“…And the rush of crashing water surrounds me with its sound. Striking out to reach you. I can’t get through to the other side, When you’re racing in the rapids, there’s only one way, that’s to ride. Taken down, taken down by the undertow…”(1974) “In The Rapids” Recorded By: GenesisComposers:Anthony Banks, Michael Rutherford, Peter Gabriel, Phil Collins, SteveHackett
Earlier in June, I wrote of my experiences while attending my daughter’s wedding in Buffalo, NY. My other daughters, D’Anna and Tabitha, and Tabitha’s daughter, Skylar, as well as, D’Anna’s fiance, Nik, all made the journey from Texas to be at the incredible occasion.
Being former citizens of the Buffalo area, naturally the family wanted to check out old stomping grounds, our old house, and iconic places of the area. Nik, on the other hand, had never been there. D’Anna was on a tear to get Nik to Niagara Falls. Before you can say, “Drip-drip”, the family hightailed it over the Grand Island Bridge to see one of the Seven Wonders of The World. I have never gotten tired of visiting and revisiting this magnificent awestruck creation.
Once there, the kids did what they had time for. They visited The Cave of The Winds behind the falls. They explored the panoramic view from the foot of the falls, while on the deck of the Maid of The Mist touring boat, where you can feel the churning rumble beneath your feet. And of course, what’s a summer day if you miss getting sprayed really nicely climbing the wooden staircase next to the American side of the falls. They were immediately reminded the water is always cold in every season.
For me, the drive just outside the falls, in itself, is something to behold. Before you arrive at the falls, you travel a road which stretches alongside the upper Niagara as it speeds toward the falls. The closer you get to the falls, the more turbulent the river becomes. Some 100 yards, or so, before reaching the rim of the falls, the upper rapids churn and toss the waters filling the misty air with the roar of its rage. I have written before about the ominous, “point of no return” warnings set for boaters, which may be about a mile upstream. By the time you see the rapids racing to the brink, the force of the poundage of the water could violently toss the Empire State Building over the edge. It’s massive. It’s powerful. It’s unforgiving. It’s stirring to walk alongside the rapids as you feel its unmatched strength.
Nik and D’Anna did just that.
At some point, Nik noticed something that caught his eye. Most wouldn’t even notice, or even think about how it happens, but someone with a observant mind would take note. It was this…
There, just a few yards from the brink of the falls, a stubborn tree in the middle of the roaring deadly rapids. They noticed it didn’t budge, sway, or even wobble. There was no detection if the tree was rooted beneath the torrent on the riverbed, or if it was an uprooted tree from upstream which found a stabilizing foothold in the boulders beneath the surface. Nik was amazed at the tree’s resilience as the crushing flood crashed into its trunk, pushing, tugging, and grappling through the might of the raging undertow. So astonished by what he saw, he took the picture with his cell phone. My theory? I believe it to be a driftwood tree carried downstream which jammed one of its limbs in a crevice of a boulder, or two, anchoring it in place, forcing the rapids over, or around it. From what they observed, unless authorities remove it somehow, that tree might never see the edge of the falls.
Flying back to Dallas, Texas, while on my layover in the Baltimore airport, as I waited to change planes I took out the phone to catch myself up on the news of the week. I had been so busy while in Buffalo, I hadn’t seen any news reports Of course, as I began to scroll through the headlines, I regretted stepping out of oblivion.
So much anger, rage, and social idolatry has become the norm in such a short time. Hatred, deception, chaos, Marxism, and crime are on the rampage. Oh, and did I mention hatred?
The one giant elephant in the room parents discovered over the pandemic, as their kids were going to school online, was they actually got to see what their children were being taught. One of which, is CRT (Critical Race Theory), birthed out of the BLM movement. If not familiar with the CRT protocols, its statements, and its goals, you should look it up for yourself. In a nutshell, in very seductive undertows, it pits one race against another. The focus demonizes the white race, teaching all white people are born oppressors. How blatant is that? The focus is to shame the white race with the false idea that if born to white parents, you are unable to rid yourself of being an oppressor, a white supremacist, or a flat-out racist. Even our own president has said as much at his podium.
This twisted, deranged lie indicates a white person can, and will, never shed the haughty attitude of automatically degrading, from the very soul, other ethnic categories of color, especially anyone of African decent. According to CRT, this happens in infancy.
This is all where the phrase, “Systemic Racism” is developed. If you are one of my readers who has brown, or black skin, this places you in a cultural psychological pit in which you do not belong. CRT, if it has its way, has a dangerous, venomous seedling to be planted in your mind. The seedling will root itself in the crevice of your brain, programming you to believe that today, tomorrow, and always, you will be an “oppressed victim”. No matter how much income you deposit in your bank, no matter what level of education, no matter what position you take in the marketplace of careers, you will always have this root growing its limbs and branches, wrapping its warped ideology around and around your mind like a grapevine, or like a vicious cancer. In the end, you will never displace its roots once they have taken the foothold within. The result will not have you moving forward in our culture, but backward to the 1860’s after America’s war to abolish slavery. Instead of what Dr. Martin Luther King spoke about, judging by the character of a person, and not by the color of their skin, you and your children, and their children, will be indoctrinated to adapt the lie of being beneath all whites at birth. That is not a free person. That is not the truth. That is not God’s hand.
CRT divides us into tribes, into mental masters and slaves, and how one race will always be evil. It is also designed to create stigmas of hate within the family unit itself. Ironically, unlike what CRT teaches, so many families are made up of various representatives of races. At American restaurants tonight, many tables will be full of loved ones dining together, who happen to be white and black, Hispanic and white, Asian and black, etc. Not to be missed, there are those wonderful families who have adopted children of various races. I have several white friends who have adopted, or fostered, black children, as well as, kids from other colors of God’s rainbow. CRT targets the family unit at its very DNA strand, which feeds discord. It’s clever, it breeds racism, and it’s deadly.
Is this what we want? Is this leading to a healthy culture, and respectful society? Is it not true that we are all created equal? In the biblical aspect, yes, we ARE created equally. In Jesus, we are no longer these categories: slave and free, women and men, Greek or Jew. (Galatians 3:28 Paul’s writing.) If someone comes along in history with another teaching, they are not of the doctrine of the God of Creation.
Some corporations have adopted the ideology into their HR requirements, especially for leadership positions. The fight to keep it out of our military is a current debate on Capitol Hill as I type this. Now, where various school boards have adopted the indoctrination of CRT into the curriculum, out of social fear or political pressure, some parents are beginning to vigorously speak out at public board meetings. That’s what it will take, patriots who love this nation to stand up for truth, justice, and the rule of law against the rage of a few who wish to see America crumble.
As for me, I hope that tree, in the middle of the rapids in the Niagara, holds tight to its stabling rock. I sure would hate to see it let go due to the sheer weight of the rushing torrent against it, only to see it go over the edge into…oblivion.
A solid rock in midstream was introduced from ancient days in fuel for the race.
“Blessed is the man who trusts in the LORD, And whose trust is the LORD. For he will be like a tree planted by the water That extends its roots by a stream, And does not fear when the heat comes; But its leaves will be green, And it will not be anxious in a year of drought, Nor cease to yield fruit.” – Jeremiah 17:7-8 (NAS)
“When I know you know baby, everything I say Meet me in the country for a day We’ll be happy and we’ll dance Oh, we’re gonna dance our blues away…” (1972) “Listen To The Music” Recorded By: the Doobie Brothers Composer: Tom Johnston
Someone very wise once told me that you never are really sure what you’re praying for when praying for your children. Usually it becomes more clear in retrospect of a life event.
