Look Both Ways

When I was a teenager dad had a Farmall Cub tractor that I used. Plows were visible below me. I used the tractor to break ground, disc, plant, and cultivate crops. My greatest achievement was at twelve years old; I planted nine acres of corn.

Daddy worked evening shift, and he supervised me until time to leave for work. Most of the time I was alone. When the field turned green with corn stalks, my grandpa Chapman was proud. I had continued what he had started years before. He told me that I did a great job.

Dad decided to trade the Cub for an 8N Ford tractor. I had a difficult time plowing with the *N plows in the rear of the tractor. Watching the plows beneath was easier than turning and looking back. One time while cultivating corn, I plowed it up because grandpa built the terrace banks to be plowed by a mule. The Cub could do it, but the rear plow 8N were terrible. They were great on straight rows but disastrous on curves of the terraces. I constantly looked forward and backward.

Looking both ways is imperative when crossing the highway or pulling out into the road. When I used to walk across the road to my grandma Chapman, I always looked both ways. Duke, m dog named for Duke of the Beverly Hillbillies television series, would walk with me. I would look both ways before crossing, and I noticed that Duke would too even if he were not with me.

When my son Andy and daughter Angel would walk over to grandma’s, Duke would walk with them. He walked ahead and check both ways before crossing and led the across. Duke would walk with them to catch the school bus and in the afternoon, he would be at the road when the bus delivered them home.

Crossing before looking both ways is extremely dangerous. One I was traveling down the highway on a long straight. There was a yellow line not to pass but an impatient driver decided to pass. Down the road about seven hundred feet, an automobile pulled from a driveway to my left. Stopping he looked to if there was anything to his left. Not seeing anything, the car entered the highway not realizing Mr. Impatient was speeding toward him. I was about to witness and be in a three-car pileup.

Mr. Impatient darted in front of me cutting me off, but I was already in a stopping mode. Ms. Look Only Left panicked and stopped avoiding the crash. It always amazes me when folks pass on double lined highways when they can neither see what’s behind nor in front.

Even looking both ways can be scary. On one occasion, my cousin Mikey and I were hauling a hog to the slaughterhouse. I borrowed a cattle trailer, and we headed to Clanton, Alabama to deliver the hog. Crossing the L&N Railroad track in Thorsby, Alabama, I looked north up the track and south, then north again and Mikey looked south down the track then north then back south. We could see a long distance both ways.

Back then there were no crossing safeguards or flashing lights, just stop and look both ways before crossing. Seeing nothing we crossed the tracks. When I stopped on US Highway 31 the cattle trailer had just cleared the tracks when suddenly a north bound train with lights a whirling and whistle sounding roared past us.

White with fright, Mikey and I looked at one another with our hearts now pounding in our throats. A few years earlier I had a friend that was struck and killed by a train in nearby Montevallo. It was same scenario. No guard rails nor lights. My friend had crossed the train for years and never looked both ways until that morning the train hit the pickup and trailer load of cattle.

In life it is vital to look both ways. Not only in crossings but looking to what is behind and what is forward. In the book of Ezra, the Hebrews upon returning home from exile remembered the glory of the Temple and looked forward to the building and worship in the rebuilt Temple.

And they sang together by course in praising and giving thanks unto the Lord; because he is good, for his mercy endureth for ever toward Israel. And all the people shouted with a great shout, when they praised the Lord, because the foundation of the house was laid. So that the people could not discern the noise of the shout of joy from the noise of the weeping of the people for the people shouted with a loud shout, and the noise was heard afar off. Ezra 3:11-13 KJV

 What's behind is gone and the future is coming as you read this and it is full of exciting probabilities.

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Amish Buggy Ride on A Rainy Day

It was a cool rainy day in Bird-In-Hand, Pennsylvania. The morning air was crisp, and rain drizzled as we purchased tickets to ride the horse drawn buggies in Amish country. My wife Lisa has ridden on dozens of these trips, and she was excited to have my brother and sister-in-law along for their maiden ride.

A vehicle from Maryland parked. A father from Hawaii was visiting his son who was in the Air Force stationed in Maryland. It was their maiden voyage also. We waited, along with five others, for the buggy driver’s arrival.

We loaded into the buggy and Ben, the Amish driver, introduced himself and asked if anyone wanted to sit in the front with him. My sister-in-law jumped on it “Quicker than a chicken on a June bug.” That is an Alabama expression for being quick. Then Ben asked where from where we came.

There was a newlywed couple from Israel celebrating their honeymoon. They spoke very good English, but I think they had trouble understanding our Alabama southern drawl. Across from them was the father and son from Hawaii. To their left were three members of a family, grandparents, and grandson, from upstate Pennsylvania. My brother, my wife Lisa, and I sat across from them. I had the pleasure of sitting next to the newlyweds.

As the journey back in time began, Ben began to explain the Amish way of life. It is always fascinating as we slowly passed the large dairy farms, cornfields, alfalfa fields, and apple orchards. The trip was worth the price just to watch the expressions of the first timer travelers.

Each traveler told a little bit about themselves. The newlyweds planned to visit Washington D.C. The Hawaii father and son we amazed with the Amish culture. My brother and sister-in-law are big farmers in South Alabama, and they loved seeing new farms and gaining new ideals.

The grandparents told us that it was their grandson Joey’s twentieth birthday. I lead the travelers in singing happy birthday to Joey. Granddad was retired Airforce and he and the young Airforce officer from Hawaii shared common interests. Granddad said that he and his wife had placed to travel and explore, but they inherited Joey.

Even though he was twenty, Joey was autistic and non-verbal. He was well mannered and obedient. Sitting direct in from of me, Joey seemed fascinated with me. He would touch me from time to time and his granddad would admonish him. I told the grandad that it was okay.

One time he saw a knot on the pull string of my jacket, and he quickly touched it. He would look me in the eye, and I would smile. One of the reasons he watched me was that the week before I had taken a nasty fall and scraped my face from my hairline on my forehead to the tip of my nose. I had an ugly scab and a hole on the bridge of my nose and used a long staff to help me walk. I told Joey that I was wearing my Halloween mask a little early.

After a stop at a farm, Joey returned to the buggy with a large cream cookie. As the tour continued the curiosity of Joey got the best of him. Quick as the proverbial chicken on the June bug, Joey reached over to me and stuck his right index finger on the scabby hole on the bridge of my nose. I admit that it hurt but I tried not to show pain and smiled. His granddad scolded him. I assured him that it was okay. My dad taught me that we were to lookout for those that could not take care of themselves. It was a heavenly moment realizing that Joey felt safe in touching me. I assured his grandparents that children and animals were attracted to me even wearing a scabby face and sporting a walking stick.

