One of My Dads in the Ministry

 The first time I met Brother David was at Land Mart, a gas station near my home.  After hearing my name, he introduced himself.  He was very short and reminded me of the cartoon character because he talked like Elmer Fudd.  His Rs were W’s like “wascally wabbit.”

Approaching me he said, “My name is David Meyers, and I am finally meeting my church member who never comes to church.”

His gentle smile and warm handshake made the comment neither threatening nor demeaning.  Actually, I felt he had great compassion for a wandering sheep.  I was not a lost sheep but a black sheep dating a female sheep and going to her church.  He reminded me that I had an obligation to my church.

Brother David was my home church’s first full time pastor.  David accepted the call and lived in the church basement until the church built a Pastorium.  I have often thought about his faith to come to a church on the promise of building a house.  That influenced me.

David’s wife, Janice, played the piano.  They had two sons and a daughter.  They became part of our rural community, which is difficult for many men and women called into a new church field in rural areas.  Rural communities can be clannish and unreceptive of outsiders, but the Meyers were like home folk.

They were workers.  If someone had a pea patch, the Meyer family would pick the peas, unlike some other preacher families who wanted them home delivered, in a pot with bacon, and with a pone of cornbread.  If someone slaughtered an animal, they helped.

One time Mr. Ross, a church member, donated a calf to the church to slaughter and have a big cookout with steaks, hamburger, and camp town stew.  I, along with some men of the church, gathered at Mr. Ross’ barn to slay the fatted calf.  Brother David was having a difficult time with the dastardly deed of slaying the calf with a .38 caliber pistol.  He said that it was inhumane making the poor little calf suffer.  Mr. Ross, a man well into his eighties, tried to convince the preacher that he had used the pistol on many occasions to slaughter calves. 

Brother David was relentless in his argument.  He brought a 30.06 caliber rifle to do the trick.  Mr. Ross tried to tell Brother David that he did not want to blow off the calf’s head; he just wanted to kill it.  Brother David pleaded in the fashion of Perry Mason or Ben Matlock and won the right to slay the fatted calf in a humane manner with the 30.06.  On the day of the feast, the steaks were fine, the hamburgers were great, the camp town stew was delicious, and Brother David was happy.

David was a great pastor.  When I married that female sheep, he attended the wedding.  He convinced her, who decided she had enough church at age eighteen, that she needed to be in church and later convinced her to serve the Lord in the community in which she lived.  By the way, he pastored that church.  He was our pastor when Andy was born.  He explained to me the “baby blues” after my brought Andy home and I could not figure out why she cried for no reason. 

David was not a dynamic preacher, but he built such a close relationship with his congregation that we loved to hear him preach.  Brother David lived his sermons.  He taught us that Christians could have fun.  David and Janice hosted some of the greatest church parties for young adults.  David and Janice started a choir.  The choir volunteered to buy Inspiration Song Book No. 9.  The church grew and grew until it was packed, and we had to build a new sanctuary.

I rededicated my life to the Lord during a revival while he was pastor.  I grew spiritually under his leadership.  He asked me to be an R.A. leader, later a Sunday school teacher, and finally the building coordinator for the new sanctuary.  Shortly after completion of the new building, Brother David accepted the call of another church.  The whole church was heartbroken.

Many years later, I saw Brother David was at retreat at Shocco Springs in Talladega, Alabama.  I was a pastor by that time.  Brother David embraced me and told me how proud he was of me.  He said, “I was thrilled to hear you surrendered to preach.  As one of your dads in the ministry, I have only one piece of advice for you.  When people push you for a decision, tell them you will pray about the situation and then you wait for the Lord to solve it for you.  The biggest mistake preachers make is running ahead of God.  God will solve most problems if you wait on Him.”  That was the last time I saw him. and I still follow that jewel of advice.

A short time later I heard that Brother David died of a heart attack at a senior adult fellowship, I realized that I lost a dad in the ministry.  Feeling nauseated, he had excused himself to go to the restroom.  When he did not return, they found him in the restroom door.  He was fifty-five years old.

Let the elders that rule well be counted worthy of double honour, especially they who labour in the word and doctrine.  For the scripture saith, Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn. And, The labourer is worthy of his reward (I Timothy 5:17-18 KJV).

Tell your preacher and his family how much you appreciate them.

WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DAY TO MEET THE LORD

 God paints the landscape in beautiful colors as the leaves turn color, turn loose, and gently fall as breezes coming from brilliant mounds of pure white snow and ice begin returning to Alabama.  Fall nights are romantically fresh and clear as stars glisten from cosmic fires millions of light years in that place we call the heavens.  They twinkle giving the moon a crown of diamonds.  Fall mornings, pure and fresh with blue skies, provide the canvas for the kaleidoscope of breath taking colors and gaze toward the throne of God.

On cold, clear, beautiful mornings, I think of an old friend Aritris, pronounced Artareese.  As a kid, Aritris drove a road machine for Chilton County Road department.  I think the proper name is a road grader, but we called it road machine and it was an amazing piece of machinery.  We would run to the dirt road in front of our house and watch Aritris cock the blade and pull the dirt from the ditches to the center of the road.  He would return on the other side repeating the process.  I dreamed that one day I might operate a road grader for the county.

When Aritris scraped the dirt road, we knew it was going to rain and that fresh dirt heaped into the road made a muddy mess.  You could bank on it raining if the county scraped the road and you could hear the train whistle blowing through the holler, which is Chilton County for hollow, as it traveled from Brierfield down to Randolph in neighboring Bibb County.

Aritris said he found all sorts of goodies on the roads.  He found a pack of metric tools for a Honda motorcycle and sold them to me.  Daddy traded a junk tractor for a junk Honda 50 that did not have a tool set.  Aritris sold them to me for five dollars.  I remember it took me a while to pay those five dollars.

Aritris attended my home church.  He never attended Sunday School, attending only the preaching service.  He always parked a long way from the church with his car headed out.  All of us kids joked about his fast get-a-way.  We also heard rumors about a lady friend or two, but it was just gossip as far as I remember.

Aritris’ wife, Myrtle, was one of the greatest influences in my life.  Much of my Theology is due to her teaching.  She was very humble and always gave an emotional testimony when given an opportunity.  I can hear her shaky and crying voice telling how great Jesus was to her.  She always prayed for Aritris.

One crystal, clear, blue-sky morning when the air was brisk with the Arctic breeze, Aritris and his son-in-law were cutting firewood.  They took a break to eat a hearty breakfast in anticipation of a hard day’s work.  As they ate, the son-in-law, a fine Christian man, commented on the day, “What a beautiful day to meet the Lord.”

