are cleansed from our sins; past, present and future. No longer do we live as dead men, but now we have new life. This new life leads us closer and closer to actualization of Christ likeness. Some grow very quickly and some grow over years and years. Some grow by fits and starts, but all who are alive in Christ grow.

This is the wonderful mystery of the Gospel according to the Apostle Paul, “Christ in You!” Awesome mystery, isn’t it? “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that who so ever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. God sent not his son to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him.”

"BE STILL, MY SOUL"

2010-07-11T11:48:00.003-05:00

This morning we were on the way home from Long Beach, Mississippi where we had spent the night for me to have a sleep study. We were listening to the radio and just happened to tune into a radio station broadcasting The Baptist Hour. The preacher was from the Cincinnati Primitive Baptist Church. His text was from Psalm 46 :10, "Be still and know that I am God". It was an excellent sermon and he used the hymn below as one of his illustrations. With so much chaos and turmoil surrounding those of us along the Gulf Coast I thought it worth sharing. No matter what challenges we face in life, we need to remember who our God is, his power, his might and his love.

"Be Still, My Soul"
by Catharina von Schlegel, 1697-?
Translated by Jane Borthwick, 1813-1897

1. Be still, my soul; the Lord is on thy side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul; thy best, thy heavenly, Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

2. Be still, my soul; thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.

3. Be still, my soul, though dearest friends depart
And all is darkened in the vale of tears;
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrows and thy fears.
Be still, my soul; thy Jesus can repay
From His own fulness all He takes away.

4. Be still, my soul; the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul; when change and tears are past,
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

I often sign emails and other stuff with the Hebrew word shalom which means peace and completeness. When we allow God to be God to us, it brings peace and completeness. So Shalom, my friend, shalom.

THOUGHTS ON LOVE

2010-07-08T19:25:00.000-05:00

You know how a song will pop into your mind and you just can’t forget it. Over and over it repeats it’s self unbidden and sometimes unwanted. Finally, with adequate distraction it fades away until next time.

The same thing happens with thoughts for me. A thought will pop into my head and swim around and around until I express it. Sometimes the thought won’t quit until I write about it. That is the circumstance today.

I was driving home from the grocery store (no, not Publix) and the thought, love, popped into my head. It has remained there and I need to do something with it. When I got in, I kissed Bev hello. That didn’t work so I told her I loved her, that didn’t work either. Therefore, I guess I need to write about it.

In Latin I learned to conjugate love: amo, amas. amat, amamus, amatis, amant: I love, you love, he/she loves, we love, you (pl) love, they love. When my Mom took Latin the teacher asked her to conjugate a verb and she was not paying attention. She asked the boy next to her what the teacher asked and he replied, damned if I know. Nonplussed, Mom replied: “Dammnedamo, dammedamas, dammenedanat, etc”. The outcome was not pretty.

In Hebrew, I learned the two words most often translated as love are: ahab which is very similar to our English and hesed which conveys the love of a higher being for a lower one.

In Greek I learned there are four words for love: eros which is passionate or romantic love; philia which means friendship or brotherly love; agape which is the highest form of love (I’ll develop this more in a moment); and storge which describes the love of a parent for a child and is not used in the Bible.

The Bible most often uses the word agape to speak of the kind of love that God and Jesus shows toward us. Agape or Jesus’ love is a love that desires the highest and best for the other regardless of the cost to the self.

When Jesus tells us to love each other (John 15:12) he uses the highest form of the word for love, agape. Oh how I wish I could do that, but I’m afraid I fail miserably. I don’t even love myself to this degree. I eat things I shouldn’t. I drink stuff I shouldn’t. I don’t exercise as I should. I’m stopping now lest I feel more guilty than I already do which isn’t good for me either.

So what am I to do? I can’t even start to obey Jesus command. If my qualifying for heaven depends on my obedience, I don’t stand a chance. But wait, thank God for the cross.

Jesus’ death on the cross sealed my pardon for my imperfections. Not just some of my imperfections (translate—sin) but each and every one of them. However, his forgiveness is conditional. It isn’t conditional on how I perform, that turns into legalism where I have to earn his love. No, it depends on my being aware of my need for his forgiveness and accepting his death as the payment for my sin. An amazing thing happens when I do this, my behavior improves, as I become more aware of my sin, I move further and further from it.

