Hand-Me-Downs

 I remember one night my brothers, sister, and I got one the biggest surprises of our lives.  Our Uncle Everett, Aunt Mildred, and cousins Wayne and Judy came for a visit.  They had a great big cardboard box filled with toys, clothes, and shoes and it wasn’t even Christmas.

Wayne and Judy were older than we were and they decided to clean out their closets and toy boxes.  Uncle Everett and daddy served in the army together.  Coming home with daddy after doing basic training, Everett met Aunt Mildred.  They fell in love and married when WWII was over.

Uncle Everett was a tinkerer.  He had to know how things were made, tearing them apart whether or not they needed repair.

Aunt Mildred was my favorite Aunt on daddy’s side of the family.  The distinct characteristic about her was her feet apparel.  She wore what looked like a pair of orthopedic shoes and white socks.  That is not that unusual, excepting that she wore them with dresses.  Aunt Mildred could make you laugh just listening to her talk.  I remember several years back that I went to spend Thanksgiving with Uncle Everett and her.  Uncle Everett has gone to be with the Lord since that time.  Aunt Mildred and he were wonderful Christians.  What made that more wonderful was there were not many Christians in the Hopper family for along time.

That big old cardboard box had some great gifts for us.  I remember there was a red corduroy jacket in the box.  I was so proud of that dress corduroy jacket that I wore it for my fifth-grade school picture.  You know I found out later that that jacket was called a “hand-me-down.”  When I tell people that I wore “hand-me-downs” they ask, “I thought you were the oldest?”  I was in my immediate family, but way down the list with my cousins.

There was a Mattel toy gun with holster in the box.  It was a snub-nosed 38.  It had spring loaded brass shells with yellow plastic tips.  When you fired the gun, the spring in the shell would release the suppressed yellow bullet tip and it would sail through the air.

There was a remote controlled, battery operated, replica of a police car.  With the controls you could steer it, make the red light on top blink, and sound off the siren.  It was fun.  I could be a robber with a snub-nosed 38 and chase myself with the police car.

I remember that there were other great gifts in the box, but I remember these three most because those are the ones I claimed.  That pistol looked like the real thing.  In fact, Mattel made their toy guns so detailed to the real weapon, that they discontinued their guns because of being associated with violence and began making real weapons.  I never could figure out about that violence thing with toy guns.  I guess that is because I had a daddy that made sure I understood the difference between make believe and reality.  He reminded us over and over do not point a gun at anything unless you intended to kill it.  He helped me understand the meaning of receiving a gift or gifts.

As Uncle Everett, Aunt Mildred, Wayne, and Judy left that night, we realized we were special, and God’s people had blessed us with wonderful gifts.  The best gift they gave was love.

And God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work: (As it is written, He hath dispersed abroad; he hath given to the poor: his righteousness remaineth for ever.  Now he that ministereth seed to the sower both minister bread for your food, and multiply your seed sown, and increase the fruits of your righteousness;) Being enriched in every thing to all bountifulness, which causeth through us thanksgiving to God.  For the administration of this service not only supplieth the want of the saints, but is abundant also by many thanksgivings unto God; Whiles by the experiment of this ministration they glorify God for your professed subjection unto the gospel of Christ, and for your liberal distribution unto them, and unto all men; And by their prayer for you, which long after you for the exceeding grace of God in you.  Thanks be unto God for His unspeakable gift (Second Corinthians 9:15 KJV).

Crumpton Taters

 Fall is here, leaves are turning, the air is changing, and the harvest continues.  Most people think of Halloween when they think of October.  I had a baby brother born the day before Halloween.  He will be sixty this year and I am still trying to figure if he was a trick or treat.

I remember staying with my aunt.  Mamma was in the hospital and I had specific orders from her.  I was in the second grade and I had been elected harvest king by the second grade.  Mamma told me to be sure to take my little suit to have the king and queen pictures taken.

Shoot, I was a second grader know-it-all and stayed with my favorite Aunt Annie.  I convinced my her, you know how second graders are and I was her favorite, that it was not the day to have my picture taken.  Mamma sacrificed to buy the outfit.  I remember it hanging under the plastic by the door as I went to catch the school bus.  I knew I messed up the minute I got on the bus and saw a fifth grader with his suit hanging in the bus. 

Mamma was upset and I look like a little pauper in a shirt and blue jeans standing by my queen.  I should have been smarter and told her that since it was Halloween that I dressed like a little poor boy that did not have a suit.  I sure was glad to see my little brother.  Mamma was so proud of him and did not spend too much time reminding how upset she was with me. I never will forget the look in her eyes for me.  They were not near as happy as they were for my little brother. It did not help when I did not tell her about the pictures the school had for sale of the pauper and queen.

Mamma enjoyed Halloween.  We did not dress in typical costumes.  We dressed in old clothes and went serenading.  One year Mamma dressed up like an old man.  She wore false teeth from age thirty to her death.  Mamma was a tomboy growing up so she could act like a man with a very deep voice.  I drove her from house to house and when we got to her mother’s house, grandmoe ran her away with a double barreled shotgun.  Grandmoe thought she was a cousin who was a drunk.  My great uncle Joe had the best response to mama's shenanigans.  When the "toothless old man tricked and treated Uncle Joe, he and his son and grandson tackled mama to the floor and threaten to amputate a vital organ which mama did not have.  Mama begged her way out and my great uncle and his cohorts were embarrassed.  We had so much fun.

The fondest memory of a Halloween is of Mrs. Blonnie Crumpton.  We went to her house and she had never had anyone trick or treat her.  We looked like a bunch hoodlums or rift raft.  Mrs. Blonnie was the second oldest member of my home church.  Her dad fought in the Civil War.  She was poor and cooked on an old wood stove. 

