Stuff

I opened the shed door and had to move the garden tiller to get the blower.  Once again, the pine straw and my neighbor’s leaves have hidden the driveway and filled the carport.  It is unbelievable how much stuff collects around the house and in the yard.  Just a few days ago, I trimmed the shrubs, cut the grass, weed-eated the fence, and vacuumed the leaves cleaning the yard.

I need to clean out my shed.  It is full of stuff.  It is all necessary stuff to clean the yards, the house, and vehicles.  There is so much stuff, that I have difficulty finding the right stuff to use.  With the abundance of stuff, I have built storage bins to organize my stuff.

The shed contains other stuff too.  There is an office chair, old office computer, shredder, filing racks, and old laminating machine.  There are antiques such as a typewriter, 1950 Plymouth hubcap, an old wash pot we used to stew out cracklings, and an assortment of antique tools.

Speaking of tools, I have all kinds of power tools; a router, vibrating sander, belt sander, jigsaw, plane, reciprocating saw, two chainsaws, hacksaw, coping saw, skill-saw, and handsaw.  There are electric and cordless drills.  They require their stuff such as drill bits, extension cords, battery chargers, bit extensions, and a variety of bits.  The chain saw, blower, and weed-eater require oil mixes and gasoline containers.

There is a flat shovel, a pointed shovel, a corn scoop shovel, two garden hoes, two yard rakes, and a pitchfork.  There are two axes and a hatchet.   There are several knives, assortment of left-handed gloves, a dozen or more cans of spray paint in a mishmash of colors, several small cans of stain, polyurethane, mineral spirits, cleaners, bottles of glue, car wash, waxes, buffing balls, sandpaper, masking tape, paintbrushes, rollers, and paint trays.

There is hanging stuff.  There is an old chandelier from the Pastorium dining room and an old fluorescent light from the office, seasonal bouquets, flowers, bells, and wreaths.  There are tie down straps, ropes, chains, C-clamps, and bungee straps.

There are shelves and shelves of stuff such as oil, filters, transmission fluid, brake fluid, and power steering fluid, and windshield washing fluid.  There is weed killer spray, bug killer spray, and ant poison.

There is free weight bench, rack, a melange of weights, and two hand weights.  There is a kerosene heater, propane bottle and fish cooker, grilling tools, and two-eye Coleman stove.  There are several fishing rods, tackle boxes, and net.

There are tarps, moving quilts, carpet remnants, and padding.  There are two sets of horseshoes and their pins.  There are two tents and a folding seat.  There is the spare tire for my truck and heavy-duty wheelbarrow. There is a sledgehammer and wedges for splitting wood and several pieces of dry hickory for grilling.

There is a motorcycle jack, floor jack, bumper jack, and an antique jack.  There are toolboxes with spare GMC parts, plumbing parts.  There are several other toolboxes, each with an assortment of tools, sockets, rackets, and pull handles.  Most of these have been Christmas presents, birthday presents, of Father’s Day gifts.  The acetylene bottle, the oxygen bottle, hoses, and cutting torch were Christmas presents.  The golf clubs and bags were a gift from a former church member.  The tennis racket and balls were a Father’s Day gift.

I have a wagon filled with hand tools, hammers, and my electrician tools.  There are the chalk bottle and line.  There are an assortment of clamps, some string, magnets, gloves, earplugs, and safety glasses.

The biggest obstacles in the 12’ X 24’ shed are two John Deere riding mowers, one with an industrial Cyclone Rake hooked behind it, a two-wheel fertilizer distributor, a Father’s Day gift, push mower, and an 8’ Christmas tree next to all them.  They made it difficult to get to the six-disc player and radio and my collection of CD’s, most which were gifts.  I need a bigger shed just to have room enough to use my two workbenches, one which is a Black and Decker folding work bench given as a Christmas present, that are covered with stuff.

 

Jesus talked about a man that had too much stuff and wanted to build more or bigger sheds.  And he said unto them, Take heed, and beware of covetousness: for a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.  And he spake a parable unto them, saying, The ground of a certain rich man brought forth plentifully: And he thought within himself, saying, What shall I do, because I have no room where to bestow my fruits?  And he said, This will I do: I will pull down my barns, and build greater; and there will I bestow all my fruits and my goods.  And I will say to my soul, Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry.  But God said unto him, Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee: then whose shall those things be, which thou hast provided? (Luke 12:15-20 KJV).

 

Christmas tends to be more about STUFF and less about Jesus.  I am thankful for the gifts people have given me, but the greatest gift this Christmas is the gift of love.

 

Merry Christmas from Bobby and Lisa

The Real Christmas Story

On a clear night’s sky the shepherds were watching over their flocks.  Joseph and Mary were lying comfortably next to Jesus on a bed of straw in the peaceful town of Bethlehem, a suburb of the big city of Jerusalem.  The animals peacefully strolled around, and the world was full of joy... and...that is Christmas stuff.

The real Christmas story is:  On a very hectic and troubled night a miracle happened.  The Messiah entered a world of terrible political unrest.  People hated, and did not trust, politicians who were quite corrupt.  There were moves to throw them out of Jerusalem.  Overspending by big government created huge taxes.  The Roman Empire was in decline and centralization of government and taxation were maneuvers to stop the decline and to control and manipulate its citizens.  The average wage earner could not keep a decent standard of living.  Religious institutions were getting more and more involved with politics instead of meeting spiritual needs of people.  Divorce was a common problem, almost at the fifty percent mark.  Abortion was common with babies often seen floating through open sewer lines.  The court system was corrupt; criminals were constantly going free on technicalities.  Nations were constantly redrawing their boundaries; there was a nervous peace around the world.  The educated were denying miracles and the supernatural.  They believed science and technology were the best hopes for mankind and the future.  The disparity between the rich and poor was getting greater and greater all the time.  Even the healthy religious people were losing hope in the Messiah.  For hundreds of years they had been told that the Messiah would come.  In all this God makes His appearance in human flesh.  The Angel of Lord told the shepherds that the Messiah had come.  They would find him as a baby lying in a manger.

