Icy Rain and Falling Tears

 The vacuum wipers of my old 1950 Plymouth slowly swiped the light icy rain peppered on the windshield late one night as took a co-worker home. Clifton and I talked of the cold night and possible snow flurries that would create a panic among the people of Alabama and especially Chilton County.  We were having a light-hearted moment in Clifton’s heartbreaking relationship with his wife.

To pacify his wife, Clifton bought her a new red with white stripes, Ford Grand Torino fastback.  It was a beauty.  It was also a gift to harness his wife’s wandering ways.  As we passed Friendship Baptist Church, one I pastored years later, I spotted Clifton’s Torino underneath the security light of the church parking lot.  Whether he knew it or that he acted dumb, we joked that his wife left it there.  Having an eye for details of automobiles, I knew without a shadow of doubt that it was Clifton’s car.  I had this empty, wishing I was wrong, moment.  It would become a defining moment as I witnessed something that will always be etched in my mine.

Clifton lived just over the hill from the church at the Blacksnake Trailer Park.  Ice collected on the wipers as I pulled to his driveway.  Clifton said, “She’s gone again.  That was her Torino.”  I waited as he opened the mobile home door.  He motioned for me come to the door.  I saw three little girls, all in t-shirts and diapers, cuddled up like puppies on a rug at the front door.  The oldest little girl said, “Momma is gone.”

My heart broke for these precious little girls and for Clifton.  Clifton had an alcoholic brother who appeared from the darkness.  He had tried to open the door, but it was locked.  He waited in shadows and from the cold underneath another mobile home until Clifton arrived.

These three little girls were ages three, two, and one.  They were red-haired, blonde, and brunette.  All three had different dads and Clifton was not one of them, but Clifton loved them as though they were his.

I never will forget the first time I met Clifton.  He had grown up in the same Mars Hill community that I did.  He was older than I was, and we had never met, but since he worked where mom did, and I eventually did, I heard a lot about him.

He was pale as a ghost when I first met him.  He was recovering from a gunshot wound to his stomach and had a 22-caliber bullet lodged against his spine.  Days before, he had escaped, yes escaped, from a Birmingham hospital by hiring a cab to transport him to Clanton.  He was wearing a hospital gown.

Clifton claimed that he had accidentally shot himself while cleaning a rifle.  Truth was that his wife shot him.  Can I tell you that I had lived a rather sheltered life, and I learned a lot about life in the real world?

Clifton’s wife was a very loose woman.  She was a little on the trashy side.  She loved men, but Clifton loved her more.  I had never seen a man that loved a woman as he did her.  As the old saying goes, “He put up with a lot.”

As the energy crisis of 1973 swept the nation, I faced my first layoff, and it would be the last time I saw Clifton alive.  Clifton kept working and his wife kept running around on him.  She was so despicable, that her mother and father disowned her.  In fact, Clifton had moved in with his in-laws who were helping with the three girls.

A friend called me to tell me that Clifton had committed suicide.  The bullet against his spine continued to cause pain and health problems.  Overwhelmed by the heartache of a wayward wife and a bullet she placed in his body, Clifton borrowed his father-in-law’s 410-gauge shotgun to shoot rabbit or squirrel, but placed the barrel against his heart and pulled the trigger.  His in-laws saw him stagger and fall near the clothesline.  Helped came too late.

I attended his wake.  My heart was with the three girls.  I had not been married very long and thought about adopting them.  As for Clifton’s wife, I was told that as Clifton lay at rest, she lay intimate with another man in a Clanton parking lot.

Every year at Christmas, I wonder what happened to the girls.  It was the Christmas season when I saw them cuddled on the rug cold and shivering. If they are alive, they are in their forties now. 

When I think of Clifton and them, I think of God’s love for us and Hosea’s love for his wife Gomer.  Love is a powerful force.  I could understand the love of Hosea and the wandering of Gomer a little better when I read Francine Rivers Christian novel Redeeming Love.  If you have not read it, you are missing a great book.  I could not put it down.

 

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.  So he went and took Gomer (Hosea 1:1-3a KJV).

Can I Say I Am Offended

Well, another year is gone and the world in which we live has changed so much.  I tell folks all the time that this is not our daddy’s Alabama.  It is most definitely not our dad’s nation.

Things from the White House, to the Governor’s house, to the Court House, to the church house, and to our house seems to be in shambles.  With each passing day, yesterday’s shock is today’s commonplace.

I was at a meeting not too long ago where the people leading the music looked as though that had slept in their clothes and got right out of bed without combing their hair and went right to the stage to try to lead me in worship.  I guess I am old fashion, I was taught to bring your best to worship.

A speaker that was not dressed much better then followed these uncouth and shoddy looking leaders of praise.  They say they do this as not to offend anyone.  Can I say that I am offended!  They say they want everyone to feel welcomed.  I did not! 

Here’s where I have the rub.  It is okay to come before the Kings of kings dressed in the ragged, shabby clothes and unruly hair but wear the newest styles of tuxedoes and gowns to a prom or dinner engagement where most will bow down to the god of debauchery and hedonism.  Something is wrong with that picture.

While growing up we were poor and did not have much, however we wore our Sunday best to worship.  I know that there are times where we may not have our best at worship, but is the exception rather than the rule.

Malcolm Gladwell has a great book, The Tipping Point.  The subtitle is “How Little Things Make a Big Difference.”  I recommend it.  One principle came very close to home and it reminds me of this stylish trend, or lack of style in our churches.

If the owner of property does not care for his possession, he gives the okay to vandalize it.  The case in point was the old house behind the Pastorium when I lived in Linden.  When I first moved to Linden, the old house was in good shape.  As the grass and weeds grew, so did the vandalism.  It did not matter how much I tried to watch the abandoned house, windows were broken, doors were torn off, and graffiti appeared.  The owner’s neglect was the perpetrator’s license to deface.

“An epidemic theory of crime can start with a broken window and spread to an entire community.  The tipping point is not with a particular kind of person but physical graffiti. The impetus to engage in a certain kind of behavior is not coming from a certain kind of person but from a feature of the environment.”

Brother Bobby, “What has this to do with church worship?” Glad you asked.  At some point in the property owner’s neglect, the right to trash the place tipped to the perpetrator.  Had the owner given the slightest attention to his property, the destruction would not happen or least delayed it.  There is a point in time when things tip the other way.

At some point and time, church attire tipped from “giving our best to it is okay to be a mess.”  It is true that Jesus takes us, as we are, to which I am eternally thankful.  But, what happened to repentance and change?  Early church converts were given new clothes after baptism to signify a change.  Samford’s Beeson School of Divinity’s Chapel has a painting showing this tradition.

Ron is a modern day example.  Ron visited Friendship Baptist Church in Clanton when I was pastor there.  Ron had long hair, beard, earrings, and dressed like a hippy.  Yes, he wore sandals.  He was welcomed just as he was and no one mentioned his appearance.  We did not have a dress code.  Every thing from three-piece suits to blue jeans and T-shirts was acceptable.  I do not remember anyone looking like they slept in their clothes, although I thought I saw a kid or two and lady or two that did not fix their hair.

Ron continued to come and one Sunday he came forward during the invitation and told me that he wanted to be saved.  I shared the Gospel with him and he prayed the sinner’s prayer.  The following Sunday this handsome, clean-shaven, earring less young man in suit and tie with dress shoes appeared.  Everyone told Ron how nice he looked.  He said God changed him.

What happened to the church setting the trend?  The church has lost its influence in the community.  As a result, lifestyles and moral behavior in society have tipped from Christian principles to secularism and immorality.  There is a war on Christian government and citizenship as I write this article.  Right is wrong and wrong is right nowadays.  Some compare our world to Sodom and Gomorrah.

Can I say that there is nothing new under the sun?  One big difference today is technology allows one to capture events as they happen, rather than hearing about it later.

Solomon says, “Do not say, "Why were the old days better than these?" For it is not wise to ask such questions (Ecclesiastes 7:10 NIV).

THAZ YOU SANTA CLAUS?

 

I found out at an early age that Santa Claus was a mythical person based on a real person and that Jesus Christ was the root of Christmas.  Santa Claus was and remains prominent during the Christmas season.  He is real to many boys and girls around the world.  I saw a Hispanic family in Montevallo on Wednesday.  A little boy scrambled from a SUV.  Dressed in Santa Claus pajamas, I said, “Someone is excited about Santa Claus.”  His mom and dad had smiles as wide as Texas.  I said, “Merry Christmas,” They did not speak English and I should have said, Felez Navidad.”

 

My first year out of high school I worked at a metal molding plant.  I was a big for an eighteen-year-old and they convinced me to play Santa Claus.  As another famous Alabamian, Forrest Gump, would say, “All I got to say about that it was frightening.  The workforce was predominantly female.  While they sat on Santa’s knee, this young Christian boy heard things that would make a Corinthian Sailor blush.  And “that is all I got to say about that.

 

Every year for Christmas Local 50537 and management for the cement plant gave away 300 bicycles to needy families in central Alabama.  I was Santa Claus.  I met with children in a small program, and they would tell what they wanted.  At the end we presented the bicycles to them.  It was all I could do to hold back tears as these children hugged my neck and thanked me for the bicycles.

 

I played Santa Claus for my extended family.  One Christmas when my youngest son was about five or six, he sat in my lap and rubbed my arm.  I wore white gloves, but I think he recognized my arm.  It was fun as my son, nieces, and nephews talked with Santa and quizzed where was dad and uncle Bobby.  Oh, the tales told at Christmas.

 

I was Santa longer when I served as Director of Missions in Linden, Alabama.  At the request of the mayor and Chief of police, they asked if I would be the town, Santa.  It was fun especially riding the Fire Department Engine and waving at the crowds of people during “Chilly Fest” and the Christmas parade.  I would sit in the town Gazebo and the children would take pictures with Santa.

 

One parade, a woman running for a Congressional seat sat on my lap.  I asked her what she wanted for Christmas, and she said to win Congressional Seat.  She is now the Honorable Terri Sewell in Washington.  Hundreds of babies sat on my lap as cameras took photographs.

