SMILE

 Do you ever notice how some people smile all the time.  Makes suspicious of them.  Some have 

a glow that lights up the room.  People will ask those that smile why they smile all the time.  When I am

 asked, I tell them that if I did not smile, I would probably cry.  I feel that most people would rather see

 someone smiling than crying.

Smiles vary. Some people use only their lips, while others smile with their whole face, especially their teeth. I have seen some smiles that were better before they showed teeth (or the lack thereof). A toothless smile is cute on a child, but for an adult it can be comical or embarrassing.

My dad and mom were toothless by the time they were in their thirties. They smoked and did not practice good oral hygiene, as we do today. I was a teenager before I owned a toothbrush. That was in the late 1960s. Daddy said we could use a sweet gum twig with salt and baking soda to brush our teeth. I lost one of my permanent teeth, a molar, when I was in the seventh grade. I had a mouth full of cavities. I was married before I finally had dental insurance to pay for fillings, root canals, and crowns.

I had the opportunity once to minister to a church member who needed teeth. In Pell City, Alabama, there is a One Day Denture clinic. Another church member had volunteered to take a man to the clinic, but then he could not. I got the duty, since, as the pastor, I was “not doing anything.” It was an all-day event.

After an hour's drive, we arrived at the clinic. We were there early. Slowly the office filled with toothless people. The doctor’s aides promised that everyone would see the doctor. Each person listened for the sound of his or her name. Their worry and trepidation kept them from smiling. Having no teeth did not help, either.

I felt bad about smiling. It seemed that the doctor’s aides and I were the only ones with teeth. I was embarrassed to show my teeth. It was an odd feeling, and I kept my hand over my mouth.

True to the claim, the doctor took every one of the patients and did an impression of his or her gums. I hid my teeth for five hours. It was dinner time (lunch for city folks). No one went to eat. I was hungry, but there was no way that I was going to eat in front of the toothless patients.

About one in the afternoon, the doctor’s aides gathered the patients. Once again, each person listened in anticipation for his or her name. Four people at a time, with anxiety covering their faces, entered the back of the clinic when the aides called their names.

What happened next is unforgettable. When the first person returned through the door, the waiting patients said, almost in unison, “Show us your teeth.” This person had undergone a transformation! Uncertainty and timidity had been traded for a beautiful smile. One by one, each person would stop, smile, and leave to a round of applause.

On the way back home, a police officer pulled me over for speeding. I was in a hurry to get home and get something to eat. He wanted to know why I was going fifteen miles over the speed limit, where was I going, and why I was in a hurry.

I told him that I was trying to get the man and his mother back home, because we had spent the whole day at the One Day Denture clinic. He looked puzzled. I could tell he was not buying my story. I said, “You know, the place where they do the one-day dentures.”

I turned to the man who had a new set of pearly whites and said, “Smile Jim, and show him your teeth.” Jim had the biggest grin of pearly whites.

The officer frowned and said, “Slow it down and go home.” We all said thanks—and smiled.

            “Thy teeth are as a flock of sheep which go up from the washing, whereof everyone beareth twins, and there is not one barren among them.” (Song of Solomon 6:6, KJV)

I bet you smiled, didn’t you?

What makes you smile?

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Do you have perfect teeth, or do you have many fillings and missing teeth? Did you lose your teeth because of poor oral hygiene and bad eating habits?

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What do you think, and how do you feel, when someone greets you with a smile?

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Prayer: Father, thank You for simple things, such as a smile, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. Thank You for calling people as dentists, oral surgeons, and orthodontists. Forgive me for not taking care of my teeth as a child. Thank You for all those who share a smile and who are with those whose hearts are heavy and who cannot smile. Help me to keep an infectious smile.

* One of the stories out of my Thirty-one Day Devotional: I Will Speak Using Stories.  

A PINK NOTE FROM GOD

 As a new day began to dawn, I watched embers drift into the sky.  The embers were the remnants of a lifetime of collecting.  My home of thirty-six years was slowly disappearing into the coming sunrise of July 12, 2012.

Alone as the Lord’s Day was about to dawn, I began to recall the events of the last twenty-four hours.  My son Aaron and I had spent our Saturday in Linden, Alabama where I was serving as Director of Missions doing miscellaneous items known to all weekend warriors.  We ended the day grilling hamburgers on the grill.  We watched as the hickory wood burned into to coals and the tiny embers that scurried to enter the heavens.  The hamburgers were the best we had every cooked.  They were juicy and delicious.   The embers of the Lord’s Day were a sacrifice, not of Biblical requirements, of over sixty years of sacrifice to have, fill, and maintain our home.

We had moved into the house on December 13, 1977.  It was my birthday.  My brothers, father-in-law, and two brothers-in-law had moved everything in for us.  My daughter Angela was three months old, her big brother almost two.  It was a time of dedication and rejoicing.  Now it was a sober and bitter moment of reality that everything burned.

Aaron and I watched old movies and went to bed.  I wanted a goodnight’s rest knowing I was to preach three services for the Greensboro Baptist Church in the morning.  Sound asleep, a neighbor, Rick, knocked at the door and rung the doorbell.  News at two in the morning is rarely good.  Rick was an Alabama State Trooper and he told us that our home in Jemison, Alabama in Chilton County had burned completely.  It was totally furnished and was our getaway and retirement home while serving in the ministry.

We arrived at Jemison about 3:45 that morning and found the house gone leaving the main floor and basement smoking with tiny fires scattered around the main floor.  Angela, her husband, and our grandson were there crying with only memories of the home she started living at three months.

The West Chilton Fire Department, less than a mile way, tried to quench the fire but the house was too flammable with materials that would create a giant open grill much larger than where Aaron and I grilled burgers.  The only item redeemed was my 1950 Plymouth that had been a resident of the basement since 1978.

Thinking the fire out, most everyone left.  I was able to go in the basement.  There was a fire at the stairwell leading into the great room.  A small flame lapped over a couple of floor joists.  Heat warmed the predawn air and embers continued their flight to the heavens.  Suddenly the remaining darkness disappeared and what had not burned exploded in fames rising for a second time seventy feet into the morning sky.  Firefighters said when they got the call the house was already engulfed in flames reaching high driving darkness away into the heavens.  Everything remaining fell into the basement creating the towering inferno.

I sent everyone home.  Going to my workshop, I pulled out a chair and watched a lifetime float away.  Gone was an antique, hand carved device that we never could fine anyone to identify it.  Gone was my baby bed that was bed to Andy, Angela, and of course me.  It was second hand when momma bought it for me in 1952.  Even today, I remember items that were in the house, basement, and attic.

It was watching our lifetime collection disappear that I cone to the conclusion it was just stuff.  It was OUR STUFF.  When it is all said and done, after my immediate family, it was unimportant.  No lives were lost and a hundred years from that moment who cares?

As the sun began to rise, the thing that mattered was that 8:30 that morning I was to preach the early service at Greensboro.  I had contemplated what would I do.  There was no way to do it.  I called my good friend, and fellow Director of Missions Tom Stacey of the Selma Baptist Association.  He was an answer to prayer.  He told me he had it and he would handle and not to worry.  I knew he would do it and I quit thinking about.

I heard a voice calling BOBBY!  It was my aunt Katherine from across the road.  Her and my aunt Annie were my security system while I lived a way.

I returned the yell with yes mam!  She said come eat some breakfast.  It had been a long time the burgers.  She cried as she consoled me.  I reminded her that everything was going to be okay.

As I returned to the smothering pit, I noticed something pink in the ditch by my driveway.  It was a charred pink note card.  The card drifted more than three hundred feet from the burning house.  A fragile and flammable piece of paper place for me to find.    

It had a picture of a worm created using the fingertips of a child, Angela’s.  I turned it over and there written was Psalm 46:1. I remembered it was in the attic with keepsake stuff in our cedar chest.  Angela was not even old enough write it.  Thirty years before the fire God had someone send me a note.  Psalm 46:1 states, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”

I looked into heaven and thanked God for the note.  He had been with me all morning.

 

The pink note reminded me:

Life is lived by moments.

One moment I was a 16 yr/old, next I am old man.

One moment our children were babies, now they are 47, 46. and 36.

One moment I was a plant employee, next moment I am retired.

One moment I could not wait to graduate college on December 1987, now that’s 37 yrs ago.

 

Life is fragile.

We are one heartbeat from death.

