“See you later alligator, After ‘while, crocodile.” (1956) “See you later, Alligator” Recorded By: Bill Haley & His Comets Composer: Robert Charles Guidry
Today, I attended the memorial service of an old friend who died way too soon. Her name was, Patt. (Yes, two “T’s” because she wanted to make it different. That’s the way Patt rolled.)
Patt was the big sister I never had. She was the sister of one of my best friends in high school. Patt was four years older than we were, so she treated us like we were in her way. You know, when I think of it, we probably were at that time in our lives. But I was very fond of Patt and happy to write, she was fond of me, too.
Patt was full of talent. She was a bit of what we used to call, “Tomboy”. She was a bit rough around the edges. A great athlete, musician, singer, songwriter, as her little brother was. Patt played the piano, the organ, the guitar, the banjo, the flute, and the violin. After college she became a physical education teacher, coach and referee. When the 1980’s hit, we lost track of one another as life took us in different directions. But her brother and I were always close, and remain so to this day. She was able to keep up with my life through her brother. Two years ago, we were at a family lunch for some Texas BBQ, and we spent some time catching up. I am so grateful for that moment in our lives.
A bit over a month ago, Patt fell ill. She was surprised to find out that she had stage 3 lung cancer. The doctors drained her lungs and told her it was still treatable. Just two weeks ago her status changed. She entered stage 4 lung cancer. A little over a week ago, she was admitted into ICU where her lungs were constantly being drained. Thursday, the 14th of March, she passed away. The entire ordeal still has our heads swimming. The speed of her illness was supersonic.
Her memorial service was beautiful, loving and honoring. She was a woman of faith. To define that, she was a follower of Jesus. Her brother, my friend, Mark sang an old, not well-known, John Denver song, “On The Wings Of A Dream”. It was extra sweet as she had willed him her Ovation guitar and used it in the service.
Photo: Mark Cannon with Patt’s Ovation guitar.
Patt’s body was all decked out for the open casket ceremony. And as usual, it, the body, didn’t look like Patt at all. It’s interesting, isn’t it? You often will hear that from other loved ones surrounding the open casket.
“Well, they did a good job on him/her, but it sure doesn’t look like him/her.”
I’ve attended many funeral services with an open casket. I have learned much from those moments standing there gazing down at the remains of a loved one. The main thing I have been educated on is the fact that when life leaves the body, it is incredibly noticeable. One minute, there is breath, along with blood pumping through the artwork of the network of vessels and veins, then the next minute, everything stops. Biblically, we understand that the “person”, the “soul”, the “spirit” which thrived inside the body vacates, leaving a shell, a house in which the person once lived. That person, disconnected from the body, is transported into an eternal place prepared where the old body, the shell, was not meant to reside. One theologian called this body our, “earth suit”. It’s just a suit made to clothe our soul/spirit while living on the planet. Scripture is very clear on this. The trusting believer in the risen Jesus is immediately translated to another realm where He is. That is where Patt moved to on Thursday, March 14th at 6:53pm, EST. At 6:52pm, she was in a failing body in an ICU room. The next minute, she, the person, the essence, the persona of Patt, was freed from it all as she was being held by her Redeemer as He lovingly said,
“Welcome home, Patt”.
I have friends who are without a faith in Jesus and His promises. They will grieve for Patt differently than I will. Why? Because to them, death is an idea that you just go blank like a prairie chicken death. Others have an idea Patt will float throughout the universe on a cushion of good intensions. (Gee, what fun, right?) While others feel Patt will go into a nirvana of an existence due to her being a great person of truly good efforts. They believe those things because they have rejected the scripture they have read, or heard of. So, because humanity was created to have eternity in mind, they make up any other scenario that sounds pleasant to their wandering, and wondering minds. So, yes, I grieve differently because I have the joy of the future in Jesus beyond this life.
Photo: My lovely wife, Michelle with me at Patt’s memorial service. (Can you tell I had been crying?)
If Patt were here she would type this out as well. She is there, by the side of Jesus, because of what He did on the cross for her, not because of what she has done. It was for the remission of her sins in life, and with it, the promise of new life eternally. Without her faith in Him, the spirit of Patt would be spent in darkness, away from God, away from her prepared place with Him. Jesus paved the way by vacating His own tomb on Easter morning. That tomb remains empty today in Jerusalem, just like the emptiness of Patt’s remains in that casket six feet under.
Photo: Patt Cannon Barrett
Ironically, Patt was buried on her birthday. She was born on this memorial service day, March 27, but spiritually born again when she was a teenager. That’s why Patt wasn’t buried today, only the old house, the shell, the cocoon in which she once lived.
Learning to replace, “Goodbye” with, “See you later” is taught in fuel for the race.
“For God loved the world in this way: so much that he would give up his Son, The Only One, so that everyone who trusts in him shall not be lost, but he shall have eternal life.” – Jesus – John 3:16 (Aramaic Bible In Plain English)
Smoke gets in your eyes.” (1958) “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” Recorded By: The Platters. Written in 1933 by, Jerome Kern & Otto Harbach for the stage musical, “Roberta”.
Who saw it coming? Absolutely nobody, with the exception of meteorologists and forest fire experts.
The massive Canadian forest fires, topping close to 10 million acres, scattered from west to east, caused an enormously wide-spread haze from its smoke last week. The smoke caused the skies to not only darken, but turn the air to an ugly orange cast. My daughter, Megan in Buffalo, NY, text me saying her car was covered in a layer of ash, as if a volcano had gotten angry. The coverage of the damaging haze crossed over most of the entire northeast of the U.S., and as far south as parts of North Carolina. Someone described it as feeling like you were smoking a evergreen twig.
The swirling, growing smoky haze settled in for a few days before it began to blow out over the Atlantic. What a nightmare. Health hazard warnings were given. The government recommended staying indoors as much as possible. Face masks came out once again. Oh, joy! Ballgames were cancelled. Many flights cancelled. Plays and concerts were cancelled. Many school district’s summer classes and activities were cancelled.
Photo: NBC News
Heath experts from various medical institutions warned of the consequences of such a lengthy condition of the haze. They explained how the lungs are not the only part of our bodies altered by the ongoing event. As the smoke saturates the body through the skin, eyes, nose, mouth, and also the hair, it lingers in our system and seeps into the bloodstream itself. As you can imagine, this can cause long lasting health problems beyond breathing issues, along with a nasty cough. No wonder so many headlines called it, “Apocalyptic”, which alludes to a biblical event of the future where the earth is basically destroyed. What’s always interesting to me is the fact that many who reject scripture as a whole, like to use this word first for a description of whatever shocking event occur. As bad as this event has been for the northeast, just imagine what the wake of an asteroid impact dishes out. Or, a nuclear blast, or two, or three. The book of Revelation in the Bible speaks of such events to come. The subject matter is certainly a daunting study.