Megan is my middle daughter, now 30 years old. I have written of her before, so forgive me if part of this post sounds redundant.
Out of three daughters, Megan is the one most like me, in various ways. My girls are precious to me, and Megan is the one who aligns more closely to who I am. It could be because when she was a toddler and pre-schooler, I was Mr. Mom for a few years. When Tabitha, her older sister (2 years older), went on to kindergarten, Megan and I spent lots of solo time together. In fact, the solo time lasted two of her young years. Although she lives in Buffalo, NY now, and I live in Dallas, Tx where she was born, we do still have a special bond. It’s always apparent when she comes home for a visit.
Megan was a child actress before she turned singer & recording artist. Megan has racked up a mound of accolades in upstate NY for the last 12 years. The bands she fronts have been news worthy and award-winning. (Currently you can see some of her videos when you look-up Grosh, or Grosh Band.) She’s on stage about as much as she sleeps each week.
Photo: Megan in Artvoice Magazine, June 2016.
Exhaustion and burnout can be an issue if not careful in that business.
So, enter kayaking and camping. We didn’t do either of these things for outdoor activities when she was a kid, but she always wanted to. She and a small group of close friends often rough-it out in the beautiful countryside of the southern tier of New York State, or northern Pennsylvania. With kayaks and tents loaded up, they always manage to find these areas of serene landscapes to unplug and get the fingernails dirty. Last weekend, they chose the gorgeous hills of the Allegheny National Forest. Megan always takes pictures for us. (Why am I hearing the whistle of the old Andy Griffith Show theme song?)
The lakes and streams are crystal clear, and cold. With an oar in one hand, and a camera in the other, I love getting to see her kayak perspective.
Honestly, can’t you just smell the pines and feel the cool breeze rising off the calm waters? Yeah, me too.
At night they circle the campfire, laughing at each other’s stories, and roasting s’mores over the open fire. Usually, it’s the wee hours before everyone hits the tents and rolled out sleeping bags. Ah, youth.
Early last Sunday morning, Aug 2nd around 5 o’clock, while nicely wrapped in their sleeping bags, the piercing quietness of the forest suddenly was shattered by the canvas-shaking roar and snorts of a loud animal in the camp. Everyone jumped a couple of inches off the ground by the unexpected wildlife just a few feet from the tent stakes. Peeking out from the flaps of the tent opening, Megan saw something huge and hairy hovering over the food supplies by the now quenched campfire. Someone turned a flashlight on the enormous growling mass of a creature to find a extra large black bear.
Photo: American Black Bear (Wikipedia)
The flashlight in his face didn’t disturb him one iota. Then someone began to yell and scream at the hefty bear with hopes of frightening him away. The vocals fell deaf on his slightly rounded ears. About that time, someone, probably the drummer, had the idea to grab a couple of metal chairs, and beer bottles, and proceeding to clang them together in a sharp ruckus sound for the bear’s fear factors. No doubt the sound echoed throughout the hills with an ear-shaking frequency. Still, the bear did not flinch. Not one eyelash was batted. It seemed an 18-wheeler could hit the big wall of black hair and he would’ve only be slightly annoyed. Fright began to turn in the minds of Megan and friends as their bear-banishing choices came to an end. In cases like this, experts say to flap your arms way up in the air while growling and yelling as you jump up and down to make yourself look bigger than you are. For some reason that is the best way to scare-off a bear, and other wildlife. However, no one was brave enough to try it as close as they were to the massive beast.
Nothing they did worked to spook the animal away because he was laser-beam focused on a nylon backpack full of all the ingredients for s’mores. That’s right. Inside were graham crackers, marshmallows, honey, and chocolate bars. He tore into the tough nylon exterior of the pack, as if it were rice paper, and began to chow down, cardboard boxes, plastic wrappers and all. Nothing that they could do, percussion, scream, or shine on him mattered. His mind was in tune with one thing…his sweet-tooth. Interestingly enough, right next to him was a cooler full of hot-dogs, deli turkey meat, and cheese. I am sure his nose picked up on the scent of the meat and cheese, but even so, the sugar in the backpack was his priority. THANK GOD! Finally, the brute of a beast knocked over a cooking kettle next to him and with a dart, he ran off with the makings of s’mores. The key was…he frightened himself. His own, “fear itself” shook his core.
I told Megan if that had been a mama with her cubs looking for food, they all would be dead in the woods, far from civilization. (It was just the dad in me adding that tidbit.)
Yep, sometimes when you pray for your kids, you often don’t know just what you are praying for until after a life & death event occurs. The Everlasting Arms searches the prayerful heart while holding the future in His hands.
In this strange and spooky election year, full of rage, riots, fires, loud voices, along with a frightening pandemic, we can choose to be the bear, or we can choose to be the kids with noise-making talents. Personally, call me Yogi. With all the distractions of our uneasy, restless times, I shall not be moved. My choice is to stay focused of the life, liberty, and the sweet pursuit of happiness our founding fathers placed in a bag just for me and my descendants. I will NOT be distracted from it by all the noise-making. My choice is to stand on what I know to be true in my heart, that core which turns me to the east or west, north, or south. I will keep my nose in that bag of treats from 1776 and disregard all else that attempts to woo my attention.
Thank you, bear. Thank you for the personal application at this time in my life. Most of all, thank you for obeying your Creator by not caring if my daughter was five feet from you while stuffing your cute face.
Speaking frankly, the bear necessities can be rediscovered in fuel for the race.
“Let a man meet a bear robbed of her cubs, rather than a fool in his folly.” – Proverbs 17:12 (NAS)
“There is no power on earth like your fathers’ love So big and so strong as your father’s love A promise that’s sacred, a promise from heaven above No matter where you go… always know You can depend on your father’s love.” (1998) “Father’s Love” Recorded by: BOB CARLISLE Composer’s: RANDY THOMAS, ROBERT MASON CARLISLE
I have a secret I want to reveal to you. But first…
The cover photo above is our young Japanese Maple in our backyard. One of the many talents packed inside my father-in-law was landscaping. In his backyard, he raised a tree to grow sideways. As you view it, the trunk comes off the ground vertically for a couple of feet, then with an extreme bend grew some five, or six feet horizontally to the ground. As your eyes would follow the great trunk, you then would see an extreme bend to rise upward toward the sky once again. The house was sold after he passed away a few years ago, so I do not have a photo of this large zig-zag tree trunk. It is highly unusual, but stunning. His daughter, my wife, has his genes coming out of her pores. As you can see in the cover photo, she is training a young tree to do the same as the tree she grew up with. If you can expand it, or zoom-in, you can see the stake in the ground, as well as a string pulling the lower trunk outward. It’s all outer space to me. She knows what she’s doing in this arena. One thing I do know, training takes time. Training takes endurance. Training takes the touch of love.
I was raised by a single mom. With the dynamics of my biological father, and a distant step-father who adopted me when I was six years old, I don’t have any good stories of great love from a father. Even my adopted father ended in divorce only four years after the remarriage. However, I can point to a plumb-line in my life who vowed earl-on to help raise me. He was old enough to have been my dad. He was only 42 when I came into the world.
Photo: My granddad, Martin Atherton (1918-2008)
My mom’s dad was a giant of a man. In stature he was only about 5′-9″ tall. Yet, his deeds, his love, his ethics, his words were from a heart of gold which only could belong to a herculean man of 6′-9″.
Martin Atherton helped to shape my thinking, even though I never lived under his roof, with the exception of a few short months in my toddler days. He was a blue-collar worker, master auto mechanic, who never wanted his kids to become a mechanic, as he thought the money wasn’t enough for the hard labor involved. His hard work was displayed in his rough, strong hands. Although soft spoken, he was a John Wayne type character. He would’ve done well in the wild west times. Oh, the novel I could write about this gent.