That night as Lisa and I talked before retiring for the night we discussed Joey and the hundreds of children being raised by their grandparents. We are thankful for those that will put their lives on hold to care for those that cannot care for themselves.

I am sure that the raining buggy ride of the serendipity of travelers will share Joey’s story around the world. I know it will if you read this article. The Bible commands believers to care for those that cannot take care of themselves.

Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD: and the fruit of the womb is his reward. Psalm 127:3 KJV

But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God. Mark 10:14 KJV

It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones Luke 17:2 KJV

Personal Touch

This morning on my way to the optometrist I stopped for gas at a local station. I have been a customer for many years and seen the station change hands many times. I entered the debit card and followed the instructions. I inserted the card, entered my code, and pushed the enter button. The message on the screen said to remove nozzle and select the grade of gasoline I wanted. I followed the instructions to the letter and number only for the screen to display “please wait for a moment.”

After waiting for several moments, I asked the man and the opposite pump if his was working to which he gave me an affirmative. My screen still remained the same, so I decided to step inside the store. The man behind the countered acted as though I did not exit and I finally said, “Excuse me.” He asked what I needed and told him that the pump was not working.

That when he insulted my intelligence. I was pumping gas when he was a child overseas somewhere. I assured him that the pump was ready to pump but had me waiting. He asked if I was sure that I entered the card correctly. I replied, “Yes, I know how the card works and that the pump gave indications of working properly but it scrolled “Please wait.”

As I returned to my car, he followed mumbling something about he would show me how to properly insert the card. I pointed to the pump and said, “See it is ready to pump.” He said, “Insert it again.” I did and it repeated what it did before. He wanted me to try again which I did and this time it said my card was invalid.

He inserted a special card, cleared everything, and instructed me to change pumps. I did but I wanted to greet his arrogance with good old southern redneck hospitality with a punch in the nose. I did not because that was not the Christian thing to do, but I thought it.

I steamed while heading to the optometrist and thought about how the personal touch in our relationships is disappearing. It is a sign of the apocalypse. That is what I have thought ever since the anti-Christ cards started changing us to a cashless society.

I told a female cashier that having to come inside the store made the plastic money irrelevant. I said, “If the world was wanting to usher in the anti-Christ, y’all are gonna have do a better job with the plastic currency.” She looked at me with a bewildered look and said, “You believe in that okie poky junk?” I answered, “Oh yeah and you better.” The strange thing about our conversation was that it predated texting and other forms of communication that have depersonalized society.

For the next hour I fumed trying to let go of the incident. I thought will I need a card to enter the pearly gates. I wondered if I would need a special account number to give St. Peter. Then I thought if I wanted to talk to God would I get Heaven’s answering machine.

I could imagine a call. “Our office numbers have changed, please follow the instructions. Press one if you speak Hebrew, two if you speak Greek, three if speak Arabic, four if you know the extension, press zero to speak with Methusalem.

Then my mind went to how important personal touches are. There was Annie Jean corn drip that even with her recipe cannot be duplicated. Nola and her chicken and dumplings were one of a kind. No one can paint an automobile like Larry and his special touch. Dr. Calvin Miller’s autograph on one of books or artwork adds the personal touch. A personal touch is special.

When I arrived at the optometrist, I left my iPhone in the car. My wife calls the cell phone the devil’s device. The receptionist and I exchanged some pleasantries, and I took a seat. I spoke to everyone; they returned the favor and returned to their cell phones.

I was called back for the exam. Each aide took special care. At one point, one of the ladies touched my eye lids to apply drops for dilation. Her dark hands were so soft, and I told her that her gentle touch was nice. It made it personal, and we shared a wonderful conversation.

The optometrist is a personal friend of mine, and he has always had the personal touch. He has a genuine concern for his patient's wellbeing. With all the modern technology and equipment, his office reminds of good old southern hospitality.

When Jesus, God in the flesh, walked on earth, He had had the personal touch. I imagine when I make that journey to heaven He will say, “Welcome Bobby and say to the multitude there, he’s one of our boys.”

Then the Lord put out his hand and touched my mouth. And the Lord said to me, “Behold, I have put my words in your mouth. Jeremiah 1:9 KJV

“And he took them in his arms and began blessing them, laying his hands on them.” Mark 10:16 KJV

My prayer was that the Lord touch the heart of the one I wanted to touch. His touch is much better than the touch I wanted to give.

Enjoyed It Reverend

Since I experience the call into the ministry, I have never been fond of the term reverend. There have been too many given that title and their ministries questionable. I would rather people call me Brother Bobby, pastor, preacher not reverend.

Most of the men and women where I have worked called me preacher. The black men called me “the man of the cloth.” Most of the churches I pastored they called me Brother Bobby or Bro Bob. A few youth and children called me “the Creature.”

While working on my doctorate, church people would ask me what they should call me. I told that Bobby had worked my whole life. Since that time until now most people call me Brother Bobby. When in formal situations people will call me Dr. Hopper. If folks do not refer to me as Dr. Hopper, I usually do not correct them.

I have a lot of fun when people realize I have a doctorate. I remember speaking at the University of Montevallo Batist Student Union meeting. The host introduced me as Dr. Bobby Hopper. Once behind the podium, I told guests that the D R in front of my name stood for “Documented Redneck.” I said my redneck degree came from BUTTS, Bessie University Technical and Theological School. Bessie was the community where I grew up and live today. Everyone laughed.

I started my doctoral work at Beeson Divinity School Samford while pastor of the Friendship Baptist Church in Clanton, Alabama. Folks there were supportive. I felt is was a great honor to serve alongside of them. God blessed in many wonderful and powerful ways.

One ministry was ministering to alongside of the Clanton Mental Health Clinic. The Clinic allowed residents to attend church with us. Three residents were faithful. Gwen, F D, and Nikki did not miss. Nikki was a high-spirited young woman that laughed and would repeatedly tell me that she did not belong in the clinic. She would say “I’m not crazy.” She constantly corrected Gwen and F D and insisted that teachers should too.

F D was a young man whose mental aptitude was that of a twelve-year-old. His favorite thing was wearing his toy cowboy pistols, cowboy hat, and guitar to church. He loved to sing and to impersonate Elvis. Another thing he loved was talking to his watch and calling KIT of the television program Night Rider.

