“In the words of a broken heart, It’s just emotion that’s taken me over, Tied up in sorrow, lost in my soul…” (1977) “Emotion” Recorded By: Samantha Sang Composed By: Robin Hugh Gibb / Barry Alan Gibb
It’s been a longer span of time since I wrote a post on this blog. A number of reasons come to mind as I write this, but for now I will say it’s because of grief. Really, grief is just a pinch inside a mix of ingredients. Grief, with a good dose of anger, stirred with a mix of anxiousness makes for a good bunt cake to the belly. Throw that in a pre-heated oven deep down inside, and see what comes out as the temperature rises. Have you felt it yourself? This cake is bitter.
Grief can be born out of many things. Frankly, it could be manifested out of an ongoing flash flood of issues, washing everything down stream, taking out foundations which were once thought as solid and sturdy.
Take note of the drastic rise in crime across the U.S. Notice the overwhelming splash of drug abuse nationwide. Research the scoreless population of homelessness in our streets and under bridges. Violence is becoming the norm in the streets, against everyone, including Asians, elderly, and children. Much of which were committed by ex-cons who were set free from behind bars. Others act out due to mental illness, peer pressure, or pure hatred. Where is the righteous rage?
Try not to ignore the vast numbers of “illegal” immigrants crossing our southern border at will. Throngs have entered illegally from all over the world. The White House continues to sit in silence about this problem. Many of these are sexually abused on the journey, victims of human trafficking. A few days ago, two little girls under 10 years old, walking solo across the border, had been sexually assaulted. Our border officers have had to get wet while retrieving bodies floating in the Rio Grande, including the bodies of children. Not a peep from the White House, as if it’s not happening. When out of the confines of much of the media, you will find out that thousands of these untested, unmasked, unvaccinated illegal immigrants are ill with COVID as they are freely placed by our government all over the U.S. by plane and bus, possibly in your town unknowingly. It’s not a racial statement to point out the facts of what is going on. That’s a foolish default narrative accusation set-up by those who don’t want to face the problem, but are willing to attack those who do. Pouring in without resistance includes drug mules, various criminals, and well-known gang members, including the murderous, MS-13. Very few are being vetted. There are those close to the the border crisis warning of terrorists taking advantage of an reckless open border. Yet, the White House looks the other way. Yep, nothing to see here. That’s the same people who planned the exit from Afghanistan. Trust?
Unwise massive spending bills, much of which are politically charged from the far left, are being passed that will cripple our economy, leaving generations to come under water. Trillions of dollars we Americans do not have. We are no longer energy self-sufficient. Fossil fuel production here has been dramatically clipped in the last 8 months, and now we are dependent on OPEC, and OPEC’s whims once again. Sure, some nations pay $9.00/gallon and call it, “normal”. Some pay more than that. Is that what we want? My wallet isn’t big enough. How about yours? Maybe we will find a way to grind up all those statues of the founding fathers we have torn down and pour the dust into our gas tanks. Do you think that will work? At the same time, businesses are shutting down, while some can’t stay open due to the lack of employees. Why? Because the White House continues to spoon feed people with unemployment checks, along with stimulus checks, which add up to much more than their salaries.
Critical Race Theory is quickly becoming a norm for school districts all across the nation. Why do we approve of our children being soaked in the false narrative that one race is better than the other, adding that one race is a perpetual victim at birth? CRT teaches against Martin Luther King, Jr. He believed a nation should not judge by the color of skin, but by one’s character. CRT aims to divide the population into tribes, no longer with the goal of ONE NATION, ONE PEOPLE. The White House approves. Why is that?
We have a Godless generation being raised. Marxism is celebrated now. That sound isn’t wooden pews creaking as someone shifts their weight, it’s crickets. Ebbing away are moral directives and disciplines, unless it’s from the gang-banger on the corner, or the leftest professor with a communistic agenda. In fact, I have seen more Christian-haters, and Jew-haters, online now than ever before who rage openly, about how people of faith should be removed, or shut down in the proverbial public square. Just today, I read a post from an old friend who blamed the resistance to mask mandates on…(wait for it)…”religious people.” Have we forgotten how Nero blamed the ills of the Roman Empire, and even the burning of Rome on…(wait for it)…Christians? Oh, yeah. If CRT is replacing true history, than maybe no one will know about that.
I have seen people I know die from COVID. At this very moment, one of my dearest cousins is struggling for her life from this virus, and her husband is in ICU on a ventilator who may not recover from it. At the same time, there are multitudes who will read this and respond with, “If they are part of the unvaccinated, they deserve to suffer and die.” The White House is now using a carefully crafted title, “The Pandemic of The Unvaccinated”. This is dangerous! It sets the idea, for minds of mush, that the pandemic is only here due to individuals who have chosen not to get vaccinated. Thus, the blame-game. This is where we are in our society now. The love of many will indeed wax cold, so says scripture.