Aritris and he returned to work and in just moments, the son-in-law died when his tractor overturned while pulling a log.

Aritris could never get his son-in-law comment out of his mind.  In a matter of days, Aritris was gloriously saved.  He started attending Sunday School and parking closer to the church.  He began going with the brotherhood to a jailhouse ministry.  I remember riding the church bus with him back from one of our jailhouse meetings.  He and another friend who accepted the Lord about the same time were talking about the blessed life of Christianity.  I will never forget what they said.  They asked one another, “Why did we wait so long?”  A short time later, both men learned that cancer would interrupt their lives.  Both men died shortly after that conversation on the bus.

I will never forget what Ms. Myrtle said at a cottage prayer meeting at Aritris and her home not long after Aritris accepted Christ.  Gathered in a circle we talked about the importance of prayer for genuine revival.  Ms. Myrtle said to pray in faith.  He said she had been praying for Aritris for forty-one years.  That is right 41 years.

Aritris has been with the Lord for about forty-one years.  Ms. Myrtle continued to pray and give heart-wrenching testimony until her death several years ago.  Fall mornings remind me of her faithful prayers and touching testimony.

The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much (James 5:16 KJV).

Treated Like An Evil Doer

 It was a fall night in central Alabama as my friend, co-worker, brother in Christ, and fellow union negotiator Keilan and I stood outside a Shell Service Station near Indian Springs, Alabama.  Hours earlier Keilan, union president, presided over our meeting ratifying our 1994 contract with the Cement Plant in Calera, Alabama.  It ended after a lengthy strike which started in August of 1994.

Keilan initially wanted to go to the plant manager’s home, but I warned that it might appear as a threat to go to his home and convinced him that we meet at a neutral sight.  I was familiar with the area as my daughter played club volley at the Brierwood High School there.

We waited what seemed an eternity.  We stood outside the station and talked about the contract, the strike, God, church, family, coworkers, and life in general.  I kept seeing familiar faces going in and out of the station not really playing any attention if they were customers.  Keilan and I would nod, smile, and greet them with “Good Old Southern” how you doing.  I remember telling Keilan that the folks looked familiar.

The plant manager finally showed, and we told him that the union members ratified the contract.  He seemed as nervous as “a cat on a hot tin roof.” He was surrounded with security thuds. We shook hands and Keilan, and I returned home.  He and I knew that we would never work at the plant again even though we encouraged the union to ratify the contract. 

It had been a rather peaceful strike.  Corporate had hired a security firm that locked us out of the plant and shipped in replacement workers (SCABS) to take our place.  Corporate unsuccessfully tried to replace 2027 years, that's right 2027 years, of experience to operate an antique plant.  Union employees camped outside the plant under a large tent.  There no love lost between the security and union.  By their own admission they tried to intimidate us every way possible.  Keilan and I, along with other Christian brothers, tried to peacefully lead the strike.

A friend that was part of the management told us what went on behind the scenes at the Shell station that night.  Remember, Keilan and I were just two old country boys never meaning any harm and we were innocent, naïve, or just plain ignorant.

This security team thought we meant harm to the plant manager.  Those “customers” at the Shell station were part of the security.  They were listening to us with sophisticated listening devices, getting close to us to see if we were armed.  I admit as good old country boys, Keilan and I probably had pocketknives.  That’s just who we are but harming the plant manager never entered into our minds.  We were tickled that 150 plus men and women with families voted to return to work.

Security had trained sharpshooters ready to disable or kill us.  Our management friend described to us something like out of a movie.  It seemed so surreal.  This security team knew more about us, striking employees, than our friends and family knew about us.  Talk about “Big Brother” watching, listening, and intimidating.  We did not know it, but we had a “mole” that was in all the security briefings.  He stayed silent but he did relay what he could through our management friend.

This security team was notorious for breaking unions.  One of them approached me on the picket line.  They had painted a line on the plant entrance road and told us not to cross it.  His first name was Joe.  He called me name and said, “My name is Joe, and I am a policeman from New York City.  I take four weeks’ vacation each year to help this security team bust unions.  My grandfather, originally from Sicily, helped organize unions in New Jersey.  I'm not against unions, but the money they pay is fantastic.  I just want to shake your hand.  Keilan and you have kept this group of men and women peaceful for the most part.  We have tried everything possible to intimidate, but you two men are good men and highly respected.  This is my last day here.  I am headed back to work.”  I shook his hand, wished him luck and God’s grace.  I often think of Joe every time I read or hear about the events of 911.  I feel that Joe was a hero.

Most of the striking employees returned to work.  Keilan and I were blackballed.  We continued to negotiate and settle the strike and other issues with management.  When that ended, Keilan found employment with the Chilton County School maintenance, and I went into the ministry full time.  My dear friend and brother in Christ died in January 2023.

The cement plant never recuperated from the strike.  It ceased to profit and eventually sold.  It was difficult to replace 2027 years of experience.  When most of the experience returned, the replacement employees had destroyed so much equipment that it was impossible to operate.   Ironically, the security team did bust the union, but replacement employees realized that they were used by the company and organized another union with the help of veteran employees.

Wherein I suffer trouble, as an evil doer, even unto bonds; but the word of God is not bound. 2 Timothy 2:9

Hopper Thanksgiving

Do you smell it sometimes, the aroma coming from momma’s cooking?  I remember the smell of chicken boiling and cornbread baking.  I can close my eyes and go back to that moment.  There is steam coming from the pots of green beans, purple-hulled peas, and turnip greens.  Steam from mamma’s culinary talents fogged the windows and escaped the house to fill the yard with an aroma that ascended into the heavens.  The smell of fried Irish taters and baked sweet taters make my mouth water in anticipation of dinner.

There is the smell of poultry seasoning as mama begins that delightful task of assembling chicken and dressing.  She crumbled the fresh baked cornbread, the leftover biscuits from breakfast, slices of “light (sandwich) bread”, and saltine crackers into a big blue pan.  She poured the boiled chicken broth into the bread mixture, sprinkled in the poultry seasoning, chopped in an onion, poured in a couple of raw eggs, and then seasoned it to taste.  Sometimes she would put in some cracked pecans.  She would try to slip in some celery ever once-in-a-while.  We did not like celery, so we kept a close eye on her to prevent that.

Every time she cooked dressing, we begged her not to cook it.  She said it was raw.  Now remember, everything she put in it was cooked except the raw eggs, which cooked in the boiling mixture.  When she baked it, it got too stiff.  We wanted it “raw” because it was a tad runny, a little loose.  It made it delicious.  We would dip from the pan before she put it in the oven.

When the moment of tantalization ended and the time of indulgence set to begin, we sat around the heavenly delights.  A feast fit for a king lay before us.  As we gathered around the table, anticipation of the seventh heaven of gastronomic feast tempted the mightiest of strong will and of seasoned faith.   Mamma’s culinary talents were tremendously tempting and sensationally satisfying.

Grace had to be offered.  Every time we sat around the table, we thanked God for the food He provided for us.  It was easy on these days, but the days of “goosy” gravy (a mixture of grease, flour, salt, and pepper) and biscuits it was a little harder to say thanks.  Had it not been for “goosy” gravy and biscuits, there would have been no food on the table.

Those are fond memories.  Daddy sat at the head of the table, and I sat at the other end.  My two brothers sat to daddy’s left and to his right were mama and my sister.  Gathered around the table we learned of God’s love and our love for one another.  What we dipped, we had to eat.  When we passed a bowl of food, it could not be intercepted.  It went directly to who asked for it.  We did not know the manners of Dear Heloise, but we did know manners according to rules of the Hoppers and the wrath of daddy.

I long to back and I go back home as often as I can, but that home exists only in my mind and on this piece of paper.  What I described will eventually fade with the passing of my memory and my trip to my heavenly home.  Thank God for memories.

When I call to remembrance the unfeigned faith that is in thee, which dwelt first in thy grandmother Lois, and thy mother Eunice; and I am persuaded that in thee also (2 Timothy 1:5 KJV).

Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ (Ephesians 5:20 KJV).

And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, this is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me (Luke 22:19 KJV).

May God bless your time together.

YOU LOVE THAT LITTLE BOY?

 

January 18, 1976, is an important day in the Hopper family.  The first grandson of JM and Leecie Hopper came that day.  It was a Sunday morning that Andy Lee Hopper entered the world.  I was a proud dad of the future of the Hopper family.  He entered life with a broken collarbone and yellow jaundice.  As a new dad with a boy child, I had many thoughts about the new responsibility I had.

Andrew, a disciple of Jesus and brother to Peter was the inspiration for Andy.  Andrew means strong, manly, and brave.  Lee means shelter, sanctuary, or haven.  My mom’s name was Leecie, which is Irish meaning servant of Jesus and English meaning happiness gaiety.  Andy Lee is an important name to honor.

One of my fondest memories is my dad holding Andy at Granny Hopper’s wake.  Andy was three months old.  It represented the passing of one born in 19^th Century 1891.  The look at dad had and the scene of this muscular man holing a small fragile baby is a price picture.  Andy would be the first of many more Hopper boys born.

Andy loved cowboy boots, tractors, and horses.  Every toy horse he had usually had a broken leg.  I have his Wonder Horse in storage for restoration.  It has a missing front leg.  One time I watched him play in a field of red top clover.  On his knees, he would throw his head back and kick his right leg into the air.  I got close enough to hear him, heard him neighing like a horse, and saw him chewing on a clover stalk.

I had an old Jersey milk cow that Andy loved.   He drank her milk as a baby. He would call out to her; J E R S E Y and she would come to him.  At one time, he had several laying hens, but that is another story for another time.

I mentioned that he loved tractors.  One time his pawpaw Moxley received a toy metal cast John Deer tractor as a gag gift for Christmas.  Pawpaw gave it to Andy because Andy thought Pawpaw got his Christmas present.  It is also in storage in my shop along with other toy tractors and trucks.  Andy had a toy John Deere peddle tractor that we lost in a house fire.  The John Deere trailer that came with the tractor survived.

Andy would ride along side of me when I cut the fields with a real tractor.  I was so happy when he would ride with me.  One day a man in an empty log truck stopped and came to the tractor that Andy and I were riding.  He introduced himself as Travis Price.  He asked, “You love that little boy?”  I thought he was about to scold me for riding my toddler on a large piece of equipment.  I looked him in the eye and said, “I love him very much.”  Then he shocked me with, “You better do a better job of watching him.”

Just minutes earlier, I had the responsibility of taking care of Andy alone while his mother ran some errands.  She had not been gone just seconds when all of a sudden Andy was missing.  I panicked.  I called out to him.  We were standing in the front yard when he disappeared.  I run into the house and I looked everywhere.  Andy was notorious for hiding.  I looked in the basement, in the closets, under the bed and in the bed.  I had built him a Captain’s bed and he was not the hidden toy box of the bed.

I went back out front and there he was standing in the yard.  I hugged and squeezed him and told him how much he scared me.  Then we went to the tractor and started cutting the field.  That’s when Mr. Price stopped and told me something that really scared me.

Mr. Price said, “I topped the hill, to our left, with a large load of logs.  In the middle of the road was your little boy.  I was scared to death and knew I could not stop.  I waited to see which way he was going to run.  When he ran toward your house, I run the log truck into the side of the road at the house over there, pointed to my grandmother’s house.

Mr. Price said I was so scared I was nauseated and had to stop about a mile up road and settle my stomach.  I was so bad that I drove very slowly to the sawmill.  When I saw that precious little boy in your arms I had to stop.”

He had my attention, and all the possible dangers and scenarios flooded my mind.  Mr. Price then shared with me what I will never forget.

He said, “I had a boy about your son’s age.  One morning I had to run to town.  As I started to back my car out of the drive, I made sure there were no children around the car.  Not seeing any, I started back.  That’s when I heard a terrible sound.  I stopped and checked under the car.  That’s when I saw that I had run over my son and killed him.  I will never forget what I saw and what I done.  He had hid under the car and I did not see him.  That’s something that I will never get over.”

When Mr. Price left, I took Andy into my arms realizing that a dad that loved his son very much lost his son.  I had mine because another dad was willing to sacrifice himself to spare my son.  I hugged and loved on Andy so much.  I wept. 

God’s gives us great responsibilities when he gives us children.  Andy is approaching his 49^th birthday as I write this article.  He lives far from Sugar Ridge in Bessie, Alabama where he learned to call Jersey, eat red top clover, ride toy and real tractors, and have laying hens.  San Antonio is a long way from County Road 50 where God placed his hand on a logger and surrounded my Andy with angels.  I love you son! 

The Father loves the Son and has given all things into His hand. John 3:35

Thanks Dad

 In one of my favorite pictures of my dad, he is leaning against a two by four board holding up the front porch.  Dad did not like to have his picture taken.  On this occasion, his brother was down from Illinois.  Dad had been hauling logs that day and had the smell of pine rosin and sweat mingled with the aroma of Camel cigarette smoke and grease on him.