That summarizes my theology. I’m pretty sure that it is incomplete and I don’t suggest anyone else buy into it because it would take many pages to completely explain my understanding.

Oh, I started out to talk about love and look where I ended up. It’s all good.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA

2010-07-03T21:31:00.002-05:00

In Congress July 4th 1776
The unanimous declaration of the thirteen United States of America

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.

But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.

Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain [George III] is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained, and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the meantime exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies, without the consent of our legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

• For protecting them by a mock Trial from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:
• For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:
• For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:
• For depriving us in many cases of the benefits of Trial by Jury:
• For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:
• For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:
• For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:
• For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.
He has abdicated Government here by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to complete the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms. Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our British brethren.

• We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us.
• We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here.
• We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence.
They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by the authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare.

That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown,

and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain is and ought to be totally dissolved;

and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce,

and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do.

And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

List of signers
Fifty-six delegates eventually signed the Declaration:

President of Congress

1. John Hancock (Massachusetts)

New Hampshire

2. Josiah Bartlett
3. William Whipple
4. Matthew Thornton

Massachusetts

5. Samuel Adams
6. John Adams
7. Robert Treat Paine
8. Elbridge Gerry

Rhode Island

9. Stephen Hopkins
10. William Ellery

Connecticut

11. Roger Sherman
12. Samuel Huntington
13. William Williams
14. Oliver Wolcott

New York

15. William Floyd
16. Philip Livingston
17. Francis Lewis
18. Lewis Morris

New Jersey

19. Richard Stockton
20. John Witherspoon
21. Francis Hopkinson
22. John Hart
23. Abraham Clark

Pennsylvania

24. Robert Morris
25. Benjamin Rush
26. Benjamin Franklin
27. John Morton
28. George Clymer
29. James Smith
30. George Taylor
31. James Wilson
32. George Ross

Delaware

33. George Read
34. Caesar Rodney
35. Thomas McKean

Maryland

36. Samuel Chase
37. William Paca
38. Thomas Stone
39. Charles Carroll

Virginia

40. George Wythe
41. Richard Henry Lee
42. Thomas Jefferson
43. Benjamin Harrison
44. Thomas Nelson, Jr.
45. Francis Lightfoot Lee
46. Carter Braxton

North Carolina

47. William Hooper
48. Joseph Hewes
49. John Penn

South Carolina

50. Edward Rutledge
51. Thomas Heyward, Jr.
52. Thomas Lynch, Jr.
53. Arthur Middleton

Georgia

54. Button Gwinnett
55. Lyman Hall
56. George Walton

"I PRAY YOU ENOUGH."

2010-06-27T21:50:00.001-05:00

I received an email from a dear friend that told a story about a scene at an airport. I don’t want to repeat the story in total, but I do want to think about something said in the story. A mother and daughter were parting. The mother said to the daughter, “I pray you enough”. The daughter replied to the mother, “I pray you enough”. An observer asked the meaning. The mother explained that it was a family tradition that went back generations, and then she said:

“I pray you enough sun to keep your attitude bright no matter how gray the day may appear.

I pray you enough rain to appreciate the sun even more.

I pray you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive and everlasting.

I pray you enough pain so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear bigger.

I pray you enough gain to satisfy your needs.

I pray you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.

I pray you enough hellos to get you through the final good-bye”.

How could one pray a more perfect prayer for another? I might add a line, “I pray you enough faith to sustain you through the darkness”. But that’s enough. I am going to add this to my prayer arsenal. If you ever ask me to pray for you, Don’t be surprised to hear me say, “I pray you enough.”

A LAZY EYE AND A RATTLESNAKE

2010-06-25T09:20:00.002-05:00

One of my good trout fishing buddies was George Allen Smith, GAS for short. Actually, we called him G. Allen unless he misbehaved and ate beans. G. Allen was a city boy through and through. He had long hair and a lazy eye in the left eye. It was strange because you never quite knew where he was looking. If he looked directly at you that old lazy eye would sort of wander around until it locked in on a target.

Sometimes we would study some contour maps to find streams in obscure places. Then we would study a road map to find access. Occasionally; we found a stream with no apparent access, those were the most fun. We would drive to the vicinity of the stream and then look for a dirt road. Sometimes the dirt road went nowhere and other times it ended at a farmhouse.