Gwen was a black lady with a childlike demeanor. She worn ruby red lipstick like that of a little girl playing with makeup. The Clinic informed me that she received her disability from a car accident. She loved to help babysit children. F D and Gwen were constantly in competition for attention. They were polite and courteous most of the time.

One Vacation Bible School Richard and Stanley, F D, Nikki, and Gwen’s VBS teachers, were singing the opening song with the rest of VBS. Richard, an electrical engineer and Stanley, editor of the local newspaper, separated the trio: F D, Richard, Nikki, Stanley, then Gwen. The two men stood as the Rock of Gibraltar and the trio sang. F D singing like Elvis, Gwen correcting him, and Nikki laughing.

One year the VBS was a Cowboy theme. As I made visits to the classes I peeked into Richard’s class. The room was dark, tiny lights like stars scattered on the ceiling, Richard with head resting on a log by a fake fire, Gwen sitting by the fire, and F D playing his guitar. It was a moment that I will always remember.

Each service during the invitation, Gwen would come to the altar where she would ask me to pray for the clinic, her, and F D who was in route to the altar too. Many members of the congregation were uncomfortable with them. What Gwen and F D did was make it easier for others to come to the altar.

During my tenure there Gwen’s mental situation worsened, and the Clinic committed her to a hospital in Birmingham. As her pastor, I visited her there in the psychiatric ward. Once I had permission to visit, a big black orderly, that reminded me of a bouncer, met me and wanted me to state my business. I told him I was Gwen’s pastor. He gave me a look of unbelief seeing I was white, and Gwen was black.

He wanted more information, and I understood his concern. I was about to give up and leave when Gwen happened to walk past us. She yelled, “That’s my Reverend.” She carried a large black Raggedy Ann that had pigtails and freckles. For the next precious and few moments were shared together. The whole time she demanded that I hold Annie.

F D, Gwen, Richard, and Stanley have gone on before us. I enjoyed the moments we spent together. The highlight Sundays together was at the close of the service I would always ask, “Any word from the congregation as we leave?” Gwen would always say. “I enjoyed Reverend!” It was one of constants of worship.

When Gwen could no longer attend Friendship, I asked, “Any word as we leave?” There was an eerie and awkward silence. Suddenly, Regeana, wife of our local physician, said “I enjoyed Reverend.” The congregation tearfully applauded.

I was glad when they said unto me. Let us go into the house of the LORD. Psalm 122:1 KJV

 

Who's Knocking on My Door

God always prepares us to minister for Him. I never dreamed that contract negotiations were progression for pastoral ministries. Each step we take in life’s journey is preparation for the next opportunity headed our way.

Negotiations had been difficult at Blue Circle Cement in Calera, Alabama. The 1980’s were troubled and trying times for the economy. Due to a corporate takeover, in 1982, Martin Marietta Cement sold to Blue Circle.

During the period from April 1982-March 1987, my vocabulary increased. Terms like “corporate purging,” “downsizing”, “eliminating inventory”, and “efficiency focus” created an atmosphere of low morale, drop in productivity, loss of experience and knowledge.

I, as well as several other employees, were laid off from Martin Marietta and called back after months and years later to Blue Circle. Being the last man hired in October 1976, I was the last employee for five years. I learned to despise the corporate terminology that led to five years of transition.

During the five years of struggling, I felt called into full-time ministry and enrolled at the University of Montevallo in the fall of 1983 as a twenty-nine-year-old freshman. The is one of many steps in a long journey. A wise pastor said, “A trip around the world starts with one step and the higher you go, the farther you can see.”

Four years later, Blue Circle called me from layoff. Blue Circle and Local Union 537 were at an impasse on contract negotiations and implemented a contract. My university experience had broadened my horizon. My co-workers discouraged from loss of pay, loss of vacations, and other losses. I found myself in a battle with human resources over insurance and trying to finish my spring term at Montevallo. Trying to turn five years of change in three days was no easy task.

Having been successful with human resources, some union brothers asked me to use my college knowledge to help the union. I reluctantly agreed and was immediately found that I was president by default.

God blessed me and we did negotiate a new contract with wages, vacations, and other fringe benefits restored. After a year as president, I decided to “go out” on top but stayed on the negotiation team.

By 1994 we were in another contract negotiation. Once again Local Union 537 and Blue Circle were at impasse, and the Federal Mediator is involved. Trips to the Federal Building were regular. Lockout would follow. Local Union 537 was outside looking in.

On a federal mediation day, the Local president, Keilan, and I were early and decided to see an old friend that had retired and lived in north Birmingham. We had promised to see him, but he lived in a rough neighborhood, and we did not have his address.

Elijah Smith (Smitty) was our friend’s name. He was black and lived in a black neighborhood. What we did was crazy, but we promised Smitty we would visit. I knew about where he lived because we discussed it when we worked together. I knew he lived near 15^th Street and could see the Hardee’s from his house.

Two white boys rode through the north Birmingham neighborhood looking for his Chevy van. Kelan was scared to death. Round and round we drove with no luck at all. I spotted a senior adult black lady swinging on her front porch swing. I told Keilan that I was going to ask her where Smitty “stayed” as Smitty called it.

I went on the porch and introduced myself to her. I told her that Elijah and I worked together at the cement plant, and we had promised to visit him. I knew he lived on 15^th Street. Keilan watched me from the car.

She told me her name and pointed across the street and said, “Elijah stay at that white house there.”

I thanked her very much and told Keilan that Smitty lives there. We drove to Smitty’s driveway, and I got out to knock on the door. Keilan whines, “Hopper, you going to get us shot!”

I told him that we were welcomed by the front porch lady. I knocked several times but no answer. I told Keilan to write a note that we paid a visit. About that time, I hear the unlocking of the door. There were several locks, and I realized Smitty was cautious.

Our friend opened the door, I think Keilan lay low in the car. There was Smitty smiling big and tears running down his cheeks. He said, “Lords I don’t believes it. Yall said you would come and yous did.”

Keilan and I found a lonely old friend in need of conversation and remembrance. We celebrated a wonderful morning. It would be our last time together. Keilan and Elijah are in the presence of the Lord.

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. Revelation 3:20 KJV

Blue Circle Cement locked out Local 537 for several months eventually allowing only a few employees to return. The plant sold a few years later as result of corporate purging and corporate downsizing philosophies.

 

Communication: Complicated Made Simple

I was out and about one day in Demopolis, Alabama and paid a visit to a church member that had missed church. He owned a windshield business in town. After swapping a few pleasantries I asked why he was not attending church and what his relationship to the Lord.