In this picture, dad is tanned and muscled.  He was very strong from working with pulpwood and logs most of his life.  I, along with my brothers and sister, could not wait for dad to come home in the evenings.  We would spend many evenings lying on an old quilt in the front yard just talking about life and looking at the heavens.

I remember that I could not wait to get old enough to go to work in the woods with him.  Back then, pulpwood was measured.  I carried a measuring stick and marked the fallen pine timber as dad cut.  He had a large, and heavy, McCulloch chainsaw.  As a ten-year-old, the chainsaw was very heavy.  It was all I could do to crank it.  When I could not, daddy would give the cord a yank and fire it up.  Ever once in a while, he let me run the chainsaw.  Most dads won’t let a ten-year-old run a chainsaw!  I had the best dad.

When hauling logs, dad allowed me to guide the mule that pulled the logs back to the truck.  I was not sure I could do it, but dad said the mule knew what to do once I hooked the tongs to the log.  It was fascinating that the mule could find his way back to the truck.  I would jump on the log and balance myself as the log rolled, twisted, and turned going up and down the hills and hollers back to the truck.  It was even more fun to watch the side loading arms of the log truck throw the logs on the truck.  I don’t think momma would have let me go with daddy if she had known how dangerous it was.

I remember helping dad fall a giant oak.  He bated the tree, and I helped to push.  Suddenly as the giant tree started to fall, a gush of wind caught the oak and pushed it back toward us.  Daddy yelled, “Run son!”

As a boy, I wanted to spend as much time with dad as I could.  Dad was what folks back home call a “jackleg mechanic.”  When you are poor and have nothing but junk, you spend a lot of time repairing.  Most of my time was spent under the hood or underneath cars, tractors, and trucks.  This is something I enjoy doing today.  It is therapeutic and nostalgic.

For some reason, dad went most places by himself.  On particular day, he was going to Montevallo to pick up his check.  Momma asked if I wanted to go.  I think she wanted me to spy on dad and see what he was doing.  I knew I had to keep my lips sealed if there was to be another expedition with dad.  I was so excited and could not wait to ride in our log truck with him.

As I went out the door, I closed the door on my fingers.  Doing the natural thing, I pulled them from the closed door, leaving one of my fingernails in the door.  Blood was flying and the finger was throbbing.  I was not going to miss an opportunity to spend time with dad.  I dare not cried.  He would have made me stay home.  I remember sitting alone for what seemed an eternity with my finger throbbing with the beating of my heart.  Dad wanted me to be tough.

Momma taught me how to drive, but daddy let me drive.  Dad went from logging to working in a rock plant.  Our family car became his work vehicle.  As usual, it needed repair, another rear axle.  As we started to Bessemer to find a replacement, dad said, “You drive.”  I was twelve. 

On a long hill near Montevallo, I remember being scared to death as we descended.  I looked at dad and he seemed to have confidence in me.  That was until I kept riding too close to the outside of the highway.  Dad told me that there was more room to the inside and stop driving like momma. He said that we would have to have new tires, and the front end realigned if I kept running off the road.  Driving in Bessemer was scary and exciting.  I had the time of my life, me driving my daddy.

In her book, Catching Fireflies, Patsy Clairmont says that she read somewhere that we get our role models from our same-sex parent and our sense of safety and security from our opposite same-sex parent.  I don’t know about all that, but I do know that I am glad I had a daddy that loved me and taught me much about life.  I know there are thousands of children that do not have a dad in their lives.  Society is paying a tremendous price for this.  This creates a negative view of God as our Father.  Those that have a nurturing and tender interaction with their dad helps in bonding with our heavenly Father.  Clairmont says that Deuteronomy 32:4, 9-10 gives us a glimpse God’s father-heart.

 

He is the Rock, his work is perfect: for all his ways are judgment: a God of truth and without iniquity, just and right is he.

For the Lord's portion is his people; Jacob is the lot of his inheritance. He found him in a desert land, and in the waste howling wilderness; he led him about, he instructed him, he kept him as the apple of his eye.

 

November is the time for Veteran’s Day and Thanksgiving.  Thanks dad!

Thanks Ms. Ruby!

It was a beautiful clear blue sky as the plane approached the Birmingham Airport.  In an hour, or so, Angel and I would be home for Thanksgiving dinner 1996.  It was a climax to a very busy and fun filled week.  It was a few moments of solitude to think about the goodness and greatness of God, the fun and frolic of adventure, and the thrill and tranquility of seeing and spending time loved ones.

It all started the previous Saturday with a temporary time of separation.  I jogged three miles that morning, spent the afternoon at home, and that evening I prepared to travel to Miami leaving at 5:00 am Sunday morning to travel to the Birmingham Airport.  Hanceville Junior College, where Angel played volleyball, won the Alabama title and received an invitation to play for the National Championship for Junior College Girls Volleyball.

We arrived at the Miami on Sunday afternoon.  This was the second year to play for the national championship making the second trip a little more familiar.  Our hotel was near Miami International.  Most of the teams in the playoff stayed in this one hotel.  Saturday night was a wonderful gala to kick off the week.  There was great music, delicious food, and special videos of each team represented.  The sad part was it was just Angel and me, but it was also an exciting time in Angel’s and my life.  I wished that the whole family could have attended, but it will always be a magical moment for me.

It was difficult trying to get to the games.  The games were played at University of Miami Dade Campus.  I was at the mercy of those who had driven their vehicles.  I thought there might be transportation for us, but I was wrong.  I did get to see areas of Miami that I otherwise would have never seen.  I remember stopping at a store and everything was in Spanish.  I realized what people meant when they referred to the area as “Little Havana.”  I felt like a pilgrim in a foreign land, but it was south Florida.

One of delights of the stay was an IHOP restaurant in walking distance of the hotel.  They served the best French toast and link sausage.  On Monday night, Angel’s volleyball team met at the Hard Rock Café.  I remember having a very delicious and very expensive hamburger.  I had heard about twenty-dollar burgers and the high cost of things in Miami and found it to be true. 

The Hard Rock Café clientele was fascinating and different.  I was almost afraid to see the cooks because the waitress and servers were covered with tattoos and body piercing, wore ragged clothes, and sported several different colors of hair.  I remember a young man showing some girls at our table his pierced tongue.  Once again, I felt like a pilgrim in a strange land filled with strange customs and exotic foods.