 

I usually wore a beard and mustache that I purchased.  I distained the fake stuff that came with cheap Santa outfits.  I glued the mustache and beard to my face so when mischievous kids would pull Santa’s beard it appeared real.  One year I grew a beard and mustache along growing longer hair.  I was not snowy white so at the advice of the lady that cut my hair I went to Tuscaloosa to procure some dye.  Dressed in red and waiting to checkout, an attractive lady put her arm around me and said, “Santa, I want a keyless entry Lexus for Christmas.

 

Chilly Fest was a huge event with a chili cookoff, parade, fireworks, and such.  On the morning of the event my son Aaron and I were replacing a radiator in his Jeep Wrangler when my cell phone rang.  It was the Chief of police wanting to know if I had seen Santa.  The park for Chilly Fest was a block away.  Santa usually appeared the night of the parade, but folks were wondering where he was for the all-day event.

 

Quickly with the speed of Superman in a telephone booth, Santa appeared.  It was a cool overcast morning that suddenly dissipated, and a bright sun drove the clouds away.  Everyone wanted to see Santa.  I took time with everyone that wanted to talk with me.  It was fun.

Then it happened.  A little back boy sat with me and was convinced I was not the real Santa Claus.  He said I did not look like the real one.  I told him that I was the local Santa and that the “Big Man” could only be everywhere around the world on Christmas Eve.  He used local Santas to help.

 

Not to be undone, he asked me where my reindeer were.  I asked him did he see any snow.  Snow is rare in Alabama.  He said, “No.”  I reminded him that I had reindeer, not rain deer.  Then he was to know where my elves.  I told him they were incognito, which I said they were disguised as children with their Christmas caps pulled down over their pointed ears. 

 

“How did you get here and where is your sleigh?”  He did not let up.  I told him that since there was no snow, I had to use the elf mobile which I had hid.  Then I thought he had me.  He asked, “If you are the real Santa, what did you get me for Christmas last year?  I pondered the question for a moment and said, “toys.”

 

With a beautiful smile from a little boy, he yelled out loud, “YOU ARE THE REAL SANTA.”  He rounded up all his friends, and their friends.  For a few precious moments in time, I was experienced the miracle of Christmas, love, and wonderment. The children asked me some of the amazing questions.  On of my neighbors, a Hispanic girl, when I asked her what she wanted for Christmas said, “A bell from your sleigh.”  One again I had tears in my eyes.  She, her three sisters, and brother were rescued from under a bridge.  They were caught stealing food to eat.  My neighbor was their foster parent.

Merry Christmas everyone and remember Jesus.  But Jesus said, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

 

 

 

 

 

“The Real Christmas Story”

My friend Calvin Miller did devotions and commentary for The Celebrate Jesus Millennium Commemorative Edition Bible.  He autographed my copy with these words, “Bobby- How marvelous that God has made us friends.” Dr. Miller has gone to be with the Lord, and I miss him.  Brother Ed Vines of Forest Hill in Linden gave me a cane with a carving of a bearded man at the top.  I told Ed that I named it Calvin because it looks like Calvin Miller.  When I walk with the cane, it reminds me that I studied under this Baptist Giant and symbolically he walks with me when I use the cane.  Dr. Miller told me that I needed to write.  I remember telling him I struggle to write.  He told me I was good writer and to write.

I love stories and Christmas is a great time for sharing stories such as this one.

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 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 they struggle with heaviness in their 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 a chew-you-up-and-spit-you-out kind church members.  Hope comes when God’s people share the Good News, which the Angel conveyed to the shepherds.

Day 355 of Dr. Miller’s devotion begins: “God likes to do some things better than others.  We see him in the punishment business so often; we feel that is what he gets his kicks from.  Punishment is not God’s core business.  God is in the business of saving people.  He showed that when he sent a little baby to Bethlehem and said he would save his people from their sins.”

God is the God of little things, little places, and little children.  Can you imagine the surprise when Herod heard that God picked a little city called Bethlehem, a one camel town to be the place for the birth of a King?

To top that, Herod got the information from people we know today as Iranian or Iraqi.  Most of us are offended when we did not receive an invitation to a Christmas gala.  Imagine Herod’s surprise when he didn’t get the birth announcement for a great king.  Great works of God rarely start in big places.  They start in small places.

A small event in Nazareth came when the world was engulfed in turmoil.

As disturbing and troubling events unfold this Christmas, look for God working in little things.  Christmas is about gifts, but the Gift of eternal life found in Jesus, the King from a one camel town.

After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, "Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star in the east and have come to worship him."   When King Herod heard this he was disturbed, and all Jerusalem with him.  When he had called together all the people's chief priests and teachers of the law, he asked them where the Christ was to be born. "In Bethlehem in Judea," they replied, "for this is what the prophet has written: "`But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for out of you will come a ruler who will be the shepherd of my people Israel.' "

(Matthew 2:1-6 KJV)

Two Swing Front Porch

There is a spot on Sugar Ridge, the place where I grew up and live now, that once was a place of comfort, laughter, music, philosophy, physics, Bible study, mechanics, hotrods, and life in general.  All that remains of this place of profound debate and hospitality is a concrete slab with part of the brick walls that enclosed it.

