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Adventures in Commode

10:14 pm / Posted By / No Comments

Categories: Just for fun!

Okay, so I think I’ve gotten past the “embarrassed to the point of total mortification” stage to talk about it now.

A few weeks ago, on a normal, uneventful Sunday morning, I was standing in the choir room at 8:20, getting ready to go on stage to worship. All of us choir members normally gather upstairs in the choir room by 8:15 to run through the choir song, and then just hang until we single file it downstairs and on to the stage.

Coffee decided to set in.

I knew there were about 10 minutes to spare so I dashed to the “men’s room.” I knew this would have to be a quick trip, no reading the newspaper, so I raced into the stall. And, as is my normal discipline, I flushed the toilet, just to make sure all was well with the plumbing. On this particular occasion, I did notice there was CLEAN toilet paper in the bowl. Unfortunately, I was already prepared to sit. For some unexplainable, unforseeable reason, the commode exploded. Water went everywhere. Like in a nano second. I was apparently in shock. I just stood there waiting for the tide to ebb back out to sea… Or maybe waiting for Moaning Myrtle to come screaming from the depths of the Chamber of Secrets. Nonetheless, it was a few seconds before I realized water was all over the floor, swirling around my dropped khaki’s and out the door.

When I finally became conscious, I grabbed my pants up. I grabbed them up so fast in fact, both my wallet and iPhone, both nestled snuggly in my back pockets, popped out and into the small creek forming in the men’s room.

I wasn’t sure what to grab first, my pants or my wallet/phone combo. I was in The Matrix. The blue pill or the red pill? I grabbed the combo. They were both soaked. I laid them to the side and then grabbed my pants up. They, too, were soaked. But just the back of them was soaked. The front of my pants was resting comfortably on my shoes.

I knew it was only a couple of seconds before I was supposed to be on stage. I couldn’t see how bad the “wet” was since most of it was on the back of my pants. I ran into the now empty choir room and threw the combo into my music locker. I ran down the stairs, on to the risers, and deliberately stood on the back row so no one could see me from behind. I sang with all the gusto I could muster as I enjoyed the feeling of toilet water running down my legs and pooling onto the riser at my feet. For approximately 20…25 minutes.

Of course, the worship time would soon come to an end and the choir would be climbing back up the stairs to the choir room. Being on he back row, I would be climbing the stairs in front of everyone else. You have no idea how difficult it is to climb up 14 steps, backwards, with 40 people watching me make a complete dipstick of myself. Or removing all doubt from their previously undecided minds.

Anissa Hodges was right behind me, or in front of me, whatever your point of view. She just looked at me and I said, “The commode exploded…NOT MY DEBRIS…pants were on the floor. They’re soaked in the back.”

By this time we were at the choir room so I turned around and continued my journey. And then Anissa said, “Oh…that’s why there’s toilet paper on the back of your pants.” I just KNEW she was joking. “STOP IT!!! That’s not even close to funny.” I could feel the red rising from my forehead to the back of my neck as she said, “Well, not exactly toilet paper. More like toilet paper beadlets.” “You have GOT to be kidding me.” Her husband Mark was right behind her and he said, “Um…no…there really is. Come on.”

Mark ushered me, immediately, into the bathroom and grabbed some paper towels and courageously, dauntlessly proved what a true friend looks like. He began swatting my butt with paper towels. Suddenly, a tenor walked into the bathroom and froze, mid-stride, and just stared. Mark, not missing a beat said, “Somebody has to do it.” When he was convinced there were no more ‘beadlets,’ we went back into the choir room.

I grabbed the combo out of my music locker and began wiping them down. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to get the cover off the phone, when Anissa said, “Did your phone get wet?” I said yes. She grabbed it out of my hand, since I was obviously a total dolt at getting the Otter Box off of it. Before Mark could even get “She can take anything apart,” out of his mouth, Anissa took it completely apart. Totally…in less than 5 seconds. It was amazing. I took it back and was trying to figure out how it all fit back together when Anissa said, “DON’T PUT IT BACK TOGETHER.” That’s exactly what I was trying to do. She made sure I was to get home and put it in rice overnight and not even try to use it till it was buried in rice overnight. I assured her that was exACTly what I would do.

At that point, I decided I should go check on the throne room and see if I needed to mop up any water that may have missed the drain in the floor that was obviously not draining and in need of as much repair as the offending depository. And, as is just my good fortune, I walked into the men’s room to find Pastor David Richards, our beloved choir director, grabbing paper towels out of the dispenser by the hands full and throwing them in pools of water all over the immediate area. He briefly glanced at me and continued his exercise as he said, “I’m afraid someone will slip and break something.” I lowered my head in shame and mental discomfort and said, “I think, well, actually, I’m pretty positive I caused this.” He paused and shot his eyes in my direction for the slightest moment, just long enough to mutter, “Why am I not surprised?

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You Can’t Spell Funeral Without F. U. N.

7:48 pm / Posted By / No Comments

Categories: Family/ Old Favorites

The title of today’s story is “You Can’t Spell Funeral Without F. U. N.” Nowadays, when someone passes away, we gather together and have what we sometimes call a “memorial service,” or “Going Home Celebration.” It’s a bittersweet time to remember a life well lived in the service of Jesus. And, as I’ve noticed the last few years, the gatherings take the tone of the person who is no longer here. If they were Christians, their legacy continues in friends and family, and part of them lives on. It’s a time of heart swelling pride in knowing their lives are not “over.” And never will be.

That stands in stark juxtaposition to the funerals of my childhood, even into early adulthood. Growing up in a small, church college town, and being from a family of singers, we were asked many, many, MANY times to sing at weddings and funerals. Mostly funerals. And because Dad was a preacher for an even smaller country church, we sang for many, many, MANY small country funerals.

And when most of the kids from college were not in town for summer break, we spent probably one day a week singing for one. Funerals, back then, were not hallowed festivals of rapturous remembrance and tribute. They were dismal, agonizingly morose catacombs of lamentation and sobbing. And especially in the country where nothing big ever really happens, funerals were the grandest and most pretentious form of entertainment. They were so distressing and bleak, it was as though the deceased didn’t just die, they ceased to exist. And that probably comes from never having heard what heaven is really like. Because, Paul very clearly said in 2 Corinthians 12:1-9 that he was “caught up to the third heaven but was not allowed to say what he saw there.” So obviously, we shouldn’t be dreaming about what heaven is like.

