Another hot, ‘almost summer’ late May day and the commitment to do something around the farm. The rest of my family was elsewhere in the county working and getting chores and visits done. I was Alone and it was in the high 80’s. Lazing about with my Lewis and MacDonald I heeded the call to work outside. Weed whip the small ditch next to the driveway. I can do that! Get dressed in the jeans with a small chainsaw rip on the left pants leg and a white T shirt.
The battery whip was loaded with four strings and the fully charged delta battery. The big one. I began in the approach to the long mini ditch and swung the whip, side to side and it began to get sweaty. I poked an earlier garden wound on my left forearm and went inside briefly to put on one of those band aids that pulls your skin up when you try to remove it.
Swinging that whip and clogging up once in a while and looking ahead for progress. Taking small bites of foot tall weeds until I was almost out of battery power. I was relieved that the lights where down to one. Time to put the big 60 amp on the charger and check the fridge for lunch. Back to C.S. And perhaps Winship or Bunyan. Improvise the day and cool off.
I was afraid I would fall when I was in the ditch. I sat down to rest and could not get out of that ditch. I have an old Karate move of swinging my legs beneath me to stand. It did not work as everything was uphill. I finally scooted out and then flipped upright. The fear of being unable to move was surprising. Fear mode, small or large is not an operative mode to be in.
Is that where I am in world view? Fearful from past experience and therefore always afraid. Of who, what or when it all started. Sixty years ago. I would be unable to ‘get up’ Maybe it was fifty. Trapped and unable to ‘get up and just go’ We all have those remnants, akin to spilled food by a careless sweep of an elbow. Now it’s on the floor and nothing will bring it back. Tasty toast or a tasty meal of doing what we always want to do. Move about and pick up ourselves and justget onboard with our train of thought.
Fear of being chased by a perverted relative, fear of the bully. Fear of the guard who wanted to just see the fear when he stared at me with humor of dominance. The kangaroo court, handcuffs and out of control. Is this my world view? I will be unable to escape the floor, the ditch, or the death we all fear?
“Fear not for I am with you” The words of my creator that I read and listen to. Truth as was asked of Him. What is truth? We are eternal beings and He loves us. How indeed can I fear Him and His love presence?
It’s an incredible photo from a walk close to our homestead. It prompts another deep region, even a place unnamed, and familiar. A perfect photo by my son of an Eagle, flying overhead and a gasp of purpose and life as viewed when Soren showed me the photo. The eagle had a glint in his eye and his claws were tucked in back, out of the air-stream. ‘Rotation, gear up’ A slight flash of light on his incredible beak and I shivered contemplating this aviator with talons and sharp, piercing beak. Danger close. it was flying into the wind, looking down. The intense stare at the camera and us, it told a story. A tale of life lived as a predator from the sky, silent and flying with irresistible death from above. No escape. No way to reason with the eagle. Can you envision a small animal, frozen in fear, unsure how to move.
I thought back to the fighter we saw launch from an aircraft carrier about 300 feet away. On the port side of our ship, a huge fleet Oiler, was Steaming at flank speed. Barely able to stay with the carrier. The oiler’s huge screws, making the aft mess deck thunder and shake. As it must do, the carrier had to maintain wind over the flight deck to help those fighters get airborne. The flight deck blast door up, engine at full, burning gallons of JP4 per second and suddenly, the fighter leaped down the deck, dropped a little off the bow and already had gear up and climbing. Awe inspiring at night ops. Rings of sonic disturbance coming off the engines fiery blast.
Steam swirling around the channel from the catapult, and the power heard of the fighter still climbing to watch over the battle group. Combat Air Patrol, CAP. Just like the eagle, deadly talons and loaded and armed. Looking for anything within range, anything moving where the fighter was, something that an enemies weapons radar would detect and cause terror for them. They are Now a target. A Hornet F16 fighter, armed with a tactical nuke under the wing, just in case it got ugly. A little vaporization reaches everybody.
