Some Things We Never Forget

Our eyes are recording devices capturing images and storing them for retrieval when remembering or taking time for refection.  The birth of that first child, their first bike ride, first prom, graduation, and wedding are pictures that stay with us.  These “memo graphic” snapshots and “memo recordings” bring smiles or laughs.

Then, there are those pictures recorded in our minds we wish we had never seen.  These images wake us in the night, preoccupy our thoughts in the day, and scare us in the twilight.

Some images trigger forgotten or suppressed images.  Such is the case of Martin.  I met him when I trained as a die setter for Keystone Metal Moulding Corporation.  He was my lead man and die setting mentor.

Martin was frail and pale from a gunshot wound, a 22-caliber bullet pressed against his spine.  He claimed that he tried to commit suicide.  Most of the scuttlebutt around the plant was that Martin’s wife shot him.  As a nineteen-year-old kid, I knew that one does not commit suicide by shooting oneself in the stomach.

Martin’s wife was beautiful, but very unfaithful.  I had never been around very many adulterous people out in the sticks of my youth.  My familiarity with running around was wind sprints at football and chasing pigs.  I did discover that there were some very promiscuous people in my family and other family who “lived across the tracks.”

Keystone Metal Moulding Corporation was a very promiscuous plant.  It was so bad that I would not tell people I worked there.  It was an eye opener for this naïve kid.  The things said and the things I witnessed at the plant would make Corinthian sailors blush.  With this licentious environment, Martin’s exposure to mockery and tease were common as the daily news that another jealous husband was interrogating every male’s exit from the plant.  I could not believe how Martin laughed and cut up when the unfaithfulness of his wife was the topic for the day.

To appease his wife, Martin bought her a new house trailer and a new 1973 Ford Gran Torino.  The Gran Torino was the hit as a muscle car and it was good looking, red with a black vinyl top and mag wheels.  I wondered how these things could corral an unfaithful wife, but I was unfamiliar with hedonist world of infidelity.  I knew good-looking hot rods attracted girls, so why not a wandering wife?

Martin hitchhiked to work and I would carry him home after work.  We worked the evening shift.  One cold winter night it was sleeting.  I have this “memo recording” of my old Plymouth’s wipers pushing the sleet on the windshield.  Vacuum wipers have an unrhymed movement and the sleet rolled against the window.

Martin lived less than two miles from the plant.  As we passed the Friendship Baptist Church parking lot, a church I would pastor years later, I noticed a Red Gran Torino under the security light.  I said, “That’s looks just like your wife’s Torino.”  He joked that she must be running around on him again and said, “That’s not her car.”  I used to pride myself on identifying cars and I knew that it was his wife’s car.

Remember its cold, sleeting, and after midnight when I take Martin home.  I pulled into Blacksnake Trailer Park to Martin’s trailer and there is no Torino there.  I wait for Martin to enter the trailer door and then he motions me to come.  The sight I saw is one of those things you never forget.  There on a doormat on a cold trailer floor were three little girls curled together just like small puppies.  One was wearing a diaper and the other two were wearing panties.  They wore no tops just a diaper and panties.  The oldest was three or four years old and said, “Momma’s out with a man.” 

My heart broke.  The sad thing was that none of the three was Martin’s daughters and all three had different daddies.  I stood there in amazement and disbelief.  Martin was angry, but always defended his wife’s infidelity.  Martin eventually lost all he owned and lived with his in-laws.  The bullet against the spine and his wife’s unfaithfulness eroded his health.  One night I received a phone call saying that Martin placed a 410 shotgun to his heart and committed suicide.  I had never witnessed a man who loved such an unfaithful wife that he could not live without her.  The memory of three little girls curled on a rug is an image I shall never forget and puts a face on Gomer in The Book of Hosea.

The beginning of the word of the Lord by Hosea. And the Lord said to Hosea, Go, take unto thee a wife of whoredoms and children of whoredoms: for the land hath committed great whoredom, departing from the Lord (Hosea 1:2 KJV).

A Country Bumpkin

Brenda was dissatisfied with her church and longed to return to her Baptist roots.  She wanted her young daughter to have the same Biblical foundation of faith that her mother had provided for her.  There was something missing at her current church that the rural provided.

Brenda and her husband were faithful church members, were active in church work, and were practicing pharmacists.  He was persuing a law degree and she was persuing her heart.  They discussed her desire and he encouraged her to find a Baptist church that would help her in her journey.

He did have a criterion for her in choosing a church.  First, the church of her choice needed to be one in town and not out in the country.  Second, wanted her to choose a church were the pastor had an education, preferable college and better if was seminary and not one with a backwoods Baptist preacher.  He had the same concern for their daughter, as did she.

Third, he requested that she visit the church where the local physician, a family friend, attended.  Another friend, a local insurance agent, her baby sitter, and several other friends attended the same church.

Brenda decided to visit the church were their friends attended.  When she arrived, she giggled as the preacher greeted her at the entrance.  She giggled because the church that her husband wanted her to attend had a country preacher.  Shocked by the greeting, Brenda hesitated a moment.  When she saw friends, she darted toward them.  Her thoughts swirled in her head as she thought what kind of mess I have gotten into this morning.  She could not wait to see her husband that afternoon when he returned home from work.

Brenda enjoyed the music during the worship.  She was taken as the preacher took time with the children during what was called pastors’ pals.  The country twang of the preacher had grasped her attention.  Over and over, she thought of her husband’s admonition, “Don’t attend a church that has a backwoods preacher.”  It was his suggestion to attend this church.

Brenda felt a little more at ease with the old familiar Baptist faith hymns, the warm welcome of strangers, and affirmation of friends.  When the preacher announced his text, Brenda thought, “This sure will be interesting.”  The preacher’s text was Revelation 6:5-6, “The Black Horse.”

Brenda had been a student of the Book of Revelation and understood how symbolic and controversial the Book of Revelation is.  The country-bumpkin’ preacher had her attention.  He spoke of demographics, famine, and poverty.  He quoted Dr. Billy Graham’s book, Storm Warning.  He spoke of twenty-six million people are at risk to famine in the Sudan, Ethiopia, Somalia, Malawi, Angola, and Mozambique.  He told how civil war rages and conspires with drought to create famine. He spoke of false religion and apostasy of the white horse, and war of the red horse leading to famine and pestilence. He told how the human sufferings of the black horse are ahead if we fail to keep the commandments of God. He preached of the starving in Africa and Asia contrast the $15 billion dollars spent on diet formulas and $22 billion spent on cosmetics in North America and Europe.  He spoke of the problem is not all shortage, but distribution.  He spoke of the poetry and literary content of Revelation and that resonated with Brenda.

Brenda could not wait to see her husband.  She said, “You are not going to believe what I heard today.  You know the warning you had about the country-bumpkin preacher . . .” 

And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand.  And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine (Revelation 6:5-6 KJV).

I see Brenda and Mark from time to time.  They remain faithful servants at the church where they heard the country-bumpkin preacher.  Brenda still giggles when she sees me.

Remembering 911

It is hard to believe that it has been seventeen years since the events of 911.  That day changed America.  I watched a special on television the other night about Flight 93.  The program had the actual recordings of the flight moments prior to our heroes taking back the airplane.  It was sobering as program ended with the pictures of the heroes and their names scrolling in alphabetic order.

Every time I see the planes hitting the Twin Towers I remember where I was and what I was doing.  I remember the following Sunday and how Gallion Baptist Church was packed.  I felt a loss for words. I trusted that the Holy Spirit took what words I said and used them to touch hearts.

From time to time when I think of 911 I think of Joe.  I do not know how to spell Joe’s last name.  I think it was Giano.  We talked only once.  It was September 1994 on the picket line at the entrance to Blue Circle Cement in Calera, Alabama.

Norred Security, under contract with Blue Circle Cement Incorporation, had painted a line across the driveway entrance to plant and placed guards along the line to prevent the employees of Local Union 50537 United Paperworkers’ International Union from entering the plant.  Hourly employees voted to strike on August 4, 1994.

Joe was one of the guards.  He, along with all the other guards, was very intimidating in both looks and actions.  The guards knew everything about every employee.  We knew nothing about them other than their boss who introduced himself to the union president and me.  I was a member of the negotiating team and spokesman for all the union responses.  I dialoged with the boss on several occasions.

After the fourth week, Joe walked to the “line drawn in the proverbial sand” and said, “Bobby, come over here.”

I responded by saying, “I ain’t got time to waste on you.”

It was the first time I had a conversation with him.  He was sincere and continued to ask me to come over to the line.  On several occasions I, along with other picketers, would walk up to the line to see the security guards reactions.  We had several confrontations with them away from the picket line.  Our confrontations were usually verbal.  Sometimes we joked with one another.  We were smart enough not to do anything stupid or threatening.  I would always tell the men not to tell me anything.  I wanted to be honest and not lie when asked about something that happened on or away from the picket line.

I walked up to the line and Joe extended his hand across the line.  I stood there and pondered what he was doing.