For year it was a dirt floor with two boards that held the roof of what would become our front porch.  We lived a shack that most folks would have not used for a barn.  Built the old timey way, the shack stood atop some big rocks used to hold the floor off the ground.  Dad started building it around 1956. 

We moved to Illinois from Alabama in 1957 for dad to find work.  He worked for Beloit Iron Works and we, mom, dad, my sister, and I, had a prosperous and productive life until mama tired of ways of Yankee land and we, now with a newborn, returned to the poverty of the south.  We moved back into the unfinished house with primitive and limited things to live in the spring of 1960.  That fall the last of the Hopper children arrived.

Ten years later we would install two more rooms and an indoor toilet and bathtub.  I helped dad set the commode and tub.  I had tried out for a football scholarship that morning.  My dad and two brothers poured the concrete for the porch slab.

It was the place where my dad, brothers, and I spent most of the time.  We thought we were somebody because we had two swings on the porch.  One swing faced the west, the other the east.  It was from the swings that we discussed life.  On the swing facing west, we hung two big springs from a truck’s hood giving the swing an energy of its own.  It was fun to watch our victims sit in the swing and get a quick lesson in physics.  A couple of laws were in play.  One was what goes down must come back up.  It was sorta fun to watch the theory of what goes up must come down, but when the victim went down, legs went up, eyes opened wide and squills got high.  When the swing bottomed it came up, legs went down, eyes shut tight, and the yell was loud.  What followed was a series of ups and downs and smiles on the hopper men folks.

The swings were not attached according to any safety regulations.  Dad placed two oak 4X4’s over the rafters and wired the swing chain around the 4X4’s.  Worked fine until one morning my middle brother and I had called a truce on our fighting and were sitting together looking at the newest of Hot Rod Magazine which came in the morning mail.  Mamm had threatened to kill us several times that morning for our fighting but most of the time they were idle threats.

Sudden in Biblical judgment speed, one of the oak 4X4’s fell from the heavens, naw the porch rafter, and hit me across my shoulder.  Taller than my little brother, the board hit me first and we were sitting on the floor.  My brother got the worse though.  Where the chain wrapped around the 4X4, hit him in the head and blood was flying everywhere.  He was crying as I dug us from the rubble.

With the swift judgement of the Arch Angel Michael, momma come flying out the front door with a rod of judgment and began to whup me screaming, “I told you to leave your brother alone.”  My brother crying, “Momma, Bobby didn’t do anything.”  Momma had blind justice and kept whuppin.’  I kept digging us out.

Many great and wonderful things happened on those swings. I’d love sit facing mom and dad and discuss life again.  Sunday afternoons the swigs and bannisters became a stage to sing.  It was the place to share heartaches, bad news, good news, to hug, to kiss, and reflect on life.

Dad had a brain tumor, and he would swing after having radiation treatments.  One day my daughter Angel had a marker and was sitting in the swing with dad playing tic-tac-do on his bad head.  The Chemo people had drawn a diagram for treatment and dad was allowing his only granddaughter to play.

Oh! The memories of a two-swing porch.

 

Refrigerator Rights

I asked my sister if Granny Hopper’s refrigerator, pronounced frigerater in Chilton County, was still working.  My sister said it was the best one in the house.  Granny’s frigerater is a 1953 Westinghouse.  It looks like a giant tombstone with a big pull handle.

If that frigerater could talk, it would have 70 years of stories.  I remember as a small boy visiting Granny.  The first thing daddy would do is go to the kitchen, check the stove for gumbo, and open the frigerater.  It amazed me that daddy would do that especially if Granny was not at home.  Remember when people did not lock their doors.

When I married and moved from home, I understood the freedom dad had going into Granny’s frigerater.  I would go back home and open mom’s frigerater.  There you could find all sorts of goodies.  It is fascinating to stand in the frigerater door and stare. 

They are like treasure chests.  I can hear momma hollering, “Bobby, shut the frigerater door.”  Sometimes there were too many choices, but I remember there were plenty of times that the frigerater was empty.  Maybe we stare remembering all the good stuff that we have removed from the treasure chest.

Frigeraters are like shrines.  Covered with notes, pictures, and magnets they become sacred.  I know that every time I remove a sacred object I get in trouble.  If I accidentally knock off one of the sacred objects, I panic until I return it to its holy position.

Some people have no respect for holy shrines.  I remember returning home from an evening out with my mouth watering for homemade boiled cookies.  (That is chocolate, oatmeal, pecan cookies.  It is called boiled cookies because you boil the chocolate.)  We called them "cow patties" in Vacation Bible School.  They do look like them.  They were spread out across the table.  While we were out, my brother and his friend were lifting weights in my basement.  They got hungry and went upstairs for refreshments.  They spied the boiled cookies and decided they needed testing for consumer safety and realized they needed some fresh, cold milk.

Walking in the dining room and kitchen, there was evidence of shrine desecration.  Preliminary inspection revealed missing cookies from the wax paper where they were placed to cool.  Further inspection revealed that the frigerater had been entered and a gallon of milk gone.  In addition, a bunch of bananas were missing from top of the frigerater.

I finally deduced that there was no shrine violation, but in fact, my little brother and his friend were energized and much stronger due to the freedom to enter the frigerater.  It tickled me that my little brother had the freedom to go into our refrigerator.  He had been going into our frigerater since he was twelve years old. He will be sixty-three this month.  Going into our refrigerator reveals an act of intimate relationship that my brother had with us.

I think staring into the refrigerator reveals not only a longing for what inside but reveal something deeper.  The human heart longs for relationships

Randy Frazee calls it “Refrigerator Rights.”  He says, “A person with refrigerator rights is someone who can come into your home and feel comfortable going to your refrigerator to make a sandwich with your permission.”  The first thing I do when I visit my brother is look in his fridge.

Rick Howerton says, “People in our lives with refrigerator rights are the ones most apt to let us know they need our help, and they’re the people to whom we feel connected enough to ask for assistance.”

My prayer is that my friends have “Refrigerator Rights.”

Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour.  For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.  Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone?  And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken (Ecclesiastes 4:9-12 KJV).

Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ (Galatians 6:2 KJV).

 

Jethro Gibbs Gut Feeling

 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 when 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 before.  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 everyday 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 thirty 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).

Total Electric Antichrist

Returning from a conference in Montgomery, I made a pit stop at a service station across from the Air National Guard.  I always stop there, and I saw some folks from Forest Hill, one of the churches I serve, stopped there also.

As I drove into the parking lot, I noticed that there were several people at the gas pumps, a tanker truck was filling the store’s holding tanks, and people were doing as I was.  I noticed one of the clerks standing in the door talking with a customer.  It’s nothing out of the ordinary, I witnessed this before at this particular station.

As I approached her, I say excuse me.  She said, “I’m sorry the station’s system is down.”  I thought she was referring to the gas pumps because the external gas tanks were being filled.

I told her that I wanted to buy a Coke and a Snicker.  She said she could not make any transactions because the system was down.  I told her that surely, she could figure the cost of a soft drink and a candy bar.  She said she couldn’t.

All of a sudden, my mind raced back some thirty plus years earlier at a Sears Department store in Vestavia, Alabama.  On that day, there was a thunderstorm and the electricity had been off for just a few moments.  I was in the check out and the clerk said she could not check me out because the register was not working.  Now remember, this was when scanning items was in its infancy.  I noticed that the old cash register was still at the checkout counter.  I asked the clerk if she could use the old register or a calculator.  Her answer shocked me.  She said she did not know how to use them.

Another thought I had was an episode at the old Food World in Demopolis.  For years I would do grocery shopping late at night.  Being from “the sticks” in Chilton County, we had to travel thirty-five miles to the Food World in Pelham.  Not getting out much, we would make the trek about once a month throwing in an opportunity to eat at Quincy’s Steak House.  We just got into the habit of going at night.

At the Demopolis Food World, we were in the checkout line around ten pm when the Food World central office in Birmingham shut down all computers to do a recalculation or calibration.

It was mass chaos.  Some folks were in the process of checking out.  All open registers were two to three deep with buggies and no one knew when the system would reload.  Several people got irritated, left their buggies, and went home.  The system came back up just as some were exiting.

When I wrote this article, Pam, Bethel Baptist Associational Secretary, was having trouble with logging church letters.  The Adobe Reader system continuous shuts down.  I spent thirty minutes with her trying to update or reinstalling the Adobe Reader.  Our office work depends on the system working.  The process of updating and adding programs to the system never ends.

After the system shut down in Montgomery, I read this statement in the October 1, 2012, issue of Time Magazine: “Technology makes us forget what we know about life.”  Our technological know-how is preventing us from the everyday know how of living.

These system shutdowns remind me of predictions of the future from preachers, writers, and old folk in the past.  They said that the Bible speaks of a time when there will be plenty, but no one can buy.  The service station had plenty of merchandize, but no one could purchase it.  It is frightening see how easy the world as we knew could quickly shut down.  With each passing day and each advancement in technology, we become more vulnerable to system shutdowns.  When one thinks of that possibility of vulnerability, how easy would it be for a person or group to disable and dismantle life as we know it?

Life is not about systems.  Systems fail.  We must remind ourselves that we cannot allow systems to uneducate or dumb down us about life and how to survive.  The Scriptures remind of a time when systems fail:

 

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 6:6 KJV).

 

And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads:  And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name.  Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six (Revelation 13:16-18 KJV.)

 

These verses show us that in the future there will be plenty to buy, but most will not have the resources or opportunity.

Dr. Donald Grey Barnhouse says the above verse means, “The poor are getting poorer; and the rich are still able to retain their luxuries.”  He continues, “One of the great criticisms of the present time is there is scarcity in midst of plenty.  This is the situation which will be accentuated a thousandfold when the Antichrist begins his reign.  It is social maladjustment.”

Dr. M.D. DeHann says that the oil and the wine are symbols of wealth, and the wealthy will have sufficient food for a time.  The poor will give a day’s wages for wheat and barley and the rich will be left untouched until the money is gone. 

Dr. DeHann wrote these words in 1948.  Dr. Barnhouse wrote his in 1971.  We are witnessing seeing signs today.

Just a thought. With government forcing electric vehicles down our throats, think of all the chaos when electricity fails.  TOTAL SHUTDOWN and forget getting a Coke and Snicker.                 

My Eulogy to Pawpaw - Roy C. Moxley

R- Remember

I will never forget the first time I met Mr. Moxley.  He was standing at the entrance of the old Jemison Gymnasium waiting on his sons Tony and Lane after football practice.  It is hard to imagine that was fifty years ago.  I noticed that something was wrong with his right hand.  I knew that he worked at ABEX in Calera and thought he might have injured his hand.  I am remembering asking Tony, “What happened to your dad’s hand?”  Tony said that he burned it when he was a little boy.

Years later Mr. Moxley, or Pawpaw as most called him, would tell folks when they asked about his hand that he wore it out on his son-in-law’s head.  That being me.  That’s what I liked about being around Pawpaw.  We could make one another laugh. And we could get into some great conversation about anything, especially football.  He was an avid Auburn fan.  When Auburn beat Alabama I would tell him “War Eagle.”  The first time I said it he smiled.  I said it meant “wait to next year.”  Then he frowned.

He loved to watch Tony, Lane, and me play football.  I remember our coaches asking his advice about our team and how he thought we would play.  Pawpaw was quick to give his opinion.  It was always fun to share football memories with him. 

Years ago, I had a football game that Pawpaw and I would play.  It was a small player that used small disc or records.  On one side was an offensive play that one player put in the player and handed to his opponent.  There were several defensives on the reverse side.  When pawpaw was on defense he like to blitz me on third down.  Knowing he would blitz I would run the quarterback option and score a touchdown every time.  I still can see us hold our ears to the small record player and laughing.

O- Only Pawpaw

One time we went fishing on Bee Branch.  We boarded a plywood boat and used wooden oars to make our way to his favorite fishing holes.  He said, “There are four crappies under that log.  You cast first.”  I casted two yellow jigs across the submerged log and reeled it back to me.  I caught nothing.  Pawpaw said, “You didn’t hold your mouth right.”  He cast two yellow jigs just like I did.  When he came across the log he caught two nice crappies.  He gave me another chance.  Again, I caught nothing.  Again, he caught two.

I remember one Christmas Eve that the menu of choice was grilled steaks and baked potatoes.  It rained all day.  Pawpaw had the hickory wood ready.  With a large umbrella, Pawpaw and I cooked steaks.  They were especially good that year.  I remember his saying that Granny would complain about her steak not be done enough.  He told her on an occasion or two that if she did not get the biggest one, she could get one well done.

For years on the Fourth of July Pawpaw would grill chicken halves.  He was always eager to take the halves off before they were done.  I can hear him whistling when he was a little disturbed and not getting his way when Tony told him that the chicken needed to cook longer.  He continued to boss the chicken grilling until he passed it down to Tony and Lane.  Pawpaw could not wait for the annual Moxley Homecoming every Fourth.  Horseshoes and croquet were the most popular games.  Croquet would become “sonk” seeing how far we could send the leader into the woods.  Horseshoe tossing would become very competitive.  Each man had his own style.  Pawpaw is now pitching heavenly horseshoes with his brother-in-law Bill and brother Carl.  I can hear all of them bragging and cutting up while pitching horseshoes.

I already miss trips to the garden.  Pawpaw had a green thumb and was proud of his garden.  He would brag about all the produce he carried to the widows at Providence.  Tony and I made fun of him for microwaving tomato seeds.  He fooled us.  They made plants.  He loved raising “better boys” and “beef steak” tomatoes.  All of them were big.  Big cores that is.

Pawpaw spent his life as a machinist.  The family worried about him going to his shed after his health failed and lost his coordination.  I went down one day and watched him on his lathe.  He was using the nub and his left hand operating two different controls as he created a handle for a miner’s axe for somebody at church.  I have the video of him running the lathe that day.  I told his daughter Sharon that Pawpaw was in his element when in front of a lathe.

He never let his disability keep him from providing for his family.  He once told me that a man can do anything once he understands it.  I used that advice since that time.  He once asked why I went to school so much.  I said, “Pawpaw, the more I go to school, the dumber I get.”  I know that he was proud of me.  One of the greatest things he did for me in his sickness and declining health was travel to Linden Alabama to attend my retirement party.  I will cherish that moment and keep a picture with him and keep that memory.

Y -yeah, he did it

Pawpaw had a way with sayings.  They were funny and sometimes did not make sense.  Once he explained them, they still made no sense, but they were pure Pawpaw at his best.

One of his favorite sayings when eating something delicious was “lambing good.”  If you watched him eat, it would make you hungry.  He enjoyed eating.

I remember building Granny a mirrored shelf to hang in the den.  I did not have a hanger on the back.  I told Pawpaw we could drill a small hole in the back.  We got the drill and a bit.  I told Pawpaw we needed to be careful.  Granny warned him and she was serious by calling him Sonny.  Well, Pawpaw the machinist drilled the hole in the back and all the way through the front.  It was a tense, but hilarious moment.  The pretty mirrored sconce had a decorative nail protruding from it.