Later that night, the enemy came near off the starboard and lit up our ship with their carbon arc searchlight and quickly dropped It’s missiles midships, right at me. I was on deck, headed aft for mid-rats. It didn’t look promising. We had 8 million gallons of various fuel in it’s huge belly, a tanker with puny three inch gun turrets on the bow and stern. The strong image of a flaming, roaring death with the sea covered with burning bunker oil. Basic training coming to mind on how to impossibly swim beneath the flames. All hands, battle stations. The 1MC in every compartment giving everyone the news, this NOT a drill.
It wasn’t a movie. Everyone saw the 02 or 03 level on the enemy ship, it’s radar turning around and around and the spotlight from it still steady on our bridge, blinding our helmsman and the combat information bridge, just above. Those missiles dropped from vertical incredibly fast with the sound of a double gauge pump shotgun.
Suddenly, the missiles went back vertical and the cruiser sharply veered off and disappeared into the dark sea at full speed. The F16 was there with the battle group, flying overhead, painting the enemy cruiser with it’s radar. Dropping out of the sky at Mach 1 and It had prepared it’s talons. The sound and sonic boom was heard clearly by everyone. Including the sailors on the Russian Frigate.
I was still alone on the long deck, still poised to go get midnight rations. I lost my appetite for anything available, good or bad. A narrow victory for our big fat slow tanker with friends in high places. The fear felt is still sharply felt after five decades. It was Just a bit more scary than a man with ill intent, coming it at you. Terrifying is the word. Saved by the glint in the eye of our Navy pilot. Ready for command from the carrier, a bit over the horizon, also with eyes on the Russian ship.
There is a bit of prose that Julie remembers while I wrote this memoir: “But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not faint” Old truth, timeless and steady.
It’s very good news to everyone that understands the book of promise and freedom. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator
There was a swelling of pride in my dad. myself, in the firehouse, sliding down the brass pole he had come down so many times before. Seeing all the turn out gear below him, I made a few adjustments to my drop and came down right by Dad. It was an old brick firehouse in the cities. Located just south of ‘The projects’ and ancient by today’s standard.
A ticker tape in the office transmitted where the fire was and there was a very loud bell that rang to awaken the men upstairs and also signal how many alarms the fire was. Two or three rings meant a big one. Dad was a ‘smoke eater’. Apt nickname as this was way before Scott Air packs. The men just had some sort of filter box and a hose to a mask. Sort of like having a T Shirt on your face at a campfire. Not too effective. Many were the calls late at night to our home telling them Dad was in hospital again with smoke inhalation.
Like most city men who put their lives on the line, the firemen were hard drinkers. Sometimes they even drank with their brothers in arms, the cops. Rivalry and military barracks demeanor. There was already trouble brewing in the somewhat fashionable stucco home we lived in. I adored my dad, even though I would get ‘whipped’ now and then with a dowel rod from Dad’s basement workshop. Much later in life, I realized Dad loved him too. There were just too many half empty bottles in the joists above the basement shop that helped ease the pain of Dad’s life. One night there was a scream that woke everyone up. Dad had made a mistake with the gate on his table saw and cut off a couple of fingers. Another trip to the hospital for a firefighter. One of Dad’s good friends was a neurosurgeon and Dad got the fingers back. Working.
I got into Ham radio rather young, fifth grade. Dad, the old ladder climber, put up a “long wire” from the roof to a tree out on the boulevard. I contacted Russia one night and had my room’s south wall covered with QSL cards. Neighbors were a little prickly about the standing waves coming off of the antenna. Their Jackie Gleason program got scrambled. A few semi-polite knocks on the kitchen door from across the street. We could not change the antenna length or frequency so I stayed off the air for Gleason’s show.
We went up north to Wisconsin now and then. They built a cabin on Gull Lake and except for the resort next door, it was the only cabin on the lake. Fishing was pretty good and I would row out to the edge of the Lilly pads and using a popper on a fly rod, limit out on big sunfish and paper mouth’s. Twice a day. Lunch and supper. Papa was really good at cleaning fish. The owner of the Gull Lake Resort grilled them very well and I still love the sound of a swirl at the edge of a lilly pad.