I did participate in one of the indigenous rituals while there.  Periodicity, they would play the song YMCA by the group called the Village People.  If you remember, the group dressed like a construction worker, a Native American, a police officer, and another guy.  Everyone in the restaurant took part when the song played.  I admit that I am uncoordinated but before the night was over, I could do a pretty Y M C A routine.  Sometimes patrons and servers would do the routine on tabletops.  I stuck to the floor!

We had two days of games.  Angel’s team placed ninth in the nation that year.  The championship game was between Miami Dade and Idaho.  Those girls were awesome.  They could spike the volleyball so hard that they could knock down opponents.  I saw the most valuable player, from Miami; spike the ball dislocating the index finger of the star player from Idaho.  It was ugly and the player was in intense pain.

On Thanksgiving morning, we boarded the plane to head home.  The first leg of the journey was a stop in Jacksonville.  The flight was so rough that it was like riding a school bus on a bumpy dirt road.  When the plane hit the runway, the plane titled to left, then to the right, and then to the front.  The pilot interrupted the terror by telling us the landing was performed by a female pilot’s first time landing a passenger plane.  The rough flight and landing made perfect sense, and we applauded her for not crashing.

Some passengers debarked, then new passengers boarded, and we took off for Atlanta.  After a quick stop in Atlanta, the plane left at 2:00 pm and landed in Birmingham at 1:30 pm.  Remember, Atlanta is Eastern Time, Birmingham Central.  The flight was thirty minutes.  We arrived in Birmingham before we left Atlanta.

Angel and I arrived at home and received a warm welcome from the family as well as Ruby, Alice, and Robert.  Mrs. Ruby and family drove in from Houston, Texas to make sure that I had turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving dinner.

Miami was great with French toast, fresh coconuts, and fantastic adventures.  It did not feel like Thanksgiving in that foreign land with funny talking people, swaying palm trees, various exotic plants, and sparkling swimming pools.

It was strange adjusting to the chilling appearance of home after a week of festivities.  There is no place like home with family and friends on Thanksgiving Day, especially those who travel on long journeys to share a few moments of love by gathering around the table eating turkey, dressing, and lots of cranberry sauce.

Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ (Ephesians 5:20 KJV).

Thanks Ruby!

Chief John Lee

I got a call several years ago.  Looking at the caller I D, I recognized it was my old friend and former church member John Lee.

John was the Police Chief at the University of Montevallo.  He became Chief during my sophomore year.  His office was adjacent to the carpentry shop where I worked between classes.  John was a regular for morning coffee.

During our morning coffee, John learned that I was preacher.  He said he studied to be a preacher but realized that the ministry was not his calling and became a police officer. 

During his first year, John called me in his office investigating how, as a student, that I had a faculty college parking decal.  I answered that I got it during the summer break and by virtue of working in the carpentry department.  Boy it made it nice to drive up to the classroom door.

As it is with all good things, somebody complained about my college perk, the faculty decal.  John required me to get a student decal.  He said his hands were tied and that he had enforce campus procedures and policies.  I told him that it was not a problem, and it was good while it lasted.  After that, my friends in the carpentry shop used a university vehicle to transport me to and from class.  Lose one perk, gain another I say.  John smiled each time he saw me riding to class in the carpentry pickup.

John was an interesting Chief.  He was driver for Alabama Governor George C. Wallace for many years.  He had the voice of an old southern colonel or aristocratic landowner.  He could tell some tales about governors George and Laureen.

John was also a gun collector, outdoorsman, and artist.  He painted wildlife, particularly ducks.  He competed for the Alabama State Duck Hunting Stamp annually.  He won the state competition, against national, competitors in 1984 and 2002.  He was in the top ten for the Federal Duck Stamp.

John moved from his campus house to a new home in the community where I pastored.  He attended church one Sunday told me that he would join, but he was hesitant saying some big church was going to snatch me away.  I laughed and responded, “No one wants me.”  I stayed there eight years, five as John’s pastor.

After graduation, I would visit the University physical plant and their workers, especially the boys at the carpentry shop and Chief Lee.

In October before my spring phone call, my son Aaron and I visited with John.  Aaron and John always talked “guns.”  John told us he was about to retire.  A few weeks later, I got an invitation inviting me to his retirement.  The retirement gala was on January 30th.

I accepted the invitation, and we went in anticipation of seeing old friends.  I was shocked when I saw John.  He had deteriorated greatly since my earlier visit a few months earlier.  I received another shock when I looked at the program.  I was on it.  I had the innovation and opening remarks.  Did I ever say that God takes care of fools and ignorant folks like me?  I just happened to be in church dress clothes!

After the retirement ceremony, John presented each program personality with a gift.  He gave me the 1984 Alabama State Duck Stamp print from his office.  I was very surprised.

Picking up the phone, I said, “Good morning, John.”  There was an eerie silence.  I sensed something was wrong.  “Bobby, this is Judy.  John passed last night, and he wanted Dr. McChesney and you to do his funeral.”  Judy is John’s wife and Dr. McChesney is retired President of the University of Montevallo and bird-hunting buddy to John and Judy. 

“Bobby, I want you to be in charge of all the arrangements.  John said you would know what to do.”

I did as asked, remembering what good friends John and Judy were.  Judy gave me John’s 2002 Alabama State Duck Stamp print for doing the funeral service.  Judy said, “Bobby, you know that your Duck Prints are very valuable now that John has passed?  Reflecting on these things, I thought of Luke 14:7-10:

And he put forth a parable to those which were bidden, when he marked how they chose out the chief rooms; saying unto them.  When thou art bidden of any man to a wedding, sit not down in the highest room; lest a more honourable man than thou be bidden of him; And he that bade thee and him come and say to thee, Give this man place; and thou begin with shame to take the lowest room. But when thou art bidden, go and sit down in the lowest room; that when he that bade thee cometh, he may say unto thee, Friend, go up higher: then shalt thou have worship in the presence of them that sit at meat with thee. then shalt thou have worship in the presence of them that sit at meat with thee.

Both paintings hang in my library.  They are valuable.  To me they are priceless.

Thanks for the memories, Chief 

A Working Man's Hands

One day a while back before I retired, I studied my hands.  Gone were the callouses from hard work.  I remember using fingernail clips and scissors to trim the callouses.  Sometimes the callouses would crack open and become sore.  At times, my hands would be so rough that I could not rub my hands across fine linen without snagging the material.  Loading paper wood, using wrenches, and handing hoes, picks, and shovels make callouses.