I will include the fact that he never once sat me down to lecture me on the Ten Commandments, the birds and the bees, or the “career talk”. He trained me gently by the sheer act of witnessing his life. He was a leader in his church, a respected man in his community, his workplace, and a man well-known for honesty, sealed with a handshake and a nod. His word was his bond.
Most of all, he trained me by my willingness to listen to what others would testify about him. Scores and scores of men and women spoke highly of him, as the countenance on their faces gleamed while the Martin Atherton soundtrack of the mind rolled out of their mouths. He was someone God would write about.
He trained me by seeing how he loved my grandmother, and how she responded.
Photo: Martin & Opal Atherton (1941ish)
He trained me by his love for America’s freedom, fighting in WWII while serving in the navy in the Philippines. He had two young sons, both under five years old, and one on the way, when he could no longer keep himself tied to the title of “citizen” only. He heard the urgent alarms of military service needed in the Pacific and answered the call at great risk.
He trained me to do all I could to respect and honor the president of the United States, even if policies and personalities were not personally agreeable.
He trained me to search to find the good in the individual, even if looking the other way at times seemed appropriate.
He trained me to love family, nucleus or extended family, even when greatly tempted to hate.
Example: Back in the late 1940’s he had a brother-in-law, my Great-Uncle Buster, who was physically abusive to his wife, my Great-Aunt Pauline. She once lost a baby when he punched her in the belly while pregnant with their first child. She never could have children afterward. This man was a severe hyper-alcoholic, to the point of drunken violent rages landing him in jail many times. He often caused havoc in their small farming community. At one family gathering in east Texas, this man showed up baked to the very bone with bottle in hand. It’s unclear just how it started, but the man caused a violent, profane stir in front of the family, including the children attending. As was the “bent” of my granddad, he tried to calm his brother-in-law down, but the sloshed man wouldn’t abide. Being a WWII sailor, my granddad knew how this would go. My granddad began to strongly encourage him to leave and sleep it off. During the altercation, my Great-Uncle Buster pulled out a knife with one hand and broke off the top of his whiskey bottle with the other. He charged at my granddad to stab and cut him open in front of the entire clan. Thank God he disarmed him and knocked Buster cold. He didn’t hold a grudge against his brother-in-law. In fact, years later, he trusted Jesus as he put away the bottle, sobered up and lived a peaceful, calm life on his farm until the day he died. In my growing up years, I never knew the “other” Uncle Buster, and I’m grateful. Throughout, my granddad showed love and respect for him, even though many did not.
He trained me to valiantly defend the home, family, and loved ones. It was his way to aid any and all, even if it meant personal loss. He was always looking out for the needy underdog.
He trained me to think and act with an abundance of generosity and benevolence.
He trained me to troubleshoot difficult circumstances, even if it was a painful road.
He trained me to walk closest to the curb when walking with a lady on the sidewalk.
Many pages could be filled about my granddad. Again, he was a soft spoken man with very little words, but with great deeds of a legacy to ponder. Truly, a salt of the earth gentleman.
There is a passage that’s always caused me pause. It comes from Solomon.
“Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” – Proverbs 22:6 (KJV)
There have been many a commentary on just how to interpret this scripture. Some believe it simply means, instruct a child in the way he is bent while still pliable. Some say it speaks of training the child in the tenor of his way. A few will say this only applies to academia, in which Solomon was a champ. Another will say, instruct a youth about his way(s), common or uncommon. Some will say it’s concerning training in a specific trade inside a youthful life. (You might be a piano player, yet the child shows gifting in construction.) Some will teach it’s all about moral training from childhood. Sermons are built on the idea this passage speaks of training in the things of God, and His Law. While others will preach the meaning surrounds the training of the ways of the culture, the civility of the community one grows up in.
Personally, I think it’s possible all of the above options are accurate. Whatever the subject matter, not one child will be schooled if there is a lack of an instructor.
At the same time, we all can attest to the well-known fact that all kids do NOT grow up clinging to what they have been taught. Just ask most ministers with older kids. How can one say a young rioter deems it righteous to loot and burn down a place of business, if he was trained to honor and respect his/her neighbor? The other evidence can been found in generations of weeping parents. It very well could be Solomon was not “promising” a life of roses for all who were trained to observe righteousness and love. Much of Solomon’s own children were lawbreakers. For me, I believe the scripture pertains to a generality of the averages. Certainly the principle is there. I know my daughters were trained up to observe righteousness, civility, and ways of career and education. However, as adults, they don’t always abide by what I trained them to do. Regardless, they have my love and respect even so.
Photo: L-R: Tabitha, Megan, me, D’Anna (2015)
For me, the explosive word in Solomon’s text just might be…”Train UP…” The idea is, onward and upward for a better future, not the opposite. It’s always an advantage to have a grandson write about how great you are sixty years from now. Wouldn’t that be commendable?
The Japanese Maple in our backyard is being trained up with a bend in its trunk. Although we have plenty of winding, bends in our road of life, if trained well, we trend upward. My hope is that it will survive gravity and the Texas weather in the years to come. It takes a stick and a string for now.
Oh, yes. I mentioned I would share a secret with you. Here it is. My secret is, I have failed way too many times to even measure closely to my early training. When I get it right, I just consider it a special moment from above.
Training UP has a manual within the heart of fuel for the race.
Cover Photo: Painting by Bob Niles, my father-in-law.
[ Just a quick note to you, my reader. Please take honest, strict care of yourself and those you love. Coronavirus continues to spread throughout the globe. Medical experts are reporting it will get worse before it gets better. Guard your health and don’t stop. Trust in the One in control even during what seems to be chaotic times from this side of the darkened glass. – God’s grip, Alan ]
“…And I feel like a bullet in the gun of Robert Ford. I’m low as a paid assassin is. You know I’m cold as a hired sword…” (1976 release) “I Feel Like A Bullet (In The Gun Of Robert Ford)” Recorded By: Elton John Composers: Elton John & Bernie Taupin
The infamous outlaw, Jesse James, and his brother, Frank James, were raised in the home of a Baptist minister, Rev. Robert S. James. The Baptist preacher also was one of the founders of William Jewell College in Liberty, Missouri in 1849.
Photo: Rev. Robert S. James – findagrave.com
Rev. James was a member of the Missouri Baptist Convention. Although Rev. James passed away during the rearing years, one can only assume Jesse & Frank grew up hearing multiple sermons in and outside the home by a very strict, hell, fire, and brimstone father. No doubt the preacher’s wife must have been a Bible-mother as well. Of course, their private home-life behind closed doors is unknown. Although he had earned his Bachelor of Arts, Rev. James commuted from Clay County, Missouri to Kentucky to gain his Master of Arts from Georgetown College. It would appear the preacher was away from the home much of the time due to his academic pursuits. One thing is clear, in the case of the preacher’s kids, it seems being frightened out of hell didn’t take.
If you’ve ever read the bio of the James brothers, or have seen a movie about their lives, then you already know how dipped they were in a serious life of crime after the Civil War. In fact, some consider Jesse James to be one of the most notorious gangsters in American history, if not at the top of the list. From Texas to Minnesota, the James boys, and gang, left bloodshed and ruin in their wake.
After years of shocking crime sprees, there were dead gang members left in the dust, or swinging from prison gallows. Replacements were being vetted by Jesse all too often.
Photo: History.com (Rare photo of Jess James with his killer, Bob Ford.)
