A Door Propped

“Someone’s knockin’ at the door. Somebody’s ringin’ the bell…” (1976) “Let ‘Em In” Recorded By: Paul McCartney & Wings Composers: Paul & Linda McCartney

The phone rang. I saw on the ID that it was my eldest daughter, Tabitha. It was an early morning, about 6am, so I wondered why she would be calling so early. Of course, right away, one conjures up a trauma, or an emergency where I might be needed. After her typical hello, and how are you, I quickly learned of her horrid situation.

“Dad, we have a plumbing problem.”

She knows me better than that. I do not have talents on that side of my brain. After asking a couple of questions, she described the issue. It seems her family wakes up to dry toilets. Each morning, they have to flush their toilets to fill the bowls up again. Basically, she wanted to know if I had ever experienced this phenomenon before in any house or apartment from my past. After making a joke about heavier gravity in her neighborhood, and aliens abducting H2O for experimental purposes, she began to brainstorm for herself.

A few days later, my phone “dings” with a text message. It was from Tabitha. It was a simple, short and sweet text, with a photo. It simply read,

“I caught the alien overnight taking toilet water samples.”

Meet Bear, a beloved Great Pyrenees. He is relatively new to the family, and still a huge puppy. With a giant head, much like a polar bear, he somehow finds a way to get his head in the toilet whenever he gets thirsty overnight. Oh, the joys of being a dog.

Much laughter came from my end that day. Naturally, I called her with the news that most dog owners, including myself, have had such potty mouths in our family. She insisted on keeping him in the house overnight. My remedy was to simply form the routine of closing the bathroom doors at bedtime. This worked well, until my son-in-law left the bathroom door slightly ajar one night. Well, if you’re a dog owner, you know that if a door is not shut completely, they will nudge a way in. Bear may be a puppy, but he is no fool. He wants that fresh, cool water from the bowl of porcelain.

I guess if a family isn’t particular of what their dog consumes, I will assume an open bathroom door is a gateway for liquid pleasures for a dry tongue. In time, the dog owner just gets adjusted to the sounds of lapping coming from the open doors of invitation. A hard, decisive choice is in order.

Since Thanksgiving last year, I have had my dementia stricken mom living with us. Her favorite pastime is watching television. It’s no wonder. For about 15 years she lived without a working TV in her house. She missed it greatly. She always loved the one-eyed monster ever since her parents obtained a TV in 1957. A true transition from radio. However, television programming has changed over the years. During the last few months I have come to realize my own desensitizing of audio/visual content in my own living room.

Photo by Rene Asmussen on Pexels.com

For as long as I can recall, I have always been very protective when it came to my mom. As an only child with a single mom, I am sure it came to me easily.

Without any sense of planning, I found I suddenly was far more keen to the content coming out of the speakers, and the visuals flung at us viewers through the flat digital screen. Whatever it is inside me which automatically wants to hold up a shield in front of my mom, as well as my kids when they were growing up, it is activated greatly way too often now. As we are watching selected programming, I find I am more aware of what the producers and writers present on certain shows. Off we go then to something more benign to the ears and eyes. Today, I realize older programming, from a few decades back, tends to be the better choice for my mom. Obviously, there are exceptions to the more recent productions, but it’s a learning curve of “parental guidance”. So for her viewing hours it’s, The Waltons, Little House On The Prairie, Andy Griffith, Bonanza, Touched By An Angel, etc.

Unfortunately, even the national newscasts are often too liberal with language, or even the captions, “You voted for that !@#*>%!, you sorry, >^@!**!”. Don’t you just love how they don’t mind bleeping out the majority of the words, but they feel the need to spell it out with “***t”, or “you stupid ***ch”? Often times, the words aren’t bleeped. I mean, really. Why have we stooped so low in this culture to air out profanities as if we were all sailors on the high seas engaged in battle? Why is it, you can’t eat a dinner as you watch the 5 o’clock news without being blasted with vulgarities? We once believed in the edit buttons in this country. Not so much anymore. Just who gave permission to assault us all with airing out vulgarity? Even now, it’s tough to find a next door neighbor who can tame his/her mouth over the fence line.

The visuals are not much better. Tell me, if you can, why is it we must see the actual footage of a victim on the street being murdered, beaten, stabbed, shot, etc? The news item might come with a verbal warning, “We warn you. The following clip may be disturbing.” How does the image of seeing someone being slaughter enhance my life? How does seeing a image of a video of a blurred out woman being raped in the subway increase my knowledge of what happened that day? Intelligent viewers know what the act of rape is. How does a news clip of the rantings of a disturbed individual, laced with verbally violent F-bombs and finger shooting, (because he/she has lost the ability of self-control), enriches my day, or gives me better understanding of the story? Can you tell me? There was a producer behind a desk which made that decision. Possibly some news editor was persuaded to leave in as much gore and vulgarity as the FCC allows to sensationalize the story that much more.

Erosion of a society has reactions. The tearing down of a society creates cause and effect. Our children and grandchildren pay in the end. We, the people, shut God out, deny the power of His Spirit and His laws, ignoring His benefits. We, the people, have left the door open, an invitation to air out in public, what was once taboo, hidden in the darkness, and held back due to honor, respect, and love for others. We, the people, have said yes to the potty mouth. Whether in ignorance, or intentional, we, the people, have left a door ajar for smut from the enemy of humanity. We, the people, have applauded the board rooms of the studios in Hollywood to be filled with individuals who push the envelope, nudge open the door to the porcelain bowl as much as allowed…for now. Agendas, self-rebellion, and lack of true love for others, stirs this poisonous stew while serving it up to a public who claims to approve with their shrinking dollars.

After a beautiful day of elementary school graduation ceremonies, and award presentations to deserving students, a good natured teacher at Robb Elementary School, for whatever reason, propped open the back door of the school in Uvalde Texas . Harmless act, really. No matter the reason, the propped open door was the breech in school security in which the murderous 18 year old took advantage of that fateful day leaving 21 dead, most were under 11 years old.

At this time, the investigators are continuing their work. For now, we do know, this twisted mind of mush, bent on shooting his grandmother in the face, then slaughtering innocence at the school he once attended as a child, was deep into digital war games where you kill people to rack up high scores in very realistic simulations. Honestly, these types of video games should be restricted to military training. For a mentally disturbed young person, this can be a deadly concoction. This is the trend, this form of entertainment, are seen in almost every mass shooting from young men turned monsters. If a young person, especially a mentally ill young person, has an addictive personality, digital killing software sours and desensitizes the soul. This boy from Uvalde, Texas, found an invitation through an open door, not just at Robb Elementary, but way before in cyberspace.

Equally, a young mind of mush, in upstate New York, found an open door to a contaminated porcelain bowl of choice in recent weeks. As he drank from the filth fed to him from “true” white supremacy doctrine online. Like a fool, he marinated in this toilet water of lies day and night. Influenced by the enemy of humanity, he was indoctrinated into a deformed worldview which always leads to destruction in one slant or another. The door to this particular latrine of hate, put a ring through his nose and pulled him into viewing mainly black people and Jews as slime to be slaughtered before they replace the white race. This is an ancient evil designed to destroy the very souls of men and women. It is murderous before a finger touches a trigger, before the long drive to Buffalo, NY takes place, before he aimed at a sweet, loving elderly African American woman as one of his first victims in the parking lot of Tops Grocery Store.

Some politicians immediately want to ban specific guns, or guns all together. Did you know more murders occur using a hammer as a tool than guns? It’s true. Will we ban hammers? Will we ban knives, swords, propane tanks, Chevys used to mow down pedestrians?

The better question might be, the obvious…where are the parents???? Better yet, where are parental controls in the home? Where is the guidance? The indoctrinations take time, seductive hours. WAKE UP, PARENTS! Your child is YOUR responsibility! If you are not computer, or cyber savvy, you know someone who is that can review what your child is watching on screen. FIND OUT! If something odd is being said on a social media platform that looks deviant and harmful, report it! There are 19 dead children in Uvalde, Texas who needed someone close to this teenager to monitor him. What a shame, in the aftermath of such mass killings, for a parent to say, “I’m shocked. He was always so quiet. He was a real loner. Spent lots of time online in his room, not bothering anybody.” WAKE UP!

Yes, like Bear, the White Pyrenees, we, the people, are being slowly seduced through the open door toward a bowl of porcelain, This was not meant for us. God raised up this nation to refuse corruption, sin, and the slippery slope of ancient civilizations who are no more.

A spring of living water spews from fuel for the race.

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” – Paul from Philippians 4:8 (NIV)

Remember Who You Belong To

“Where you lead, I will follow
Anywhere that you tell me to
If you need, you need me to be with you
I will follow where you lead” (1970) “Where You Lead” Recorded hit for: Barbra Streisand Composers: Carole King and Toni Stern

—-

“His message was very different. ‘You boys, don’t bring home somethin’ home ya can’t keep.'”

The cover photo above the title is a painting from my study/studio wall, just above my desk. It was painted by an in-law many years ago. It’s very dear to me. Here is my attempt to explain why.

Early July of 1967, I believe it to be, my mom, and my seven year old self, drove across the north Dallas suburbs to a house of an old family friend. My granddad and the husband/father of the home had been best friends for decades. The purpose for our visit was clear.

From the day I was born, I always had a dog. We were animal lovers, especially in the canine arena, and had been without a dog for a couple of years. Through word of mouth our old friends felt impressed to pick up the phone and dial our number. Their female mix recently had a litter of pups. Apparently, she had a secret rendezvous in the backyard with a rather handsome neighborhood escapee who was searching for love in all the wrong places. They told us there were “9” of these little babies, about six weeks old, and asked if we wanted to come over for a free selection. No doubt my mom responded with, “WOULD WE EVER? WE’LL BE RIGHT THERE!” Of course, she had to talk my then stepdad into the acceptance camp first. (He wasn’t thrilled.)

After we arrived, we stepped out onto their back porch. We were met by an onslaught of highly energized pups, jumping, yipping, and peeing. It was a dog zoo. Honestly, they were climbing up on my tennis shoes doing all they could to get our attention. We held, we petted, we were slobbered on. After I had counted the gang, I realized there were only “8” bombarding us. We inquired. Someone pointed out the runt who was always left out of the constant reindeer games. I looked around the yard when suddenly, there in the corner of the backyard, all by himself, looking rather shy and sad, the runt of the litter. Now, at this point all the advice I can offer is that you must just trust me on the following. I…fell…in…love…that…very…instant.

He was medium chocolate brown, with white paws and a white patch on his chest. His ears were partially floppy halfway up, and looked up at me with a pair of blue eyes. (Later the blue eyes turned to a beautiful copper color.) Without hesitation, I told my mom this was the one. She pointed out the fact that he was smaller, quiet, and didn’t want to play with his siblings, nor did he look like any of his siblings or mother. In other words, he was a loaner, a reject from his own family. My heart just bled for this little one.

The deal was sealed. We took him home in a shoe box. It was roomy for him because he could sit in the palm of an adult’s hand. I spoke with him all the way home doing all I could to make him feel comforted and settled. He never uttered a sound. He looked down most of the way back home, but from time to time he would hit me with those baby blues.

My mom has the mind of a persuader. She could’ve run for office. She made it clear we would let my stepdad name the puppy, thinking that would aid in starting a relationship as a dog owner. (With that said, my advice is to never manipulate your spouse. It can be habitual and marriage-ending.) She eased the little pup into my stepdad’s space. It didn’t take him long to find affection for the four-legged pal. He named him, Tickey, after a childhood farm dog from his past, who apparently had trouble with ticks.

Tickey at 11 months old, 1968.

As he grew, we could see signs of a dachshund mix, with his long body, lengthy snout, and short legs. We also saw a bit of what we thought might be Corgi with the long donkey-ears and the Corgi trait of the turned-out ankle of one front paw. His chocolate brown nose blended right in with the hair on his snout. However, his tail was like a Brontosaurus tail, long and dangerous when wagged. He was a funny looking creature, but he was mine.

We were best buddies. We ate, slept, and when mom wasn’t looking, bathed together. He was smart as the day is long. He could also perform magic with his powerful snout. While sitting in a chair, with a glass or coffee cup in hand, he would rear-up, place his nose under the elbow and push upward with a hard jerk. Any beverage would then levitate…for a second or two. Then my mom would perform magic by making Tickey disappear from the room.

Unfortunately, Tickey would chew on my GI Joes, Creepy Crawler bugs, and little plastic army men to the point of disfigurement. So, being a lad of imagination, I pretended he was a dinosaur set loose in the city where the military had to engage. Of course, he agreed to that.

At that time we lived in a house directly across the street from the school I attended. After the school bell at the end of the day, I ran as fast as I could to reunite with my pal.

During those days, both my mom and stepdad had daytime jobs. Through most of my first and second grade years, I came home to an empty house. For awhile I entered the house through the garage using a key to the garage door. Because Tickey proved himself to be a great digger, it was foreseeable he might use his skills to crawl under the backyard fence for greener pastures, we decided to place him in the garage until I came home from school. This became a huge struggle.

Tickey absolutely had the adventurous heart of Marco Polo. My little dog wanted to sniff the world, not to mention we never had him fixed. He was a runner. Any opportunity, he was off to the races like a lightning bolt. I never understood how short legs could run so fast. I mean, you never could open the front door without first seeing where he was. If he saw you walking to the door, he would stalk quietly behind you like a ninja in a Chuck Norris film, just gazing at the first crack of the opening. So as my seven year old arms strained to lift the garage door each day, I had to also play shortstop as I had to nab Tickey shooting out of the garage. Too many times I would try to chase him down in tears, afraid he would get hit by a car. Frantically, I would yell at him, “Tickey, come here, boy! Follow me home. It’s easy, just follow me. It’s safe back at the house. Please, come home! That’s where you belong!” He was way too fast. If only he would’ve taken the initiative to follow me when I called, he would’ve been a lot safer. It didn’t take me long to find out I needed to bribe him with packets of dog food. Only then would he obey. Let me tell you, that got real old, real fast.

In that same year, we were to go out of town for an outdoor family reunion in west Texas. There was no way Tickey could go. After carefully sealing the base of the backyard chain-link fence with bricks, and logs, my stepdad thought it safe to leave Tickey in the backyard for the weekend. A neighbor was to come over each day to give him food and water. The gates were never locked.

It was Sunday night when we arrived back home from the weekend trip. It was dark, and I had just awakened from the backseat of the car, ready for bed. I remember my mom seeing some stains on the dark front porch, wondering what it was and how it got there. In my daze, I didn’t care and went straight to bed. There, on the front door, was a hand written note. What we didn’t know was, Tickey had slipped through a space between the fence post and the gate post for a weekend adventure like no other. That little sneak.

As it turned out, Tickey had his vacation day running around the neighborhood, checking out the sights, sounds, and smells. No doubt he did his part to populate after his own kind while out cruisin’ around, like father like son. Later we heard he outran anyone who tried to catch him. In the driveway of a house a few blocks away, was a tire of a parked car that just must be sniffed. While sniffing the edge of the tire, the car owner got in his car, put it in reverse to leave. As he began to drive out of his parking spot, he heard a dog crying out in pain. The man jumped out to find Tickey rubbing his noes with his paws. Apparently, he ran over the tip of his nose as he had his nose stuck under the tire when he put it in reverse. Right away the man tried to console Tickey. He made the attempt to pick him up to get a better look at the notable nostril nip. However, in classic Tickey-style, like a flash he jolted down the street like a racehorse in Kentucky just as fast as his little legs would carry him. Being a dog lover, the man hopped in the car and followed him all the way to our front porch. Tickey was hurt, bleeding, and frightened. He found him cowering in the corner, right by the front door while crying and bleeding all over the porch. When finding no one was home, he wrote a note asking if we had a small brown puppy with a chain collar. He left his phone number. Tickey was so traumatized and tired, he allowed the man to pick him up and he took him home.

We had a wonderful reunion. No serious damage was done to his nose. We all learned a great lesson from the event, especially Tickey. He got schooled in keeping the nose from where it doesn’t belong. He became more of a homebody afterwards.

Growing up together. The two of us in 1969.

Often in my teen years, just before heading out the door, my mom would say, “Remember Who you belong to”. More than a few times I would look down at Tickey and reply, “You mean, like Tickey?” At one of my best friend’s house, before going out on the town, his gruff dad would deliver his redneck crass wisdom. His message was very different. “You boys, don’t bring somethin’ home ya can’t keep.” The two of us would chuckle as we walked out the door. He meant well, deep down. We knew what he was telling us in code, as his wife replied in disgust, “Leroy, don’t say that!” Two very different directives in two very different households. One message was, to take stalk in all that you do when integrity is at stake, knowing God Himself sees all things. And remember who you follow. The other directive was, what ever you do tonight, sow the wild oats, but don’t bring me trouble because of it. At least that’s the PG version of Leroy’s meaning.

Getting white around the nose. Teen years, 1978.

Full disclosure here. There were many times I did NOT remember Who I belonged to. There were times, being away from home, away from my mom’s teachings, I forgot HOW I needed to come home, and in the same shape I left her front door. Then again, there were moments, and they usually are “moments”, when I made real-time decisions to stop before crossing a dangerous, or unethical line that was before me. Maybe in those moments, I mentally heard my mom’s voice, or maybe the inner voice of God’s Spirit saying “Here, and no further.” If only I could’ve recalled that late Sunday night when blood stains appeared on our front porch, my course might have hit the wiser trek more often. Ironically, my mom’s phrase would be used by me each time my three daughters left the house for a night out. How does that happen?

As for Tickey, he was with me throughout my childhood and teen years. We went through so much together. He stayed healthy, along with some white which grew along his long snout in later years. He was there at my wedding rehearsal dinner in 1981…really.

Our last snapshot together, 1982.

On August 7th, 1982, he was to say goodbye to us. I had been married for over a year, living across town from my mom and Tickey, but visiting often. Old age had taken its toll. That week he showed signs of a mini-stroke. This particular morning, he was taking a dive. Knowing he would probably not survive the day, my mom brought him to my place, on her way to her job, so we could spend some final hours. It was just the two of us all day. He was slowly going down throughout the day. I stretched out on the floor next to him, petting him, scratching his belly like old times. I leaned over speaking softly about our childhood days and his misadventure with the tire. There was a video of him humorously hopping through snow like a bunny in 1977. I showed it to him. I thanked him for his years of loyalty, laughs, and love. Most of all, I thanked him for making my childhood special. I made him as comfortable as I could, although he wasn’t showing signs of pain. Mid afternoon I called my mom to let her know he was slipping away. She came over immediately. Just like that summer day in 1967, it was just the three of us together as we both did all we could to keep him from seeing us shedding tears. He drifted away that afternoon quietly at 15 years of age.

God taught me so much through the gift of Tickey. Lessons of love, belonging, grace, care, and how to remember to turn the heart toward home in darker days.

I am 60 years old now and still miss my runt buddy. Yet my memory is blessed as I recall how he found love and value at our house, enough to remember who he belonged to.

The road map to belonging is printed inside fuel for the race.

And they heard the sound of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God among the trees of the garden.  But the LORD God called to the man and said to him, “Where are you?” And he said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself.” – Genesis 3:8-10 (ESV)

Dog Training

“Me and my Arrow, straighter than narrow.  Wherever we go, everyone knows it’s me and my Arrow.” – Me And My Arrow (1971) Written and recorded by: Harry Nilsson

Ah, the dog days of summer.  Finding those video clips on Facebook just kills me.  You know, the clips of a guilty dog in trouble, being confronted.  It might be a stolen cookie on the table, a trash can raid or a pile of poop in the hallway, the look of guilt on the face says it all.  I can’t hardly catch my breath from the bursts of laughter.  Cuteness on wheels.

My Shorty is a well behaved, highly intelligent dog.  Many years ago, I adopted him from a rescue operation and so glad I did.  They found him caged in a kill shelter with just days to live.  Honestly, he is one of the most obedient dogs I’ve ever had.  BUT, when he needs to be confronted about a bad decision on his part, he might first give you a look that says, “What?  All things are as they should be.”  However, it only takes a frown from my mug, or a second vocal nudge like, “Shooortyyyyy?” (Inflection going up at the end.)  That’s all it takes.  Then he goes into a different mode altogether.  Sometimes, it’s a look of denial.  He will turn his head, shifting his chocolate brown peepers away from me as if to say, “Nothing to see here.”  Or, “If I don’t look at him, the issue will disappear.”  The eyes are indeed the window to the soul.

He truly speaks with his face, especially when he doesn’t want to hear the words, “Shorty, I’ve got to go, but you have to stay.”

Because we’re so close, like Velcro, just like the “Me And My Arrow” story about a boy and his dog, Shorty knows he can find comfort with me.  There are times he even snuggles his face in the crook of my arm, or the first half of his body behind my back.

At other times, after he shakes off the initial confrontation, he distracts himself with his toy box consisting of bones.  It’s his own collection.  He drags each one out, across the rug to an area in the living room floor.  I call it his boneyard.  (He thinks he is such a fierce creature.)

At other times he chooses to forego my welcoming arms in efforts to comfort himself.

Way too many times I find I am being trained by my dog.  Have you ever felt that way?  I can really learn about myself from watching Shorty’s behavior.

It’s funny what guilt can do, isn’t it?  Guilt can freeze you to the point of arrested development, even if you’re 75 years old.  Guilt can cause a multitude of reactionary behaviors.  Mostly it stems from a need to cover up the pit you find yourself in.  It’s very much like a device planted in you from birth, signaling a twinge deep inside the soul flagging a misfire, a misstep away from the correct path, the better path laid out for you.  It’s what law was designed to do, to educate the perfect target intended for a peace that is the opposite of imperfection.

Maybe for you the chosen tool is temporary comfort.  Often those tools can be detrimental to your overall health, soul, spirit and body.  Guilt can cause you to shutdown altogether.  For some, it’s sleeping for 12 hours for numbing sake.  For others it’s dragging something familiar from one’s personal treasure toy box, only to find it really is a boneyard when perspective comes.  Guilt often produces a big fat plate of denial.  Like Shorty, you might just look in another direction believing the distraction you focus on will be your way of escape.  Maybe it’s in an effort to say to the guilty self, “There’s nothing to see here.  Nothing is really wrong.”  We do like smokescreens and foggy tints of grey, don’t we?  Somehow it makes it much easier to digest falling short of what it is to be at peace.  Yet, when perspective comes tomorrow, the memory of wrongful acts hits again like a pie to the face.  The morning after syndrome is so common.  Unfortunately, the process begins again like a dog chasing his tail in a loop of behaviorism.  Am I right?  Yep, me too.  We all have that gene in our DNA.  Don’t try making an attempt to cut the gene out of your strand.  You can’t.

No matter how hard we try, guilt must be dealt with.  If not, you will continue to be chewed on like an old soup bone from a box.  Too many times you have noticed you can’t drink it away, eat it away, sex it away, nor work it away.  Driving to a scenic lookout point is nice, and for the moment may ease what drags behind you, but you still have to go back home again.  There are stains, inward tattoos, you just can’t remove on your own, no matter what chemical is your favorite.

We were created that way, you know.  It’s true.  Sure, our society, our misguided culture, has degraded to a level where we trust in relativism.  What’s wrong for me might be right for you, etc.  I get it.  Even ISIS believes they are doing righteous acts.  Yet, relativism will not defy gravity at the edge of the Grand Canyon.  Gravity is gravity because gravity is absolute truth.  The top half of Shorty’s ears flop forward, no matter how hard he might try to point them upward.  That basic doctrine of relativism is faulty at best.  Do not jump off the edge of the Grand Canyon.  It’s like a house built on wet cement.  Would you do that?  The Savior available to the world put it like this, “It’s like a house built on shifting sand.” (Jesus paraphrased from Matthew 7: 24-27)

We act-out in order to cover over where our, often unspoken, fault lies.  Read the story of Adam and Eve.  When they understood they had gone against a perfect rule set for them by God Himself, they did all they could to cover it over, to hide.  That’s what guilt does.  Times haven’t changed.  It’s very much like, “If I don’t look at him, the issue will disappear.”   None of us are innocent of the perfect standard.  Try it, just for one day.

Shorty is a dog, a sweet dog with a terrific disposition, but a dog just the same.  However, in watching his little life, and his acting out, I often see myself.  In fact, Shorty may have been placed with me to be a teaching tool.  My unearned grace and forgiveness toward my pal comes from my unconditional love for him.  Unknowingly, Shorty may be showing me how God views me as His child.  It’s great training from a dog.

Shorty has it right.  Being humble enough to examine the stain on the heart is the first step toward the act of giving up and praying to the original Stain Remover.

Understanding the authentic design of the spirit and soul will expose the truth of the need for the removal of sin.  It’s an expensive spiritual surgery.  You can’t perform this surgery on yourself.  The operation has been paid for by your appointed surgeon.  I find Jesus has multiple initials after His name and covered the expense way ahead of time. †

When revived, you not only will find you are an adopted son or daughter, being held tightly to his chest, but also the recovery will require a gift from Him which is fuel for the race.

“…just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” – Jesus (Speaking about Himself.) – Matthew 20:28 (NIV)