Photo: NBC News
Frankly, this isn’t the first time such an event has been served out to the U.S. A few times in recorded history, we have been levelled by such, compliments of huge forest fires from the north. One gargantuan “Apocalyptic” phenomenon of note took place on May 19, 1780. It was called, “New England’s Dark Day”. Canadian forest fires sent a Smokysaurus Rex over the northeastern seaboard which delivered midnight in the middle of the day. Citizens of New England were lighting lanterns and candles during the day to be able to see. From Maine to the southern shores of New Jersey, the skies were so altered it turned day to night. In 1780, with the slow communication they dealt with in their era, the mystery shook the public to the core. Needless to say, forest timber management wasn’t a widely acknowledged operation during those times. Unfortunately, many still don’t either have the budget for it, or they ignore the issue altogether. We have many wooded states in the U.S. allowing the underbrush to pile up like kindling in a fireplace.
Although clearing air is slowly prevailing, the lingering health hazards remain.
Photo: New York Times
Albeit a word our culture tends to flush, “Sin” is much like the thick haze experience. You don’t have to be a theological professor to evaluate the rise of evil, the growth of crime, slander, and cold-hearted indifference, in our society. What has been deemed as wrong, since the writings of Moses, is now cheered, applauded, and even respected. Hatred is the diet of the day. We vote individuals into office who strive to encourage crime of every kind, even to the point of revoking bail, releasing criminals out on the streets after just a day of an arrest. We parade sin, shame and deviate behavior to justify our rebellion against God and His teachings. Our current “enlightened” culture, as a whole, cannot stomach biblical instruction. Apparently, if you stand on public property and protest sin vocally by speaking scripture aloud, you can be arrested. Yes, it happened last week. Recently, a man and his family were praying outside an abortion clinic when an overzealous angry pro-abortion individual began to attack the man’s son. The father defended his son by pushing the person back. Many witnesses stated it looked like an intentional set-up. Soon after, the FBI raided their home, complete with body armor and automatic rifles in their governmental hands. The father was arrested. In some states in the U.S., if a criminal breaks into your home with intent to harm, or kill, you can be in legal trouble if you defend your person, family, or property. Again, what is bad is declared good today. This is a direct fulfillment of prophetic biblical text. God warned us of this day where we would recognize the times by resembling the days of Noah, when everyone will do what is right in their own eyes.
Just like the smoke-filled air millions had to suck into their bodies last week, sin permeates. The consistent, perpetual haze of a sinful nation soaks into the minds and hearts of its citizenry, causing desensitization, pliability, even a version of public brainwashing. And when sin has settled itself inside, it destroys the soul. It destroys a people. It distorts the clarity of view, destroying the righteous standard once generally held. When smoke has its way, and gets in your eyes, you can, and will fall into the closest pit.
Scripture reading, biblical teaching, and Spirit-living can be a giant fan in someone’s hazy existence. Unlike the National Geographic, the Reader’s Digest, the Origin of Species, or the latest from whatever twisted curriculum the school districts force on our kids, scripture is God-breathed. It is healing. It is reassuring. It is comforting and reconciling. In a smoky haze-filled world, it has the directions to remove notions, ideologies, and evil itself. And unlike Canadian wildfires, God’s Spirit endures.
Take a breather and clear the air with fuel for the race.
“Son of man, you live among rebels who have eyes but refuse to see. They have ears but refuse to hear. For they are a rebellious people.” – Ezekiel 12:2 (New Living Translation)
“Won’t you look down upon me Jesus? You’ve got to help me make a stand…” (1970) “Fire And Rain” Written and Recorded By: James Taylor
Christian history is simply fascinating, to put it mildly. In fact, from Jesus, all the way down through the ions, the historical timeline of the Christian faith is like no other. You don’t have to look behind us too far to find extraordinary happenings of Jesus movements that can raise your hair.
Just since the birth of the American Colonies, the amazing milestones of the church, and its outreach, are well documented, but often tinkered with in a Google search or Wikipedia. For the authentic history, it’s best to rise above the “wokeness” of those with large erasers. Instead, do the research by hitting the old history books before the slanted rewrites began to manipulate factual, documented occurrences concerning Christianity in America.
Trust me, there is way too much of church history to layout on this post. But I would be remise if I didn’t mention, “The Great Awakening”, and the “Second Great Awakening”. The facts of the faithful in the U.S., Canada, and Europe are astonishing. There are a few names that stick out to me who were used greatly to ignite a faith movement during their times.
George Whitefield (Often spelled, “Whitfield”) He lit a spiritual fire for decades all across Great Britain, and the American Colonies from the 1740’s-1770’s. Benjamin Franklin wrote of Whitfield’s magnetism by use of his voice delivery and the pulpit.
Charles G. Finney. From the 1820’s to the 1870’s, he was the match God used to start a flame known as the “Second Great Awakening”. His works and documents are outstanding. He set out to revive a spiritually sluggish nation, earning the title of “Father of Modern Revivalism”. Not unlike Whitfield, Finney travelled mainly by horseback, drawing crowds ready to stay a few days. Many of the throng would travel far and wide to be under his sermons.
Dwight L. Moody was a shoe salesman in Chicago. He was inspired by the evangelical giants before him like, Charles Finney and George Whitefield. He began small by starting a kid’s ministry and a street ministry that would later be called, “Sunday School”. His sermons of note, some printed and published, are still quoted by many pastors today…if they dare. From the 1850’s to the 1890’s, this salesman turned fiery preacher, aided in evangelizing both America and Great Britain. He also founded the highly successful Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, which continues to send out quality trained graduates into the world today.
Billy Sunday was a famous baseball player, turned evangelist. From the 1880’s to 1935, Billy Sunday became widely known as a camp-meeting revivalist, who would spend weeks at a time, preaching in communities all across America. The mother of an old friend of mine came to faith under the preaching of this incredible man.
And of course, Billy Graham who took the torch into our generation until his recent death, reaching more ears across the world than anyone in Christian history.
There are more I could list here, but the trail these evangelists blazed are like wagon train wheel tracks cut into stone. You can follow their tracks, their ripples to this day. If you should look up the Great Awakening movements, you will discover how after a community was lit ablaze by the daily preaching of some of these fire-starters, saloons would close down. Prostitution vanished. Gambling halls were boarded up. Gangsters were converted, or run out of town. Countless people came to realize their need for God’s forgiveness through the saving gift of Jesus. Homeless were fed and housed. Love expanded. Enemies became friends. Churches were built. Schools, orphanages and hospitals were funded and built. Imagine the change in a city like that. Imagine your community altered like that.
Just like in the book of Judges, where the spiritual life among Israel resembled a roller coaster. Up/down, up/down. The anti-God sentiment would rise to the point where everyone’s deeds were always right in their own evaluations. What was once known as “evil” became acceptable, even commonplace. What was once known as righteous was either suppressed, abandoned, or ignored all-together. God’s reply to the spiritually weak nation was to bring calamity, hardships, weather changes, droughts, war, violence, etc. The Israeli’s response was to repent, turn from their ways and acknowledge God, followed by the lifting of the curse with blessings and safety taking its place. Then, the nation would backslide into their wild ways again. This cycle continued for decades. It seemed like they would never learn the consequences of turning their national back to their God.
I am not a prophet. I do not claim to know the future, with the exception of what the scripture tells us. But, I can read the barometer of the nation in which I live. We are spiritually ill, at best. We watch the news and our jaws hit the floor on the outlandish signs of our days. If not for God’s amazing grace toward this culture, we would be finished already. At this point in our history, Sodom and Gomorrah are not too far from here.
Our nation, our world, has endured so much in recent years. So much in the way of manifestations of pure evil are abundant. I know, we don’t like to call it for what it is, but that’s because we belong in the book of Judges. The list is way too long to write here, but nevertheless, the list of our sins grow daily. Our nation is decaying as we play our violin from the balcony.
We call evil things something good and upright. We celebrate wickedness and glamorize it all. We cheer those who attack our children with sexual sins, that is if we don’t slaughter them in the womb first. Forgive me, but we parade and applaud the physical mutilation of our children in the name of choosing gender. We mourn for those who are saddened because certain pronouns are not used to describe an individual due to their gender alterations, gender wishful thinking, and normalizing the ideology. We invite our children to drag queen shows, as well as other drag queen events as tools for indoctrination. Pedophilia, bestiality, and goddess worship are becoming tolerable for many in our country, even in our courts. We have normalized self-worship as we gaze at ourselves on little screens and self-publish our images to the world on social media.
We are accepting cultural sewage on our dinner plates everyday because the Woke minority demands we do it, like shepherds prodding sheep. At the same time, we run from the righteousness the Almighty defined for us long ago.
According to Roman and Greek history, not to mention many other geo-political lands, we are way past due for a collapse of our house of cards. God’s nature is HOLY. He has, and will not perpetually endure a rebellious nation which was founded by Him, and held up His banner for well over 200 years.
Yet…there is a modern remnant.
We saw “The Chosen”, a highly successful TV drama series surrounding Jesus and His followers, continue to spike in viewership worldwide. Promos began to run on the movie, “Jesus Revolution” (out now in theaters) depicting the Jesus People movement of the late 60’s and early 70’s, when a conservative pastor, Chuck Smith, (Played by Kelsey Grammer) dared to minister to the hippies of his day. He was trashed by many in the church at that time as sin-on-wheels, and discredited as a nothing burger. Chuck Smith was unjustly ridiculed by his own spiritual sisters and brothers, including some of the churches I grew up in. It was a God-breathed ground zero movement which still rings through our culture today. Coincidence? Take a step back and get the wide-angle lens out.
Suddenly, this nation pulled together a bit in praying for Damar Hamlin, the seriously injured NFL player who died during a tackle on national television. The very public prayers began on the field of play, spreading all across the stadium, and the country. Not long after, rattling of WWIII got louder, mysterious, unexplained UFO’s were shot down, China’s spy balloon allowed to cross our country, signs of the U.S. in sharp decline in so many areas, new COVID resurgence, record breaking drug overdose deaths, etc, Meanwhile, the Grammy Awards highlights Satanic scenes live on stage, vis Sam Smith, to rousing standing ovations and screams of adoration from the audience, all sponsored by Pfizer, your friendly COVID vaccine conglomerate. Again, ask…a coincidence?
Now we see another heavy public movement of faith. It seems spiritual blooms are bursting open.
Asbury University in Kentucky. An average, regularly scheduled service at the campus chapel, ignites into a 24/7 organic praise, prayer, and worship center where individuals came to grips concerning their need for God’s grace, their need for repentance, their need for prayer. The doors had to stay open due to the masses coming to the extraordinary spiritual awakening at ground zero. Before you could keep up, days and nights, nights and days went by. As the word grew, others began to flock to the chapel from outside the campus, the town, the state, and even the nation. Globally, people took flights from other countries to gather at the Asbury University Chapel. So organic, not organized or pre-sold, no event planner involved, the phenomenon lacked famous, well-known preachers or evangelistic experts. No multi-platinum recording artists were invited to boost crowds. Ticketmaster wasn’t needed, or called on. At last count, before the chapel marathon service was ended, over 50,000 people had attended. Just shocking!
Although the chapel location was closed after several non-stop days, the revival continues off-campus. Now many other revival events are popping up all over the nation at various college campuses.
Thousands and thousands from Generation Z are giving their hearts to God, praying, getting on their knees in humility, making decisions for this life and the next. What is more newsworthy, none of this movement is contained inside one denomination. This fresh spiritual breeze blows across denominational lines. That is an occurrence outside of human hands, manmade design. No need to ask who is playing at any of these gatherings. Currently, there is no rock star drawing crowds, no Billy Sunday, no TBN, only The Bright Morning Star, Jesus. The Event Planner is indeed, the Holy Spirit!
Truthfully, this nation is more than ripe for a Great Awakening.
If you are reading this as an unchurched person, one who isn’t into Jesus, or the Bible in general, try not to analyze this moment in history too much. In your position, the word, “Revival” may be foreign to you, or you may know it only as a description concerning a resurgence of retro music, entertainment, fashion, or structural design. Spiritual revival didn’t start at Asbury Chapel, it starts in the single, individual heart. I hope and pray the revival ignites this writer’s heart.
God said it in scripture, so we would know the formula. He promised if we move closer to Him, He would move closer to us. Our land needs to be healed.
Find out the difference between Woke and Awake, in fuel for the race.
“Yet even now,” declares the LORD, “Return to Me with all your heart, And with fasting, weeping, and mourning; And tear your heart and not merely your garments.” Now return to the LORD your God, For He is gracious and compassionate, Slow to anger, abounding in mercy And relenting of catastrophe. ” Joel 2:12-13 (NAS)
"She can feel He's coming soon.
There's no place, there's no room.
A baby changes everything.
A baby changes everything/" (2008) "A Baby Changes Everything" Recorded By: Faith Hill Written By: Craig Michael Wisemanm James Timothy Nichols, Kimberly Kerryann Wiseman
If you are not a regular reader of my jots, then you may not know I grew up in the 60’s and 70’s with a single mom, and as an only child.
My bio-father left our lives while I was a toddler. It was not a good marriage, In fact, the reason they got married was because he raped my 15 year old mom on a date and I was conceived. He had many problems which contributed to the divorce. Before I was three years old, the divorce served as a rescue mission from domestic violence, habitual adultery, and alcoholism. It was not only needed, but it was the end of a long nightmare for my mom.
Although my mom remarried a couple of years later (ending in a four year marriage) I grew up always wondering about my mysterious bio-father.
A poor teenage girl with a baby in the early 60’s in Texas, had no idea what counselling was, or even the availability of solid counseling in her circles. Her ripped out heart only went by her depression and emotion. Twice she tried to kill herself during pregnancy. Gathering all photos of my bio-father, cutting him out with scissors was the norm, she exhausted herself in removing the horrid memories. A pre-court deal was made by my granddad which involved an erasing of my bio-father. This meant no child support, no visitations, no contact as long as we both lived. For the first couple of years, gifts and cards would be delivered to me from his parents, but were returned to them. Keep in mind, in those days of tragedy, these were decisions in the attempt to protect me from the man and his brutality. My first name was changed to what was then my middle name. My middle and last name would be legally changed when she remarried, totally deleting the residual of how I was brought into the world.