Unfortunately, much of our current politicians in Washington DC, care more about applauding themselves on passing a multi-trillion dollar spending bill into law, or the number of vaccines pierced this week, or how many masks are smothered over the faces of Americans than the sloppy mess of how it was decided to exit our people from Afghanistan. Because of this failure, many American soldiers have been killed in the process of helping to evacuate helpless civilians in harms way. Scores of civilian losses. Women who remain will be beaten, raped, murdered, and refused access to education. Why? Because there, they are seen as pack mules and baby factories by extremist pigs like the Taliban and ISIS-K. In THIS crisis, the White House can’t look the other way, only due to the outrage of the majority of Americans, as the White House watches the polls in hopes it will be just another news cycle scenario. Experts now fear another 9/11 will take place. I certainly expect it.
So, yes, my grief is good! It needs to happen. Too many today are NOT grieving over the dragging down of our nation, our culture, our society, our laws. Too many haven’t felt grief at all because of the option to medicate oneself. Drink this. Swallow this. Shoot-up this. Snort this. So many of what’s running through our veins is coming across…(wait for it)…our southern border. Soon, grief is drowned in the pool of a blank mind, a blank spirit, a blank soul. America is in trouble. And if America is in trouble, the free world is in trouble.
Believe me when I say, I am not wallowing in grief, but I do find it difficult to shampoo it all away. How do YOU rinse it out?
Grief itself is not wrong. It is not a sin. In fact, Jesus said it’s even rewarded.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” – Jesus – Matthew 5:3-4 (NAS)
Even Jesus was a man of sorrows. He wasn’t shielded from hurting and pain.
After His friend, Lazarus died, he was hit with grief. Before raising him from the dead…
“Jesus wept.” – John 11:35 (KJV)
He mourned for His nation in peril and disarray.
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you that murdered The Prophets and stoned those who were sent to it! How many times have I desired to gather your children, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing! Behold, your house is left to you desolate!” – Jesus – Matthew 23:37-38 (Aramaic Bible In Plain English)
He sees. He knows. He weeps. The Author and Finisher of The Faith wrote of all of the above in prophecies, both in the Old Testament and the New Testament.
He also comforts in the most difficult of times. That means I can react to our state of affairs and grieve. In doing so, I know I am in good company.
Grieving is expected. Righteous action is plainly printed in fuel for the race.
“I heard the LORD of Hosts declare: “‘Surely many houses will become desolate, great mansions left unoccupied. ‘” Isaiah 5:9 (Berean Study Bible)
“…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)
“Sometimes even now, When I’m feelin’ lonely and beat, I drift back in time and I find my feet, Down on Mainstreet… Down on Mainstreet” (1977) “Mainstreet” Written & Recorded By: Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band
(I’ve always wondered if Bob Seger meant to write, “Main Street” vs “Mainstreet”. Oh, well.)
Deep Ellum is an old section of Dallas, Texas, just off the east cusp of the downtown area. The “main” street is Elm Street. However, over the decades, during the development and expansion of what is now known as Deep Ellum, it is a full-blown artsy neighborhood of small businesses dishing up terrific nightlife, complete with restaurants, sidewalk cafes, coffee shops, and live music clubs. You can also expect a plethora of outdoor festivals. A pedestrian’s party haven.
The last time I was there, I was enjoying my daughter’s band at a quaint brick-walled night club. She was on a national concert tour that year out of Buffalo, NY.
Deep Ellum was one of the scheduled gigs before performing at the annual SXSW Fest in Austin, Texas.
There’s nothing like the sound of live music, Texas sunshine, and the smell of street tacos in the air. In a bohemian part of any large city, you can always expect street vendors.
Allow me to introduce you to one of Dallas’ most beloved street vendors, 60 year old, Leobardo Torres Sanchez.
Like a ripple of joy expanding out into the streets of Deep Ellum from Leobardo’s goodies cart-on-wheels, comes the opportunity for cotton candy in a bag, or on a stick, (He always wants you to know it was grown right here in Texas. Come to think of it, I might have seen a crop or two myself). He’s also loaded down with apples, popcorn balls, and often in the summer, balloons on a stick. Along with the tasty treats, he has a gift for dancing up a storm, including a pretty mean moonwalk. Those who frequent Deep Ellum know of the exuberant Leobardo very well. He is hard to miss…or hard to miss hearing.
Originally from Mexico, Leobardo has been selling his stuff on the curbs of Dallas for over eight years now. Like many men south of the border, Leobardo left his poor village, leaving his family behind, to find work away from home. He did just that with his focus on chipping-in on the American dream. According to his daughter, Miriam Torres Leon in Mexico, he faithfully sends money back to his family. He is seen as wealthy to others back home. He lives alone in a rented room, lives humbly, but considered blessed. He is a man who truly loves what he does each day.
If you visit this section of Dallas, you not only will hear good things concerning Leobardo from the business owners, their patrons, and the cops on bikes or horses assigned to the streets of Deep Ellum, but also the homeless and fellow street vendors. Many of the homeless have had their hands filled with free goods straight from Leobardo’s cart. Another street vendor mentioned recently to the Dallas Morning News how when he was robbed, Leobardo gave him 40 bags of cotton candy to sell to help stretch the dollar. That is a good reflection of the kind of heart you can expect from this man of commerce on wheels.