When momma explained to her the meaning trick or treat, Mrs. Blonnie said, “Come in children.”  She treated us to baked sweet potatoes.  They were in the warmer of that old wood stove.  They were not chocolate or caramel, but they were good.  Every time someone bakes them I think of that great saint of God who my preacher explained as one of the greatest prayer warriors he knew.   Blonnie was kin to my grandmoe through the Crumptons who all loved sweet potatoes.  Dad would refer to the sweet potatoes as "Crumpton Taters."

Today when most people think of Halloween, it is evil.  Evil things happen, but God’s people can do good things just as Mrs. Blonnie did.  Paul admonishes the Romans, “Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.” (12:21 ASV)  

We're Porter Sir continued . . . Calamity Jane

 CALAMITY JANE

The Chilton Baptist Builders were tired and sleepy that first night at Granger, Wyoming. Church members from Bridger Valley and Granger provided some travel trailers and a mobile home used for Sunday school rooms for us to sleep. I slept on the floor of the children’s classroom. It had carpet.

Pastor Ray told the crew that seven miles up the road on the Interstate we'd find Little America, a large souvenir shop where there were bathrooms and showers for truckers. That was a good hike to use the restroom. We would have used bushes and trees, but there were none. Thank goodness the church did provide us with a van. It was Saturday night, but we could wait until Sunday morning to shower at Little America and dress for morning worship at Bridger Valley.

The next morning we tried to decide what to do first. The host church was to have the log cabin ready for us to remodel. It was on the ground. The grounds had large holes for water and sewage lines. In Wyoming the frost line is eight feet, whereas in Alabama it is four to eight inches. It was a mess, and we needed some power and needed to find who was in charge of the utilities.

As we talked, we heard a racket—that’s noise in Alabama—coming toward us, and we heard the banging of car doors. Looking around the corner was an old Toyota pickup. A lady was hauling barrels of water to water small trees in the planned community of Granger. The church was in this small area of development near a river. Other than a honky-tonk, the log cabin was all there was in the development on the river.

We asked her who the man in charge of the power was. She said she was. She said she would get it turned on. We asked her who we needed to see about the water. She said she was in charge of the water. Yes, you guessed it. She was in charge of the sewage, too. She chastised us when we asked for the man in charge. She was very much in charge.

She wore blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and cowboy—maybe that should be cowgirl—boots. I want to be politically correct. Her demeanor and her feeble and obedient husband caused us to give her the nickname Calamity Jane.

She constantly flew in and around the church in that beat-up old pickup. I said flying, because the doors would not stay closed and it looked like a bird flapping its wings when she skidded up to the log cabin.

When we tried to unload the water for her, she reminded us that she was not a Southern belle but an independent Wild West woman, to which we said, “Yes, ma'am!” She was good to keep us stocked with snacks and drinks. We were glad she did not tote pistols.

For three days SO, an old carpenter, and I worked under the log cabin jacking it up. He had been a slave to alcohol but had been gloriously saved and nicknamed Rabbit. Underneath the cabin were skunk dens. Rabbit and I did not change clothes, because we had skunk hair and skunk droppings all over us. We worked and ate alone. We did shower and put on clean underwear each day.

On Wednesday of our week there, Calamity Jane slid in and demanded that all the workers give her their dirty clothes. Rabbit and I were under the church running electrical and plumbing lines.

Rabbit said, “Be quiet and be still.”

Our guys tried to tell Calamity that it was okay; she did not have to launder our clothes, but that was like spitting in the wind or Pecos Bill trying to rope a twister. She demanded that we bring our dirty clothes to her. All of those wimps disappeared and sheepishly returned with their dirty clothes. Calamity took them and then shouted, “Where’s your underwear?”

Rabbit and I were quiet as church skunks. Wayne, our brave spokesman and electrician, tried to convince her that she did not need our dirty undies. This time it was reminiscent of the standoff at the shootout at the OK corral. Calamity did not have pistols, but those milksops disappeared and reappeared with their dirty BVDs. At least they were man enough not to squeal on the two dirty skunks under the church.

Calamity just wanted to minister. She was not a Lydia, but she did love the Lord and His workers. She returned every man’s clothes clean and folded.

We were able to winterize the little log cabin. Before our arrival, there had been a three-inch gap between the window and the logs. The parishioners had been worshipping in weather that was below freezing. We put in a new ceiling, new lighting, and electrical plugs. It is good to do mission work. It exposes us to people who are different.

The people of Granger and Bridger Valley were wonderful, and I often think of our time there. I can say that for us “kountry boyz” from Chilton County, porters and Calamity Janes can be a culture shock. They remind us that people need generous tips and lots of love, understanding, and encouragement. We did have the opportunity to witness, help change lives, and be changed, as well as do some remodeling. Mission work is exciting and eventful.

And on the sabbath we went out of the city by a river side, where prayer was wont to be made; and we sat down, and spake unto the women which resorted thither. And a certain woman named Lydia, a seller of purple, of the city of Thyatira, which worshipped God, heard us: whose heart the Lord opened, that she attended unto the things which were spoken of Paul. And when she was baptized, and her household, she besought us, saying, if ye have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come into my house, and abide there. And she constrained us. (Acts 16:13–15, KJV)

 

Who is the Calamity Jane in your life? 

What is the most unusual ministry that you have heard, witnessed, or performed?

How do you respond when things do not go as planned?

Prayer: God, you never change, because You are perfect. Help me change, because I am imperfect. Thank You for life-changing events. Thank You for Calamity Janes, Bertis Rays, “Rabbits,” and porters. Thank You for the changing power of Your Resurrection.

WE’RE PORTERS, SIR

            As Southern Baptists, we have mission work in our blood. Mission work always creates excitement, whether it is local or across the world. It is a time of venturing into the unknown, meeting different people, and experiencing the power of God.

I remember my second mission trip to Wyoming during the 1980s’ Alabama/Wyoming partnership. The Bridger Valley Baptist Church in Lyman, Wyoming, needed help with a mission in Granger, Wyoming, and Pastor Bertis Ray, an Alabama boy, extended a Macedonian call to come help them.

