The Parable of the Wayside

The other day I was talking to my brother-in-law about picking up Chilton County County roads right-of-ways.  Most of us pick up the right-of-ways to help the county that always complains of lack of funding.  By what we find on the side of the roads there would be plenty of money if the county raised the tax on cigarettes, especially Marlboro Lights in the box.  Also, on pints of whiskey, Bud Lite Beer.  These are the most common items tossed.

The local store seals most of the items tossed.  I always fine an empty whiskey pint bottle with in a hundred feet of each other.  I have deduced that the villain has enough time to "KILL IT" when leaving the store.  He says he has the same problem finding tossed at same place.

Several years ago I traveled to Gadsden to Suzy Trader’s dad’s funeral. Suzy is the wife of Dr. Steve Trader, our Alabama Baptist Children’s Home and Family Ministries counselor for the Bethel Baptist Association.  Along the way, I noticed things on the side of the road.  It is amazing what is on the side of the road.  With each mile, I thought of something funny that The First Lady of FBC Demopolis, Ashleigh Williams, told me the other day.

Ashleigh posed the question, “Why is their always only one tennis shoe on the side of the road?  Shoes come by the pair.”  I took a moment to reflect since that was one of those UMPH moments.

Ashleigh gave me a profound question to ponder, especially when I began to pay attention to the things on the side of Interstate 20/59 on the way to Gadsden.  It was obvious that those who did not do a very good job of securing their cargo placed some things there.  These include the aluminum ladder, the air-conditioner insulated duct, the ice chest lid, the Styrofoam cooler, the weed eater, a bag of clothes, the love seat, and the book shelve.  Among these were the rubber straps with one hook missing, the half of the nylon strap, the frayed rope, and the bright yellow bungee.

It makes you wonder sometimes if people toss things on purpose.  There is the Auburn baseball cap, the Alabama T-shirt, the BF Goodrich tire, the broken Bud Lite beer bottle, the empty Marlboro light cigarette package, the plastic six-pack strap, the plastic safety hat, the pair of sunglasses, and the empty Pepsi 12-ounce aluminum can.

I giggle when I see the one sock, the one boot, and the one glove.  I think about the poor soul that arrived at his destination to find he had one sock, one boot, no T-shirt, one glove, and no hardhat.  Frustrated, he reaches for his bag of clothes to retrieve his dirty work clothes and there is no bag.  He takes a moment to settle his nerves and finds no Styrofoam cooler to retrieve a Pepsi.  There is no cooler, no six-pack of Pepsi.  He looks into his beer ice chest and finds it overturned, no bottles of Bud Light hidden under the ice.  He wonders how did they fall off his pickup. Reaching for a Marlboro light, our poor traveler has no nicotine fix.

Knowing he cannot work, our half-dressed worker gets in his pickup and heads to the nearest Walmart.  As his luck is horrible, he gets a flat tire.  He pulls to the wayside. He jacks his pickup up and finds that he has lost his spare BF Goodrich tire.

He abandons his pickup and begins his journey on foot wearing one boot, one tennis shoe, shirtless, and no cap.  He thinks, "I should have worn shirt and shoes while driving."  Now his only companions on the Interstate are the dead armadillos, possums, cats, dogs, and deer that are being devoured by buzzards and crows.  He thinks it odd, but he notices a possum and three crows dining together on a squished possum.  He realizes that vehicles on the Interstate are passing very fast.

Each time he sticks out his thumb to hitchhike, follow travelers pass by switching lanes as they near him thinking him to be a decrepit drug addict making a living picking up aluminum cans and going through things on the wayside.

It is obvious that I had too much time to think on my drive to Gadsden, but I did think about Jesus’ parable to the disciples about seeds falling on the wayside.

 

And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up (Matthew 13:4 KJV).

CLOUD OF WITNESSES

I had a great time attending the University of Montevallo from 1983-1987.  Life outside the university were good and bad.  Dad and mom both died before I graduated.  A third child was born, I was bi-vocational pastor, took fifteen hours of classes, worked twenty hours a week at minimum wage in the university carpenter shop, and was husband and dad.  While in school, I thought that December 1987 would never arrive.

I had the privilege of making the Dean's List my freshman year, the academic side and one for getting into trouble my senior year.  The trouble is for another time.  October 22, 1996, I became a member of the Pi Alpha Theta Society for English.  On April 9, 1987, I received an invitation and was inducted into the Sigma Tau Delta Society for history.

Most of the good was not the classes I took, even though I learned bunches, but it was the relationships I developed with the Physical Plant workers, professors, staff, and a few students.  I was a returning adult much older than many classmates.

I had the good fortune of hearing of all kinds of stories about the university.  One of the funniest was that if a virgin walked through the gates into Palmer Hall a brick would fall out.  The four years I was there none had fallen out.

There were always bomb threats at the mathematics building during finals.  Art majors always had some artist something or other going.  One time walking to the Physical Plant to work, I passed some of my art classmates.  They were sitting in the parking lot painting pictures of a pine tree.  I asked what they were doing other than painting because they surrounded the tree.  One girl said they were painting the different perspectives of the tree.  All looked good except one which I diagnosed as Abstract.  Thirty plus years later I am still trying to see her work as a tree.

Two of my favorite people were Bailey and Lamar, my co-workers in the carpenter shop.  They knew plenty!  One was when Dr. Kermit Johnson retired as president of the University of Montevallo, the University honored him with a gigantic celebration at the baseball field and pavilions.  There were many tents and tables with tons of celebration food.  Dr. Johnson was a people person, that was anyone, and everyone loved him.  There were dignitaries from various levels of the State of Alabama and the educational system.  

To handle the mass of guests, the baseball stadium was the ideal place to honor this wonderful man.  It was a beautiful day for an outside celebration.  Two close friends of the president were Mike and Enos who drove to the festivities and the food tent in their garbage truck.  As the aromatic drippings of the truck spattered the pavement Mike and Enos in their spoiled clothes, and special blend of personal cologne, shook hands with Kermit and other dignitaries then proceeded to the food line.  Mike and Enos were special friends with Dr. Johnson, but the Physical Plant supervisor was in total shock and embarrassment. 

Mike was an Italian and was a very agile man for his age.  I had the privilege of working with him and my daughter played volleyball for his daughter a Jemison High School.  Enoc was more colorful than Mike.  because of his unique appearance and never marrying, Bailey or Lamar asked him if he was a virgin.  Mike answered, "No I'm Church of Christ.  

Bailey, Lamar, and the smorgasbord quests enjoyed a wonderful sending off of Dr. Johnson.  Before too much aromatic drippings puddled the grounds, Mike and Enos, though enjoying the retirement party, were graciously asked to leave.  They were told they hard garbage waiting on them.

Bailey, Larmar, Mike, Enos, and a great host of others have all passed away leaving this old man with fond memories of a returning adult to the University of Montevallo.  It reminds me of the great cloud of witnesses mentioned in the Bible.  

Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us    Hebrews 12:2

HAPPY 100TH BIRTHDAY DAD

Happy birthday dad.  Had you lived you would be 100 today.  Boy, forty years have flown by since you died.  I sure miss you.  I miss all those wonderful moments we had sharing life together.

You would not believe all the changes that have taken place in this world in forty years.  You would have a hard time.  You told me once that my generation did not have any gumption.  All your generation is about gone.  Things are so screwed up and weird.  No days there is no respect for senior adults.  This present generation cannot wait until all the old grey-haired white men are gone and extinct.  People now days cannot tell if they are male or female.

I remember when you would not allow my and brother and me to have long hair.  You told my brothers they could have long hair but with stipulations.  Every Friday they had to wear a dress, slip, panties or pantyhose, high heels, lipstick, makeup, fingernail and toenail polish, and feminine napkins.  Well dad, now boys and men dress that way and women dress like men and society says it is okay.