As you may have heard, Texas was hit in mid February with a freak winter 100 year storm with temps plunging to zero and single digits for much of Valentine’s Week. Leobardo, and street entrepreneurs like him, were forced off the streets. Being concerned after hearing of the Texas freezing storm, his daughter in Mexico called him. On the 12th, he told her the plummeting temperatures was unbearable to him. He told her not to worry, even though he lost electrical power due to an unprepared power grid, explaining to her that he was in his rental room wearing several jackets and had wrapped himself in layers of blankets. His circumstances was not unique here. Millions of Texans lost power, water, and sometimes gas.
After several days, Leobardo’s daughter could not contact her dad. However, she did put out a message on social media about the situation in hopes the Deep Ellum community might be able to locate him. Unfortunately, his daughter, Miriam, didn’t know his address, or just what part of Dallas he lived in. A couple of street vendors who knew Leobardo, and his location, heard of her digital posts and fought through the frigid weather to check on him.
On Tuesday, the 22nd, as the thawing was welcomed in Dallas, the police did a welfare check on Leobardo. He was found deceased in his frozen room. His body was found in his bed under several layers of blankets and wearing multiple coats. This poor man was one of a multitude of Texans who did not survive the single digit blast from a very rare weather tragedy. The heartbreak is real. Leobardo and I were the same age.
As the news of Leobardo’s death began to circulate, the mourners responded in droves with cash funds for his family in Mexico, flowers, written tributes, and a Go-Fund-Me account. It seems Leobardo was indeed a man of poverty. but wealthy in heart.
As I read of Leobardo’s passing, I was awestruck by the outpouring of the kind citizens affected by this man with what many would consider an insignificant life. Knowing that sounds harsh to read, or say aloud, I must state the following. Many who walked by his cart-on-wheels, maybe even purchased an apple from him on a hot summer day, might have seen him as a “lower rung” individual. Those who drove by Leobardo’s cotton candy stand, while on their way to Del Frisco’s for a $350.00 dinner, may have smirked at his efforts to scrape out a buck, or laughed at his dancing in the dust around his cart. Tears filled my eyes when imagining a man or woman seeing Leobardo ahead at the corner, crossing Elm Street just so they wouldn’t hear him ask in his broken English if they would like a popcorn ball. You know why, right? Because if one avoids someone like him, they are conveniently cancelled in one’s mind, as if they don’t exist. It’s that easy to put someone under the foot.
Then, at some point in my thoughts and imagination of these things, I remembered the outpouring of love from gentler hearts. Some of which who knew him, some who just gave him a smile as they walked around his cart, or perhaps some who bought one of his balloons for their child. I read more of the comments made by the many he impacted with his humble life. That’s when I smiled through a tear which had escaped.
“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main.” – John Donne’s Devotions (1624)
A pebble can be so insignificant under foot. The sound of a hiking boot crushing many pebbles, as the weight is distributed, has a unique tenor. Yet, when the sole applies weight to just one pebble, the resonance is hardly noticeable. But, pick up that single insignificant pebble, toss it into a still street puddle then count the ripples from the point of contact to the outer edges on all sides. Isn’t that all God asks of us while we walk our various pavements? Impact others around you. Sway individuals with your light, so that everyone will see how God works in your heart. In doing so, we make waves.
Making a ripple around you has a blueprint in fuel for the race.
“For none of us lives for ourselves alone, and none of us dies for ourselves alone.” Romans 14:7 (NIV)
“Go on now, go, walk out the door. Just turn around now, ‘Cause you’re not welcome anymore. Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye? You think I’d crumble? You think I’d lay down and die?” (1978) “I Will Survive” Recorded By: Gloria Gaynor Composers: Freddie Perren & Dino Fekaris
If you’ve not heard about it, you soon may become a victim of it with a blindside punch.
Some say it began about 25 years ago on college campuses across America. There were “safe spaces” for young college students who wished to get away from hearing opinions which didn’t align with their’s. In fact, any speech, just right of center, began to be shunned in efforts to push a more left field of thought. As this ideology brewed over repetition, married with time, a type of brainwashing began to occur among students. Of course, silencing other points of view was dressed up to appear to be an exercise in “safety” and “chaotic avoidance”. After all, if you banish dissenting thought, which evolves into speech and writing, then debate, disruption, and deciphering another view means self-conjured peace and quiet ruling over others not in your camp. In other words, it can be translated simply as, “I WANT MY WAY, AND I WILL HAVE IT MY WAY!” That sounds strangely like little voices from the past. “I WANT THAT ICE CREAM! I WANT IT NOW!” In the end, true healthy debate will be over.
Imagine a world where your opposition is no more…all the time.
Fast forward 35 years, America is full of 40-somethings who are CEO’s, owners of corporations, and last but not least, chiefs of Big Tech Corps. With a great deal of help from social media giants and corrupt news media, we now see where a culture has risen in numbers to browbeat and intimidate anyone they do not like, or anyone they do not want to hear from. In the name of safety and concern, and protection, conflicting voices can now be silenced in America by the few, not the majority.
This culture has now spread their tentacles into a dangerous discard mode. Literally, a culture delving into “cancelling out” of the public, those who dare to disagree politically, culturally, religiously, and ideologically. Just like the little ones who marinated themselves in the make-believe magic of Harry Potter, wishing away, or vanishing, anything perceived as evil.