We are one trip from fatal accident.

We are one phone call from tragic news.

We are one wrong step from being handicap.

We are one incident from emotional instability.

We are one sin from moral failure.

 

God is who He says He is. (Refuge, Strength, Help)

God is the God of the Universe.

God is the God of Salvation.

God is the God of Peace.

 

Why are we afraid?  You may need a pink note from God.

Someone made the pink card for Angel during Vacation Bible School.  They will never know how much spoke to me that morning of the fire.

 

  

Worrying is a Waste of Imagination

 Time flies.  Over thirty-seven years ago, I had a hurting in my chest.  I didn’t think much of it thinking it was indigestion.  Then I started have some pressure on the left side of my neck.  I shrugged it off, but when I started having pain down my left arm, I was concerned.  I thought that I might be having a heart attack.

I did not want to die at the cement plant, so I made a trip to see the human resource manager, Joe Carey.  I really didn’t want to see him because he had a tendency to overreact.  I knew that if were a heart attack, he may have one himself, but company policy was to report all injuries regardless of how minor.  This was not accident related, but I feared it would be if I died at work.

Sure enough, Joe panicked.  He told me to go immediately to see the company doctor who just happened to be my family doctor.  After a barrage of tests, Dr. Mitchell said I was not having a heart attack.  I remember looking at him and said, “Doc, I’m okay and I know what I need to do.”  I returned to work, gave Joe a report, and returned to work. 

That evening, I went home and sat on the bed, took a long look in the mirror, and had a heart to heart, no pun intended here, conversation with me.  As I looked at the man in the mirror, I told him that he was under too much stress.  I told him that no one expected him to make straight A’s at the University of Montevallo.  It was difficult enough to work a forty-hour week, take twelve hours (full time student) of classes, and be a husband, dad, and pastor.  I reminded him that no one cared what kind of grades he made and that he was the one that applied all the pressure.

The man in the mirror reminded me that he was going to school for the Lord and wanted to be an example of God’s call on his life.  He said that it was the cement plant that forced him to miss all his classes and refused to accommodate his class schedules. The University agreed that he did not have to attend classes because he had a high-grade point average.  He only had to do the assignments and take tests.

The conversation ended when I agreed with myself that I was not going to worry about it.  The hurting stopped and I made all Bs that college term.  That was great.  My wife attended all her classes and all mine too with the exception of computer, which I was able to take night classes.  She tape-recorded my classes and took notes.

My grades improved when I stopped worrying.  Classes were more interesting, and I had a great time.  The straight Bs cost me Summa Cum Laude, Magna Cum Laude, or even Cum Laude.  You are right.  Who cares?  That was my point to myself.   I did graduate with high enough grades to graduate with honors and apply a Master’s Degree and eventually a Doctorate.  The biggest discovery from college, stop worrying.

I should have known better.  Dad taught us not to worry.  Though he was not a Christian, he reminded us constantly that God was in control.  It was disrespectful, but he would say, “The Old Man Upstairs is in control.  If the sun don’t come up in the morning, what are you gonna do about it?”  Another favorite of dad’s was, “In a hundred years, who cares?”  God taught us about the providence of God.  God is on His throne and when He walked on earth, He admonished His followers to give their burdens to Him.

God is well aware of the troubles that you and I face.   I believe our present troubles are for God’s glory, making us better for the future.  God will use our bad for good that others my see the power of God in our lives.

I read something the other day that never registered with me before.  I came at a critical juncture of my journey.  It was, “Worrying is a waste of imagination.”  Worry comes from the Old English word wyrgan, which means to strangle.  Author Mark Twain writes, “I have lived through some terrible things in my life, some which actually happened.”

I come from a long line of worriers on momma’s side of the family.  Mom worried about everything and daddy acted as though he did not have a care in the world.  I heard a preacher say a long time ago that “Worrying for a believer is a sin, the Bible says fret not.”  I do worry from time to time, but remind myself, sometimes looking the mirror, that God has it under control and he does not want me to worry.  Hey, God’s got it!

 

Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee: He shall never suffer the righteous to be moved (Psalm 55:22 KJV).

 

And which of you with taking thought can add to his stature one cubit?  If ye then be not able to do that thing which is least, why take ye thought for the rest? (Luke 12:25-26 KJV)

 

Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God (Phil 4:6 KJV).