Two young recruits looked promising to Jesse, in fact they were good friends. Bob and Charley Ford were brothers very familiar with a life of crime. The James family, and the Ford family, spent time together as if in the same clan. Jesse even invited the outlaw brothers to move into his house. What Jesse seemingly didn’t know, the Ford brothers had dollar signs in their eyes as the Missouri Governor, Thomas T. Crittenden, had offered up to $10,000.00 to anyone who could “capture” the James brothers. In the Ford case, Gov. Crittenden went as far as to offered amnesty for past crimes as well.
On April 3, 1882, after breakfast at the James family dinner table, Jesse, Bob, and Charley went to the living room to talk business. It seems there was a robbery being planned for that week. Some say Jesse was suspicious of the Ford’s intentions and loyalty. That remains a mystery. What happened next has been debated since the event. Some write that Jesse observed dust on the frame of a painting on the wall and wanted to wipe it down. Others claimed the frame was crooked on the wall and Jesse intended to straighten it. (The latter is the story I grew up with.) One thing is certain, Jesse James left his pistols on the sofa, walked across the room, placed a chair just under the framed painting, stepped up to reach it when Bob Ford pulled his gun shooting Jesse James in the back of the head. Zerelda Mimms-James, Jesse’s wife, was just in the next room of the small house. Jesse was 34 years old.
Two years later, in May of 1884, a suicidal Charley Ford shot himself. He was 26 years old. On June 8th of 1892, a man named, Ed O’Kelley, walked into a tent saloon, owned by Bob Ford, and shot him in the throat with a shotgun. Bob was 30 years old. In January of 1904, you guessed it, Ed O’Kelley was shot dead by a police officer he was trying to kill. Ed made it to 46 years old. Amazing domino effect, isn’t it? Let’s hope the policeman lived to see his 90’s.
In the end, Jesse James was an outlaw, but he was also a teacher. Let me show you what I mean using the simplicity of an item in many a tool box.
The plumbline is an ancient builder’s tool. It is also used by surveyors. You can find this instrument mentioned with tremendous intention in the Old Testament book of Amos (Amos 7:8). Today it is usually a stainless steel or solid lead pointed weight attached to a string. It is used to align anything which stands vertically, a wall, a beam, a door, etc.
When building a brick wall, if aligned geometrically with a plumbline measuring an upright line, as the center of gravity shows it to be without faulty readings, that wall will stand perfectly straight. If the walls stand perfectly straight then the entire frame of the building will have integrity. On the other hand, if the wall is built via an eyeball’s view, it will lean at some point in the process leading to the failure of the entire structure.
The crooked picture frame, which Jesse James was obsessed with on that fateful morning, reveals an outstanding irony. Jesse and Frank were raised hearing all about the straight and the narrow. A student of the Bible, their father, and mother, obviously taught them of a great plumbline for living, yet they grew up to be crooks. A crooked life has its toll. If the leaders of a home are crooked, or altogether absent, more than likely the home will not stand with endurance. No matter how much stolen cash is accumulated, the crooked life has a higher price. Jesse James has taught us this truth by example. A choice was made and the James brothers ran from the measurements of society, which were based on law, making the allurement of crime something to be at risk for. You might say the wall Jesse built leaned heavily, doomed for gravitational collapse. Fame and fortune destroyed his life, the life of his killer, and the life of his killer’s killer. “…and be sure your sin will find you out.” – Moses – (Numbers 32:23b)
Teaching our children well is our responsibility. Afterwards, the choices are their’s. It’s good to be measured for structure-sake.
Unlike sand, when building on a solid rock, there are different results. It can all be found, measured and delivered in fuel for the race.
“I will go before you and make the crooked places straight; I will break in pieces the gates of bronze and cut the bars of iron…..so that you may know that I am the LORD, the God of Israel, who calls you by name.…” Isaiah 45:2-3b (NKJV)
“Every time I see your face It reminds me of the places we used to go. But all I’ve got is a photograph And I realize you’re not coming back anymore…”(1973) Photograph. Recorded by: Ringo Starr Composers: Richard (Ringo) Starkey and George Harrison
I thought I arrived too early, but as I got out of the car, a voice shouted out, “Alan?” There, just two cars over, it was her, Joan and her nephew, Matthew….When I hugged him, I felt as if I had known him all of his life, as if he were my own son.
Forgive me if there’s nothing really valuable to use in what I’m about to write. I just know I have to. I MUST write about it.
Meet Terry Sindle. Terry was a dear friend of mine. We were the same age. He, his younger sister, Joan, and their newly divorced mom, had just moved into the apartment complex where my mom and I lived. It was 1973 and the Sindle family were fresh off the moving van from Staten Island, New York. They had such heavy NY accents that this Texas lad could hardly decipher. But nevertheless, Terry and I had so much in common.
(Terry Sindle in high school, 1977/1978.)
He was a bit from the wild side, and I was far more conservative. He was a casual pot smoker and pill-popper, and I chewed gum. He was into Led Zeppelin, and I was into Manilow. I was a spiritually plugged-in church member, and Terry was agnostic at best. He wore long wavy hair, and my cut looked like a Wall Street lawyer. I was a martial arts student and tournament fighter, while he could care less about any sport. Yet, we both experienced our parents divorcing. We both had poor single moms. We both loved music, and music performance. And we both loved pizza…or so I thought. Being from Staten Island, NY, I figured he liked pizza. So, another friend and I introduced him to what was the best pizza in our neighborhood, Pizza Inn. When the cardboard-thin, scantly-topped crispy crusted pizza came out, Terry looked at it and said in astonishment, “WHAT IS THIS? THIS isn’t pizza!” Here in Texas we thought pizza was pizza. We thought Pizza Inn could do no wrong. Terry had to educate us in what real NY pizza consumers enjoy. It would be two years later before a NY style pizza joint opened up in our suburb, and we’ve never been the same since.
One thing Terry and I didn’t have in common was the guitar. He was an incredible guitarist. I was strictly a vocalist, although dabbled lightly in piano and guitar. His musicianship was keen, to the point where I could call him a “master technician”. Terry’s grade of musicianship was well beyond the average teenage garage band. In two days he learned all of the Beatles music catalog. TWO DAYS! He, at 14 years old had begun to compose original music, as well as arrangements of cover songs. He joined the school band and mastered the French Horn. He was playing for local parties, filling-in with other local bands, and eventually started his own rock band before he was 16.
You could say we looked like a duck and a hawk side-by-side, but we knew we were a team of the same feather. I was in the top choir in high school always urging him to audition. I told him it would help sharpen his vocals, along with sight reading. It didn’t take him long before he realized you can study classical while using what you learn for other genres of music. He sheepishly did audition, and made the choir in 1977. He naturally squirmed terribly so when having to wear a tux for serious choral performances.
Meanwhile, my band was more soft rock and ballads. Naturally when it came time to add a lead guitarist, Terry was my guy. Musically we knew what each other wanted without discussing it fully. We both had terrific ears, as well as, the same quality control standards. With that said, on stage he would hear an extra lick or riff in his mind, then would add it in real time on the fly, often distracting me from my lyrics. (That was a good and bad problem when singing something like, Manilow’s “I Write The Songs”.) Frankly, with Terry as my lead guitarist, I knew whatever came out of the amp speakers was going to be a top-shelf sound.
Not long after high school, I moved out to get my own place across town. Meanwhile, Terry was wanting to move back to NY to further his rock career. We performed a couple of times together during the summer after graduation, but I was pursuing music theater by that time and he was going deeper into metal rock. Before you could say, “Y’all”, he moved back to NY to execute just what he set his sights on. We lost track of each other by 1980.
Later in the 1980’s I heard from Terry a couple of times. It turned out he continued to grow as a spectacular studio artist, and stage act. He had even prepped for a move to England with the idea of joining a band there.
(Terry Sindle with his band in NY during the 1980’s.)
Then…all went silent.
About 10 years ago, I began a search to find my old friend. By that time I was on Facebook which is where I started scrubbing for a friend link. Nothing came up. Internet searches came up empty. It was as if Terry Sindle had vanished from the planet.
Then one day, and I hesitated to do it, I launched a national obituary search. With a deep saddening, while swallowing back the lump in my throat, I found my friend’s obit. Terry died back in 1997 at the age of 37. What’s worse, the obit was short and simple, without surviving family member names, or details about his passing. May God forgive me, I first thought his substance abuse finally caught up with him. My thirst for more info grew almost to the unbearable. All it gave me was the place of his death…Florida. All other searches came up zero. It was highly frustrating. I gave up and the years went by.
A couple of months ago for Throw-Back Thursday, I posted the picture below on Facebook and gave tribute to two members of my band who left us early in life.
(My Alan Brown & Co Band. Later affectionately referred to as my “Come & Go Band”)
In my defense, this shot goes back to Oct of 1977. That’s the excuse for my tablecloth sports jacket and sailor pants. Terry Sindle is seen on the far right in a black shirt with his Gibson guitar, standing in front of his stack of speakers.
Right after the post, a couple of old mutual high school friends contacted me asking if I knew whatever happened to Terry. I told them what I had discovered, but it didn’t seem enough. So, I lit a fire under my chair.
Somehow, someway, through a search, I found Joan Sindle, Terry’s younger sister. I messaged with her right away. Afterwards we spoke on the phone. Pushing back tears, she caught me up on Terry’s short adult life and sudden death. Terry was a victim of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He beat it once in his life only to return years later like an overnight thief. After not feeling well, and unable to shake it, he had a check-up with an Oncologist. Shockingly, after running tests, the doctor gave him less than a week to live. In fact, he died 3 days later.
Terry did well with his music while here. In NY, he made radio airplay with one of his records. Terry’s last album was cut just 3 months before he passed. His bands always did very well in NY, and later in Florida after moving there. He met a Floridian girl while in AA, fell in love, and got married. They eventually were blessed with 3 boys.
While in the cancer ward, both times, he played songs for the other fellow-cancer patients. That didn’t surprise me a bit. He had a huge heart. As for his substance addictions, they did strengthen their grip on his life. He checked himself into rehab while in his 20’s. He was clean for many years, fell off the wagon, and became clean again. At some point, early in his marriage, both Terry and his wife, opened their hearts to God and His redemption offered through Jesus. AA was good for Terry, but Divinity resting within, gave him the power to control the monkey on his back. Remembering those days, Joan said he was excited about his new-found faith.
Recently Joan asked if I would hook-up with Terry’s youngest son, Matthew (now 25), who was only 3 years old when Terry passed. She said because of his young age, he is always wanting to know more about his dad and thought it would be great if an old high school friend could shed light on his dad’s teen years. I was thrilled! I did so. Matthew and I had a few terrific exchanges back and forth over cyberspace. You might find it isn’t surprising to know that Matthew, along with one of his brothers, are musically talented to the hilt. In fact, they can play any instrument they pick up. Matthew also has all of Terry’s guitars and amps, as well as his French Horn from high school.
(Sorry for the flash reflection on this shot. Terry and his boys less than a year before his death.)
A few days ago, Joan called to tell me Matthew was coming here to Dallas for a visit and wanted to know if we could meet. Once again, I was thrilled! I asked 3 other mutual high school friends, who knew Terry, to join us. They were itching to show up.
When Joan first asked me to connect with Matthew, I could hardly describe the feeling. It was so strange. All I can say to paint this canvas with a stroke or two, is I felt a compelling, a strong, very strong tug to reach out to Terry’s son with all that was within me. As each day rolled on I had this gnawing, this obsession propelling me with the thought that somehow I was doing this for Terry himself, as if he were here asking me to do this as a favor. Truly, that feeling launched me into an overdrive to find pictures, Terry’s handwriting, and refresh every stand-out memory I could muster. They were going to bring some pictures of Terry, (as you have seen) in his adult years. We agreed to meet at a local pub, The Fox & Hound in north Dallas.
I thought I arrived too early, but as I got out of the car, a voice shouted out, “Alan?” There, just two cars over, it was her, Joan and her nephew, Matthew. Joan and I hugged as if we were siblings removed at birth. When I hugged him, I felt as if I had known him all of his life, as if he were my own son. The others drove up shortly after.
(My phone died while we were together, so Joan took this shot. I’m the Celtic-looking guy sitting on the right with Mathew in the middle and some old high school friends.)
For several hours we spoke, laughed, cried, and ate and drank with Terry on our minds and hearts. The guys poured out all their memories of Terry. No one could recall anything sour to add concerning our younger times together. Matthew and Joan shared more about the life and heart Terry displayed to others in his adult years. He dearly loved his wife and sons. Terry even wrote letters to his boys to help them understand who there dad was, what he consisted of, and how he wished he could be there to see them grow up. After his prognosis, he told Joan how he couldn’t die because he had three sons to raise. That was his concern while preparing to leave this life. He also wrote to his sons of his spiritual awakening, sharing the love he found in God.
Afterward, Joan said she felt as if Terry had been with us around the table in the pub. I told her it’s because she was meeting with his close friends that reflect Terry’s touch on our lives, still expressing it after 4 decades. Of course, I know what she meant. Again, I felt a rushing swift current of an urge to visit with Matthew sharing personally about his dad. His eyes lit up as I described our days together. He laughed at all of our funny stories about Terry. He showed a great deal of pride displaying the family pictures, and describing the instruments he inherited. He spoke of what he knew of his dad’s faith, adding that he too was in a music ministry with a desire to pursue a pastoral outreach.
As I looked at the pictures of Terry as an adult, I was nothing short of mesmerized. It seemed like yesterday we were music-making teens, taking music theory class together, rehearsing quietly in his room, and doing laundry duty. And now, I see the man in the pictures bringing me smiles, seeing he was a success in fatherhood and being a loving, loyal husband. When the time was right, he was man enough to realize he had substance abuse issues and sought help. So many don’t. He showed love, grace and benevolence toward other hurting cancer patients, even while his own life was ebbing away. To me, a hit record seems tiny in comparison.
As we were saying goodbye in the parking lot, as the sun was setting, I looked into his son’s eyes and told him, “We knew your dad very well. I can certainly say, with all confidence, he would be very proud of you, and who you have become. You are an impressive young man, Matthew. And somehow, I just can’t help but believe your dad is being told about our gathering today.” Yes, we all teared-up, and rightly so.
Someone once wrote how we are not islands, living our lives separated, disconnected from others. If the life of Terry Sindle taught us a couple of things, it’s that we are all peninsulas, connected to one another, which aids us in knowing what is most important.
One day I will see Terry again. And when I do, I think he will say something like, “Thank you for helping me tell Matthew who I am.”
A life well lived is available from the vast cistern of fuel for the race.
“For none of us lives to himself alone, and none of us dies to himself alone.” – Apostle Paul, from Romans 14:7 (Berean Study Bible)
With the growing disturbances in our world this Christmas, I thought of re-publishing the below from my December 2017 post.