Moreover, it bleeds into guilt by association. A perfect example would be cancelling all who supported conservative politicians, or whoever worked for a conservative candidate, or a particular administration. If you are a famous, well-established entertainer in comedy, movies, TV, or recording artist, who happens to be a conservative thinker, if you voice it, support conservative views, via donations or speech, you are in danger of being erased in the field of your occupation. Not unlike a pack of jackals on an African prairie, you can be ganged up on, chased through the streets, harassed publicly from your front lawn to your favorite social media site. In severe high profile cases, you can be so smudged because of your views, that you find your bank will no longer serve you. Imagine being turned down for career opportunities after a good screening of who you have been associated with. THIS IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW IN AMERICA. History can be rewritten if not opposed.
Yes, the cancel culture is flexing its biceps in the current political atmosphere, in the wake of recent current events. Make no mistake, if it grows, free speech will shrink. In my opinion, free speech essentially could one day be a part of our history…unless they cancel that part in history books. To vanquish, to erase, to delete opposing opinion out of existence is the goal.
If you know world history, you have seen this before. It doesn’t take long to discover nations who lost their freedoms in this way. How about the Salem witch trials right here on our soil? Because of a few disturbed accusing girls, many were executed as they were falsely accused of being witches. It didn’t take long for that small cancel culture to ignite hysteria, anger, and ruin.
At the same time of the growth of this twisted cancel culture, who couldn’t stand up to their own standards for very long, there is a Redeemer Who spent a very short time being crushed by a cancel culture.
Throughout this Redeemer’s life, He taught and exhibited the opposite of a cancel culture. He was okay with being ridiculed to meet up with a Samaritan woman at a well in a town nobody in His culture would ever go through because they had “cancelled” the people who lived there. They thought of it as cursed land. (Sound familiar red states?) He met with her, offered her living water and freedom from accusations. After visiting another town, He invited Himself to the house of a little man who had been “cancelled” by his own fellow citizens because he was a chief tax collector for Rome. Zacchaeus soon found freedom of the spirit after this Redeemer went home with him for a dinner. One day, this Redeemer was approached by a gang of “cancellation experts” who wanted to stone a young woman to death for an accusation of adultery. Even though the law at the time demanded an execution for the crime of adultery, this Redeemer stood between the mob with stones and the accused, boldly challenging the pack of “cancel lovers”. “Whoever here is without a sin in life, let that person throw the first stone at her.”(My paraphrase.) Each one, from the oldest to the youngest, evaluated his own corrupt heart and dropped the stones while walking away. She was not cancelled that day, but rather uplifted.
Jesus was so against a culture of cancellations. He didn’t silence voices of opposition, but asked to hear them. He lived, modeled, and displayed inclusion, not exclusion. Why? Because He knew where it placed a culture. It placed them in a deadly, murderous, unforgiving, and soulless spiral into an inescapable abyss. God’s mercy and grace was rejected, cancelled from the minds of its citizens. In fact, He warned the nation that their stiff-necked destructive behavior, without a turning from it, would direct them to a physical destruction, and a spiritual cancellation. Roughly 40 years passed, and in 70 AD, the Romans utterly destroyed the nation.
In our current worship of cancelling the lives of our fellow citizens, allow me to pick one verse of scripture which shines a brilliant light on how Jesus felt about cancelling those in opposition.
“Jesus then told the crowd and the disciples to come closer, and he said: If any of you want to be my followers, you must forget about yourself. You must take up your cross and follow me.” – Jesus (Mark 8:34)- Contemporary English Version)
There’s two things Jesus did cancel. Sin as a master, and eternal death.
Freedom of speech wasn’t new in 1776. It’s first found in fuel for the race.
“For the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh but have divine power to destroy strongholds. We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ.” – 2 Corinthians 10:4-5 (ESV)
“You don’t know me but I’m your brother. I was raised here in this living hell. You don’t know my kind in your world. Fairly soon the time will tell. You – Telling me the things you’re gonna do for me. I ain’t blind and I don’t like what I think I see. (Takin’ it to the streets) Takin’ it to the streets…” (1976) “Takin’ It To The Streets” Recorded by: The Doobie Brothers Composer: Michael McDonald
Oh, but blindness is a secret ingredient in our sour bread today.
A text dinged my phone late Friday night. It was my daughter, Megan. She lives in downtown Buffalo, NY. She informed me about a rioting mob coming down her street and how she was on her way to move her curb-parked car before the mob arrived. Although she found a safer place to park her car, other properties around her didn’t do so well in the wake of the raging rioters. The following morning she explained how the smashing of storefront windows, in concert with the screaming and yelling, kept her awake all night long. In the light of day she left her apartment to find shops, restaurants, and car windows smashed, along with burned-out vehicles from arsonists. Her heart was broken over the businesses she frequents. Many of the owners are her friends. Megan attacked the broken glass on the walkways with a broom to aid in the aftermath. She’s a great gal, if I do say so myself.
