My Word

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

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

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.

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

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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.

Picture "George" from a mural at Mount Vernon- Copyright 2010 by Reece Kepler

Act of Friendship - Badge of Honor

“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.

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

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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

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.

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

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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

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.

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I remembered the testimony of that little old lady…

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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

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.

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

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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