“In the circle of life, It’s the wheel of fortune. It’s the leap of faith. It’s the band of hope, ‘Til we find our place. On the path unwinding, yeah. In the circle, the circle of life.” (1994) “Circle Of Life” From Disney’s, The Lion King. Recorded By: Elton John Written By: Elton John & Tim Rice
Look around. We see the results everywhere. Our culture tends to scream it out. Childhood abuse, in various forms, can cause even the brightest souls to spin off course, or knocked into another orbit than intended. Early trauma in a child’s life can deliver a lens through which the injured views the future by way of a fogged scrim. Often this skewed vision can last until death, or to the doorstep of an intervention of some kind giving opportunity for an adjustment.
A brilliant young man, Reginald Kenneth Dwight was such an injured person. His childhood experiences drove him headlong into a life of debauchery, self-destruction, horrific tantrums, and hopelessness. Reginald became a severe addict. His addictive behavior was manifested in numerous ways. He became addicted to all things material, shopping, sexual addictions, sour relationships, abusive actions toward lovers, alcohol consumption, drug abuse (cocaine being the pet), out-of-control financial spending, gross hording of collectibles, eating disorders, and so much more. When it came to substance abuse, he became so addicted that he was in the all-you-can-consume-buffet-line. If there was more cocaine in the building, his nose found found it until it was all gone. Once he started, he couldn’t stop.
Relationships, good relationships, were seemingly avoided as a young man. Although he found himself engaged to a young lady, a woman who was abusive in word, in deed, and violent at times, he was presented with a solution to his troubled relationship. He listened to a close friend who was gay, and decided that he himself might be gay. Although it went against all he was raised with, he made the decision to try the gay lifestyle as he continued to run away from his past. The next morning they came with a truck to take him home, while she went her own way. His decisive choice threw him into a never ending line of gay lovers, some of which he never knew their names.
Many years later, he fell in love with…a woman. Nobody close to him believed it could happen, but it did. For reasons a bit unclear, they married. However, his lifestyle, and all that goes with it, had become so amalgamized with his daily life, and the destructive choices he made, ended the marriage some four years later. He, and his wife, both truly loved one another. They both still honor one another to this very day. They vowed to never discuss publicly the intimate details of their marriage, however the fly in the ointment was fairly evident.
As hard as it is to wrap your head around the following, it still must be mentioned here. Always looking for love, and always looking to satisfy his sexual addictions, he would pick up men like some pick up stray dogs. He would use them sexually for a few days, weeks, or possibly up to six months, then drop them by way of a friend slipping the rejected man an airplane ticket home. In the end, he admits to having hundreds of these types of relationships.
He never contracted AIDS, but many of his lovers and friends did. In fact, Reginald lost numerous friends to AIDS, drugs, accidents and suicide. In fact, he attempted to end his life at least three times with intension. Other times, he almost lost his life without any attempts due to cancer and rare infections. Still, his non-stop raving appetite for drugs and alcohol could’ve been his demise at any time throughout the fuzzy decades of abuse.
In 1978, on a rainy, dreary Sunday morning in one of his homes in England, he rose from his bed in deep depression. Actually, he had been in depression for many years as he tried, but failed to self-medicate. But on this day, it seemed much darker to him. Once again, he morbidly felt he was on the edge of death, even visualizing floating away from his body toward space itself, burning up the fuse up there alone. His steps from the bed to the doorway competed heavily with a massive hangover from the night before. As he made his way through the spacious home, he left Reginald Kenneth Dwight behind like a cold bathrobe and , as he did each day, slipped into his Elton John character as he made his stumbling way to the piano bench.
Photo: From – Me: Elton John from, Macmillan Publishing. Photographed By: Terry O’Neill/Iconic Images.
It was a rare occasion when he would write a song without his co-writing partner, Bernie Taupin. Bernie was the lyricist, and Elton was the music composer. However, something often came over him to write a song on his own, without the lyrical assistance of Bernie. This particular, dark morning, was one of them. Still in a cloudy haze from what lingered in his bloodstream, a haunting melody reverberated in his mind. He began to plink it out note by note, chord by chord. As usual, it was beautiful to the ear. At first, he had no thought as to a lyric as he was only playing the instrumental bubbling up from within. The song itself came rather quickly to the keyboard, as was the norm for Elton’s gargantuan talent, but soon a line wormed its way through the notes and the fog of the morning. Like a tape loop, it rotated in his mind over and over again. Being in such a depressive, hungover state, with a sense of great loss, he wasn’t expecting a lyric to make its presence known. Yet, there it was, out of nowhere, loud and clear. Elton began to match it with the chord structure, repeating it verbally like a thick continual scroll. Unlike past lyrical adventures in the composition of songs, this line was the only line that displayed itself to him that morning. It was a short lyric, but a massive, hard-hitting domino of a line not to be lost or forgotten. It read like this…
Now, say what you will about the validity, or the absurdity of such a line, but there are times when one can be inspired by something in the air? Something outside of one’s self? A spiritual connection? A spirit tested? A spirit not tested? Which ever way you believe it to be, this did happen while the melody was being formed in his music room that day. It’s a sad state of affairs when an individual, who is worth north of $500 million dollars, held such a lack of darkness and hope.
He loved the song so much that he wanted to release it. His intension was to title it, “Life isn’t Everything”. In studio, he simply sings the line very softly, repeating the line several times, toward the end of the instrumental. If you should bring it up on YouTube, you will find it to be a stirring, daunting piece, mixed with an edge of a feeling of floating away without care. Businesswise, the song did well on the UK charts, but poorly in the US. Still, if you heard it you might recognize the recording.
Guy Burchett was a 17 year old who ran messages and errands for Elton’s production company. He was a local lad who was always available, hard working, and dependable. Guy was a year younger than I. Knowing how I loved EJ’s music, I can see how eager he was to work for the musician. Elton was notified the following day of Guy’s unfortunate sudden death due to a motorcycle accident. As the information came down, as it turned out, the young man’s life had been snuffed out at the same time Elton was constructing the song on that Sunday morning. Grieved, he made the choice to honor his young friend by entitling the new song, “Song For Guy”.
I am not here to be Elton’s judge. I am not here to bash Elton’s lifestyle. I am not here to denounce Elton’s decisions in life. Because I view things through a biblical point of view, I know that for the grace of God go I. I know I have a tendency to feed on addictive trappings. God granted us freewill. I cannot blame my DNA heritage, or any particular generation in my bloodline, although it would seem easy to do so. Scripture makes it clear that I am responsible for my own decisions, whether to try for the bait in the traps, or not. In Elton’s autobiography, Me: Elton John, he admits falling hook, line, and sinker for cocaine at the very first snort. It can happen.
Still, the single line whispered into his brain on that drizzly Sunday morning in 1978 is so profound…and yet, so wrong. “Life isn’t everything”.
I will assume here that there was a Mr. and Mrs. Burchett who grieved painstakingly at the news of their son’s tragic death on the road. Although we don’t know them, I will assume they might have said, in their grief, “Oh, no!” Or maybe, “No, not my precious son!” Or possibly, “Our boy meant the world to us.” Grief is indeed the penalty of loving. More than likely, Guy’s life meant everything to his parents, in fact, to anyone who loved Guy.
Allowing for Sir Elton’s possible meaning, as he wrote the lyric which pounded into his head, the expression may have been a statement of eternal hope after this life is over. In that respect, it’s true. Life, in the here and now, isn’t everything. Life here is only temporary. Scripture aligns it like a puff of a vapor in the air, or a blade of grass that comes and goes with the seasons. Of course, in Elton’s state of loss, depression, while reeling from the aftermath of a night of debauchery, he might have been thinking death is more valuable. After all, it must be the relief of all that stains us, all that pains us, all that shakes us.
Here, I am pushed to disagree with one of my favorite musicians.
How valuable and distinctive is life?
Life isn’t just a four letter word on a board game by Hasbro. Life isn’t just a name on a Quaker Oats cereal box. Life is a gift, issued to each living thing. However, life for the human was issued in the most intimate way. Unlike the cow, the tree, the worm, humanity first took a breath when The great I Am, The Creator ordained the inhale by placing His own mouth over the nostrils and blew the breath of life into the first human. In other words, God Himself crouched down to the lifeless body of His creation and performed mouth-to-mouth, and that action caused life to occur in the new man. Life is issued. It is a gift. Just ask anyone who has had a near-death experience and lived to tell about it. Moreover, ask anyone who was lifeless due to an illness, or accident, and was reignited. I am one of those people. Life is a gift. Life is a stone thrown into a motionless pond, activating ripples upon impact. If you are alive, you have an impact on others around you. Yet, the One who gave life, also removes the breath.
Let us resolve to mention another truth concerning Elton’s lyric. As stated before, life isn’t everything, in that it is temporary. Just ask Guy Burchett. Oh, that’s right, you can’t ask him. Guy left his body at the age of 17 in 1978 during a tragic motorcycle crash. Guy, the person of Guy, left his body to enter eternity. Holy scripture is clear, there is more to this life. It may seem like a candle in the wind, but when the wick burns away, our flame carries on. Jesus spoke about the afterlife often, and the place(s) of the afterlife. God controls the final exits, and the doors entered. In scope, this life is only a blink of an eye compared to eternity. There is a second life, and a second death for some. I didn’t make that up, it’s spelled out in the ancient scrolls.
Although Elton is weird and wonderful, his book is brutally honest, so much so, it can be a very difficult read. Trust me, there were times at the end of a chapter I wanted to take a shower.
The man, the soul, Reginald, found himself removing his electric boots and entered a 12 step program. He learned much about his mistakes, his substance abuse, and even his old ruthless ways with those around him. He has gone back to many he has wronged to apologize for past behaviors. Sobriety has been his norm for many years now, and helps others who need to enter treatment. His view toward life softened much through the following years, even to the point of pouring himself into charities, and forming the Elton John AIDS Foundation, which has raised over $450 million in AIDS research and medical treatment around the world. Through his circumstances in life, he has been forced to a more pliable heart. Even at this elder stage of his life, who knows where it might direct him.
As for Elton’s 1978 view of a throw-away life, he has changed his camera angle. In his book, on the very last page, he writes something so vastly opposite of his 1978 lyric. After suffering from cancer, and a devastating infection he contracted while on tour in South America which almost took his life, he writes:
“In the hospital, alone at the dead of night, I’d prayed: ‘please don’t let me die, please let me see my kids again, please give me a little longer.’ In a strange way, it felt like the time I spent recuperating was the answer to my prayers…It was like being shown a different life.” – Elton John, Excerpt taken from, Me: Elton John, Macmillan Publishing
He knows you wouldn’t mind if he put it down into words, how wonderful life is.
The true circle of life, and life’s destination, is in black and white in fuel for the race.
“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish, but have eternal life. For God did not send the Son into the world to judge the world, but so that the world might be saved through Him.” – Jesus From John 3:16-17 (NAS)
“Take a load off Fanny, take a load for free. Take a load off Fanny, and you put the load right on me…” (1968) “The Weight” Recorded By: The Band. Composer: Robbie Robertson
By: Alan Scott Brown
There’s nothing like heat in the desert rising off a paved road. They’ll say, “Oh, but it’s a dry heat.” Just tell that to the sweltering backpacker, Levon “Fanny” Gates. He shockingly found himself in the middle of a wilderness, on the road to a place called, Nazareth, just on the other side of the state line. I say, “shockingly” because before his boots felt the searing concrete of this wasteland, he had been dreaming of the village with its rolling hills, orchards, and well-established vineyards. His freshly cut front lawn was the launching point for a pleasurable outdoor hike through the pines, the cool brooks, and lavish meadows.
As if he had awakened from a dream of the plush land of plenty, he now absorbs the dangerous sunrays, feeling every drop of sweat rolling down his torso. His canvas hat certainly covered his head, but the scorching heat invaded his scalp as if he wasn’t wearing anything at all. Even his denim backpack was soaked in sweat. If it wasn’t 112 degrees Fahrenheit, it would be soon, when the afternoon sun comes piercing through.
Not much vegetation thrives out here, with the exception of sage, cactus, and the occasional Yucca plant. Refreshing rains are welcomed, but scarce and quick. Fanny prayed for, what they called back home, a “gully-washer.”
With each step, he seriously worried about the soles of his old hiking boots. The baking surface of the road is far from friendly, and he felt the waves all the way up to his sunburned face. At first, he wrestled with the thought of his soles melting in the staggering temperature. Then, as he caught up with his fast-forward mind, he envisioned a potential hole in the rubber sole. None of the options were comforting to imagine in this desolate landscape.
Prior to walking into this wilderness, he knew how many miles he had traveled, but now all had changed. His harsh surroundings overwhelmed his calculations, thrusting him into a mystery without a map. A solitary roadside sign mentioned a couple of towns being 200 miles ahead, but they were unfamiliar to him. The miles seemed unending, without a mile marker. Disorientation was setting in as a menacing reality.
Rather than stopping for rest, he made the decision to push himself forward in hopes the next curve, the next hill, or the next valley in the road, would reveal a much needed oasis. Hooked to his belt, he had one full canteen of water, which needed to last longer than anticipated. Fanny was self-rationing his meager provisions with intent.
“I can do this,” he whispered with uneasiness.
Keeping his eyes on the road ahead seemed to help him psychologically. Yet, wild stallions in search for water, a lone service station, or another traveler with a tent would be a sight for soar eyes. But each time he glanced to the left or the right, it proved to be discouraging. In fact, most of the view reminded Fanny of NASA’s photos of the surface of Mars.
The feeling of abandonment was authentic, bleeding from his inspirational thought bubbles of solitude. He tried to be hopeful by telling himself Nazareth must be within 3 miles, 5 miles, or maybe 10 miles. The attempt to distract himself from the tide of broiling air failed at every turn of the road. Before the desert sun could bake his mind completely, he scanned through multiple thoughts, thoughts which could fill a library, only to fool himself with wisps of self-constructed hope.
While pushing his legs to walk an incline in the road, he noticed something he had felt once before on this journey. A pain, a specific pain in his back. Of all the body aches he had endured, this backache was king of them all. Hiking slowly up the side of a hill introduced him again to the racking misery coming from his lower back muscles, mainly from the right of the spine. It was a bit of a mystery in that he hadn’t injured himself, and never had an old trauma from his athletic history. He suddenly was reminded of the adage, “No pain, no gain” from his high school baseball coach. He said it aloud, thinking it would be a magic charm the universe would accept. It wasn’t. Still, his inward need to persevere pushed his weary bones onward.
As he reached the plateau, he celebrated his efforts shouting into the hot breeze,
“BY GOD, I WILL DO THIS!”
As the late afternoon sun played havoc with his vision, Fanny cocked his head to one side as he caught a distant rumble of an engine. Since he had begun to adjust to the mirage of water puddles on the pavement, he tossed it up to “hearing things” due to a bit of dehydration. After a chuckle, he took a couple of strides when he stopped in his tracks. The sound was getting louder. He looked up in the blue sky to see which direction the plane was coming from. It sounded like a single engine airplane from the 1920’s. As he was hunting for the aircraft, he recognized the distinct sound wasn’t a plane at all, but rather a vehicle approaching from behind. He quickly turned to scope out where it originated. Wiping, then squinting his tired eyes, he saw an old blue pickup truck bouncing down the road toward him with its radio blaring a 1940’s big band tune with heavy brass. He wondered where it came from since the area was void of ranches or farms. As it approached, he could see only one occupant in the cab. There was nothing impressive about the old truck, with the exception of the fact it was an older model one might see in a vintage car show, and overly worn, to boot.
As the truck began to downshift, coasting slowly as it pulled alongside him, he could see more clearly the one behind the wheel. The driver looked as if he had just fallen off a hay trailer. He was donning faded grey pinstriped overalls, like the old train engineers used to wear. His misshaped straw hat went well with the old beat-up truck as it, too, had seen better days. With a metallic squeak, the truck came to a halt. It was clearly in much need of a muffler replacement. The ragged driver turned down the radio and leaned over to roll down the passenger side window. It was then Fanny could take-in what the man looked like. He was an old-timer with a weather-beaten face. His bushy eyebrows were salt & pepper mix. His chest-length beard was white and wiry. He had piercing ice-blue eyes which displayed a kindness, all by themselves. Before Fanny could speak, the old man greeted him.
Spoken with a healthy snicker, “Howdy there, young man. Nice day for a stroll in the badlands, wouldn’t ya say?”
The backpacker detected an accent, which reminded him of the deep south of the United States. He wasn’t sure if he was being mocked by the question, or if it was an attempt at levity.
“Yes, sir. It would seem so,” said Fanny, as he took his hat off and wiped his wet forehead.
Without hesitation the elderly man asked with a nod, “What’s your name, kiddo?”
“I’m Levon. Most everyone calls me, Fanny,” revealed the traveler.
The old man broke out in a belly laugh, “Well, who on earth pinned that nickname on ya?”
Fanny grinned, uncomfortably so, looked away and explained, “Yeah, that’s a long story, I’m afraid.”
“I bet so,” replied the old man. “The name’s, Christopher. Through the years, lots of folks have called me by a slew of other names. But, Christopher will do. So glad to meet ya…Fanny.”
“Happy to meet you, Christopher,” the young man said. “Hey, where did you come from? I’ve been on this road all day and I’ve not seen one house, truck stop, or vehicle coming or going in either direction.”
“Oh, don’t ya know?” asked Christopher.
“Know what?” inquired the trekker.
Pushing his hat back to the crown of his head, the old man responded, “Well, it’s very possible you were never informed. This is a one way road you’re on in this dust. Always been that way. It’s true, only one-way traffic on this stretch. That’s the reason why I drove up behind ya. I’ll tell ya, that afternoon sun is brutal through the windshield.”
“Tell me about it,” agreed the young hiker. “You know, maybe you can tell me something. Would you know how far Nazareth is from here? I really thought I would have spied it by now on the horizon, but nothin’ doin’.”
“Nazareth?” inquired the old one with one raised eyebrow. “Is that where you’re off to?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Fanny.
While pointing his finger, the old man said, “Well, kiddo. I can tell ya this, ya won’t get there carryin’ that anvil.”
Puzzled, the young man froze. He looked behind him, turned back again and asked, “Anvil? What anvil?”
The elderly one broke out in laughter once again at Fanny’s answer. “Boy, it’s that 95 pound chunk of solid iron at the end of the rope, the rope draped across your right shoulder there,” Christopher pointed out.
“Ah, yes. THAT anvil,” Fanny stated with pride. “Frankly, I forget it’s there.”
The elder wrinkled up his nose in an inquisitive expression, “You mean to tell me you’ve not felt every muscle in your body burning from the weight you’re towin’?”
“Come to think of it…yes. Yes, I have,” Fanny admitted.
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Christopher said in response. “I’ve got the perfect solution for ya, Fanny. Take a look inside the bed of my truck.” Seeing the young man’s hesitation, he continued sharply, “Go ahead, son. The Loch Ness Monster ain’t gonna jump out and bite ya. Feel free, take a look.”
Fanny took a cautious small step toward the side of the pickup. As he leaned closer to get a peek, his mouth fell open with a hushed gasp.
The old man said, “Tell me what ya see, boy.”
Fanny took a big swallow to say, “It’s a truck bed full of…well…full of anvils!”
“A whole stack of ’em, I’d say,” described the old driver.
In amazement, the young man questioned, “But, why are they there? I mean…what are you doing with all of those anvils? Are you selling them? Do you work for a salvage yard or something? I’m shocked this old antique can carry the load.”
“Fanny, I guess you could say I collect ’em,” answered the old rugged driver. “In fact, I’ve been addin’ to my collection for many moons now. I could tell ya how many travelers have allowed me to take the load off their backs, but you’ve been sun-baked enough today to appraise anything.”
The young traveler concurred, “You’re right. I’m a bit fried. However, these travelers you’re talking about, are they on this road? I’ve not seen a soul until you drove up.”
“Yes, but everyone has their own journey, and most have similar burdens,” replied the old man. “At the same time, some heavier than others. As you can see, there’s various sizes of anvils here.” After a brief pause of silence, Christopher added, “Here’s my offer, kiddo. If you trust me with your anvil, every pound of it, I’ll help ya toss it behind us, addin’ to the pile. You can unload, and load-up in the cab with me for a straight shot to where you’re meant to be. I just love playin’ the Uber out here. But…keep in mind, the anvil stays in the back. Alligators aren’t allowed in the cab with me neither, ha-ha-ha…”
Fanny looked down at the scorching concrete between his hiking boots and bit his chapped lips in thought.
Christopher, seeing the struggle to find words, added, “There’s rockslides out here, ya know. As ya get close to a hillside, or an upcomin’ canyon, ya might stumble over a stone in your path. When your strength is wrenched, you’ll find it difficult to keep your stance. It’s even worse to find footing after a heavy fall with nobody around to shoulder the load.”
Shaking his head with a look of uncertainty he replied, “No, sir. I have made this trip on my own strength, and I intend finishing it on my own. Besides that, you’re a stranger to me in a beat-up old clunker. No offense, but who’s to say you could get me to Nazareth? I’m sorry, sir, but your offer doesn’t look promising from where I stand. I will do this on my own fuel, and navigation!”
The old man smiled, put his right hand on the stick-shift, looked deeply into Fanny’s eyes and said, “Boy, ask yourself why. Why don’t ya wanna take your load off?”
After a quick mental search, Fanny answered with a tone of resolve, “Christopher, the only honest answer I can come up with is, I’ve grown accustomed to my anvil.”
With a serious timbre in a lower register, Christopher asked, “And the weight of it?”
“I deal with it, just like this unexpected desert,” explained the young one. “Do you understand, old man?”
“Oh, I do, son. I really do understand,” replied Christopher. “Listen, dusk is knockin’. No need for walkin’ in the darkness. I’d say, grab some winks for a fresh start in the mornin’.”
As the elderly man began to roll up his window, he grinned through his long mustache and said, “Well, I know you’ll give it your all. Still, keep in mind, it’s needless for ya to take this desolation, with all its loneliness, and the weight you’re carryin’ solo.” With that, he put the truck in gear, turned up the radio, and off toward sundown he drove.
Fanny continued his trek with a bit of angst in his steps. Christopher somehow offended him with the offer of a free lift, as if the old man thought him weaker, frail, and without survival skills.
He began grumbling to himself, “How dare that ancient dinosaur-of-a-coot say I needed help through this parched piece of earth.” Still, in the attempt to bolster his decision, he raised his voice a notch, “Who does he think he is? He’ll see me in Nazareth, sitting under the shade of an apple tree, sipping on a glass of their best vintage. He’ll be shocked to see me resting on my anvil, without any aid from his sorry rack of rust.”
With all his energy depleted by his rant, Fanny began to look for a safe spot to sleep for the night. Darkness had fallen, but the moonlight helped in the hunt for a place to bed-down. Soon, he located a soft sandy mound with his name on it. He found sun-dried chaparral fit nicely for kindling.
Overnight hours passed and the silence was deafening. As usual, he used the anvil as a pillow, even though the shape was not friendly for his head. He found the surface of the iron was still warm from the sun, which was welcomed as desert nights tend to issue a chill. Unfortunately for the camper, as the nature of anvils, its surface turned cold.
From time to time he heard a small rock roll off the side of a rise just feet from where he was laying. Another time, he was awakened by what he thought was the flapping of large wings. He imagined buzzards mistaking him for a dead man. He then tried to keep one eye opened, but exhaustion won the moment. Another awakening caused him to jump when he heard an insect scratching on his ear. He began to inwardly acknowledge his sleep would be thin at best.
Without knowing why, he opened his eyes from a sound sleep. It was just before dawn. Across the road from where he camped, he swore he caught a shadow figure racing from the road into a ravine on the other side. Startled, he bounced up to a sitting position while fixed on the area where it vanished. What he wouldn’t do for a pair of night-vision goggles. After a minute or so, and a few hyper heartbeats, he shook his head and took a helping from his canteen.
Unable to go back to sleep, Fanny stretched his legs, and his sore back, in preparation for the day ahead.
“The sun is winking at me from over the hills, ” he said as he reached for his anvil. “There’s no time like the present.”
He peeled back the wrapper of an energy bar from his cargo pants thigh pocket, finishing it in record time.
With the young morning sun at his back, and the anvil dangling once again from the rope hoisted over his right shoulder, Fanny felt new aches making themselves known in his calves, ankles, and feet. He thought to himself that if he just put one foot in front of the other, the pain would work itself out.
As he made his way, his mind was flooded with the movements and sounds he heard overnight. He convinced himself that he was in no real danger…or was he? Like a video clip running through his mind, he couldn’t erase the glimpse of the unknown shadow figure dashing away from his makeshift pallet. As hard as he tried, he remained at a loss concerning its identity. In the end, he boldly rationalized the thought. He determined the quiet swiftness indicated a cougar, or a coyote. The “what might have beens” gave him a sense of authentic fear he had not felt before.
Hill after hill, ridge after ridge, no sight of his goal. With every turn, curve and valley, he had hopes of seeing the ornate village painted in his mind as the heated hours wore on.
During the mid-morning, the searing winds kicked up with a devastating blow of a wall of dust and sand from the west. Immediately, it became a battle for each inhale. Fanny pulled his hat over his nose and mouth for protection. Vision became sparse. Tiny grains of sand stung his skin like miniature darts speeding from a horizontal projection. Through the torrent of hot dust and sand, he spotted a boulder nearby and ran to the east side of it, blocking the onslaught of the turbulent blast. After what seemed like an hour or so, the sandstorm passed. With tremendous relief, Fanny came out from behind the boulder, grateful he had discovered it when he did.
With a couple of clearing coughs, he thought to himself, “What else can happen on this journey?”
By early afternoon, he was running low on water. His fear rose each time he shook the canteen to hear the lessening of the swish. His quads were beginning to burn in his thighs. His shoulder was bruised from the rope slung over it, cradling the anvil. A growing headache, once only a nuisance, now pounded from the top of his head. Realizing he was experiencing a deeper dehydration, he guarded against panic. He was beginning to despise the constant mirages of heatwaves appearing as glimmering bodies of water. Suddenly, he heard Christopher’s words from the day before, challenging him with the question of why. “Why don’t ya wanna take your load off?” He found himself flirting with the question.
Mid afternoon descended. After following a sharp curve in the blistering road, Fanny peered into the shadow of a small canyon wall just ahead. The shade spread all the way across the road, and then some. There, on the shoulder of the roadway, about 40 yards away, was a figure of some kind. Cautiously advancing toward it, there, in the shadow of the rock wall, he saw Christopher casually leaning against the tailgate of his blue pickup.
“It seems we meet again, kiddo,” shouted Christopher with a wave. “The shield of a nice-sized rock in a desolate place is mighty fine, wouldn’t ya say? It’s nice and comfortable to me. Come on over, I’ve been waitin’ for ya.”
Fanny found he was somewhat relieved to see the old man, and a convenient shade. He smiled, shook his head in amazement, entering the cooling shadow of the canyon.
As Fanny got closer to the truck, he scratched his head and asked, “How did you know I would be here at this time of day? Are you stalking me, old man?”
Christopher laughed at the question and replied, “Who knows? Maybe the old truck is equipped with radar for weary travelers.”
Wiping his hands on the front of his well-worn overalls, the elder turned to the pile of anvils in the bed of the truck where he pulled out ice cold bottles of water from a Styrofoam ice chest.
“Here ya go! Fanny, take a load off. You deserve it.” ordered Christopher.
Right away, before breaking the cap seal, Fanny first put the cold bottle against his neck, and then his forehead. With a deep heavy sigh, an expression of relief fell over his face.
“Ahhhhhh, that feels so good,” said the hiker.
“No doubt,” answered Christopher. “Tell me, how did ya sleep last night?”
After opening the bottle for his first couple of gulps, the backpacker responded, “I hate to say it, but it wasn’t that great.”
“Oh, really?” replied the old man.
Delaying his answer with another long swig of water, “Let me tell you, the desert may not be my kind of surroundings. I heard noises I couldn’t examine. There were sounds coming from everywhere, including what I think were buzzard wings. That’s way too close for comfort.”
“Is that right?” Christopher said slowly. “What else?”
“You may think I’m nuts, but I spotted a quick shadow I couldn’t identify just on the other side of the road,” described Fanny. “It’s not something I look forward to seeing ever again. By the way, just how many miles is it to Nazareth from this canyon? As far as I can tell….”
“Ya know, owls are night hunters,” Christopher interrupted. “They keep rabbits and rats on the run for sure. Wingspans can be impressive. Such a wonderful creature. As for nocturnal critters in general, I could write volumes on the kinds and species out here. They’re everywhere in the cool of the night. Some folks just let their imaginations run away with them like a train on grease. Truth is, they all were created with excellent night vision. In that respect, they’ve got a leg up on ya.”
The young traveler admitted, “It sure made for an uneasy night.”
While checking the lose left side of his back bumper, the elderly man stated, “Ya know, fear is an enemy. Fact is, it comes in many forms. You might even compare it to a parade coordinator-sending one flatbed float rollin’ by after another, all designed to frighten every person from every walk of life. Your walk of life happens to be on this very road, in this very desert. But always remember, fear is a liar. It promises the worse case scenario in most all situations under heaven, and yet rarely delivers. Son, it’s always best to think of all things as fleeting.”
Fanny laughed and belted out, “FLEETING? Ha, this desert isn’t fleeting Did you see that sandstorm?”
“Hang on now. A liar’s performance is to convince his audience,” stated the old one. “The sudden desert you approach will be full of woes. Hard things happen. Expect it. It’s part of the learnin’ curve. Oppression bubbles up. Depression develops. Illness lurks here and over there. Pain arrives, creeping into your skin, your muscles, your mind, and even your very soul. Soon, a lacking drains your strength, your joy, and eventually, your reasonin’. Yes, the desert is all of that and more. It’s a beautiful place, too…in its own way. The colors and scattered shades are brilliant. Yet, there’s danger out here. There’s isolation expected, married to obscurity. It’s all about who ya face it with. But the sweet truth is, when journeying through the desert, like ya are, you’ll find it’s only temporary. All parades must end, even sandstorms.”
The young man paused for a moment before speaking, “But if there is a learning curve to suffering, what and where is it? I mean, where’s the final exam in this hellish classroom?”
Christopher stroked his wiry beard for a moment. He turned toward a scenic view of the desert and explained, “The better question would be…Why experience it alone? Look out at this barren ground. Each step is a test. You are gettin’ an education, albeit in a lesser degree without an instructor. My offer still stands, kiddo. Let’s take this anvil off your back and put it where it belongs…behind ya, without a rope attached.”
Fanny bent down to tighten his boot laces during an uncomfortable silence. He then stood up, adjusted his canvas hat, looked at Christopher and responded, “No, sir. I will finish this challenge I’ve walked into. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your free offer, but, there’s something to be said about knowing my own conditioning will push me to my destination.”
The elderly man’s ice-blue eyes twinkled as he challenged the young traveler, “And when your anvil of comfort breaks your fleeting, temporary strength, with no one there who is stronger to save ya…what then?”
“Thus far, I’ve adjusted to its weight. It’s okay, really it is,” said Fanny in a softer, kinder delivery. “It may take me a while, but I will get through this desert. But, I can’t wait to feel the soft, cool blades of grass in Nazareth under my bare feet The universe will give me strength.”
“Don’t count on the universe. She’s unforgivin’, and unable to love, ” said the old one. “You, my young man, will find you’re bein’ schooled in the land of waitin’.”
With that said, Christopher watched Fanny strap on his anvil for the journey out of the shadow of the rock wall. Just then, the old man pulled out a brown paper bag and two more bottles of water from the bed of his truck.
“Okay, kiddo,” holding out the items. “Here, ya take these. You’re gonna need it.”
Fanny displayed a large grin at the kindness Christopher displayed. “What’s all this?”
“Well, there’s various items of protein in the bag, some nuts, dried figs, jerky, and some cold sliced pineapple you’ll wanna eat pretty soon,” explained the elder.
Laughing, the hiker inquired, “Pineapple???? Where did you get pineapple out here?”
Christopher just giggled with a lovely childlike delivery as he opened the door to the truck, got in, and started the rattling engine with a backfire.
“Here’s to hopin’ we will see one another again, ” said the old man. “Ya know, hope is a healin’ thing. Even in a deserted place.”
Fanny replied quickly, “I could use that for sure.”
“I know ya do, son. I know ya do,” stated Christopher as he put on his sunglasses. “Be aware of the shadow figures, Fanny. It’ll serve ya well. But, with that said, I’ve never read an obituary where a shadow killed anybody.”
With a whistle on his lips, and his hands on the wide steering-wheel, Christopher began to slowly drive back into the punishing sun. The young trekker raised his hand slowly to wave the old man off. Just then, Fanny realized he never thanked Christopher for the provisions.
Two days and nights passed. It was about noon when Fanny found himself dragging his feet, literally, across the baked concrete in near total exhaustion. With each painstaking stride, he began scanning the horizon for the old man’s pickup. His energy was virtually depleted, and he knew it. The morning delivered some scattered clouds, which aided the weakened young rambler, but now, nothing but abusive piercing sun shutdown all effort. He felt himself wanting, even craving, a visit with the caring driver.
Just as Fanny journeyed down a slope, from a crest in the roadway, he tripped on something. As if in slow motion, he fell forward, hard onto the hot pavement, in unison with a loud ringing thud as the anvil met the road. He screamed in pain from the impact and fierceness of the raging temperature of the road. He quickly turned over on his backpack as a buffer from the concrete. It took him a minute to collect his mind. He looked for wounds, finding a few scrapes and cuts to his elbows, cheek, and the palms of both hands. He noticed his pants were ripped at the left knee as blood began to find its way through the khaki fabric. Troubled at what caused him to lose his traction, Fanny looked around to find the object which caused the fall. There was nothing there. Unable to bend his left knee, he struggled to push himself up on his right leg. With the rope still in his hand, he tested his body for limping to the side of the road. The pain in his knee was crippling. It was a mammoth project as he slowly hopped his way to the sandy shoulder, dragging the anvil against the hot pavement.
Assessing his ability to trek ahead, he noticed something protruding from the bottom of the toe of his right boot. A closer look revealed a piece of the sole of the boot had come loose, and had partially folded back while dragging his feet during the endeavor to keep walking. Whether it was heat exhaustion, the brutal conditions, or a pure wake-up call from injuries, the young hiker admitted being trapped, for the remainder of the day, right where he sat.
As the sun slowly descended into the western sky, Fanny tried to lift his spirits. Finding a small bit of shade under some brush, he began to sing every hit song he could recall from his teen years-songs that made him smile. He busied himself mentally listing his family tree as far back as the war of 1812. With each mental exercise he was surprised at the slowness to fire-off a thought, or memory. He wondered about heat stroke.
“It would seem the elements are doing a number on you, Mr. Gates,” he sarcastically mumbled to himself. In pain, the hiker laid under the tiny shade of the brush for any relief he could manage.
Sounds seem louder when sleeping. Fanny jumped with a start from a nap he didn’t intend on taking. After a few seconds of clarity, he realized he was hearing the tail of a rattlesnake. By sheer instinct, Fanny turned over from his position, discovering in the sand to his left a five foot rattler, curled up maybe 12 feet away. Fear raced through his senses.
Somehow the young man pulled himself together and looked around for a rock. There, by his left boot, were five golf ball-sized sandstones. His eyes once again shifted back to the poised snake. Visions of film footage of how quickly snakes can crawl and strike ran through his head. Unable to bend his left knee without shooting pain, he grabbed the anvil rope, tossed it at the rocks, maneuvering one within reach. He thought to himself, “I have one shot at this and it better be right, or I’m toast.” He methodically, but slowly, reached the rock, grabbed it, then threw it at the rattler with a shout, all in one motion like a professional shortstop. Speedily, the snake reacted, slithering out to the middle of the road and stopped. Fanny trained his eyes on the reptile as it turned its head toward him again. The hiker pitched another rock toward the snake, but this time unmoved.
“Oh, no you don’t, you little beast! Don’t even think about it!” threatened Fanny.
Keeping his eye on the snake, he examined his precarious position. Unable to move quickly, due to his knee, and without a weapon at his disposal, he knew he was a sitting duck. The unexpected desert miles had been cruel, but he covered much ground. Just as he began to question his endurance to reach the other side of the wilderness, he now might see it end-thanks to a new enemy-and a damaged sole.
Surveying every item within reach for a defense, the young traveler’s anvil caught his eye. His mind landed on the reality of the weight of it. Mentally, he began to blame it for his current dilemma. Ninety five pounds of iron needlessly held him down from where he wanted to be. In the assumption he could’ve run from the snake just minutes prior, the anvil would’ve proven to be the end, holding him back for the snake’s lunge. However, in a sick, twisted thought process, his admiration for the useless anvil melted the angst.
Late afternoon approached, and Fanny’s nemesis remained vigilant in a curl, with its expressionless cold stare from the road. The scene was looking darker for the injured young man. He imagined the worst.
Feeling a bit delirious, the trapped hiker’s anger boiled, “So, do you have a nest around here? Maybe you have a brood nearby you’re protecting. Is that why you’re gawking at me? They’ll all make terrific belts, you pile of scales! How does that make you feel? Tell me, is your crawl really quicker than my hop? Look, I know what you’re waiting for. You can’t fool me,” he said, taunting the rattler. “When darkness comes, you’ll slither your measly self over here and take chunks out of me, as I slowly kill over from your venom. I know your kind. I was married to someone like you!”
Fanny was massaging his emotions to accept his coming death. Dreams were dashed, hope only a dream, and his efforts toward his goal had been wasted energy. In a moment of clarity, he looked over at his companion: the anvil. In the light of his circumstances, he knew it suddenly didn’t seem to hold much value. True, Fanny had grown accustomed to the weight on his back, but in the reevaluation, it seemed foolish to have imagined it to be part of himself in daily life. In an odd, and maybe an ironic way, it took a trauma in a desolate place to see the fulfillment of the truth.
Another hour slipped by, closer to the coming dusk. Fanny suddenly had gained a fever. He could feel chills and cold sweat rolling down his chest. His time waned in the growing darkness. His new enemy seemed to detect Fanny’s weakened state, raising its head off the pavement. Desperation danced through the stranded hiker as he grabbed the empty canteen, the only defense against the waiting venomous reptile.
During a somewhat morbid consideration, Fanny pictured where the fangs might sink in first. Like a strategist, he began to maneuver his body so that the strike of the rattler would target closer to his hands and arms for a better shot at defense. About that time, his ears detected a familiar remote sound. He cocked his head as he zoomed-in on the distant echo of what appeared to be a big brass band, combined with the hum of an engine. The young man smiled as he identified the modulation of old pistons, pushing an antique pickup in his direction. Fanny caught a glimpse of the old blue truck rounding a curve, where it began to slow down with its radio blaring away, until coming to a complete stop. As it did, the right front tire crowned the head of the cunning rattler with a defining crunch. The driver’s side door opened and out stepped Christopher.
“Well, if it ain’t young Fanny restin’ on his laurels,” he said with warm grin as he walked toward the young man.
Fanny had gasped when the truck’s tire parked on the snake.
Christopher sarcastically asked, “Son, are ya hungry? Your mouth is wide open like a newborn sparrow in the nest.”
“You…uh, I guess you know, you rolled right on top of that rattlesnake. How did you manage to do that?” quizzed the injured traveler.
“Oh, practice, I suppose. It happens,” answered the lighthearted elder. “I see ya got yourself all banged-up there.”
Sheepishly, Fanny began to explain, “Yes, sir. Earlier today I was so spent. Not realizing my toes were dragging, my sole separated a bit from my left boot, causing me to trip and…well, here I am.”
While scoping out the young man’s injuries, Christopher mentioned the obvious, “Ya fell on your face, I see.”
“In a manner of speaking, I sure did.” admitted Fanny.
The old man knelt down to get a closer look at Fanny’s damaged boot.
“Hmmm, yep, I’m no cobbler, but I see what happened,” speaking slower and in a softer tone, “Ya know, where the ‘soul’ separates is a lonely place to be. What have ya learned, kiddo?”
One side of Fanny’s bruised lip raised as he said, “Seeking shelter is a wise thing.”
“Is it now?” stated Christopher.
“No doubt, ” admitted the young trekker. “I have come to realize that I’m not ‘all that’.”
“Now, give yourself some credit in this journey of yours,” the old one said.
“What?” asked Fanny.
Christopher explained, “Ya didn’t think about how ya said it. In all your boldness and anger, ya once shouted, ‘BY GOD, I WILL DO THIS!‘”
Beside himself, Fanny raised his voice in astonishment, “Hey! How did you know about…I mean…that was a few days ago now…and on top of that, I was in…”
“In the desert, all by yourself. I know,” interrupted Christopher. “You might as well have had on a wireless microphone. That was actually the beginning of your learnin’ while on this path. With all the wreckage in your life, you were searchin’ for solitude. Most people do. Ya see, there’s a big difference between solitude, and isolation. It’s ironic, isn’t it? In your isolation, ya never really were alone.”
The young man being perplexed raised his voice, “Excuse me, but I still don’t understand how you…”
Christopher interrupted again, “Not many do understand, kiddo. Even the ones who are most scholarly, with all those initials after their names, can’t get their arms around it all. Some, the honest and most humble, will even admit it. I’d say you’re in good company.”
Fanny still reclined there, looked down at his skinned hands and torn pants in a sense of surrender.
Breaking the uneasy moment, the old one spoke up, “Now son, here’s the deal for this time, for this place of desolation; will ya accept my offer? You’re in the middle of this trip, but near the end of your journey. I won’t return to these parts for some time, and here, in the waitin’, is the opportunity for decisions. Trust me on this. Take my hand and I’ll give ya a lift to where ya wanna be. As a brash up-and-comer, a lad once told me, ‘It doesn’t look promisin’ from where I stand.'”
The young man accepted without delay, “Yes, sir. I’m ready to move out of this God forsaken place.”
“Uh, not really… ‘forsaken’,” Christopher said with a familiar snicker. “You have much to learn, young Fanny Gates. Come on, I’ll help carry ya to the truck. Ya ain’t heavy.”
With Fanny’s left arm around Christopher’s neck, and the anvil hanging from his sore right shoulder, the duo methodically made their way to the old truck.
After a couple of steps, Fanny asked Christopher a simple question, “I take it you know where Nazareth is, right?”
The old man opened the passenger side door, helped the younger into the truck and informed him, “Well, of course I know where Nazareth is. As far as the eye can see from this spot, it’s nothin’ but desert. Still, Nazareth is not too far from here.”
Just before Christopher closed the passenger door, he asked, “Uh, son, aren’t ya forgettin’ somethin’?”
Fanny looked bewildered until he saw Christopher gazing at the anvil sitting in his lap.
He responded, “Christopher, do I really need to give it up? It’s been with me for as long as I can remember. Over my lifetime I’ve adjusted to its weight.”
“This is the very crux of my offer, Fanny,” Christopher uttered with a straight tone. “Somewhere down the line, you were lied to. You only ASSUMED ya needed this weight. Ya must unload what has weighed ya down in order to come with me. Now, tell me straight up. Are ya willin’ to allow me to toss it behind us, to put it to bed?”
Seeing the sincerity in the old one’s ice-blue eyes, understanding it meant everything to him, Fanny agreed to let go.
With the anvil among the others discarded in the bed of the old truck, the aged one cranked-up the engine, took control of the steering wheel, and began to make a u-turn.
“Hey, Christopher, you’re going in the wrong direction!”, the traveler said with alert.
“You were hopin’ to go to Nazareth,” stated Christopher. “Number one, ya wouldn’t have been able to get there by your own power. Number two, I’m your only Uber out this way. Number three, you were headed west on a one-way road. Nazareth is east of here. Always east.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ll just have to trust you on that.” said Fanny.
With that, the old man replied, “Yep, yep ya must.”
“Christopher, there’s just one thing of concern here,” Fanny said. “I don’t have any cash on me for your fuel.”
After a satisfying smile on his old weathered face, along with a slight shaking of the head, Christopher replied, “That’s another thing, kiddo. Ya never could’ve purchased your way to Nazareth. It’s all been paid for ahead of your arrival. Burden-free, son. Burden-free.”
When loaded down, crushed with the stuff of life’s curses, unload with fuel for the race.
“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the LORD, ‘My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’ For He will deliver you from the snare of the fowlera and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his pinions, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness is a shield and buckler. You will not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness, nor the destruction that wastes at noonday.”– Psalm 91:1-6 (ESV)
“Every time I see your face It reminds me of the places we used to go. But all I’ve got is a photograph And I realize you’re not coming back anymore…”(1973) Photograph. Recorded by: Ringo Starr Composers: Richard (Ringo) Starkey and George Harrison
I thought I arrived too early, but as I got out of the car, a voice shouted out, “Alan?” There, just two cars over, it was her, Joan and her nephew, Matthew….When I hugged him, I felt as if I had known him all of his life, as if he were my own son.
Forgive me if there’s nothing really valuable to use in what I’m about to write. I just know I have to. I MUST write about it.
Meet Terry Sindle. Terry was a dear friend of mine. We were the same age. He, his younger sister, Joan, and their newly divorced mom, had just moved into the apartment complex where my mom and I lived. It was 1973 and the Sindle family were fresh off the moving van from Staten Island, New York. They had such heavy NY accents that this Texas lad could hardly decipher. But nevertheless, Terry and I had so much in common.
(Terry Sindle in high school, 1977/1978.)
He was a bit from the wild side, and I was far more conservative. He was a casual pot smoker and pill-popper, and I chewed gum. He was into Led Zeppelin, and I was into Manilow. I was a spiritually plugged-in church member, and Terry was agnostic at best. He wore long wavy hair, and my cut looked like a Wall Street lawyer. I was a martial arts student and tournament fighter, while he could care less about any sport. Yet, we both experienced our parents divorcing. We both had poor single moms. We both loved music, and music performance. And we both loved pizza…or so I thought. Being from Staten Island, NY, I figured he liked pizza. So, another friend and I introduced him to what was the best pizza in our neighborhood, Pizza Inn. When the cardboard-thin, scantly-topped crispy crusted pizza came out, Terry looked at it and said in astonishment, “WHAT IS THIS? THIS isn’t pizza!” Here in Texas we thought pizza was pizza. We thought Pizza Inn could do no wrong. Terry had to educate us in what real NY pizza consumers enjoy. It would be two years later before a NY style pizza joint opened up in our suburb, and we’ve never been the same since.
One thing Terry and I didn’t have in common was the guitar. He was an incredible guitarist. I was strictly a vocalist, although dabbled lightly in piano and guitar. His musicianship was keen, to the point where I could call him a “master technician”. Terry’s grade of musicianship was well beyond the average teenage garage band. In two days he learned all of the Beatles music catalog. TWO DAYS! He, at 14 years old had begun to compose original music, as well as arrangements of cover songs. He joined the school band and mastered the French Horn. He was playing for local parties, filling-in with other local bands, and eventually started his own rock band before he was 16.
You could say we looked like a duck and a hawk side-by-side, but we knew we were a team of the same feather. I was in the top choir in high school always urging him to audition. I told him it would help sharpen his vocals, along with sight reading. It didn’t take him long before he realized you can study classical while using what you learn for other genres of music. He sheepishly did audition, and made the choir in 1977. He naturally squirmed terribly so when having to wear a tux for serious choral performances.
Meanwhile, my band was more soft rock and ballads. Naturally when it came time to add a lead guitarist, Terry was my guy. Musically we knew what each other wanted without discussing it fully. We both had terrific ears, as well as, the same quality control standards. With that said, on stage he would hear an extra lick or riff in his mind, then would add it in real time on the fly, often distracting me from my lyrics. (That was a good and bad problem when singing something like, Manilow’s “I Write The Songs”.) Frankly, with Terry as my lead guitarist, I knew whatever came out of the amp speakers was going to be a top-shelf sound.
Not long after high school, I moved out to get my own place across town. Meanwhile, Terry was wanting to move back to NY to further his rock career. We performed a couple of times together during the summer after graduation, but I was pursuing music theater by that time and he was going deeper into metal rock. Before you could say, “Y’all”, he moved back to NY to execute just what he set his sights on. We lost track of each other by 1980.
Later in the 1980’s I heard from Terry a couple of times. It turned out he continued to grow as a spectacular studio artist, and stage act. He had even prepped for a move to England with the idea of joining a band there.
(Terry Sindle with his band in NY during the 1980’s.)
Then…all went silent.
About 10 years ago, I began a search to find my old friend. By that time I was on Facebook which is where I started scrubbing for a friend link. Nothing came up. Internet searches came up empty. It was as if Terry Sindle had vanished from the planet.
Then one day, and I hesitated to do it, I launched a national obituary search. With a deep saddening, while swallowing back the lump in my throat, I found my friend’s obit. Terry died back in 1997 at the age of 37. What’s worse, the obit was short and simple, without surviving family member names, or details about his passing. May God forgive me, I first thought his substance abuse finally caught up with him. My thirst for more info grew almost to the unbearable. All it gave me was the place of his death…Florida. All other searches came up zero. It was highly frustrating. I gave up and the years went by.
A couple of months ago for Throw-Back Thursday, I posted the picture below on Facebook and gave tribute to two members of my band who left us early in life.
(My Alan Brown & Co Band. Later affectionately referred to as my “Come & Go Band”)
In my defense, this shot goes back to Oct of 1977. That’s the excuse for my tablecloth sports jacket and sailor pants. Terry Sindle is seen on the far right in a black shirt with his Gibson guitar, standing in front of his stack of speakers.
Right after the post, a couple of old mutual high school friends contacted me asking if I knew whatever happened to Terry. I told them what I had discovered, but it didn’t seem enough. So, I lit a fire under my chair.
Somehow, someway, through a search, I found Joan Sindle, Terry’s younger sister. I messaged with her right away. Afterwards we spoke on the phone. Pushing back tears, she caught me up on Terry’s short adult life and sudden death. Terry was a victim of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He beat it once in his life only to return years later like an overnight thief. After not feeling well, and unable to shake it, he had a check-up with an Oncologist. Shockingly, after running tests, the doctor gave him less than a week to live. In fact, he died 3 days later.
Terry did well with his music while here. In NY, he made radio airplay with one of his records. Terry’s last album was cut just 3 months before he passed. His bands always did very well in NY, and later in Florida after moving there. He met a Floridian girl while in AA, fell in love, and got married. They eventually were blessed with 3 boys.
While in the cancer ward, both times, he played songs for the other fellow-cancer patients. That didn’t surprise me a bit. He had a huge heart. As for his substance addictions, they did strengthen their grip on his life. He checked himself into rehab while in his 20’s. He was clean for many years, fell off the wagon, and became clean again. At some point, early in his marriage, both Terry and his wife, opened their hearts to God and His redemption offered through Jesus. AA was good for Terry, but Divinity resting within, gave him the power to control the monkey on his back. Remembering those days, Joan said he was excited about his new-found faith.
Recently Joan asked if I would hook-up with Terry’s youngest son, Matthew (now 25), who was only 3 years old when Terry passed. She said because of his young age, he is always wanting to know more about his dad and thought it would be great if an old high school friend could shed light on his dad’s teen years. I was thrilled! I did so. Matthew and I had a few terrific exchanges back and forth over cyberspace. You might find it isn’t surprising to know that Matthew, along with one of his brothers, are musically talented to the hilt. In fact, they can play any instrument they pick up. Matthew also has all of Terry’s guitars and amps, as well as his French Horn from high school.
(Sorry for the flash reflection on this shot. Terry and his boys less than a year before his death.)
A few days ago, Joan called to tell me Matthew was coming here to Dallas for a visit and wanted to know if we could meet. Once again, I was thrilled! I asked 3 other mutual high school friends, who knew Terry, to join us. They were itching to show up.
When Joan first asked me to connect with Matthew, I could hardly describe the feeling. It was so strange. All I can say to paint this canvas with a stroke or two, is I felt a compelling, a strong, very strong tug to reach out to Terry’s son with all that was within me. As each day rolled on I had this gnawing, this obsession propelling me with the thought that somehow I was doing this for Terry himself, as if he were here asking me to do this as a favor. Truly, that feeling launched me into an overdrive to find pictures, Terry’s handwriting, and refresh every stand-out memory I could muster. They were going to bring some pictures of Terry, (as you have seen) in his adult years. We agreed to meet at a local pub, The Fox & Hound in north Dallas.
I thought I arrived too early, but as I got out of the car, a voice shouted out, “Alan?” There, just two cars over, it was her, Joan and her nephew, Matthew. Joan and I hugged as if we were siblings removed at birth. When I hugged him, I felt as if I had known him all of his life, as if he were my own son. The others drove up shortly after.
(My phone died while we were together, so Joan took this shot. I’m the Celtic-looking guy sitting on the right with Mathew in the middle and some old high school friends.)
For several hours we spoke, laughed, cried, and ate and drank with Terry on our minds and hearts. The guys poured out all their memories of Terry. No one could recall anything sour to add concerning our younger times together. Matthew and Joan shared more about the life and heart Terry displayed to others in his adult years. He dearly loved his wife and sons. Terry even wrote letters to his boys to help them understand who there dad was, what he consisted of, and how he wished he could be there to see them grow up. After his prognosis, he told Joan how he couldn’t die because he had three sons to raise. That was his concern while preparing to leave this life. He also wrote to his sons of his spiritual awakening, sharing the love he found in God.
Afterward, Joan said she felt as if Terry had been with us around the table in the pub. I told her it’s because she was meeting with his close friends that reflect Terry’s touch on our lives, still expressing it after 4 decades. Of course, I know what she meant. Again, I felt a rushing swift current of an urge to visit with Matthew sharing personally about his dad. His eyes lit up as I described our days together. He laughed at all of our funny stories about Terry. He showed a great deal of pride displaying the family pictures, and describing the instruments he inherited. He spoke of what he knew of his dad’s faith, adding that he too was in a music ministry with a desire to pursue a pastoral outreach.
As I looked at the pictures of Terry as an adult, I was nothing short of mesmerized. It seemed like yesterday we were music-making teens, taking music theory class together, rehearsing quietly in his room, and doing laundry duty. And now, I see the man in the pictures bringing me smiles, seeing he was a success in fatherhood and being a loving, loyal husband. When the time was right, he was man enough to realize he had substance abuse issues and sought help. So many don’t. He showed love, grace and benevolence toward other hurting cancer patients, even while his own life was ebbing away. To me, a hit record seems tiny in comparison.
As we were saying goodbye in the parking lot, as the sun was setting, I looked into his son’s eyes and told him, “We knew your dad very well. I can certainly say, with all confidence, he would be very proud of you, and who you have become. You are an impressive young man, Matthew. And somehow, I just can’t help but believe your dad is being told about our gathering today.” Yes, we all teared-up, and rightly so.
Someone once wrote how we are not islands, living our lives separated, disconnected from others. If the life of Terry Sindle taught us a couple of things, it’s that we are all peninsulas, connected to one another, which aids us in knowing what is most important.
One day I will see Terry again. And when I do, I think he will say something like, “Thank you for helping me tell Matthew who I am.”
A life well lived is available from the vast cistern of fuel for the race.
“For none of us lives to himself alone, and none of us dies to himself alone.” – Apostle Paul, from Romans 14:7 (Berean Study Bible)
“Oh, Stormy…Oh, Stormy. Bring back that sunny day…” Stormy (1968) Recorded by: Classics IV. Composers: Dennis Yost, James Cobb, Buddy Buie
As I write this, it’s a sunny day in Dallas, Texas with temperature hovering about 102/f degrees. The heat index, or what it feels like with humidity mixed into the works, is 118/f degrees. Great day to mow the lawn. LOL It’s July in Texas, and you can always count on the weather being oppressive. What I wouldn’t give for a bit of rain right now, but not HOT DROPS.
Our springtime was horribly rough. May and June alone were pelting us with several tropical storm-type winds, tornadoes galore, and thunderstorms ushering in hail. We had straight-line winds clocking at 71mph in one of our storms in June. The trees on our property lost several branches, large limbs, as well as, nerves. Around here, when the civil sirens go off, you run for shelter, never walk, during tornado warnings. We’ve had many this year thus far.
Photo: My cousin sits with a partial of a massive 100+ year old Sycamore, which was uprooted from my mom’s front yard, and landed on her roof. She was home at the time, but uninjured during the tornado. The house is about 164 years old. It took the brunt, with only roof and porch damage. Texas storms come as quickly as a fake news story cycle.
Meanwhile, at our house, our oldest dog, Sammie, is like bacon on a hot skillet during storms. I’ve written about this before.
Sammie goes bonkers at the smell of rain, not yet fallen. You can always tell by her attentive look with immediate cravings to cuddle.
The slightest sound of distant rumbling thunder will set her off with the quivers, shakes and shivers, like a 7.1 California earthquake. All the while, nestled safely in my arms for shelter. I’ve been told she runs to me because I’m the biggest one in the room. When it’s peaceful outside, she rarely notices me, unless I have a treat in my hand. Of course, I do what I can to calm her vocally, and sometimes it works, but often not. The storms just seem to override any audible efforts of comfort.
Frankly, I can understand her pretty well. I mean, growing up in Texas, I have seen what tornadoes, flash floods and hurricanes can do. Because of past experience, my heartbeat rises a bit during these storms. On the other hand, I have family and friends who are storm chasers. They absolutely adore the thrill of getting as close to a tornado as possible, without catching up with Dorothy and Toto. In my opinion, they are all mad as hares in a cabbage patch. Yet, I still love them.
Oh, how I wish I could link telepathically, with Sammie’s little brain. I wish she could know I will cover her with my own body if a tornado hit our house. I just don’t speak “dogness” as well as I should. If only my communication skills were on her level, maybe she would understand the kind of protector she has in me. But, Shorty, our other pal, knows what to say.
My communication skills might be lacking during Sammie’s times of trouble, but sometimes lyrics will hit me out of the blue…or the darkness.
Recently, my daughter’s band, Grosh, released their new album. The last song on the project is my favorite. The cut is entitled, “Piece of Mind”. Besides hearing my daughter deliver some terrific vocals once again, the original lyric touched me deeply. It speaks. Here’s a section for you:
“…Whether or not you know, whether or not you don’t. Whether or not you care, whether or not you won’t, you are not alone. Give me a piece of your mind. Because whether or not you know, whether or not you don’t. Whether or not you care, whether or not you won’t, you are not alone.” (2019) Piece of Mind. Recorded by Grosh. Composers: Lougen/English (Her band-mates)
(Sample the cut at: groshband.com. Go to “Store”, click on the title of the song and turn up the volume. (Also available for downloads.) Tell me how it grabs you.)
There have been unexpected storms in my life when I desperately needed to be reminded I am not solo here in this life. Most of he time, I didn’t get a siren of warning before I was flattened by a down-burst. Car crash – no warning. Job loss – no warning. Health crisis – no warning. Death in the family – no warning. Can you identify?
How honest is this? At times, I have felt alone. At times, I felt alone in a crushing crowd of revelers. At times, I looked around for someone to find peace with and found a vacant place. At times, I searched for synthetics to numb my loneliness.
Life is so much like the weather. Lightning WILL clap just when you least expect it, and you WILL leap off the mattress about a meter or so. Sheets of hail, wrapped in a torrent of rain, WILL beat on the roof, and all you can do is wait to analyse the aftermath. You might sit at a table, with a fine wine accompanied by broiled brisket, when suddenly, an EF-4 tornado WILL rip the house apart with its 166+mph winds. (It’ll take about 3 seconds.) In those moments of oppression, in those moments of turmoil, in those moments of trying to grip the rug beneath your feet, like Sammie, it’s normal to feel a bit shaken. A bit at a loss. A bit bewildered. This is the stuff of life, and life’s surprises.
Because I am a Jesus “accepter”, I do what I can to keep from nursing on other means for quick fixes to sooth my nerves, my fears, my “what next”. Many times I fail. In those times I must remember all things I touch, taste, and see, are only temporary at their best. Synthetics are just that…synthetic. Who would depend upon a wedding ring fabricated out of a cigar-band?
Sammie runs to me for comfort, but I don’t mention to her that I can be blown away, just like she can. The comfort from my body is, well…uh…temporary. In the same way, I can run to my wife, a counselor, a friend, a chemical pacifier, but in the end, they are faulty, too. We all fall down physically, emotionally, spiritually. My proven rest relies on the One Who holds me up today, yesterday, and tomorrow. Why?
Where else could I go? He simply is the biggest person in the room. The storm may not be removed each time the radar turns red, yellow, and purple, but I do have the promise He will be with me through what comes my way. He alone called Himself, “The Rock”. In Exodus, when Moses was afraid to be God’s spoke-person to the enslaved Jewish community in Egypt, and Pharaoh, he challenged God.
He inquired, “Who shall I say sent me?” Wouldn’t you ask?
God said to Moses, “I AM WHO I AM”; and He said, “Thus you shall say to the sons of Israel, ‘I AM has sent me to you.'” (Exodus 3:14 NAS)
Someday I will write on the significance of the title, “I AM”. It’s a great study of the words in Hebrew. For now, my point is, scripture details Him as being all-in-all. Not only that, He goes so far as to invite us to PROVE Himself to be. Wow! That’s brave and bold, regardless of who sends the invitation. Outside of creation, and all things in it, before we began to put names on each other, our animals and plants, He “was” and always will be. A great reliable comfort in times of unsettled traumatic turmoil inside this sphere of existence.
Jesus was sent to our everyday, bluejeans and work-boots level. He came to speak our language for understanding of God’s mind, heart and love. He claimed that He and God were one. Yes, a heavy thing to say. And then He proved it several times. Some 700+ years before Jesus was born, it was foretold He would be referred to as, “Immanuel”. It wouldn’t be a surname, or a first name, but rather a description. It literally means, “God with us”, “With us is God”, or “God housing with us”. (Isaiah 7:14) That’s amazing in itself, but it also means I don’t have to shiver while cowering in the fetal position, stuck in a corner with my chosen toy for distraction.
Learning to lean on the Rock that is higher than I is the beginning of fuel for the race.
“Take My yoke (Guiding, instructive brace. IE: A cast on a broken bone.) upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. Come to Me, all those toiling and being burdened, and I will give you rest.” – Jesus – Matthew 11:28-29 (BLB)
“..This much I know is true. That God blessed the broken road that led me straight to you…” – (2004) Bless The Broken Road Recorded by: Rascal Flatts Composers: Jeff Hanna, Marcus Hummon, Robert E. Boyd.
Does this sound familiar to you? A few days ago, as I was on my way to an appointment, I was driving north on one of the main streets in the suburb where I live. There are three lanes northbound, and three lanes southbound. It is a very well-known, heavily traveled boulevard. The speed limit norm allows cruising around 40-45mph. Suddenly, I am hampered by bumper-to-bumper traffic. With a rather large exhale, I said out loud in frustration, “Arg! A standstill. Figures!” Inch by inch, foot by foot, I finally arrived at the intersection I was driving toward. The traffic congestion delayed me for some twenty minutes. As I was able to get a clearer view of the problem, which caused the bottleneck, it angered me even more. Yes, I admit, flew off the handle inside my car. It was unexpected road construction at the busiest time of day for commuters.
Photo: Rodolfo Quiros
Hours later, as I returned home and caught up on social media, I read a notice from the city concerning the specific intersection slowing all of us drivers down to a halt. It stated that workers were widening the lanes, turn lanes, and reconstructing the curbs, etc. That’s actually good news, if not for the last part of the traffic notice. The city was good enough to let us in on just how long the project would take….December of 2019! That’s a lot of wet concrete, jack-hammering, sawing, frame-working, and all that goes with it. A tad less than six months for that one intersection. Ouch!
Well, at least the old pavement itself doesn’t have emotion, pain, and a way to calculate its own history. It’s very much unlike the way we are constructed.
I don’t know about your life, but I have been hammered, sawed, and broken up a few times. Even my “No Passing” stripes have been redrawn. Can you identify?
Shortly after I checked my social media, I locked onto a TV documentary on the National Geographic Channel. It was a two hour thrill about the Grand Canyon in Arizona. Stunningly brilliant cinematography, it was a an eye-popper. It was shot by a hiking crew which began their adventure from the floor of the Grand Canyon. Not only did they have shoulder cameras, but they also shot their POV scenes from helmet and body cams. I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. It was more than fascinating, it was awe-inspiring. And then the unanticipated spooky moments came. As they slowly ascended up the canyon walls, mile by mile, their trek involved tiny narrow ledges, some barely seven inches in width. One misstep, and it’s at least a 500-foot drop. Yes, I looked away at times. My mouth couldn’t hold back the words, “Nope, not for me. Never!” I decided, right then and there, I would take road construction tie-ups any time of day.
Not unlike the well-planned professional hikers, engineers for the road construction have a blueprint to adhere to. The mapped-out details will take the more narrow sections of lanes and broaden them for future traffic. Their scope involves a turn ramp for easy right turns with only a yield sign for safe merging. Of course, new curbs will be built to accommodate the widened street. For night driving, good solid curbs have kept my tires from meandering off the road to where I’ve needed to be.
The times my life have been broken-up, jack-hammered, and cut away, were always for a refashioned purpose. Mainly in retrospect did I ever see it clearly. Like those adventurous Grand Canyon hikers, I often found myself trying to balance my stride on very thin ledges, step by step. It seems to me, during those jaunts, I never noticed the drop-off danger just to my left or right. But the reality was, my boots were on a potential life-ending, risky trail before the constructive remodeling came about. Like surgery, life construction often is full of hardships. There’s breaking, bending, stripping, and scraping, all in the process. Old paint must come off. Guardrails which aren’t high enough are torn down. Stubby curbs often aren’t visual enough. With a journey on that street, one can easily be distracted causing a kissing of the ditch.
Right now, you might be thinking of some tough steamrolling in your own life. It may be from your past, or your present. If you believe it’s never happened…it will. Possibly you thought you might not get through it all before the new cement dries. Just gazing at the new scaffolding was a mystery at the time. In fact, it could be you hunted for a detour, but in the end, you had to go through the unsettled intersection to see more clearly. Am I right? Usually reconstruction delivers you more easily to where you are meant to be. Sometimes, the process WILL temporarily hurt, and maybe lengthy on the calendar, but the destination is the goal.
Meanwhile, it’s wise to observe the warning signs on the beaten path ahead. Sure, it may cause a bottleneck, slowing you down from where you set the cruise control, but in the end, it serves.
There’s one thing to keep in mind. Nobody ever remodels to design a smaller product. God doesn’t work that way either. Count on it. I know do.
When getting the rough places straightened in life, fill-up with fuel for the race.
“You enlarge my steps under me, and my feet have not slipped.” – Psalm 18:36 (NAS)
“Well there’s too many windows in this old hotel. And some rooms filled with reckless pride. And the walls have grown sturdy, and the halls have worn well, but there is nobody living inside. Nobody living inside…” Heart Hotels (1979) Recorded and composed by: Dan Fogelberg
You know how it is. You grow up in a place, or visit a place as a kid, while often driving by stunning landmarks, oblivious to their existence. Honestly, I still do it.
I didn’t grow up in Greebville, Tx, about an hour’s drive east of Dallas, but I feel like I did. I was born there, but we didn’t stay. My mom’s family lived there, and still do. To describe it, I would say there are certain parts of town that still remind me of the old southern neighborhood scenes in the movie, To Kill a Mockingbird. My brain is sprinkled with fond memories of looking out the car window at the park I played in, the old gothic-style church on the corner near the downtown square, and the narrow street where I would grin from ear-to-ear as we drove toward my grandparent’s house. Those are the simple snapshots a little lonely kid recalls about a place. However, there are so many things this young one missed, probably because it was the loved ones in his focus.
One thing which escaped my interest was an old hotel on Washington Street, across from the old church.
The Washington Hotel – Greenville, Texas. Photo: Texas Historical Commission.
In its youth, it was called The Washington Hotel. Later in years it was changed to The Cadillac Hotel. In 2010, it was awarded a designation in the National Register of Historic Places. Built in 1926, about two blocks down from the train depot, it stood as a gem, a glimmering star in the downtown Greenville landscape. She has six floors ascending up to what was a garden roof, with plenty of space for romantic evening dances. A monumental marble staircase rises from the lobby with iron railings. Celebrities, tycoons, and diplomats were served by the old place through the decades, including Frank Sinatra, President Lyndon B. Johnson, and many more. My mom and her parents attended a campaign speech delivered by President Harry S. Truman from the back of his train caboose at the depot near the hotel. (Apparently, it was customary to build a hotel within a short walking distance to the train depot. It makes sense, considering the times.)
The old Greenville train depot.
However, a gem no more. The Washington/Cadillac Hotel, in all of her history and glory, was closed long ago as the town grew. Time and neglect were her new caretakers. In fact, it was abandoned in the worst possible way through the years. Before you could say, “Texas tumbleweeds”, looters and vandals had their way with it. In the early 1990’s a fire was set, destroying much of the interior of the old royal lady. A couple of times in recent years, developers drew promising plans to refurbish her amidst intentions of a rebirth with condominium lofts, studios, and flats on the blueprints. Still, plans fell through for one reason or the other. And now it sits in an almost ruined state. Much of it boarded up, and if not, windows cracked or broken out. I have interior photos, but to be frank, it hurts my heart to look at them. I would rather dream of her glory days. My fear is, the city will give up on it, setting a date for a heartbreaking demolition. My hope is, some wealthy decision-maker will grab a new vision of what this queen could be with some funds and lots of loving care.
Photo: The Herald Banner
Realistically, it’s a long-shot. She sits at the threshold of a section of town in need of a gigantic face-lift. And I mean more than a simple Botox injection.
Recently I heard Dan Fogelberg’s very familiar “Heart Hotels” over a classic soft-rock radio station. You should google it to refresh your ear’s memory. Immediately the old Cadillac Hotel came to my mind. I began to listen to the lyric with larger lobes while realizing I sing-along to it all the time without allowing the lyric to penetrate. The late Fogelberg was an incredible, thoughtful lyricist. “Longer (Then)” was one I did for many weddings since 1979. It’s considered a classic now. He has so many greats in his music catalog. Many bring tears to my eyes. This is one of them.
He aligned his heart in the fashion of an old hotel with way too many windows for outside viewers. Of course, he chose a hotel because he spent his life on the road from city to city. Many artists are introverts. I know I am, to a degree. His lyrics speak of closing the shutters, pushing everyone out, leaving offers of synthetic love, hoping for true love to arrive. In the third verse, his lyric pressed him to include an admittance that the soul needed to be repaired. He wrote of craving the vacancy, while hearing distant echoing voices from the stairwells which brought memories of unanswered prayers. OUCH!
Man, the song hurts! It’s just like the interior photos of the Cadillac Hotel, which I refuse to add here. At the same time, I love heart-breaker songs. Performing them multiple times in my day, I know the powerful movements they deliver. (I trust that doesn’t make me a twisted, bad person in your eyes.)
Truly, he wrote what most of us won’t. I think Fogelberg was a very straightforward composer. His songs spotlight his honesty. If we were forthright with each other, as Dan was, we could relate to the lyric of “Heart Hotels”. Just like too many windows in this old hotel (heart), there are also too many jumping off the roof surrounded by a garden, dancing, and romance. Have you noticed?
The heart is a strong machine. We call the pumping muscle in our chest the strongest organ, but the heart of the spirit is even stronger. The rooms are full of reckless pride and the halls are worn well, but there’s nobody living inside… When empty we are left to our chosen devices.
Like Fogelberg, if there is an honest recognition of “soul repair“, I think Fogelberg would be the first to say, you can’t do this on your own. Sure, try all you want, but the carpet wears out in the pacing years of frustration, loneliness, and heartbreak. Soon there after, the present reality hits like a brass doorknocker where the echoing voices in the stairwell repeat the failures of the past. They do remind us, don’t they? What do we have to show for it? A worn-out carpet, wishing it were a magic carpet for flying. A quick trip to the fire escape proves to be a faulty idea, as the decades have rusted the old scaffolding. Thoughts of the roof flow in again, or medicate with the devices at hand for the numbing of our pain. Honestly, this song should be longer than Stairway To Heaven or Alice’s Restaurant, because it should be a theme and variation which is in loop.
Should I mention something worse than our own heart-sickness? Dare I?
How often do we drive by a dis-connected, seemingly empty person, who for whatever reason, has pulled down the shutters and rolled up the carpet inside? How many of us are shocked when someone we know, or someone we love, takes to the roof for a final inhale of the garden? The shock usually coats our minds because we thought they were doing just fine, as we occasionally peered through their many windows. Still, we drive by them, distracted by the gothic-style church building across the street, not noticing there’s a soul is in trouble and needs repair. Don’t kick yourself too badly. I am the first to say, I am sooooo guilty. My hull has been breached a few times by deliberate final exits of people I love.
Often in my life I have heard others speak of unanswered prayers, as the late Fogelberg penned. Like me, I bet you have, too. You didn’t ask for this, but allow me to quickly shed a laser light on this familiar topic. Prayer-life is a mystery. Make no mistake about it. Scripturally speaking, the problem is solved through three different camera angles.
#1 – Know God first. Read and study Him before you climb up His sleeve. The passage states:
“And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who approaches Him must believe that He exists and that He rewards those who earnestly seek Him.” – Hebrews 11:6 (Berean Study Bible)
#2 – We frequently petition God in a misdirected way. We envy, we crave, we itch for this and for that. In the old King James language, we “covet” in general. We also want a rabbit’s foot to stroke, or a genie in a bottle to grant us three wishes, or an item hanging from our rear-view mirror in which we trust to have some sort of empowerment. As often the case, what we ask for could bring us to an intersection which may be unhealthy for our future…the future we are hidden from.
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares 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.” Isaiah 55:8-9 (ESV)
Unfortunately, when we pray, asking for our “coveting” heart to be satisfied, it goes against God’s target for our lives. (IE: ” Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz? My friends all drive porches, I must make amends…” (1971) Composers: Bob neuwirth, Janis Jolin, Michael McClure.) Fun song, yet the humor of it stresses a fundamental truth. One can be wealthy, socially honored, and in need of nothing, yet in reality, naked, poor in heart, and without spiritual sight. Jesus mentioned this many times. After all, God wrote it down so we would know, “Do not covet”. Asking for peace, safety, protection, insight, direction, needs, and most of all, His plans to rule over what we cannot see, is always well applied. Another way of putting it, sometimes our motives are off rhythm, as in an engine which lacks oil on its timing chain.
#3 – Unanswered prayer…at least that’s what we call it. We perceive a prayer hits the ceiling, bouncing back like a rubber ball. In reality, God promises to hear our prayers. If you don’t get what you want, like an angry kid on December 25th, it could be the answer is “No”, or “Not yet”. THIS has occurred in my life many times following premature prayers, where the answer came clearly months or years later. Retrospect is a supreme teacher. I could write a list of times this has happened in my life. Keep in mind, there’s a solid case for follow-up prayers, asking God why He didn’t answer, as you personally weigh answers. Other times, an immediate answer arrived during my prayer-life. In fact, I have had prayers granted before I even finished the prayer. The acknowledgement is always astounding to me, reminding me of my lack of 100% trust in God. There’s a bold statement from Jesus which speaks loudly…
A sweet friend of mine, a vocal harmonizer for Joan Baez, recently said she believed the “Universe” wants her to move to Texas. I should have explained the following, but I didn’t. Unfortunately, the universe doesn’t love her. The universe never reached out to counsel her. The universe never cared for her. The universe never burdens itself with restoration of life. The universe doesn’t oppose evil. The universe never offered a free gift of redemption. The universe never bothers itself to tend to her when naked, poor, and blind. The universe doesn’t have a count of every hair on her head. The universe never wanted to remove her transgressions and faults. The universe never protects her, defends her, or gives grace to her. The universe is faulty and proves to be imperfect, as we are.
Bottom line…the soul/heart, never has to be empty and alone. There is One who loves closer than a brother. Search the world’s religious history. After exhausting yourself, you will find religious systems demanding your “works”, your “efforts”, your climbing up Mt. Olympus to earn the favor of deities. It’s easy to accept because it’s based on our human nature to work, to earn what we want. Then there’s “touch this”, “burn this”, “kiss this”, or my favorite…”buy this”, etc. Do the research. If you know me, you already know I say this out of love, not hatred. I hurt for religious beachcombers. We’ve all been there. Some doctrines even demand starvation, suicide, murder, and self mutilation to achieve a cozy suite in an afterlife hotel. Have you noticed? Only God, through Jesus, who, as a baby, couldn’t find room in the inn, proves to be of this magnificent heart of love, without condition, and grace toward us imperfect people.
(Most recommend reading the book of John, in the Bible, to learn Who Jesus is, and why He is so different.)
Heart hotels don’t have to be vacant. Room service is available with fuel for the race.
“Down the road I look and there runs Mary, Hair of gold and lips like cherries. It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home.” – Green, Green Grass of Home. Composer: Claude “Curly” Putman, Jr. Recorded by: Porter Wagoner (1965).
We’ve only been married for two years. Michelle is a green thumber with big landscaping ideas. She not only talks the talk, but she walks it, too. Over the last two years I’ve seen her magical touch on our property. As for me, not a chance. That’s a talent I don’t have.
Springtime in Texas is sweet and sour. The sour part would be the pollen, outrageous storms, and the fresh crop of weeds common in mostly central and east Texas. She has been hiring a lawn care service to do the mowing and edging for some time now, but there’s drawbacks to their work. They tend to bring unwanted seeds of weeds with them under their well-used mowers, planting our lawn like ants to an ant pile. Arg! Again I say, Arg! So, with a bit of angst from my side of things, we politely discontinued the service.
In Texas we must have hundreds of species of weeds. The most hated, the most dreaded, prickly thick-stalked dandelions. They can grow a good four to five feet high if untouched. Then there are some less visible. Some are actually kind to the eyes, as some of them have handsome blooms…at first.
The trouble goes beyond mowers that just worked over a field of various weeds. There’s also the neighbors. Across the street from us, is a lawn doubling as a “weed nursery”. Sure, they mow them down, but of course they grow back in about six days. Moreover, the wind blows the seeds across the street to our lawn. (Have I written “Arg” yet?)
Michelle seems to have some reservoir of energy I was not gifted with. Her mapped out solution for our growing weed crop is to pull them out by the roots…each and every one of them. Yes, you read me right…EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THEM! “No weed-wacking or chemical spraying at our place,” says the lady of the house. That would be my way of doing things, right or wrong. Believe it or not, she finds pleasure in doing it. I applaud, bring her glasses of chilled water and remind her of sunscreen. (Michelle is a ginger.) She sees those pesky weeds as an enemy to be pulled out and bagged before they choke-out our mix of St. Augustine and Bermuda grass. If weeds had brains, they would be slick and wise world conquerors. Bless their little hearts.
Currently, she is hand-tilling the ground, foot-by-foot, and replanting more St. Augustine, while fighting the onslaught of our unwelcomed weeds. It’s lots of hard work.
As I was carrying bags of the adversary out to the curb for trash pick-up day, I was hit with a life application.
Weeds are spoken of in the Bible. And yes, scripture spotlights the fact they were the target of angry farmers. Jesus mentioned horticulture many times. When it comes to weeds, or weed-wanna-be’s, He made various teachable moments out of them.
One of my favorites is a vivid, picturesque scene of a farmer planting good seed for the season. Jesus gave a parable about a farmer tossing good seeds where some found good, unhindered soil for sprouting and growing Then He told another side concerning a failed crop. Some seeds were burned out by the hot sun, withering before they were watered. Other seeds landed on shallow ground dotted with rocks where they never took root. Some landed well, but the birds, circling above, quickly swooped down and picked the ground clean. Then there was the batch of seed that landed among thorny bush plants. (Easily translated into prickly weeds.) Wouldn’t you know it, the thorny bushes choked-out the growth of the intended crop.
There’s a huge amount of application to the parable, which He spelled out when His hearers asked to explain the meaning. The seed represented words from God delivered to humanity. In fact, He stated that people are also like the seeds spread on the ground who are within earshot of the words. Some will grab hold of God’s love letter, the Bible, and apply the contents to their lives. Others will not, as the words fail to take root in the heart, the core, where faith resides. Ouch! That’s skin off my nose.
When He gets to the seeds which landed in the weed patch, he describes the weeds, or thorny bushes, as the worries of life. Wow! The writers and researchers who authored journals on mental health must have read the parable. As it turns out, after two thousand years of medical studies, they discovered anxiety stunts growth. Growth in the emotion department, mental stability, and even our physical health can be uprooted by these weeds of life.
There’s a better life meant for us. A life unhindered. Sure, we often see the dandelions sprawling in our path, so we strike up the mental mower. We try everything, don’t we? A dose of this drug, or a glass of this or that will shake it off. A date night with someone who promised us the world will be a good weed-wacker…until the morning alarm goes off. For clarity, we can sit in the lotus position and empty our minds with some suggested introspection for a few minutes. (I used to do that.) However, in six days, or six hours, or six minutes, or less, the weeds grow back. Ask yourself, after you succeeded in wiping away the cares of this world, if they ever came back to haunt you. Yeah, that’s the same with me, too. Like little wild and wacky weeds, they sprout up in the tundra of our days.
Frankly, most try to fertilize and water their lives for better days, but the peers, across the street from us, always share their seeds of weeds. Often they unknowingly share…sometimes strategically sent. Before you know it, influence occurs and BOOM…weeds are choking us out like an MMA fighter on a Friday night.
Worries are just like that. As to Jesus’ point, if not careful, they can be contagious. Hang around a group feasting on anxiety with their social diet and CHOMP….you find you’re being hindered as a person, an individual looking for a better patch of ground to root. Then again, some worry-warts can be surrounded by an uplifting crowd and still find ways to sour-sack the days. GUILTY AS CHARGED! I can be a worry-wart. It can and will mold my mental, emotional, and physical health. The medical field has proven anxiety can cause all kinds of physical ailments, including cancer. If you plant St. Augustine, you’ll get St. Augustine. If you plant dandelions, you’ll get dandelions.
With all that said, Jesus indicated the weeds in life can stunt, or choke-off my spiritual outlook. How true. Have you ever tried to pray during sucky episodes in life? Honestly, during those times, it feels like I’m fighting to get my prayers to pierce the ceiling, as if I’m talking to the wall. Other times I wring my hands over a fog of uncertainties, that I have no control over, and find I neglected reading or studying scripture. Before you can say, “Scott’s Lawn Services”, the dandelions of doubt appear in the turf. It’s not a surprise that I dwindle in my spiritual mindset as I fight off the weeds interfering with my stride. The good news is, in scripture, God promised to hear my concerns, even when I only hear the echo of my voice in an empty room. My ever-growing weeds don’t hinder Him. He defeated death on Easter. Weeds can wilt at His voice. Literally, that happened once when Jesus cursed a fig tree on the roadside. He was hungry as He scouted out a fig tree which didn’t yield any figs. He cursed it and the entire tree wilted overnight. As usual, the witnesses around Him who saw it happen, had to pick up their jaws off the dusty sandals. Now, THAT’S the One I pray to.
Whatever underlying issues, which feed the roots of worry, they must be yanked out at their source. You can identify them. I figure you know yourself pretty good. Mowing, spraying, and masking only delays the takeover.
Ironically, the worry-weeds surrounding you today didn’t block-out God’s words if you read this post. Mark, chapter 4 is where you can read His entire parable, along with the applications. He never intends His words to be a mystery, or indifferent to understanding. In fact, after He delivered the parable, He showed His intention for you with the following line…
“…He who has an ear let him hear.” (Mark 4:9)
After pulling the worries of life out by the root, it leaves room for a crop of fuel for the race.
“…And other(s) (seeds) fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up, and choked it, and it yielded no fruit…” – Jesus – Mark 4:7 (ERV) ‘…And others are they that are sown among the thorns; these are they that have heard the word (of God), and the cares of the world, and the deceitfulness of riches, and the lusts of other things entering in, choke the word, and it becomes unfruitful…” – Jesus – Mark 4:18-19 (ERV)
“I don’t know why nobody told you how to unfold your love. I don’t know how someone controlled you. They bought and sold you. I look at the world and I notice it’s turning while my guitar gently weeps. With every mistake we must surely be learning. Still my guitar gently weeps…” While My Guitar Gently Weeps (1968). Recorded by: The Beatles. Composer: George Harrison
A friend of mine took the cover shot above for a Facebook post. Like her, I immediately saw the humor. For many who are against fast food, as it bashes decent dietary habits, this is the perfect photo to get on a soapbox and rage away. Once again I laughed thinking about an old friend of mine who never cleaned out his car. Whenever I hopped in his Triumph TR6, I first had to push over all the old fast food wrappers, along with the burger boxes, just to sit. Then, my feet found a place to rest on top of more take-out sacks and such. The trunk was even worse. There’s a somewhat faded memory of a cousin who would finish his burrito while driving his pick-up. After he finished, without a miss, he would toss the wrapper and sack in the bed of the truck behind him where it found company with dozens of other discarded items. Here, in the photo above, at least as you order from the outdoor menu, you could throw-away yesterday’s take-out trash at the same time. However, wherever you go, you’ll find garbage.
Trash in – trash out.
I needed a chuckle this week. Watching the news sank my spirit. How about you? I’ve been thinking about how you must be feeling.
God bless the citizens of Christchurch, New Zealand. Here we are, yet another senseless mass slaughter. Dozens of worshipers, men, women, and children, in two different mosques were killed and severely injured. As often the case, the evil-doer had posted a lengthy manifesto. It was filled with hatred for other races, and those practicing various religious faiths across the planet. If you’ve been living in a cave this week, you might be unaware that this corrupted heart, this darkened soul, found forethought to wear a body camera to live stream his ethnic cleansing event for the world to see on social media. Millions have seen the tragedy from his viewpoint. In the shredding of lives, he somehow survived, as if protected.
Oh, and should I mention the thousands of Christians in Nigeria which have been slaughtered by Muslim extremists all within the last year? It is still going on. Yes, it’s true. Interestingly enough, it is being reported the victims are mostly women and children in this case. Very much like a Nazi military doctrine, the idea is to eliminate reproduction of Christian families in that small nation. For some reason very few news outlets cover the genocide there. Millions of Christians and Muslims are in concentration camps in China right now. China calls them “Reeducation centers”. Honestly, I am barely touching the surface of the topic. There’s so much more to report concerning hatred on wheels.
Thousands of thoughts run through my mind as I write this. Frankly, the old man in me wants revenge for the bloodshed of the innocent ones taken from us. The heart is a tool of great unselfish love…and unthinkable evil destruction. Washing over me are the biblical words of God, “Vengeance is mine”.
Hearing how the evil one in New Zealand strapped on his camera, along with admiring other mass murderers of note, and his total disregard for life itself, with the exception of his own, I can only imagine one of his goals. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out other fools like him will follow suit. With the 17 minutes of squashing human life from his camera, looking very much like a violent video game, a huge population of sick kids will use it for their video gaming, with their faces pressed against computer screens. Already the video has been reproduced for sinister marketeers. God help us all.
The investigation into this 28 year old mass murderer is underway. When all the facts come out, no doubt there will be found violent gaming in his little darkened cave. Along with other vicious videos, there will also be tons of extreme violent movies, authentic death-lovers videos, and celebrated ghoulish websites. Oh, yeah. They exist.
Here’s what trash in the mind will do for you.
Photo: Huffington Post
When diving deep into the garbage evil sets up, soon one can discover entanglement with the refuse once admired from a distance. Once it sticks to the pursuer, as it wraps its claws around the mind, it actually distorts who the fantasizer was created to be. It disfigures the one pursuing. Truly an assault on the Creator Himself. Trash in – Trash out.
We are like trash receptacles. How we act-out all depends on what we toss into ourselves. We are what we consume.
Make no mistake about it. The process works like this. First there is a single thought. That thought is allowed, given permission, to enter the storage of the mind where fantasy breeds. The imagination of the mind is sparked by the thought, which came from outside of one’s self, and begins to choose to feed on the thought. A sense of pleasure hatches from the fantasy, and it is entertained if allowed to fester by lingering. Soon, the hatching is not a single hatch at all, but rather hatchlings, like infant snakes, or parasites. As they swim through the bloodstream of the heart and soul, only untried action is left to perform, as it hunts for an ascension to satisfy the urge implanted in the core of a pre-criminal. The seedling of a thought allowed to nestle ends up overwhelming the will. Hate is very much like a serpent crawling out of its shell. It can, and will, only grow. It is covert, camouflaged, and quick.
It’s times like these when people in the world, who feel intelligent when stating there is no “evil”, only bad decisions, need to reevaluate their belief system. My recommendation is Jesus, the Judge, the Destroyer of evil. In scripture, recording the life of Christ, agents of evil feared Him, even asking permission to escape from His immediate vicinity. I love reading those accounts.
Please, if you dabble in violent video gaming, or you have a child who does, RUN FROM IT! Soaking in it will distort the view of life, love, and our fellowman. Visuals are a tool to burn, to etch, to brand images in the mind where nothing can be reversed. One cannot “unsee” these images.
Think well on a passage from the writings of Catherine of Genoa from the late 1400’s.
“…I have given the keys of my house to Love with permission to do all that is necessary.” – From: Life and Teachings
Dregs in the tank can be burned away with fuel for the race.
“Finally brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable – if there is any moral excellence and if there is anything praiseworthy – dwell on these things.” St. Paul, Philippians 4:8 (CSB)
“…Inconsequential things occur. Alarms are triggered. Memories stir. It’s not the way it has to be…” Darkness (2002) Written & recorded by: Peter Gabriel
The following is really for my own therapy. Do you type away to find some relief somewhere deep inside? It’s probably more common than I imagine. Really, I’m not sure if any inspiration can be gleaned from the below. Maybe I’m wrong.
Humanity dictates that we must be surprised by certain sudden events, words, and actions. There’s no mistake when we, sometimes out of the blue, look back and discover we have tripwires that have developed from our own personal history. I am so grateful for the benign tripwires from innocent, wonderful, and good benchmarks from my past. When those triggers are tripped, and I am flooded with memories delivered, it brightens my day. In fact, I find myself smiling a lot more often in its aftermath. Then, there are the inevitable triggers I would rather avoid altogether. Those are of a unique brand, hidden like armed mines in the underbrush of my rocky, scarred past. When the trigger is tripped, I can be swallowed up in its snare.
You know the kind I speak of. You never see it coming. Am I right? You’re walking along the path of your day when suddenly…SNAP & BOOM!
As Elvis sang, “I’m caught in a trap. I can’t walk out…”
I’m sure if you are a psychologist, you could tell me how this happens. You very well might be able to tell me how to disarm these triggers, these mines. You might even explain to me why I become trapped for many days in that same uncomfortable position, unable to shake it off. Nevertheless, I soak in it. Are you that way, too?
See if this rings a bell of familiarity. The trigger can be a word said, a certain look on someone’s face, a song, a movie, a photo, or a specific action. Whether it flickers in a deja vu method, or it hits like a sweeping tsunami, it has the strength to wash you back to a past event you’ve been running from. Pain happens. Emotional injury takes place in an instant. An injury for some, unfortunately even fatal for others.
Sure, there’s counseling for this. I’m sure I need it.
I must be extremely careful with the following. Names and details will be omitted because of the very personal nature.
A few days ago, one of my triggers was tripped. Honesty suggests to me there is no way to blame the actor who walked into my scene and leveled a sincere, hurtful, and harmful line. In fact, if there’s blame to be placed, I am the guilty one for not speaking up first concerning the very sensitive ground about to be tread. Yep, that’s right. I had some warning it was coming, but I thought I was strong enough to stand. So in an indirect way, I opened the gate myself. The act occurred, words were spoken, and I was slain. To the onlooker, if there had been one, the event would’ve seemed rather innocent. However, for me, the act, the words, the laughter rushed me back to a traumatic event in my life from March 4, 2014. I could even give you the time of day when the personal earthquake shattered my world. True trauma can cause time stamps in the noggin. The event this week didn’t take much, as I was already broken. It’s a brokenness Humpty Dumpty could identify with. The act didn’t take even a day, an afternoon, or the length of a production of Les Miserables. Yet, it was 90 minutes of hell for me. The burns remain as I type this sentence.
I hate triggers. Maybe I should say, I hate the bad memories, the old wounds that can be ripped opened by them. Triggers are usually small, but the mechanism attached above the trigger, forces movements of gears and springs. Not unlike the chime of a vintage clock. Keep in mind, for a trigger to be tripped at all, it takes outside force against it. This is important to note. When these components are in motion, it releases the hammer, or striker, colliding with the firing pin, causing a detonation of a waiting ballistic shell in the chamber. The result is an explosion of energy. Such an ignition, moves, or pierces, anything in its projected path. In my case, I was greatly displaced emotionally, heart pierced.
Okay, enough said. Frankly, I am still reeling from the recent occurrence.
Please understand, I am all for healing. Healing happens. I just wish it would happen quicker than the norm. Simply put, I like relief. How about you? I like resolution. I like calm seas. More importantly, my faith must remain strong in order to add the balm needed for this injury. I’m not saying it’s easy to do. In fact, if it were easy, we would all be living in a utopia where all things are new and pain-free. Although I know it to be my future, I am not there yet. If a true, lasting faith were without struggle, then what use is it?
The faith I exercise is based on Jesus, the Redeemer, the promised Messiah. Scripture says he was familiar with sorrow and grief. Literally speaking, it means he experienced sorrow and grief, like you and I do. Understanding sorrow and grief is NOT enough. Experiencing sorrow and grief allows one to have compassion for another who is stricken by the same. There, in the mystery of faith, the darkened stained glass of faith, the fogginess of faith, is my resting place when crap happens.
So, for now, I TEMPORARILY wrestle in the wake of springs sprung.
Remembering the shackles have been unlocked is part of fuel for the race.
“Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come; ‘Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.” Amazing Grace (1779) Written by: John Newton
“Guard well our human chain. Watch well you keep it strong. As long as (the) sun will shine…” – To My Old Brown Earth, (1964). Composer: Pete Seeger
I wish I could tell you, but memories fade. The name of a frequently visited mountain in northern Mexico escapes me, but it was not too far from Monterrey, Mexico, where Saddleback Mountain overlooks the city. Forgive me for my mental erasers.
Every summer, at the church I attended as a teenager, the youth group visited an American missionary family stationed in Monterrey, Mexico. We teens would spend a week putting our shoulders to the plow, getting our fingernails dirty, right alongside them. Trust me, the sun was hot, the sweat bountiful, and Montezuma’s revenge (sickness) was eventful.
Certainly, our journey to Mexico was more than just a terrific excursion, but a true life-learning experience, as well. The time I spent there, working with the impoverished and hungry, can never be replaced.
Our budget was always low, even though we spent each year raising funds for the trip. Our jaunt below the border, was aboard a couple of old converted (Excuse the pun.) school buses, plus a van. Of course, when we weren’t doing missionary work, we were given tours and sightseeing trips.
One particular year, I believe it to be the summer of ’75, we went on a trip to one of the highest mountain peaks in northern Mexico. It was an adventure, to say the least. The trip consisted of a winding rocky road, in cork-screw style, up the mountain. The scenery was delightful and the air was thin. One of the first things I noticed was the uneasy pit in my belly when turning the corners. You guessed it…NO GUARDRAILS! It looked something like this…
Believe me when I say, the above is not much of an exaggeration. About every mile or so, when the cliffs allowed, a second lane forked-off for a few yards, only to mesh into a single lane once again. When a car, God forbid another bus, would come from the other direction, it was a slow, tight squeeze to get by. At times, it was inch-by-inch. One of our youth pastors drove our bus. The other was driven by a layman from our congregation. All I could do was to sit there with visions of us tumbling down the escarpment to our demise. There’s a vague memory of holding tightly to the back of the seat in front of me as I held my breath around those curves. I wondered if our parents would have approved of the ascent.
By lunchtime, the two buses, reached the summit, or near it. There, we enjoyed a fun picnic as we could see forever. Naturally, I was not looking forward to the ride back down the mountain. Before you knew it, it was late afternoon. The time had arrived to climb aboard the old bounce-queen for the trip down.
Although in low gear, we rode the brakes on the way down, along with great caution. We squeaked by the corners and curves, keeping the tires as far away from the rocky edges as possible. You know, they say not to look down, but I’m a glutton for fear. When I wasn’t looking down the face of the cliffs, I noticed most of the girls in our group were looking down at their feet. The thought crossed my mind that they were just not into looking out the cliff-side windows. Then I spied a few of them praying silently. I’m not afraid to tell you, they were time-sensitive petitions. A nightmare was about to descend upon us all.
At one point, about halfway down, our brakes burned out. Our quick-thinking youth pastor pulled up on the emergency brake lever immediately. The emergency brake didn’t do much as gravity was the enemy. An eerie hush fell over the bus. Not one screamed, cried out, or yelled. It was that serious. Keep in mind, this was in the mid ’70’s, no cell phones. Our other bus, behind us, had no clue we were in trouble. We all feverishly stuck our arms out the windows, frantically motioning the bus to find a place in the narrow road to pass us by in order to get in front of us. After about a minute, the driver got the idea, as we were moving ahead faster than what was required. During this near-panic, while coasting toward complete calamity, we all looked for the road to separate into the two lanes for a safe passing. Just before a scary bend in the road, there was a wonderful sight of the single lane breaking into two. The rear bus quickly passed us, pulling in front of our bus before reaching the dangerous curve ahead. As our bumpers hit we began to slow down to a welcomed stop.
THANK GOD FOR…
Guardrails, for the most part, are something we rarely think about, or even notice. Usually, we only think of guardrails when we hit one. Countless lives have been saved by these extruded lengths of alloy, or concrete. If only the Mexican government thought the same concerning that mountain road.
How many times have we put up guardrails in our lives? Boundaries come in all shapes and sizes. At other times, we plow-over our personal guardrails for what we believe will be better scenery. How many times have we looked back to acknowledge moments of a downward spiral from an out-of-control drive to the edge of stability? Oh, don’t get me started. My life’s brakes have failed way more than I want to admit. Sure, I could fill-up pages of blogs with my mistakes and sins, due to misguided, or misdirected notions.
When you think about it, guardrails are put in place not for aesthetic-sake. Guardrails are not part of a conversation piece while on the road to a better place. We drive by them at 75mph with the full throttle of taking them for granted. The next time you are driving on a high overpass, picture the bridge without guardrails. It gets you thinking. Guardrails stand in efforts to protect from sheer inertia, sheer momentum. Guardrails are placed to defend from gravity, if you should veer off-road.
Laws do the same. Laws guard us from destruction, desolation, and death. Laws were made to protect, like guardrails, lest we go too far to the edge of where you will not want to be. In the same way, law is an educator, a teacher, a guide. There’s a scriptural theme which delivers the warning signs. In essence it says, with great wisdom, something like, “Danger ahead! Here, and no further.”
If not for Jesus, who fulfilled the Mosaic law for me, (Galatians 4:4-5) I certainly would be condemned in a million ways. My efforts will always derail me because I’m only…(Dare I say?), human.
If you’re like me, there is a tendency to let down the guard too often. Sometimes we let down our guard with relationships, substances or thought-life, just to name a few. There have been times in my life when I allowed my heart to be totally unguarded. Like a hungry wolf, those who are bent on playing the disruptor, delusionist, and disabler, find an unguarded heart by mere sense of smell. If you’ve not been in the cross-hairs, just wait. You will be. Whether it’s a drug, a person, or a darkened thought, which births action, it is wise not to be controlled by the inertia of such. That final step is a long one.
Life is a winding trek. Its curves are cut-out of the bedrock with unanticipated sharp turns. Not to mention, the trip is way too short to veer off course into an abyss that is only beautiful from a distance.
An authentic, fail-safe brake system is only possible with the tested and approved, fuel for the race.
“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” – Solomon – Proverbs 4:23 (NIV)