Old faded memories from my toddler years produced little moments of scenes from when I was two, which included a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man with enormous hands. My bio-father wasn’t spoken of as I was growing up. My questions concerning him were quickly snuffed out, for the most part. No pictures, no stories of him, no name. It was as if I came to this planet on a spaceship and was discovered in a cornfield wearing a cosmic diaper.
By the time I was 15 or so, I learned his name, and my birth name. That just made me more curious. Promising myself I would find him after I turned 18, I began sorting out plans to do some detective work on my own without the aid of my family.
Yet, it was nerve-racking watching for him. By the time I was eleven years old, anytime I was on stage performing in a play, musical, or singing solo work, I would scan the audience to see if any man out there in those chairs resembled my vague snapshots from my toddler brain. By the time I was in 7th-8th grades I took up the martial arts. Throughout my teen years, in hopes my bio-father had secretly been scoping out my events and activities, to the point of attending incognito, enjoying my performances in Karate and kickboxing tournaments, I would again, scan the stands for any man who might be tall, dark with large hands. Because I was a singer/actor, years of performances during the 70’s were spent going to the lobby during pre-shows looking at every tall man which walked to the ticket office window. Peering out the curtains before showtime, even though it was highly frowned upon, was the norm for me. I was always hoping that somehow, some way, he would be interested enough to check out who I was becoming and what I looked like.
My high school career ended on a humid night in May of ’78. I had just turned 18. My graduating class of almost 900 kids was prepped and ready to walk across the stage in royal blue cap and gowns. The ceremony was taking place at Texas Stadium, where the Dallas Cowboys played. The stands were filled on the north side of the stadium. Too many in the throng to scan for what might have been my last hope of my bio-father caring enough about me to attend in secret. There were dreams of a surprise introduction.
As it turned out, he never tried throughout my school years. Not once.
Saturdays were very busy days at the Florsheim shoe store where I worked in the Valley View Mall in Dallas. It was my first job right out of high school, while auditioning for various singing and acting gigs. You learn much doing work like that, especially when the goal is to understand how people think. But nothing could compare to the one Saturday in November of ’79, when a kind, and apprehensive elderly couple sheepishly walked up to me in the shoe store and introduced themselves as my grandparents. Talk about being in a daze. I was indeed. As it turned out, an aunt from that side of the family did some detective work to locate me.
They invited me to a dinner. I accepted. Entering into their family room at their house, I found old babyhood pictures of me I had never seen before on their wall, almost like a memorial wall. Honestly, I fought back tears through my shock. The second, or third dinner delivered a question from their side of the table. I was asked if I wanted to meet my bio-father…in person, face to face. Without hesitation, I said yes. He drove over to their house to meet me the same night. 6′-5″ tall, dark eyes, dark hair, olive skin tones, and large hands, just exactly as I had held him in my mind. Still…my mom and her folks were not pleased to say the very least.
Suddenly, there he was, in the flesh. I learned what his voice sounded like. Being an actor, I studied his mannerisms, his speech patterns and accent, his gate as he made his way across the room. Tirelessly, I hunted for anything which identified him as my DNA match. No longer did I have to wonder, dream, or scan an audience. He was there. No longer was he so mysterious, vague, or indescribable. No longer was he over there somewhere.
At Passover, in every Seder dinner, the ancient traditional elements are carefully place on the table. There is so much to be done to prep for such a holiday, including all the texts which are read and lyrics to be song. Like Christmas, or Easter, the feast is for the entire family, and extended family when available. The table can be set for 2 people, 12 people, or 50 people. Of course, the more the merrier. There is one curious tradition which every Jewish family recognizes. The empty chair with a place setting. This is a tradition which reminds those in attendance of “The One To Come”.
Elijah, the Old Testament prophet, was the name they chose long ago to represent the Promised One, the Messiah. To this day, many believe Messiah will be Elijah himself.
Since the days of Genesis, for the Jewish people, God was far to reach. He was over there, over the mountain, over the river, high up on the mountain, etc. Yes, He attended to them in times of trouble, but always having to come from up there, from over there, from the other realms. Although God told them His Spirit would be with the nation, many forgot or disbelieved. Even in their ancient temple, it was believed God resided behind a large, thick drape where the Ark of The Covenant was placed. No one was to enter behind the veil, or death would swiftly come. The ancient scrolls informed them that He can not be seen by the human eye. Only once a year, only the high priest could enter through the drape to perform his sacred duties, but even he had a rope tied to his ankle which had bells on it, just in case he himself fell dead due to seeing God with naked eyes. The other end of the rope rested outside so his body could be recovered. Yet, on Passover, they are always prepared to welcome Elijah, a Messiah-type, to suddenly come to their Seder table. Why? Because Messiah was the Promised One, Who is to come from God’s throne. He is to come in the flesh and fellowship as a member of the clan. So, the chair is empty for those who are still scanning humanity for Messiah.
Christmas cards and songs reflect a great truth about a name given to describe Messiah. It wouldn’t be His personal name like, Fred, or Jim. But rather, a description of an attribute with great and powerful meaning. We first knew about this in an old Hebrew prophecy.
” Therefore the Lord Himself will give you a sign: Behold, the virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and will call Him Immanuel.” (Isaiah 7:14)
Prior to a teenage virgin who would give birth to a son, she was told by an angelic visitor the child would be called, by people who would know Him, “Immanuel”. (Matthew 1:22-23) The writer, Matthew, went further by interpreting the old Hebrew name for us when he included, “(which means, ‘God With Us'”) Since Hebrew is written and read from right to left, literally it can read, “With Us Is God”.
King David was correct in Psalm 139. He mentioned the ever present God in his personal ever changing, ever altering life. Wherever David was to go, wherever his destination, he knew God was there. However, He starts out with the words, “Where can I go to escape your spirit…?” No “Immanuel” in David’s life…in the real physical sense. David understood from scripture, and by life’s experiences, God was spirit. He looked forward to a Christmas, which never came in his day.
“WITH us IS God” A Baby changes everything.
Because Messiah came to dinner, the chair is filled, no vacancy anymore. No room for any other god, nor demonic spirit, no room for a lucky charm. He FILLS!
Immanuel brought the world its first Christmas. Because of Immanuel, no need to scan for a higher power sold at truck stops, or spirit mediums. Because of Immanuel, there’s no more need to wonder if God cares. Because of Immanuel, hope rises, hearts are lifted, and lives are rebooted, washed and set to glow in darkened times. A baby changes everything.
No more searching to see if God shows up, to see if He cares about you on a personal level. Jesus came to make sure you understood you are not left as an orphan in your Father’s eyes. For 33 years, He was here to overwhelmingly prove it.
Ironically, He would turn the tables on us a bit. He mentioned to concerned followers, when He did leave, He would have a place built and ready for each one of us who trusts in Him, so that He could be with us after this life is over. So, I imagine, He has an empty chair and place setting readied with your name on it,,,if you belong to Him through faith.
Find Christmas renewed in fuel for the race.