My father taught me how to survive a fight and at fourteen I succeeded in knocking him out for a minute or two. Special move when grabbed from behind. All in all, we had a good time there in the woods. One time he sawed off an end of the ridgepole and it dropped down on my head. “Are you OK?” I was OK. It was a small end of a 2x 4. Norwegian head vs wood at 9.8 m/s ^ 2
A few years later, my mother had an affair with a city fireman that lived nearby. Different firehouse. There was a bit of a battle one night and soon after, dad came down from upstairs with his suitcase swinging. I ran into the bathroom and sobbed. My mother and sister were laughing with joy right outside the door. They didn’t know how much I loved him, they didn’t know this imperfect man like I did. The other fireman soon moved in and he wasn’t much fun. He smelled odd, he was fat and sexual towards sis and I. He didn’t belong in my life. Never did.
I found my father out in California after the Navy. My girlfriend and I were rescuing an old school bus for the West Bank Diocese in Minneapolis. They flew us out to San Francisco and I found the bus right where it died. Blown Piston. With a lot of help from my old Berkeley friend, Bil Wong. Master mechanic (where the bus was parked) we put a new piston in it.
Bil had the best laugh I have ever heard and we worked together up in that bus engine bay and underneath. Bil was part of the jaguar timing club in Berkeley when I lived there. That club always met at the very first Peet’s coffee house by circling the intersection, loudly. Fun roadsters for sure.
Ellen and I slept in the bus for a week. We changed the oil, put in fuel and drove off to San Diego to find my father. We found him in Rancho Bernardo. Classy neighborhood that was not pleased with an old green school bus that had the word FURTHER on the windshield destination panel. Hippie bus. My long hair the clincher.
Dad’s next door neighbor adjusted the valves while it was running! Stove-bolt 235 straight six. A retired GM factory mechanic that was astounding and tuned that engine till it just ticked over at idle. Smooth as new.
My father was overjoyed to see me and it went well. My girl friend, Ellen,had an old boyfriend in near by San Diego and he picked her up soon after for a visit. She came back very late and confessed to me, after I asked her if she slept With him. “Yes”Things were never quite the same between us.
At breakfast my father said as he looked me in the eye, “they all do that’. He also told me that I was to be the executor of his will. A result of that decision of his you can read about in “The chain saw and the trout stream”
The bus ran great all the way through the mountains and I had accomplished the assignment. Back to working on the section gang at the BN. I had to tell Ellen to leave soon after. However as usual, it was pretty good.
I took on a home project the other day, replacing the kitchen faucet. It took all day, odd tools and a session with my past habits. It began, like most ‘easy’ home projects without any trouble. Removing that drippy faucet was awkward for an older man on his back, under the sink, and being somewhat careful to not disconnect any pipes of drainage and to avoid set mouse traps. Two fittings did not seem possible to remove. They were up high, constricted and large. Rummaging in the old big toolbox in the standard dimension wrench drawer revealed a very old Ford wrench that amazingly, seemed correct for the job. It was a perfect fit and was offset . A one inch open end, perhaps for my 41 Ford coupe?
I took the old faucet and noticed it was a major brand that sets forth a ‘lifetime warranty’ Sounds good! I took it to the major big-box store where it was purchased some years ago and ran into an instant refusal. The initially friendly young woman behind the counter asked for the paid receipt and it was long gone from years ago. I was expecting ‘no problem, it’s warranted for life! Go get another one and bring it back for exchange” It happened when the original one failed a decade ago. There was no receipt then either. Things had changed at the big-box. Then an an argument ensued from what was supposed to be an easy return.
It got heated, at the final refusal, I spun around towards the door and threw the defective faucet on the sidewalk and it lost a few pieces in the process. I slunk away, one of my digits shaking from the emotion and sat behind the wheel of the Fusion. I knew I was wrong and I prayed for somehow to make it right.
I finally came back in and the counter woman had an expression that was unpleasant to see.I went up to a smiling worker and asked for the store manager. He came and after a short, somewhat snarky conversation, gave in and told me to go get another Delta faucet off the shelf and bring it back. The manager opened the box on the counter and pulled out the faucet and parts and ‘tossed in’ the remains of the old one. I took the awkward double handful and put them in the car. What I had just done worried me.
I went back in (3rd time) and went shopping with the list. I met the manager a ways down in the huge store and called him over by name. I was genuine and mild by now in apologizing for my attitude. The manager understood and they shook hands. For ‘some reason’ I remembered the managers name to call out to him. Astonishing, it Felt good. I tracked down the clerks he had words with and humbled himself as best he knew how and also apologized and asked them shake on it. It felt right.
Later, on the drive home, I realized the freedom I had experienced and broke down while listening to a friends song about someone that was still hurting but was still able to look back on the Lord and ask for forgiveness and strength to do what was good and right. I knew another change had occurred within me. Deep with truth about my brokenness and looking for help from the only one that could help.
I was in my twenties when I found an apartment that fitted my self image. I was recently discharged from the military and I was going to art school. That apartment reflected the inherited car from my Grandfather, an old, square shaped Buick sedan. It wasn’t even close to my previous car, the British Racing Green MGA with the real knock-off spoke wheels and Pirelli Cinturados and a Derrington wood rim steering wheel. No, It was the car of my discarded Grandfather, now passed down to me. Discarded because the once strong Minneapolis Captain fireman was not useful anymore. Off to the nursing home and the inevitable deterioration to death. “You next!” is the well known movie line.
Grandpa had killed my cat when I was young, just because it deserved to be discarded in his opinion. I felt like that too. Then my mother and sex obsessed step father sold my precious MGA when I joined the Navy as the draft came in with a whirlwind of death harvest for Vietnam. I signed on first before I might have gone west to the jungles. When I got to boot camp in San Diego, my DI announced ” hey Peterson, you just got drafted!” Close call.
I went east to the Mediterranean sea instead. So now I sold the Buick right away, traded it for an Austin Healy Sprite. My new roommate, Bruce, made the trade with me. He had just gotten back from Nam. It felt good to be in a roadster again. Made up a bit for the Green MGA and the cat. The cat trauma however, lingered in my hypothalamus for decades.
My post Navy apartment was a dump. Second floor above a Sherman Williams paint store on the wrong side of the tracks. Corner store, separate entrance. I had a neighbor who was down and out too and bummed smokes. When I would ask him how things were going, the neighbor always said: “just take me to the dump” It seems that the latest attitude many of us have. “It’s at the end of it’s service life” or “that old thing? Too expensive to fix, toss it” “ You’re what! Pregnant! Git rid of it, You’ve got your whole life ahead of you!” and our favorite: “Heck, he’s over 80. Forget that cornea transplant. I mean really, how many years does he have left anyway?” “Put her in a home, she won’t notice anyway” And so forth.
Feeling useless because the popular philosophy now is Existential in nature. One man in particular, a philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, went insane in the most beautiful country in the world, Switzerland. He came to the point of knowing the tension and despair for the loss of meaning in his life because of the loss of a personal God. His words are profound: “ But all pleasure seeks eternity-a deep and profound eternity”. Our country has found itself discarding our God of Creation perhaps because He is inconvenient and is sort of a kill joy because of all those rules he has. “I can’t follow all those rules in the Bible!” Of course we can’t, that’s the point of the rules. We need Him. That’s not a rule, it’s a choice because we were built to do so.
So we discard what we feel and know is not worthwhile to us. An old car, out of date food and personal relationships that are used up and don’t make us feel the way we want to. Or the way we feel we are entitled to perhaps. We have so much ‘stuff ‘ that it gets in our way when we don’t like it or need it. Broken things, old things past their expiration dates. Things that we don’t even remember acquiring. And so it goes on and on until it becomes easier to discard than repair. “That car, it was getting old and anyway, I was tired of driving it” How much different is it when it comes to this? “He was getting on my nerves. All this talk about going to a church marriage counselor! It was his fault, so I divorced him” Thus the rise of storage units. Everywhere. I just cannot get rid of that table! The storage unit is full within a week.
It seems prudent to us to just put it in a blue plastic container and park it down by the end of the driveway every Tuesday. ‘Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water! Throw out the tub too!’ I can do what I want, that’s what the world says. Another philosopher, De Sade put it well: “If there is no standard, no real moral base, then that old woman walking down the road can either be helped or run over. No difference if there are no moral standards” We can agree on being kind to others is a basic moral standard. Where does that come from? Are we kind to ourselves? Questions abound in my mind about those things. Most likely yours too. Hunger for answers to purpose and how to fulfill it.Those thoughts are the building blocks to our lives.