For some, merriment, cheer, jing jing jingling and fa la la la la are light years away as you struggle with heaviness in your lives.   Straining under the load of sickness, or keenly felt grief because of death, or trying to escape the fog of depression, or the trap of financial deficiency, or the pressure of the chew-you-up-and-spit-you-out gossip of carnal church members Christmas hope seems light years away.  Hope comes when God’s people share the Good News which the Angel conveyed to the shepherds.

Thanks to all our Pastors who faithfully spread the Good News each Sunday in sermons and each day by example.

 And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.  (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)  And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.  And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)  To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.  And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.  And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.  And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.  And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.  And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.  And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.  And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men (Luke 2:1-14 KJV).

God's Pointing Star

In December 2007, I went to Miller, Missouri to clear trees and branches down from a recent ice storm.  It was the week of Valentine filled snow and cold.  The high for the week was our first day.  It reached 26 degrees with a 30-mile wind.  The morning we returned home, it was six, yes, that is six degrees.  It was so cold that the oil would not pump in our chainsaws and ice chips froze the sprocket.

The trip was very successful and interesting.  A new GPS guided our disaster relief team to Miller. We logged in the address of the Baptist Camp we were to say and we headed out.  When we left Demopolis the GPS said, “Turn right.”  The GPS was programmed with a lady’s voice and the GPS people named her Amanda.  We thought it appropriate that a lady should give us directions.  At least she was mounted on the windshield and not in the back seat.

As we approached Interstate 59/20 in Cuba, Amanda said, “Turn left and proceed on the motorway.”  We could watch our position on the GPS.  It named each road and driveway while in route.  We tried to confuse Amanda, but if we made a turn she would correct our direction.  When we would exit for a service station, she would make adjustments.  We watched her for more 14 hours and more than 700 miles.  She was flawless.

When we exited the Interstate in Mt. Vernon, Missouri, we were doing fine until Amanda told us to exit to the right.  The road was a one-laner.  We lost sight of lights from the city.  Broken limbs and downed trees lined each side of the road.  A couple had followed us all the way.  We had two-way radios to stay in contact.  I radioed Vick, the woman driving, and told her I thought Amanda might be wrong on this one.  She said her husband and her thought we were lost, but had not said anything.

Right dab in the middle of no where Amanda said, “Turn right.”  There was no right turn.  We slowed to a stop and I commented on being lost.  I had noticed a driveway at the moment Amanda said turn right.  I told the driver and another fellow that I thought there was a small sign in the yard back at the driveway.

The driver, under the direction of the other fellow and me, turned the Disaster Relief trailer around on that one-laner and headed back toward the driveway.  Did I say that it was dark?  Amanda said, “Turn left.”  As we turned left, on the left was a small sign that read Baptist Camp.  There was no light anywhere.  As we meandered our way up this hill suddenly there was light.  There she was a beautiful camp atop a hill over looking this beautiful valley.  We did not realize how beautiful it was until the next morning.

For the whole week, Amanda would guide us back to the camp.  Regardless of our assignment, Amada allowed us to see the beauty of God’s creation on a different route each day.  Amanda made a believer of our team.  The best part, we did not have to stop and ask directions.

Two thousand years ago some wise men used the GPS system to find the light of the world, Jesus.  It was God’s Pointing Star.

Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.  . . . they departed; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was (Matthew 2:1-2, 9b KJV).

Merry Christmas

 

The Rockets red gare, Exploding in Air, Dust Falling Everywhere

Can you believe that 2021 is almost over?  The COVID, bug end-of-time plague/Armageddon scare and the unknown of what’s coming is coming.  Babies born in 2019 become teenagers next year, or shall I say in a few days.  Father time creeps along and invades our lives.  Modern marvels and technological advances of the past decade slowly evolve into objects of antiquity.  Suddenly the old is repulsive and the new is alluring. 

That is the nature of the passing of time.  The world continues to spin along in its cosmic passageway and many of us think that it is spinning out of control.  Life has become so complicated and so hurried that 2022 will usher in 2023 before we have time to catch our breath.  Resolutions of slowing down and taking it easy will soon bow to pressures of deadlines and schedules.

The New Year is a time of reflection.  For some Christmas 2021 was the first Christmas without mom, dad, a son, a daughter, a grandparent, or a friend.  It is a time of remembering all those who did not make it into the New Year. 

Celebration of the New Year will take many forms.  Some churches will pray in the New Year while others will sing or eat into the New Year.  Some folks will sleep in the New Year while some will weep in the New Year.  For most, New Year is a monumental event.  For some people, New Year is just another day of the year.  When I worked rotation, New Year was just another day.  There was no celebration.

I remember working midnight on New Year.  I had some bottle rockets left from July 4^th and thought they might not be good enough for New Year.  Land Mart, the store just down the road from the house, sold fireworks where the kids would spend some of their Christmas money. Our kids loved the cash, instead of useless gifts.  I always monitored their spending when buying fireworks.  I hated to see them blow away their cash.  I subsidized their efforts occasionally when they did not receive as much as they did the last Christmas.

I am pretty sure that it was against company policy to have fireworks at work, but that never stopped us from bringing them.  You know that boys will be boys. Kiln burners were notorious for dropping firecrackers, cherry bombs, and spinning chasers down on unsuspecting oilers.  One kiln burner, Swann, dropped a spinning chaser one behind his oiler, Jones.  Jones raced across the railroad tracks with the spinning chaser bumping him in the back.  Pickett, a kiln burner, dropped a lighted pack of firecrackers behind Smithy, his oiler.  Smithy danced a jig as he went down the street.  Those are a few of the fireworks at the plant.