Of course, this all helped her to understand just how to honor the family of the late, George Floyd, mercilessly killed at the hands of Minneapolis police officers on Memorial Day. I’m certain she will now want to destroy the lives around her the very next time a rogue city employee invokes a racist action. After all, isn’t that what is in vogue currently? Shouldn’t we burn down the local drug store where your son, grandmother, or dad purchases insulin? If you hear one racial slur, or just hear about it second hand, no doubt you will break the windows of a mom & pop clothing store, and loot everything you can grab. While you’re at it, take selfies of yourself holding up the stolen goods so it can be stored in the cloud to find you guilty in a future court of law. In fact, whatever out-of-state wrongdoing we hear about, let’s just drive to the next town over to throw firebombs at the closest law enforcement officer standing on any given street corner. (You know, the officer who has a spouse and three kids waiting at home.) In this way, after accomplishment, we can proudly say, “There! That will teach the *#@%!! wrongdoer I heard about from a state on the other side of the *#@%!! nation!”
It was heart-ripping to watch the brutality which ended in the murder of George Floyd of Minneapolis. Like most, I felt the boil in my belly as shock and dismay were overcome by raw anger. The action of the criminal cops was nothing short of outrageous, evil, and abominable. If the lady who holds up the scales in the courthouse is awake, I am certain justice will be served.
As I write this, there is a planned protest underway at our local police station here in our northern suburb of Dallas, Tx. America’s freedoms allow such peaceful protests. It is the way of our constitutional rights to do so, to speak openly and freely, without fear of governmental reprisals, or any other citizen who may have another viewpoint. It was written long ago in the infancy of our nation to freely assemble, to freely speak, even in “peaceful” protest of our government, local or federal. Our founders believed these rights were given to us by God, nature’s God. This indicates that no person, nor a person’s government, nor king, gave us these rights. We (humanity) inherited them from our Creator from the beginning. If the “peaceful” protesters, a couple miles from me, keep that in mind, maybe my house will not be burned down tonight.
This would be the same God who also put in writing that it is a sin to steal, kill, and destroy your neighbor. In other words, when we review this carefully we can see that if we have these rights given by God, then we certainly can say this God is firmly against viciously raping the rights of a neighbor while stealing, killing, and destroying. Lawlessness has a heavy price tag. It’s important to note in our day and culture the following…
GOD IS NOT SCHIZOPHRENIC!
Check my archives. Many times I have written about the scourge of racism. What we witnessed in Minneapolis was a hate crime, in my opinion. Of course, the courts will have to decide this based on the evidence at hand. However, what we have faced in recent days in our country has ZERO to do with racism, or even the tragic slaughter of George Floyd. I know, there will be some who say it has everything to do with it. But I dare you to be honest in a bout of reconsideration. Follow me on this.
Martin Luther King, Jr knew and exercised peaceful protests. An incredible man following God’s heart for the people of this nation under God. Efforts to “take down” America, using a scorched earth method in our streets, is not the protest MLK approved of. In fact, if you read his writings, listen to his sermons, you will find it would grieve him greatly.
Our peaceful protests have been hijacked by anarchists who have a vision of the destruction of America. And don’t be fooled. Our enemies are circling like birds of prey to see if self-engineered anarchy can leave this nation in ruin, especially so quickly after the COVID-19 pandemic.
There is a great darkness over our land today. This is a spiritual problem. I watch these 20 year old hooded puppets of the anarchists, anarchists who cowardly hide behind a curtain, mindlessly hellbent on devouring America and my heart hurts. Most are teens and up to 30 years old or so. They are full of a rage they don’t even understand, although they are directed to believe they understand. So, like a master instrumentalist playing a flute, they teach the torching of the cafe and shoe store their grandparents helped to build. Most are drunk in the thrill of the flames, the shattered glass, the stolen property, along with bodily harm to the innocent. Not once do these young minds of mush think about what comes next if they succeed. Do you think that they really know? The reality is, they would find themselves enslaved to another form of government that deletes their rights, decays their open future for the better, and defies the God Who gave them such liberty of law for the pursuit of happiness. Endless poverty like they’ve never known. Tyrannic brutality beyond modern-day description. Not to mention, they will be forced to the front lines of a nuclear conflict to come in short order.
I watch them and see they have no fear of God. The fear of a Supreme One, who dictates the times, laws, and steps of nations, is not in these street puppets. The Minneapolis officers displayed no fear of God during the memorial Day murder of George Floyd. Once based on the Almighty, this country suffers from the willingness of ejecting the Great I Am of scripture for the role of a marionette.
A nation without the fear of its Creator is a spiraling one. It’s been proven over and over again. God, help us all.
Hard lessons are rolled up in the scrolls of fuel for the race.
“Righteousness exalts a nation, but sin condemns any people.” – Proverbs 14:34 (NIV)
“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)
“…Scattered pictures of the smiles we left behind. Smiles we gave to one another for the way we were…Can it be that it was all so simple then? Or has time rewritten every line?…” (1974) The Way We Were. Recorded by; Barbra Streisand. Composers: Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman, Marvin Hamlisch.
There’s much to learn from a simple photograph. I adore antique photos, always have. They are even more special when you find images depicting your own flesh and blood. If you love family history, then you and I could share some time over a few cups of java.
Check out the cover shot I placed above. This is a 1902 family reunion from my paternal side. No doubt it’s from the summer time in Texas, yet there’s all that clothing. Look at all stiff high collars, neckties and gowns that crawl up to the chin, along with the hats. Summers in Texas can reach 100+ degrees easily. How did they do it? In all honesty, the southern tradition was to have an event like this right after church on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe that’s why everybody is in their Sunday-go-to-meetin’-clothes. I see watermelon slices, cakes, pies, etc. And then there’s that guy on the back row, just right of center, swigging a big bottle of….well…uh…Okay, who knows. But remember, church was over. LOL
Being from the south, there is a depth of Confederate soldiers in the family.
Photo: Meet Great Uncle Alexander Ambrose Timmons (1865) Now THAT’S a knife!
Photo: Meet my Great Grandpa Lewis Pinkney Brooks (1866) After the war, he rode a mule from Georgia to west Texas to stay. He found himself to be a cattle drover, pioneer settler, homesteader, 2nd sheriff of Young County, Texas, stage coach inn owner, and Indian fighter.
Yes, sometimes inside family history one can find skeletons which may not be politically correct by today’s self-imposed standards. I’m not one to erase history. In fact, I gaze at it, study it, and recognize the truth of the way we were. We need to see how far we’ve come. We need to discover how and why issues in society arose. We are in need of understanding before we repeat some aspects of our history which may stain us as a culture. We also should value perspectives. One can title a person an “Indian fighter” but often neglects the realities of circumstance. As for my my great-grandfather Brooks, he dealt with the pains of pioneering. Tonkawa and Comanche often raided his barn overnight to steal horses, cattle, and mules. Another time, he and his cousin were building a three-foot herd wall, made of stone, when they were attacked unprovoked. Grave plots had to be topped in layers of large stone to discourage grave-robbing for clothes and jewelry. Outlaws are outlaws, no matter the culture. Yes, it was a lawless wild country in very different times. Only after years of fighting back in defense of his wife and children did peace began to rise.
Pioneer women were of a different breed. They were tough as brass doorknobs while growing and nurturing families in the harshest conditions.
Photo; Meet my Great Grandma Mary Lucinda “Cinnie” Moore-Brooks (1877). She was not a doctor, but performed medical aid for the citizens of the county when needed. There are stories of her alone on foot, in late night hours, traveling to attend to women in labor miles away. Once a young family in a covered wagon, headed for the western frontier, stopped at the homestead asking for medical aid. The couple had a baby who was ill. The family lodged in their house for a good couple of weeks as Mary Brooks tended to the infant. Sadly, the child couldn’t be saved. They buried the baby in our family cemetery on the land. Brokenhearted, the couple got back on the trail and was never heard from again. She was not only a woman of great courage, but a woman of heart.
Photo: Let me introduce you to my Great Aunt Alverse Brooks (1905ish). I don’t know much about Aunt Alverse, I just love her face. I do know she liked to swim in the Brazos River with her sisters. She lived as a single woman. (The men must have been pushed away, or simply stupid.)
Photo: Say hello to my Grandma Bessie Brooks-Brown, with her two sisters, swimming in the Brazos River just below the family homestead (1909ish). This lovely refreshed and digitized shot is nothing but a joy to look at. My grandma is on the left. Notice the swimwear where EVERYTHING is covered. How many layers do you think they were wearing? However, it didn’t keep that guy behind them from gawking in his ten gallon hat. Yes, times were different.
You might be asking yourself, “Why is Alan forcing all these family pics on us?” There’s a method to my madness.
Have you seen those DNA test commercials? How can you miss them? You know the ones where the actor says something like, “I thought my family came from Scotland, so I bought this kilt. Then I had my DNA tested and found out I’m actually German!” Recently I had been given a birthday gift card encouraging me to get my DNA tested. It’s something I always wanted to do. One of my thrills comes from reading family trees. This is a notch above the tree. So, I ordered a DNA kit.
Not long ago I was reviewing some of my medical lab work from a blood and urine sample. There was an indicator of a possible unknown ethnic bloodline hidden in my genes. I was shocked. I do know of some Native American on my maternal side, but I just assumed Anglo-Saxon was the balance of my strand, due to surnames. The DNA test will spell out the surprises. It will be nice to get to know the authentic “me”….or will it?
I find it funny how some of these DNA test ads speak of “…finding the real you”, or “I never knew I was this, or that.” One TV spot had an actor speaking a line similar to, “I ordered my kit because I wanted to know the true me.” Of course, I understand what the meaning is behind such scripted lines. I get it. My issue is the idea of “the true me”.
Lately I’ve been deeply diving into Larry McMurty’s novel series, Lonesome Dove. I guess I enjoy tales of the state from which I call home. Reading of its wilder, unsettled times is a blast. Frankly, it helps me to understand my family in our photos. One main character, a former Texas Ranger and drover from the Texas Republic years, lost a leg and an arm in a shootout with a Mexican train robber and serial killer. After he realized he would live as an amputee for the rest of his life, his bolt, staunch personality changed. He became more withdrawn. I guess you could say the heart of the man shrunk. His words often consisted of how “HE” was no longer who he was, or used to be. He saw his missing limbs as tools that identified his toughness, his persona, and his legacy. It’s not unusual for depression to invade an amputee’s psyche shortly after the vacuum of trauma. Yet, why look at an amputated limb on a table and think, “Hey, that’s me over there on the table?” It’s a terrible mistake that tends to haunt. A disabled vet can testify to this depression-fed mindset.
