Random Thoughts

The Wish List

2011-10-28T17:57:00.003+02:00

Another year, another birthday.

Birthdays are good for you, though—healthy in fact. According to well-researched statistics, those of us who have the most birthdays actually live the longest. Who knew?

I’m pondering that thought as I celebrate the beginning of the last year of my fortieth decade. And although it seems to be just another day at work to me this morning, I figure I’ll up the ante and create a birthday ‘wish list’ anyway. I know the old adage of wishes and horses, etc. and I’m experienced enough by now to comprehend said adage, but why not be simply un-jaded long enough to give it one more whirl?

I wish for my wife to recover her health. That’s the best place to start. Face it, things haven’t been the same over the last few months and she needs some relief from all of the many things that ail her. Besides, she is younger than me by six years or so, so that wish should be a gimme. Yes, we’ll start there. Here’s to you, sweetheart, I’ll spend my first birthday wish on you!

Despite the perceived chutzpah on her part, here’s wishing for my youngest daughter to not only do good on the test she asked me to pray for her about this morning, but to have a successful continuation for the rest of the semester in her nursing studies. This needle and blood-pressure cup is hoisted in an erstwhile toast to you, puddin’.

I wish for my oldest daughter and son-in-law to finally get some sleep in the near future. New babies can put a damper on the requisite nocturnal rest cycle, but she is healthy and precious—well worth the efforts because you will miss those all-nighters once she is grown and gone. Trust me on this one.

Some calmness for my oldest son, his sweet wife, and a grand-daughter that has truly become “Paw-Paw’s heart”. A lot will happen in the upcoming year; from jobs and graduation to the addition of a new baby. Enjoy the stress—thrive in it, if you will. Always remember that prayer still opens all doors whether it is answered in the manner you want it to be or not. And it never ceases to amaze me how that truly works.

A computer that does not crash when you download thirty-seven on-line games would probably make my youngest son happy. Well, that… and an LSU victory over Alabama next week. But I cannot ask for the latter wish, son, because seriously—I’m pulling for ‘Bama in this one. My birthday, my wish. But we’ll see what we can do about those computer issues.

Health for my mom—and roses that look as good as mine. OK, I’m kidding. Your Rio Samba won this year. And a final ‘stay-at-home-and-do-only-those-things-you-actually-want-to-do retirement’ for dad. You deserve it, Bum. You’ve been much too busy for far too long. It’s time to place added emphasis on enjoying the old ‘fruits of your labors’ thing by this point.

Health and peace for my mother-in-law, and an unending stream of Gospel singings for my father-in-law. Yeah. That’s the ticket. BTW – I’m doing my best to take care of your daughter, Nan. Yet if things don’t get better soon, your services will over-ride what we are currently getting from the medical industry.

A new dog for Hunter. ‘Nuff said.

I could go on all day here, folks. No probs.

“But what do you want, Shannon? What is your wish for yourself on your birthday?”

“Seriously, a fulfillment of any of these wishes would be far more than merely enough for me.”

“No, really.”

“Hmm.”

I think I’ll go with the Psalmist for $100 on this one, Alex.

Birthdays always seem to stir my heart to the truths that are written within G_d’s Word: “So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”

Every day is precious and should be made to count—not just on birthdays. My personal wish is to remember and count often throughout the coming year. If I can manage to do just that, I’ll be fine when 50 glides in over my horizon.

Fatherly Resemblance

2011-08-11T21:31:00.018+02:00

Young Adult Sunday School Class - August 14, 2011

Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God: therefore the world knoweth us not, because it knew him not. I John 3:1

There’s a baby shower being planned for this weekend even as I write this; my oldest daughter will deliver a daughter of her own in a month or so. It’s a blessed time in both her and her husband’s lives, and I’m not going to fret one tiny bit over the addition of another grandchild to my progeny. Judging by my first granddaughter through my oldest son, they are pretty special—a whole new experience to one who felt he knew all there was to know about children in general. These tiny creatures have a precious side effect of capturing your heart. They really do.

Witnessing the births of my own children, and many nieces and nephews along the way, the question that always seems to arise in those beautiful moments is who do they look like? Do they have their mother’s eyes and lips? Do they favor their father? As they grow up and character and personality traits come into play, it’s often asked who do they take after? Did the apple fall far from the tree? Are they in fact a chip off the old block? In more than a few subtle ways, I’ve noticed Parker is truly a female clone of my son, but I’m not going to go into any details here. Sorry Scott, but she truly is you made all over again… and I mean that in a good way.

This week we’ll be looking into the multi-layered depths of the 3rd Chapter of the Book of First John. There are many paths we can study in this chapter, and I’m not sure which road we’ll travel, yet all of the routes are laid out before us and are viable options to both learn and grow from. Most importantly, each verse we personally analyze will enable us to walk closer with the One who loved us first.

The first verse of the chapter opens with a bold statement from John, and I truly believe he was smiling through tear-filled eyes as he wrote it down. Behold! Is there any love greater than this? That we unrighteous and doomed sinners can literally become the sons of G_d due to the Heavenly Father’s love for us? Ponder that verse before class—it’s a deep one! We’ll look into the verses that follow and take a gander at how we are supposed to act and who we are supposed to emulate in our own lives. John lays out a wonderful pattern for us to follow here: although on the outward appearance of our carnal bodies we may look no different than others, there is something within us that makes us the very opposite of those who live in the world. At least it should be that way.

Reminds me of a story I read the other day about the famous Greek philosopher named Socrates. It seems one day as he was teaching his pupils, into the class walked a great physiognomist. This is a fancy term for what we would know today as a profiler, you know—someone who can tell you all you need to know about a person by simply studying their features. Obviously, because of his credentials, the students in Socrates philosophy class wanted a demonstration of his talent and skills, so they asked him for a quick, on-the-spot profile of their teacher. After a careful observation of the philosopher, the profiler pronounced him as “the most gluttonous, drunken, brutal, and libidinous old man that he had ever met." The class, who really respected Socrates and knew that he was none of these things took offence and began to insult the profiler, deriding him for his poor judgment of their much-beloved leader.

But Socrates raised his hand and stopped them, smiling, and said that the renowned profiler was correct by strictly using science in an observational manner, but that he (Socrates) had “conquered those visible traits of my body by utilizing my philosophy.” This is pretty good, coming from a man who had never heard of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

When others look at us, what do they see? Better yet, who do they see? John uses a ‘take no prisoners’ approach in this chapter, reminding us that as Christians we should strive to control the sinful nature that is ever-present in our lives, refuse to budge when it comes to temptation, and most importantly—through our love for each other in the church—we should do our best to display the same personality and spiritual traits that Jesus exhibited while He walked on the earth. That’s a tall order, and one we can never accomplish on our own. We need Christ in our lives in all that we do for this to happen.

But in so doing, together we can make ‘The Chapel’ a place to go for so much more than just a weekly meeting. It can be a haven for strength and support, and a source of knowledge; all of which will enable us to achieve a noticeably closer resemblance to our very own Heavenly Father.

Other Things To Check Out Before Class:

1. Compare John 3:16 and 1 John 3:16. Is it just me, or is there a correlation between these verses? Hmm.

2. This is an example of how church members (and leaders) should not act. (Click on "This")

Plums And Roses

2011-07-26T21:07:00.002+02:00

I’m thinking about going all-medieval on my plum trees when winter finally rolls around this year, cutting branches and trunks like Sherman marching through Georgia. If memory serves me correctly, my two trees are almost fifteen years old at this point, and have yet to bear anything even remotely resembling what others would call substantial fruit. I’ll confess most of the blame can be laid at my feet—I do not tend to them in the manner I should. Especially if I really expect plum jelly or pies during tepid, early summer months when the trees were designed by their creator to provide said fruit. I’m supposed to spray the early spring buds with some sort of concoction the old-timers around here swear by. I’m supposed to prune them back in the fall, and mulch their bases with composted manure. Too much trouble, I say. Besides, other than grabbing and eating a plum off a tree while mowing or idly walking through the yard, I’m not much of a plum-eater when it comes right down to it.

Yet by the same token, I tend my roses in a manner that borders on the fanatical and all to no avail. If you want to see prize-winning tea-roses or beautiful floribundas; you need to look elsewhere and not on my corner of Johnson Hill. The green-thumb does not reside in my genes, although it is not due to a portent lack of effort on my part.

I’ve witnessed those poor shrubs physically cringe when they see me coming, pruning shears and spray bottle in hand. Oh no! He’s back again, duck and cover! OK, maybe not that bad, but you get my drift. I dead-head my roses, I mulch and water them, I spray their leaves with expensive Neem oil in a thankless effort to fend off black spot and rust. In return, I’m rewarded with an occasional bloom from time to time, but nothing like the label advertised when I originally planted them. (I've kept the labels to identify them, and those faded, yellow pictures taunt my gardening-ego mercilessly when I garner the courage to view them!)

The other night I sat on the porch and listened to my roses taunting the plum trees, chiding them on how the gardner was going to chop them down for not producing. (I don’t know how they got wind of the plan I expressed here earlier, but they did…) The plum trees dripped moisture from their fruit-barren limbs in response; their silvery leaves shining sadly in the moonlight. The roses explained how the gardener tended them, pruning and painstakingly caring for them, all the while ignoring those nearby fruit trees due to their apparent lack of worth. The roses seethed in their arrogance, knowing how patiently the gardener sacrificed time and energy for their benefit, but not so much on the plum trees.

Those silly roses will neither understand nor comprehend it when the day comes (and it will) where I will grow weary of tending their unrepentant tendrils, and get out my shovel (or tractor) and destroy them all. Maybe I’ll plant lilies in their place—they seem to like our humid, blast-furnace-akin summers enough to thrive in those conditions, and certainly with a lot less hassle to boot.

But the plum trees really have to go, too. It’s in the cards. And it’s not without precedent:

There were present at that season some that told him of the Galilaeans, whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. And Jesus answering said unto them, Suppose ye that these Galilaeans were sinners above all the Galilaeans, because they suffered such things? I tell you, Nay: but, except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish. Or those eighteen, upon whom the tower in Siloam fell, and slew them, think ye that they were sinners above all men that dwelt in Jerusalem? I tell you, Nay: but, except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish. Luke 13:1-5

Jesus begins a parable by reminding his listeners of two recent tragedies listed among the current events of the time. One event happened when Pilate sent in the troops and wiped out a host of Galilean worshipers that were in the process of making their sacrifices in the Temple. Those supposedly-righteous Jews had been exterminated during the middle of a worship service! Meanwhile, in another part of the city, a tower fell and killed eighteen people near the Pool of Siloam, where the crippled outcasts gathered waiting for a miracle—the only possibility that could save them from their destitute lives. Jesus reminds his listeners that unless they repented, they were also going to perish despite their prominent standing in the community. At that point Jesus launches into the Parable of the Fig Tree, where a gardener pleads with the master for one more year to work with a barren fig tree before chopping it down.

It’s a reminder to me that due to the spiritual blessings that have been bestowed upon me as a Christian, I must be careful. Walking with G_d on a daily basis leaves no room for perceived self-righteousness on my part: I must bear fruit. Except for His grace, I am no better than the addict down the road crippled by chemical dependency, or the vilest sinner that avoids church services at any cost. Unless we all repent, a harsh judgment awaits each of us in like manner.

Meanwhile, the Master Gardener continues to prune and mulch me. He dead-heads my blooms in order to make me flower even more so. He anoints my heart with expensive oil. In return, He expects good works, not to save me, but as a noticeable result of my being saved by His matchless grace in the first place. He expects me to bear fruit, and if not, then he will trim me, cutting deeper into my soul with his Word, while chastening me with His Spirit. But in the end I must bear fruit. (Galatians 5:22-23) You see, it’s required of me to do so.

It’s a sobering thought to know that when I smugly point my self-righteous fingers at others, I better be very aware of what I am doing in my own life.

Plum pudding, anyone?

A Righteous Babe

2011-07-14T22:02:00.012+02:00

Young Adult Sunday School Lesson – July 17, 2001

“It is the glory of God to conceal a thing: but the honour of kings is to search out a matter.” Proverbs 25:2

I’ve found myself fascinated this week while studying the story of Abigail as it’s recorded in chapter 25 of the book of First Samuel in the Bible. The story has it all—a beautiful, righteous woman, a future king that is coming in judgment, and the demise of a so-called ‘son of Belial’ named Nabal. It’s a good read and takes only a few minutes to do so, although on the surface it may appear to be merely one more story among many chronicling the exploits of David while on the run from King Saul. This story begins immediately following the death of David's mentor, the prophet Samuel.

While in hiding near Mount Carmel with his motley band of 600 followers, David forms a protective alliance with the shepherds that are in charge of Nabal’s sheep. One of the shepherds refers to David and his men as a ‘wall’ to them, guarding them against trouble in a time much different than our day—a time when emergency help was not available via a three-digit phone call.

The story takes place during the season of the year when sheep were to be sheared; a time of feasting and celebration. At this time, Nabal had a lot to celebrate—he was rich and the year’s profits were truly laid out on the table for his own personal satisfaction. He also had a wife that, according to the Talmud, was one of the four most beautiful women in all of Jewish history. (The other three were Sarah, Rahab, and Esther) Let’s just say that it was good to be Nabal and he had a lot to be thankful for, but giving thanks was the farthest thing from his mind during the annual celebration. You see, in Hebrew, the name ‘Nabal’ means ‘a fool’, and he made it a point to live up to his name in the story that has been recorded for us here. One other factor worth mentioning here, in addition to being noted by name as a fool, Nabal is referred to as a ‘son of Belial’. Israelites that were Hebrew in name-only were commonly referred to in these terms. What this means is that Nabal, although a descendent of righteous Caleb, refused to obey the G_d of his people and most likely was not even circumcised. Because Caleb’s wayward children had intermarried against the Lord’s warning with the Kennites, this was altogether possible as a contributing factor as to why Nabal lived his life this way. (II Corinthians 6:14)

David sends messengers to ask Nabal for any provisions he could spare to feed and sustain his men in the wilderness, not a magnanimous request once you consider David had protected the very shepherds and sheep Nabal now found himself profiting from. Nabal saw it otherwise, asking ‘who is David’ and inferring that he was simply a runaway king-wannabe, probably thinking David would not dare rock the boat because King Saul was on his tail and a simple message from Nabal could expose David’s secret hiding place near Mount Carmel.

When his messengers returned and informed David of Nabal’s response, he became livid with rage. He orders his men to ‘get their swords’ and sets out to destroy Nabal, specifically all of the male members of his family. Oddly enough, at this time Nabal has no idea of the response of David because he has a drunken feast to attend.

One of his shepherds mentions the unfolding scenario of impending doom to Abigail, Nabal’s beautiful wife. The shepherd advises her that Nabal is unreachable, and that she needs to do something to avert the disaster that he knows is coming. She responds by loading up donkeys with two hundred loaves of bread, two skins of wine, five dressed sheep, five seahs of roasted grain, a hundred cakes of raisins and two hundred cakes of pressed figs—the best she has to offer. Then she tells her servants, "Go on ahead; I'll follow you." But she does not tell her foolish husband what she is doing.

She meets David and his men in a ravine, and quickly gets off her donkey and bows before the future King of Israel. Immediately she takes all of the blame upon herself, and requests permission to speak, and moreover, she asks David to hear what she has to say. She reminds David that G_d has been with him throughout his life and fights his battles for him—evidently she was aware of current events and how the saga of David and Saul had been playing out. She also calls to remembrance in a subtle way David’s famous confrontation with Goliath, by stating that G_d will hurl David’s enemies away from him as if from the middle of a sling. She tells David that one day she knows he will be king, and that surely he does not want to have on his conscious the staggering burden of bloodshed that results from avenging himself needlessly. When you read this speech by Abigail, it appears to be a foretelling of Nathan’s prophecy in chapter 7 of Second Samuel. I think the correct term is an ‘adumbration’. (Passed spell-check, gotta be right!)

His mood now softened, David praises Abigail for her righteousness in the matter, and blesses her for keeping him from committing bloodshed and mayhem as a result of his anger. He tells her to go home in peace, because he has heard her words and granted her request. It’s a turning point in David’s life: he learns that in order to rule over a kingdom he will need to depend on G_d and be much less brash in his actions.

When Abigail arrives back home, Nabal is drunk and sloppy from the feast he has thrown, so she does not tell him what has transpired until the next morning. When she finally informs him of his ‘near miss’, he has a heart attack and dies ten days later. Meanwhile, David hears of Nabal’s death, and sends for Abigail, asking her to become his wife. She quickly accepts! I found this odd as there does not appear to very much grief or a prescribed period of mourning on the part of Abigail—but then again, Nabal was a fool. The suddenness of the bridegroom calling for his bride reminds me of something else in the Bible, though, a future event that is very shortly going to happen. Think about it before class, yet there is a whole lot more hidden here for us to search out!

PAT Attempt: What was the name of Abigail and David’s son?

In Faith

2011-05-31T20:39:00.003+02:00

Ok, so maybe an Apple iPad can replace my trusted PC on certain occasions when a desire to blog calls me away from a time of trials and misgivings. It feels weird; I have no spell check or grammatical test points. I have to be careful with semi-colons, because I cannot use those double-dashes I love so well. The actual posting online may yet prove to be my undoing, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

The thought for me today is this: it should have been me. It's almost not fair in all of its dubious simplicity. The world is set, and spins within a realm of the constant and known; while the events of the past week make no sense to me at all.

As I sit here in this sterile hospital room, delicately plucking on a pop-up keypad, my wife lays fitfully asleep in the bed before me. With a tenuous at best grip on what is left of her health, I pause incredulously in a wonder that escapes the limits of my careful comprehension. It should be me lying there, breathing processed oxygen with metered fluids injected patently through tubes embedded cruelly within my wrists.

I'm the abuser when it comes to health and well being. I ride the wagon of fatty foods and nicotine consumption. I work out in a gym almost daily, but I undo the benefits gained with a propensity for falling semi-consciously into a recliner when I arrive home from work each day. Everything I find the 'one I love' going through, I've written with zeal a payment in full for what I've earned through sordid habits and a careless lifestyle. But she hasn't...

I can do nothing about it, seemingly, and instead I'm left to grasp at seven-dollar words related to me by callous (sometimes) doctors and their much too cheerful nurses.

So I pray for answers and for strength; hers not mine. I pray for my children, suddenly called upon to adapt to situations well beyond their years. I pray to a powerful G_d Who could reach down with matchless grace and heal her, in a manner which to the One who created the stars would find a mere, fleeting pittance. Yet perhaps most of all, I pray for understanding and guidance for myself, along with a deeper faith.

The result of these earnest prayers as well as a heart forged by belief is this: I know it will be alright. Beginning with today, and greater still tomorrow and the day after. We'll finish that interrupted bar-b-cue as a family, and we'll praise Him with humbled awe as we do so.

I have a promise, you see. In His Words of Life He assures me that I am to begin my facing of these circumstances by "casting all your care upon Him; for He careth for you." From a wealth of timeless experience I know that this will prove to be just enough. In fact, I can state with a calm assurance that I know these unknown and unexplainable things as simplistic fact. It will stand as a witness, a sentinel even, to be all that we ever needed by the time we gaze upon the conclusion of the matter.

Getting Late

2011-05-20T22:23:00.005+02:00

I will also gather all nations, and will bring them down into the valley of Jehoshaphat, and will plead with them there for my people and for my heritage Israel, whom they have scattered among the nations, and parted my land. Joel 3:2

Parting the land of the nation of Israel is the big news story this week, but the discussions have been ongoing for several years now. Supposedly this will appease the Palestinians; if the U.N. will only step in and create a separate state for them by redrawing the boundaries of Israel back to what they were when that country was founded back in 1948.

I’m not so sure.

After all, it was just a couple of years ago that Israel, under world pressure, conceded the Gaza strip. Within days (hours) rockets were raining down on southern villages in Israel from the newly released province. Ditto for the aftermath of concessions when Israel withdrew from Lebanon a few years earlier. Don’t tell me I’m wrong—I watch the evening news and read a lot more news reports than the average person. How can Israel concede further territory if the Palestinian leaders refuse to recognize Israel’s right to exist in the first place?

Enter our President. Yesterday he gave a speech suggesting that Israel relinquish all territories gained as a result of the 6-day war back in 1967. For the government educated, Israel did not start that war—Egypt, Syria, and Jordan did so. They got their proverbial hats handed to them and Israel doubled in size; the territory gained proving to be a much-needed buffer zone for fending off future attacks. (1973) This territory included the Golan Heights and the Sinai Peninsula, both of which are extremely strategic for Israel’s defense. Most of the Sinai has been returned anyway by this point, but losing the Golan means Israel will be utterly defenseless with the high-speed attack weaponry available today.

If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. Psalms 137:5

Jerusalem is truly a stumbling block to any conceivable peace process in the Middle East. I was very young at the time, but I’ve watched the videos of General Moshe Dayan’s speech he gave as the 1967 war concluded with Israel gaining control of the Old City, in which he stated: “We have returned to our holy places... And we shall never leave them." Part of the comments by our President calling for Israel to give up the land gained in 1967 would include Jerusalem, and would include Holy places such as the Temple Mount and the Wailing Wall. In the words of a wise Senator following the President’s remarks, the plan is “mistaken and dangerous” and “Jerusalem must never be re-divided.”

“Thou hast also committed fornication with the Egyptians thy neighbours, great of flesh; and hast increased thy whoredoms, to provoke me to anger.” Ezekiel 16:26

Meanwhile, to complete the surreal picture painted by the President in his speech, one billion dollars in aid is going to be set aside for Egypt from our very own treasury, which—by the way—is broke. It’s empty, we are overdrawn, and we have none to give. Ah, but we will, of course. Why?

The whole world smiled as Egypt overthrew their government a few months back. The repressive regime of Hosni Mubarek, though friendly to the U.S., was destined to fall in what our western media likened as a western-style demand by the people of Egypt for freedom. The media pundits made sure to focus on leaders that were going to be the ‘new face’ of the ‘new Egypt’—specifically on a Google executive by the name of Wael Ghonim. He was educated, professional, and wanted the same freedoms we have known here in the U.S. from our birth. Once the revolution was over, the media quickly moved on to what was happening in Libya and now Syria, as more revolutions are taking place in the name of freedom from their own repressive regimes. But meanwhile, back in Egypt, Ghonim was barred from addressing the nation at a huge rally being held for their new spiritual leader Sheik Yusaf al-Qaradawi. Oh, by the way, the ‘spiritual leader’ is a member of the Muslim Brotherhood, and by note a hater of all things Israel.

That’s right, the media darling of the revolution for freedom has been swept aside, rebuffed, and rendered inconsequential. So what was the revolution all about? The answer lies in the Iranian warships now sailing comfortably through the Suez canal in Egypt, uncontested and unmolested—friendly even—as the new leaders in Egypt publicly question the validity of peace treaties signed between Egypt and Israel back in the late 1970’s. Yes, a billion dollars we do not have in the first place, for foreign aid to these guys, let’s do it!

What is going on here? While our country sleeps and dreams of American Idol winners, Glee, and all things Justin Bieber, things are beginning to quickly go awry on the world stage even as we slumber. We dream of 401k balances and ponder upon an economy that may or may not be on the road to recovery, while hoping that gasoline prices won’t get too high. It’s time to stop and think. It’s time to listen for that still, small voice. It’s time to remember:

But the LORD is in his holy temple: let all the earth keep silence before him. Habakkuk 2:20

It’s later than we think…

Doomsday 2011

2011-05-19T22:33:00.006+02:00

And so the emails come in. Questions like Where have you been? and Why no blog updates in such a very long time? Some request a story from the far-flung memory banks of the past; others—my take on the latest political escapades emanating from the beltway. Mom says I can’t have a tattoo but I can’t find anything against it in the Bible, so what do you think I should tell her? And finally, the capper: Will the world end on Saturday, May 21, 2011 at precisely 6 PM?

I love the emails and in no way am I making light of honest questions and thoughts from those hopelessly slanted towards all things spiritual in a manner very much akin to my own.

But first things first…

I made a trip to the Lone Star State and was out of pocket for a few days. I thought about recording all of my random thoughts on my oldest son’s graduation from Basic Training at Lackland AFB, but to do so would have required me to utilize my cell phone. And despite the marvelous reviews on using a PDA to blog or update web-sites, my eyes are not quite keen enough (anymore) to see or edit text that small. It was a good trip, nonetheless, and through it all I was reminded yet again of how G_d has blessed me throughout this life I live, and I thank Him voraciously for each and every miracle that seems to drop unexpectedly in my direction. It’s truly more than I deserve, and in my heart I believe each and every second to be yet another example of His grace, which I’ll unabashedly admit I do not deserve.

Tattoos are the wrong move. I’ve covered them in a past blog here. But it’s not my choice to make nor to condone or condemn—if you choose to get one, use Random Thoughts in some manner or another in the tattoo. Seriously.

I’m a little more worried about the U.S. CDC releasing a guide to surviving the zombie invasion than I am of the world ending on Saturday—just saying. Zombie invasion? Really? Our Federal tax dollars at work.

The problem with all of the hoopla on the world’s apparent demise is that everyone will be watching their clocks and eying the sky around 6 PM on Saturday due to the much publicized rant of a misguided soul out in California. Therein lies the crux of the matter. Paul writes: “For yourselves know perfectly that the day of the Lord so cometh as a thief in the night.” So how can the end arrive with so much publicity and all the world waiting at that precise moment in time for it to happen? It would be hard to make a living as a thief under those circumstances. Never mind that the Bible explicitly states that neither the angels in Heaven—nor even the Son of G_d Himself—know the exact time and date for this to happen.

My take is that more than anything else, Mr. Harold Camping will prove to be wrong yet again, and with bitter disappointment he will bring a black mark to bear upon both the church and those who believe in the Bible. He will give rise to even more scoffers who will gleefully chant, “Where is the promise of his coming? for since the fathers fell asleep, all things continue as they were from the beginning of the creation.”

Then what? The supreme question remains: If Mr. Camping and his followers are Christians, where or how will G_d get any glory at all out of this?

Ah, leave it alone. The Lord of Hosts can handle those things much better than I can.

Still, the world revolves and continues in a manner that can only lead to the certain and final destruction that awaits it just over the near horizon. The prophecies recorded in the Bible are falling dramatically into place with each passing day, despite the right or wrong in Mr. Camping or his follower’s testimonials. Something is coming—and it is going to be a horrible experience when it does.

I’m praying for mercy. I’m praying for grace. And I’ll continue making sure I’m ready for that Great Day to come when in fact it does. 6:00 PM on Saturday does not scare me half as much as 6:01 PM does. (Or 6:02, or 6:03)

The goal for all believers should be to simply be ready. That’s all that is expected of us.

Growing

2011-05-06T22:51:00.011+02:00

“Paw-Paw!” “C’mere Paw-Paw!”

Nothing brings joy to my ears more these days than the sound of my grand-daughter calling for me from across the room when I get home in the evenings. She’s excited to see me—as I am to see her at the same time. She’s special, precious in my eyes in a way that despite having raised four children, I could never have anticipated these new feelings within the reaches of my furthest imagination. Children are special and there is no doubt that they are truly blessings from G_d; even more so when they provide you with the miracle of grandchildren in their own right.

Parker Olivia Anne Johnson is two years old plus a few months. (We still give her age in months at this point) She’s precocious and temperamental as are most children at her age, but that only adds to the experience of those things that make her special. She’s the daughter of my oldest son, who is off serving his country in the Air Force, hence the added extra time at Paw-Paw’s house these days while her mom is at school.

She’s at an age where communication still revolves around pointing your fingers and talking baby-talk to her when you want a desired result. And she still has a language of her own which is incomprehensible except with a lot of forethought, or by simply asking her mom to translate for us. Potty training has almost been accomplished (she’ll hate my mention of this when she gets older) and she can even sing her ABCs.

Children are special and each has his or her own personality traits. I learned through my own experience that you love your sons, but worry about them entirely too much. Because sons are generally miniature versions of yourself as a man, replete with all of your assorted fears and inconsistences. Or maybe you just notice them more. Daughters, on the other hand, are for sheer enjoyment and are easy to be carefree towards, because by the same token I cannot look at my daughters and not see a miniature version of their mother when I do so.

But back to Parker, which is where we started. She’s two. Sometimes she misbehaves and sometimes I can’t understand her when she is trying to tell me what she wants. On occasion she regresses in her potty training. She can’t read yet. She cannot say her colors nor pick all of them out plainly. We cannot have a discussion on the works of Hemingway and Faulkner, and she may grow up in a world that cannot remember them at all. I like deep movies that make me think—and especially those that make me ponder upon them long after I’ve watched them. She is still into Dora and Sponge-Bob Square-Pants. But am I disappointed in her as a result?

No. That would be silly and just in case the facetious font isn’t working on my computer, you should understand that I am kidding about this. Parker is two. There is a lot of growing ahead of her, a lot of learning, and a lot of maturity waiting to be plucked from the tree of her life which will be harvested by her own experience and necessity. She’s still a baby. I expect no more than where she is now and enjoy her even deeper as a result. It is interesting and exciting to see her develop and learn as time goes by. I’ll honestly profess it is a miracle from G_d the way she does so.

Sometimes at church I catch myself playing the part of maturity-detector for my Christian brothers and sisters. I wish they wouldn't make so many mistakes in their life. I get aggravated when there is not enough help for programs or outreach ministries. Sometimes they seem more concerned with the social aspect of church and not about the expounding of G_d’s Word through devotionals and messages from the pulpit. On a few occasions, I’ve noticed that they play favorites; shaking hands with those visitors that have a certain standing in society and are less inclined to offer the same to those with none. Yet I know they are Christians, and I was there when they were born again. So what gives?

It is during those times I'm reminded that walking with G_d on a daily basis is a growing experience. None of us (me included) will ever be where we should be in our relationship with Christ until we reach the next life that is waiting for us. Until then, we have to grow and mature a little, or at times a whole lot. Peter writes: “But grow in grace, and in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. To him be glory both now and for ever. Amen.”Grace is easy to grow in as it is readily available and imperative due to our sinful nature. Meanwhile, growing in knowledge requires studying His Word and allowing the Holy Spirit to open the windows of understanding to us.

It's a lot more enjoyable to concentrate on watching them grow and mature than it is to stand on the sidelines and point my self-righteous finger of condemnation at them. My job is to accept and love them, and applaud them when they uncover new heights in their spiritual journeys. In doing so, I may just grow a little more my own self.

Growing a little more each day...

Buying The Truth

2011-05-05T21:39:00.004+02:00

I was thinking of the importance of truth this morning, a well-pressed concept in the manner of dried roses hidden in the erstwhile leaves of a book entitled Long Ago.

We were different back then, untainted by the prerequisite jading that arrived upon us through age and experience. Yet the scattered proof remains relevant throughout it all: life revolves around ten per cent of the things that are beyond our control, and ninety per cent in how we deal with those self-same situations.

But then again, I may just be full of myself this morning…

You’d have to have known the boy. Tall and skinny, loud and obnoxious, neither a bully nor one to be bullied; he was merely one of my friends. It may have appeared differently to those on both sides of the popularity bell-curve, but he was obscenely average in everything that mattered most to teenagers back in those days. The same careful estimations of him carried over from me—he was neither my best friend nor my worst—just somewhere stagnated in the middle. I guess that’s not so bad, really, in anyone’s world when you’re both honest about it.

School had released us for spring break despite it being only toward the end of February. The break was well earned by the season as the temperatures were unusually warm that year. We decided to go fishing in a pond not far from home, although going fishing mostly meant hanging out and doing anything but. As an explanation, I do not remember cleaning any fish that evening. Maybe we didn’t catch any, or maybe the events of the day spoke a different language and had taken us down another path. The pond belonged to a man that used the land for weekend excursions from a far away city, and infrequent ones at that. As a disclaimer, we had permission to fish there—or at least I did.

The owner kept a wooden pirogue on the banks of his pond, and a problem arose from the capacity of the small boat. It had been proven (scientifically) in the past to carry a maximum of two passengers at a time, while we had three on our impromptu fishing expedition that morning. So we flipped for it, and the loser had to fish from the banks while the other two set sail on a day that bordered majestically upon the magnificent. We displayed no fear—in the manner of teen-aged boys—assured in the knowledge that nothing could go wrong because we were immortal and invincible. But this is the point where truth came into play despite our efforts to deny it. Did I mention the weather was unseasonably warm for February?

With a slight breeze blowing steadily across the water, we found we had to constantly paddle to remain in the better fishing areas and to keep from being pushed into the primeval, untamed side of the marsh. On that side of the small basin abode a mature weeping-willow tree, whose winter-naked branches gnarled out over the water toward us with violent-looking tendrils. It would reach for rods, lures, even clothing if we happened to venture too close. We did.

Just as I reminded him that it was his turn to paddle and we needed to get out of harm’s way, something fell out of that tree and landed across my shoulders, softly sliding down my back and into the bottom of the boat. I had no time to express the words—they came on their own as I reverted to a stutter that had not been present since I had passed my second or third year as a denizen of existence: “S-S-S-Snake!”

Snakes weren’t out in February. They were cold blooded reptiles, everyone knew this truth, and it was too cold…

I bailed over the side and within moments was well on my way, swimming frantic strokes toward the beach we had originally began our expedition from. My bank-bound friend who had lost the coin toss earlier awaited me, laughing, but not too hard, and helped me get my water-logged body out of those algae-encrusted waters. Meanwhile I turned to look back for the boat, and my other tall and lanky friend remained onboard in the back of it, which caused the front end of the boat which I had earlier abandoned to rise up at a 45-degree angle. In my recently-vacated place coiled a very agitated snake, doing all he could to either find his way back up into the tree or escape into the relative safety of the water. The boy in the boat began laughing at the snake, the boat, me, and his predicament—but his laughter was short-lived. The snake, seeing no way out through the steep sides of the boat turned and began to slither in his direction!

Now Jesus walked on the water. I expect Him to be able to do so. I mean, He is the Son of G_d. And He invited Peter out onto the water to do the same—Peter did so and it was a miracle. A lot of people scoff at the Gospel accounts of this feat—although I know better because I’ve actually witnessed it.

Just about the time Mr. Moccasin reached his end of the boat, my friend took off and visibly walked across the water, screaming insanely at anyone or anything that would listen with his hands held dramatically over his head in homage to the powers that be. He crossed the water in the same manner that I did, the same route and the same direction, yet when he arrived on the bank he was dry from the ankles up. Now, explain that one to me. The truth is I saw it, and at the time I could not be convinced or convicted otherwise.

Sometimes the things we are certain of, like an absence of snakes in February or the dry pants of a friend after an apparent swimming session, can be proven false by others. Snakes can be stirred from winter by an unusually warm spell. My friend had his own explanation involving a submerged log that proved believable once we investigated it further. Still, there are other spiritual truths that are justifiable despite a lack of evidence other than by faith alone. But these others, like Peter’s experience, are still reliable and they are static and accountable—even if only to the believer.

It is of these particular spiritual truths that we are advised by the writer of Proverbs to: “Buy the truth, and sell it not; also wisdom, and instruction, and understanding.”

Checking Your Premises

2011-04-25T17:00:00.004+02:00

Last week’s main event included an odyssey on my part of finally reading the novel Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. This 1100+ page monster took a good portion of my week to slog through—not entirely due to its length—but for the most part revolving around having to pay close attention because of the language and grammatical style of the book. It was released back in the 1950’s; a lot of nomenclature has changed since then. I was drawn to the book by the things I had read describing it over the years, and the sudden influx of its popularity due to the current economic conditions we are faced with as a nation and as a people. Pundits (Conservative) advertising that the book would ‘change my life’ also caught the lion’s share of my attention because, well, you never know…

So did this epic cause a change in my thought process, now that I’ve completed and relegated it to the shelf of books I’ve read and have not yet decided whether or not to pass along to someone else? Did I learn or gain knowledge that was unknown to me beforehand? And finally, who is John Galt?

First off it did not change my life. But I already knew that there is only one book that can truly change anyone’s life, mine included. The book was a tough read, but not as bad as say, War and Peace by Tolstoy. It had a happy ending, as most books do, and I can consider it among the list of 20th Century Classics. But what, if anything, did I learn from the book?

Ms. Rand broke society down into three classes in her epic tale; on one hand were the looters and moochers of the world. Across the aisle she placed the producers of our civilization. And she was graphic in her presentation of each, more so when you consider this novel was penned during a ten-year span between 1946 and 1956. I see a lot of what she represented in our present world, but walked away with a different take than most readers normally would. Please allow me to explain...

The looters (government) and moochers (entitlement recipients) are both alive and well in this enlightened age we live in. A liberal veil has spread across the hallowed halls of our congress and our court systems, using tax money to blatantly purchase votes from the moocher class. The moochers of our nation are the same today as they were in the book; dependent upon federal assistance and making no move at all to help themselves in any attempt to better their very own lives. Meanwhile the producers (the heroes of the book) complain of unfair taxes and too many regulations placed upon them by the same government in the name of ‘fairness’. Yes, Ann sort of hit it on the head—even back in the carefree days we normally associate with the 1950’s.

But the heroic figures she uses in her novel to represent the producer class have their own share of the flaws and patent fallacies I already knew of in my own heart as I read the book. In their zeal to work and create wealth, they become victims of much more than regulations or increased taxes. Their lives are fraught with disappointment, failed marriages, unloving/uncaring families, and sordid adulterous affairs (and these were the heroes!) in a search for a happiness that even by the end of the book—it was hard to comprehend if they had, in fact, actually attained it. In a Christian slant (which is what I do) I compare them to the people of Nimrod when he said, “Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven.” Happiness can never be found in material possessions and wealth, despite the spin of words graphically presented by a fifty-year-old novel.

From the lawless violence and thanklessness of the moochers, through the self-immolating corruption of the looters, to the unattainable dreams of the producers—one thread remained clear to me throughout the book. It was the words Paul penned in his letter to the Romans, which he in turn quoted from David: “As it is written, There is none righteous, no, not one:”

Yes, we can point our fingers of perceived righteousness at each other till Judgment Day carries us away into the damnable eternity we all assuredly deserve—despite our status in society. In the meantime we can attempt to live an unlivable life by the morals contained within the book of someone said so. But in the end, we will all still miss the mark, we will all fail to make the grade, and we will all stand naked in what is left of our self-righteous rags of good intentions before a Holy G_d on that great and terrible day which is to come.

We must arrive in that place with something better. We need to be fully dressed in His righteousness alone, faultless to stand before the throne. Regardless of where we stand in the mix of her characters, in the end this is the only truth worth mentioning here.

It was still a good read, almost (almost) prophetic for her time. But the devil remains in the details once you—as she states—check your premises.

The Blind Spot

2011-04-19T18:19:00.003+02:00

I talk about my motorcycle a lot these days, both in this blog and in my basic, random, day-to-day-trivial conversations. It’s because she’s not doing so hot, and that can be a problem on those early morning rides I make in to work each day. I’ve scheduled her for a visit to the shop this afternoon, and it can’t happen soon enough for me. Is it running that bad, you ask? Well… no. The gas mileage is great and her reliability at getting me from point A to point B is very sound; it’s the little glitch in her carburetor that bothers me. Please allow me to explain.

I have to be careful when I ride. Seldom will a day go by when someone is not reminding me of the latest motorcycle accident—along with all of the obligatory gory details they seemingly can’t wait to breathlessly provide. I am aware of most of those accidents in our community and I do not take them lightly. You have to use extra care when you straddle a two wheeled monster and take to the mean streets of Pearl River County. First off, people do not see motorcycles on the road, and it is not unusual as such to have someone cross the lane in front of you when they make a left-hand turn at a busy intersection. You have to be prepared at every crossing, every entrance to the highway even, for someone who is not apt to see your chrome silhouette coming towards them from a distance. I keep my eyes peeled and my head on a swivel whenever I see a car—because you can never be certain of what they are going to do.

Furthermore when I leave my house in the country, I have to watch and be prepared for dogs or possibly even a deer or two crossing the road ahead of me. It happens. I’m a veteran of a collision with a small doe in the highway while on my bike a few years back, and I definitely do not want to up the ante by taking on a larger animal. Then there is always oil, wet roads, or loose gravel to look out for. I tell ya, it can be down-right scary when I dwell on the subject of safety while riding a motorcycle in this day and age.

I digressed a little, I know, I am prone to do that from time to time—back to my engine woes. You need your equipment to be operating perfectly if you are going to ride safely. When in a precarious situation not usually of your own making, you need instant throttle response to get you out of there as soon as possible. You need good brakes, properly inflated tires, and the correct riding apparel such as gloves and a leather jacket. I usually cover those bases.

But what I have noticed lately is that with my carburetor troubles (no fuel injection for this old-schooler!), I catch myself messing with the choke on occasion—closing it at stoplights to allow the bike to idle smoothly, and opening it back up when I reach highway speeds to allow her massive engine to purr and not sputter. While concentrating on these issues, I am less inclined to pay enough attention to the hazards that are waiting for me just over the next hill or around an upcoming curve or intersection. That’s not a good situation.

Thus, the scheduled visit to the shop—to return the bike to peak performance and to prevent a loss of concentration at those times when I need it most. You see, I can do nothing about other drivers, especially if they happen to be on a cell phone or text-messaging while they drive. I have to be careful and watch out for them versus the other way around. Yet when it comes to my own driving skills and equipment, I have the sole responsibility for doing things right and making the right choices.

Hmm. I think I notice a unique similarity to my own Spiritual life as well. Peter wrote: “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour:” As I make my Christian walk each and every day, I must be careful of the things that Satan will throw in my path. He’s hiding at every intersection, camouflaged on precarious side streets, and crouching behind thick bushes waiting to jump out in front of me. That’s a given, a part of life so to speak, and furthermore there is nothing I can do to change this on my own. But when I have hidden issues in my own mind and become careless in my walk, maybe paying too much attention to things in my heart that shouldn’t be there—I become instantly at his mercy and subject to a disaster on that road not so very far in front of me.

I therefore find myself faced with two realities: I must focus on those pitfalls the world through Satan may place in my path, and I must keep my heart in perfect tune with His Will—not my own. By doing so, I know I’ll arrive at the destination He’s prepared for me, safe and sound, and definitely use a lot less gas in doing so.

In Search Of Leadership

2011-04-14T22:42:00.004+02:00

Over the past few weeks there has been an influx of bad news throughout our world, from the earthquake/tsunami/radiation in Japan to the troubles in the Arab states, and all apparent points in between. Just for once I’d like to hear that things are getting better—somewhere—anywhere.

I bet you would, too.

Seemingly lost in the midst of these global calamities are our very own troubles at home here in the United States. The budget deficit is escalating out of control and all that our leaders seem to be able to do about it is to bicker and argue over points that are only frivolous at best. Somehow they managed to cut monetary support for Planned Parenthood and NPR, thus saving a few million dollars, while billions more in debt was fast accumulating in other areas—even as they proudly clapped each other on the back for the historic cuts they had implemented. Now they bandy around the option of increasing our taxes while gas and grocery prices go through the ceiling. Truly the inmates are in charge of the asylum, or so it seems.

Democrats refuse to budge in the area of cutting welfare and entitlements, while Republicans remain staunch supporters of fat military budgets that keep their favorite contractors in the black. We need our military to protect us from, well… everybody. We need our entitlement programs to protect us from the vast unwashed, in effect paying them to behave and not begin rioting the moment the free stuff runs out. And so they compromise—the Republicans allow yet even more entitlement spending while the Democrats give in on greater defense expenditures—meanwhile the deficit continues to escalate. There is no logic in Washington. There are no real answers to be found inside the Beltway.

Elections are to be held next year for the Presidency along with a large number of congressional seats, but I’m not going to kid myself as there is no relief in sight. The Democrats will run on the platform of protecting the sacred entitlement programs, and as fifty percent of Americans now receive some form of government subsidy, they will have strong support to lobby their case. The Republicans have no one with either enough charisma or a viable enough plan to run against this platform with an actual fighting chance of winning, and if by some miracle they do, past experience tells me nothing will change anyway. It’s a depressing state of affairs if you ask me.

We need true leadership, and where will we find it? To paraphrase the ancient question of Yeats, “And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Washington to be born?”

There is a leader on the horizon, and he may be closer to ascending to power than we may know. All of the major religions of the world agree on this, though the characteristics of said leader differ from each sect. The Christians believe (as I do) in the impending return of Jesus Christ. The Jews are looking for the Messiah, and have been since the days of Abraham in the Old Testament. The Muslims are anticipating the arrival of the Mahdi, who they believe will judge the world for either seven, nine, or nineteen years (depending on whether the Islamic beliefs are Sunni or Shia) before an impending Day of Judgment. Even the Buddists are not immune to this apocalyptic manner of thinking—they have the Maitreya—who is supposed to be the great teacher for all of mankind scheduled to arrive in a future near you. I can go on and on—from the American Indians to less-known sects in the backwaters of Indonesia—the world is earnestly looking for the one who is to come.

I’m no Jay Galle when it comes to forecasting the days ahead, but the thing I fear most is there is in fact a future leader coming who will be all of these things, and yet none of these things. Sadly, I believe the world in all of its wisdom will not understand this until it is much too late to realize they’ve been duped once more by a leader who promises the moon, yet in the end brings exponentially more trouble and destruction than we already face at the present. Jesus explained it this way: “For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect.”

He’s out there somewhere, this much sought after leader, and his time is surely at hand. Our world is currently and spiritually ripe for the picking, so to speak. But don’t be deceived—he may not be all that he purports to be once he arrives on the scene to rescue us.

Opting Out

2011-04-11T22:44:00.010+02:00

A side trip on the way home from the coast the other day proved to be an eye-opener for me. I found myself on a winding back road you’d probably never find on a map, further proven by the blank display on the navigation package in my truck. I like taking those forgotten paths on occasion; it helps remind me that it is not imperative for me to always be in a hurry as I travel through life.

It was a newly minted subdivision that caught my eye, replete with a fancy stone gate featuring intricate artwork. I couldn’t resist a sudden urge to drive through that beckoning gate and witness the high dollar houses sure to be viewable just beyond the ornate opening. Homes starting in the low 200’s, the strategically placed billboard advertised. Now, first off, I have a problem with that. A ‘home’ is so valuable, at least a good one is, that you cannot place a dollar amount on it. A house is just a building and that’s simply all it can ever be. But a home, ah, that takes a lot of love and work coupled with massive infusions of patience and respect. To call a nice, brand new, unoccupied house a home is one of my pet peeves—the story of that inauspicious building has yet to be told.

I’ll confess I had heard of this subdivision beforehand, but my trip had serendipitously brought me in close enough proximity to witness it for myself as to whether the rumors I’d heard were true or not. Turns out they were—to the letter to be exact. I passed several McMansions (that’s what I call them), very large cookie-cutter houses of close architectural design fading off into the distance like monoliths pining for clarity and reason. All of them were found in forgotten states of incompletion. Weeds and brush grew around piles of dormant brickwork; projects abandoned or better, aborted, before the builders were completed. They were mortal victims of a fluctuating economy and a housing crisis that reached epidemic proportions before the final tally was certified, and their fallen condition much akin to castles in the sand waiting for the tide to close their story.

I caught myself pondering on one of them in particular; the builder had meticulously worked around a century oak, taking pains to create the house without disturbing the ancient tree. It sat on the side of a hill, and although the vacant lots on both sides had faded For Sale signs rooted in the dirt, as it sat it would have been the perfect place to raise a family. Children could play in the low hanging branches of the Disney-esque tree, and her fronds would provide much needed shade for backyard bar-b-cues in a future that obviously was not meant to be—at least not in the present economic conditions. I began to wonder what I could give for the house myself; to complete it and move in with my own family. Other than the remoteness from my job and Wal-Mart, why it was perfect!

As I drove away from the interrupted subdivision, my thoughts returned again and again, stabilized over the what-held-promise-to-be-beautiful-house-on-the-hill as I made my way back to McNeill. Along the way reason returned and I began to take stock in what I have. My house is small. I have no carport. I have an in-ground pool but sometimes not enough floor space when the kids and grandchildren are around. But my mortgage is meek, manageable, and doesn’t create a lot of pain when the monthly bill is due. It is conceivable that I will pay it off one day despite the economy—possibly. And I’m a lot closer to Wal-Mart as well as civilization in general.

Of course if I wanted to, I could add a concrete slab in the front or back and build an additional room or two to impress my neighbors and friends. How about a matching carport to cover my beloved Z-71 or Kim’s SUV? Maybe an additional barn with a boat in it for lazy weekend days spendable on the lake or river of my choice?

Instead I’ve opted-out. I’ll keep my smallish dwelling just the way it is, thank you very much. Boats are too much trouble and the rain makes my aging truck glisten when I remember to wax it. Family in a small room makes for a close family, and a close family in a small room goes a long way toward making that house a home. To be comfortable, on an even keel with my wife as we share that special love we began so long ago with our children and grandchildren, is worth far more than additional floor-space or marble counter tops. Two floppy-eared dogs that never do what they are told add an exclamation point to complete the picture—at least until they get into my rose bushes. Walking with G_d in the way He would have me go, knowing that a personal relationship with His Son will be all that matters on that Great Day which is to come gives me peace and a blessed hope for a future that has yet to be written.

Jesus makes an amazing offer in Matthew: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

I think I have enough these days. I’ve opted out of a broken system that only leaves me wanting more, and fills me with an emptiness that can never be fully satisfied. That system will always leave me high and dry, proverbially stuck on a desolate sand bar. Material wealth—those big houses, cars, and boats—are sad trade-offs when compared to the rest that only He can provide.

Friends With The Son

2011-04-05T22:30:00.006+02:00

The big man dropped the tailgate on his truck and opened the box door, beagles spilling out and leaping to the ground in assertive eagerness. The crisp smell of fall with its damp morning kiss, and foliage on a fast track to becoming shades of yellow and crimson in a few more weeks met us as the aforementioned dogs scattered to various compass points.

Two teenagers checked their shotguns, the rack-rack of 20-gauge pumps providing justification that rabbit season was open and we meant business. My friend’s father had trained those dogs all summer long, and if ever there was a morning to prove them—this was it. Maybe I shouldn’t tell this story, because in McNeill, a man and his dogs abide precariously within the realm of the sacred. But it is possible he won’t read this. Maybe he won’t know. A stern man in those days, he’s mellowed over the years. But I’m wise enough not to push those proverbial buttons too hard even now.

Before he could scold us about something we were doing wrong, (we always were in those days) the dogs yelped in the distance; their voices changing in a tenor that was obvious. The first rabbit came barreling through the forest moments later. They are fast creatures when pursued, and on most days the dogs are well behind when they make their appearance. This one picked a route between me and the stern man, and I disappointed him by not taking the shot. As the rabbit sped by, he tracked it with his rifle (adults used rifles) and dropped it moments later as it crossed a fallen log. I felt bad about it for the rest of the morning—I should have taken the shot. Yet I also knew that a shotgun in close quarters can be unforgiving, and my own father had warned me incessantly about pointing one in the general direction of another human. But I always wanted to prove myself to this rough man, and wished from my silent depths that the first rabbit of the day had simply chosen another route.

He retrieved the downed animal and carried it back to the nearby truck without looking at me. Too fast! I thought. Didn’t have time to think. And finally… I let him down. I looked over at my friend, but he was shaking his head, too. I knew he was glad it was me and not him in that situation. Years later I can look back on that moment, assured in the knowledge that I did the right thing. But then as now, I know I should have tracked that rabbit and blasted him when he cleared the area between us. Instead I froze as the moment passed me by, and if I had wanted to make an impression that morning, I surely did.

The dogs, meanwhile, had faded in the distance. We walked silently in the last direction from which we had heard them earlier, but our trek went on a lot longer than it should have. The silence between me and my friend's father was deafening, and the day was already ruined for me. I’d like to say at this point that I got a second chance: we heard the clarion call of the dogs, a big rabbit appeared, and I put him down with a precise shot made with a skill and an accuracy that belied my fourteen years. But it wasn’t to be.

It was hours later when we found those prized beagles—asleep under a tree in the middle of a dormant soy field. The contempt for me and the shot not taken swiftly faded as his anger for the dogs he’d striven so hard and for so many months to train manifested itself. I won’t go into the details; instead I’ll leave it as he was not happy about it and we’ll go from there.

There were other hunting trips, and we took many rabbits over the years from the fields and forests around our small town. The sternness and associated agitation between he and I did not last as I grew older. He taught me many things along the way, both about the great outdoors and life in general. In the end I don’t know if he changed that much or if it was merely a matter of maturity on my part—probably a combination of the two.

We were so different, you see, and so far apart in everything. Polar opposites. So why did he accept me and befriend me in the first place—a boy with too much hair and crazy ideas that usually didn’t line up with the standards held dearest to his own heart? I guess it was my friendship and closeness to his son that mattered the most. That son and I remain close to this day, and as a result, my relationship continues with his father—and we’re on good terms.

John writes: “And whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son.” It is on account of my relationship with G_d’s Son, that He accepts me today despite all of my faults and misgivings. Without that personal relationship with Jesus, I’d be just another lost soul out there on the highways and byways of life who missed the mark or didn’t take the shot—searching in vain for an impossible way to make things right with G_d.

Dark Confessions

2011-04-01T21:31:00.004+02:00

I met you on the afternoon of the day you became an indifferent witness to my fall. Under the fading aura of a bleak December, I found myself a pagan Christian at best; lost in the gray area where you find yourself too old to be a boy, yet much too immature to be a man. It was your friend you were worried about, not me, and with stoic condescension you watched as I carried the friend you loved down a careless highway of sin and lost innocence. Somehow you managed to deride me without ever saying a word. Oh, but I knew.

That friend of yours told me later of the intonated manner in which you ordered your own son to ‘make sure you do not grow up to be like him.’ That stung when I heard it, and I did not consider it justice to be used as an example in that light. What did you know? And why should I justify my behavior to someone like you? You could not understand nor comprehend the pain I was going through at the time, and my manner of coping was, well… my manner of coping. But it bothered me and most of all it stuck with me.

A few short months later I ran into you again—though we still weren’t friends. We never were. Again you watched as I took another one of your friends down roads never meant to be taken, and your silent judgment continued even as you watched us both tempt disaster. The pain. The remorse. None of it was worth it, even though now I return to those memories via a bridge whose waters have ebbed and flowed wistfully over a poignant sea known as many years passed.

A lot has changed since then. I’d like you to know that. Fate being the sometimes charitable mistress she is, maybe by chance you will read this and know that people truly can change, and the judgment you decry today can be rendered irrelevant tomorrow. But by the same token I have to admit you were right—because you were. And though you were quick to judge, at least with your eyes; you can’t honestly say you offered any guidance to the jaded soul who found himself broken and undone back then.

I met a woman. We built a family. But most of all, I found a church. Something happened, and this time it was real to me. In a brutally honest sense I had my own road to Damascus moment, and the scales certainly fell from my eyes not long afterward. The penalties for those sins from long ago have been paid in full, yet I still carry around the remorse for those vile things I both went through and performed. I’ll hold them forever in the hidden places of my heart, and like cruel scars that never fade, they will always haunt me.

The pagan Christian of that wintery day has been replaced with what I hope is an honorable one. I know my faults and I do my best to keep them at bay. I work hard to provide for my own family and I cherish them. I’ve taught my children the right path and thankfully did not have to use someone else as a toxic example of what not to be. I covered those bases with my own misgivings. Meanwhile, I pray for them. With all sincerity I do the utmost to keep them from repeating my own horrid mistakes—my sins.

I don’t know where you are today, because I only vaguely recall your name. Yet I remember your face. And all I want out of this is to say “I’m sorry” while meaning it. Once again, I also want you to know that you were right—and openly admit what I can finally comprehend on my own.

People can change. Sometimes, though time may grow short and the credits begin to roll on this earth we inhabit, the Prodigal son can still arrive safe and sound at his Father’s house.

If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. I John 1:9

Free Indeed

2011-03-31T18:41:00.006+02:00

I have a different mind-set on perfect mornings when weather affords me the opportunity to pilot my motorcycle in to work. I ride into town, my VTX at a comfortable rumble, and smile as I pass the less-fortunate at gas stations—their vehicles tethered to the pumps while the dollar digits steadily climb. It’s a different world when you behold it from the seat of a harnessed, 1300cc-horsepowered freedom machine. It’s the open road; or at the very least a throwback to the days when men bare-backed horses and rode through the primeval forests of yesteryear.

Freedom—it’s a good thing, I tell ya. Books have been written on the subject, songs sung, and in our human imaginations few things can stir the heart like the mere concept of being free can. Yet in the end, what is this ‘freedom’ we all aspire to? Jesus said, “If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.” I like that, although I’ll be the first to admit it took a long time for me to understand what He was ‘getting at’.

Three Gospels in the Bible refer to a time when Jesus crossed the Sea of Galilee to the land of the Gaderenes. None of those writers suggest a reason for the trip, they only mention that Jesus said they were going, and so they did. As they drew near to the shore, a naked man came rushing toward them out of the graveyard. He was obviously mentally deranged, with scars on his body, wild hair, and broken chains hanging from his arms. I can only imagine the sight in my mind, but had I been there my first impulse would have been to run—I’ve seen far too many horror movies in my lifetime.

Long story short, Jesus casts a legion of demons out of the man and into a nearby herd of swine. The possessed pigs, not happy with their new-found unholy situation, swiftly ran down into the sea and were drowned. A legion, depending on where you research it, was a Roman division of anywhere from 5600 to 6000 soldiers and usually 200 horsemen. That’s a lot of demons! The Gospels mention that the man was next seen fully clothed and in his right mind, and furthermore he wanted to follow Jesus and his disciples. Nevertheless, Jesus tells him to go back home and tell everyone what G_d has done for him.

In my manner of thinking this may be the perfect example of the freedom that Jesus offered in the verse I mentioned earlier. The man had not always been in that condition, he surely had a home and people that loved him somewhere locked away in his past. Sin had destroyed his life although we do not know the cause or how it all started. In the end we find him living among the dead, unable to control himself, and shunned by the society of his time. Uncontested sin can do that to a person if allowed to fester in one’s life. I know—I’ve been there.

I especially like the part in the beginning of the story where Jesus decided to go across the sea, because I believe Jesus knew all along that this poor man was out there and unable to help himself. The Gaderene demoniac did not need medical insurance, he didn’t need a good therapist—he needed a savior.

Most importantly, he needed someone who could set him free.

Though my own sins probably cannot compare with the subject of this story, (depends on who you ask) there was a time or two (or three or four) in my own past where I’ve allowed sin to take control of the better part of me. I’ve found myself in wretched conditions at different points in my life as a result. However, I’m happy to say it was during those times when Jesus actively sought me out, and stirred in my heart a desire to release those sins and return to where I obviously needed to be. Did He do this because of my special standing or status in this world? No. His offer of freedom is available to anyone who believes and accepts Him into their heart. And the offer is valid because after all; 5600 demons is certainly a lot of demons—but even one demon is a demon too many.

Writer's Block

2011-03-30T22:37:00.011+02:00

“And Jesus said unto them, Because of your unbelief: for verily I say unto you, If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you. Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.” Matthew 17:20-21

My absence from this blog over the past few weeks has been the result of a losing record in the Spiritual war I am destined by my faith to constantly fight. If you are wondering, no, I still have a gazillion stories from the past and vats of inspiration for others, but nothing comes to mind when I sit down to write. You see, it’s not the stories themselves; it’s the Spiritual tie-in for those tales I’ve had problems defining during what has been for me a very stoic time.

I’m pitted against some pretty powerful foes as the battle unfolds each day. (Yes, each day!)

There is this big dude, rough-looking and mean, and I don’t know his name because he won’t tell me. Why should he? I simply call him ‘discouragement’ because that is his nature. When I sit down to write, he reminds me that what I am doing is of no use to anyone but me. He uses phrases like ‘nobody cares what you think’ and ‘what you write inspires no one anyway’. He check-mates me with ‘go watch TV and forget about this pointless blog. After all—it IS purely random thoughts—and by your own definition!’

A demon… in McNeill? Who knew? I mean, surely they inhabit New York and most assuredly reside around 42nd street. I’m positive there are quite a few on Bourbon or Decatur in New Orleans as well. But McNeill? This is smack-dab in the middle of the Bible Belt for Pete’s sake!

That big dude I mentioned has an ugly little friend. I call him ‘despair’ because again, we seldom discuss names in this business. He reminds me of all the things that are wrong in the world. The earthquakes and tsunamis in Japan along with the radioactive meltdown, the mess over in Libya and the Middle East in general, and the impending fall of Western Civilization. (Yes, he calls it that) He tells me to work harder in the gym, store up dried and canned food, and hunker down with plenty of ammo—because all is lost and I can depend only upon myself first and foremost. It would be comical, but he has an innate ability in slanting my thoughts in the general direction of his point of view. He makes sense during those times—what’s the point if it’s all going to go bad for us anyway? But he’s still ugly.

Then, as if these two aren’t bad enough, on my left shoulder sits this girlfriend of theirs. I call her ‘lust’ because man, you should see her! Perfect in every way. Just the way they serve ‘em up on TV shows I know I shouldn’t be watching. You’ve seen her, I’ll bet, in a short skirt on Dancing with the Stars, walking through the jungle while wearing next to nothing on Survivor, maybe smiling suggestively on The Bachelor. She purrs in my ear, crooning that Spiritual things were good back in their time, but ‘this is the New Age, baby’. She makes getting with the modern, worldly program seem like the real deal to me as I gaze in envy at new cars, boats, and other castles made of sand. I can’t acquire those things by sitting behind a terminal and writing stories about what G_d has done for me. She whispers promises of how much more fun it would be to write about Charlie Sheen, Madonna, or even political rants because, she teases, ‘you know you’d be good at it.’

There are others, too, but these guys merely stand out to me this morning. They destroy my will and make me less than what I know I should be. They freeze my thoughts when they attack; making me use the delete key far too often as I type and retype empty words that never come.

So I upped the ante this week following a sermon last Sunday that touched my heart and quickened my Spirit. I went all-medieval on that trio and their ilk—I resorted to the nuclear option if you will.

I started a fast, backed up by faith, that has now stretched into its third day, and I’m setting aside three scheduled times a day to pray. I’m back to basics with a morning quiet time, immersing myself in His Word and praying for everybody I know as I they come to mind. (I’m probably praying for you, too, if you are reading this!)

The words came this morning, and lots more. So much and so many I can’t type fast enough. I should be writing three or four posts today in order to catch the blog up—but that’s not the way we do this. I’m humbled for what He has done for me. I’m happy for deliverance from my own personal ghastly trio, though I know they are anxiously waiting right outside my door. And I’m hoping that those of you who are facing your own demons can take heart in my own struggles, while finding your own deliverance at the same time.

Freedom is closer than you think!

True Bearings

2011-03-18T18:25:00.006+01:00

I’m not good with my hands. The talents that other men take for granted, you know—things like engine work or carpentry—those skills have eluded me throughout my life. I’m a thinking man. I understand concepts of molecular movement and comprehend all of the theories involving the flow of electrons. Sometimes I wish it were the other way around, but then again, my complaints would only then be construed as shallow.

The air conditioning repairman that occasionally visits my house will attest to my failed handiwork. Many times I’ve watched him shake his head in disbelief; incredulous at circuit changes I’ve made to my outside unit on the fly or in an emergency. Most of the times the things I do out there work, (for a little while) but they are not pretty. I’ve also had my share of snafus when it comes to simple tasks like oil changes—I sheepishly admit to a time when I removed the wrong drain plug and emptied the fluid needlessly from a perfectly functioning transmission.

I concede these shortcomings to address another—in an effort to somehow enable you, dear reader, to understand what I went through during my first assignment in the United States Coast Guard. I was in Panama City Beach, Florida back in late 1985, and I had arrived to fill the position of a crewman on a 41-foot small boat at the station. Certain jobs were reserved for new members of the unit, and somehow they involved every task I had proven to be least proficient in. I painted, washed decks, cleaned oil spills, and assisted seasoned mechanics with routine engine work. It was less than a match made in Heaven, I tell ya.

Other duties involved being a rescue swimmer, and I could do that. An early life spent mostly along the banks of the Hobolochitto had made me proficient when it came to being around water. So my handyman skills as a crewman coupled with a part time responsibility to swim was a trade-off—a ‘wash’ if you will. “Seaman Johnson is terrible with his hands, but man, the boy sure can swim!” Well, that’s how the XO put it anyway.

It was while I was filling the billet as a crewman that I discovered another thing I was not good at, not at first anyway. A crewman was also required to steer the boat when the coxswain (boat captain) was busy performing other duties. The coxswain would call me into the cabin and tell me to take the wheel, for example, and order me to keep the boat on a heading of 270 degrees. Sounds simple enough to someone who has never done it (it did to me) but there is a lot more to it than that.

Placed conspicuously in front of the helm, or steering wheel, sat the binnacle. Housed inside its glass dome was the compass; an outer ring displaying measurements in degrees. To keep a heading of 270 degrees, you turned the steering wheel (helm) and the compass moved in response. As the compass turned you could line up the boat at whatever degree matched the required course. At first, it is hard to handle, because in order to get the boat to turn and line up with the correct course, I learned that you had to go against what appeared to be normal. In other words, if I wanted to make the compass move to the right, I needed to turn the wheel left, and vice-versa. Eventually I was able to perform this task without too much forethought—I had to learn to ignore my instincts and what felt right to me and instead follow what I understood by merely watching the compass.

This worked fine until the coxswain had to navigate through a tight channel. At that point he would call out to me things like ‘starboard five degrees’ or ‘to the port seven degrees’ and I’d have to look at my hands to get it straight in my mind that port was left and starboard was right--much like a second grader counting his fingers during a simple math exercise. Behind the boat, meanwhile, our wake would usually resemble the path of a snake that had spent far too much time in the wine cellar. Once again, I found that although I enjoy navigation and can read maps better than the average person, when it came to putting that knowledge to use via my traitorous hands—I was simply no good at it, period. I did get better with time and experience, and eventually I learned to trust the compass and ignore what my mechanically-challenged hands wanted to do.

I’ve found it’s the same way when you are performing a daily walk with G_d. Sometimes the world shows you ways that seem to make more sense in life, or it feels right to go routes you shouldn’t. It’s hard to be like Josiah: “And he did that which was right in the sight of the LORD, and walked in the ways of David his father, and declined neither to the right hand, nor to the left.” My ways are not His ways, and what might appear to be a good idea or a correct choice of action on my part may not always line up with what He has planned for me. I have to let go and trust in Him—in so doing my course lines up to the true bearing that He would have me take.

The Hill

2011-03-02T17:57:00.006+01:00

I passed an old reminder on the way home from town the other day. The memory, although as fresh in my mind as if it only happened the day before, has assuredly been placed in the annals of a more carefree time many years ago. Funny how time works—it sincerely counts and keeps counting.

It was the summer of my fourteenth year, and I had put in another hard day on the sod farm that employed me during those sweltering July afternoons between the school terms. Unrecollectable to me is the ‘why’ we went to the store, a memory only that Danna and I were in my dad’s Datsun pickup truck. (Datsun is now known as Nissan to you Generation Xers) I was driving illegally without a license, not uncommon back then as long as you didn’t get too wild with it, because traffic and rules were sparse compared to what we‘ve grown to accept in our current world—even in places like South Mississippi. Besides, I needed the practice, as an official Highway Patrol driving test awaited me in my not-too-distant future.

The store we frequented in Carriere has long since gone, a victim of progress; but a good Barq’s root beer and Snicker’s bar can still be had at even the newer stores in our area. (Some things will never change, not really!) I pulled away from the store with merely a slight grinding of gears while we drank and ate our sugary surplus. Meanwhile we talked of things in a way only teen-aged brothers and sisters can, at least when they will cotton to each other’s company long enough to do so. In fact, we discussed so much that before I knew it, I was fast approaching the hill.

The hill is still there today, but it’s been tamed somewhat over the years by the automatic transmission. I know because I smiled during my aforementioned recollection when I saw it the other day. The hill would probably still prove to be a monumental task to a new driver if they happened to be operating a stick-shift today—do those things still exist? I’m not sure. Those manual transmissions, replete with gear-shifters and clutches, have gone the way of things like candy cigarettes and Sunday-school pins, or full service gas stations and prayer in schools.

So anyway, once you approached the hill you were all-in; there was no option of turning back on a less-provoking road. At the top of the hill stood a stop sign, a red octagon representing many broken dreams in the pantheon of all the novice motorists of our time. I’m not really stretching it when I say my blood ran cold and sweat popped out on my brow as I realized my mistake in choosing that route. But I could not show it as it would have been all the opportunity my sister required to tease me—an exercise she was duly noted for. I decided to drop down to second gear and reduce my speed to a crawl, enough so that I could roll slowly through the stop sign, make my turn, and be on my way without too much heckling from Danna. Unfortunately, a quick glance toward the crossing street sealed my undoing—a car was approaching down that very highway I was slated to turn onto.

Grimacing, I pushed in the clutch while pressing on the brake with my other foot, stopping at the top of the hill while waiting for the car to pass. Motion in the rearview mirror compounded the sad situation for me; I watched nervously as another truck arrived behind me. The car passed, and Newton’s laws being what they are, my vehicle began to roll backward as I released the brake in an attempt to reengage the engine. To top off my precarious quandary and add teeth to it, the guy behind me began to impatiently honk his horn. I figured the only thing worse at that moment would be for Danna to begin yelling at me—not to say I wasn’t used to it.

However, just as things reached a point where I was eying the mirror for an opportunity to back into the ditch, she did something totally unexpected and out of character. She reached her foot over and worked the gas pedal without being asked, thus enabling me to slip the clutch and escape my near-vertical dilemma. I was thinking about how nice she had been to do that—and how unlike she had been inclined to do so at other times—when due to the excessive hill and mechanical principles in play, the back tires on the truck began to spin wildly. Unfortunately, before I could comprehend and adjust to what was happening, they caught traction and we were propelled across the road at a high rate of speed and into a ditch—hitting it with such uncontrolled force that we crossed it airborne in a jump that would have made Bo Duke proud. We finally came to a vehicular-silent resting place in an abandoned lumber yard near the railroad tracks.

Sheepishly, I gathered my wits enough to re-fire the engine, and taking off much more professionally we made it back to the road and were soon on our way home. Danna assured me she wouldn’t report my mishap to mom and dad—but that’s not what I was worried about at all. I didn’t want her to alert my friends as to my challenged driving skills. In the end, she told no one, and for a few weeks at least, I was deeply indebted to her for it.

I’d be remiss to say that it was the only time she helped me, really. Looking back, when we were young it seems as though she always had to bail me out or cover my shortcomings. I miss her even more today as a result of those memories, her life being lost way too soon a few years back.

In one of the most amazing verses of the Bible, Paul writes: “But G_d commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” The hill recollection reminded me of another time when I realized I had no hope, no chance, and no way out. Christ took the blame for me, covering my sin and paying the price when I could not do so myself.

I didn’t have enough feet in the cab of that truck that day—too many peddles to press and inertia was dead-set against me. I needed help, and it was given graciously at the moment I needed it most without being asked for. Like my older sister, Jesus did the same thing for me, yet in a much more profound manner. His sacrifice keeps me out of the ditch and hides all of my sins from my Heavenly Father at the same time. And it’s not because I’m privileged or special in any way—what He did for me, he will surely do for you.

Me and Danna, circa 1964 or so.

Blue Birds and Black Birds

2011-02-22T18:20:00.004+01:00

Nothing ceases to amaze me anymore these days, at least not within the realm of human actions and behavior. It has reached the point where the once-potent line between right and wrong is now and forever blurred into stoically soft shades of gray; while morals and shame are relics left relegated to the back burner of society. Are we too far gone to turn back the page to a time where certain things had true meaning and real value?

Probably so, I say.

My book is on Amazon, finally. Barnes and Noble are taciturn, still dragging their feet a little, but eventually they will come around—I feel it to be so. The Amazon guys have been great, and not a little forgiving for someone new to the publishing world. I was encouraged to set up an author page replete with a photo of yours truly and a biography that spanned at least 200 words. I chose a photo of me and my grand-daughter, which was easy because she is precious, but the bio was a little harder to come by. Despite sundry appearances to the contrary, I am a very modest person—an introvert if you will. Conversations that orbit myself will always make me nervous, although in the meantime I have no problem telling stories. I can go on and on in that regard.

And I’m digressing because it has been a while since I posted in this blog; at least for me it has.

So Fast Asleep needed some keywords attached to it, you know, so those search engines could grind and churn and potential readers could actually find my literary monstrosity on Amazon’s website when they choose to do so. I’ve previously been through the keyword spiel with agents and publishers, so I was good there. I added words like Christian, and apocalyptic, and thriller, etc. to the called-for cadre. But that’s when the trouble began.

My author page attaches those words to forum pages that are associated with the keywords I chose. That way, while readers are debating the purchase of the book, they can join ongoing discussions on the related topics should they decide to do so. A Christian forum? Do tell. What a great idea! Sign me up, because I love to talk about the Bible and G_d, and salvation, and any spiritual topic in general!

Not so fast.

Browsing within two or three “Christian” discussion threads, I’d say 80% of the posters were decidedly non-Christian and vehemently vocal about it. It would appear their only goal was to ridicule anyone and everyone that believed in G_d, and even delved deeper along the sordid lines of blaspheme and things I will not mention here. In the end I vacated the forums and wished I had been able to choose other keywords for my book. I’d hate for someone to go to my author page (I was actually quite proud of it) and be greeted by vile comments from those riding a proverbial greased pole to the nether regions of hell. (Is that judgmental?)(Sue me!)Disappointed and full of chagrin, I logged off with a sigh and decided to do something else with my morning.

Yet I wondered, had my keywords included topics such as atheism, wiccans, or pornography, would the discussions on those forums be as vile and slanderous as the Christian forums had proven to be? Would Christians in overwhelming numbers migrate to those topics, spouting religion, punishment, and eternal damnation in unmitigated displays of protest against those carnal things?

Probably not.

Thinking along those lines, I’m again reminded of the irony represented here—a Christian forum inundated with comments from people (by their own admission) who have no dog in the hunt, so to speak, while the inverse is probably and unaccountably not so. Thus, the axiom that blue birds do not nest with black birds should be proven in these areas, statistically beyond the metaphor—so why do unbelievers en masse descend, abounding with pent up hatred, to forums dedicated to conversations on G_d and scripture?

Maybe it is simply more proof that we are in for it. The Days of Vengeance have started clandestinely and subtly while we as Christians were fast asleep dreaming of 401ks and American Idol winners.

Jesus prophesied of those days to come: “Then shall they deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you: and ye shall be hated of all nations for my name's sake.” We just might be closer to those days than we know, and His Words not as far-fetched as we yet may ponder them to be—at least not if we’re awake and listening. The approaching hoof-beats are just over the horizon.

My Valentine

2011-02-14T22:40:00.005+01:00

It has been commonly stated that love is blind. Check that—first loves are often blind. Maybe later on it drifts into a much closer truth in being that infatuation is always blind; of this I know and am fully conscious to it. And we skillfully use the word ‘experience’ when we try and justify our own past mistakes.

Lake Grenada was tepid that day, and I’m assuming the waters were warmed by an unusually hot July sun, if my memory serves me well. On these-type recollections I am usually secure, so we’ll leave it at that. For safety’s sake and responsibility having placed me as your protector, the tables turned toward knee-boarding because I knew if we skied and you were hurt or injured, your mom would never forgive me. Though I had only recently made the acquaintance of your friends, our host couple seemed nice enough and we had a great time by the moment that winsome sun casually set across the lake. It was a banner day among many, many banner days I’ve treasured with you over the years, but it wasn’t the water, the sun, nor newly minted friendships that made the day perfectly memorable for me.

It was you.

You were young, full of life, and nothing seemed impossible for a brash, South Mississippi boy who happened to find himself by your side. Your raven hair and dark eyes had the innate ability to stop clocks, and I witnessed that feat on more than one occasion—including my own timeless heart beat—and on more than a few episodes. Memorable example: The luckless guys in passing boats whistling uncontrollably as you walked across the sandy beach that afternoon.

Those days are mere memories, faded pictures in long-forgotten photo albums that reside in the attic; filed softly under ‘days gone by’. Yet in my heart and in my eyes they live on still, untouched by life and responsibilities that shape us into what we’ve grudgingly accepted as middle age. When I look at you I do not see simply time, neither accepted nor fulfilled, the good memories along with the bad. I see you still, in a way I can’t describe because you wouldn’t understand it, as the girl on the beach and in the boat—that girl from the carefree weekend spent so many years ago. And I yet have an uncanny desire of my own to whistle, if I possessed that talent.

To paraphrase a line from a much better writer—in your arms I’ve been held by Juliet, as my lips have touched those of Ophelia.

These days are spent more an adherence to family and jobs, church and children. We stay so busy, our life well-scripted in a path that must needs be followed daily. But always we are one, and the distance between us has never grown uncomfortable despite the issues any particular day may happen to bring to our door. I’m thankful for that...

I’m also secure in the knowledge that it will always thus be so. Same as it ever was.

Because you and I are a mathematical certainty set in time by the unseen hand of Providence. He set the wheel in motion and in turn, we made Him a major part of our journey. I cannot fathom of a time or a place where you would not encircle my heart, as I believe that to be so would not only diminish me, but remove both of us from what most assuredly is His Will. “What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.” May the tandem beat of our hearts continue as time rolls ever forward, and it will be enough. Enough to stave off the twilight years that approach us both seemingly just over the horizon.

Yet still, despite these broken ruminations from an honest heart, in dreams I still pick a time and place where once more we’ll glide over sun-kissed waters, maybe alone or by chance with good friends. A race to find those days of youth, not as payment for things we’ve accomplished, but as a reward for lives well spent.

The Artist

2011-02-10T20:40:00.009+01:00

I sometimes sketched very well—at least that was the reason I had enrolled in the sessions. Due to mom’s urging, I began taking a class from an ancient lady in a forgettable part of town, even back in those days. Mom paid for the course, and my biggest decision was whether to go on Thursday nights or Saturday mornings. I opted for the mornings and arrived on that first day to find that I was the only one in the room that could not be considered a septuagenarian. My fellow artists-in-training, sweet but hardly docile ladies they were, did their utmost to embarrass the shy teen-aged boy thrust among them on the weekend morning—but I doubt today if it was out of spite.

They sipped their coffees and painted with chained glasses pulled low on their noses, and I did my best to fade into the background after getting my supplies from my venerable teacher. I sat before an easel in the back corner, and stared at a blank canvas while waiting for inspiration. Over the idle gossip of my indigenous compatriots, a scene formed in my mind; a small creek flowing through an autumn forest, peaceful and serene. Nothing at all like I felt at the moment, but I had to start somewhere. I took out a brush and began to draw.

“No!” My wrist was softly grabbed, and the room became silent as all eyes appeared to be turned in my direction. The instructor took the brush from my hand and set it back in the tray. She began to explain things that someone out of touch with art beyond pen and ink could not comprehend. She showed me how to spread linseed oil on the canvas, rubbing it in with a cloth until the entire surface glistened. Then she advised me to take a dark pencil and sketch in the scene, much as I was used to doing on my own. Once a rough sketch of my forest thoughts were depicted, we were ready for color. Under her guidance, I began at the corners, using darker colors to draw attention to the lighter center of the picture. She showed me the correct brush strokes, and when I could not reproduce her masterful form, she moved me from the seat and demonstrated the required inflections for me with her own gnarled hands—then eagerly watched over my shoulder as I repeated the task. When the two-hour session ended, we rubbed in more linseed oil and draped the canvas with a soft cloth, keeping it safe for my next visit the following Saturday.

Over the weeks that followed, the white oil-covered sailcloth became the forest scene I had envisioned, and it turned out well for a first painting. Over the months that followed, I painted many more scenes and despite my youth, I actually enjoyed the company of my blue-haired classmates. Of course, at school or around my peers I would always profess to be taking “industrial art” at the college annex. Face it, in the world of fifteen-year-old boys, producing an oil painting will never be located on the list of epitomes required for being cool.

I continued the class until after-school jobs and school activities, as well as funding, put an eventual halt to my budding career as a painter. I have no regrets, yet no desire to pursue it once more at this later stage of my life. There is something about painting a picture from your mind—creating an image only you can envision, that fulfills the desires of your heart and stimulates your thought processes. But it is also a lot of work and expense, and requires a voracious commitment from a would-be artist to do so. I draw schematics and diagrams on a computer these days, and for me it is enough to simply be as creative as possible in that regard.

In the beginning, G_d took His brush in front of a blank canvas upon which would become our world. Using a closely related technique to what I learned many eons later, He started at the edges and painted from darkness to light. His brushstrokes were all made with tender care; with love and with distinction. Furthermore, they were perfect and He made them alone. “Thus saith the LORD, thy redeemer, and he that formed thee from the womb, I am the LORD that maketh all things; that stretcheth forth the heavens alone; that spreadeth abroad the earth by myself;”

His glorious masterpiece also pointed to the center, to His greatest creation, namely you and I. With painstaking care, in thoughts unfathomable to our weak minds, He formed the first man from the dust of the earth and breathed His very own breath of life into him. Then He stepped back, observed what He had created, and pronounced it good.

Why He did so, I’ll never know. It is beyond me to comprehend it. The question has been debated through time and space by men much better than I. But more so, the story does not end with the showpiece of creation or an understanding for the divine reasoning behind it. G_d went a step further, performing a wonderfully marvelous and totally unexpected feat during the process—He painted Himself into the picture! The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

Immanuel.

His story, His design for me and my life (as well as mankind in general) is gripping and passionate. When the world with all of its cares gets me down and life no longer makes any sense at all, it’s then that I remember the Master Artist:

The One who loves His most precious creation so much that He offers to become a part of their lives, if only they will accept Him.

The Elevator

2011-02-08T22:12:00.009+01:00

In Staten Island, across the river from the Big Apple, there is probably still an elevator in service that abides in my memory from a time more than twenty-five years prior to what I call ‘the now’ of my life. I’m betting it still faithfully carries its residential passengers from the ground to the upper floors, and then back down again. I’ve taken the elevator in nameless places across this country, yet this one stands out above all others for a memory etched therein so many years ago.

I was living in the Big Apple, and on a lark I took the ferry across the harbor to visit a friend who had recently moved into an apartment. Forgoing the excessive rent in Manhattan, he and his wife had chosen the outer borough despite the double-legged, water-borne commute he would face each day to get to the school we both attended on Governor’s Island. He had received his last shipment of furniture and boxes, and asked me to come over and help him get them up to their 16th-floor apartment. I met him in the small parking garage right up the street from the ferry terminal, and of course his boxes were well-packed and heavy. Grabbing two in a stack, I headed for the elevator doors located in the basement parking lot.

The trip in the elevator would not have proven memorable had we simply went all the way up to his floor, but as luck would have her say, we stopped on the lobby level. Several people entered before the doors swished closed, and I found myself pushed into the back wall, boxes in hand, and doing my best not to crush them into someone’s back. A pretty girl was in front of me, petite enough to be much shorter than me if you can believe it, and I caught an unusual movement just below her neck. Upon a closer evaluation, I discovered it was a snake! Not a small one, mind you, but a python of some sort, and the warmth of the elevator, heated by close quarters of the crowded passengers, had caused him to stir and take notice—particularly of me!

People in big cities are much unlike the ones you are likely to meet in a small town like McNeill. You don’t speak unless spoken too, and that applies especially to one imbued with my terminal accent. It could surely frighten the natives—they ponder immediately upon things like family intermarriage and segregation, etc. And unfortunately, being in a larger apartment complex, we made a few more stops on the way up. At each opening and closing of the doors, the snake became more and more interested in the cracker from down south. I, in turn, pressed myself harder against the wall and tried to move sideways to avoid his reptilian curiosity. Finally he began to slide slowly over the girl’s delicate shoulders toward the boxes in my momentary care. I say momentary, because I dropped both while instructing those northern apartment dwellers in a sanguinary rendition of the timeless (and well-accented) rebel yell.

In the pandemonium that ensued, miraculously, no precious box contents were damaged and the snake was drawn much closer to his mistress—and I’ll leave it at that. And other than enduring a few aside glances of contempt for breaking the code of silent decorum in elevators, I was none the worse for wear. She assured me the snake was harmless, and gentle, and many other endearing adjectives that only a serpent-owner would use. By the time we arrived on the designated floor, she and I knew each other better and over coffee the next afternoon we began a friendship that would last for several months, although afterward merely in the form of pen pals.

The relationship, if you are wondering, was decidedly platonic in nature. She referred to me (in an affectionate manner) as her ‘favorite rube from down south’; and I to her as my ‘snobby WASP from a less-than-important borough of the big city.’ In the end, we were close in agreement on many topics, including those dangerous areas associated with politics. And I always paid her the courtesy of asking about the health of her serpentine counterpart when we corresponded. I lost contact with her not long after I met my future wife, yet those conversations are still vivid in my memory in part due to the things we certainly disagreed upon.

She didn’t believe in G_d and felt religion was something for others but not her. I recall she referred to it in such terms as ‘fairy tales’ or at the very least—useless myths from a bygone age. I can honestly say that her arguments never affected my opinions or mindset, but sadly, my own testimony could be described in the same manner from her point of view. I know nothing more today that I could have said back then to change her mind; and my only hope is that something moved her heart over the years to reconsider her stance.

It’s hard to believe the unbelievable. A G_d that loves us so much that He sent His only Son to redeem us from sin and provide for us an eternity with Him is hard to comprehend when viewed by the heart of one who knows only the world and its ways. The things I believe in are hard to grasp, absurd even, unless you know Him in a personal relationship through a faith that without which is “impossible to please Him.”

Maybe my own belief in all things spiritual was aided by growing up in the South with parents who instilled in me the knowledge of the Word of G_d. Ah, but that’s too simple. Jesus told another one who was having trouble grasping the things of G_d: “Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.”

The picture is big. It’s real. But it’s too hard to see it or even begin to comprehend its details unless you’ve been born again. Unless you do so, then it will only resemble fairy tales or myths from a bygone age. The elevator you are taking will never get you home.

An Accident By Morning

2011-02-02T18:37:00.003+01:00

I’m a dog lover. It’s obvious to anyone who knows me, and maybe even to those who don’t—the evidence of the matter has been supported through several of my previous blog posts. I’ve always had a dog throughout the different ages and eras of my life, and I’ve loved them all. I do not boast when I say that as loyal as they have been to me via their supreme nature; I have matched them in return and have performed to my utmost in that regard.

Thus begins a sad confession on my part, an event that has haunted me over the past twenty-four-plus hours, and shows no sign of relent as I pen these words this morning. I was on my way to work in the still, dawn hours, ready to begin another day of existence in a life that can become approvingly mundane if I had a notion to allow it so. I was driving on the WC, as my oldest son prefers it, but to the older generation it is still known as White Chapel Road. Yes, I was driving too fast, if an excuse is required—but excuses are for those that glean too much knowledge in a failed attempt to become wise. (And “think too much to be beautiful”.)

As I neared one of the all-too-common curves in the road, ahead in the bluing darkness my headlights uncovered a cascade of circular reflectors moving across the road in my path. Seconds being what they are, I knew it was a bicycle, and let off the accelerator with plenty of distance to spare. As I slowed with my eyes riveted on the cyclist, motion on the side of the road caught my attention, but much too late. It was a beautiful yellow lab wearing a red collar, and I swerved too late to avoid him. This action was further complicated by his desire to cross the road at that instant to join his master who rode the bike. All of this occurred in a matter of seconds, and to describe the sounds would open wounds I’m still dealing with, so I won’t.

I drove slowly on up to the man on the bicycle, and rolled down my window in the pale light of what had up to that moment been a beautiful dawn—more so for someone sharing the sunrise with their trusted friend. Of course that was before my sudden and deliberate arrival on the scene.

“Was that your dog?” I asked, but in my heart of hearts I already knew the answer.

“Yes.” He managed, a tone of growing sadness emanating from his voice.

“I’m sorry, man. I really am.” It was all that came to my frazzled mind, and it sounded hollow as I spoke those words, although it assuredly wasn’t.

I apologized to the owner, expressing to him just how much my own dogs mean to me and how I knew how he felt—all the robotic things I should have said and did so. But I knew the anguish he felt as it was clearly written there, and I was the originator of that ruin that had befallen him on a day that moments earlier had certainly held such promise to him. I drove on to work, grief in my own heart sitting heavy in my mind, continuing through yet another day. And after, as always, I wished I would have done more. I should have offered to load his fallen friend in my truck, along with his bicycle, and drive them back to their home wherever it was located. I could have been late for work, at least for one morning, as my record in that regard is stellar and no one would question it had I chosen to do so. I did not think to do it, but I should have.

I often complain of those who drive too fast on our country roads. In fact, I’m extremely vocal about it. I blame them ahead of time for an accident that is sure to happen. Yet what do you do when the thing you abhor most becomes the thing that you are in one swift instance? When reality sets in, it’s a pretty bad deal. The words of Paul ring true within my own ears this morning: “O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?”

The unknown bicyclist may forgive me in time, yet it will prove difficult if he truly loved his dog. Still, it will be quite some time before I can find the means to forgive myself. It was an accident, but a preventable one all the same; and in the meantime I have to live with it in my heart as well as my conscious. Thankfully, after considering the sin in his life Paul answered his own question, and his answer gives me peace today. (Though I probably don’t deserve it!)

“I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Jesus is the only one who can deliver me from the sin in my life, and in Him alone can I place my hope when I fall short of what I know to be right or wrong. If I ever meet up with that fellow dog owner, I’m going to say and do all the things I should have. In the meantime, I am going to depend on G_d’s forgiveness, and drive slower instead of merely complaining hypocritically about others who do not.

Mick And Me

2011-01-26T21:40:00.005+01:00

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

2011-01-19T16:34:00.002+01:00

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

2011-01-17T22:19:00.011+01:00

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

2011-01-13T22:40:00.007+01:00

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

2011-01-11T21:27:00.005+01:00

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!

Whatever.

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

2011-01-07T18:52:00.002+01:00

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

2011-01-05T21:05:00.003+01:00

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.

The Wagon

2010-12-29T18:58:00.007+01:00

I found myself in bed last night, in the midnight hour of a bleak December, and like Edgar Allen Poe I pondered over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. We’d spent the evening together as a family; my children, wife, and grandchild in one final hurrah for Christmas before this year slips silently into the one that follows. It was a nice evening in a local restaurant, but that alone gave no cause for the nocturnal mental ramblings that interrupted my sleep. It was the pictures.

The holiday season is rife with photographic opportunities, to cherish memories stored quietly for a later date and freeze those images of a time well spent. But who’s image was that staring back at me from the surreal Polaroid moments I encountered? Surely not mine. The man with the children was too old, had too many wrinkles – an unacceptable caricature of the face I meet in the mirror each morning when I awake to greet another day. And yet I know better: despite its comfortable and familiar façade, the mirror mocks us all accordingly in an equal-opportunity manner.

Each line is a turn in the road, the wrinkles marking memorable changes in direction as decisions, right and wrong, are made along the path. Tired eyes justify and negate at the same instant. But the road continues. Truly we arrive on one road, and depart on another; yet never realizing which of the two we may happen to travel.

And my road is trying, because like everyone else, I pull a wagon behind me. It is filled with things I want to hang on to, treasures accumulated over time and instance. New cars, promotions at work, money made and spent. Houses and swimming pools, clothes fashionable today that have a chance, however small, of dramatically returning to said fashion at a place further down the road. The load accumulates, and it gets harder and heavier to pull as the miles slip silently by.

This is what gripped me and prevented my sleep last night – the wagon and its cruel load. It’s a burden. And I may have made a mistake or two along the way, I’ll admit as much. The things scattered within its cargo area may be practical, and might even make life easier and better in the long run. A dependable vehicle, a warm house; those things are what we aspire to from an early age and they are good things. But as the road turns a corner, narrowing in a way that shows you there is a finite end in sight, you take stock of those items and you become prone to reconsider.

I’m dumping some things from my wagon, and replacing them with others. The Psalmist reminds me: “…we spend our years as a tale that is told. The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.”

I’ll gladly replace the option for newer vehicles for time spent holding my wife’s hand, or a spontaneous hug in the hallway with a whispered, “I love you” thrown in for good measure. I’ll barter other items for my youngest daughter’s laughter emanating from her bedroom as she watches or reads something I have no idea about, along with my asserted inability to comprehend the meaning of such.

Is a comfortable house worth more than a silly face performed by my granddaughter, or the knowing smile of her mother and my oldest son? What price can you place on your youngest son’s ceaseless (senseless?) banter on everything from NFL scores to critical moments in the Star Wars saga?

My own promotions and achievements pale in comparison to my oldest daughter’s courage to do things and visit places I never could, utilizing a silent strength that belies both her and her husband’s years. It’s a strength I barely remember from when I was their age and the world was mine alone to conquer. May they never lose that inner strength or merely trade it for mundane responsibilities and frivolous 401k options.

I travel a silent road, pulling a wagon of my own making filled with items of questionable importance and value. When I arrive at the end (and I will), when it comes my time to fly away, I hope my cargo was soundly chosen. Everything else is only this, and nothing more.

The author and his progeny

Year End Random Thoughts, 2010

2010-12-15T22:07:00.007+01:00

I’m not sure if there will be any more posts until after the calendar year rolls over in a few weeks. I have accrued some much-needed vacation time and have a decidedly strong urge to spend it with my precious wife, children and granddaughter. In the interim, I appreciate you great folks out there that visit my blog each day, and some who visit more than others. Your comments and emails make my day. I’ve decided to close out the year by adding a few random thoughts that have never managed to find their way into a blog post (yet):

The church is doing well. We have drawn together, as a church should, following the passing on to eternal life by our pastor a few weeks ago. It has caused us all to reflect on our own lives as Christians and shore up many areas where we may have been lacking or complacent. Brother Donnie would be proud, I am sure. I feel a lot of love and compassion out there right now, and we have been blessed through the Holy Spirit with some very fine interim preachers. The search for a new pastor should commence after the first of the year, and we sincerely covet your prayers as we seek G_d’s will for our church.

Fast Asleep has done remarkably well this Christmas season. Those of you who purchased a book are appreciated; and I hope you enjoy my tale of Rikki and Roger, because there is a little bit of both of them in all of us. If you purchased a book on your own via the Internet site, feel free to contact me and I will sign it for you. No problems.

What’s in store for Random Thoughts in the future? Well, I’m quickly approaching my storage limit on the BlogSpot web site, and I may end up going with an actual web site or domain of my own. I’ve never attempted such and I’m not sure how to do it, but if the Lord provides a way, then… I will. But I’m going to wait on Him and not merely jump in blindly on my own.

Speaking of Random Thoughts, I appreciate the emails and comments, as I have mentioned. Some of you are too shy for either, and I understand those sorts of things. But if you like a particular post and want to express it in some manner other than a comment or an email – click on one of the advertisements! The ads on my page are safe, and I get a whopping eight cents each time you do so. Click away!

To my six readers from the Netherlands, “Bedankt voor het volgen van mijn blog!” Despite the language barrier, it is good to know we can rely on Google Translate!

Keurig coffee machines are incredible. Try the hot chocolate! Providing happiness one cup at a time, I say.

I’m not a birther. If the President of the United States was born in Hawaii, I have no problem at all with it. But please, simply release the birth certificate and close the issue as many of us are beyond tired of hearing about it. A long-form birth certificate, like the one I used to get a driver’s license, vote, and join the military would suffice. BTW – I could send in twenty dollars and get a Certificate of Live Birth from Hawaii myself, so don’t go there. “The truth shall set you free.”

WHO DAT! Or is it TWO DAT? Hoping the Saints continue to march toward a Super Bowl repeat. Maybe then they’ll finally get some much-deserved respect from the media.

While we are at it, Go Huskers!

Take a few minutes to read the story of Jesus’ birth from Luke 2 at some point during this Christmas season. It does a Christian good to go back over that special night so long ago where G_d became flesh and dwelt among us. Jesus has many names in the Bible, but my favorite is Immanuel, which means “G_d with us”. It really gets no better than that!

But use a King James Version of the Bible. There are so many versions out there that leave so much out and can confuse many other important things. I saw a Cajun version (CBV) that had Jesus taking five loaves of Po-Boy bread and two speckled trout; then using them to feed the multitude at the Superdome during halftime of the Saints/Tampa Bay game. C’mon man! The King James Version is almost four hundred years old. It’s proved the test of time. Just sayin’.

Most of all, thanks again for visiting my blog. I hope you’ve enjoyed the stories this year (all of them true!) (for the most part!) and my prayer is that in some way they’ve managed to touch your heart. Maybe in some manner they’ve drawn you closer to Him, because I find I’m drawn closer to G_d by merely writing them down. I wish for you and your families, wherever you are, a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

With all of my heart and my warmest regards,

Shannon

Reconstructive Thoughts

2010-12-14T21:59:00.002+01:00

We drove up to the church on that bright morning; a deep blue horizon tapering to pure cerulean intermingled with wisps of fine, white cirrus above us. I remember that sky very well because I was climbing onto the roof of the church that day. The steeple was gone – an unholy gash remaining in its stead, a silent victim of Hurricane Katrina the morning before. Our goal was to place a well-used tarp over the opening to prevent further damage to the inside of the building. My teenage son accompanied me on the climb, and without incident we stapled the blue plastic in place and stepped back on broken shingles to admire our handiwork. Though far from a final solution, it would have to do in the interim.

From our alpine vantage point, we surveyed a surreal landscape of broken trees and downed power lines, a cluttered world of disarray and nowhere near the way it had appeared only a Sunday before. Our faces grim in the presence of an untold disaster, we climbed back down and walked to the truck. As I loaded the staple gun into the toolbox, a car sped into the parking lot behind us. A haggard woman in tears turned out to be the occupant, and a quick assessment proved her to be alone. I did not recognize her.

She asked if we were going to have church services in the near future, and explained her situation to both my son and me. It was a story all too typical, and one we would be able to recite chapter and verse in the days to come. She had lost everything, abandoning her home on the coast in her last-second flight from the storm’s uncaring path. She wanted to draw closer to the Lord, as anything else was beyond comprehension to her at that moment. I assured her that somehow, someway, we would indeed have services the following Sunday. And in my Christian best I all but promised her that things would be okay. I’ll admit it felt hollow and indifferent. I was lost during that time, and had not yet fathomed a way to make any sense out of it other than to find a way to keep myself busy.

I forgot about this chance encounter in the days that followed, for by then the Great Provider had stepped in to make all things right. Free water, food, and medical care were swiftly imposed upon us; the government having an ability to provide us with everything we needed except for gasoline. The electricity was turned back on and life returned to normal - albeit a few tepid Indian-summer-weeks later. We survived and moved on, most of us anyway, and learned a few new acronyms in the process. FEMA and MEMA became our saviors, by providing not only supplies but much needed jobs for our storm-stricken region. USPHS and the Red Cross followed closely on their heels. SNAP and USDA gave everyone an EBT debit card to purchase food when MREs became passé. Signs of the Great Provider were everywhere to be seen, and the only sacrifice he required was a constant standing in line along with many simplified forms to fill out and turn in.

I did make it to church the following Sunday, as did most of our regular attendees. The penitent victim from an otherwise bright summer day was nowhere to be seen however, as by then a miraculous deliverance was neither desired nor required. Sadly, dependence upon G_d is readily replaced by all things technological in our world today. Society demands as much. There is always some form of governmental assistance to be drawn upon, it seems, despite whatever disaster or circumstance befalls us. The original call for G_d following a disaster of epic proportions is merely an afterthought later, much as dreams in the night lose their significance during the daylight hours that follow.

Some of us grasped the concept of a G_d that provides. We were the ones who said ‘Where do we start?’, ‘Where can I help?’, and most importantly, ‘In Whom can I place my faith?’ Sure, we trusted in the government to do the right thing – they usually do in the end. But it was a trust tempered by a belief in our own talents, skills, and work ethic brought together by a faith in the one true G_d that cannot fail.

Years later I look back upon those days, the aftermath of a critical chapter in American history that has ramifications to our region even at the present. Rebuilding either continues or has been given up on in many areas by this point. Government, though viable and important, can only do so much despite the many and varied resources it can draw upon. Indeed, the Great Provider in most cases turns out to be a god that can neither see nor hear. The fire to rebuild, to work hard, and to strive for a better life can never be garnered from continuous hand-out programs delivered on demand from Washington.

The words of Elijah on Mount Carmel still ring true today, “If the LORD be God, follow him: but if Baal, then follow him.” If you think about it, a comparison between the feddle gub’munt and Baal is not so far-fetched. Baal was known in the Canaanite tongue as the Great Provider. He was depended upon for rain, crops, and fertility in his various shapes and identities. The Children of Israel began following him instead of G_d because it was easier to do so, and a lot more entertaining. (Can’t go into the so-called entertainment value in a G-rated blog!) Furthermore, due to Ahab’s marriage to Jezebel, Baal worship had become the State Religion. Yet by the conclusion of the showdown on Mount Carmel, Baal was proven as toothless, and instead it was the Holy G_d from Israel’s past who answered with fire.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

Tink Hijacks My Blog

2010-12-07T17:51:00.005+01:00

Waiting, waiting, waiting. I’m consumed with it. Waiting. Everything I am at this moment revolves around anticipating that sound – the one that hurts my ears yet signals that my master is awake and will open the big doorway to the great outside place. I whine a little, but not too loud. The master gets angry when I do so. It wakes the smaller ones in the house. I must be a ‘good girl’. I must, I must, I must!

There! I knew it was close. The sound, oh the hurtful, beautiful sound! I can contain myself no longer. I run to his room, the one he shares with my mistress. Momma and daddy. I wag my tail uncontrollably and dance in circles as his feet touch the floor. The whines escape me because I can no longer refrain from expressing them. I dance around his feet as he moves for the portal, and doing my best to suppress my bark, I scratch at the opening ahead of him. The bad things are out there and I must let them know that this is my territory, my yard. I must. I must. I must!

I burst through the space, scared at first, but definitely excited, for a new day awaits me. At my bark the squirrel-things fly up into the trees, and should one of the Me-Me person’s cats have dared venture into my realm during the night; they will surely get a comeuppance. Many, many smells in the air. I sniff and sniff, then sniff some more. It is cold. I do not like the cold. It hurts my feet and stiffens my six-year-old joints. I bark uncontrollably, delighted in the feel of my chest and the sound that emanates from within me. A quick pass around the yard is enough, I run back to the ingress and scratch my welcome – it is time to go back in. I yelp and throw myself against the screen-thing, unabatedly so. The master will come. He will let me in. He loves me. I feel it in a secret place that no one comprehends, except maybe others of my kind.

Once inside I jump on the couch, forcing myself back under the blanket he has provided for me. The master pats my back and tells me I’m a ‘good girl’. I growl at him, playfully, for I feel loved again. It grows in me, something primordial and untamed, engulfing my every thought. I love the master. I love the mistress. I love the smaller ones – even Sissy. They are mine and I am theirs. We belong.

In a few moments the master sits by me on the couch and watches the glowing, picture-thing in the corner. He drinks the liquid that I long for. I slide from under the blanket and place my nose against his warm leg. He responds by scratching my ears involuntarily. He is engulfed in the glowing thing. He is thinking beyond me, paying me little attention. Not enough attention. I could quickly lick the cup he holds, gaining the tasty nectar for my own benefit, but I know better. I must wait. I am not good at this thing called patience. I’m not. He will drink from the cup, but he will save a sweet-tasting residue for me. He will. He will. He will!

But I also sense the master is worried this morning. He worries too much. It makes me feel funny when he worries. I understand this in a way that only I can. He is thinking about the boy this morning, and he is worried. I sense the boy is ok, but I cannot convey what I know, for I do not have the ability to do so. The master is thinking of the mistress, too, and he worries about her, but I do not know why. I remember that she will give me of the delightful nectar from her own cup, too, and more of her precious liquid than he will save for me. But I am not happy because my master is worried. I feel it. I sense it. I whine a little, and I lick his hand. I wish I could tell him.

I smell the fear in my master, as I have on many occasions. I feel it in the mistress, too. They worry all the time. They worry. They do. They should be happy like me. They have the nectar. They have the other tasty things I smell in the hot room and around the big bowl they sit around when they eat. They have the big bed to sleep in. They have each other. They have the little ones – even Sissy. Why do they worry? I do not know. It is beyond me. I do not worry. Sure, I get hyper at times. But I do not worry. I have my master and my mistress, and the little ones. Even Sissy.

I can also feel the presence of Someone else. Someone I cannot see or hear, except in a secret place somewhere deep inside of me. It’s the Heavenly Master who created all things. He loves me. He watches over me. He knows when I hurt. He knows when I whine. He knows when I am hungry. He designed me. He will never leave me.

Hey! I know. I understand. I do, I do, I do! Maybe the master and the mistress do not know about the Heavenly Master like I do. Maybe He does not watch out for them as he does me? Maybe they don’t trust Him? Sad. Very sad. I wish I could talk to them in a human voice and remind them He is there. He is watching. He is waiting. He will take care of them. He loves them. I would really be a good girl – if only I could do so.

But I’m not thinking about this anymore. My master has set his cup on the floor for me. I leap from the couch. It awaits me, controlling my thoughts for the moment. But I am not worried.

Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God? But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not therefore: ye are of more value than many sparrows.

Tinkerbelle - World's Wisest Dog

French-Style Green Beans

2010-12-02T20:35:00.017+01:00

Disclaimer: Mom was not a bad cook. I loved her fried chicken. Her dumplings could give Emeril a run for his money. Red beans and rice with pork chops? Excellent. I had problems only on those occasions where she had meat loaf or liver on the menu. And as an added touch of irony, I actually savor the taste of French-style green beans today.

I looked down at the platter in front of me. The sum all of my afternoon fears since I had arrived home from school that day was now staring back up at me. Liver and onions, with a side order of French-style green beans, mocking me from the small round plate that featured friendly blue flowers along its rim.

It had nothing to do with whether or not I was actually hungry; it seems as though I always was at that age. It was the synopsis of the meal mom had prepared. The cruel liver, mingled with bitter onions and thick gravy always managed to bring out my best gag reflex at the time. The French-style green beans served to enhance that digestive feature - and added muscle to it. Mom fixed our plates, allowing me no chance to limit the portions or bypass altogether the unsavory features of the meal. (None for me, thanks!) But then again, when you are ten years old, the world is not always fair. I cautiously shared a secretive glance with my little brother, and saw that he was having the same reaction. In mom’s kitchen, a clean plate was a happy plate, and one of her children not so inclined to accomplish that task was sure to become a target for her unrefined ire not long afterward.

At that dire moment, I looked for Poco, our poodle, thinking if I could somehow manage to sneak him my cut of liver, half of the dinner battle would be won. Good old Poco, ever faithful and to my rescue. With a practiced stealth, I lightly slapped my leg to garner his attention, and wagging a mere bob of a tail he came over by my feet under the chair, hidden from my mother’s ever watchful eyes. I stole a quick glance around the dinner table, faked putting the sordid meat on my fork, and as mom made conversation with dad and my older sister, I swiftly ‘dropped’ the nasty victual onto the floor in front of him. There was a moment of sheer panic as I (secretively) watched him sniff the offering because a part of me was certain he would ignore the incriminating evidence and walk away. Even a dog has his culinary limitations, you know? In two quick bites my four-legged hero greedily dispatched of the liver portion and looked back up at me, licking his lips in anticipation of ‘more’. You want more, big boy? That I can do! Yessiree!

Faking a chewing presentation worthy of an Emmy, and using a smile I had practiced that was not too broad, yet enough to make mom believe I was in fact eating my liver, I scraped up a bundle of beans onto my fork. When she returned her attention to daddy, I covertly flicked the slimy concoction to my eagerly waiting canine partner-in-crime below me. In one fell swoop, the liver and half of the green beans were gone! I could not believe my good fortune; everything was going to be alright after all and I had been delivered from having to force down vile chunks of things I did not care for. Another quick flick, delicately orchestrated as in the previous manner, being careful not to become careless through overconfidence, and the pretty blue flowers would become my testimony to mom of the requisite proof I had completed the meal.

As I geared up my improvised catapult, an unsettling sound began to emanate from under the table. Poco was choking (or was he gagging?). Mom quickly scanned my end of the table and I did the only thing I could think of: I shoveled the fork-full of detestable green beans into my mouth and began to chew as rapidly as possible, hoping to draw a conclusion of innocence from her as I tried my best to swallow the ever expanding, rubbery green glob in my mouth. They tried to go down my throat, they really did. I give credit where credit is due. But the nervousness of Poco possibly ratting me out evaporated as I began to feel the all too familiar gag reflex rising in my stomach. Please Lord, no! I covered my mouth with my hands and held my breath, the issue remaining in doubt for several seconds as time stood still. And, as if the Lord Himself had intervened in that moment, somehow the rancid cud of green beans miraculously slid uneventfully down my throat.

“There. Not so bad, huh?” My mom said with little quarter. “You cleaned your plate. I knew you would like them if you just tried them.”

I shook my head in a not-so-honest pattern of agreement. My brother gave me a mean look – he was desperately trying to engineer his own solution, one apparently revolving around a few wadded-up napkins and two empty pockets. What an amateur! But the choking of Poco along with my dining end-game had mom on high alert by that point. If I remember correctly, he managed to swallow the liver and the beans in what still ranks as one of the most heroic feats I have ever witnessed in all of my forty-eight years.

As I grew older, I never ate liver again, and barring some cosmic, earth-shattering event, I never will. Furthermore, I have made it a point as a parent to never force my children to do the same. Strangely enough, two out of my four have acquired a taste for it on their own. Go figure.

These days we are asked to keep our minds open, and to ‘think outside of the box.’ We are preached to by the media (and in some pulpits, religious and political) that we should be more tolerant toward the belief systems proposed by others, and less assured of the morals and faith we grew up with. We are reminded by those in the know that there is no right and no wrong, only the various shades of grey in between. We are told that truth is merely relative depending on the situation. ‘Try it, you’ll like it’, a catch-phrase of the 1970’s, has been regurgitated and could very well be used to describe the mantra of our current civilization - if you can still call it that.

Yet I refuse to conform to the modern beliefs of our new-age society in general. Instead I hold dearest to the truths passed down to me from my father and his liver-and-onions-with-French-styled-green-beans cook. I remain firmly within the grips of G_d’s Holy Word, because I understand the concept expressed by the writer of Proverbs when he wrote, ““There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.”

Without passing too much judgment, I’ll merely take those modern thoughts and flip them under the table. It’s much safer that way and easier for me to digest.

Faux Dat!

2010-11-23T21:18:00.007+01:00

I’m thinking about completing, with an exclamation point, my fan-hood for all things Saintly in the next few days. Yep, I’m going to take it over the top and buy myself one of those personalized, official NFL jerseys that go for a couple of hundred bucks or so. You know the ones, the real deal. The ones that people go crazy over and must be taken into account for in crime statistics as they relate to the inner cities – in a very real way those jerseys have become a form of currency, if you honestly think about it. (You may have to whirl that around in your mind for a minute or two, but I’m trying to be honest here.)

The first step will be to decide which team member I want to personify as I wear my new purchase. I like Drew Brees, but I also like Lance Moore because he’s a little guy like me. Darren Sharper is another one of my favorites. Jeremy Shockey could be the most popular Saint, but I don’t know…

I saw on TV where you could get a random number and put your own name on the back should you choose to do so, and that just might be the route for me to take. A double-zero and ‘Johnson’ on the title bar would be really hip. Or a lineman number since I’m shorter and stockier than I used to be. If I pull it off, I might possibly be mistaken for a real Saint’s player. Maybe I could even fool my own self into believing that I am a Saints star on his day off, going to Wal-Mart or eating at Wow’s. Me signing autographs, saying things like “Um, yeah, I’m Shannon Johnson, number 00 in your programs but number one in your heart. I’m only on the practice squad this year, but just wait till next year!”

I probably couldn't pull that one off – too many Saints jerseys floating around in public these days, and besides, what’s the point? I could never fool myself. I’m too old and not stout enough for the big leagues. I was never actually drafted or signed to a contract, and I never attended training camp. I can’t be a Saints player by merely wearing an official jersey I purchased off the Internet. I’d be a fraud, a fake, and in the end I’d still just be plain ole me.

I was chewing on these thoughts the other day when I came across a flyer stuck in the window of a store at a shopping center. A quick perusal of my surroundings confirmed that most of the cars in the parking lot had that self-same flyer stuck on their windshield. (I hate those things!) The flyer advertised a baptismal service at a well-known, local church, if you can call it that. The bill acknowledged that if you had children that needed to be baptized, then it was hunky-dory to bring them by the church on that particular day and they’d be dunked along with all of the others in attendance. I got the distinct impression there would be no questions asked; it was merely an opportunity to mark a milestone off the list of things to do in one’s spiritual life.

Naturally I was appalled, but not too much so considering the spiritual condition of our world these days. And if I am going to judge here, then it is best for me to give them lots of room. This is in no way schadenfreude on my part. (Look that one up) Maybe they have read the scriptures and do not quite understand them. As a result, salvation for them has possibly morphed into a gift of grace that does not require things like repentance or acceptance, and instead has become nothing more than a simple ceremony; like joining the Beta Club or being accepted into the Jaycees.

Philip met a man with a similar mindset in the book of Acts. He was an Ethiopian eunuch, and Philip found him parked by the side of the road that ran between Jerusalem and Gaza. He was in a chariot (high-dollar vehicle of the time) and was actively reading the scriptures, but was having a difficult time comprehending them. Philip asked, “Understandest thou what thou readest?” and the Ethiopian replied, “How can I, except some man should guide me?” The Bible tells us that taking that cue, Philip ‘opened his mouth and preached unto him Jesus’.

Later as they travelled together, they came to a body of water. Excited about the Gospel Phillip had shared with him along the way, the eunuch asked Phillip what was left to do before he could be baptized. Phillip responded by telling him that he had to believe with all of his heart. The eunuch replied that he believed Jesus Christ to be the Son of G_d, and thus Phillip baptized him. The writer goes on to say that when they came up out of the water, the eunuch went away from that place rejoicing. He was a changed man.

There is much more to salvation than a mere ceremony performed in a tank of water. Baptism alone is not going to get anyone to heaven, or even right with G_d for that matter. Indeed, baptism is a symbol of the work that has been performed in someone’s heart once they accept the gift readily provided to/for them by the amazing work of grace Jesus provided on the cross. A baptismal certificate will make a person no more a Christian than a high-dollar Saints jersey will transform me into an NFL superstar. And I realize those are very strong words coming from me this morning. After all, I’ve been a Baptist since my birth.

The Computer Guy

2010-11-18T22:02:00.007+01:00

It was the last thing I needed on an unusually hectic morning…

I logged onto my PC at work in my office as I normally do, coffee in hand, (caffeinated, no sterile stuff for me) and opened the software package I use to track the tasks my department attends to on a daily basis. Let me re-phrase that: I attempted to open my well-used, critically germane software package. Unfortunately an error had occurred, its cruel grey window box popping up from out of nowhere to inform me that the database was corrupted and the software was unavailable at this time. As a subtle suggestion, it notified me I would be best served by contacting my network administrator for further assistance. Further assistance, huh? Indeed.

I was dead in the water, lights out, and unable to check on the items that are most pivotal to my job. I had no way of uncovering the deeds performed by the evening and night shifts the day before, no option on tasks scheduled for today, and no clue as to what was current and pending for tomorrow. It’s not a good position find yourself in, and although I could regress and ‘wing it’ by using notepads in the meantime, it still meant eventually I’d have to re-enter the accrued data once the software became ‘available’ once again.

I placed the obligatory call to my network administrator, and I am lucky we are on such good terms with each other. I do not refer to him as ‘my network administrator’ because that is much too sterile and callous; at least it seems that way to me. I proudly call him ‘THE computer guy’ and he is adept at solving all of my software or email issues regardless of the severity encountered. I probably should not mention this publicly, but he’s even provided a method of selectively bypassing the SPAM filter so I can receive emails from my brother in Iraq. The dude is very good at his job, and as a result, within minutes my software was up and running in a proper manner that allowed me to return to my routine schedule. It’s good to have him on the team for instances such as the one I encountered this morning, because you never know when you will need him.

I am aware of the other things he does as well, although those skills may not be quite so obvious to others. He guards our network against unwanted emails (SPAM) and protects us from the ever-elusive viruses and threats that are prone to stalk the world of office computing. He provides assistance and quick fixes to my computer when it is not performing as fast as it used to. He is good with advice on issues that may or may not affect me when it comes to ordering new equipment for my department. Basically, he watches over my computer from the background of the office, protecting my data, and thus freeing me from the caustic threat of data corruption while preventing a total failure to my job description. In the very essence of the term, he is the computer guy.

In my spiritual life, I have someone much like the computer guy watching over me. He guides me down the correct paths and warns me through my conscious when I am overstepping my bounds. Through Him I have access to G_d’s will, because He is there for me as a Helper and a Comforter. When I get burdened down or too depressed to even call out my sorrows in prayer, he interprets my feelings and carries them to the Throne of Grace for me, making my unspoken requests known to a G_d that can never fail.

G_d we know, and His existence is a no-brainer. We have a built-in by design knowledge of Him and are told that even the devils believe in Him and tremble. He is the Creator of the universe and our Holy Father. He is Holy, Magnificent, and The Almighty.

Jesus, the Son of G_d is also well known and through Him we are made right with G_d. He is “G_d with us” in human form. We have been offered salvation through His blood by His work on the cross and in His resurrection three days later.

But G_d is three in one and one in three, a hard concept to grasp and one we won’t fully understand until we get to heaven. There is a Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and though I do not have all of the answers in this area, I believe in the triune (3) nature of G_d as recorded in the Bible. It is this Holy Ghost I am referring to as the one who comforts me and helps me in my life, although He is readily misunderstood and a lot of times may get left completely out of casual spiritual conversations. Yet He is there, prodding me to do the right things in this life, and coercing me to walk in the paths that I should as a faithful follower of Christ.

Jesus Himself said, “And I will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for ever; But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name, he shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you.”

This Comforter made His appearance in my life on the day I was born again. Through this promise made by Jesus, he will abide with me forever. He teaches my heart the things it should know, and calls into remembrance all of the things G_d has taught me through His Word. I’ve noticed that much like my fabled computer guy, He works in the background. Jesus went on to explain, “But when the Comforter is come, whom I will send unto you from the Father, even the Spirit of truth, which proceedeth from the Father, he shall testify of me.” He testifies not of Himself, but points all of the honor and glory to Jesus. I think He does so as an example for me to follow; another way of teaching me the way that I should go.

Living a Christian life is no easy feat in this day and age. Temptations abound while sin is ever prevalent and waiting eagerly at the doorway to my heart. It is so good to know that there, working in the spiritual realm, is a constantly abiding Holy Spirit. He is guiding my paths by comforting me and protecting me whenever I may happen to find myself becoming corrupted spiritually. And most importantly, He is always there - because you never know when you’ll need Him.

The Computer Guy And Me

On The Road To Emmaus

2010-11-17T21:21:00.003+01:00

It’s a mathematically-proved constant of life: Things don’t always work out the way you planned and seldom in a manner you would prefer. Murphy’s Law is alive and well in our world today and the exceptions to the rule are few and far between. In fact, it has reached a point where in the realm of engineering, we are advised to always plan our projects with built-in variables to prevent a worst-case situation in the areas of safety and environmental impact. This axiom is best expressed in the words of Yeats: “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.”

How many times have I used the expression ‘if only’ or ‘I should have’ when pondering the winsome episodes of my past? Many times in my life I have planned things, covering bases and researching possibilities with care and concern, only to discover later a minute detail I had overlooked. And those details seem to always find their way to the surface and return to haunt me. What can I do in those situations - a situation in which what I thought I knew turns out to be what I didn’t account for?

I can pack it in. Give up and move on to something else. Shake my head and wash my hands of the whole goal or plan I had conceived a few days, hours, or even minutes earlier. That’s human nature. We hate failure by others, but abhor it even more so when we unmask it in our own life.

Luke tells the story of two men a couple of thousand years ago who felt the same as I have on many occasions today. They were followers of Christ, but after his crucifixion they had packed it in and were heading home. I’ll let them speak for themselves here: “But we trusted that it had been He which should have redeemed Israel:” They thought He was the Messiah, in fact, they were certain of it. They had watched Him feed the multitude, heal the sick, cast out demons, and even raise the dead. But now He was gone; executed by the authorities and buried in a borrowed tomb. The faith they had placed in a Nazarene carpenter had seemed so sure, so perfect during the time He had walked with them. Now they only felt empty inside, scared, and did not know where to turn. So they left the other disciples in Jerusalem and started walking back home – seven miles away down a proverbial boulevard of broken dreams to a small town called Emmaus.

I’ve been on that road many times in my spiritual life. I’ve been in church services that were dead, empty, and left me wondering why I bothered attending them in the first place. It is during those times I find myself wanting to pack it in and head for home. Give it up and spend my Sunday mornings playing golf, or at least catching the pre-game or pre-race shows on television. I could save my tithe money and put it towards a new vehicle or into a hedge fund for retirement. What’s the point? My spiritual life started out well and good, but things change. We mature and in the process outgrow what we used to love – it’s only natural, right? And after all, I’m only human and can only do so much…

So I find myself walking to Emmaus. Like the two disciples of Luke’s day found themselves.

Then HE shows up. The unknown stranger. The one who seems to be out of the loop to all of the turmoil that is going on in my spiritual life, and He is asking me a lot of very pointed questions. What’s more, He offers me nothing new, no exciting revelations of cosmic events I’ve yet to ponder on my own. Instead He uses the same Scriptures I’ve studied all of my life to point out things to me that I thought I already knew; things I thought I understood. But I was wrong. Somehow despite the study of those scriptures and the earnest way I have tried to live my spiritual life, I’ve obviously missed quite a few things along the way.

My spiritual life is not about the message the pastor provides on Sunday mornings. That message is to help me and feed me as a Christian, but a pastor is human. Some messages will always be better than others. My spiritual life is not about how well I lead the singing, or choosing the most spiritual songs at the appropriate time to go along with the message during the worship service. My spiritual life is not about my Sunday School class and the amount of students that are blessed by me and the knowledge I share with them due to the fact I am such a marvelous teacher. I am compelled by the Holy Spirit to do the best I can in both areas, but I am limited by the flesh and just like my pastor, I am also human.

The truth is, my spiritual walk is about never walking alone. Not just on the road to Emmaus, but on any path I happen to find myself trodding. It’s all about my daily relationship with Him, and having Him near me on the trip as not only my best friend but also as my guide. It’s having fellowship with Him as He teaches me the things I should know in my heart, breaking spiritual bread with me as I pray, and allowing my soul to understand its place within the Kingdom of Heaven. Much like the two disciples after meeting Jesus on the road to Emmaus, my heart begins to burn within me as He shares the truths recorded in His Word.

Walking with Him gives me a much needed and longed for perspective on the things that are the most important in this life. That perspective is much harder to find when I find myself out there on the dusty road to Emmaus. Without a trusted guide, you can get lost out there.

Joy In The Morning: A Katrina Tale

2010-11-15T17:32:00.006+01:00

The weather outside is thankfully dreadful this morning, and I use the term thankfully because it revolves around some much needed rain for our area. The past few months have been hopelessly dry, and my rose bushes have been displaying their chagrin over the situation. Maybe this newfound abundance of water will provide a change in their attitude, and once again their varied hues and fragrances will fill my yard – at least for a few more weeks before winter makes her appointed appearance.

Etched in my mind when it rains like this are vivid memories of the morning hurricane Katrina made her landfall a few years back. (Warning: Katrina Story!) A dreary morning that quickly escalated to cataclysmic was not the worst part of the storm for me, or for most of the people in our area. The real damage was on the coast. For us, the worst memories remain attached to the days and weeks that followed the storm. The loss of electricity, the shortages of gasoline, the endless task of clearing and cleaning the fallen trees made life hard during those hectic days of an Indian summer. The oppressive South Mississippi heat and humidity, faced without benefit of air conditioning while biased with rationed water, makes me shudder when I think back upon it even today - five years later.

We moved from inside our house to a tent set up in the yard due to that heat, and although the night temperatures were milder, the actions of some of the more sordid members of our society made it a time to reflect with consternation on the precarious safety of the situation. With minimal law enforcement available in the aftermath of the storm, stealing things like gasoline and generators became almost acceptable by a county that found itself ripped apart in the sudden disaster. Eventually, my wife and smaller children moved back into the house; leaving my oldest son and me to abide in the tent and keep the watch over what was left of our meager possessions. Even our dog abandoned us and moved into the house, leaving us to whatever fate awaited us during the ominous nights we spent outside in the thin-walled tent.

You forget how dark the night becomes with no artificial street lights to illuminate the things that are unknown, at least until you’ve lived the part. With no human-made noises, the night becomes a symphony of nature, and your ears regress in an uncivilized manner to a time when protection was so much more than a refined instinct hushed from our psyche by centuries of law and order. Every sound becomes a threat; the breaking of twigs in the grass, leaves crunching underfoot, and the pounding of your own heartbeat resonating in your ears. A faithful shot gun or rifle cradled against your breast is of little comfort on nights where light evades the things that are ‘out there’ and you know those things are quite possibly coming for your belongings or even the ones you love.

Many nights were spent in that manner, sleeplessly awaiting a dawn that seemed far away and impossible to obtain; hoping against hope to cheat disaster and merely make it through just one more night. We always did, and though it seems far away and ethereal today when I look back upon it from the viewpoint of a safer time and place, I earned those memories and keep them with me today should chance provide me with a return appointment.

One particular night stands out more so than others, as they sometimes do. I had been awakened by one of those aforementioned noises, and swiftly alerted by instinct I checked my watch. The time was precisely 4:54 AM, although the calendar date eludes my memory. Dates and days of the week had lost their meaning by then, but time itself remained a viable function of survival in our post-disaster scenario. Peering from the tent with my rifle, I gazed through the pre-dawn stillness across the yard to the road, daring not to use what was left of the batteries in my flashlight for what may or may not have been a false alarm. A highly likely human form was out there, moving silently down the country road that fronts my house. He was using a low wattage penlight to find his way through the murky darkness, and due to the early hour as well as his mannerism it was easy enough to ascertain he was up to no good. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I tried to decide what to do next, and all that came to mind was to yell loudly - an option I could not perform as it would alarm my reposing son as well as my wife and younger children slumbering fitfully in the tepid house nearby. In the end I clutched the rifle in a firing position and walked purposely toward the stalker, making sure I made enough noise where he would know that not only was someone alert at the Johnson House, but they were coming for him. While I was still a good distance away from my dark visitor, he turned his insipid pen light on me, illuminating my aimed rifle, which caused him to swiftly retreat back up the road in the direction from which he had arrived. As he made good his absence, I heard a clashing of tin from my back yard, and turned back to investigate in that location. I found nothing, (but the next day I would discover a five-gallon can of gas/oil chain saw fuel mixture missing) and more than likely it had been a team effort.

I made a reconnaissance around the house to no avail; nothing human or animal was to be found in my transit of the area, and so I made my way back to the tent. In the dark hour that followed, my stress level remained at a decidedly less than heroic quotient and I was reminded of how the sailors on Paul’s doomed ship had ‘wished for the day’. Eventually, a glow in the east began snaking tendrils of vibrant oranges and reds into the obsidian sky as dawn heralded the much-longed-for arrival of another day. The hopelessness of the night before along with its chaotic fears faded with the beginning of what turned out to be a beautiful morning, also reminding me of the truth penned by Psalmist when he wrote “weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

Veteran's Day

2010-11-12T16:05:00.007+01:00

It’s Veteran’s Day again, yet I seem to feel the ceremoniousness of this particular day a little more deeply than I possibly have in years past. Maybe it is because my little brother is in Iraq and in harm’s way; I worry about him and miss him at the same time. I could say with an honest and forthright sincerity that a part of me is with him over there, because he is my brother, but that may not be understandable to someone who does not know us. We are so much alike and so different at the same time, still the bond between us transcends the miles we’ve spent apart throughout his career.

I have others in the military, young men and women who served and are serving still. Mere children to me when I reflect back on the time they spent in my Sunday School classes many years ago. They have grown and matured; obviously nowhere close in semblance to the same innocuous teenagers they were when I first met them. I worry about them as well, and I miss them in a way only a teacher can ever fully comprehend.

They are out there now, at this very moment, on the front lines serving our country and protecting a lifestyle back home in America which far too often remains taken for granted by their jaded beneficiaries. I’m as guilty as any other - living my life from day to day with little retention of how much I am blessed to be Living in the USA. They serve despite being told by our leaders that we are not exceptional as a country or a people. They serve despite being assured by those same leaders that we are arrogant, bigoted to other cultures, and no longer a Christian nation. They serve despite media pundits propagating the myth that their service is not a viable solution to the world’s problems, and instead has become the root cause of many of those problems.

Still they serve.

From the rugged deserts of Iraq to the bleak slopes of Afghanistan. In the steaming jungles of exotic locales like Guam and the Philippines. Aboard our ships in the rough waters in the North Atlantic, and under our flag in frigid wastelands above the Arctic circle. In countries like Germany and South Korea, Kuwait and Diego Garcia. Thousands of others serve with no less importance on bases in the continental U.S. as well as Alaska and Hawaii.

Usually far from home and the families they love, they perform a job that requires sacrifices unknown and perils we will never fully understand. It’s not the money or the fame, because there is very little of either to be found in their job description. It is far more than that. Watch a grizzled Vietnam veteran at a ball game when the National Anthem is played. Observe an ancient World War II veteran at a museum or monument, his eyes brimming with tears as he remembers places like Normandy or Guadalcanal. Those hardships unknown to us are encountered and withstood because of a love for their country and a reverence for the flag they represent. Our world could use a few more like them, reminding us of what we should stand for not only as a culture, but as a nation.

This year, On Veteran’s Day, it behooves us to give them their due. Be proud of our veterans, thank them publicly when you encounter one, and support groups like the USO and American Legion if and when you have the opportunity to do so. When I served, I have fond memories of people who did just that, even if all they had to offer at the time was a kind word or two.

To all our veterans, whether you serve in a far away land or at a supply depot in Charleston, thank you for your service. Thank you for keeping America safe.

Thou therefore endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.

Beneath The Rosy Tinted West

2010-11-03T16:30:00.008+01:00

I met you on a bleak October day now so many years ago. A storm was brewing in the Gulf, and your formal interview was thus delayed for a few weeks, although you had arrived on-time and prepared for your appointment that Sunday morning. I noticed immediately your firm handshake, a grip of steel coming from a very big man, but the softness of your heart was readily apparent nonetheless. When the appointment became official the following month, you warmed our hearts and invited yourself into our lives by the power of your words. His Words.

Those first few months were hard on me, as I became accustomed to the leadership of someone who knew his way around the Bible and had little incentive to tread cautiously in that capacity. You taught me so many things during those early days, and I’ll admit a lot of it was accepted only grudgingly from my own heart. But it was hard to argue with your logic as well as your reasoning on the various Biblical topics we covered, because you always backed it up with a referenced chapter and verse to fit the occasion. As music director, I learned the importance of choosing hymns for services that were not just melodically but also scripturally accurate - whereas in the past I had given it minimal thought. If they had made it into the hymnbook, I figured, somewhere down the line someone had already covered those bases. From you I learned that angels didn’t sing to the shepherds in Bethlehem, there is no scriptural reference to the wise men performing as a trio, and 'Canaan-land across the river' does not compare to the Christian’s final, eternal resting place.

You shared in my joy when my children were born again, yet refused to take any credit for the messages you preached that pricked their hearts and gave them the conviction to do so. One by one you took them into the baptistery, towering over them as you immersed them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. And of course, that wasn’t merely the end of the road or a ‘mission accomplished’ for you. You made sure you continued to teach them, exhorting them during each and every service to live their life and walk their paths according to His Word which you consistently shared from the pulpit: “Ponder the path of thy feet, and let all thy ways be established.”

Beyond the church, you showed me your talents when you took the time to help me restore one of my antique tractors. What began as a day of sandblasting took an amazing turn as you repaired worn bushings on clutch levers and fabricated fillers for damaged seat pans. You wanted the old tractor to be perfect, as you had allowed yourself to become part of the restoration process. Most of the true artists of our time are like that; a double threat of being able to express yourself with your hands as well as with words. I remember the morning I took a vacation day to help you wire your shed, all the while wondering why you needed so much electricity out there. It was only later when I witnessed the various creations that began flowing from those hands - the metal engravings, the custom woodwork, and most of all the special gifts you generously gave to my family over the years that followed.

In the time I was blessed to know you, I never saw you shy away from speaking the truth, although I know there were times when it must have been difficult for you to do so. Popularity is never bestowed on those who continuously keep their hands to the plow. I’ll admit there were a few times when I wondered in my mind why you kept preaching on keeping our church unblemished by the things of this world. You were firmly set against the items that are prone to infect the worldly churches of our day, and through your leadership and spiritual guidance we were never pulled into those dark voids. Your legacy will be a constant reminder to us if/when those sins become attractive to us in our future.

Across the road from my house and on my brother’s land there stands a wrought-iron gate. It’s a statement for the importance of keeping things safe and secure, a testament designed, fabricated, and put together by strong hands fit for the purpose. Each seam is welded to perfection, the hinges swing flawlessly, and the hasp forms a perfect latch. The beautiful gate you designed and built for my brother will stand as a vibrant testimony of the importance of safekeeping, very much akin to the manner in which you held our church securely against the wiles of the devil for so many years.

I sang a very special, scriptural song that you had passed on to me many years ago, as a tribute to you during your funeral. It was a difficult task to perform from a soul weighed down by sadness. Yet I was comforted in my heart, warmed in the knowledge that we’ll meet again over in a land of perfect day.

Some day, when fades the golden sun
Beneath the rosy tinted west,
My blessèd Lord will say, “Well done!”
And I shall enter into rest.

Birthday Hope

2010-10-27T22:07:00.009+02:00

I found myself in the early hours of the morning, awake but waiting for the alarm clock to make it official for me to be so. Kim muttered in her sleep, oblivious to me or the dawn that waited quietly, holding an unsteady peace for yet a little while longer before thrusting its welcoming light through our window. As I became cognizant of the day ahead of me, my responsibilities and duties, in the far away distance I overheard the rumble of an early morning freight train barreling through McNeill. Interspersed with those rumbles were the calling barks of an indistinct dog, and I wondered when Tink would come and get me to open the door for her so she could go out and investigate. The air conditioner kicked on, breaking me from my reverie by diminishing those interloping sound bites from the world beyond my bed.

I reached over and aborted the alarm clock from its thankless mission, and rose despite the symphony of newly discovered pains in various joints that I’ve learned to call my own. As I made my way down the hallway to the television and the ever-waiting Tinkerbelle, it occurred to me that today was, in fact, my birthday. It gave me pause, exciting me and flustering me at the same time. The excitement stems from a long, dormant portion of my memory hidden by years passed, of a time when birthdays were special and meant no more than presents and cake. The fluster revolves around birth-date recall, and the addition and subtraction required these days to decipher how old I’ve actually become. Let’s see now, 2010, uh, minus 1962, equals uh, forty-eight. Forty Eight???? What tha… how tha? Followed quickly by the obligatory: Where did all those years go?

They’re not so bad really, these special dates we call birthdays. They should be much more than just an annual measuring stick of days gone by. It’s a time for a reflection of the past year, and a time to set goals for the year that begins anew on that date. The calendar turns, yet the Kingdom of Hope continues, and I hope it stays that way for me as I delve ever onward into my twilight years. The writer of Proverbs understood this inspired concept, “Where there is no vision, the people perish.”

Despite the abundant evidence of a broken world, I choose to believe in G_d’s unchanging grace and trust in Him because He holds my future in His hands. That’s important, because left to my own devices, I only see the world through the jaded glasses of someone who has read too much and seen far more than he should have. In the perspective of those glasses, bad appears to be winning and good is no more than a dark horse favorite by this part of the journey. Without faith, a strong faith, the doorway to cynicism is the only one that remains unlocked; beckoning me to enter. There could be no other choice for me. But I have a faith that gives me hope, and in turn, hope shares her vision with me.

Her vision tells me that one day I will reach maturity and the stupid things I am prone to do will no longer plague me in life. You’d think I would be there by this point, but all of the internal polling data proves otherwise. With faith and a vision, however, anything is possible.

Her vision tells me that my marriage will only get sweeter as the years go by. A love born of caring and fashioned by so much more than fate will continue to grow; blossoming into something beyond the realm of the merely normal or mundane as we grow old together.

Her vision tells me my children will grow and mature in their own way, and that I’ll be able to grasp the concept that it is supposed to be as such. Their very own faith, instilled by a firm hand that pushed them toward G_d at a young age, will prove to be more than enough to do so. Keagan will pass nursing school. Sheena and Brandon will achieve all of their goals. Scott, KT, and Parker will grow, with Scott now the head of his own little family. Tyler will manage to survive junior high.

Her vision reminds me that things will work out. Life will go on. The bills will get paid. The job will get done. Time will always heal. The blog will get written.

Most of all, this vision shared with me by hope through the faith I have in One who is bigger than I is sure to pervade my consciousness long beyond my birthday.

One Nation, Indivisible

2010-10-26T17:03:00.003+02:00

We have a big-screen television in the conference room for video conferences between customers and the sales office staff. During the rest of its existence, it stays tuned to a well-known news network for most of the day. It’s hard to get your morning coffee and not have something displayed thereon catch your eye for a moment or two. It happens to me all the time. This morning as I brewed my K-cup of exotic, not-so-great-tasting-breakfast-blend-java, a story was reported of a woman being stomped at a political rally in Kentucky. The term I use here, stomped, can be taken as literal in this instance; the video could not be interpreted otherwise. Sadly, it was the party I usually consider as ‘the good guys’ who were in charge of the stomping. It was probably a set-up - she had on a fake wig and was the only dissenting voice in the crowd, but the beat-down wasn’t justified regardless. Sometimes you can be completely right and still be totally wrong. Where is this country headed, and what is it all boiling down to here in the good ‘ole USA?

Less than a week ago video surfaced of a U.S. Representative leading Congress from the floor of the House in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, except she conspicuously went silent when she reached the point where the words ‘under G_d’ would normally be said. The incident took place on April 17, 2002, or almost a full decade ago. I guess it took a while for either the video to surface, or for someone to garner the courage to complain about it. Sadly, I feel as though more than likely it is probably the latter. Courage can be found all over the place when an election is right around the corner and my so-called ‘good guys’ need a few more votes.

On three occasions in a little more than a month, our own President, bless him, has been caught deleting the reference to G_d while quoting a portion of the Declaration of Independence. For whatever reason, he glaringly omits the founding document’s acknowledgment of G_d as the “Creator” and therefore the source of human rights. Where the Declaration states, "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," the President has quoted only that all men "are endowed" with certain rights. Again, very few of the ‘good guys’ have called him out on this. Maybe they are saving it for the Presidential election in a couple of years?

On one side we have a party that is consumed with removing and deleting G_d from everything public and private. They propose an agenda of government control, abortion, suicidal economic policy, gay rights, and the destruction of the family. Yet on the other side, the second party seems satisfied to chronically allow this godless agenda to proceed until election time, at which point they begin blasting the ideology of the first party in an effort to gain my (the conservative) vote. We have a two-party system; there are no other viable alternatives when I find myself in line at the ballot box.

Politics makes my head hurt. I think I’ll ignore it and catch up on Survivor instead. Maybe more Monday Night Football is on tap. Pass the biscuits, please.

Our country is fast achieving critical mass right now. (Duh!) The crux of the matter is that we, with very few exceptions, no longer have a recognizable fear of G_d – neither as a society nor as individuals. To openly ridicule the Creator and disavow oneself from His laws is blatantly evil. To attempt to use Him for political gain is another story in itself and just as bad. To stand by and say or do nothing at all, simply ride the storm out while straddling a fence called oblivion is no solution, either. When Pilate washed his hands, by metaphorically making no decision he had in fact made a terminal one.

I sense a need for a return to the time and mind-set of Job. His answer to his detractors is recorded in chapter 13: “Shall not His excellency make you afraid? and His dread fall upon you? Your remembrances are like unto ashes, your bodies to bodies of clay. Hold your peace, let me alone, that I may speak, and let come on me what will.”

It’s time for Christians to boldly speak up, with an expressed fear of the Almighty, and let the chips fall where they may.

On The Watch

2010-10-21T18:38:00.005+02:00

I was in a safety meeting this morning and a topic came up about individual responsibility. Now there is a topic for you – a lost art, this concept of individual responsibility. Not in our day and age anyway. We can always find someone else to blame for whatever ails each and every one of us. Momma didn’t love me enough, daddy was too stern, or the bullies were mean to me in school; so I went on a tri-state killing spree but it wasn’t my fault. That’s facetious, but you get my drift.

However, in the meeting this morning, (and thankfully because I had my pulpit ready to go when the topic was first mentioned) the content instead revolved around the responsibility of a person to watch out and be alert for his or her own safety in the workplace. Furthermore, we discussed the responsibility we had to others around us, to warn them if what they were doing was unsafe. The concept of not being your brother’s keeper pales comparatively when your crew works around rotating equipment that contains knives and sharp edges on said equipment. The general consensus by the end of the meeting was to make sure all of our employees understood the importance of watching out for each other.

As I walked back to my office, I thought about a time I had to intervene in the safety of my youngest son. I guess he was four years old at the time, and was ‘helping’ his daddy work on a 1941 John Deere 'H' tractor. I was standing there watching it idle, trying to diagnose an intermittent miss-fire and of course he was right under me. The old tractor has an exposed flywheel, and it was spinning, as they do, while the engine was in play. Something caught my eye, call it serendipity but I know better, and somehow I knew what he was about to do before he did it. Casually he stuck his hand out to grab the spinning flywheel, and thankfully, before he could do so, I grabbed his hand and pulled him back. Even today I shudder to think of the possibilities of a four-year-old hand coming in contact with the jagged bolts in the center of a spinning flywheel. It could have been bad, indeed, and I would have had to live with his damage for the rest of my life.

A few months later he and I were walking through the woods to my parent’s house, him in the lead and babbling incessantly as they do at that age, when I looked ahead and saw a moccasin crossing the path ahead of us. A very angry snake he was, and we were both a potential vent for all of his reptilian frustrations. I stopped Tyler in time, and I used a convenient stick to dispatch the snake to his celestial dirt nap. But it could have been bad. Very small children and snake bites are just not meant for each other.

I watched out for Tyler back then, and I do so now. Sometimes I do better at it than at other times, but for the most part, he has survived with no more than a close call or two. It’s my job as a parent, I get that, and so I do the best I can. It’s been that way with all of my kids over the years, and it is not something a father does to get a medal or achieve public acclaim. Watching out for your children falls more often than not in the areas of responsibility and duty, and should never be merely for justification or a perceived reward. You watch out for them. And you do your utmost to keep them safe. After all, it’s a very dangerous world we live in today.

We watch out for our children because we know the ropes, we’ve been there. We have the experience garnered and stored over our lifetime to share with them. Things like ‘don’t go barefoot on a cold day or you’ll get a sore throat’ and ‘get your finger away from that wall socket or you’ll get shocked’ go hand-in-hand with ‘if everybody jumped off a cliff, would you?’

I was thinking how this principle of watching out for our children also applies to the relationship between older, mature Christians and younger, newer members of the Family of G_d. Walking the Christian walk is difficult enough when you try and go it alone. It gets a lot easier when you have someone on the path with you, especially someone with a little more maturity and experience in the issues each of us will surely face in life. In my walk I have been blessed with many wonderful examples to follow from older folks who knew the way to go. They were quick to point out the flaws in my behavior, and most importantly, they shared their advice with more than a little bit of love thrown in for good measure. Because of the things they taught me and showed me along the way, I can be a better Christian today.

We are our brother’s keeper. Paul writes: “As ye know how we exhorted and comforted and charged every one of you, as a father doth his children. That ye would walk worthy of G_d, who hath called you unto His kingdom and glory.” That’s plain enough for me. It is our responsibility to watch out for our fellow brothers and sisters in the same manner as we would watch out for our very own children. In return, it is comforting to know that they will also be there watching out for us.

That's a very important relationship to have when the devil puts those proverbial spinning flywheels and poisonous snakes across our path.

Wearing It Well

2010-10-18T21:50:00.006+02:00

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about changing my career. With the way my 401k is performing, retirement seems to be an extremely elusive goal - at least as far as my bank account is concerned. I need a job that will pay me huge amounts of money, crazy money, and I need to start looking now. If not, I will have to continue my working career well into my 80s or possibly even my 90s. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Airline pilot. That’s the ticket. I’m sure they probably make well over 200k a year if they are connected with a major airline. Sure, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be and I know nothing at all about flying a jumbo jet, but I can’t let a few tiny little details stop me. True, I’ve never had training as a pilot, but I do recall one time where a friend of mine let me take the controls of a Piper Seneca II while we were airborne en route to Sylacauga a few years back. So I’ve actually (kinda) flown a plane - for a few short seconds, anyway.

I’ve read biographical sketches on some very fine pilots, too. My favorites were Eddie Rickenbacker and John Glenn. I can share many details about their flying exploits as well as their personal lives – they were both exceptional pilots. Eddie cut his teeth during the bi-plane era, while John used his fighter jet experience to propel himself into the space program during its infancy back in the 1950’s and 1960’s. A few good men, they were, with the right stuff. And they were both aviation pioneers in their own right.

Now that I’ve mentioned it, I have also become acquainted with quite a few aeronautical terms in my reading. I know words like yaw and pitch, turbulence, and the deck. With a little brushing up on my part, I should be able to really talk the talk. If I completely immerse and apply myself, I might just be able to convince others of what a fine pilot I am.

Once while we were flying to Sylacauga, my pilot-friend showed me the flight plan and explained it to me. I’ll admit I did not really pay close attention to it at the time, but I know what it was for. To get to your destination, you have to have a flight plan filed with the proper authorities, and flying without one is a punishable offense. I know what a flight plan looks like and, most importantly, I know where to sign it. Surely that will be enough to impress any future, prospective employer.

And here’s the capper: A few years ago I did a little genealogical study on my family’s history. Guess what? Listed in the archives right around the beginning of the last century, via a far-off cousin, my family was related to none other than Orville and Wilbur Wright! That’s right (no pun intended), I even have the proper blood line to be a commercial aviator. At this point I feel as though it’s a shoo-in for me to be very soon flying the friendly skies as a pilot, thundering my 747 or 757 across the globe to the applause of millions of friendly sky travelers, and receiving a substantial pay check to boot. I’m getting chills just thinking about it.

Oh, you say, there’s a problem? What? No degree from an accredited school? No actual experience? No… license?

What do you know? Who are you to rain on my well-thought-out parade?

I can talk the talk, and I have the lineage. I’ve studied the lives of pilots and what is even more; I look good in a uniform due to my younger years in the military. Believe me, I can wear it well.

(Sigh) On second thought, I guess you’re right. There are steps that need to be taken, and talking the talk is not the same as actually walking the walk. I can’t become an airline pilot based on lineage or knowledge of the lives of historical pilots. It’s ludicrous to think that way. And though I can buy a uniform at a costume store, and wear it well enough to actually look like a pilot and might even fool a few people in the process, I’ll still be a cheap imitation. I can know the nuances of a flight plan, and throw in a few words from the pilot jargon handbook, but the problem will arise when I actually get behind the wheel and find myself face-to-face with all of those buttons and switches. At that point even I will have to admit I am lost as a goose in the cockpit. The game will be over. An epic fail will result, as my youngest son would say.

This sounds preposterous and it should, not only in the realm of aviation, but in the spiritual world as well. I also cannot be born again based upon my knowledge of the lives of other Christians, and I can’t merely put on a good show by saying and doing all the right things. In doing so, although I might fool others, I cannot fool G_d. By the same token, salvation cannot be gained through my family or by my relatives; it is something I have to do on my own. Jesus described it like this: “This people draweth nigh unto me with their mouth, and honoureth me with their lips; but their heart is far from me.”

Salvation must be a personal commitment to Jesus Christ. There is no other way and there is no secret, hidden short cut to achieve it otherwise. Saying the right things over and over, attending church on a regular basis, and talking about G_d to all who will listen is not enough. It has to be personal and from the heart. It’s about losing your will and giving in to His will, and accepting the salvation that He so readily offers to each and every one of us.

Guess I’ll just stick to being an engineer and depend on Him to handle those things in the future that I cannot control. That’s a much better career plan.

Freedom

2010-10-14T16:15:00.007+02:00

Going back through some blog posts this morning, I think I see a pattern developing over the past few days. My blogs have been decidedly dark in both nature and expression. Maybe it is due to some things I have been going through in my personal life that I can’t seem to be able to get a grip on. It appears as though I have lost my mojo at handling issues that would not have been a problem for me in years past. In a nutshell, I have become an angry old man, a curmudgeon, way ahead of my time – the horror! I’d call my shrink but I don’t have one.

I‘m sitting here watching Tink drink her morning cup of coffee, which in itself is a strange enough way to start the day to someone who doesn’t know me. Tinkerbelle is my six-year-old Jack Russell/Mini Daschund mixed dog. I don’t give her a whole cup, (PETA alert!) she only gets to lick the cup when I’m finished. But she loves the taste and I’m guessing it’s the sugar I leave behind in the bottom of the vessel. It is a morning ritual we share before I depart for work - I drink the coffee while she watches me, frantically licking her lips and whining, and then I hold the cup for her as she licks the sweet residue. Crazy dog.

I enjoy watching her tree-up squirrels during these cool, Fall evening as well. The limb rats are as big as she, and I think they have figured it out and are no longer afraid of her. They taunt her from the lower limbs; racing down toward her and then swiftly returning to their just-out-of-reach perches before she can close the deal. Tink used to chase them in anger, barking her distaste for all things squirrel as she hotly pursued them across the yard and up the tree. These days, with age and a little (a lot) of added weight, she merely whines her disapproval at their antics, and looks over at me as if I am supposed to do something – anything. I have a very strict policy against shooting yard squirrels, even if they are in season, so she is on her own.

You’d think she’d learn to live with them or at least ignore them. It would more than likely make things a little easier for her in the doggy realm, especially since the fear has left the equation on the part of her prey. She never learns, though. It is against her nature and all of the instincts she holds on dearest to as a canine. She must chase them, there appears to be no other option. I feel sorry for her and wish I could help her achieve freedom from those demons that harass her, if only in her mind.

Watching Tink these days hits a little too close to home for me, because I find myself doing the same things in my life. I’m taunted by many things that are simply beyond my control, and while I used to attack them head-on with all of the gusto I can manage; now I simply sit back and whine about it. That gets old to not only me, but others as well, I’m sure of it. I cannot change those things no more than Tink can change a squirrel gang’s propensity for searching our yard for fallen or misplaced acorns. It is what they do, and… it is what they do.

Sadly, in my own heart I should be far ahead of her, because I know the answer to achieving freedom from my own demons that badger me in my life. Those demons are sin, and their modus operandi is to find a way to cause me to become a servant to them. I’m human, and I inherited a bad ole sinful nature from my great-great (great great great) grandfather Adam. As a result, I have those demons to face at what appears to be (but is not limited to) each waking moment of every day of my life. Those demons have a dark desire to taunt me, to destroy me, but most of all - to enslave me.

Jesus said, “Whosoever committeth sin is the servant of sin.” Those demons with their sometimes hidden, sometimes obvious agenda can far too often obtain their goal of conquering my heart and controlling my life, making me a servant of sin in the process. I know this, yet despite that knowledge things seldom change. I get angry. I get frustrated. I don’t perform the things G_d would have me perform. I get tempted. I fall. And all the while they run down the tree right in front of me, just out of reach, and they taunt me. They laugh and high-five each other every time I go astray and all they leave in their wake is my broken heart, whining for someone to do something about it and knowing that once again I have become a slave to my very own thoughts and actions. It’s a sad state to be in, I tell ya.

There is good news, however...

Jesus has already paid my sin debt. He already conquered those demons. Unlike me and Tink, He will step in and do something about those things in my life I can no longer control - if only I will ask Him to. Following the quote I mentioned above, Jesus went on to say, “If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.” Free from what? Free from being a servant to the sin that besets my heart at every corner and turn. A note worth mentioning here is that it is not a promise I will be perfect in my life. I still have gramp’s inheritance I mentioned earlier to fight and keep under control. But I am free from the penalty and ramification of sin, and that alone ‘takes care of ‘ those malicious things in the trees of my life. And though I may feel compelled, I am no longer forced to chase after them.

Free indeed.

Getting Over It

2010-10-11T18:45:00.005+02:00

What a weekend, sports fans! I spent the better part of Saturday in Hattiesburg, and was forced to perform my typical-weekend perusal of college football via my cell phone. I scanned the updates as Alabama absorbed a poll-upheaving loss at South Carolina, while USM jumped out to a big lead and then lost to East Carolina. I made it home in time to witness a dramatic game between Florida and LSU, which seemed to go later into the night than it actually did.

The Saints played late on Sunday afternoon, coinciding with an early-evening NASCAR race start time, so I used my DVR to record both and watched them sans commercial breaks after I arrived home last night from church. My driver did not fare very well in the race and the Saints lost ugly to Arizona, capping off a contest that left many of their so-called fans shaking their heads in disgust. The Times Picayune was rife with reader comments this morning that closely resembled the sound of rats abandoning a sinking bandwagon. (Or something like that, anyway) I’m a lifelong Saints fan – I’ve seen worse times for them in years past. I don’t get too high after a win or too low following a loss because there’s always next week for the boys from the funny-shaped building on Poydras street. I have no real choice in the matter and can take my fan-lumps with the best of them.

Those fickle followers, I tell ya. Nine months ago the streets of New Orleans were filled with fans who believed the team could do no wrong. Sean Peyton could have won in a race for mayor of the beleaguered city; Drew Brees was on pace for an even higher office. (Note the “In Brees We Trust!” banners) Store shelves burgeoned with black and gold merchandise and the mere sight of a Saints player in public would set off a melee for autographs and photo ops. By the time the Super Bowl ended and the victory parades gave way to regular Mardi Gras parades, there yet remained an undiminished feeling of euphoria as ‘our team’ was celebrated for a championship season that came very close to perfection.

Now, less than two months into a new season the same fans are jumping ship because of a perceived shoddy display of output on the part of those same players; players idolized less than a month ago. As one ‘fan’ put it in his comment to an article this morning, “I used to be a fan, but I got over it. Time to bring back the paper bags.” In this statement he is referring to a time in the early 1980’s when fans wore bags over their heads due to the fact the team was so wretchedly bad at the time.

No one stays on top forever. Today’s Tiffany will always be eclipsed by tomorrow’s Miley Cyrus. The Tony Dorsett of yesterday is forgotten with the thrilling ascent of a newer, faster Chris Johnson today. Much like the commenter I quoted above, we get over it and move on in a never-ending search for whatever awaits us over the next horizon.

Sadly, these things are not merely limited to the physical world. A young man stopped by last night to watch the recorded game with me, but it was only a pretense on his part. In actuality he had been encumbered with some recent spiritual questions in his life and basically needed to use me as a sounding board. I did the best I could in providing meager answers and soft advice to the soul searching questions he posited, at least, I hope I did. I do not have all of the answers - and that may be the most truthful thing I’ve yet written in this blog. Thankfully, more than anything else, he just needed a prod in the right direction and I was able to decipher this by the time we finished our conversation. He is a good kid, and by faith I believe that he will continue to walk the straight path that all Christians aspire to. I watched him grow up in our church; he attended my Sunday School class as a teen and I know his heart better than most, maybe.

There have been countless others over the years, some got it and others apparently didn’t. I cringe when I hear the stories, usually second hand, and I pray for those kids, my kids, when I receive an update on a spiritual walk gone awry. It is not for me to judge and I never do, but it has a way of hurting me anyway; a proverbial heartbreak with each and every tidbit that finds its way back to me. As a Sunday School teacher, and as a youth leader – where did I fail them? With no recourse for me beyond a judgment that is not mine to verdict, I do the only thing I can be certain of: I pray for them. And with an admittedly weak faith, I faithfully hope it is enough.

I recall a time in my younger days when I fell away from my Christian walk as well, despite the best efforts of those who taught me and prayerfully advised me as I grew up. Looking back, I acknowledge it was my own fault and also know there was nothing else anyone could have done to coerce me to stick to the right path. It was during that time in my life, despite the Bible, despite knowing G_d had a plan for my life, and despite my Christian faith - I simply got over it. Those were dark days, indeed. I remember with not a little sorrow those lonely days of making an attempt to forge my own way and follow my rules along with my misguided ideas on life. I made it back, albeit in a tough and thankless manner, with many a tear-stained eye in my wake. But someone was praying for me. Somebody loved me. Someone believed in me. My return to G_d would not have happened otherwise.

Paul writes, “For this cause we also, since the day we heard it, do not cease to pray for you, and to desire that ye might be filled with the knowledge of his will in all wisdom and spiritual understanding.”

I can return that favor for others who vacate the bandwagon of faith and get over it when a spiritual walk appears meaningless compared to the things Satan’s world apparently has to offer. They might just make it back as well. The possibilities are endless when your Heavenly Father specializes in the impossible.

In The Heart Of A Child

2010-10-07T16:57:00.005+02:00

I was reading a news article this morning discussing an 8-year-old in Broward County, Florida who was expelled from school for bringing a toy gun to class. The school has a ‘zero tolerance’ policy on weapons, and although the gun was a toy, it turns out it was capable of firing projectiles. Thus it was considered dangerous and the kid was discharged from school for a year. A quick search on the Net and the story behind the culprit gun was uncovered – it was capable of shooting Styrofoam darts and is available at any Wal-Mart or Toys-R-Us in the neighborhood. Guess he coulda put an eye out or something with that dangerous projectile shooter, who knows. The bad thing is, the incident happened last year, the boy has yet to be reinstated in school, and unless the school board intervenes, he won’t be. Second graders these days, you just can’t trust them, I tell ya.

It made me think of another time and another place, vivid memories of the things boys are prone to do for apparently no good reason. A good friend and I had camped out in the deep woods, hoping to get a jump-start on squirrel-hunting season the following morning. We were using his car, so we had to have been at least fifteen-years-old at the time to have a vehicular license to do such. We had spent an abnormally cold night in his car, a 1953 Chevrolet that had seen better days, and awoke to a dusting of frost on the ground. Fortunately, the night before was cold enough that we had recognized the importance of bringing coats and ski-caps along with us, so we hit the woods at daylight despite the chill. His pump 20-gauge and my father’s borrowed 12-auto reported our progress through the autumnized trees as the crisp dawn gave way to a beautiful South Mississippi morning.

Because we were boys, and the only thing on our mind the night before had been tree rodents, we had brought no food to share between the two of us. I vividly remember that by the time 9 AM rolled around, my stomach was gnawing at my intestines in a way that only a teen-aged boy will ever fully appreciate. We needed a trip to the store, and fast. The squirrel-hunting had played itself out by that hour anyway, so we loaded the guns in the car, got in, and headed for town.

Looking back now, with the benefit of age and wisdom, all we had to do was enter the store, get a honey bun or candy bar, maybe some chips, grab a coke or two, pay, and we’d be on our way. That is the way it works in the sane world - happens just like that every day. Yet for some reason, we decided… No, we postulated. (That can’t be it either as boys in their teens don’t know what that means) We figured it would be a good idea to ‘pull a good ‘un’ on the small store’s proprietor, who we both knew well and who we also knew reciprocated our recognition. He was a young adult at the time, and we thought he was 'cool' because he turned old cars into hot rods as a hobby.

So we exited the vehicle with our ski-masks pulled down over our faces, guns in hand, and loudly announced as we entered the store that we were ‘here to get all your Fig Newton bars’ and if he complied ‘no one would get hurt’. It did not go as planned because he never looked up from his paper. “Shannon, Scott, what are you two idiots up to?” He responded stoically. With much chagrin we leaned our guns against the counter and took off our masks, disappointed that we did not get the desired reaction out of him.

He gave us a mild lecture on the dangers of performing a hold up gag in broad daylight and on the main street of McNeill, no less. He advised us that although it was kind of funny, the local law enforcement officials might not see it as such had they happened to cruise by at that particular moment. We lowered our heads, the reality of our stupid prank beginning to hit home to the two of us. Ever a great person, he fixed us both a cup of coffee and gave us a Little Debbie snack cake ‘on the house’. The free snack paled in comparison to the experience of an adult sharing a cup of coffee with us, and though the remainder of the conversation that morning has faded from my memory, I do fondly remember that much. Lucky for us, he didn’t tell our parents about the prank, and I am sure of that because there were no violent repercussions when I arrived home later in the day. The writer of Proverbs states: “Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.” The Lord knows my momma believed in that verse sincerely enough to drive out most of the foolishness from my system as I grew up.

I can’t help but wonder, after reading the article from Broward County, how things would end much differently if a current teenager of this day and age pulled the same sort of stunt we did. I shudder to think of it. For us it was a spur of the moment prank and nothing more – we were good kids when all was said and done. There was absolutely no malice, and surely no sincerity to our actions. Maybe kids have changed. Or maybe they just need a few more understanding adults willing to play the part of mentor and guide when their actions get out of hand and cross the gray areas between good and bad behavior. We were lucky enough to have those sorts of people in our lives back then, and I’m very thankful to have known them today.

Silly Little Bracelets

2010-10-06T15:28:00.005+02:00

While using the elliptical machine at the gym today, I had an epiphany. Well, sort of anyway. As I watched my heart rate climb (which is important to do at my age) I noticed according to the manufacturer’s chart (placed conspicuously by the display) I had actually gone back in time. Yes, conferring to the chart I had either metaphysically reverted to my twenties again, or I was on a torrid pace for a massive coronary. Looks can be deceiving, eh?

Back at work I am watching as one of my projects comes to fruition. (I actually perform work at the plant from time to time) We are installing a new air compressor, and the piping had been completed, the electrical service and controls were in place; all that remained was for a factory start-up technician to drop by and make sure we had everything as it should be before powering the unit into service. I scheduled the visit last week and following a lot of red tape, our technician was slated to arrive this morning at 8 AM. Of course, things being as they are these days, he didn’t arrive until after lunch.

When he arrived, my first thought was that he was simply too young to be a very good technician. He had a funny haircut and an accent that did not bode well for communicating with the good people of the South. Don’t get me wrong, he seemed nice enough, but what closed the deal for me and my obviously not-so-great first impression was the bracelet on his arm. It was one of those ‘fun bracelets’ that the kids are wearing these days, you know the ones, plastic-colored little animals and such until you put them on your wrist and then they simply look like raggedy scraps of who-knows-what. I tried to hide my disappointment, and instead assigned my best technician to work with him. And of course I also made sure I was in the general area to look over his shoulder in case things went downhill. I was almost certain by this point that they would.

What followed next bordered on the surreal. He went through several checks on the machine before applying power, using a well-used lap-top he had produced from somewhere deep within his greasy tool bag. While he made his very thorough checks, he even took the time to point out things to my technician that could possibly cause problems for us later on down the road. As the afternoon wore on, I got to know him a little better and it turns out he is a pretty sharp guy. But more than that, he was a joy to be around as he punctuated each step of the process with a joke or a well-told story from another job that may prove relevant to how we operate the machine once he is gone. Within a few hours or so he had the machine humming to life and it ran as smooth as catfish skin.

Somewhere along the way he noticed my side-glance infatuation with the bracelet, and offered me an explanation, although I had politely not asked. As a technician, he is on the road a lot and has a six-year-old daughter back at home. She gave him the bracelet, and told him to wear it so he ‘would not forget her.’ That bracelet had a lot of meaning to him, and knowing the story I was ashamed of my first impression. Who was I to judge without knowing the whole story?

Due to his mannerisms, as well as accessories such as a child’s bracelet, I am willing to bet he gets a lot of false first impressions when he visits places like our plant. Strangely enough, I believe after getting to know him better that he does not mind at all. You see, he has something in his demeanor I may have had at one time in my life, and have simply forgotten how it feels to be that way. So many times, so many days, I have been guilty of letting life control me, and not letting myself control life, which is the way it should be - and the way G_d designed us to be.

Most of the time, I wake each morning with a memorized list of things I have to do and a schedule I must keep. There are bills to be paid, children to be fed, and a boss to satisfy – I know the score and how the game is played. I’m pretty good at it by this point in my life. But there has to be more to this than merely keeping a schedule and doing the required things and handling the responsibilities I face as an adult. If not then why am I here and what is this ‘life’ I live really all about? Is the world simply spinning and forcing me to hang on for one more hour, one more day, and if it all works out the weekend will be my only reward? Has my life become nothing more than waiting for four o’clock on Friday? That is quite a sobering thought.

Indeed.

The writer of Ecclesiastes put it this way: “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.” If I get to the end of the line and find out that all I did was work, come home, watch TV, eat, and sleep for sixty or seventy years, I’ll have a very sad existence to look back upon. There is so much more to this glorious thing we call life. There is a wife to be kissed, children to hug, flowers to smell, and a dog that needs a scratch behind the ears. There are friends to share things with, and birthday parties to attend. There are birds to hunt and fish to catch, and motorcycles begging to be ridden. Most important of all, there are personal times for me to praise G_d for giving me this opportunity to live in such a special world, a world He created, and in turn filled it up to the proverbial brim with very special people.

I’ll remember that tomorrow and be grateful when the elliptical machine transports me back to my youth. And you might just catch me wearing a silly little bracelet as I do so.

Ah, probably not on the latter, but you get my drift…

The Island

2010-10-04T18:18:00.004+02:00

A mild sea breeze glides over our coast, while waves expire in their fatal quest of pointlessly mocking the sand. The brilliant sun bakes the shoreline as palms stand sentinel over ruby-coated bougainvillea wreaths intertwined beneath them. Nesting terns call out in a timeless song, proclaiming the symphony of life that has been set before us as we methodically wander our beach, periodically dipping our feet into the cool, azure waters that surround us. Is this paradise we explore together? No, that is reserved for another life and another place much better promised and wistfully anticipated; albeit the two of us appear to be in no hurry to get there and claim that waiting shore.

Endlessly we tread amongst ever-changing dunes, sometimes swatting at sand flies, sometimes growing tired of the diet we subsist upon. Sometimes we take for granted the beauty of the moment, and sometimes we long for things that may possibly be better than those we have. Yet always we wander together.

We are never alone, even when chance or circumstances happen to find us subtly removed from each other’s side.

How did we get here? What cosmic events superseded our existence here, on this, the island we share? Was it chance or merely blind luck that carved our small atoll out of the sea and placed us upon it? We both know the answer and it brings us hope, a hope that is beyond simply ‘necessary’ if we are to face our remaining tomorrows. It is many things, this island, but it is also our island, and we do our best to ‘own it’ by the way we live our lives together. It’s not always easy. Sometimes there are storms that lash out at us from the sea, and pirates have been known to prowl these waters. I think about this as I watch you cautiously avoid stepping on a crab that is bent on crossing our path. You smile at me and it is a smile I will never grow tired of. There are no storms today, no Jolly-Rogers lurking on the horizon.

Some say our island is boring, and while that may or may not be true of their own island, this one keeps us content. Others have advised us to spruce up our island by adding a condo or two - maybe plant a different flora to the gardens we painstakingly tend. But why change what we know to be perfect? Why should we alter the things that make us both happy?

The wind blows your hair and I watch your eyes. I follow your gaze beyond the ever encircling dunes, time in this instance, creeping toward us with little remorse for what it holds in store for the two of us. Yet we walk among them unafraid, those monolithic waves of time. They can’t be stopped, and as with all things once feared, the marching sands have been melded into an acceptable compromise by both of our hearts.

Your hand in mine, something expected and yet treasured still by my heart. Always. Eternal.

Twenty-two years is a long time on an island. We’ve explored most of her reaches together and conquered or laid claim to the better part of it. But oh, there are still places that remain uncovered, and paths that have yet to be trod. They are out there waiting for us, calling our names, offering us an opportunity to avoid the mundane and seek treasures that for now are still hidden there. Together we’ll find them. We will.

When the day comes (as surely it will) to signal an end to our time on this magnificent island called marriage, my biggest hope will be to abandon it together and vacate its seamless perfection via the same vessel. You see, this wonderful place with all of its beauty would be unlivable for me if you were not around to share it with. Besides, another destination surely awaits us.

“Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.”

Jeebies

2010-09-27T18:17:00.011+02:00

A soft, warm breeze emanated across the field and over the dark waters of the small mountain lake. The sky promised much sought after rain; pregnant cumulonimbus clouds garnering up their courage to compete against an Aztec sun.

It was not a quiet afternoon, at least not at this point in time. The mid-September day with its heat and associated humidity bore much more of a semblance to Faulkner, and much less so to Frost. The primeval woods were filled with the sounds of four-wheelers belching acrid blue oil-smoke and barking Labrador retrievers, of men guffawing to each other over stories well told - the very songs of our lives. I sat on a make-shift bench; a stump seemingly placed by nature in that particular location and perfect for me to discover. Meanwhile, my watering eyes were squinting upward to a sky that mocked me for not remembering the sunglasses I had left back in the truck. I cradled the borrowed Benelli across my lap and began using all of my engineering skills in an effort to ascertain how to load it. Some say (and with authority) that it is a fool’s game to hunt birds with a borrowed weapon, especially one you have never proven against your own shoulder. But our current state of travel in the aftermath of 9-11 makes this more and more the only option available for those of us who visit far away fields and valleys in pursuit of prey.

The yelps of one or more of the dogs announced the arrival of the first bird; a brown speck interspersed with vivid color now screeching across the lake, and as luck would have her say on the matter, in my general direction. I stood and shouldered the 12-gauge, squinting against the sunlight and picked out the bird against the camouflage of the horizon. The first shot was high, and I had time for only a few intemperate thoughts about sunglasses as I pumped the next shell into the chamber and corrected my aim. The next round was true and I was rewarded with an explosion of feathers as the bird dropped into the lake in front of me. 'Jeebies’ the Lab was airborne over the deep water before I could lower the gun, a high-dive plunge from the four-foot bluff that is a rare thing of beauty and proves even harder to describe to those who have never witnessed it. He retrieved the bird and swam to a point where he could vacate the lake, whining as he dropped the bird at my feet.

“Good boy, Jeebs” I caressed his neck and ears. “That’s a really good boy!” He wagged his tail in acknowledgment that scratches to his ears and the cheerful comments sufficed as paid in full for his job well-done. Then he ambled back over to the edge of the barren field in anticipation of his next call for duty. I had met him earlier in the day for the first time, but as with most dogs, we shared an instant bond. There was nothing magical associated with our new friendship, I mean, had I fallen into the water I seriously doubt he would have dove right in after me to save my life. He might have. Yet you can feel those sorts of things with dogs, an almost accidental kinship, if you are a dog person. I am so inclined.

They live only in the moment and for the moment, do dogs. If you want to express a quadratic equation or discuss the laws of thermodynamics, forget it. It’s not their bag. If you want to voice your opinion on social relationships or politics, well, that won’t work with them either. They could care less for our silly little nuances as well as the other frivolous things we seem to try and wrap our utmost significance around. Drop a bird in front of them, however, and a well trained Lab knows exactly what he or she should do. Call it their niche in life, or calling, but they know it and never doubt themselves in the process. We frail human beings could stand to learn a thing or two from a dog. We worry or fret over the little things, and can completely lose our minds over the bigger things we face in life. Our mortgages, careers, our mutual funds and 401k plans, even the Saints… In doing so we often forget what we are here for and what our purpose is meant to be in life. I think Jeebies helped me remember, and for that I owe him much more than a pat on the head or a scratch behind the ears.

Ah, Shannon, you say, it is because you were in the woods and had time to reflect on life. No, I was actually worried about my aim failing as I am now older, or not bringing home enough birds to brag about or treat my family with. I was worried about snakes and hornet nests, the possibilities of alligators (slim), or wrenching a knee while crossing the rugged terrain. The forest served only to replace my mundane, daily fears with new ones I seldom encounter. The dog reminded me that I simply must live life and ‘do what I do’ when those fears accost me. And what I do best is depend on the One who is bigger than I. In Him I find peace and rest. In Him I find the strength to face those things in life that I can’t help but fear the most.

And which of you with taking thought can add to his stature one cubit? If ye then be not able to do that thing which is least, why take ye thought for the rest? Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” Luke 12:25-27

Sin Enters The World

2010-09-16T17:27:00.005+02:00

Youth Sunday School Lesson – 9/19/10

This week we’ll be talking about the entrance of sin into the world, and of course we’ll be in the Book of Genesis as are all of our lessons during this quarter. Two weeks ago we discussed how G_d created the world, and last week we learned how man was created in His image. In order to set the stage for this Sunday’s lesson, we must remember that everything was perfect at this time on the earth. G_d walked and talked with Adam and Eve on a daily basis, the garden was the ultimate place to be, and the man and woman lived without fear of anything bad ever happening to either of them.

You probably already know the story of the serpent, and how Satan used the serpent to trick Eve as well as Adam. I’m sure you remember from earlier classes when you were small how they were kicked out of the garden and how life changed for them afterward. But this week we are going to look at things in a different light, and in a perspective that may just teach us a little more about the choices we make in our own lives. The essence of this story (found in Genesis 3) is the contrast between what is truthful and what is a lie. Jesus told us in John 8: “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” The truth Jesus speaks about will indeed make us free, but before it does so, we must first believe in that truth.

Our story opens with Eve being faced with a temptation to eat the fruit of a forbidden tree by the serpent. Temptation is a very important part of this story, but there is a lot more to be considered here than merely ‘she was tempted and she gave in to it.’ If you’ll remember from last week, G_d had placed a special tree in the garden they were not to eat from. This one simple command from G_d was all that Adam was held accountable for during this time, and he had obviously already explained this to Eve when she arrived at this point of our story.

Satan, through the serpent, calls what G_d commanded her to do into question. The first thing we should notice here are the lies propagated by the serpent. He begins by asking Eve if G_d had told them they could eat from every tree in the garden. What he did here was to begin their conversation by asking her about G_d’s Word in a casual manner, and by verifying what she already knew to be the truth. Eve answered that G_d had told them they could in fact eat from every tree in the garden except one, but if they ate from that particular tree they had been told by G_d they would die. With an opening from Eve, Satan had the opportunity to do what he does best; he began to lie to her. Jesus reminds us that all lies come from Satan, as he is the father of lies. He (through the serpent) tells her that she won’t really die, thus calling into her mind a question as to the validity of G_d’s Word. As this point simmers in her mind, he also tells her that G_d is holding back something wonderful from her and Adam - that if they eat from the tree they will become something special. In fact, he tells her that they will become ‘like gods’ if they will simply eat the fruit from the forbidden tree.

If you look closely (and I hope you will) you can find three lies from the devil that are still being used on all of us today. First, he questions G_d’s Word: “Hath G_d said?” As young Christians we should know what the Bible tells us to do and not to do. And we should not be drawn into a debate on topics that question G_d’s Word by anyone, least of all Satan himself. It provides an opening for doubt in our hearts, and once Satan senses that first small crack in our armor, he can use his other lies to trap us and control us.

Secondly he comes right out and tells her that G_d is a liar. He tells her “Ye shall not surely die.” The Creator has no reason to lie and will never lie. He is Holy. You can take His Word to the bank, and the aftermath of the story proves this out for us. As a result of sin entering into the world, we all eventually die. Death is not a result of poor medicine, bad choices, or by accident. Death is a result of sin in our world. The Book of Hebrews plainly states this: “And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.” Because of sin, we all have an appointment with death at some time in our future.

Thirdly, Eve is told that she will become like G_d if only she will eat the fruit of this tree. This last lie from the devil is very much still in use today in our modern society, and it is easy to see it if you look for it. We as a culture feel we no longer need G_d because we are as smart as G_d and as wise as G_d. We’ve invented electricity, harnessed the atom, and have iPods and computers to play with. We treat our Creator as if He is merely a distraction instead of Someone we will be accountable to on Judgment Day.

Once the three lies from Satan are pondered by Eve, it becomes a question of her will versus G_d’s will for her life. In the end, the seeds planted by Satan and watered by her own free will bear the final fruit of sin entering into the world. We’ve had our sinful nature with us from that moment forward.

Finally, sin cannot be cured by taking a pill or even by living your life as a good person. The only cure for sin is the cure that G_d provided when He gave His only Son as a sacrifice for us on Calvary. When we accept Jesus as our Savior, we are freed from the penalty of sin. When we die, it is not the end for us – we have eternity waiting for us in a place where there will be no more sin.

Questions For Class

1. Does Satan still use the same lies on us today? Explain.
2. In verse 6, what things did Eve notice that caused her to finally give in to temptation? Are we still faced with these things today in our own lives?
3. What was Eve’s specific punishment?
4. What was Adam’s specific punishment?
5. In what way were both Adam and Eve punished?

Old Trucks, All Of Us

2010-09-15T21:37:00.006+02:00

I have a crack in my windshield – oh the humanity! As I drove to work this morning it was there, reminding me that I had waited too long to have the nice people at the glass shop seal it for me a few weeks back. Its spidery tendrils now snake across the landscape of my vision, and getting a brake tag in a few months is pretty much out of the question. I’m also thinking that it takes away from the cosmetic appearance of my beautiful GMC 4x4 - makes it look unrefined and well-used. I need to take action here, and I need to do so quickly. The windshield must be replaced.

I remember a time when a cracked windshield was hardly noticed and in a strange way, it was expected. In high school I happened to inherit (no other way to explain it) a 1962 Chevrolet pickup truck; we both shared the same life span of seventeen years at the time, that truck and I. She was rust-bucket red with a faded white cab and smoked like a steamboat churning through hard water on the Mississippi. My dad had worked magic on the engine, somehow getting her running and procuring four bald tires to get his teen-aged son mobile again following the spasmodic, premature death of my previous vehicle. Neither he nor I cared for superficial appearance at the time, because it was different back then. In a previous life, the truck bed had been used to haul garbage, and the hard-crusted debris were by then impossible to remove. The bed was also replete with a sweet-gum tree growing up from some hidden alcove above the rear wheel-wells. To cap off its impressiveness, an abandoned toilet hung askew right outside the rear window. But she ran and I proudly drove her to church one Wednesday night for her maiden voyage.

I took a little bit of ribbing from my friends, but not too much so. You see, back then we all drove junk cars and trucks – new vehicles or nice, used vehicles were reserved for the older, more established members of a family. You know, the ones with jobs who paid the bills and otherwise made the rules. We never had a problem with it because we knew better and expected less.

Before the close of that first night, my friends had graciously endowed a nickname on my beloved truck: The Rolling Junkyard. The name fit, therefore it stuck. Falling parts and pieces, rusty brown dust, and a plume of blue oil smoke followed me wherever I travelled. Putting it mildly, no one tailgated me when I was under way on those lonely country roads back then. But I drove her all over our county and even recall a few members of the fairer gender that overlooked my vehicular shortcomings and were proud to ride up front with me. Despite looks and other misgivings (a tepid smell emanating from the ancient garbage, for one), my rolling junkyard always started on the first attempt and turned out to be very forgiving in the area of gas mileage. The only regret I have today is that I cannot recall what happened to the truck, and have no pictures to share with my children when they complain about their own whips (cars) they pilot on the self-same country roads I used to.

Oh for a truck today that is as reliable and non-pretentious as that one was. Ever faithful, she carried me wherever I wanted to go with minimal complaint. Was she really a rolling junk yard? Yes, and how. But she was my rolling junk yard and I grew to love her. Eventually, I even chiseled out most of the garbage, leaving the toilet in place merely for old time’s sake. (For the record, it was not a working toilet!)

Looking back, I have a lot in common with that ancient, almost forgotten truck from yesteryear, at least in my spiritual nature. My heart is rusty, neglected, and has many flaws covered by many more layers of filth and grime. But the Master touched me, got me running again, and most of all He loves me. In many ways I find myself much akin to the woman at the well, when she said, “Come, see a man, which told me all things that ever I did: is not this the Christ?” G_d knows everything I’ve done and everything I’ll ever do, and yet He loves me anyway - despite my sordid spiritual flaws.

I can be cantankerous, moody, neglectful, and sometimes unreliable. He loves me anyway. I can be a terrible example of a Christian at times, but He bought me with Calvary’s very high price, and my soul now belongs to Him. I'll always do my best to remember that fact, and in turn do my utmost to be as reliable as I can be in my daily walk with Him. You see, His love is reciprocal. John said it best: “We love him, because he first loved us.”

Best of all, unlike my past relationship with that old truck, He also promises me in His Word that He’ll hang on to me throughout eternity.

Confessions Of A Lock-Checker

2010-09-14T18:23:00.017+02:00

Each night before I go to bed, I have a routine I regularly follow and it has reached a point where my children have decided I have obsessive/compulsive disorder. I check the locks.

Specifically, I check the locks on the house doors after I let the dog in. It is not OCD behavior to me as I only do it once and only before I turn in for the night, but it will prevent blissful slumber for me should I somehow fail to follow the set routine and find myself in bed without performing my duty.

The definitive lock that got me started down my path of habitual lock-keeping is the external door to my youngest daughter’s bedroom. She is almost twenty-years-old, in college, and entertains her own schedule; a schedule that most of the time is different from the rest of the family. As a result, she swapped bedrooms with my wife and I not long ago in order to get a room with its own outside entrance. Although she assures me she ‘never uses that door’ and there is sufficient evidence provided by the amount of cob webs growing in the hinges - I still check her door each night. It gives me peace of mind and a dad not only needs that, but basks in the security of it. After all, responsibility for the safety of my children is mine and mine alone. I understand that and of course, I get it.

But I would be remiss as a father if all I did to ascertain the safety of my children in this world was based solely upon checking the door locks on a nightly basis. So much more is required of a parent. There are bills to foot, and homework to help with, activities to attend, and things to be taught. Praise must be administered in a timely manner, and correction should be implemented on at least a customary schedule to simulacrum their minds around what is and what is not appropriate for newly recruited members of our society. Parents, myself included at times, seem to have gotten good at letting the latter slide for our foot-heel generation, and the proof can be found in newspaper reports or a simple visit to the principal’s office at the local school. We are very good at defending our children; they can do no wrong. We buy them anything they desire and expect their admiration for the frivolously materialistic things only we can provide. We’ve always said we wanted our children to have better things in life than we had at their age, and now they do. But it’s a shame when you think about it.

As a parent, I know that raising my children is more than merely insuring that they make it through school with the least amount of emotional scars possible. I have more onuses on me than simply teaching them the rules and making sure they follow them to the letter of the law. These are good things and a child that grasps the conspicuousness of each should do all right as they travel the winding road that leads to their future, but a parent’s responsibility does not end there.

I also know it is my duty to ‘train them up in the way they should go’ spiritually, which should be the number one priority for any parent. I believe and have no doubt that I will answer for the way I raised my children one day, and I’ll have to have justification for my parental manner, too, whether they turn out good or bad. This is all part of being a father, along with the smaller things like checking the locks and protecting them from all of the bad things out there in the world.

Yet,could there possibly be anything more important than praying for them on a daily basis? A daddy can’t always be there, and the same temptations I faced at their age have multiplied exponentially since I was a teenager. The things they take for granted and have become jaded toward were never thought about when I was young. It’s a different world, and a tough old world at that. They need my prayers as well as my guidance, and failing at either can have serious ramifications in the lives my children.

I think about this a lot these days, and when I do I consider Job in the Bible. The scriptures tell of a time when his kids were grown, where they threw a party at one of their houses. “And it was so, when the days of their feasting were gone about, that Job sent and sanctified them, and rose up early in the morning, and offered burnt offerings according to the number of them all: for Job said, It may be that my sons have sinned, and cursed G_d in their hearts. Thus did Job continually.”

A parent that continually prays for his children, just in case they may have done something wrong that he was not even aware of. That’s a pretty good example of a father checking the locks, and doing his best to make sure the bad things are kept at bay.

Getting Cheeky

2010-09-09T16:12:00.004+02:00

I get a chuckle or two on pretty much a daily basis when I read media reports on all things Islam in our country. We have a mosque that is going to be built near ground zero in New York, and more recently a preacher in Florida is reportedly preparing to burn copies of the Koran (or Quran, however you want to spell it) on the anniversary of Nine-Eleven. The latter story has caused quite a bit of consternation on both sides, the gist of which appears to be the fear that it will anger Muslims and could cause them to kill Americans or step up their attacks on our troops. By golly, they are already protesting in Kabul and Jakarta and the first copy has yet to touch the fire! You’d think they’d go about things in a more civil manner, having been glowingly reported by media myrmidons as ‘A Peaceful Religion’ and such. Maybe go burn a few Bibles in retaliation, possibly boycott Coca-Cola, or pledge money to the Democratic Party re-election fund, etc. Instead they promise violence and systematic retaliation – who saw that one coming?

Personally, at this point I’m not worried about the mosque in New York. I’m past the notion of either fret or fear on the issue. The current slant of government, in both the Big Apple and in D.C. will allow them to build if they have the money, and if they can find a contractor to do the job. So be it. I know it will actually be a symbol of conquest as mosques have usually been in the past, (Jerusalem, Cordoba) and I know on the other side they are saying it will bring the faiths together in harmony (wink, wink). But for now at least, I do not see how a mosque will change my life, my faith, or my taxes one iota in the interim. I lived in Gotham back in the mid-eighties, within ear shot of ground zero to be precise (Governor’s Island). The people are a different breed than we hay-seeds down here in the South. They have a harder edge about them and can handle the situation no matter how it works out. I’m betting there are certain types already lining up to paint unintelligible (at least to me) graffiti on the sides of it.

I’m mixed on the book burning issue. I have a brother in Iraq, which despite the glowing reports on the evening news is still a bad place to be, maybe even worse so these days. I’m shaking my head at the same time at the thought of Americans bridling free speech because it might upset people in foreign countries – I don’t know how to wrap my mind around that part of it just yet. You can’t live in fear and be happy about it. We Americans just aren’t wrapped that way; at least we used to not be anyway.

Consider me a heretic to the Islamic faith because I do not believe in their god. Yet at the same time their faith is growing at a rate not seen in religion since the times of Rome. In New York City alone, there are already more than one hundred mosques, while back in 1970 there were only ten. What really alarms me it is the fact that most Christians know so little of their own Bible to the point they can easily be led astray by the teachings of not only the Muslim faith, but others such as Scientology or Hinduism. I do not blame the churches for this, as a personal walk with G_d is not complete without reading and studying His Word, and the key term I use here is ‘personal’. A Christian’s knowledge of the truth is something he or she must garner on their own – while I also believe a scriptural church can provide the necessary tools to aid in that very important pursuit.

So where does that leave us as Christians when we look at the perspective of Islamic growth, terrorism, and all of the things that fall in between? What I am going to say here is going to hurt. It will be hard to swallow. It might just make you angry or think I’ve lost touch with reality. But everything I do is based from G_d’s Word and the divine direction he provides for us in the pages therein.

We may decide to protest a mosque. I probably will when they finally get around to putting one up in downtown McNeill. (Fat chance - but there is an empty building across from Kahl's) But we should protest peacefully if we are going to go that route. We may be tempted to burn a few Korans while we are at it, if for nothing else than to show them we aint’ scared of ‘em. These are natural instincts and a part of our human nature. However, if in all honesty we are going to walk the walk and talk the talk as Christians, what should we really do?

Though it does not seem fair, and goes against our natural inclination, Jesus taught us the example we are to follow in Matthew 5: “But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.” If our country does not return to what it once was, and if we continue instead to elect leaders that do not have our best interests or moral values at heart, there is going to be a lot of cheek-turning required in the near future. Unfortunately, it will be the Christians that are challenged to do this, not the other religions.

People who turn the other cheek are easily taken advantage of; therefore it is best not to reach a point in our society where it will be required of us. I’m going to pray. I’m going to vote in November. I’m going to do my best to talk to my neighbors, plead with them to give up 'America’s Got Talent' and 'Glee' long enough to pay attention and become informed as to what is going on in our country - right now. Maybe they will listen. Maybe we’ll buy ourselves a little more time this Fall.

If not then I’ll add ‘face slapping’ to my gym work-outs, to toughen up my cheeks in preparation for the things that will be sure to follow.

What Price Perfection?

2010-09-08T18:50:00.003+02:00

I’ve been off from work for a few days, the old vacation-thing. Didn’t go anywhere. No, last week I made a list of things around the house that required urgent attention from me, and I took the time off from work to take care of them. The list had grown considerably by the time my wife added her requests to the tally, and for a while the issue was in doubt as to whether or not I’d be able to complete the tasks within the set time frame I’d established. But I did and I’m back at work this week with a sense of accomplishment and a renewed purpose in life. Really.

Buried in paperwork (amazing how it can pile up while you are away) I began this week with a feeling much akin to being overwhelmed, which is usually how I feel when I return to work after being out for a few days. I’ve learned through maturity and patience that you simply knock out one item at a time and eventually it all gets taken care of. But I’m drifting this morning in a back-washed sea of rabbits, I know.

I was drinking coffee this morning and talking on the phone when my eyes happened to focus in on a picture my daughter gave me for Father’s Day earlier this summer. It’s a picture of she and I on her wedding day, both of us smiling as I walked her down the aisle. Truth be told, I’m actually smiling at her like fathers do toward their daughters, and she is just smiling because of the day and what it meant for her. But it is her smile that caught my attention; the golden hair, blue eyes, and most of all her perfect teeth. Those teeth are perfectly straight, the sum of braces when she was younger at a time when her dad had a difficult time paying for them. They are also white, not white like you normally use the word to describe something, but glowing, ethereal white, almost leaping from the photographic paper. She must have had them cleaned or bleached, whitened, or whatever it is they do these days to achieve that result.

My teeth have always been bad. Crooked and discolored, a product of my own doing as well as my growing up at a time when braces had not been invented yet –at least not the affordable kind. I could change that, I could. Adult braces are becoming popular and whitening products are all the rage on the dental hygiene shelves down at Wal-Mart. Or I can merely close my mouth when someone points a camera in my direction and not worry about it. I choose the latter. It’s too late in life and I’ll be replacing them soon enough with artificial choppers anyway. Then I’ll smile for the camera.

Perfection as far as my teeth are concerned is not of vital importance to me. Probably a good thing, too. I work out at the gym religiously and watch what I eat most of the time, but my goal is not perfection in that area, either. I do what I do in those regards purely for my health these days and besides, it makes me feel better when I do so. I’ve long since given up on perfection in relationships, especially after I came to grips with the truth that I am not perfect, therefore, by the same token, I cannot expect to find perfection in others. Perfection in any facet of life is difficult, and probably impossible to obtain.

The impossibility of perfection makes it very hard for me to fathom when I consider how Jesus used the term during the Sermon on the Mount. In Matthew 5, he states, “Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.” Be perfect. (I get this mental image of Bill and Ted saying ‘Be excellent to each other’) How can I be perfect, or how can I find perfection, when I have so many flaws in my life and in my daily walk with G_d? I mean, let’s face it, I can’t garner the ability to reach perfection with my teeth, much less in the way I try to handle sin in my life. It is beyond me.

Maybe it is the value I place in perfection to begin with. I can get away with crooked, dingy teeth. I can get away with an extra pound or two and even a ‘success paunch’. I can get away (sometimes) with being a less-than-stellar father or husband. But I can’t get away with being a less-than-perfect Christian. According to that verse in Matthew, I must be perfect. Jesus didn’t say ‘try to be’ or ‘make it a goal to be’; he simply said ‘be perfect’. It’s kind of a command when you look at it that way, don’t you think?

There is a price for this perfection that Jesus mentions, but it has already been paid. When I accept what He did on the cross, (His perfect work not mine) and believe in my heart that the grave could not hold Him - I am on my way. By hiding me, covering me with His blood, and no longer depending on my own perfection but by taking on His, there is a way to reach that state of perfection. When I stand before G_d, it is not my imperfections He sees, although there are so many. Instead He sees the only thing that matters; that I am cloaked in the righteousness of His Son. “Dressed in His righteousness alone, faultless to stand before the throne.”

My perfection was bought with a price; it was truly an amazing grace that purchased it.

Casual Sins

2010-09-01T15:47:00.003+02:00

I’m all about diet and exercise these days, and I feel much better as a result. Sure, old age is creeping in and my joints and muscles no longer respond as they did in my younger years, but all in all a healthy lifestyle is worth its weight in gold when you consider the alternative. I believe I may have gone a little overboard on vitamin supplements at one point, but I’ve even managed to get that under control for the present. Yes, it is good to be the best that you can be in all three phases of life: physically, mentally, and spiritually. Hoo-rah.

Who am I kidding? I decided to forgo my mid-morning breakfast of butter-less and sugar-free nuked oatmeal this morning and replace it instead with something better. Heaven on earth has a name and it is ‘Almond Joy’. Of course, that is today – tomorrow it may be one of those monster Snickers bars at least a foot long or so. Or then again, maybe I will splurge and head down to PJ’s for a blueberry scone and one of those sissified coffee drinks where coffee has very little input upon the amount of chocolate contained therein. Yeah, that’s the ticket. And I’ll do that every day until Thanksgiving, at which point they can use me as a Macy’s Day parade-balloon.

Back to reality, I did have an Almond Joy this morning but it was bite-sized so it was not harmful to my waistline at all. Couldn’t be as small as it was. But I still feel guilty as it was something I really did not need, was not actually hungry for, and normally would have had no desire to eat. It was there in the bowl as I passed by the receptionist’s desk, and thus it ended up in my digestive tract.

What bothers me now that I have returned from lunch at the gym is how easy it was to grab that candy bar, peel the wrapper, and pop it into my mouth. It was an almost (almost) involuntary action on my part. Maybe I didn’t have my guard up early enough this morning, or maybe there is something subliminal about the blue and white wrappers used on Almond Joy bars. I’ll probably never know, but it is past history by this point and there is nothing I can do about it. I should have known better, and if/when I am honest with myself, I did.

Being flippant with regards to my diet pales in comparison to how I handle the small, seemingly insignificant sins in my life. I should never become so callous (jaded) to the circumstances around me in our world that could cause me to fall down in my daily Christian walk. It’s a lot easier for me than you might think. I drive in to work from the north end of Picayune at one of the busiest times of the morning. I have plenty of opportunities to lose my temper at those who cannot drive as well as I do. I mean, I seldom use my cell phone when I am behind the wheel and never woolgather when I find myself first in line at the red light. Gr-r-r!

When one of my guys is late for work I can usually see through most of the excuses; I’ve both heard them all before and I’ve used a few of them myself when I was in their shoes not too long ago. It’s so easy to dismiss those excuses and make the judgment in my heart that they are lying to me. I also walk up and into a lot of coffee pot conversations that no Christian should be coerced into hearing, and most of the time I can avoid them. Sometimes I do not. I’m not talking simply off-color jokes here, I believe gossip is bad for any conversation and can probably do a whole lot more harm to others.

What I’m saying today in this blog is that the opportunities for un-planned sin are abundant and can be found behind every corner and turn. A simple relaxation of your guard is all the devil needs to get his foot in the door, and boy, does he love to do that. He exists for it. It’s what he does.

I’m glad I’m not the only one that has faced this dilemma in their Spiritual walk as a Christian. Paul writes: “For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is good I find not. For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do. Now if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me. I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is present with me. For I delight in the law of God after the inward man: But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord. So then with the mind I myself serve the law of God; but with the flesh the law of sin.”

That’s a mouthful of words in those verses, but it is easy enough to understand for me because I know exactly what he was talking about. Who can deliver me from this seemingly uncontrollable urge I have to sin each day, although I try and do my best not to? Only Jesus Christ can. I’ve got to depend upon Him because I can’t do it on my own. Those casual sins are much too hard to pass by without reaching into the proverbial jar without thinking about it.

The Old Account

2010-08-30T21:20:00.004+02:00

Neither a borrower nor a lender be,
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
Hamlet - Act 1, Scene 3

I was musing on the old days when I used to have a bloated credit card or two as I remembered the above quote from Shakespeare. I was very good at ‘dulling the edge of husbandry’ back then, and can still be counted on to behave as such when I’m not mindful about avoiding those situations. Buy now; pay later – the sad mantra of our post-modern American society. Maybe you know what I’m talking about, but if you don’t, then in the words of Lynyrd Skynyrd, “You’ll get your chance to hit it one day.”

As subtle as the serpent in the Garden of Eden, a line of credit can slowly and methodically tie you up, and in the end can cause you to lose a lot of the things in life that are most important to you. The bad thing is you usually do not realize what you are doing to yourself until you have done it. I remember slumbering through a six-month period and maxing out a credit card with no idea where I had spent the ‘money’ as I had nothing to show for the tremendous balance incurred. If I remember correctly, it was mostly small items, you know, dinners and small purchases in the mall, with no real clue as to what was happening with the account balance until I received a very snooty letter from the credit card company notifying me that I was beyond my limit. Beyond my limit – now there is a phrase worth remembering. There are few phrases in the financial realm that are more ominous, I tell ya.

On reviewing that mind-numbing invoice, I scanned my billing summary and found I had made a purchase on E-bay for a chintzy item I no longer had any use for. But it was cheap, and in the grand scale of purchase versus available credit line it had seemed insignificant at the time. Yet it added to the tally, along with a six hundred dollar vacation expense at what can only rightfully be called a tourist trap. Sandwiched in between those charges were receipts for school clothes, dinner-dates with my wife, and yes, even Pizza Hut. Though some expenses were small and others not so, the sum of each incorporated a beyond my limit call and an ensuing penalty had been applied to my account by my well-paid benefactors at the credit card conglomerate.

I managed to eventually pay the card off and there are few greater joys than getting a statement in the mail that provides you with a zero-balance and the special ceremony I started that involves destroying the card. I have a shredder here at work that really chokes them down; replete with a satisfying gr-r-r-r noise as it does so. That’s good stuff. And barring a government financial bailout for me that will never come, it’s simply the way I roll.

Meanwhile I have another debt account that is constantly mounting and whether I think about or acknowledge it every day or not makes no difference to its tally. I’m talking about a sin debt that is being recorded in the Books of Heaven right now. The size of the sins I commit makes no difference, the debt accumulates regardless, and I have no way to pay it on my own. A dirty joke either told or listened to by me? A selfish thought or desire? A failure to do the things that He would have me do? They mount. And furthermore, they must be paid for.

I used to think that maybe I could work those debts off in some way or manner, you know, an x amount of good deeds might offset a single bad deed or vice-versa. But the problem for me was being able to comprehend the cost of a single sin in the first place. What penalty do you pay for a white lie in comparison to when you tell a real gully-whopper? What if some sort of emotional duress played into telling either lie, does that change the penalty? The answer is, of course, that it does not. Sin will cost me eternity. Sin costs everything.

At other times in my life I believed that my sins were comparable. If I committed a sin it was no big deal because basically I was a good guy and others have committed sins far worse than mine. Compared to Hitler we all look good, right? But my record in the Books of Heaven is not going to be compared with someone else’s record - instead I will be compared to His record while He was on earth. And in a seriously profound way, I will always pale in comparison.

G_d’s Word tells me there is only one way to clear my sin debt and wipe those books clean: “But G_d commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” There came a point in my life when I finally realized an acceptance on my part of the grace he provided through His death, burial, and resurrection is the only way I can ever be right with G_d. It’s simple, and it turns out that it is all I need, even on those days when I find myself beyond my limit.

On Prayer And Pink Cadillacs

2010-08-24T20:17:00.005+02:00

This blog as well as la dolce vita I experience each day has been temporarily interrupted by too many things going on at the present time. My job continues on at a break-neck pace (what recession?) and we found out yesterday that my wife has the Type A flu virus. So in between helping her, work, and sharing doses of Tami-flu with the kids, I seem to have found very little time to be creative. Instead things now appear to be all about mere survival, at least for the time being. A bout with the flu coming on the heels of my recent round with Epstein-Barr is hard to imagine, but it is what it is. This is not a rant on the unfairness of life - in many ways I find it amusing when I think about it and in fact have caught myself laughing hysterically at sundry times over the course of the past few days. Quem deus vult perdere, dementat prius. (Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.)

As I’ve mentioned before, sickness, frailty, problems, what ifs and if onlys – it was never supposed to be that way. The human species was meant for so much more than what/where we find ourselves in this present world.

So in the interim I pray. And I am patient about it when I do so because you can’t always be cognizant of how those prayers will be answered – He knows so much more than we do and operates on a much higher level than we can ever comprehend. Case in point : something that happened when I was ten years old that continues to baffle me even to the present day whenever I think about it - today being one of those times.

Deep in the woods behind our house back then was an assortment of wrecked/ruined vehicles. It was mostly old trucks my dad rebuilt as a hobby, but there were a few classics thrown into the mix. One particular vehicle was a rust bucket 1950’s-era pink Cadillac with huge tail fins in the back. At some point, the car had been lifted onto its side and the axles had been removed, probably for a home-made trailer application. One day one of my close friends and I decided it would make a perfect fort, if only it was knocked over into an upside down, inverted position.

It seemed to be precariously balanced there, and it looked as though a good push from the both of us would carry it right on over to the desired orientation. We were small, but it should have been doable, at least to our young minds. So we pushed, we kicked, we pried with a 2” x 4” – all to no avail. How long we continued our effort on that summer day has been forgotten by me, buried deeply in the sands of time passed by. But I can recall that eventually we understood our plans for a great fort were going to go unrewarded despite the maximum effort we had put into the project.

Finally, my friend, who attended Sunday School regularly with me (his mom taught the class) brought up the idea that we should pray for G_d to help us flip the car. We knew He could – it was only a matter of attracting His attention long enough through a fervent prayer beamed up by two pre-teenaged boys. We knelt by the car and prayed; it was a prayer that would have made the most dedicated evangelist jealous with its honest intensity. Once we finished the prayer, we got up and pushed against the car one more time, certain by this point that our goal was within reach. Nothing happened. The car would not budge. Our prayer had not affected the outcome in the least, or so it seemed to us as the sun became a fiery red glow in the west.

It’s important for me to mention here that we never doubted G_d, despite our prayer going unanswered. We just figured He was too busy to worry about two little boys and their so-called fort project. Just about the time we were ready to move on to other things, in much the manner boys are known to do at that age, we heard a noise. My dad was returning on his tractor to the barn from a Saturday afternoon he’d spent cultivating his garden. He stopped and asked us what we were doing, in a good hearted way, and we explained our desire to reconfigure the car into a fort. Reaching behind his seat, he removed a chain, fastened it to a door handle, and pulled the car over for us. Just like that, our prayer was answered.

Was it an answer to our prayer? Or was it a merely a coincidence? Dad was bound to go by there anyway, as he had to pass by on his way back to the barn. On the other hand, a minute or two later and we would have already moved on to other things and would not have been around to ask him to help us. He could have been too busy as well; adults have been known to be like that from time to time despite their best intentions. But the truth of the matter, to me anyway, is that things happened in just that sequence after we prayed a sincere prayer, never doubting with the trust of children that it would be answered.

Sadly, there have been very few times in my life since then that I have prayed with the same amount of faith and trust as I had back on that day with my friend. Our prayer was a prayer that had no room for doubt, and was not tempered by logic or scientific facts on the matter. We thought little of it; it was something we knew G_d had the power to answer and that was enough for us. The prayer also went beyond religion or theology as we were too young to know about such things. It was honest and erstwhile; a simple request asked of a Heavenly Father from two little boys that simply believed in Him. And I can’t help but believe in my calloused and jaded heart that there is a lesson to be learned here, still, even after all these years.

James writes: “The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” I’ll do my best to remember that little-boy prayer when I feel as though I’ve lost la dolce vida, and life becomes a job or responsibility instead of what it was originally meant to be.

Titanic Lessons

2010-08-18T22:54:00.009+02:00

On the evening of April 14, 1912, the RMS Titanic made her way across the dark Atlantic with 2,228 passengers and crew on board. Four days earlier they had departed Southampton, and following brief stops in Cherbourg, France and Queenstown, Ireland the ship now found herself midway across the Atlantic. I’m telling you a story that you probably already know, but it is a story that bears repeating as it is germane to us still, even at this later time in world history we now find ourselves.

Dinner that night revolved around a ten (10) course meal in the first class area of the ship. Some of those passengers, mostly well to do, had paid upwards of 4,300.00 (85,000.00 by today’s exchange rates) for the opportunity to take the maiden voyage on a brand new ship that was boastfully considered by her builders as ‘practically unsinkable’. The meal began with oysters and consommé Olga, the fourth and fifth courses included filet mignon and roast ducking. By the tenth course, those who were able could partake of peaches in chartreuse jelly or French ice cream. Wine was provided from the ship’s stores of over 1000 bottles, although if you chose ale your choices went up considerably as there were over 15,000 bottles on board - in many different varieties.

Meanwhile, the second class passengers dined on consommé, baked haddock, spring lamb, and roast turkey. Although surely not as luxurious as the upper deck passengers, the meal was not too bad despite its decidedly middle-class standards. Most amazingly, the third class and steerage passengers were allowed to eat prepared food in their own dining area. In the past, lower class passengers had been required to bring their own food, but not on the Titanic! Food was provided and though it was nowhere close in quality to what the better classes above them were eating, all in all it was a hot meal provided and paid for within the price of a one-way ticket.

Following dinner, there was entertainment performed by a live orchestra in the first class area, and if dancing was not on your list of priorities, a gymnasium, Turkish baths, and the first ever shipboard swimming pool were available to the wealthier passengers. Similar fare, though not as ostentatious, was on hand for the lower echelon passengers as well. Life was good on board the Titanic, and destined to continue forever – or at least until their scheduled arrival in New York. They danced, they played, and they sang their songs from their deck chairs as they sat in the lap of luxury with never a thought of a disaster looming just over the horizon on that unusually cool spring night.

As the Titanic cruised at a speed of 20.5 knots through those dangerous, frigid waters no less than six warnings of pack ice had been received from other vessels on that day alone. At 11:40 PM, the ship careened off an iceberg, ripping a gash on the right side which buckled the hull in several places and popped out rivets below the waterline over a length of 299 feet. The Captain made his way to the bridge, and following a thorough damage control report, he ordered the ship to be abandoned shortly after midnight. The life boats were prepared and a distress call was sent out. Life boat number 7 was the first boat to be lowered at 12:45 AM, sixty-five minutes after the original collision. Although it was rated to hold sixty-five passengers, the boat was sent away with only twenty-seven people on board. Unfortunately this turned out to be the norm for the night as most of the boats were under loaded, and two boats did not make it off the ship at all. At 2:20 AM the last visage of Titanic was seen as her stern slid below the surface and down into the depths.

Out of 2,228 passengers and crew, only 706 survived the disaster and lived to tell about it.

Today, I see our country, our people, and even members of my own family in much the same state of mind as those long ago passengers aboard the Titanic. We travel endlessly down the road of life with no inkling that tomorrow may never be, or that a critical disaster could easily sweep us all away. The signs are there, displayed for us on the news each night as the economy drifts toward oblivion and natural or man-made disasters flank us at every turn. But we continue to ignore those signs, preferring instead to watch our sitcoms and movies, even while we lose ourselves in video games or on Facebook.

When the ship first struck the iceberg, most of the surviving upper deck passengers stated that they felt a small nudge, and thought nothing of it. The lower deck passengers, however, saw the tear in the hull and witnessed the water beginning to rush into the doomed vessel. By that point, there was little that either group could have done anyway. Today it is not the wealthy that are feeling the pinch of the recession; in their world things continue in much the normal manner they are accustomed. The middle class can tell (because we watch) that something is wrong; we just have trouble wrapping our hearts and minds around it. The lower classes however, at least those who have worked hard their whole lives, know first-hand about the economy. It is their non-skilled jobs that were the first to go and seem to have the lowest opportunity of ever being recovered. Yet in the end, when the ship goes down we will all go under regardless of our standing in society.

An economic crash? Our country in trouble on various fronts? A breakdown in our system? Say it ain’t so, Shannon.

Tonight I’m actually thinking more along the lines of something even bigger than the economy and of more importance than possibly our very own country’s survival. I’m talking about the times Jesus warned us about in Matthew 24 – better known as the Olivet Discourse. “For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor ever shall be.” Yeah, I believe in that sort of thing. Maybe it’s just me. I study the Bible and pay close attention to the knowledge and wisdom contained therein. And I’m not bragging when I say that I can see the water coming in through the shattered hull of all the hopes and dreams we hold on dearest to in our world.

But let’s not worry about it, at least not tonight. Forget about a possible economic event horizon or the apocalyptic predictions of some crazy man from McNeill. Have another filet mignon or leg of roasted duck. Pull your deck chair closer to mine and we’ll watch the dark waters slide by as we listen to the band. Don’t they sound great? Such talented musicians; their lullabies can very well sing us all to sleep.

The Great King And The Virus

2010-08-09T20:28:00.004+02:00

A Parable

A long time ago and for reasons we can never fully comprehend, a Great King decided to build a perfect place. He chose an island in the middle of a peaceful, azure sea and went to work immediately to make all things, as I’ve mentioned, supremely perfect. Anything that did not belong, such as weeds, biting insects, and of course snakes, were removed. The waters that flowed lazily from the mountains on the island were filtered clear as they made their way to the pristine beaches far below. By some stroke of genius that is not available to us, he even made the temperature a perfect seventy-two degrees year round. By the time he was finished with his work, any of his subjects who witnessed it had to agree it was perfect; as no expense and no effort had been spared to make it such.

He chose two of his subjects, a man and a woman, and placed them on the island to enjoy it and take care of it. He asked for nothing from them in return. This in itself was quite unbelievable, because there wasn’t anything special about the two people, at least not compared to all of the other subjects in his kingdom. But not only was it so, it was what he wanted to do.

He instructed them on the care and management of the island, and visited the happy couple daily in the cool of the evenings to see how things were going. Although they had free run of the estate, he warned them both of a hidden cave near the mountains, for that is where he had placed all the bad things he had removed from the island during its construction. To venture into the cave would surely mean a release of those things, with an end result of the island becoming no longer perfect. It was a simple enough request on his part, because after all, anything else, including and up to the desires of their hearts, were made available to them in the perfect world in which they lived.

Time passed, how long we do not know, but of course eventually chance happened to place them at the entrance of the forbidden cave. And due to their human nature (curiosity killed the cat) they entered for ‘just a quick look’ to see the things hidden deep within the cavern for themselves. The items they saw were strangely interesting, and unusually revolting at the same time. But in any case, the damage was already done by the time they had entered the cave – even if they did not realize it. The Great King had removed a dreadful disease from the island, isolated it into a mystic vial, and placed it in the cave for safe keeping. Unfortunately as the woman looked through the contents of the cave, she stumbled and knocked the vial from its shelf, breaking it open and releasing its toxic contents into the air.

Later that evening the Great King returned and could tell that something was out of sorts as the couple no longer responded to him as they had up until that point. Through his wisdom and powers of deduction he knew what had happened and questioned them on what they had done. For the first time, the couple felt fear, an emotion that had never been part and parcel to their island paradise before. After blaming each other for the indiscretion of entering the forbidden cave, they admitted something was amiss and came clean as to their dubious deed. They knew they needed help, and they also understood the Great King was the only one who could cure them.

“You have a virus.” The Great King began. “There is no remedy for now. You must live with the symptoms in the meantime.” He explained to them that of course the island would never be the same, yet he promised them that he would return to his kingdom and develop a cure for the sickness that was already engulfing their minds and bodies. He told them that as much as it grieved him, he could not simply take them back to the kingdom – for his kingdom, like the island, was perfect and held no place for a virus-infested couple like themselves.

Time went by. The pair noticed they were getting worse. They had thoughts and desires they had never felt before. Their bodies no longer seemed to be under their own control, and the things they knew they should do, they did not. Instead their actions were mean-spirited and nasty; it was almost as if they were no longer the same two people they had been during those earlier, care-free days on the island. Worse still, their home was no longer perfect and became infested with weeds, biting insects, and of course snakes. As the years went by, they had children, and their children had children, and their wonder and awe of the Great King was replaced by doubts and an inability to understand why the King was so Great in the first place. You see, the couple’s virus had also spread to their offspring, and never knowing the Great King personally themselves, they were worse than their parents in both thought and deed. That's the funny thing about a virus - eventually you get used to the symptoms and learn to live with it.

From time to time the Great King would send a messenger to the island, offering support and a reminder that the cure was being made. In the meantime he sent laws for the inhabitants of the island to live by to prevent the evil thoughts and actions that resulted from the viral infection from getting completely out of hand. Sometimes this helped, as sometimes the growing population of the island would heed the message that was sent to them from the Great King. At other times it only served to anger them, and they mercilessly beat a few of the messengers and even murdered some of them in cold blood. Things on the island steadily grew worse and the descendents of the couple eventually formed clans and began fighting against each other. They built temples to the gods of the cave and invented the alphabet.

Finally, the Great King decided to send his son to the island. If the people would not listen to his messengers, surely they would respect his only son. It seemed like a good idea, and for a few days it worked. The son explained what the Great King was doing, and offered encouragement to the citizens of the island and helped them with the symptoms of their virus. But in the end, most of the people did not want to listen, as they no longer felt obligated to the Great King or his rule over them. One morning they seized the son, and violently murdered him on one of the hills overlooking the island.

But something happened on that day, something mysterious and very wonderful at the same time. The key to the only cure for the wretched virus was carried within the blood of the son, and had been all along. Long forgotten letters from the Great King had already explained this to the people and when they re-read them, they went back out to the rugged hill to retrieve his body. But it was no longer there - he was gone. Sadly they returned to the city, disheartened when they realized their only chance for a cure had evaded them. Most of the people returned to whatever they were doing. Phrases like 'no sense worrying over spilled milk' and 'it is what it is' pervaded their thoughts throughout the island on that bitter day. They comforted themselves by assembling a printing press and discovering gunpowder.

But some of the people knew and recalled the words from the mistreated messengers sent by the Great King in the past, and those who listened to the son while he was with them began to see things in a different light. The king had developed a cure all along, and he had been trying to let them know from the beginning. They began to understand why the son came to their island in the first place, and the price he had paid for their cure from the virus that had been passed down through their generations since its inception in the cave so very long before. The key was simply letting go and accepting the cure, and so they did. They began to teach others on the island, and to explain to them the plan the Great King had in place. Some listened and were cured; others rejected the idea as too far-fetched to believe in. Those who rejected the cure went back to their old ways while the virus grew worse and their actions became even more sordid as they gave in to the caustic throes of the disease. In turn, they manufactured fluoride toothpaste and harnessed the power of the atom.

One day the Great King returned. It was most unexpected, although he had promised from the very beginning that he would do so. Knowing that his return meant a cure for the virus, the entire population of the island met him on the beach. They watched as he loaded some of the people on his ship in preparation of carrying them back to his kingdom. They waited their turn for the mystical cure for the disease that would enable them to join those already on the boat for the return trip to a place called home. Sadly the Great King explained to them that the cure had been as he had promised; through the blood of his son. There was no other cure, and it was too late to get the only cure as the time for it had already passed them by. The Great King had returned to destroy the island and rebuild it back into what it was originally meant to be.

The people on the island moaned in anguish as they watched the boat pull away; a familiar looking young captain at the helm, as a purifying fire began to fall from the sky.

"How shall we escape, if we neglect so great salvation; which at the first began to be spoken by the Lord, and was confirmed unto us by them that heard him;" Hebrews 2:3

The Piece Which I Had Lost

2010-08-05T17:06:00.014+02:00

Today marks a great day for me, and yet it is still very early in the morning. My prodigal cell phone has been returned to me, albeit after going missing in action for over a week. It has a new scratch or two, the keypad cover is tarnished, and of course the battery is dead. But I am in the process of charging it and have already sent several text messages to friends and family, advising them that I can be reached again as needed. Some of those messages were sent to people I know in McNeill, Carriere, and Picayune. Another message will travel as far as Hattiesburg; thanking the person responsible for its safe return. One particular text is going to travel at the speed of light to Tanzania – my boss is over there on safari and he will be glad to know the phone has been found because, after all, it is a company phone. I’m sending these messages for others to share in the joy I am feeling this morning, even if it is for something as inconsequential as a cell phone.

The odds were stacked against its safe return from the start. I was on a fishing trip last week in Port Sulphur, Louisiana when I inadvertently left the phone on a night stand by my bed. It was not until I arrived in Picayune that I realized the phone was missing and immediately began making frantic phone calls from my office in an effort to locate it. Luckily, with the help of a friend in Hattiesburg who had shared the trip with me, we were notified that one of the guides had discovered the phone not too long after we had left. He agreed to mail the phone to my friend in Hattiesburg, who in turn would use his internal company mail service to dispatch the phone to me down in Picayune. In a roundabout way, I would get my phone in a few days and all would be well in my world again.

Things did not go as planned and the phone did not leave Port Sulphur until Friday; three days after it had been lost. But I was assured the phone would be delivered by Monday with no problems and no stress. I did not have a phone for communication with my job over the weekend, but that wasn’t all bad and I made do in the interim. If they needed me, they could get in touch with me via 'some other means'. Monday came; the phone arrived in Hattiesburg and was placed in the courier bin for delivery to me the following day. Tuesday morning arrived… no phone. By Wednesday afternoon we were ready to shake down the messenger service as there was no word on when they would make the delivery, and worst of all, they could not seem to find it. Finally that evening they called and reported they had located my phone; it had slipped between the seats in the delivery vehicle and had been lost yet again. The phone was waiting for me, along with a profusely apologetic courier, when I arrived at the plant this morning. Smiling, I shook his hand, the saga of the missing phone and all of the associated stress disappearing as I cradled the phone in my hand for the first time in well over a week.

You see, had the phone not been returned, I would have been required by my company to replace it using my own hard-earned money. I would have lost all of my contacts and some important notes and other data I keep (not such a great idea) in the phone’s memory card. It’s an iPhone, so there was also a good deal of music stored in the phone that I’d accumulated over the past year. In short, it would have been a problem to recover all of the things I had lost. But the phone was indeed found, and life is good once again with everything back to normal and in its place. For that reason, I’m sharing my good news with others, even if it sounds like no big deal due to the final results. Of course you may be thinking, "But it’s just a stupid phone, right?"

Jesus spoke of rejoicing over finding things that were lost: “Either what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece, doth not light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it? And when she hath found it, she calleth her friends and her neighbours together, saying, Rejoice with me; for I have found the piece which I had lost.” See, it’s not so silly or frivolous to get excited when you recover something that was important to you after it has been lost. The value is truly in the mind of the owner in those particular circumstances. You do your utmost to find those lost things that are important to you, and will not rest until you’ve done so.

Jesus was using the parable of the woman’s silver to illustrate a very important point – a point that can be lost on the reader if you leave it as simply a woman with ten silver coins that lost one and had to search for it. The whole idea of the story is the joy she felt when she found it. It wasn’t merely enough that she had found the missing coin; she wanted to share her good news with others. Hers was a pure joy. We do not know how the others perceived her sudden happiness and there is always a chance they could have considered the missing coin as something miniscule or something that could have merely been replaced had she been unsuccessful in her search and rescue effort. But I choose to believe they were happy for her, because they understood that it meant everything to her.

Jesus closed His story with an amazing comparison for us to ponder: “Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of G_d over one sinner that repenteth.” As much as the coin meant to the woman, and as important as finding my lost phone was to me, the search for lost souls is even more important to G_d. We simple, frail human beings, with all of our scratches, tarnished imperfections, and dead batteries mean everything to Him. He sacrificed it all, including His only Son, just to find us when we were lost. And even the angels rejoice when He reclaims us and brings us back home where we belong.

The Bachelorette

2010-08-03T21:54:00.009+02:00

Disclaimer: The following post may contain information that could be conceived as questionable in nature as recorded by the author. While the events described therein are truthful, the writer takes no responsibility for his actions or perceptions of the author’s masculinity that may arise in the mind of the reader. That which I did, I was compelled to do.

The Bachelorette is over. Another season, another opportunity for a couple to find true love on network television is behind us and all the visual evidence points to success on the part of Ali and Roberto. They will be married soon, kids surely on the way, and a state of perpetual bliss will rule in their lives. Or maybe it won’t. After all, something to the tune of over sixty percent of marriages end in divorce these days, according to the statistical data, so who can know these things? My wife and daughter watch the show and have been avid viewers for most of the bi-annual seasons. This one was different only because (due to sickness, high fever) somehow I managed to get caught up in in the magic of this particular chapter of the show. Ah, the wonders of Reality TV, I tell ya.

The premise is simple enough. Take a girl or a guy, put them in a sort of semi-isolation with twenty-five members of the opposite gender, and have them perform a weekly 'thinning of the herd' until we are down to three suitable candidates for marriage by the last week or so of the show. They go on dates, they visit exotic locales, they have moving conversations, and the drama continually builds as the list of spouse wannabes gets whittled down. The tabloids love it and it is all the rage on ETV and other celebrity gossip shows. Heck, I missed most of Lindsey Lohan’s imprisonment saga this summer due to my captivation with the burgeoning love affair between Ali and Roberto – the horror!

But, now that it’s over I have to wonder why it left me feeling so empty and jaded by the time it was finished. I should have seen the writing on the wall with this one, and weeks ahead of time at that. Can one truly find love on national television? At some point, does the notoriety or sudden celebrity status of the contestants play a part in the outcome? Is it all smoke and mirrors designed to make viewers believe that yes - true love can be not only achieved, but programmed via the Nielson ratings? I’d say no, although I’m cynical in this area to be sure. But they sure did look the part of a happy, young couple hopelessly in love on the finale last night. Maybe I’m just not with the times anymore.

Whatever happened to old-fashioned love? That’s what I’m saying. Meeting a girl for the first time, usually unintentional, in a supermarket or at a party – the where doesn’t matter. A flutter in your chest when your eyes meet and you get that magical little epiphany that lets you know she is interested in you as well. The tension ripping through your heart as you garner up the nerve to approach her for the first time, trying to make your words come out sans a stutter or at the very least avoid saying something totally stupid because you know you’ll regret it later if you do so. And no commercial break to bail you out should things go badly, because they sometimes do. Getting to know that person and accepting or overlooking their faults as the relationship blossoms into something better as the love grows. Buying a ring, two month’s salary, and the renewal of those earlier jitters when you officially make the proposal to share the rest of your life with her. It’s out of your hands at that point. No season two if she says 'no'.

The world looks so much easier on television, crying out to us that this is the way it should be and these are the things we should aspire toward. And we buy into it hook, line, and sinker. Supposedly in love with several people at the same time with a purpose of selecting the right one in a world of tropical paradises and (sigh) overnight dates. I’m no prude, but some things are better left for after the marriage ceremony, and swiftly lose their charm when rushed to the forefront of a relationship. But maybe things are different in the modern, fast-paced world we find ourselves in today while the convictions and beliefs I hold strongest and dearest to are now fatally outmoded and obsolete.

John writes: “Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world.”

I seriously need to consider (or reconsider) what I am watching on television these days. Thank goodness Monday Night Football is on the not-so-distant horizon.

Fishing The Marsh

2010-07-28T18:45:00.013+02:00

Our boat left the dock early in the morning, destined for a Faulkner-esque expedition through the Louisiana marshes into Shell Island and Bastian Bay. My fever had mercifully broken three days previous, but I was still apprehensive about a fishing trip I was not quite sure I was physically ready to be a part of. As I pondered my decision, the curiosity swirling through my mind of the effects of the oil spill on the southern coasts of our sister state proved to be the over-riding incentive for me to take the voyage. So this is where the morning found me.

The trip had been planned, postponed, and then planned again many times during the previous two months, finally consummated in a phone call last Sunday night:

“Weather’s clear, we’re heading down to Sulphur tomorrow night. You coming down?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Fishing zones open?”
“Yes. All of our usual spots are available.”
“Catch and release, or do we get to keep ‘em?”
“You kiddin’ me? Cajuns can’t fathom that term.”
“Yesu anakupenda!” (Swahili for ‘Jesus Loves You!’)

A warm, humid breeze wafted in from the Gulf, and overhead the puffy cumulus clouds were threatening to calve into something sinister and foreboding before the morning sun had climbed to its zenith, if not sooner. We ended up fishing our boat in the surf, which though successful, was also most uncomfortable for one recently recovering from an illness. I made sure to constantly hydrate myself with water - by noon I had consumed six bottles total. At various times I stopped fishing long enough to take pictures with my camera, yet always returned promptly to the task at hand. Specks were abundant in the early hours, with Reds coming on strong as the sun burned the mists away, especially closer to the dense marsh grass. We limited out on the Reds, but we did not quite make it to that number with the Specks. All in all, it was a successful trip, and I’ll be frying fish over the weekend and experimenting with grilled redfish recipes I wrote down while interrogating the various guides as they cleaned our catch.

Although I enjoyed the trip, and sharing the fish in a family cook-out will mean even more to me, I’ll have to admit that one of my goals was to actually evaluate the coastline in that area to ascertain for myself how bad the oil spill damage is first hand. We were in an area very close to what could be considered ‘ground zero’ for oil coming ashore, more so than Gulf Shores, Pensacola, or even my beloved beaches of South Mississippi. I was expecting to see helicopters in a constant flight pattern above us, or at least a few hundred temporary BP employees in orange and yellow vests patrolling the shoreline. Most of all, I was expecting tar balls and dead marsh grass, oil soaked birds, and dead fish. These are the things I see on the evening news, reminding me daily that all is lost in the Gulf, both now and for several generations to come. I walked on a tiny sand island devoid of any vegetation (we’re talking seriously tiny) and we fished from our boats in the actual surf near Shell Island. I saw no tar balls. I saw no dead sea turtles or oil encrusted birds. Most importantly to me, I spent the morning pulling in a lot of fish; we all did. These are fish we will not be hesitant to consume later.

On the way back to the dock, in a bayou with dark water as smooth as liquid glass, I finally saw what I had expected to see from the beginning of my trip. Containment booms, massive lengths of them, were stretched taut as far as my eyes could see on both sides of the estuary. Although I still did not see oil within their confines, I know they had been placed there for a reason – a sort of dirty little secret hidden insidiously within an otherwise perfectly normal environment.

By most reports the leak will be permanently stopped within a few days or weeks, and clean up (corroborated by my own eye's witness) is being completed on schedule. There are the so-called plumes to contend with, I know, and things could suddenly get much worse than what I saw yesterday. Maybe not. Either way, there is a stigma of what we see on the evening news that has most of the world convinced the Gulf is dead and the Southern coastline is currently lying in a state of oil-stained ruin. My guide told me that despite the fishing we had experienced, and the fact that most of the zones had been reopened, his business was slow and almost nonexistent. That’s a shame. It shouldn’t be that way. The under-reported good should bear the same weight as the reported bad; at least that’s what I believe in my heart. But if you get the chance, take a trip down in the marsh. Visiting the small villages is a lot like stepping back in time, and of course, the fishing is excellent during this time of the year.

"He hath made every thing beautiful in His time: also He hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that G_d maketh from the beginning to the end." Ecclesiastes 3:11

It Was Enough

2010-07-21T19:22:00.007+02:00

It’s a sinking feeling right now, at least that’s the only way to grasp what I’m feeling at the moment. Like maybe I need a long nap or something…

My struggles with the Epstein-Barr virus continue this morning, along with a low-grade fever now approaching twenty-nine days in duration and counting. I’m back at work, but to be honest I do not know how much progress I am making toward the grand schemes of the company I work for and its associated goals. But you have to start somewhere. Thus, here I am, piloting my paper-strewn desk on what otherwise will prove to be a perfectly sunny summer day.

I went back to the doctor yesterday, and in between pokes and prods he did his best to reassure me with phrases like these things take time and with a virus it is best to merely treat the symptoms. I did get a B-12 shot in the arm, but the effects appear to be negligible as of this writing. I like this doctor, I really do. We talk about everything from health care to future plans for a new hospital in the area. We discuss our children and our careers. It is not his fault that a cure for this virus still seems to be further down the road and not yet readily available for mankind at the present time.

I miss swimming in the pool when I get home in the evenings. I miss riding my motorcycle to work. I miss sitting on the porch with my guitar, pondering the future while the stars make their debut in the fading twilight of another softly passing day. Those things are on hold for now, replaced by my recliner and a weird desire to watch old Jeff Bridges movies from the early 1980’s. (I’ve watched Against All Odds and Cutter’s Way over the past two evenings, and in a surreal sort of way, I believe I enjoyed them.) My schedule these days appears to revolve around thermometers and intervals for Tylenol and Ibuprofen, along with reminders to squeeze in massive quantities of vitamin C and D supplements in a manner that does not obscenely rearrange my digestive track.

And so I complain. I pour my heart out to G_d with my prayers, begging him for a miracle as by this point it appears to be the only viable solution left to me. I think that would be important, too. I want to trust in Him, and not simply leave it as “I was sick, but after a certain amount of time passed by, my body developed immunity on its own and thereby solved the problem.” I believe He still heals because I know He has the power to do so. And so I pray…

But what if He chooses not to answer my prayer? What if I continue to struggle until the time my doctor warned me about passes and I am finally cured as such? Then I will know that He has his reasons and I should be seeking to learn something from the whole experience. Isaiah writes: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

I’ve meditated upon these verses on many occasions in my life and it has been made unavoidably (crystal) clear to me that I do not, in fact, always understand His ways. My prayers are not always answered, at least not in the manner or style I hoped for at the particular time I prayed them. But I can honestly say, even so, it was enough. If G_d in His wisdom chooses to never answer another prayer for me, it will still be enough. In my heart I know He heard (and answered) the most important prayer I have ever prayed – the prayer that saved my soul and provided a place for me with Him in a not-too-distant eternity that awaits all of us. In the rankings of all things mortally important that are nestled within my heart, what more could I ask, expect, or hope for? Everything else I may desire, health, finances, you name it, fails miserably in comparison.

That one simple prayer, a prayer from a sincere heart that badly needed an answer –was answered. I do my best to always remember and hold to the truth that everything else in my life today revolves around the answer to that prayer so many years ago. It was enough. The blessings he has provided and the many, many other answers to prayer I’ve received since that day, although I am decidedly thankful and praise Him for all of them, are only gravy, as far as I’m concerned.

Up On The Stage

2010-07-16T19:12:00.005+02:00

Saturday night in a bar aptly named Touché located down by the waterfront in Chalmette. It was late spring/early summer in the year of 1982. The place was packed as the time came for the band to begin playing their third set of the evening, which by now had been extended into the early morning hours. I cradled my guitar against my chest in the stifling, backstage heat; a vintage 1965 Fender Telecaster. It had been a long night, but it had been a successful one depending on how you measured it. Following the second set, we had been paid for the evening and after the various costs we accrued in travelling from Picayune had been accounted for, the members of the band still pocketed over two hundred dollars each – big money for college kids back then and for only a few hours of work if you wanted to call it that. As I stepped up to the microphone to belt out a song, probably “Rocky Mountain Way” or “Jenny, Jenny (8675309)”, the night began to take its toll on me and the luster of the spotlight as well as the crowd had faded; replaced by only an emptiness inside of me that neither my voice nor the vapid lyrics seemed to fill.

I had begun playing in various bands back in high school, from the garage variety all the way up to established bands replete with their own cult-followings at the time. My current stint with this group had lasted well over a year, and though a recording contract was never offered nor anticipated, it paid the bills for us as we each attended college. The early gigs in town, in clubs with names like “Chester’s” or “The Attic” had allowed us to branch out to larger venues in New Orleans and Hattiesburg as we honed our craft of playing rock-n-roll music. We played covers almost exclusively; the thought of writing our own songs seemingly never crossed our minds in those days. That’s probably a good thing too, I believe, as I look back through the rear-view mirror of many years having gone by since that time. Sophomoric lyrics written from the heart and recorded for posterity can come back to haunt you later in life, especially when you have children of your own that are apt to stumble upon them in some forgotten notebook hidden away in the attic, as an example.

It started out as a lot of fun and I enjoyed the attention of being up on the stage in front of the swaying crowds. I’ve also always loved music, which made it an easy road for me to follow. As a side note, I can honestly say that although we were playing in bars I never drank – I was nineteen years old and temptations with alcohol would knock on my door later. It was strictly about playing the music and meeting girls; making a little money in the process was merely lagniappe. At least it started out that way. By the time I was on stage in Chalmette as mentioned earlier, we were going to school and practicing two or three nights a week. On weekend afternoons, we would load up the equipment in a rented truck, travel to wherever we were to play that evening, unload the truck and set up, play three or four one-hour sets, reload the equipment in the truck, drive back to town, and unload the equipment in time to get the truck back to the rental agency by 8 AM. By that point it was all about the money; the love of the music as well as the fun had long since been discarded somewhere along the way.

I had also been thinking a lot that night of a heated conversation I’d shared with my father earlier the day before. He was the music director at the Baptist church I had literally grown up in, and to say he was against my foray into playing rock music in bars naturally would be an understatement. As a Christian, what I was doing was wrong, but apparently I had found a way to justify it in my heart. Sure, I had felt a lot of guilt when we first began playing the clubs, but over time (and spending the money I made) I guess you could say I had gotten used to the guilt and was living within a means I had found of getting around it. Denial can be a strong sedative, I’ve learned.

Daddy finally told me with not a little exasperation in his voice that I could not sing/play in bars on Saturday night and then get up and sing in his choir on Sunday mornings. Those words stung; puncturing me in a secret place deep enough and to a point where they stayed on my mind throughout that night while I was on stage. As a Christian, where can you draw the line, and then what happens when you cross it? I justified things in my heart by the aforementioned point of not drinking, and besides, we were only having fun and making good money – money I needed for my education. It was rock music, sure, but it wasn’t the hard stuff anyway, and the crowd really liked me even when they were sober!

During that last set, a question came to my mind, one I found I could no longer honestly answer. The question from my heart was who are you? My father’s ultimatum on reaping and sowing proved to be the answer I needed. I was not meant for this, and this is not what G_d wanted me to do with my life.

I’d like to say that I never went back on stage after that epiphany in Chalmette, but it took a few more weeks before I actually quit the band. I had to weather an extended bout with denial before I could get my heart resolved to do what I knew all along was right. Those things do not come easily to a nineteen-year-old who is caught up in the things of the world. I was enjoying the music, the crowds, the girls, and the money – face it, who doesn’t want to be a rock star?

James writes: “Therefore to him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it not, to him it is sin.” No amount of rationalization or the associated guilt that comes from living a lie can ever change what you already know in your heart to be right.

Lightning In A Bottle

2010-07-13T19:44:00.007+02:00

“So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself.” Ephesians 5:28

When we are together, you make all the difference in the world to me. When we are apart, I still count the hours, minutes, and even seconds until I can see you again. Despite the passing of twenty-something years in our history, the sum of which we wrote together, the song remains the same in my heart as well as it does in all that I am.

My thoughts revolved around these facts the other day while we waited in the hospital, and the simple thought of you by my side throughout the ordeal stirred those memories while jogging a portion of my consciousness that has always been there simmering beneath the surface. I do my best to suppress that consciousness, as I know that to allow it to flow uninhibited in a sea of emotion could quite possibly consume me. After a while, too, it might lose its meaning and become something frivolous or taken for granted if I chose to do so. Probably not, but like the fleeting summer days that fade unnoticed into autumn, I would never take the chance of allowing those same feelings to softly slip through my hands.

What I feel for you is eternal. I can change it no more than a leopard can change the pattern of its spots merely because, well, because it is so. Determined by a higher power against seemingly egregious odds; we are. Despite uncertain times and an unclear future, I choose to believe we always will be. My hopes, my dreams, my wishes, and my desires remain interwoven by golden threads spun upon the endless magnitude of what you mean to me.

I’m watching the years slide by like water now, our memories accrue as events are added, and yet you look the same to me as you did on that very first day we spent together so long ago. A timelessly beautiful girl in a refined and elegant sort of way - that’s what I see. So long ago was only yesterday or at least just the day before in my mind - and I like that, I really do. Because of you, I wake up each morning in 1988, frozen in time and space, but still a lot wiser and much more spiritual in nature at the same time. How can this be? I cannot understand it, but to place the thoughts of my heart into words miserably fails in my feeble mind’s attempt this morning at doing so.

You have made mistakes, as have I, but it seems as though we’ve usually made our mistakes together and paid for them together. A lot of people can never honestly say that because they cannot understand what it means to do so. But we do, and that just might be the key to what we are – two imperfect people made perfect by what we share together as two imperfect people. Not only can I deal with that in my soul, but I have grown to bask in the glow of it.

Today, I watch as my children grow into their adult lives and my very being aches for them. I worry, I stress, but I also pray that somehow and in some way they will find a love like this. Not merely a normal love, mind you, but a huge, magnificent love that burns brightly despite time and the worldly forces that seemingly array themselves against it. For my progeny to find this treasure on their own will be the true mark of success in their lives and I hope they understand it even as I have achieved the power to now fully comprehend it. In many ways, it is much akin to capturing lightning in a bottle when you do so. Yet at the same time, through my own experience the impossible has therefore become altogether and in a uniquely divine way possible.

On Being Still

2010-07-12T19:48:00.004+02:00

Summer colds are the worst, especially when you discover via a doctor’s diagnosis that what you have is not really a summer cold at all. Let me explain…

Two weeks ago, my current odyssey into the world of modern medicine began with what appeared to be a simple sore throat issue. It was more of a nuisance than anything else, and I merely waited for it to ‘go away’ on its own accord. Besides, what can you really do for a sore throat anyway? The weekend came and I had previously obligated myself to help a group from my church paint an elderly man’s house, and although I knew the hot-and-humid-South-Mississippi-mid-summer-day would not be in the best interests of my (let alone anyone else’s) health, I graciously arrived early that morning as promised. The morning sun beat down upon us as only it can do in the South, and by the time we completed the job around lunch-thirty, it had turned out to be a sweltering June day. My sore throat acquired new symptoms in a team effort; now I had a wicked cough and a nose pouring as profusely as a wedding cake fountain. By the time I arrived back home, I was dizzy and light-headed, and to my horror I began to see blood in the phlegmy things my lungs were hacking up. That will scare anyone, and in my case it made me contemplate my own earth-bound mortality.

My wife drove me to the Urgi-Care facility in town, (I’m getting to know that place really well these days) and I was diagnosed with bronchitis; fairly common and seldom life-threatening. A pack of steroids was issued along with prescription antibiotics, cough syrup, and a stern warning to stay out of the heat. Funny thing about those steroids - by Tuesday I was feeling exceptionally better and apparently well on my way to curedom.

Then I did something stupid.

Once a year we have a rail-scale calibration at work and it requires perfect timing as it entails getting the USDA, the MS State Department of Weights and Measures, a certified scale technician, and the railroad all together at one time and on the same page to perform the task. It just so happened that Wednesday was the slated day, despite a downpour of Biblical proportions. Despite my recent illness, I had no real choice other than to be there as my company’s representative and a shepherd for the various muckity-mucks assembled during the festivities. In a matter of moments I was drenched, soaked to the bone, and once the scale certification was complete, I returned to my office – to the air conditioning that awaited me there. I had no jacket, and no spare clothes to change into, so I toughed it out as I am prone to do, shivering and shaking down in my bones like you do when you ride a motorcycle to work on a frigid December morning. I shoulda worn a raincoat. I coulda went home and changed clothes. I woulda turned down the A/C had I thought about it. Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda; the mantra of hindsighters everywhere, I tell you.

My condition deteriorated as the week continued, of course. Throw in mowing and weed-eating the yard in the aforementioned summer heat on Friday, and by Saturday I had allowed a fever to join in the healthcare follies I now found myself experiencing. By the July the Fourth bar-b-cue I was in terrible shape, and I know I was because I merely picked at the food on my plate. It only became worse and by Wednesday I was sitting in my regular doctor’s office, describing to him my symptoms and begging him for a cure. (There’s no cure for stupid, son.) Advice on vitamins, a suggestion for cough syrup remedies, yet another antibacterial prescription, and I was on my way home for the rest of the week. The trouble was, I did not seem to improve any, and by Sunday morning my wife drove me, (again) this time to the ER in Slidell, Louisiana.

Needles were poked, IVs were started, x-rays were taken, and CAT-scans were ordered. Yes, I had a cough. Sure, at one time I had bronchitis. My sinus cavity displayed a pattern of chronic problems over the years. But none of these were at the crux of my physical ailments. I was not getting better because my health issues were not related to a bacterial infection; there was a virus behind the scenes providing the impetus for my sickness. The doctor told me it was related to an Epstein-Barr ‘type’ virus. I responded by asking him weakly, and with emotion, “Tell me how bad is it, Doc? How long do I have?” Shrugging off my pitiful (though heart-felt, I assure you) plea, he explained to me that it was closely related to mono, but since it was a virus, the only solution was to treat the symptoms – the antibiotics I had been taking were useless in this fight.

Ah healthcare, you gotta love it. And it’s going to get worse I’m assured. Because of Obamacare? No, silly, because I am getting older. I have many more sicknesses and diseases to look forward to as I fast-forward myself through middle age and into the awaiting senior years on my radar.

With a virus, I have learned you have to have patience. You have to be willing to treat the symptoms and trust in your body to heal on its own. Not only that, but you have to put your faith in G_d to provide a cure, especially when all of the wonders of modern medicine can no longer help you. Maybe I should have been in this mindset all along, you know, trusting in Him and waiting for His healing from the get go. The Psalmist writes: “Be still, and know that I am G_d: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.” Both my praise and my honor go out to the Great Physician this morning. I am going to do my best to merely be still and always remember His power in my many moments of weakness, both physical and spiritual.

Especially as I get older…

Intemperate Thoughts

2010-07-01T22:28:00.005+02:00

The latest events across the country and dare I say, across the world, can serve to wash each of us in a veritable sea of hopelessness once we consider the situation as it appears to be. First and foremost, we have a terminal oil spill in the Gulf. I do not use the term ‘terminal’ lightly here as that is what it appears to foretell for the future of the coast. Not in the very least the beaches that I grew up around and have loved for so long. I’ve spent time working and fishing in Grand Isle, and I’ve lived in Panama City Beach. I’ve vacationed in all points in between at various times in my life. My earliest memories of the Gulf are picnics when I was too small to remember much else except the fact they occurred amid the sugary sands of Henderson Point on the Mississippi Sound. Many of my carefree, teenage summer days were spent taking the ferry from Gulfport out to Ship Island, and it is something I still try in vain to describe to others who have never made that trip. Looking back, was there any reason not for me to join the Coast Guard when I made the decision to serve my country?

I’m no Jimmy Buffett, I’m just saying.

There is a lot of emphasis on the news these days on the spill, with the assorted blame game played out daily between the White House and BP. In fact, so much of the coast is under the microscope that you have to look hard to see the other ‘things going on’ that are interesting and viable. Venezuela took over our oil rigs on their coastline, in effect nationalizing them, without a peep from our government in response. Iran is closer each day to joining the nuclear club. The economy continues to totter on the brink of collapse. Wars continue in Afghanistan and Iraq, and now the Argentineans are stirring up a new debate over control of the Falkland Islands; the same islands for which a war was fought back in the 1980’s. There are many more things happening out there and I could go on and on. Truly these are the times that try men’s souls.

What is next for our country? What lurks behind the closet door or beneath the bed, merely waiting for the right moment to jump out and scare us out of our remaining sanity? Is this the end, or merely the beginning of the end, in a manner of speaking? Yes, things are bad now, but even so, what will they be like down the road in my own eleven-year-old son’s lifetime? What will he face in his future or will we even make it that far?

Ah, gloom and doom, Shannon. Cut it out. But it’s Thursday and I can be gloomy if I want. I’m off tomorrow, getting a fast start on the whole July the Fourth weekend thing and I deserve it this year. We celebrate our Nation’s anniversary annually on this date, and it is worth celebrating. We have a great Nation, and one we should still be proud of despite the evening news or our recent faults and failures. I’m going to burn up some meat and spend some time in the sun. It will be good for me, I tell you.

I know the answers (but no one is asking me, I know) to all of the problems we seem to be encumbered with these days. I don’t blame the President, totally. I don’t put the onus for catastrophe on the Congress or the Supreme Court, either. At least not all of it. But it is easy to point the finger of blame in their direction - it makes it easier on all of us. After all, we get the government we deserve, eh?

Most of our problems we face are the sum of our fixation on the economy, but that in itself is a result of how it affects all of us. We have to have jobs and we have to pay bills. And taxes are always going to be an issue either way. It’s a tough row to hoe when you are forced to watch your tax dollars being frittered away on handouts, bailouts, and other frivolous schemes emanating from inside the Beltway. It might make you become political and join a Tea Party or otherwise become involved, and that’s not always a bad thing. But it is not the crux of the matter and all that ails our society cannot be encircled within the realm of ‘it’s the economy, stupid’.

Our problem is morals, or the lack of them, and it started a very long time ago. With good moral laws and codes, the kind laid out for us in the Bible, the economy would take care of itself. No one would be embezzling their company’s retirement funds and heading to Mexico, no one would be slacking off and taking handouts from the government unless they truly needed them, and wages would be paid on a scale based upon knowledge and talent instead of via policy. The harder you worked to attain that knowledge and develop your talents would show results, as it used to do. Honesty would prevail in the marketplace without any needed coercion from the powers that be. Schools would prosper as students (and parents) realized knowledge was key, and extracurricular activities would simply become extracurricular once again. The societal burdens we face with crime, drug use, and even illegal immigration would become taboo instead of being glorified in songs, movies, and various other media forms.

I’m speaking of a Nirvana that has never existed, I know. But by the same token, our country seems to have gone completely in a diametrically-opposed direction until it is no longer a semblance of what it was even fifty years ago. I fear we may never get back what we have lost in the process.

Solomon writes in Proverbs, “Righteousness exalteth a nation: but sin is a reproach to any people.” And I think he knew what he was talking about when he wrote this. I’d much rather see my Country exalted on the world stage instead of becoming a reproach on this earth. But on this Fourth of July, I find myself pondering: where do we go from here?

Prone To Wander

2010-06-30T15:52:00.002+02:00

I believe I truly have a lot in common with Robert Robinson. Who is Robert Robinson? Is he a famous golfer? A politician? An award-winning novelist or writer? Is he possibly a brother engineer from the another era that created some dramatic architectural work in his field? I know the name probably means very little to anyone these days as he lived a very long time ago. Mr. Robinson was famous for writing a hymn that most churches seldom sing in this late day and age, although the hymn he penned can be honestly said to transcend time with its earnest, touching message.

Robert lived back in the 1700’s and was saved in England after attending a service preached by George Whitfield. Eventually he entered the ministry himself, but always seemed to backslide back into the world at the most inopportune times. In fact, taken in that context, you could say that his ministry was an utter failure as little is known of his service due to his erratic faith, as per his own testimony. However, the hymn he wrote continues to touch many lives, including mine, and lives on as a shining example of grace and the patience of G_d.

The hymn he authored is entitled “Come Thou Fount” and was written, according to him, as an autobiographical sketch of his life. Verse 2 of the hymn tells of his conversion to Christ, and in verse 3 he admits that he has a daily debt to grace as a result of his ‘wandering heart.’ It is reported that late in life, he met a woman on a stagecoach as she attempted to share her faith with him, thinking he was lost. He assured her of his salvation, but admitted to falling away from the Christian faith as the years went by. Incredibly, she offered a printed version of his hymn to him saying, “These words might help you as much as they have helped me.” Recognizing the verses in front of him he sobbed, “Madam, I am the poor, unhappy man who composed that hymn many years ago. And I would give a thousand worlds, if I had them, to now enjoy the feelings that I had back then.”

I don’t know if the accuracy of this tale can be verified through Snopes or Wikipedia, but this is the way the story was told to me and I’ve read about it on more than one occasion over the years. I can believe in the validity of the words due to events I’ve encountered during my own life. It is hard to live as a Christian while remaining a part of the world. There are so many temptations out there, and much like Robert, I find my heart prone to wander and prone to leave the G_d I love. I do not believe you can ‘lose’ your salvation, as I believe that once you are truly saved, you always will be. This is promised to us in Romans Chapter 8: “For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” But I also believe that you can fall by the wayside in your Christian walk and it is something, sadly, I seem almost predisposed to eventually experience at one time or another in my life as the years go by.

It is during those dark times of turmoil in my heart that I need to remember the promise quoted above from Romans. Christ will always be there and nothing can separate me from Him. Simply realizing and claiming the promise of these verses should serve as a reminder of His love, and a call for repentance in my heart as well as my life. I’m promised that once I wake up and realize just how far I have fallen in my daily walk with Christ, I need repentance in a sincere manner. At that point, when my heart cries out to Him, I understand much more deeply the truth of “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

O to grace how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wand’ring heart to Thee;
Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, Lord, take and seal it; seal it for Thy courts above.

That Which Was Lost

2010-06-28T18:32:00.002+02:00

In a roundabout way, I’ve been thinking a lot about forgiveness this week. Webster’s defines the word forgive as a transitive verb meaning “to give up resentment of or claim to requital for”. The second definition provided is given as follows: to cease to feel resentment against (an offender). I was thinking of persons I have wronged in my life, (I do that on occasion) in an attempt to provide a repayment in kind to each as part of my bucket list of things to do during the time I have left on this earth. In an instance of such, I would be the one seeking forgiveness from said persons. However, I seem to have run into a few snags in the plans I have made in this area which I didn’t consider when I first began filling in the various names on my list.

What does forgiveness cost? Is it generic? If I merely talked about someone behind their back and they did not know about it, what is the penance required from me in that situation? Especially if it actually provided no real damage to them despite my slanderous performance. Of course, it was wrong for me to do so in the first place, and with forgiveness being essential to my list, it is something that must be taken care of. The gist of which leads me back to the actual cost required as I’ve previously stated.

On the other hand, I do have an ex-wife and a few ex-friends I’ve accrued during my lifetime, and in most cases, both they and I have one-upped each other in the area of heinous deeds and misdeeds. As a Christian, I’d like to seek forgiveness in those areas as well. I’m betting that in those situations, the price of removing ‘resentment or claim to a requital for’ would be high indeed. The act of forgiveness is fraught with details and technicalities that can be hard to fathom when you get down to the area of cost and/or penance. Also, I have been on the receiving end of apologies in the past, and I know how the human mind responds to such. I can think of times when someone apologized to me and I accepted their apology, but in the back of my mind my forgiveness was not exactly pure. It was more along the lines of “I forgive you, but I’m gonna be watching you in the meantime.” Maybe the price they paid for my forgiveness was either not the right one or it wasn’t enough – to me. Or quite possibly, the price was beyond what they could actually pay, even if they were sincere. This in itself leads me back to the costs required for forgiveness.

Maybe the feddle gubmunt can come up with a law in this area, you know, form a committee and add a little bureaucracy into the area of personal apologies. If I lie to someone, then based on the strength of that lie I will need to pay x amount of dollars in order to be absolutely forgiven by the offended party; the sum to be based upon the new laws they would put in place. If I broke someone’s heart, the price could steadily ramp up. Using someone for personal gain? Again, the price mounts.

Nah, I can see where it would end up going – we’d need more lawyers than we already have and the claims would be endless from those seeking forgiveness from parties that may have their own axe to grind, only this time the offended would have the system behind them to utilize in exploiting the offender. And there would be no guarantee of a transfer of actual forgiveness in the litigation of the laws.

I’m just looking for a good, fair, honest price to pay here. Man seeking forgiveness, ready and willing to pay whatever price necessary to secure it.

I’m hoping by now you have figured out that most of this is tongue-in-cheek. But the problem is serious, and deserves careful thought from all of us. Forgiveness cannot be purchased, because far too often the price is too high or worse; the chance for redemption was lost a long time ago. Forgiveness must be given, and in many ways it is the ultimate gift one can give or receive. If it is not given or received as a gift, then in most instances it is simply lost.

The greatest example of forgiveness is Jesus on a cruel, painful, bloody cross, paying the penalty for our sin. Passed down to us from Adam like a bad, hereditary gene is a sinful nature acquired by mankind in the Garden of Eden, and it is something we must each take care of in order to make ourselves right with G_d. Without forgiveness for sin, we have no recourse. We miss out on eternity; we also miss out on the special place He has prepared for us. We can never have peace with G_d without forgiveness. What does our sin cost us? Everything.

What will forgiveness from sin cost us? Nothing. By our own methods and devices, it is far too late for forgiveness. We’ve missed the mark and we didn’t make the grade. We are lost, adrift in a sea of our own failures and transgressions against what G_d originally designed us to be. But Jesus tells us plainly in Luke 19:10 “For the Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.”

It does not matter what you have done. Maybe you’ve broken all Ten Commandments repeatedly and quite possibly set a world record for doing so. Maybe you’re a good person and have broken only a few. In either instance and all points in between, forgiveness is readily available and it is free. Jesus is actively seeking you out to save you with an offer of the best gift you could ever hope to receive – the gift of forgiveness. Best of all, the forgiveness He offers is a pure, unadulterated forgiveness – one that will last throughout eternity.

P.S. Get yours today!