A log home company donated a building to believers in Granger. The Chilton Baptist Builders’ mission was to remodel the log home and make a small church. Bridger Valley, the sponsoring church, said that it would be ready for our team. The Chilton Baptist Builders were in their second year of existence as mission workers. The first trip, we had driven to Kemmerer, Wyoming. On this second trip, we decided to fly. That was the beginning of an eventful mission memory.

I remember it was the first time to fly for several of us. Somewhere between Birmingham and Memphis, I experienced a holy hush. It was a wine-and-cheese-sampler flight. Being from a dry county and being teetotaler Baptists, we confused the flight attendant by our refusal to partake of the different flavors of cheese and wine. Someone did suggest what we could have the Lord’s Supper, since they were serving wine, but since it was our Lord’s last meal, we did not want this to be our last meal because of drinking the communion wine. What I thought of as a holy hush after that moment was really my ears being stopped up from the altitude change. I realized this when I could see people talking but could not hear them. I learned to chew gum to make my ears pop.

Flying into Salt Lake City International Airport, we watched a severe thunderstorm beneath us as we circled the airport. We noticed a great big flash on the horizon. We saw that the Great Salt Lake resembled an Alabama catfish pond. It was much bigger when we got on the ground. We were glad that we hadn't drunk the wine and that we had missed being struck by lightning.

Exiting the plane, we went to get our luggage. One of my bags was the first to come up and around the carousel. Soon everyone had his luggage, and we were ready to go, as I waited for my second piece. All of a sudden, the airport went black. The thunderstorm had knocked off all the power in northern Utah and southwest Wyoming. I decided to go down into the luggage carousel. I saw my piece, retrieved it, and we went to find our ride. I am glad the electricity did not come back on while I was inside the carousel.

Outside, a black man asked if he could take our luggage. David, one of our team who had never been out of Chilton County, said “Sure.” He told the man that it was neighborly of him to offer.

After he had carried our luggage on his cart to the curbside, the black man stood at attention, lowered his left hand by his side, snapped his fingers, and said, “We are porters, sir.”

David said, “Glad to meet you. I’m an Easterling and we have some Porters back home in Clanton.”

The porter snapped his fingers again and said, “We are porters, sir.”

I said, “David, he wants a tip.” I was pretty country myself, but I knew tipping porters was different from tipping cows. David gave him a dollar. The man snapped his fingers again. David gave more, and I gave some. David was neither a generous giver nor a happy missionary.

Pastor Ray stood outside with a sign with alabama printed on it. We loaded in his van for a 135-mile trip to Granger. We were hungry; remember we had had only cheese and water or soft drinks for our only meal of the day. All of northern Utah was without power, had no places to eat, and we had a long ride before we found a place with power and food.

Finally, we stopped at Bingo’s Truck Stop in Evanston, Wyoming. It was ten at night, Wyoming time. The cook there looked like the cook on Hee-Haw, except he did not have a flyswatter. Bingo’s had a twelve-ounce T-bone special. I ordered it medium rare. When the cook brought it out, it was the largest steak I had ever seen. The French fries were on another plate. I could not eat it, and I took it back. With the toothpick rolling in his mouth, the cook said, “What’s wrong?”

I said, “You are going to have to ‘lick that calf again.’” That means you have to do it again.

He said, “You said medium rare.”

I replied to him, “I can eat a steak when it is rare, when it is red, when blood is seeping out, but it has to be hot!” The steak had ice crystals around the bone on the side against the platter.

He said, “Complaints, complaints …”

I was hungry, but not that hungry. He heated it thoroughly, and I ate it.

We pulled a Willie Nelson and got on the road again. Arriving at Granger at midnight, we found the log home. It was sitting on the ground; there was no phone, no power, no water, and no sewage. We thought as we surveyed the situation, Welcome to mission excitement.

And a vision appeared to Paul in the night; There stood a man of Macedonia, and prayed him, saying, Come over into Macedonia, and help us. And after he had seen the vision, immediately we endeavoured to go into Macedonia, assuredly gathering that the Lord had called us for to preach the gospel unto them. (Acts 16:9–10, KJV)

If you have flown, describe how you feel about flying. If you have not, do you desire to fly?

Most believers are stingy when it comes to tipping. What kind of tipper are you?

Have you as an individual, or your church, ever received a Macedonian call?

Prayer: Generous and gracious Father, flying changed my perspective about clouds and the earth. It made me realize how great You are. Meeting new people and ministering in new places gave me a new meaning to the Great Commission. Thank You for Macedonian calls and the ability to respond.

 From Bro Bobby's 31 day Devotional: I Will Speak Using Stories 

To be continued … 

FRUSTRATION

 

Have you ever had a good day suddenly turn into frustration?  Today was one of those days.  It started before my trip to Sam’s in Tuscaloosa, but it was at Sam’s trying to find some apple blossom antibacterial dishwashing detergent that major frustration reared its ugly head.

I don’t think the powers that be for Walmart and Sam’s really know how frustrating their constant changing of product locations is for employees and customers.  Then again, they my get their kicks from doing such things.

I remember trying to find some dried cherries, which are good for arthritis.  One would think that dried cherries would be in the fruit section of Walmart.  Wrong!  They are located next to flour products.

One Christmas on the way to Gulf Shores, I was instructed to stop at the Foley Walmart and buy some cranberry sauce.  I looked high and low to no avail.  I finally asked a lady shopper if she new where they may have hidden it, but she did not know.  I asked a Walmart associate, but she did not know.  I was just about frustrated enough to buy fresh cranberries and crush them myself but another lady over heard my dilemma and told me where I could find the cranberry sauce.  Once again, it was a secret Walmart area.

Webster’s dictionary defines frustrate as “prevent from succeeding, keep from doing, or being a failure.”  The Greek word for frustrate is ekkopto meaning, “to cut off, to cut out.”

I remember being in a “Take Two” safety class where the facilitator asked for the definition of frustration.  I said, “Mill room.”  Everyone in the class agreed.

Gerald, the facilitator asked, “What’s the mill room?”

The mill room housed six finish mills for grinding a mixture of clinkers, limestone, and gypsum to make cement and mortar mix.  Clinkers are limestone, sand, and iron ore ground and then cooked in a kiln.

The mills were large tubular cylinders filled with three-inch steel balls spinning round and round.  The mill room was loud and dusty.  Everyday laborers went into the mill to sweep, pile, shovel, and push wheel barrels of cement waste and dust that leaked or spilled from the mills, discharge chutes, and pipes.  One could never see any progress.  The waste and dust were the same after a few minutes.  Everyday was the same.  Every day was the same!

The mill room was busy work since each employee was guaranteed forty hours each week.  Anytime someone’s job was down, off to the mill room with earplugs, respirators, hardhat, safety glasses, a shop broom, number two flat shovel, and wheel barrel.  Everyday same job, same result.  FRUSTRATION.

Now, back to Sam’s.  My buggy pulled to the right.  I constantly had to push harder on the right side.  I put five gallons of hydraulic fluid on the left side, but it still pulled right.  I put a large container of All liquid detergent on top of the fluid and it still pulled right.  I went up and down aisle after aisle trying to find the Palmolive detergent.  I did some more shopping and returned another time across the store fighting the right determined minded buggy to find the Palmolive detergent.  I could not fine a Sam associate.  I guess someone placed them in an obscure place.

I fought my way to the checkout line.  The cashier said I could keep everything in the buggy.  I gave her my Sam’s card.  Guess what?  She told me that my membership card had not been renewed and that I would have check with Customer Service.

At Customer Service, there were five people ahead of me.  I waited patiently trying to figure out how to find apple blossom Palmolive dishwashing detergent.

Finally, a young girl behind the counter asked if she could help.  I told her that the cashier said I needed to update my membership card.  He checked and told me that the membership fee had not been paid.  I assured her it had she said it had not.  After a frustrating moment with her, I paid the fee only to find that now there were three large carts filled to capacity in my line.

When I got back to the office the secretary gave me the information where the membership had been paid.  I called Sam’s customer service and talked with a representative.  I just thought I was frustrated.  She said that if I would bring back the receipt or a copy of where we paid the bill, that customer service would give me the money.  I informed her that it was not my fault and that she could promptly credit our card so I would not have to make the trip back to Tuscaloosa.

When I think about it, it is the evil one trying to kill my joy and hinder my thoughts before I preach at a revival that night.  This frustration too shall pass.  I get to have my say Monday with the Customer Service manager who was conveniently out of town. 

Monday I could use the Scripture and use ekkopto as found in Matthew 5:30a, but it would not be my right hand.  And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off . . .

So, until Monday, my thoughts will be on Exodus 14:14.

The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.

 

What sends you into panic mode?

I hate to admit it, but I go into panic mode on occasion.  It is said that confession is good for the soul.  I say that it is bad for the ego.  My coworkers once said that I was Mr. Cool when trouble was raging.  What they did not know was I was just as scared as they were.  I could conceal it by pretending to be in control.  If they only knew the truth!

The other day I went into panic mode and it was not a very big event.  I had driven to the local gas station to fill my new zero turn mower with gas.  As I reached to open the tank, I noticed that the right gas cap was missing.  I had checked the gas before leaving home and that’s when the panic started. 

Where was the gas cap?  A new mower and I have already lost one of the two gas caps.  I can’t believe I lost a brand new cap, will they have a new one at Slayton Brothers, will they have to order it, how long will it take, how will I explain to Sharon how a lost the cap, where is it, how can I keep the gas from jumping out, did that mischievous looking young man get my cap while I was not looking, can I find it if I back track my path, did it come off when I left the shed. . .  Did I mention I was about to panic?

After filling both tanks, I borrowed a plastic bag and rubber band from the store clerk and temporarily stopped the hole of the missing cap.  Then in a frantic, not panic, I was calming myself with possible answers to family, friends, the mower salesman, for losing a gas cap.  I backtracked the quarter mile journey back to my shed.  With no gas cap, I retraced my trail back to the store.  I could not enjoy the sweet fragrance of kudzu blooms; they seemed more sickening than refreshing or reassuring.  During the retracing, I saw everything a person could imagine but no gas cap.  I turned around at the store and retraced the path back home again.  Three trips and no cap.

I began a journey of panic recovery.  It was silly of me to panic over a plastic gas cap.  Then, I thought of other times I panicked.  There was the time when my son Aaron, a seven-month-old in a baby car seat locked the car door.  It was December, it was cold, the car was running, and I was trying to get to my college graduation rehearsal.  I imagined the headlines: College graduate so stupid baby dies in locked car from carbon monoxide poisoning.  Yep, I panicked.  I tried to find another key, I picked up a brick to knock out the car window, I googooed and gagaed trying to get Aaron to hit the electric lock again, and I finally decided to break into the car.  I got a clothes hanger, jimmied the car door, and pulled the lock open.

My mind continued race as I returned home and began cutting grass.  I thought about the time I could not find the laptop I had checked out of the Samford Library.  Several of us who were working on our doctorates used laptops to take notes.  I remember having it when I got into the car for the forty-five-minute trip to school.  Where was it, did I put on the top of the car when I loaded my books, did it fall on the driveway, did it fall on the highway, how much will it cost, will it cost me my graduation, will they take a credit card, will I have to work off the payment. . .  All these things raced through my mind as I frantically searched the back seat and the trunk over and over.  When I finally decided to face the music by breaking the bad news to the library, I realized the laptop was in its bag and on my shoulder.  Did you know that laughing at yourself relieves panic?

As I giggled about the laptop, I resolved to bite the bullet and suffer the consequences of losing a cap.  I would tell everyone that I was just a dummy.  It was a trivial and insignificant loss and could happen to anyone over age fifty.  There are more urgent matters, such as adjusting my seat.  The seat belt was hung so I had to step off the mower to make the adjustment.  As I reached between the seat and mower, there was the lost gas cap.  I laughed as I said, “Thank you Jesus.”  I thought that sometimes it is silly what sends us into panic mode.

An anxious heart weighs a man down, but a kind word cheers him up (Proverbs 12:25 NIV).

Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you (I Peter 5:7 NIV).

The Hurt in My Brother's Eye

Several years ago I had compassion for my little brother at a funeral.  It was my little brother’s best friend who had a heart attack at age forty-seven.  All of us were together back in May for a wedding of my nephew, my little brother’s son.  It is sobering remembering that in May we were having a great time singing with the aid of a Deejay with a karaoke machine and in September my brother and I were solemnly singing How Great Thou Are at his best friend’s funeral.

At the funeral I thought about watching my little brother and his friend when they were small.  Sometimes that is how you picture people regardless of their age.  My little brother is six feet four inches tall and weighs @ 250.  He looks like Steve Austin, the professional wrestler.  In fact he has stopped trying to convince people he is not Steve Austin and started signing autographs.  He said it was not worth the trouble.

One of my fondest memories is around the start of school and fall of the year.  My little brother was not old enough to be in school and one day when we got off the school bus he ran to meet us.  We could not wait to get home and pull off our shoes.  Don’t laugh.  We did not wear shoes during the summer so after a long day of new school shoes it was a wonderful to free cramped feet.

We were playing outside and we heard a loud scream.  Momma’s first inclination was kids fighting, but we were all with her except little brother.  Momma ran to find him.  He appeared to be all right so she asked him what was wrong.  He told her that he was okay, but momma told him that he screamed for some reason.

Now, you have to understand our upbringing.  If you got hurt you also got a whuppin’ which is Chiltonian for whipping.  That was life in the hills and hollers of Chilton County.  Don’t tell momma you were hurt.

Momma looked my little brother in the eyes and made a frightening discovery.  His eye was bleeding from four, that’s right, 4 holes in his eyeball.  Blood and other gooey substance were coming from his eye.  Knowing he would get a whuppin’, he refused to say what happened.   After threatening to kill him if he didn’t tell, my little brother “spilled the beans.”

It seems that the day had been cool and momma made him wear some work boots.  When we got home and pulled off our shoes, he wanted to pull off his.  The laces had a knot and somewhere along the way he had learned you could use a fork to pry loose a knot in shoe laces.  Using pressure in an effort to untie the knot, he poked the fork in his eye.  Afraid momma would “whup” him, he pulled it out.

Momma went ballistic.  She called daddy who worked evening shift.  He rushed home and took him to our family doctor, the famous Dr. Joe, my cousin Stevie’s best friend.  Dr. Joe sent daddy to the Eye Foundation Hospital in Birmingham.

This was back before Interstate 65 was complete.  Daddy swung back by the house to tell momma he was headed to Birmingham.  He made the trip of 50 miles in forty-five minutes.  That’s not remarkable now days, but in 1967 on dirt roads, farm to market highways, and old US Highway 31 it is pretty impressive.  Take into consideration that a Montevallo police pulled daddy over, it is pretty extraordinary.

When the officer asked daddy what was the hurry, daddy told my brother to look the policeman in the eye.  The officer told daddy to follow him and escorted our old 1958 Chevrolet Biscayne right to downtown Birmingham.

My little brother’s pupil is oblong and looks like a cat’s eye, but he has perfect vision.  I think often of that fork in his eye.  I noticed him at the funeral as he took a handkerchief and wiped tears.  Once again I saw hurt in my brother’s eye.

And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?  Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye?  Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye (Matthew 7:3-5 KJV).

Pastors’ Pals: The Honesty of Children

People often ask, “Why did you get out of the ministry?”  I chalk it up as ignorance to what are the ministries of a Director of Missions.  As a pastor people would tease me about not working for a living.  I would tell them if they would get right with God, they could be a pastor.  Others would say, “I wish I had a job where I worked three hours a week.”  I gave the same response.  Get right with God and you will work only three hours a week.  Now as a Director of Missions they pay me not to preach.

When asked what I miss most about being a pastor, I tell them the discipline of sermon preparation, visiting people in the hospital, and the children.  I did make friends with the children of Bethel Baptist Association serving there fourteen years.  I really miss my time at pastors’ pals.

I always had a fun, spiritual, and humorous time sharing the child version of my sermon.  I have had the congregation say that I needed to do the whole sermon like a pastors’ pals.  I could not figure if I was childish or if the congregation’s educational level demanded I do the children’s version.

While at Gallion Baptist Church, I attended an Alabama Baptist State Board of Missions event where the host church had a pamphlet just for children.  It was trifold with a picture of Jesus playing with children.  I brought it back and created my own version.  I downloaded a penciled etching of Jesus playing with the children and pasted it on the front.  The inside was blank except for one line:  This blank page is place you can doodle, draw, or write.  I have some of the drawings in my keepsake stuff.

I have often wondered why Jesus’ twelve disciples tried to keep the children from seeing Jesus and sitting in His lap.  Well, the other day I reminisced about my pastors’ pals and other times I have entertained children.  They are honest, and they listen when you do not think they are.  Two things came to me.  One, they recognized who Jesus was.  Two, they were brutally honest and were willing to share.  I had church members that wanted me to discontinue my pastors’ pals but I am a Rebel and understand the bond of children with their pastor.

One time I was preaching, and I asked a question.  It was not rhetorical.  I wanted feedback.  A little boy answered.  His mother scolded him, then I said, “Please do not scold him.  He answered the question because he was listening.”

I could write a book about the Godly, humorous, and embarrassing responses from my pastors’ pals.  Some of my pals are over thirty years old now.  They remember some of the exciting and wonderful lessons they learned.

I will never forget the threat of a momma one Sunday at Friendship Baptist in Clanton.  Pastors’ pals surrounded me.  The pianist had a special tune which caused them to rush to the stage. This morning was Mother’s Day.  I was talking with them about telling their moms that they loved them. I mentioned something about thanking them for living in nice homes and to do something special for them, such as picking them flowers.

Little Samuel Botts said, “We ain’t got no nice house.”  I said, “You live in a nice home because I have been there.”  His response erupted in congregational laughter and a death threat from his mom who was sitting in the choir.  He said, “It ain’t never clean.”  His momma yelled, Samuel Botts I’m gonna kill you.”  She didn’t.

As I think about him and dozens like him, I understand possibly why the disciples wanted to keep the children away. 

And they brought unto him also infants, that he would touch them: but when his disciples saw it, they rebuked them. But Jesus called them unto him, and said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.  Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter therein (Luke 18:15-17)

By-the-way, little Samuel Botts, now thirty years old serves on the security team at his church.

"Can't Have a Masterpiece Overnight"

One of my hobbies is woodworking.  I love the smell of sawdust.  I can tell the difference between the smell of pine and red oak, between cherry and Ipe (Brazilian hardwood), and maple and poplar.  The different smells remind me of different times in my life.

Pine rosin dripping from pulpwood reminds me of early mornings in the woods with a stick of pulpwood on my shoulder stumbling toward the truck to load the wood.  I can tell when a pulpwood truck passes the office.  It is an unforgettable aroma.

The smell of fir studs, braces, and headers being cut in the building of a house reminds me of all those homes I helped Mr. Bill Langston build.  Floor joists, ceiling joists, and plywood, being sawed emits another aroma that you know when you smell it that something new is being constructed and family begins life there in excitement.

The smell of a cabinet shop is unique.  I spent many hours building captain beds, baby cradles, cabinets, rocking horses, and dozens of other wooden creations for family and friends.  With every finished product came the want, they tried convince me the need, from friend and stranger to build them something.  They would brag and woo of my beautiful works of art.  Philip Gulley in his book Front Porch Tales says, “A man has to be careful not to let his hobby become his business.”

During an extended layoff from the cement plant, I had to build things to support my income.  In fact, my family peddled my crafts and bartered them at flea markets.  They did well until the economy turned bad. After that, I gave most of my handicrafts to folks as gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, or Christmas presents.

Woodworking is slow and tedious work.  You have to measure twice and cut once.  For a polished finish, there is much sanding and buffing.  You cannot hurry it or flaws will show and your work will be for nothing.  Woodworking is a good way to learn that doing something worthwhile takes longer.  That is something that a hurry up and want it now society cannot appreciate.  When you take the time to do it right, you have something to pass down to your grandchildren.

For some people it is hard for them to see the finished product.  My sister wanted me to build her a home entertainment center.  I went to her mobile home, this is important, to get the dimensions where she wanted it and how she wanted it to look.  My brother sells hardwood.  In fact, I had to call his office to see how to spell Ipe.  I got him to get the wood for our sister.  He gave it to her. 

I spent several days working on this beautiful piece of furniture.  I sawed, assembled, and sanded trying to get the perfect look.  My sister and husband stopped to see the piece.  It was nowhere near completion.  When my brother-in-law saw it, he said, “I don’t want that piece of junk in my house” (mobile home).

I admit I was hurt, just as a mother who has just been told that her baby is ugly is hurt.  I finally realized that my brother-in-law did not see the finished product.  I decided to finish the piece.  I continued to sand, stain, and polyurethane.  I stained it dark walnut and put three coats of Sears’ best semi-gloss polyurethane and it.  It was gorgeous.  I loaded it and carried it down to my sister’s house.  I’m sorry I mean mobile home.  We put it in. My sister did not know what to say.  I told here that I did it for her as a gift.  She did not owe me anything except for the materials.

My brother-in-law could not believe it when he saw it.  His family marveled at the workmanship and the beauty of the piece. He never said anything to me except how people bragged on his home entertainment center.  By the way, it covered a whole wall in his living room.  I never said it to him but my workmanship increased the value of his mobile home when he sold it.

Today’s craftsmanship is sometimes slapped together with people expecting it to last a lifetime.  I do not think that I have ever finished anything I ever built.  I say that because when I finished, I thought it could use a little more sanding here and little more polyurethane there.  I continue to rub stain, lemon oil, or Old English on pieces that I have finished from years ago.

The woodworking principle is true about life.  As Gulley says, “Folks get discouraged because they cannot become saints overnight.”  God has to do a lot of smoothing and a lot of finishing making us His masterpiece.

For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them (Ephesians 2:10 KJV).

Like the old songs goes, “He’s still working on me. . .”

"Sure You Do"

Paul Harvey, in his commentary “The Rest of the Story," tells of a WWII military serviceman stationed in Europe.  He wanted to buy a present for his fiancée.'  He had limited income so he went to a pawnshop to see what he could buy.  Having no luck finding a diamond ring, he bought an amber bracelet for less than two hundred dollars. 

Through the years, the bracelet became a sentimental piece for the couple.  The man decided to do something special for an upcoming anniversary.  He thought it would be nice to have the bracelet restored.  The bracelet had a broken hook. 

He took it to a jeweler to which the jeweler asked if it was for sale.  The man said he wanted it repaired.  The hook broke again so the man took it to another jeweler who asked if it was for sale.  After a third trip to another jeweler, the man received the same query if the bracelet was for sale.  The man said, “Why?”  The jeweler said, “You do not know?”  The man gave him a magnifying glass and said read the inscription.  It was engraved, to Josephine from Napoleon.

While at the University of Montevallo, I took an art class.  Boy did I feel out of place!  I am not an artist when it concerns painting.  The class, the History of Art, was one of the criterions for the Bachelor of Art degree I was earning.  Tommy Karn, my Director of Missions at the time, suggested that if I was going to attend Seminary, that I should get a Liberal of Arts degree.  He said that I should get the degree in something that would aid me to be a bi-vocational pastor.  I elected history and English and my college advisor suggested that I take the History of Art classes. 

I was totally out of place in art.  Everyone and everything there seemed to be in the abstract and I am concrete.  I think being a concrete person had something to do with working at the cement plant. JUST KIDDING!  I felt out of place being a preacher in a class of future Picassos.  I found art history fascinating and learned how to love and appreciate art.

On one occasion, I went to an art exhibit at Bloch Hall, the art building.  Luke, an oriental art student, was the featured artist.  I was amazed at his artwork.  At first, I thought it was some kind of abstract paintings.  The colors were beautiful.  There were bright pinks, whites, blues, and so forth.  They appeared to make no sense.  Each one of the paintings had a title.  I looked at one entitled “Sailing Ship.”  I remember studying the work very carefully trying to see a ship.  It was not there I thought. 

As I looked at it for several minutes, I began to see this beautiful ship with gigantic sails, the ocean, and the clouds.  It was magnificent.  It was one of those paintings that you had to look, then back away, to see the real beauty. 

Now, understanding the style of painting Luke had on display, I went to another titled “Dragon.”  Again, the canvas had these brilliant colors of pink, yellow, and white boldly stroked and spread across it.  I could not wait to find the dragon so exquisitely positioned there.  Suddenly, there was this giant Chinese dragon prancing across the canvas. The artwork was special.  I had never seen such beauty in art.  Everyone in attendance that afternoon commented on the genius and talent of Luke.  Even the president of the University bought a painting that day.

Art History was not the only class I felt a little awkward.  Another was an English poetry class.  Poems have a way of soothing the soul.  David and other Psalmists of the Bible are reminders of the power of poetry.

In this particular class, we examined the poets, their works, and the poem interpretations. Simple poems are really complex and revealing the more that you dig.  One of the things that I lost in the house fire was my notes from this class.  I developed a deep appreciation for poetry and I have written several poems because of the class’s influence.

Having missed a very intriguing class one Friday, my Methodist preacher friend and fellow returning adult named Billy wanted me to share with him what he had missed.  The professor for the class was absence and had one of his secretaries in his place to have us do some busy work.  Billy and I decided that we would ask the secretary if we could go to the business lounge where I could “catch” Billy up on the interpretations of the poems.

I will never for get the look on her face and her answer.  The look was one of “I don’t believe a word you are saying” and the response was “sure you do.”  “You are trying to get out of class to talk about football.”

I guess Billy and I did look a little bit too much masculine and not dainty enough to be reading poetry.  She did let us go, but I do not think she was totally convinced.  Billy and I did make an “A” on the test regardless of what the secretary thought.

For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them (Ephesians 2:10, KJV).

The Greek word that Paul used for workmanship is poiema, the word we use for poem.  Bracelets, art, and poetry are creations of the artist.  What does that say about God and us?

"Miss Myrtle"

The obituary in the Clanton Advertiser stated, “Myrtle Mary Littleton, 73, of Clanton died Saturday, July 7, at her residence.”  Hundreds of men, women, boys, and girls knew her as “Miss Myrtle”. She had a heavy British accent even though she lived in Clanton, Alabama most of her life.  She was determined to maintain her accent as she taught English to her pupils at the Clanton Middle School.

She influenced everyone involved in Youth Rallies in Chilton County from the 1970’s to the new millennium.  Dr. Charles Christmas, retired Director of Missions, says of her, ““Miss Myrtle” was truly gifted of God to work with youth. The best evidence of this was that she had this excellent relationship and leadership even into her retirement years. She adjusted to change over the years like the old slogan, “anchored to the Rock but geared to the times.””

She never seemed old because she surrounded herself with youth.  She was timeless and tireless in her efforts to teach children about Jesus.  As Vacation Bible School Director for Chilton Association, I had “Miss Myrtle” on the team.  She hated doing the skits, but the skit was everyone’s favorite and she made it very funny with her British accent.  She petitioned to eliminate the skit each year, but the people wanted it and it was vital for the energy of the clinic so she did it.

When the Associational youth went on mission each summer, she required them to attend the Associational VBS clinics.  She took them to teach VBS to South Dakota, Texas, Wyoming, and Massachusetts and other places in which Alabama Baptist had partnerships each summer.

She sponsored monthly Saturday night youth rallies, summer Sunday nights in the park, area-wide youth revivals, college/career beach ministry, and training events for church youth leaders to learn and improve skills.  Evangelist Scott Dawson preached one of his first sermons at a youth event led by “Miss Myrtle”.  She provided many young preachers the opportunity to get valuable experience.  She also had some well-known speakers.

One night at one of her “Great Days in May” event Coach Tommy Bowden, then assistant at Auburn and later at Clemson as head coach told “Miss Myrtle” that he would be like to speak at one the events.  Now, you have to understand that “Miss Myrtle” did not know the coach.  She taught English, not football.  With that heavy British accent, she asked Coach Bowden, “Who are you and what do you do?”

Everyone standing near the conversation had a look of disbelief and absurdity.  Here is the coach famous for the “Tommy Gun” offense wanting to preach and share his testimony with hundreds of youth, children, and parents free of charge.  Most times people of his stature charge for events.

Coach Bowden replied, “I coach football at Auburn.”  That did not impress “Miss Myrtle.”  She would not allow just anyone to speak to her youth.  She had every event planned in minute detail.

I do not remember the exact words but “Miss Myrtle” asked something like, what do you have to say and what credentials do you have to say it.  It was hilarious and awkward time.  Coach Bowden did speak and everyone enjoyed his testimony and there were those who accepted the Lord.  He signed many autographs that night for those who knew him.

“Miss Myrtle” was very generous with her time, energy, and money.  She attended every event in Baptist life in Chilton Association.  She was a Christian Energizer Bunny.  On mission projects, she would provide motherly love for the homesick, mild, but wise counsel to the discourteous, and money to youth who may have not carried enough money to spend the week.

Her success was that she was always behind the scene.  She was not upfront but always in charge.  She encouraged those with talents to exercise them.  In her passing she passed the Gospel torch to pastors, youth minister, ministers of music, deacons, Sunday School teachers, VBS workers and countless others she discipled as youth.

. . . Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord (Matthew 25:21KJV).