For most people, it seemed heaven was a place we looked forward to only because it meant that we were not in hell. I couldn’t imagine heaven being much more thrilling or energizing than endlessly jumping in a bouncy house, or eating really good food whenever I wanted it wth the occasional “drop by” visit of Jesus. When he was making his rounds. I think that’s the reason funerals in those days were so devastating. And even scary. Funerals were only mentioned by parents after making sure we were intimately acquainted with the idea of death. This practice was clearly designed to be used as threats.

When the family sang at weddings, my mother would lean over, poke me and whisper, ” You’re next..” She thought it was so cute and funny until I started doing the same thing to her when we sang at funerals.

I will never forget one summer when I was just in college. All my college friends from the music department were gone home for the summer. Dad said he was asked to preach for a funeral out in Floyd and would I get some people together to do the hymns. Without thinking, I said “sure.” I began asking around and discovered the only people available were high school kids from the Academy. So I enlisted them, even though almost every one of the 8 of them never attended a funeral in their lives. I wasn’t to nervous, as we all sang out of the same blue song book our entire lives. I knew they would know the hymns. However, I lost my tuning fork a while back so I asked David Wright to ask his Dad, Ray, if I could borrow his. Ray was my high school choir director and I knew he owned one…probably several.

I talked to Dad the day before and told him who was coming to sing. I very strongly informed Dad that these kids were novices at singing at funerals and I wouldn’t put them in a position of being uneasy. I told him when we got there, he was to tell whoever was in charge that we would be siting in the back of the church, far away from the casket. I also informed him we would be leaving before the final viewing. He said he would make sure the officiant knew my “rules.”

I began driving around and gathering up all 8 kids in the family Datsun station wagon. Our big orange Datsun station wagon, a gift to my sister, Jacqui on her 16th birthday. Our dad paid $170 to have it painted orange. Like really orange. We swore this go-tech beauty was actually the front and back halves of two different cars soldered together. And then spray painted orange. It was a standard shift station wagon and the back end had a decal that said “fully automatic. It did, in fact, look like a dog loping toward you with it’s back legs slightly angled to one side as it ran.

Rain started 3 days before the funeral and the ground was soaked to capacity. Dad gave me the directions to the little country church and we were off. As we turned down the well traveled road to the church 30 minutes later, I thought it could not be more picturesque. The small clapboard church with a white steeple rising just above the nearby trees seemed the most serene place I could think of for a funeral service.

As I drove down what used to be a dirt road, but now very slippery from the constant rain, the church sat to my right. Directly across the street, to the left of me, was the cemetery, peaceful, quiet and pastoral. Seemed a soothing and undisturbed location for repose. I parked the car just next to the church on the road.

Dad was there ahead of us. As I walked to him, the other kids following, vainly attempting to avoid mud pits behind me. Another gentleman ran out and took my hand. He was the funeral director and would show us where to sit. I glanced over to Dad for help as he began talking to someone who was apparently the son of the deceased. As I passed by, through the front door, I first noticed that all the flower arrangements were lining the back wall of the church, instead of surrounding the coffin at the front of the small auditorium, which I thought odd. I heard the middle aged man say, to dad, as quietly as possible, “We had to physically pull her out of the coffin at visitation last night.” Dad just grunted and avoided eye contact with me. More than a bit confused, but nonetheless intrigued by that exchange,

I kept walking as the funeral director ushered us directly down front and into a small, beautifully polished mahogany choir loft which sat directly behind the podium, which sat directly behind the coffin. Before I could protest, the gentleman scuttled off. I glanced back to see 8 young, impressionable kids, looking down on the closed coffin, with eyes as big around as their open mouths. I whispered, “Ya’ll, trust me on this. In three years, you will have sung at so many of these, this will seem will be nothing, I promise.” Not one of them moved…or blinked. I’m not sure they breathed. I knew we were in trouble.

We sat quietly as guests began trickling in. Finally it was time to start. The family came in as a unit. The men staunchly holding up the female family members, just as it was taught them from an early age. the women, all holding kerchiefs to their noses. Just as it should be.

And then I heard her. Before she ever got inside the small church. From my vantage point, looking down the center aisle to the back of the church, turning right and toward the door leading into the building she came, held up valiantly by two men. One, the brother I heard talking to Dad before, and another, close in age, obviously siblings. As the brothers all but carried her down the center aisle, I sat in almost absolute awe at the visage before me. I couldn’t decide if I was more disturbed by the mourning and wailing which apparently emanated from Dante’s Third level of Gehenna, or her funeral attire. She carried the body of Aunt Bea and the voice of Almira Gulch. She wore a black vintage pencil style dress, which I’m sure she bought somewhere around 40 pounds ago. As is appropriate for a funeral, it did cover her shoulders, barely. And pointy toed shoes. But it was her hat that was spellbinding. It looked like one of those pillbox hats with a short veil. But, stuck all around it were some kind of bird feathers that were not so easily identifiable. Varying colors and lengths. Not species specific. But lots of them. Anywhere from a couple of inches to a foot high. I got the feeling she renewed the bounty for each occasion she wore the hat. Everyone else seemed determined to ignore this nest perched atop her head. And I deliberately turned away to keep from staring more than 15 seconds at a time.

The men struggled as best they could, one on each arm, stumbling as they maneuvered her to the front pew. The entire time, she wailed, “OH DADDY!!! OH DADDY!!!” And the brothers, trying to console her, but knowing it was futile. “Now, now Auntie Christa. It’ll be okay. Sit down and hush now, Auntie Christa.”

Unfortunately, it was at this moment, Mindy, one of the high school kids behind me, discovered for the first time what it feels like to experience the embarrassment, guilt and shame of uncontrollable and inappropriate giggling. At first I thought she was just coughing. And then I understood she was just trying to cover the wheezing snickers impossible to control.

Fortunately, I saw the funeral dude signaling me to start. So I grabbed out Director Ray’s pitch fork and gave the kids the pitch from this Middle “C” tuning fork and I began directing the first hymn. “Oh Lord my God. When I in awesome wonder, consider all the worlds thy hands have made. I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder, Thy… power… throughout…the…u…ni…verse… dis…played…” I know I pitched it right. But, it sounded like it was at least a 4th of an octave lower than it was supposed to be. And all song directors know the fatal truth that no matter how fast you start a hymn, if you start it to low, it’s going to slow down. An eternity later finally made it to the end of the song.

I was furious and wanting to take it out on someone, so I glared to the back of the building where Dad was standing, but he averted my glare and quickly glanced out the open entrance door, as if he was trying to read a tombstone across the street. I looked back at the kids and they were all looking at me like, “What are you doing?” Except for Mindy. Her shoulders were shaking with a tightly closed fist slammed against her mouth. David was mouthing, “Pitch it higher.” I mouthed back, “I’m pitching it by your dad’s tuning fork.” It is RIGHT!!! Through all this, Auntie Christa was caterwauling, “WHY? WHY?” I thought it best to go ahead with the next hymn. I pitched it in the correct key with the tuning fork and began. Somehow it became an awkward duet with Auntie Christa. She would NOT be outdone. “Low in the grave He lay. Jesus our savior. Waiting the coming day, Jesus Our Lord. Up…(Oh Daddy)from…the grave…(If I could just hear him preach one more sermon)…He…arose… He arose……Ha….le…lu…jah…..Christ…..a……..roooooose!!!”

Suddenly the song of celebration became a funeral dirge. Somehow, oddly appropriate. But not what I envisioned. When it was over, I refused to even look back at the kids. I knew what they were thinking. IT wasn’t until I was returning the offensive fork to David that I noticed I’d been given a “G” tuning fork instead of a “C” fork. I was, “in fact” starting every song a half octave to low.

Glaring again at dad, who was still trying to read when Old Man Wilson died. It was dad’s turn. He walked to the front and stood at the podium, between us and the coffin. He gave a heartfelt message about death, which he was forced to scream, trying to be heard over the competition of Auntie Christa. The family was no longer attempting to quiet her. A few kids close by her were bending over and gathering up occasional tufts of bird fuzz that flew out of her head.

Finally it was done. And I felt sure the funeral dude would escort us out before the final family viewing. But, he did not. I sat in horror as he and his minion marched, and I do mean marched, to the front and opened the casket. And there we were, looking straight down into the face of a 90 something year old Baptist preacher, who I’m sure, to the kids, looked astonishingly like the Cryptkeeper. There was an audible gasp, in unison, as I turned around and witness 8 sixteen year old kids metamorphose from well adjusted high schoolers into clinical therapy case studies. A couple of them averted their gaze downward to the floor. But the others looked as though they were half expecting/hoping that “daddy” would jump up and say, “just kidding.” All of that was accompanied by Auntie Christa proclaiming to the entire congregation that she no longer wanted to live. And at that moment, I was close to making that a reality.

I looked back and said, “Let’s go.” I got up and led the procession down the front aisle before the guests and family could parade past the open coffin. My one and only thought was to get them out of there as quickly as humanly possible, before they were permanently, mentally scarred. I would deal with Dad later. But, as we passed him, this time completely and purposely avoiding eye contact with him, he tugged my coat sleeve and whispered, “Um..they were wondering if you could get the kids to help carry the flowers over to the gravesite across the street before the family walks over. I said, “Dad, I believe you have successfully turned 8 incredibly bright, well adjusted high school students into Children of the Corn. We’re going to do this one last thing and then we are out of here.”

Each kid grabbed a container of flowers and we headed across the soggy, muddy street into the cemetery. Mindy commented on how nice the big white stones lining the walkway were. I informed her that they were actually grave markers and I walked ahead. Suddenly I heard someone whispering, “excuse me…I’m so sorry…excuse me.” And. I watched as Mindy passed me, apologizing to each and every grave as she long jumped across them, precariously balancing her vase of flowers in her arms.

And that was it for me. I sat my flowers down and began laughing so hard I leaned against a tall tombstone and continued with my own inappropriate guffawing.

Then I heard, “Tim…Tim.” I glanced up, wiping tears from my eyes, to see Dad leading the processional of mourners across the street toward us. All of them looking at me with utmost disdain.

Suddenly, a head of feathers poked out from behind a group of bodies to see what the hold up was. And Auntie Christa, chagrined that someone else might be stealing her attention, screamed and arms flailing, ran toward the open grave and fell just before it, deliberately on the dry AstroTurf in a dramatic dead faint.

We all just stood there. Her road weary brothers, apparently exhausted from the emotional, not to mention physical weight, just stood there. Everyone just stared at her. When it was apparent no one was going to rescue her, she slowly raised her bird haloed head and looked around, broken and bent pinions and what few plumes that were left on her head, wafting in the breeze. She looked less like the Phoenix rising from the ashes. More like a deranged, run over peacock. As her brothers wearily began the 400 mile journey of picking her up, I looked at the huddled kids and said, “come on.”

This time, as I passed Dad, we both avoided eye contact. I all but ran to the car, jumped in and started the engine as the kids all piled in. I threw the car in reverse and heard the dreaded spinning of wheel against mud. There was a definite groan from all the passengers of the car as I tried, several times, vainly, to put the car in drive, in reverse, in drive, in reverse. NOTHING!!! So three guys got out and began bouncing the orange station wagon up and down. And then, unfortunately, someone yelled, “GUN IT!” And I did. The car was removed from the deadly clutches of the offending mud and everyone applauded. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw three guys, covered from head to toe in red, slimey mud. One was wiping it out of his ears, one was wiping it out of his eyes and the other just stood there. I was so sad he didn’t finish the tableau. The great thing was that everyone started a laughter of relief, even, as I glanced over and saw the entire funeral company giggling. Except of. Course, for Auntie Christa, who leaned morosely against her brother.

We drove off into the cloudy day, and the oddest thing. Dad and I never discussed the Floyd Funeral experience. Not ever.

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Cupcakes and a Chupacabra

8:53 pm / Posted By / No Comments

Categories: Uncategorized

June…1977. Annie won the Tony for best musical. Stevie Wonder sang “Sir Duke” along with “I’m Your Boogie Man” by KC and the Sunshine Band. “Herbie Goes To Monte Carlo” and “For The Love Of Benji” beat out “McArthur” at the box office. All of my friends in college and I spent most of our time quoting almost every line from “Young Frankenstein” which hit theaters a couple of years earlier. And I was in a college traveling musical group called Belles & Beaux.

We were about to begin our cross-country summer tour, going through Texas and across to California, swinging around through Colorado and back to beautiful downtown Searcy. I loved traveling with this band. It was a kind of recruiting group for the university. We would go to churches or auditoriums, all kinds of different venues, wearing our bumblebee yellow costumes and do a concert of popular tunes of the day. I usually ended up with a Barry Manilow or Neal Sedaka’s “Breaking Up Is Hard To Do” ballad. We stayed with church families along the way who fed us really well, and quite often gave us food for our trip…homemade cookies and cupcakes were particularly popular.

Before we left on the first morning, Cliff Ganus, the director and I went to pick up a U-Haul trailer that we would connect with two chains to the back of the van and haul all of our costumes and musical instruments and sound equipment behind us. I remember Cliff and I talking about whether it would be better to just put everything in the van and forget the U-Haul, but decided it would give us a little more leg room if we went ahead and rented the two-wheeler. We hooked the chains on to the back of the van, loaded up and headed out on our adventure.

The van, which was an off brand called SUPERIOR, was donated to us from an old department store chain called Gibson’s Discount Center. It was supposed to have an exceptionally sturdy frame. It was covered, floor, walls and ceiling with carpet. There was a driver’s seat and passenger seat in the front. When you opened the door on the right side, there was a labeled “Quickie Step” that was supposed to mechanically appear from under the van and jut out downward so you could step up comfortably on to the van. It never worked. EVER. So, even for 6’3″ me, it was like stepping on to a moving train, jumping what seemed like 2 feet to get on. When you were finally able to get on the van, if you turned left, you would see 3 rows of seats that would hold maybe 7 or 8 people. Well, not seats exactly, more like cushioned pews so we could lie down and sleep if we wanted too. If you turned right, you would see two pews facing each other, each attached to the sides of the van and an aisle between them. We all pretty much claimed our spots for the trip and took off.

About mid-day, my friend Barbara complained that her eyes were burning. I was in possession of a “natural” eye drop made of rose petals. I didn’t think to tell Barbara the drops were made from a flowering shrub, since, in that decade, we were completely unaware of the healing properties of essential oils. We put a couple of drops in each eye and she closed her eyes for a nap. Evidently, unbeknownst to us, Barbara was allergic to roses. When she woke up, she looked at me and I stifled a startled gasp, like the Elephant Man just crossed my path. . “How do your eyes feel?” I choked out. “Oh, wow. They feel so much better.” The truth of the matter was that she looked uncannily like Marty Feldman. I felt like I was watching a tree frog that was, at the last second, startled into bug-eyed awareness that a hoot owl was diving down, moments from devouring it. I spent the rest of the day keeping her away from anything remotely resembling a mirror.

The second day out, we were driving through Texas, about 45 minutes from Seguine. It was relatively hot enough to melt metal, which is in the neighborhood of 2500 degrees Fahrenheit. Barbara, her eyes fairly back to normal, was driving. Cliff was in the passenger seat. I was stretched out on the floor in the aisle between the two pews facing each other, sobbing while reading the last page of Where The Red Fern Grows. And, being the true Arkansan that I am, I was, of course, barefoot.

From what I was able to ascertain later, Barb was trying to open the front window to shoo a fly out that was annoying her and keeping her from driving safely. She couldn’t get the window open, trying to unclasp a sliding window, and didn’t notice the van beginning to veer off the road headed straight for the columns under an overpass. I remember my friend, Debbie Ganus, sitting somewhere above me, saying, “We’re going to do something.” I closed my book and laid it on my chest, oddly annoyed that I was only one page from the end, when suddenly the road was gone and we were careening through a field. Cliff yelled, “Turn the wheels to the right. Turn them to the right.” Then the weirdest thing. There was no noise…no sound because the van’s wheels left the gravel and scalding dirt of a Texas flatland and the RV rolled with a thud on to it’s side and then over again, settling on the roof.

The silence continued for a few seconds. We all began to stir around, obviously in shock. I saw none of the wreck, one minute laying on the floor, looking at the ceiling, and the next, face-planted in the very same ceiling. I jumped up and remember someone yelling out if Chuck was okay. Chuck was one of our group who suffered from bad legs and would have a harder time getting up and out. I realized he could be hurt most and I too yelled out for him. As fate would have it, he was lying right at my feet and yelled that he thought he was okay. So, I stepped on him and plowed toward the door.

I threw the door open once I figured out where the handle was in its new, upside down position and jumped out. My senses were firing on all cylinders and I immediately noticed several things simultaneously. One, when I opened the door, the “Quickie Step” magically began to operate and slid in place, up toward the sky. To this day, I still think it was just waiting for the right time to show it’s abnormal, unhealthy sense of humor. The second thing I noticed was that the U-Haul did not become unattached and somehow the chains kept it from flipping over with the van. It was, at this moment, an unbearable stench coincided with the intensity of heat emitting from the sandy terrain on my bare feet, which collided with the exact moment I stepped into something that chose to die in the very spot we chose to flip a van. And to be honest, to this day, the emotional trauma of that singular event eclipsed the entire wreck experience. I am fairly certain it was a road kill Chupacabra.

Someone still in the bowels of the doomed vehicle behind me said, “could this thing explode?” And suddenly there was a herd of humans piling out of the van into the blistering heat. Miraculously, at first glance, no one was hurt badly. Only bumps and cuts. However, when Jan, our keyboardist stepped out, her face was covered with white flecks of skin. It was apparent that she slid, face first, on the carpet lined wall and up onto the carpet lined ceiling and was suffering from severe carpet burn. She wasn’t reacting to the fact that she looked like an extra in Night Of The Living Dead. I just stood there, waiting for her to start shrieking when her brain finally registered “PAIN!!!” But, then, I noticed the same flecks of skin were on the front of her shirt. I chose to not think about it. It was just to much to process after what we went through. Besides, I just kept saying, “I stepped in something really bad.”

Semi’s and cars were pulling off the road and running the couple hundred feet to see if we were alive. There were no cell phones back then so a truck driver got on his “Convoy” CB and called for a tow truck. Somehow the van was eventually turned right side up again, we all got back on the van and were hauled to a cantina on the outskirts of a small town. I looked around at all of our stuff scattered all over the floor, wondering where my shoes might have ended up and noticed what used to be a cardboard box filled with white frosted cupcakes with what could very well have been a face print in them. I glanced back at Jan and started laughing hysterically. She seemed so offended that I was laughing at her since no one informed her she was covered in icing. “What?” And at the same time, I was unnaturally upset that a whole pan of cupcakes were ruined.

Half an hour later, most of us were sitting at tables in the tiny cantina, talking about the experience. I was in the bathroom with my foot hanging precariously over the sink, trying to wash off the dead Chupacabra, when one of the other guys walked in and leaned against the wall in the corner, glancing sheepishly at me, like he was channeling Boo Radley. Finally, he leaned toward me and said, “That was really scary wasn’t it?” I replied, “Oh my gosh, yes.” He got really close to me and almost whispered, “Tim, did you have an accident?” It took a few seconds for my mind to wrap around what he was asking. But, finally, with my foot in the sink, I said, “NO…I stepped in something REALLY BAD.”

When we got back to the tables, I sat down in just enough time to hear Debbie say, “It’s a good thing we had a superior body.” And I thought, “Wow, yeah. I didn’t even stop to think how we were protected. It was only by the mercy of God that we’re all sitting here okay.” We all solemnly nodded in agreement. I think I actually clasped my hands together in an attitude of prayer, when Debbie continued, “‘Cause if we were in a Winnebago, we’d all be dead right now.”

We all made collect calls, one at a time, from the pay phone to let family know we were all alive. And then we joined in a group discussion where we decided to be strong, rent a van and continue our tour. The new van was so much nicer than the old one with beds for napping and even a bathroom. We chained the U-Haul on and forged ahead.

It’s my personal opinion that the U-Haul somehow felt as though it was not being afforded the due attention it deserved after the accident. It, after all, never lost its footing and kept our clothes and speakers and microphones safe. About a week in to our two-week tour, Mr. U-Haul decided to have a flat tire. I can’t remember if we changed it or if someone came and changed it, or even if there was a spare tire. I just remember unloading the trailer so it could be jacked up and then reloading it on the side of the highway.

A few more days passed, when the same tire blew out. None of us were happy about having to unload the trailer and change the tire, yet again, and reload yet again adding to the anxiety of rushing to get to the next venue. But, somewhere in Colorado, probably close to Castle Rock, I was lounging on one of the beds, looking out the window as the sun was setting in breathtaking, dazzling fashion over the mountains, and thought how the drive was finally, completely serene and peaceful. When out the corner of my eye, I noticed something yellow rolling at break-neck speed across the field to my left. On further eye-squinting investigation, I realized it was Mr. U-Haul, seemingly still upset over being snubbed at the wreck site, and in his nomadic escape, snapping the chains that confined him, appearing to say, “I can’t take it anymore.”

I watched in fascination, waiting for him to make his last effort for recognition by finally rolling over, but it never happened. I watched him, more in the distance behind us now, do a half turn in the dust and settle back on his trailer hitch, as if pointing his nose to the sky in a defiant, “So, there” attitude, before I climatically turned my head toward the front of the RV and calmly said, “Uh…Cliff?”

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A Walk in the Dark

8:32 pm / Posted By / No Comments

Categories: Faith/ Family/ Just for fun!

Recently, one of my teachers asked the question, “How many of you believe you are living out God’s design and plan for your lives?” Honestly, I wanted to say yes, but couldn’t, at least not professionally. Socially, I know I’m exactly where I am supposed to be. I’ve spent this week, looking back through my formidable amount of years and the Lord, in his good and perfect timing, helped me remember a couple of specific moments, that, if I paid better attention, or understood at an early age what a “calling” actually was, would have made a world of difference.

I remember in the third grade, I wrote something, I have no idea what, for an essay. It was just a story. But, I recently remembered reading it for the class, absolutely mortified. But, they laughed. They actually laughed. A lot. Then a couple of weeks later, another teacher from the third grade came over with one of her students and my teacher informed me I was to go with her. I knew I did something wrong and was about to get licks from the principal. I mentally went through all the things I did that week that I actually deserved licks for. What did I do to this other teacher or one of the kids in her class? But when we got to the teachers room, she stood me in front of a room full of kids I only rarely interacted with on the jungle gym, and asked me to retell the story that I so eloquently delivered in my class a while back.  Well, I totally made the first story up, so I was completely at a loss as to how I should proceed. So, I made up another story, on the spot. It was something along the lines of Paul Bunyan and his sidekick, Babe The Blue Ox. I even acted out the fight scenes with guns and fists. It was a moment. Award worthy.

I’ve always loved to read. It’s a passion. The past few years though, have been so life busy I don’t read like I used to. But, I remember when I was a kid, one of my favorite things to do was to grab the big, rolled up, thick Sunday morning edition of the newspaper, unfold it, and sit down to read the comics and Parade Magazine and the TV guide. I would sit in front of the TV with my box of Cap’n Crunch and a gallon of milk while mom tried valiantly, semi-successfully, to get everyone, including herself, dressed for church. Dad would be shaving while he mentally went through his sermon for the morning church service, many times wishing he could come up with a great object lesson for his main point.

Like I said, I love reading. I was totally engrossed in the TV guide. I read the synopsis for every episode of my favorite shows and looked specifically for what horror movie would be showing on the late Friday night scare fest. One thing constantly puzzled me while reading all these little snapshots of what the shows were going to be about, almost exclusively confined to the summertime. So, I went to inquire of my father. He was, of course, shaving and I said, “Dad, I don’t understand something here.” He absentmindedly said, “what’s that?” I said, “I’m reading what this show is going to be about and it says, “Lucy has a bit too much VITAMETAVEGAMIN and embarrasses Ricky at a commercial shoot. Repeat. So, I go back and read it again and it says the same thing. “Lucy has a bit too much VITAMEATAVEGAMIN and embarrasses Ricky at a commercial shoot.” REPEAT. Dad, I’ve read it 5 times and it says the exact same thing…every…single…time!!!” I think Dad cut himself with the razor and wore toilet paper to church.

And I remember Friday nights. We were allowed to stay up a little later since it was a weekend and I would beg to watch TV longer. Dad would usually relent and tell me I could watch for a while, but I was forbidden to watch the horror movie. I was required to turn it off before the Mummy, or Dracula, or Godzilla crossed our black and white screen. He would turn the last remaining light in the house off and head down the dark hallway to bed. I knew that if I played my cards right, I could hear his heavy breathing, totally asleep in approximately 4.7 minutes.

I would get up off the couch and with all the stealth I could muster, sneak to the TV, turn it down so only I could hear it from the couch and change the channel knob to channel 2. I would crawl back up on the couch and hide up to my chin with the blanket and wait, heart pounding, for the opening credits.

I already knew what black and white monster it was going to be, since, the previous Sunday, I read the synopsis 12 times. Of course it didn’t take long before I was quivering in fear and wondering which end of the couch the werewolf was crouching next to, waiting for me to uncover one inch of flesh from the blanket, leaving me vulnerable for attack. Everyone knows that any skin or body part covered by blanket is impervious to attack or dismemberment.

I’m not sure at what point the fear would just be to much and I would fall asleep. But, it was always before the end, so I never knew that the creature from the Black Lagoon was dealt with, or that Dracula was shoved into the sun and was burned to a crisp or that it was always secondary characters that got eaten by the werewolf, never the leads, which of course, I was one of. All I know is that I slept through the movie’s climactic end, through the Native American, in full head dress, doing sign language through America The Beautiful, and finally startled awake by the weird old test pattern screen with the one piercing tone that would drone on till the station signed on the next morning.

I remember quivering, mentally making sure all body parts were covered and there was no other movement in the room as I tried to fall back into my horrified sleep. And then, there were steps. Distinct footsteps. Coming from the hallway. If I screamed, it would know I was there and my short life would be over. Of course, it wouldn’t see me, thanks to the magic of blanket. If I didn’t scream, there was always the possibility it would move right past me to the next room and eat one of my brothers. So I waited, vainly attempting to not give myself away by breathing or shaking to much. Suddenly the TV went silent and the steps moved to the edge of the couch. Blanket was thrown to the side, and there, in the darkness, I made out my dad’s form, towering above me. He was ominously quiet. He couldn’t very well yell at me without waking everyone else in the house. So he reached down and took my hand, and lifted me up off the couch and we began the 347 mile trek down the dark hallway.

Pitch black, I waited for Frankenstein to lumber out of my already dead sister’s bedroom to attack, or past the bathroom, where the sightless 4 foot tall spider would crawl out of the toilet to pull me in to its web. But, oddly enough now, I wasn’t afraid. Actually, I felt like the hero of the tale. I knew nothing would over take me. I could walk through the blackest night, the darkest ink of life as long as I held tightly to and never let go of my father’s hand.

One of my favorite quotes is from Minnie Louise Haskins. She wrote, “I said to the man at the gate of the year: “Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.” And he replied: “Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.”

Isaiah 41:10 says, “So do not fear, for I am with you: do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

There will always be annoying test patterns. But, I’m more and more convinced, “If we are to be true followers of Christ, and our hope is heaven with Him, we must speak and act and show others we are already there.” Everyone is looking for a hand to hold in the dark.

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Trust

7:43 pm / Posted By / No Comments

Categories: Faith/ Forever Family

I got a note this week from a friend of mine that I don’t get to talk to all that often.

Part of what she wrote was, “Hey there! You are someone that has always inspired me with your relationship with God. I can admit that I yearn for that. As my life gets more chaotic, I feel doubt creeping into my heart. Not doubt that God exists, but doubt that He is involved in our everyday life. Doubt that He has a master plan for me. I seem to feel there is a person within me that God wants me to be, and the choices I make can help lead me to be that person. We were given free will so we could choose God, and choose to be that person He wants us to be. I end up asking a lot of questions that I could never get answers too. Questions of his motives… Questions that have probably been asked since the beginning. Is there any advice you could provide to help me find peace with this doubt? I still feel God’s profound love within me. But sometimes I get so down on myself I cannot find it. Any prayers or advice you could give would be most appreciated.”

I wrote back:

Well, first of all, let me tell you that I think about you and how we used to sit down in the catacombs of Doubletree Veterinary Clinic and how much I loved taking care of the pooches with you, even if our most common chore was cleaning kennels. And never does a holiday go by when I don’t think of you as I prepare Pumpkin Swirl Cheesecake. Still a family tradition.

But, believe it or not, my best memory of you is Prissy. Remember her? The little 5 year old Boston Terrier we rescued who was horribly abused and neglected and sustained a broken leg that Dr. Peck tried valiantly to mend. We never could get it to heal and finally we were forced to amputate her leg. I wanted to change her name to Tripod. But, we all still called her Prissy. I remember her eyes and nose with an angry infection and we cleaned her up and put meds in those wounds several times a day. I took her home, basically because I held her pretty much the whole time I was at work, carrying that precious girl everywhere. For 2 years, I was privileged to love on her, feeding her, letting her curl up with me at night. She finally felt safe. There was an old sweater of mine she decided was hers and carried with her like Linus’s blanket.

And I remember the day, after all that work and love, when I found the bump on her head, and after X-rays, we learned she would not be with us much longer because of bone cancer. She made it another 6 months or so and I came home one night to find her gone, curled up on my old sweater.

I remember bringing her to the clinic the next morning, tears flowing as I laid her on the exam table, wrapped in her sweater, and questioning why God would allow her to endure so much suffering, only to die, just when she knew she was loved and safe and could feel secure enough to trust. My heart was broken. She was nothing but a pile of love. But, my most vivid memory of that day is walking downstairs to take care of other dogs. You were already there, and when I told you Prissy was gone, you wrapped your arms around me and whispered, “No one could have loved Prissy the way you did.” Jessie, that was all I needed to move through the pain of losing that sweet dog whose care was entrusted to me.

When I read your note yesterday, of course, I remembered that sweet moment. And I still don’t think of it without misting up. I don’t know that I have a “one size fits all” answer to the question of doubt. We all have differing life experiences and come at and move toward our relationship with God from so many distinct train stations. I can tell you how I think it works for me, though. Maybe it will help some.

I have always believed in God. Always. There’s never been a doubt in my mind that He is the Creator of the Universe, that He did everything He said He did, that Jesus is His son and did everything He said He did, that He is all powerful, and that He is watching me. But, possibly/probably because I correlated my relationship with my Heavenly Father with that of my earthly father, I was programmed to not trust God. That was the big subconscious question. Is He reliable? Is He honest? If He is, why do I not feel like He’s effective in my life?

I felt guilty for my futile attempt to find fault with Him because I couldn’t trust his motives. My head knew that He was never to good to be true. My strongest desire was that I wanted my heart to follow. I finally figured out that I was waiting for Him to prove He is trustworthy, when in fact, everything about life screams it.

I decided that if He is trustworthy, I needed to stop trying to understand it on my own, stop trying to control my definition of who He is supposed to be, let Him know that I will believe, and PRACTICE trust, even when it seems counter to everything I think I need or want. It’s not always a feel good moment, since many of those are, at best, superficial satisfaction.

It’s a habit. I wake up every day and tell Him that I will choose to trust Him today. I purposefully memorize bible verses that call for trust. And let me tell you, having a scripture or two close by has made all the difference. A couple of my favorites are Joshua 1:9 “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” What I love about this verse is that He doesn’t ask or plead with us to not be afraid. He commands it. It’s not a request, it’s a proclamation, an imperative that demands trust. And trust is not something that comes natural to us in a culture that tells us to not trust anyone or anything.

Again, it’s a habit. And while God builds trust, I spend an abundance of time asking for patience while He perfects it in me. Trust me, I find myself affirming my belief in His absolute good motives for my life on a daily basis. I trust His plan because I trust His love. I trust His love because I choose to give up control of my desires and what I think I need, even my dreams. Nothing in our society would teach us that this makes sense, or is even appropriate.

Everything about my relationship is based on the idea that God is, in fact, the only trustworthy being in all of existence. Every person, every government, every idea, even every religion, will, in some way disappoint. Only belief in the One, true, honest, powerful God is worthy of our trust. I read a book a long time ago with one chapter titled, “The Adequacy of God.” Again, our culture would see that word and define it as “just okay” or ” barely up to par.” But, when I looked it up, I realized my definition of God needed to be more adequate. “As much or as good for some requirement or purpose; fully sufficient, suitable or fit.” For me, my trust in him, the HABIT of trusting Him is “adequate.” He is fully sufficient; His trustworthiness is appropriate as is His desire to be found trustworthy is appropriate.

I find ways every day to tell him that I will choose to give up my control and trust Him. When I drive to work, I tell Him “Today, I will trust You.” When I have to make hard decisions, I seek out community and yes, trust, because I know where and from Whom they build their trust. Every time I tithe, I pray, “I trust You.” When I catch myself trying to control my dreams and wants, I sit back, take a deep breath and say, “I’m sorry. You take control. I trust you.”

I wish I could tell you I have this down to a fine art. But, I fall. And then I get up and give it up again. And the amazing thing is that I find, more and more, that the reason I desire to trust Him more, is because I desire relationship with Him more. You don’t develop trust with God and come out unscathed. I can’t take time to think about how I feel or my circumstances. I have to focus on His character, His motives. I don’t ignore my pain or confusion. I just remember that He is adequate. He fits my environment. In that moment and in that experience He is good. And it is easier to give Him control, because I can give Him the glory. And I find great joy in that.

His motives for you are not just loving and right and wise. They are pure. This is another of my favorite verses. “What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare His own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him, graciously give us all things? Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died – more than that, who was raised – who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? No, in all these things, we are more than conquers through Him who loved us.” Romans 8:31-37

As hard as it may seem in the midst of the struggle, everything God does is wise and loving. God is for you, Jessie. Don’t try to trust Him because it’s the right thing to do. Trust Him because He’s God. Trust Him because He loves you. Don’t trust Him expecting to understand His plan. Just trust that He has one. Trust that He is working it out with your best interest foremost in his mind. And believe that more often than not, it will be unveiled in a mind-blowing, ridiculously breathtaking, astonishing way that you never expected. But, you will nod with the satisfaction of knowing it was perfect for you. It’s the only way it could happen that will instill a gentle trust, that leads to a deeper love and relationship with Him.

He’s good. He’s so good. He longs for you to know it and fully live it. One last verse and I’ll leave you alone. This is one of my top five verses. It’s Zephaniah 3:17. “The LORD your God is with you, the mighty warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you, in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.” You can trust Him, because He takes great delight in you , he doesn’t yell at you. He believes in you. He is intimately interested in you and has GREAT plans for you, even if you don’t easily see them now. You said there is a person in you that you think God wants you to be and your choices will help determine who that person is supposed to be. Jessie, you are already that person. He used his great imagination to make you unique from any other person who has ever lived.

The only thing you need to do is, and here’s the simple answer, live your life in relationship with Him. Practice trust. PRACTICE TRUST!!!

And listen for the song. He has one for you, you know. Your very own song, sung by the One who breathes out stars into His ever-expanding universe. I have no scriptural reference, but I’m fairly certain my tune is a hybrid of Dan Fogleberg, Donna Summer, Earth, Wind, and Fire, with just a soupçon of Barry Manilow.   That same God is singing your very own song over you right now. When that truth becomes more than a fleeting idea, you will walk without shame, or fear, doubt or mistrust. Your days will be cool, God will be your friend, and you will experience a bit of heaven right here on earth. The most precious discovery will be that it was never about you..it was all for his glory. He is rejoicing over you. If that alone is not worthy of our trust, I don’t know what is.

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Dad

3:04 pm / Posted By / 2 Comments

Categories: Faith

It’s the best Bible story on forgiveness that’s rarely told in churches and Sunday School lessons–and even less rarely understood. It explains why our reflecting Christ’s forgiveness to our enemies is such a crucial part of his plan to draw the world to himself. The story is found in Matthew 18:21-35.

Therefore, the kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to settle accounts with his servants. As he began the settlement, a man who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him. Since he was not able to pay, the master ordered that he and his wife and his children and all that he had be sold to repay the debt. The servant fell on his knees before him. “Be patient with me,” he begged, “and I will pay back everything.” The servant’s master took pity on him, canceled the debt and let him go. But when that servant went out, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him a hundred denarii. He grabbed him and began to choke him. “Pay back what you owe me!” he demanded. His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, “Be patient with me, and I will pay you back.” But he refused. Instead, he went off and had the man thrown into prison until he could pay the debt. When the other servants saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed and went and told their master everything that had happened. Then the master called the servant in. “You wicked servant,” he said, “I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to. Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?” In anger his master turned him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all he owed. This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother from your heart.”

This is how Jesus defines forgiveness. Not as feeling, emotion or forgetting, or act of will, like human beings think about it. Instead, he defines forgiveness as our passing on to those who have sinned against us the judgment and the mercy that we ourselves receive from God.

In the story, what should the servant have done? He should have passed on the judgment and the mercy he received from the king. What was the judgment? The judgment was that the man could not pay the debt, and therefore by rights he and his wife and his children and all that he had be sold to repay the debt. What was the mercy? The mercy was that the king bore the debt himself. The debt didn’t just disappear. It was real money that someone had to pay. So the king paid it. So what should the servant have done when he met the man who owed him money? He should have passed on that judgment and mercy that he had received from the king. That would have sounded something like this: “By rights, you yourself should be sold to pay this debt. But I will bear this debt myself, in the name of the king, who bears my debt in himself.” And that last part of the sentence is the key: “in the name of the king, who bears my debt in himself.” Many readers of the parable miss that. If you ask them, “Why is the servant thrown in jail to be tortured?” they will say, “Because the servant should have been more generous. The master forgave the servant a big debt, so the least the servant could do is to forgive his fellow servant the small debt.” But that misses the point. It leaves out the realization Jesus is wanting Peter and his other hearers to have. The servant is not thrown in jail and tortured because he wasn’t more generous. Torture, after all, is quite an extreme punishment for selfishness. Instead, the servant is thrown in jail and tortured for being, as the master calls him in verse 32, a “wicked servant.” He is a wicked servant because through his actions he has hidden the work of the king, who bears the servant’s debt in himself. What would make the servant a “good servant”? Not just forgiving the debt owed him but forgiving the debt in such a way that the generous character of the king would be revealed. If all the servant did was to forgive the debt of his fellow servant, he would still be missing the point. He would simply be drawing attention to his own generosity (and drawing on his own generosity, which would last all of about a day before it burned a hole in him). But if he said, “My fellow servant, I forgive your debt—I bear the cost myself—because our master the king is generous, and today he has forgiven me, and he bears my debt in himself.” That would draw attention to the work and character of the king master. And that would make him no longer a wicked servant.

So, back to Peter: What Jesus is showing Peter is that how Peter forgives reveals—accurately or inaccurately—the work and character of Peter’s God. If Peter forgives seven times, the God of Peter is a God who forgives like a human being. Like a human being, that God quickly runs out of patience and wants sinners to pay for their sins themselves. But if Peter forgives seventy-seven times in the name of the God of Peter, then the God of Peter is revealed to be a generous God indeed—one who does not forgive like human beings do. One whose forgiveness is judgment plus mercy—a force so powerful that it will eventually set right the damage that sin and death and evil have caused. So God’s mission of righteousness—setting the world right through his judgment and mercy (which is what he means by forgiveness)—is advanced or hindered precisely to the degree that Peter realizes that his own forgiveness of others is nothing more or less or other than part of that mission. Debts to the servant, in other words, have become debts to the master; as the servant forgives those debts, so forgives the master. If the servant fails to forgive those debts, the generous character of the master is shrouded or, worse, denied. And sin and unforgiveness continues to burn like acid through our human race, sinners and sinned against alike.

A quick update on my dad.
Principle 6 says: Evaluate all my relationships. Offer forgiveness to those who have hurt me and make amends for harm I’ve done to others, except when to do so would harm them or others. I know I carry no responsibility for the abuse that was inflicted on me. But, I wanted to offer this man forgiveness for what he did to me, however the Lord might want that to look. About a month ago, he fell. The doctor said his legs still work, but because of his advanced stage of altzheimer’s, his brain doesn’t tell them to work. My brothers and my sister and I decided to go visit him in the memory care home where his wife put him and where he will spend his last days. I expected nothing from this trip other than to spend a few last moments with him and to make sure he knew he was forgiven. There were moments of possible recognition on his face. But they were so fleeting I was never quite sure. As we were preparing to leave, I bent down in front of him. He looked me right in the eyes. I said, “Dad, I love you.” He gave a quick nod. I took his hand in mine and said, “Daddy, I really do love you.” And for the first time in many years, I knew I meant it. He paused for a couple of seconds, struggling to recognize me and finally uttered, “Well…you’re okay, too.” In that quiet moment, I heard a soft whisper from my real, substantial, heavenly dad Who said, “I’m right here beside you. I will never leave you. I know you. And I’m so very proud of you.”

Dad’s wife Dorothy asked if we would like to see his room. My brother wheeled Dad down the hall and I was struck by the fact that she told us earlier that he never goes anywhere without his Bible in his lap. And I thought, “Someday, he will meet me in heaven, and we will enjoy the relationship God always intended us to have here on earth.” I felt peace. As we walked into his room, Dorothy said she tried to set it up as much as she could, just like it was at home. She hoped it would help fire some last memories for him. She said, “You know, just a few things I know he loved.” My eyes scanned the room, taking in the memory tokens of his life, until they landed on his bedside table. There were two framed photographs there, facing his bed, as though guarding him while he slept. Two sentries, who would stand beside him, protecting what were now mere shadows of his former dreams. One, a Blackhawk pilot, his grandson,Tad. The other, a once wounded soldier, who was lost, but now is found, his son, Tim.

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