“When you feel down and out, Sing a song (it’ll make your day).
For you, here’s the time to shout Sing a song (It’ll make a way).
Sometimes it’s hard to care, Sing a song (It’ll make your day).
A smile is so hard to bear, Sing a song (It’ll make a way)…”
(1975) Recorded By: Earth, Wind & Fire Composers: Maurice White/Al McKay
Can I be real frank with you, yet remaining to be Alan at the same time? Okay, I take it that’s a “Yes”.
Over the summer, death has taken a few friends and acquaintances, including one family member, and almost lost another. The losses have been almost on a weekly basis. I have been fighting depression concerning my dementia patient mom who is declining much faster than expected. She still lives alone some 60 miles from me. I am facing mountains of decisions in this arena. My health is slowly headed further south. My wife has been faced with health issues herself, and heavy emotional family issues on her side. I feel like I am going under with my hand stretched out above the surface of a deep, dark ocean. I have needed a distraction…big-time.
It seems I have some new readers which may not know about one of my favorite topics, my middle daughter, Megan. Although I recently posted about her wedding over the summer, here I am again with something new and exciting.
Megan is a bit of a verified rock star in Western New York. Articles and reviews list her as part of Buffalo, New York’s “rock royalty”, and she’s only 31.
Recently, she was asked to audition to perform the National Anthem at the home opener at the Buffalo Sabres game. She, and her band mate, Grace Lougen from their band, Grosh, (Grace is a superb guitar player.), she recently played for me at Megan’s wedding reception, took the plunge with an audition. BOOM! Before you could say, Ice Capades, she got the call. As it turned out, she needed to learn the Canadian Anthem as well, due to the fact the opposing team was the Montreal Canadiens, (Yeah, that’s how they spell it.)
Although, me being in Dallas Stars’ territory, no outlet was carrying the game, with the exception of ESPN+, which my oldest daughter, Tabitha subscribes to. Thankfully, she shot a cell phone video of the performance, which I posted on my Facebook page. (You can see it there. Search for, Alan Brown Carrollton, Texas. That should do it.)
What’s that? You say you wish you could see some pictures? Really? Well, allow me. Let me grab my slide projector.
Megan & Grace at work on the Sabres’ ice.
It does a dad’s heart some good to find several camera angles for different perspectives from fans in attendance, as well as, those viewing from Canadian networks. (The version on my Facebook page is from the ESPN+ broadcast.) I needed to be ushered away from heavy sorrows and raking worries. It served as an inward reboot button. Thank you, Megan.
Although, with live gigs averaging several times a week, with 19,000+ in the arena that night, plus who knows how many in the television and radio audience, I would say it was her largest audience to date. Yeppers, I was one proud dad. Moreover, I was one distracted dad.
Recently I became aware that the Puritans often used a quote I have used before as a performer through the decades. I had always thought the origin of the quote came from Soren Kierkegaard. Nevertheless, it’s a dandy.
“AN AUDIENCE OF ONE”
Sometime in my mid 20’s, when I became a serious Bible student, anytime I performed a song, a theatrical script, or while on radio and audio commercials, I trained myself to imagine performing to He Who sits on the eternal throne, God Himself. It was a process. Prior to that time, I just focused on the audience of humanity in the seats. That’s all well and good, but it can feel shallow. Laser-focusing on the One Who created talents can bring the performance from the head to the heart rapidly, as if He is the only set of eyes and ears in the room. This is what I taught Megan while she was a child actress back in the day. My hope is that every now and then, she might recall the idea.
When needing a good distraction, find it easily in fuel for the race.
“Sing to the LORD a new song; Sing to the LORD, all the earth. Sing to the LORD, bless His name; Proclaim the good news of His salvation from day to day.” – Psalm 96:1-2 (NAS)
“When this old world starts getting me down And people are just too much for me to face I climb way up to the top of the stars And all my cares just drift right into space
On the roof it’s peaceful as can be And there the world below can’t bother me…”
(1962) “Up On The Roof” – Originally recorded by: The Drifters (Multiple artists have covered this song.) Composers: Gerry Goffin & Carole King
In “Your Song” (1970) from Elton John, we get a hint of where his songwriting lyricist partner, Bernie Taupin liked to construct his lyrics.
“I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss. Well, a few of the verses got me quite cross…”
Lots of creativity can happen up on the roof.
It was July 4th, 2003 when I moved from Dallas, Tx to Buffalo, NY. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I left my wife and three daughters to take an afternoon-drive radio show at a long-standing Buffalo radio station. It was a promising, career-healthy move which was almost impossible to refuse. I had a lengthy radio resume in Dallas and I was at a place in life where a next step was essential. The idea was to live a lean solo life while hunting for a house to purchase. After the papers for the mortgage were to be signed, then I would move the family of five to our new home, along with our Yorkie, Great Dane, a hamster, a mouse, and a gerbil, all in an Isuzu Trooper.
After my feet hit Buffalo pavement, the first couple of weeks were spent in a motel room while searching for an apartment near the radio station in the downtown area. All I had with me was a stuffed suitcase, duffel bag, and a briefcase. Within walking distance of the radio station, I landed a tiny little furnished efficiency in an old brownstone right in the artsy district. It was near perfect for my needs at the time.
Never living in a city-life efficiency before, there was a learning curve to it. No elevators. I was on the top floor, the 4th floor. The basement (five flights down) housed the laundry area for the building. I was in good physical shape at that time, but it still challenged me each trip to wash my clothes. There was no air conditioning, of course, being Western New York. For this Texas lad, I wasn’t sure I could do without an air conditioner. However, the only silver lining, to the warm humid days, was the welcomed cool constant winds coming off Lake Erie.
As you can see in the photo, my two windows gave me a view of the apartment windows of the next building just a narrow driveway’s width away. Nobody kept their blinds shut when the windows needed to be open on warm summer days. You guessed it, very little privacy. Jimmy Stewart, in “Rear Window”, never would’ve needed binoculars in my apartment. In clear view of my neighbors, from the next building, was my bed. It was vertical inside a wall of my living room, just an arm’s-length away from my kitchen mini-fridge. When bedtime hit the clock, I just opened the door, pulled down the bed to the living room floor. The springs squeaked as my body stretched out on the thin musky mattress. Yep, there was a lot of adjusting for this suburbanite boy.
It took over three months to buy a house for my family, and moved in toward mid November. So, I had plenty of time to adjust to my new temporary home in the city. The streets were loud and busy. With the windows opened throughout the summer, the sounds of yelling, sirens, and the occasional car crash bounced off the walls of our buildings on the block. It always sounded as if everything was happening right outside my window. It proved to be a struggle keeping my focus when writing letters to my family, or trying to get some shuteye. Sometimes the noise was so overbearing, it pushed me out the door for a jog down by the Niagara break wall. At dusk it was a sight to watch the Canadian side of the river light up their street lamps.
On my trips up and down the hallways, I would pass a stairwell just off the 4th floor. Knowing there wasn’t a 5th floor, I would shrug my shoulders and move on. One day, after curiosity got the best of me, I followed the stairs to a set of old partially rusted Bilco doors.
As I reached the top of the stairs I saw the double doors were latched by a bolt from the inside. When I slid the bolt back it made a loud metallic clang that echoed down the stairwell. When I pushed open the heavy metal doors, the cool Erie winds hit my face. I had just discovered a large tar-sheeted flat roof of the building. I was pleasantly surprised. Whoever the property owners were they evidently didn’t see the value of constructing a patio-style wet-bar area with outdoor furniture, complete with table umbrellas. Instead, a large wasted space. But not for me. Immediately I found the sounds of the city were faded while displaying a view filled with the downtown slope which met the harbor and the mouth of Lake Erie. I personally enjoyed seeing the rooftops of the neighborhood showcasing old world architecture from the day when horse-drawn carriages, top-hats, and bonnets were the norm.
Throughout my time there, I visited the old quietened rooftop many times. I remember signing off the air at the studio, looking forward to climbing up the stairs to my new favorite place. It’s was a get-away where I would meet with the Creator, watch the sunset over the horizon, and sit on the half-wall at the edge of the roof thinking of how our new lives would be in Western New York. One weekend, in the fall, I remember seeing The Northern Lights for the very first time. God truly knows how to put on a light show. It was a place of comfort from the days of hardship, the rowdy sounds of the streets, and the worries of relocating across the country. When I see the photo from Google, my eyes first look up toward the rooftop.
Peace, enlightenment, and healing found on rooftops shouldn’t surprise anyone. In scripture, I am reminded of how a handicapped man was carried by four of his friends to the flat rooftop of a home where Jesus was meeting with a crowd who packed a house. The entryway was not negotiable. The Miracle Worker was healing gobs of people in need all throughout the region. In a desperate move by these men, they reached the roof above where Jesus was teaching, punched a hole in the roof to lower their lame friend to Him on a mat. Up on the roof love and faith was accessed that day. In Acts 10, the Apostle Peter was praying up on the roof of a friend’s house when God got his attention concerning the issue of grace vs law, love vs religious racism. Peter found access to the truth up on the roof that day. In the book of Joshua, a woman hid two spies of Israel in Jericho from their enemies up on her housetop. For them, there was access to security up on the roof. After Solomon felt weary of domestic feuds in the home, twice in Proverbs he mentions it’s better to live in the corner of a roof than with a person (woman) of contention. (I’m trying to be kind on this one. Apparently he must’ve lost a few battles with some of his wives. LOL)
Maybe your place of solitude isn’t up on the roof. It could be your roof isn’t easily accessible, or physically safe. For you it might be in your car with the radio turned off. Possibly it’s on your bike on an open road. Maybe it’s a place in your garage, or your barn. I have an old friend who found his access under the roof of his lawn shed. For many, it’s out on a lake in a boat, a coastline of a lake, a boulder sitting by a creek. I have a cousin who finds her place of solitude up in the saddle of her horse. Scripture reads the closet is a good place.
One thing is certain, there is a way of escape. There is a stairwell to a place to be solo. You might need to “kick off the moss” first. In these times of violence, disturbance, pandemic, and masked faces, meeting with the Spirit of God can happen anywhere. When you find it, that is a place you will always be fond of.
Getting away from the news, social media, and the crashing noise of profanity, there’s always room for two up on the roof with a ample supply of fuel for the race.
“What I tell you in the darkness, speak in the light; and what you hear whispered in your ear, proclaim upon the housetops.” – Jesus – Matthew 10:27 (NAS)
“Take a load off Fanny, take a load for free. Take a load off Fanny, and you put the load right on me…” (1968) “The Weight” Recorded By: The Band. Composer: Robbie Robertson
By: Alan Scott Brown
There’s nothing like heat in the desert rising off a paved road. They’ll say, “Oh, but it’s a dry heat.” Just tell that to the sweltering backpacker, Levon “Fanny” Gates. He shockingly found himself in the middle of a wilderness, on the road to a place called, Nazareth, just on the other side of the state line. I say, “shockingly” because before his boots felt the searing concrete of this wasteland, he had been dreaming of the village with its rolling hills, orchards, and well-established vineyards. His freshly cut front lawn was the launching point for a pleasurable outdoor hike through the pines, the cool brooks, and lavish meadows.