He hung his head and sheepishly said that my preaching was not deep enough. I asked him to explain. He said that my sermons were too simple. I told him that the art of communication was to take the complicated and make it simple.

I try to get on the same level as my listeners whether they are two or ninety-two, educated or not, blue collar or white collar, skilled or laborer, and professional or not. I always try to reach common ground.

I said so you want more hermeneutic, exegesis, Christology, Eschatology, Apocalyptic, Parousia jargon. He smiled and said that’s what I’m talking about. I looked in the eye and said, “You are clueless to what I just said.” He hung his head again.

I told him that I could go deeper, but much of the congregation would be oblivious to what I was saying. I told him that in the congregation were children, educated and uneducated, farmers, medical doctors, nurses, schoolteachers, lawyers and a wide variety of folks.

I told him that hermeneutics was the theory and method of interpretation of texts. Next, I said that exegesis was the interpretation of text, especially the Bible. I explained that Christology was the study of Christ, the Eschatology was the Second Coming, Apocalyptic was the study of End Times and Parousia was the Rapture.

I reminded him that my Pastor’s Pals was an introduction to the sermon. I was taking the “complicated and making it simple” giving a head’s up to what was coming in the sermon. My preaching was like him installing a new windshield so folks could see better. He never returned. I guess I was too shallow for him. He eventually closed his business.

Back when I worked at the cement plant, I worked with Sam. Sam was an instrument technician. He had the ability to read an electrical schematic and explain it. When I worked with him in the electrical shop it helped me to read the schematics.

He would say, “See the thing-a-jig here connects to the Hickie-me-dodgy over there and controls the what-you-me-call powers the machine. He probably did know the technical jargon, but he knew how it worked.

I have kinfolks and friends that are ignorant of the technical, but have the knowledge to repair equipment, computers, and most anything that runs, twist, or turns. As my father-in-law told me as a young man, “You can do most anything once you understand it.”

When the Creator of the universe came to earth as Jesus, he spoke to people in a way they could understand. He took the complexity of the universe and made it simple enough for children to understand.

Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding. Proverbs 4:7KJV

I will open my mouth in a parable: I will utter dark sayings of old: Psalm 78:2

Therefore I speak to them in parables, because seeing they do not see, and hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand. Matthew 13:13 KJV.

I Will Speak Using Stories: Thirty-one Day Devotion Bobby E. Hopper 

God Hears the Heart

I read an interesting article the other day and it resonated with my heart. It was about an upcoming wedding. The bride was thrilled that she had lived long enough to marry. At nine years old doctors at University of Alabama Birmingham diagnosed her with cardiomyopathy, a disease of her heart muscle.

An eleven-year-old boy died from an accident was doctors pronounced him brain dead. Doctors asked his family if they would donate his organs. At first his father refused but later said that he felt as though his son was tell him yes.

On Mother’s Day 2011, UAB surgeons transplanted the boy’s heart to the nine-year-old. Their families became friends and on August 9, 2025, the bride invited the boy’s parents to her wedding. The boy’s parents were thrilled that they allowed their son to donate his organs that other may have life.

I have read about the thrill that parents whose children donated organs, especially the heart, hear their child’s heart beating. There is a special bond forged when listening to a heart beating.

The same day that I read the Florence wedding and the heartwarming event, I received a picture of my youngest son riding his son on his back.  It’s a wonderful picture.  My son Aaron and grandson Jack Barrett are in the water.  It was a picture of love, trust, and hope.

When Aaron small, his brother Andy and sister Angel loved the water. Angel could swim before she could walk. They had traumatized Aaron making him terrified of water. I had a very difficult time teaching him to trust me and jump into my arms at the pool. When he did learn, he became a very good swimmer.

Seeing Aaron and Jack Barrett together brought back memories of my love for Aaron. Jack Barrett looks like Aaron.  They have the same smile. Since they live in Texas and I in Alabama, the picture is a sweet reminder of a dad/son relationship. I pray that Aaron will have the same heart and love for Jack Barrett that I had for him.

Aaron did trust me. When he was a baby, he would lay on my stomach with his right ear on my heart listening to my heartbeat. He would continue to sleep listening to my heart until he got so long that he pushed my chin with his bushy hair. He was around four years old when stopped laying on my stomach.

He continued to listen to my heart beat each time he hugs me the lays his right ear on my heart. Oh, what a wonderful feeling that is. In my thirty-one-day devotional, I Will Speak Using Stories, the first devotion is God Hears the Heart. It is about a small boy that when speaking his words were not comprehensible.

He volunteered to pray one Father’s Day. The congregation, with the exception of his parents, did not understand him, but God did. It was one of the best Father’s Day experiences I ever had.

I pray that you will obtain a copy of I Will Speak Using Stories.

Herman’s Hermits had a song with these lyrics:

Every time I see you lookin' my way
Baby, baby, can't you hear my heartbeat?
In the car or walkin' down the highway
Baby, baby, can't you hear my heartbeat?

Thank God He hears the heart.

But the LORD said unto Samuel, Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused him: for the LORD seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the LORD looketh on the heart. (I Samuel 16:7 KJV)

The Sound of Silence

They say that silence is golden. My experience with silence is that it can be ire. When we went all night fishing on Mahan Creek, there were sounds of all kinds of night creatures. There were the crickets, katydids, the croaking of frogs, toads, the hooting of owls, and the rustling of branches.

There was the noise of boys laughing, the roaring of a fire, and the splashing of water where someone fell into the creek, the screaming of someone being chased or scared half to death. Then the yell an adult or leader heard more than anything else hollering to settle down, be quiet, who fell into the water?

If everyone and everything became quiet, it meant trouble and the silence of a storm was brewing nearby. It could mean that something unusual was lurking near. Silence in the woods at night is not normal.

The falling of a dead and rotten tree can break the silence. Before all the noise generated in the world today, we could hear strange sounds. We lived on a hill. The hollers around us echoed various sounds.

We could be in the backyard and hear a vehicle drive into the front yard. Daddy would say, “One of y’all go see who it is.”  Most of the time there was no vehicle or person. From the backyard we could hear people talking and music playing just as though the sound was in close proximity.

Momma told us stories of sounds that were scary. When mamma and her brother were small their mom, my grandmother, told them to get water from a spring in the holler. This was the late 1930’s and there were no pumps for running water to the house. Momma and my uncle Gerald where dipping water and the heard a loud noise that scared them.

Grandmoe, said that Uncle Gerald out run momma to the house. She said that momma’s hair was standing straight up, and she was white as a ghost. Grandmoe said Uncle Gerald was shaking like a leaf. They told grandmoe what they heard. Grandmoe said she had heard it before, and it sounded like an elephant falling down a tree. No one was able to find the source of the sound, and it continued for years.

When I was young my aunt Annie said the same thing. I never could understand the analogy of an elephant falling out of a tree. I aways wondered how an elephant climbed a tree. Aunt Anni’s house was on the opposite side of the holler from grandmoe. One day my cousins and I were playing in branch where momma and Uncle Gerald had dipped the water. Suddenly, a great sound scared us. All I can say is that it sounded like an elephant crashing through the trees.

It continued to reverberate gigantic and massive sound waves through the years. It was always loud and frightening. We heard the sound until aunt Annie and Uncle JP cleared the shrubs and trees behind their house to make a garden. We never heard the crashing elephant again.

When I pastored Friendship Baptist Church in Clanton, Alabama I tried an experiment one Sunday morning during worship. I told the congregation that people cannot remain silent very long. Folks enjoy noise. People in today’s culture listen to noise through ear pods, headsets, and ever so popular loud music flowing from audio power amplifiers. It has become prevalent that most town and cities have noise ordinances. Young people do not realize that they we deaf from all the loudness damaging their hearing. They may have a future where they cannot hear.

I challenged the congregation to be silent for one minute. It was amazing. In less than ten seconds people were squirming, fidgeting, looking at their watches (before I phones), staring at me. Again, we must have noise. For some people, the television, stereo, or other devices break the silence. I spend most days without playing noise. I love drive without the radio playing.

We listen when it is silent. I fear that folks do not like the silence because they do not want to listen to God. We pray in silence so we can communicate with God. Unfortunately, we do most of the talking as God listens. We need to spend our “quiet time” listening to Him.

As Director of Missions, I visited several churches where the men of the church gather for pray before worship. There were a few where all the men prayed at once. Very distracted I could not pray. I would stick my fingers in my ears and consecrate quoting Psalm 23.

 And when he had opened the seventh seal. There was silence in heaven for the space of half an hour, Revelation 8:1 KJV

After the tragic event of 911, I sat on the front porch of the pastorium of Gallion Baptist Church and the silence created was frightening. Could it be that when everything stopped on 911, God got the attention of the world. After a while we returned to noise.    

 

 

 

Wild Varden

Fall is my second favorite season. Leaves are turning orange, yellow, brown, and all shades of reddish orange. The more they fall, the closer old man winter approaches. Cooler weather means hunting in Alabama.

When asked do I hunt and fish, I say that I am not a hunter. The are shocked. Most of the time I converse with those that do like I do hunt. Not that I lie. Here is what happens. One time I headed to our farm at Sugar Ridge in Jemison, Alabama from Linden for the purpose of cutting grass and weed eating.

I stopped in the College Town of Marion at the Chinese Restaurant for dinner (noontime in Alabama). I wore a pair of Turkey Federation camouflaged Liberty overalls that had purchased at Wall Mart. They were on sale, left over from the hunting season. They were not thick and heavy like the denim ones, and they were 4X and were comfortable. I loved them and wore them to where my wife Lisa could nor repair. I wore them in the restaurant.

It was turkey season, and some hunters were enjoying Chinese as I was. I asked them if they had good luck that morning. They told they had not. They asked how I did. I replied that I had not seen any turkeys. The said too windy for them. I agreed with them and as they asked questions I answered. My answers were truthful, but I had not hunted. They assumed I had.

Again, when asked if I hunt and fish, I say I’m not a hunter and fisherman, but a killer and catcher. We raised pigs, chickens, and beef cows. At an early age daddy appointed me the task of killing them for slaughter. I tell hunters that want to belittle my hunting that I have killed more meat than they have. That usually ends the conversation.

I did hunt in my youthful years. Dad gave me a 410 shotgun when I was twelve. I hunted quail, doves, squirrels, and rabbits with my trusty 410. I still use it to kill varmints any thing else that needs it.

One cold and sleety day after school I decide to go squirrel hunting where momma could cook squirrel stew and dumplings. I crossed the electric fence that corralled the pigs and headed to the woods. Our bore hog, affectionally named Varden for daddy’s co-worker that sold Varden to us, decided to go with me. Varden was almost a pet, but the older he got the ornerier he got. He was black with white strip and had some very long and sharp tusks.

I waved him back. I heard him again getting closer. He was smacking his lips together and white foam sprayed toward me. This time I broke off the top of a small pine tree and ran him back to spend time with the sows. I took a few more steps and here he came again only faster. I did not to turn my back to him, so I reached behind me to break another pine top.

I stumbled and fell on my back. Varden lunged at me and tried his best to use his long tusks to rip out my guts. His white slobber raked across my jacket. I threw up my feet and 410 and pushed him. When he cleared the barrel, I unloaded the squirrel shot into his left shoulder.

I had one shot, but it was effective. He ran limping back toward the barn. I was scared and the adrenaline was sky high. That was the only this 125-pound boy pushed 300-pound Varden away for the shot. If I missed, I was dead.

I did not go squirrel hunting after that. I called daddy at his work. He was on second shift. I said, “Daddy I had to shoot Varden. He ain’t dead, but he has a shoulder full of squirrel shot.”  Daddy asked me if I was okay and told him I was.

Varden limped for a while. That did not tame him, but we did our first dental work removing Varden’s tusks and removing his manhood he was gentler. Months later I had the pleasure of shooting Varden. We slaughtered him and momma made some great sausage. The left Boston Butt was full of squirrel shot that we surgically removed before processing. Each time I hold my 410, I think of almost being devoured by the beast that we named Varden. I think of it each time I read I Peter 5:8 in the KJV version of the Bible.

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour:

 

 

 

Brainstorming, Take Cover

The human mind is remarkable as God designed.  Lisa and I were discussing the other night about how smells, sights, and sounds trigger a memory, even those long forgotten.  For our minds to store infinite bits of information, we utilize very little that we have access to retrieve. 

We marvel at computers and the seemingly unlimited acquisition of info.  A computer’s capability is based on data programmed into it by those with human minds.  The media bombards us with possibilities and potential of computers giving our minds movies, programming, and stories, and to ponder and have vivid imaginations.

The electronic wizards of computer chips can never replace the human mind.  Mankind is the ultimate creation of God.  This three-pound organ is 75% water with approximately one hundred billion neurons with a storage capacity of one quadrillion (1,000 trillion) connections.  Therefore, when our minds start to wander it has a lot of territory to cover.

As Lisa and I talked, my mind started on a journey.  There is so much stored in my brain and the possibilities of where I’m going are endless.  Lisa comments sometimes, “I would love to see into your brain, but it scares me to think what you are thinking.”  Well, my brain is storming and everything is swirling.

That night something she said something that triggered a memory of an old black man that was our neighbor and friend of my grandpa.  They had known each other for decades.  I thought about the influence he had on the community and on me.

Lawrence Atchison was a very dark man.  His mode of travel was his feet and an occasional traveler that might give him a ride.  When I started driving, I gave him a ride home.  He lived about two miles west of us.

Lawrence was kind, gentle and big and tall.  He would travel to Land Mart which was our local store where there was hoop cheese, tubes of baloney, bread, and the entire essential for living in rural Alabama.  After filling grocery sacks, not the thin and flimsy plastic ones but brown paper sacks.

I remember seeing Lawrence walking home with two sacks under his arms and baloney protruding out the top of the sack.  If grandpa was sitting on the front porch rocking, Lawrence would join him.

Two old friends would reminisce about growing up together and living as sharecroppers.  Now both worn out from the hard labor and rugged lifestyle of trying to eek a living in poverty-stricken Alabama rocked, laughed, and talked.

Lawrence lived on a dirt road and lived in an old shack which was kind of standard for most that lived in our community.  Most of the time, Lawrence traveled at night.  He would visit his relatives that lived east of Land Mart.  He was hard to see at night.  If any dogs barked after sunset, depending on the time of the year, we all knew that it was either Lawrence or the old black panther making their journeys.  The black panther came through migrating in the spring or in the fall.  Dogs would hide when the panther was passing, and they walked with Lawrence when he was passing.

Sometimes on dark nights the dogs would have a soft bark and daddy would say, “Old Lawrence must be headed home.”  If it was someone of something passing, the dogs growled and barked angrily.

Lawrence and grandpa have been dead for more than sixty years.  Most people in our have never heard and know of them.  There is no evidence of Lawrence’s old shack, but Grandpa’s front porch is across the road from our home.  Sitting or swinging on my front deck I can still visualize and almost hear Lawrence and Grandpa enjoying the relationship they had.

They had something that computerized society so critically needs today.  They used their minds to reminisce and had a personal relationship with each other as well as with most in the community.

I thank the Lord for Him allowing Lawrence and me to cross paths in life’s short journey.  I remember walking home from football practice after being dropped off at Land Mart.  The night was so dark that I could not see the road.  I walked with one foot on the pavement and the other on the grass for the quarter mile journey.  I wondered how Lawrence was able to make the trip.

In closing, there used to be a commercial that stated, “A mind is a terrible to waste.”  With all the capability of our brain and all the information available, why waste our brain.  There used to be a song that had the lyrics, “Input, output, what goes in is what comes out.”  That’s our brain.  It processes and stores what we experience.

Thanks, Lawrence, for the influence you had on me.

 

And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.  (Romans 12:2 KJV)

Smoking Barrels

Back in the late Eighties, Bobby Watts and I went to Macon, Georgia for a gathering of local unions to negotiate a new name for our union.  It was an independent union.  The meeting was most interesting and entertaining.  Discussion was lively and heated from time to time, but we settled on an agreeable name, United Workers of North America.

I enjoyed meeting new people, staying in a new city, and eating at a restaurant where I had never been before. 

The restaurant was very clean, filled with antiques, and an abundance of gifts.  Bobby and I got our menus.  Best I remember Bobby had visited the restaurant before.  I was new as a union officer and “green as a gourd” as country folks say.   I had not been to all the exciting places that Bobby had, and I looked to him as a seasoned union member for his wisdom.  He helped navigate me in the name change forum.

Being a country boy, I was used to good home cooking and wanted to try something new.  The menu had some of the same foods momma and my wife cooked and I knew the restaurant food would not be as good as theirs.  My eyes found the baby back ribs and a “pine rosin” baked potato.  I had never baby back ribs but had eaten plenty “hawgs” boney ribs since we raised hogs.

I had never had a pine rosin baked potato but knew the taste of rosin from wearing it after loading pine pulp wood.  I had always eaten the “tater” peeling, but I found the rosin soaked a little repulsive and distasteful.  The inside was good. 

The restaurant where we ate that night was Cracker Barrel.  I have eaten at Cracker Barrel when traveling with disaster relief teams.  I was a good choice because of variety for our team.  My favorite dish is Mama’s French Toast.  As went ministered to those stricken by disaster, eating at Cracker Barrel allowed us to debrief and have more fun than a barrel of monkeys.

I say that because Cracker Barrel has been headlining news lately.  It started with changing the Cracker Barrel logo.  My vocation and ministry have taught me that change means resistance and sometimes corporate folks are out of touch with reality.  What works on paper sometimes will not work.

Personally, the product is what drives the consumer.  The ambiance helps.  Granny Hopper was a great cook, especially her gumbo.  She was so poor that she scraped the bottom of the barrel to make it.  He décor was not Fifth Avenue acceptable but the wood stoves that warmed the gumbo, cornbread, and biscuits were delicious.

The lady in change of the re-branding and marketing of the Cracker Barrel logo fiasco wound up over a barrel.  She must have forgotten who the clientele was.  I feel that it is part of the culture war that has crept its way into church worship, fashion design and essentially all walks of modern life lock, stock and barrel.

The silent majority that can only take so much purple hair, ripped jeans, and every other anti-culture was ammo let this lady of change let um’ have it with both barrels.  Stock in Cracker Barrel fell faster than corporate lady would have if she had gone over Niagara Falls in a barrel.

Ms. Corporate forgot Liebig’s barrel which states that growth is controlled not by total resources, but by the scarcest resource.  A barrel is just as strong as its weakest part, usually the staves.  It is not the abundance (or lack) of food that draws customers but the good taste (quality) of home cooked meals. 

Several times I have received my Momma’s French Toast burned or cold after waiting a very long time.  The food is gotten bland, and you have to ask for items such as cornbread and biscuits.  Bad food and bad service reminds me of the old saying, “One rotten apple spoils the barrel.”

The effort to change the Cracker

Barrel logo may or may have been futile effort to move an apple for change but turned over the apple cart.  Stockholders and good old country folks alike found Ms. Corporate and her cronies like shooting fish in a barrel.