Joe said, “My name is Joe Giano.  I am a New York City cop.  I want to shake your hand.  The Union president and you have been gentlemen during this strike.  Norred Security has tried everything to intimidate you and you have been perfect gentlemen.  My grandfather brought the union to New York City from our homeland in Sicily.  I want to wish you guys good luck.  I’m going back to New York.”

I asked him what he was doing in Alabama.  He told me that he took four weeks vacation every year to work strikes.  He said he belonged to the police union in New York City.  He said Norred Security paid big money to help bust unions and stop strikes.

Joe said it was a pleasure to get to know me.  Boy did he know me.  A company friend told me later that they knew everything about my life.  They knew my finances, my debts, my friends, my family, my enemies, everything.  It was daunting knowing a company had that kind of information on you.

On the morning of 911 I wonder where Joe was and what he was doing.  I would like to think that he was one of the heroes that day.  I pray that my witness was such that it gave him a new perspective about God, about his family, and his calling in life and helped him on that tragic day.  I would like to see Joe again, this time under better circumstances.

Young men likewise exhort to be sober minded.  In all things shewing thyself a pattern of good works: in doctrine shewing uncorruptness, gravity, sincerity, Sound speech, that cannot be condemned; that he that is of the contrary part may be ashamed, having no evil thing to say of you (Titus 2:6-8 KJV).

Light Always Drives the Blackest Darkenss Away

One of the oldest chemical known to man is soda ash; Salt and lime are the oldest chemicals.  It dates back 3,500 years to the Egyptians who extracted it from wood ash.  According to an article posted by International Mining: “New technology mines one of the world’s oldest chemicals” July 15, 2009.  Soda ash from trona rock is involved in virtually every aspect of life, through the manufacturing of glass, in chemical manufacturing, fertilizers, soaps and detergents, pulp and paper, flue gas desulphurization, and water treatment.  In the 1938, the presence of trona was found in a core sample while drilling for oil at the John Hay No. 1 Well south of Westvaco, Wyoming. Trona was first deep-mined in 1947 by Westvaco Chlorine. Shortly after that, FMC Corp acquired Westvaco’s chemical business, including the mine, and then added the Granger mines.

The beds in which they all operate began forming 50 million years ago when Lake Gosiute covered deposited volcanic ash later.  The deposits formed in more than 42 beds of trona in the Green River Basin of southwest Wyoming, stretching from the Unitah Mountains of Utah in the south, along the Wyoming Range to the west, the Rock Springs uplift to the east to the Wind River and Gros Ventre Mountains in the north.

Today, more than 90 percent of the soda ash used in America comes from Wyoming trona mines.  Wyoming trona mines employ more than 2,225 people.  About 44 percent of the trona in Wyoming is produced from Federal government lands and some 56 percent from State government and private lands, all of it deep-mined using boring machines with continuous haulage, continuous miners with continuous haulage and shuttle cars, and, at the Solvay and FMC mines, long walls.

Well, that is enough of the boring information on trona.  I had the privilege of seeing this type of mining while on a mission trip to Granger.  It all started when a friend from Kemmerer, Wyoming, from an earlier mission trip, invited the Chilton Baptist Builders to a tour of the trona mines.  Four of us said we would go.  Arriving at the mine site, we saw a large building that housed a conveyer belt and railroad cars.  From the highway, it did not appear to be much of an operation.  We were in for a shock.

The first item of business for the tour was a short course on survival in case of a cave-in.  We were instructed how to operate life support systems until we could locate an air shaft leading to the surface.  At the conclusion of the safety survival course, we had to sign a release form.  I was starting to worry a tad at that point.

In the large building was an open cage enclosed elevator.  This elevator was large enough for two pickups to park side-by-side.  The elevator descended 1300 feet, that’s right 1300 feet, into the Wyoming ground.  That large elevator opening looked like a pinhole in a cardboard box as we reached the bottom.  We them loaded onto a mine car not too much different from the originally runaway mine cars at Six Flags.  We went two mile, that right, two miles in the mineshafts.

It was amazing how the equipment worked.  One neat thing was how they reinforced the mineshafts.  They would drill holes in the trona, place epoxy tubes in the holes, and the screw threaded rods in the epoxy.

Underground were these large pieces equipment.  Someone asked how they got the equipment in the mine.  We were told that it came in pieces assembled in the mobile shop at the bottom of the mines.  There canteens, coke and candy vending machines, offices, and everything underground.  The reason was that the Wyoming winters were so harsh that two weeks a year most people were homebound.  In the mines, the temperature varied very little, around 68 degrees.