I remember how you taught us to standup for those that could not defend themselves.  It is unbelievable how many senior adults are mistreated.  You taught us to listen to the wisdom of the old.  You said experience is a good teacher, but learning form the experiences of the elderly is better wisdom.  The mistreatment of children is mindboggling.  There are demonic perverts that kill babies, rape infants, murder small children, kidnap the young and sell their body parts.

I remember you telling us that if we did stand up to be willing to stand alone.  That is truer today than before.  Most people do not want to get involved.  Standing for what is morally and ethically right is a minority.  When my brothers and I stand what is right, bystanders tell us to mind our own business and treat us as the perpetrator.

I remember you taught us to work hard for and honest day’s pay.  There seems to be more people not working than working.  People want more money for doing nothing.  It is hard to find people that want to work and have gainful employment.  You would not government assistance telling us that the government would control too much.  That government that you warned us about is paying people not to work, allowing people to vote that have not right to do so, even dead folks, and making deals with countries like you fought in WWII.  You took us to register for the draft, to register to vote, and fight for those rights.  You taught us: “Our county right or wrong.  When wrong to might it right and when right to keep it right.”

I remember you taught us to say grace when we ate, thank you when people did something for us, excuse me when needed, yes mam, and no sir.  You taught us to take our hats off when at the table to eat.  You taught us that it we dipped it we better eat it and could leave the table until we did.  You taught us to be generous and to share.  You taught how to kill hogs and smoke the meat.  You taught to shoot.  I can just imagine how you would react if the government which you helped fight Germany tried to take away you .22 Remington rifle.  You taught us how to split wood, plant crops, shell corn, drive tractors, and hundreds of other things that people are ignorant of today.

Thanks for everything you taught me dad!  This is my gift for your 100^th birthday.

“Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” Exodus 20:12

Give Me Flowers While I Am Alive

One Saturday night on my way home from a wedding in Birmingham I stopped by the Union Springs Baptist Church cemetery.  It was dark, but I wanted to stop because I did not know if I would have another opportunity to go by there before Resurrection Sunday.  I try to visit every chance I can.  I promised mom and dad that I would visit their graves.  I place a flower or flowers on momma’s grave.  I always would give her a flower when I would visit her when she was alive.  I would get her daffodils, roses, jonquils, crept myrtle, dogwood blooms, and many other blooms.  Dad would always say, “Don’t put flowers on my grave; give me flowers while I am alive.”  He was really saying spend time with me now.

Since it was after dark, I did not stay very long.  No, I am not scared in the graveyard at night.  Daddy taught never fear the dead; it is the living that will hurt you.  I was afraid the pastor of Union Springs might be alarmed with a car entering the cemetery.  I do not know what my home church was thinking when they built the Pastorium beside the cemetery.  My home church has been fortunate to call pastors with families that did not mind living beside the dead.  It may be that most pastors have served dead churches that have manipulating members, and it was a relief not having the dead causing any trouble.

As I surveyed the cemetery, I thought about all the people I knew that were now resting there.  I have worshipped with them, fished with them, laughed, and cried with them.  Buried there are those who taught me Scripture, taught me about life, and taught me about dying.  Some in the graveyard I was with them when they were dying.  I watched some of them suffer horrible deaths from cancer.  There were those who died violent deaths from car accidents and several died from heart attacks. There is a childhood friend who died from a motorcycle accident, the friend who died from alcohol poisoning, and the friend that died from Aids. 

There is the friend that said she knew God called me to preach long before I knew it.  There is the friend that told me that she would always be praying from me when I stood to preach.  There is the old friend that gave me a London Fog rain jacket when I surrendered to preach.

Scattered all over the cemetery are neighbors, family, and a few unknowns of long ago.  There are infant graves, senior adult graves, teenage graves, and graves of all ages in between.  Some have huge tombstones, some are simple markers, and some are marked by a small metal nametag.

Visiting the graveyard, I remember some of the deceased laughs, some of their funny sayings, and some of their unique smiles or distinctive physical attributes.  The graves there mark those that I have made my journey of life.  I started making my trips to this cemetery when I was in my mother’s womb, the day they buried my great-grandmother Crumpton was the day before my birth.

As I look at the pink granite tombstone of momma and daddy, I took a moment to think about the short time I had with them and how short this life really is.  It is hard to image that this Easter daddy will have been dead for forty years or that momma will be dead thirty-six years.  Daddy died the Friday after Easter Sunday 1984.  Easter had a greater meaning that year. I remember walking out of the hospital when moments earlier, around four o’clock in the morning, the nurse pronounced daddy dead.  The sun was shining brightly, not yet broken the horizon.  Birds chirped and sang beautiful songs.  The aroma of spring, as was the dawning of a new day, was breathtaking.  Suddenly I was overwhelmed with the reality that daddy was in beautiful heaven.  My day was zilch compared to his.  As I walk among the dead in the cemetery at night, dad’s spirit walks with the throngs of the living in heaven where there is no night.

I made the trip to the cemetery that night to say, “Mom, dad, I will see you on Resurrection Day.”  I then journeyed back to Linden where I ministered at the time.

The beauty of Resurrection Sunday is that we, as believers, hold to Jesus’ promise of the Resurrection.  The power that raised Jesus from the grave is the same power that will do it again for all believers one day.

I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live . . . (John 11:25bKJV).

Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen . . . (Luke 24:5b-6a KJV).

PLAY BALL FIRST, THEN GOD

 

I looked up on the wall of the office one morning and made a startling discovery.  I have been in the ministry over forty years.  The date on my Certificate of License is dated 27^th day of February 1983.

Moments earlier that day, I read an article in the Cooperative Farming News, From Pastor to Pasture: That Must have Been 20 years Ago!  Glenn Crumpler, author of the article said he heard a family member say of an event, “That must have been 20 years ago.”  He said that when as a kid he could not imagine how someone could remember something that happened twenty years earlier.  Ironically, he said that happened 45 years ago.  Life is short.

Forty years ago, I would hear preachers say that they had been in the ministry 20, 25, 30, and 40 years.  I remember thinking that is a long time and that I wish I could be in ministry that long. Well, I is there!  That’s not correct subject-verb relationship, but it is true.  Time does fly.  Life is only a vapor!

Ministry has made significant changes in forty years.  When I was pastor at Gallion, a person from the community came to church for the first time in twenty-five years.  After the morning service he told me that church had changed some much since his last visit.  He said he thought he had been to a nightclub instead of a church.  I looked puzzled at him.  He said that the music and the humor in my sermon were like that of a comedy club.

I understand his rationale.  The last Christian youth concert I attended I commented that when I was a teenager momma did not allow us to attend rock and roll events at school and now we have them at churches.

Speaking of changes, years ago at an Associational event, someone asked if she might make a suggestion.  We were always open to suggestions because Associational Ministry Directors, Pam, and I always evaluate our events.  This person suggested to us that we not to schedule associational events that interfere with sporting events.  This question happens more often that you might think.  One time before, I was scolded by a member of one of our churches for having an event during Spring Break.  Bethel Baptist Association ministers in six different school districts, which at that time did not observe spring break at the same time.

Back to the sporting conflict or may I say spiritual conflict.  I learned in forty years of ministry as a pastor, that any event the church schedules conflicts with some activity outside the church.  I reassured the questioner that we do our best to dodge as many possible conflicts as we can.  We would never have any ministry events if we tried to dodge conflicts.

My concern here is when did a sporting exercise for a child take precedent over spiritual training?  A majority of student athletes will never use their sporting exercises in the professional arena, yet most parents spend more money and time at the ball field than they do for God.  Just his week every soccer field, softball field, and little league was packed to the limit.

When did our communities become consumed with sports and recreation?  I played football, baseball, basketball, and volleyball while growing up.  My dad loved sports and enjoying watching my brothers and me play ball.  Dad taught us that it was a game and that work and chores around home and school came before sports.  Sports were extracurricular events.  Realistically, how many children will play win athletic scholarships or play professional sports?

I have walked home, around seven miles, after practice to slop pigs and load firewood many times.  I have missed games because dad and mom were at work, and I did not have a way to go.

Coaches, schools, and clubs would never allow practice or games to interfere with church events.  Coaches would always allow players to leave early if there was a revival or church event that an athlete needed to attend.  This is not the case today.

The issue at the associational event was not with the interference with the athlete playing an event, but with priorities.  I am burdened that parents do not see spiritual development as more essential than worldly development.  I want to weep when I see dads taking their boys hunting instead of to worship on Sundays.  My dad was a lost man, but he prohibited us to go hunting or fishing on Sundays.  Dad taught priorities.

Before I became a pastor, I volunteered to attend an associational brotherhood training event.  The event was on a holiday, but because I worked rotation at the cement plant, I was not off and was scheduled midnights.

My midnight shift allowed me to attend the workshop and not miss work.  Before leaving to attend the workshop, I received a call from the plant that the second shift man did not show and I needed to come in four hours early, six o’clock pm.  I told the second shift foreman that I could not come in early.  He wanted an excuse.  I said that I had committed to our church brotherhood director that I would attend the workshop and I was taught to keep my commitments.  He reminded me that that I was turning down double time and half pay because I was being called out on a holiday.  I reminded him that my commitment was greater than the pay.  I am not bragging but speaking of commitment and priorities.

As Associational Ministry Directors, Pam, and I had a yearly planning day where we try to avoid conflict.  We publish this calendar as early as possible where Church Executive Lay Members can share them with their churches.  Conflict is inevitable, commitment is inconvenient, and choice is a matter of priorities.

Once someone inquired of my commitment, I quoted a sportswriter and poet, Grantland Rice, from his poem “Alumnus Football”:

For when the one great Scorer comes

To mark against your name,

He writes -not that you won or lost-

But how you played the game.

For I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day (II Timothy 1:12b KJV).

Ms. Margaret

 This month of love we lost a very dear lady.  Ms. Margaret, mother of my wife's best friend Laura.  Lisa wrote this beautiful poem and I wanted to share it with you.  I hope you enjoy and help us remember this beautiful Christian lady.

One day an angel with a dream softly approached God’s throne

“I’d like to have something to love of my very own.”

 

“It’s not that I don’t love you, Lord – for you know that I do,

It’s just that I believe I could love little humans too.”

 

The Lord sighed deeply, then smiled as He said,

“I want to make sure you understand just what lies ahead.”

 

“You’ll have to become human with all their limitations and strife;

And you will also become a woman if your desire is to give life.

 

Great physical pain will accompany every child which you birth;

As you begin your journey into motherhood on earth.

 

Soon after, there is great joy and a love that you’ve never known;

But there’s so much more to raising little humans of your own.

 

There will be sleepless nights, endless days and sometimes heartache beyond measure;

As well as triumphs, love, hugs and kisses – making each little human your treasure.

 

Then one day you’ll send them out on a journey of their own,

Praying they remember the love & life lessons they learned from you at home.

 

So I will grant you this request,” God said, “because I know you will succeed,

For you will learn the cost of loving little humans is very great indeed.

 

When your time on earth is done, I’ll call you back to me,

And the love you gave will live on in your little humans’ memories.”

 

So when you stop to think of Momma, as you will often do,

You’ll know the love of God that came from an angel He sent to you.

Below is Ms Maragret signing our wedding reception book.

 

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?

________________________________________________________________________

 

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?

________________________________________________________________________

 

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

_____________________________________________________________________

 

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.