 

Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you (I Peter 5:7 KJV).

MY GRANDPAW

My Grandpaw, Joe Thomas Chapman, was born in 1892.  I do not have a memory of him being healthy.  My oldest memory is mom and dad picking him up at the bus station in Jemison, Alabama.  He had been to a hospital for some procedure or operation.  I don’t have anyone to ask about it because they are all gone.  But I think it was Memphis, Tennessee.  It was around 1955 before we moved to Illinois, The procedure was on his legs because I remember getting off the bus, legs bandaged, and using a cane.

After spending several years in Illinois, we moved back to Jemison.  It was there that Grandpaw sat on the front porch of the place he bought and farmed for years. 

He purchased the property from the Augustus Walker family sometime in the 19930’s.  The Walker family received the land as a grant from the United States government on April 1, 1876.  I have the original deed hanging in my library.  I just looked at it.  It was part of the Reconstruction following the War of Northern Aggression.  Black people, as were the Augustus Walker family, were given land grants.  President US Grant issued the grant through the land office in Montgomery, Alabama as part of the Congressional Act of May 20, 1862.  This was thirty years before Grandpaw was born.

My fondest memories are Grandpaw sitting in a rocker on the front porch.  His health was deteriorating due to all the hard work of trying to farm.  On that front porch, I heard tales of yesteryear.  He served in WWI and worked in the ammunition factory in Childersburg, Alabama during WWII.  He worked in a sawmill for one dollar a week.  It was there he developed a crooked right index finger.  The finger was offset and was weird when he pointed it at something.  There was scar between the middle and top joint.  He said the scar is where he cut the finger off, took pine rosin, glued the finger together, and wrapped it in an old rag and continued to work.

Sitting on the porch with him, he taught to take broken glass to scrape hickory sticks and smooth them to make rams for peashooters.  The polished rams worked well when shooting each other.  He taught us to shoot chinaberries in a slingshot.  He taught us a command of Southern vernacular although our parents prohibited us from using them.

One prime example is when my cousin, whom Grandpaw despised, done something to set Grandpaw off.  He used that vulgar Chiltonian vernacular in a way I will never forget.  He ran my cousin under a 1950 Plymouth by throwing rocks in between cussing and damnation.

This same cousin, younger than I, would bully me.  Dad warned that If I came home crying one more time from the bullying that he would give me something to cry.  Well, the next time my cousin bullied me; I took his right arm and put it in his mouth.  Thinking it my arm, he clamped down, drew blood from his arm, and went screaming to Grandmoe.  I never will forget the big laugh Grandpaw did nor the prime things he called my cousin.

When I was twelve, dad had me break a field to plant corn.  Using an International Cub tractor, I broke the ground, disced the ground, planted the corn, and cultivated it.  It was a beautiful field.  Grandpaw used mules his whole life.  He bragged on me and we had a bumper crop.

Using mules, Grandpaw cleared the land of trees, stumps, and rocks.  The WPA helped him develop terrace banks on the property to divert water to the woods.  Every time I build things with rocks I would say, “Grandpaw worked hard taking them out and I’m working hard putting back in.”

I own the 1950 Plymouth Special Deluxe that Grandpaw owned.  He got it from my uncle, a body repairman.  I have precious memories of the old Plymouth coming to our house.  Dad was on layoff and food and money were scarce.  Grandpaw would have sacks of groceries in the old Plymouth.  I was sick at school and Grandpaw and Momma came to get me.  I remember lying in the back seat and going home. 

When Grandpaw got very disabled, dad bought it from him for a work car.  Dad drove it until a rod started knocking in the motor.  Dad asked if I wanted a car.  Being 12 years old, I jumped at the possibility.  He said the old Plymouth is yours.  It was straight shift, three on a tree, and mama taught me how to drive.  I can honestly say that although prohibited from using Grandpaw’s vernacular, momma had learned it perfectly from her dad.  I know she used them when teaching me to drive.

I had the Plymouth restored and will pass it down from uncle, to Grandpaw, to dad, to me, and which child wants it.

Grandpaw worked hard and died poor. Two cousins and I are the only descendants to live on the property.  Looking over the land reminds of the hard work Grandpaw put into life.  A friend that I wrote about a couple of articles back told me that when he was a boy he saw the most extraordinary from Grandpaw.  JB was walking home from the old country school that was adjacent to Grandpaw’s field, the one I would plant corn years later.  Plowing the field with one of his mules, Grandpaw’s patience, if he had any, wore thin with the mule.  JB said the mule balked and sat down.  Grandpaw used that Chiltonian vernacular to no avail.  Since the verbal did not work, Grandpaw used his mouth differently.  He bit the mule on the nose!  JB said the mule lifted Grandpaw into the air several times until the mule stood up and slung Grandpaw off his nose.  Grandpaw had mule nose meat between his teeth.  It is a good thing that the mule did not retain the words of Grandpaw and talk, as did the Balaam’s ass

 

And when the ass saw he angel of the LORD, she fell down under Balaam: and Balaam’s anger was kindled, and he smote the ass with a staff.  And the Lord opened the mouth of the ass, and she said unto Balaam, What have I done unto thee that thou hast smitten me these three times? Numbers 22:26-28 KJV

 

Grandpaw Chapman became a Christian while on his deathbed.  I wonder if he met Balaam on the streets of gold.

 

PS: Family tradition- Grandpaw’s great, great, great granddaughter was playing with a dog that snapped at her.  Little Jessica grabbed the dog and bit its nose.

If You Don't Write It Down, It Never Happened

 Have you ever had this brilliant thought or idea but did not take the time or have a means to write it down?  Sometimes I will read or hear something that gives me an idea for an article or sermon thinking I will remember only to forget it when I need to recall it.

The great theologian, preacher, and writer Hershel Hobbs grew up in my home county Chilton and was the principal writer of the 1963 Baptist Faith and Message.  He said that he would take time to write himself notes when he heard or thought of something inspiring.  He had a great system writing books.  He wrote his books one thought, or sentence, at a time.  Sometimes he wrote a paragraph a time.  My system is I write at one sitting.

I often get inspiration from reading, from everyday occurrences, from hearing sermons, and from observing people.  Sometimes things happen that I never forget and at other times, I quickly forget them.

Year ago, as I entered the carport, I reminded myself that I needed to purchase some new filters for the air-conditioner system for our home in Jemison.  I stopped and giggled, remembering that the house was no longer there losing it to the fire in July 2012.  I remember minute details of every part of the house.  Now these things are memories of something that no longer exists.

I can close my eyes and see the cement plant and the area where I operated the cement kilns.  I see the handrails, the overhead hoists, the catwalk, and the kilns rotating as a roaring flame blazes within them.  These no longer exist.  Now, they are images of my mind or details of something that I write.

There are multitudes of things I experienced that I wish I had captured them on film, in a recording, or just took the time to write about them. Often, there was no availability of pencil and paper.  Words of inspiration need to be penned or etched in our minds, but also written down.

Failure to pass down words of inspiration deprives society of motivation, stimulation, and encouragement.  Reading this article you may recall the words from people long ago that inspire you today.  Remember, if no one takes the initiative to write down an occurrence, over time it is lost, embellished, becomes legend, or is distorted.  Most nations fail because they do not read history.

Have you ever noticed how you cannot recall an event or a person then suddenly something triggers your memory and all at once your minds floods with total recall of the experience.

Many Sundays ago, I preached homecoming at a former church.  While I was pastor there, the church built a family life center.  The congregation did most of the work.  The church experienced some electrical problems.  A member of the buildings and grounds called me to see if I knew where the schematics for the electricity were located.  I helped do the wiring.  There was no electrical blueprint.  What we had were hand drawn by a member, Richard, of the building committee 29 years ago.  Richard died several years ago, and no one knew where they were.  I told the building grounds member that Richard had folded them and placed them on top of the control panel.  There were unsuccessful in locating them.

The Sunday of my visit, they inquired again as to the schematics whereabouts.  I went to the control panel and over the past 29 years, someone moved them to an adjacent piece of ductwork.  I could see Richard folding the schematics and saying to me, “I’m putting these here so if we have to work on the wiring, we won’t have to look for them.” 

God created us to respond to sight, sound, touch, and smell which trigger or memory.  Every time I smell fresh cut pine timber, I think of cutting and loading pulpwood or helping frame a new house.  When I smell yeast rolls cooking, I think of the lunchroom at Jemison High School or Ms. Ruby Smith’s, a friend from Houston, Texas, cinnamon rolls.  Now that I have written of them, once held captive, these moments are released to create encouragement.

Transferring a thought or an idea to someone or making a hard copy takes a moment.  We live life in magnificent moments.  Those that capture those moments provide us with guidance and tangible snippets enabling us to face the uncertainties of life.  A moment of collecting thoughts can become a way of life or the change of course for those that are inspired by it.

One time I was looking for information for the insurance company in settlement of losing the house.  I found momma's last will and testament.  For a few moments, I revisited some things momma wanted done at her death.  Captured with ink on paper by my sister were some of the last words that momma spoke.

Hand drawn schematics, last will and testaments, notes scribbled on paper assist to jog our memory.  Words of inspiration are diverse in origin.  God’s Word is the greatest source for inspiration.  I am glad that the writers of our Bible took time to scribe God’s Word for us to read.

And many other signs truly did Jesus in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book: But these are written, that ye might believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God; and that believing ye might have life through his name (John 20:30-31 KJV).

PS:  When I started this article, I could not recall any thing inspiring.

 

America: More Joes than JBs

One morning as I was reading my daily Proverb, I thought of J B.  J B was a good friend, coworker, and brother in Christ.  As a kid, I would watch him fly past our house in a Baggett tractor-trailer truck.  I thought it was the grandest thing to know someone that actually drove a Semi. There were not many big trucks that traveled our country road.  We saw plenty of pickups, produce trucks, and pulpwood and log trucks.  

My brothers and I would run to the road, put our arms up, and pull down trying to get J B to blow his air horn.  J B would just laugh as he blew the horn and we would say, “There goes J B.”

Most everyone up home had side jobs to compensate income.  J B farmed on the side.  We raised pigs and crops.  J B had cattle and hay.  When J B was not in the semi ridge, he was on his Ford tractor fertilizing hay, cutting hay, raking hay, baling hay, and storing hay.  J B continued to do the small square bales instead of the large round rolls.  He contented that the large round rolls had too much waste.

One summer years later, many years later, my brother David and I were helping J B and another friend of ours Calvin haul hay.  We loved helping load and haul hay.  The only problem we were not young any more.  Like the proverb says, “The glory of young men is their strength: and the beauty of old men is the gray head.” (Proverbs 20:29 KJV)  David and I were grey.  In fact, J B had gone to work at the cement plant.  Calvin had been there for years and I was working there.

J B and Calvin loved the longer square bales for their cows.  David and I struggled to throw the hay on the trailer.  Calvin pulled the trailer as J B continued to rake and bale as David and I tired.  David and I both realized that we were bad out of shape.  Calvin commented that we had become soft and weak.  We struggled to lift the bales.

Calvin had mercy on us and volunteered to rest us.  On the first bale, Calvin struggled to lift the bale.  As he reached for a second one, he threw it to the ground and said, “Good gracious boys! Why didn’t you tell me the bales were heavy?”  David and looked at one another and said, we thought we had gotten sorry and weak.  Calvin said, “These bales weigh over 200 lbs.  They are too green!”

Calvin flagged J B down.  J B must have thought he was still driving for Baggett.  He was flying on his tractor raking the cut hay.  Calvin told J B that he did not want to burn down his barns with green hay.  If not dry enough, green hay will go through a heat and catch fire.

I never will forget what J B said.  “Dutton, I like to bale it a little green.  The cows like it better.”  Calvin won the argument and David and I were relieved.  First, we needed rest and second, we were glad we were not as out of shape as we thought.

Most people in our church and community worked hard to make a living.  However, a few in our community did not.

One time J B was raking and baling hay in his fields.  He needed someone to help him so he turned to his neighbor named Joe.  Joe was a tall, slender, and well able to help with the hay.  Watching him growing up I never knew of him holding a job or working.  As J B toiled in the hot summer son, Joe sat on his front porch swing and played his guitar.  J B hired him to help load hay.  Joe helped a short spell and told J B that he had better go home which was across from the hay field.

J B inquired as to his abandonment.  Joe said, “I might be seen by someone and lose my government check.”  J B was furious as he raked, baled, and loaded hay while Joe sat on the front porch and played the guitar.

Every time I see the cartoon movie with Porky Pig as a farmer working had while his neighbor, an old fox, plays a guitar on the front porch of a shack, I think of J B and Joe.  When winter comes, Porky is feasting while the old fox starves.  Porky’s conscience bothers him and invites his neighbor for dinner.  The sorry fox says that come spring he will work hard.  When spring comes, the old sorry fox returned to playing the guitar.

JB was accidently killed while working on a church playground.  Joe died receiving his government check and playing his guitar.  Today we have more Joes than JBs in the workforce.   

 

The sluggard will not plow by reason of the cold; therefore shall he beg in harvest, and have nothing (Proverbs 20:4 KJV).

 

“TURN HIM LOOSE, SON”

 

            Some events are forever etched in your mind. I was ten years old. My family was very poor during my childhood. We did not think much of it, because most people in rural Alabama were poor during the 1950s and 1960s. It was “city folks” that had running hot water, inside bathrooms, and fancy gas space heaters.

            We had an old pot-bellied stove that required wood. One of the joys of winter was being outside in the woods cutting firewood. Daddy always told us that cutting wood would warm you twice—you got hot cutting it, and then you got warm standing beside the stove!

            We did not have a pickup truck, but daddy did have a McCullough chain saw from his logging days. My uncle had an old 1936 Dodge pickup, and together we would cut firewood.

            One firewood-cutting moment is forever etched in my mind. It was one cold fall day, when we were going down an old dirt road in route to the woods. There was not a cloud in the sky. My cousins, brothers, and I were huddled behind the cap of the pickup, staying out of the cold wind. You could see your breath. It was every little boy’s dream to be in the back of a truck headed to the woods. We hoped that we would see a deer, turkey, or some other animal.

            On each side of the dirt road were pastures surrounded by barbed-wire fences. The woods were far across the fields. Suddenly, my uncle and dad started pounding the rear window and pointing to the left side of the truck. We expected to see a cow, bull, or horse running in the pasture, but it was a little gray squirrel. He was coming at us as if a hound dog were hot on his trail.

            The timing was perfect. He crossed the road under the pickup. We heard a thud. The little gray squirrel emerged from under the rear of the truck, spinning round and round. My uncle came to a squeeching halt. My daddy said, “Catch the squirrel and we will get your grandmoe to fix some fried squirrel with dumplings!”

            I jumped out the bed of the pickup and caught that little gray squirrel. Now, remember, I was ten years old, and I forgot that the teeth of a squirrel will crack a very hard hickory nut. A hickory nut is hard to crack with a hammer, but a squirrel has very little trouble cracking one. I also forgot that little gray squirrels run over by old Dodge trucks go crazy.

            When I caught him, the squirrel bit the knuckle of my left index finger. Everyone was so excited, hollering and screaming, and they never heard me yell at the top of my lungs nor did they see the blood flying.

            I pried the squirrel from left finger, and he immediately bit the knuckle of my right index finger! I screamed again, and the blood flew from a second finger. By this time, my cousins, brothers, uncle, and daddy saw the action. My daddy hollered, “Turn him loose, Son.”

            What daddy did not know was that I was trying to turn him loose. I realized that I had not caught the squirrel—he had caught me! That little fellow was excited. Think about it. He had been running from something, he was run over by a truck, he was spinning round and round, and now a ten-year-old boy was trying to catch him for supper. He was in the fight of his life.

            I screamed back to Daddy, trying to convince him that I was trying to let the squirrel go. Daddy wanted to pry him loose, but he had already gone through two fingers, and, if I had let him, he would have gotten the other six fingers and two thumbs.

            Daddy searched the pickup, found a large bolt, and knocked the squirrel on the head. Daddy flung out his pocketknife and performed a major operation on the squirrel, cutting him from my right index finger.

            We loaded back into the truck and went to cut a load of firewood. I wrapped my fingers in old rags until we got back to my grandparents’ house. My fingers began to stiffen. We soaked them in kerosene and later in Epsom salt. We could not afford to see the doctor. I had never cared for fried squirrel and dumplings, and I surely did not after that!