The logo change cost millions of dollars and the response cost even more millions.  Free publicity could have the effect of the “Pork Barrel” or the “Bankruptcy Barrel.”   All this change could be politically motivated as was the “Bud Light” beer barrel fiasco trying the culture change to achieve WOKE and broke.

All the news makes one wonder did the board have a small barrel (keg) of beer while sitting in whiskey barrel seats and using a barrel (syringe) administering a synthetic drug before making their decision.

As of this article, Ms. Corporate and the strategy listed to the little old ladies with blue hair and the old timers that wore ragged blue jeans as kids and decided not to change the Cracker Barrel logo.  I remember the barrels of pickles and crackers, hoop cheese, tubes of baloney, and a six once Coke.  There were powder barrels (kegs) and double-barreled shotguns.  There are venders that wore empty barrels draped across shoulders for advertisements. 

Thinking of all that has happened could be a barrel of laughs.  It reminds all of us to listen to those that have experienced life and learn from their mistakes.  Ms. Corporate and the board remind me of my daughter Angel that used to say, “Daddy I want to learn from my own mistakes.”  I told her that she will but life is better if we learn from the mistakes of others.

 

And king Rehoboam consulted with the old men, that stood before Solomon his father while he yet lived, and said, How do ye advise that I may answer this people?  And they spake unto him, saying, If thou wilt be a servant unto this people this day, and wilt serve them, and answer them, and speak good words to them, then they will be thy servants for ever.  But he forsook the counsel of the old men, which they had given him, and consulted with the young men that were grown up with him, and which stood before him:  And he said unto them, What counsel give ye that we may answer this people, who have spoken to me, saying, Make the yoke which thy father did put upon us lighter?  And the young men that were grown up with him spake unto him, saying, Thus shalt thou speak unto this people that spake unto thee, saying, Thy father made our yoke heavy, but make thou it lighter unto us; thus shalt thou say unto them, My little finger shall be thicker than my father's loins.  I Kings 12:6-10 KJV

Got To Get It Out

Growing up can be painful because life has thorns, splinters, briers, and nettles that find their way into us.  We had a black locust tree that had thorns.  Momma said they were poison.  They were very uncomfortable when they penetrated our skin.  The holes would be sore and usually get infected.  Treatment consisted of Epson Salt, turpentine, and other home remedies. 

In Sunday school were studied about Jesus having a crown of thorns shoved onto his head.  The Hopper boys decided to make one from the black locust and being the inquisitive boys we were placed it on our heads.  It hurt!  We couldn’t imagine the pain that Jesus endured from the thorns much less the crucifixion.

Having had thorns stuck into me, it made the Apostle Paul’s thorn in the flesh more understandable.  He must have had some terrible pin to call it a thorn in the flesh.

We have always handled wood whether it be firewood, lumber, used boards, and pulpwood.  When you work with wood there will be splinters.  You get them in your fingers, in your arms, and other various body parts and you ask, “How did I get a splinter there.”

Left alone splinters fester and make you sore.  One on the worst I had was under a fingernail.  It went so deep that I could not pull it out.  Momma was our general practitioner, and she did most of the doctoring.  The deeper the splinter, the deeper momma dug.  She was very effective in surgical removal of most splinters.

The one under my fingernail was no problem for momma.  She took some fingernail clippers and cut the nail until she recovered the splinter.  It was a relief, but fingernails cut down into the quick hurt too.

A large splinter threaded my skin one day and rather than trying to pull it out the way it went in, momma just pulled it all the way through.  That was sore too.

Cancer is a family trait.  One time my brother David had knots on his head.  Naturally he worried and eventually visited a specialist to see if the knots were cancer.  The doctor was puzzled.  As he biopsied the contents of the knots, he realized it was wooden splinters.  David had a knot head.  He received the splinters where he had carried sheets of plywood on his head while building houses.  We laughed and were relieved.  Daddy always called us knot heads.

Briers protect things that are edible and pretty.  If you grow roses, you grow briers.  My wife Lisa saw these beautiful white roses at an old house place.  She wanted some.  Walking through the rose vines I had my share tiny places oozing droplets of blood.  The vines seem to run forever before I found the main roots.  I dug some, planted them in the front yard and made a trellis for them.  Lisa has the most beautiful brier vines.  Every time I prune them, I get more tiny holes oozing blood droplets.

Last week while mowing the lawn near the trellis, long green briers reached out to grab me.  I dodged them but a wild dewberry brier growing from a fig tree grabbed my left arm.  My arm had a trail of tiny holes and briers.

Wild dewberries and blackberries are a staple fruit in Alabama.  Every rural woman had to have them for making jellies.  When I eat homemade blackberry jelly, it reminds me of the sweat, blood, and red bugs bites I got while harvesting them.  I think that maybe the red bug bites are the worst.

Needles from cactus and bull nettle will prick you too.  One week my baby son Aaron spent the week with his granddaddy Moxley.  He had the time of his life with his Pawpaw except he came home with a red place in the bend of his right arm.

I asked him what happened, and he said he walk by a sticker bush.  I thought is must have been a bull nettle.  His redness worsened and I could not see any visible marks.

Finally, I sat him on the bathroom sink where the sun shined bright.  I took his tiny arm as he held it out straight.  He said it was not hurting.  I took my thumb and index finger and pinched his skin.  I noticed there was something in the bend of his arm.  I asked him did he trust me, and he said he did.  He did not like needles.

I sterilized a sewing needle and penetrated his skin at the end of the bulge.  When I opened it up, a needle longer than an inch slowly slid exited his arm.  I pinched the skin again and the second bulged like the first.

Squeezing the bulge, I could see another object trying to exit the place.  I got a second and then a third.  I knew Aaron was a tough little boy and the three nettle needles roved it.  He was tickled and I was glad that Doctor Momma taught me how to remove thorns, splinters, biers, and needles.  All these evil intrusions if not removed will fester and cause pain.

 

    And lest I should be exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure.  II Corinthians 12:7 KJV

   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

And there shall be no more a pricking brier unto the house of Israel, nor any grieving thorn of all that are round about them, that despised them; and they shall know that I am the Lord GOD. Ezekiel 28:24 KJV

Among the bushes they brayed; under the nettle they were gathered together. Job 30:7 KJV

Suddenly Bobby Felt Very Alone

Thirteen has always been one of my favorite numbers because that was the day I was born in December 1952.  Friday the thirteenth has been my favorite day.  One of my most memorable Fridays the thirteen happened forty-nine years ago this week.  It is one of the anniversaries that I celebrate.