“Silver bells. Silver Bells. It’s Christmas time in the city. Ring-a-ling. Hear them ring. Soon it will be Christmas Day.” – Composers: Jay Livingston and Ray Evans. (1950)
Not long ago I heard of a certain residential neighborhood that took a nearby church to court. Their complaint surrounded the bells joyfully ringing from the church steeple on Sunday mornings. I will assume these would be the same neighbors who clamored about Sunday morning traffic around the church, before and after services. I didn’t attend the trial, but I just know that if I read the transcript of the proceedings, certainly someone said something like, “What’s with all the bells?”
It’s a valid question. So, what’s up with all the bells?
Imagine you’ve had a wonderful 18 year marriage with an incredibly loving and supportive spouse. Whatever the world dishes out, you had shade and shelter at home with your understanding mate. Growing a family together has been a true gift. Now imagine, that the love of your life tragically perished in a devastating accident when her clothes caught fire.
Imagine, by way of this nightmare in life, you are left with children to raise on your own. Your first born son is a stunning, strong 17 year old who is proud to carry on the family legacy.
Imagine war breaking out just down the road from where you buried your soulmate. Your young son’s enthusiasm for the war’s cause, coupled with his school lads running off to take up arms to fight for their country, pulls your son’s interest to join up. He fights with you about being a new recruit, as you sternly stand your parental ground. You debate with him. You state that he is too young to fight a man’s battle where the blood shed has no respecter of age. Imagine he shows honor for your wishes, agrees to continue his high school education, along with sharing the household duties. Imagine for the next two years, each time you looked into his eyes, you saw his smile, or the way he visited his mother’s grave, and how he soothed your grieving heart every day by just being there.
Now imagine, one morning your 19 year old son vanishes overnight without a word or a note. Your heart is pierced. Your fears serve up the worst scenarios to the point of being unable to function and unable to eat or sleep. Suddenly, after several weeks, a letter appears in your mailbox. The envelope is marked with your missing son’s handwriting. You can’t help but notice how his phrasing, even his handwriting, reminds you of his mother. As you read through your tears, he explains his disappearance. He details how he had joined the military to fight on the front lines for his country. He goes on to describe how he had resisted the temptation to join up, as long as he could, and is now in the army fighting alongside his schoolmates. He acknowledges how it must hurt you by his abrupt decision, but also making it clear that he is where he needs to be.
Imagine the worry, the fear, the sadness you would go through for the next several months without word of his health or his location. Imagine a few months later, you receive word that this first born son was gravely injured in a major battle and could no longer be of service. Now imagine it’s nearing the Christmas season, with the familiar sound of bombs and the gunfire of war echoing dangerously through the county. The terror of your first born son offering his life each and every day, facing the blasts of the enemy drowns out all Christmas cheer and celebrations.
You can imagine going through such grief, such turmoil and fear, while fighting the clanging sound of Christmas bells all around you, as if everything was truly right in the world with all of its pretend joy, jolly-hollies and Santa’s jinglings.
This is what happened to American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, from 1861 to 1863 during the Civil War. In his deep depression, coming out of a writer’s block, dating back to his wife’s violent death, he pens an honest reflection of where his hopes and dreams were last seen. One of the verses written in his poem, “I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day,” reads like this:
“And in my despair I bowed my head. There is no peace on earth, I said. For hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth good will to men.
But the bells are ringing, like a choir singing. Does anybody hear them? Peace on earth good will to men….”
After the poem was published some years later, a songwriter put music to it in 1872. Today we sing this song of Christmas blues with gusto. I seem to sing it through tears each time. and even louder when I arrive at the next verse.
“Then rang the bells more loud and deep. God is not dead, nor doth He sleep. The wrong shall fail, the right prevail with peace on earth good will to men.”
“So why all the bells?” one might ask. It’s because ancient bells were an announcement, an attention-getter. Heralds would ring their bells while shouting, “Here ye, hear ye!” Bells were meant to be loud. The bell’s vibration was to pierce the air with a message to be readied to be received. The bell-ringer assigned to pull the bell-clapper rope had the fervor to bring attention to a message of news. A newsflash of importance or urgency, so urgent it mustn’t be ignored. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, through his familiar immense pain, wrote of the interruption of the bells of GOOD NEWS. The bells speak of evil destined to be crushed by a Savior, a Redeemer, a Rescuer being born to us who live in the bondage of a spiritual war. The bells proved the validity and certainty of an Almighty God Whose death is all about pulling back the curtain on the original fake news of no hope, no future, no God in ultimate control.
Maybe this Christmas will not be your best Christmas. Maybe this Christmas might even be your worst on record. This Christmas is not the best our nation has known. Allow it to come, says Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and let it pierce through the wall that seems so solid, so thick, and so unscalable. Because death, sin and the grave has been defeated and utterly destroyed already. Sure, we have the effects of them now, but with that baby from the manger, there is a victory party that has already started that will usher in a nuking of the father of lies in a very short while.
COME ON, RING THOSE BELLS! When you do, hear them proclaim, “There’s fuel for the race.”
“And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ The Lord.'” – Luke 2:10-11 (KJV)
“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.
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?
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)
“We took our chance and we flew. Like an arrow, like an arrow. We came to our sense to soar. Like an arrow, like an arrow…” – Like An Arrow (2015) Written and recorded by: Lucy Rose Parton
It was a beautiful April morning. While sitting at my desk, typing away, I got a text from my middle daughter, Megan.
“Dad, Grace Stumberg and Grace Lougen really wants to meet you. They are in town with Joan Baez and wondering if you’re up to anything. They’ve got the day off in Dallas today, with exception of a recording session late this afternoon at a studio downtown. Maybe you guys could meet for food or coffee.”
If you’re unfamiliar with my posts, you may not know about my daughter, Megan Brown.
In 2008, I was leaving Buffalo, NY to move back to my stumping grounds in Dallas, Texas. Megan and I were the last of the family to remain in Buffalo after a divorce two years prior. I got Megan through her last two years of high school. It was a mammoth undertaking leaving our spacious house while squeezing into an apartment. Through her high school years, and right after, Megan grew to be an accomplished vocalist. She did very well in school choirs, musicals and singing in church. She joined a garage band during that time in efforts to sharpen her rock and roll teeth. Along the way, I encouraged her to sing with me at various events. We were a duo team for about 10 years, since she was about 8 years old. I coached her vocally, as well as stage presence and acoustic training, as her talent continued to surface.
Photo: L-R: Tabitha, D’Anna, me, Megan
During the summer of 2008, I had accepted a morning show gig at a new radio station in Dallas. I gave Megan the option of moving back with me. However, she wanted to spread her wings in Buffalo, and shoot for the moon on her own. And boy, did she! I love my girls. Each one is unique, and vastly different from the other two. Of my three daughters, Megan is the one most like me on many levels. It was so difficult to loosen my grip and push her out of the nest.
After I moved back to Texas, Megan was asked to join an up and coming western New York band called, Dirty Smile. As a solo artist she didn’t hesitate. They won international accolades through the Hard Rock Cafe organization, winning awards along the way. Megan became a highly sought-after artist during that time, appearing on many albums as a guest artist. She also has been awarded for Favorite Female Vocalist in Western New York.
Photo: Megan’s old band, Dirty Smile
After many years, and recordings, the band decided to hang it up as band-mate’s wives began having babies. Later she joined another band, which toured nationwide, but was short-lived. She and a friend, Grace Stumberg, started an all-girl band called, Rustbelt Birds. They disbanded late last year due to scheduling conflicts with other bands. Now she is with a new band called, Grosh, with Grace Lougen. They are doing very well, as they released a new CD this very week.
Photo: Megan’s new band, Grosh at their CD release performance event June 13, 2019.