Gone are oil and grease stains.  My hands were always in something greasy or in burnt motor oil.  Growing up poor, my daddy, brothers, and I did a lot of repairs to worn out and broke down equipment.  Burnt motor oil and dirty grease are two of the hardest things to clean off your hands.  Grease and oil under the fingernails will stain the nails.  An old friend taught me to scrape hand soap under my nails before working in grease and oil prevents stains.  Clean oil and WD 40 will also help clean-burnt oil and nasty grease.

Gone from my hands were the stains and smells of “hawg killin’.”  Pigs love nasty.  Scaldin’ and pullin’ hair on a 300lb nasty pig will stain your hands.  I had to wear off the smell and the stain.

Gone are the splinters, the black fingernails, cuts, and scrapes.  I have had some booger splinters.  I had one go deep under a fingernail.  Momma had to cut the nail deep into the “quick,” almost the whole nail, just to use tweezers to pull it out from under the nail.  I remember pulling the nail off my middle finger when I shut it in the front door.  My hands have been so sore that it hurt to use them.

That’s enough about my hands.  I shake a lot of hands, and I take notice of the hands I hold.  Hands reflect the person.  I noticed the calloused hands of a lady one day.  It had been a long time since I felt a female hand that calloused.  I knew the lady worked hard with her hands.

I notice that many of my colleagues in the full-time ministry have soft hands.  They tend to be very protective of their hands and have a flimsy handshake.  I think to myself, oooh.  I notice that some of these soft-handed colleagues have small bottles hand sanitizers and cleanse their hands after shaking hands.  Sometimes I wish that these colleagues would have a clinic on hand sanitation for some of the folks in fast food restaurants business.

Most folks have firm handshakes.  Every once in a while, I get a fellow that wants to show me how strong he is and how weak I am.  You know the one that squeezes your hand where your fingers twist together and if you are wearing a ring, the impression of the ring lingers on the finger for a while.  A doctor friend showed me how to prevent “My hand is a vice, you whimp” technique.

I try not to hurt the hands of people when shaking.  Arthritis has crippled some hands.  Some hands are small and tender.

As I examined my hands I thought of the song, Daddy’s Hands, Holly Dunn recorded.

    

I remember Daddy’s hands, folded silently in prayer.
And reaching out to hold me, when I had a nightmare.
You could read quite a story, in the callouses and lines.
Years of work and worry had left their mark behind.
I remember Daddy’s hands, how they held my Mama tight,
And patted my back, for something done right.
There are things that I’ve forgotten, that I loved about the man,
But I’ll always remember the love in Daddy’s hands.

Daddy's hands were soft and kind when I was cryin´.
Daddy’s hands, were hard as steel when I’d done wrong.
Daddy’s hands, weren’t always gentle
But I’ve come to understand.
There was always love in Daddy’s hands.

I remember Daddy’s hands, working 'til they bled.
Sacrificed unselfishly, just to keep us all fed.
If I could do things over, I’d live my life again.
And never take for granted the love in Daddy’s hands.

Daddy's hands were soft and kind when I was cryin´.
Daddy’s hands, were hard as steel when I’d done wrong.
Daddy’s hands, weren’t always gentle
But I’ve come to understand.
There was always love in Daddy’s hands.

Daddy's hands were soft and kind when I was cryin´.
Daddy’s hands, were hard as steel when I’d done wrong.
Daddy’s hands, weren’t always gentle
But I´ve come to understand.
There was always love...
In Daddy’s hands.

 

I think of my daddy’s hands when I hear this song.  His hands were big and strong.  I also think of Jesus’ hands.  I have to believe that his hands were calloused and scared from years of carpentry.  I wonder what the Roman soldier thought as he nailed Jesus’ hands to the cross.  I am sure it was not the same as those that Jesus touched.

Now when the sun was setting, all they that had any sick with divers diseases brought them unto him; and he laid his hands on every one of them, and healed them (Luke 4:40 KJV).

Jesus knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he was come from God, and went to God. . . (John 13:3 KJV).

Life Continues Take Funny Turns

Tuesday morning at the 2011 Alabama Baptist State Convention, my thoughts went back over thirty-eight years to place now gone.  I hope you know by now that I do have an attention deficit disorder, and my mind goes on a tangent.  On this occasion, Dr. David Potts was giving the annual Judson College report.  He had invited two of his students to share how Judson College was changing their lives.  They were part of the team from Judson that serves donuts and coffee to visitors to the Judson College exhibit. No, I know what you are thinking.  I did not eat any of those “hot” Krispy Kreme Donuts.  Shame on you for having those thoughts when I sacrificed by not having any.  See, I suffered a little ADD for a moment.

As Dr. Potts introduced this beautiful student, her last name was Davenport, and I noticed she looked familiar.  He said that she was from Jemison, my hometown, and her was church Mineral Springs, my brother is music director there.  I realized that I did know her.  That is what took me back thirty-eight plus years.

The place was concrete tables, underneath oak trees, behind Union Springs Baptist Church, my home church, which is located between Jemison and Randolph, Alabama.  I was talking to James Earl Davenport.  Up home, a lot of boys and men have Earl for their middle name.  At Jemison High School, there was Dudley Earl Burnette, Rickey Earl Coles, Maston Earl Martin Jr., Ricky Earl Posey, and Bobby Earl Hopper in my senior class.  I do not know for whom we are named, but Earl must have been popular in the early 1950’s.  Oops, I went ADD again.

James Earl was six years older than I was.  He already had a small son and daughter.  We were having a church get together for young married couples.  We were talking hot topics of that time.  James Earl was worried about life and the terrible shape of our nation and world.  “End times” were hot topics of that era and everyone was talking about Hal Lindsey’s book The Late Great Planet Earth.  I had a copy at the time.  We were sure that the Lord would return any day because times were so terrible.  When I think of that time, I never imagined that things would be as they are currently.

That evening, James Earl said that if he had it to do again, he would not have had children.  He feared bringing children into such a horrible environment.  I remember when our older two children were small that I would hear their weeping at night fearing some foreign power would take Andy and Angel from us.  I would remind her that if we taught them God’s Word, they could be another Daniel or Joseph of the Old Testament.

A few years down the road after that cement table conversation, I had the privilege of teaching James Earl’s son.  He was a polite and teachable.  He became a good student and had a scholarship offer to play football at Troy University.  During the summers, he would work with his dad and me at the cement plant.

He married another one of our co-workers' daughters and they had two girls and adopted a couple of children after their daughters were teenagers.  One daughter and I did a wedding together in Springville.  I did the ceremony, and the daughter played the violin.  She also plays violin with a Christian ensemble with my nephew.  That nephew is the son of my music director brother at Mineral Springs.