It was 1976 while I was working as an apprentice machinist for Linefast Corporation in Montevallo, Alabama where we produced items used by cargo shipping containers.  I experienced a first that Friday the thirteenth.  I was fired!  There had been some problems and irregularities at Linefast and the men there wanted to have a conference with the owner.  The owner had a partner in New York.

When the meeting took place, I found that I was ushered to the lead.  I had all the wisdom and know-it-all of twenty-three years.  That day I realized that people do a lot of talking but very few will address the issues if they have a rambunctious twenty-three to be the idiot fall guy.

I was the happy dad of our first-born Andy who was born in January of 1976.  One of our issues was insurance.  Linefast paid part of the premium and employees paid the other part.  St. Vincent’s hospital in Birmingham informed me with a monthly bill that the insurance had not paid for the delivery of Andy.

When I questioned Linefast’s corporate office in New York about the delay, they offered excuses and said they would pay.  They never did.  What “broke the camel’s back” was that the owner at Montevallo said there was no insurance that paid for delivering babies.

I produced my policy and showed him that I did have maternity coverage.

When I lead the meeting, things got heated especially when the owner realized that I caught one of the inconsistencies.  Employees were paying one insurance premium to Linefast and we received another policy.

As I aired the grievances, they were said and I realized I was standing alone.  All the men that had encouraged me to speak were gone.  The owner said, “You’re fired.”  It was dinner time and I asked for my pay.  He initially said no, but I reminded him that he paid us every Friday.  He paid me.  I went home, changed clothes, and started the process of job hunting that Friday afternoon.

Having no luck, I returned home and noticed fresh tire tracks in our dirt drive.  I recognized them as the mud grip tires of my former boss’ pickup.  He had come to apologize and offer my job back.

We had a good meeting and I told him it was best that I move on and find another job.  We parted friends and remained friends until Linefast shut down and the owner moved away.  Linefast Corporation paid St. Vincent’s hospital bill.  I did not owe anything.  I did not find another job until October, 13, 1976 when I started at the Cement Plant in Calera.

The time off was difficult.  With no work came no pay.  No pay and job turned to stress.  Everyone blamed me.  Their condemnation, anger, and discouragement got the best of me.  One day after a jobless opportunity, frustration got the best of me.  I pulled into mom and dad’s drive and the weight of the world drove and bowed me into depression.  All alone I lay in the seat of my old Ford pickup when dad drove into the yard.

He walked to my truck and asked me what was wrong.  For the next few moments I poured my heart to him.  I told him that everyone was upset with me, even him.  I told him what happened.  Most family and friends only knew that I had been fired and not the circumstances that transpired. 

He asked, “Did you stand for what was right?”  I told him that I had.  He said, “Then I am with you.  When you are right and know it don’t back down from it.  Just remember son that when your make a stand be prepared to stand alone.”  Since that afternoon, I have made many stands and most of them have been alone.

 

Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord. (I Corinthians 15:58 KJV)

 

One of my favorite cartoonist's is Gary Larson creator of The Far Side.  I had one his masterpieces that I kept on our refrigerator for years.  It was a baby dinosaur walking on the road.  Dressed in baseball cap carrying a bat and glove on his shoulder among three caves with extinct signs above their openings the caption said, Suddenly, Bobby felt very alone in the world.”   Yep, been there done that and thought of it a lot.

Can You Hold for a Second

It never ceases to amaze me that with all the technology at our fingertips how much we have to wait, especially at fast-food restaurants.  Sometimes after taking an order, you are asked to pull up.  Sometimes they ask you can you wait for a second which translated is approximately five minutes. The other night Lisa and I made a spontaneous run to Wendy’s in Calera, Alabama.  She wanted a sour cream and butter baked potato covered in chili.

As we crossed I 65 and Wendy’s came into view we knew we were in trouble.  We weren’t dressed to eat inside, not that it would be faster, and noticed that the drive-thru was filled with automobiles all the way into the main street.  It was not a good sign.

As we entered into the caravan of vehicles, one impatient customer got out of the modern-day wagon train and tried to exit.  It took a moment of two but finally got loose.  We took the spot.

We waited a very long time before there was any movement.  I told Lisa to take time and in two minutes we would leave.   There was movement and another car pulled behind us blocking any exit we may have attempted.  I noticed that the SUV in front of us was from Texas.  I thought to myself, “Welcome to Alabama.”

Slowly we circled Wendy’s like Indians.  To be politically correct, Native Americans which I am.  Granny Hopper was part Cherokee or Creek.  Then right there in front of us was the latest in fast food convenience, an AI ready to take our order and expedite our visit.

It was fun talking with artificial intelligence.  There was no muffled sound like someone holding his or her hand over their mouth.  It was very plain.  I told AI that I wanted a sour cream and butter baked potato, number 6 spicy chicken combo and could I swap the fries for a chili.  Of course, AI obliged and kept asking, “What drink?”  She was asking what drink with the baked potato while I was asking for the number 6.  She asked if I wanted to make it a large and I said, “Sure.”

Our long-extended wait continued to grow longer, and we were committed to hang in there as my lovely wife say, “Like a hair hung in a biscuit.”  Finally, we were the fourth car in line from the window of delicious delight.  The poor Texan was not financially poor but unfortunate, arrived at the window of tasty satisfaction.   The Texan handed the window lady plastic money and received a small drink.  After what seemed an eternity, the window lady handed a small bag to the Texan.  I do not know what it was but it took a while for the kitchen to catch it, clean it, and cook it.

Finally, Lisa and I arrived at our destination.  The window with an indignant grin and blinking of eyes said, “We are out of chili.”  I asked, “Would you repeat that?”  She replied with a look of arrogance at an old man, “We are out of chili, and it takes three hours to make.”  It was 9:25 pm and I said I drove twenty miles for some chili.  She looked at me as to say, “So.”  I told her to have a good night and drove off empty handed.

Lisa and I went back across I65 to another fast-food restaurant that had a real person taking the order.  The cashier asked if we needed condiments and was very courteous and helpful.  The fries were cooked just right and were hot and salty.  The roast beef on our sandwiches were very good.  Lisa said, “I’m glad Wendy’s did not have chili!”  I started to tell her we would wait on the chili.  I bet that would have wiped that smug off here face.  I felt like we had been in line for two hours already.  I thought about this article and how the Bible tells us to wait.  I looked it up and immediately the web page responded with 245 times in KJV.

 

Isaiah 40:31: "But those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint."