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.

You Live Too Much In The Past

Someone informed me that I lived too much in the past.  After talking to them, I looked at my fitbit to check the time and how many miles I walked.  I checked my iphone to check for missed called, voice mail, text messages, and email.  I checked my weather app on my iphone to see how warm the day would get. The fitbit and iphone are new millennial, current.

The stories I write do deal with things of the past, but when I write them, they become current.  I reminded my accusers of my antiquity, that I have a Bachelor of Arts Degree in History.  I am a student of the past.  Those who do not study the past are doomed and destined to repeat the same mistakes and atrocities.  A study of the history of Rome, Sodom, and Gomorrah will reveal how our nation is following in their footprints.

If I write about an event yet to happen, it becomes a work of fiction.  It will be a product of my imagination and creativity.

The late Dr. Calvin Miller encouraged me to write.  I responded to his challenge by asking the question, “About what?”  Dr. Miller said one of the most effective ways to share the Gospel with the new millennials was by story telling.  A close examination of the Bible and the teaching of Jesus disclose the use of story telling.  The Bible is an Oriental book, filled with short, bright stories.  These stories, or tales, are like people, good or evil. “A tale” is the view of brevity, a trifling character, and a speedy forgetfulness into which they fell.  Tales have these essential elements: energy and activity, thoughtfulness, characters revealed, a generous and high aim, and it must end well.

I remember studying Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales translated by Edward Hopper.  It intrigued me that I might have a relative that was a writer long before I even thought about being a writer. 

Hopper translated Chaucer’s tales from Middle English to Modern English.  Canterbury Tales is a critique of the society in Chaucer’s lifetime and reflects diverse views of the Church in Chaucer’s England. 

Chaucer created satirical tales prompted by the Church, political figures, and stories told by Christians making the pilgrimage to the Holy Land during what was called Verde or the greening associated with Spring.

Verde is a word I learned while taking Dr. McMillan’s English class at the University of Montevallo.  Verde is Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and Romanian for green.  Green reminds of renewing and new life.  Incidentally, I made the highest grade on one of the tests about the Verde.  It helped that I was taking Spanish also.  Oops, I am talking about the past again.

A tale or story roots in the past.  Fond memories of daddy are those nights we would lay outside on an old quit or blanket on the grass and he would tell interesting things about his childhood and people associated with it.  I could never get him to talk about WWII other than a few funny things he did while serving.  Little did I know that his generation was passing and mine was rising.  That is true as I write.  My generation is fleeting and another is rising.  I challenge you to pay attention to the target audience of commercials.  The ones for my generation are for medicine, medical supplies, life insurance, lawsuits, and ensure. 

My life, your life, is as a tale told.  “Our lives are illustrations of heavenly goodness, parables of divine wisdom, poems of sacred thought, and records of infinite love; happy are we whose lives are such tales.  When it is said and done, our time on earth is as a sailing ship, which leaves no impression or track behind, a dust, a vapor, a morning dew, a flower flourishing one day, fading the next.”  The rapid consummation of our years is speedy and inevitable.

Some years of our lives are as a pleasant story, sometimes a tragic tale, mixed, but all short and transitory; which may have been long in doing, but may be told in a short time in a book, newspaper, magazine, or even an article on the back of The Alabama Baptist, which I wrote for several years. 

It is said, “Life is real, life is earnest, – the simile only holds good if we consider that a holy life is rich in interest, full of wonders, chequered with many changes, yet arranged as a story.”

As Moses writes Psalm 90 he tells about the brevity of life as the years in the wilderness rapidly roll down life’s highway.  While the Hebrews were consuming in the wilderness, another generation was rising.  Justice shortened the days of rebellious Israel.  Each stop they made was marked by a graveyard marking their trails with burial places left behind.  Sin cast a shadow over all things, and made the lives of the dying wanderers both vain and brief.

Moses’ view is very sad.  All he heard was about the tales of how good Egypt was.  What lay ahead were tales that would give hope to the nation of Israel as they remembered the Passover and the crossing of the Red Sea.

 

We spend our years as a tale that is told (Psalm 90:9b KJV).

 

 

"Laughter Is Hope’s Last Weapon"

Author and preacher Chuck Swindoll in his book Laugh Again opens with this line.

“I know of no greater need today than the need for joy.  Unexplainable, contagious joy. Outrageous joy.”  He quotes Flannery O’Connor who writes, “Where there is belief in the soul, there is very little drama . . . Either one is serious about salvation or one is not.  And it is well to realize that the maximum amount of seriousness admits the maximum amount of comedy.  Only if we are secure in our belief can we see the comical side of the universe.”

Do you laugh at yourself?  I do, especially when I catch myself in a funny moment.

Several years ago before moving back to our farm, I was spending some time the farm we call Sugar Ridge.  After a good night’s rest, I was suddenly interrupted from my sleep.  I rolled over and BOOM!  I fell out of bed.  Now I haven’t done that in years, since I was a kid or there may be a time or two.