Getting back to the midnight shift, I had several packs of bottle rockets in my lunch box.  I recruited an accomplice to help me light them and toss them into the cement mill room.  This mill room had six giant ball mills that pulverized clinkers (ingredients of sand, iron ore, aluminum, and limestone cooked together to form cement) into powder. It was a very loud building.  Since these mills produced powder, there was cement dust everywhere.  It was a deafening and dusty situation.  The slightest jolt would start an avalanche of dust from girders and beams.

My accomplice and I walked to the edge of the kiln burner floor, which was adjacent to the mill room, and commenced to fire a barrage of rockets into an unstable dust loaded mill room.  Poor old Mr. Betts and Eddie Lee Barkley were trying to figure out what was happening. 

They could not hear the rockets as they zoomed toward them, but they could see the burning tail, the explosion, and the falling dust.  They finally saw two mischievous oilers having a fun time at the dawn of a new day as the clock stuck midnight and ushered in a New Year.  Mr. Betts and Eddie Lee laughed in the New Year that night.

Betts, Eddie Lee, Swann, Jones, and a whole host of others from the cement plant are gone.  Their passing serves as reminder that time passes quickly.  Both have been dead for years. 
Midnight January 1, 2022 quickly approaches.  Some compare time as midnight being the Lord’s return.  What are your plans for midnight, the dawn of 2022?

And it came to pass, that at midnight the Lord smote all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh that sat on his throne unto the firstborn of the captive that was in the dungeon; and all the firstborn of cattle (Exodus12:29 KJV).

At midnight I will rise to give thanks unto thee because of thy righteous judgments (Psalm 119:62 KJV).

And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God: and the prisoners heard them (Acts 16:25 KJV).

And upon the first day of the week, when the disciples came together to break bread, Paul preached unto them, ready to depart on the morrow; and continued his speech until midnight (Acts 20:7 KJV).

Our Small Thanksgiving

I get raised eyebrows ever time I tell folks one Hopper tradition for Thanksgiving.  It does resemble the ones when I was at home.  Momma would spend all day cooking for us.  Daddy loved to eat momma’s cooking.  In fact, everyone loved momma’s cooking except momma.

Vulcan Materials, the place where daddy worked as a heavy equipment mechanic, gave all of its employees a big Butterball turkey for Thanksgiving and a ham for Christmas.  Momma would bake that turkey, fix turkey and dressing, cakes, pies, and every other kind of dish imaginable for Thanksgiving dinner.  We celebrated being thankful.  Dad and mom taught us the importance of being thankful for what God had blessed us.

Momma’s table was so full that there was hardly room for us to put our plates but we managed.  Dad always set at the head of the table.  Momma, when she sat, was next to daddy and my sister sat next to her.  My two brothers sat to daddy’s left and I sat on the other end opposite dad.

The first rule was to say the blessing.  Dad required the blessing even though most of our lives dad did not know the Lord.  Once the blessing was said, the feast was on.  Daddy had certain rules for eating.  They were Hopper rules and not “Dear Heloise” rule of etiquette. 

One rule was if someone asked for a dish, that dish went directly to the requestee.  If someone intercepted the dish and removed any amount of contents, dad would make the guilty party remove the food then proceed to lecture on the rules of passing the plate.  Another important rule was never rake food from a bowl or dish.  You must dip the food.

When one item of food remained, such as a biscuit, you had to ask, “Does anyone want that last biscuit?”  If there were no takers, then you got it.  If for some reason someone they wanted it, dad would ask, “How many have you had?”  If you had what he considered plenty, the one asking for it would get it.

The biggest no-no of Hopper rules for feasting was if you dipped it, you had better eat it.  Daddy constantly warned that our eyes better not be bigger than our bellies.  He never cared how much you ate, but you had better eat what you got.  In fact, when one of us did not want to eat dad would remind momma, “Honey they will eat when they’re hungry.”

I miss those days of sitting around the table and passing the bowls filled with momma’s cooking.  Most meals at the house remain on the stove and we dip from pots and pans onto our plates and go to the table.  My sister Diane calls it “feeding the dogs” style of eating. I have heard that it will suppress one from eating too much by having to go back.  All I can say about that is I eat more because walking back creates more room for more food.  I was much thinner when we passed food around the table.  Mrs. Wilkes in Savannah, Georgia serves her guests like momma did and people think it is quaint and fancy dining.

I had the privilege of eating at a nice restaurant operated by folks from New Orleans.  They asked if we wanted to dine by passing the bowls, of course, I did and I loved every minute.  It was good to say, “Pass the creamed taters.”

For a change, one Hopper Thanksgiving  I will start a fire of hickory wood.  When the coals are just right, I grilled vegetables, squash, green tomatoes, onions, and yellow bell peppers.  I threw on some potatoes wrapped in foil and grilled rib-eye steaks.  That was back before COVID and I could afford them.

I remind people when they say “No turkey” that you can get turkey anywhere.  It is good to start new traditions.  This year Lisa and I decided to have a small “traditional” Thanksgiving.  We had the turkey, the dressing, and all the other stuff.  It was just the two of us.  I was thankful she was there and she was thankful I was there.  We sure had a lot of food to eat till Christmas.

 

From our home to yours, have a blessed Thanksgiving.

 

  In everything give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you (I Thessalonians 5:18 KJV).

 

To The Entitled

I will never forget the first time I realized that a turkey sacrificed his life for me to have turkey and dressing.  I remember the episode well.  Smoke swirled in the fall air and coolness surrounded you like a cold cloth wrapped around your head when running a fever. 

