To The Entitled

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

A Family Tradition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It Is Square

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Veterans Were Babies Once

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Thanks Dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

Maytag, Dependable Agitators

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

Those That Wash Our Feet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Philippians 1:6

My Friend Bailey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Process

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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.