What made this so bad was that as I fell from the bed, I twisted the sheet around in a mummy like fashion and I could not move.  I lay confined as Egyptian mummy there a moment, not being able to move and all alone.  With my back against the bed, I giggled at my dilemma and then yelled, “Help I’ve fallen and can’t get up.”  Someone asked, “How did you fall out of king-sized bed?  Simple, I slept too close to the edge.  After valiant effort of reverse twisting, I unrolled myself.  I laughed and laughed at myself.

I have found that the older I get, the more I find myself laughing at me.  Somewhere in my studies, I recall that laugher releases the endorphins that kill pain.  People ask me why I laugh a lot and always have a smile.  I hurt a lot!

Before retiring from Bethel Baptist Association, I started home for dinner and I decided to exit at the side door instead of the front.  Pam, the Associational secretary, and I must use a key to lock the front door and I did not know the location of my key.  The first step going down, or the last step going up, is a lulu.  It is inconsistent with the others.  Knowing that, I made sure to take one giant step then two small steps down, but I made one giant leap for dinner and the good for all mankind, especially for Bethel Baptist Association.

As I slowly pulled the door closed, I felt my double-jointed ankle roll over on the small step down.  I held tight to that tiny, shiny doorknob to regain my balance, but perpetual motion of a large body continued in an awkward and fast spiral descent toward the green grass that lay beneath.

Having a bag full of blueberries gracious donated to the good health of the director of missions by Tom Sessions, deacon from the Hope Baptist Church, I did not want them scattered everywhere.  I held them high as the green grass came quickly toward me.  Believing the arthritis commercial and knowing high school physics, I knew that a body in motion tends to stay in motion, especially when is a big body like me.  Experienced in falling, I knew to hit and roll.  As I started to roll, I realized that Pam had the bushes around the building pruned when large stubs from a bush/small tree tried to sever my spine.

As my back arched over one stub and two other stubs tried to puncher my kidneys, I continued my roll.  I lay on the grass for a few moments hurting and thinking, “I broke my back.”  I had no air, having knocked the wind out of me, and momentarily could not move.

I looked around to see if anyone was at the fire department next door, no one.  I looked to see if the neighbors were watching, not a soul.  I looked to the Linden and Robertson banks, the school, not a single person.  Where are folks when you need them to laugh at you?

Surprisingly, the blueberries remained intact and after a few moments, I collected my thoughts.  I had trouble breathing and figured along with breaking my back; I bruised my kidneys, and punctured my lungs.  In my trauma, I laughed thinking, “You clumsy ox, you broke your back falling in a bush. How are you going to explain that?”

I went home, looked in the mirror to survey the damage, which was a bunch of cuts and scrapes, changed my clothes which were permanently stained, and got some medical supplies to treat my wounds.

After Pam treated my wounds, the doctor examined my back and gave me the once over.  The doctor could not believe it was not broken.  In fact, it never bruised; I only had difficulty breathing the day of the fall.  Everyone said God was watching.  I said that I injured another guarding Angel.  I wander how many were under me were punctured with the stubs.

 

James 1:2 says, “My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations.”

 

Falling is not a laughing matter for the one falling.  I lost a former church member and friend to a fall a few weeks before my fall.  Some will say that life is serious and is no laughing matter.

Swindoll says, “Trust me, when you laugh in the mist of this cesspool environment, people want to know why. Laughter is hope’s last weapon.”

Laughter makes one look and feel better and is highly contagious.  In fact, I bet you laughed about me falling out of bed.  I just had a thought.  I wonder if it was an Angel that wrapped me as I fell out of bed.

 

A merry heart doeth good like a medicine (Proverbs 17:22a KJV).

 

Like a Pin Hole in a Cardboard Box

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Jezebel to Phoenix

I cannot remember when I first fell in love with driving.  It was not love at first drive.  Momma taught me to drive in a 1950 Plymouth Deluxe.  It was a flathead six cylinder with three-speed on the column manual transmission.  I can still remember hopping out of the drive on to the highway.  I had had practice driving our Farmall Cub in the field and it was much easier than the Plymouth.  For instance, when changing gears on the tractor it stopped and the cutch was different, as was the shift.  The Plymouth was still moving and going from first to second on the column, known as “three on a tree,” took more coordination than the tractor.  Pushing the clutch, shifting up, and releasing were complicated for a twelve-year-old.  Yes, I was twelve and momma was hollering because I was trying to go into reverse rather than in second.  I was puzzled how reverse and second were in the same place.  There were not on the tractor.

Dad gave me the old Plymouth when I was fourteen.  He had junked it as his work car.  He said that if I wanted a car, I could fix up the Plymouth.  I did.  I bought several old junk Plymouths, back when for five to ten dollars, for spare parts including engines, transmissions, mirrors, door handles, rims, and tires.  Most of the time people gave away the cars to get them out of their yards.  I remember visiting trash piles in hope of recovering a good used fifteen-inch tire.  Way things are inflating, no pun intended, I may have return to the garbage dumps to find tires.