We were playing near the fig trees and the ash dump at Grandpaw and Grandmoe’s underneath an overcast sky.  Grandpaw and daddy busied themselves sharpening an axe after splittin’ kinlin’ for a fire burning around the wash pot.  They were boiling water in anticipation of scaldin’ a turkey.  My cousins and I were very familiar with scalding hogs, but the turkey scaldin’ was a first.

It seems as though Grandpaw had raised a few turkeys.  At one time people raised turkeys just as they did chickens.  Turkeys are ugly fowls.  It is hard to believe that some of our founding fathers wanted the turkey to be our national bird instead of the eagle.  Can you imagine what kind of respect the United States would have received had the turkey been on our national bird? 

You do realize that there would have been no turkey and dressing had the turkey been our symbol of power and strength.  Heck, most of the male citizens of Alabama would never have passed through the rite of passage into manhood by going turkey hunting.  There would be no beards displayed on walls of many homes, no turkey feet would proudly exhibited in the den, nor would there be any tail feathers proudly flaunted in the living room where tall tales of calling a gobbler would be shared.

The industry of producing, marketing, and using a turkey caller would not exist if the turkey had been our national bird.  I cannot imagine what are forefathers were thinking when they even suggested the turkey as a national emblem of strength and power.

As I reflect on that morning at Grandpaw’s, I wonder if Grandmoe would had Grandpaw and daddy “ringin’ chickin necks” instead of “choppin’ oft” turkey heads.  When I think about what momma said on many occasions, Grandpaw and Grandmoe might have had possum instead. 

Momma said they ate possum on several occasions.  She said they would “catch em”, “cage em,” and “clean em” out by feeding them “Irish and sweet tater peelin’s.”  For those that don’t know it, possums are scavengers that do not know how to get out of the road when a vehicle approaches. 

Daddy used to make fun of momma saying that before he married her the only thing momma had eaten was chickens and possums.  Daddy did not have it much better.  He ate chitterlings, mountain oysters, and pig feet with pickled collard greens.  I bet some of you are getting hungry and cannot want for the Thanksgiving dinner. 

I guess knowing all these things helped my family to appreciate Thanksgiving dinners.  Gathering around momma’s table was a feast fit for kings.  There was joy around the table.  Usually daddy got a turkey from his work and we grew corn, peas, butter beans, okra, sweet potatoes, pigs, chickens, and such which momma would transform into some of the finest meals.  We were thankful.  Looking back, I realize we were not a thankful then as I am now. 

I look back at that special moment in time as Grandpaw and daddy were about to kill “Ole Tom” and think how things have changed and how we as a nation have digressed from “thank full” to “thank less.”  Sometimes I think that I would enjoy being that small boy witnessing the first time a turkey gave his all for us to eat.  Reminiscing about a simpler time creates a longing to share special times today.  The Lord may be reminding me, and maybe you, that we grow in times of adversity, times of economical downturns, and times of hurting.

At thanksgiving dinner, momma would remind us that God loved us so much and we needed to thank Him for we had so much and many people did not.  We were poor, but we had neighbors who had less than we did.  I realize this is truer today than years ago when momma said it.

So will I compass thine altar, O Lord:  That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works (Psalm 26:6b-7 KJV).

 

A Family Tradition

Family traditions are important reminders of who we are and where we have been in the journey we call life.  Thanksgiving and Christmas for the Hopper family while I was growing up were original.  My dad’s family did not have “get-togethers” and mom’s family did “get-together” but there was some inequity.  Some family members were not welcome.

Mama had four sisters and a brother, which with the exception of one sister, “married up.”  The Hoppers and the “I will not mention their name” were larger families and much lower on the totem pole.  We were lucky if we got Christmas presents so that meant none under the tree when others opened theirs.  Since we were not welcome, our cousins would not open their presents until we went home, we stayed home and started our own traditions.

I remember mamma standing in the kitchen cooking her world family chicken and dressing.  I see the steam rising from the pots of boiling chicken and broth, backbone and turnip greens, bacon and purple hull peas, potatoes, bacon and butter beans, creamed corn, and brown sugar and yams.  In the oven would be a pork roast donated from one of our hogs.  She did it for both Thanksgiving and Christmas.  We did not need presents, but when momma would sacrifice and order us clothes from Spiegel catalog, we had a wonderful surprise on usually a frosty morning.

Momma would remind us how poor baby Jesus was and the joy that Joseph and Mary had when the Magi brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  Daddy was not as optimistic as momma.  He was so bad we named him Scrooge.  He was really not a Scrooge, but he did not decorate the tree or do any of the other things associated with the Thanksgiving and Christmas season.  He was usually on layoff, which was a depressing time.  The thing that upset him the most was Christmas.  He would tell momma that Christmas was about the birth of Jesus and not Christmas presents.  The amazing thing about that was dad was not a Christian until my brothers, sister, and I were grownup with children of our own.  He had a fine Christian mother, Granny Hopper, which taught him Christian principles.

And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh (Matthew 2:11 KJV).

Momma and daddy are with the Lord now, but the Hopper brothers and sisters do meet every year for Christmas.  Yes, the menu is pretty much the same.  I started my own Thanksgiving.  I miss momma’s world-famous chicken and dressing, but that Angus ribeye with grilled vegetables, baked potato, and my famous cherry pie ain’t bad.

I hope y’all have a great Thanksgiving and y’all have a great Christmas.

It Is Square

 Several years ago, I helped my daughter Angela remodel her kitchen.  One of the alterations was to situate a refrigerator that is too large, to fit in the present opening of the cabinets.  Being an old cabinetmaker in years past, I agreed to help her.

She had a couple of options.  One was to remove the two-door cabinet above the frig, and take a couple inches off each side of bottom cabinets to keep uniformity. 

The other option was a bit simpler, but she would lose cabinet space.  This course of action involved removing a section of the cabinet over to the next door by eliminating a top door and bottom door and their shelves.

My son-in-law said that it was impossible to remove the top and bottom sections since it meant removing two doors and their shelves.  His logical thought and reasoning was you could not do it due to its construction.  My response was someone built it originally. 

Angela said, “Daddy can do it.”  I knew that I could, but I was concerned about making it look like the cabinets were made that way.

My youngest son Aaron gave me this wonderful little saw for Christmas, so I knew I had the perfect tool to help me. Since I know how cabinets are built, had the right tool, I started by using a cordless drill to remove the double door cabinet above the frig opening.  Square-headed screws held this section of the cabinet in place.  Screws are much better to construct and deconstruct projects.  I also removed the sides of the cabinets that I was about to cut.  The sides were nailed together with small staples that I removed with a screwdriver and pliers.

When Angela finally arrived, I was well into to what Handyman Magazine calls a DIY (do it yourself) project.  When disconnecting the cabinets over the frig, one side dropped a tad.  I placed a level on the shelf, got it level, and anchored it with some ‘dry wall” screws.  I keep several different sizes of dry wall screws for projects.  Angela said that it did not look level.  She inherited her leveling ability from my momma.

Having done carpenter work most of my life, I know to measure twice and cut once.  I said I know good and well it was level because I put the level on it.  She said it was leaning.  I put the level on it and showed her that it was level.  I know leveling.

The house that I grew up in was anything but level and square.  Daddy placed some large rocks on the property and commenced to build our house on top of them.  He did like old timers did when constructing a house or should I say shanty.

When I was a senior in high school, we did some remodeling on the old shanty.  We added two bedrooms and replaced the old leaking tin roof with some fancy modern black shingles, replaced the asbestos siding with brick, and the outside toilet with a inside jam up bonafided indoor bathroom.

We did not have much trouble with the two new bedrooms because they were built on a good foundation.  The rest of the shanty was another matter.

When we started putting new paneling over sheetrock, we thought we were uptown.  Years later we asked why did we put that ugly paneling over good sheetrock?  I claim temporary insanity.

In building, you must start level, plumb, and square.  Daddy and I took our time to make sure the first piece of coconut colored paneling was plumb.  Momma said it was leaning.  Dad put a four-foot level on it and it was plumb.  Momma won out, and dad and I struggled to hang paneling.  It was a genuine mess.  Momma had a good eye no doubt, but she was no level or plumb line.

Momma and Angela remind me of something that a pastor friend, Denny Couturie`, said in a sermon at Sunny South Baptist Church.  Denny said that people disregard what the Bible says in favor of what they believe.  Authority and speaking with authority come from Scripture, referencing Titus 2:11-15:  For the grace of God that bringeth salvation hath appeared to all men, teaching us that, denying ungodliness and worldly lusts, we should live soberly, righteously, and godly, in this present world; Looking for that blessed hope, and the glorious appearing of the great God and our Saviour Jesus Christ; Who gave himself for us, that he might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto himself a peculiar people, zealous of good works.  These things speak, and exhort, and rebuke with all authority. Let no man despise thee (KJV).

God knows best.  I had a deacon tell me one time that it did not matter what the Bible said, he was going to do what he thought was right.  To say the least, he had no authority.  Opinions may have some merit in certain arenas, but the Word of God is the plumb line by which all life is measured.

As Angela and I completed the modification, she questioned something being square on the bottom cabinets when I measured and scribed a line on the bottom shelf before making a cut.  I assured her that it was indeed square.  Being a “Doubting Thomas” because I did not use a square, I told her to get the square and check it.  It was square.  Of course, she wanted to know I knew it was square.  I said if you measure the same distance from something that is square, the line will be consistent and continue to be square.  I told her it was called geometry and parallel lines.  When Angela and I finished the cabinets, it was hard to tell the modification. 

 

Veterans Were Babies Once

November means a time of thanks.  We have Thanksgiving Day and Veteran’s Day remembering the bounty of a great God and nation and the bravery of men and women who have served for the right to celebrate these events.

Veteran’s Day brings many memories to mind.  I remember a Veteran’s Day service at one of the churches I served.  The minister of music and I decided to purchase the music and flags of our Armed Forces.  During the worship service men and women from each of the branches of the military marched into the sanctuary following the flag under which they hade served.  There were those in the church who were active in the Army Reserve, the National Guard, and the Air Force.  Someone represented each of the branches of our Armed Forces.

As I contemplated on these men and women, I thought about all those who served and the ones that paid the ultimate sacrifice.  I mulled over the thoughts their parents may have had when each one of soldiers was a baby.  Did their parents envision that small baby maturing into soldier fighting, or perhaps dying in a foreign land, for our nation?

How does that compare to Christian soldiers?  The Bible teaches Christian maturity to fight against evil.  Dr. S.O. Hawkins writes, “Perhaps the worst problem in many churches is a host of spiritual infants who have never grown in their faith because they have been fed a diet of pop psychology and seeker sociology instead of New Testament theology. . . It is impossible to grow up as a Christian apart from the Word of God.”

If a baby does not mature, something is wrong.  Babies, as cute as they are and as much as we love them, want their own way.  They want what they want when they want it.  They are lazy, lie around, and they mesh up a lot without cleaning up the mess.  They do not pick up clothes or wash them.

Babies do not take up with personalities, and cannot look beyond their own personality.  A mass murderer can goo-goo and ga-ga and a baby will smile.  Babies can care less about big events happening around them.  Divorces, deaths, heartaches, and any number of things happen as a baby is down on the floor playing with a ball.  Babies are easily upset when do not get what they want.

We see all of these signs in babes (immature believers) in Christ.  They are not interested in what others think, they have no spirit of submission, and they are not active in outreach or other ministries of the church.  Immature believers want to be entertained, they play while big things are happening, and they are more concerned about feeding time at noon than the transformation of people from darkness into the light of salvation.