As if he had awakened from a dream of the plush land of plenty, he now absorbs the dangerous sunrays, feeling every drop of sweat rolling down his torso. His canvas hat certainly covered his head, but the scorching heat invaded his scalp as if he wasn’t wearing anything at all. Even his denim backpack was soaked in sweat. If it wasn’t 112 degrees Fahrenheit, it would be soon, when the afternoon sun comes piercing through.
Not much vegetation thrives out here, with the exception of sage, cactus, and the occasional Yucca plant. Refreshing rains are welcomed, but scarce and quick. Fanny prayed for, what they called back home, a “gully-washer.”
With each step, he seriously worried about the soles of his old hiking boots. The baking surface of the road is far from friendly, and he felt the waves all the way up to his sunburned face. At first, he wrestled with the thought of his soles melting in the staggering temperature. Then, as he caught up with his fast-forward mind, he envisioned a potential hole in the rubber sole. None of the options were comforting to imagine in this desolate landscape.
Prior to walking into this wilderness, he knew how many miles he had traveled, but now all had changed. His harsh surroundings overwhelmed his calculations, thrusting him into a mystery without a map. A solitary roadside sign mentioned a couple of towns being 200 miles ahead, but they were unfamiliar to him. The miles seemed unending, without a mile marker. Disorientation was setting in as a menacing reality.
Rather than stopping for rest, he made the decision to push himself forward in hopes the next curve, the next hill, or the next valley in the road, would reveal a much needed oasis. Hooked to his belt, he had one full canteen of water, which needed to last longer than anticipated. Fanny was self-rationing his meager provisions with intent.
“I can do this,” he whispered with uneasiness.
Keeping his eyes on the road ahead seemed to help him psychologically. Yet, wild stallions in search for water, a lone service station, or another traveler with a tent would be a sight for soar eyes. But each time he glanced to the left or the right, it proved to be discouraging. In fact, most of the view reminded Fanny of NASA’s photos of the surface of Mars.
The feeling of abandonment was authentic, bleeding from his inspirational thought bubbles of solitude. He tried to be hopeful by telling himself Nazareth must be within 3 miles, 5 miles, or maybe 10 miles. The attempt to distract himself from the tide of broiling air failed at every turn of the road. Before the desert sun could bake his mind completely, he scanned through multiple thoughts, thoughts which could fill a library, only to fool himself with wisps of self-constructed hope.
While pushing his legs to walk an incline in the road, he noticed something he had felt once before on this journey. A pain, a specific pain in his back. Of all the body aches he had endured, this backache was king of them all. Hiking slowly up the side of a hill introduced him again to the racking misery coming from his lower back muscles, mainly from the right of the spine. It was a bit of a mystery in that he hadn’t injured himself, and never had an old trauma from his athletic history. He suddenly was reminded of the adage, “No pain, no gain” from his high school baseball coach. He said it aloud, thinking it would be a magic charm the universe would accept. It wasn’t. Still, his inward need to persevere pushed his weary bones onward.
As he reached the plateau, he celebrated his efforts shouting into the hot breeze,
“BY GOD, I WILL DO THIS!”
As the late afternoon sun played havoc with his vision, Fanny cocked his head to one side as he caught a distant rumble of an engine. Since he had begun to adjust to the mirage of water puddles on the pavement, he tossed it up to “hearing things” due to a bit of dehydration. After a chuckle, he took a couple of strides when he stopped in his tracks. The sound was getting louder. He looked up in the blue sky to see which direction the plane was coming from. It sounded like a single engine airplane from the 1920’s. As he was hunting for the aircraft, he recognized the distinct sound wasn’t a plane at all, but rather a vehicle approaching from behind. He quickly turned to scope out where it originated. Wiping, then squinting his tired eyes, he saw an old blue pickup truck bouncing down the road toward him with its radio blaring a 1940’s big band tune with heavy brass. He wondered where it came from since the area was void of ranches or farms. As it approached, he could see only one occupant in the cab. There was nothing impressive about the old truck, with the exception of the fact it was an older model one might see in a vintage car show, and overly worn, to boot.
As the truck began to downshift, coasting slowly as it pulled alongside him, he could see more clearly the one behind the wheel. The driver looked as if he had just fallen off a hay trailer. He was donning faded grey pinstriped overalls, like the old train engineers used to wear. His misshaped straw hat went well with the old beat-up truck as it, too, had seen better days. With a metallic squeak, the truck came to a halt. It was clearly in much need of a muffler replacement. The ragged driver turned down the radio and leaned over to roll down the passenger side window. It was then Fanny could take-in what the man looked like. He was an old-timer with a weather-beaten face. His bushy eyebrows were salt & pepper mix. His chest-length beard was white and wiry. He had piercing ice-blue eyes which displayed a kindness, all by themselves. Before Fanny could speak, the old man greeted him.
Spoken with a healthy snicker, “Howdy there, young man. Nice day for a stroll in the badlands, wouldn’t ya say?”
The backpacker detected an accent, which reminded him of the deep south of the United States. He wasn’t sure if he was being mocked by the question, or if it was an attempt at levity.
“Yes, sir. It would seem so,” said Fanny, as he took his hat off and wiped his wet forehead.
Without hesitation the elderly man asked with a nod, “What’s your name, kiddo?”
“I’m Levon. Most everyone calls me, Fanny,” revealed the traveler.
The old man broke out in a belly laugh, “Well, who on earth pinned that nickname on ya?”
Fanny grinned, uncomfortably so, looked away and explained, “Yeah, that’s a long story, I’m afraid.”
“I bet so,” replied the old man. “The name’s, Christopher. Through the years, lots of folks have called me by a slew of other names. But, Christopher will do. So glad to meet ya…Fanny.”
“Happy to meet you, Christopher,” the young man said. “Hey, where did you come from? I’ve been on this road all day and I’ve not seen one house, truck stop, or vehicle coming or going in either direction.”
“Oh, don’t ya know?” asked Christopher.
“Know what?” inquired the trekker.
Pushing his hat back to the crown of his head, the old man responded, “Well, it’s very possible you were never informed. This is a one way road you’re on in this dust. Always been that way. It’s true, only one-way traffic on this stretch. That’s the reason why I drove up behind ya. I’ll tell ya, that afternoon sun is brutal through the windshield.”
“Tell me about it,” agreed the young hiker. “You know, maybe you can tell me something. Would you know how far Nazareth is from here? I really thought I would have spied it by now on the horizon, but nothin’ doin’.”
“Nazareth?” inquired the old one with one raised eyebrow. “Is that where you’re off to?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Fanny.
While pointing his finger, the old man said, “Well, kiddo. I can tell ya this, ya won’t get there carryin’ that anvil.”
Puzzled, the young man froze. He looked behind him, turned back again and asked, “Anvil? What anvil?”
The elderly one broke out in laughter once again at Fanny’s answer. “Boy, it’s that 95 pound chunk of solid iron at the end of the rope, the rope draped across your right shoulder there,” Christopher pointed out.
“Ah, yes. THAT anvil,” Fanny stated with pride. “Frankly, I forget it’s there.”
The elder wrinkled up his nose in an inquisitive expression, “You mean to tell me you’ve not felt every muscle in your body burning from the weight you’re towin’?”
“Come to think of it…yes. Yes, I have,” Fanny admitted.
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Christopher said in response. “I’ve got the perfect solution for ya, Fanny. Take a look inside the bed of my truck.” Seeing the young man’s hesitation, he continued sharply, “Go ahead, son. The Loch Ness Monster ain’t gonna jump out and bite ya. Feel free, take a look.”
Fanny took a cautious small step toward the side of the pickup. As he leaned closer to get a peek, his mouth fell open with a hushed gasp.
The old man said, “Tell me what ya see, boy.”
Fanny took a big swallow to say, “It’s a truck bed full of…well…full of anvils!”
“A whole stack of ’em, I’d say,” described the old driver.
In amazement, the young man questioned, “But, why are they there? I mean…what are you doing with all of those anvils? Are you selling them? Do you work for a salvage yard or something? I’m shocked this old antique can carry the load.”
“Fanny, I guess you could say I collect ’em,” answered the old rugged driver. “In fact, I’ve been addin’ to my collection for many moons now. I could tell ya how many travelers have allowed me to take the load off their backs, but you’ve been sun-baked enough today to appraise anything.”
The young traveler concurred, “You’re right. I’m a bit fried. However, these travelers you’re talking about, are they on this road? I’ve not seen a soul until you drove up.”
“Yes, but everyone has their own journey, and most have similar burdens,” replied the old man. “At the same time, some heavier than others. As you can see, there’s various sizes of anvils here.” After a brief pause of silence, Christopher added, “Here’s my offer, kiddo. If you trust me with your anvil, every pound of it, I’ll help ya toss it behind us, addin’ to the pile. You can unload, and load-up in the cab with me for a straight shot to where you’re meant to be. I just love playin’ the Uber out here. But…keep in mind, the anvil stays in the back. Alligators aren’t allowed in the cab with me neither, ha-ha-ha…”
Fanny looked down at the scorching concrete between his hiking boots and bit his chapped lips in thought.
Christopher, seeing the struggle to find words, added, “There’s rockslides out here, ya know. As ya get close to a hillside, or an upcomin’ canyon, ya might stumble over a stone in your path. When your strength is wrenched, you’ll find it difficult to keep your stance. It’s even worse to find footing after a heavy fall with nobody around to shoulder the load.”
Shaking his head with a look of uncertainty he replied, “No, sir. I have made this trip on my own strength, and I intend finishing it on my own. Besides that, you’re a stranger to me in a beat-up old clunker. No offense, but who’s to say you could get me to Nazareth? I’m sorry, sir, but your offer doesn’t look promising from where I stand. I will do this on my own fuel, and navigation!”
The old man smiled, put his right hand on the stick-shift, looked deeply into Fanny’s eyes and said, “Boy, ask yourself why. Why don’t ya wanna take your load off?”
After a quick mental search, Fanny answered with a tone of resolve, “Christopher, the only honest answer I can come up with is, I’ve grown accustomed to my anvil.”
With a serious timbre in a lower register, Christopher asked, “And the weight of it?”
“I deal with it, just like this unexpected desert,” explained the young one. “Do you understand, old man?”
“Oh, I do, son. I really do understand,” replied Christopher. “Listen, dusk is knockin’. No need for walkin’ in the darkness. I’d say, grab some winks for a fresh start in the mornin’.”
As the elderly man began to roll up his window, he grinned through his long mustache and said, “Well, I know you’ll give it your all. Still, keep in mind, it’s needless for ya to take this desolation, with all its loneliness, and the weight you’re carryin’ solo.” With that, he put the truck in gear, turned up the radio, and off toward sundown he drove.
Fanny continued his trek with a bit of angst in his steps. Christopher somehow offended him with the offer of a free lift, as if the old man thought him weaker, frail, and without survival skills.
He began grumbling to himself, “How dare that ancient dinosaur-of-a-coot say I needed help through this parched piece of earth.” Still, in the attempt to bolster his decision, he raised his voice a notch, “Who does he think he is? He’ll see me in Nazareth, sitting under the shade of an apple tree, sipping on a glass of their best vintage. He’ll be shocked to see me resting on my anvil, without any aid from his sorry rack of rust.”
With all his energy depleted by his rant, Fanny began to look for a safe spot to sleep for the night. Darkness had fallen, but the moonlight helped in the hunt for a place to bed-down. Soon, he located a soft sandy mound with his name on it. He found sun-dried chaparral fit nicely for kindling.
Overnight hours passed and the silence was deafening. As usual, he used the anvil as a pillow, even though the shape was not friendly for his head. He found the surface of the iron was still warm from the sun, which was welcomed as desert nights tend to issue a chill. Unfortunately for the camper, as the nature of anvils, its surface turned cold.
From time to time he heard a small rock roll off the side of a rise just feet from where he was laying. Another time, he was awakened by what he thought was the flapping of large wings. He imagined buzzards mistaking him for a dead man. He then tried to keep one eye opened, but exhaustion won the moment. Another awakening caused him to jump when he heard an insect scratching on his ear. He began to inwardly acknowledge his sleep would be thin at best.
Without knowing why, he opened his eyes from a sound sleep. It was just before dawn. Across the road from where he camped, he swore he caught a shadow figure racing from the road into a ravine on the other side. Startled, he bounced up to a sitting position while fixed on the area where it vanished. What he wouldn’t do for a pair of night-vision goggles. After a minute or so, and a few hyper heartbeats, he shook his head and took a helping from his canteen.
Unable to go back to sleep, Fanny stretched his legs, and his sore back, in preparation for the day ahead.
“The sun is winking at me from over the hills, ” he said as he reached for his anvil. “There’s no time like the present.”
He peeled back the wrapper of an energy bar from his cargo pants thigh pocket, finishing it in record time.
With the young morning sun at his back, and the anvil dangling once again from the rope hoisted over his right shoulder, Fanny felt new aches making themselves known in his calves, ankles, and feet. He thought to himself that if he just put one foot in front of the other, the pain would work itself out.
As he made his way, his mind was flooded with the movements and sounds he heard overnight. He convinced himself that he was in no real danger…or was he? Like a video clip running through his mind, he couldn’t erase the glimpse of the unknown shadow figure dashing away from his makeshift pallet. As hard as he tried, he remained at a loss concerning its identity. In the end, he boldly rationalized the thought. He determined the quiet swiftness indicated a cougar, or a coyote. The “what might have beens” gave him a sense of authentic fear he had not felt before.
Hill after hill, ridge after ridge, no sight of his goal. With every turn, curve and valley, he had hopes of seeing the ornate village painted in his mind as the heated hours wore on.
During the mid-morning, the searing winds kicked up with a devastating blow of a wall of dust and sand from the west. Immediately, it became a battle for each inhale. Fanny pulled his hat over his nose and mouth for protection. Vision became sparse. Tiny grains of sand stung his skin like miniature darts speeding from a horizontal projection. Through the torrent of hot dust and sand, he spotted a boulder nearby and ran to the east side of it, blocking the onslaught of the turbulent blast. After what seemed like an hour or so, the sandstorm passed. With tremendous relief, Fanny came out from behind the boulder, grateful he had discovered it when he did.
With a couple of clearing coughs, he thought to himself, “What else can happen on this journey?”
By early afternoon, he was running low on water. His fear rose each time he shook the canteen to hear the lessening of the swish. His quads were beginning to burn in his thighs. His shoulder was bruised from the rope slung over it, cradling the anvil. A growing headache, once only a nuisance, now pounded from the top of his head. Realizing he was experiencing a deeper dehydration, he guarded against panic. He was beginning to despise the constant mirages of heatwaves appearing as glimmering bodies of water. Suddenly, he heard Christopher’s words from the day before, challenging him with the question of why. “Why don’t ya wanna take your load off?” He found himself flirting with the question.
Mid afternoon descended. After following a sharp curve in the blistering road, Fanny peered into the shadow of a small canyon wall just ahead. The shade spread all the way across the road, and then some. There, on the shoulder of the roadway, about 40 yards away, was a figure of some kind. Cautiously advancing toward it, there, in the shadow of the rock wall, he saw Christopher casually leaning against the tailgate of his blue pickup.
“It seems we meet again, kiddo,” shouted Christopher with a wave. “The shield of a nice-sized rock in a desolate place is mighty fine, wouldn’t ya say? It’s nice and comfortable to me. Come on over, I’ve been waitin’ for ya.”
Fanny found he was somewhat relieved to see the old man, and a convenient shade. He smiled, shook his head in amazement, entering the cooling shadow of the canyon.
As Fanny got closer to the truck, he scratched his head and asked, “How did you know I would be here at this time of day? Are you stalking me, old man?”
Christopher laughed at the question and replied, “Who knows? Maybe the old truck is equipped with radar for weary travelers.”
Wiping his hands on the front of his well-worn overalls, the elder turned to the pile of anvils in the bed of the truck where he pulled out ice cold bottles of water from a Styrofoam ice chest.
“Here ya go! Fanny, take a load off. You deserve it.” ordered Christopher.
Right away, before breaking the cap seal, Fanny first put the cold bottle against his neck, and then his forehead. With a deep heavy sigh, an expression of relief fell over his face.
“Ahhhhhh, that feels so good,” said the hiker.
“No doubt,” answered Christopher. “Tell me, how did ya sleep last night?”
After opening the bottle for his first couple of gulps, the backpacker responded, “I hate to say it, but it wasn’t that great.”
“Oh, really?” replied the old man.
Delaying his answer with another long swig of water, “Let me tell you, the desert may not be my kind of surroundings. I heard noises I couldn’t examine. There were sounds coming from everywhere, including what I think were buzzard wings. That’s way too close for comfort.”
“Is that right?” Christopher said slowly. “What else?”
“You may think I’m nuts, but I spotted a quick shadow I couldn’t identify just on the other side of the road,” described Fanny. “It’s not something I look forward to seeing ever again. By the way, just how many miles is it to Nazareth from this canyon? As far as I can tell….”
“Ya know, owls are night hunters,” Christopher interrupted. “They keep rabbits and rats on the run for sure. Wingspans can be impressive. Such a wonderful creature. As for nocturnal critters in general, I could write volumes on the kinds and species out here. They’re everywhere in the cool of the night. Some folks just let their imaginations run away with them like a train on grease. Truth is, they all were created with excellent night vision. In that respect, they’ve got a leg up on ya.”
The young traveler admitted, “It sure made for an uneasy night.”
While checking the lose left side of his back bumper, the elderly man stated, “Ya know, fear is an enemy. Fact is, it comes in many forms. You might even compare it to a parade coordinator-sending one flatbed float rollin’ by after another, all designed to frighten every person from every walk of life. Your walk of life happens to be on this very road, in this very desert. But always remember, fear is a liar. It promises the worse case scenario in most all situations under heaven, and yet rarely delivers. Son, it’s always best to think of all things as fleeting.”
Fanny laughed and belted out, “FLEETING? Ha, this desert isn’t fleeting Did you see that sandstorm?”
“Hang on now. A liar’s performance is to convince his audience,” stated the old one. “The sudden desert you approach will be full of woes. Hard things happen. Expect it. It’s part of the learnin’ curve. Oppression bubbles up. Depression develops. Illness lurks here and over there. Pain arrives, creeping into your skin, your muscles, your mind, and even your very soul. Soon, a lacking drains your strength, your joy, and eventually, your reasonin’. Yes, the desert is all of that and more. It’s a beautiful place, too…in its own way. The colors and scattered shades are brilliant. Yet, there’s danger out here. There’s isolation expected, married to obscurity. It’s all about who ya face it with. But the sweet truth is, when journeying through the desert, like ya are, you’ll find it’s only temporary. All parades must end, even sandstorms.”
The young man paused for a moment before speaking, “But if there is a learning curve to suffering, what and where is it? I mean, where’s the final exam in this hellish classroom?”
Christopher stroked his wiry beard for a moment. He turned toward a scenic view of the desert and explained, “The better question would be…Why experience it alone? Look out at this barren ground. Each step is a test. You are gettin’ an education, albeit in a lesser degree without an instructor. My offer still stands, kiddo. Let’s take this anvil off your back and put it where it belongs…behind ya, without a rope attached.”
Fanny bent down to tighten his boot laces during an uncomfortable silence. He then stood up, adjusted his canvas hat, looked at Christopher and responded, “No, sir. I will finish this challenge I’ve walked into. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your free offer, but, there’s something to be said about knowing my own conditioning will push me to my destination.”
The elderly man’s ice-blue eyes twinkled as he challenged the young traveler, “And when your anvil of comfort breaks your fleeting, temporary strength, with no one there who is stronger to save ya…what then?”
“Thus far, I’ve adjusted to its weight. It’s okay, really it is,” said Fanny in a softer, kinder delivery. “It may take me a while, but I will get through this desert. But, I can’t wait to feel the soft, cool blades of grass in Nazareth under my bare feet The universe will give me strength.”
“Don’t count on the universe. She’s unforgivin’, and unable to love, ” said the old one. “You, my young man, will find you’re bein’ schooled in the land of waitin’.”
With that said, Christopher watched Fanny strap on his anvil for the journey out of the shadow of the rock wall. Just then, the old man pulled out a brown paper bag and two more bottles of water from the bed of his truck.
“Okay, kiddo,” holding out the items. “Here, ya take these. You’re gonna need it.”
Fanny displayed a large grin at the kindness Christopher displayed. “What’s all this?”
“Well, there’s various items of protein in the bag, some nuts, dried figs, jerky, and some cold sliced pineapple you’ll wanna eat pretty soon,” explained the elder.
Laughing, the hiker inquired, “Pineapple???? Where did you get pineapple out here?”
Christopher just giggled with a lovely childlike delivery as he opened the door to the truck, got in, and started the rattling engine with a backfire.
“Here’s to hopin’ we will see one another again, ” said the old man. “Ya know, hope is a healin’ thing. Even in a deserted place.”
Fanny replied quickly, “I could use that for sure.”
“I know ya do, son. I know ya do,” stated Christopher as he put on his sunglasses. “Be aware of the shadow figures, Fanny. It’ll serve ya well. But, with that said, I’ve never read an obituary where a shadow killed anybody.”
With a whistle on his lips, and his hands on the wide steering-wheel, Christopher began to slowly drive back into the punishing sun. The young trekker raised his hand slowly to wave the old man off. Just then, Fanny realized he never thanked Christopher for the provisions.
Two days and nights passed. It was about noon when Fanny found himself dragging his feet, literally, across the baked concrete in near total exhaustion. With each painstaking stride, he began scanning the horizon for the old man’s pickup. His energy was virtually depleted, and he knew it. The morning delivered some scattered clouds, which aided the weakened young rambler, but now, nothing but abusive piercing sun shutdown all effort. He felt himself wanting, even craving, a visit with the caring driver.
Just as Fanny journeyed down a slope, from a crest in the roadway, he tripped on something. As if in slow motion, he fell forward, hard onto the hot pavement, in unison with a loud ringing thud as the anvil met the road. He screamed in pain from the impact and fierceness of the raging temperature of the road. He quickly turned over on his backpack as a buffer from the concrete. It took him a minute to collect his mind. He looked for wounds, finding a few scrapes and cuts to his elbows, cheek, and the palms of both hands. He noticed his pants were ripped at the left knee as blood began to find its way through the khaki fabric. Troubled at what caused him to lose his traction, Fanny looked around to find the object which caused the fall. There was nothing there. Unable to bend his left knee, he struggled to push himself up on his right leg. With the rope still in his hand, he tested his body for limping to the side of the road. The pain in his knee was crippling. It was a mammoth project as he slowly hopped his way to the sandy shoulder, dragging the anvil against the hot pavement.
Assessing his ability to trek ahead, he noticed something protruding from the bottom of the toe of his right boot. A closer look revealed a piece of the sole of the boot had come loose, and had partially folded back while dragging his feet during the endeavor to keep walking. Whether it was heat exhaustion, the brutal conditions, or a pure wake-up call from injuries, the young hiker admitted being trapped, for the remainder of the day, right where he sat.
As the sun slowly descended into the western sky, Fanny tried to lift his spirits. Finding a small bit of shade under some brush, he began to sing every hit song he could recall from his teen years-songs that made him smile. He busied himself mentally listing his family tree as far back as the war of 1812. With each mental exercise he was surprised at the slowness to fire-off a thought, or memory. He wondered about heat stroke.
“It would seem the elements are doing a number on you, Mr. Gates,” he sarcastically mumbled to himself. In pain, the hiker laid under the tiny shade of the brush for any relief he could manage.
Sounds seem louder when sleeping. Fanny jumped with a start from a nap he didn’t intend on taking. After a few seconds of clarity, he realized he was hearing the tail of a rattlesnake. By sheer instinct, Fanny turned over from his position, discovering in the sand to his left a five foot rattler, curled up maybe 12 feet away. Fear raced through his senses.
Somehow the young man pulled himself together and looked around for a rock. There, by his left boot, were five golf ball-sized sandstones. His eyes once again shifted back to the poised snake. Visions of film footage of how quickly snakes can crawl and strike ran through his head. Unable to bend his left knee without shooting pain, he grabbed the anvil rope, tossed it at the rocks, maneuvering one within reach. He thought to himself, “I have one shot at this and it better be right, or I’m toast.” He methodically, but slowly, reached the rock, grabbed it, then threw it at the rattler with a shout, all in one motion like a professional shortstop. Speedily, the snake reacted, slithering out to the middle of the road and stopped. Fanny trained his eyes on the reptile as it turned its head toward him again. The hiker pitched another rock toward the snake, but this time unmoved.
“Oh, no you don’t, you little beast! Don’t even think about it!” threatened Fanny.
Keeping his eye on the snake, he examined his precarious position. Unable to move quickly, due to his knee, and without a weapon at his disposal, he knew he was a sitting duck. The unexpected desert miles had been cruel, but he covered much ground. Just as he began to question his endurance to reach the other side of the wilderness, he now might see it end-thanks to a new enemy-and a damaged sole.
Surveying every item within reach for a defense, the young traveler’s anvil caught his eye. His mind landed on the reality of the weight of it. Mentally, he began to blame it for his current dilemma. Ninety five pounds of iron needlessly held him down from where he wanted to be. In the assumption he could’ve run from the snake just minutes prior, the anvil would’ve proven to be the end, holding him back for the snake’s lunge. However, in a sick, twisted thought process, his admiration for the useless anvil melted the angst.
Late afternoon approached, and Fanny’s nemesis remained vigilant in a curl, with its expressionless cold stare from the road. The scene was looking darker for the injured young man. He imagined the worst.
Feeling a bit delirious, the trapped hiker’s anger boiled, “So, do you have a nest around here? Maybe you have a brood nearby you’re protecting. Is that why you’re gawking at me? They’ll all make terrific belts, you pile of scales! How does that make you feel? Tell me, is your crawl really quicker than my hop? Look, I know what you’re waiting for. You can’t fool me,” he said, taunting the rattler. “When darkness comes, you’ll slither your measly self over here and take chunks out of me, as I slowly kill over from your venom. I know your kind. I was married to someone like you!”
Fanny was massaging his emotions to accept his coming death. Dreams were dashed, hope only a dream, and his efforts toward his goal had been wasted energy. In a moment of clarity, he looked over at his companion: the anvil. In the light of his circumstances, he knew it suddenly didn’t seem to hold much value. True, Fanny had grown accustomed to the weight on his back, but in the reevaluation, it seemed foolish to have imagined it to be part of himself in daily life. In an odd, and maybe an ironic way, it took a trauma in a desolate place to see the fulfillment of the truth.
Another hour slipped by, closer to the coming dusk. Fanny suddenly had gained a fever. He could feel chills and cold sweat rolling down his chest. His time waned in the growing darkness. His new enemy seemed to detect Fanny’s weakened state, raising its head off the pavement. Desperation danced through the stranded hiker as he grabbed the empty canteen, the only defense against the waiting venomous reptile.
During a somewhat morbid consideration, Fanny pictured where the fangs might sink in first. Like a strategist, he began to maneuver his body so that the strike of the rattler would target closer to his hands and arms for a better shot at defense. About that time, his ears detected a familiar remote sound. He cocked his head as he zoomed-in on the distant echo of what appeared to be a big brass band, combined with the hum of an engine. The young man smiled as he identified the modulation of old pistons, pushing an antique pickup in his direction. Fanny caught a glimpse of the old blue truck rounding a curve, where it began to slow down with its radio blaring away, until coming to a complete stop. As it did, the right front tire crowned the head of the cunning rattler with a defining crunch. The driver’s side door opened and out stepped Christopher.
“Well, if it ain’t young Fanny restin’ on his laurels,” he said with warm grin as he walked toward the young man.
Fanny had gasped when the truck’s tire parked on the snake.
Christopher sarcastically asked, “Son, are ya hungry? Your mouth is wide open like a newborn sparrow in the nest.”
“You…uh, I guess you know, you rolled right on top of that rattlesnake. How did you manage to do that?” quizzed the injured traveler.
“Oh, practice, I suppose. It happens,” answered the lighthearted elder. “I see ya got yourself all banged-up there.”
Sheepishly, Fanny began to explain, “Yes, sir. Earlier today I was so spent. Not realizing my toes were dragging, my sole separated a bit from my left boot, causing me to trip and…well, here I am.”
While scoping out the young man’s injuries, Christopher mentioned the obvious, “Ya fell on your face, I see.”
“In a manner of speaking, I sure did.” admitted Fanny.
The old man knelt down to get a closer look at Fanny’s damaged boot.
“Hmmm, yep, I’m no cobbler, but I see what happened,” speaking slower and in a softer tone, “Ya know, where the ‘soul’ separates is a lonely place to be. What have ya learned, kiddo?”
One side of Fanny’s bruised lip raised as he said, “Seeking shelter is a wise thing.”
“Is it now?” stated Christopher.
“No doubt, ” admitted the young trekker. “I have come to realize that I’m not ‘all that’.”
“Now, give yourself some credit in this journey of yours,” the old one said.
“What?” asked Fanny.
Christopher explained, “Ya didn’t think about how ya said it. In all your boldness and anger, ya once shouted, ‘BY GOD, I WILL DO THIS!‘”
Beside himself, Fanny raised his voice in astonishment, “Hey! How did you know about…I mean…that was a few days ago now…and on top of that, I was in…”
“In the desert, all by yourself. I know,” interrupted Christopher. “You might as well have had on a wireless microphone. That was actually the beginning of your learnin’ while on this path. With all the wreckage in your life, you were searchin’ for solitude. Most people do. Ya see, there’s a big difference between solitude, and isolation. It’s ironic, isn’t it? In your isolation, ya never really were alone.”
The young man being perplexed raised his voice, “Excuse me, but I still don’t understand how you…”
Christopher interrupted again, “Not many do understand, kiddo. Even the ones who are most scholarly, with all those initials after their names, can’t get their arms around it all. Some, the honest and most humble, will even admit it. I’d say you’re in good company.”
Fanny still reclined there, looked down at his skinned hands and torn pants in a sense of surrender.
Breaking the uneasy moment, the old one spoke up, “Now son, here’s the deal for this time, for this place of desolation; will ya accept my offer? You’re in the middle of this trip, but near the end of your journey. I won’t return to these parts for some time, and here, in the waitin’, is the opportunity for decisions. Trust me on this. Take my hand and I’ll give ya a lift to where ya wanna be. As a brash up-and-comer, a lad once told me, ‘It doesn’t look promisin’ from where I stand.'”
The young man accepted without delay, “Yes, sir. I’m ready to move out of this God forsaken place.”
“Uh, not really… ‘forsaken’,” Christopher said with a familiar snicker. “You have much to learn, young Fanny Gates. Come on, I’ll help carry ya to the truck. Ya ain’t heavy.”
With Fanny’s left arm around Christopher’s neck, and the anvil hanging from his sore right shoulder, the duo methodically made their way to the old truck.
After a couple of steps, Fanny asked Christopher a simple question, “I take it you know where Nazareth is, right?”
The old man opened the passenger side door, helped the younger into the truck and informed him, “Well, of course I know where Nazareth is. As far as the eye can see from this spot, it’s nothin’ but desert. Still, Nazareth is not too far from here.”
Just before Christopher closed the passenger door, he asked, “Uh, son, aren’t ya forgettin’ somethin’?”
Fanny looked bewildered until he saw Christopher gazing at the anvil sitting in his lap.
He responded, “Christopher, do I really need to give it up? It’s been with me for as long as I can remember. Over my lifetime I’ve adjusted to its weight.”
“This is the very crux of my offer, Fanny,” Christopher uttered with a straight tone. “Somewhere down the line, you were lied to. You only ASSUMED ya needed this weight. Ya must unload what has weighed ya down in order to come with me. Now, tell me straight up. Are ya willin’ to allow me to toss it behind us, to put it to bed?”
Seeing the sincerity in the old one’s ice-blue eyes, understanding it meant everything to him, Fanny agreed to let go.
With the anvil among the others discarded in the bed of the old truck, the aged one cranked-up the engine, took control of the steering wheel, and began to make a u-turn.
“Hey, Christopher, you’re going in the wrong direction!”, the traveler said with alert.
“You were hopin’ to go to Nazareth,” stated Christopher. “Number one, ya wouldn’t have been able to get there by your own power. Number two, I’m your only Uber out this way. Number three, you were headed west on a one-way road. Nazareth is east of here. Always east.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ll just have to trust you on that.” said Fanny.
With that, the old man replied, “Yep, yep ya must.”
“Christopher, there’s just one thing of concern here,” Fanny said. “I don’t have any cash on me for your fuel.”
After a satisfying smile on his old weathered face, along with a slight shaking of the head, Christopher replied, “That’s another thing, kiddo. Ya never could’ve purchased your way to Nazareth. It’s all been paid for ahead of your arrival. Burden-free, son. Burden-free.”
When loaded down, crushed with the stuff of life’s curses, unload with fuel for the race.
“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the LORD, ‘My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’ For He will deliver you from the snare of the fowlera and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his pinions, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness is a shield and buckler. You will not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness, nor the destruction that wastes at noonday.”– Psalm 91:1-6 (ESV)
“…So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief thatthe only thing we have to fear is…fear itself — nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”– Franklin D. Roosevelt, Inaugural Address, March 4, 1933
Due to retinopathy and glaucoma, I have experienced many an eye surgery over the last five years. No fun whatsoever. As part of the give & take, my natural night vision has been damaged, bit by bit. I still drive at night, but I don’t unless it’s necessary. Craving light is what I do. If the road I’m on is dimly lit, or without reflectors along the stripes or curbs, my vision struggles to pierce the velvet blackness just on the other side of the headlight’s reach. At home, I am so grateful for the little nightlights plugged into the wall sockets for an easier overnight walk to the bathroom, or kitchen. With a portion of my night vision missing, the difference is truly noticeable.
Let’s say you blindfold yourself, just for a personal experiment. Once your eyes are covered you begin the attempt to navigate through your house. Better yet, try this in a home you are unfamiliar with. Each step is carefully placed as you bump into the baseboards and steps. Your hands search the walls for maneuvering safely, or the hope of it. Slowly your feet pioneer themselves across an unknown room, when suddenly they trip over the edge of a rug. You fall as if it were in slow motion. On the way down you think to yourself, “It would be helpful if the owner of the house, who knew this floor-plan, were in front of me, guiding me with their vocal directions.” As you get back up on your feet, you find within yourself a growing emotion…fear. The fear of falling again. The fear of breaking your nose on a door. The fear of knocking out a tooth on the staircase. The fear of…the unknown ahead.
We have been dreading the essential drive to the grocery store ever since the Coronavirus began its crawl across the USA. Droves of unreasonable citizens have been raiding the store shelves as if there was a run on dwindling inventory, buying more than average cupboards could hold without thinking of their neighbor’s needs. The day came. My wife fought through the mob to buy staples for the week. She found a severe lack of eggs, milk, meat, rice, pasta, to name a few. Just amazing for the average grocery store in America. The funny part of it is…there’s no real shortage of anything. She witnessed frantic shoppers racing about with wrinkled foreheads and frowns. The store was filled with consumers tied up in knots on the inside. We’ve seen this type of hysteria with gasoline in the past, haven’t we?
There must be a study somewhere within the bowels of a sociology think-tank which can tell us how mass hysteria occurs. Unfortunately, part of the reason for empty market shelves is greed. There are those who are so full of themselves that they purchase in large quantities of a targeted item for the purpose of private resale with an enormous price hike for others to pay. Trust me, this type of individual will receive their reward. However, the majority of consumers overstock in a crisis for another reason.
What fuels the tanks of the one who fills two or three basket-fulls of toilet paper during a pandemic is…fear itself.
There is a healthy fear each of us possess. It’s evaluated when you pull away from the edge of a cliff. We jerk our hand back when a fire ignites. A healthy fear reminds us to drive under 90 MPH. Then there are wonderful moments where healthy fear is suppressed by the weight of love. You see it when a parent runs into a burning house in efforts to save their child. Fear is quenched when assisting an elderly parent when they are down with the flu. Fear is pushed aside when a dog owner runs out on the a frozen lake to rescue their four-legged pal who fell through a patch of a thin layer. Stories like this are inspiring, along with soul searching.
Those prone to unreasonable, unjustified fright are minds that have conjured up scenarios which most likely are not realistic. Sure, COVID-19 is real. It is upon us all. The remedy is on its way, but not yet available. Citizens are to take precautions. It is a healthy fear to do so. Yet, we should guard against being tied up in knots during the panic.
An unhealthy fear is to fill a home up to the crown molding with a few thousand rolls of toilet paper while not have any produce in the fridge. A person who does this is one who feeds on the extreme as they envision it to be. Even though retailers, the retail workers, the CEO’s, the government itself, implores consumers to think reasonably with the news that there is no shortage of goods, they dive into a darkened place where they believe they will be in want for all things. The lack of “items” is the constructed fear.
Photo: Star News Online
FDR wisely raised the issue of unhealthy fear in his inaugural address in 1933. Yes, people where going through an economic depression. Americans were going hungry, losing jobs, standing in line at soup kitchens. The fear was real. Yet, he sensibly pointed out the deadliest fear facing the nation at the time. The most costly was, “fear itself”. He knew, all too well, unhealthy fear can bring someone to harmful illnesses, anxiety, even insanity. In fact, it was a contagious anxiety. He was aware unhealthy fear grows hurtful selfishness. FDR saw the men and women of his nation were not standing strong in the stiff winds of a fierce depression which carried many to suicide, murder, and hatred of neighbors. Truly costly. Even the children of those who tied themselves in knots began to lose hope. In essence, FDR was saying…“FEAR KNOT!”
Fear itself is like being blindfolded in a house not your own. It’s like driving a dark road at 4am while wearing thick sunglasses. When blind to the unknown, it can cause delusions. Fear itself develops a mental picture of what might occur, what could happen, what possibly would be in store, all without remedy. So many who have studied fear say about 90% of what we fear never happens. In that perspective it gives something to wake-up to tomorrow.
If only we had the owner of the house, who built the floor plan, to give us strong directions just ahead of each step we dare take in the darkest of moments.
I know Who that is. He is the Author of light, direction, and hope. He is the One who promised there were new mercies on the shelf every morning.
“Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’…your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” – Jesus – (Matthew 6) (ESV)
Certainty can be defined as this: Filling a tank with fear is contrary to fuel for the race.
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of instruction.” – Apostle Paul – 2 Timothy 1:7 (Aramaic Bible in Plain English)
“You don’t have to be a star, baby, to be in my show…” (1976) “You Don’t Have To Be A Star”. Recorded by: Marilyn McCoo & Billy Davis Jr. Composers: James Dean & John Glover.
It’s called, 52768 (1998 IR2). It’s not named after an astronomer, or a mythical Greek god from ancient history, but rather a cold, non-personality number. Its title may reflect the unimpressive appearance as it tends to resemble a giant potato spud. Through a powerful telescope it may have a bit of light reflecting solar rays off its surface, but nothing as brilliant as a star. It lacks the synchronized rotations of the planets and moons. There are some which become mini-moons, caught in a planet’s orbit, but for the most part, they travel seemingly aimlessly in space. You might say, if it were a person with feelings, it would be an introverted loner, a Sad Sally. Let’s face it, she ain’t nothin’ to write home about…or is she?
First tracked by scientists in 1998, our friend, 52768 (1998 IR2), has been studied ever since, and for good reason. She’s a gigantic space rock almost the size of Mount Everest. She measures up to 2.5 miles wide and travelling at 19,461 miles per hour. A very impressive stone to say the least. What’s more impressive, is her current trajectory. Not unlike a nail-biting science fiction movie, this gargantuan potato-like stone is headed close to our own planet. NASA estimates it will pass within 3,908,791 miles of the earth. It’s way out there. Right? After all, the distance between the earth and the moon is a mere 238,900 miles. That may sound like a Herculean hurdle from here, but in astrophysicist’s standards, NASA considers 3.9 million miles a near miss. No doubt, everyone with a telescope will be out looking for it come next month, on April 29th to be exact.
I am unsure the size of the asteroid which hit us in the Yucatan, back in the day, but those seemingly in the know tell us it changed our entire planet. In fact, many believe it somehow killed off the entire dinosaur species. (I always thought it funny that the Yucatan Asteroid killed off Dino and friends, but not the balance of living species on the planet. Crickets to whales and elephants should’ve all be sunk in the impact as well, along with the nuclear winter which naturally followed. Oh, well. Of course, we are never to question scientific theory, right? If you do, the science police will come in the attempt to shut you down, until you agree to nod yes to everything they print.)
Nevertheless, NASA has sent out an asteroid alert. Even though this killer, almost the size of Mount Everest, will only visit our neighborhood. Still it is good to be alerted. A traffic alert is needed for an alternative route. A tornado alert is a must to warn people on the ground. Just ask the poor folks hurting in the Nashville, Tennessee area right now.
At the risk of appearing to be overly dramatic here, there is an alert of this nature written on papyrus some 2,000 years ago. See if this lines up with NASA’s description.
“…and something like a great mountain burning with fire was thrown into the sea; and a third of the sea became blood,9 and a third of the creatures which were in the sea [f]and had life, died; and a third of the ships were destroyed….” – Apostle John – Revelation 8:8-9 (Now there’s some climate change for the record books.) It’s interesting that in the following verse (Rev 8:10) is a description of an enormous falling “blazingstar” which poisons the planet. I will say, it’s not for the faint of heart if this planet is considered the highest treasure.
Some may not realize the significance of the writings of John in the scroll of Revelation. In fact, many try to ignore it altogether. A study of it requires one of understanding, so says its writer. The text defines it is an unfolding of times and events concerning the earth. John, the writer, was given strict instructions. “Write, therefore, whatever you have seen and those things that are, and that are going to come to pass after these things.” – Revelation 1:19 (Aramaic Translation Bible) In other words, the ending of the age is detailed. If you plan on a read, expect much imagery and foreshadowing within its pages. It’s not a good bedtime read for the kids. Alerts are a good thing. It means, it’s not happened yet. That’s a good thing. Most agree, knowledge is power.
How many times have you seen a personal asteroid headed your way, and you felt like all you could do is gaze at its approach? Maybe it was a mountain you were up against. You knew it was coming, you were alerted, your radar and telescope captured it, but all you could do is wait for the impact. Maybe it was a loved one, or a dear friend, who came to you with an alert about a person you were letting into your orbit. Maybe you disregarded their warning only to find yourself broken and damaged afterwards. It could be your body has been sending you alerts. You’ve not felt normal while wrestling with the idea of going to a doctor for a test or two. Many are in quarantine with the mountainous asteroid of Coronavirus. It could be that one day you hear a knocking under the hood of your car. A warning alert flashes on the instrument panel. After the mechanic does a diagnostic, you are alerted of a serious issue which needs to be repaired. In the end, we are left with the choice of heeding alerts, or ignoring them, sometimes at our peril.
“Forassuredly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be removed and be cast into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that those things he says will be done, he will have whatever he says.Therefore I say to you,whatever things you ask when you pray, believe that you receive them, and you will have them.” – Jesus – Mark 11:23-24 (NKJV)
There are many moments in life where faith kicks in. Times of your back touching the corner behind you. Someone wise once said, “Prayer is a mystery”. Yet, sometimes, a wise person finds leaning on the mysterious unseen, is the answer.
Here’s to waving along Sad Sally.
Wandering stars, as scripture describes, are never sturdy and safe. But there is stability standing still on The Solid Rock within fuel for the race.
“…I Seek in myself the things I meant to say,
And lo! the wells are dry.
Then, seeing me empty, you forsake
The Listener’s role, and through
My dead lips breathe and into utterance wake
The thoughts I never knew…”
An excerpt from, “A Poem Prayer” – CS Lewis (1964)
“She was just sixteen and all alone when I came to be. So we grew up together…mama-child and me. Now things were bad and she was scared, but whenever I would cry, she’d calm my fear and dry my tears with a rock and toll lullaby…” (1972) Rock And Roll Lullaby. Recorded by: B.J. Thomas. Composers: Barry Mann & Cynthia Weil.
With age, I have learned that…
If I were the teen who fought through a sexual assault, then carried an unwanted pregnancy, debating the heart’s choices, then allowing life to grow, I would be a spectacular teenager wise beyond my years.
If I were a parent who protected my newborn from assault and murder at the hands of the father, with a sacrificial unselfish front, I would be a medal of honor recipient.
If I were to end an abusive marriage, to defend and shield my innocent toddler, knowing there would be no child support, I would be a heroine authors would write about.
If I were a single parent constantly contending with the voices of psychological demons, chanting accusations of worthlessness, depreciation, and shame, all the while rising above it all to raise my child, I would be the dragon-slayer described in countless novels.
If I were to defeat my fear by moving into an uncharted world, away from family, to make a life for my young child, I would be a courageous warrior with monuments anointing the landscape.
If I were one who taught my toddler the true value of the gift of grandparents, I would be a brilliant educator with my name on the walls of universities.
If I were to faithfully read scripture to my young child each night, combined with the simplicity of personal prayer and church attendance, I would be a righteousness seeker with my statue erected by the world’s cathedrals.
If I were to seek out the finest pre-schools and kindergartens, in the attempt to assure my only child got a leg up, I would be a proactive parent to be noticed.
If I were to be rejected for loans and credit, due to being a single parent in the 1960’s, only to exercise faith while tackling a life of poverty with my head held high, I would be a fearless champion in my child’s eyes.
If I were to knock on every door to find a job waiting tables, or struggle with an overnight shift on an assembly line, I would be a humble workhorse of a provider for others to impersonate.
If I were to give away the opportunity to have a brilliant singing & recording career, just to be home with my child at the end of a hard night’s work, I would be self-sacrificing, worthy of a screenwriter’s time.
If I were to provide for my child after several lay-offs, by way of two or three jobs, I would be Superman, Wonder Woman, and Batman combined, never being poor in spirit.
If I were to train my child well enough to leave him alone overnight, in order to work the graveyard shifts, I would be an example of a strong tower of faith.
If I were to work overtime to aid in the development of my elementary age child with raw musical abilities, by paying for piano, violin, guitar, and voice lessons, my portrait would hang in Carnegie Hall.
If I were to be a staunch, independent single parent, refusing financial aid from my parents, I would be wealthy of heart.
From my granddad’s cedar coin box. The two of us from 1969.
If I were to resist the temptation of suicide, while being beaten down by company lay-offs, Green Stamp submissions, and accepting government blocks of cheese, I would be a brave ferocious fighter for my child’s future.
If I were to support my teen’s sports and musical interests, which differ from mine, I would be a liberally devoted parent of love and understanding.
If I were to tirelessly stand up to my rebellious teenager, with the possibility of damaging our relationship, I would have attributes resembling the God of the Bible.
If I were to sit all alone in a church pew watching my child wed, I would have earned the vision of a soldier adorned in glistening armor after a long battle.
If I were to bless my grandchildren with my physical presence, my mind, as well as my heart, I would be worth my weight in gold.
My mom with my middle daughter, Megan. (1992)
If I were to deny myself, for the betterment of my child, to the point of self-injury, while killing my own pursuits, and avoiding life’s trinkets that shine in the night, I would be Joan of Arc, Boudicca, Anne Sullivan, and Rosa Parks rolled into one.
If I were to be an example for my adult child, by being the caretaker of my aging parents, suffering from Alzheimer’s and Dementia, along with other elderly ones in my community, I would reflect what I have always been…a mountain of love, compassion, and selflessness.
If I were to describe a fictitious character from my own dreams, they could not come close to the one I have held in my heart for my entire life.
I don’t have to write the words “If I WERE…” The reason being, I simply could never measure up. The one described above is my mom, Carolyn Atherton-Brown.
I am her portrait. I am her monument. I am her novel. I am her screenplay. I am her statue. I am her champion. I am her armored soldier. I am the medal of honor.
To be gracefully broken, brilliantly strengthened, and beautifully poised is to be one who drinks deeply from the well of fuel for the race.
“…As surely as you live, I am the woman who stood here beside you praying to the Lord. I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him. So now I give him to the Lord. For his whole life he will be given to the Lord…” – The words of Hannah – I Samuel 1:26b-28a (NIV)
If you read my posts you will find this to be a bit different in flavor. My request is that you read this one, leaving bias or preconceived ideas at the door. Just humor me for now.
Imagine, you wake up in the back of a transport van. Your wrists and ankles are shackled to a pole attached to the metal bench you’re laying on. Looking down you find you’re dressed in an orange cotton jumpsuit with your full name sown into fabric across your chest. Next to you is an assigned armed guard watching.
“What have I done?” you ponder silently. In frustration you inquire aloud to the guard, “Excuse me, sir. Why am I here? Why have I been apprehended in this way? Where are we going?” The guard sits there ignoring you, as if you spoke nothing.
Imagine, the van stops just about the time you decide to ask the guard once more, with attitude. The back double doors fly open as two more armed guards await your wrists and ankles to be unlocked from the pole. As you continue to wear the shackles, dragging the chain between your feet, you begin to struggle to walk toward the open van doors. The guards reach out, taking you by both arms, pulling you out of the vehicle. They walk you into an enormous courthouse, a stately building, you do not recognize.
Imagine, you gasp at what you see as you are led into a large, wide hallway filled with other people who appear to be in the same circumstance. You are struck by the incredibly long lines of the incarcerated, hugging the walls to the right and the left, as they stand single-file down endless corridors. Each prisoner lacks the individual ID numbers, as you would assume. Instead, each one has their name etched across their torsos, just like yours. As you stumble with the shackles hindering your stride down the hallway, you read some of the names, ordinary names…Bohoah Yudo, Jack Nelson, Zhang Wong, Sherry White, Jesse Mundos, Amy Jones, Ahmad Siddiqui, Running Bear Parker, Angelique Pascal, Lorenzo Giordano…all assorted from every corner of the earth.
Imagine, you have been escorted to a guarded giant set of double doors, made of bronze. This is odd, considering nobody else is in line for this entrance. As you are led to the threshold, the thick doors are opened. As they reveal the interior, your eyes widen in awe of a high judge’s bench made of, what appears to be, the finest mahogany. There are no spectators, or spectator’s chairs. In fact, this courtroom lacks a jury box, as well. Only court officers and clerks are present.
Imagine, an announcement is made that all should rise as the judge is preparing to enter from his chambers. The chamber door opens. An amazing, distinguished, and striking robed man makes an appearance, taking his place at the judge’s seat. You immediately notice the baffling brilliance of his eyes. If you were to describe them, you would say they were transparent, somehow. When he looks into your eyes, you feel as if he has known you all your life. There is a sense he can see through the shell you often use with strangers. What’s more, he never blinks.
“Are the books opened?” he asks the clerks with a reverberating bass voice. You didn’t hear the response as you found yourself mesmerized by three enormous antique books, bound in gold leaf. These books were so thick, it took four clerks to open the volumes.
“Bring the perpetrator before the court,” demands the judge. “The transgressor will remain bound through these proceedings,” the judge adds. As the guards nudge you forward, immediately you wonder what kind of judicial system this is. You know you’ve done nothing wrong, and yet the judge seems to not believe in “innocent until proven guilty.”
Imagine, you stand before this awesome judge as he gazes at your name found in one of the colossal bindings. As he calls you by your full name, including your middle name you never reveal to anyone, the chains hanging off your limbs rattle as you slightly tremble in fear. Furthermore, your very soul quakes as you feel the injustice hovering over you like an anvil ready to drop. His next statement causes your face to go pale as you fight the feeling of tears pushing against your eyelids.
“Are you aware of the charges made against you in this case?” he asks with piercing authority.
You take a deep breath, as if it were your last, and proclaim in a louder voice than you had intended, “No, your honor. I am stunned I am here at all.” The judge nods as if to acknowledge he has heard this before in his court.
With a laser-beam glare, the judge turns his unusual translucent eyes toward a rather polished-looking man standing behind a half-wall, where the jury box would normally be located. He is a handsome looking gent, dressed to the nines, with his hair slicked back in perfect order. To say he looks wealthy and studious would be an understatement.
In a lower tone, unlike any sound from his voice thus far, the judge states, “The prosecutor, your legal adversary, will now recite the charges against you. It is imperative you remain silent, without outbursts, during his delivery. Prosecutor, you may begin.”
The prosecutor rolls out a thick stack of legal documents from his briefcase. He begins thumbing through the papers.
“Your honor, this one has violated every law you so diligently protect,” the prosecutor quickly cites with a silky, smooth voice. He continues, “Naturally, you have the full record already prepared in your book. I will summarize from my copies. To begin with, this one uttered false notions to the parents multiple times, starting at infancy. Later in life, while in heated unjustified anger, there would be thoughts of assault, without striking out. As a preteen, there was a candy bar taken without payment from a local convenient store. There have been periods of lashing out with words of destruction, targeting the spirit of others, with intent, and without good cause. Starting during the teen years, this one followed through with lust for others in the classroom. Then, if that wasn’t enough, your honor, there are countless traffic violations. Yield signs were neglected, yellow traffic lights turned red while in the process of driving through the intersections. At one point underage drinking took over, with bribery in full play, to keep the infraction quiet. While on the subject, there was one DUI, but got away with the transgression. There was an event concerning road rage where the defendant cursed another, while utilizing a selected finger, signaling a violent nature of the heart. I have a list of selective years this one cheated on taxes, unseen by the government. The record shows the act of false statements to a supervisor concerning sick days. When a neighbor bought a bigger house out in the country, this one became secretly envious, followed by malicious desires, developing into severe covetousness. There are charges of delinquent bills from time to time. The removal of love comes and goes. The act of pre-judging fellow man is outrageous on its own. Even discriminatory hatred, applied to others, appears over the decades. Admittedly, there is no guilt of carrying out the act of murder or adultery, but on several occasions the mind entertained as much concerning others. You, yourself, your honor, claimed if one even thinks of murder and adultery, that one is just as guilty as the one who acts upon the thought. May I remind you, this ruling came from your court, your honor. It is your prerogative to expunge the law you so graciously gave, if it serves the defendant well.”
(CRACK!) The gavel came down extremely hard. The walls seemed to vibrate at the crashing sound of the impact.
“ENOUGH! My law set forth is who I am. The law is my very essence. It will be defended. The law is a school teacher, educating the public of a guide for a life of goodness. It will be carried out. Each law will be filled and completed, and will never be removed. Once more, I will remind you of the rules of my court, prosecutor. You have heard it said from this bench in prior cases. As long as there are lawbreakers, if you violate my rules, here, in this place, I will call for your banishment and have you held in contempt. You may continue,” the judge remarks with the pointing of his finger.
“As you please, your honor. As usual, I could go on. The rap sheet is lengthy. The guilt is undeniable inside every day, of every month, of every year of this one’s life. Beyond all, perhaps the most grievous crime, this one wallows in a lack of faith in the Lawgiver, the law’s sincerity, with total disregard of the ramifications. My office recommends extreme punishment to the law’s fullest extent, as written in your own manuals, your honor. I rest my case, your honor.” With that, the prosecutor shuffled his documents as he returned them back to his thick briefcase.
Imagine, you are bursting at the seams to defend your good name. After all, you never thought of yourself as a lawless individual. Most everyone you know would stand by your side, testifying to the fact that you’re a pretty good person overall. Just then, the judge interrupts the thought.
After calling out your name, he asks a hard question, “Do you have counsel to represent you here today?”
You quickly respond in helplessness, “No, your honor. I am without a defender. I do have friends that can testify on my behalf, but…”
“Unfortunately for you, they too are in the halls of lawlessness. Your deeds done are not to be measured by a lawbreaker’s plumb-line. Your peers are not the surveyor. The human heart is faulty. They will morph as their opinions shift. However, the law changes not and is unforgiving. It was etched in ancient stone for a purpose. It is relentless and ferocious. The law is…quite simply…unable to be kept, ” the judge points out.
Imagine, your jaw drops. You are in shock, more than you were in the beginning. You are being prosecuted for transgressions which you always deemed as minimal, unimportant infractions, and now your judge admits nobody can keep the law in its entirety!
In your chains, you melt at the idea of hopelessness. Somehow you are able to catch your breath from this gut-punch, “Your honor, I cannot defend myself against these charges. How can I? The law list is too heavy. It rules over me in such a way that there’s no escape.”
“Yes, the law is rigid. It was written to be so. Where one law is broken, all laws are broken collectively,” the judge explains. “It instructs that no one is good enough to keep its commands as a whole-not even one person outside these walls. As you stand before me, the written record concerning your life is damning, indeed. I find you are guilty as charged. There is a certificate of debt which I will sign. It has my seal. It will state you were born guilty, without self-remedy. The law is clear. The payment for your offenses will be…certain death.”
Imagine your fear, your terror, your inability to redeem yourself. You feel like someone has demanded that you jump across the Grand Canyon. It can’t be done. All you can do is hang your head in shame as the tears begin to build and fall.
Imagine now, at that point, a gentle hand strokes your hair, like your mom did when you were a kid. It startles you, causing you to flinch. Your head snaps back up in reaction. You look quickly to your right to see a man standing next to you. Your eyes glanced his way earlier, but he was unassuming, sitting back away from the proceedings in a shadowed corner. This man would be easily ignored if you strolled by him on the street. He isn’t dressed well for an officer of the court. As you wipe the tears from your eyes, you can see his face more clearly. There’s nothing really handsome about him. In fact, it seems he’s a bit on the weathered side. His hair, clothes, and shoes are unclean and unkempt. His hands are rough, stained from dirt and grime, like a construction worker at the end of a day’s work. It’s a mystery to you just why he is in the presence of such a pristine majestic courtroom. He places his arm around your shoulders as if to comfort, or encourage. You are moved that you find it warm, even consoling where he touches you.
With kind eyes, he speaks softly to you, “Wait here. I will return.”
He addresses the judge with great admiration, “Your honor, this one doesn’t understand how this guilt shrouded life. They don’t know what they are doing. I will approach for private deliberation.” Openly, he is welcomed.
He walks toward the judge’s bench. You can see in their faces that they know one another very well. Instead of asking the judge’s permission for a side bar consultation, the soiled man makes his way unhindered around the mahogany structure, walks by the clerk and bailiff, as they step aside, and straight up the steps to the judge himself. He places his arm around the judge’s shoulders as they begin to consult. You would give anything to hear what is being discussed, but the topic remains a mystery to you, as well as everyone else in the courtroom. Soon thereafter, the man comes down from the judge’s seat, approaching you with a comforting smile of resolution.
He says only one thing as he leans to reach your ear, “You must trust me.”
With that, he steps back from you, turns, and stands between you and the bench, blocking your view of the judge.
The prosecutor, who has been closely watching the unusual conference, speaks up, “I object, your honor! This is highly irregular, and certainly…” (BOOM!) The gavel pounds the bench in force.
“Objection overruled,” declares the judge. Silencing the prosecutor soundly, the judge continues, “It is now official. May the record show the defendant has court appointed counsel at this time. Counselor, I will ask you one more time for the court record. Is it your intention to now represent this defendant, this one who has already been pronounced guilty of lawlessness?”
“Yes, your honor. This one belongs with me,” remarks the defender.
“May it be so. May the record show I have agreed, thus appointing the defender to this defendant,” states the judge.
Your defender faces you once more. He finds you’re fixed on the prosecutor’s smirk as he straightens his tie. At the same time, you feel the eyes of your counselor penetrating your focus. You turn your eyes to his. You sense an assurance from him.
“Believe in what I will do for you,” he says with a deep sound of conviction.
With that, he is escorted out a side door by two guards, as if in protection mode.
You seem frozen at the moment at what just happened, even though you do not understand it.
The judge addresses you once again, “Fortunately for you, there is one of this court who has agreed to defend you, even though you have been found guilty and sentenced already. Many documents must be written and published. There are facts in this case which will be entered into the ledgers. This will take some time. Because you have previously been found guilty by this court, you will not go free, as you count freedom. You will remain shackled and placed in the hallway of lawlessness with the others, who are due in court. There you will remain until you hear your name called. At that time, you will report to the doors of this court for the details of your final sentencing. Do you understand these words I have spoken them to you?”
You hesitate but respond in puzzlement, “Yes, your honor.”
Almost sounding like a counselor himself, the judge speaks to you one last time in a softer tone, “Let it be known, it is not required for you to understand the timing and ways of this court, or its officers. Trust your defender. Listen for your name.”
(BOOM) The gavel comes down as the judge orders, “Court adjourned!”
At this juncture, you are led, with chains rattling, to your hallway of waiting.
Imagine that it seems no time has passed at all when you hear your name called. You look up to see the bailiff standing outside the courtroom doors with documents in hand. Right away, your brows wrinkle, as you whisper to yourself, asking where your defender has been. You fully expected him to consult you in the hallway at some point, but he never arrived. There’s a feeling of unmistakable abandonment as you try to pick yourself up. You stumble a bit with your ankle chains as you attempt to make your way across the hallway toward the waiting bailiff. You approach him. He looks at you as he restates your name, even though it is plainly written across your chest. You acknowledge with a nod of your head, not wanting to hear the outcome of your defender’s work. That is if any work has been done at all.
Imagine your amazement when the bailiff’s next words are, “You are free to go, if you choose.”
The wrinkles on your concerned face vanish as your mouth drops, “WHAT?”
“Yes, you may walk away, if you so desire,” replies the bailiff.
“Wait a minute. How can this be? My defender hasn’t shown his mug at all,” you quickly point out.
“Oh, your defender arrived exactly at the appointed time. The judge is appeased. You were not present to witness it, but he made his appointment,” states the officer.
You cock your head at his strange reply, “What ever do you mean? He arrived? Where?”
“Your defender’s father was there to witness his work on your behalf, until it he could no longer observe,” said the bailiff as he enveloped a document.
You eagerly inquire, “My defender’s father? Who is that?”
The bailiff seems struck by your lack of information, “You didn’t know? How could you NOT know? The judge is your defender’s father.”
In a state of perplexity you try to find the right words to ask, “I don’t get it. That would be a conflict of interest, right?”
“No conflicts between them, ever,” replies the bailiff.
“What did my defender do for my case?” you ask.
At this point the bailiff offers you a document from the court. As you look closer, it is the certificate of debt, describing your crimes, along with the sentencing of capital punishment.
“Your debt has been paid,” explains the officer. “Freedom from the judgment rendered is now available.”
“How…what did…I don’t understand,” you admit.
“A reckoning has been accomplished. Your defender volunteered to pay the debt to the court on your behalf,” explained the man.
You mutter almost under your breath, “You…you mean he…”
“Yes. Your judge and his son, your appointed defender, agreed to release you from your lawlessness status. Your defender volunteered to be sacrificed in your place,” replied the officer. “I was there to witness it. It was brutal, but it was decreed. The judge, once the sacrifice was accomplished, was satisfied with the work of your defender. Retribution has been completed. There is nothing else needed to be done. The court considers the matter finished.”
The magnitude of the news stuns you. You take the certificate of debt from the bailiff as you attempt to summon the right words to the question in the very core of reasoning.
“Why would the judge agree to do this?” you ask.
“Love,” replied the bailiff. “The judge not only pities your plight, but also expresses great compassion from an endless well of love for you. He and his son designed this incredible plan together. Now, it is up to you to accept this gift you have been offered. You can remain in your shackles, or accept this act of the court’s finding of love toward you today. Keep in mind, if you choose to deny it, you will remain condemned.”
“How can I thank him for this?” you inquire. “My defender is dead, but I can still show my gratitude to the judge.”
The bailiff spoke up quickly with urgency, “First, you must take the certificate of debt to the court cashier on your way out. If you choose to accept this offer of love, hand this certificate to the cashier, stating the debt has been paid. The cashier will then stamp it, ‘PAID IN FULL!’ After sealing it, your shackles will be removed. You will then be given new clothing to wear. It truly is a phenomenal great exchange. You will discover the doors are already open for you.”
Sheepishly you bring up the obvious, “I hate to be the devil’s advocate here, but what if he changes his mind and sends his guards to bind me again? Is it possible he will reverse his decision?”
The officer responded, “The judge now sees you as blameless because of his innocent son taking your condemnation upon himself. Trust this decision. It will always be a matter of trust.”
Really, you don’t have to imagine. This is what occurred when Jesus offered Himself to be crucified. For thousands of years it was foretold this was God’s plan. The Old Testament is blanketed with the prophecies of where it would happen, why it would happen, the week it would happen, and how it would happen, including the specific wounds he would receive. On several occasions, Jesus Himself told His followers what would transpire, making it clear He was choosing to give His life away for the redemption of humanity. At the time, they didn’t quite understand it either. Although He had multiple opportunities to change plans and escape the arrest, the sentencing, and the cross, He went out of His way to stand ready for it all. So, some 700 years before Jesus was born, the Old Testament passage was written to assist on identifying Him,
“He was oppressed and He was afflicted. Yet He did not open His mouth. Like a lamb that is led to slaughter, and like a sheep that is silent before its shearers, so He did not open His mouth.” – Isaiah 53:7
When you think about it, forgiveness takes sacrifice. It was that way in the Old Testament, as God dealt with humanity’s ills, and the guideline continues today. When forgiving someone who has raped your good name, or one who offended you, you first must swallow down the idea of your gut reaction. When being slandered publicly by someone who walks all over your integrity, your first thought is to ring his neck. A kidnapper takes your four-year old and murders him. Immediately, you want to hunt him/her down to take retribution to satisfy your screaming grief and rage. Am I right? If you’re an average person, you would agree with me on this. To forgive, as you have been forgiven, is to sacrifice your hot satisfaction of revenge. It’s so much easier to punch the offender’s lights out. Forgiveness says, “No. I will not satisfy the overwhelming desire to inflict my retribution on the offender. Instead, I will wipe away the debt I want to levy.” This is what Easter is all about.
Theologically, there is so much more to explain concerning the cross of Christ, along with the plan to redeem fallen humankind since Genesis, and the work of Jesus in the future. However, simplicity was what God decided to spotlight in this case, so we may not have an excuse to ignore His gift.
So, the tomb is empty. But why?
Buried in a borrowed garden tomb of a secretive wealthy follower, Jesus was wrapped, placed in the tomb, and a large stone was rolled over the door with a Roman seal. Several Roman soldiers were placed there to guard the tomb. However, Jesus would not be held by death, or a sealed grave.
Since the payment for our sin is a death sentence, He needed to show proof of His deity. Once a guilty inmate is pronounced dead by lethal injection, he stays dead. That’s the finality of capital punishment. The penalty states, your life is quenched forcibly. Over a three year period, Jesus publicly raised other corpses to life. Even random people came out of their graves the same day Jesus walked out of the tomb.(Matthew 27:50-53) The account in scripture says the righteous dead appeared to many in the city. An event uniquely placed for Jesus’ miraculous actions during this time. He was not bound by nature’s law as He was from outside of nature, looking in. On Easter, Jesus not only proved He once again had power over death itself, authority over the payment for sin, but He also was following through with His teaching of new life offered. Death is final. We all know that. Conquering death is something the living can not do. With Jesus, it is a gateway to eternity for the soul. His sacrifice-replacing my debt for my chronic lawbreaking, satisfied the Author of the Ten Commandments.
The resurrection of Jesus was witnessed by Jews and Gentiles alike. For some forty days after that Sunday morning, He ate, walked, and talked with all of His friends and family. In fact, scripture has an account that speaks of a crowd of over 500 who saw Him after the resurrection. The news of it couldn’t be stopped by the local governing class, or even Rome’s iron fist. Early Christian history is filled with the accounts of Jesus’ followers being tortured, burned alive, and crucified because they would not stop with their testimonies of the risen Messiah. Ask yourself what you would be willing to die for.
So yes, the tomb in Jerusalem is empty. My certificate of debt was paid in full and He, being Who He is, survived it all.
I have been purchased with a great price. My life was changed from old, to new.
“I know the resurrection is a fact, and Watergate proved it to me. How? Because 12 men (His disciples) testified they had seen Jesus raised from the dead, then they proclaimed that truth for 40 years, never once denying it. Every one was beaten, tortured, stoned and put in prison. They would not have endured that if it weren’t true. Watergate embroiled 12 of the most powerful men in the world-and they couldn’t keep a lie for three weeks. You’re telling me 12 apostles could keep a lie for 40 years? Absolutely impossible.” – Charles Colson (Special Counsel to Pres. Richard Nixon, commonly known as Nixon’s “Hatchet Man”. He was also named as one of the “Watergate Seven”. He plead guilty to obstruction of justice and served prison time.)
“…having canceled out the certificate of debt consisting of decrees against us, which was hostile to us; and He has taken it out of the way, having nailed it to the cross.” – St. Paul – Colossians 2:14 (NAS)
“Down the road I look and there runs Mary, Hair of gold and lips like cherries. It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home.” – Green, Green Grass of Home. Composer: Claude “Curly” Putman, Jr. Recorded by: Porter Wagoner (1965).
We’ve only been married for two years. Michelle is a green thumber with big landscaping ideas. She not only talks the talk, but she walks it, too. Over the last two years I’ve seen her magical touch on our property. As for me, not a chance. That’s a talent I don’t have.
Springtime in Texas is sweet and sour. The sour part would be the pollen, outrageous storms, and the fresh crop of weeds common in mostly central and east Texas. She has been hiring a lawn care service to do the mowing and edging for some time now, but there’s drawbacks to their work. They tend to bring unwanted seeds of weeds with them under their well-used mowers, planting our lawn like ants to an ant pile. Arg! Again I say, Arg! So, with a bit of angst from my side of things, we politely discontinued the service.
In Texas we must have hundreds of species of weeds. The most hated, the most dreaded, prickly thick-stalked dandelions. They can grow a good four to five feet high if untouched. Then there are some less visible. Some are actually kind to the eyes, as some of them have handsome blooms…at first.
The trouble goes beyond mowers that just worked over a field of various weeds. There’s also the neighbors. Across the street from us, is a lawn doubling as a “weed nursery”. Sure, they mow them down, but of course they grow back in about six days. Moreover, the wind blows the seeds across the street to our lawn. (Have I written “Arg” yet?)
Michelle seems to have some reservoir of energy I was not gifted with. Her mapped out solution for our growing weed crop is to pull them out by the roots…each and every one of them. Yes, you read me right…EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THEM! “No weed-wacking or chemical spraying at our place,” says the lady of the house. That would be my way of doing things, right or wrong. Believe it or not, she finds pleasure in doing it. I applaud, bring her glasses of chilled water and remind her of sunscreen. (Michelle is a ginger.) She sees those pesky weeds as an enemy to be pulled out and bagged before they choke-out our mix of St. Augustine and Bermuda grass. If weeds had brains, they would be slick and wise world conquerors. Bless their little hearts.
Currently, she is hand-tilling the ground, foot-by-foot, and replanting more St. Augustine, while fighting the onslaught of our unwelcomed weeds. It’s lots of hard work.
As I was carrying bags of the adversary out to the curb for trash pick-up day, I was hit with a life application.
Weeds are spoken of in the Bible. And yes, scripture spotlights the fact they were the target of angry farmers. Jesus mentioned horticulture many times. When it comes to weeds, or weed-wanna-be’s, He made various teachable moments out of them.
One of my favorites is a vivid, picturesque scene of a farmer planting good seed for the season. Jesus gave a parable about a farmer tossing good seeds where some found good, unhindered soil for sprouting and growing Then He told another side concerning a failed crop. Some seeds were burned out by the hot sun, withering before they were watered. Other seeds landed on shallow ground dotted with rocks where they never took root. Some landed well, but the birds, circling above, quickly swooped down and picked the ground clean. Then there was the batch of seed that landed among thorny bush plants. (Easily translated into prickly weeds.) Wouldn’t you know it, the thorny bushes choked-out the growth of the intended crop.
There’s a huge amount of application to the parable, which He spelled out when His hearers asked to explain the meaning. The seed represented words from God delivered to humanity. In fact, He stated that people are also like the seeds spread on the ground who are within earshot of the words. Some will grab hold of God’s love letter, the Bible, and apply the contents to their lives. Others will not, as the words fail to take root in the heart, the core, where faith resides. Ouch! That’s skin off my nose.
When He gets to the seeds which landed in the weed patch, he describes the weeds, or thorny bushes, as the worries of life. Wow! The writers and researchers who authored journals on mental health must have read the parable. As it turns out, after two thousand years of medical studies, they discovered anxiety stunts growth. Growth in the emotion department, mental stability, and even our physical health can be uprooted by these weeds of life.
There’s a better life meant for us. A life unhindered. Sure, we often see the dandelions sprawling in our path, so we strike up the mental mower. We try everything, don’t we? A dose of this drug, or a glass of this or that will shake it off. A date night with someone who promised us the world will be a good weed-wacker…until the morning alarm goes off. For clarity, we can sit in the lotus position and empty our minds with some suggested introspection for a few minutes. (I used to do that.) However, in six days, or six hours, or six minutes, or less, the weeds grow back. Ask yourself, after you succeeded in wiping away the cares of this world, if they ever came back to haunt you. Yeah, that’s the same with me, too. Like little wild and wacky weeds, they sprout up in the tundra of our days.
Frankly, most try to fertilize and water their lives for better days, but the peers, across the street from us, always share their seeds of weeds. Often they unknowingly share…sometimes strategically sent. Before you know it, influence occurs and BOOM…weeds are choking us out like an MMA fighter on a Friday night.
Worries are just like that. As to Jesus’ point, if not careful, they can be contagious. Hang around a group feasting on anxiety with their social diet and CHOMP….you find you’re being hindered as a person, an individual looking for a better patch of ground to root. Then again, some worry-warts can be surrounded by an uplifting crowd and still find ways to sour-sack the days. GUILTY AS CHARGED! I can be a worry-wart. It can and will mold my mental, emotional, and physical health. The medical field has proven anxiety can cause all kinds of physical ailments, including cancer. If you plant St. Augustine, you’ll get St. Augustine. If you plant dandelions, you’ll get dandelions.
With all that said, Jesus indicated the weeds in life can stunt, or choke-off my spiritual outlook. How true. Have you ever tried to pray during sucky episodes in life? Honestly, during those times, it feels like I’m fighting to get my prayers to pierce the ceiling, as if I’m talking to the wall. Other times I wring my hands over a fog of uncertainties, that I have no control over, and find I neglected reading or studying scripture. Before you can say, “Scott’s Lawn Services”, the dandelions of doubt appear in the turf. It’s not a surprise that I dwindle in my spiritual mindset as I fight off the weeds interfering with my stride. The good news is, in scripture, God promised to hear my concerns, even when I only hear the echo of my voice in an empty room. My ever-growing weeds don’t hinder Him. He defeated death on Easter. Weeds can wilt at His voice. Literally, that happened once when Jesus cursed a fig tree on the roadside. He was hungry as He scouted out a fig tree which didn’t yield any figs. He cursed it and the entire tree wilted overnight. As usual, the witnesses around Him who saw it happen, had to pick up their jaws off the dusty sandals. Now, THAT’S the One I pray to.
Whatever underlying issues, which feed the roots of worry, they must be yanked out at their source. You can identify them. I figure you know yourself pretty good. Mowing, spraying, and masking only delays the takeover.
Ironically, the worry-weeds surrounding you today didn’t block-out God’s words if you read this post. Mark, chapter 4 is where you can read His entire parable, along with the applications. He never intends His words to be a mystery, or indifferent to understanding. In fact, after He delivered the parable, He showed His intention for you with the following line…
“…He who has an ear let him hear.” (Mark 4:9)
After pulling the worries of life out by the root, it leaves room for a crop of fuel for the race.
“…And other(s) (seeds) fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up, and choked it, and it yielded no fruit…” – Jesus – Mark 4:7 (ERV) ‘…And others are they that are sown among the thorns; these are they that have heard the word (of God), and the cares of the world, and the deceitfulness of riches, and the lusts of other things entering in, choke the word, and it becomes unfruitful…” – Jesus – Mark 4:18-19 (ERV)