A Page From Reece's Journal

What the Hay?

2011-11-05T18:29:00.003-05:00

This is one of those stories you hate to admit to, but don’t want to see die. I’ve been accused of being a city boy, and this will remove all doubt.

When I was 16 years old I would come in from school to dad’s shop every day, and watch things while he went for a break to enjoy a cup of coffee. One day I showed up after school but instead of dad heading to the coffee shop he sent me on an errand.

Dad had read somewhere that if you are planting tomatoes you want to put some alfalfa hay in the soil. I don’t know if it was to aerate or provide nutrients, or what he idea was. I am not a horticulturist, and so far have never played one on TV. The fact is that I’ve never played anything on TV, although I did play a gangster in a theatrical production once. But that has nothing to do with alfalfa hay.

A lady came in the shop that day and dad made arrangements with her for me to pick up some hay – 2 square bales. They had already negotiated the price and payment had been tendered. All that was left was delivery of the product. And for that he had a strong backed - albeit weak minded - helper (me).

Dad gave me written directions from his shop in downtown Edmond out to a farm just south of Guthrie, down a county road in the middle of nowhere – perhaps a bit to the left side of nowhere – I’m not sure. Nevertheless, I drove… and drove.

After awhile I arrived at the farm, knocked on the door and was met by a nice lady. She pointed to the barn and said, “Go get a couple of bales. It’s paid for.”

And so I drove my 1968 Dodge Charger with the 3 speed automatic transmission and black vinyl top down to the barn. In the process I added another option to my car – a layer of cow fuel on the tires. (Cow fuel – tactful, huh!)

I threw a couple of bales in the back of the Charger and made the trek the 20 or so miles back to downtown Edmond just in time for dad to close up the shop. He came out to see his newly purchased farm product.

“Son,” he said, “I hate to tell you this… but even a city boy should know the difference between hay and straw!”

There’s a difference? (Well, it’s a rhetorical question now. I learned that hay and straw are different when I was a mere lad of 16.)

The drive back to the farm wasn’t so bad. I’d rather be driving in the country than working at the shop. But I did not relish the embarrassment of explaining to the lady that I had to return the straw and pick up the hay dad had actually purchased. I thought about telling her I was just testing dad to see if he knew the difference; or that I was just talking the straw out for a test drive.

When I got back to the farm I made the decision to bypass the farm house and just drive straight to the barn. I figured if I did get caught – well, they say forgiveness is easier to get than permission. I’m not sure how embarrassment fits into that axiom. But it’s a moot point, as I was able to make the switch without having to explain anything to the farmer’s wife.

The moral of the story is, “Don’t send a city boy to do a country boy’s job”. And in the process I learned the coolest way to burn rubber in a hotrod. Well… it’s not really rubber.

The Drought of Twenty-Eleven

2011-08-14T21:11:00.008-05:00

For the sixth week in a row the sun beat down upon us. We were tired and parched believers in a dry and thirsty land. Just as a flower will wither and die without the rains, so do Christians need the praise and worship – the fellowship of the brethren – the hearing of an anointed word from a Man of God, lest said Christians suffer that same fate. And now another Sunday morning had rolled around.

For reasons of no consequence to this story Stephanie and I found ourselves without a home church to attend. By now it had been six weeks since we had attended Sunday Service, but for us the drought had started many weeks before, and so we did thirst.

...what I do know is that it rained today!

When you love God and realize he has a plan for your life, sleeping in and sitting around on Sunday morning is not an option for very long. And it had been too long. So we made the decision to visit a church that was recently started in an elementary school in our neighborhood. And we’re so glad we did.

The church is called Faith Church and it meets on Sunday mornings at 10 o’clock in the Auditorium of James L Dennis Elementary School. My expectations of church size were confounded when I rounded the corner to a parking lot full of cars. I was expecting about half as many.

The awkwardness of walking for the first time into a group of strangers was quickly allayed by smiling greeters at the door, and again (and again) by friendly people pointing the way to the coffee, the restrooms and the sanctuary (as it were). I even ran into someone I knew a few years back.

Most everyone was standing around visiting with friends so Stephanie and I chose seats and settled in. Almost immediately a guy walked up and said, “Hi, I’m Josh!” From what little research I had done on Facebook and on the church’s website I recognized Josh as the Pastor. And I was impressed at the genuineness and humility with which he introduced himself.

And then church started. And brother – it was CHURCH; the praise and worship, the anointed word from a Man of God, the fellowship after service (with ice cream, no less)!

Stephanie and I were both blessed beyond measure. The picture conjured in my mind was that of a cowboy riding his pony over the brittle, rainless ground, praying for the promise of a cloud and constantly scanning the horizon for a stream or a river. And then one glorious day, there it is – that oasis of water. And then the cowboy stands, arms outstretched to God in thanks, and falls straight backward into the life giving pool. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, the refreshing!

I don’t know if Stephanie and I will pitch our tent at this watering hole, followed by the building of a cabin and dreams of a larger spread, or if this is just a stopover on the trail to our final destination. We’ll look to the leading of the Holy Spirit on that. But what I do know is that it rained today!

Thanks Pastors Josh & Tiffany and Faith Church for the rain!

The Power of the Pyramid

2011-08-05T10:57:00.011-05:00

Things I Hate #127 - Amway!

It's not the products – don’t use ‘em, have no idea how good they are. I may be wrong, but I’ve always assumed the name Amway is a hybrid of the words "American" and "Way". But I’m an American, and I get most of my stuff at Wal-Mart. I had an Amway salesman once tell me I could save the gas of driving to Wal-Mart. “That’s ok,” I told him. “I’m headed there anyway for a new set of tires, some shotgun shells and one of those roasted chickens they have in a case up by the register.”

Oh, it's not because they don't have ammo or roasted chicken. And it’s really not the company itself either. I don’t know that much about it. What I hate about Amway is their way of doing business. Rightly or wrongly, Amway has the reputation of being one of the first and the biggest to apply that business model commonly known as the “pyramid”.

The concept is – you sign up to sell the products. Then you start signing other people up to sell the products. And guess what – you get some money for signing them up, AND you get some money when they sell the products. I gather the Amway salesfolk use the products, but does anybody ever really sell the products? Or do they just make their money signing up other people?

But that pyramid thing is still not what I REALLY hate. What I REALLY hate is how, when somebody gets involved in a sales-oriented situation like that, their family and friends become their prospects! Some of them even teach you in their training manual that you have a ready-made base of prospects - your family and friends.

Here’s how it happens. First you start noticing slight changes in the routine that is your friendship - subtle hints that something’s different. You aren’t spending as much time doing the friend things you used to do. Your conversations aren’t as light-hearted as before.

And then you get that all-telling invitation, “We’d like you guys to come over for dinner. We have something we want to share with you!” Oh, you've had dinner there lots of times, but never have you received a formal invitation. That pain you are experiencing in the pit of your stomach right now is what it feels like to realize you’ve just morphed from friend into prospect!

I just hate it when a friend tells me he's signed up for the latest greatest new home-marketing product. See, I don't have that many friends to spare.

If this is the American Way I think I’ll sign up for EgypWay. EgypWay may not have roasted chicken either, but at least their pyramids are real!

The Hop

2011-07-21T11:39:00.006-05:00

The Joke
The sole survivor of a shipwreck was rescued from a deserted island after several years alone. His rescuers marveled at the expansive hut he had built as his home. Then they noticed two more huts near one another on the other side of the small island. When asked about the other two huts he pointed to one of them.

“That’s where I go to church!” he exclaimed with pride.

“Interesting”, replied one of the rescuers. “And what is that other hut?”

“Oh”, he chagrined, “that’s where I used to go to church.” (Insert rim-shot here)

Church Hopping
Church hopping - the very term seems to carry an air of negativity - as if a person should find a church, roll up his sleeves and get busy. And never ever again in the unfolding saga of his life should he find the need, desire or opportunity to change from the church where he attends and serves.

But then we are reminded of concepts such as, when one door closes another one opens, or “…for such a time as this…” And we realize that people move from one state to another – and where you begin your spiritual walk may not even be within a thousand miles of where you are finally laid to rest. And a lot of transformations happen in the meantime. Some geographical… some spiritual… some just down right practical!

The Apostle Paul was a church hopper. Oh sure, you could say that he was an Apostle and thus needed to hop to Corinth, and hop to Ephesus, and hop to Thessalonica and Rome and… well, you get the idea. But that’s where his ministry took him. I hate to think of what would not have happened in Paul’s ministry had he not been a church hopper.

Changes
When a church gets new leadership changes begin to take place. This is to be expected - even anticipated. And so when things start happening differently in the Sunday morning service you understand that changes are par for the course. And when staff members start leaving you accept that a new administration brings with it a new team, sometimes by transition, sometimes in mass. So you swallow hard and accept that it is for the best.

Routines are shuffled up. Old programs are phased out and new ones instituted. The very individuals who taught your Sunday School classes and served you communion wafers and changed the light bulbs in the sanctuary change. And in the midst of it all you pray for God’s guidance and look to this new leadership. You look first to see if your needs will be met. And then you look to see where your place may be in helping to meet the needs of others. And you realize that, just as changes are taking place around you, you yourself must be willing to change.

But you also realize that this new pastor is not Previous Pastor, Part 2. He is a different man with a different plan. It’s a plan you may or may not agree with, and you may or may not have a place in that plan. If you do, you re-roll your sleeves and get busy serving. If not, you realize there are others for whom this plan is a perfect fit.

The Hop
But if that plan is designed on pretenses of which you do not approve and cannot support, it becomes obvious to you that there remains no role for you to fill. After all, can two walk together unless they are agreed? Perhaps you have even seen many you’ve come to know and love packing their bibles and leaving, and you start to sense an atmosphere of “hop or get hopped!” And so, after much prayer, you hop.

Your only hopping hope is that by sharing your thoughts others will realize the observations they have observed and the suspicions they have suspected are not merely imagined. And hopping is not a sin. But then, neither is refusing to hop.

Godspeed, my friend.

My Word

2011-06-15T08:30:00.022-05:00

The nine month course offered by Rhema Bible Training Center passed quickly and, diploma in hand, I was licensed as a minister through an organization recommended by Rhema. And out into the world I charged!

After a year or two of working in the ministry I applied for ordination and ministerial credentials with a church called Faith Christian Fellowship, located in Tulsa and pastored by Kenneth Hagin’s son-in-law, Buddy Harrison. I received a letter to attend the ordination service where I would be presented with those credentials.

It was at that ordination service that one of the most momentous events of my life unfolded. See, I had read in the bible that certain men, when they were “separated” unto the calling that God had on their lives, had words prophesied over them confirming their call to ministry. And so I asked God for a word of prophesy to be spoken over me at my ordination.

...The Holy Ghost said, "Separate me Barnabas and Saul for the work whereunto I have called them." Acts 13:2

Oh, I had learned from listening to these teachers of the Word that seeking out prophesies for guidance and direction is not God’s plan. Going to his Word and spending time in prayer is God’s way of guiding his children. But this was my ordination service, and I felt I had Biblical precedent for my request.

And so the time came. All the men and women (and their spouses) who were there for ordination were called up front, standing across the front of the church in a line. Pastor Buddy Harrison, his associate Larry Huggins, and their entourage were moving from one end toward the other, laying hands upon and praying for those being ordained. I was antsy with anticipation at the word to be spoken over me.

And then Pastor Harrison moved to stand before my wife and me. And then he laid hands upon us and prayed for God to anoint us and guide us in our ministry. And then he moved on toward the next couple.

“That’s it?” I questioned - silently of course. “Where is my word from the Lord?” And while I didn’t feel cheated, I was nevertheless disappointed. I had not been one to seek out words from other people to guide my life. I had gone to God’s word and spent my time in prayer. And yet, this was my ordination, and I had asked God for a prophecy; just as I had seen in the Bible.

And then, just as Pastor Harrison was raising his hands toward the next couple in line… he stopped. And then he looked back at me. And then he turned around and stepped back to me. And then he laid his hands back upon me. And then he opened his mouth and prophesied over me. And he spoke these words:

“Father, in the Name of Jesus, we lay our hands upon these –
...separate them whereunto they are called.

We declare and we decree that which you desire
to impart as their portion today.

We thank you Father that you give them
new and fresh words to say.

Blessings, blessings, they shall abound;
teaching, teaching, it shall be sound.

The utterance is going to come.
It’s going to be strong, clear, deep and sweet.

You’ll speak as the oracles of God;
so go ahead and yield to it.

And when that boldness comes on you,
don’t back up and get timid, but be strong,

in Jesus’ Name.”

I had my word!

Silkwood’s Noconas

2011-06-04T13:15:00.017-05:00

Perhaps you’ve heard of Karen Silkwood, the premier counter-culture icon of the labor unions, environmentalists, and anti-nukers of the world. Karen was working at a facility owned by a major oil company who had ventured into the nuclear arena. Her job involved making plutonium pellets for nuclear reactors.

Of course, she’s dead now. If you saw the movie Silkwood, starring Meryl Streep, you know this. But what you don’t know is what this has to do with me.

Well, as the story goes, Karen found some incredible negligence in the way the nuclear products were being handled (numerous violations of health regulations, including exposure of workers to contamination, faulty respiratory equipment and improper storage of samples). That plutonium is some pretty dangerous stuff, you know.

In spite of the damage to her car’s rear fender and the skid marks in the road, nobody was ever charged in her murder...

When Karen’s breath expelled contaminated air from her lungs an investigation was launched. She, as well as her home, was found to be badly contaminated. The major oil company claimed Karen caused the contamination to make them look bad, or to sell the story, or for whatever reason. Of course, Karen claimed it was from the aforementioned negligence. Others speculated that the major oil company actually planted the contamination to sully her name.

Karen decided to go public with the evidence. She claimed to have a binder full of documentation, and indeed folks in her home town of Crescent, Oklahoma later testified of the existence of such a binder. She called the New York Times and a meeting was set.

And so, on the evening of November 13, 1974, Karen Silkwood left Crescent, Oklahoma to drive to Oklahoma City 30 miles away to hand the evidence over to the journalist. But she never arrived. The next day her car was found in a culvert on the road to Oklahoma City – her body inside the car… the binder nowhere to be found.

Of course, everyone with half-a-brain assumed the major oil company “took care of her”… “had her bumped off”… But in spite of the damage to her car’s rear fender and the skid marks in the road, nobody was ever charged in her murder. In fact, it wasn’t even officially ruled a murder – but an accident! And in fact, in the longest running civil suit in the history of the state, the major oil company paid Karen’s family $1.38 million, and got out of the nuclear energy business altogether.

BUT… what has this got to do with me?

Well, remember that investigation that found contamination at Karen’s home? In the course of the search the authorities did a lot of damage. Later Cher Bono brought Karen’s boots into my father’s shoe repair shop to be fixed. (OK… it wasn’t Cher Bono. It was Karen’s roommate - Cher Bono just played her in the movie).

“Price is no object”, she said. “Hell, they’re paying for it!”

And so I got to tear off the soles and heels from the late Karen Silkwood’s Nocona boots, so that my dad could make them like new again.

So why am I telling you this? Two reasons – One: I don’t know if anybody but me knows this story, and I wouldn’t want it to be forgotten. And Two: it might explain why my fingers glow in the dark!

photo used by permission of: Idea go / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

White House Windows

2011-05-18T17:09:00.031-05:00

A little over a year ago I posted a piece called A Tale of Two Chiefs. In that story I talked about my desire to take a trip to Washington, tour the White House, and possibly have my picture taken with the President. Recently Stephanie and I were able to take my dream vacation to D.C., and I got to see and do all the things of which I have desired for years.

Of course, I didn’t get the chance to pose with the Pres. In fact, I didn’t even get the chance to tour the White House. Such tours have to be arranged by your U. S. Representative. And while I did apply for the tour, I don’t know if it is because my Rep is a rookie, or if the White House looked up my party affiliation, or (more likely) if my request was just submitted too late.

...then we turned to go back to the bus. And that’s when I saw him!

The truth is I did almost have the chance to shake hands with the President. See, we were there early in April, the week the government was threatening to shut down for lack of a budget. Of course, the government did not shut down, but continues to this day to show us the stellar quality of their work. And the day after the budget agreement was ironed out the President made a surprise visit to the Lincoln Memorial on the National Mall, where he shook hands with the surprised tourists. Unfortunately I had visited the Lincoln Memorial just a few hours earlier.

But even though I didn’t get tickets to the White House, it was at the White House that I experienced what may have been my most memorable moment of the trip. Not inside of course – I didn’t make it inside; but just outside the fence to the North, in Lafayette Park. Having spent the entire day on a tour bus seeing monuments, memorials, museums and statutes – universities, embassies, cathedrals and more, we topped the night off with yet another tour bus trip that had as its final destination a quick stop over at the White House.

We walked through Lafayette Park in awe at the site of that icon of freedom, that heart and soul of our nation that is the White House. We pointed at the lighted windows wondering who was in there and what they were doing, and thanked God Bill Clinton isn’t in there anymore. And we offered our opinions on the guy that is. We snapped pictures of the others and posed for our own. And then we turned to go back to the bus. And that’s when I saw him!

There is in Lafayette Park, directly in front of and in plain sight of the White House, a shabby tent flanked by large, amateurish looking yellow signs. The signs have words and pictures – words to explain the cause, and to explain that this vigil had been continuously maintained since 1981; and pictures depicting the horrors of nuclear war. Such a sight did not really surprise me. In fact my trip wouldn’t have been complete without seeing a White House protester (and possibly being one).

Standing there on the sidewalk I observed a tired looking old man, unshaven and unkempt – sitting on the ground - arms folded, body hunched over, eyes shut – resembling a drug addict or at least a street dweller. And like everyone else I adjusted my gait and my path to avoid him. But then an unusual thing happened. Something inside me compelled me to draw closer, to read his signs and afford myself the opportunity to at least attempt to understand what compels this man to stand vigil.

Understand that it was not his cause that tugged at my heart so hard as to pull me to his very threshold. It was the man himself. I can’t really say how affected I was by what I read, but I was profoundly affected by what I saw – this man’s commitment to his cause. After standing there reverently and reading all his signs, I spoke up. “God bless you, sir.” I said.

At the sound of my voice he immediately came to life. His head raised, his eyes opened wide and a smile broke across his face. And it was at that moment I experienced what may be the most lasting memory of my dream trip to D.C. It’s been said, “The eyes are the window to the soul.” That man had the kindest, the deepest, the most committed and caring eyes I have ever had the honor of staring into. He responded, “Thank you very much, my friend!” And then he bowed his head again.

I didn’t offer this man money – he wasn’t asking for money. I didn’t offer him food or drink. What I did offer him was the only thing I had to give that would be of any consequence to him. I offered him God’s Blessings – probably the only chance his cause really has.

I returned to the bus and the excitement and exhaustion that is a week in the Capitol City. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that if we could elect a President to these United States that has the eyes of the protester in the park, we would surely stand a chance of curing the ails of modern man.

Act of Friendship - Badge of Honor

2011-03-20T13:33:00.007-05:00

“CLEAN IT UP!” dad yelled, about as annoyed as I’d ever seen him – not really angry… just annoyed. “I knew if you kept messin’ with people you were gonna get messed with”, he declared.

It was the summer of 1973, and just like every other fun-loving teenager in America that lived in the city, I spent my evenings – every evening - driving up and down the drag, honking at the same cars I honked at on the last round just a few minutes ago, which were in fact the same cars I honked at last night and the night before, and every night that summer; all the while watching the bank clock to see if I had time for one more drag before curfew saw me pulling up in front of the house.

OK, so dad was right – I had been victimized; something I never thought would happen...

But this night was different. On this night, after having made one last round on the drag I headed for the house. And then I turned on our street. And that’s when I saw it. Even from a block away I could see it. Somebody had strewn toilet paper all over our yard – all over our trees, all over our bushes, all over mom’s car – everywhere! We had been TP’d!

I walked in the house and found dad still up, watching TV. “You didn’t hear anything?” I asked. “Hear what? What are you talking about?” And that’s when I showed him the front yard, and that’s when I got his lecture… and his refusal to help me clean it up.

For the unlearned, the phenomenon known as TPing a house, or as my cousins in Dallas called it, rolling a house, is when a gang of kids (usually) unroll several rolls of toilet paper on a friend’s front yard. They throw the roll up into the tree and watch it fall on the other side, leaving a streamer of Charmin hanging from the highest branch. They lace it through the bushes. They roll it under a car and then throw it over, hoping it won’t come apart at a perf in the process, so that the car can be neatly “wrapped up”.

But Dad didn’t understand the fun of it. Maybe that’s because they probably didn’t have toilet paper in “his day”. They probably just dumped bushel baskets of corn cobs on each other’s yards and then jumped into the buggy, hoping the victim wouldn’t hear the horse’s hoofs as they made their get-away.

OK, so dad was right – I had been victimized; something I never thought would happen. While I must have gone through a hundred dollars worth of toilet paper myself that summer, I took pride in having never been TP’d myself. Oh, they tried, but I always caught them. I once chased a girl halfway down the street to make her come back and clean up the mess she’d tried to make on my yard.

But somebody had finally succeeded in nailing me! And I was flabbergasted by it. See, you only TP people you like. It’s an act of friendship – a badge of honor to be TP’d. But I knew who my friends were, and I made it my job to know where every one of them was every night… so that I could “get” them but they couldn’t “get” me.

And I was the KING of TP. I was so adept at the game that I could look at a “job” and tell you with some degree of accuracy how many rolls were used, and probably who the artist was that created the masterpiece. I even TP’d a girl’s car parked on Broadway in the middle of the afternoon without getting caught.

But whose work was this? I didn’t recognize it. In fact, it was done so poorly that I couldn’t image it being something any of my friends had done. We were pros after all. I remember telling dad that the person who did the tree had no clue how to TP, but whoever did the bushes did an OK job.

So the investigation began. I started asking all my friends what they were doing on Friday night. You have to be subtle when conducting an inquiry. You have to ask leading questions, and look for telling expressions. But it just wasn’t happening. No matter who I grilled, I got nowhere. I recruited my closest friends to assist in the case. I wracked my brain for anyone I may have overlooked. But all my friends were accounted for on that Friday evening – except two. But who were those two?

Two weeks passed, and each day I was more perplexed than the day before. Then, one afternoon I walked into the shop where I worked with dad, and he said something that cracked the case wide open. “I know who TP’d you!” he declared, with that crooked grin on his face that those who knew him still remember to this day, more than 10 years after his passing.

“WHO?” I asked, only half way believing him. “It was your best friend,” was all he would tell me. He strung me along for about 2 days before confessing that it was in fact HE, HIMSELF that had TP’d our yard, with the help of my older brother. He barely contained his laughter as he regaled how he had done the tree (pathetic) while my brother did the bushes (adequate).

Dad was right. It was my best friend that had TP’d me that Friday night in the summer of ’73. Oh, I didn’t realize it at the time, but my best friend gave me what would be most of my fondest memories of childhood. And it was my best friend that kept me out of trouble and got me out of trouble, and taught me what being a man really means. And it was my best friend that introduced me to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ at a very early age. And I look forward to seeing them both face to face at the Lord’s returning.

Even so, come quickly!

The Kepler Dynasty

2010-12-31T08:41:00.009-06:00

I need your help with something. I don’t understand the concept of royalty. Oh, I fully comprehend how a family would rise up to rule over their friends and neighbors – offering a safe haven back when defense and conquest were ugly realities of life.

I’ve seen all the movies with good kings (Robin Hood) and bad kings (Braveheart). It’s easy to understand how dynasties rose and fell in centuries gone by. I just don’t see the need for royalty in this 21st century.

Why can’t my family be a 21st century dynasty? I could be King Reece...

Take Prince William, for instance. You remember Prince William don’t you? He’s the eldest son of Princess Diana, of fame for a number of reasons, not the least of which was her fiery death in a tunnel in Paris; and Prince Charles, famous primarily for his royal divorce and his extremely large honker.

I see where Prince William is getting married. And the whole world is glued to their sets to see what church they will select, and what flavor their cake will be, and at what opulent vacation retreat they will honeymoon. I see these “news” stories over my morning coffee, and I think to myself, “who cares?”!

My question is this – What makes these people any better than… say, my people? Why can’t my family be a 21st century dynasty? I could be King Reece and Queen Stephanie would never have to clean the house again. Her 149 servants would do that. By the way, that number, 149, is not an arbitrary number. That’s how many servants Prince Charles has.

Believe it or not, no press at all reported on it when Stephanie and I drove to Vegas to get married. By the way, in case you’re interested, the “church” we chose was A Hollywood Wedding Chapel on Las Vegas Blvd. Our cake was whatever Planet Hollywood serves as complementary to newlyweds, and our honeymoon spot was that opulent vacation retreat known as Las Vegas, Nevada.

But back to the Kepler Dynasty – I would be a good king, like Richard the Lionhearted, not an evil king like Edward Longshanks, the Hammer of the Scots. Would you be willing to bow down and kiss the Kepler Crest on the Royal Ring? No? I didn’t think so.

Now I read where Prince William and his fiancée Kate Middleton, after their wedding in April, will not have ANY servants. Not a butler, not a chef (apparently Kate’s a pretty good cook), not even a personal valet (although I’m betting they will at least have maid service come in once a week to run the vacuum).

You know, this “no servants” policy makes me wonder if Prince William just doesn’t get the concept of royalty.

I wonder if he would kiss the Kepler Crest.

Photo "Prince Dillon, Princess Rebekah and future Queen Kiley" used without permission

Heart to Heart

2010-12-30T16:33:00.010-06:00

Remember eating those little candy hearts on Valentine’s Day? You know… the ones with cute sayings stamped on them. Perhaps you even gave a little candy heart with just the right saying to that special someone. I’m sure there are couples happily married today all because of a little candy heart.

When I was a teenager the church I attended sent out letters to its members with one of those little hearts glued to it. I don’t recall the nature of the letter, but what I do remember is that the machines at the post office crushed the candy hearts. So when you opened your letter from the church you got a lap full of candy dust. When teased about it the church staff just grinned in embarrassment.

I remembered the testimony of that little old lady…

But let me tell you something else I remember about the candy-heart-letter story. There was a little old lady that attended the church whose letter must have missed the posting machine or something, because her heart wasn’t crushed... at least not her candy heart!

The reason I know this is because one Sunday evening, back when churches still had what they called “testimony service”, this little old lady stood up and shared about how she was struggling with a trial in her life, and the day that letter arrived she was having an especially difficult day. Then she opened the letter, and there glued to the paper was a candy heart. And printed on that little candy heart were the words TRUST ME.

And she received that little candy heart as a word from God that all is well. And the peace of God flooded from that little candy heart to her aching heart.

I don’t remember that little old lady's name and I would suppose that now, some 40 years later, she is surely absent from the body and present with the Lord. But if not… if she’s still with us, I hope she’s reading this story right now. Because I would like for her to know that many times over the last 40 years, when I was going through a trial and having an especially difficult day, I remembered the testimony of that little old lady… and the peace of God flooded my heart!

Photo Melt My Heart used by permission

The Flying Monkey Movie

2010-12-26T22:00:00.010-06:00

It’s the baby boomer generation that finally changed the way we look at things. Before, if a man got old and forgetful they laughed at him and said he had “Old Timer’s Disease”. Now, with sympathy and respect, that forgetful gentleman is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.

I remember when, if a man just ate and ate and ate, and then went out behind the shed and stuck his finger down his throat to throw up, he was laughingly judged a glutton. Now that man (although it’s more often a teenage girl) is diagnosed with Anorexia, and offered treatment by medical science.

We snickered when we heard that Gomer Pyle was married to Rock Hudson...

But alas, not all changes are for the better.

When I was a child there were two men who lived together down the street. They dressed kind of funny, and even as a young boy I recognized that their home was expensively, if not oddly decorated. And we laughed about these men being “married” to each other. And we snickered when we heard that Gomer Pyle was married to Rock Hudson; although to the best of my knowledge that rumor turned out to be false.

Let’s face it. Not too many years ago, homosexuality was carried forth behind closed doors, at the risk of shame and banishment from the community. Now parades are held where those who embrace the “lifestyle” frolic gaily along as if they are the normal ones.

You may be of the attitude that this new acceptance of the homosexual lifestyle is a sign that the world has at last caught up with wisdom and sanity. If so, your beliefs disagree with the rest of us, who recognize homosexuality for what it is – deviant behavior that is frowned upon by the Creator of the Universe.

One wonders just how much more “change” this old world can absorb. Some changes are for the better. Others we recognize for what they are – harbingers of the inevitable finality we all will soon share.