As it turns out, the legendary Joan Baez has something in common with Megan. They share band-mates. Both Grace Stumberg (Joan’s vocal harmonizer) and Grace Lougen (Joan’s lead guitarist) perform in the Joan Baez band.
Photo: Grace Stumberg entering stage with Joan Baez
Thus, the reason for the two Graces to be in Dallas for a couple of days. Joan Baez was performing in an outdoor venue in the downtown Dallas theater district the following day. The weather was perfect. I couldn’t attend as I was doing my own gig in northeast Oklahoma that night.
Photo: Pre-show shot at Annette Strauss Square in the outdoor venue of the AT&T Performing Arts Center Complex.
Soon, in mid July, they will embark for another European concert tour. Joan was one of the artists who performed at Woodstock in 1969. After the Woodstock Fest 50th Anniversary Event was cancelled (slated for this summer) it made it extremely easy to book Europe once again. Joan says it will be her final tour. After five decades of hitting the stage, I can understand why. Still, musician peers of her age are making big splashes on the road these days. (We’ll see.)
To say it was a delight to converge on a Dallas Irish pub for lunch with Grace and Grace, would be a huge understatement. We laughed and told stories about our lives and their “on-the-road” adventures. Since Megan wasn’t at the table with us, I felt free to roll out some of the childhood antics Megan and her sisters got into. We found ourselves at ease with each other as the afternoon went on. We felt as if we had known one another for a thousand years. I was so proud to hear of their enormous respect and love for my daughter. As they spoke of her, I could see a sense of treasure in their eyes. My ears grew as tales of their friendships were described, as well as the professional side as band-mates and fellow-musicians. I can’t tell you how it made me feel.
Photo: L-R: Grace Lougen, me, Grace Stumberg
Sitting there with these highly talented young ladies, I soaked in the warmth of love they shared for my Megan. It truly hit me like never before that Megan and I made the right choice back in August of 2008.
The Texas sun beat down on us as we exited the pub into busy pedestrian traffic. As we hugged out on the walkway, while saying our goodbyes, Grace Stumberg said,
“I am so glad I got to meet the maker of Megan Brown.”
I chuckled as a nervous response. I appreciated what she said, but I KNOW Who made Megan. I am held in His hand.
Just then, I felt my chin quiver. Knowing myself well, I knew tears were next. I had my sunglasses on, so they never saw me shed one drop. But as they walked back to the Joule Hotel, two blocks away, I couldn’t hold them back any longer. My parking meter was beeping at me, which was another excuse to quickly climb back into my car. When I did, I put the key in the ignition, but didn’t turn it. Instead, I just sat silently and wept for a good two or three minutes.
It was written, so us readers who dare to research would know, releasing our kids into the world is like an archer releasing his/her arrow into the air. Kids normally outlive the parents, at least that’s the design of our biological lifespan. So, my girls, my arrows, will go into a future I will not see, a future I will not reach. In August of 2008, once again I found myself holding my fatherly bow. I pulled back the bowstring, tilted upward above all targets for the proper air-arch, distance, and wind direction. Feeling the tension of holding the bow close to my cheek, knowing I could hold it there no longer, I closed my eyes, said a prayer, and let go of the bowstring.
Megan was launched into the world with the swishing sound of the tail-feathers. Her flight continues where I will never be. As she soars, she has pierced hearts, minds, and culture, all of which I cannot. Her trek sails through audiences, lifting their chins from faces I will never see. During her flight, she will look down and see cities, societies, and stigmas without dividing lines mapping out the boundaries I tend to set. Her arch will be observed and heard by many she has not yet seen. As my arrow, she is an extension of me.
Do dads worry? Sure we do. With that said, I have an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Father who once launched me at birth. There’s where my comfort rests.
Oh, how those arrows do fly…with fuel for the race.
“She was just sixteen and all alone when I came to be. So we grew up together…mama-child and me. Now things were bad and she was scared, but whenever I would cry, she’d calm my fear and dry my tears with a rock and toll lullaby…” (1972) Rock And Roll Lullaby. Recorded by: B.J. Thomas. Composers: Barry Mann & Cynthia Weil.
With age, I have learned that…
If I were the teen who fought through a sexual assault, then carried an unwanted pregnancy, debating the heart’s choices, then allowing life to grow, I would be a spectacular teenager wise beyond my years.
If I were a parent who protected my newborn from assault and murder at the hands of the father, with a sacrificial unselfish front, I would be a medal of honor recipient.
If I were to end an abusive marriage, to defend and shield my innocent toddler, knowing there would be no child support, I would be a heroine authors would write about.
If I were a single parent constantly contending with the voices of psychological demons, chanting accusations of worthlessness, depreciation, and shame, all the while rising above it all to raise my child, I would be the dragon-slayer described in countless novels.
If I were to defeat my fear by moving into an uncharted world, away from family, to make a life for my young child, I would be a courageous warrior with monuments anointing the landscape.
If I were one who taught my toddler the true value of the gift of grandparents, I would be a brilliant educator with my name on the walls of universities.
If I were to faithfully read scripture to my young child each night, combined with the simplicity of personal prayer and church attendance, I would be a righteousness seeker with my statue erected by the world’s cathedrals.
If I were to seek out the finest pre-schools and kindergartens, in the attempt to assure my only child got a leg up, I would be a proactive parent to be noticed.
If I were to be rejected for loans and credit, due to being a single parent in the 1960’s, only to exercise faith while tackling a life of poverty with my head held high, I would be a fearless champion in my child’s eyes.
If I were to knock on every door to find a job waiting tables, or struggle with an overnight shift on an assembly line, I would be a humble workhorse of a provider for others to impersonate.
If I were to give away the opportunity to have a brilliant singing & recording career, just to be home with my child at the end of a hard night’s work, I would be self-sacrificing, worthy of a screenwriter’s time.
If I were to provide for my child after several lay-offs, by way of two or three jobs, I would be Superman, Wonder Woman, and Batman combined, never being poor in spirit.
If I were to train my child well enough to leave him alone overnight, in order to work the graveyard shifts, I would be an example of a strong tower of faith.
If I were to work overtime to aid in the development of my elementary age child with raw musical abilities, by paying for piano, violin, guitar, and voice lessons, my portrait would hang in Carnegie Hall.
If I were to be a staunch, independent single parent, refusing financial aid from my parents, I would be wealthy of heart.
From my granddad’s cedar coin box. The two of us from 1969.
If I were to resist the temptation of suicide, while being beaten down by company lay-offs, Green Stamp submissions, and accepting government blocks of cheese, I would be a brave ferocious fighter for my child’s future.
If I were to support my teen’s sports and musical interests, which differ from mine, I would be a liberally devoted parent of love and understanding.
If I were to tirelessly stand up to my rebellious teenager, with the possibility of damaging our relationship, I would have attributes resembling the God of the Bible.
If I were to sit all alone in a church pew watching my child wed, I would have earned the vision of a soldier adorned in glistening armor after a long battle.
If I were to bless my grandchildren with my physical presence, my mind, as well as my heart, I would be worth my weight in gold.
My mom with my middle daughter, Megan. (1992)
If I were to deny myself, for the betterment of my child, to the point of self-injury, while killing my own pursuits, and avoiding life’s trinkets that shine in the night, I would be Joan of Arc, Boudicca, Anne Sullivan, and Rosa Parks rolled into one.
If I were to be an example for my adult child, by being the caretaker of my aging parents, suffering from Alzheimer’s and Dementia, along with other elderly ones in my community, I would reflect what I have always been…a mountain of love, compassion, and selflessness.
If I were to describe a fictitious character from my own dreams, they could not come close to the one I have held in my heart for my entire life.