Having lost part of his nose to cancer doctors used part of his ear to reconstruct it.  He would tell us that he could smell and hear with his nose.

Not too many days ago he left his walking cane on the back porch.  He told me he did it on purpose where his daughter Kay would fuss at him.  He loved life and loved his family, God, and people.

It has been wonderful to have Pawpaw these many years.  In fact, I have been with him longer than my own dad.  Thanks, Pawpaw for the memories, the wisdom, and love you gave me.

Bobby E. Hopper, May 24, 2018

 Roy C. Moxley was my father-in-law, a second dad to me.  When he died, his family asked me to do the eulogy.  I felt it an honor to write a few words.  To have said all that I would have been volumes.  I decided to on a few things that I remember as I say farewell.  Due to a family member that had hard feelings toward me, I thought it best not to attend and gave this eulogy to the pastor.  I cried because Mr. Moxley had been an important part of my life.  It has been five years since I wrote it and I feel compelled to share it with you.  I know that it hurt the family, but I did not want to dishonor a man and his family causing trouble.  It was a real threat if I attended that I would be asked to leave and bodily removed if I did not.  

Mr. Moxley's granddaughter did a slideshow presentation for the funeral.  She was told by the one that did not want me there not post any pictures of me.  I love the granddaughter, my niece that posted one anyway.  It was the one where Papaw and I were in the rain, under an umbrella, and in the smoke grilling Christmas steaks.  The picture is priceless and so true of our relationship.  Thanks Brandi!

I believe that those that banned me will be sorry for their deeds.  I have forgiven them.    

The Sting of Death

 Polistes Carolina, Vespula vulgaris, Dolichovespula maculate, Apis mellifera, and Bombus terrestris are terrible little creatures.  Their very presence strikes fear into most people.  Some people face death as these creatures buzz around them.  They are red wasps, yellow jackets, hornets, honey bees, and bumble bees.

One day I had to rid the eve of the Bethel Baptist Building of a nest of polistes or red wasps.  As I bravely approached the nest with a can of wasp spray, I remembered what my daddy always said when big boys were picking on me.  Yes, I was a runt at one time.  He said, “Son, size don’t matter, a guinea wasp can make a cow run.”

They can make this oversized runt run also.  Anecdotal evidence suggests that red wasp stings feel more painful than stings from other paper wasp species.  I have had my share of stings.  I know that some people must carry an epinephrine pin because bee stings are fatal for them.  Fortunately, I do not need one.  That was not the case for a friend of mine.

During high school summers, I worked for Hiwassee Land Company.  We killed hardwood trees by injecting the trees with weed killer.  Yellow jacket and hornet stings were an everyday occurrence.  We were constantly jarring the trees where yellow jackets and hornets built their nests.  They retaliated by attacking from the sky and from the ground.  It was common to hear, “YELLOW JACKETS” as a coworker raced by us.  We ended each day bragging about how many stings we had.  The most I had in one day was twenty-eight, which was not the record.

Some days were comical.  One day my “future” brother-in-law had busted a zipper in his Levi jeans.  Yes, I know what you're thinking, and they did.  Yellow Jackets found the opening and they entered while at the same time my brother-in-law exited the jeans.

Another day my cousin, now a retired CPA with Buffalo Rock, whacked a small hickory and pumping weed killer into it.  Yellow Jackets covered his pants turning them yellow while hornets buzzed around a huge nest above.  My cousin stood there like a mighty warrior or dumb idiot, I let you be the judge, and swatted yellow jackets saying, “I think I’m in a yellow jacket’s nest.”  Then out of nowhere, a hornet zeroed in on my cousin’s back between the shoulder blades and stung with the force of a kicking mule.  After landing face down, my cousin leaped to his feet and running fast said, “YELLOW JACKETS.”

Other days at Hiwassee were more serious, deadly serious.  One day while taking a break a hornet buzzed around the face of my friend Rickey.  He waved the hornet away several times.  Suddenly, the hornet stung him under his left eye.  In seconds, Rickey broke into hives.  The Hiwassee foreman took him to the emergency room.  The doctor said that another sting would be fatal.  My friend never returned to the Hiwassee woods.

I pondered the wasp nest on the building, my mind returned to 1960 at the eves of our house.  My daddy started building our house in the early to mid 1950’s.  Before he completed it, we moved to Illinois for three years and then returned back living with an aunt until daddy completed the house.  You can imagine how a construction site looks after a three-year absence.  The yard looked like a jungle with all sorts of creatures making it their habitat.  The eves of the house were full of red wasp nests.

Under one eve of the house was a huge red wasp nest.  It was full of red-orange death.  My Grandpaw Chapman used the larvae from the wasp nests to bream fish.  I had watched him take a long stick and knock down a nest.  It looked like fun for a seven-year-old.  A short time later, I took a long stick and punched another orange-red covered nest.  It is hard to explain what happened next, but with the speed of platoon kamikaze dive-bombers, red wasps confused my sandy blond hair for a rival wasp gang buzzing the eve of the house for territorial rights.  Grandpaw did not have this problem.

I learned that day that red wasps are territorial and sting when provoked.  That evening I understood what it meant to be a knot head.  I had wasp stings all over my head.  Boy, my head was sore.  I think it was because I was much smarter.  I learned more about red wasps that day than I can ever forget.

Since that morning, I have been chased down or either stung by honey bees that do not like to being disturbed by starting a diesel John Deer tractor, hornets that do not like their nest being vibrated by an injector killing the their tree house, yellow jackets of the same tree that do not approve of the roots of their tree being jarred, and bumble bees that hate the roar of a bush hog trimming their yard.

While I were courting, I carried my date home one night after an evening of fun.  When we entered her home, she screamed as a heinous monster greeted us in her living room.  Actually, the heinous monster was her older brother whose face honeybees had distorted and his eyes swollen shut.  My date thought he had on a monster mask, but it was his face.

It seems that her dad and two brothers had been robbing a bee gum earlier that day.  The older brother did not like an itty, bitty honeybee buzzing around his nose.  Warned by his dad and younger brother not to provoke the bee, the bee unnerved my brother-in-law, and he did an uh oh! Yep, he swatted at the bee knocking on his dad’s lip.

Honeybees seek revenge when humans steal their honey and take swats at their workers. The bee stung my father-in-law, and his upper lip looked the caricature of a bear’s head or that of a monkey’s lip.

The next day, a Sunday, was a humorous day at my date’s household.  Her dad had huge lips, her older brother had swollen eyes, and the younger brother, who escaped without a sting, had swollen ears from hearing about the bee raid over and over.  I could not help but laugh.  Her father and brothers looked like the three monkeys of see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.  The evil was stealing itty, bitty bee honey.

With all those stinging thoughts, I ready my can of spray just like gun slinging cowboy flexing his fingers before a gunfight.  With the speed of a darting bee, I brutally executed those red stinging carriers of death.  One by one they dropped.  One last desperado hid behind the nest waiting to get retribution for his fallen comrades.  When he moved, I got him and he too floated harmlessly to the ground.  I blew the nozzle of the can and sang, “Another One Bites the Dust Uh Huh.”

“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?  The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.  But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. (I Corinthians 15:55-57 KJV)

What is your favorite bee, hornet, or wasp story?

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________

What do you think when you hear the phrase, “O death, where is thy sting?”

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________

What do you fear about death?

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________

Prayer:  Father, death is part of living.  All will experience it unless you return.  Help me when I approach death to face it with confidence that you give through Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior.  I know I will experience the resurrection after I die.  Thank you that death will be just a sting, but eternity will be forever.

Hold You Me

 Today is another magnificent moment in your being

Your celebration of life occurring every first day of September

Forty-six years provide many moments to remember

Life’s experiences endow with moments worth re-seeing

 

The moment my eyes feasted upon you beginning life’s journey

Daddy’s little girl so beautiful gave an adventurous thrill

Suddenly the huge responsibility of fatherhood gave a chill

As moments of joy became instant unknowns and uncertainty for me

 

That which was ambiguous suddenly is nearing half-century shrewdness

Wisdom gained by daddy’s little girl desiring to experience life her way

Brought the monumental and heartbreaking as well as wonderful play

Wisdom by practice or the mistakes of others can be a tangled mess

 

As precious moments of our being, bring us together expressing love

Hold you me are words that remind of the importance of being a dad

Lifted little arms with open hands etched in mind and time make glad

Hold you me, three little words that express the love of God above

 

Through the years and the moments of life that have been full of pain

Opportunities come to express love and make the day breathtaking

Today is such a day for Daddy’s little girl to experience the amazing

Your calling is one that helps people learn to love and enjoy life again

 

Happy birthday and thanks for those three words that started my day

Hold you me are words that daddy's love to hear daughters say

Blue Moon Insomnia

 Blue Moon you were beautiful as you rose in the night sky

Your Alabama Yeller hue glowed as you peeped over the trees

Growing in size on the horizon as you climbed so high

The touch of fall in the clear air had a romantic breeze

 

Dazzled by your reflection on Harrison Lake one night

Two lovers embraced, enchanted by mirror moons spell

The higher and brighter you grew the moment was right

Hearts enmesh by hypnotic sights, sounds, and smells

 

This magic moment renewed in us with each full moon

Lunar manipulation over tides, seas, hearts, and minds

Folks doing all manner of curious activities soon

Commence howling and frolicking as someone that is blind

 

Since God placed you in the sky to rule the night

You have been the cycle of time that never fluctuates

Affecting all of life ensuring that seasons are right

The standard of time for people and never late

 

At three in the morning you lit up the room

Throwing me into a mind dazzling array of thought

Which drove rest and sleep to impending death and doom

Reflecting on our time with you on the lake cannot be bought

 

All the things that captured my day now disrupting my sleep

Blue moon you have seduced me into this cranial working out

Laying by my lover and trying to be quiet and still without a peep

In twelve hours, you hide and I will close my eyes in sleep no doubt

Dedicated to Lisa and her love for a full moon on Harrison Lake