So please indulge this old geezer when I forget the name of that “Flying Monkey” movie I’ve watched each year with fondness and joy. I may be getting older, but my mind is still sharp enough to know one thing...

Toto, we aren’t in Kansas anymore!

Photo Musical Monkeys used by permission

An Angel Gets His Wings

2010-12-11T19:43:00.012-06:00

The Movie
If your holiday traditions are like mine the time of year has come to watch that classic of all Christmas classics. I’m talking about the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life”. But there’s one scene in that movie that hits so close to home it’s scary - and I don’t mean funny-scary, I mean petrifying-scary.

The Scene
The scene that brings me to the brink of nightmare is not really the scene itself, but the memory it evokes. The scene is when George Bailey’s brother, Harry, sled out of control, ends up in the water. Of course, George saves Harry, but in the alternate world of Clarence the Angel, Harry sleds his way to a watery grave.

The Memory
A few years before my wife Stephanie and I met, I was married to someone else, and had two step-children, a girl named Amy and a boy named Casey. I well remember one year when we were in Colorado for Christmas with Amy and Casey’s grandparents. It was Christmas morning and Casey had found a brand new, bright red plastic snow sled under the tree. He was anxious to try out his new sled and everyone was antsy to get out of the house so we took a road trip to Wolf Creek Pass, a ski resort close by.

The Sled
We checked out the prices to rent equipment and buy a lift ticket, and decided just to hang out and have some fun instead. There was a really cool hill above the parking lot where we decided Casey could walk up and then sled back down to us – a controlled area where he would never be out of sight. And so up the hill he shot, grin on face and sled in tow. And then, with reckless abandon he yelled out a “whoooooopieeeee” as he jumped on his sled and headed down the hill.

The Mountain
What we had not taken time to notice was that just past the parking lot was the rest of the mountain – the downward side of the mountain! In fact, the parking lot we were playing in was located at an elevation of a little over 10,000 feet. And with gravity being what it is, if something (or someone) was to slide past the parking lot, the results would be… well… let’s just say far reaching!

The Terror
I would say we never noticed the danger of letting Casey sled past us and on down the mountain, but the truth is I did realize the danger. The problem is – I realized it only after I saw the terror in Casey’s eyes as he hit the parking lot and sledded right past me – out of control and unable to stop.

The Grab
The outcome of our little road trip that day could have been quite different – in fact it may have made the 11 o’clock news all across America, had Casey’s big sister Amy not grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him from the careening toboggan.

The Vanishing
And so there we stood, watching that bright red plastic luge as it flew down the side of the hill and into the valley. Down, down, down went Casey’s Christmas sled. And we watched and watched…and watched and watched, until the sled finally was so far down and away that it disappeared from sight, never to be seen again.

The Silence
As I remember it we didn’t say much about what might have happened, had Amy not been standing where she was, or had she not had the presence of mind to grab his jacket. I think it was just too overwhelming to think about. But I assure you, the outcome could have been devastating.

The Reward
After the divorce I lost touch with Amy and Casey, but I’ve heard Casey grew up to be a mighty man of God. And one thing I know – for every good thing Casey does for the Kingdom of God, Amy will get a jewel for her crown.

The End
I’ve often wondered if George Bailey and I have the same guardian angel, because I'm pretty sure I remember hearing a bell ring.

Hee Haw - Thanks, Clarence. And by the way, if Casey forgot to say it, Thanks Amy!

Photo used by permission

Uncle Dick and His Ship

2010-12-03T18:16:00.020-06:00

When a man grows old and dies, his legacy – or at least the memory of his life – passes to his sons, and then to his son’s sons. Of course, if he doesn’t have sons it passes to his daughters. But if a man has no sons or daughters, will he be forgotten?

I remember meeting Uncle Dick only once in my life, or maybe twice. He was born on 11/11/11 and died in February 1980. And, while my father and I drove to San Diego for his funeral, we pulled into town just as it was taking place, and so we missed it. Uncle Dick is buried in a beautiful cemetery out on Point Loma.

This truly remarkable feat of seamanship was the only time in recorded naval history that such an event occurred...

But it is Uncle Dick’s death that really defines his legacy, or – not really his death, but more so how he died. In 1955 Navy Captain Richard Purdy, a WWII combat veteran, was the skipper of the USS Marion County (LST-975) when he and his ship were ordered to participate in an experiment code-named “Operation Wigwam”, a nuclear weapon test so secret that even its codename was classified and could not be mentioned without the highest clearances, and under penalty of imprisonment.

In Operation Wigwam, conducted by The Department of Defense and The Scripps Institution of Oceanography, three submarines were placed underwater, 500 miles off the coast of San Diego, and then a 30 kiloton nuclear bomb was detonated in a 12,000 foot ocean, at a depth of 2,000 feet. The objective was to see if a surface vessel could use nuclear weapons to destroy submerged enemy submarines without causing harm to itself.

At 1:00 pm Pacific Time on May 14, 1955 the bomb was detonated… and three submarines were obliterated. But that detonation also sent a fireball-bubble 12,000 feet into the air, covering a one and a half mile area of the ocean and sending highly radioactive seawater in all directions.

The Marion County was an LST-542-class tank landing ship, a ship with a set of large doors on the bow (front) that opened to off-load tanks, cargo and troops onto an unimproved shore. The Marion County’s role in the experiment placed it in close proximity to Surface Zero. And so, when the bomb exploded, the crewmen were overwhelmed with fear as they witnessed the 1,200 foot tidal wave surging their way. Using the ship’s loudspeaker system Commander Purdy was able to calm the crew, who braced themselves for impact.

Damages to the Marion County were extensive. At first Commander Purdy thought the ship would surely sink as a result of the blast. But after the shock passed and the water settled, the Marion County was still afloat. However, those huge bow doors mentioned earlier were damaged to the extent that the ship could not move forward. And so, Uncle Dick had to navigate his damaged ship back to Long Beach Harbor, a trip of over 500 miles, in reverse! To sail a ship in reverse for more than a few hundred yards had never before been attempted, nor has it since. This truly remarkable feat of seamanship was the only time in recorded naval history that such an event occurred.

When the Marion County finally reached dock, Captain Purdy’s wife, my Aunt Ruth, was there to meet him. But Uncle Dick was not allowed to leave the ship. A technician from the Scripps Institute checked him for radiation and found his shoes were too “hot” to allow him to leave the vessel. In fact, the deck was so hot with radiation that all who had walked on it had to change clothes and shoes before departing.

If you looked up “Operation Wigwam” on Wikipedia.com you would read the government’s official version of the event. You would read that, “…The test was carried out without incident, and radiation effects were negligible.” The brief, three paragraph account closes with the statement that “… only three personnel received doses (of radiation) of over 0.5 rems.” What you would not read about are the dozens of sailors, contractors and civilians who participated in Operation Wigwam, and have since died of various types of cancer.

On his deathbed, suffering the ravages of leukemia and lung cancer, Commander Purdy, my Uncle Dick, called in a young neighbor, Ron Josephson, and spoke haltingly into a tape recorder, detailing and setting down the record on Wigwam. "It's too late for me, son, but I feel that we're all left holding the bag, all those crews, not just on my ship, but all those crews."

A crack investigative reporting team broke the story of Operation Wigwam, and the December 2, 1980 issue of New West Magazine published the full account. A short time later the story was scheduled to run on the television news magazine show “20/20”, but as I remember it, the segment was pulled at the last minute.

Incidentally, according to Wikipedia.com, the USS Marion County was transferred to the Republic of Vietnam, where she served South Vietnam as RVNS Cam Ranh (HQ-500). Following the Fall of Saigon on 29 April 1975, Cam Ranh escaped to the Philippines, was renamed BRP Zamboanga Del Sur (LT-86), and serves the Philippine Navy to this day.

Captain Richard Purdy (USN), current status – deceased.

RIP Uncle Dick - you are not forgotten.

Read more about Uncle Dick and his ship:

The Marion County (History Central)

The Marion County (Wikipedia)

Operation Wigwam (Wikipedia)

Operation Wigwam - Washington Nuclear Museum and Educational Center

Operation Wigwam - National Association of Atomic Veterans Newsletter

Losing the Faith

2010-09-11T22:20:00.011-05:00

The worst part about growing up is losing that faith born of wide-eyed innocence. Tell a kid a story and he takes it as the gospel. In fact, a small boy will believe pretty much anything he’s told. But as he grows a little older he grows a little wiser. And after he’s been the butt of a few jokes he learns not to be so quick to take the bait.

But if, like me, the kid is very fortunate he gets to grow up in a home where he’s only told the truth, and so the disappointments are few… at least as long as he doesn’t leave the house!

But in reality, one of the biggest disappointments of my childhood happened in my very own home – right in the middle of the living room, on a summertime Saturday night.

Being such a naïve and sheltered little guy it took me longer than it should have to realize it...

It was the early 60s and every Saturday night without fail my brother and I would join dad in front of the TV set to watch our favorite show – Championship Wrestling! Championship Wrestling was a local show, filmed in the studios of Oklahoma City’s NBC affiliate, Channel 4. It was hosted by beloved radio and television celebrity Danny Williams, and it was THE event of the week. If you could stay awake all the way to the end you got to hear Danny Williams signature closing, “Good night, and watch out for flying chairs!”

Because it was filmed in the TV studio the crowd was small and the tickets were free. You just had to write and request them. We begged and begged, and finally dad broke down and ordered tickets. We could hardly wait for Saturday night. And then we were there. And then the wrestling started. I remember the sweat flying off the wrestlers and into the crowd.

Another thing I remember was how intrigued I was with the cameras. I waited for them to pan my direction and I did what most kids would do… I waved. And then I saw the cop coming my direction – and then I heard the cop say, “Kid, don’t wave at the camera.” That was my first experience going cross-ways with the law!

But back to the fights - After a couple of warm-up matches, the main event of the program would be a best-of-three tag-team match between the good guys and the villains. The villains would usually win the first match. Then the good guys would rally and take the second. The third match would tell the tale – crown the champs – settle the score once and for all.

But… the third match always ended in a draw! Then they would hastily announce a rematch to be added to the card the following Friday night at the REAL fights. See, the REAL fights were held every Friday night at the Stockyards Coliseum. And those tickets weren’t free, but they sold like hotcakes!

And now for the big disappointment – Championship Wrestling was all FAKE!

Being such a naïve and sheltered little guy it took me longer than it should have to realize that it was really just the 1960s version of the modern day “info-mercial”, pitching those afore-mentioned tickets to the REAL fights. And another kid loses the faith!

With the arrival of cable TV's superstations, the phenomenon that is “Wrestling” spread like wildfire, almost like a religion. And it amazes me the number of grown men who worship at the altar of sleeper holds and pile drivers.

I’m guessing they were all hit by flying chairs.

Photo WWE Classics used by permission

Crime of the Decade

2010-08-28T10:20:00.014-05:00

Every decade or so I am presented with the opportunity to commit a crime for personal gain. Am I incredibly honest, incredibly naïve, or just the average guy that keeps company with crooks?

The 80s
In the early 80s I was working in construction, building inexpensive houses that may or may not still be standing today - I would fear for my safety to go back into those neighborhoods to see.

The builder to whom I was employed was also into real estate investments, buying houses to rent out and depreciate for a tax shelter and a hefty profit. He had a standing offer – anyone who would buy a house on an FHA loan and then sign it over to him after six months would make $500 for their efforts.

I'm batting three for three in the "Kickbacks for Christians" program...

See, back in those days FHA backed loans could be signed over to a new owner without that new owner having to “qualify” for that loan. The term was “simple assumption”, and because of it many people owned houses who had no visible means make the payments. Hmmmmm… sounds oddly familiar, huh!

“But why the six month wait?” you might ask. Well, FHA backed loans were supposed to be so that Americans could realize the dream of home ownership. So the misuse of the program by investors was frowned upon by the law of the land. In other words… it was a crime. So if a new buyer were to immediately sign over his loan it would be an obvious violation. But wait six months, and the deal would probably fly under the radar.

So profitable… and so illegal – and I had the credit worthiness to obtain such a loan. I found the whole thing most uncomfortable, not so much because this guy was my boss, but because he was also a deacon at my church! Several months later, when news of FHA fraud investigations were reported, I was so glad I passed on the offer, and watched the newspaper for his name.

The 90s
In the early 90s, in a time of financial hardship, I was offered the opportunity to go to Phoenix and move a computer network for a company. I was the guy that had installed their system and so when they decided to move they called me. It was a chance to make a good deal of money for one week of hard work.

The manager of the branch asked me for a quote, but told me to “pad” $1,000 into the quote for him. I toiled with the concept – I looked up the Arizona statutes on fraud on the internet, and was assured that what I was being asked to do was a crime. And so, I refused to do it. I told him he would need to get somebody else because I wasn’t going to pay a kickback.

But he asked me for my quote anyway, and so I submitted it - without the kickback. He took my deal and I made 4 grand in a week. Did I mention that this guy was a church going “Charismatic” Christian?

The Aughts
Stephanie and I have been blessed with a beautiful home. But it almost didn’t happen.

When we first saw this house we fell in love with it. But it seemed out of reach for us. It took a brazen show of nerve to even pursue the possibility. But pursue we did. We called the builder, talked figures and hammered out what appeared to be a “do-able” deal.

However, having been around real estate matters for quite a while, I knew what kind of things oft happened for deals to “close”. And so I made it clear to the seller, I made it clear to the mortgage officer, I believe I even made it clear to the guy I buy minnows from, that I would not be a party to any underhanded deals.

If there was a document that had to be hidden from somebody, if there was an untrue claim that had to be made, if money had to be “parked” in an account for the appearance of assets… anything that even hinted at being underhanded – and our deal would be a bust. We were assured by all that no such thing would happen, and so we marveled and crossed our fingers for closing day.

That day finally came, and we sat down, pens in hand. But the figures weren’t right. We were netting $1,500 too much. “Oh”, the loan officer explained, “we had to show you with a little more cash in hand for the figures to work. You just need to write a personal check back.” When I raised an objection I was told, “Everybody does it!”

And so I asked her, “Who is it that can’t know about this $1,500 check?” “The loan underwriter”, she answered sheepishly. “But everybody does it”, she reiterated.

Guess what – not everybody does it! We got up from the table to walk away from our dream house, frustrated at the deception sprung on us at the last minute. When they realized we were serious, and with the figures on paper as approved by the loan officer, she made a phone call.

Then three things happened: 1) The deal closed with the figures as approved by the underwriter; 3) Somebody else lost $1,500, and 3) Stephanie and I were able to buy blinds for all the windows in our new home. And again, the builder in this deal is a spirit-filled Christian!

I guess I'm batting three for three in the "Kickbacks for Christians" program! You know, they say every man has his price. That may be true, and I may have just not yet been offered enough to trash my integrity.

So far I have resisted, but what will the “teens” bring?

Pollyanna and the Box Turtle

2010-07-24T00:18:00.008-05:00

Back in the 60s every town big enough to have a TV station had characters famous for their afternoon childrens shows. The shows were locally produced and usually starred either a clown or a guy in a Halloween costume… with a clown for a sidekick. I’m sure they all went to yearly conventions where they wore their outfits and had the world’s weirdest party.

If you’re close to my age and you grew up in Oklahoma City then you probably remember The Foreman Scotty Show. Scotty wore white denim cowboy clothes topped off with a white hat (because he was a good guy). Kids would visit the studio to sit on a bench and have this guy stick a microphone in their face just long enough to shout their names. If it was your birthday you got to sit on a wooden horse with other kids who were also celebrating their birthday. I watched the show just hoping to see a kid fall off the horse.

I’m probably the only guy you know that actually had his pet box turtle run away from home...

Every self respecting kid in town sent in their name and received a membership card in the mail, and every day they had a drawing and gave away prizes. I never made it to the studio but I’ll never forget the day Foreman Scotty stuck his arm in that hopper and pulled out the card with my name on it. I had 30 minutes to call the show and claim my prize. I was so excited to hear Foreman Scotty call my name on TV, and when I read off my secret number into the phone Foreman Scotty declared me “A Winner”.

Imagine my excitement when I heard what I’d won for having my name drawn – a Pollyanna game and a box turtle! Now I didn’t know who or what Pollyanna was, but hey, it was FREE and it was MINE. I did know what a box turtle was. You know, now that I’m older and wiser I look back and realize that game was something the game store couldn’t sell, and the box turtle was probably picked up on the road by the pet store owner so could get the advertising without having to give away a real pet.

I soon learned that Pollyanna was a fictional character in a book – a little orphan girl whose optimism was so contagious that she brought gladness to the dispirited town in which she lived. Even when she was run over by a car and crippled she never lost her happiness and optimism in life. And even now in some circles her name is synonymous with a person who always finds something to be glad about. I’m guessing she wouldn’t have kept that goofy grin if she knew that nobody wanted to buy her game, and it had to be given away for free to some kid that got his name drawn out of a hopper.

I don’t recall ever actually playing the Pollyanna game (after all, it was named after a girl). I probably threw the game pieces at my brother for making fun of my girlie game.

And I’m probably the only guy you know that actually had his pet box turtle run away from home. I didn’t even have time to name it before it was gone with the wind.

You’d think I would have been warped for life by the whole affair. But hey, Foreman Scotty called me a winner!

photo courtesy of http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=903044

Infidels in the Cross Hairs?

2010-07-23T11:45:00.007-05:00

I believe there are two kinds of people in this world; people who divide people into two kinds of people and people who don't. It makes me wonder which kind I am (hint - read the first 10 words again).

Of late we have been told that there are two kinds of Muslims, those who follow a radical agenda and those who embrace a vision of peaceful co-existance.

Now I don't know if this is true or not, and with so many talking heads betraying their own vanity on the idiot box, it's hard to know what to believe, but some say the Koran demands that true believers kill all infidels. And, my fellow Christian brothers, you and I would be those infidels in the cross-hairs.

I now confess that I believe while there are many kinds of Muslims - there's really only one kind of Muslim...

But of course, there are just as many who proclaim that a true believer of the Koran seeks to extend a hand of friendship to all men, in hopes that they might win some to their cause. Sounds oddly similar to another global religion - known as Christianity.

And I'm pretty sure that in at least one way Islam is like Christianity. In Christianity there are so many factions saying so many different things that an outsider would be confused about what Christianity really teaches. One TV preacher says there is no other way to heaven but by receiving Jesus Christ as your savior. Another says God would never send anybody to a literal hell, and so you've got it made-in-the-shade-with-a-lemonade!

I remember a Baptist minister from Oklahoma City who made the statement, "God does not hear the prayers of Jews". It made the national news. Many were outraged (especially the Jews). "God cut an eternal covenant with Abraham!" they pointed out, "And eternity hasn't ended yet".

Truth is that a sparrow doesn't fall to the ground without God seeing it, and he knows the number of hairs on our head. To say he can't hear a Jew is to put a limit on a limitless God. I believe what that preacher probably meant was that we are living in a different time with a different game plan, and only prayers made to God in the Name of Jesus are effectual in these "days of the Gentiles".

It would be safe to say that there are many kinds of Christians just as there are probably many kinds of Muslims. That being said, I now confess that I believe while there are many kinds of Muslims - there's really only one kind of Muslim... a person without Jesus Christ as Savior.

But in fact, I do believe there are two kinds of people in this world. There are those without Christ and without hope, and those who have made Jesus Christ their Lord and Savior.

Which kind are you?

Lorem Ipsum

2010-07-08T13:27:00.006-05:00

In the publishing and graphic design business there comes an occasion when someone wants to display the graphic design style of a document or visual presentation. But if they present that product with actual words, then one would have a tendency to be distracted by what those words say, and not pay attention to the graphic design style they are supposed to be seeing.

So the language Lorem Ipsum was developed.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.

Lorem Ipsum is a nonsensical bunch of words that appear to be Latin, but as any Latin speaking guy would tell you, aren’t really Latin. These phony words just sit there pretending to be real words, but saying nothing. Of course, the nonsense words are eventually replaced with real words before the document is actually published.

What if that document was your spiritual life – or more specifically God’s plan for your life? Would you be a graphically eloquent design with images of angels etched in the margins, but with Lorem Ipsum where your message should have been? Or have you replaced all the nonsense with a real message – a message so powerful it will change the lives of those who read it?

Your assignment for today – delete the Lorem Ipsum and begin to write God's Word in your heart. Oh, you've already started that process? Way to go!

No Buts About It

2010-06-21T21:55:00.004-05:00

“He Claims to be Christian – but…”

I’m not sure what his name is, where he comes from or what values he holds dear to his heart, but I know what people say about him. They say, “He claims to be a Christian – but…!” The reason I know this is because I heard it said yet again a few days ago.

Oh, I’ve heard it before, many times… and so have you. Of course it’s not about the same person, but it’s about some person. Somebody sees somebody behaving in an unsavory manner or hears him speaking words considered unacceptable to “decent” folk… or perhaps he’s just downright living in open sin. And then you hear it… “He claims to be a Christian – but…!”

Perhaps you’ve even heard it coming out of your own mouth, as have I.

We all know what it takes to become a Christian, and we all know what it takes to remain a Christian. The problem is – what we all know… is different for each of us. We apply our standards of living - that unique combination of the experiences of our past, the sermons we’ve heard, the mistakes for which we have felt conviction – as the very path to eternal life. And “he’s” just not keeping it on the straight and narrow.

Don’t get me wrong here. I believe in living a righteous and upright lifestyle, bringing honor to the Lord Jesus Christ who purchased our salvation. But that’s the point, isn’t it…He purchased our salvation! And then he gave it to us as a gift to be freely received, not to be earned by a certain standard of living.

It was Saul of Tarsus; later known as the Apostle Paul to whom God chose to unveil the truths of this new covenant we call Christianity. And he wrote that if a man will believe it in his heart and confess it with his mouth ("it" being that Jesus Christ is his Lord) the he “shall” be saved.

I heard a story once about a guy that just kept going to the police station and confessing to every crime that had been written about in the newspaper. He’d claim to be the guy that robbed the bank, and he’d claim to be the guy that committed the murder. See, confessing something and claiming something… well, that’s the same thing.

So next time you hear somebody snarling about a guy that “claims to be a Christian – but…! You might want to point out to him that the guy that’s doing the claiming… well… the fact that he’s doing the claiming means he’s half way there already!

No buts about it!

Chicago Dogs

2010-06-12T22:06:00.003-05:00

I find myself in the awkward position of owing an apology to an entire city. See, I had to visit the city of Chicago several years ago to install a computer network for a client. Actually I was in a sleepy bedroom community several miles west of Chicago proper, but as with most metro areas, you don’t really notice when you have passed from one hamlet to another… except for maybe the color of the street signs – the street “name” signs I mean. The stop signs are all red just like back home.

But back to the apology – When you’re on the road alone there’s nothing to do from quitting time to starting time, at least without getting yourself into trouble. So I decided to drive into the “city”. Having never been to Chicago all I had to go by was a map, so I plotted a route and headed in.

Little did I know that I was about to drive through the worst part of the city… in fact, the worst part of the Country – an area known as “The Projects”

My plans were to stay on the interstate until a certain exit that dropped me right into the heart of the city. But I didn’t factor in the traffic – wow, I’d never seen such heavy traffic. So I took a quick look at the map and grabbed an exit. I saw a street that pretty much paralleled the interstate all the way in; a street named Madison. Little did I know that I was about to drive through the worst part of the city… in fact, the worst part of the Country – an area known as “The Projects”. I saw burned out cars. I saw boarded up buildings. I saw drunks and druggies laying in the gutters and prostitutes plying their trade.

At one point I realized I did not dare stop for stop signs (the red ones), so I started “floating” them. At one intersection I barely got through in time, almost being cut off by a gang of hooligans. I had never been so scared in my life, and in fact never since. The next day I was told by a local, “heck, the cops don’t even drive through that neighborhood!”

But back to the apology - I have always been quick to report that the city of Chicago has no redeeming value. But alas, they have the Chicago Dog. See, once I safely reached the heart of the Second City I stumbled across this little hole in the wall bar built into the side of an old office building. And that’s where I discovered the Chicago Dog! Mercy Sakes Alive! These people put peppers and pickles and tomatoes on a hot dog. Back home we just slather mustard on the dog or drown it in ketchup. (In fact, a lot of Okies drown “everything” in ketchup.)

Since that day I have ordered Chicago dogs in dozens of diners, drive-ins and dives all over the country (apologies to Guy Fieri). There was even a time when Stephanie had a lay-over in Chicago, and she actually bought a couple from a vender in the airport and hand-carried them to me. I wolfed them down standing in baggage claim at the OKC airport. Have I got a wonderful bride, or what?

So when I sat down today at a little joint in Edmond and discovered a Chicago Dog on the menu I couldn’t pass it up. But… where were the peppers? I didn’t remember whether the menu actually listed peppers, but doesn’t it go without saying? That disappointment put me in the mood for a real Chicago Dog.

I couldn’t afford a plane ticket to O’Hare so I headed to the market. While admiring my creation in the photo please overlook the substitution of poppy seed rolls with white rolls and Sport peppers with hot chili peppers. In Oklahoma you just have to do the best you can.

And they say we’re a “Big League City”!

Three Old Men

2010-06-06T08:41:00.005-05:00

A few weeks ago I wrote a story about my love of treasure hunting. It was a tongue-in-cheek piece where the treasure was a wrench lying in the road. Of course, the story was really about the treasure I found when I met the Lord Jesus Christ. You may remember it. It had a picture of a treasure map titled “Treasure Map”.

The funny thing about that story is – it has received more anonymous visitors from all across the world than any of the 70 or so other stories I have posted. See, I have this tracking program that tells me about my readers – not who they are of course, but where they are from and how much time they spend at my website.

I have watched enough episodes of “Antiques Roadshow” to know how cool it would be to find something of real value for a mere buck or two at a rummage sale...

The Treasure Hunter story has had hits from London to Moscow, from Athens to Vitry-sur-seine, from Bergen to Edmondton, from Swansea to Tripoli… every single one of them with the term “treasure map” in the search line.

Everyone is a treasure hunter. But I’ve already written this story, haven’t I? Well, not really. See, since I wrote that last story I found a “real” treasure.

Stephanie and I love to go to garage sales, and especially estate sales. But as a rule those events start on a Friday, or maybe even a Thursday, so by the time the weekend comes and we get to them we’re left to hopelessly sift through the dregs. But, there was this Friday when Stephanie and I had some business to attend to so I took the day off. We had some time to kill in the early hours of the day, so we went on a rare Friday morning treasure hunt.

We turned on a street with a “garage sale” sign at the corner and drove down to the house with all the junk strewn across the driveway. Now, I have two methods of treasure hunting. First I take a quick glance across the landscape, scanning for anything of real value, and then I start digging. (Thank goodness Stephanie carries hand sanitizer.)

But at this sale I never got to the digging stage. See, leaning up against an ugly old car in the driveway were three picture frames… with pictures in them. The first was an early American scene printed on cardboard, warped by time and in an inexpensive wooden frame. I recognized it from the days when “Home Interiors” was the house-party of the moment. This hideous item was marked $2.00. I passed on it.

The other two pictures were an obvious set, and obviously the object of this story. They were marked at $1.00 apiece. At first glance they appeared to be pencil sketches. They were framed alike, and signed by the artist. In fact, the artist’s signature was a part of the “print”, but then it was signed again down below, and had some penciled writing in a foreign language.

Like you, I have watched enough episodes of “Antiques Roadshow” to know how cool it would be to find something of real value for a mere buck or two at a rummage sale. Had I found such a treasure? I asked the lady sitting on the porch eating a donut, “What’s the story on these pictures?” “I don’t know nuthin about them,” She answered. “They were hanging in my mother’s house.”

That’s all I needed to hear. “This woman doesn’t know what she’s got here” I thought. Of course, I had no idea what they were either. But I was pretty sure they were worth more than a buck a piece. I left two bucks lighter and two pictures heavier.

I Googled the artist Paul Geissler (1881-1965) and found that I had purchased not prints, but hand tinted engravings, signed by the artist on the plate and signed and titled by the artist in pencil on the margin. And of course they were matted and framed.

I learned that the artist does the etching in copperplate and then those plates are meticulously inked and pressed onto hand-made paper to create a copy. That copy is effectively an original, as the copperplate is then cleaned and re-inked for the next work or art to be created.

I found an on-line auction site where a duplicate of one of my etchings, the “old man with a pot of flowers" gaveled at $100.00. Information on the other “old man” picture remains elusive… for now. But one thing’s for sure, a return of 100 times on your investment ain’t the chicken’s feet!

Cool find for sure! But Jesus Christ remains the greatest treasure this old man ever found!

Photo by Reece Kepler - Click on the picture to see a larger view.

A New Declaration

2010-05-29T17:14:00.009-05:00

Memorial Day weekend causes most of us to pause for at least a few moments to remember and honor those who fought to provide us our freedom, and indeed those who continue to stand vigil for that freedom to endure. But what exactly is it those who fought and died actually secured for us? And how have we preserved what they provided us?

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness – those familiar words from that awesome and precious document sum up the American experience. And yet, that document, and indeed the seemingly enduring truths spoken therein; that manuscript for which so many gave their lives… has been rewritten! Rewritten? Yes it has - at least in the hearts and minds of many.

...where along the way did the “right to pursue happiness” become the “right to happiness”?

Do you remember Don Corleone, the Godfather? He summed up the spirit of America in one short statement. The scene was a meeting with a man who wanted to corner the cocaine market. The Godfather refused to be involved in the drug trade (what an honorable man, huh?), but then he said something profound; something that in a sentence defines America - “I wish you well in your new business, so long as your interests don’t conflict with mine.”

Of course, we don’t wish drug dealers well in their endeavors, but get the point - “… so long as your interests don’t conflict with mine.” THAT, my friend, is America.

America was formed and forged by men who yearned to be free. They weren’t asking for a hand out; just the opportunity to make it on their own… the right to pursue their own brand of happiness. And for a time it was working fine. The West was won, fortunes were made, and anybody that was willing to apply the gifts the Good Lord gave them could spend a lifetime pursuing happiness.

So tell me – where along the way did the “right to pursue happiness” become the “right to happiness”? Perhaps it was the McDonald's commercial that told us that we deserve a break today. That mindset took off like wildfire so that now we are told we deserve a good night’s sleep, and we deserve a vacation in the Bahamas.

Tell me, does every kid in the local soccer league deserve a trophy, even if their team didn’t win a single game? Does every teen deserve a free college education even if his parents sat on their lazy duffs, because they deserved to? And now, if I haven’t dug a deep enough hole for myself, is someone entitled to a new house at the government’s expense because the house they bought a couple of miles from the ocean and 5 FEET BELOW SEA LEVEL was destroyed in a hurricane?

So what do we deserve? Well, first we deserve life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And if we work hard we deserve a paycheck. And if we use that money wisely (or what’s left of it after the government takes a cut for all those that deserve it), perhaps we will find that happiness we have the right to pursue.

So on this Memorial Day weekend get out there and start living the dream. I wish you well in your endeavors, so long as your interests don’t conflict with mine.

Photo Statue of Liberty used by permission.

Relative Prosperity

2010-05-27T12:09:00.015-05:00

You may be familiar with a teaching prevalent in charismatic churches known as the “prosperity message”. I have referred to it in previous writings as the Name it and Claim It, the Blab It and Grab It, and my all time favorite, the Call It and Haul It message. The prosperity message basically teaches that God’s will is for you to be prosperous and not poverty stricken. Purveyors of this doctrine find ample scriptural basis to support their contention that we have been redeemed from the “curse” of poverty, and God wants the best for his children.

The image of “prosperity” looks vastly different from one continent to another… sometimes even from one part of town to another...

Sounds cool, huh! And yet this casts an awkward shadow for those who serve God by a vow of poverty. Far be it from me to even speculate, much less opinionate on the discrepancies of these two mindsets. And yet, even a smidgen of pondering brings the realization that the image of “prosperity” looks vastly different from one continent to another… sometimes even from one part of town to another.

A pair of hand-me-down shoes acquired by the average citizen of a village in the African interior might catapult him into the realm of the elite, looking down his nose at the bare-of-foot. But on the other side of the world, driving last year’s sports car may diminish a man’s social status in the eyes of his upper middle class buddies.

Now, while I do recognize a certain responsibility to reach out with help to those less fortunate, I also remember that it was by hard work, sacrifice and perseverance that this experiment in democracy known as the Unites States of America became the nation to which the whole world stretches out an open hand for aid. And I feel no shame for the relative prosperity with which my nation, and indeed I have been blessed.

In light of this conversation I pray, “God, forgive me for my grumblings that I have to mow my own lawn in this time of “financial hardship”, and thank you for the riding mower you have provided… oh yeah, and the house that came with this scraggly yard!” Amen

This “prosperity message” mindset soon spilled over into other, more non-financial areas of life. When we were expecting my firstborn I determined it would be a boy. I thought I wanted a boy, so I foolishly prayed and asked God for a boy. Then I started “claiming” it. I came up with a name; Samuel Levi Kepler. (You would think I would be smarter than to give a kid the initials SLK, but then I gave my second born the initials JRK… sorry John!) And I told everybody we were having a son. I even enrolled Samuel in an NFL fan club and he got some really cool stickers in the mail. He never got the chance to play with them because he never existed, so I played with them for him.

So finally that day came - I remember it like it was yesterday. When Rebekah was born the doctor said, “Congratulations, it’s a girl!” I was so caught off guard that I had to look for myself to confirm it. Yep, that’s a girl alright. Confused, I decided to keep her anyway. And I soon learned that God knew best – this Rebekah kid was the most awesome kid a man could ever want! I’m sure Samuel could not have compared to Rebekah in cool-factor!

So, the doctrine of Blab It and Grab It notwithstanding, I have learned that it’s always best to seek out and go with God’s plan rather than dreaming up my own. See, I did get that son after all – the second time around. And John actually tied Rebekah on that cool-factor scale I mentioned earlier. Now that’s what I call Relative Prosperity (your kids are your relatives aren’t they?)!

And by the way Rebekah, I owe you some football stickers!

Photo: Sneakers used by permission

Fear and Atmosphere

2010-05-10T21:10:00.010-05:00

My brother used to have a funny illustration he offered when somebody jokingly threatened him with bodily harm, as guys often do. He would boldly declare, “There’s nothing between us but fear and atmosphere!” Then he would make a grand and animated sucking gesture, as if to draw in all the air between him and his antagonist. What followed next was the joke’s grand finale’ - “Now there’s just fear!” Sometimes I will double up my fist and threaten him with a big ole' pop-knot just to see him do his grand sucking gesture.

When you visit a far away state and people hear you are from Oklahoma, they always say the same thing, “How can you live there with all those tornadoes?”

But as spring approaches, the phrase “Fear and Atmosphere” is something with which Oklahomans are all too familiar. Right down the middle of America is a pathway known as Tornado Alley. It starts in Texas and runs up though the entire Midwest, spreading wider as it goes. And with Oklahoma at ground zero, we have more tornadoes per whatever measure you chose to use, than all the rest.

Usually the season starts in early spring and doesn’t taper off until the heat of summer arrives. But, with very little activity so far, this year appeared as if it might be an exception to the fearful times brought on by tornado season. But alas, this evening ended that pipe dream. We were forewarned that this would be an “active” day, and active it was. I left work a bit early and hurried home, listening to the radio as a guy described a tornado headed right toward me. Just as I pulled into my driveway that tornado touched down at an intersection I had passed just a few minutes before – another bullet dodged.

And then, from the safety of my home I watched on television as tornadoes, one after another, destroyed homes and businesses as they tore through the middle of our fair state. The casualty count is just starting to be reported, and it appears that, while some have died the loss of life and limb may be relatively light considering the awesomeness of the storms. For that we thank God, and offer prayers for those that were not so fortunate.

When you visit a far away state and people hear you are from Oklahoma, they always say the same thing, “How can you live there with all those tornadoes?” I considered moving to Florida or the eastern seaboard, but I can’t imagine having to dodge those hurricanes. California seems like a great place to live until you get caught in a mudslide… or worse, an earthquake. It seems safe up north, but I’m way too claustrophobic to live under several feet of snow. I could move to Chicago, but I drove through Chicago once. No thank You!

So I’ll just stay right here in Oklahoma where I’ve learned to trust in the good Lord and the local weather men. Oh, it takes courage, as they are now reporting that the next couple of days could be a repeat of what we saw today. But we Okies are a courageous lot.

But courage can be a fleeting thing. Sometimes you have to practice it. I don’t know how other Okies practice their courage, but I like to double up my fist and threaten my brother with a big ole’ pop-knot!

http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=1050536

SPOILER ALERT!

2010-04-24T21:10:00.004-05:00

YESTERDAY
When I was a kid growing up in Oklahoma City we had three TV channels from which to select our evening viewing entertainment. That is, unless you count the educational channel, which I didn’t. So we would anxiously await the Sunday newspaper to retrieve the weekly TV guide, where we could see with which movies the programming gods had graced us.

Fast forward to the mid seventies, and the announcement that OKC is getting it’s first UHF channel. Wow, a fourth channel. That’s a 33% increase in our viewing pleasure – a windfall by any standard! And who cared if an old, burned out radio personality with his evangelist hair-do was botching the news. Hey… that’s entertainment!

Then came cable TV with its superstations - packed with I Love Lucy reruns and regional sports programming. And suddenly we all knew the names and phone numbers of all the local bail bondsmen in Chicago, Atlanta and Dallas.

TODAY
But now… now we have not three stations but three providers from which to choose. And regardless of whether you’re a cable guy or you own a dish, you have literally hundreds of stations at your finger tips. And yet, there’s nothing to watch!

For instance, here’s one sample of today’s TV fare:

Deadliest Catch – A show about fishing boats bobbing up and down in the wild and wooly Northern Pacific in quest of riches in the form of crab legs! Don’t they know you can get crab legs at your local Red Lobster?

Anyway, the first season of this show featured an episode where a boat kept pulling up empty pots, and the boat owner went bankrupt; and an episode where the storm was so fierce they almost lost their lives; and an episode where a new kid was learning the ropes; and an episode where the boat broke down.

The next season featured an episode where a boat kept pulling up empty pots, and the boat owner went bankrupt; and an episode where they storm was so fierce the almost lost their lives; and an episode where a new kid was learning the ropes; and an episode where the boat broke down.

SPOILER ALERT – I’ve heard from a reliable source down at Red Lobster that the next season of this show features an episode where a boat keeps pulling up empty pots, and the boat owner goes bankrupt; and an episode where the storm is so fierce they almost lose their lives; and an episode where a new kid is learning the ropes; and an episode where the boat breaks down.

TOMORROW
Tomorrow I think I’ll play outside!

http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=3236906

The Importance of Being Important

2010-04-21T11:30:00.013-05:00

I used to be a Very Important Person. It was something I had wanted for awhile… being an important person that is; and it felt good to be so important. But after a short time of being important I learned that it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and what’s worse, there are certain hazards to being such an important person. If you have a desire to become an important person you may want to lend an ear for a moment. You’ll thank me later.

It was the year of the big San Francisco earthquake. No… not the 1906 earthquake – I was just a pup in 1906. I’m referring to the one in 1989.

There are certain hazards to being an important person. If you have a desire to become an important person you may want to lend an ear...

My daughter Rebekah turned five that year, and she spent her weekdays at a daycare that rented facilities from a local church (although not affiliated with the church). The operators of this daycare also ran a Christian school, albeit a rather small one. Well, because I came by every evening to pick up Rebekah, the headmaster of the school asked me if I would consider being on their school’s board of directors.

“Wow”, I thought. Being asked to be on the board of directors of a private school is a pretty impressive thing… something that makes a guy feel important… never mind the fact that the school was small, and as I found out later, quite in debt. (Clue – that “quite in debt” part plays in to the afore-mentioned “hazards”.) I accepted the offer to join the board and was voted in as a director at the next scheduled meeting. And because I came by each day they even made me a signatory on the school’s bank account.

I served proudly for a few months with other parents who had been recruited in the same manner. I signed a lot of checks, and I even got to present a few of those cool motions with lots of “Whereases” and “Therefores” in them. We met once a month, and at every meeting the headmaster would report the financial condition of the school, and then offer his slant on the situation. He always left us with the peaceful feeling that things weren’t as out of control as they appeared, and we were staying a step ahead of financial ruin.

But one of the matters discussed each month was the fact that the taxes withheld from the salaries of the teachers and workers were not being sent in to the IRS regularly… or, as it turned out, at all! Oh, I’m sure you are too smart to serve on a board of directors for an outfit that doesn’t pay its taxes, but have you ever considered how cool it would be to be a Very Important Person? Such a trivial thing as being on the bad side of the IRS pales in comparison to having “Director” on your resume’!

And now it’s time for me to tell you something about the IRS you may not know. When a business such as this doesn’t pay their taxes, the IRS doesn’t care who the board members are or who has been calling the shots. They only want to know who the signatories on the checking account are. See, they figure that the ones signing the checks are the ones who effectively made the decision to pay other things before the taxes. So the teachers and workers got paid, and the venders got paid (at least the lucky ones), and I’m sure the headmaster got paid. But it was “tough luck Uncle Sam” - you’ll get what’s left over, if there ever is any! But there never was.

When I caught wind of the impending IRS problems I tendered my resignation from the board. But alas, by that time I had signed dozens of checks. After several weeks of fear and trembling, the IRS goon called all us signatories to his office for the “settlement conference”. That’s the meeting where you have to disclose every penny, nickel, dime and quarter you own, so they can confiscate it all. But God is good! See, this happened at a time in my life when I was recently divorced and owned nothing but the clothes on my back and a car I would have had to pay to have towed off. I was what they call “judgement proof”!

Oh, they could have won their judgement I suppose. But the IRS apparently figured that our great nation would stand a better chance of remaining a great nation if I got to keep my clothes, and there wasn’t anything else to seize. It never felt so good to be dirt poor and… unimportant!

One of the other guys in the group wasn’t so poor, so he took the lead in working out an arrangement and carried the rest of us on promissory notes. And what did I get out of all this? Well, for a few months I was a Very Important Person… a Director… in fact, a Signatory! I also got to learn more about the IRS than they teach in those big fancy colleges with the shrubs growing on the walls.

And I didn’t even have to get a student loan for all that education. Tough luck, Sally Mae!

The Treasure Hunter

2010-04-16T11:55:00.011-05:00

NEWS FLASH: Treasure hunters believe they have found a legendary trove of 18th century jewels and gold coins worth $13 billion on Chile's Robinson Crusoe Island.

Since the beginning of time man has had an unquenchable yearning for a treasure hunt. To find something that doesn’t belong to anybody else and lay claim to it as your own brings a satisfaction beyond compare. Men have spent their entire lives in their quest for treasure, living on the go and sometimes dying in a strange and foreign land… usually just short of their fortune.

...as would any treasure hunter with an ounce of self respect, I’ve made a map, with an “X” where the treasure is located.

The tools of a treasure hunter vary, depending on the nature of the booty. A man in search of gold needs a claim and a sluice, a shovel and pick ax, or at least a pan and a strong back. A beachcomber racing the morning tide needs a metal detector if he wants to locate that sun worshiper’s mislaid watch and ring. A kid retrieving the toy from the bottom of a new box of cereal just needs that five digit tool protruding from the end of his arm.

I address this subject with some authority. See, all my life I have been a treasure hunter. Oh, I’ve never had the chance to pan for gold or scuba dive an ancient shipwreck. I did try metal detecting at a beach once. I didn’t find anything but bottle caps. But I’ve always had the heart of a treasure hunter. In fact, not a day passes that I don’t have a keen eye on the road I’m driving or the path I’m walking, in search of that lost item of great value that was dropped by an unidentifiable party (else I’d be obliged to return it to its rightful owner).

My most recent find was on the way to work this morning. There it was, lying right in the middle of a busy street - a wrench. Traffic was too busy for me to retrieve it, but as would any treasure hunter with an ounce of self respect, I’ve made a map, with an “X” where the treasure is located. And if another lucky seeker of riches doesn’t beat me to it, it will someday be mine!

Now, I already have a toolbox full of wrenches, many of which I found in the middle of the street. And, truth be told, I only use a wrench about three or four times a year. But you have to understand, it’s not the wrench itself; it’s the fact that I found it! That’s the reality of a treasure hunter! My wife will tell you (with much chagrin) that I will drive around 4 city miles just to get a second look at an object in the road, on the slim chance this is has some value… to somebody!

So, what is the most valuable thing I’ve ever found? Well, I found a diamond ring once in the parking lot of a movie theater. And there was that $20 bill blown up against the fence in high school. I actually found a $100 bill once, but it was behind a file cabinet in a county courthouse, so I turned it in to the court clerk, lest I spend more "time" in that courthouse than intended.

But anything I’ve ever found or will find on this earth cannot begin to compare with that great treasure I found the day I met my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. The Amplified Bible calls it “this precious treasure [the divine Light of the Gospel]”, and folks – THAT’S A FIND!

Have you found this great treasure? If not, come on… I’ll help you search!

Photo-Treasure Map used by permission

An Athlete Extraordinaire

2010-04-11T21:03:00.007-05:00

Every once in a while there comes along an athlete extraordinaire. We’re talking about a Cy Young Award or a Heisman Trophy winner… perhaps even someone as dominating of his or her particular sport as a Tiger Woods. I believe I have discovered such an incredible athlete.

Now, I’m not really sure how the sports agent business works, but if this kid is really as good as I think he is I may go ahead and make a drastic career change, to represent this boy. Of course, I’m going to have to track him down first. Let me explain.

Tonight was my bi-weekly trip to take my stepson Jerry home to Broken Arrow after a weekend at his mom’s (and my) house. We were driving through Tulsa up the BA Expressway when I noticed a couple of kids playing in a creek bed that passed under the highway. Just as we approached the boys I saw one go into a perfect wind up, as if he were pitching a baseball. But it wasn’t a baseball… it was a rock!

Maybe I’ve discovered a future Cy Young or Heisman winner...

And folks, that rock hit my car dead center. Now, had it been high and outside or low and off a tire I wouldn’t have been so impressed. But this rock was definitely in the strike zone. And you have to realize I was driving 65 miles an hour at the time. (In fact, as long as you’re not a State Trooper, I was probably driving about 70).

A few random thoughts:

First, I gather there weren’t any other cars on base or the boy would have thrown from his stretch instead of his windup. (You’d have to be a baseball fan to get that joke, and it still wouldn’t be funny. Sorry.)

Second, right after the kid threw the rock, he ran. Everyone knows the pitcher doesn’t run… the batter does. I’ll probably have to teach him some rules.

Third, the boys were wearing soccer uniforms. I remember thinking, “It’s a crying shame these kids are relegated to playing a sport where you don’t use your arms. Such an arm this kid has!

And fourth, this guy really ought to be playing football. Anyone that can hit a car traveling 70 miles per hour can certainly lead a receiver at any speed and distance!

So maybe I’ve discovered a future Cy Young or Heisman winner... maybe not. But of one thing I am certain – when this boy grows up he will be the star of his ball team… at the State Prison!

Photo Pitcher used by permission

The Colossal Backfire

2010-04-06T11:42:00.006-05:00

One of things I always enjoyed about traveling to other states was the chance to play their lottery. See, before October 2005 Oklahoma didn’t have a lottery, which was fine with me. That only served to make it more fun to play when traveling. And I only spent pocket change anyway. It wasn’t like I was blowing the grocery or rent money on a downward spiral into financial ruin.

And while I occasionally bought a Powerball© or Mega-Millions© ticket, what I mostly enjoyed were the scratch-offs. Scratch-offs are little cards you buy for a buck or two (or more if you’re a real sucker) and scratch off a silver film of latex to reveal a dollar amount or a picture of a chicken or whatever the particular game offers, and see if you’re a winner. Of course, the real winners are the people who never buy these things in the first place… well, them and the ones that hit it big! I’d have to call them real winners too.

I knew the old adage about walking the walk – not just talking the talk. But I was kind of hoping to be the exception to that rule...

And I must confess that while I felt comfortable buying the occasional lottery game piece, I wasn’t quite as at ease with the thought of passing this values-judgment on to my children. Oh, I knew the old adage about walking the walk – not just talking the talk. But I was kind of hoping to be the exception to that rule. However, fate had another idea.

It was 1997 and the kids were 13 and 10 years old. We were on a trip that took us across Arizona when late one evening at a rest stop off I-40 in Nowhere, America John offered up a one dollar bill with the request, “Dad, will you buy me a scratch-off?” He even showed me the particular game he wanted.

Now, I had been buying them and scratching them off in front of the kids all during the trip, so his request shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me. I had even been letting them have the ones that were losers. John was quite adept at making paper footballs out of them, which by that time were all over the car. I remember seeing them and thinking, “Wow, am I spending that much on lottery tickets?” But then I’d remember one or two that paid a buck or two and convince myself I was “at least breaking even”.

I suddenly had the brilliant thought that this would be a good lesson for John to learn – to show him the folly of wasting his valuable spending money on gambling. A life-changing object lesson for only a buck - a bargain at twice the price… What’s more, it wasn’t even my buck!

So I took his dollar and bought the ticket, and I waited until we were back in the car to give it to him. Just as I was driving out of the parking lot I heard him say in a confused voice, “I think I won a hundred dollars.”

“Let me see that,” I barked. I turned on the dome light and took the game piece from John’s tightly clinched fist. Sure enough, the little goober had won a hundred dollars! So much for that object lesson…

John turned 18 the year the lottery came to Oklahoma – something I’ve always considered most ironic – God’s way of giving me one gigantic divine raspberry, I suppose! See, the minimum age to play the lottery in Oklahoma is 18. In Las Vegas you have to be 21 to gamble, and we call it Sin City!

And while I wish to avoid the classic debate of societal ruin versus personal rights (as I see merit in both views) I will admit I voted against the lottery. See, I knew the grip gambling can have on a guy. And the lottery has borne that out with such a vast number of teens and 20-somethings spending so much on the pursuit of the magic ticket to overnight riches.

But my kids have made some pretty good decisions in life, and have stayed out of the poor house, in spite of the “wild west gambler” lifestyle I lived in front of them. I would have been more proud of myself as a father had I taken a stronger stand for the sake of the kids.

Or else if I had won the “big” one! That wouldn’t have been so bad.

Jesus Freaks

2010-04-05T13:15:00.007-05:00

A Facebook friend of mine named Dean posts songs to FB on a frequent basis. He posts songs he is fond of and songs that have a message… a wide genre, but always inspiring. Yesterday was Easter Sunday and he posted a YouTube clip of Keith Green singing a live performance of The Easter Song.

I was moved to tears as I listened again to a song we all remember from our past. But as I listened I recalled the day Keith died. In fact, that sad day in July 1982, when my morning alarm awoke me to the sounds of the local contemporary Christian music station, it was the news story of the hour. And it was a day of heaviness for us in the Christian community.

It appeared the world was changing in a way that would bring an end to the moral fiber of society as we had known it...

Today, as I listened again to one of the most remarkable Christian musicians to ever grace this planet, I was reminded of the Jesus Movement of the late 1960s, 70s and early 80s. The United States, and indeed the world were in turmoil from the volatility of the times – the war in Vietnam sparking such protest, and the kids experimenting with more and more drugs or different types. “Tune in, Turn on and Drop out” was the cry of a new generation! It appeared the world was changing in a way that would bring an end to the moral fiber of society as we had known it. And to watch the evening news, with the Manson murders and the Kent State shootings and the Watts riots, we had ample reason to despair.

But alas, where sin abounds Grace does much more abound. While the modern day equivalent of the Sharks and the Jets were rioting in the streets of New York City, a meek and mild mannered preacher by the name of David Wilkerson was answering the call to go to this strange and distant land to carry the gospel of Jesus Christ to a generation lost to their parents, lost to their nation, and lost in their sins. And from that humble beginning this generation and the next were blessed with the story of “The Cross and the Switchblade” and the ministry of “Teen Challenge”. And both have touched countless lives, mine included!

And then there’s Keith! Keith Green was a modern day “John the Baptist” who had mastered classical music by the age of 6, and laid it down to write and perform his own songs. Keith had a recording contract by age 11 and even appeared on the TV show “I’ve Got a Secret”. As Keith grew up he turned to drugs, eastern religions and the hippie lifestyle. But this Jewish man had a hunger in his heart that led him to the Bible and to a relationship with our Lord Jesus Christ. And Keith went on to write and sing with an incredible anointing of the Holy Spirit, touching the lives of countless thousands... again of which I was one.

These two gentlemen, and many others I could name if time and space permitted, were modern day trailblazers, carving out a path that led from the fear and despair of the times, forward to a revival known as the Jesus Movement. And this Jesus Movement, with its Jesus Freaks and its confusing imitation in dress and appearance of the rebels it sought to redeem, indeed saw those rebels redeemed! And it changed the World… again!

Thanks David Wilkerson. Thanks Keith Green. And thanks, Dean, for the reminder.

And thank you God for that first Easter that made it all possible!

http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=234066

Seasons

2010-04-02T12:20:00.008-05:00

The other day I was daydreaming about this year’s vacation – where to go – where to stay when we get there. I did some looking on-line at the town we’re considering for our get-away and saw the Four Seasons Inn. That got me to thinking… where did anyone come up with the idea that there are only four seasons?

OK… granted, there may be four seasons of weather. I say “may be” because if you’ve ever lived in Oklahoma you know that some years there may only be two or three seasons. How often do we see winter fast forward into summer with springtime just a faint memory from years past? And likewise summer to winter. Is this nature’s way of trying to cheat us out of seedtime and harvest… perhaps an attempt to thin the herd?

So you see - there aren’t just four seasons… probably closer to four thousand. And everybody has their favorite...

But how can you talk about seasons without paying tribute to the most popular seasons of all – sports seasons. The primary sports seasons are football season and baseball season. And then there are a few others - what I like to call secondary seasons – to fill those voids between the primaries.

Basketball season comes to mind… and volleyball season, badminton season, ping pong season and everyone’s favorite of late – curling. You remember curling don’t you? That’s where you project a 42 pound granite stone from one end of an ice rink to the other. It’s kind of like bowling, only you wear a coat. Oh yeah, and there’s bowling season.

When I was a kid we had bona fide television seasons. The Andy Griffith Show ran for eight seasons, with 30 or more episodes in each one. Today’s programs just don’t have legs. One of the more popular shows right now is Burn Notice; a spy show on the USA Network. Its first season had a whopping 12 episodes… 12… yep… twelve. No legs.

So you see - there aren’t just four seasons… probably closer to four thousand. And everybody has their favorite. I haven’t even mentioned my favorite season of the year – Girl Scout Cookie Season - that’s my favorite! What’s yours?

Four Seasons? Pishaw! I think we’ll stay at a bed and breakfast!

Gotta run now. See, it's my favorite season of the year, and I'm going to go celebrate!

http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=2483249

Proceed With Caution

2010-04-01T10:14:00.005-05:00

On April 1, 1998 the restaurant chain Burger King introduced the Whopper for Left-Handers. The primary difference in the Left-Handed Whopper and the regular Whopper was that it was designed for the condiments to drip out on the right side. Being left-handed, I couldn’t wait to try this new culinary delight. But then April 2nd rolled around, and everyone had a big laugh at the witty April Fools’ joke.

I was only kidding about wanting to try the Left-Handed Whopper. I’m really not that gullible. But seriously, several people did specifically request the new burger, as well as a good number of people actually ordering the “original” Whopper. Those are probably the same people responsible for the demise of New Coke, which itself was probably an April Fools’ joke gone terribly wrong.

When I heard laughter I got even more scared. The IRS is not only auditing me… they’re LAUGHING about it!

And just one year ago today - April 1, 2009 - Car and Driver Magazine announced on their website that President Barack Obama had pulled all government funding for NASCAR. I’ll bet you didn’t know your tax dollars went to finance the number one sport south of the Mason Dixon line! That prank had to be retracted with an apology after NASCAR fans raised a major ruckus.

Ahhh Yes, April Fools’ Day – arguably the most dreaded day of the year. On St. Patrick’s Day you might find a good sized bruise pinched on your arm if you forget to wear your green, but that’s nothing compared to the angst suffered from the perils of April Fools’ Day. Of course, the highest satisfaction one can experience in life is to pull off a great prank on a family member or (soon to be ex) friend. But if you find yourself on the butt end of that prank… well, then you understand how the day got its name.

I’ll never forget a phone call I received on April 1, 1981. I was summoned to the phone by a co-worker to take a personal call. “Mr. Kepler, this is Sam Tucker with the IRS. We need to schedule a time for you to come in for an audit.” I was stunned. I was horrified. I was petrified. See, I had just finished up a very hard year where I had done a lot of jobs for a general contractor, and to put it kindly, my records were… not entirely accurate. (Does anybody know the statute of limitations on tax fraud?)

I stammered and stuttered for several moments, then swallowed hard and asked, "What year?" The voice on the other end broke into laughter. Now, I told you earlier that I’m not a real gullible guy. Well, apparently that hasn’t always been the case, because when I heard that laughter I got even more scared. The IRS is not only auditing me… they’re LAUGHING about it!

Mercifully, Sam Tucker quickly confessed that his real name is Joe Kepler and he was just calling to take his brother to lunch. Whewwwwwwwwwww!

They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but it’s only been 29 years. I’ll get him back as soon as I cool down.

The Infamous Eleven

2010-03-29T21:03:00.012-05:00

Maybe you’ve seen that church group from Topeka, Kansas that attends the funerals of soldiers slain in battle, and holds up signs with hateful sayings on them. Their favorite seems to be “God Hates Fags”. In fact, that’s even the name of their website.

Wikipedia reports that their church has 71 confirmed members, 60 of whom are related to the pastor. Apparently this pastor is the patriarch of a large family who all inherited his ‘hate’ gene, and blindly follow him in his folly. And a church packed full with the members of one confused and demented family is fairly easy to understand and dismiss.

A church packed full with the members of one confused and demented family is fairly easy to understand and dismiss...

But my question is, “Who are these other 11?” I mean, does somebody just drive down the street, pass a church with a sign that says “God Hates Fags” and say, “Hey Martha, let’s visit that church” - “Sure George, they look like the nicest people.”

And how dysfunctional does a brain have to be to somehow link a soldier slain in battle to the concept of homosexuality? The soldiers whose funerals they protest were not even homosexuals… at least not to the public’s knowledge. But their claim is that the death of these American heroes is God judging our nation.

There are two problems with their theology (at least):

1) God does not hate homosexuals. In fact, God loves sinners - ALL sinners - so much that he sent his Son Jesus as a sacrificial lamb to pay the price for their sins, be they homosexuality or hatemongering, murder or adultery, or even my weaknesses – gluttony and envy.

2) God is not judging this great nation. The fact of the matter is, God ALREADY judged this nation, along with all the other 200 or so nations on this earth. That judgment took place 2000 years ago at a little place in the Middle East called Calvary! God’s judgment fell on Jesus Christ at Calvary, and Christ paid the uttermost price.

OK… lest you get the wrong idea, I agree that homosexuality is a sin. And I too am amazed and appalled that it has become so accepted in our “modern” society that the ones speaking out against it are characterized as bigots. And I appreciate and support those who are willing to take a stand against homosexuals wanting to be treated as if their lifestyle falls somewhere within the range or normalcy.

But folks, it’s time to revisit the concept of “Hate the Sin – Love the Sinner”. After all, that’s what God does. And Jesus… he does that. So I’m trying to do it too. Besides, I’ve figured out that if somebody has to be sin free to be my friend, then the guest list for my parties would be pretty short. Let’s see… there’s God… and Jesus… Actually I wouldn’t even be able to come to my own party! Jesus – lock up on the way out, will ya?

Ya know, to make this party really interesting I might even invite George and Martha, and the rest of the Infamous Eleven. But that’s where I draw the line on guests from that church! After all, I might be inviting some homosexuals to the party.

http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=2443719

Fearsome Confrontation

2010-03-25T12:26:00.006-05:00

A few mornings ago I was backing out of my garage to go to work, but there was a man sitting in a little red car on the street in front of my house, blocking me in. You may know that we live at the very end of a cul-de-sac in the very back of a housing addition. The only cars that come down our street are folks who have lost their way and parents of little-leaguers practicing at the church field next to us. So this guy sitting in his idling car in front of my house at 7:30 in the morning was a bit curious… even unnerving.

I quickly grew weary of waiting and backed toward his car. He saw me and drove away… at least a few feet away so that he wasn’t in front of my house any more. And I drove on. But when I saw that he wasn’t leaving the neighborhood I picked up the cell phone and called Stephanie back at the house. She looked out the window and told me that he was back in front of our house again. I decided to turn around and confront him.

Confrontation is a dicey thing. It can escalate to a chalk drawing on the pavement in the shape of a human body...

Confrontation is a dicey thing. It can lead to a new friend or it can escalate to a chalk drawing on the pavement in the shape of a human body. Of course, it usually results in something in between, such as an explanation. And I might add that confrontation is something with which I have never been comfortable. And so, when I am faced with the “fight or flight” decision to confront, I will usually find a tactful way to avoid it. But not when it comes to the safety of my wife or my home.

It took just a few moments for me to be driving back up my street. He saw me and started to drive away from the end of the cul-de-sac where he had just repositioned himself. As we approached one another I veered my truck toward him just enough to get his attention, and rolled down my window. I half way expected him to ‘rabbit’, but instead he slowed and rolled down his window.

I told you earlier that I’m not comfortable with confrontation. And that being the case, when I do confront, it is with an overwhelming show of force. It’s not so much a decision to come on strong as it is the manifestation of the emotions that brought me to that point. Stephanie tells me that when I speak harshly to someone it comes across quite fearsome. Frankly you and I know I’m just a little kitten in a man suit, but this guy saw something quite different when our cars met, and I stared him in the eye and said, “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU AND WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING PARKED IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE?”

Now, I want to stop here and apologize to my church friends for my language… but it’s what I said, and so I’ll live with your judgement. I suspect if you’d been there you would have said the same thing… or at least been glad I said it. And I’m pretty sure it’s what I’d say again, given the same circumstances.

The man quickly introduced himself by name. He then explained that he is a home builder starting construction on a house on the lot down the street from us. He said that earlier he was on the phone to his sister in Phoenix and did not realize he was blocking me. I think at that point he would have been happy to have been frisked and handcuffed, as long as I didn’t just drop him right where he sat.

I accepted his explanation, although I did tell Stephanie, over the phone and within earshot of him, that she should make sure she has her gun close by her side this morning. Then I assured him that we have an excellent neighborhood watch – a conclusion, I believe, to which he had already arrived.

A few days later a truck dropped a load of rebar and lumber, and a backhoe dug footings. And so I’m feeling pretty confident he is who he says he is. I doubt a common cat burglar would go to such expense to prop up a cover story.

Something else that happened a few days later is that it dawned on me… that was something dad would have done. The same stern look, the same tone of voice, the same kitten in a man suit that shows such awesomeness in confrontation… Oh Dear Lord… I’ve become my dad!

Is it a sad day when you cross the threshold of being your father’s son, to being your father made over? Or is it a badge of honor? I can’t say, but I can’t deny what is true. So all I will say is… “Hey, com’ere… pull my finger!”

I miss ya, dad!

Valuable Blood, Precious Blood

2010-03-21T21:23:00.016-05:00

I have very valuable blood. Of course, everybody’s blood is valuable – at least to them. But my blood is valuable and highly sought after by many. Let me tell you why.

If you passed high school biology you probably know more about this than I do, but as I understand it there are eight basic blood types: A, B, AB and O, with something called an RH factor either present (positive) or absent (negative). My blood is O-negative.

O-negative is not the rarest blood type there is. In fact there are 3 or 4 types more uncommon, depending on your ethnicity. What makes O-negative so valuable is that it's the universal donor type. That means it can be given to anybody, no matter what their blood type may be! In emergency rooms, if they don’t know what blood type somebody has and they have to be given blood immediately, they reach for the O-negative. We’ve all seen a show on television where they rush a guy in on a gurney and the doctor yells “two units of O-Neg, STAT!” I always grin when I hear that, because I’m O-Neg. Unfortunately I’m not always STAT!

But while O-negative blood is highly valued, my blood is still more highly valued – a favorite among favorites, if you will. See, my blood is not only O-negative, it’s CMV-negative.

Wouldn’t it be awesome if there was blood that could give a man life that would never end… eternal life!

Cytomegalovirus (CMV) is a common virus carried by more than half of the population. Most people who have had the virus never knew it and for the average healthy person, CMV does not cause a problem. However, for patients whose immune systems are not functioning properly CMV can be very serious.

So when a special patient such as a premature baby, a cancer patient or a transplant patient, or someone who cannot fight infection needs blood, they need CMV-negative. Now, couple the need for O-negative in an emergency situation with the need for CMV-negative blood, and you will understand why that blood is highly prized. Such is my blood!

When I go to the blood bank to donate, they pull out what they refer to as a ‘triple bag’. A triple bag is a one pint bag, but separated into three compartments. Thus, my single pint of blood can be distributed to not just one, but as many as three patients in need of this precious substance. I must confess I do not donate blood often. In fact, I can’t remember how many months it has been since I donated, and I can probably count on my fingers the number of times I’ve donated in my life. And for that I beg forgiveness.

Even so, I like to think that, because my blood is so valuable, there are people alive today that might not otherwise be alive. My blood is ‘life-giving’!

And yet, if somebody’s life is saved by my blood, it really isn’t saved… it’s just prolonged. They will surely die eventually. Wouldn’t it be awesome if there was blood that could give a man life that would never end… eternal life!

Ah… but there is! See, God intended for us all to have eternal life in fellowship with Him. But man sinned, and lost that fellowship. And the spiritual laws of the Universe say, “…without the shedding of blood there is no remission for sin.” So God sent his Son, his only Son, Jesus to die for our sins.

You know the story. Jesus was crucified on a cross, was buried in a tomb, and rose again on the third day. And through that death, burial and resurrection he secured eternal life for you and for me.

So if you find yourself in an emergency and needing some O negative CMV negative blood, give me a call. I’ll be glad to offer you as much as I can spare. But if you haven’t called on Jesus Christ, and accepted his blood as payment for your sin, don’t wait another moment. Call on him and find that eternal life of which I speak.

STAT!

http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=3856604

Facing the Fear

2010-03-19T23:47:00.007-05:00

Depending on whose list you believe, the greatest fear that faces mankind is either dying or speaking in public. And really, most people that are forced to speak in public will tell you they’d rather face death. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I suspect most dead people would rather be speaking in public. I guess the worst case scenario would be to die while giving a speech about dying!

While facing the rigors of bible school I was simultaneously dealing with the dread of my first speaking engagement. I had a call from God on my life, of that there was no doubt. And I wanted more than anything to go out and preach… or teach. But would I be able to stand up in front of live human beings? And if so, and I raised my finger and opened my mouth, would sound come out? Or would my knees just lock up, causing me to pass out and knock over the podium?

Would I be able to stand up in front of live human beings or would my knees just lock up, causing me to pass out...

A few weeks before graduation I got a call from a guy I knew that was the leader of the singles group back at my home church. He asked me if I would like to come and speak to his group. And so I had my first engagement. I can’t begin to express the inner turmoil I faced at the thought of public speaking. But after enrolling in bible school and moving to Tulsa and attending bible school and graduating, I couldn’t just hide under the bed for the rest of my life. So turmoil or not, it was full speed ahead. I studied and prepared an outline.

And then the day came. I had decided to show up, and when asked, I would stand up and open my bible and raise my finger and open my mouth. And that’s where my plan ended. I figured if I made it that far, the rest would have to just work itself out.

And then the service started… with praise and worship. And then I was introduced. And I stood up and opened my bible and raised my finger and opened my mouth.

30 or 40 minutes later I realized I needed to wrap up or these people might think I was long winded. I was so pumped. I had faced the fear of speaking in public and delivered my first sermon on the same evening! And, as if successfully getting through the first sermon wasn’t enough, a man came up to me and told me that my topic had answered some specific questions he had asked God that very week. WOW!

A few weeks later this same group asked me to come speak again, and of course I jumped at the chance. I remember that night well because of something unusual that happened. The praise and worship portion of the evening just didn’t seem to want to end. Finally the leader said, “I think God wants to do something before we can move on.”

Right at that moment I sensed God telling me that the service could not proceed until I prayed for the mentally disabled man that was sitting two rows back, directly behind me. I didn’t even know if there was a mentally disabled man sitting two rows back, directly behind me, so I turned around and looked. And there was.

So I approached him, and said “God wants me to pray for you before we can proceed with the service.” He seemed excited about the prospect and agreed wholeheartedly. So I prayed for him.

Now, for those of you who are serious students of the bible, that would be an example of a word of knowledge – one of the gifts of the Spirit Paul cataloged in the 12th chapter of 1st Corinthians. And I can assure you it is an exciting thing to be used of the Lord in such a manner.

As soon as the prayer was over the ‘restraint’ lifted and we were able to proceed with the service. And I was fired up. If I had any lingering fears of public speaking those fears were afraid to show themselves. Now, I wouldn’t say I never have apprehensions when addressing a crowd, but they are slight, and they pale in comparison to the excitement of getting to speak.

You probably expect me to close this with one of those ‘face your fears’ speeches. But the truth is - with the phobias I still deal with I’d feel like a hypocrite. And I have the worst fear of being a hypocrite.

http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=689187

Guys and Dolls

2010-03-17T20:56:00.008-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I got the rare pleasure of spending some time with my brother, Joe. We got updated on the details of each other’s lives; the joys and frustrations of day to day existence. Then, as always, our conversation turned to the past. See, we live about 20 miles apart and don’t run in the same circles, so other than a few relatives, what we mostly share is a common childhood.

We saw something – I can’t remember what – that caused us to laugh at ourselves for how we used to hide our girly magazines in the attic, under the pink insulation. (Dads – if your attic stairs are seeing a lot of action, you might want to check for loose bats of insulation.) Now, in case you weren't aware, that pink stuff is pretty itchy... turn the page, scratch your arms, turn the page scratch you neck... you get the picture.

Are arranged marriages the way to go? Well, I’d say that depends on who’s doing the arranging...

I need to stop the train right here for a moment and point out a couple of things. First, this was a loooong time ago; and second, I was the younger brother, and very impressionable! I just want to keep the record straight.

We laughed about the fact that the girls in those magazines don’t really represent real girls. In fact, they don’t really even resemble real girls. The same is true for the actresses and models we see on TV and ad copy. The expertise of professional makeup artists and skilled airbrush craftsmen – that’s what we’re seeing! Real girls look like… well, real girls! What’s happening is they are appealing to the hot button in a man – what’s known as the ‘sight gate’. Pornographers have always banked on the fact that men are stimulated by what they see with their eyes.

Not so much with the female of the species. Women aren’t moved nearly so much by what they see as by what they think and feel. The romantic plots of soap operas and books that portray the hero as a tall, handsome, masculine yet sensitive man whose faults, while slight, are endearing – such is the hook presented to a woman. This image doesn’t even resemble a real man, but the books keep selling and the soaps keep soaping. I’ve seen it referred to as ‘emotional pornography’.

And while society recognizes the foolishness of the girly magazine brand of pornography, we seem to encourage emotional pornography. I’m thinking they’re both about equally dangerous.

So an astute female goes to palates, applies makeup and wears sexy outfits in order to appeal to the eyes of the male. And she wins her prize. And a shrewd man builds himself up with promises and flattery, painting a picture upon which a woman will build her hopes and dreams. And he gains the desire of his eyes.

But she looks different in the morning… and his words prove to be empty. Surely there’s a better way.

You know, if you go to the Bible for advice on dating, you won’t find dating in there. Remember Isaac, the son God Promised Abraham? When it was time for him to take a wife Abraham sent a servant out to fetch a maiden, which turned out to be Rebekah. And they lived happily ever after (except for a few trips to the principal’s office over the antics of Jacob and Esau).

So, are arranged marriages the way to go? Well, I’d say that depends on who’s doing the arranging, and what their motives are. If you will let GOD do the arranging you’ll find his motives are purely to your benefit.

And in the mean time, stay out of the attic.

Old Friends

2010-03-16T18:15:00.006-05:00

One of the neatest things about the internet, and specifically Facebook is that you can renew acquaintance with old friends. I am “Facebook friends” with a number of people I probably would have never again seen or known about if not for this cool tool. I’m looking forward to spending a weekend in Branson and seeing my old friends Pete and Janice, with whom I had lost touch for years.

And just last weekend Stephanie and I were invited over to Scott’s home. Scott is a guy I worked with about 10 years ago. And another guest that night was David, another co-worker from that same job. Our conversations picked up as if the ten years had never happened. My scope of friends has again expanded and I am richer for it.

I was saddened to hear of this great loss. Dennis was a good man and a true friend.

But the other side of that equation is finding out about old friends that have passed. I learned from them of the death of Dennis, a man in Phoenix I used to do network installations for. You may have read my story about being given a field sobriety test in Phoenix back in 2000. The reason I was in Phoenix was to install a system for Dennis.

Dennis owned a software company and needed someone to install his product, so mutual business colleagues hooked us up. At that time I was going all over the country installing systems for another company, so it wasn’t any problem to do his jobs too. One of the more interesting jobs I did for him was in Salt Lake City. But the reason that job was interesting is because Dennis was a devout Mormon. We spent hours sitting in restaurants drinking coffee and enjoying conversations about our respective religions. Well, I drank coffee. His church frowned on the intake of caffeine so Dennis drank diet coke. He explained that it was like a small lie as opposed to a big lie. I never fully understood that one.

Dennis was an avid outdoorsman, and enjoyed off-roading in his jeep. In July 2004 Dennis and his son Shane were off-roading in the Coconino National Forest outside Flagstaff, and their jeep pitched into a roll near the top of a hill. It rolled 11 times and struck a grove of pine trees. Dennis was killed instantly and Shane died at the scene.

I was saddened to hear of this great loss. Dennis was a good man and a true friend. And religious beliefs aside, Dennis had shared with me of his relationship with Jesus Christ. I expect to see him again, over on the other side. He’ll probably be waiting to give me a ride in his shiny new heavenly jeep.

I know it’s belated, but I just heard. Goodbye Dennis.

Mulligan Time

2010-03-15T11:48:00.008-05:00

Spring has sprung and a man’s thoughts turn to… golf! There’s a saying in golf – Drive for show, Putt for dough! The gist of it is:

Drive for Show - If you can’t take a driver and hit a golf ball in the general direction of the fairway, then you should probably take up table tennis. In all fairness, Tiger Woods doesn’t hit the fairway every time. But if your ball flies off the tee and lands 30 feet behind you, or 3 inches in front of you, and that happens consistently, you might consider selling your clubs on CraigsList.

But if you can advance the ball in the general direction of the green, then the course is pretty forgiving. A ball hit a few feet off to the right or left is still pretty easy to bring back into the fairway and advance to the flagstick. You won’t be joining the tour any time soon, but you’ll have many pleasurable weekends stomping through the poison ivy in search of your ball.

Whether it’s a three foot putt or a duck-and-run tee shot, anything short of perfection would qualify as sin.

Putt for Dough - Putting is a different game altogether. That’s where the walk ends, the concentration shifts into ‘intense mode’ and victory is earned… or given. If it takes you three or four strokes to sink your putt, again my advice would be to trade your clubs for a ping-pong paddle and invest the difference in pork belly futures.

Sin - The game of golf is like sin. Now, to be clear, that’s not to say that playing golf is a sin… unless you‘ve seen my game!

Let me explain. A man tees up the ball and tries to drive it straight. But he’s a mere mortal and can’t drive it perfectly straight – at least not every time. But the course is forgiving. So he takes a ‘drop’ and shoots again. His partner makes an excellent tee shot and finds himself on the green, so he addresses the ball… and straightaway misses his three foot putt.

I think folks generally regard sin by degrees. If a man’s tee shot goes a few feet out of bounds he’s not too bad a fellow. But if it veers off and hits a Honda Civic on the interstate, well – that dude’s one bad sinner.

Mulligans - But in truth the best definition of sin is “missing the mark”. Whether it’s a three foot putt or a duck-and-run tee shot, anything short of perfection would qualify as sin. And there’s only One who ever shot perfection! His name is Jesus. The cool thing is that no matter how far off our shot is - He gives us a mulligan. For those of you who aren’t golf fans that means forgiveness is ours for the asking, and we get another shot.

But you only get those mulligans if you’re partnered with Jesus. If you’re in someone else’s cart it's time to talk to the marshal.

You may not be a golfer. If not, I hope you didn’t grow weary of all these golf metaphors. The truth is I don’t play golf as much anymore because it’s too hard on my throat - all that yelling “FORE”!

Golfball by Peter Griffin

A Tale of Two Chiefs

2010-03-12T11:51:00.032-06:00

Some do it when they are very young. Others only began to feel the compulsion as they reach the twilight of their days. But at one time or another everyone makes a list of the places they want to go and the things they want to do before they die. A recent movie made the term ‘bucket list’ popular, and it was an ok movie, so we’ll go with that phrase. Very near the top of my bucket list is a trip to our nation’s capital, Washington, D.C.

From what I’ve heard the ultimate tourist destination in D.C. is the White House. And surely the greatest thrill of seeing the White House is to have your picture made with the President of the United States. Now, never having been there I can’t really say, but I’m guessing he doesn’t have a photo booth in the hall outside the oval office where he is available for pictures at 10 bucks a pop. Perhaps he should. It might help with reducing the national debt. But I understand he’s a pretty busy guy, so I don’t see it happening any time soon.

...do me a favor - tell me about the presidents you’ve seen, dated or had your picture taken with.

Being the leader of the strongest nation on earth, the President of the United States is arguably the most powerful man in the world… and there are a lot of people in this world – over six point eight billion at last count. So it would seem to be a pretty rare event to even catch a glimpse of the most powerful man in the world, much less have your picture taken with him.

But, as rare as such a glimpse may be, and having never been east of the Smokey Mountains, still I have had the opportunity to see not one, but two American Presidents with my own eyes. If you’ve seen three or more, please don’t rain on my parade. Well… I guess it’s ok if you cloud up and sprinkle a little.

First let me tell you about my two, and then do me a favor, and in the Comments box below, tell me about the presidents you’ve seen, dated or had your picture taken with. Remember to click the Post Comment button. Then everyone will get to enjoy your story too.

I was almost four years old in 1960, when Senator John Kennedy was running for president against Vice President Richard Nixon, and came to Oklahoma City for a campaign stop. My family was living in a little frame house on a busy street that happened to be on the motorcade route from the airport to his rally. We didn’t even have to leave the house. Dad stood at the screen door and waited. I stood behind him and peeked around.

And then we saw cops… and then that black convertible with that smiling politician waving to the crowd. Just as it passed our house dad opened the screen door, stuck his head out and yelled, “Go Nixon!” And John Kennedy turned and waived at dad and me! OK… maybe he wasn’t president at the time, but he did go on to win, so I’m counting it.

And then there was President Ronald Reagan, who came to Oklahoma in 1986 to campaign for the re-election of Senator Don Nickels. I was in the crowd when President Reagan referred to Senator Nickels as ‘Don Rickles’. Sources report that when Reagan was told about his slip up, he found it hilarious. But in 2004 at a party event, I mentioned my memory of it to Don Nickels’ wife, and was left with the impression that the Nickels household doesn’t see the humor in it. Go figure!

I’m not sure when I’ll make it to D.C. but I will. And when I do, I’ll do my best to get on the White House tour. And you can bet I’ll have an extra ten bucks in my pocket… just in case!

Now tell me your story.

Photos courtesy of pdclipart.org

The Sappy Old Geezer

2010-03-09T15:27:00.014-06:00

Are you familiar with the intricacies of the Malthusian growth model? No? Don't worry - I wasn’t either. The Malthusian growth model says that if you lean up against a tree, you will get sap all over your shirt. Now, you can’t just use a wet towel on it like you can blood or dirt. And you can’t peel it off with your fingernails, although you can’t resist the temptation to try. It just smears around, sap-afy-ing an ever increasing area. Sap is exponential! And thus you have proven Malthus’ theory of compounding.

OK… I confess... the Malthusian growth model has nothing to do with sap. It has to do with population growth. I just wanted to talk about sap. And in all fairness, the more people there are, the more tree sap gets on shirts. So there!

That was before I found myself struggling to cope with one day at a time. For me it could have said “Five Minutes at a Time, Sweet Jesus…”

The reason I want to talk about sap is because I’m trying to figure out why I’m getting more and more sappy. (Spell-check says I’m getting sappier and sappier, but then spell-check says there’s no such word as ‘sap-afy-ing’, and we know better.) According to the dictionary ‘Sappy’ either means consisting largely of sapwood, or being excessively sentimental. It’s that second definition I’m talking about.

There was a time in my life when I could boast of only having cried at one movie – Shindler’s List; although I almost cried every time George Bailey read his telegram from Sam Wainwright. Hee Haw! Now any movie with a cute puppy or a snot-nosed kid makes my lip quiver; but especially if the decent guy gets the pretty girl. Reference Sleepless in Seattle, You’ve Got Mail, French Kiss… And no, it’s not a Meg Ryan thing.

There was a time when I sneered at syrupy songs such as “One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus”. But that was before I found myself struggling to cope with one day at a time. For me it could have said “Five Minutes at a Time, Sweet Jesus…” So now when I hear that song I remember how things were and I thank God I have plans for the future.

There was a time when I slept through most sermons – albeit with my eyes open. But now, Stephanie is teaching the ladies’ bible study at church, and this morning she read me her notes - and I struggled to keep from tearing up.

I have a theory. I think the older I get, the more I’ve seen the hand of God in my life. And the closer I draw to God, the more my heart tenders. And the softer my heart becomes, the more I am able to hear from and respond to the voice of God. And the more I move into God’s will, the more contented I am.

Maybe I’m just becoming an old geezer. Or maybe it’s not a coincidence that ‘sappy’ rhymes with ‘happy’.

A Charismatic Handshake

2010-03-08T12:35:00.031-06:00

A ‘charismatic handshake’ is when you extend your hand to shake another, and when you withdraw your hand it contains something it didn’t have before… usually green and folded over. Charismatic handshakes are fun to give, and fun to get… sometimes! I'll explain.

There’s a scriptural teaching that when one prays a prayer asking God for material provision, that prayer is done in secrecy. In other words, ask God to provide, but tell no man. Thus you have not prodded another individual to step in and ‘meet your need’, but have truly trusted God to provide – either the answer to your prayer or an understanding of how His plan is better.

When someone evokes the ‘God told me’ clause you don’t dispute it...

In 1980 I prayed such a prayer. My wife’s birthday was coming up and I had decided I wanted to give a $100 bill as a present. And, while in this day and age a $100 bill may be about average for a gift, back then it was an insurmountable obstacle… at least to me. So I took it to God in prayer, and told no man.

In charismatic circles it was (rightly) taught that God blessed people through other people. So when you prayed a prayer such as the one I described, you started watching your mailbox, and you made yourself especially conspicuous in crowds, so that you didn’t miss what God was going to do for you. It would be terrible for your ship to come it and you to not be at the dock!

Just a few days before the deadline I was at church and a man came up to me and gave me a charismatic handshake.

Now, it was also taught that it was rude to examine the gift in front of the giver. You were to slip it in your pocket thankfully, and go on your way. Then, later and in private, you pulled it out of your pocket to see the denomination… and, if it was more than one bill, to count it. But this time I ‘accidentally’ caught a glimpse of it as I slipped it in my pocket. And besides that, I knew what I had prayed for, and was expecting to receive. Sure enough, I saw the corner of a $100 bill. At least that’s what I thought I saw!

Of course I lavished gratitude on him, and shared with him that I had been expecting that very thing. I even told him why I had prayed for it. “You better take a look at that”, he said, extremely embarrassed. “I know what it is”, I answered. “I caught a glimpse of it.” But he repeated himself, “You better take another look at it.” So I pulled it out of my pocket… and found it to be a religious tract, designed to look like a $100 bill.

He apologized profusely for his little practical joke, and how momentously it had backfired. Of course, I laughed it off. There was no way he could have anticipated how his joke fell into my expectations of answered prayer so seamlessly. Only a cruel devil could orchestrate such a ‘coincidence’ - or was it a laughing angel?

As the next church service approached I found myself hoping he wouldn’t be there, so as to avoid the awkwardness of it all. But there he was. I certainly couldn’t avoid him, so I went up to shake his hand, as if nothing had ever happened. And he gave me another charismatic handshake. But I bet you can guess the difference with this one. Yes, the $100 bill was real! He even said it… “That one’s real!”

Now I was the one who was embarrassed. I had to think this gift was motivated by guilt, and yet it surely resembled the answer to my prayer. Do I accept it or not? Trying to smooth things over I said, “You don’t have to do this, man. That was just an unfortunate joke. Don’t worry about it”, or something to that effect. But he wasn’t having it. “No… God told me to give this to you”, he insisted.

When someone evokes the ‘God told me’ clause you don’t dispute it. So I thanked him again, and kept it.

I’m not sure what the lesson is here. Oh, I’m quite sure what his lesson was… don’t play practical jokes unless you’re willing to pay the price! But what do I take from this, other than the $100? That God hears our prayers? That God answers our prayers? Perhaps something about humility?

I think I have it… the lesson to be learned is - God has a sense of humor!

photo courtesy of Flickr.com

Playing Favorites

2010-03-07T21:51:00.014-06:00

I’m going to tell you a secret but I’ve got to ask you to keep it to yourself. See, I love my brother and sisters and I wouldn’t want their feelings to be hurt. And this information might just do that, so please don’t tell my secret.

What could such a potentially hurtful secret be, you ask? Here it is – Of all us kids, I was dad’s favorite! Oh, he never came right out and said it… not in so many words. But we had this special bond, and it was unmistakable. I tried not to let on so as not to hurt their feelings, but on the other hand I reveled in his favor unashamedly.

Now, that may sound like a question to you, but it wasn’t. It was really his special code word that indicated to me I was his favorite...

I remember one time when I was really young, maybe three or four. Dad worked as supervisor on a freight dock. As I remember the story there was some damaged freight, or salvage freight or something of that nature. I’m not sure of the particulars. All I remember is dad’s lunch pail packed FULL of Butterfinger candy bars. Dad stepped into the door of the house and declared, “Who’s my pal?” Now, that may sound like a question to you, but it wasn’t. It was really his special code word that indicated to me I was his favorite. So I bounced up off the couch yelling, “I am, I am”. Dad handed me that lunch pail and tried to hide his crooked grin as I unlatched both sides and raised the lid.

Of course, in retrospect I suppose my brother and sister may have interpreted the “Who’s My Pal” line as their special code also. And maybe it was just that I was closer to the door so I got to dad first. But I remember thinking that whole pail full of candy bars belonged to me, and they would only be allowed to feast at my pleasure. In truth, I’m sure mom confiscated the entire bounty and doled them out to each of us in reasonable portions.

In August of 2000 dad passed away, and our conversations were all consumed with memories of him. After a short while it began to dawn on me that my older sister, Linda truly in her heart always felt sorry for us boys because she was dad’s favorite. And then I was astonished when my older brother, Joe disclosed that he honestly knew he was dad’s favorite. Of course, my little sister, Brenda, who came along 16 years after me had never even entertained a doubt that she was dad’s favorite.

This was a major revelation to us. We all agreed we honesty felt we were the favored child, and we all marveled at the skills dad must have possessed in order to pull off such an awesome subterfuge.

I was sharing this story with my buddy, Paul, and he related a similar sentiment about his mom. Then he told me that at her funeral the preacher shared that she had ‘a separate heart for each of her children’. And it dawned on me… dad didn’t pull off any subterfuge. There was no intent in dad’s heart to make any of us think we were more prized that the others. He simply had a heart for me, and a heart for Linda, and a heart for Joe and a heart for Brenda. And we all felt that love and knew it was personal… and it was we who assumed the others were less favored.

Our Heavenly Father is like that. He has a heart just for you, and if you will fellowship with Him… if you will be His pal, you and He will develop a special bond, with special code words of affection. And you will realize that ‘you are his favorite’. And you are!

But that’s ok. See, mom is still with us… and I’m her favorite! Shhhhhh

The Devil’s Fire

2010-03-06T00:01:00.004-06:00

We’ve all known someone that, because of their easy going demeanor or comical personality, can get by with things that you or I would surely be called on; jokes told, comments made, judgments passed. Those things, and especially decisions made and actions taken are the things of which reputations are woven.

Reputations are a funny thing. Sometimes they’re deserved, sometimes undeserved… and sometimes a person actually seeks out a reputation that doesn’t really represent him at all. At one time in my life I fell into that category.

I sat on the proverbial fence, and warmed at the wrong fire… and people noticed.

It was Passion Week and Jesus had been taken to the high priest’s house. Peter followed the crowd, but far enough back that he wouldn’t be recognized. It was cold so some people started a fire and Peter sat down with them to warm himself. But a woman in the group recognized him as a follower of Jesus. “This man was with Jesus”, she declared, pointing at Peter. Peter denied her accusation, saying, “Woman, I don’t know him!”

You’re probably familiar with what happened next. After a second and third denial a rooster crowed. And Peter recalled the words Jesus prophetically spoke to him – how he would deny Him 3 times before the cock crows.

How Peter wished he hadn’t warmed himself by the devil’s fire!

My dad used that passage of scripture to point out to me the importance of choosing my crowd carefully. “Son, don’t warm yourself at the Devil’s fire” he warned. But I didn’t listen to dad. See, I enjoyed hanging out with the bad crowd. If there was trouble I wanted to be within viewing distance of it. Oh, I had no intention of being in the middle of it. I just wanted people to think I was in the middle of it. I wanted to be known as a bad boy without having to actually be a bad boy.

See, during my high school years I already knew God had a calling on my life, and I had every intention of taking my life in that direction. But I wanted to be a popular high school kid first. So I sat on the proverbial fence, and warmed at the wrong fire… and people noticed. My youth pastor explained to me why I wasn’t picked to be on the youth council. And certain kids weren’t allowed to hang out with me! And I snarled at how short-sighted those kids’ parents were for not seeing what was really in my heart. And yet I did little to show them what was really in my heart.

I don’t fully understand the romantic appeal of sin. I come closer to understanding that desire a man has to rise above sin – to take the high road and find himself pleasing to God. But what I do fully understand is the eternal struggle in a man’s heart between the two. The reason I understand that struggle is because it has played out in me so many times.

A pastor I once knew had a saying… “It takes a lot of ‘atta-boys’ to make up for one ‘oops’!” I wish my reputation would have always reflected my desire to please God rather than my desire for the periphery of trouble.

I want people to point at me and say, "That man was with Jesus", so now I’m working on the ‘atta-boys’!

Photo courtesy of http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/">Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

My First Felony Offense

2010-03-05T06:00:00.005-06:00

I suppose most of us hide secrets in our heart, some out of the fear of embarrassment, others because they’re just private and should remain private… and some to avoid a prison sentence! You may have thought you knew me, but you’re about to learn of my first criminal offense.

The Romans would have called it MCMLXVIII. It was 1968. The Green Bay Packers won the Superbowl, Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In debuted, Richard Nixon was elected President of the United States, Martin Luther King was assassinated, and I committed my first felony. WAIT… that makes it sound like my crime had something to do with Dr. King’s death. While that was a terrible crime, it was not my crime! I was only 11 years old.

I figured my crime was good for at least 10 years of hard labor in striped pajamas...

Back in the 60s we had elementary school, junior high and high school. Somewhere along the way junior high became middle school, and they started messing with the grades. Now I’m not sure what school a 6th grader goes to. If I had a 6th grader he’d just have to ride the bus.

But when I was in 6th grade we were the upper classmen of elementary school. Our next year would be the jump to junior high, and our first taste of multiple classrooms and teachers. The idea of changing classes was cool enough, but we actually got to select the classes… well, at least one of them. We got to choose between band and chorus. Not being a good singer I opted for band.

Mom agreed with my choice to take band, and I don’t suppose dad really cared one way or the other, as long as I didn’t make any noise while he was reading his newspaper. All I had to do was mark the appropriate box on the form and get a parent to sign it, and I had carried out my first official junior high act, while still in 6th grade. The forms were due no later than Friday.

Getting ready for school on Friday I made sure I had my form. I’d hate to flunk out of 7th grade without even attending one day of school. Sure enough I got to school with the form, filled out and ready to be turned in. Except… it wasn’t signed! I was panic stricken. Mom and dad had left for work without signing my form.

What could I do? What would you do? I got an ink pen and a piece of paper, and I practiced dad’s signature. I figured I didn’t have a chance with mom’s penmanship, but dad’s… that was do-able. I signed the form. I turned the form in. I became a criminal!

In all fairness the crime of forgery may be a felony or it may be a misdemeanor, depending on whether you get a prison sentence of more than one year, or less than one year. I figured my crime was good for at least 10 years of hard labor in striped pajamas.

I spent the entire summer of 1968 with a nagging anxiety in the pit of my stomach. Oh, I’d like to say it was guilt over my act, but the truth is I was worried about getting caught. I guess I thought all junior high schools had a handwriting expert on staff, whose only job is to verify the signatures on parental permission slips. And when that glorious day came and I passed 7th grade, I breathed a giant sigh of relief. They could throw me in jail but they couldn't take 7th grade away from me.

Dad never found out about the forgery, and I got better and better at it. That's how I got my first car!

Almost Arrested... For Praying!

2010-03-04T12:42:00.004-06:00

For a few minutes I thought I was living behind the iron curtain, or maybe in some third-world country. I found myself on the verge of being arrested… for praying!

It was the year 2000 and I was in Phoenix to install a computer system for a client. I was there alone for several days, and so, as a guy is apt to do when he is staring at the four walls of a hotel room, I headed out to see what the City of Phoenix had to offer.

I stumbled across a sports bar type restaurant with a few cars around it, and ventured in for a bite to eat. Now, even back in my ‘wild’ days I wasn’t much of a drinker of adult beverages. In fact, back when I ran with a crowd that frequented those types of establishments I was always the designated driver. And so I ordered water with my meal. And the second time my glass ran empty I was brought a whole picture.

“Would you consent to take a breathalyzer test?” My alternative was a trip downtown, so I consented…

A couple of hours later the game was over and I was full as a tick on Phoenix tap water (not a drink I’d recommend). I got in my Chevy Blazer to drive back to the room. But, as luck would have it, turning out of the parking lot I bumped the curb. Now, you may be thinking, “What’s so unlucky about bumping a curb?” but what I didn’t tell you is that, while pulling out I was under the watchful eye of two of Phoenix’s finest… on motorcycles! They apparently kept a vigil at this place for inebriated drivers – you know… drunks.

There they were.. those dreaded red lights in my rear view mirrow. And then the question, “Have you been drinking, sir?” “No, sir… I only drank water.” I answered, like I had a faint chance of selling that story… even though it was true!

“You bumped the curb pulling out”, he offered. I tried to explain to them how these Chevy Blazers have a problem with the steering – that the wheel sticks on a sharp turn. But they weren’t buying it. The truth is that an article came out a few days later about that very problem with that very vehicle. Oh, how I wished I’d had that article with me that evening.

These two motorcycle cops were dressed in typical motorcycle cop costumes complete with black leather boots and standard issue cocky attitude. I will admit that one of them feigned politeness. The other chomped on an unlit cigar and didn’t even attempt to be civil. Trust me when I say that of the three of us, he was the one that was drunk… with power!

They put me through the full battery of field sobriety tests. I followed a pen with my eyes, stood on one foot; touched my nose with eyes closed and head tilted, and walked a straight line, all with the flawless perfection of a scared stiff out-of-towner.

“Would you consent to take a breathalyzer test?” Officer Polite Cop asked. My alternative was a trip downtown, so I consented… and blew. While waiting for the results to register I whispered a quick prayer for God’s favor and help in getting out of this jam. And that’s when the wicket got sticky, as it were.

Officer Cigar Chomper noticed my whispering and asked, “What did you say?” “I didn’t say anything”, I responded, but he wouldn’t accept that answer. “I know you said something… what was it!” he demanded. So I swallowed the tiny smidgen of pride I still had left, and told him I was praying. “Good!” he chuckled. “You need it!”

At about the very next moment Officer Polite Cop gasped, “I’ll be Damned!” “What?” asked Officer Cigar Chomper. “Zero Point Zero!” he answered. Then Officer Cigar Chomper said something that just about made me crazy… “You think he’s on drugs?” People… for Pete’s sake I BUMPED A CURB!

As you know, I’m from Oklahoma, and in Oklahoma curb bumping is a mere misdemeanor. I hadn’t read up on the laws in Phoenix, but obviously it’s a much more serious offense there… and apparently I needed to be punished for my lawlessness.

But I’m here to tell you that God still hears our prayers. Officer Polite Cop said, “Naw… he’s just tired and scared.” Then he turned to me, handed me back my license and said, “Drive safely, Mr. Kepler”.

And I did! Believe me, I did!

So next time you’re driving down the avenue and you see a couple of motorcycle cops giving some poor schlep a field sobriety test, do him a favor and whisper a quick prayer for him. But don’t let the cop catch ya!

The Call of the Wild

2010-03-01T09:00:00.000-06:00

There’s an inner urging deep inside all of us for a return to the wild - to live off the land - to build a shelter with our own hands -to catch a fish or trap a rabbit or shoot a pheasant, and drink fresh water from a cool, clear stream… and then to sneak off to town for a hot shower, a burger and a shake!

My wife has made me promise for several years running now that I would take her camping. But between valid reasons and trifling excuses, our tent and cook-stove have continued to gather cobwebs. Perhaps this summer…

Had she not stepped out at just the right time, her little yapper may have been the victim of an unthinkable fate.

But in backing out the driveway the other morning I realized we don’t need to go camping to return to the wild. See, a couple of years ago we bought a new house on a cul-de-sac with empty lots around us. And with a church lot behind our house to the north and another to the west, we are surrounded on three sides by raw nature.

But what I noticed that morning is a bond with nature that exceeds the smell of a freshly brush-hogged church lot. There it was, perched majestically on the peak of our roof – an eagle! Or was that a falcon? Or a chicken-hawk? Or an osprey, a kite or an owl? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a buzzard or a vulture. Let’s just agree that it was a bird of prey, and leave it at that.

And this isn’t the first predatory avian that’s taken roost on our home. See, we attend one of those churches behind us, and sitting in our married folks class on any given Sunday I can look out the window and see our roof. And it’s quite often I see a bird, eyeing the fields around our house for his breakfast. Speaking of breakfast, we have coffee and donuts in married folks class (just thought I’d throw that in).

But this whole matter of predatory birds looking for breakfast brings a fresh concern with a warning issued yesterday by Cheryl; a friend of ours. Like us, Cheryl has a small dog that she lets outside for all the reasons you let dogs outside. And today she reported that hovering overhead was a chicken-hawk in search of prey. Had she not stepped out at just the right time, her little yapper may have been the victim of an unthinkable fate.

So now, every time we let our little mutt outside I'll feel like a parent sending his kindergartner off on the bus for the first day of school. I'll want to hide in the shadows and stand vigil. But parents don't really put a kindergartner on the bus on the first day - they drive her to school. So maybe, every time she barks to be let out, I'll just drive her out on my riding mower. I might even buy her one of those little mats to sleep on. You know - the kind that is blue on one side and red on the other.

Or maybe I'll just put out coffee and donuts for the hungry predator. Hey, it works for the married folks at the church!

Image courtesy of Liz Noffsinger / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Third Little Girl

2010-02-26T22:22:00.017-06:00

Maybe it’s because I wasn’t able to play football in high school, having to help out in the family business. Or maybe I just had more skeletal fortitude, but in my 53+ years I have never had a broken bone. Oh, I’ve had my bumps and bruises… but no breaks.

But let me to tell you about a little girl who wasn’t so fortunate. And what may be the most amazing thing I ever saw with my own two eyes!

I saw three… and then there were two, in almost the twinkling of an eye. But what happened to the third little girl?

The year was 1982 and I was the youth pastor of a mid-size church in Oklahoma City. The kids jokingly referred to themselves as “Reece’s Pieces”. One of my responsibilities – and indeed a great pleasure – was to take a couple dozen of “my kids” to youth camp that summer.

One of the greatest things about summer camp is the new friends you meet. We were sister churches with a church in Tulsa, a much larger church with more kids, and they invited us to come along with them to camp. They also invited a church from Little Rock. And not only did the campers and counselors from three churches congregate in the mountains of SE Oklahoma… God came along for the fun! And as it turns out, He’s had previous experience with tabernacles in the wilderness!

One particular afternoon most of the campers had taken the busses from the main camp area to the swimming hole down the road. But, for various reasons a few of the kids stayed behind, and they needed supervision, so I too stayed behind. And that’s when it happened. Within a five minute span I witnessed what may have been the most horrific event I’ve ever seen… and then one of the most amazing!

There were three little girls from the Little Rock church sitting on top of a large propane tank, like the ones you see at farm houses. They were probably 12 or 13 years old and just as silly as could be. I saw them there and walked over to see how they were doing, and to engage in a moment of silliness myself. I had been talking with them for a short while when I turned and looked away for a brief moment. When I turned back there were only two little girls sitting on that tank.

My mind was confused. It saw three… and then there were two, in almost the twinkling of an eye. I liken it to what folks will experience when the believers are caught away before their very eyes. But what happened to the third little girl?

Then one of the two, looking down at the ground behind the tank, screamed out, “Oh, my God… look at her arm!” I hurried around the tank to see this little girl lying on the ground with her arm broken. Sometimes when someone hurts their arm they go to the doctor to find out if it’s broken. But half way between her wrist and elbow there was an extra elbow. And the lower half of her arm was sticking straight out.

Any other time my instinct would have been to turn away from such a repugnant sight, but I was the adult, and the counselor… and all this little girl had! I scooped her up in my arms and headed up to the main building, praying all the way. And she was praying too… through her tears!

Standing on the porch of the main building was one of the leaders from her home church, so I headed toward him, with her still in my arms. And when he realized what was going on he immediately joined in the prayer. Then we heard it… a loud “SNAP”! And right there on the porch of that building at that state park in southeast Oklahoma, I saw God supernaturally set a broken arm! That extra elbow disappeared and her arm was made straight.

Please understand that nobody tried to straighten or “set” her arm. It wasn’t anything I did, or anything she did. It was something God did! And I’m not just repeating to you some story I heard some preacher tell. I was there. I had that little girl cradled in my arms when God set that broken bone.

They took her on to town for a doctor to have a look at it, and his x-ray confirmed that it had been broken. Then he asked, “Who set the break? He did an excellent job.” No doubt!

That night in tabernacle many arms were raised in praise to All Mighty God! And one of them had the cutest little pink cast on it!

Photo Cross by Josée Holland Eclipse. Used by permission.

An Idiotic Idiom

2010-02-25T12:14:00.007-06:00

An Idiom is a phrase that has a meaning different from the dictionary definitions of the individual words themselves. Idioms are pretty common in the day to day language of we Americans. But imagine being in America from a foreign country – say France, and trying to figure out with a French-to-English Dictionary how to interpret an idiom.

Consider the phrase - “Keep your shirt on”. The poor Frenchman is standing there looking up the words – “Let’s see, ‘keep’ translates Écouter… meaning to continue”. And while he’s trying to determine what it is he needs to continue, an American would have already given the appropriate response, “Oh yeah? Well, blow it out your ear, buddy!”

You may think I got up on the wrong side of the bed, or that I’m not playing with a full deck, but I have an ax to grind...

Another good example of an idiom would be “fire a shot across his bow”. It comes from naval warfare, when they want to fire a warning shot without doing damage to the other ship. You don’t actually get a gun and shoot across somebody’s bow. I’m not even sure what somebody’s bow would refer to (although I’m quite sure what somebody’s stern refers to!) Nowadays such a warning shot would probably be performed with a letter or a phone call… a stern phone call.

A really bad example of an idiom would be “wrap my head around that”. I heard one of the singers on American Idol say that the other night, and I thought “that’s been used to death”. It apparently means someone is having a difficult time understanding something, or perhaps accepting something.

Oh, I’m sure the first time I heard it I thought it was witty. But the two hundred eighty-seventh time I heard it I just wanted to scream! That would have been when the Olympic skier Julia Mancuso said it last night, in answer to a question regarding how she felt about her downhill run being interrupted by her team-mate, Lindsey Vonn’s crash.

Country singer Lucinda Williams has a song titled “Wrap My Head Around That”. I’d never heard of it – or her either for that matter - so I went and listened to it on the internet. Well, in truth I only listened to about half of it. It was so bad it made me want to wrap my head - into a wall. Hey, that makes more sense anyway, doesn’t it! Maybe I should write a song.

Now, I’m not pulling your leg, and I don’t mean to get in your face, but lend me an ear. You may be on the fence about this, or we may be on the same page. See, the overuse of idioms just drives me up the wall. You may think I got up on the wrong side of the bed, or that I’m not playing with a full deck, but I have an ax to grind. So, at the risk of going out on a limb, let me cut to the chase.

I may be barking up the wrong tree, I may have bitten off more than I can chew, but, come hell or high water, I’m ready to get down to brass tacks. Maybe I should just let sleeping dogs lie, but I’m not going to pass the buck... in fact, the buck stops here! I’m ready to pull the plug. The past is water under the bridge, but now I’m going to use everything but the kitchen sink to put a stop to the use of annoying idioms. And I’m not quittin’ ‘til the cows come home! You can bet your bottom dollar on it.

That hits the nail on the head!

Photo Columbia Figurehead by Andrew Schmidt

You Are What You Are

2010-02-24T16:56:00.013-06:00

Awhile back a store cashier accidentally gave me too much change. I realized it and returned the overage. While thankful, she was astonished that somebody would reject free money. My answer to her was, “My honesty comes at a higher price than a couple of bucks!”

Did you know that if a stamp is used to mail a letter, and then the machine at the post office fails to cancel that stamp, it is still considered by federal law to be a used stamp? Would you peel it off and reuse it? Nobody would ever know. But forty-four cents? Surely you’re integrity is worth more than that! If you’re going to be a thief, you may as well steal a car or something else of real value!

How many people would you have to kill to be a murderer? The obvious answer is one. But I disagree...

I’ve cleaned up an off-color joke to make a point. If you’re concerned you may be offended, please turn away. But in all fairness, it’s wasn’t that off-color in the first place... and besides, you’ve heard it before.

A man at a party had been noticing a beautiful woman all evening. Finally he approached her. “Miss, would you spend time with me for a million dollars?” he asked. She was taken aback by the proposition, and actually found herself overwhelmed at the prospect of becoming an instant millionaire. “Yes, I believe I would.” she answered.

He immediately responded, “How about for twenty bucks?” Quite offended, she sharply replied, “What do you think I am… an escort?” His answer … “Miss, that fact has already been established. Now we’re just negotiating the price!”

How many people would you have to kill to be a murderer? The obvious answer is one. But I disagree. I say zero. See, The 1970s TV detective Baretta said, “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.” But the bible puts it another way, “As a man thinks in his heart, so is he.”

I believe that what you harbor in your heart defines you. Oh sure, we all joke about wanting to “kill” someone from time to time. But in your heart of hearts, if the only thing keeping you from strangling somebody is the thought of lethal injection, gas chamber, electric chair or firing squad… well, you are what you are. And if you don’t steal because you might get caught… well, you are what you are.

And that’s where Grace comes in. Man could not save himself from himself. And all the law can say is, “Don’t do it”, and then dictate the punishment when he does act on the evil in his heart. It takes Grace to save a man from himself. And then you no longer are what you were! Thank God for Grace. And Grace is only available in one place.

If you don’t know where that is, ask.

Photo courtesy of http://www.freeimages.co.uk/

An Unexpected Windfall

2010-02-23T12:15:00.014-06:00

My first thought was, “I’ve been poisoned!” Then I got to thinking, “Maybe I have a lawsuit here.” But I can hear the defense attorney now… “Mr. Kepler, do you usually put food in your mouth without making sure it’s dead first?” I’m in trouble on that one. I better not sue…

When we were kids there was this really cool amusement park in town. We got to go once or twice, but mom and dad couldn’t afford to take us very often, so instead mom would take us with her to the market for groceries. Granted there weren’t roller coasters or arcade games at the market, but there were shopping carts to ride, and fruits and vegetables to throw at each other.

...after about my third spoon full, I realized something unusual. My cereal was moving!

One of the things we looked forward to was picking which breakfast cereal we wanted. We would each get to pick one box. I remember standing on the cereal aisle for what seemed like hours trying to decide. Actually though, the only criteria for my choice was the toy in the box. Mom probably had to pay an extra buck for me to get a little trinket worth a penny.

I’m all grown up now, but that tradition is still intact – I still stand for hours on the cereal aisle comparing the boxes. But now I select my cereal according to my adult taste buds, and seldom get a toy. However, occasionally you get something in your cereal you didn’t bargain for.

I grabbed the box of Mueslix from the pantry and filled my bowl - poured on the milk and dug in. Then, after about my third spoon full, I realized something unusual. My cereal was moving! At first I noticed one little feller doing the backstroke. But, like a movie where the camera pans out slowly, revealing a whole screen full of action, I realized the entire bowl was bustling with activity.

What was really bad about it was that I was on a diet at the time; ©Weight Watchers to be specific. And if you’ve ever done ©Weight Watchers you know how important it is to count the points for every bite. But I couldn’t find little white worms in the book. It really wouldn’t have helped because I didn’t know how many of them I’d eaten anyway. As it turned out that wasn’t a problem though - I wasn’t in an eating mood for the rest of the day so I had plenty of points so spare.

I called Kellogg’s customer service line and was informed by this really calm sounding lady that I had ingested Indian Meal Worms. She chuckled, and assured me that I was in no danger, and that actually they were a great source of protein. She didn’t come right out and say they eat them as snacks at the Kellogg’s corporate office, but she kind of left that impression. Wow, should I send in extra money for this unexpected windfall?

The grocery store refunded my money and replaced the product, and Kellogg’s sent me a batch of coupons for more boxes of cereal. OH BOY! Just what I wanted – more boxes of cereal! They should have sent me a box of those little toys instead!

But I guess we all get over the gross things we’ve eaten – or we’d never go back to McDonalds, huh!

Photo courtesy of http://www.freeimages.co.uk/

A Religious Guy

2010-02-22T12:40:00.032-06:00

Jack was tall and slim, with black hair and a full beard, albeit somewhat scraggly. But what made Jack so noticeable were the scars on his forearms. At some point in his life, and not too terribly long ago, Jack had taken a knife and torn open his arms from the wrist to the inside of his elbow – on both sides! Jack joked about it, about how he'd "botched the job". But it was obvious by the depth and width of the scars that his attempt was real and he’d given it his best shot.

...the guy that gets to pray with someone and lead them to Christ gets to see the result of all that labor. With Jack, I wanted to be that guy!

“You’re a religious guy, aren’t you?” Jack asked me as he passed by, pushing a load to be dumped down the chute. I’d just met Jack about an hour before, and all I’d done was assign to him a sledge hammer and wheelbarrow, and point him to the area I needed him to work. “I guess you could call me religious”, I answered. He dumped the busted up concrete and went back for another load.

It was 1980 and I was working for a guy that had the contract to gut the interior of an old office building slated for remodel. Needing some help I called a temp agency and they sent over two guys, one of which was Jack. I gave these two workmen their assignments, and turned back to my own sledgehammer.

The highest goal for an Evangelical Christian is to be a ‘soul-winner’. That is, somebody who will share his faith in Jesus Christ with others who do not have such a relationship, and persuade them, convince them… convert them – if you will, to their own, new-found faith in Christ. There are people who have daily goals for how many souls they can win. But, sadly, they are the exception rather than the rule. The ‘average’ Christian may have led a handful of people to Christ, if that many.

Don’t misunderstand me - no man is alone in his labors for the Lord. The Apostle Paul wrote that one man plants a seed, another man waters that seed, and God gets the increase thereof. But the guy that gets to pray with someone and lead them to Christ gets to see the result of all that labor. With Jack, I wanted to be that guy!

As he rolled by with his next wheelbarrow load I asked him, “Are you a religious guy?” He replied, “I’m what you’d call a lost soul!” And back he went to fetch another load. On his next pass I simply asked him “…Wanna talk about it?” We took an early lunch.

Jack and I sat down right there at that construction site and I shared with him about who Jesus Christ is and what he means to me… and what he could mean to him. I can’t recall the exact words I said, but then again they really weren’t my words. This was one of those times the Holy Spirit just kind of takes over and uses your voice – like the alien in “Independence Day” did with that freaky scientist guy. OK… maybe not quite like that, but you know what I mean.

Finally I talked myself out, and so I cleared my throat… and summoned my courage… and looked Jack straight in the eye and asked, “Would you like to invite Jesus into your heart?” Jack gave me an honest answer, “I could say the words, but I don’t know if I’d really believe it or not.”

“Fair enough”, I said, as disappointed as a hunter who just missed a shot at a trophy buck. So I asked him if I could pray for him. I figured I’d say a quick prayer and we’d get back to work. He consented, and so I bowed my head and prayed.

All I did was ask God to show Jack how much He loved him and to answer the questions Jack had in his heart, and I said Amen. Then Jack looked up at me with these big, wide silver dollar eyes. “What did you do?” he asked. “I felt something happen inside me!” Not knowing what else to say I immediately asked him, “Can you believe it now?” “YES”, he said. So - right then and there - I led him in what we call the sinner’s prayer. And Jack became a Believer!

I don’t know what it was about me that caused Jack to ask me that opening question. But I know enough about how the Kingdom of God works to know that I wasn’t the first religious guy to cross his path. I’m just thankful I was the one that got to “close the deal”.

I took Jack and bought him a good leather-bound bible that day, and made sure he was in church the next Sunday. But Jack was a transient, sleeping in flop houses and cheap hotels. He’d just blown into town and didn't stay too long. He worked with me for a few days, and we talked about the things of God. And then I never saw him again.

But I will!

The Distinguished Gentleman

2010-02-20T21:20:00.014-06:00

Personally I blame the affordability of air conditioning for herding people off their front porches and into their living rooms… well, that and television. Before those two “modern miracles” folks used to stroll the avenues, waiving and ‘howdy-do’ing’, and everybody knew everybody. Now we can live in the same place for years and never learn the first names of our neighbors, or where they work, or what they do to unwind.

A couple of years ago Stephanie and I moved into a new home in a new subdivision, and frankly, coming from an area of more humble incomes, I wondered what kind of folks we’d be living among, and how well received we would find ourselves. I didn’t have to wonder for long. On the afternoon of our first day, two… count ‘em, two sets of our new neighbors introduced themselves. Kim and Mary Beth even presented us with a home-baked apple pie!

I started addressing Patrick as sir and referring to him as The Distinguished Gentleman. Then it dawned on me where that term comes from...

Having similar interests with our new neighbors Patrick and Angela, we became fast friends, and even met up on vacation in Vegas. They flew, we drove. Oh, we had our separate agendas. We didn’t do everything together. Stephanie and I had a dress-up evening where just the two of us went to dinner in our Sunday best. And we marveled at how we were treated - the respect shown us because of our attire. People actually scurried to clear a path for us.

It’s amazing the respect shown a well dressed person in Vegas... as you will soon see!

Patrick had a business conference one day, and so he dressed up… way up – suit and tie. Patrick is a handsome man anyway; a black man with the popular shaved head look, a little on the tall side and with an athletic build, and a personality that could sell… well pretty much anything to anybody. After his meeting he gave me a call and I swung by and picked him up.

Now, if you fly into Vegas you probably never get off the strip, except maybe for that one memorable night downtown. But because we drive out, I know many of those out-of-the-way places where the locals go to play. The girls had scheduled a day of shopping, so Patrick and I drove out to a casino I knew that had dollar craps (on the strip you can’t shoot craps for less that 5 bucks a play). We carved out our positions at the craps table.

I’m not sure where the thought originated - I would think it’s because of how sharp he looked - I started addressing Patrick as sir and referring to him as The Distinguished Gentleman. Then it dawned on me where that term comes from. That’s how U.S. Senators address one another.

About that time Patrick tossed a chip down and declared, “This is for the boys”, a term that indicates he is placing a bet for the dealers – that is, if it wins, the bet and its winnings go to them as a tip. Of course, if it loses, it loses. The stickman didn’t see where the bet came from, so he asked. I immediately pointed to Patrick and said, “The Senator placed that bet for the team”.

Thenceforth, and for the remainder of the session not only I, but everyone at the table referred to Patrick as “The Senator”. I tried to work into the conversation how I was a bodyguard or a driver, but I had my tourist costume on, you know – shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, so I’m sure they concluded that I was the Senator’s brother-in-law or some other social appendage whose company he was forced to endure.

Stephanie and I had a great time that year. And I’m sure Patrick and Angela had a wonderful time too. But just think of all those locals at that craps table… the old geezer with the oxygen tank, the off duty cocktail waitress, the construction worker from Phoenix that had chased the building boom to Sin City. They ALL have the story of their life – I shot craps with a U.S. Senator! And they have us to thank for it.

How much you wanna bet they’re all at home right now watching C-SPAN to catch a glimpse of Patrick? I know a place that will give you great odds!

The Swiss Army Knife

2010-02-19T11:34:00.013-06:00

I saw this cool Swiss Army Knife you can buy for your dad next Father’s Day – or if your father has passed on as mine has, you can buy it for me. This knife costs 180 bucks, and I counted no less than 20 functions for which it has a unique tool. What’s more, it comes with band-aids, a pressure pencil (whatever that is), writing paper, safety pens, matches and sewing thread. Of course these accessories aren’t built in, so you’ll lose them pretty quickly. But it’s still cool that they come with the knife.

This got me wondering – if GOD had a Swiss Army Knife, what would it look like?

He’s not just that church’s Swiss Army Knife… He’s GOD’S Swiss Army Knife...

There’s this guy I know that works at a church. Now, in respect to him I shouldn’t use his real name so I’ll use an alias. Let’s just call him Randy. That’s a good, strong yet generic name, don’t you think? Randy is the “go-to” guy for whatever’s going on in this church he works at. If the rainy season finds cracks in the roof, call Randy. If the snowstorm of the century leaves the parking lot impassable, call Randy. Air conditioner broke? Water line busted? Toilet paper too coarse? Call Randy!

In all fairness, I’m sure most churches have their Swiss Army Knife. But this guy I’m calling Randy for purposes of this story… he’s not just that church’s Swiss Army Knife … He’s GOD’S Swiss Army Knife. See, his usefulness is not just limited to the mechanical, electrical or structural functions of the facility. If they need somebody to make the announcements on Sunday morning, or be a prayer partner or head up the men’s ministries or teach in the bible school, they call Randy.

And that’s all in addition to him being a husband, a father, a grandfather and a son (and probably a cousin and a nephew and an uncle), as well as being a pretty cool guy in his own right. He even finds the time to play a round of golf occasionally, should the sun cooperate.

This guy goes overseas to minister to the needs of others, both spiritual and physical. And he even shares his wit, wisdom and humor in a blog on the internet. I’d give you a link to it, but I’ve decided to keep this guy’s real identity a secret.

Oh, I’m sure if this guy I’m calling Randy chose to leave this church he’s serving, someone would step in to take his place… or more realistically, about 11 someones! Hey, that would make Randy God’s one-man football team!

So if your church has one of these Swiss Army Knives, even if his name isn’t Randy, make sure he knows how much he is loved – how much he is appreciated – how incredibly special he is to God and to everyone in the church… and to you! And you might even think about rolling up your sleeves and helping him out with the church’s next catastrophe.

And by the way, I was just kidding about giving me that Swiss Army Knife for Father’s Day. Give it to Randy! He’d actually use it!

It Ain’t All Bad

2010-02-18T13:02:00.015-06:00

I waited nervously for the doctor to give me the verdict. Your health is no laughing matter, unless it has to do with your funny bone I guess. And after what I had to endure for the test itself, I figured my dues were paid in full on this one. Then the Doctor said it – and I turned white as a polar bear in a blizzard. “The results are negative!”

OH NO! I started planning my funeral right there in the exam room – let’s see – I’d like a mahogany coffin with brass trim…

...it’s going to take an Ovaltine Decoder Ring to understand that joke.

“How long do I have?” I asked him. “How long for what…” he responded. “…to pay your bill?” Then he explained that negative is good – positive would be bad.

What is that – Doctor Code? And if so, I’m just a lowly desk jockey. Is he supposed to expose it to the likes of me? But as it turns out, everybody knows that. I guess I don’t watch enough Real TV.

I told my son the results of my tests were negative. “That’s bad”, he said. “Why is it bad, son? Do you want me to die? You know I don’t have anything worth inheriting!” “No, dad, bad means good.” Oh really? What are you? A doctor? My son, the doctor!

So negative means good and positive means bad – and bad means good. I’m reminded of a joke we used to tell. It starts like this:

Two fellers were talking about their weekend. “I went skydiving this weekend”, says the first feller.
The other feller replies, “Oh, that’s good.”
“Well, it ain’t all good”, answers the first feller. “My parachute didn’t open.”
“Oh, that’s bad.”
“Well, it ain’t all bad; I looked down and saw a big ole’ haystack.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Well, it ain’t all good; there was a pitchfork in the haystack.”
“Oh, that’s bad.”
“Well, it ain’t all bad, I missed the pitchfork.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Well, it ain’t all good, I missed the haystack…”

And the joke goes on, ad infinitum, ad nauseam. (I think that’s Latin for “egad, does this joke ever get funny?”)

With my new knowledge of the English language (or lack thereof) I’ve decided it’s going to take an Ovaltine Decoder Ring to understand that joke. And it takes several box tops to get one, so I’ve got the kids and grandkids drinking chocolate milk with double straws.

I showed this story to my wife and she said, “Oh, that’s bad!” Bad means good, right? Boy, I hope that ring gets here quick!

The Pendulum

2010-02-16T21:37:00.012-06:00

I’m one of those “white collar” types, although I don’t actually wear a white collar. I think the last time I wore a white shirt was when Stephanie and I stood up in front of a preacher. But I do sit at a desk, in front of a computer screen. Day after day after day after day… after day, inside those same four walls I sit.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my job and am truly blessed of God to have it. But there’s a yearning inside me to get away. Field personnel come into the office and I bite my lip with envy at the places they go. Just the other day I overheard a guy that’s working in Pennsylvania right now. He was talking about how he drives over to DC or NY for the weekend, just to goof off. I closed my office door so they wouldn’t have to see a grown man cry.

I started this job in 2002, and by late 2005 I found myself with such a yearning to get “out there” that I resigned the desk job to take a field job. Finally – on the road again! Stephanie and I stowed our stuff in a mini storage, put the house on the market and drove to Illinois to do field work. It was cool getting away, but I soon remembered the problem with being on the road. You wish you had a job where you could be home! And so I got this job back.

The saying goes, “Be careful what you wish for – you just might get it!” We want what we can’t have. And then when we get it we realize we want what we used to have. It’s called the pendulum effect.

It’s too hot so you turn the air conditioner on high. It gets too cold real fast so you turn the heater on high to warm things up. You know you should set the thermostat at a happy medium… but you need relief, and you need it now! And the pendulum swings. Single folk are dying for companionship while married folk remember with fondness the fun side of being single. And the pendulum swings.

Over the ages the church has experienced the pendulum effect… back – and – forth… and back again. We recognize the truth that to be a Christian means to be different than the world. “We’re in the world but we’re not of the world.” “Come out from amongst them,” the Bible says, “And be separate”. “Narrow is the path and few they are that find it…” So Christianity becomes about how you dress and what you drive and how you act… and if you’re caught having “fun” – you’re branded with a scarlet letter and excommunicated from the church. And we look down our noses at those “carnal Christians”.

But the pendulum swings. And we realize that our salvation is by grace and through faith, and not of works. And we revel in that grace, so rich and so free. And we call upon the Lord for forgiveness when we miss it… and we begin to find it so easy to miss it. We find ourselves doing what those in the world do – viewing the same Godless movies without remorse… indulging in the excesses that make up “the good life”… because we’re “under grace”. And we look down our noses at those “legalists”.

Caught between two worlds – and constantly being knocked off our feet by that pesky pendulum.

Hey, I have an idea… Let’s set the spiritual thermostat at a happy medium. Let’s realize that we’re living under grace, and honor God with a lifestyle that pleases Him. We might be surprised at how pleased we’d be also. Let’s grow up in this thing to a point that “outsiders” can’t tell whether we’re one of the “preachy” types or one of the “grace-y” types. Actually we’d be both… and we’d be neither. And that pendulum will cease to reverse itself and find rest… in the Lord!

Ahhhhh… that feels good!

Thunder and Lightning - Bells and Whistles

2010-02-14T22:54:00.012-06:00

It was the early 80s and we were opening a bible school at our church. I was working late one evening, laying carpet with one of the guys who would be one of my students at the school when the church phone rang. I answered and the caller identified herself as a woman who attended the church. She was afraid because a guy she used to be involved with was banging on her door.

Why she didn’t call the police I do not know. She apparently felt her best chance was the church… kind of like calling God I guess. Well, all we could do was advise her to hang up and call the police… and that we would pray. And we did pray. Then we returned to our carpet laying.

Thunder and lightning, bells and whistles - that’s what we expect or we deem God to have “not shown up”...

A few minutes later she called back. She said she didn’t need to call the police beause as soon as we hung up this big ole’ guy came up to the lunatic banging on her door, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “You need to leave”. At that point the bad guy ran off. She said she watched him run off, and when she looked back, the big guy was gone.

Visitation from an Angel? Perhaps.

My dad used to say to me, “Son, If you don’t remember anything else I ever say, remember this…”, and then he would say something profound… or not so much. But to him it was important, and in fact, of such great consequence that he wanted me to remember that point above all others. I could fill a book with the “only things” dad wanted me to remember, if only I hadn’t forgotten them all!

But in truth I didn’t forget everything my father told me. I remember him saying, “Son, Don’t miss the miraculous looking for the spectacular!”

We have a tendency to want God to come on the scene in a BIG way; an overwhelming way. Indisputable, undeniable, photographable evidence – thunder and lightning, bells and whistles - that’s what we expect or we deem God to have “not shown up”.

I knew a little spit-fire of an evangelist named Sandy. Sandy used to be a cocktail waitress in Las Vegas, but she got saved and she just went all out for God. She preached and prayed for the sick with a vengeance; a one-woman mission to bring down the kingdom of darkness.

Somebody once asked Sandy if she had ever raised anyone from the dead. She answered that once she saw a wreck on the road and an ambulance pulling away. She said a prayer for the patient in the ambulance, that God would touch him or her. Later she heard that the man in the ambulance died on the way to the hospital, but then came back to life.

Sandy wasn’t seeking credit for that person being raised from the dead, but her prayer very well may have been the difference in the matter – the life or death difference. In fact, doctors see that type of thing occasionally – somebody coming back after having gone too far. But what they don’t see is the prayer chain at the church, or somebody’s grandma on her knees in her closet. If we required the blasting of angelic trumpets and beams of light from heaven to believe God is on the scene, well - we’d miss most of what God does.

A guy tapping a guy on the shoulder – a girl saying a prayer over a passing ambulance… Spectacular? Maybe not, or at least it doesn’t appear to be. But miraculous? Don’t ask me… ask the girl in the apartment… or the guy in the ambulance.

A Fool and His Money

2010-02-13T12:50:00.016-06:00

Red was a good man, and he had a good heart – a heart for the Lord. Red spent hours daydreaming about what he would do with the money, should his numbers be called. He even went so far as to draw up a spreadsheet on his laptop, listing all the folks with which he’d share the winnings, and the largest chunk of the cash would go into the ministry...

Red wasn’t his real name, but all his life he wanted to have a nickname… a handle if you will, that people would grab onto, making him more memorable. One of his favorite movies was The Shawshank Redemption, where Morgan Freeman’s character has the nickname ‘Red’. That seemed odd to Red because Morgan isn’t red…he’s black. And then there’s Red Foxx, again a black man. The only thing red about Red Foxx were the faces of his audience, when he told his off-color jokes. But our Red IS red. At least his hair is, and so it seemed fitting.

Like all of us, Red had his pet vices. For instance, he loved to gamble. Now we’re not talking about gambling as in taking chances in life. Red’s gambling was more along the line of shooting craps and playing poker…and pulling the one armed bandits... you know - slot machines. And if you don’t know – well then, all the better for you. But that’s how Red spent his entertainment dollar.

Now the mother lode of all wagers is the infamous lottery ticket. And Red, who was otherwise a pretty careful guy with the budget, always found a way to get his coveted semi-weekly numbers. Those are the numbers he dreamed would be called. In fact, the spreadsheet on his laptop was file-named “The Dream”.

A foundation would be set up, Red imagined. He’d name it “Win the Lost Foundation” or “Omega Ministries” (because we’re living in the end-times, ya know) or something cool like that. And Red promised God he would do it right, cutting out the wasteful overhead that other ministries carelessly ignore – trimming the fat so that the lean beef of the gospel could go forth to all the corners of the Earth.

“Oh, God”, Red prayed, “If you chose to ‘use’ me in this way, I’ll be SO jealous over every penny…” AND GOD SPOKE, and said, “Do that now, Red. Get jealous over every penny you have now.” Then Red remembered something he’d seen in a book once about being faithful over little, and THEN being made ruler over much. “Let’s see”, Red thought. “What book was that?”

You’re probably screaming right now, “It’s the Bible!” And of course, you’re right. And Red realized it too. In fact, Red realized that what he was dealing with here is not just good advice, but a Spiritual Law – one of those Laws of the Universe that God set up, that scientists have not discovered and that Red had ignored… up until now.

So Red quit buying lottery tickets, and he quit going to casinos. Oh, not because he felt like it was a ‘sin’ or anything like that. Red quit listening to condemnation preachers years ago. But Red didn’t quit listening to God. And God had reminded him of something that, rather than being an onerous rule to be followed, was actually a game plan for victory.

Maybe Red will get that opportunity to cut out the fat and help win the world. But he now understands the metaphor of building one house at a time. And to build a strong house you start with a firm foundation, laid stone by stone with a jealous watch over the laying of each.

You go, Red!

Pillars of the Community

2010-02-12T02:00:00.010-06:00

She’s my wife, she’s my lover, she’s my best friend. But on top of all that – she’s my hero! If you know me well, you know I’m a man of strong beliefs and opinions. But this beautiful woman, who was once a fragile little girl did as much to change my thinking as any philosopher, teacher or preacher who ever crossed my path.

See, I grew up in a nuclear family, a thing that wasn’t as rare in those days as now. When I was in grade school the kid whose parents were divorced was the exception – today, the rule. But our family was not only intact, it was strong. And we came from sturdy stock. Our German heritage went back several generations, with hard working, God revering men who fought in wars and served as deacons of their church - real pillars of the community.

Suffice it to say that if ever there was one who could point to society and say, “It’s your fault!” that right would belong to Stephanie.

But a word often used to describe those staunch German pillar types is PROUD! And the problem with pride is that it can manifest in more than one way. It may present as a profound virtue, tempered with great humility and engendering excellence. Aristotle considered it the crown of all virtues. But on the other side of that coin can be found self-importance, smugness, arrogance and conceit. Heads or Tails? As a young man I tended more to the latter.

So how did Stephanie change my thinking? Oh, every married man or woman will testify to how their spouse changed their thinking. But I’m not talking about the normal, kissy smoochy stuff; or even that change in lifestyle we married folk grow to embrace. I’m talking about a change in the way I understand humanity itself.

See, I had always subscribed to the theory that people are a product of their heredity. Nature-versus-Nurture… I was a nature-boy! If you came from “good blood” you became a “good person”, but if you were born of “bad blood”… well, you get the picture. Even my friend Dave who 28 years ago served on staff with me at the church in Oklahoma City recognized it in me. I remember him saying, “You don’t believe people can change, do you?” I had to admit he was right.

But then I met Stephanie. Now it’s not my intention to lay out the qualities of her pedigree, or lack thereof. The truth is I don’t know that much about her heritage. But I do know that Stephanie came from the quintessential dysfunctional family. It's not needful to list the influences, circumstances or events of her life here. Suffice it to say that if ever there was one who could point to society and say, “It’s your fault!” that right would belong to Stephanie.

And yet, rather than blaming her environment she chose to change her environment. Rather than falling back on the excuse of heredity she drew a line in the sand and said, “This stops now!” And she provided a new heritage for her son, and her son’s sons. A Godly heritage. And the generations to follow will be able to say, we come from sturdy stock… pillars of the community!

So never again will I look at a man and say, “He can’t help it – look where he came from.” Never again will I think, “People can't change.” I have Stephanie to thank for that epiphany.

If you don’t know Stephanie, get to know her. You’ll be better because of it. And if you can figure out why God would grace me with such a precious gift, clue me in. And by the way, she’s not my hero because she changed my thinking. She’s my hero because she changed my World!

Nature or Nurture? I say Neither - But God, and Him glorified. That's the measure of a man... or in this case, a woman! Selah.

My Darkest Hour - My Brightest Day

2010-02-11T00:18:00.016-06:00

The Doctor, a personable young woman, went out of her way to compliment us on doing “everything” a good parent could by getting the child to a doctor and on to the hospital. Later we realized she was just trying to ease the pain we would surely face when daybreak found the baby no longer alive. But there were forces at work the likes of which this doctor was not aware…

In April 1987 I was blessed with the birth of my second child; a man-cub I named John Reece. When you have a girl and a boy they call that a millionaire’s family. And I think I know why. I felt like the richest man on earth. But nine months later I found myself facing the darkest hour a man could know. My baby boy was sick - and getting sicker.

I found myself facing the darkest hour a man could know. My baby boy was sick - and getting sicker...

All weekend long he cried. His mother and I tried everything to ease his pain, and when the meds knocked him out he slept. But when he woke up he cried… and cried. And I cried. Then he quit crying. He went to the sitters on Monday, and she said he just wanted to lie in her lap and sleep all day. When he wouldn’t wake up on Tuesday we decided it was time for him to be seen by a doctor.

The doctor drew some blood and did a quick test. Then he said something that grips my heart to this day, “Drive him to Children’s Hospital as quickly as possible. It would take too long to get an ambulance.” The Doctor called ahead and they were waiting for us. And a spinal tap confirmed every parent’s worst nightmare. My baby boy had spinal meningitis! Now there are two types of meningitis, viral and bacterial. His was bacterial – the kind with the highest mortality rate.

I must now confess that if John Reece Kepler had to rely on the faith of his father alone to live and not die, he probably would not have seen another sunrise. I looked at the pale white complexion of that lifeless ragdoll of a child and it took all the fortitude I could muster to keep from collapsing on the floor. But thank God I was not alone in this battle.

After a short while family began to arrive at the hospital – praying family. First my parents, then my sister Linda and her husband Dan, and then my brother Joe and his wife Brenda. We stood in a circle around John’s bed to pray. But I didn’t have any prayer in me… I was whipped. And dad was whipped. He’d stepped into the room, and at the first sight of John he lost his color too. You know, it’s wonderful how God puts the right person in the right place at the right time. My brother-in-law Dan Oden led the prayer. And he prayed a bold prayer, a powerful prayer, a Word of God prayer… the kind of prayer you want when you’re at that place in life you hoped you’d never see.

And my spirits started to lift. A slight hint of boldness began to eek its way back into my heart again. In warfare there sometimes comes a point where the shift in momentum is obvious. Soon the doctor came in to check on John. “This child is 100% improved over the last half hour!” he declared. And we rejoiced.

But the battle was not yet over. It was actually at this point the personable young doctor offered her words of encouragement that failed to mask her expectation of what the night would bring. And when she came in the next morning and found the child still alive, her amazement was just as evident.

All in all John spent 10 days and nights in a bed in Children’s Hospital. And during those 10 days we were counseled on what we might encounter as a result of such a devastating illness. We were warned of the possibility of deafness, epilepsy, learning or behavioral disabilities as well as decreased intelligence. But all I could think was, “I don’t care! I don’t care what condition he’s in. I just want my boy to live!”

Now I might sound like a father without objectivity if I told you that John is perfect. So I’ll just say that his recovery was 100%. I’m not aware of a single lingering hint of the terrible battle he fought and won. His healing was and is complete. To God be the Glory!

I’ve heard people say, “God must have something special for him to have saved him from such a sure death.” But I don’t agree. Oh, I believe God has something special for him… but no more than he has something special for you and for me. So why was John healed to go on to a full and happy life when others die? I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but one thing I know – spiritual warfare was waged… and our side was victorious!

So John, know that God loves you and He has a plan for your life. And son, it’s a Wonderful Life!

To The Moon, Stephanie

2010-02-10T12:12:00.008-06:00

Every year my wife Stephanie and I take a vacation. If you don’t get away from it all at least once a year, you should! I used to have a pastor that said he got away one day a week, one weekend a month and one month a year. I remember wondering if he takes one year per decade. How about one decade per century?

This year we’re considering an unusual destination for our trip – The Moon!

See, I saw a news report that the President has nixed the funding for NASA to go back to the moon. Folks, nobody in this country that’s my age or younger can even remember a United States of America without a space program. So I figure it’s our patriotic duty to do this thing.

“How can you get to the Moon?” you might ask. Well… I think I have that figured out. We’re all aware of the fact that the entire technological capabilities used by NASA for the Apollo missions can now be duplicated with one laptop computer. As it happens, I have a laptop computer. In fact, in the spirit of the redundancy that is so important in space exploration, I actually have two laptop computers. Well, one is Stephanie’s, but if she’s going along I’m sure she won’t mind loaning it to the cause.

“But do you have a rocket-ship?” you might ask. OK… good question. I remember this movie I saw once, starring Andy Griffith, where they used a cement mixer truck as a rocket ship (the mixer part, not the truck part). So I know it’s do-able. Now I can’t afford one of those big cement trucks, and I’m afraid a scaled down, home-use model might not have a big enough mixer can for... uhummmm - my can (as it were). Besides, I’m not going alone. Stephanie is going with me. So I did some figuring, and I determined that a Volkswagen Beetle is about the same size as a commercial cement mixer. It’s also about as ugly – but that’s just one man’s opinion.

So, for the price of a used VW Bug and a bunch of Tang we’re off on the adventure of a lifetime. We enjoyed the Rocky Mountains last year, but I’m guessing they will pale in comparison to this trip. Last year we fished. This year I’m thinking I’ll take my golf clubs. I understand you can get a lot of distance out of your driver up there.

“But can you muster the G-Force necessary to leave the atmosphere?” you might ask. Boy, you’re sure full of questions today! Do I drill you about all the details of your vacation? OK… fair question I guess. I figure if NASA isn’t using those solid rocket fuel cells maybe they’re going to be offered in a Government Surplus Auction. I’m watching the website, to place my bid. I’ll just duct tape one of those babies to my Bug – problem solved.

“But those Bugs have a pretty thin skin. Aren’t you worried it’ll burn up on re-entry?” you might ask. Who says we’re coming back?! Of course, if you go somewhere and don’t come back, that’s not a vacation – it’s a move. Maybe I better get a U-Haul truck for this trip… and a couple more of those surplus fuel cells!

Of course I’m just kidding about not coming back. We always pretend we’re not coming back. But I’ve never taken a vacation where I had all the details worked out in advance. We’ll deal with getting there first. Then, when we’re ready to come home we’ll figure out the particulars of the return trip. And I’m thinking that by then there’ll be new technologies to provide us with an easy answer.

See, we’re going to be there for quite a while - it’s our decade to get away this century.

The Fairgrounds 500

2010-02-09T13:05:00.043-06:00

If you live in or near Oklahoma City you know what this city excels at – tearing things down. You may have been around back in the 70s when a program called Urban Renewal ripped and tore its way through downtown OKC, replacing beautiful architecture with parking lots. Reference the old Biltmore Hotel.

I remember when I was a kid and dad told me, “Son, they’re gonna build a highway across downtown Oklahoma City that’s up in the air…on stilts.” “No way, dad!” But they did. It’s called Interstate 40. But it won’t be for much longer. We’re poised to tear it down soon.

But the next domino to fall is the State Fairgrounds Speedway. Now, I will confess it’s been years since I’ve visited the speedway. In fact, I can only recall attending one or two events there in my life. When I was about 12 dad took me to a Mustang Precision Driving event. It was so cool to see those Mustangs jump over each other and weave between one another at high speeds, barely avoiding catastrophe. It was entirely awesome.

What I remember most are the clowns. Now those guys could drive! Until one of the little clown cars broke down. The clown got out and raised the hood - and called out his findings to the announcer, who repeated them to the crowd. “The generator won’t gen… the carburetor won’t carb … the pistons won’t - WAIT A MINUTE! This is a family show.” The crowd roared in laughter - probably because they were starved for entertainment. I laughed too, after dad explained it to me.

This is the point where I confess that if the speedway was not being torn down, I still wouldn't be a patron. I just don’t enjoy it that much. Oh, I realize auto racing, and specifically NASCAR, is one of the most popular sports in America. It's just not one of my favorites. A guy waves a flag and then a few dozen cars drive around in circles for several hours. The one that doesn’t have a wreck or run out of gas wins a trophy and a bunch of money… and a kiss from a pretty girl - if his wife isn’t watching. Then they load up their cars into trucks and drive to the next state to do it all again.

There are a couple of things I’ve always wondered about with NASCAR. First, why do they put a perfectly good car inside a truck to haul it to the next race? Hey, it’s a car! You can drive it to the next race! Save some money.

The second question I have is – can I drive in your race? If you knew what my rush-hour commute is like you guys would be jealous of me. I weave back and forth, jockeying with other cars for the lead. I don’t run out of gas and I haven’t wrecked yet. All I need is a pretty girl standing in my driveway with a trophy and a check every day. My wife’s a pretty girl. How about it honey?

Didn't think so!

And so we say goodbye to OKC’s only racetrack. Well… I should say OKC’s only “legal” racetrack. We can still race our cars across I-40… for a few more weeks anyway.

Hey, at least we have plenty of places to park!

Six Bucks a Quart

2010-02-08T11:53:00.005-06:00

There’s been a lot of talk lately about how bad the economy has been. And rightly so – things have been difficult for many if not most. It’s at times like these we find unique and creative ways to get by. Let me share a couple of the ways I’ve coped.

There’s a thrift store in town where you can get Polo, Nautica and Eddie Bauer shirts for under twenty bucks. Of course, somewhere out there is a guy that has already decided this shirt isn’t a keeper. It may be because he’s so rich he changes his wardrobe every few weeks, or it could be that he’s gone on a diet and lost a lot of weight (more likely gained). I just hope he isn’t among the “dearly departed”. I’d hate to think I’m wearing the threads a guy died in. Usually I tell myself, “Someone got this as a gift and didn’t like the color so he never wore it.” Of course, that doesn’t work if the dry cleaning service has already stenciled a name in it.

Another way to save money is to buy those cheap “knock-offs” of the expensive colognes. After all, there isn’t really a difference is there? I discovered this cheap imitation of a fragrance that works for me. It’s like Cool Water – makes me smell handsome, which, trust me, is no small task. Just look up the definition of “handsome” in the dictionary. It says, “Not Reece”. Of course it’s penciled in… and I can’t quite discern whose handwriting that is. Maybe it’s time for me to buy a new dictionary.

But a word of warning to you single guys out there. If she smells your cologne and says, “You smell nice. What’s that fragrance?” LIE, Gentlemen, LIE! Lie like a lawyer for the Mafia. Or say something vague, like, “Oh, you like it? Thanks! You smell nice too!” Notice how suave and debonair that was? She’ll think she’s dating Cary Grant. Just don’t tell her you’re wearing cologne you bought at 7-11 for six bucks a quart.

Oh, by the way, earlier I said there’s really no difference between the cheap stuff and the real stuff. Well, last Valentine’s Day my wife bought me a bottle of the original - Cool Water by Davidoff for Men. And brother let me tell you, this stuff makes the six dollar stuff smell like swamp water. And you can get it at Sam’s Club for thirty-nine bucks a bottle (a very small bottle). I’ll sure be glad when the economy bounces back. I’m tired of smelling like handsome pond scum.

And no, I’m not telling you where that thrift store is. We might wear the same size.

All Dogs Go To Heaven

2010-02-07T17:05:00.014-06:00

Twice every other week averages out to once per week, doesn't it? That's how often I make the drive from Oklahoma City to Tulsa, and back again. That's because every other weekend Stephanie's son Jerry comes down to spend the weekend with us. I go get him on Friday evening, and I take him home on Sunday afternoon. Today was one of those Sunday afternoons.

When I was younger I wasn't so moved by the sight of an animal in distress. But as I've aged my heart has softened - tenderized if you will. Now, when I see something in the road ahead I breathe a quick prayer that I'm not about to witness what's left over from the unfortunate meeting of a vehicle with an animal. Such prayer was not answered this afternoon.

I had been watching for deer as I like to do on this drive when I spotted something on the side or the road ahead. It was smaller than a deer, and black. As the gap closed I recognized the form of a dog standing in the grass. Then I saw why. He was standing vigil over his buddy, a beautiful brown dog that had not made it across the highway.

My heart was saddened, as it always is when I see a dog dead on the road. But today the pain was doubled by the fact that a friend was left behind. Blackie just stood there, wondering what to do. I recalled a story told me once by the shuttle driver at a hotel, about a small dog that dragged his buddy's carcass out of the road, and I wondered if Blackie was going to do this.

An hour later my trip brought me by this location again. Of course, the brown dog was still there. The highway department will deal with him - hopefully before my next trip in two weeks. But Blackie was no longer standing over his pal. I gather he finally moved along, back to his homestead and hopefully to more buddies. Those rural homes usually have more than a couple of dogs around.

As soon as I got to the house I kissed my wife and loved on our dogs. If you have dogs do me a favor - before you go to bed tonight double check your gate. Especially if you live near a route that I drive.

I'll make you laugh in tomorrow's blog. Tonight I'm just too melancholy.

The Thrill of the Hunt

2010-02-05T23:00:00.003-06:00

Usually when someone goes by an alias it’s because they’re hiding from the law, or maybe from their fans, real or imaginary. Texans often find it wise to use an alias while north of the river – especially during football season. I know of a whole species from Texas that goes by an alias when in Oklahoma…the Texas Horned Lizard.

Known in Oklahoma as the horny toad, the Texas Horned Lizard is one scary looking creature. But as they say, ugly is only skin deep. These guys are really nice little fellers. They don’t bark or bite, but when frightened they do shoot blood out of their eyes. So try not to frighten one.

Let me tell you about my favorite horny toad of all time. He wasn’t around long enough for me to catch his name… just long enough for him to steal my heart! So I’ll just call him Hellboy (because of the horns).

It was Easter Sunday and my niece Beverly and little sister Brenda, only 4 days apart in age and both just cute as a button, were itching for an Easter egg hunt. So the whole family loaded up in cars and headed to the local park. As it happened we chose the park that Hellboy called home. We weren’t there long before we discovered Hellboy, and pointed him out to the girls. They were fascinated and frightened, but there were eggs to be found. So the hunt began. And that’s when it happened.

Beverly’s Grandpa Kepler saw that she was about to step on an Easter egg, so he yelled out a warning, “Watch out Beverly!” Now if you read this blog regularly you know our family has German heritage. But you would have known it anyway if you’d been there to see little Beverly as she goose stepped across the park. Everyone laughed…except Beverly. She just screamed. As it turned out she thought Hellboy was out to get her. But I’m guessing she scared him more than he scared her.

Horny toads aren’t as common as they once were. In fact, they are protected now by the State. But occasionally I do see one. And when I do, it conjures up this image in my mind of Beverly and Hellboy goose stepping across the park together, hand in paw.

I’m not sure what ever happened to Hellboy. Beverly moved on to bigger lizards!

Famous People Born Today

2010-02-04T12:48:00.016-06:00

All things being equal, today is a special day for 18,611,111 people, more or less. See, the United States Census Bureau estimates the world population as of today to be 6,800,500,000. An easier way to say that would be a little over 6.8 billion people. And they’re all coming to your house for dinner! Ok…not really. Just me!

Anyway, if you take that 6.8 billion and divide by 365.4 (the approximate number of days in a year) you come up with 18.6 million people – having a birthday today. OK…I know more people are born in certain months, and nine months after a cold snap or a power outage, and blah blah blah. That’s why I said, “All things being equal…”

Some of the more famous people having birthdays today: Charles Lindbergh, who crossed an ocean to get away from a crowd of people. And then there’s Oscar De La Hoya, the boxer who’s famous for his baby face, or at least he was before Floyd Mayweather gave him a 12 round facelift.

I see that Alice Cooper and Dan Quayle are having birthdays today. I get those two mixed up. One of them sang about school being out and the other was out of school on the day they taught spelling.

And a couple more famous people with birthdays today are Brandon “Bug” Hall and Rebekah Flanagan. You remember “Bug” Hall. He played Buster, the kid in the movie “The Stupids”. If you haven’t seen “The Stupids”… don’t! It's just too stupid. And Rebekah Flanagan played the role of Reece’s firstborn child in the movie….wait a minute! That‘s not a movie. It’s REAL LIFE!

Rebekah is famous in my eyes for so many things I couldn’t start to name them all. Her entire childhood is one fond memory after another - mostly of her beautiful smile, or when she gave me “the look”! And I’ll never forget when she came to me and said, “Dad, I need to tell you something…” She didn’t even have the words out of her mouth yet and my grin was ear to ear. A few months later she gave me my granddaughter, Kiley! If you didn't get to see Rebekah's smile as a kid, just look at Kiley's!

If Rebekah had never accomplished anything of note in her life I would still be proud of her. But listen to this – she put herself through college…and graduated! I would have loved to have been able to pay for my kids to get their degree, but it just wasn’t happening. Undeterred, she arranged the grants and loans, juggled her schedule, attended night classes and got her sheepskin – all the while working full time and having a kid! This one's gonna go far in life.

So join me in wishing my beautiful daughter Rebekah a happy birthday today.

♫ “Happy birthday to you ♫ Happy Birthday to you ♫ Happy Birthday, Dear Rebekah ♫ Happy birthday to youuuuuuuu!” ♫

I love you, sweetheart!

Malice of Four Thoughts

2010-02-03T22:01:00.007-06:00

Driving my granddaughter home from church tonight I saw a marquee at the corner drug store that read “HINI SHOTS, $15.00”.

My first thought was, “If hiney shots are fifteen bucks, I wonder how much shots in the arm are.” My second thought was, “They misspelled hiney. It’s not H-i-n-i… it’s H-i-n-e-y."

My third thought was, “Oh…that doesn’t say hiney, it says H-1-N-1”. You know - what we used to call swine flu, until the pig farmers got upset because people were thinking you could catch it from eating a ham sandwich.

My fourth thought was, “I never got one of those shots. I wonder if I should.” See, I heard that if you caught it back in the 70’s when swine flu was making its last appearance, you may be immune now. And I remember being pretty sick back in the 70’s. But then, I was doing some things in the 70’s that can make a guy pretty sick. And to quote Forrest Gump, “That’s all I’ve got to say about thayat!”

My wife Stephanie struggled with a bout of the swine flu a couple of months ago, and I tended to her needs. You’d think if I was going to catch it, it would have back then. So I figure I’m good to go in the flu department.

But then again, for fifteen bucks, you’re better safe than sorry. So I was just about to decide in favor of getting that shot, when I saw another sign. Across the street from the corner drugstore is the corner convenience store. Their sign reads “Hotdog meal, $2.00”. You mean to tell me, for the cost of a flu shot I could kill 7 ½ hotdog meals?

But then it dawned on me – aren’t hotdogs made out of swine? I better get that shot first, just in case.

Oh Brother, Who Art Thou?

2010-02-02T18:33:00.021-06:00

History and literature are full of intriguing stories of babies being switched at birth. It’s usually the story of a poor fellow finding out he’s really the son of a rich family, or even royalty…and vice versa. Mark Twain kicked it up a notch in his story “Pudd’nhead Wilson”, where a white baby and a black baby were switched, with both passing for members of the other’s race.

Babies being switched at birth – that just doesn’t really happen much in modern society. Hospitals go to great lengths to document which baby goes with which mommy. I think it’s to avoid getting sued. Having said that let me say…I’m pretty sure my brother was switched at birth!

Andy-ites, we’re called. We recognize one another… I’m not permitted to tell you how. I will say there’s a handshake involved...

Why do I say that? Well, all my life I was called Opie. The reason for that is because I resembled Ronnie Howard, who played the role of Opie Taylor, the fictional son of fictional Sheriff Andy Taylor, of the fictional town of Mayberry. Ron Howard (he goes by Ron now) was born in Duncan, Oklahoma in 1954. My brother Joe was born in Duncan, Oklahoma in 1954. Ron Howard resembles me. I resemble my dad…ergo Ron Howard resembles my dad. My brother Joe does not bear resemblance to my dad…well, not as much as me and my real brother, Ron. Ron and I have the red hair and the freckles. Joe has black hair. Now that I think about it, Ron’s little brother, Clint Howard has black hair, or at least he did when he had hair. And Joe kind of resembles Clint (except not nearly as scary looking). How much more proof do we need?!

Granted, Ron was born on March 1, whereas Joe was born on July 10. But that’s only 4 months and 10 days difference. Perhaps Joe’s real mom took him in for his 4 month and 10 day checkup, and then, in her haste to get home and catch the latest movie about babies being switched at birth, she accidentally grabbed the wrong kid. See, they didn’t have VCRs back then.

I would like to tell you here and now that “The Andy Griffith Show” is my wife’s favorite program. That’s what I’d like to tell you. The truth is - she can’t stand it. But it is my favorite program. And, like the Shriners or the Skull and Crossbones, many are the followers of “The Society of Mayberry”. Andy-ites, we’re called. We recognize one another… I’m not permitted to tell you how. I will say there’s a handshake involved. The reason this is relevant is because, like me, Ron is an Andy-ite. Joe may claim to be an Andy-ite, but he doesn’t know the handshake. I think he might actually be a Barney-ite, or even an Otis-ite.

But mom and dad did take him in and raise him as their own. Perhaps it was to save 4 months and 10 days of diapers. After all, money was tight for mom and dad. But I will say this - Joe and I grew up together, and we love each other as brothers would. So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he really is my “blood” brother. But if you don’t mind, I’ll wait for the DNA results. In the mean time…Ron – I’m here for you if you need me, “Bro”!

Unsolicited Advice to A Pastoral Search Team

2010-01-31T20:05:00.015-06:00

Today’s Episode of The First Reece is being preempted for a personal message to the committee charged with finding a new Pastor for Highpointe Church. The usual mix of laughter, wit and inspiration will resume tomorrow.

Dear Pastoral Search Committee:

In the January 4, 2010 entry of this blog I observed that “Some board or committee or other entity is going to read resumes and interview candidates, and present me with my new pastor”. I now know who the members of that committee are. You are all good people; Godly people; people whose judgment I trust. And so it is with excitement I await your findings. Meantime, I wish to offer this unsolicited advice.

Don’t try to replace Darren & Michelle Pilcher. They are irreplaceable. If God moved them on, then God has an incredible plan for Highpointe Church. That plan is what we seek.

Don’t get in a hurry. In the Kingdom of God timing is everything. But that timing is God’s timing. At the right time he will open the right door and we will have the right Pastor. In the meantime there’s a whole ball team’s worth of able preachers and teachers to tend the flock! Fat and sassy with ministerial excellence, are we!

Throw out the man-made model. God gave a multitude of ministry gifts to the church, but somewhere along the way the “modern” church changed the plan. The term “Pastor” has been redefined to become a person of many hats. In churches all over America they no longer have Evangelists preach – the Pastor does it. He gave Teachers to expound his doctrine…but now that’s the job of the Pastor. Administrative gifts…God gave us a slew of them. But many Pastors make all the decisions, by force or desire. I don’t mean to imply that Highpointe Church has ever followed this pattern, but many do.

Oh, a Pastor may ultimately do all those things, and more. But first and foremost, he is the shepherd of the sheep. So give me a Pastor who has the heart of a Pastor. I’m not interested in how large the congregation can grow. I’m not impressed by multiple services or satellite locations. If it happens, it happens. But when it happens will my Pastor still know my name, what I do for a living, and what gifts God has placed in me? Here’s what I want in a Pastor – someone who has a picture of me in his heart!

Sound selfish? Perhaps. But remember what Paul said in Ephesians 4 – my Pastor is God’s gift to me!

So if there is a litmus test for the position of Pastor, it’s this: Would he leave the ninety and nine, and seek the one? Find a Pastor who would seek to know his sheep; who would seek to tend his sheep… and you will have done a good thing!

I know you folks already know all this. I just wanted to make it look like it was my idea!

And by the way…thank you for your service!

Sincerely, Reece

The African in the Closet

2010-01-30T12:25:00.017-06:00

The year is 1900, or 1800…..or 1700, it doesn’t matter. The point is that it’s not current times. The place is Africa – a tribal village in the darkest depths of the jungle. The people are cannibals, feasting on the captured of other tribes, or missionaries whenever possible. The focus is on one of the natives. He’s the alpha male; leader of the pack. In modern day Sicily he would be the Godfather, but we’re not in modern day Sicily, we’re in ancient Africa. This chieftain is naked except for a breech-cloth (which is probably to accommodate modern day TV viewers). He’s tall but pot bellied, and adorned in an elaborate headdress of feathers and bones, like the bone through his pierced nose. He holds a six foot long spear decorated to match his headgear, and he’s standing impatiently in front of a large black pot over a blazing fire…waiting for it to boil.

My maternal grandmother was a sweet lady – we called her Nanny. She was a member of the 20th century, born six years after its beginning and dying 2 years before its end. Back then men went out to build something or kill something, and the wives and mothers and grandmothers made the house a home with their cooking and cleaning…and sewing and cooking… and cooking. This was my Nanny, and every summer we grandkids would take 2 week turns enjoying the fruits of her labors. Oh yeah, and she took us fishing!

I’ve introduced you to two people. Right now you are probably wondering what one has to do with the other.

I was a young adult, and had dropped by to visit my aging Nanny. She bustled around getting bedding together and making sure I would be comfortable during my overnight stay. They she said something funny…something so funny that it has been fodder for hilarity in my family for decades now.

“If you get cold there’s an African in the closet!”

Now, if I had just told you about my Nanny and what she said, you may have pictured Martin Luther King or someone you work with. But this is my story, a boy raised on Saturday Morning episodes of Tarzan. And so I painted for you the picture conjured in my mind when I was told I could warm up with the “African in the closet”! That boiling pot would have warmed me for sure!

In case you missed it altogether, she was saying, “There’s an afghan in the closet.” Nanny wasn’t skilled in the Queens’ English, but she did crochet a warm afghan, and her love for us was even warmer! Please know it’s not my intention to disrespect Africans, or to make fun of my Nanny - but to preserve a fond memory of her as she was.

There were a few other words for which she had unique pronunciations. So next time you see my mom or my brother…or one of my sisters, ask the question, “Do you have a koop'-un so I can buy some bat'-trees for my kam'-rey? I want to take a picture of the African in the closet!”

Just watch out for that spear!

West Wingin’ It

2010-01-30T01:00:00.001-06:00

One morning a few weeks back I was getting ready for work, and as usual I turned on the television to check the morning news, weather and traffic. I accidentally ran across a rerun of The West Wing, airing on a cable channel. My first thought was, “I could call in sick!” I really believe that if there would have been a second episode airing, I would have found a way to stay home and watch it.

While I am a man of deep convictions, I have endeavored in this blog not to talk religion or politics, lest it become just another rant from another zealot that would go largely unread, even by those who love me most. But since I brought up the subject, I will confess that I am unashamedly evangelical in my religious beliefs and conservative in my politics. If you are not, that’s ok with me.

See, while my opinions on most things political tend to align with those of the Republican Party, I am able to see clearly why Democrats believe what they do. You don’t have to agree with somebody to understand…even appreciate their viewpoint. In fact, with few exceptions I believe most of us want the same things; to feed the poor, to clothe the naked and to bring comfort to those who mourn. The difference is in the method.

When the Star Spangled Banner or God Bless America is being played, I think it doesn’t matter whether you are Republican or Democrat…your hand goes to your heart. And if you’re like me, you pretend to have a sniffle, to mask the tears beginning to well up.

And that brings me back to the show “West Wing”. I’ve been asked, “How can you watch that show? It’s a show where the liberals are in charge. The bills they support and the policies they advocate are contrary to what you believe.” And in many cases that is true. Sometimes I just have to grimace when I hear something about the outlawing of guns or making abortion more readily available. It’s those times I have to look past the dialogue and recognize the character behind it.

See, it’s the patriotism that draws me in; the respect shown the President of our United States; the love of country depicted in the characters that chose to pursue a career in politics because of their desire to see things made better. The writing is nothing less that excellent; laced with just the right amount of wit and humor. The acting, with few exceptions, is top notch. And I often find myself sniffling to mask the tears that are beginning to well up.

This evening my next door neighbor, Patrick, brought over the whole first season on DVD for me to watch. I just finished episode three and am writing this as fast as I can, anxious to get back to “my” show.

God Bless you, Patrick…and God Bless America.

The Little Blue Pill

2010-01-29T13:00:00.026-06:00

My e-mail box at work has this feature where it diverts junk mail into a holding box. I go into that box once every couple of weeks or so, and do a quick scan for any valid messages that may have been flagged improperly. I seldom find real messages there, and when I do it’s usually one day after the deadline for the matter being addressed.

But it’s not really the prospect of finding good messages that keeps bringing me back to the Junk Mail Box. It’s the fakes that make it all worthwhile - they can be so entertaining. There are several types of junk messages that seem to be making the current rounds:

“Your bank needs updated information”. Frankly, anybody that clicks on that one probably deserves what they get! (Did I say that out loud?)

How about the “Let’s get acquainted” message – usually from a girl with a foreign sounding name, like Ingrid or Brigitte...or Anastasia. I’m supposed to think she wants to get to know me because, even though she’s absolutely gorgeous and the life of the party, she has trouble getting men to chat with her. (Hint – it’s really a 60 year old fat guy with hair growing out of his moles.)

For some reason I get a lot of junk mail wanting to sell me a watch. These are obviously from people that have read my blogs about my Rolex Watch.

What I get the most are ads to sell me little blue pills. For those of you too innocent to know, that is referring to Viagra, a medicine to treat a malady known as ED - (look it up). Please tell me you get these ads too! Surely I haven’t been singled out.

But the funniest ones of all are the messages that show my own e-mail address as the sender. Hey, if “I” sent the e-mail I would have known it. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have sent myself an e-mail at all. I would have just told myself directly, or written myself a note.

But then I remembered the movie “Sybil”. So I guess there is the possibility that I have multiple personalities, and am trying to communicate with myself. So far I haven’t answered myself. I keep deleting my e-mails. I’m probably pretty frustrated with me by now.

But then…I’ve got to wonder…why would I want to sell myself Viagra? Do I know something I don’t know?

Time for a Social Check-Up?

2010-01-28T18:56:00.009-06:00

Somebody once said “no man is an Island”. Actually it was the same guy that said not to ask “for whom the bell tolls”. That sounded like good advice to me, so I didn’t ask. Anyway, I’ve seen “It’s A Wonderful Life” so I know “whom” the bell tolls for. That’s how Clarence the Angel got his wings! But back to the island thing – the point is that everybody wants to belong.

When you’re a kid you see a group of kids hanging out, and you gravitate to them. Usually they look at you funny for a minute, and then invite you to play. And before you know it you’re the new 3rd baseman for the sandlot team.

But the older you get the harder it gets to fit in. In my high school we had three distinct groups - hippies, jocks and goat ropers. I was in the fourth group…everybody else. See, my hair wasn’t long and I didn’t do drugs so I didn’t fit in with the hippies. And while I had as much athletic ability as the next guy, I wasn’t on the team. And I didn’t own a horse…or a goat! So I muddled through - one of the nameless, faceless.

By the time you’re an adult there’s a name for this whole belonging thing – cliques. Cliques are socially driven, and by their nature, exclusive. That’s all well and good, as long as you’re not the one being excluded. Cliques are everywhere…like that group at work that goes to lunch together. By the way, your suspicions are well founded. They are talking about you behind your back.

And you know where these cruel and heartless assemblages seem to really thrive? At church! Now, you may be thinking, “there aren’t any cliques at my church”. That means one of two things – either you’re too blissfully ignorant of such things to notice, or you’re in the clique!

So, if you find yourself waiting for “certain” people to walk off before deciding which restaurant “everyone” is headed to; if you have to talk in code to keep from hurting someone’s feelings... you might want to do a social gut-check, maybe even a spiritual gut-check. The humility will do you good.

But don’t expect to start hanging out with me!

Rocket Science Comes to Edmond

2010-01-27T01:00:00.026-06:00

Ever been arrested? The closest I ever got to a jail cell was in Edmond, Oklahoma in the summer of ‘71. For all I know there may still be a warrant out for me.

If you are on Broadway and you drive straight north through Edmond, you will run smack into a cemetery. Now, behind that cemetery there used to be a drive in movie theatre, The Woodstock. It was small and showed 2nd rate movies, but it was close and it was cheap, and the local kids hung out there.

Calculating the angles and trajectories needed, factoring in the speed of the car and the length of the fuse… Rocket Science had come to Edmond...

Across the road from the drive-in was undeveloped land. Oh, it’s all houses now, but back then it was untouched by human hands…or at least by human bulldozers. Several hundred feet back from the road was a tree line, and what we referred to as “The Black Forest”. And that’s where it happened.

Three or four of us decided to camp out in the Black Forest one Friday night. So we pitched our tent and laid out our sleeping bags, and got all settled in for the night. Then we went on the prowl. First we went to town on our motorcycles and watched a movie at Edmond’s only indoor theatre. Then we grabbed some food and headed back to the tent. But we were bored, and it was still early, and… we had fireworks!

We were innocently popping our firecrackers and shooting our bottle rockets when one of the rockets strayed over in front of the drive-in movie screen, and exploded there…big as Dallas. Cool! So, what was at first an accident became a mission. We started firing our bottle rockets at the drive-in screen like four kids without a single brain cell among us.

Then I was stricken with a flash of genius. “Let’s shoot ‘em at cars!” Yeah…I know…it took a whole kettle of stupid to come up with that one.

Being a distant cousin of Johannes Kepler, I started calculating the angles and trajectories needed, factoring in the speed of the car and the length of the fuse… Rocket science had come to Edmond! And now a car turns onto Broadway headed north. Hold it…wait a second…not yet…not yet…NOW! I lit the fuse! The rocket shot out of the bottle, straight for the car, and in what must have been the most perfect mathematical calculation in the history of science, that rocket exploded just as it hit the windshield of that car…on the driver’s side!

Now I didn’t stop to think what effect it would have on the driver of that car. That would have been grown-up thinking – something I wasn’t capable of at that time. But what happened next was something I certainly didn’t anticipate. I mean, the forces of the universe just couldn’t be this cruel. Red lights started to spin. I SHOT A COP CAR!

The cop flipped on his spotlight and aimed it at the field. Remember, the tree line is several hundred feet back. Thankfully the field had some high grass in it, and when the spotlight came close to us we hit the ground, flat on our bellies. Then we got up and ran. Running and dropping - dropping and running... it was a scene out of "The Great Escape". Finally we made it to the trees. We scurried into our tent and zipped it up. We crawled inside the sleeping bags and zipped them up. But first we hid the fireworks and matches…inside the tent! Like I said… not a brain cell among us.

The cop never found our tent. Maybe he was afraid of the evil spirits in the Black Forest. But more likely the movie manager had called him to come out and run us off…and he accomplished that task. He DEFINITELY accomplished that task!

Apparently shooting a cop car isn’t so serious if you just do it with a bottle rocket. But I won’t be doing it again. I can’t run that fast any more.

Bottle rockets are illegal in Oklahoma now. It's known as Reece's Law!

Photo courtesy of NASA

All Out War

2010-01-26T01:00:00.010-06:00

Did you catch the movie “American Graffiti”? It’s a rock-n-roll and hot-rods flick about one evening in the lives of a bunch of high school seniors in Southern California. The tagline for the film is the question “Where were you in ’62?”

I know exactly where I was in ’62. Dad and mom had purchased their first house, a quaint little tract home in a modest neighborhood in south OKC. It was a young neighborhood and it was full of first-time homeowners and renters, with small children like my brother, my sister and me. When the school bus stopped in the middle of our block it seemed like three hundred kids poured out, ready to play in the street until dinner call.

A few houses down lived this family I'll call the Sandersons (not their real name). The Sandersons were a different breed than us…in fact, different than most. The dad was kind of a shifty-eyed type; short in stature and grimy under the fingernails. And he was always swiggin’ a brew. The mom had a cigarette butt hanging out the side of her mouth and a perpetual snarl tattooed on her face…classic caricatures! And they had three kids close to our age.

Two of them were ok I guess, although I seem to remember the oldest being in trouble all the time. But their boy, Ricky, (not his real name) was the very definition of a juvenile delinquent! This boy was trouble with a capital T. If anything happened in the neighborhood the cops knew where to look. He threw rocks at windows, kicked dogs and went out of his way to make children cry. If someone was riding their bicycle down the street, he would run out and shove a stick through the spokes…just to see what would happen I guess.

And we were frequently the butt of his mischief. Time after time one of us would run in the house crying or angry about something Ricky Sanderson had done to us. And time after time dad would tell us to just shake it off. But then one day… one terrible and glorious day, dad had enough. And for as long as I live I will never forget what happened next.

Dad asked us to leave the room because he had a phone call to make. But being in the next room didn’t make any difference. We could hear every word dad said. I expect the neighbors could hear every word dad said. In fact, the Sandersons just lived down the street. I don’t know why he bothered to use the phone at all.

Ring-Ring. “Hello.” “Sanderson, this is Kepler. Sanderson, things are about to change. Either you start controlling that boy, or we’re gonna have ALL OUT WAR. Now Sanderson, your kids are bigger than my kids and they’ll probably whip my kids. And your old lady may or may not be able to whip mine. But I’ll tell you what, Sanderson, when you come out of your house in the morning to go to work I’m gonna be standing there and I’m gonna stomp you’re a-- through the driveway! And when you get home from work I’m gonna be waiting, and I’m gonna stomp you’re a-- through the driveway! And then, just before I go to bed, I’m gonna come over and drag you out of your house and stomp you’re a-- through the driveway. And I’m gonna do it three times a day, every day until your kids quit picking on my kids!” … and he hung up.

A few days passed, and our phone rang. “Mr. Kepler”, he said…this is “Mr. Sanderson”. Have my kids been behaving themselves ok?” “Yes, Sanderson, things seem to be better”.

Not too long after that the Sandersons moved away - and the neighborhood rejoiced! I think we threw a block party and danced in the nude! Maybe not.

Have you ever heard the saying, “Truth is stranger than fiction”? Well, a few days later a guy at my dad’s work told him, “Joe, you wouldn’t believe this family that moved in next door to us….!”

Honest!

Run-Run-Run-Run Runaway

2010-01-25T19:18:00.007-06:00

The story you are about to read is true. The names were not changed, because nobody was innocent.

I’m probably the only kid in America that ever asked permission to run away.

Back when I was about 16, my phone rang early one Saturday morning. It was my friend Mark calling to tell me he was frustrated with his parents and wanted to get away (translated, run away). I was concerned for him so I said, “Why don’t you spend the day with me before you do anything.” I had plans to go down to my uncle and aunt’s house for the day, so Mark tagged along.

This uncle and aunt’s house is kind of a destination for a lot of kinfolk, and that day was no exception. Not only was I headed down for the day, but another uncle and aunt, and their two kids were up from Dallas. It was, and is, an awesome place to spend the day. (For more on their place see my blog entry titled “Ole Blue”.) Now one of these two cousins I mentioned happens to be a girl, and my friend Mark kind of took a shine to my girl-cousin…and her to him. They flirted back and forth for most of the day.

Evening came and it was time to head for home. That’s when I called dad and asked permission to run away - with Mark. Dad said no, so I headed north to OKC. Mark headed to points unknown. A couple of days later they found him and his car somewhere out west…I don’t recall what state. What I do recall is what my dad said to the police when they knocked on our door. See, the police found out that Mark spent the day with me, and they wanted to know my aunt and uncle’s name so they could “interrogate” them, I guess. Dad refused the information. The cop demanded.

Then - dad pointed to the police car in our driveway and said, “In my entire life there has never been a police car at my house…either arrest me or get that black and white out of my driveway RIGHT NOW!” The names were not given. The car was moved. You had to know my dad!

But that’s not my only runaway story. Not too many months after that incident (or before, I’m not sure) two different girl-cousins were up from Dallas to visit our aunt here in OKC. (I have cousins by the dozens!) I introduced my friends Paul and Gary to these two girl-cousins, and we went on a triple date.

I don’t know what caused the pot to boil over, but for some reason Gary and Paul got upset and decided to run away. They stole Gary’s dad’s work car and headed south to Dallas. What’s funny is – the girl-cousins were still here in OKC! Anyway, they ran out of gas so they bartered the spare tire for more and kept driving until they ran out again, somewhere near Ardmore. They thumbed a ride the rest of the way to Dallas.

They spent a dark, cold, lonely night in a city park, scared half to death by some druggie homeless guy, and were so happy to get “caught” by the police. They ate Hostess Ding Dongs and drank Coca-cola and waited for their parents to come pick them up.

So if you’re really hacked off about something… if you’ve had enough and just aren’t gonna take it any more… you might consider running away from home. And hey, if you do, give me a call. I’ll see if I have a cousin available!

Our Kind of Folks

2010-01-24T20:15:00.007-06:00

Every now and then God is feeling especially benevolent and he decides to give someone a gift too precious for words. For some reason He has chosen to bestow such an unfathomable gift upon Stephanie and me…and more than once. Let me tell you about one of those gifts.

When Stephanie and I visited Lakeside Church (since rebranded Highpointe Church) we met Pastors Darren and Michelle Pilcher. We quickly made the decision to join this church, and so we invited the Pastor’s family to our home for a meal and fellowship.

Of course, at that time we didn’t know the Pilchers very well, and they weren’t familiar with us either. That was one reason for the dinner – to get to know each other. If you’ve ever been invited by or invited folks you don’t know well, you know how uncomfortable such an evening can be. This one wasn’t.

From the moment Pastors Darren and Michelle, and their kids walked through our front door we could tell these were “our kind of folks”. I was out on the patio grilling the chicken, and Pastor Darren came out to chat with me. And while Stephanie was putting the finishing touches on her famous salad she and Michelle talked and laughed in the kitchen.

As the meal progressed so did the conversation. We talked about the fact that we grew up in the same denomination, the Assemblies of God. And we talked about our similar backgrounds, with Godly parents and ministerial work. We talked religion, we talked politics, we talked about kids and houses and cars. We could have talked all night. I didn’t want it to end.

There are certain things - subtle things - that let you know someone is comfortable with you. When Pastor Darren casually reached with his fork and stabbed a second chicken breast it told me two things. First, he approves of my grilling. Grilling is a source of pride for the American male…and I’m no exception. So for that I was proud. But it also showed me that this wasn’t just a pastor doing the obligatory dinner with the new members. These folks are REAL!

After dinner Pastor Darren, his son Ethan and I retired to the “man cave” to shoot pool, with a movie playing in the background. I think it was “Braveheart”. Pastor shot a pretty good stick! And Ethan even made a few good shots. All the while, Stephanie and Michelle were downstairs talking…and talking…and talking. Emma had discovered the dolls we have for our granddaughter, so everybody was in their element.

I remember telling Pastor Darren that if he ever needed to “get away” from having to be the straight-laced Pastor guy, just come on over and we’ll let our hair down. What I didn’t realize at that time was that Pastor Darren doesn’t do the straight-laced Pastor Guy. His hair is always down!

I could write about the churches Pastors Darren and Michelle have built, or the mission trips they have taken – ministering to thousands. I could write about the people they have prayed for and the words from the Lord they have delivered. Those stories would be many and they would be exciting. But what I wanted to write about tonight is simply how REAL these precious people are.

Pastors Darren and Michelle are moving into a new chapter in their lives and ministries, and so they are resigning as pastors. In fact, today was their final day of service to Highpointe, at least in the pastoral capacity. And while I am excited to see what new thing God has in store for the church, and how I will fit in with that new thing, I am saddened to see them go.

Pastors Darren and Michelle; thank you for your service. But especially, thank you for your friendship. It’s been… … … REAL!

Where Did You Come From?

2010-01-22T00:05:00.015-06:00

Has anybody ever asked you, “Where did YOU come from?”

The year was 1570 and George Kepler lived in Ansbach, Germany. He had a son he named Andreas who had a son he named Johannes Kepler (not the famous one – probably his cousin or something).

Johannes Kepler had a son named Bernhardt, who had a son named Benedict, who went on to have a son of his own. He named him Andreas, after his great-great-grandfather.

By now it’s 1720, and Bernhardt, Benedict and Andreas all got on a ship, along with their families and belongings, and three generations of Keplers came to America! They had heard about William Penn’s big real estate deal and wanted a piece of the action. They settled in Bucks County, PA on land that is now a part of the City of Philadelphia.

Andreas (Andrew) had a son he named Andreas Jr, who grew up to fight in the revolution. He shot at British soldiers…and helped win us our independence. He then had himself a son he named John Kepler. John and his brother loaded up a buckboard and moved their families to Green Township, Ohio, now a part of the City of Canton. John died, along with the horse he rode in on, in a cider press accident (seriously), but not before he got married and had a son himself, John Kepler, Jr.

It’s now 1837 and John Jr. gets a son of his own. He named him Abraham. Another Abraham, surnamed Lincoln was elected President and the War Between the States broke out. So Abraham Kepler did his patriotic duty. He joined the 53rd Indiana Infantry and helped Sherman burn Atlanta. If you look real closely in Gone with the Wind…you won’t see him. That’s a fictional movie. Abraham Kepler was there for the real thing!

Abraham owned property in Indiana, and immediately after he was mustered out in July 1865 he went home and sold his land. Historians tell us that more soldiers died from dysentery than from combat in the Civil War, and Abraham was one of those unfortunate souls. In August of 1865 he died, leaving behind his widow and a son named William Henry Kepler.

William Henry grew up to be a minister. And he had a son named John Franklin Kepler, a shoe repairman by trade but a prayer warrior by calling. John Franklin was my grandfather, although I never met him. My dad told me that his dad, John Franklin wanted grandkids more than anything in the world. But in August 1951 he died, just a year and 6 days before his first grandchild was born.

As I said, John Franklin was my dad’s dad. My dad was named Joseph Kepler. He was a shoe repairman too, and a great man of God. He was my greatest hero, and in August of 2000 I had the honor of standing by his side and holding his hand at the moment he drew his last breath!

That’s where I came from. Thanks for asking.

17 Millimeters of Sweet Success

2010-01-21T19:27:00.021-06:00

I changed the oil in our car the other night. Now this may not seem noteworthy to you, but what you don’t know is that I haven’t changed the oil in a car in over 20 years. But with the economy like it is and finances a little tight we are doing what we can to conserve. A dime here, a dollar there…it adds up. Actually I didn’t save any money though - I used it to buy bullets for the next men’s breakfast at church. What can I say - Sometimes there’s not enough food to go around and it gets a bit ugly.

A trip to Wal-Mart for a basket full of stuff and I was ready to go. I found that oil now comes in 5 quart containers. I bought one. I also got a new oil filter and one of those drain-pans. You know, you drain the oil into it and tighten the cap. Then when you have time you drive it down to the auto center and pour it in their drum. So neat…so tidy….yeah, right! And I bought a wrench to remove the oil filter.

First one – too big! Next one – too small! This must be what Goldilocks felt like.

And by the way, our next men’s breakfast is at the gun range. That's really why I bought the bullets.

The first step in this task is to remove the plug and drain the old oil. At least I THOUGHT that was the first step. More about that later. Not having an automobile lift in my garage, I had to lie flat on my back to get to the drain plug. So I laid down and scooted under to feel the plug and see what size wrench I need. Like my fingers are a gauge or something! (I’d seen my brother do it, and he seemed to always get it right.) It felt like a 9/16ths to me…yep, definitely a 9/16ths. I got up, fetched the wrench and scooted under again. It wasn’t a 9/16th. Up again for a bigger wrench, I grabbed two just to be safe, and scooted under. It wasn’t a 5/8ths. It wasn’t an 11/16ths either.

What in the world is this crazy nut? Oh yeah, foreign car – think metric. I don’t own metric wrenches…only sockets, so I grabbed a 16 and an 18, just to be safe, and under I scooted… again! First one – too big! Next one – too small! This must be what Goldilocks felt like. On my 5th scoot-under I found it… 17 millimeters of sweet success. Off came the nut - and at that split second I realized it - the FIRST step to changing oil is to position the drain-pan under the plug.

Luckily this isn’t my first mess. So I have this big squirt bottle of purple stuff that cuts grease and oil. I’m proud to say there is NOT a permanent oil stain in the middle of my garage…just this really clean spot!

Finally...thankfully, my task was completed. The car has fresh oil, and I'm feelin' like a man. I will say this though… at least I have the drain-pan and filter wrench for next time… like there’s gonna be a next time!

There’s a certain satisfaction in a job well done. I guess that’s why those guys at the quick-change place are always smiling so big when I drive off. Ya think?

Photo Time to clean the oil filter used by permission

Is Idaho on Route 66?

2010-01-19T18:36:00.002-06:00

I’ve never been to Idaho. Or have I? In 1963, when I was 6 years old, our family took the now infamous Route 66 vacation. We drove west from Oklahoma City (it’s mighty pretty). We saw Amarillo and Gallop, New Mexico – Flagstaff, Arizona…well, you know the rest.

It was an awesome trip. We saw the Grand Canyon, drove across the Hoover Dam and down the Vegas strip. And we drove on some highway where there wasn’t a speed limit. The suitcases were strapped to the top of the station wagon, and they flew off onto the highway. We made it down to the San Diego Zoo and Marine Land of the Pacific. We spent a day at Disneyland, where we rode the Matterhorn and joined the Mickey Mouse club. Mom left her purse on the teacup ride. Way to go, mom!

We visited the Hollywood Wax Museum and Muscle Beach. Then we drove north, and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. I have no memories of San Francisco. We probably ate Rice-a-Roni. If not, we should have. One of my clearest memories is this cool coke machine that was outside our motel room. Kids have weird memories.

But what does all this have to do with Idaho? Well, we drove north out of California to visit dad’s brother, Uncle Ken in Eugene, Oregon, and then passed through Salt Lake City on the way back, and saw the Tabernacle. Looking at a map I’m guessing we drove through a part of Idaho.

So why am I writing about Idaho? Because I have friends in Idaho that are some of the most precious people I have ever known, and they read my blog. Don and Lois, I love you guys!

They say you know you’re from Idaho when you know why people would pay money to watch pig wrestling. I’m definitely not from Idaho.

Measuring Time

2010-01-18T19:15:00.003-06:00

People tend to measure their lives by events - glorious events…tragic events. Their conversation gives it away. “That was before the baby was born…” Or “back when dad was alive…”

I was in the Oklahoma City Bombing. Oh, I wasn’t inside the Murrah Building, although I once took the air traffic controller’s exam there. And I wasn’t in one of the surrounding buildings that were damaged. I was working about a mile and a half away, and our building was not damaged. But we heard the blast, and we felt the shock. I remember thinking that for the rest of my life I would remember events as “before the bombing” or “after the bombing”.

I went that day to give blood. I felt I had to do something. But the line to give blood was estimated to be 3 hours long, and I had obligations, and so I had to get back to the office. Fortunately none of my friends or family died that day, although many fine people did. The body count ended up being 168; 171 if you count the unborn babies, which I do. And a fine memorial stands in their memory.

If you follow the news you know that two men have been convicted for that horrible act, and a third was given a plea bargain for his testimony. One has been executed. One will spend the rest of his life in prison. The third is already back on the streets – albeit in the witness protection program. I will not honor them by mentioning their names here.

Since that horrific day we have seen the tragic events of 9/11 – a day by which the entire world measures time. And we’ve seen tornados and hurricanes, tsunamis and earthquakes - all events that changed time, and lives.

There is coming a day the whole world will rest under the reign of the King of Kings, and we will no longer measure time. Even so, come quickly!

The Talking Board

2010-01-17T13:34:00.006-06:00

Some of the fondest memories of my childhood are when we would all pile into the car for a road trip. Sometimes we would drive to see family or friends. Sometimes we would drive to attend a tent revival or church service. Sometimes we would just drive. Dad was the kind of guy that couldn’t pass a winding road without heading down it to see what was around the next bend. And I’m afraid I inherited that from him. Just ask my wife.

I particularly remember a trip we took when I was in 5th grade. We drove to the next town to visit a couple who were friends of mom and dad, and who had kids about our ages. We always had fun there because…how shall I say this? They were just a bit more familiar with the ways of the world than we were. I don’t mean to be passing judgment or anything like that. That’s for the good Lord to sort out in his wisdom. We just lived a little on the sheltered side.

We had been there for a short time when one of their girls brought out a Ouija board. If you don’t know what a Ouija board is, you’re better off! But to appreciate this story you need a basic idea what I’m talking about. Ouija Board is the trademark for a board marketed by Parker Brothers, the game company that brings us Monopoly. It has letters and numbers printed on it and a pointer that glides over them. You and a friend sit with it between you and put your fingers on the pointer. Then you ask the board a question. The pointer is supposed to move around the board, stopping briefly on the letters that spell your answer.

The thing about it is you can never be sure the other person isn’t actually steering the pointer. In fact you’re pretty sure they are! For that reason people pass it off as just a silly game and think no more about it. But wait, did I say you can never be sure the other person isn’t moving the pointer?

I had a secret that nobody knew. I was sweet on this girl that lived around the corner. I would ride my bike around the block in hopes that she would be outside playing. If she wasn’t, I’d ride around again. I hadn’t told a soul about her. So now it was my turn to ask the board a question. “Ouija,” I said, “Do I have a girlfriend?” Y-E-S, it answered. Big deal, she’s moving the pointer. As cool a kid as I was, how could I not have a girlfriend. “Ouija, what is her name?” L-I-N-D-A--N-E-L-S-O-N.

You might think my brother or sister told her…but they didn’t know. Nobody knew. Admittedly I was excited at the prospect that Linda Nelson was really my girlfriend for real, and not just in my hopes and dreams! But even at such a tender age I realized, right then and right there, that these things are more than just toys. I didn’t know what the power was that drove them, but I knew it was real.

Soon thereafter my sister got her own talking board. Dad told us it wasn’t a good thing to have, but he didn’t forbid it. I think it was one of those things where he was still formulating his opinion. We would have friends over and get the board out. And it would talk - with one glaring exception. When dad would walk into the room it would stop. Dead still. Dad would leave the room and it would start up again. He would come back in and it would stop.

The bible is replete with references warning against divinations and fortune telling, mediums and channelers, and Dad soon realized, and caused us to realize that this talking board surely fell into one or more of those categories. We got rid of that thing!

Laugh if you will. But I believe there is a spiritual force – an evil force - at work with those “toys”. Just google it and you will see that many people have offered testimonials of bad experiences in their lives that can be traced to their involvement with such occult related things. God forbid that should happen to you or yours.

My earnest prayer is that, just as my father, I would be so full of the Spirit of God that were I to walk into a room, a talking board would fall mute.

And on a personal note - Linda, if you’re out there, you missed your chance… I’m taken!

Death by Smooching

2010-01-16T00:34:00.005-06:00

Sometimes my wife leaves the house for the evening to go to a women’s function at the church, or to go to a scrapbooking party. I love it, because – see, we have cable TV and there are certain shows on the premium channels I just can’t watch with her in the house. NO – not those shows! Get your mind out of the gutter! I’m talking about westerns. She feels about westerns the way I feel about her Food Network cook-offs.

Being a child of the 60s I was raised on horse operas. A ten gallon hat, a pair of blazing six shooters and the smell of horseflesh fueled my imaginations. Back when Pat Robertson’s TBN network owned The Family Channel they showed a lot of my cowboy shows, and it was named one of the most violent channels on TV– because of all the violence in the horse operas!

Give me a break! Gunsmoke and Bonanza – Maverick and Paladin – these old black and white westerns are the most violent shows on TV? Have these people not seen today’s cop-show fare, with blood spurting out of bullet holes and body parts strewn across the screen? If you happened to read my story about my cowboy lamp, you already knew I was raised on those westerns, and there’s nothing wrong with me - wrong with me! Seriously though, on those shows the good guy always won, the bad guy always lost, and women and God were always shown the utmost respect… at least by the good guys. On these shows beer was consumed only in moderation and poker games were always kept on the up and up… at least by the good guys. And oh yeah, bullets didn’t leave holes – not even in their shirts!

Of course, that channel sold to another network that was absorbed into yet another network, and my cowboy shows had to find a new home. Thank the TV Gods for Encore Westerns!

But in all fairness I can’t really dispute that report naming those old westerns as violent. Actually there was a pattern of violence that was consistent and inevitable. Death by smooching! Think about it. Did a woman ever fall in love with a Cartwright and survive the entire episode? I remember seeing Little Joe kiss a girl, and thinking…boy, she’s a goner! And sure enough, before the credits rolled, she rolled – right into the graveyard!

In his song Shoulda Been a Cowboy, Toby Keith sang about Matt Dillon “He never hung his hat at Kitty’s place”. There was a reason for that. Amanda Blake, who played Miss Kitty, had a contract with the network, so they couldn’t kill her off. And you thought Matt just loved his horse more than his woman. Oh man… they just don’t make ‘em like they used to.

So let me leave you with this piece of sage advice - sing it with me - ♫ Don’t fall in love with a Cartwright... ♫

'Ole Blue

2010-01-15T13:23:00.008-06:00

I was about 16 and my Uncle Cecil and Aunt Frankie were building a new home down near the Texas State line (the real one, not some restaurant by that name). If you had a really good arm you could stand in their front yard and throw a rock into the river, if you could get it over the trees. What a cool place to live!

It was July and I was down there for a week to help with construction of the house. My cousin's cousin (but not my cousin), Ronnie Joe, was there too. After Ronnie Joe and I worked for what seemed like hours, but was probably just a few minutes, we would go jump into the Red River to cool off. So we put out some trot lines and started baiting and running them several times a day. Over the course of a week we pulled off over a hundred fish from those trot lines. Drum, alligator gar, other trash fish...but mostly catfish. Frankly it was a pretty brave thing for us to do. If you've ever had a face to face encounter with an alligator gar, you think twice about going into the river again without a wetsuit on.

I was imagining our picture in the local paper, then getting picked up by the AP and UPI... even going world-wide. We were sure to be famous!

It was early in the morning - the first run of the day, and Uncle Joe was back at the trailer cooking breakfast. Ronnie Joe and I were running the lines. And that's when we found it. On the farthest line from camp, the first line we ran, we pulled off a MONSTER fish. At first I was nervous, but this guy didn't seem too upset. In fact he seemed downright tame. So we commenced to put him on a stringer.

We wanted him "strung up" before we pulled the hook from his mouth because we were in his territory and he knew the lay of the land better than us. He might just be playing it cool to try and escape. We were using those fish stringers made of several metal hooks on a chain, at about 3" intervals - you know the kind I mean. We put THREE of those stringer hooks through his mouth, and then removed the fish hook. We were so excited about this monster fish, which was actually a blue cat, that we didn't even finish running the lines. We were headed back to camp to show Uncle Joe.

If you've ever swam in the Red River you know that the Texas side is the lower side, with sandy beaches. The Oklahoma side is the cliff side, with tree roots to hold onto while you climb out. At least that's how it is by Uncle Cecil's house. So we got out of the river on the Texas side and started walking back toward camp. I was carrying 'Ole Blue, and with me holding his head up by my side, his tail left a trail in the sand - about 8 or 10 inches wide. All the while I was imagining our picture in the local paper, then getting picked up by the AP and UPI... even going world-wide. We were sure to be famous!

We got downstream to our crossing point and waded across. I climbed up the bank first, while Ronnie Joe held 'Ole Blue. Then he handed me the end of the stringer and I started to lift 'Ole Blue out of the river. I pulled and tugged, but he was heavy. This wasn't a matter of lifting, but more of dragging the fish up the bank.

OK...here's the part you've been waiting for. That fish, 'Ole Blue straightened out all three of those stringer hooks, and slid right back down the bank, right through Ronnie Joe's legs, and back to his freedom in the Red River. I'm convinced that's how he had his escape planned all along.

Maybe we should have gone back and ran the rest of the lines, but we were too overcome with emotion to think straight. We ran all the way back to camp, babbling about this "monster" fish. Later that day Uncle Cecil went down to the river with us and saw the "evidence" - the trail in the sand left by 'Ole Blue's tail. At least we had that!

So next time you find yourself driving to Dallas, as you cross that bridge over the Red River that separates Texas from the Promised Land, give a shout out to 'Ole Blue. He's earned it!

http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=4273864

A New Caboose

2010-01-14T12:00:00.006-06:00

When I was 15 mom and dad called us kids together with some major news. We were turning the spare bedroom into a nursery. I was the youngest of three and dad always introduced me as “the caboose”. But suddenly, at 15 I found myself promoted (or was it demoted) to just another boxcar. The “oops” baby was born and she brought joy to all our hearts.

Sometimes it’s hard to know what to laugh at, and sometimes it’s hard to know when to laugh. Something that is funny today may be just downright cruel hearted tomorrow, and vice versa. I remember when I was going through a painful divorce. I would turn on the TV hoping to lose my emotions in a funny plot. But invariably the show would be poking fun at…divorce! This isn’t funny at all, I would think. How can they be so cruel hearted? Same thing when there's been a death in your family, and this week's episode of your favorite comedy mirrors your tragedy. Ha Ha. How funny!

In the midst of a tragedy laughter becomes the indicator that grief is temporary and life will go on...

But what has that got to do with my little sister? Well, when she was just a few weeks old her little baby carrier slipped and she sustained a head injury. She was hospitalized for a time, and as always, my family turned to God in prayer. (If your family doesn’t do this, you might give it some serious thought.) Of course, God touched her and healed her and she grew up to be normal. OK... the jury is still out on that “normal” thing. Suffice it to say her healing was complete. And so now, when my little sister says something or does something silly, I ask her, “Were you dropped on your head as a child?” She has the wittiest answer for me… “Yes." Then she usually adds, "What’s your excuse?” This little inside joke is a special connection I have with her.

She and I like to laugh about it now. But at the time she was in the hospital, and for years afterwards, there was no humor to be found in the situation. Even now, some 35 years later, I broach the subject gingerly… except when she does something silly.

At a funeral we cry, but then somebody recalls a funny incident they shared with the departed, and we find ourselves laughing through our tears. What we’ve learned is that laughter is therapeutic, even healing! In the midst of a tragedy laughter becomes the indicator that grief is temporary and life will go on.

So, whatever you’re going through right now, don’t hold back the laughter. In fact, find the strength to let out one of those deep down, grief busting, belly laughs.

People will think your train has jumped its track.

Red Caboose by Shari Weinsheimer

The Early-Bird Conundrum

2010-01-13T06:52:00.005-06:00

We send men and women into war with full body armor and automatic weapons. But we send them into parenthood with nothing but some cheesy book about how to change diapers (you mean a garden hose isn’t involved?). If you have kids you already know how difficult parenting is. And not the least of these challenges is the safety of the child. With God’s help you do your best to nurse them when they are sick, to know who they buddy up with, and to teach them to look both ways before skateboarding across the interstate. But one peril you’ve probably overlooked is what I call the Early-Bird Conundrum.

The chain of events needed for this rare, but possibly deadly happening, goes as follows:
1) Live within walking distance of the church you attend
2) Have an event on a Sunday morning that requires you to miss church
3) Inform your child that he must still attend Sunday school and church
4) Have this event fall on the day that Daylight Savings Time ends
5) Forget to set your clocks back (remember – Spring forward, Fall back)

What happens next is the kid gets up, showers, gets dressed in mismatched clothing, eats something he isn’t supposed to, and walks to church in time to be 5 minutes late for Sunday school. But when he gets to church there isn’t a soul in site. He looks at his watch, looks up at the sky, looks at his reflection in the glass door... and realizes he’s the sole survivor on Earth.

If he had gone to the store or a boy-scout meeting he might think everybody just stayed home that morning. But this is CHURCH. There’s only one thing that would keep the Sunday morning faithful from church….the RAPTURE! And he’s missed it!

Kids are resilient. They’re built to take a lot and keep on kicking. But the fear of missing the rapture – well that’s something the DNA just isn’t programmed for. The legs turn to Jell-O. Vital organs start to shut down. Death is surely imminent. But then, just when he thinks all is lost, a car turns into the driveway and parks near the door. “I see you forgot to set your clock back too…”

And color begins to return to the kid’s face.

You may not even believe in the rapture. Some people don’t. But kids believe what they’re taught by their parents to believe (at least until they get smarter than their parents – usually around 12). And when you’re sitting on the church steps staring into eternity it really doesn’t matter what you believe. It’s already too late!

Don’t ask me how I know this.

http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=221707

I’m Not Really Sicilian

2010-01-12T07:01:00.004-06:00

You’d think I was in the Mafia or something…the number of cousins I have. But these are really cousins. You know, family - not “family”. On my mom’s side I have four; on dad’s side, 10. Some I was closer to than others – closer in age, in proximity, in relationship.

If you’re not on Facebook you might check it out. It’s really cool. Oh, I know there are a lot of silly distractions built in. You can farm imaginary crops, shoot imaginary mobsters or find out what your imaginary leprechaun name is. But it’s not all imaginary. The people are real. And they are people you know, or used to know, and maybe would like to know better.

For instance, I might have gone the rest of my life without really knowing my cousin Gina. Oh, I knew her when we were kids, but when you’re a kid another kid has to be pretty close to your age to pal around, and she was a few years younger. I remember one Christmas Eve when the family got together at her house. Gina’s dad, Uncle Vito… uhummmmm, I mean Uncle Cliff… waited until she went off to the bedroom to play. Then he retrieved her present from its hiding place. I seem to remember a life size ballerina doll, or was that what my brother got that year? Anyway, we called Gina and then all ran outside and pointed at the sky. “You just missed him”, we chuckled. And she said, “Oh shoot man (or whatever 5 year old girls used to say)”.

Her memory of that night might be totally different – and they may both be wrong – who knows. The point is, we grew up, moved off and lost touch. And that’s the way it would have been if not for Facebook. Now I know where she lives, what kind of music she enjoys, and what her beautiful family looks like. And I know she truly loves God, just as I do.

I’ve “friended” more long lost cousins, and look forward to getting to know them better. Do it. Join up, and reconnect with those friends and relatives you used to be close to. Maybe you will be again.

Thank me later. Right now me and Cousin Rocco from Jersey have some collections to go make.