I don’t have to write the words “If I WERE…” The reason being, I simply could never measure up. The one described above is my mom, Carolyn Atherton-Brown.
I am her portrait. I am her monument. I am her novel. I am her screenplay. I am her statue. I am her champion. I am her armored soldier. I am the medal of honor.
To be gracefully broken, brilliantly strengthened, and beautifully poised is to be one who drinks deeply from the well of fuel for the race.
“…As surely as you live, I am the woman who stood here beside you praying to the Lord. I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him. So now I give him to the Lord. For his whole life he will be given to the Lord…” – The words of Hannah – I Samuel 1:26b-28a (NIV)
“I guess happiness was Lubbock, Texas in my rearview mirror. But now happiness was Lubock, Texas growing nearer and dearer…” Texas In My Rearview Mirror, (1974). Written and recorded by: Mac Davis.
I left Texas once to chase a dream, building on my career. It’s true what they say about never being able to go back home again. I did come back. However, my town, Dallas/Ft Worth area, had grown and changed. Among the alterations, more glass, steel, and concrete. Nevertheless, I was glad to be back.
As I mentioned in last week’s post, “A Family Affair”, I had the joy of spending lots of time with my three daughters. It’s been a celebration of hearts as my middle daughter, Megan, was visiting from New York. She brought her boyfriend with her this time. He had never been to Texas and truly wanted to get a good taste of the culture. That’s not always easy to show, as the Metroplex has grown into an international community. In Dallas we tend to demolish the old and rebuild. Feeling what he really wanted was to experience our historical side, we pulled out all the stops. Of course, he wanted to visit the grassy knoll in downtown Dallas where JFK was assassinated. For Texans, in general, it’s a tourist spot we are not proud of.
Besides treating him to Texas style Mexican food (Tex-Mex), along with some of the best Texas BBQ available, we drove him out west, so to speak.
Photo: My Grandpa and Grandma Brooks.
We visited Graham, Texas, a couple of hours west of the city, where cowboys and oil fields are the norm. My dad’s family is there where we are part of the historical landscape. My great-grandfather, Lewis Pinkney Brooks, helped to found that part of Texas. In fact, he was the second sheriff of Young County, Texas. He built a home there in the mid 1870’s where one of my cousins resides to this day.
Photo; Brooks Homestead
The homestead is registered in the Texas Historical Society. He was a pioneer, decorated Confederate soldier, builder, and cattle drover. Individuals like, Doc Holliday, Wild Bill Hickok, and Wyatt Earp were contemporaries. After the Civil War, he left Georgia on a mule to settle in the Graham, Texas area where the Comanche and the Tonkawa native Americans ruled. There are hair-raising stories concerning gunfights, grave robbers, horse-thieves, and indian wars. The old homestead was also used as a stagecoach stop for weary travelers, as well as, frontier families in covered wagons heading west. His wife was a bit of the community doctor and midwife. She tended to many who needed physical and medical aid, no matter what race or skin color. Yet, the land was wild, rough, and untamed. The gun turrets he built in the attic walls helps to tell the tale. It’s a rich history and heritage I hold dear to my heart. It’s never a chore to drive out to spend time in the old homestead. Frankly, it’s like a museum, with a great deal of love sown into its lintels. We were honored to share it with our younger generation.
The following day, we drove our New York friend to the famous Ft Worth Stockyards before touring the red waters of the Brazos River, along with Ft. Belknap, just outside of Graham, Texas.
A wealth of Texas history feeds this area of Ft Worth. Just to the north of the modern downtown high-rises, the old west is almost unchanged. Throngs of tourists flood the Stockyard District of the city each year.
Photo: Our friend took this shot from his cell phone.
As early as the late 1850’s, cattle drovers drove their cattle up from many areas including, southern Texas and Mexico, then down Exchange Street to the Ft Worth corrals and railroad. There the herds were prepared for auctioning, or loading onto outbound cattle cars on trains headed north for places like, Kansas City, Chicago, and Denver. The unique Texas Longhorn breed was, and is, a high commodity. The top of their hips are almost six feet high. There’s no other sound exactly like hooves pounding the antique bricked streets.
Although the Stockyards are family friendly today, it wasn’t always that way. Just like in the movies, saloons, whiskey bottles, and skimpy-clad women eager to take your money were the order of a cowboy’s day. It was here where outlaws like, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Sam Bass, and the James brothers frequented the streets. Also, Bonnie and Clyde found a temporary refuge in the Stockyard Hotel, now a luxury hotel displaying a Texas historical marker. In fact, the infamous cowboy outlaw from Texas, John Wesley Hardin, didn’t do well in hotels in the late 1800’s. He once shot a cowboy through the hotel room wall. It seems the man was snoring too loudly.
Twice a day, cowboys drive Longhorns across the tracks, down Exchange Street, while onlookers gather with cameras in hand. It was a stampede of Texas history for our friend from New York.
Photo: Sarah Hetrick
May I get real and ask you some hard questions which might offend you? Either way, I’ll love you. Okay, here goes.
In an age when a selective younger generation feels empowered by destroying statues representing our history, whether good or bad, I can’t help but feel a mistake is being made. We saw ISIS doing the same thing to monuments, ancient ruins, and antiquities from the biblical days of Nineveh. Hear me out before you judge me too harshly.
Sure, one can ask if all of Texas history is good. Quickly I would be the first to answer in the negative. On the other hand, I would point out the overwhelming majority of Texas history is positive and inspiring. In order to appreciate where one lives, it should be understood where one comes from, warts and all. It’s all about what makes us who we are, and where we are going. After all, if we, as individuals, take it upon ourselves to burn all things we personally do not like, what does that make us? What does it say about us? In this scenario, I dare say, nothing would be left to remember, or observe. If we succeed in the attempt to erase history, where does that take us? How does that enrich us? How do we educate ourselves, or avoid repeating mistakes from the past? Better yet, how does that serve future generations? Do we truly want museums to be eradicated, along with the Library of Congress, free speech, free press, etc.? Something, somewhere will offend someone, somewhere. Only cows belong in cattle train-cars.
Ancient Egypt declared all historical characters and events were not to be recorded, if they put Egypt’s kingdom in a bad light. Even certain pharaohs, queens, and races of people were removed from their hieroglyphic records. If not for archaeological efforts, as well as, other historical documents, we would be unaware of much of Egypt’s history. It’s a shame. Their future generations were stiff-armed to learn more of their own culture.
One of the commands in the Bible, from Genesis and onward, is one simple word spoken by God. Numerous sentences begin with the word, “Remember…” The word erupts often in the scrolls, especially in the Torah. It is filled with God urging Israel to “Remember”, or to “Recall”where they had been, what they had gone through, and Who brought them out of harm and slavery, etc. He wanted them to remember not only the victories, but also the pain of racism, suffering, defeats, and famines. There’s value in documenting the sourness of our times. As we enter the Passover and Easter season, it’s a significant light bulb for us to recall how Jesus broke the bread, then poured the wine and said, (Paraphrased for modern emphasis) “Do this often to remember me and my sacrifice for you.” Remembering is an important element in the growth, the thanksgiving, and the psychology of a society.
It’s no wonder why in Texas battles for independence it was shouted, “Remember the Alamo!”
Dismantling the rearview mirror isn’t a wise thing. The road ahead is at stake.
Happy trails begins with fuel for the race.
“Remember the former things of old; for I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me, declaring the end from the beginning and from ancient times things not yet done, saying, ‘My counsel shall stand, and I will accomplish all my purpose’…” Isaiah 46:9-10 (ESV)