I did recognize that student from Judson who was devoting her life to ministry.  She is the sister to the violinist, daughter of the young boy I taught in Sunday School, and the granddaughter of the one who had second thoughts about bringing up children in a cruel world.  Life takes funny turns.

I still feel the same about children today.  I wanted our children to make a Christian difference in life.  The Word of God reminds us to be fruitful and replenish the earth.  It is God’s way of having His people be salt and light in a decaying world.

When I had an opportunity, I visited the Judson Exhibit.  There behind the fresh hot crème covered donuts was James Earl and Ann Davenport’s daughter. Now, she is a spokesperson for Judson College at the Alabama Baptist State Convention at Dauphin Way Baptist in Mobile.  Standing before a couple of thousand believers, she encouraged us with how God was using her and how Judson was preparing her for ministry.

Some things are hard to envision.  That evening the two Earls, James and Bobby, never imagined that the horrific world of that time would be so anti-Christian, atrocious, and repulsive today.  God continues to call people into His fields.  The darker the days ahead, the brighter the light of God’s people shines.  I can’t wait to talk to James Earl.

O taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in him.  O fear the Lord, ye his saints: for there is no want to them that fear him.  Come, ye children, hearken unto me: I will teach you the fear of the Lord (Psalm 34:8-9, 11 KJV).

Tootsie Rolls and A Bitten Snickers

October is a big month for Southern Baptist Churches.  It is the start of a new church year, which translates into new literature, new classes, church letters, annual meetings, and pastor’s appreciation. 

What, did you forget it was pastor’s appreciation?  Some churches have a special day on the pastor’s anniversary date.  That is good too, but who says you cannot do both.  Pastors do not receive enough recognition for all the work they do.  Most weeks for a pastor become emotional roller coasters.  In one day, a pastor can go from a newborn’s home to the nursing, and to the funeral home before actually going home.

Many pastors face burnout prematurely.  The task of ministering seems overwhelming.  The pastor’s office is often a place of stress and strife.  It is often a sad office with tears of frustration, pain, and heartache.

It seems as though the fight against evil is a losing effort.  Pastors need love, affirmation, and encouragement.  It is amazing what nourishment a Sunday dinner will give the pastor.  It is incredible how much power a twenty-dollar bill has placed into the pastor’s shirt pocket.  The amount of energy a pastor has after fishing, or a hunting trip is enormous.

Small things go a long way.  I remember having Evangelist Danny Daniels for an Easter revival at the Friendship Baptist Church in Clanton, Alabama.  Danny preached preliminary revivals for Dr. Billy Graham Crusades and wrote a book, Mortal Midnight, about his conversion during the Viet Nam War.  He was on staff with Dr. Rick Warren, his best friend, at Saddleback Church.  He was a big-time evangelist at a small church.

After the morning offering, one of my ushers said we had an unusual offering.  He showed me four tootsie roll candies that were in the offering plates.  Danny said, “Praise God, I love tootsie rolls.  Someone knew I wanted some.”  Danny confirmed that it was going to be a great revival.  Someone ministered to him in ways they will never understand this side of heaven.

I had a pastor friend whose church gave his wife and him a trip to the Holy Land.  He was elated having always wanted to go.  The church paid for everything.  While they were gone, the church had a special called business meeting and decided to terminate him.  When my pastor friend and his wife returned home, the church informed him that he was fired.  He has been shy of trips to the Holy Land ever since that time.

My pastor, Evie Megginson said the most unusual pastor’s appreciation gift he received was a Snicker’s candy bar.  It had a big bite taken out of it.

Celebrate the ministry of your pastor.

Therefore said he unto them, The harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few: pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourers into his harvest.  Go your ways: behold, I send you forth as lambs among wolves.  Carry neither purse, nor scrip, nor shoes: and salute no man by the way.  And into whatsoever house ye enter, first say, Peace be to this house. And if the son of peace be there, your peace shall rest upon it: if not, it shall turn to you again.  And in the same house remain, eating and drinking such things as they give: for the labourer is worthy of his hire (Luke 10:2-7 KJV)

Too Simple

 Has anyone ever asked you to do something, and you thought, “that’s too simple and it will not work.”  While reading my devotion I came across the word “exponentially.”  What was odd, I heard “growing exponential” in a sermon the day before.  Sometimes when I do not know what a word means, I generally see how it is used in the sentence.  This time, since it crossed my path twice, I looked it up.  The definition did not help so I looked to see a common sense use of “exponentially.”

What I found was an old math equation using a penny.  It goes like this:  Would you work for a day for a penny if I doubled it every day for 30 days?  Most people say no.  In fact, I asked my secretary Pam, and she said no.  I would!

If I work for a penny a day, $0.01, and double it each day on the thirtieth day, I would be paid $10,737,418.24 for that day.  Did I ever tell you that algebra was the easiest subject I ever took?  This exponential function can be represented by the equation: f(x) = 0.01(2^x) where x = the day number. If you plug in 30 for x, you get f(x) = 0.01×2³⁰ = 10,737,418.24.  The problem, no pun intended, is the simplicity of a penny a day.

Take my friend Keilan.  After winter shut down at the cement plant, Keilan and I were in the process of starting up the cement kilns.  The coal hoppers had a slide at the bottom above the coal mills.  Normally it took someone hammering the slide out of the hopper.  It was hard to open when the hoppers were empty and very difficult when tons of coal was on top of the slide.  Knowing how problematical it was, I had greased the slide before pushing it in place when the hopper emptied for shutdown.  The shift supervisor instructed Keilan to make sure the slide was out while the tanks were empty.

Keilan could not find a sledgehammer.  Usually, they were everywhere.  I inquired why he needed a sledgehammer.  Keilan could be easily frustrated; worried coal would be put into the hoppers before he could get the slide out.  He had a few special words for me and again asked if I knew where there was a sledgehammer.  I asked him if he had tried to pull the slide out of the hopper.  I got a few choice words explaining that it was impossible to do that.

Keilan did not know was while he was in search of the hiding sledgehammers I went to see if I could pull out the slide knowing I had greased it while the hopper was empty.  It pulled right out.  I pushed it back in for a little fun with Keilan.

The bamboozled Keilan returned with no sledgehammer.  I asked again if he had tried to pull out the slide.  After a few more inapt words from him and some persuading words from me, Keilan consented to try to pull the slide. 