I noticed that there was no ground water, so I asked where it was.  Our mines at the cement plant in Calera, Alabama pumped millions of gallons of water from the limestone.  Our guide said that there was no ground water in that part of Wyoming.  Being that the Granger Baptist Church was beside a river, which looked like a creek to me, I asked, “What about the lakes and rivers?”  Our guide said that that was melting snow.  Lakes were constructed as reservoirs catching the snow runoff.  Well, that explained why that river was a crystal-clear 48-50 degrees in July.  One of the heating and air-conditioner guys had measured it with a thermometer.  That also explained why a river in the Unitah Mountains would not pass for a creek or branch in Alabama.  For some odd reason the earth sure did look beautiful when we got back to the top and took a trip to the Unitah Mountains. Those trout were beautiful in that melted snow, the vegetation was lush green, and the mountains were white capped.  The world does look better on top.

Man puts an end to the darkness; he searches the farthest recesses for ore in the blackest darkness.  Far from where people dwell he cuts a shaft, in places forgotten by the foot of man; far from men he dangles and sways (Job 28:3-4 NIV).

Going Into Panic Mode

What sends you into panic mode?  I hate to admit it, but I go into panic mode on occasion.  It is said that confession is good for the soul.  I say that it is bad for the ego.  My coworkers once said that I was Mr. Cool when trouble was raging.  What they did not know was I was just as scared as they were.  I could conceal it by pretending to be in control.  If they only knew the truth!

The other day I went into panic mode and it was not a very big event.  I had driven to the local gas station to fill my new zero turn mower with gas.  As I reached to open the tank, I noticed that the right gas cap was missing.  I had checked the gas before leaving home and that’s when the panic started. 

Where was the gas cap?  A new mower and I have already lost one of the two gas caps.  I can’t believe I lost a brand new cap, will they have a new one at Slayton Brothers, will they have to order it, how long will it take, how will I explain to friends how a lost the cap, where is it, how can I keep the gas from jumping out, did that mischievous looking young man get my cap while I was not looking, can I find it if I back track my path, did it come off when I left the shed. . .  Did I mention I was about to panic?

After filling both tanks, I borrowed a plastic bag and rubber band from the store clerk and temporarily stopped the hole of the missing cap.  Then in a frantic, not panic, I was calming myself with possible answers to folks and the mower sales clerk, for losing a gas cap.  I backtracked the quarter mile journey back to my shed.  With no gas cap, I retraced my trail back to the store.  I could not enjoy the sweet fragrance of kudzu blooms; they seemed more sickening than refreshing or reassuring.  During the retracing, I saw everything a person could imagine but no gas cap.  I turned around at the store and retraced the path back home again.  Three trips and no cap.

I began a journey of panic recovery.  It was silly of me to panic over a plastic gas cap.  Then, I thought of other times I panicked.  There was the time when Aaron, my seven-month-old in a baby car seat locked the car door.  It was December, it was cold, the car was running, and I was trying to get to my college graduation rehearsal.  I imagined the headlines: College graduate so stupid baby dies in locked car from carbon monoxide poisoning.  Yep, I panicked.  I tried to find another key, I picked up a brick to knock out the car window, I googooed and gagaed trying to get Aaron to hit the electric lock again, and I finally decided to break into the car.  I got a clothes hanger, jimmied the car door, and pulled the lock open.

My mind continued race as I returned home and began cutting grass.  I thought about the time I could not find the laptop I had checked out of the Samford Library.  Several of us who were working on our doctorates used laptops to take notes.  I remember having it when I got into the car for the forty-five-minute trip to school.  Where was it, did I put on the top of the car when I loaded my books, did it fall on the driveway, did it fall on the highway, how much will it cost, will it cost me my graduation, will they take a credit card, will I have to work off the payment. . .  All these things raced through my mind as I frantically searched the back seat and the trunk over and over.  When I finally decided to face the music by breaking the bad news to the library, I realized the laptop was in its bag and on my shoulder.  Did you know that laughing at yourself relieves panic?

As I giggled about the laptop, I resolved to bite the bullet and suffer the consequences of losing a cap.  I would tell everyone that I was just a dummy.  It was a trivial and insignificant loss and could happen to anyone over age fifty.  There are more urgent matters, such as adjusting my seat.  The seat belt was hung so I had to step off the mower to make the adjustment.  As I reached between the seat and mower, there was the lost gas cap.  I laughed as I said, “Thank you Jesus.”  I thought that sometimes it is silly what sends us into panic mode.

Just this week Lisa, my new bride, lost a disc that contained our wedding photos, the only one in existence.  She went into panic mode big time.  After an all day search she found them. Tears of panic turned into tears of joy.

An anxious heart weighs a man down, but a kind word cheers him up (Proverbs 12:25 NIV).

Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you (I Peter 5:7 NIV).