So, it’s our choices, the small ones that make a great impact on everyone. Should I discard this friend? This inconvenient baby? This old fashioned religious teaching? This God who never did anything I asked Him to do!
Always, always our choice to build, repair, embrace and seek truth in the eyes of the Man who is more alive than any man who ever lived. Jesus, the master repairman of old and stressed lives.
Read the sequel Motorcycle Pilgrimage 1. At this website.
We have all done these things. New curtains and carpets, out with the old and in with the new as the saying goes. It was with more than trepidation that a task came to the forefront of our lives. The ‘tearing down and rebuilding task. Two forty yard roll off dumpsters sort of thing. Nails and ancient dimension lumber. Insulation above that appeared to be cotton candy coated with mice having their own free wheeling toilet and dining areas.
All of it, the windows, sill plates and trusses. 30 by 40 or so. Fifty years ago it was old when I bought this farm in 1976. I drove up with the rental van and walked in the rain to the barn that faced the house. April fools day, 1976. All I could think of was to play my fiddle on some old bales of hay and look at the house through the open barn doors. First house, my best friend about ½ mile away and a mortgage through the GI loan. A life style remodel, boot camp haircuts sorts of things.
Two years later, I was on the bathroom throne and collapsed on the floor getting up. I could not rise. Excruciating pain. A slipped disk pressing nerves to my legs. I was able to crawl. I occupied my mind by reading old newspapers off the floor. Zippy the pinhead comics were distracting and pleasurable read. That worked for a few days and I began to go into a bit of a decline.
I survived by crawling into the kitchen and drinking the cat water. The black wall phone was unreachable. It was die or get help. I emptied my dresser and made a ramp and rolled onto the bed, There was a princess phone on the wall side of the bed. (not pink)
An ambulance ride and extensive traction gave me mobility. Spike mauls and shovels were a not an option and I ran out of ‘injury’ pay and had to sue the railroad for money to live. The settlement was very low and it would pay the VA loan for a year.
It seemed a good idea to open a repair shop for foreign vehicles! I had experienced many years of repairing engines and with my electronics background, it was plausible. Hand lapping a failed rod bearing in Omaha while under my truck was my diploma for repairing engines. Emery cloth looped around the journal. 100 strokes, turn the engine 90 degrees, repeat, 180, 270 and back to the top. 2 or 3 hours or so, Mic the journal. When it got close, I switched to fine and polished it up pretty good. Perfect oil pressure and never gave me trouble again. It took about 3 days. (The people that helped me were the ones I met on Motorcycle Pilgrimage 1). Amazing people. Their friends had a repair shop and they loaned me everything I needed. Even got me a ten thousands under set of rod shells!
Foreign cars was my niche. After all, there were at least a dozen foreign cars in the county. A kind and clever snap on dealer had me rebuild his 280Z engine for the tools it would take to do it. Micrometer, cylinder gauge, ridge reamer, cylinder hones, ring compressor, torque wrenches. It ran quite well and I was off and running and walking and bending quite well. That tool dealer spread the word and slowly, my business was created. An LLC was obtained and I named it Fine Tuning Auto.
Sliding wood doors and no heat with a somewhat usable floor and foundation. 30 x 40 feet. I was 30 and could do anything, just like my son to come. The barn and chicken coop and old silo foundation were gone soon, along with the summer kitchen later. Oak 2×4 boards that held nails strong enough for mild tornadic winds. A time lapse film would appear interesting. A friend built a chimney in the shop and wood heat helped in the winter.
There was a remnant of a barn on the adjoining property to the north and it had some nice old ‘barn wood’ left (most likely a remnant of the original owner of my land owned that 10 acres) I took that wood and paneled my kitchen with it. (The owner of that property said take what you want.) He came over frequently and was a farmer with a good sense of humor. Claire Melin.
50 years later, our house was completely remodeled but that barn wood is still on the wall. Akin to an old Ford 8N parked by the driveway we have all seen here and there. Fond memories that trigger us to the past.
As I have referred to some of these events in missives, they remain in that section of my mind located 3 ½ inches between my ears. Influential, pleasant in formation and now known as the path and road to redemption.
“Why did this happen? Why would a loving God make me go through this agony? We ALL ask these questions. Puzzled, we attempt to understand and perhaps even control the events of our lives that we cannot anticipate nor control, Since my conception (or perhaps even before) I was made for purposes that make sense, to me.
Here I am, with beauty and fulfillment surrounding my life. I think I have arrived here because of my Resistance and spectrum gift. Gifts indeed. I have tofinished well. It is all due to Him who made me, just to be here with His face turned towards me and giving me joy.
Now is the present and things are quite different. We just signed over the property to our youngest son that lives with us. Protecting the property from the possibility of a nursing home using to IRS to bleed us with $100 nail clipping funds and hot-dogs for lunch. Our son, Soren, is gifted in construction and mechanics. Naturally. He has excellent friends that help him with their labor as I did. Just making a ‘garden coral’, ( to protect the plants from the deer that have been corralled by nature here) and putting the place right in so many ways
I help as much as I can and so does Julie. I volunteer at church as does he and we have good friends to encourage us on our paths to the Blessed Assurance that guides us all. You know who that is. Jesus, Lord of all.
I know now that God does not have a plan, He is plan.
1. The series, Motor Cycle Pilgrimage 2, has details of Omaha friends @ Gatorsgracenotes.com
What a gift to have met and then be offered friendship with the beautiful ones. Living in the Forty Acres of musicians neighborhood, I found myself with room mates that still astonish decades later.
Bill Hinkley and Judy Larson took me under their wing and taught me well about music and love. The romance of Kismet. Poets with guitars and a mandolin, Coleridge and Tennyson did not anticipate these two.
A gentleness with much laughter and brilliance. Together they astonished people coast to coast. The little coffee houses, the folk music cafe’s. Platforms and postage stamp stages. It was the same show every time. The musical score was different from place to place, but the humor and duet solidity was always the same. They got invited back all the time. It was a dance with romance that never grew old, for all of us and them too.
I was invited along on a road trip with them, way back in the early 70’s. That’s a bit over 50 years ago in the last century if you like doing math while reading. Small town colleges were a significant place to perform on the trip. From Indiana to Pennsylvania and then way up in northern New York state to finish off. Four of us in the old four door. Myself, Mike Cass and Bill and Judy. The trunk had a few small packs of personal “stage clothing” (no cowboy hats) and a few changes of underwear. The rest of the trunk was instrument cases lined up. Fender to fender with guitars, mandolins, a dobro, several fiddles and a pedal steel.
We ate at Campus’ lunchrooms (Whittenberg in Ohio was the best) and made do with sleeping quarters. Often the sleeping bags were used on the living room floors of the friendly families that arranged the bookings. No extra money for a motel. Air B&B was not even a concept and hotels had good water pressure with room costs to match.
It was a grand time and music poured out like anointed oil upon this rag-tag quartet. Gas was cheap and the car didn’t use any oil either. There were tips from impromptu sidewalk venues and generous amounts of coffee and sandwiches from club owners. We ate well and for the most part, played well. Plenty of obscure folk and country blues songs that resonated with us and the young folks that go to those sorts of places.
There were ‘green rooms’ at some of the clubs which was a luxury. We shared one with Louden Wainwright in upstate New York. Louden kept playing the jukebox when we were tuning up. At least it had a bathroom with a door.
Travel had it’s moments. Stopped by the New York state troopers we needed ID’s. I had lost my wallet in Ohio but did have a student guest pass for the lunchroom. “I’d hate to tell you what to do with that piece of paper sir” I always remember my military number and that did the trick. We were asked if we had any weapons or knives and Cass offered up his military can opener.He said it was a P38. Holsters were unsnapped and pistols from the troopers were at hand when it came out of Mikes pocket. It wasn’t a Walther 9mm pistol much to everyone’s relief. Mike was and still is world class with his music but at that time we had a slightly different opinion of him.
When Bill was dying at the VA (he was a military translator, fluent in Japanese. Hush hush stuff) I stood on his right and Jim Tordoff, an excellent banjo player, stood on his left. We prayed and told him, if it works this way, we would like him to meet us when it’s our turn. Meet us with that Lloyd Lohr Gibson with gold tuners and a Bill Monroe banjo with holy spirit resonator. We can then go worship the risen Lord forever together with the original music Trio. A Father Son with the best comms in the Universe. Holy Spirit.
Kiss the son indeed. We loved Bill and Judy, still do. It’s pretty good. Norman Peterson / Jack Gator
An analogy, inspired by an author that I owe greater debt than anyone for language. Imagine that there is an automobile that is sentient. With it’s own thoughts, desires and purpose. Then you own this automobile and are constantly tinkering with it: Redoing the paint and finish. Taking out critical things and making them better and more powerful. Putting the engine right with better pistons and timing components. Literally ripping out the seat coverings and replacing them with better fabric and even airflow types. Better mirrors to see what is behind and clear glass to see what is ahead. The basic model now being turned into a high performance one that is seen as needing these things. Not things the car wants to be done to it, but things the engineer knows will bring it closer to the ultimate car.
What would that tearing apart and scraping and stripping be like for an automobile that is aware of itself? The first thought would be “I could do all that is needed before! I could get from place to place in a reasonable fashion. Why make me go through all this painful change?”
And so it is with us. Our Lord and builder and designer of us has a way to improve us now that we have the ability to do our own modifications which are not part of His plan. The changes are only powerful and go deep if we connect with Him and then begin the process within us. I read a lot of Lewis, Beuchner, Winship and Batterson along with relevant dives those authors recommend into Scripture.
Still, often it is if I, desiring physical healing, went to a lecture about medicine. I have to look for change and how impossible it seems to do it myself.
All the good intentions we have are just that, thoughts. Our inner core cannot be changed by good intentions. We cannot be changed by a good friend telling us what is wrong. Worse yet, that good friend will usually tell us to ‘just stop doing that!’ As though a leaking faucet can be fixed by giving it good advice to stop dripping. The faucet needs a good plumber and I need my Creator.
He is The one that knows me and would love me to change. The change cannot be done by reading the instructions I am given by loved ones. The change comes by me opening my heart to the only one that can actually change me.
I can change if I finally realize I need to. The creator of all things and us, could fix me in an instant if He wished. He knows these things but I must discover how to contact my Creator and ask Him for help. There is no other way, no other path, no alternative treatment, no two for the price of one. Spiritual duct tape that will not do the job. I must die to my raging, often wounded, basic core and ask for the warranty that is offered for my spirit man, my heart, my soul. Whatever phrase works for you to realize how much you need change and are willing to go to any length to do so. Stop, look and then Listen.
I must answer the gentle knock on my door and accept the life offered. He could blow down my door if He wished, but the change must come from my desire, my surrender, giving up my love for the wrong things I have thought were right and the way I accomplished them. I must unlock that door to my heart.
My Creator knows me and desires me to know Him more. I talk to Him as often as I am able to. The way He showed me how to talk to Jesus, Prayer. It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator
It was a hard morning to get ready for a 30+ mile drive south. It was early, my coffee was getting cold and I was getting cold as well. It was still dark and I was getting depressed. It was from fear of the world’s ways and loss. I was seated in the impossible heavenly beauty and renewed and encouraged once again. The usual triggers that affect us: Checking account down under a C note, bills creating a breeze magnet on the table and prices getting into the ridiculous range at the grocery stores. Six bucks for a somewhat light loaf of bread? It must be organic, Vegan and sort of good for you if you like that sort of thing.
It is not good for anyone in the family to concentrate on those negative things, let alone the destruction of our state and country. Demented teachers running hard after perversion and seduction of children that, impossibly, seem paramount to the education agenda. No one I talk to has the slightest interest of those ideas, incredulous of how such a thing has happened.