“Miss Myrtle” was not perfect, none of us are.  She was faithful because Jesus made a difference in her life.  She made a difference in the loves of others including yours truly.  Did I forget to mention that she was a volunteer over thirty years?

The Three Monkeys of see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil

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

The other day I had to rid an eve of a nest of polistes or red wasps.  As I bravely approached the nest with a can of wasp spray, I remembered what my daddy always said when big boys were picking on me.  Yes, I was a runt at one time.  He said, “Son, size don’t matter, a guinea wasp can make a cow run.”  They can make this oversized runt run also.  Anecdotal evidence suggests that Red Wasp stings feel more painful than stings from other Paper Wasp species.  I have had my share of stings.  I know that some people must carry an epinephrine pen because bee stings are fatal for them.  Fortunately, I do not need one.

My mind returned to 1960 at the eve of our house.  My daddy started building our house in the early to mid 1950’s.  Before he completed it, we moved to Illinois for three years and then returned back living with an Aunt until daddy completed the house.  You can imagine how a construction site looks after a three-year absence.  The eves of the house were full of red wasp nests.

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

I learned that day that red wasps are territorial and sting when provoked.  That evening I understood what it meant to be a knot head.  I had wasp stings all over my head.

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

I went to a friend’s house and a heinous monster greeted us.  Actually, the heinous monster was my friend whose face honeybees had distorted and his eyes swollen shut.  His dad and brother had been robbing a bee gum.  The younger brother did not like an itty, bitty honeybee buzzing around his nose.  Warned by his dad and brother not to provoke the bee, the bee unnerved the younger brother and he did an uh oh! Yep, he swatted at the bee knocking on his dad’s lip.

Honeybees seek revenge when humans steal their honey and take swats at their workers. The next day, a Sunday, was a humorous day for my friend’s household.  The swatting dad had huge lips, my friend had swollen eyes, and the younger brother, the one that escaped without a sting, had swollen ears for hearing the bee raid over and over.  I could not help but laugh.  My friend, his dad, and younger brother looked like the three monkeys of see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.  The evil was stealing itty, bitty bee honey.

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

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

Hogs and Hoppers

Discussions while sitting around a dinner table after a funeral can be very interesting.  The funeral was for Raymond, a former minister of music of at the church I pastored in Clanton.  He became a mentor to me for the five years we served together.  It was an honor to participate in his funeral and comfort the family and friends.

Sharing memories together at the table, the conversation quickly turned to the aches and pains of growing old.  We talked of knee pains and replacements.  One nephew-in-law talked of his foot stress and early retirement.  There was talk of all the medicines, which most of us could not pronounce.  A nephew said he had heart trouble and that his doctors wanted to know what medicines his cardiologist prescribed.  He said he did not have a cardiologist and did not take any medicines.

The nephew said that he was born with the defect and had a valve from a pig implanted to replace his defective valve.  I asked since the transplant did he have a craving for corn.  I can be a smart aleck at times.  He joked back and said he had told his son that he craved corn and could no longer eat pork.

Someone asked him if the cardiologist told him not to eat the pork.  The nephew said, “No, now that I had a pig valve, it is hard to eat my fellow pigs’ flesh.”  This was ironic since the church was serving the family pork barbecue.  Yes, he was eating his fellow pigs.

Pork is a main staple in the South, especially during Independence Day activities.  My brother is cooking a whole hog for a community gathering July 1-2.  He said he was starting at midnight and cooking the hog all night.

It is going to be a fun filled weekend.  My brothers and I are the main attraction for the community event.  Originally, it was called the Hopper Brothers Reunion, because all three of us serve outside Chilton County and our home church wanted us to return to share our talents.  We sing, play musical instruments, write songs, and generally have a lot of fun together.

There will be the hog, chicken quarters, and all the fixin’s.  There will be singing, playing, cousins, friends, and games Saturday from three in the afternoon until who knows when.  The pastor there said he had “blowup” slides for the kids.  It is an outside event at a friend’s farm.  Plan B will utilize my home church’s Family Life Center.  With all the rain, Plan B may be a reality.  Sunday, The Hopper Trio will be leading in Worship.  It is a “you all” come event.

When I think about hogs, I am reminded the story of Jesus and the swine.

So the devils besought him (Jesus), saying, If thou cast us out, suffer us to go away into the herd of swine.  And he said unto them, Go. And when they were come out, they went into the herd of swine: and, behold, the whole herd of swine ran violently down a steep place into the sea, and perished in the waters.  And they that kept them fled, and went their ways into the city, and told every thing, and what was befallen to the possessed of the devils. And, behold, the whole city came out to meet Jesus: and when they saw him, they besought him that he would depart out of their coasts (Matthew 8:31-34 KJV).

This was the invention of “deviled ham” and it brings back memories of my days as a contract negotiator.  Businessmen more concerned with profit than with the souls of people, asked Jesus to leave.  I experienced something similar. 

I was involved in a toxic waste issue at the cement plant in Calera.  Our local union supported a community group that was protesting the burning of toxic waste in the cement kilns.  The men in the plant were concerned with the waste being to dangerous to handle and process.  This community group made the Chamber of Commerce for the city of Pelham very uncomfortable.  They we so upset that members of the Chamber and a delegation of business men approached me and tried to convince me to back the union off because it was causing no small stir when trying to bring new businesses into Shelby County.  They had very strong, threating language for me.

I looked this group of professionals dead into the eye and said, “The lives of the men and women in the plant and people and the communities in which they live are more important that making millions of dollars especially when businesses do more to harm than to help.  The lives of people are more important than immoral monies.”

This last time I read the Bible, which is daily; Jesus is more concerned with the souls of people than sales and profit.

As we celebrated Independence Day in days of COVID 19, let us remember that men and women sacrificed and died for our freedom and the establishment of a moral society and government.  Pray for those entities that would misuse freedom to destroy lives for gain.  Pray that our churches to find those that sin has bound and share the freedom of Jesus in His redemptive blood and give hope.