If the road ended nowhere we would park and seek the stream on foot. If after an hour or so if we hadn’t found the stream we would head back to the car, pack up and move on. On one of these excursions, we were in an area with large rocky outcrops. In the spring, it was not uncommon to see timber rattlesnakes stretched out on the rocks sunning themselves. Sometimes they would lay across a path if the path was large enough for the sun to shine through.

G. Allen was walking about fifteen yards ahead of me and was absolutely oblivious to his surroundings, not uncommon for a city boy. I looked in the direction that G. Allen was strolling and I realized that he was standing straddle of a huge timber rattler. I shouted as loud as I could, “Freeze”. Thankfully he did. For a moment, I couldn’t think of what to do. The snake was just beginning to show signs of life and I knew if G. Allen moved he would be bitten. Timber rattlers strike with lightening fast speed.

I always carried my Taurus long barrel thirty eight caliber pistol loaded with one hundred and fifty eight grain hollow point bullets. J had been shooting for a number of years and was an expert shooter. I drew my pistol, aimed carefully, and squeezed off a round. The snake’s head disappeared in a cloud of blood, bone, and gore.

G. Allen jumped at least ten feet in the air and lived up to his nickname. When he finally came down, the snake was aimlessly squirming at his feet and I thought he would faint. We stopped looking for the stream and went back to the car. The poor guy’s emotions ranged from anger that I had shot so close to him, fear that he could have been killed, relief that he had deflated his lower intestine.

Other times we would find a farmhouse in close proximity to the stream we were seeking. When approaching a farmhouse, G. Allen would carefully tuck his long hair into his cap being certain that none showed. We’d park and I would walk up to the house. Many times a man and woman would be sitting on the porch. I’d mention my Grampa’s name and look for a reaction. If there was no recognition, I’d mention Uncle Ike. Uncle Ike, in addition to being a farmer, was the chief highway supervisor for the counties in the area. One name or the other would open a door and I would inquire about streams in the area. If one was near, the farmer would tell us where and we would go and find it. We often had to drive through fields with hogs or cows being extremely careful to avoid bulls. These streams were generally the best because they were seldom if ever fished.

Sometimes I simply sit and remember how much fun those days were. God’s creation is so beautiful; his creativity in making animals is beyond imagination, and he is so gracious in giving us good friends to share good times with.

SARDINES AND CHEWING TOBACCO

2010-06-24T16:06:00.000-05:00

I enjoyed trout fishing in the North Georgia Mountains. In the sixties and seventies, the mountains were still pristine and there were trout streams with native brown trout. These streams were extremely difficult to find and even more difficult to get to. I had two trusted companions with whom I generally fished. One was a 1968 Chevrolet Malibu station wagon. That was simply the best car I ever owned. I went places in that car that only had seen jeeps before. We even took her to the top of Stone Mountain before it was developed. The other companion was Charlie Quirk. Charlie knew every trout stream in North Georgia. He also knew how to tie a fly that matched every hatch in that part of the country.

We usually left Atlanta well before sunrise, drove into the mountains, found our stream, got on our waders, rigged our fly rods and off we went in search of one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind.

By noon, we usually had two or three keepers each. If the morning had been successful, we climbed out of the stream, found a spot where the sun shone through the trees, stretched out and ate our lunch. I took Vienna sausages and crackers or potted meat and crackers. Charlie always took those large sized mustard packed sardines. I liked them too, but Charlie ate his in an usual way. He would pack up his jaw with a sizeable chunk of Red Man chewing tobacco. When he had a good chaw going, he would pop a sardine in his mouth. I never saw anyone do that before or sense.

I was not a tobacco chewer, I took my poison through a white paper tube encasing chopped tobacco, and no, it wasn’t marijuana, I preferred Marlboro’s. Being a smoker and not a chewer, I never tried Charlie’s concoction, but he swore it was heavenly hash.

One of our favorite fishing spots for rainbow trout was the Chattooga River, the same river where they made the movie, “Deliverance”. Yes, there were people just like the movie depicted in those mountains and if you were an outsider they were quite capable of hurting you. The rape scene in the movie was way overboard and a total exaggeration but there was still a great deal of moonshining and strangers could be revenuers so there was open season on them. We were never in danger, however, since I simply had to mention my Granpa’s name. The name Albert Wiggins carried a lot of juice throughout North Georgia. Granpa Wiggins was highly regarded because of his reputation as being an honest, good man. He built many houses all over the mountains and was very generous in allowing great leeway in paying him. There are still houses standing that Granpa built, designated historical landmarks.

We loved fishing the Chattooga because Georgia, South Carolina, and North Carolina stocked it with rainbow trout and it always provided us generous catches.

THE PAINLESS POUNDING

2010-06-16T21:53:00.002-05:00

I mentioned traditions in small churches but I didn’t mean to leave out large ones. All churches have traditions that are unique to them, or unique to their denominational affiliation.

One of the most wonderful traditions at Byrneville United Methodist was the annual pounding. Bev and I heard that there was going to be a pounding on Thanksgiving Sunday evening. We were not supposed to know about it, but someone slipped. It didn’t matter because we had never heard of a pounding and were concerned about just who was going to get pounded. We wondered if this was going to be some kind of initiation, like running the gauntlet.

I usually got to church a little before the service to be certain that the AC or heat was on and the sanctuary was clean. This Sunday, the Church Council President told me under no circumstance was I to be there early. He said the congregation had some business that I was not welcome to attend. I spent all Sunday afternoon wondering if I was going to be fired. I tried to remember what I had done that was so grievous to be dismissed over.

Seven o’clock came and we went to church with much fear and trembling. We were even more concerned when we arrived to find the parking lot filled. We never had that kind of attendance at any service. We opened the church door and walked in, and then we understood. The altar area was covered with bags and cans. The tradition was that at thanksgiving everyone brought a pound of something for the parsonage family. Of course, by 1979 most prepackaged goods were packaged in five-pound lots. We ended up with forty-five pounds of flour, twenty pounds of coffee, five gallons of lard (home rendered), fifty pounds of ground beef (we had a large dairy in the community and when a cow went dry, she was converted to hamburger), and on and on. I couldn’t possibly list all that was given to us. We were so very thankful since out total income including travel expense was $5600.00 per month.

Several months later, I mentioned at a Church Council meeting that we had not been to the grocery store in six weeks. I was saying, “Thanks”, for the generosity of the people at the pounding. The next day, there was an endless series of knocks at the back door of the parsonage as people showed up with canned goods, packages, and cash. One young mother who drove a dump truck for the dairy gave us her weekly salary.

I called the church treasurer who by now was a good friend and asked what was going on. He explained that the church members were concerned that we didn't have enough money to go to the store. Bev and I were appalled since we had an abundance. I asked him what I should do. His advice was to simply say, “Thank you”.

The next Sunday my sermon came, easily it was on Generosity. We did give the young mother her money back.

Something that I learned during my four years at Byrneville and many other years in ministry was those that have the least are quite willing to give generously of what little they have.

LONG STEM RED ROSES

2010-06-15T23:12:00.001-05:00

We absolutely loved out four years at Byrneville. The church folks told us early on that they felt their ministry as a church was to teach new ministers how to become great. As hard as they tried, I never met their expectations of becoming great, but I think I succeeded in becoming adequate. Only God can be a judge of that and I have some trepidation of standing before him someday to give an accounting of my work. I have always said that when I face that day my only argument will be that I always tried to come down on the side of love.

Byrneville, like all churches had its traditions that were rooted in some past activity or event that was precious to the congregation. One of their traditions was that on Mother’s day each woman in the congregation was given a long stem red rose. It didn’t matter if the woman was a mother, hoped to be a mother, or could not for physiological reasons become a mother; every woman in church over fifteen got a rose.

The roses were carefully laid along the altar rail, which ran across the church in front of the pulpit area. I had boldly stopped preaching from behind the pulpit after having received a bad burn on the fingers of my left hand from sticking them in the altar candles (another story for another day). I would step down from the raised platform and lean against the altar rail as I preached. I had learned to commit my sermon outline to memory so I didn’t need notes.

Polyester was the in thing and I had a gorgeous lime green polyester suit that I wore in rotation with my blue one. There was a suit factory in Bremen, Georgia that gave Methodist ministers two suits a year, so I had a blue polyester one, a lime green polyester one, and a dark grey pinstripe that I only wore in the wintertime and for funerals. I had not been in ministry long enough to have gotten the forth one.

So it was Mother’s day. The altar rail was decorated with roses; I was the height of fashion in my lime green polyester suit. I had stepped from behind the pulpit, was propped against the altar rail preaching for all I was worth. My sermon had to have been something about mothers and the congregation was spell bound. I could tell that I had their total attention. I often moved from one end of the altar rail to the other to be as intimate with each side of the church as the other.

I leaned back from the altar rail to shift my focus to the other side of the church and something caught my eye. I looked down and suck to the fly of my lime green pants was a long stem red rose. As I moved down the altar rail, the rose moved with me. I realized that polyester hooked onto anything with a barb. I was attached to the rose in the most humiliating way possible. However, thanks be to God, I didn’t react with the embarrassment I felt. I simply kept preaching, never missed a word, and reached down and carefully detached the rose from my fly.

God bless those dear people, no one ever mentioned the episode, except my family who shares a laugh about the rose on my fly almost every Thanksgiving. Interestingly while none of the congregation spoke of the rose incident, each year on Mother’s day after that there was a lot of giggling as people whispered to each other. To this day, I can’t believe they were giggling at the young preacher in his lime green polyester suit with a long stem red rose firmly attached to his fly.

MINEOGRAPHS AND COMMUNION BREAD

2010-06-14T21:15:00.000-05:00

My first parish was at Byrneville, Florida. Byrneville is halfway between Century and Bratt, about forty miles north of Pensacola. If one travels west from Century on highway 4 for about seven miles, you come to a crossroad. On the southwest corner is Driskell’s Grocery. You have arrived at Byrneville crossroad. Turn south and in about one and one half miles you can see it on the right on top of a hill—Byrneville United Methodist Church. We had about one hundred members of all ages and on any given Sunday; we boasted seventy or so at worship. The congregation was formed by a Methodist Circuit Rider in the late 1700s or early 1800s, no one remembered just when. We found the original site of the church in heavy woods. The cemetery had what appeared to hold at least seven graves. There were two stone markers. Erosion had erased any information that they had contained. We could see where other graves were by kneeling down and getting eye level with the ground. There were slight depressions where the graves were. In the middle of the original church site was a huge oak tree.

I was used to having Communion the first Sunday of the month, but when I suggested it, I found that the dear people there had been denied the Blessed Sacrament for the past seven years. They had endured a pastor who taught that they lived in danger of illness or even death if they took the Sacraments unworthily. I was infuriated; none of us is worthy to share in the Sacrament. It is itself a means of grace. I held several weeks of Bible Study correctly teaching what Paul’s’ words in 1st Corinthians actually meant.

Then came the Sunday we had our first Communion. It was wonderful and the entire church came forward. I had a special time for the children to teach them the meaning of the Sacrament. Exiting the church that morning was one Christy McClain. Christy was our next-door neighbor, a spunky four year old. Christy walked up to me, looked me square in the eye and said: “Preacher, are you going to serve us ‘freshments every Sunday?” So much for my teaching.

Bev, the children and I moved to Byrneville on the first Thursday of June, 1979. All preachers relocating in our Annual Conference moved out of the parsonage before noon on that Thursday and into the new parsonage that afternoon. We had our first Sunday the following Sunday. In those days, the preacher in small membership churches did everything pertaining to the worship service. There I met my nemesis, a manual royal typewriter, and a WWII surplus mimeograph machine. I won’t get into the details of those archaic machines, but I understand why preachers who had not received a divine call quickly left ministry for another profession. My dear sister with some secretarial experience was there with us and literally saved my soul. Together we figured things out and by midnight had printed bulletins. Methodists obviously have a trust issue with their ministers since they won’t have worship in a Methodist Church without a bulletin which must be slavishly followed. True Methodists are fearful that the Holy Spirit might move inappropriately at the disposal of the minister, thus the worship service is carefully crafted to prevent that happening.

My task as Worship planner was simple, our pianist could only play twenty six hymns. We sang three each Sunday morning, three each Sunday night, and three on Wednesday evenings. Each three weeks we changed the order in which we sang them, but we repeated the same songs every three weeks.

I have many more tales to tell about our wonderful days at Byrneville, but I want to emphasize, nothing is meant to cast any negative light on the gracious, kind, generous people there who taught us to be a successful, loving, ministerial family.