“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.” – Revelation 3:20 (NIV)
“In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade, and he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down, or cut him, ’till he cried out in his anger and his shame, ‘I am leaving, I am leaving, I am leaving’, but the fighter still remains.” (1969) “The Boxer” Recorded by: Simon & Garfunkel Composed by: Paul Simon
No worries if you are not a fan of the martial arts. This memory, I hold dear to my heart, is really not about the martial arts, per se, but rather about the essence of the spirit of an individual.
The cover photo above the title is a promotional shot of an old friend, Demetrius “Greek” Havanas. His friends simply called him, “Greek”. I believe I have written about him before a couple of years ago. Greek was a third degree black belt and kickboxer. He won 90 consecutive tournaments, and in 1971 he racked up 13 grand championships at the age of 21.
Greek at 21 in 1971.
He was ranked in the top ten of American Karate fighters between 1971-1975. He was Texas State Karate champ for 6 years straight, and Louisiana State Champ 4 years straight. In 1975, Greek went full blown full-contact fighting in 1975.
Greek in 1976/1977
He earned the PKA U.S. Welterweight Championship title. Turning his focus as a world contender in full-contact kickboxing. Greek amassed a record of 39 wins, 4 losses, with 24 wins as knockouts. The Star System ranked Greek #1 in the world in the welterweight division in 1980-1981. His garage was packed with trophies, wall-to-wall. In fact, he sold some to collectors when money ran short to pay for airfare when fighting in other countries.
Greek in 1975ish
Prior to moving to the Dallas, Texas area, I had spent three years in Sherman, Texas, about an hour north on Dallas. In those days, 7th grade was the first year of what they once called, Jr. High School. I entered Dillingham Jr. High School where they were still working out the issues of integration. Many African American kids and white kids mixed for the very first time, and it didn’t always go so well. This was 1972/1973, when race riots still popped up in the streets, gyms, and little league baseball fields. 7th grade was hard for me. I saw the ugly side of racial distrust and rage as civil rights issues were still fresh. There was gang warfare, mob brutality, and ambush violence in my school. I received the bitter end many times. There was so much a young guy shouldn’t have seen and heard.
During that same year, a church friend of mine taught me some basics in the art form of Japanese Aikido. Meanwhile, my army vet uncle, and former Golden Gloves boxer, did the same for me every so often. Before you could say jump, I became a fairly good street fighter at 12 years old…because I had to.
My single mom and I moved to the Dallas area the following summer (1973). Trust me, it was a much needed move. Although the north Dallas suburb we moved to was quiet and calm, with very little violence, I was not going to be surprised. I searched for a karate school, but found nothing in our new neighborhood. I talked my mom into letting me take the Korean form, Tae-Kwon-Do at a gym once a week at the campus where she worked, (Texas Instruments). It was free for employees and their families. Even though it was only once a week, I started and was hooked immediately!
Not long after, a top-notch Tae-Kwon-Do school opened up just five blocks from our apartment. BINGO! Great place. My instructor was once a Marine hand-to-hand combat instructor and a world karate champ from the early-mid 1960’s. Once again, I talked her into joining the school. About a year later, the school had to shut down. I was broken-hearted. I was alone with my instructor as he was packing up his belongings in the rented space. He told me of some karate champs he had trained and asked if I was sincere about continuing on with training. After he got my exuberant answer, he introduced me to this young, 5′-5″ stout sweaty guy in a shag haircut. It was Greek. He invited me to his small training center in the downtown Dallas area. Yes, I talked my mom into it. My karate buddy, Steve & I, caught a ride for workouts at Greek’s school. As soon as we walked in, we could see we were entering into the realm of some serious competitive fighters. We were sparing with national & world contenders. You might say we had landed in the cream of the crop in the karate/kickboxing world.
I took this shot of Steve and Greek in 1976.
Through most of my high school years, we ate, slept, and breathed Karate/kickboxing. Chuck Norris would come to visit from time to time as we trained, or fought in tournaments.
Greek and Chuck Norris 1979(?)
Greek was highly respected around the world, and we were grateful to be trained by the very best. I was even more grateful to hear his voice from my corner cheering me on, and giving vocal cues as I fought my opponents in the ring. Being trained by, and placed around talent like that, caused an attitude of never thinking about the possibility of losing bouts. And of course, it was good training for the stuff of life’s struggles.
One summer, when I was 14 or so, I got into a fight while away at summer camp. I lost that one. I was very ashamed. When I was brave enough to tell Greek about it, he said, “You didn’t tell him who trained you, I hope.” Although it was a tongue-in-cheek remark, it was a tad hurtful. But in his own way, he was teaching me something with those words. I had to remember who I was representing with my skills. Greek didn’t train losers. It was understood I was to be an ambassador, a representative of the House Of Greek wherever I went. It was birthed out of the idea of belonging, yet sharing the quality of Greek’s training with those around me who didn’t have a clue. It was a hard lesson. I never forgot it.
During my senior year, I began to be overwhelmed with the music and acting side of my life. For the first time I began to drift a bit from the regular routine of working out at Greek’s place. After graduation in May of 1978, I began to train with him again for about a year.
The only photo of us together. I believe this was in 1976/1977.
Through the years, he became more and more of a friend than a martial arts trainer.
Greek in a surprise shot in 1978.
A phenomenon became apparent as the years wore on. I started to notice how my peers almost mimicked Greek’s style while sparing, or fighting in the ring. When seeing video of some of my fights, I took notice of it about my own style. Noticeable to some, a certain way of blocking punches and kicks, arm positions, stances, weaving and bobbing, etc. I don’t think it was intentional. Greek always taught us to take what we learned and develop our own style. Even today, when I look at his bouts on YouTube, or any of my peer’s fights, I can see it. Following a master closely can do that.
Once again, I broke away from regular training in 1980 as singing, life, love, and thoughts of marriage began to take more of my time.
In late 1980, or early 1981, I was engaged. One night we were seated at one of our favorite eateries in the north Dallas area. Out of the blue, in walks Greek with a few friends. There he was, looking as he always did after a workout, sweaty cut-off t-shirt and Gi pants in much need of a washing. Our eyes connected, he came over to quickly say hello. I introduced him to my bride-to-be. He made a quick joke to her about questioning my gender. I laughed, he laughed, but she was appalled by the colorful language and topic. She wasn’t impressed. Yet, I knew him and his manners, or the lack thereof. He truly was being friendly in his own way. She was a bit of a stuff-shirt from the other side of the tracks from Greek and his crowd. It was awkward, but grateful it happened. God’s timing is always best.
A few months later, on July 23, 1981, Greek, and four friends, were flying in a single engine plane from Dallas to Atlantic City, New Jersey to work the corner of one of his students who was defending his world title. While over the hills of Tennessee, the plane flew into a horrific storm and broke apart in mid-air. There were no survivors. Just like that, Demetrius “Greek” Havanas was gone at 31 years of age. I wept for days, weeks, even years.
His funeral was packed with the highly notables in the world of the martial arts at the time. Chuck Norris was a pallbearer. With tears, I thanked him for making the trip. He didn’t hide the pain in his eyes. The chapel at the funeral home couldn’t hold the crowd, as many stood in the lobby and outside. A half brother of Greek’s, who was in the Eric Clapton band, sang Joe Cocker’s, “You Are So Beautiful”. There wasn’t a dry eye among us. A minister friend of mine, who was also in Karate, was chosen to officiate the service. In his sermon, he said something like this:
“If you had the misfortune not to have known Demetrius Havanas, just look around you. Look at all of his students, competitors, and close friends. There, you will find Greek.”
He was right. Following a master closely can do that.
Greek was inducted into the World Tae-Kwon-Do Hall of Fame, American Black Belt Hall of Fame, and the Texas Martial Arts Hall of Fame. All of the martial arts publications ran a tribute to Greek, as well as sports broadcasters of that day. And I still grieve.
I honestly don’t recall much of the sermon my old friend delivered, with that one exception. But I still carry a little bit of Greek with me every day. Most who know me wouldn’t know the difference as Greek meshed with me so long ago in so many ways.
Greek’s headstone. Also, the last picture I took of Greek as he sat on the edge of the ring with his trophy after winning a bout in 1980.
The same is true for a person of the Christian faith. If you are not of Jesus, you will not fully understand what I am about to say.
When the heart of Jesus enters, by Spirit, into the believer’s heart and spirit, a “Little Christ” begins to grow within that follower. In fact, that’s what the word, “Christian” means, “Little Christ”. Of course, sometimes the fleshly side of self doesn’t allow His Spirit to fully inject into the daily free-will of a follower. The result is the disciplines suffer. We are not robots, or programmed computers. Each believer must wear the helmet of salvation, the breastplate righteousness provides, and the spiritual cleats for traction up the steep climb of fault-hood. Each one must choose to suit-up each morning, just like the protective gear we wore in our sport.
A part of my grief remains entrenched in my lack of living-out my regenerated heart in those times. I doubt Greek ever knew I was a Christian in all the years he knew me. I was a young believer with only “lite bread” spiritual training.
I’m a big CS Lewis fan. In his book, “Mere Christianity”, he describes this process in a terrific way of imagery.
(Jesus would state:) “No half-measures are any good. I don’t want to cut off a branch here, or a branch there, I want to have the whole tree down. I don’t want to drill the tooth, or crown it, or stop it, but to have it out. Hand over the whole natural self, all the desires which you think innocent as well as the ones you think wicked – the whole outfit. I will give you a new self instead. In fact, I will give you Myself: my own will shall become yours.” – CS Lewis “Mere Christianity”
Following a master closely can do that. It will always breed fuel for the race.
“Every breath you take and every move you make Every bond you break, every step you take, I’ll be watching you Every single day and every word you say Every game you play, every night you stay, I’ll be watching you.” – (1983) – “Every Breath You Take” – Recorded by: The Police (Sting) Composer: Gordon Sumner
Creepy, isn’t it? I always thought so. I felt that way about the lyrics of “Private Eyes” (They’re watching you…) by Hall & Oats. Who would’ve ever thought there would be something so spooky connected with Christmas?
December for me was the anticipation of my mom breaking out my old Christmas pal, Elfie. He was an elf doll dressed in a red velvet body suit with a Santa hat on top of a soft plastic head, along with a face garnished with rosy cheeks. In fact, I believe there was a little jingle bell on the point of his hat. He was skinny and maybe 8″ tall. The mittens on his hands were sown together, creating a loop with his arms for slipping over a doorknob, or a thin bedpost. For this little boy, he not only was a celebratory pal, but he was also the visual symbol that Santa was soon to arrive. He spent many Decembers with me until one Christmas Eve my dog, Tickey, found Elfie’s plastic head to be a chew toy not to be resisted. I cried, but forgave Tickey…eventually.
Many years ago, when producing radio theater plays for a radio network, I had an idea which came to me like a sled on an icy roof. While producing my second Christmas radio theater production, I decorated the recording studio in all things Christmas. When coming into the recording session from a 100 degree July day in Texas, you needed something to help transport the theater of the mind to December. As I recall, I even had the air conditioner set to a frosty level. Some of us even had to wear jackets or sweaters in the session. In honor of my old buddy, Elfie, it seemed appropriate to have a few of his descendants brighten the studio. Some actors found it intimidating while delivering lines from my script.
Of course, all of the above was way before the Christmas craze we now know, and affectionately call, “Elf On The Shelf”. My granddaughter, Skylar has one. If you don’t have children, or grandchildren going headlong into the American Christmas traditions, you may not know who Elf On The Shelf is, or what he is rumored to do. Well, let me enlighten you before December 25th settles upon us. This elf doll sits on the shelf, the bed, the table, the mantle, ect with eyes wide opened. At Skylar’s house he surprisingly appears in the most unexpected places every day. He’s not gazing in amazement at the traditional holiday decor, or the Christmas gifts under the tree, or even the wintry changes in weather. Nope, not at all. Just like the lyrics from The Police, his one and only job is to watch…okay, I’ll use the word “spy”, on the children of the house as he reports back to Santa for his big global flight. The little snitch is all about deduction of potential gifts on Christmas morning. OUCH! I guess Santa is too old to be seeing when you’re sleeping, and knowing when you’re awake. Age has gotten in Kringle’s way when it comes to knowing if you’ve been bad or good. Oh, for goodness sake. Now it seems Claus has a built-in security camera in the form of a sneaky elf, who sits on a shelf, keeping a sharp eye on the do’s and don’ts. Now if that isn’t creepy, I don’t know what is. At least the fat old man in the red suit wasn’t peeking through the closet door of my bedroom each night of the year. I guess that’s of nightmare status, like movies called, “Santa’s Claws” or “Santa’s Slay” Yikes! Okay, I’ve gone amok. I apologize.
Back to sanity now. I will say Skylar isn’t bothered by her Elf On The Shelf at all. She’s had about 3-4 years of having his judging eyes on her for a few Decembers. Frankly, I’m not sure if she is better behaved because of it. So, in the end, I will say he might not cause lasting psychological scars. Maybe we will know more in the next 20 years.
Certainly, if you read my last post you might surmise I am one of those Christians who shuns anything in the fluffy & puffy from the Christmas tradition arena. Well, no, I am not in that category whatsoever. Like a foreclosure sign in the lawn of a palm reader’s house, you didn’t see that coming.
Putting child psychology aside, the Elf On The Shelf, and St. Nick’s omnipresent, omniscient eyes are truly the opposite of the authentic act of the first Christmas. Can you guess what the difference is?
Contrary to a popular belief in our culture, I am not eternally rewarded by superior behavior walking in my shoes today. Let it be known: I AM SOOOOOO IMPERFECT! While I’m at it, don’t take Elf On The Shelf as a picture of what a good Christian does. The Babe in the manger grew up and said we should not judge anyone, or we will be judged. It’s not the Christian’s job to sit on a shelf and search for others to flub, fall, and falter. If you’re under a spiritual teacher which pounds that misnomer into your ears, I say run and never look back. In fact, a better suggestion is to take a pair of your well-worn shoes, nail them to his/her office door with a note which reads, “Walk in these for awhile.”
Sorry for my rabbit trail on thought. I’m no Scrooge. Really, I’m not.
As cute as Elf On The Shelf is, he is theologically off. The child in Bethlehem’s manger Christmas night was a free gift wrapped in swaddling clothes. You don’t get a free gift because you necessarily deserved it, but because someone loved you enough, thought of you enough, cared for you enough to go before you arrived and purchased it with a tag which reads your name, in whatever language you speak. Moreover, this free gift, the Baby in the manger, was given BECAUSE of misbehavior, BECAUSE of abuses, BECAUSE of flubs, falling, and falters, without condition. Let me write that again…WITHOUT CONDITION! Try that on some stranger. No, I mean it. Find a criminal who abused, or injured, or killed your family member, withdraw all you have in the bank, purchase a gift of great price and present it to the guilty law-breaker. Do I see any hands for a volunteer? No, I didn’t think so. Yet, that’s what God, the Author Of The Law did for us all. Today, we call it…Christmas. His unconditional free gift is truly the opposite of Elf On The Shelf.
For anyone who accepts this gift, who believes the adult Jesus when He said, “For God so loved the world that He GAVE…” – John 3:16a (KJV), will have the Spirit of His very essence within. He reminds me inwardly what is best for my life as He writes His law on my heart. It’s a good thing because I could never have a perfect behavioral stat concerning the Mosaic Law from the Torah found in the Old Testament.
So maybe if you see an elf hanging out on a shelf, it might bring to mind the idea of an elf inside yourself (In the flavor of Christmas trinkets.) whispering wisdom, guidance, and unconditional love. However, when diving deeply for a close-up excursion, you find the lacking of an elf, but rather, “RUACH” in Hebrew, the “Breath” of God’s nature.
Christmas can always be merry with a cup of good cheer, spiked with Fuel for the race.
“For the eyes of Yahweh roam throughout the earth to show Himself strong for those whose hearts are completely His.” – 2 Chronicles 16:9 – (Holman Christian Standard Version)
I’ve been here waiting before
The plastic holly now unpacked
The same red stocking in fact
My wreath hangs once more
Shoppers agog for a Friday of black
Retailer sales are all the fashion
Passing the Kettle without compassion
Days in traffic we will never get back
Bulbs need renewal on the string
As the tree lots show their pines
I miss the magic once easy to find
Yesterday’s wonder no longer rings
Verse of sugar plums sing out in the frost
Tickets sold for a cracker of nuts
A deer on an odyssey quest and such
And through this fog Your plum-line is lost
Silenced eves when my children prayed
Now vacant rooms echo as omens
Each missing their manger moments
Yet, decor yearns for a garland spray
Tinseled wrappings reflect how You came
Hay and straw, Your newborn scent
Eastern Magi drawn with knees bent
All this plastic never measures Your fame
Gifts come, gifts go, gifts of cloth and steel
They say a man of age checks his list
Somehow I find no strength to resist
There’s stirrings of honesty craving to be real
All these things You already know
All these things weigh as gravity
All these things dismantle sadly
Without You, holiday spirit would lack its glow
Yes, I’ve been here waiting before
Wading through season’s greetings
Fixed in the trappings and feastings
Shine unto me as in the days of yore
“Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart.” – Jeremiah 29:12-13 (NKJV)
First of all, a big Texas-Sized thank you to Alicia from For His Purpose for the nominee nod. You are truly gracious. Although I feel I don’t deserve the nomination for the Sunshine Blogger Award, I am humbled and grateful. I would nominate you if not for the fact you are already a nominee, and so well deserving.
If you’ve not read Alicia’s posts, expect blue-jean, everyday life experiences wrapped in a personal application for spiritual growth. So well worth it.
DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS? IT’S NEW TO ME.
About the Sunshine award:
This award is given to creative, positive and cheerful bloggers by other bloggers as a token of appreciation and admiration.
Here are the rules:
• Thank the person who nominated you and provide a link back to him/her.
• Answer the 11 questions provided by the blogger who nominated you.
• Nominate 11 other bloggers and ask them 11 new questions.
• Notify the nominees by commenting on one of their blog posts.
• List the rules and display the Sunshine Blogger Award logo on your post.
Okay, Alicia…you asked. Here are her questions for me:
1) Why do you write?
Really, I believe it’s a threefold reason. A: I love, absolutely love the outlet of sharing my thoughts. B: For whatever reason there might be, I adore the friends I have made in the blogging community. I have learned so much through their writings and photos. Getting to know them has simply been an uplifting pleasure in my life. C: Lastly, I love to teach. My heart wants to touch the soul of another for the better. There’s something special about teaching biblical concepts through personal and social proof experiences others can relate to. Life’s race to the finish is long and uphill at times. We need Divine fuel.
2) Who do you admire and why? (sorry I know I’m sneaking two questions)
Wow, Alicia. That’s an umbrella of folks. If you’ve read my blog you might already know I greatly admire my deceased grandparents. Salt of the earth people with extraordinary servanthood hearts of tremendous love. Also, Chuck Norris, who holds up his socks with thumbtacks. LOL For much of the 1970’s, during my karate/kickboxing life, he was always so kind to me whenever I was around him. Of course, he was/is a wiz at business, the Babe Ruth of Karate champions, and a successful instructor and actor. Beyond that, he has gone through much heartache in life and rediscovered God in his journey back to a peaceful place. He is also a champ in helping kids stay away from gangs and drugs. I want to add, CS Lewis for his writings concerning the introductions into a life with God, and the proof thereof. His book, Mere Christianity and The Screwtape Letters changed my life.
3) What has been your best vacation?
I have to choose just one? Arg! My #1 would have to be when I treated my family (wife at the time and three daughters) on a road trip from Dallas, Texas through Santa Fe, New Mexico and up through Colorado Springs to Denver, Colorado. The family and I had gone through some devastating personal trauma and in need of some immediate healing. It was the week after Christmas in 2001 through the first week of 2002. Plunging straight into the snow and ice we took in the splendor of that beautiful land. No regrets. I would do it again.
4) Where would you love to visit one day?
Scotland, Ireland, and Israel.
5) Why is your best friend, your best friend?
On earth, my wife. I remarried in 2017 to an old high school acquaintance. In 2013, way before we met-up again, I had a major health crash, a near death experience. I wasn’t supposed to survive. It left me in the hospital for six weeks. The hospital staff called me “Miracle Man”. Since then I have struggled physically. She has seen much of the underside of this. Nevertheless, she has been a warrior through it all. We have no secrets between us. We speak truth in love to one another, during the good, bad, and ugly. It makes for a lasting marriage. However, she’s not the one I pray to. She would agree with me that Jesus has been my lifelong best friend.
6) What is your biggest concern (about anything)?
Honestly, above all else, the world my three girls are experiencing as adults, as well as my 8 year old granddaughter. Moral decay, hatred, and violence are causing the earth to groan. Jesus said the times would grow to be like this. Still, it concerns me.
7) When did you last owe someone an apology?
Today! Got to do it before the sun goes down on me.
8) What’s the best movie you’ve ever watched?
Now this isn’t fair. Way too many. If I had to choose one…It’s A Wonderful Life.
9) What’s your most favorite childhood memory?
Mid 1960’s. Waiting until my grandparents, and my mom, went to bed so I could hustle to sit in front of their aluminum Christmas tree to watch the color wheel change the branches to different holiday hues. For me, it was mesmerizing.
10) What do you love most about yourself?
Eek! Is this a trick question, Alicia? Really? Oh, man. Okay, uh….well….uh….I can tell you there’s much I hate about myself. Frankly, I love the Spirit God placed in me to be kind and caring for others. If not for His influence and direction, I would be the opposite. I know this because I know myself without God.
11) If you could ask Jesus a question what would it be?
Why and how did He create music to enrich the brain of humanity, to the point of it being medication? Also, the TRUE story of why and how He did not save the dinosaurs from extinction. To have a Brontosaurus on a leash in the park would be grand. The poop bag would be trouble.
Drum roll please! Now for my nominee choices in alphabetical order:
(If you choose not to participate, you will not hurt my heart. As an admirer, I just want to shine a light on you and your blog for others who may not know of you. No pressure. Nada, zilch, zero. And if you are already a nominee, I am unaware.)
Dominique at 3C Style combines her posts with highly creative photos of her personal showcasing of beautiful stylings from her own closet. She has a talent for matching subjects in nature with her outfits while highlighting eco-friendly ideas. This French scientific journalist from Quebec is a terrific writer who introduces you to possibilities in fashion you might have never imagined before, wrapped in her passion for life. Her zest for life, fashion, and imagination is simply radiant and thought provoking. Most of all, I like the fact that Dominique is a caring, loving person toward others. I’ve learned a lot from my friend from Quebec.
Anel at Barefoot Diary has a highly unique blog. I’ve known and loved her for 41 years and I can tell you of her multiple talents. After the devastating hurricane which leveled so much of Puerto Rico, where she and her husband had been living, they moved on to experience an adventure most would never do. Since they left the island, they have been travelling from one Central or south American country to another, reveling in each culture with gusto. Anel’s blog is all about their adventures. You never know where they will be blogging from next.
Mandy at Blue Collar Theologian is a seminarian and writer. I love to go deep in biblical studies and so does Mandy. She has my admiration for her exclusive casual way of serving up the depths of scripture without going over the head of the reader, especially the seeker. You’ll find she writes about various camera angles of life with a good dose of awareness of biblical thought, shaken together for a personal application anyone can chew on.
Anita at For The Love Of has a smooth way of sharing her love for dogs, which I share, along with God’s love for us. On any given post she will somehow bring to mind the truth of how we crave love, shelter, belonging, and care. Be ready for some brilliant photos that touch the eyes and heart.
Jon at His Grace Is Sufficient is an old childhood friend of mine. He pastors a small church near Green Bay, WI. Recently Jon was diagnosed with ALS. The disruption is already taking its toll on his breathing, his speech, and some mobility. Thus far, he is standing by his word that he plans on delivering sermons until he physically cannot. He asked me about starting a blog to record his journey with ALS. So, I encouraged him to go headlong into it. I love him dearly. Clicking on you will hear his heart of love and his faith through this hard, rocky road he is travelling.
Julien at Julien’s Thoughts can be defined as…his thoughts. He literally takes subjects that press on his mind and heart, considers them against the backdrop of a biblical world view, and woodsheds what he learns. Whenever he writes you can feel his intellect. I am grateful he shares the thoughts as most of us identify with the topics he showcases. A simple devotional thought process which is encouraging, yet challenging at times.
Lisa at Lismore Paper is a master at eyeing antique art forms. She then cleans them up for a visual experience to die for. One terrific graphic design artist, as well as a gardener extraordinaire. I’ve not seen artwork exactly like her talent. Lisa simply is a craft magician. She loves photography, as I do, and often highlights her shutter work in nature. You never know when she will be hiking through the woods taking beautiful shots of plants, birds and trees. One of the items of wizardry from her hands consists of antique prints lifted from pages of old shipping logs, documents, or ledgers and turn them into a background for layering other art subjects. Just amazing. Visit her blog and find options to download her items for your personal use. Sometimes you will find her art on t-shirts, along with other items, which are available. As you explore her visuals she writes of them with the love of an artist at work.
Ann at Muddling Through My Middle Age I believe is my first blogging friend after I launched my blog two years ago. She is so admired. I liken Ann to the wisdom and wit of the late syndicated columnist, Erma Bombeck. She is a volunteer for her local shelter who loves and cares for the four-legged friends behind bars. She adopts, and so do I. She is a loving grandmother who often shares with us of her times with her grandchild. But most of all, Ann writes about the everyday scenarios of life, as well as life’s phases, which can be cantankerous or just plain humorous. She muddles through what life tosses at her while always searching for the rainbow at the end of the day’s conveyor belt.
Ann (another Ann) at Seeking Divine Perspective is an author and truth-teller. I discovered her about the time I was going through some doubts in my spiritual journey. My reading of her posts came just at the right time. Ann is retired and loves CS Lewis, as I do. She is not afraid to share the hard knocks in life, or the current social issues of our times, and what she has learned from them. She is bold with direct conviction, willing to teach with the written word in posts. Don’t be surprised if she types in a prayer on her heart as it often reverberates what the human heart is thirsty for. We are all seekers, some just don’t realize it. Ann spotlights her perspectives.
Stefan at The Fourth Dimension of Life is a young studious thinker. His love for writing truly hits you in the face…softly. Stefan is a bright, multi-talented Indian lad attending one of the best universities in India. Don’t expect his posts to be the norm, or even similar in scope from one to another. Some days you will get a thought in a statement. At other times you will read one of his poems. Inside his random thoughts he often speaks of his life from God’s balcony view. He also can show you his devotional blog link.
Junaisha (June) at The Godly Chic Diaries will lead you to think twice, or three times about the topic she writes about. Unlike some, she is bold about the fact that the spiritual walk is not a perfect stride. She speaks of the fact that there will be failures in the God-driven journey. In her quick devotional posts the spotlight on grace, forgiveness, and mercy are illuminated. Through her telescopic lens concerning life, she will test the mind of the reader with questions not often dissected in one’s own thoughts.
I want to publicly thank all of the above for the influence you have on my life.
And here are my 11 questions for those I’ve nominated:
1 – Who encouraged you to launch a blog?
2 – Who was your first blogger-friend & what drew you to that writer?
3 – What country, or state are you writing from?
4 – Has your writing evolved over time & why?
5 – Be honest with me on this one. How often do you consider the unseen spiritual aspect beyond the tangible? If “never” is the answer, let me know. It’s okay. No tricks.
6 – Do you have a pet?
7 – When you wake up in the morning, what is your first thought?
8 – Do you eat breakfast? If so, what does it consist of?
9 – If you’re still friends with a childhood pal, tell me what has kept you together?
10 – What keeps you returning to the same blogger?
11 – Does your own family read your posts?
Again, if you are on my nomination list of favorites and would rather not participate, just know I understand totally. I appreciate what you do and how you make my life sweeter. Love and hugs from Dallas, Texas. – Alan
“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.
Fuel For The Race 