A leg, an arm, even a DNA strand does not say WHO you ARE. These things do not relabel the soul and spirit of the individual person. After a tragic plane crash, or the sinking of a ship, they do not report, “100 bodies were lost.” Traditionally it’s printed, “100 souls were lost.” One can be robbed of a limb, a featured look, or a physical profile, but the person inside has not been altered on the operating table…unless the individual cuts away at it by choice. Whether I am a burn victim, a man of extreme age, facially mutilated, newly unemployed, or an amputee, I know WHO I am deep inside where flesh doesn’t live, grow, or die. MY DNA doesn’t alter the ME which turns me to the right or the left. My genes have no power over the ME which molds behavior, or makes eternal decisions. No bloodline rules and reigns over the ME who chooses to love, serve, or share. No bloodline from my family tree can measure up to the ME I select in life. After all, flesh turns to dust in a future grave, or ashes spread by the winds atop a west Texas bluff.
Have you ever heard someone’s final words on their deathbed to be, “Oh, how I wish I had a Celtic slice in my DNA strand. I would have been a better person?”
We all have our choices, no matter the accent, skin color, cultural slants, or the soil of our birth. Even a surname doesn’t register the YOU inside your core. The heart is key. It’s what God said He evaluates, nothing else.
I look forward to the DNA reveal concerning the body I host. I know this because of the intake of fuel for the race.
“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)
“I will remember you. Will you remember me? Don’t let life pass you by. Weep not for the memories…” I Will Remember You, (1995). Recorded by: Sarah McLachlan. Composers: Sarah McLachlan, Seamus Egan, Dave Merenda
Cover photo: Anne Neville/Buffalo News
Life sure has its ways of reminding us how we should have corrected ourselves at some point and time. The rear-view mirror can be a teaching tool.
I lived in Williamsville/Amherst, NY, a Buffalo suburb, from 2003-2008. It’s approximately 5,300 in population. I chose Williamsville because it was a beautiful, quaint little area, away from the city where I did a radio show. The property taxes were higher, with the safe neighborhood, as well as the school district. It was a superb place for my three girls.
Often times, while driving into the quiet, older downtown village of Williamsville for a dinner run, or a nice walk down to the Ellicott Creek waterfall in Glen Park, we would see a mysterious man walking the sidewalks. He was quite the oddity for the setting of Williamsville’s more upper-crust reputation. He was a homeless man, or so we assumed. The majority of the homeless were seen in the city, not the norm for the Williamsville/Amherst section of Buffalo. More than likely you would see him clad in camouflage coat & pants, or a pair of cargo khakis, hunting lace-up boots, and long heavy yarn scarves wrapped around his neck that hung down to his thighs.
One evening, while sitting in the car in a parking lot, waiting to pick-up my daughter from a musical rehearsal, I saw the man was nearby, digging through a trash bin outside a Wendy’s fast food location. At closer glance, I observed the scarves with a better perspective. The scarves were not scarves at all. They were extremely long strands of thick, matted hair, appearing to be mufflers of wool. These strands were not dreadlocks, with crafty braids of hair art, although many attempted a good spin by calling them dreadlocks. They were as thick as a dock rope. It was an amazing sight, and certainly highly unique. It told part of this man’s narrative.
My oldest daughter, Tabitha, 16 at the time, worked part-time for Spot Coffee, a popular coffee and pastry bar. He made a semi-daily stop there for a tall cup of straight java. He was offered free coffees and food from most of the businesses in the village. or wherever he showed up, but he always paid when he could. Empty bottles and cans were his prey. It was a familiar scene, a plastic trash bag full of the soon-to-be recycled items, draped over his shoulder. He had a zip-lock plastic bag of coins and dollar bills stashed in the thigh pocket of his pants. Nobody ever saw him begging on the street corners. However, the community members, not allowing judgement to overrule them, donated money to him coming and going. One might wonder how the business owners and the police dealt with him. I am proud to say, very kindly. Everyone understood, this man was part of our community, living a life of his choosing.
More days than not, if you drove by Spot Coffee, you would see him sitting at one of the patio tables with coffee in hand, gazing off toward the horizon. He seemed to live in his own world. He was gentle, never causing trouble. Although he was not one to enjoy talking much. He would respond if spoken to. My daughter has a big heart. She made sure she spoke to him while serving him coffee, or whenever she was close enough on other occasions.
Photo: Carole Taylor & Buffalo News
Sometimes you could see him sitting outside a Burger King on a sidewalk bench, eating a burger. Other times, he would be stuffing one into an old worn backpack. It was not unusual for him to decline someone offering him fries to go with it. My opportunity was one August afternoon as I jogged by the bench. You guessed it. I looked straight ahead listening to Fleetwood Mac on my headset, pretending I didn’t notice him.
Many have seen him walking the campus of the University of Buffalo, watching the pigeons. There is a subway station there, on the south campus, where he often took shelter. With that said, I think he simply enjoyed the peaceful surroundings of the campus, even under hostile weather.
After a year of living there, this man just became a fixture to me. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I no longer acknowledged his presence, but rather I expected to see him…somewhere. What’s truly nagging at me is the fact he had a story and I didn’t know it.
Although he was an icon, even a staple in the area, most only heard rumors concerning who he really was. Not many ever knew his name, including your’s truly. One rumor painted the man on the street as an alcohol and drug addict. Another rumor dubbed him as a military vet from the Vietnam conflict. Because he often paid for his coffee and food, many believed he was covertly wealthy, wanting to experience the street life of the poor. It’s funny how we can extract scenarios about someone when they are shrouded in mysteries.
One thing is for sure, he was a tough soul. During the decades of street life, he braved some of the worst winter blasts Buffalo/Niagara had to offer, and they are many.
My middle daughter, Megan, still lives in Buffalo. Recently I asked if she has spotted the roving man after all these years. She said he stays pretty much in the Amherst/Williamsville suburbs, but nothing had seemed to change for him.
Last week, Megan posted an article from the Buffalo News newspaper. During the horrid polar vortex weather system, which blew in sub-zero temps, and all that goes with it, Buffalo was hit extremely hard.
At the height of the storm, he had gone to one of his coffee hang-outs, a Tim Horton’s location, but it was closed due to the travel ban with the deep freeze encasing the region. (It’s highly rare to see a Tim Horton’s closed due to weather.) He then entered, for the very first time, the lobby at a nearby luxury hotel. The manager of the restaurant and bar, offered him coffee and a chair, which he accepted. Seeing that he was suffering from the penetrating polar winds, he was generously offered a room for the night. He declined. (Even if he had accepted, he would’ve abandoned the accommodations soon after.) The manager then offered hot food, a warm hat, as well as another coat. As it was his usual form, he declined. After a small time of warmth, the poor man began to make his way to the lobby door. The staff begged him to stay longer, only to watch him nod as he made his frigid exit.
Lawrence “Larry” Bierl, age 67-69, was found the following morning, January 31st, just two blocks down from the hotel, on a bench at a three-sided plexiglass bus stop on Main Street. Somewhere in the overnight, he had passed away from the wrath of the polar vortex.
Photo: Sharon Cantillon/Buffalo News
The Buffalo News article had published a beautiful letter from Larry’s extended family. Nobody was aware he had family at all. His sister was the writer. As the family revealed Larry’s story, I could hardly hold my mouth closed. Larry held a master’s degree. He was once in management of a well-known airline corporation. He never was a vet. He never was a drug addict, or alcohol abuser. One day, in the mid 70’s, for no apparent reason, he walked away from his life as he knew it to be. He traveled the country, often hitching rides with truckers and hopping trains, only to return to Buffalo to live as a homeless man. The family did all they could to help him. They tried for years to convince him to get help. He declined. After many years of tracking him, pushing him to get the much needed assistance he deserved, the family surrendered to his wishes. Nobody in his family ever knew exactly what happened to his mind, or what derailed his life, but he lived with a mental illness.
After reading of his terrible death, along with his story, I must admit, I cried. As I write this blog, my mind still hasn’t come to grips with how I feel, or how to process this. Why? Because I never spoke to Larry, although many I love had done so. Not once did I ever offer him a meal, a bottle of water, or a new pair of shoes. It came to mind to grab a gift card at a hair salon, or a clothing outlet, but I never did. Clearly, God gave me opportunities, but apparently “I” was more important.
“…Love your neighbor as yourself.” – Jesus – Mark 12:31a (NIV)
Sure, there were internal excuses. They went something like this, “The Buffalo City Mission downtown will take care of him.” Here’s another, “My neighbors will do it.” Of course the most common, “I don’t have the time on my schedule today.” Ironically, I’ve volunteered at missions and shelters since I was a teenager. You could’ve found me feeding the homeless at various soup kitchens, from time to time in my life. But Larry….not one thing, not once. Mentioning him on my radio show would’ve been acceptable. I could’ve brought more awareness to Larry’s plight. No, I didn’t open up at all. I had the chance to make a difference in his day. I did nothing of the sort. Part of me never wants to hear rejection, even if it’s offering a pair of socks to a homeless one who may decline. Well, that’s my lame excuse. Frankly, my tears weren’t just for Larry, but they were also for my seemingly growing jaded outlook. God forbid that my heart grows cold and hard with age.
Someone very wise once said, “Never cry for a life lost. Rejoice because it happened.” (Paraphrased) One sour soul might say Larry’s life was a wasted life, a waste of time, and a waste of space. However, the hundreds that helped Larry, who gave of themselves through the decades, were enriched by the man. Think about it.
“It is more blessed to give than to receive.” – Jesus (Quoted in Acts 20:35 – NAS)
It might be wise to deice, or defog the rear-view mirror first, before going the extra mile.
The ice melts. The sub-zero temps vanish. But life…life makes its stamp. Somewhere in Williamsville/Amherst, NY, if you go to a quiet place, you just might hear the whisper of Lawrence Bierl, “I was here.”
Remembering and serving, floods from the river of fuel for the race.
“Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; When you see the naked, to cover him; And not to hide yourself from your own flesh(and blood)?” Isaiah 58:7 (NAS)