Perhaps a little history is in order after several years of columns. The alligator part is convoluted but interesting non-the-less, it’s true as is most of the personal stories that have appeared here.

There was a fiddle contest and Jack did not have any ‘glossies’ to show off his incredible countenance and poise.

Searching shutter stock type photos for something appropriate for a cartoon like fiddler, one showed promise more than any other. It’s hard to find an exact match, but you get the idea. A good friend sketched the above logo to replace the cartoon. Very good friend. The complete sketch has an alligator lounging on a riverbank holding a fishing rod with a zebco real. pretty cool.

Grace notes. They are the little trills added in musical scores. Too rapidly played to notate but can be done with the musical note you see on the above logo…It’s the eighth note right next to Gator. An alternative and enhanced version of the term will come a bit later in this column. Play three of them quick and it’s pretty good to hear.

So there you have most of it explained, somewhat clearly. The fiddle contests were like any other sort of talent contest you have been in or watched live. As a contestant you dredge up your best stuff. The most beautiful waltz, the most furious and clever fast tune(s) Rehearse weeks before and on the spot of the contest. In the outdoor ones the parking lot is usually safe. An accompanist is a great help, guitar is the best if such a thing is allowed. Playing solo is revealing to the contestant. Nervous? Unsure? It happens all the time. Then there are Issac Stern fiddlers that have graduate degrees in music. They usually are half your age and their technique is flawless. Beyond third position of course (that’s way up in the stratosphere and neck stuff) It sounds gorgeous and often wins. A few times however, old Uncle Zeke shows up and with a little stagecraft and stunning old time fiddle technique, pulls off first place.

Time to rosin up your bow and check your zipper and stuff in your shirt. The judges are up front and sometimes appear like Robespierre who lost his contest in 1794 in France. Serious folks often. You don’t know who they are and sometimes they know nothing about music at all. Sort of like American Idol. If it makes you cry it might be OK. So serious. It helps to do a little jig and a joke, entertainment. It gets the crowd in a good mood.

Make sure the sound technician is on your side too. A serious nod of your head and an impressed comment on their four channel mixer from Radio Shack helps. Bring your own mic and such stuff. It helps calm you. Just don’t hit the mic with your bow. It’s a real stage fright moment. Set the mic far enough away from you.

Don’t pay too much attention to your competitors, you’ll get nervous..again. Look into that heart of yours and play the notes and slurs and fun jazzy stuff on the fly that you are gifted with. Jack isn’t very articulate on the fingerboard and compared to a lot of very good players, Jack is in the Yellow Cab metaphor. The old ones with the continental 4 banger under the hood. A little slow off the line but sturdy. Somewhat heavy in his frame too. One of his mentors, Judy Larsen told Jack once: “it must be nice to be on all the time” Jack realized it was the notes in his head that always had a little ‘twink’. Adding something to someone else playing. Of course, solo is a bit trickier. Pay attention to that small still voice that speaks to you. He will tell you what to play, note by note if you listen closely. Play for Him that loves it when you do. It will put joy in your heart and a smile on your face.

It’s nothing fancy I am mentioning. It’s listening to the man that has always loved your playing and wants to give you the rhythm that pleases, the impossible harmonics and flatted notes that shouldn’t be there. “Just surround those out of place notes with friendly ones and do it again. It will sound like jazz” Judy again.

Gator loves to play when his favorite mentor is his focus. He shows up a lot when you want Him there and that is the other explanation of Grace Notes. He is filled with grace and you will note it. It’s Jesus. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Every One Counts or Nobody Counts

Francis Schaeffer from L’Abri wrote a book that Jack reads so often that the appearance of the book could be described as ‘shabby’. Dog eared pages, coffee stains on the cover and other signs of good scholarship and a care free habit of Jack’s. Books are meant to be read. Over and over if necessary. Truth is a full meal of life and digestion takes time and circumstance. An irritating and comforting habit for the Gator family. ‘Where’s Papa?’

‘He’s in his chair in the living room, he was asleep last time I looked’ (with a book that is now on the floor or sitting next to him underneath his coffee cup)

Research is entertainment to some people, like Jack. He reads at breakfast a lot. It helps communication with the rest of the family if it is 4 am. Distractions such as conversation and passing the maple syrup are not an issue. Then. Sip the fresh brewed coffee from Berkeley’s storehouse of Jamaica Blue Mountain and Hawaiian Kona with a little Tanzanian Peaberry for the punch. Jack tries to not make too much noise with the grinder. Jack has gone to the length of hiding the grinder underneath his bathrobe when it is running. Anything to further his alone time.

Jack learned all these secrets from a next door neighbor some time ago. When Jack was living in the big city, his next door neighbor was Miss Thrope. She did not care for Jack or anyone else for that matter. Being reclusive, they were both intrigued with one another. Jack was in his twenties and Miss Thrope was a bit older, around 70 or so. A chance meeting at 6 am when they both were taking the garbage out put them briefly together. Quick shy glances and a slight uplifting eyebrow now and then did the trick. They were intrigued as members of the same extended family can be with one another. Miss Thrope said something, a bit sarcastically perhaps. “Like the classic two ships passing in the night, eh Mr.Gator?” Jack immediately responded, “More like two garbage trucks passing down the alley” It was then, the impossible friendship began with a little chuckle from them both.

Jack had to leave the neighborhood because being an academic works if you can get tenure or better yet, a position of a Don or a professor of the literature teaching and syllabus for the courses. Jack, however, had a manual labor job that was ‘up north’. It helped Jack get fit (he lost his conditioning in Boot Camp in San Diego.) Another story in the upcoming collection of stories.

Jack did stay in touch with Miss Thrope via email and such. They skyped and posted pictures on Facebook. