Not Seeing Eye To Eye

Photo:  Thiago Matos via Pexels

“Oh, crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got…So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
It’s the bitterness that lasts.  So don’t yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different date…Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye.” – (1988)  The Living Years,  Recorded by:  Mike and the Mechanics.  Written by Mike Rutherford and B. A. Robertson

The hallway was busy between classes that day.  The platform shoes were loud on the polished hard floor like horses on a brick street.  Everyone was running to their next classroom before the final bell rang.  I, in my bell-bottoms and bell sleeves, was coming out of the choral department rehearsal hall after an a cappella session.  My steps were already inside the broad hallway, but had yet to fully walk through the threshold as my hand remained on the thick heavy wooden door.  That’s when I looked up and saw her.  It was Lori Kennedy high stepping it toward the choir-room door from B-Hall.  She was running a tad late to get to her place on the rehearsal risers just inside the entrance for Women’s Select Choir.  It was a Friday, game-day at our north Dallas suburban high school of 3,500 students.  I recall it was a Friday because Lori was decked-out in her Lionette drill team outfit from a pep-rally earlier the same morning.  As she approached the doorway, I quickly made my way through the entrance while holding the door open for her.  By the time she was within two, or three steps from me, her dark brown eyes pierced mine as she sternly stated, “I can open my own door!” as she swiftly rushed by me.  OUCH!  That was unexpected.  It wasn’t like me to freeze, but I did due to shock.  It was best because it also kept my mouth shut.

Lori Kennedy 1978 RLT

Lori Kennedy, 1978 R.L. Turner High School Yearbook.

Lori and I were 16 at the time, in 1976.  She was about five weeks older than your’s truly.  Our social circles overlapped, so we had mutual friends, but the two of us were mere acquaintances.  In fact, I don’t think we ever had a conversation before that uncomfortable moment.  It’s not that we avoided one another, or even ignored the other purposefully while within earshot.  We both certainly knew about the other, but distantly.  From time to time, over four years, we even dated our close shared friends, but never one another.  There were multiple occasions where we hitched a ride with other friends while stuffed in a 1973 Chevy Camaro.  We were on the same bus during our music concert tours with the choral department’s Spring trip each year.  We also found ourselves sharing a bus for choral UIL contests performed in other cities.  Then there were gatherings at picnics, parties, and popular hangouts, etc.  I should stop here because as I write this I’m remembering many more circumstances where Lori and I shared space through high school.  We, for what ever reason, never made the effort to get to know each other.  One might say, we knew each other through our fellow classmates.

With all that said, it makes her stark, rude remark, (the first words she ever spoke to me), that much more odd.  Maybe she was having a bad day.  Maybe her boyfriend just broke up with her.  Possibly life at home had hit a wall.  Could she had slipped on a banana peel in the cafeteria line?  Maybe there was a social undertow of knowing we didn’t see eye-to-eye on life itself.

full frame shot of eye
Photo by Vladislav Reshetnyak on Pexels.com

One thing is for concrete sure, she didn’t know my mom and granddad taught me how to treat the opposite sex going back to my toddler years.  Chivalry was the order of the day in my family.  I must have been three years old, when walking down the sidewalk with my mom and grandparents, my granddad gently instructed me to always walk closest to the curb when walking next to a lady.  When I asked why, in his rural Texas fashion and verbiage, he explained that if a tire splashes a muddy puddle onto the walkway, she will be spared from the splatter.  He followed it up with, “That’s what men do.”  He taught me to remove my hat if a lady enters the room.  If a lady walks by, you tip the brim of the hat.  If a lady is about to sit at a table, you pull the chair out for her, followed by the adjustment to table-side.  If the lady is ready to remove her coat or sweater, you help remove it from her shoulders.  When she is ready to wear the same, you hold it open for her as she slips her arms through.  You always allow the lady to walk in front, choosing second place.  You always open the car door for a lady before placing yourself in the car.  And yes, you always open the door for a lady as she approaches it.  In fact, I do that for men, as well as women.  To be honest, I still practice all of the above to this day.  It’s an act of courtesy, kindness, respect, and honor.  I’m branded with it.  So, what was up with Lori?

At the time, the women’s liberation movement was well above surging, at least in the U.S.  It would be foolish to believe that 100% of women living-out the movement appreciated chivalry with its old Victorian manners.  Because I neglected to get to know Lori, the real Lori, I may have missed my cue.  It very well may have been Lori was exercising her newly discovered rules of engagement as dictated by the women’s liberation movement of the times.  I would have been clueless.  Nevertheless, she may have very well been offended by my gesture of holding the door open for her entrance into the choir room.  Sure, I meant well, but she may have seen my action in another angle, unbeknownst to me.  Just like one can peek through a glass of water while another may see a different distorted view.  And here is where I went wrong.

My mind washed my hands of her as I walked away from the moment of friction.  Lori Kennedy and I never had a potential conversation throughout the balance of our school years together.  Never once.  In fact, I totally avoided her.  My misdirected thoughts went something like, “Well, if she’s going to treat me like a doormat, than I don’t have any use for her.”  This is what unchecked anger can do.  And so, in my bitterness over the incident, I made sure I ignored her each time our paths crossed, wherever it was.  And what’s worse, I allowed our very quick moment in 1976 to stain my view of her from that time forth.  Afterwards, the name Lori Kennedy was held in my grudge-peppered heart.  My new title for her was, Little Miss Rudeness.  Yes, it was wrong.  Very wrong.

One would think in adulthood, with all its twists, turns, and teachings, I would’ve eventually understood better, loved more, and forgave even if I never saw her again in life.  However, we did.  God had other plans.

Lori Kennedy 2018 RLT Reunion

Lori Kennedy at a 2018 casual reunion with old friends.

A year ago, I attended two reunions with old friends and classmates.  One was a casual gathering of about 200 as we paid tribute to a friend who had passed away the year prior.  Two months later, it was our 40th high school reunion.  Lori Kennedy and I bumped into each other at both events.  During the first reunion, I saw her before see saw me.  My first thought was to stay away from her, using my old searing angst as justification.  With so many people attending, it would’ve been easy to just remain on the other side of the large club.  Two months later, the 40th high school reunion gala would be upon us where most likely we would find ourselves in close proximity with mutual friends.  Deep inside, I hated the tensity felt over seeing her again.  Getting lost in the crowd was my first thought.

Miles White Reunion Shot

August 2018 at the casual reunion at the Fox & Hound Pub in Dallas.

Someone called out to her through the noisy event.  With a turn, my eyes caught her.  There she was, laughing, drinking, eating and enjoying a cluster of old friends.  My reaction was to look away to protect the sore spot in my psyche.  After looking down at my shoes for way too long, I filled my lungs with lots of air, slapped on my big boy pants, and made my way across the room of revelers.

She had changed so much since our teen years.  Age hadn’t been particularly polite to her.  Lori always lived fast and hard, so I just assumed it all caught up with her.  She was a bit pale and thin, and the spark in her dark eyes had faded.  Name tags are a gift from God in these cases, but not at this casual gathering.  Often, at our age, it’s guesswork.  I acted as if I wasn’t sure it was her.  “Lori?  Is that you?”  She turned toward me, cocked her head and smiled.  “Alan!  Well, as I live and breathe!  How are you?”  I initiated a quick shoulder-hug. (Still showing signs of my grudge in a tiny gesture.  I know, it’s all so stupid.)  We spoke very kindly for another couple of minutes.  After all, there’s not much to “catch-up on” when you didn’t really have a relationship to start with.  I found out she lived alone with her two beloved Chihuahuas.  Still, it was somewhat a relief to see her genuine greeting.  Surprisingly cordial with a true smile, we shared good words between us.  Simultaneously, there was this voice coming from deep inside me delivering a statement I never would’ve believed.  It was so clear.  Despite our differences, we could have been friends.  Part of me began to feel ashamed what I had secretly held against her over the decades.  Of course, I never brought up our one and only verbal encounter from the days of yore.  Actually, she may not even recall the day she was snarky to me, the “doorman” from early in our junior year.  Frankly, the thought had never occurred to me.  Just because I always remembered it, shelving her as a tyrant and a princess prude forever, doesn’t necessarily mean she remembered our game-day intersect whatsoever.

Monday morning, October 7th, I got in my car, turned on the radio to my favorite classic rock station, and there it was, Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young”.  It was the tripwire to heavy tears as I left my driveway for an hour’s drive to Lori Kennedy’s funeral.

After doing some digging, I discovered Lori was told by her doctor how early tests indicated she had Multiple Myeloma.  This form of blood cancer wasn’t new to me.  A church friend has been battling it for two years, as well as my brother-in-law, who is in the final stages of this life-sucking illness.  An MRI had found a mysterious spot on her pelvic bone a couple of years prior.  At that time tests were inconclusive.  Apparently, Lori shrugged it off.  She had been told most Multiple Myeloma patients have 3-5 years after diagnosis, maybe less.  She was looking forward to her first oncologist appointment to confirm, plus discuss various treatments.  That was during the last week of September.  She passed away in her sleep at home less than a week later.  After the very touching service I spoke with her parents.  They told me she had been suffering from symptoms for at least 2-3 years, but had no idea she had been stricken with cancer until a few days ago.

Before the minister spoke, they played Eric Clapton’s Tears In Heaven.  As it washed over the the ones gathered, I bowed my head and listened intently for the first time.

“…Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven?
Would it be the same
If I saw you in heaven?

Would you hold my hand
If I saw you in heaven?
Would you help me stand
If I saw you in heaven?

Time can bring you down
Time can bend your knees
Time can break your heart
Have you begging please, begging please…”

My hands trembled as I realized my judging heart.  Deeply convicted, I acknowledged my stupidity in not letting go of one moment in time of offense.  At my age, how could I have remained so immature?  When we engaged last year, I was unaware she was in severe pain throughout her skeletal structure.  As we stood there and chatted at the reunion, I was unaware Lori was constantly dehydrated, with bouts of deadly low blood pressure and visits to the ER.  Little did I know she was choking down powerful pain killers just to stand, walk, and sit.  As it turns out, she rarely left her house to socialize due to her struggle.  The reunions were a goal she wouldn’t deny herself.  And there I was, trying to be tempered, holding back my old resentment as she smiled at me, even though she should’ve been in the hospital.  What a moron I was.  So much time wasted.  So much life experience gone.  So many chances crumbled away in the living years.

After the service was complete, I approached the opened white coffin where an unrecognizable body was displayed.  The remains of this person looked as if she was some 25 years my elder, resting among the satin lace.  Even though it was way too late, I looked at the face, which once belonged to Lori, and whispered, “Forgive me, Lori.  Forgive me.”

As I drove back home, I asked the Redeemer to forgive my unsettled anger.

True lessons in life come at the most heartbreaking times.  Lessons of humility learned easier when filled with fuel for the race.

“And whenever you stand to pray, forgive whatever you have against anyone, so that your Father who is in Heaven may also forgive you your faults.  But if you are not forgiving, neither will your Father in Heaven forgive you your faults.”  – Jesus –  Mark 11:25-26  (Aramaic Bible In Plain English)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Branching Out

“…In my thoughts I have seen
Rings of smoke through the trees
And the voices of those who standing looking…”  (1971)  Stairway To Heaven.  Recorded By:  Led Zeppelin.  Composed by:  Jimmy Page and Robert Plant.

Have you ever found yourself on your back, underneath a tree, just looking through the branches as a breeze sways them from side to side?  Have you ever walked through a wooded area and heard the unique creaking of timber as the branches and limbs wave to the rhythm of the wind?  For me they are mesmerizing moments.

Then there are the wrecking storms which reverse the pleasantries of our trees.  Snap, crackle, and pop!  Suddenly those precious branches that speak in their unique language are left broken, split, and hanging from violent winds.  Afterwards, the clean-up is launched…if procrastination doesn’t have its way.

They say October is a good month for pruning select trees, depending upon where you live, although I know very little about it.  However, we had to swing into it recently.

Over the last several months we have had at least four damaging storms rush through our immediate neck of North Texas.  This blog tells of some of those trying times.  We have a few trees on our property, and they always suffer after major wind events.  If you came over for a backyard BBQ you would observe limbs and branches, some dead and dried up, left dangling, or loosely swinging from larger branches.  One rather large branch, maybe 20 feet in length, has been hanging vertically way above the back steps of our sun-room leading to the backyard.  Literally it has been clinging and swinging by a few strands of the broken timber up top.  Something had to be done.  When September proved to be a rather hot, but calm weather month for us, we felt like the gettin’ was finally good.

Tree - Pecan

A family owned lawn care service was recommended to us by a good friend who lives not even a mile away.  We called for an estimate.  They came out, took a look at the job, which involved a total of four large trees, and gave us an outstanding price.  I just love the sound of chainsaws in the morning.

Little did we know, the tree-trimming team wasn’t insured.  What’s worse, they only do lower hanging limbs and branches.  YIKES!  Okay, so they didn’t tell us that when they presented the estimate, but onward and upward they went.  I sat in a lawn chair under the pecan tree to observe.  After all, if there was going to be a Texas chainsaw massacre, I at least wanted to be an eye-witness for the litigation to come.  All-in-all, without too much trouble, (although there were some vertigo moments), they did a fine job.  I’ll give them a B+, considering the tree climber wore cowboy boots to scale the trunks.  There were some high limbs they felt were too risky, but we let it slide.  In less than two hours they cut on the troublesome trees, sawed up smaller lengths of the branches, placed it all in a pile by the curb, raked and swept-up residual twigs and leaves, and off in their truck they went.  Quicker than you can say sawdust, they eagerly took my $50.00 tip.

Tree Bench

Those in the know call it an “Umbrella Cut”, which sounds like something I might hear in a barber shop.  After the job was complete, I could see why they give it the name.  Of course, not only do the trees have a better appearance, but they will be healthier, not to mention safer.

As I looked at the pile of dead, or dying limbs and branches by the street, I couldn’t help but think about my own tree of life.  Inventory, a true, honest inventory of life, can suck.  Look, there is a dangerous branch up top from my past which still dangles when the slightest gust comes my way.  Duck!  If unaware that 45 year old lower limb, once badly-placed from wilder days, can knock you flat, and its got plenty of bark left.  Ah, on the other side, observe the crooked hanging limb in my years, ready to extract all the sap intended for the healthier, sturdier branches above it.  Careful, don’t walk under that long branch hanging vertically.  To this day it keeps the young branches stunted in growth.  Do I miss them all?  They were important in my life at one time, or so I imagined, but God broke them from the trunk because there was a danger to my house.  Except for that one right over there.  Do you see it?   Unfortunately, day and night, it nourishes my messed-up thought-life, spreading its twigs and seeds.  It shouldn’t remain. No doubt the great Arborist will remove it from my trunk when He decrees.  When He does, I will be a healthier person with rock solid roots.

Can you identify?  It’s true, we all need pruning sometimes.  A life pruned tends to hurt.  Why should the living be among the dead?  Right?  The dangerous, menacing dead wood needs to be taken down and shown to the curb.

Tree Branches Curbside

I’ve learned when it comes to a choice of life or limb…life is better.  After His chipper does its work, the mulch can be added to my fuel for the race.

“I am the true grapevine, and my Father is the gardener.  He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn’t produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more.”  -Jesus-  John 15:1-2 (NLT) 

Field Of Depth

“Kodachrome
They give us those nice bright colors
They give us the greens of summers
Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day, oh yeah
I got a Nikon camera
I love to take a photograph
So mama, don’t take my Kodachrome away…”  (1973)  Kodachrome  Written & Recorded by:  Paul Simon

Many moons ago I was a photography enthusiast.  Actually, I still am, just not a practicing one anymore.

Around 1983, one of my co-workers was selling his gently used 35mm Canon AE1.  I never had a serious camera before, just happy with an Instamatic and Polaroids, but always wanted one.  It didn’t take long in life to discover I had a photographer’s eye and really wanted to dive in.  When he realized I was interested, he sold it to me for a little bit of nothing.  I made out like a bandit on that deal.  I guess I have taken a few thousand shots with it through the years.  These days it sits in my old dusty camera bag…in a closet I rarely use.

Lens - Canon AE1

My photo albums can testify how much I love real film, not to mention the scads of containers of photos stored away.  They are just visual moments in time documented for future eyes.  Recently, a fabulous photographer encouraged me to pick up the camera once again.  A big thanks to Darren across the pond at The Arty Plantsman.

Once I became an owner of a great camera, a telephoto lens and a telephoto zoom lens was added over the years.  All-in-all it adds up to some great shutter adventures.

If you’re new to a 35mm camera, one of the first things to learn is the focus of your subject in the viewfinder.  In the scope you find uneven lines to mesh together for a sharp focus of the subject targeted.  So vital.  Line up the focus lines and click away.  (I love the sound of the shutter.)  The field of depth can be tricky, but it can be mastered.  Let me show you some old pictures of mine to give some visual examples.

Below, notice the tight focus of the bee hovering over the blooms at the renowned Ft Worth Botanical Gardens in Ft Worth, Texas.  (Theses photos are from the mid 1980’s, so the color has faded with age.  However, I’m sure you’ll get the picture. :>)

Lens - Bee Long Focus

For the photographer, what I’m about to explain is simple common knowledge.  I focused sharply on the bee visiting the blooms, but when I “focused” on the bee, the background became “unfocused”.  Notice the leaves and branches are blurry.  It’s okay for a shot like this and frankly, it’s expected.

However, when I focused more toward the middle of the field of depth, and not closing up on a bee, all becomes focused.  See what I mean?

Lens - Bee Long Focus Dallas Arboretum

If Pinocchio came to my house I could zero-in on his nose, but it would leave the rest of his face out of focus.  Isn’t it true, sometimes in life we do tend to focus on lies, deceit, and untrustworthy words?  Panning back, one can always view the larger picture.

Here’s another example from my old Karate/Kickboxing days.  (I used to break concrete for martial arts demonstrations in another life.  Patio concrete slabs at Walmart were less than a dollar in those days.)

Lens - Long Focus Karate Demo

Notice the tight, sharp focus centering on the concrete slabs atop the mason blocks.  Yet, the back of the heads, in the foreground, are very much out of focus.  If I had focused on the back of the gentleman’s head on the right, then the stage area would be hazy in the field of depth.

One of my faults is a tendency to be a newshound.  With all the jarring frays in the American political world of late, I find I must walk away and focus on other things.  I guess you might say I need to fix my eyes elsewhere for a more pleasant subject in my mental viewfinder.  Simply put, I need to adjust my field of depth.  Do you ever feel that way?

Not long ago, I had a real issue with my 20-something step-daughter.  We first met about four years ago.  She lives hundreds of miles away making it a bit difficult to have a thriving, authentic relationship.  Over a Facebook post, harsh words were spoken.  Attitudes, which were hidden, suddenly bubbled out into the raw open.  It was a hurtful event.  (Much like political hearings on Capitol Hill.)  At first, I focused on the words said, words typed, and tried with all my might to keep from judging her too harshly.  Unfortunately, I already had.  What I needed to do, and eventually did, was to avoid focusing on the words, but also make efforts to step back to get the entire picture inside the frame from a different camera angle.  When accomplished, I was able to adjust my lens for a broader view to the point where the up close and personal issue, which involved me, became less of the subject in the field of depth.  In that way, the view of the world will always develop much better after possessing.  It’s an art, don’t you think?

Lens - Film Developed

Photo:  Chay Garciavia Pexels

While tell you this, I was hit with a biblical hammer.  The parable from Jesus, concerning the Good Samaritan, captures much of the same idea.  Here is my layman’s modern paraphrased version.  PG13…Suitable with the exception of extreme violence and nudity. (LOL)

A poor traveler was beaten, stripped, and robbed by a gang waiting behind the rocks on a path in rugged desert area.  They left him half-dead.  Soon, a priest came down the same road, saw the distressed wounded traveler and made it a point to look the other way.  In doing so, he went to the opposite side of the path to avoid him.  Not long after that, a Levite approached.  (A Levite was one who lived in the temple in Jerusalem, born to serve in the daily duties of temple business.  Much like a monk or nun.)  He too, quickly looked the other direction to avoid the traumatized one in need and walked around the naked, wounded traveler while fixing his gaze on the road ahead.  A Samaritan man (From a geographical locale called Samaria in mid-Israel.) came down the same road and saw the poor guy.  He had pity and compassion on him as he considered his terrible ordeal.  Although the victim was left naked, bloody and unable to walk, he immediately gave him first aid as he bandaged him with what little he had.  Then he, not caring if he soiled his own clothes, picked the bleeding man up and placed him on his donkey.  Not long afterwards they reached a small hotel.  He booked a room, taking care of him throughout the overnight.  The next day, he found the wounded man was still in no condition to travel.  He left him bandaged in his bed.  Before leaving, he gave the hotel clerk a generous amount of funds.  He instructed the clerk to take care of him.  He went on to tell him to supply whatever needs might arise concerning the unfortunate man.  He let it be known he would reimburse him for whatever expenses rose above the money offered when he returned from his trip.  (Ref. Luke 10:35-37)

Honestly, volumes have been written about the application of this parable.  There is so much taught from the tale.  As Jesus shared this parable, He was showing the true heart of God and what kind of heart God can place within each of us who are willing.  The “holier than thou” clergymen were focused on where they were going, their schedules, and their own concerns.  When the two “men of the cloth” saw the poor, broken traveler, they chose not to focus on him, just like the back of the heads of an audience at a Karate demo.  Although the victim was right there in their foreground, for them the idea was to keep the vision of him, and his needs, contained in a blurry haze of forgetfulness.  The Good Samaritan had a schedule to keep as well.  He was also focused on where his destination was, his clock, and the distance ahead.  But when he saw the beaten, bloodied traveler, compassion caused him to think to himself, “There but for the grace of God go I.”  Suddenly, he adjusted his lens to a sharp, clear focal point on the needs at hand.  His new focus allowed him to see clearly what needed to be done for this stranger who owed him nothing.  His new focus delivered a bias for action.  You might say, he chewed his gum and walked at the same time.  It’s clear, his field of depth changed as he refocused.

After I am dead and gone, my three daughters will be going through my photo albums, my plastic tubs of Kodak prints scanning some forty+ years, as well as boxes of snapshots I felt were important to keep.  When they do, they might learn far more about what my true focus was in life.  Hopefully they will discuss my authentic field of depth.

Focusing on the subject of need isn’t always easy, but it will add to your personal field of depth.  The viewfinder is always located in the mixture of fuel for the race.

“Let us fix (focus) our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” – Hebrews 12:2  (Berean Study Bible Version)

 

Starry, Starry Night

Photo: Egil Sjoholt

“Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer’s day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul…”  (1971)  Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)  Composed and recorded by:  Don McLean

Some time ago, in my childhood, I fell in love with the full moon.  In fact, recently we just observed what is called the Harvest Moon.  It was beautiful as I wallowed in its rays through the blinds of the bedroom window washing across the bed sheets.  Moreover, I love the wintry full moon glazing the virgin snow as it ricochets off the sparkling surface, lighting up every corner of the thick darkened wood.  All in all, it is the light from the full moon which brings the awe and wonder to the world of evening.  No manufactured light bulb has yet been able to come close to matching its tone.  Isn’t it amazing what the reflective lunar surface can do with the sunbeams vacant from our direct view?

Moon and snow Pixabay

Photo:  Pixabay via Pexels.com

Not long ago I was flipping through TV channels from my remote and stumbled upon a well-done documentary on The Discovery Channel.  Although the title of the documentary slips my mind, the main focus had to do with the mysteries surrounding the black holes in space which vacuums up all matter within its vast reach.  It’s all so terrifying, yet an awe of it moves me.  It truly is a fascinating study.  In another life, (Using another brain, obviously.) I would’ve been an astrophysicist, or maybe a NASA scientist.  Space has always taken my heart with its truths marrying my imagination.  But alas, I am a frustrated, amateur star-gazer with a cheap telescope on a tripod.

telescope science discover world
Photo by Jaymantri on Pexels.com

Not ten minutes into the program, I realized I had been caught-up in a mini-series of astronomical documentaries.  To this day I am unsure how many episodes I missed, prior to the one I was currently enjoying, but it only bothered me for about five seconds.  My eyes and ears were glued to the screen.

At one point in the episode they began an “attempt” to explain black holes.  (The theory is, stellar black holes are believed to be imploded stars, causing a supernova, resulting in exploding bits of the star spewing into the universe.)  I say, “attempt” only because astrophysicists are learning something new as observation and research continues.  The facts, much of what we know concerning deep space, are mostly based upon conjecture, tied with what the world’s telescopes can currently reach.  Often times, scientists have to rewrite theories as new technology aids in ongoing research.  The numerous revision levels of textbooks can attest.

With that said, we also know there is much in the factual realm of investigations being done as hard evidence assists past texts of studies in Theoretical Astronomy.  This is why you often hear narrators reading from the script’s carefully written sentences which begin with, “Some scientists believe…”  or, “It is a widely held hypothesis that…”  or, “Many in the field of astrophysics feel that…”  They’re wise to construct the text in this way if the facts haven’t come together for complete conclusions by way of the updated evidence.  Unfortunately, too many educators, and textbooks, avoid the word “theory” as subjects are prematurely considered fact.  Yet, as stated prior, there are some factual pieces of evidence that can be eye-opening.  I have an example from this particular documentary that I want to share with you.

Buckle-up.  I am a creationist.  There are “Young Earth Creationists”, as well as, “Old Earth Creationists”.  Here I will not take time to explain the differences due to their heavy and long definitions.  As for my view, I am not settled in either camp just yet.  God invites the thinker to join Him in reasoning together. (Isaiah 1:18)  And because He is so understanding and generous, I have taken Him up on it.  I am not one who plugs up his ears to other leanings of school of thought.  I want to know what is being taught.  To see where others bake their ideas is truly helpful in unpacking belief systems for understanding and points of reference.  I enjoy finding why and how people base their faith and casual beliefs.  Frankly, when I do, it strengthens my personal faith.  All of that to say, I come from a biblical world view, which includes the book of B’reshith (in Hebrew) or Genesis, when translated from the Greek.  It literally means ‘The origins of…” or “Beginnings of (before time…)”  Without the celestial bodies, clocks would not exist.

Clock-N-Wood

An astronomer was being interviewed in this documentary concerning the sequence of events starting with the “Big Bang”.  For those who may not have studied the Big Bang Theory, here it is in condensed form.  At some point when there was nothing but vacant velvet black in what we now call “space”, an explosion occurred.  It was massive, beyond human experience.  In fact it is described as gargantuan, so much so, we have no device to measure the cataclysmic force of this mysterious ejecting of rock, gases, and magma.  The hypothesis dictates it was less than a split second ordeal.  Literally the detonation was quicker than the sparkle in your eye.

Cosmology has yet to be able to explain where the original material came from in the Big Bang, or how the ignition of the cosmic blast started, or where the interstellar force of energy came from.  If I light a fuse to a stick of dynamite I must have purchased it from a dealer.  The dealer, most likely, purchased it from a whole-seller.  The whole-seller purchased bulk dynamite from a manufacturer.  The manufacturer purchased paper, cardboard, caps, fuses, and blasting powder from other OEM’s,  Those OEM’s produced their materials from various sources created from chemicals and minerals from the earth’s resources.  This is one way crimes are solved as investigators follow the evidence left behind by the perpetrator of a bombing.  Let’s not forget, I was the one lighting a fuse.  It doesn’t light itself.  In this case, if there was nothing prior to the blast, there should be nothing of origin creating it, from the energy to the materials.  The biblical record has the answer to this.

For now, in the press conferences from the halls of the PHD’s in Astronomy, it simply is a mystery unexplained.  Scientists assumes the “Big Bang” was the B’reshith, the beginning before time.  That is because honest, vetted scientific theoretics will not travel past it.

According to what we have discovered thus far, through this cosmic vehicle, the vast universe was born.  The immenseness is such that even with the technology we have, we still cannot discover the edge of it (the universe).  Picture a pea-sized Styrofoam sphere being dropped in the middle of the Pacific.  That is just a snapshot of thoughts harnessed to explain the earth inside the universe as we now know it to be.

sky space dark galaxy
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The interview with this scientist continued as he described the darkness of the universe as the planets took their orbits and rotations.  Here I will attempt to write his exact words which punched me right in the gut.  He said something like, “After the Big Bang, there was what we call the ‘Dark Age’ in space.  Nobody can truly calculate how long this ‘Dark Age’ existed.  At some point, SOMETHING caused light.  Stars began to shine, gas giants were then showing their colors, quasars, etc.”   I WAS STUNNED!  I almost choked on my popcorn.  I don’t recall hearing about this Dark Age in the creation of space when I was in school, then again in those days the Big Bag Theory was still being debated among scientists from dark smoky rooms.  Astrophysicists made the first public announcement about the evidence of the Big Bang in April of 1992 based upon new images and digital measurements by way of satellite telescope technology.  It was an enormous jump in discovery.

So often archaeology, biology, oceanography, and geology reveals new discoveries which either match or align with various biblical text.  Narratives begin to change as new discoveries are being made all the time now, much of which never make it to print from major news outlets.  The same is true concerning selective discoveries in space.  The above spells out two of them.

After a major explosion is detonated by the hands of intention, an alert rings out in the departments of serious investigators.  A modern-day Sherlock Holmes would tell Mr. Watson to follow the source of the power and the design at ground-zero.  Usually the result would be the arrest of the actor involved in such a crime scene.  Although my faith has found its resting place, I do want to follow the evidence which leads to the culprit.

 “The heavens declare the glory of God,
 and the sky above[a] proclaims his handiwork.
 Day to day pours out speech,
 and night to night reveals knowledge.” –  Psalm 19:1-2 (ESV)

“By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God’s command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible.” – Hebrews 11:3 (NIV)

The Big Bang, The Dark Age, and the universe lighting up from darkness is documented in the Genesis account.  Follow me on this.  Read the text itself.

According to the original Hebrew text, in Genesis 1:1 , there was an instant where the vast universe was put into place.  One theologian and scribe described it as a “Flinging of elements”.  This “flinging” was done in an instant, just as described in the reveal from 1992 of the Big Bang.  Unlike someone detonating a boulder in the Arizona wilderness, with all its chaos, with all various fragments of shapes and sizes just laying still in all different directions, the opposite took place.  When this Big Bang spewed, to layout the cosmos, its heavenly spheres began to rotate, revolve and align in a clockwork sequence with precision which continues to this day.  You can set your watch by it…oh, yeah, we do.

Genesis 1: 2 describes the darkness, even on our own planet covered in H2O only.

Genesis 1:3 is curious.  In reading the account in Genesis chapters 1 and 2, there are sections of summery which can trip you up if not careful with the context.

“Let there be light”, He said.  Thus, even God testifies to what we call the “Dark Age” of space.  This is a mysterious light.  Some creationists believe this was an illumination from “outside” of the newly created universal arena, since the Designer came from outside His creation project.  Think of it as someone sitting at a brightly lit table building a miniature model of a ship inside a dry bottle.  Light appeared, but the sun had yet to be a factor.

Genesis 1: 14-18 describes the universal “Dark Age” ending for the expanse as God applied lights from the celestial subjects themselves from earth’s perspective.  According to the account, He then created them to dictate times and seasons for earth, just as we know them today.  An example would be the North Star, which has guided travelers and ship captains since the dawn of migration.  It’s the one star you can count on for true north.  It’s always there for you and your compass.

Imagine an ant looking up at the Empire State Building and claiming to know how it was built.  And so the astronomer, from the documentary, would clearly state, “…there was what we call the ‘Dark Age’ in space.  Nobody can calculate how long this ‘Dark Age’ existed.  At some point, SOMETHING caused light…”

So, yes, Vincent van Gogh, paint your Starry Night.  When artistically falling short of it, one can turn mad if not filled with fuel for the race.

“He counts the number of the stars and he calls all of them by names.  Great is our Lord and he is strong in his power and there is no end to his understanding.”  Psalms 147: 4-5   (Aramaic Bible Translation Into Plain English)

 

 

 

Me…Mingle?

Photo:  Pexels
“I Went to a garden party to reminisce with my old friends,
a chance to share old memories and play our songs again.
When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name.
No one recognized me, I didn’t look the same.
But it’s all right now, I learned my lesson well.
You see, ya can’t please everyone, so ya got to please yourself.”   Garden Party (1972)  Written and Recorded by:  Ricky Nelson

Did I catch you singing?  I know.  It’s got a terrific hook on the chorus.  Truly, it’s the iconic song Ricky Nelson was known for at that stage of his short life.  The lyrics sound as if it was a pleasurable garden party with old famous pals, but it was birthed out of rejection and sourness.

It was October of 1971, the Richard Nader’s Rock ‘n Roll Revival Concert was a huge gathering at Madison Square Garden in New York.  It was billed to showcase older American Rock ‘n Roll giants, prior to the British invasion, from the 1950’s and early 1960’s, with acts like Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, Bo Diddley, and Bobby Rydell.  They were among many kickin’ it on stage that night.  Back stage, and in the audience, the ultra-famous were in attendance from various corners of the entertainment and sports realm.  The lyrics in the song, “Garden Party” point that out.

It was his turn at the mic.  Ricky Nelson came out on stage in the fashion of the times, bell bottoms, velvet shirt, complete with bell sleeves, and long hair down to his shoulders.  Keep in mind, the order of the concert event was to reminisce with early American Rock ‘n Rollers, so the look was expected, too.  Well, unfortunately for Nelson, he didn’t take it to heart who the nostalgic demographics were holding tickets.  He performed some of his early songs from the late 50’s and early 60’s.  But then he played a peculiar country rendition of The Rolling Stones’, “Honky Tonk Woman”.  At that, the crowd began to boo, and boo, and booed some more.  He wrapped up his set and left the venue, not even waiting to show up for the all-star finale at the end of the night.  However, it worked out because he wrote a song about the experience in, “Garden Party”.  And I must admit, “…ya can’t please everyone, so ya got to please yourself.”
Me in session working on The Tree 2006 WDCX
In the late 1990’s I created an award-winning radio theater department for Criswell Communications Network.  I absolutely adored those years writing, acting and building those audio movies.  Later, I did the same in Buffalo, NY for the Crawford Broadcasting Network.  From time to time I am asked to voice a character for special commercials, promos, or projects.  But back then, life got in the way and now it’s been a few years since I was a regular working voice actor.
Mic
About a year ago, I was asked to voice a character for a dramatic read of a new novel and CD due to be released simultaneously.  Although it was a small walk-on role, I was thrilled to do it.  It was like going home again for me, even though I wasn’t the author or director.  What was very different, and a bit nerve-racking, was the author himself was in studio with me.  Being a hands-on kind of guy, he directed me while I fashioned the vocals needed for this particular character.  Don’t get me wrong, the author was/is a terrific guy.  I’m sure we will be working together in the future for more projects.
Me as Skunk Baxter of Dooby Bros 2016
This morning, before I could pour my first cup of java, I got a voicemail.  It was the author.  He made me aware of the recently released book and audio version.  He then invited me to a cast party he was hosting at his very lovely home.  I responded before lunch, letting him know how much I enjoyed the recording session, developing the character, and his invitation.  Then I politely declined to attend the party.  Why, you might ask?
people sitting beside table
Photo by Lee Hnetinka on Pexels.com
For as long as I can recall, I have never been good at cocktail parties, social dinners, or dances were strangers want me to do the Macarena.  Sure, I can act my way through it, which is what I’ve always done, but that’s work, not pleasure, and certainly not comfortable.  Being an old stage actor and radio personality, you would think I would be a hoot at a gathering of pre-friends.  Trust me, I’ll be the quiet guy in the corner with a china saucer full of chilled shrimp in one hand and a cup of punch in the other.  Yes, there’ll be clusters of revelers in a circle laughing, kissing cheeks, along with lines like, “What do you do when you’re not acting?”, or “What a lovely tie.  Who are you wearing, sweetie?”, or “So what project are you working on now?”  I just don’t mingle well.  It’s as simple as that.  There, I’ve said it.  Arg!  I would likely run off stage left like Ricky Nelson.

Cast parties are fine, in fact I have attended lots of them through my acting days, even hosted many myself.  Most all cast parties I’ve been a part of were packed with fellow cast-members I had the pleasure of working with face-to-face.  Those were actors and crew in which I developed relationships with, or at least decent acquaintances.  Those were parties where we could let our hair down and enjoy reminiscing about lines being dropped, favorite scenes, and wardrobe malfunctions.  (In 1978, while playing Johnny Brown in The “Unsinkable Molly Brown”, I walked out on stage singing with my fly opened.  Thank the Lord it was only a dress rehearsal.  Orchestra members noticed it first down in the pit.)  Cast parties are always a grand time laced in lots of laughter.  Here, the difference is, I never played against another actor in last year’s session.  My recorded lines were like a looping studio session where the dialogue was digitally dropped into scenes in post production.  There was no actor but me, myself, and I.  I played to a mic and a music stand.  I never met any of the actors on the bill.  To be clear, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that kind of session, it happens more often than not.  At the upcoming get-together I would know the author, his wife, and the recording engineer/producer.  It’s not that I am really anti-social…or am I?  Ouch!  What am I admitting?

If you’re a psychologist, you probably know why I am bent this way.  The ugly truth is, I am probably afraid of rejection, even eyes of rejection.  I’ve been at award shows, green rooms, and backstage at concert venues where you’re chatting with someone who won’t look you in the eye because they’re way too busy scouting out the next celebrity to be cornered.  You find yourself answering their question about family, career, or which hotel you’re staying at when suddenly they quickly interrupt with, “Oh, there’s Amy Grant with Vince Gill right behind you.  Gotta go.”  Is it just me, or is that not rude?  I’m guilty of that behavior as well.  So awkward.  Again, I say, Arg!  In the end, I dislike “…players who only love you when they’re playin'” (Fleetwood Mac)

Has it occurred to me that maybe I’m wrong about all this?  Maybe by now you’re saying silently, “Hey, this is weird.  He needs to loosen up.”  Okay, I’ll accept that.  But as I’m being super honest with you, hear me out.

To truly engage with another is to be associated with, connected with, to be in tune with the other, even if in a small way.  This is me.  If you and I are having coffee at a local spot, I will fully hear you, see you, and meld with you.  In fact, I like to make people feel that they are the only person in the room, complete with eye-contact and real chuckles, not out of nervous laughter for the sake of sound to fill up dead air.  This is how I was raised to believe.
Ricky Nelson
Photo:  Wikipedia
Poor Ricky Nelson.  Every time I hear “Garden Party” I listen for the rub, the angst, the sore spots between the words.  Bottom line, he didn’t “know” his audience.  Moreover, he didn’t take in serious consideration of the theme of the event.  Of course, the audience lacked true love for Mr. Nelson.  They only loved him when he played what he was known for ten years prior.  In those quick tunes he scratched their itch until he ventured onto something new from a British band.  It was a mismatch moment, a sting he took with him to his grave.  He died in a tragic plane crash on New Year’s Eve 14 years later.

In the end, I believe it’s all about “knowing” someone, or at least making faithful efforts in doing so.  Because inside that other person is a story which comes from their hearts.  A story worth the fidgeting, even if booed.  If we “play” at socializing, we do not do justice in the connection.  How else will we learn to love others, as God would have us to love?

Still, I remain shy with strangers in close settings.  I shared an elevator today where my total sum of verbiage was, “Third floor.  Thanks.”

Engaging another may start out with “How are you?”, but if they begin to tell you about their gout, making you’ll want to slip away with, “Ya know, I need a refill.”  If so, then where is the honest interest?

More and more I understand why Jesus told us to love others as we love ourselves, and to treat others as we want to be treated.

You know, maybe I should go to the cast party after all.  If I do, the boldness won’t come from my clipped persona, but from a deep well of fuel for the race.

 

“If you love only those people who love you, will God reward you for this? Even tax collectors love their friends. If you greet only your friends, what’s so great about this? Don’t even unbelievers do that?”  – Jesus –   Matthew 5:46-47  (Contemporary English Version) 

Lost & Found

“…Okay, so no one’s answering.  Well, can’t you just let it ring a little longer, longer, longer?  Oh, I’ll just sit tight through shadows of the night.  Let it ring forevermore…Yeah, yeah, yeah…”  (1976)  Telephone Line.  Recorded by:  Electric Light Orchestra (ELO).  Composer:  Jeff Lynne

Frantically, in the chill of the frozen air, he yell out, “Kids, help me find it!  Tabitha, you look over there where we were throwing snowballs.  Megan, you look over by the Suburban.  D’Anna, you stay here with me.  Help me push the snow away.  We’ve got to find it before we lose daylight.”

It was this week in August of 2001 when my family and I had experienced an unanticipated devastating blow in our lives.  Today, it still hurts.  Frankly, it lingers in my heart and mind all these years later.  Truly, the person, which caused the groans in my spirit, to this very day, has accomplished that individual’s purpose.  To dive into what occurred would just add to my painful memories, which I try to keep beneath my feet.  Forgive me for keeping it from you just now.  I will not bathe you here in the memory of it.  However, I’ll describe a tad of the domino impact from the personal trauma.

The vicious personal event was quickly followed by America’s incredibly disturbing attack on September 11th.  I must admit, the depths of my depression was a vast, velvet black abyss.  I spent my days in bed, sleeping as if on a sedative.  My marriage had ended years prior, but still living together for the kid’s sake.  My filing for divorce was already being planned through much heartache.  Thoughts of suicide knocked on my door a few times in stages of complete emptiness.  (How honest is that?)  The only thing God used to keep me living was my three precious daughters.

As the months rolled on, my depression continued to eat my lunch, but I was an experienced actor with the ability to hide the pain when needed.  I noticed I had a tremendous urge to wrap myself up in my kids.

By December, I felt a new bravery to take the family on a vacation.  We would wait for Christmas to come and go, and then pull out all the stops to begin a 12-day road trip starting the day after Christmas.  My intention was to use it like a balm for our hurting hearts.  It was money we didn’t have right after Santa’s visit, but it was so needed.  Stupidity or not, I cashed in my 401K.  (I know, it’s not a wise thing.)  We rented a huge Chevy Suburban, packed it up, and off we went.  We left Dallas for a day spent in Santa Fe, New Mexico.  Then north to Colorado Springs, Colorado we drove.  It would be our jumping point for all surrounding areas of note, and then up to Denver.  What a blast!

Pike's Peak Dec 2001

R-L:  Tabitha, Megan, D’Anna in front.  Pike’s Peak in the faded background.

One by one we visited the normal sites of awe.  We were holiday tourists and it showed.  We even rode horses during a lite snowfall through the Garden of The Gods National Park.  The red rocks were brilliant up against the white snow.  The photos I rediscovered do not do it justice.  While in the area the snow became heavy through the days.  Yet, that didn’t slow us down.

New Year’s Eve came rather quickly.  We decided to hit the great Seven Falls tourist attraction in the Pike’s Peak area.  (Google Seven Falls to wet yourself down with its picturesque majesty.)  Alas, they were officially closed on New Year’s Eve, but we still were able to drive to the overlook scenic platform, just across the canyon from the high, frozen long falls.  As you can imagine, we had the place all to ourselves.  Along with the frozen famous falls, I adored the silence in the air, also created by the audio-absorbing snow.  The temperature was about 4 above zero that afternoon.  That’s tough for any Texan to endure for very long.  So we took pictures, looked at the frozen falls trough binoculars, until the girls started to beg for the warmth of the SUV.  The fog of my long sigh rolled out of my mouth and up over my head.  Oh, how I wanted to stay and soak it all in.

Seven Falls Frozen Dec 31, 2001

Megan & D’Anna, and your’s truly.  (Tabitha was taking the picture.)

It was almost dusk, so we drove out of the opened gates of Seven Falls. (See cover pic over the title above.) With the tires crushing the hardening snow, we passed a little picnic area with a trickling brook close to the drive leading out toward the main road.  We decided to stop and have ourselves a snowball fight, which the girls had been pleading for ever since we arrived in snow country.  That’s exactly what we did.  My camcorder was in full-swing as I climbed out of the vehicle.  The snow was up to my shins in some places as we dropped to make snow angels with our arms and legs.  Three year old D’Anna was getting too cold during our snowball fight, and didn’t want to stay out any longer.  She wanted back in the warm SUV where her mom remained during our adventure.  Her timing was just about right.

Seven Falls Park Dec 31, 2001

Tabitha and Megan in the park ready to launch snowballs at the man holding the camera.

It was beginning to get dark.  The moonlight was spectacular bouncing off the sparkling snow.  We took the time to climb a small 25foot-30foot hill in the park where we could see the trained colored spotlights skimming off the frozen falls off in the distance.  It was just a magical moment for us.  But all good things must come to an end.  Whoever came up with that phrase must’ve been a recluse.

As I reached the vehicle, I began to search my coat pockets for my cell phone.  Back in 2001/2002 cell phone casings were thicker, with antennas which rose above the scalp when pressed against the ear.  I figured if it fell out I would feel it.  There were only three pockets large enough for placement.  I searched all of them.  My hunt in the Suburban came up empty as well.  I ordered everybody out of the vehicle to form a search party.  It was dark, but the moonlit snow would be a big help in locating a hole in the drifts in the shape of a flip cell phone…or so I thought.  We must’ve spent half an hour walking square foot by square foot of the area where we had been playing, even the roadside hill we climbed.  We came up with nothing.  Obviously, in our wintry frolicking it escaped quietly out of my coat pocket.  We returned to the SUV wondering all the while how we would communicate with the outside world.  In those days, it was the only cell phone we had.

Cell Phone old

After we fell into bed, back at the hotel, I called our family members in Texas to tell them of our adventures, along with the misfortune of the cell phone loss.  We continued our snowy trip throughout the following days, thoroughly enjoying a life-long memorable vacation which was good for our souls.  It was the right thing to do.  No regrets, even now.

One afternoon in late April of 2001, our landline phone rang.  It had a Colorado Springs area code.  I picked up the phone to hear a man’s voice asking if I had been in Colorado Springs recently.  Curiously, I mentioned our Christmas/New Year’s trip.  He then asked me if we had visited Seven Falls.  The bell wasn’t ringing in my head just yet when I heard his question.  With a confusing sound in my voice I said, “Yes, we were at Seven Falls.  They were closed on New Year’s Eve, but we had a fun time hopping around in the deep snow just outside of the falls in a park.  Who is this?  Why are you asking?”  He introduced himself, then explained he was a Colorado Springs police officer who jogged the same road alongside the park outside Seven Falls.  He went on to reveal how he found a frozen mobile phone next to his jogging route and retrieved it.  He had me describe the phone and when he was satisfied that I was the owner, we both had a good laugh about it.  He said after the snow melted in April, it was sitting there in plain sight by the brook.  He went on to tell me he took it to the police lab to charge it up, not knowing it would even take a charge after thawing.  In his surprise, as he looked through the contact index, he found a number that was entitled, “Home”.  He jotted down the number and called us from his cell.  He then graciously asked if I wanted it back.  By that time I had already replaced my mobile phone and really didn’t need it any longer.  He offered to mail it to me at his expense, but I discouraged it.  I thanked him, then gave my permission to use it as a trade-in for another phone for himself.  He said he might just do that.  I hope he did.

To this very day, I pray for guidance in various corners of my daily life.  One subject I pray for are teachable moments in my own life.  Later it hit me concerning an ancient truth written so long ago.

Have you heard about the old woman from Israel, some 2,000 years ago?  She wasn’t a poor woman.  She actually had ten silver coins stored up.  In that day, it signified wealth.  By deduction, she probably didn’t earn the silver coins, as most women of that time wouldn’t have had income reaching such a total.  There’s no mention of a husband, so some surmise she might have been a widow.  If so, in the Middle East during the first century, it would have been the inheritance from her dearly departed husband.  The silver coins must have been precious to her heart, more than the marketplace.

On a cloudy day, the woman reached into a space in her hearth where she had hidden the small drawstring pouch of coins.  Carefully, she poured the collection of silver pieces onto her small dining table for polishing.  As she counted them she stopped at nine.  She counted again, but stopped at nine.  There were ten in the pouch, but only nine rested in the pouch.  One had been stolen, or simply misplaced.  Frantically, she lit a lamp and placed it just a hair’s width from the floor.  With a roving sharp eye she explored every inch of the cold floor on her hands and knees.  She then hastily grabbed her broom to slowly swept each corner, under every chair, bed and table.  She was determined not to give up her search.  With one swipe of her broom in a darkened place, she heard the sound of a coin slide against her stone floor.  The neighbors and friends down the street were unaware she was in great distress, as she hunted for this one lost coin.  She was so elated, she ran outside in almost hysterical laughter and yelled out to her clueless friends and neighbors,  “Celebrate with me!  I had lost this one silver coin and now I have finally found it!”

The parable of the Lost Coin is a story Jesus told.  (I paraphrased and expanded it for a modern dramatic rendition.)  He taught a few things concerning items lost from God’s arms.  A sheep, a prodigal son, a priceless peril, etc.  It must mean a lot to Him.  It speaks of His heart toward those of us who are not close, or in tune with God’s love, along with the righteous rescue He offers.  When He taught about “lost things” He describes them as out of sight, or in a hidden, darker place from clear view.  Even now, I have a beautiful red sock somewhere in a darker, out of clear viewing locale.  Every time I see the mate, I remind myself to turn my house upside down.  Even though it’s here somewhere, I still cannot see it, touch it, or consider wearing it.  In other words, my lost sock is useless to me.  However, I love those red socks!

Unlike my choice, concerning the future of my lost phone, God treasures the soul who He sees as lost.  He never “trades in” for another more fetching, or more accepting.  Many who recognize the vacuum in their world to be a life without spiritual reconciliation, find peace and comfort in His arms.  In God’s view, there are no lost causes.  THIS, is the true purpose for the humble birth in Bethlehem.  God’s way of searching out the lost precious ones.

“For the eyes of the LORD move to and fro throughout the earth that He may strongly support those whose heart is completely His…”  2 Chronicles 16:9a  (NAS)

After many months under the Colorado snow, the frozen phone was without juice for communication.  Yet, when plugged into the source of power by a rescuer, it gained life, a resurrected life, so to speak.

My old mobile phone and I have something in common.  After the well-intended butchery of our lives that August, I froze-up.  One might even say I was useless.  For months I crawled into an emotional fetal position with the mental coil of wanting the bury myself in a snow cave somewhere, never to be seen or heard from again.  In a way, I did just that.  I even stopped doing chores, trips to the grocery store, and hid from friends and family outside my walls.  Trust me when I say, it was difficult as I had a very public career as a radio personality.  Climbing on the air became a dreaded thing to me.  I had to “put on” a character, a character I once was.  You might say I was frozen without a charge.  Psychologically I was damaged, altered, and empty.  It went on for years.  I fought to stay alive.

Some relief began to diminish the bubble (somewhat) by 2004.  You can align it to a snow-melt causing me to reappear.  Thank God for the power of resurrection.

You might discover the falls may be frozen, but there’s always a scenic platform available.  It comes with a free viewfinder prepared with the essence of fuel for the race.

“What man among you, if he has a hundred sheep and loses one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the pasture and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it?  And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders, comes home, and calls together his friends and neighbors to tell them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my lost sheep!’ In the same way, I tell you that there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous ones…” – Jesus –  Luke 15: 3-7a  (Berean Study Bible)

 

Sunshine Blogger Award

Sunshine Blogger Award

by alimw2013

First of all, a big Texas-Sized thank you to Alicia from For His Purpose for the nominee nod.  You are truly gracious.  Although I feel I don’t deserve the nomination for the Sunshine Blogger Award, I am humbled and grateful.  I would nominate you if not for the fact you are already a nominee, and so well deserving.

If you’ve not read Alicia’s posts, expect blue-jean, everyday life experiences wrapped in a personal application for spiritual growth.  So well worth it.

DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS?  IT’S NEW TO ME.

About the Sunshine award:

This award is given to creative, positive and cheerful bloggers by other bloggers as a token of appreciation and admiration.

Here are the rules:

• Thank the person who nominated you and provide a link back to him/her.

• Answer the 11 questions provided by the blogger who nominated you.

• Nominate 11 other bloggers and ask them 11 new questions.

• Notify the nominees by commenting on one of their blog posts.

• List the rules and display the Sunshine Blogger Award logo on your post.

Okay, Alicia…you asked.  Here are her questions for me:

1) Why do you write?

Really, I believe it’s a threefold reason.  A:  I love, absolutely love the outlet of sharing my thoughts.  B:  For whatever reason there might be, I adore the friends I have made in the blogging community.  I have learned so much through their writings and photos.  Getting to know them has simply been an uplifting pleasure in my life.  C:  Lastly, I love to teach.  My heart wants to touch the soul of another for the better.  There’s something special about teaching biblical concepts through personal and social proof experiences others can relate to.  Life’s race to the finish is long and uphill at times.  We need Divine fuel. 

2) Who do you admire and why? (sorry I know I’m sneaking two questions)

Wow, Alicia.  That’s an umbrella of folks.  If you’ve read my blog you might already know I greatly admire my deceased grandparents.  Salt of the earth people with extraordinary servanthood hearts of tremendous love.  Also, Chuck Norris, who holds up his socks with thumbtacks.  LOL  For much of the 1970’s, during my karate/kickboxing life, he was always so kind to me whenever I was around him.  Of course, he was/is a wiz at business, the Babe Ruth of Karate champions, and a successful instructor and actor.  Beyond that, he has gone through much heartache in life and rediscovered God in his journey back to a peaceful place.  He is also a champ in helping kids stay away from gangs and drugs.  I want to add, CS Lewis for his writings concerning the introductions into a life with God, and the proof thereof.  His book, Mere Christianity and The Screwtape Letters changed my life.

3) What has been your best vacation?

I have to choose just one?  Arg!  My #1 would have to be when I treated my family (wife at the time and three daughters) on a road trip from Dallas, Texas through Santa Fe, New Mexico and up through Colorado Springs to Denver, Colorado.  The family and I had gone through some devastating personal trauma and in need of some immediate healing.  It was the week after Christmas in 2001 through the first week of 2002.  Plunging straight into the snow and ice we took in the splendor of that beautiful land.  No regrets.  I would do it again.

4) Where would you love to visit one day?

Scotland, Ireland, and Israel.

5) Why is your best friend, your best friend?

On earth, my wife.  I remarried in 2017 to an old high school acquaintance.  In 2013, way before we met-up again, I had a major health crash, a near death experience.  I wasn’t supposed to survive.  It left me in the hospital for six weeks. The hospital staff called me “Miracle Man”.  Since then I have struggled physically.  She has seen much of the underside of this.  Nevertheless, she has been a warrior through it all.  We have no secrets between us.  We speak truth in love to one another, during the good, bad, and ugly.  It makes for a lasting marriage.  However, she’s not the one I pray to.  She would agree with me that Jesus has been my lifelong best friend.

6) What is your biggest concern (about anything)?

Honestly, above all else, the world my three girls are experiencing as adults, as well as my 8 year old granddaughter.  Moral decay, hatred, and violence are causing the earth to groan.  Jesus said the times would grow to be like this.  Still, it concerns me.

7) When did you last owe someone an apology?

Today!  Got to do it before the sun goes down on me.

8) What’s the best movie you’ve ever watched?

Now this isn’t fair.  Way too many.  If I had to choose one…It’s A Wonderful Life.

9) What’s your most favorite childhood memory?

Mid 1960’s.  Waiting until my grandparents, and my mom, went to bed so I could hustle to sit in front of their aluminum Christmas tree to watch the color wheel change the branches to different holiday hues.  For me, it was mesmerizing.

10) What do you love most about yourself?

Eek!  Is this a trick question, Alicia?  Really?  Oh, man.  Okay, uh….well….uh….I can tell you there’s much I hate about myself.  Frankly, I love the Spirit God placed in me to be kind and caring for others.  If not for His influence and direction, I would be the opposite.  I know this because I know myself without God.

11) If you could ask Jesus a question what would it be?

Why and how did He create music to enrich the brain of humanity, to the point of it being medication?  Also, the TRUE story of why and how He did not save the dinosaurs from extinction.  To have a Brontosaurus on a leash in the park would be grand.  The poop bag would be trouble.

Drum roll please!  Now for my nominee choices in alphabetical order:

(If you choose not to participate, you will not hurt my heart.  As an admirer, I just want to shine a light on you and your blog for others who may not know of you.  No pressure.  Nada, zilch, zero.  And if you are already a nominee, I am unaware.)

Dominique at 3C Style combines her posts with highly creative photos of her personal showcasing of beautiful stylings from her own closet.  She has a talent for matching subjects in nature with her outfits while highlighting eco-friendly ideas.  This French scientific journalist from Quebec is a terrific writer who introduces you to possibilities in fashion you might have never imagined before, wrapped in her passion for life.  Her zest for life, fashion, and imagination is simply radiant and thought provoking.  Most of all, I like the fact that Dominique is a caring, loving person toward others.  I’ve learned a lot from my friend from Quebec. 

Anel at Barefoot Diary has a highly unique blog.  I’ve known and loved her for 41 years and I can tell you of her multiple talents.  After the devastating hurricane which leveled so much of Puerto Rico, where she and her husband had been living, they moved on to experience an adventure most would never do.  Since they left the island, they have been travelling from one Central or south American country to another, reveling in each culture with gusto.  Anel’s blog is all about their adventures.  You never know where they will be blogging from next.

Mandy at Blue Collar Theologian is a seminarian and writer.  I love to go deep in biblical studies and so does Mandy.  She has my admiration for her exclusive casual way of serving up the depths of scripture without going over the head of the reader, especially the seeker.  You’ll find she writes about various camera angles of life with a good dose of awareness of biblical thought, shaken together for a personal application anyone can chew on.

Anita at For The Love Of has a smooth way of sharing her love for dogs, which I share, along with God’s love for us.  On any given post she will somehow bring to mind the truth of how we crave love, shelter, belonging, and care.  Be ready for some brilliant photos that touch the eyes and heart.

Jon at His Grace Is Sufficient is an old childhood friend of mine.  He pastors a small church near Green Bay, WI.  Recently Jon was diagnosed with ALS.  The disruption is already taking its toll on his breathing, his speech, and some mobility.  Thus far, he is standing by his word that he plans on delivering sermons until he physically cannot.  He asked me about starting a blog to record his journey with ALS.  So, I encouraged him to go headlong into it.  I love him dearly.  Clicking on you will hear his heart of love and his faith through this hard, rocky road he is travelling.    

Julien at Julien’s Thoughts can be defined as…his thoughts.  He literally takes subjects that press on his mind and heart, considers them against the backdrop of a biblical world view, and woodsheds what he learns.  Whenever he writes you can feel his intellect.  I am grateful he shares the thoughts as most of us identify with the topics he showcases.  A simple devotional thought process which is encouraging, yet challenging at times.

Lisa at Lismore Paper is a master at eyeing antique art forms.  She then cleans them up for a visual experience to die for.  One terrific graphic design artist, as well as a gardener extraordinaire.  I’ve not seen artwork exactly like her talent.  Lisa simply is a craft magician.  She loves photography, as I do, and often highlights her shutter work in nature.  You never know when she will be hiking through the woods taking beautiful shots of plants, birds and trees.  One of the items of wizardry from her hands consists of antique prints lifted from pages of old shipping logs, documents, or ledgers and turn them into a background for layering other art subjects.  Just amazing.  Visit her blog and find options to download her items for your personal use.  Sometimes you will find her art on t-shirts, along with other items, which are available.  As you explore her visuals she writes of them with the love of an artist at work. 

Ann at Muddling Through My Middle Age I believe is my first blogging friend after I launched my blog two years ago.  She is so admired.  I liken Ann to the wisdom and wit of the late syndicated columnist, Erma Bombeck.  She is a volunteer for her local shelter who loves and cares for the four-legged friends behind bars.  She adopts, and so do I.  She is a loving grandmother who often shares with us of her times with her grandchild.  But most of all, Ann writes about the everyday scenarios of life, as well as life’s phases, which can be cantankerous or just plain humorous.  She muddles through what life tosses at her while always searching for the rainbow at the end of the day’s conveyor belt.

Ann (another Ann) at Seeking Divine Perspective is an author and truth-teller.  I discovered her about the time I was going through some doubts in my spiritual journey.  My reading of her posts came just at the right time.  Ann is retired and loves CS Lewis, as I do.  She is not afraid to share the hard knocks in life, or the current social issues of our times, and what she has learned from them.  She is bold with direct conviction, willing to teach with the written word in posts.  Don’t be surprised if she types in a prayer on her heart as it often reverberates what the human heart is thirsty for.  We are all seekers, some just don’t realize it.  Ann spotlights her perspectives.

Stefan at The Fourth Dimension of Life is a young studious thinker.  His love for writing truly hits you in the face…softly.  Stefan is a bright, multi-talented Indian lad attending one of the best universities in India.  Don’t expect his posts to be the norm, or even similar in scope from one to another.  Some days you will get a thought in a statement.  At other times you will read one of his poems.  Inside his random thoughts he often speaks of his life from God’s balcony view.  He also can show you his devotional blog link.  

Junaisha (June) at The Godly Chic Diaries will lead you to think twice, or three times about the topic she writes about.  Unlike some, she is bold about the fact that the spiritual walk is not a perfect stride.  She speaks of the fact that there will be failures in the God-driven journey.  In her quick devotional posts the spotlight on grace, forgiveness, and mercy are illuminated.  Through her telescopic lens concerning life, she will test the mind of the reader with questions not often dissected in one’s own thoughts.

I want to publicly thank all of the above for the influence you have on my life.

And here are my 11 questions for those I’ve nominated:

1 – Who encouraged you to launch a blog?

 

2 – Who was your first blogger-friend & what drew you to that writer?

 

3 – What country, or state are you writing from?

 

4 – Has your writing evolved over time & why?

 

5 – Be honest with me on this one.  How often do you consider the unseen spiritual aspect beyond the tangible?  If “never” is the answer, let me know.  It’s okay.  No tricks.

 

6 – Do you have a pet?

 

7 – When you wake up in the morning, what is your first thought?

 

8 – Do you eat breakfast?  If so, what does it consist of?

 

9 – If you’re still friends with a childhood pal, tell me what has kept you together?

 

10 – What keeps you returning to the same blogger?

 

11 – Does your own family read your posts?

 

Again, if you are on my nomination list of favorites and would rather not participate, just know I understand totally.  I appreciate what you do and how you make my life sweeter.  Love and hugs from Dallas, Texas. – Alan

The Seed of Racism

“A child is black.  A child is white.  Together they grow to see the light, to see the light…” (1972)  Black & White –  Recorded by:  Three Dog Night.  Composers:  David I. Arkin, Earl Robinson.

Appreciation note:  A quick thank you to the very kind, Alicia from the blog, For His Purpose for nominating my blog for the Sunshine Blogger Award.  I am greatly shocked and humbled.  I do enjoy your everyday camera angles of life with the filter of truths.

This will not be a political post.  This will not be a ranting post concerning those who play at politics, or the swift blinding blame of another.  This will lack the spewing of hatred and emotional blathering of negativity currently blowing across the media.  If that’s what feeds you, look elsewhere.  However, if you are open-minded, wanting to hop off the meat wagon, serving up all kinds of dangerous rhetoric currently being wielded like a Gladius sword, you are welcome to read below.

Billy Boyd was my best friend in 7th grade.  In those times that was our first year at Dillingham  Jr. High School, before “middle school” was introduced.  We lived in Sherman, Tx where the west side of town was mainly made up of white population.  There was also the east side where the African American community settled, or was made to settle in post-Civil War days.  Dillingham Jr. High was situated close to the border of the east and west sides of the medium market town.  We met on our first day of the new school year.

When we left our elementary schools to enter 7th grade, it was a cultural shock for all of the student body.  Obviously my elementary school consisted of mostly white kids.  At Dillingham the heavy black and white mix was a first for all of us.  Billy was African American from the east side of the tracks.  He was my first black school friend ever.  At the time I really thought nothing about it.  In fact, I thought it was cool to have a black friend who was my age.

person holding hands
Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

What I didn’t expect, nor every experienced before, was racial name-calling, slurs, racial riots on campus, gang violence, and violent ambushes.  (Forgive me for giving too much info here, but I must write it.)  As a white kid relieving himself at the urinal, I was kicked in the back from time to time.  Once, I was slammed in the back of my head with a football helmet while standing there facing the wall.  This was the environment I was introduced to.  Billy didn’t have anything to do with the vicious tagging of white kids.  I was on the sharp end of the above racial abuses in a big way simply because I was a white kid from the west side.  There were attacks I received in the hallways, between buildings, after football practice, and after school on my way across campus to the bike rack.  Some of these were 15 and 16 years old students who were still repeating 7th or 8th grades.  I received threats concerning my dog and my mom.  In that school year, I learned how to box and street fight the hard way.  My uncle taught me how to box, and another friend trained me in Aikido that same year.  Through it all, Billy and I remained friends.  You might say we were the odd couple.  After the school year slowly dropped me into the summer break, my mom relocated out of town, and just in time.  Only God knows what might have been if I had spent another year in racial turmoil.  However, the hatred and bigotry had a profound influence on me.  But, I would experience it again.

When I was a toddler, 98 years after slavery ended in the U.S., I met my first African American.  (I have written about him before, but it’s been a couple of years.)  While visiting my grandparents in Greenville, Tx, every-other Saturday they had their lawn work done by an elderly black man named Mr. Amos.  To this day I don’t know if that was a surname or his first name.  No doubt he was the son of slaves, living in the far east side of Greenville in a sector notable for the African American neighborhood.  I recall there being a side street which served as the border between whites and blacks, as it was set-up by the local government leaders in the late 1800’s.

From my toddler days, all the way to 11 years old or so, I LOVED old Mr. Amos.  I saw him as an uncle from another grandmother.  The neighborhood in those days would remind you of the street scenes from the movie, To Kill A Mockingbird.  He would drag his lawn mower down the street cutting grass and hedges for a few dollars.  To see him was like imagining Mr. Bojangles in various ways.  He was ragged, skinny, and toughened by the years.  His very dark skin was weathered and rough from a lifetime of working in the Texas sun, like leather from an old baseball glove.  He always had an old rag, or bandanna hanging out his back pants pocket, along with old worn-out hard-soled leather lace-up shoes.  The elderly man always did a wonderful job on the lawn and hedges.  He had the talent.  Whenever I was there, I would watch him out my grandparent’s front window as he worked his fingers to the bone with pride.  I never saw anyone sweat as much as he did.  When he finished the front lawn he began to pull his mower up the driveway toward the backyard.  From the time I was 3, my grandmother would take an ice cold, frosted bottle of Dr. Pepper out of the fridge, pop open the cap with the bottle opener, which hung on her kitchen wall, hand it to me and say, “Alan, you go give this to poor Mr. Amos.”  Wrapped around it was the money he earned.  (They were very liberal with the payment.)  I would grin from ear to ear as I ran outside before he reached the back.  There in my Buster Browns I proudly said in my Mickey Mouse voice, “Here ya go, Mr. Amos!”  No matter how often our encounters, he always acted surprised as he shook my hand and replied with his gruff voice, “Well, what’s this here?  (chuckle) Why…thank ya, son!”  When in my earlier age, I would look at the palm of my hand to see if the black color rubbed off his sweating hand.  I kid you not, he never took his mouth off the bottle until it was turned upside-down and empty, without taking a breath.  There’s no way I could do that.  I would watch him drink in shear amazement.  Handing the empty bottle back to me, he would exhale with a huge drawn-out gasp, like a swimmer coming up for air and say, “That’s my boy!”  I always waited to hear him say those words.  It made my day.  He didn’t know it but just saying that to this fatherless lad made me feel warm inside.  With his statement of gratitude, I ran back in to tell my grandmother once again, how he called me “son” and what’s more, I was “his boy”.  I honored and respected him.  Through the years of youth, I wondered why he always looked so poor.

I’m not certain what year it was, but I will say I was 13 (1973) when hatred came calling.

Mr. Amos was in my grandparent’s yard, doing his job one Saturday, when he was suddenly interrupted by his son and daughter-in-law who had pulled up in the driveway.  The man was angry with his father for mowing the lawns of “Honkies”(It’s a name I was familiar with from school.  I didn’t believe Mr. Amos thought I was one of those.)  Mr. Amos protested saying he was doing his purpose in that stage of his life.  The voices got louder as they argued in the side yard.  I pressed my ear to the nearest window to hear more clearly what was being said.  The son of Mr. Amos spewed about how shameful it was to be “workin’ for the white man” and how embarrassed he was to see him on our lawn in the “white part of town”.  My granddad came out to see what the issue was.  After he was told, my granddad gently explained to Mr. Amos that it was okay if he needed to go and do what he thought was right.  Sheepishly looking down at his tired scuffed shoes, Mr. Amos agreed he should load-up and go with his son.  Hearing it my heart broke.  My granddad paid him in full, even though the job wasn’t completed, then they drove away.  I was highly disturbed.  Tears rolled down my freckled cheeks at what I had witnessed.  That was the last time I saw Mr. Amos after knowing him through 9-10 years of my childhood.

I had a friend like Billy, as well as a man of grit and heart like Mr. Amos for one reason.  Early on my mom had coded within me, from the days of Mr. Amos, to love all people, regardless of their skin hues.  As a little one, she read the words of Jesus to me at bedtime where He taught what she preached to me.  What she didn’t teach at the time was the perspectives and inward struggles some possess, like the son of Mr. Amos.

Still, I came away from my experiences at Dillingham with a chip on my shoulder, combined with an unjustified angst against black people.  In fact, the realities left me unwilling to trust African Americans for many years throughout much of the 1970’s until I got the chance to work and worship alongside African Americans from 1979 and onward.

In these days where racial slurs, alongside accusations of racism, are being tossed around like confetti, there’s a warning for us all.  When young men soak up vile, filthy hatred from certain websites, or chat rooms brainwashing them to the point of mass murdering another race due to their ethnicity alone, we should take note.  Words are like bullets.  Enough of them, combined with a deadly spin, will and do rip open the hearts of our youth.  Good parenting is so vital.  Compassionate parenting is so vital.  Informative parenting is so vital.  So often these word-projectiles reverberate through the rooms of the home for little ears to plant in the fertile soil of their souls.  Each and every community and culture should surgically remove attitudes of hate-filled, damning speech about our neighbors.  If not, the next generation will see domestic death, domestic destruction and possibly war.  There is a desensitizing which is slow, like marinating a pork loin.  Sleeping with the pigs will make you muddy.  And oh, how dark that mud can be.

If you dare, journey with me for a moment on the following hypothetical.

If one leans toward Darwinism, and sees another race as beneath their own DNA, then one must ask how it got to such a point.  If we, collectively, all derived from an ancient amoeba, which washed up on a beach in ions past, then how can one defend a racial ideology?  Maybe the ancient amoeba community rioted against other amoeba of a different thickness of cell wall.  Then again, can an amoeba possess hate?  Unfortunately, hate is branded in humankind exclusively.  There’s a reason for that.  Follow me on this.

As we continue to search for the “Missing Link” (still missing), there’s a newer, more popular theory.

If one leans toward the newer idea that humanity was placed here by ancient aliens from another planet, there’s even a bigger leap to make.  I suppose it’s plausible ancient aliens also suffered from racism, implanting that curse on the earth as we were left here to populate the world.  It would also seem plausible that such an advance interstellar civilization would’ve been cautious to populate the earth with beings like themselves, assuring racism wouldn’t be introduced.  If the theory is accurate, then wouldn’t it make sense they would sprout beings which reflected a visual likeness?  If so, why do have racial issues at all?

If you come from a biblical world view, as I do, then how can I ever hold to a twisted view of racial hatred?  Since I am a creationist, I read and study the account where we were all created in the image of God, a likeness of the Divine.  Therefore, how could I ever look at a black, brown, yellow, or red man or woman crying, “Moron!”, “Mistake!” “Mutant” or  “Monstrosity!”  Racism dictates that you have cheap blood and I do not.  But, I’ll take your kidney, or a transfusion if I need one.  Cheap?  Really?  For me, scripture reveals we all came from a set of flesh and blood ancient parents who had a multitude of offspring, and so on.  Genesis has the genealogy listed covering about a two thousand year span complete with names, nations and seasons of geology.  Even DNA experts have found the evidence which mirrors this view.  Within the last few years DNA studies have shown we come from the same part of the world with ancestry funneling into a clan going back to the beginnings of life itself, matching the Genesis timeline.  So, why do we, or why should we have this scent of racism?

Let’s be super honest here.  I like to call balls and strikes as I see them.

Racism, at its core, is the belief in a lie.  Yep, we’ve been snookered.

“…Mmm, no no 
Lyin’ to the races 
Help me, come on, come on 
Somebody, help me now (I’ll take you there)…”  (1972)  “I’ll Take You There” by:  The Staple Singers

Moreover, racism is an ideology which dictates thoughts of I, me and myself am to reign over another due to my skin pigmentation.  The lie woos one to beliefs like; if one is darker, or lighter skinned than I, then that person is to be subordinate to me, simply due to color.  It even can get down to the shape of a skull, or the nose.  Racism methodically massages the mind and heart of the pre-white supremacist, for example, who will claim God made a mistake by creating black, brown, yellow, and red skin.  Unfortunately, even shades of skin tones are targets of racial darts.  In addition, let’s not forget the racism within the color spectrum itself.  English vs Celts, Anglo Gentiles vs Jews, African tribes vs other African tribes, the list goes on.  Furthermore, it revels in the false idea which says a particular race was created to be supreme over all peoples, nations, societies and cultures. If one hears it enough, studies it enough, sniffs the belly of the dragon enough, the ideology is perceived as authentic.  Just as evil thoughts grow and widen, hatred begins to fester like Multiple Myeloma which eats away at the bones.  Racism eats away at the very soul of a person.

Are you still with me?  Can I go a step further?

Let’s say you are one who believes in the afterlife.  Maybe it’s a belief that the spirit, once separated from its body, roams the earth as a ghostly individual, for whatever purpose.  If you were a racist in the flesh, how do you exercise racism in the spirit world?  When there’s a failure to control the body in life, how then do we expect to control and navigate our spirits?  Interesting thought.  Are we suddenly stronger and wiser in spirit than we were when we had flesh?  After death the skin, once proudly admired as a trophy in life, grows pale and decays, falling away from the skeleton, which is the same color as all skeletons.  So now, in spirit form, how do you rant and rave over other spirits who have no skin color?  In spirit form, racism is also dead.  Suddenly, racist views are no longer so important.  In the end, the 79 year old racist can look back on his/her earthly life and will see the damning foolishness of a faulty ideology.

Let’s say you have a biblical perspective of the afterlife.  In the place described so well in scripture as heaven, there are a number of problems if racism is to continue.  First, God says haters (which includes racist users) will not see the kingdom of heaven.  Secondly, in this present age, there is the spiritual form left after the body fails.  How, as an eternal racist, do you push back on another spirit residing in God’s Kingdom?  Thirdly, the ancient text is clear on the following.  There will come a time in eternity when the old earthly body will be recreated to reunite with the spirit in which it once belonged, much like the resurrection of Jesus.  God does the recreation at His sovereign will.  Colors or not, He will do what He plans. Whatever skin color, if any at all, is resurrected in God’s timeline.  At that point, how could hatred of it exist?  Fourthly, in heaven there is no spirit who will submit to another based on color of robe, earthly ethnicity, or thought.  Jesus Himself said there’s only One Who reigns in heaven.  All is made new in the afterlife, if with God.  In Paul’s writings, he mentions that “in Christ” there is no difference in “Jew or Gentile”, “slave or free”, “male or female”, etc.  THAT is God’s view of the color spectrum of the souls He created and saw it to be good.  Racism is NOT eternal.  What does that tell us about the perceived value and validation of racial disharmony in life today?

Crayons

Racism will always be with us.  The seed is there in this imperfect world.  It was introduced by God’s adversary early in human history to distort the mind’s view of every created race. It is the management of it which must be priority.  If the lion is not tamed, it will eat the foolish ringmaster.

The shooter in El Paso, Texas believed a racial lie.  In his manifesto he wrote of multiple issues which pushed him over the edge like, plastic in the oceans, immigration flow, economics, eco-system, etc.  But, in the end, his frustrations were decidedly poured out over helpless Hispanics with intention.  The shooter in Dayton, OH and the shooter at the Garlic Festival in Gilroy, California were driven by hate, even though it appears not to be racially motivated.  As a result, many were brutally murdered and maimed.  It’s a seeded lie laced by the enemy of the human brotherhood of soul and spirit.  Police in Gilroy reported the shooter there wore a clown mask.  Appropriate, don’t you think?

Please accept this warning.  Those who ricochet darts coming from the mouths of haters, is a very dangerous thing.  Wars have been launched for far less.  Unfortunately many like the shooters of El Paso, Dayton, and Gilroy are weak-minded, easily influenced, or simply mentally ill.  They are like a weed bending to a dark wind from whichever direction.  The result is, “I AM DOMINATE!” For some, all it will take is a spewing of hate-filled venom to cause the voices to ring violence in their minds.  Once it takes hold, it is like the gravity of opium to the offender.  If it’s not an assault rifle, it will be a bomb, a poison, a chemical, a blade, a flip of a rail switch, a van, a bus, a truck, a water bottle full of gasoline, etc.

Love, compassion, and understanding will always been the answer.  In fact, love is the basis found in fuel for the race.

 “You’re familiar with the command to the ancients, ‘Do not murder.’ I’m telling you that anyone who is so much as angry with a brother or sister is guilty of murder. Carelessly call a brother ‘idiot!’ and you just might find yourself hauled into court. Thoughtlessly yell ‘stupid!’ at a sister and you are on the brink of hellfire. The simple moral fact is that words kill. – Jesus –   Matthew 5:21-22 (MSG Version)

 

Crank It Up

Photo:  spotify.com

“If you start me up, if you start me up I’ll never stop…” (1981)  Start Me Up.  Recorded in 1978 & 1981 by:  The Rolling Stones.  Composers:  Mick Jagger & Keith Richards.

From a radio/record perspective of Start me Up, it truly has one of the biggest hooks in rock & roll history.  It sticks to the ear.  Even now you probably are hearing it in your head.  From a rock composer’s perspective, the instrumental is carefully crafted.

Recently, I have been astonished at the musical icons still on tour, or performing stop-and-go dates.  The Stones are a great example.  76 year old Mick, along with Keith, Ronnie, and Charlie are still cranking it on stage across the planet.  Then there’s Roger and Pete from The Who continue kickin’ the boards worldwide.  Of course, Barry Manilow, Joan Baez, Willie Nelson (86), and Ann (69) & Nancy (65) Wilson of Heart are like well oiled machines.  Brian and Roger of Queen are dotting the world in song still.  I would be neglectful if I didn’t mention Mick, John, Stevie, and Christine of Fleetwood Mac raising the arena roofs.  Gene Simmons of KISS recently stated that he will be 70 in August.  By the time their End of The Road Tour wraps, he will be 72 and believes he will be cooked well-done by then.   There’s no way I would leave out Elton, Paul and Ringo wowing concert goers on every continent.

Joan Baez in Spain 2019. Grace Stumberg took pic.

Photo:  Joan Baez in Spain.  Concert by the sea, July 2019.  Photo by my friend, Grace Stumberg from upstage.

A buddy of mine, near Green Bay, WI, worked part-time in security for major concert events.  One recent night he found himself in charge of the green room back stage for the band, Kansas.  While they were on stage performing Dust In The Wind, he got a good look at all their drugs sitting out, completely exposed.  He was surprised to find a mix of Levemir, asthma inhalers, an assortment of beta blockers for blood pressure, and statins for cholesterol.  Signs of the times?  (LOL)  Most all of the above, with a few of exceptions, are artists who range from 75 years old and older.  Mick Jagger made major news, not long ago, with heart surgery holding back the current tour.  He got through it nicely and is hopping around on stage like a young rabbit.  Being an old performer myself, I know how tough it is to be on your energetic stage toes as you get older.  There’s just certain things I just can’t do as well as I once did.

Eastern Hills Buffalo NY 2007 II

Vocally, I’m fine.  But too many times lately, I find I lean on my mic stand for support, or sit on a bar stool to finish a set of music.  After decades of performances, I know I could probably never take on a major role in a musical again.

Homecoming Production 1999ish Playing John Walton.

Or, it could be these are photos of my imaginary son. (LOL)

Molly - Me at Saddlerock

The truth bites.  Honestly, I don’t know how these long-in-the-tooth artists are able to take the wear & tear of concert touring.  Most all of these acts have 15 years minimum jump on my age.  I guess Gloria Estefan and Miami Sound Machine was right with the lyric, Rhythm Is Gonna Get You.

All of this came to mind earlier this month when it was 120f degrees inside my 2008 Nissan Xterra.  It’s been a terrific vehicle since I bought it about 9 years ago.  One July afternoon I got in the oven…uh, rather the SUV, turned the key as it tried to start, but was denied.  Knowing it wasn’t the starter or the battery, it left me bewildered, and hot.  Try, try again they say.  After the third attempt, it turned over.  So, off to the auto shop it went for diagnosis.  Right away they gave me the bad news.  It was the actual crankshaft, and with it, crankshaft sensors.  If the crankshaft doesn’t spin, the pistons won’t engage.  Arg!

I hate car trouble.  After a couple of days, and $750.00 later, it drove as if right off the assembly line.  On the way back home, I heard Start Me Up on a classic rock radio station.  I thought it was most coincidental.  The laughter came tumbling out of my mouth.  Wouldn’t you know, I turned it up and sang along, using my best Jagger accent, of course.

Some say age is all in the mind.  Maybe that’s true to a certain extent.  Then again, why isn’t 79 year old Chuck Norris competing in the MMA?  I certainly see how the mind can overcome many rusty, slow-moving items in life.  On the flip-side, there are times when the mind says, “I know how to do this.  I’ve always done this.”  Yet, the body doesn’t get that memo.  Parts rust, wear and tear, and the muscles weaken with stiffness to boot.  Age is what it is…age.

So, for now, I will grab the energy God gives in His installment plan.  He does say to rely on Him for strength, even physically.  The One who makes all things new is the best physical trainer.  My job is to nurture and exercise this aging earthsuit while I’m still in it.  The turning of the key to Divinity is all about trusting what He promised to those who acknowledge and follow Him.

Wisdom says, get to know your body and its limits.  It’s prudent to explore the boundaries when starting up the day.  Who knows, maybe you’ll never stop.

If I do sing and dance on stage when I’m 76 years old, it will only be because I consumed fuel for the race.

“Even to your old age I will be the same, And even to your graying years I will bear you! I have done it, and I will carry you; And I will bear you and I will deliver you.” – God   Isaiah 46:4 (NAS) 

You Are Not Alone

Photo:  Guilherme

“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.

Tree from Greenville storm June 2019

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 In Storm Sammie goes bonkers at the smell of rain, not yet fallen.  You can always tell by her attentive look with immediate cravings to cuddle.

Sammie Gimme-Gimme-Gimme

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.

Sammie Shorty Relaxing

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)