            I learned a valuable lesson that day, and I share it at drug awareness conferences. I learned to be careful what you catch, because it might catch you. Addictions start with that first time. Some drugs you cannot stop taking, and you become hooked. That which controls you shames you.

And be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess; but be filled with the Spirit. (Ephesians 5:18, KJV)

 

Do you have something that controls you and shames your testimony? Explain.

Do you know someone who is controlled by sin? Pray for him or her.

Have you ever caught something that you could not let go?

Prayer: Father, You set all creation in motion. Your work is perfect. You know what will give us joy and peace. Help us to respond to the leading of Your Holy Spirit.

WE CAN’T DO MUCH, BUT WE’RE HERE TO HELP

 

            The men’s ministry at Union Springs Baptist Church in Randolph, Alabama, voted to put new shingles on the roof of the old educational wing. Several of the men were carpenters, and they met on a Saturday morning with others who knew how to help replace shingles.

            As summer days in Alabama are hot and humid, the men and boys decided to start work by seven o’clock. Some roof repairmen will leave the old shingles on for added protection, but the shingles on this old building were too deteriorated. To do the job right, workers remove the old shingles.

            Around six thirty the men and boys started gathering. Two men, Ollie and Cody, came that morning. Ollie was well into his seventies, and Cody was in his early sixties and had glaucoma. Both of them said, “We can’t do much, but we’re here to help.” Both men enjoyed working around the church and always came ready to do something.

            Men and boys started the laborious job of tearing off the old shingles and pushing them off the roof. Torn shingles, nails, and old tarpaper went tumbling over the edge of the roof and onto the ground. The boys got a thrill being destructive.

            When the roof was clean, men and boys carried new rolls of tarpaper, new shingles, and new nails onto the roof. Chalk lines marked the places where new shingles would go, and the noise of hammers pounding against new nails sounded in a methodical rhythm as the shingles were systematically attached to the roof.

            The ladies of the church said that they would bring dinner for the crew. Because of the great turnout of men and boys, the roof was finished before eleven o’clock and before the ladies arrived with dinner!

            Before the workmen started down from the roof to get ready for dinner, they took a break to cool off. The topic of conversation was the cleanup. All the old shingles, tarpaper, nails, paper that had wrapped the new shingles, and scrap pieces from the new shingles were on the ground. The sun was almost straight overhead, and it was hot.

            Every worker got a surprise when he got to the ground. There was not a single piece of refuse there! Ollie and Cody had picked up every piece and hauled it away in a wheelbarrow. They burned what they could and threw the rest in the trash. The two men who “could not do anything” had finished the part that all the men and boys were dreading. It was a wonderful feeling to be doing something for God’s house!

            Everyone complimented each other. Ollie and Cody said the new roof was perfect. The men and the boys thanked Ollie and Cody for their great cleanup. Everyone thanked the ladies for a delicious dinner.

So we rebuilt the wall till all of it reached half its height, for the people worked with all their heart. (Nehemiah 4:6, NIV)

 

Now he that planteth and he that watereth are one: and every man shall receive his own reward according to his own labour. For we are labourers together with God: ye are God's husbandry, ye are God's building. (I Corinthians 3:8–9, King James Version)

 

Think about this: When was the last time you thanked someone who surprised you by doing a task you dreaded to tackle?

Take a moment to write down the names of some people who do the small, but important, things around your church.

What gifts do you have, and how are you using them for the Lord?

Prayer: Father, You give each of us gifts to minister in Your kingdom. In the eyes of men, we may not offer much, but You take our limitations and do miraculous work. Help us to do what we can to be intentional in our ministries and faithful in living the Great Commission. Thank You for using people who think they cannot do much, but who do incredible ministries that inspire more for You. Help us to give a word of encouragement or a note of appreciation to those who labor in Your kingdom and help make Your house and worship so wonderful.

Icy Rain and Falling Tears

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The beginning of the word of the Lord by Hosea. And the Lord said to Hosea, Go, take unto thee a wife of whoredoms and children of whoredoms: for the land hath committed great whoredom, departing from the Lord.  So he went and took Gomer (Hosea 1:1-3a KJV).

Can I Say I Am Offended

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THAZ YOU SANTA CLAUS?

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

“The Real Christmas Story”

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Matthew 2:1-6 KJV)