Certainly the striped and incorrect depiction of our flag folks will respond to the above short paragraphs. I have strong memories of being underway on my Navy ship, flying the American flag night and day. With a strong light upon it at night. The real flag, Superman’s flag of “ Truth, Justice and the American way” Not indoctrination, brain washing and the Orwellian ways. No one I meet, casual or acquaintances, has any truck with this nonsense. The rural life of family, neighbors and reality.
It was time for the ritual which my youngest son enjoys. Laying out his coffee equipment before he awakens. Thermos, sugar and long stirring spoon. Turning on the Keurig and holding the storm door open for him (from the outside to clear his load of lunch, motorcycle helmet and warm jacket.) Then standing on the porch that faces the driveway to wave him off. It is a family tradition. If he is driving his car, he keeps the dome light on briefly so I can see him waving back. I watch till he turns north at the end of the ¼ mile driveway.
The parlor wood stove is now working well with new firebricks and angle/strap supports. All installed by my son and his friend. They welded, ground brick to fit and cleaned and got filthy in the process. It works so much better. Warmth in later fall is welcome and secure feeling.
And so there I sat, in my chair in the dark living room of early morning. Holding my hot coffee, I looked up at the library walk and above it at the big half round window. This morning, it was perfectly aligned just for me, showing my favorite constellation, Orion. His belt and his sword clear and the words came loud and clear . “He made me alive, when I was dead and he raised me up and seated me with Christ. And it’s by His grace that I am saved and it’s through faith, the very gift of God.” That is part of a song adapted from Ephesians by Justin Rizzo
Even though I have walked through the valley of death many times, there is a calm that quickly settles over me.
Once again, I know my creator is smiling at me and the galaxies are perfectly arranged to show me I am seen and loved. The message is clear.. Jesus is with me and sees all the trepidation and troubles of out families lives. “This time too, it will be OK” Just as the way the Lord has used his power and audible voice to literally save my life several times. This time the Lord of Lords is with me. It is the last lines in the book of Job, It is the new Testament books of Jesus healing and loving that are reflected in that window. High above me and in the darkness. I know my Redeemer lives. My family is seen and we are not alone.
I needed to pull some steel staples from a corner post. The garden fence was coming down and was going to be ‘recycled’ as a fence for the upcoming chicken yard. A prison exercise yard with out weights and the tough guys with fur are usually on the other side of the fence.
The first time I had chickens a half century ago, I was pleased with the eggs and felt like a real small farm owner. One day I looked north from the kitchen window and saw a fox running next to the north fence line with a pillow in it’s mouth! Very new at agronomy I quickly realized the big white object was a chicken. Time for a chicken yard my neighbors informed me. Now, half a century later, a new chicken yard was being planned with the old inadequately high garden fence.
The deer ate our snap peas, beans, tops of the broccoli and brussels sprouts last season. Some of the flowers were nipped in the bud but the Kale was OK. Figures. Time to put in all wood posts and 7 ½ foot coated fencing. That fence would ‘discourage’ the deer and we would be able to eat fresh veggies this summer.
Thus the old perimeter fence was in process of removal and as it was bent around the corner posts, it was held on by those steel brads/ staples very firmly, top and bottom. It was my job to remove them and help roll up the old fencing. The damaged fencing had to be yanked out and flattened to take to the scrap yard along with the barbecue, T posts, truck rims. Those things had reached the end of their service life.
I had to lie down on the grass to pry out that spiked metal with a judiciously placed screw driver. A hammer assisted the placement and the prying went well. I was pausing after setting my ‘lever’ and looking at our home and being pleased and astonished..again..at what had been done in a half century at this homestead. White siding with sun ray blue half moon trim over the gable ends and upper windows.
I always said I wanted to go as Matthew did in Green Gables. Out by the fence just falling over I was in the perfect place with the perfect spirit to realize this was eminent. Bright sun and the spring weather was in the high sixties. I laid my head back, on my side I surrendered and reached out with my arms for Jesus and held tight. It was right, it was perfect and Julie and Soren would find me just as I had spoken to them about this scenario. I soon awoke to the son in my face and felt relieved and disappointed. Not now but the beauty will never leave me
The staple came out, the spikes came out and the post was free of it’s burden. Once again Jesus had touched me and told me how he loved my surrender and it was pretty good.
Jack gators grace notes 