I spent the whole summer working to earn money to get a new paint job on the Plymouth.  By this time, I had named her Jezebel, because she was so unfaithful and ornery.  I went to the parts store, that’s what we call ‘em up home, and bought the paint and a neighbor, who was learning to paint cars, did the body and fender repair and painted it crystal blue in honor of Tommy James and the Shondells’ hit song Crystal Blue Persuasion.

The next summer I spent my earnings from picking and loading watermelons, cantaloupes, and hauling and throwing hay for blue rolled and pleated interior and carpet.  I had me a hot rod.  It would run eighty miles an hour downhill.  You can only imagine how rough and safe a ride I had with tires from junkers that were not balanced.  I know that the tubes had multiple patches, which threw the tires more out of balance.

I started driving the Plymouth to football practice before I had a driver’s license.  It was a step better than all the walking, which I had done from the seventh grade until I started driving.  The sheriff told daddy that it was okay, but be very careful.  After I got my license, I drove carelessly.  To this day, my brother-in-law tells folks that God must have had a plan for me later in life because there is no way that I should have lived with all the reckless driving I did.

I guess that is why I am writing this article.  I did a lot of reckless driving and lived to tell it.  I was returning to Linden from Demopolis on US Highway 43.  I was running the speed limit with the cruise control, which undoubtedly was too slow for folks headed south.  Two cars behind me this lady thinks she is at Talladega Raceway because she is drafting the car behind me and makes her move to pass.  I never saw the checkered flag.  I did see the yellow line, which means no passing, it quickly becomes two yellow lines as she gets beside me, and there is a car headed north and directly toward her.  I have to slow for her to return to the proper lane.

The car behind me says if she can, I can.  He starts around me on a hill, two yellow lines, and a truck flying to Demopolis directly in his path.  Once again, I slow to prevent a wreck.  They had better be glad I was not in my hot rod Plymouth.  I would have been very slow for them.

I do not think people realize the risk they are taking behind the wheel.  I have been hit by a teenage boy in flying Trans Am, passing three cars, with two yellow lines on the road, and on a hill.  I am glad my brother-in-law was a prophet.  Had God been through with me I would have been killed.  I have some ailments today because of that wreck thirty-two years ago.  It is unsettling when people pass when there is no room for passing.  Many lives have been altered and many killed by idiotic drivers who drive recklessly.  All of us need to slow down, drive safely, and be considerate.

When I was hot rodding, folks would quote the Bible and call me Jehu.  I know some that called me a Yahoo.  Both would be true.  I saw two Yahoos on Hwy 43.

. . . And the driving is like the driving of Jehu the son of Nimshi; for he driveth furiously (II Kings 9:20b KJV).

Tongue and cheek humor: I always felt that I was doing good owning Hondas, the choice of Jesus and the early disciples and that God drove a Plymouth Fury and owned a Pontiac Tempest and Geo Storm.  See what you think.  Check out John 12:49, Acts 2:1, Jeremiah 32:37, Ezekiel 13:13, and Psalm 83:15 in the King James Version.

 

In 2012, I started rebuilding the 1950 Plymouth.  My daughter had the volunteer fire department pull the Plymouth from the basement of our burning home before the remains of the house fell on it.

The old Plymouth now has a dependable 5.7 Hemi, a Mustang rear end, automatic transmission, four-wheel disc brakes, power windows, air-condition, synthetic leather bucket seats, Porsche Meteor Grey paint, modern stereo system, and chrome rims with store bought tires.  Since her transformation from the fire Jezebel is now named Phoenix.

 

The Burgerless Burger

 I love to grill hamburgers and hotdogs over a hickory fire and enjoying getting together to share the food and fun.  As everyone built their hamburger to their liking, the subject of my famous hamburger arose.  I once told that when I was young, we could not afford hamburger meat so I would make a hamburger without the meat.  Friends would laugh at me and say that I was crazy.  I told them not to knock until they tried it.

When we moved back to Alabama from Illinois in 1960, Dad could not find work.  There were many times when we had little or no food in the house.  There had been a short time when we first moved to Illinois, that we had little or no food, but dad quickly got work there and we had plenty.

One of my favorite sandwiches is bread with butter baked in the oven and then sprinkled with sugar.  I remember momma with tears in her eyes saying to my sister and me that there was no food, but how good the sugar-coated buttered toast was.  When food was in short supply, mamma would always say she was not hungry give us her food.  She did that night with the buttered toast.

Back in Alabama, there were several times that there was no food.  Momma would always remind us that God would take care of us.  I remember one morning that the cupboard was bare.  We heard a vehicle in the yard and my sister, two brothers, and I went to see who it was.  It was an old 1950 baby blue Plymouth Deluxe, my Grandpaw Chapman’s car.  By the way, it is the same car that my daughter Angela had the fire department retrieve from our burning basement and I had restored.

Grandpaw had bags of groceries for us.  That morning we had milk and cereal for breakfast and other delights.  God used Grandpaw that morning.  A time or two later, my aunt would bring us food.

