Mick And Me

On the way to the gym at lunch yesterday, I was lost in thoughts of work and responsibilities—grown up stuff. From the radio Mick Jagger sang wistfully about a girl he was missing while he waited for her call. Traffic was sparse, at least compared to the usual array of vehicles I normally encounter as I wind my way through the stop signs and obligatory traffic lights we call Canal Street. It was a bright day, with temperatures much warmer than those in recent memory. I pulled into a January-packed parking lot and cut the engine, grabbed my bag and headed for the entrance to the cruel gym, ready to sweat away some unwanted calories through my daily ritual of ‘fitness training’.

Sometimes I get displaced mentally, and do things for no apparent reason other than I am who I am, complete with all of my terminal nuances. As I weaved between parked cars, probably subliminal but maybe not, I spoke aloud a line from the heretofore unfinished Rolling Stones’ song which was still hanging around in my consciousness due to the sudden silencing of the radio. I blurted out to the quiet parking lot, in my best Mick simulacrum, “Whatsamatter wit you boy?”

Harmless, of course, and nothing to it. In most cases.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a teenage-girl sitting in a car I happened to be walking by at that very moment, with her window down. Egad! She looked up at me with no little curiosity, yet a lot of apprehension (fear?) written on her face. I could say nothing; it was too late and I walked on, refusing to meet her eyes—after all, I had evolved into a crazy middle-aged man muttering to himself in ghetto-slang. Not just in my mind, because I am certain the feeling was mutual from her vantage point. I regretted my sudden outburst and found myself wishing for an ever-elusive rewind button. The next time I will be more observant toward my surroundings before I haphazardly burst forth in the unknown lyrics of songs from days bygone.

Because you can never be sure who is watching or listening.

The Psalmist reminds us: “For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O LORD, thou knowest it altogether.” It’s proven easy for me to goof up and say things in front of others that I wish later I had never said. And once it leaves your mouth, there is no retrieval system for idle words spoken in haste or in anger. More importantly, it is impossible to hide those words from G_d.

The incident in the parking lot yesterday, though humorous, is a great example of my idle words and the affect they can have on others. Who knows what that girl actually thought of me, and sadly, first impressions are usually the lasting impressions in life. Fortunately, other than looking a tad bit silly (or senile), I said nothing to hurt that nameless person as she sat innocently inside her car.

But how many other examples I could give of times when the things I said at an inopportune moment affected friendships and relationships in my past! The list could go on and on. What about the times I promised more than I could deliver, and ended up letting somebody down as the result of making assurances for things I had no control over in the first place? There are also countless instances I can recall where my fine-edged critique would have been better left unsaid or unnoted.

It’s hard to control the tongue, and impossible to do so without strenuous amounts of consideration and forethought. I can’t live in fear of saying the wrong things at the wrong times and to the wrong people for the rest of my life, although to become a mere spectator in life is the only sure way to escape the suffering in life. But who wants to do that?

Lord, please guard my wandering thoughts and control my uncontrollable tongue, for I cannot do so by my own accord. And I’ll stick to whistling those old Stones tunes and do my best not to vocalize them, at least not publicly, in the future. Amen.

At Watch Along The Rhine

Mainz, Germany - December 29, 406 A.D.

A bitter, cold wind swept down from the mountain passes, chilling the soldiers camped alongside the Rhine. In the past its frigid depths had protected them, providing shelter from the assembled hordes of barbarians gathering on the other shore. This winter was different; the coldest temperatures by anyone’s memory had frozen-solid the protective boundary of the wide river, thereby creating a causeway for the enemy to advance. Their sheer numbers—Vandals, Sueby, and Alans—proved more than a match for the depleted legions of Rome’s finest that had assembled to protect their nation. What began as a retreat swiftly escalated into panic, as the Roman army, watered down in strength by an influx of conscripts, faded through the heavy, snow-clad forests.

The area of Gaul (modern France) was ravaged by the advancing horde as their mid-winter victory had forced open the doorway of destruction. Within four years, the City of Rome itself had fallen, and the era of Pax Romana was well on its way to an unmistakable end. The attackers were called barbarians, because they cared little for Roman culture, for its civilization, or its laws. They only saw the wealth of an empire ripe for the taking, and three hundred years of attempted assimilation had proven pointless, as had teaching them the Latin language. In the end, they were merely bent on pillaging and they met their goal with not-so-curious aplomb.

The Romans, on the other hand, had whistled in the dark during the final years leading up to their demise. Their citizens paid others to serve in the military in their places, those that could do so, and conscripts were used when the money ran out. A foreigner was promised much-coveted citizenship if he would only serve in the Empire’s armies for an allotted amount of time. Back home, meanwhile, the original citizens had grown fat and lazy through the influx of ‘free bread and circuses’ from their well-meaning, vote-buying politicians. As a result, freedom and liberty had been exchanged over the years for the tyranny of despots, and when at last the Eternal City fell, it seemed as though very few sincerely mourned its passing at all.

In a quote that has been attributed to many, it was actually George Santayana who coined the phrase: “Those who do not read history are doomed to repeat it.”

Those same warnings from Roman history have been escalating in America for the past fifty years. We are swiftly copying that forlorn civilization by becoming a pagan, self-centered, and de-Christianized nation of faultless individuals, eager to blame all of our troubles on someone or something else. If we follow their lead, the next cuts will be to our military budget, in order to save enough money to pay for our massive entitlement programs.

Like ancient Rome, our borders are by now thinly guarded, and the open gates are of our own doing. We are taught to respect every culture but our own in the name of multiculturalism, and treat every religion with the highest, unbiased regard except for a faith involving the One True G_d. Those who speak out against these interloping talking points are shouted down, held in contempt, and called vile names with gushing media approval.

It’s really sad because in my heart I do not see a reversal of these policies on the horizon.

It’s past time for Christians to wake up and smell the coffee. It’s time to stop voting for politicians that support not only this mindset, but abortion and other sordid issues that are bent on destroying our families. We need to base our precious votes on our own core beliefs in these areas regardless of “all the good things our representative does for this district”, whichever district that may be. This is no longer simply a political matter of contention—of this party versus that party—but a question of morals and values. Yes, I know, morals or values cannot be legislated, but, by the same token they can certainly be legislated against.

Paul warns in Romans: “Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them.” If my Representative is supportive of things I know are against the precepts G_d calls for in His Word, then I can no longer vote or support him, period. Because it’s his vote that counts once Congress is in session—my vote will have been discarded along the campaign trail at that point.

Yet, as a Christian I should be mindful to pray for my elected leaders, even if I voted against them. And I should pray for the leaders of other states or districts in which I have no input. After all, Christians should be known for their prayers, not merely their political rants.

The anchor’s weighed, farewell, farewell! We’ve seen them going south. I dream ahead sometimes, and I dream with my eyes open. I’ve seen the horsemen riding in the night, and I see them by the thousands riding over a hundred battlefields, their horse’s hooves treading on dead men. I see a whole nation, struggling and struggling, swaying and swaying. I see things that people neither Democrat nor Republican have even dreamed of yet. But what am I going on about? We should be back safe and warm in our beds, sleeping soundly. – Joseph Alexander, “The Guns Of Bull Run”

A Little Hole

Another week begins at work and I am glad to be here, considering the alternative. It’s good to have a job these days and I’m always mindful to be thankful when I meditate upon it. However, sometimes I lose my concentration in the area of thankfulness, especially when I find myself fighting tooth and nail to get rid of this head cold I’ve become infected with. It’s been a tough one; fighting my immune system for going on three weeks by this point, which means I’ve had it since the holidays.

I’m not sure how or why it happened this way—I’m a vitamin C addict and have been pushing the envelope of daily dosage recommendations since my bout with the flu last summer. I stabilized at around 2000mg a day but it appears to have been all for naught. I also took a flu shot in the interim, thinking that it could quite possibly hedge my bets. I eat right (sort of, maybe) and I exercise a lot more than the general population of folks my age, so what gives?

I’m not a malcontent, at least not often anyway. In fact, I’m more apt to seek a solution than to worry over symptoms and afflictions. Yet I refuse to see my doctor, because I know he’ll order me to (cringe) take more vitamin C, or at the worst, he’ll merely give me a B-12 shot. There is no cure for the common cold. As I hacked up a lung this morning (not literally) I found myself cruising memory banks of days gone by, trying to recall one of the antidotes my grandmother used to cure us with when we were young. Granny had a home remedy for everything from warts to salmonella, and most of the time—oddly enough—they worked. Miraculously so.