This Veteran’s Day when you see those aged warriors of freedom and right, remember that they were once babies that had to have everything need cared by someone who wanted them to grow from children to adults.  That should be a challenge for believers to mature for spiritual battle.

And he gave some, apostles; and some, prophets; and some, evangelists; and some, pastors and teachers; For the perfecting of the saints, for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ:  Till we all come in the unity of the faith, and of the knowledge of the Son of God, unto a perfect man, unto the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ:  That we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive; But speaking the truth in love, may grow up into him in all things, which is the head, even Christ: From whom the whole body fitly joined together and compacted by that which every joint supplieth, according to the effectual working in the measure of every part, maketh increase of the body unto the edifying of itself in love (Ephesians 4:11-16 KJV).

 

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 quit 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 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 yanked them from the closed door, leaving on of my fingernails between the door and the door sill.  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, Alabama 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!

Maytag, Dependable Agitators

Several years ago, I confessed to someone that I was a mass murderer.  I got the “look” from her.  Let me explain.  I had carried a bag of trash to the outside trashcan for city pickup.  When I raised the lid, I realized that I had stirred up a supply detachment of “sugar ants.”  I do not know how they got that name; I grew up with daddy calling the by an Old Testament word, which I would rather not write.  They are anything but sweet.  They are a nuisance.  I retrieved my bug killer spray and killed hundreds of the pesky rascals. 

They had taken up residence in my Honda Civic.  They love the dead bugs in the grill.  I had a can of Raid in the Civic.  I think they have built a hive or nest in the car somewhere.  Thank goodness, they do not sting as do those sorry, good for nothing, demons called fire ants, but they do pinch.  The best thing about sugar ants is where they are, fire ants ain’t.  Rarely do you have both species.

My place Sugar Ridge in Chilton County was a haven for fire ants.  They had mounds everywhere.  I admire the work ethics of fire ants, but their battle tactics are swifter than the ancient Philistines.  Both sugar and fire ants have a sophisticated communication system that many modern communications companies envy.  When I kill a sugar ant, I watch as the straight lines of their comrades’ start evasive maneuvers.  If I drop a piece of bread, within minutes ants are forming supply lines.

When I stir up fire ant mounds, they immediately go into attack and rebuilding modes.  I love stirring up fire ants, because they are vicious.  Using a hoe or broom handle, I bore deep into the mound to kill them from the inside. Through the years, I have tried various methods of mass destruction.  Burnt motor oil and gasoline are more effective than most other types ant poison.  Sometimes I feel as though I am a mad scientist or dictator trying to create new weapons of mass destruction.

They always counter attack.  Just when you think you have conquered them, you realize that they replaced the destroyed mount with another nearby and used the moving opportunity to built two or three new subdivisions.

I know when I was cutting the grass in the pasture; I would send ants flying everywhere.  I think that is where my stirring up abilities originated.  I remember cutting my uncle’s pasture and I stirred up some bumblebees.  The tractor was not moving fast enough, so I jumped from the tractor and out run the bumblebees.

Working summers while in high school with Hiwassee Land Company, my coworkers, and I would stir up yellow jackets.  They are very protective of their hives.  On one occasion, Larry, my cousin, was jabbing on a tree.  Suddenly he realized that these yellow and black kamikazes covered his pants.  Now, I admit that it was funny to watch one another running and screaming, “Yellow Jackets,” through the woods.  Larry did not run, but stood swiping yellow jackets from his blue jeans and slowly saying, “I think I’m in a “yellar jackit nest.” 

Unfortunately, the hickey tree he jabbed housed an integrated duplex.  In the basement were the yellow jackets, while in the high rise resided the hornets.  Yellow jackets are small fast and fierce, but hornets are bigger, faster, and carry a big punch.  While Larry swiped yellow jackets, the hornets swirled around their eloquently fashioned papier-mâché, which had more security guards than a New York Art Museum.  Suddenly, a hornet went into a nosedive and hit Larry between the shoulders.  He hit the ground face first as those of us who watched ran screaming through the woods, “hornets!”

Getting back to cutting the pasture, along with bumblebees, yellow jackets, and ant mounds, are cow patties.  Those innocent looking circular mounds, when stirred up, can cause a stink.  Sometimes we played baseball and football in the pasture.  Up home, we call this cow pasture ball.  Sometimes we would use the dried cow patties as bases for baseball.  One Sunday while playing baseball in a neighbor’s cow pasture, one of our teammates slide into second base only to discover it was not completely dry.  He stirred up an oozie stink.

Several of you have read articles where I mentioned my nickname at the Calera Cement Plant.  My co-worker and friend, J.W. Tucker, I think he was my friend, started calling me Maytag.  At first, I thought it was because I was dependable, like the Maytag appliance commercials.  J.W. said it was because I was an “Agitator.”

Through the years, I realized it was not a derogatory nickname.  Those who stir up people can be an agitator, but also one who campaigns or motivates people.  I hear motivational speakers make big money to motivate people.

Churches have been and will continue to be in revival.  Effective revival evangelists and preachers have the gift to stir up the people initiating revival. 

When political chaos reached an all time low, God became man to stir up His people.  Churches can be like ant mounds sitting with all the unseen activity, or crusty dry cow patty, or papier-mâché nest which have negative results. Can it be that the times in which we live need a little motivation? 

 

And they were the more fierce, saying, He stirreth up the people, teaching throughout all Jewry, beginning from Galilee to this place (Luke 23:5 KJV).

 

And the Lord stirred up an adversary unto Solomon, Hadad the Edomite: he was of the king's seed in Edom (I Kings 11:14 KJV).

Those That Wash Our Feet

Great and miraculous events with wonderful and dedicated believers fill my ministry.  God blesses in spite of our inadequacies.  Someone shared with me a divine moment at one of my former pastorates and it happened during our evening services named Discipleship.  Discipleship was that Sunday gathering of the saints that started as BYPU, then Training Union, later Church Training, and finally Discipleship Training.  Most churches do not have Sunday night services or Discipleship Training and we wonder why Good Old Southern Baptists fall for the latest Spiritual Gimmick or “mystical pony show.”

Less I digress, Ms. Faye was a Discipleship leader who was not only a great teacher of God’s Word, but was one of the most compassionate persons I have had the opportunity to serve.

It was unbelievable how sweet, encouraging, and caring she was considering the ferociousness of her two brothers, both who happened to be my high school football coaches.  Their encouragement was, “Hopper give me twenty-five pushups and try and get it right this time.  Faye, and husband Raymond, were mentors in my life. 

The divine moment occurred when Faye entered the all-ladies Discipleship class of Friendship Baptist Church with a towel and bowl.  She commented to the ladies that she was not disrobing as Jesus did but she wanted to wash their feet.

She did not have any water, but she symbolically washed the feet of each of the ladies of her Discipleship class.  Getting down her knees she, spoke of the Scripture from the Gospel of John:  He riseth from supper, and laid aside his garments; and took a towel, and girded himself.  After that he poureth water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples' feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith he was girded.  Then cometh he to Simon Peter: and Peter saith unto him, Lord, dost thou wash my feet?  Jesus answered and said unto him, What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter.  Peter saith unto him, Thou shalt never wash my feet. Jesus answered him, If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with me (13:4-8 KJV).

Faye is a remarkable believer demonstrating love, mercy, and forgiveness.  The ladies of her class understood the sacrifice she made as she humbled herself by the act of getting on her knees.  Faye was a breast cancer survivor. 

The last time I saw her was June 28, 2017 at Brother Raymond’s funeral, which I did his eulogy.  The ravages of time, heartache, and cancer consumed her frail little body.  She tried to hug my neck, but could not raise her arm above her shoulder, a side effect from breast cancer.

The ladies that were the recipient of her love for them will never forget her act of humility and service.  Faye understood that we are all sinners in need of a Savior and friends that will bow in humility to pray for those of us that are struggling with the cares of life and the attacks of the evil one.

Faye, along with several other ladies, went to Shocco Springs Baptist Retreat in Talladega for an Alabama Baptist State Board of Mission ladies’ conference.  Donna Douglas, Elly Mae, of The Beverly Hillbillies, was the main speaker.  Ms. Douglas was a motivational speaker and believer.  Faye asked Ms. Douglas to share her salvation experience.

Faye noticed that Ms. Douglas never talked about admitting she was a sinner and experienced salvation by the blood of Jesus.  Faye was convinced that Ms. Douglas had never experienced salvation and wanted to know for certain.   Faye witnessed to her.  That is the kind and compassionate person that Faye was.

Donna Douglas died from pancreatic cancer on January 1, 2015.  Five years later, July 26, 2020 Ms. Faye joined her in Heaven.  I had the honor and privilege to say final words about my wonderful friend.  One of my favorite stories from her happened at a red light.  Her car stalled and she could not start it.  A man behind her honked his horn.  Faye went to his car and said, "If you will start my car, I will honk your horn."  That was my Faye.

Just as Jesus and Faye washed the feet of those they loved, churches, certain pastors, and cherished members of Bethel Baptist Association washed my feet for fourteen years.  They provided me opportunities to use gifts that I never realized God entrusted me.  These dear saints have been complimentary, generous, and most of all, encouragers to me.  There is no way to say thank them enough for their support and faithfulness.  I am humbled when I think of our precious moments together.  Thank you for “washing my feet.”

 

Philippians 1:6

My Friend Bailey

Have you ever had a “gut feeling”?  You know the one where you got about something and hoped it was not true.  I had one the other day.  I was going up home to check on our place, to cut grass, and do yard work.  On the way there I had a feeling that my friend Bailey was in a bad way. 

Bailey was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer about a year ago.  I tried to visit him each time I went home, but for the last several weeks I could not get an answer when I called him.  I figured he was too sick and did not feel like talking and did not want company.  His wife Judy kept me informed through e-mail about each doctor visit Bailey made, so I was able to keep up that way.

I first met Bailey when I attended the University of Montevallo.  I worked in the Physical Plant with the grounds crew cutting grass.  Bailey introduced himself by throwing tennis balls at the grounds pickup as we passed him in the carpenter pickup.  Bailey worked in the carpenter shop.

I made a point to visit the carpenter shop because of my love for the smell of fresh cut wood and the love of building.  I tried to get a job in the carpenter shop, but they did not have any openings.  That changed when the supervisor learned of my cabinet making skills.  This began a long-term friendship with Bailey.

Bailey began at the university on a basketball scholarship from Berry High School.  Berry is now Hoover High School.  Bailey loved to shoot basketball.  He had the built for it at six feet, six inches tall.  We played every chance we got.  He towered over me and Bailey made me feel short and feel more conscious of me being taller than most folks. 

He chose Montevallo over Auburn to play basketball, but quit.  He never got a degree but he did go to work for the University.  He loved working there and I loved working with him.  Bailey was a perfectionist and I like that.  Every job we did, we did to perfection.

I worked flexible hours in the carpenter shop and Bailey would take me to class and pick me up after class.  I got to play volleyball with the carpenter shop as part of the exercise and fitness program of the university.  The carpenter and paint shop would beat the electrical and plumbing shop every time we played because of Bailey’s and my height.

One fond memory is every day Bailey and I would go to the daycare at the Methodist church to pick up his son Keaton then take him to his grandparents who lived near the church.  Bailey loved that little Keaton and a short time later cute little Ashley.  That was more than twenty years ago.  Keaton and Ashley have graduated the university.