If I had not caught him, he yanked the slide with the fury of an agitated Hercules; he would have gone over a safety rail and fallen twenty feet onto concrete.  It was funny and Keilan and the slide, which weighed about seventy-five lbs., were heavy.  I think Keilan would have tried to kill me, but he was too indebted since I caught him.  Again, the solution was too simple.

On another occasion, my friend Bailey, a carpenter at the University of Montevallo, had spent several days and several dollars taking his infant daughter Ashleigh to the pediatrician to cure oral thrush, a yeast infection in the mouth caused by an overgrowth of fungus.  I worked four years with Bailey.  A co-worker and I said the old timers called it “thrash” and that he should take Ashleigh to a “thrash doctor.”  That’s where I took my children.  My Grandmoe Chapman was a thrash doctor.

Bailey was a college graduate and was reluctant to believe what he termed voodoo and old wives' tales.  Ashleigh grew worse, Bailey spent more money, and we encouraged him to use a thrash doctor.

One day an officer from the University police department visited the carpenter shop for a cup of coffee.  The morning conversation was the status of Ashleigh’s mouth and Bailey’s checking account.  Hearing our advice to see the thrash doctor, which do not charge for services rendered, Officer Satterwhite advised Bailey to take her to the thrash doctor.  Not believing my co-worker and me, Bailey took Ashleigh to Officer Satterwhite’s mother, a thrash doctor.  One trip healed Ashleigh.  The solution was too simple.

So Naaman came with his horses and with his chariot, and stood at the door of the house of Elisha.  And Elisha sent a messenger unto him, saying, Go and wash in Jordan seven times, and thy flesh shall come again to thee, and thou shalt be clean.  But Naaman was wroth, and went away, and said, Behold, I thought, He will surely come out to me, and stand, and call on the name of the Lord his God, and strike his hand over the place, and recover the leper.  Are not Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? May I not wash in them, and be clean? So he turned and went away in a rage.  And his servants came near, and spake unto him, and said, My father, if the prophet had bid thee do some great thing, wouldest thou not have done it? How much rather then, when he saith to thee, Wash, and be clean?  Then went he down, and dipped himself seven times in Jordan, according to the saying of the man of God: and his flesh came again like unto the flesh of a little child, and he was clean (II Kings 5:9-14 KJV).


 

 

Bumps Ahead

One day I was spending some time alone by riding in West Alabama and East Mississippi.  I did not have any particular place to go or to be.  I wanted to meditate as I drove.  Each time I came to an intersection I would think a minute then turn.

I was traveling in places I had never been before.

Most of the traveling was smooth for my little Honda Civic.  I like driving my old truck, but it takes too much expensive gas to joy ride in it, but it is more comfortable.  I drove without the radio or CD playing.  I just wanted to watch, observe, and listen to God.

Not knowing where I was or where I was going was uncannily soothing.  I was not lost because I knew that if I went north, I would intersect at I 59.  If I continued west, I would be in Meridian.  If I traveled south, I would intersect US Hwy 84.  If I went back east, there would be Alabama Highway 17.

Somewhere in East Mississippi, I was reminded of home.  The roads were deplorable just like Chilton County Roads.  They were worse than anything we had up home including red dirt roads and converted pig trails, but it was east Mississippi.  There were no signs to let you know where you were.  I thought I might have changed commissioner districts.  Used to be up home, commissioners responsible for our “red” neck of the woods could care less if we had good roads.  The commissioners claimed lack of money.  When they did get money, they would spray tar and cover it with crushed limestone that was excellent sand blasting material for pulverizing windshields, stripping chrome bumpers, and removing paint.

The poor commissioners did not repair potholes or ditches in the road when putting in drainpipes.   I hit a pothole in the town of Thorsby one time that caused my tire to go flat.  I thought I ruined the tire only to find I ruined a tire and the rim.  This highway was worse than Chilton County.

The landscape was very familiar until I saw something redneck that we do not have up home.  There was a fencerow that baseball caps adorned the top of the fence posts.  I noticed that the caps were Alabama and Auburn caps.  That is not unusual for East Mississippi, but it got me to thinking about the change in the road a couple miles back.  I paid attention to the car tags of the next house and discovered I was in Choctaw County Alabama.  I asked the Lord to forgive me for thinking bad thoughts about the poor poverty, last in everything, State of Mississippi.  I thought about it a moment and realized that the County tag for Chilton is 14 and the one for Choctaw is 15 and suddenly everything in the world made sense even the identical highway connecting Magnolia to Lamison.  I was getting scared to make a church visit to Lamison in my small Honda.  I am afraid if I don’t disappear in a hole, the potholes are going to destroy my front end.  But I get the same sensation when travel State Highway 183 from Union Town to Marion only poor Perry County has paved that highway three or four times in the past twenty years.

I continued on the road, it carried me to South Choctaw Academy in Toxey, then Gilbertown where I crossed the railroad tracks and started back on my journey into uncharted territory in search of peace, meditation, and dinner.

I saw a sign with Welcome to Mississippi. Other signs warned of road closure, lane closure, flagman ahead, slower traffic keep right, and detours, low shoulder, and bump ahead.  I can testify that there was a bump, but it was a long way from the sigh. On my journey to “find myself”, I found that there were very few places that were different from where I have been.  I found myself at a catfish restaurant in Stateline, Mississippi. I found the people nice, the patrons friendly, and the catfish delicious.  In Stateline, I thought about the gecko in the GIECO commercial where he is jumping from Tennessee to Virginia.  When I turned left, the highway changed tunes, and I saw the Sweet Home Alabama sign.

I drove slowly and thought about the things I saw.  I crossed over rivers and creeks that continue their journey endlessly flowing since the Lord created them.  I saw empty towns, houses, and land that were once productive now sitting idle and forgotten.  I saw large homes, small homes, new homes, rundown homes, mobile homes, and nursing homes. 

I saw a wreck or two and people helping.  I saw people in a hurry and some like me that were poking along.  There were the courteous drivers and the road rage maniacs.  There were safe drivers and the idiots that pass on hills and on double yellow lines.  There were new things and plenty of the same. 

In my time alone, God was showing that life is a journey, and the road will have its challenges.  As we journey in life, we can expect the unexpected.   Every year I pray each new journey will be better than the last.

I pray that we travel the road God gives us with confidence, and it will be a great journey regardless of the bumps.  I remind myself to thank God for roads, which remind of life.

Hey Chilton County Commissioners! How about painting the lines on the highways where we can journey and see the road, especially when it is raining.  As my kids say, drive between the mustard and the mayonnaise 

 

The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.  Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain:  And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it (Isaiah 40:3-5 KJV).