Daddy always felt bad that other people had to provide what he could not.  Grandpaw just encouraged him to keep looking for work which daddy finally did.  We soon bought a tractor and traded for some pigs.  After that, we had plenty of food.

At the family discussion, we told our guests, that one time one of the family took time and skill to create her hamburger.  This person had all the fixin’s a person could put on a hamburger.  This person had this knack for making food look delicious when they eat.  They use the expression “lambing good.”  All I know is that means it is delicious, I think.

This family member was about half way through eating the hamburger when they realized that they had failed to put her hamburger patty in the sandwich.  I told them, “See it is pretty good without the meat!”

When one does not have an abundance of food, one can be creative.  My family tells me that I eat like a pig.  It is not so much the sloppiness, but the things I eat.  The other day I fixed a potato salad hamburger.  I put the leftover potato salad on the meat in a bun.  It was pretty good.  Growing up I fixed many mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches.  One of my favorites is a peanut butter and cinnamon pickle sandwich.  My sister takes cucumbers and red-hot candies to make the pickles.  It is a Chilton county version of apple rings.

When there is a shortage of bread, I have combined bananas and turkey meat in the same sandwich.  Remember; don’t knock it till you try it.  With a shortage of hamburger and plenty of hog sausage, a sausage burger is real good.

Another good sandwich is leftover cold dried butter beans with catsup.  A mustard mayonnaise sandwich is good in pinch.  A leftover meatloaf spread with mayonnaise is real good.  My philosophy is, if is leftover, it can be a good sandwich.  Watching one the food channels I found out that there is a sandwich named the “Bobby.”  It is made with leftover turkey, stuffing, gravy, cranberry sauce, and mayonnaise placed on sub sandwich bread.  After the program, my baby son Aaron said he could not believe someone made sandwiches like me.  He commented that he would like to try a “Bobby Sandwich.”  It looked good.

You will not believe it, but a story about Eddie Rickenbacker inspired this article.  Rickenbacker was a WWI flying ace that downed 26 enemy planes.  In WWII he worked in the Secretary of War Department and during one of his visits to troops was shot down in the ocean.  For twenty-four days he drifted.  About to starve to death, a seagull landed on his float.  He killed it, ate it, and lived to be rescued.

Rickenbacker’s story inspired a devotional titled “When the Seagull Doesn’t Come.”  The devotional is a reminder of faith in God.  God will never leave us nor forsake us.

Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation.  The Lord God is my strength . . . (Habakkuk 3:17-19a KJV).

I don’t know if momma knew these verses, but she understood the principle of faith.

 

The Case of the Bouncing Ice Cream Cone

When is the last time someone asked you a puzzling question? You know, one that leaves you scratching your head and sends you mind a whizzing.  The one I get the most is why did I leave the ministry.  I get that question in a variety of ways.  How come you do not have a church?  Why don’t you pastor?  What do you miss most since you got out of the ministry? 

It is amazing how many people, that is church people, Baptist people, and people in general do not know what a Director of Missions does.  My favorite answer is that churches pay me not to preach.

Since I am out of the ministry, as people say, or do not pastor, folks want to know what I miss the most.  I tell them I miss time with church kids.  I have always had a great relationship with my church kids.  As Director of Missions, I have performed dozens of weddings for former church kids.

Another thing I miss is the discipline of doing three sermons a week.  I love studying and putting together a message from God to His people and those who need to hear His Word. 

Discipline is a way of life for believers.  I am concerned that today’s lack of discipline among people will be tomorrow’s disappointment.  It takes discipline to function in society.  Today everyone wants it now.  “It” covers just about everything in life. 

I had several instructors on discipline.  There was Mildred Miller, my seventh grade history teacher.  Monday’s homework assignment was one hundred facts for the chapter we were studying.  Tuesday’s assignment was fifty questions and answers.  Wednesday’s assignment was a combination of facts and questions.  Then, there was a test.  I loved history, but not because of Mrs. Miller.

There was Coach Lamar, my defensive football coach.  Everyday there were pushups, monkey rolls, wind sprints, the camel caravan, the Burma rope, and these were for practice.  There were other means of discipline when you could not get a play right.

I started at defensive end as a sophomore.  For the first three football games people got outside Nutt Burnett, the other end, and me.  For three weeks, the football team ran over either Nutt or me.  You notice I said the football team.  Nutt and I were the only two on defense.  We knew they were running outside.  Our job was to turn them inside.  I can say with pride that after the after the third game, no one, I mean no one, ran outside on the Jemison football team for three seasons.  I learned discipline to stay at home at my position and turn the play inside.

There was dad.  He taught me disciplines of life.  I remember one time after we had moved from Illinois back to Alabama we were returning home from Clanton.  I was around six or seven years old.  Dad decided to go the highway through Thorsby and Jemison rather than the shortcut of the dirt road.  Dad would hardly ever stop and eat.  We have drove for hours and never stopped to eat.  The big reason was lack of money.

On this particular trip dad asked what I wanted from the Dari Delite.  Up home, we had the Dairy Queen, Dairy Barn, Dari Lan, Dari Delite South, Dairy Delite North, and Dairy Lan Thorsby, all ice cream places.  The Dari Delite in Thorsby still has the best ice cream in the state.  I told daddy that I wanted an ice cream cone.  When we got there, I noticed many tempting delights made with ice cream.  While dad was getting me a cone, I decided I wanted a milk shake or malt.  Dad returned to the car with the cone and I told him of my change of heart and tantalizing desire of my taste buds.  He put the ice cream cone in my hand as we started home.  I told dad that I did not want the cone and that I wanted one of those delicious milk shakes or heavenly malts.  He said that I got what I wanted and to eat it.

I repeated that I not want the cone.  I remember to this moment conversing with him via the rearview mirror.  I sure you have had those conversations.

He said, “If you don’t want the cone, give it here.”  I did with a smirk of defiance.  I thought he would return to the Dari Delite and fulfil me the temptations of my heart and desire of my taste buds.  Dad tossed the ice cream cone out the window.  I will never forget watching from the rear window the ice cream cone bouncing down US Highway 31 between the towns of Thorsby and Jemison as my sister smiled and enjoyed her ice cream treat.  Dad’s words and actions were etched in stone that day and I pondered what could have been.

At the end of your life you will groan, when your flesh and body are spent.  You will say, "How I hated discipline! How my heart spurned correction!  I would not obey my teachers or listen to my instructors. I have come to the brink of utter ruin in the midst of the whole assembly." (Proverbs 5:11-14 NIV).

The other day I stopped at the Dari Delite in Thorsby and ordered a hot fudge sundae with walnuts in heavy syrup.  I encourage you to visit it but be sure to have some discipline when ordering.

 

Do You Enjoy Your Work?

Do you enjoy your job?  Has your vocation brought real satisfaction?  Most people dislike their work.  I read a list of the 10 most disliked vocations.  At the top of the list was Security Officer.  I immediately thought about some of the Security Officers I have known.

My first experience with a Security Officer was at Keystone Metal Molding in Clanton, Alabama.  I cannot remember his name, but he was a short thin man.  He had an abundance of information for an eighteen year old.  Every day about 2:30, the time I arrived to start the evening shift; my security friend would stop me and share a nugget of wisdom.

His experience of operating a service station, you remember those gas stations that checked your oil level, checked your tire pressure, and cleaned your windshield, created an opportunity for him to meet people from all over the United States.  I remember that he did not have much respect for Yankees.  He reminded me occasionally that Yankees traveling through the South had a distain and a host of derogatory remarks for Southerners, especially Alabamians.

He once told of an occasion where he tired of hearing the same old Yankee put down and responded with a very appropriate rebuttal.  Many years later, I used his rebuttal, now as a pastor I had to clean up the language, at a toxic waste rally in Calera.  I was asked by the community group CARE (Citizens Alliance for Respect of the Environment) to help repeal a State issued permit for the dumping, the storing, and the burning of hazardous materials at the Calera Cement Plant. Unknown by the citizens, the permit included both toxic and radioactive materials, in central Alabama.  

The morning after using the rebuttal, a professor from the University of Montevallo caught me at the Montevallo Hardees.  He asked if what I said was what the exact words of security officer said.  I said yes, excepting that, I used two medical terms in place of two slang terms.  My security guard friend said one day he finally had enough.  When one Damn Yankee told my friend that Alabama was the rectum of the world. My friend responded, “Well it ought a be.  There is enough Yankee feces comes through it.” At the rally I stated that Calera was the Heart of the Heart of Dixie and we were tired of Yankee feces trying to make us a rectum.  By the way, that night at the rally I got a standing ovation for my famous edited quote.

Speaking of the cement plant, I had a memorable experience with another unforgettable security guard.  This one took his job just a little too serious.  Webb was a short, overweight, chain smoking, weapon fanatic who reminded you of Sergeant Shultz of the Hogan’s Hero sitcom of the late 1960’s.  The only difference Shultz “knew nothing” and Webb knew everything from microbiology to the secrets of the universe.

He watched the main entrance of the plant like a hawk.  He stood with his feet pointed out and rocked back and forth.  He talked to himself.  He appeared never to bathe and his elbows looked like patches on the sleeves of an English teed sports coat. 

No one liked Webb.  He was consumed, or maybe possessed, with automatic weapons, grenades, bazookas, and all manners of total and final destruction.  To be trapped by him in his small security building was pure torture. 

Webb was in his mid forties and besides being the poster boy for obese Alabama, he lived with his mother. Sometimes he would inspect our lunch pails when leaving the plant, trying to catch someone stealing from the plant or trying to confiscate food.

One day an employee, Lucas, teased Webb about stealing a can of WD40.  Webb being the Pharisee of security guards about rules and regulations quoted from the contract concerning employees removing items from the plant.  Any item removed had to have an authorized permission slip.

Webb watched Lucas like the proverbial hawk.  Most employees could have taken almost anything during those few days.  Webb’s eyes were fixed on Lucas.  Finally, the showdown came just like two gunslingers from the Old West.  As Lucas left the plant, he sprayed some WD40 at Webb.

Two days later as I drove to work, the plant entrance was blocked.  Being the simply minded person I am, I thought there had been a train wreck since the tracks were at the main entrance.  As I inquired of the situation, I learned that the employees of the plant were on what is called a “Wildcat Strike.”  I did not have my probationary time completed.  Although the guys encouraged me to go to work, I knew better than to pass a union’s picket line.  So, for twenty-three hours Webb and Lucas shut the plant down all because of a discarded WD40 canister.  Discarded WD40 cans were all over the plant.  I learned later that Webb should have been concerned with outside contractors that permanently borrowed welding machines that he watched leave the plant.

Lucas went back to being electrician and Lieutenant Webb went back to being the most trained and over qualified security guard to wear a security uniform.

I believe that most people that dislike their jobs are not living out God’s call for their lives.  If you find your niche and enjoy what you do, work becomes more enjoyable.  If you work for the money and dislike the work, it makes for a long day.

Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? and your labour for that which satisfieth not? hearken diligently unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness (Isaiah 55:2 KJV).

And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men.  Knowing that of the Lord ye shall receive the reward of the inheritance: for ye serve the Lord Christ (Colossians 3:23-24 KJV).

In memory of “Red Childs” of FBC Demopolis who enjoyed my articles, especially cement plant stories.

Sign of the Apocalypse

 Back in 2012 Time Magazine had an article entitled Sign of the Apocalypse.  I was made aware of the Sign of the Apocalypse shortly thereafter when I made a trip to the Chilton County Water Authority in Thorsby, Alabama.  It was one of those deals where I had to be there.  I had called to see why the water authority had turned off the water to a piece of property that I bought adjacent to my home in Jemison.

It is the policy of the authority to turn off the water when there is a land transaction.  I understand that but I had bought the property a year ago and I was ignorant of the fact that the water authority had such a policy to lock and eventually remove the water meter.  I was one of the original property owners that helped create the county water system and I had a place for a meter on my property but never used it because I have a good well.

After a few months of not needing county water, the water authority removed the meter.  When I called concerning the water and the missing meter, the powers that be at the authority told me that they had removed it and that I had to show proof that I bought the property.  I had to produce legal documentation that verified that I owned the property and I had to produce a photo ID to prove I was who I said I was and that the reconnect fee was $100.  I thought, “You got to be kidding me.”

When I arrived after a two-hour drive at the Chilton County Water Authority, I thought I had mistakenly entered a convenient store late at night.  I had never been in the facility, but I had passed it on many occasions.  In fact, I went by it every day that I went to church as pastor of Friendship in Clanton before moving to my present position.  I never would have imagined the tight security inside.  The secretaries were behind what I detected as bulletproof Plexiglas.

The secretary behind the glass knew me; I had graduated with her brother.  I told her that I needed to see a Ms. Fox.  Ms. Fox was the one that told me to gather all the information to have the water service reconnected.

Ms. Fox told me that she did not handle the reconnecting process and the classmate’s sister would be the one to have the serviced reconnected.

I had a briefcase full of information.  I produced a copy of the deed and property description.  I produced the legal documents where the lawyer processed the sale of the property to me.  I had to give my driver’s license, which was my photo ID.  Then underneath the glass in the contraption that resembles those at the all-night convenient store where you slide your money for your purchases, the secretary slips me a piece of paper and tells me to write down my social security number.

I told her that when I borrowed the money to buy the property that I did not have to do all the legal paperwork that I was required to do to have a water meter reconnected.  I slid a check for $100 in the contraption.

I know that things have changed a good bit since I left there twelve years prior.  I thought, man they must have some more issues with people and their water bills.  A couple of shady characters did come in while did the paperwork. Growing up there, I realized they were just some “good old boys.”  My mind was boggled with what is happening in the world where I have to produce all this legal mess for water and people are protesting, especially in 2021, showing an ID when they vote.  Water is vital, but so are the people we elect into office.  Water fraud is bad, but voter fraud can be more destructive.

I told my friend, the secretary, that I know that it is no account good for nothing sorry people that cause all the hassle with everything we do today.

To give an example, my son Aaron and I stopped at Advanced Auto in Alabaster, Alabama shortly after the water turnoff to purchase some spray that would seal a water leak in the plastic overflow bottle on his pickup.  The guy helping us showed us the different products for doing the job.  He removed a package and said I recommend this.  I looked at the package and it appeared to be empty.  I said it looks empty.  Sure enough, someone had entered the store, carefully slit the package, and removed the contents.  The guy behind the counter said that one guy walked in and commenced to put tools in his pants.  I thought, “Now I know why pants hang so low on some men.”  He said people do it all the time.  We live in a fraudulent and putrefaction society.

I had a friend that had stock in Walmart.  He said that the home office sent their security team to our local store to check the security of the store.  Walmart securities loaded two tractor-trailer loads of items from the store and were never caught.  They had stolen lawn mowers, big screen televisions and hundreds of other items and no one caught them. My friend told me that the Walmart figures thievery into to operating of their stores.  During the past year things have escalated and the Apocalypse is closer than we imagined.

This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come.  (2 Timothy 3:1 KJV).

Mornings, Puppies, and Kittens

 

MORNING, PUPPIES, AND KITTENS

 

 

Shadows peak and scurry from the trees,

a puppy shivers and whines while upon my knees.

 

Full of life and wonder a kitten chases its tail,

a bee darts and dives around a flower’s water pail.

 

It’s morning in the country and creatures are a stir,

the morning started fresh again and before night, all will be a blur.

 

If only we like morning, puppies, and kittens would remain,

then the dawning of each new day would be without pain.

 

This morning is a faithful reminder of God’s care,

life begins anew with the promise every sorrow He’ll share.

 

Bobby E. Hopper

July 1, 1998

Standing Alone and Having the Last Word

 Most of us have ventured farther than we needed to go in life.  We took that infamous next step and fell flat on our face, had the last word and it has cost a life of regret, got one more laugh and it led to embarrassment.  My family says that I always have to have the last word.  I usually reply, “No, I don’t.”

When I think about going a little farther, I remember the words of my dad.  He would say, “Son if you make a stand, be willing to stand alone because most of the time you will look around and see that you are all by yourself.”

Forty-five years ago, I had the one of many “stand lone” experiences.  It was Friday August 13, 1976.  I was fried from my job after I confronted the owner about an insurance policy. 

It started at the birth of my eldest son, Andy, on January 18 of that year.  The insurance policy included coverage for the birth of a baby.  I paid a deducible and took Andy home from St. Vincent’s Hospital in Birmingham.  Shortly, I received statements that I owned for Andy’s birth.

I asked the owner, since he was boss, human resource, personnel, and insurance managers for the company why the insurance did not pay for the hospital stay.

He said he had to get with his partner in New York and that he would let me know.  Another statement came and I again asked the owner about the status of the insurance inquiry.  The same question received the same response, “I will get with my partner in New York.”

I revisited my policy and once again, all I owed was a minimum deductible that I had already paid.  I don’t know about you, but I dislike to be ignored and for people to be disingenuous with me.

Since I was a young man of twenty-three, I sought the wisdom of older guys whom I worked.  They talked of all the shady things that transpired in the routine work of the shop.  I remember doing things that I thought were improper and wrong, but I was a stupid twenty-three year old.  What did I know?

The collective thought of the employees was that the owner needed to answer some questions we had.  I received encouragement from my Sunday school class that we as Christians needed to stand for that which was moral and right.  I remember a sermon that the pastor preached about snakes.  He said, “If you mess with snakes, you will get snake bit.”

I finally got an answer from the owner about the insurance.  He said that he and his partner did not know of any insurance that paid for baby delivery.

On my favorite day, Friday the 13^th, I, with the backing of six to seven employees, confronted the owner about irregularities with work and insurance.  I know now, but was clueless back then that my companions lacked backbone, why else would they let a young man lead? 

I showed him my policy and the coverage.  Looking back, I realize I caught him with the proverbial “hand in the cookie jar.” He became hostile.  When the discussion got heated, I looked around and I was the only one standing up to the owner.  After a short exchange and my short diatribe on the owner’s spiritual lostness, he fired me.

The response from my allies shocked me.  They said I took the discussion too far.  I thought I did the right thing.  The premiums I paid were for full coverage, but the owner and his partner were paying for a lesser insurance coverage.  When caught, they agreed to pay my hospital bill.

The owner realized what he did and offered my job back, but I took another road on life’s journey.  I never made a full machinist because I never had an opportunity to continue the apprenticeship.

After two months of building houses, I went to work at the cement plant on October 13.  During the between months, I faced great challenges and criticism.  Everyone was mad at me for getting fired.  I stood for what was right, I found myself alone, and I went into a time of a personal low.

Lying on the front seat of my old Ford pickup, my dad asked what was wrong.  I told him that I stood for a principle I thought right morally and ethically.  Now, I feel abandoned.  His words I never will forget.  “Son, if you stand for what is right, be willing to stand alone.  If you are right, that is what matters regardless of what others think, including me.  Son, I am proud of you.”

At a pastor’s conference Dr. Rick Lance, Executive Secretary for Alabama Baptists, gave an inspirational devotion on Jesus at Gethsemane and the phrase, “Jesus went a little farther in following God Will, Word, and Work.”  I immediately went back to 1976.

 Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane, and saith unto the disciples, Sit ye here, while I go and pray yonder. And he took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be sorrowful and very heavy.  Then saith he unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me.  And he went a little further, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.  And he cometh unto the disciples, and findeth them asleep, and saith unto Peter, What, could ye not watch with me one hour? (Matthew 26:36-39 KJV)

I cannot start to imagine how Jesus felt at that tremendous moment in His journey to the Cross.  His dad knew that His Son would be all alone.