Unfortunately, the only one that comes to mind is an antidote she used on my sister and me for an illness I can no longer recollect. In fact, I ‘Googled’ it and cannot find mention of it within that hallowed search engine, and that speaks a lot these days. I’m almost scared to write about it in this blog, because then it will be added to the annals of Google, and someone searching later on will find this—but leave as confused as they will be when they first arrive here.

The cure went something like this: Danna and I were instructed to dig a hole with a teaspoon in the rich, black Pearl River County soil. Then, we were advised to place a four-leaf clover inside the crater—you could still find them back then—and spit into the hole, completing the task by covering it back up. As we were in the process of performing these steps, we were told to recite the following talisman:

G_d made man and man made money;
G_d made the bee and the bee made honey;
G_d made Satan and Satan made sin;
G_d made a little hole to put the devil in.

Sadly, I do not recall anything else about the sequence, nor can I recall what we were trying to solve or what we were endeavoring to cure. I also cannot remember if it even worked. But if my cough and sinuses fail to level out and return to normal, I will consider risking it on general principle.

Probably not—it’s proving hard to find a four-leaf clover these days, climate change being what it is, ya know, and such.

I guess I’ll proverbially grin and bear it for the time being, as that is what I’ve learned to do with colds through personal experience. At least it’s not a kidney stone. In that regard I’ll gladly choose a cold any day.

There is coming a time and a day when sickness and disease will no longer be an issue for us frail members of the human species. John foresaw a time (soon to arrive) where G_d Himself will provide a readily available cure for all of our sicknesses and infirmities: “In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” A veritable Tree of Life, to handle whatever ails you, whether it revolves around kidney stones or something as mundane as the common cold I currently find myself suffering with. And it will be as simple as gathering leaves from a tree He'll provide with no shots, doctor’s appointments, pills or elixirs, and most of all; no secretive talismans to memorize.

I look forward to that day—I really do. In the meantime, uh, more orange juice, please.

At The Beach

Pontchartrain Beach. Those were the days. I tell ya. Summer evenings spent walking the midway, riding rides and playing arcade games. The innocent laughter of a sixth-grade girl-friend as Seals & Croft harmonized “a little music from the house next door” on the Music Express ride. And everywhere the salty smell of the lake subtly mingled with cigarette smoke and extraordinary whiffs of cotton candy.

We had it jack back in those days. Every summer meant Bible School at our church, and if you kept a perfect attendance record for the entire week, the reward was a youth trip on Saturday to the amusement park located in New Orleans East. The park is gone today, a victim of changing times, but the memories of it are blissful checks I’m allowed to draw on a bank where I no longer have an account.

I loved the roller coasters; the Zephyr and later on the Rajun’ Cajun. I was scared of the Wild Maus but rode it anyway so as not to let on, despite the rumors of two, four, six, (sometimes eight) people supposedly losing their lives during previous fateful forays on that precarious example of German engineering long before my time. And most of all, I held a special place in my heart for the cryptic ride known as the Haunted House. It was hokey, and not really scary at all—positively B-grade movie horror at its best. But it was the perfect place to demonstrate your courage in front of that sixth-grade girlfriend, and possibly a gateway toward earning a stolen kiss—if your timing was right.

You stood in line across the front of the building, usually across both sides depending on the crowd, and one side of the building had a fake cemetery (at least I think it was) replete with several tombstones draped in Spanish moss. Each marker told a tale meant to impress the passersby, stories of lost lives and the dubious deeds performed by those supposedly interred there. Over time I have forgotten most of the quotes, but one I can still recall today due to the fact that during my younger days I had no idea of what it actually meant:

Ma loved Pa
Pa loved women
Ma caught Pa with two in swimming
Here lies Pa.

What did ‘in swimming” mean? I had no clue back then. But it was a tombstone, and the inscription is supposed to be your last testimony—the thoughts you want others to remember you by. Pa is remembered because he refused the love of Ma and preferred instead to love other women. And, after Ma caught him with two “in swimming,” she laid him to rest here in front of a goofy carnival ride. What a legacy! Love him or hate him, he was just being Pa.

I’ve thought about that a lot as I’ve grown older—not about Pa and Ma, but about my own tombstone I’ll sleep under one day. What testimony do I wish to leave behind me for others to read about down through the ages? “He was a good father.” “He loved his wife.” “He went to church on Sunday.” “He worked hard all of his life.” Those are all good and I think I’ve done my best to fulfill those testaments, but then again, so do many others. Those things are expected of all of us and to perform less than admirably in those convictions would lessen you as a person. You can readily sum all of those up with “He did what he was supposed to do.” That may be enough for some people, but to paraphrase F. Scott Fitzgerald, the convictions we believe in most when we’re young are hills we scan our future from, yet when we are older they can easily become the caves in which we hide.

Paul wrote his own epitaph at the end of his second letter to Timothy, and it is one I choose to do my utmost to aspire toward: “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith:” That may not be as interesting as Pa’s last line, but in the way of convictions it covers a lot more mileage when all is said and done.

In The Details

Been reading a tad bit too much Oscar Wilde the past few days, but I find myself helpless against it. Such a great writer for his time and it is refreshing to read about characters that bear no resemblance at all to me –seriously! Oscar writes, “One should always absorb the colors of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are almost always vulgar.” I’ve absorbed my fair share of the intrepid colors that life offers, yet I’ve also captured vivid memories of details along the way. I’ve usually found that the devil is truly in those details by the same token. So maybe he’s right.

We were in eighth grade back then, with all of the associated baggage that comes with being that age. My friend and I were boys when we knew each other, while now, many years later, we are men, and I say that to temper the tale that follows. It was a spring day—I can remember that clearly—a time when boys begin to pine for long summer days with no responsibility. Along with a severe distaste of being cooped up in regimented places like school with its classrooms and obligatory rules.

During the morning break we always seemed to find ourselves on the south end of the school near the mid-way point where the buses used to load. I’d never find that place today as the school has tripled in size with new buildings and a maze of never-ending sidewalks. But it wasn’t so at the time. My friend showed up with something squirming in his pockets, yet small things like that were not uncommon with him—again, the details I mentioned earlier. Calling me to the side of the small crowd of boys gathered there, he withdrew a slimy, foot-long length of green evil from his pocket that seemed to go on and on as he removed it from its improvised lair. It was a grass snake!

It writhed and twisted up and down his arm, maybe trying to escape, or maybe basking in the glow of our undivided attention. Snakes have a tendency to do that—ask Eve. The thought of created evil, yet non-potent in this case, is a pretty powerful drawing card among boys of that age. So anyway, once you begin to tire of a snake there is only one thing to do; move on to something else or up the ante. By this point of the event, I happened to be innocently holding the snake, but not for long. You see, the girl’s bathroom window chanced to be located strategically behind us, and the place itself was known to be well populated during the morning break period. It was at this precise moment in time that I met with one of Mr. Wilde’s uncanny details.

Someone (not me) came up with the idea of how much fun it would be to toss that snake up and through the window into the midst of the girls sure to be residing there… doing whatever girls do in those situations. (Fixing their hair? Applying make-up? Smoking?) Peer pressure is an amazing thing; almost narcotic when put into practice. I knew it was wrong. I knew it would scare the girls. I knew if I got caught, there would be trouble for me not only down the hall in the office, but also at home later on that evening. Still, I was certain not to perform the deed would somehow lessen me in the viewpoint of my friends. It would possibly make me not accepted, less cool—probably ruining any chance I’d have to be well thought of by my fellow eighth grade compatriots.

I tossed the snake in through the open window.

The ensuing detonation can be perceived as comparable to the whooping battle cries of the Indians at Little Big Horn. An explosion of screams blasted through the windows, and spilled out through the adjacent building-doorway that led to the hall as girls began to frantically vacate the now-caustic rest room. We fell over ourselves in laughter; my friend actually on the ground and rolling. It was the best prank ever, and we were its heroic perpetrators!

That is, until we realized the Assistant Principal had been secretly watching us the whole time from a hidden vantage point. I was in the middle of a play-by-play recap when I felt his firm grip on my shoulder. I looked up into his furious face as he sternly asked, “Why’d you go and do that?” Immediately, what began as a group prank swiftly transcended into “Shannon did it!”

I wound up on the receiving end of some serious corporal punishment, which was still in fashion at the time. Looking back, I was thankful that that was as far as it went –there were no phone calls to my parents and it was graciously handled in-house with no further repercussions. No girls were injured, physically at least, and the snake was dispatched by the janitor to a much quieter place, I assume. Ah, the days of our youth—they are like flowers in our hands, but sometimes the fragrance continues long afterward!


I was a good kid. I contend as much to this day. My friend and I both (eventually) grew up and we are none the worse for wear for it. In time, thankfully, I was able to understand the sordid truth about peer pressure, explained so eloquently by Peter: “That he no longer should live the rest of his time in the flesh to the lusts of men, but to the will of G_d.”

I’ve found there’s a lot less of those devilish details to worry about when I live my life as such.

Morning Call

I consider most of the autumn leaves have fallen by this point; the silent swimming pool providing a bleak testimony by the amount of leaves choking the filter inlets at the bottom of its frigid depths. The winds have shifted bitterly to the north during apparently thankless days, and send their chill against my door on mornings much darker than they were only a few weeks ago. Tinkerbelle forgoes her dawn-inspired patrol around our yard, contented instead to remain under her dog-warm blanket. I’m with you Tink, I’m so with you.

Dear Lord, this is the beginning of a new day in my life. It’s a day provided for me by Your design to use via my own free will. I can waste this day in a remembrance of things undone, of copious amounts of what ifs and if onlys –or I can silently forge ahead by looking forward to a future I know in my heart you have prepared for me.

Yet it is life that I desire; not a life of mundane, listless fulfillment of counted days, but one chock-full of the abundant life You so richly promise through Your Word. And in that life I want to be a blessing to others, a provider for those who need me, and a constant support for those who don’t. I ask you to make me a blessing to others, Lord, and not a curse.

Help me, Father, to stand above all else. I admit I am prone to wander into the folds of sin and wrongdoing. I break Your commandments more that I keep them; so it seems. Forgive me for my intemperate thoughts and actions when I fall away from Your will. Guard me from the perceptions of pareidolia that emanate from the world and all it seemingly has to offer. Guide me, please, down the correct paths as I walk with You today. I’ll do my utmost to allow tomorrow to take care of itself –it’s today that I covet Your watchful eye and firm grip on my life.

I ask Your blessings for my wife and children, my parents, in-laws, and friends. I ask for grace to make it through difficult times for all of them, and for me. I ask for understanding, not only from You, but from me and my dark, wayward heart and repellent soul. Help us to draw closer as a family and keep You foremost in our perspective. Help us to wait for Your will to be made manifest in all that we do. Lord, we wait at Your door posts, comforted in our hearts by knowing that You care for us.

I pray for my church. I pray for my church family. I ask for Your wisdom in all of our hearts as we seek what is best in our search for a pastor. My prayer is to see each decision made in that regard to be in line with Your precious Will, so that all we say or do will give You complete honor, praise and glory.

I comprehend that whatever I do with this day, the one you have blessed me with, is important. Because I’m exchanging a day of my life for whatever response I attach to it. When the sun comes up tomorrow morning, this day will be gone forever. The only memory left of it will be whatever I traded for it. In that regard and by that token I pray for today to be gain and not loss; good and not evil; success and not failure. My desire is for it to reside in my memory as worth the price I paid for it through Your Will. My hope is for You to be proud of me, and not merely ashamed of me and my many failures.

With only the best of my imperfect love, I ask all of these things in the name of Your Son, who gave His precious blood for me on Calvary. I thank You for that perfect sacrifice and for providing a way for me to be made right with You through your ageless, eternal plan of redemption.

“Blessed is the man that heareth me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the posts of my doors. For whoso findeth me findeth life, and shall obtain favour of the LORD. But he that sinneth against me wrongeth his own soul: all they that hate me love death.”

Riding The Blue Bus

The blue bus is callin' us
Driver, where you takin' us
“The End” ---The Doors

She kicked me in the shin under the table to get my attention. We were seated next to each other in the thrice-weekly staff meeting and thankfully, the meeting was drawing to a close. However, still enough fodder was available involving sales and forecasts, production and supply, to keep the meeting going for at least a little while longer – but she wanted my opinion. I could tell by her eyes it was something that she had wrestled with as far as a way to broach the subject, so keeping an eye on the moderator I swiveled quietly in my chair to give her my ear.

Her whispered words revolved around dead birds, sinkholes, strange weather phenomena, and earthquakes. She wanted to know if they were indeed a signs of the end, and of course she was referring to apocalyptic events. She mentioned her church and her family, and I caught a faint whiff of apprehension in her mannerism as she recounted the evening news from the night before. “What do you think, Shannon?”

I whispered back, “I think if you keep talking to me, the boss is gonna hear and we are going to be in big trouble for not paying attention to the meeting.” She smiled, kicked me in the leg yet again, and I agreed to discuss it all with her after the meeting.

I get a lot of that these days. And I do not have all of the answers. I’ve read my Bible and studied the books of Daniel and Revelation for many years. I can almost quote verbatim Jesus’ Olivet Discourse in Matthew chapter 24. But the exact sequence of events that will foretell the end of time escapes me. I can build castles in the air with the best of them, but in the end that is all that I can provide on the subject –speculation. Like everyone else, I am much akin to the disciples when they came to Jesus and asked, “Tell us, when shall these things be? and what shall be the sign of thy coming, and of the end of the world?”

I guess as humans we look ahead at the beginning of a new year, and we ponder over what awaits us on the horizon of the months and days to come. For me it’s Science Fair projects in January, a reminder that Valentine’s Day falls in February and I better not forget it, then Easter followed by a long gap of Spring sandwiched before the Memorial Day weekend. What will I do this summer for a recharging vacation? How about my birthday in October? Will Chip be home this year for Thanksgiving? Is a yearly bonus from my employer in the cards for Christmas?

Time counts and keeps counting. But it never signs a contract with any of us.

I look at things analytically because I am an engineer. In that regard, I look at it from the opposite angle of what someone normally would. I believe we are in the last generation, to me it’s a given. The news reports are rife with morals gone askew, violence in the world, cataclysmic weather patterns, and political intrigue. But on the flip side (the engineering side) is there anything that could possibly change my mind or thoughts of the current age we live in as being in fact the last age as prophesied by the Bible?

There’s the question that must be answered; what would it take to change my mind? The only answer for me would be if Israel ceased to exist as a nation. If they were conquered or dissimilated by a peace treaty in some way to where there was no longer an Israeli state in the Middle East, I’d change my view hands-down. Bible prophecy swings full circle around Israel as they are G_d's chosen people and have been since Abraham's time.

When His disciples came to Him and asked Jesus the question I mentioned earlier, He spoke at length about it. He mentioned all of the things I see happening in the world today as I watch the evening news. But then again, most of those things have always been happening in some form or another since Jesus’ time. However, He goes on to emphatically mention the budding of the fig tree. In fact, it is so important that all three synoptic gospels, Matthew, Mark, and Luke were inspired to record what He said.

Now learn a parable of the fig tree; When his branch is yet tender, and putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is nigh: So likewise ye, when ye shall see all these things, know that it is near, even at the doors. Verily I say unto you, This generation shall not pass, till all these things be fulfilled.”

Following those passages recorded in each gospel, Jesus adds: “Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away.” It has been long accepted by much better scholars than I that Jesus was referring to Israel when He mentions the fig tree. In fact, G_d calls Israel His fig tree in Joel chapter 1. For this reason alone I regard the re-birth of Israel in 1948 as the beginning of the last generation. Pundits tried to add forty years to 1948 and came up with a date of 1988 for the end of time. Later they changed it to 2007, since Israel re-conquered Jerusalem in 1967, but to no avail. The world didn’t end during either year. The problem was in the math – let me go all engineer on you here…

A generation is from birth to death. The Bible says (in the verses I used last week in my blog from Psalms) that we live from 70 to 80 years, on average.

1948 + 70 = 2018 and 1948 + 80 = 2028.

Works with my calculator every time. Note that this will be the end according to Jesus. But before the end comes there will be seven years of tribulation –Jesus referred to them as the days of vengeance.

2018 – 7 = 2011 and 2028 – 7 = 2021.

In a roundabout way, there is a very sure sign that the tribulation could begin anywhere from this year (2011) until 2021. A ten-year span, if you will, of a time when we don’t want to be caught napping as Christians. Notice I didn’t set a date, or even a year, and that is important to me for you to understand. Because Jesus added: “But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only.” There are a lot of days and hours within that ten-year span.

Anyway, that is my take if you are asking. Something to ponder for all of us, and in any case, I feel secure in the knowledge that time is running out on this present world we’re busy sharing. Again, it can’t be stressed within this blog enough because it is ominous; Jesus said, “Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away.” It’s time not to get ready, but to be ready.