Bailey’s surname is Santa Cruz.  I could not understand how this giant, red-haired, fair complexioned man had a Spanish name.  It surprised Bailey knowing I was a history major and did not know.  He said that King Philip of Spain married the Queen of Ireland resulting in Irish people with Spanish names.  People were surprised when they met Bailey thinking he was a short dark complexioned Latino, but seeing this tall Irishman.

I went to see Bailey as soon as I heard that he had cancer.  I wanted to know for sure how he was and what condition he was mentally, physically, and spiritually.  I could tell something was wrong even through his assurance that he was okay.  Each time I visited, you could see the deterioration.

The last time I saw him I called to see if he was up for some company.  He said come over he had just wakened from a nap and wanted me over for a visit.  He was weak and pale, but greeted me with his patented smile.  You know you have a true friend when your conversation picks up where you left it regardless of the time in between tête-à-têtes.  That’s a fancy word for heart-to-heart conversations.

Bailey and I talked about his dream house on Lake Shechi which started as a small block cabin and Bailey transformed into a beautiful home in the almost thirty-one years that Judy and he lived there..  We talked about his meticulous care of the centipede and the quality of fishing on the lake.  We talked of the Lord and His care and steady confidence that he was a winner if he lived or died.

At his funeral I learned that Bailey and a college friend played guitars and sang A Living Prayer as a duet at the Methodist Church.  His friend, Kneeland, sang the song solo at the funeral.  I could hear and see Bailey playing and singing.  Bailey told me once how he learned to play and harmonize with Kneeland and others in dorm bathrooms.  Every time we worked in the one where they practiced he would comment about the great acoustics.

Bailey went to be with the Lord on his birthday.  What a day to start eternity! I told Judy at the funeral that true friends were hard to find and I had lost a good one.  She said, “I know.”

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted (Matthew 5:4 KJV).

 

Process

One of the buzzwords today is process.  Sometimes I wonder what all the hullabaloo is about process.  Everyday life is a process of understanding, developing, and growing.  Babies process from newborns not knowing how to do anything to in just a few months can walk, talk, and balk.

Those of us that have worked in plants know that the manufacturing of products is a process.  It is a long process to go from a log to a roll of bath tissue, paper towels, or paper.   It is the same with cement.  It is a long process to transform limestone, sand, iron ore, and aluminum into cement.  The list is of industries that process products are endless.  There are garment plants, welding and machine shops, electrical shops, etc.

At a very young age, I decided I wanted to be a mechanic.  Since we monetarily handicapped, a fancy way to say poor, we never owned many new things.  I remember helping daddy repair an engine, Danny Baker of Linden Baptist, tells me motor means an electric motor and I say an engine is what pulls a train.  Any who, daddy taught me how disassemble generators, starters, transmissions, and engines.  Sometimes I would tear a starter or generator apart and have daddy show me how to put it back together.  I cannot write in my articles what he said but the jest of it was; how in the world did you tear this apart?

As a preteen, I was repairing just about everything we owned.  I would study the parts as I removed them, hoping I would remember how to put them back together.  If only I had an iPhone back then.  It always amazed me that I could get the part back to working with fewer parts.  It seems that I always had leftover parts.

I remember that there were a few things that flew into what seemed a jillion pieces when tearing them apart.  It kinda complicates things when you do not know what went flying or you cannot find it.  Then, I had to use a similar part from another part.

I remember when I began working at the cement plant.  I knew nothing about cement although I had helped pour and finish concrete.  Concrete and cement are two different products.  Concrete is a mixture of cement, sand, and stone.  I wanted a job there because it paid big money.  I left a machine shop hoping to be a machinist at the cement plant.  I can assure you that if I were there today, I would not be a machinist.

At the plant, I was placed on an oiler’s job on the cement kiln.  Kiln operators made the most money of all hourly employees.  I love the cable show “How it’s Made.” I love to see how things are made.  I did with the process of the cement kilns.  The operator was glad to teach me.  He provided me with an understanding of the “cooking of cement.”  He told the production manager, his good friend, about me wanting to “burn” the kilns.  The production manager, who had been an oiler at one time, told me to grasp a good understanding of burning the kilns and gave me a book, The Art of Kiln Burning.

I told the production manager that I did not know if I have enough time to learn the operation of the kilns.  He said that he knew how much work I had and that I understood what was necessary and was not and to spend a couple of hours a day training.  I told him that I did not want to leave undone work for the next shift.  He said, “Let me worry about that.”

I knew that everyone in the plant feared the production manager.  His nickname was “Killer.”  Knowing that, I realized if he wanted me to understand the operation of the kilns, it would be best for me.  I understood the consequences of being on his list.  My burner loved it because he could take breaks.  I was mortified burning two 400 feet pipe bombs.  While breaking, my burner would cut off a piece of equipment to see if I understood the total operating procedure.  If I did not understand the gravity of the situation, he would explain how vital it was and the quicker I recognized the problem, the better it would be.  My burner became a supervisor and I eventually became a kiln burner, operating them for several years. 

When I bided into maintenance, I had to train my replacement on the kilns.  I made sure that those that had not been oilers had more training, understanding the dangers and consequences of burning the kilns.

When I was a young man, Roy Moxley, a machinist and my father-in-law, told me that a person could do anything once they understand it.  I have experienced that.  Now having been in ministry for thirty-eight years, I have a better understanding on life.  Sometimes that is.  Evil is fast taking over our lives and it is important and imperative that we understand the dangers and consequences of evil and reverence for the Lord.

I like Job’s rebuttal to his so-called friends in response since Job has fallen on hard times.

 

And unto man he said, Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding (Job 28:28).

 

The truth today is; there is a limit to power and skill.  We can learn many things and can harness the basic energy of the universe, but we cannot find wisdom in science.