My Last Supper With Dad

The other day I was sharing with some folks about the intimacy of sharing a meal together.  There is a sacred bond when sharing a meal.  Growing up as we gathered around the breakfast, dinner, and supper table, we shared and learned about life.  Time there was one of mostly laughter and fun. 

Sometimes anger would penetrate our sacred table and the devil would enjoy our confrontations.  The most ungodly were ones when mom and dad would be at odds.  These sad and intense moments rose their satanic goading and the terrible and frightening displays of animosity would side down the walls and splatter the dining room curtains with food that God had given us, momma had prepared, and that we not longer had an appetite.

Thank the Good Lord that these devilish moments were few and far between and our table was one of reconciliation and love.  Times around the table together grew scarce as we all got older.  Dad would work evenings, mom worked days, and my sister, brothers, and I would be involved in extracurricular activities.  For a short time, mom and dad both worked evenings but momma would leave us a great supper on the table.  That is back when you did not have to worry about food spoiling on the table.

When we did gather around the table, there was love.  We all had our places.  Dad sat at the head.  I sat at the other end.  My two brothers sat at daddy’s left and my sister and mom sat to his right, momma being next to him.  Today when I sit at a rectangular table, I always set on the opposite end from the head seat.

Daddy, even though for many years did not know the Lord, requested that someone say grace.  Granny Hopper taught her family to say grace.  As a widow trying to raise nine children, Granny Hopper knew the importance of thanking God for His blessings.  How that Granny cooked in dishpans on a wood-burning stove with no running water amazes me.

One of the special moments of the supper table was dad saying grace for the first time.  We all teared up as He thanked God for the food and our family.  There were some shenanigans at the supper table, some even during grace.  One was my sister would pinch me under the table and stupid me would hit her.  Momma hit me.  Finally, my Uncle Clifton told mama was happening.  Momma hit my sister.

There have been times when pieces of chicken, especially the pulley bone, would mystery be missing off the serving plate and amazedly appearing on our sister’s plate.  After prayer, someone’s lips would be burning only to have his lips burn more.  Cayenne pepper will do that when rubbed on the rim of your drinking glass.

Dad asked momma to turn thanks.  She was standing beside me putting another dish on the table.  Momma seemed to have a difficult time praying.  I think it was because I rubbed her stomach as she prayed.

I remember the last time I sat at the supper table with dad.  It was a Monday night in April.  Dad was dying from a brain tumor.  He could not longer walk or talk.  Mom and I put him in his wheelchair.  I had arranged for her to take the night off.  Caretakers unselfishly sacrifice to care of loved ones.  Mom and my sister were wonderful to care for dad in his illness.  My brothers and I cannot thank them enough for their sacrifice.

I fed dad his last meal.  It was the most moving moment at the supper table.  I sat at dad’s right side.  Mom had prepared a good southern meal of purple hull peas, oiled potatoes, okra, corn, and cornbread.  I fixed dad’s plate and fed him.  I used a fork to feed him and our only mode of communication was the nod of his head.  I was used to that because dad nodded his head when he could talk.  One time I put the fork to his mouth and he nodded no.  I put the fork to every bowl to which he nodded no.  Dummy me. I forgot to give him some sweet tea to drink.  I pointed the fork at the tea and he nodded yes.

Dad was a big eater, never eating between meals.  He did not like diary products, especially butter, and rarely ate sweets of drink soft drinks.  His last meal was a big one.  We were doing fine until daddy choked on cornbread.  I thought he was going to die on me.  Later that night dad would have a seizure and rushed to the hospital.

From early Tuesday morning until Friday morning, around four in the morning, dad had only fluids for substance.  Momma always mourned that dad starved to death.  The nurses bragged on momma saying that dad was the healthiest cancer patient that had.  Dad lost very little weight during his illness.

Last meals are important and those precious moments bring with it a tear of sadness and a smile of joy.  Not long ago I share my last breakfast with Nanny, my sister-in-laws mother.  She sat to my right.  I passed the breakfast dishes to her, helped her jelly a biscuit, and poured her some coffee that Saturday morning at my brother’s home.  It was their Saturday ritual to have breakfast with his in-laws.  Nanny always picked at me.  She loved it, as did I.  The morning of her funeral, I sure missed her.

We all share moments not certain if they are last moment together.  I do not remember the last meal I had with momma before cancer overtook her.

 

I wonder how the Disciples of Jesus felt after their last supper together.  As our Savior girded himself and washed their feet, did they often think of that moment when the God of the universe bathed their nasty feet?  Did they think of the moments they were all concerned with their position in the Kingdom that Jesus’ position would be hanging on a cruel cross in a few hours?  Did the wine they shared remind them of the blood that flowed from Jesus?  Did the ripping and tearing of the bread weigh heavy on their hearts as the body of Christ shredded as the whip thirty-nine times crossed the back?

The moment they were together was a celebration of the watershed belief of Old Testament, the Passover.  It was the last meal that the Hebrews had before leaving Egypt.

 

As they were eating, Jesus took the bread, blessed and broke it, gave it to the disciples . . .

Matthew 26:26a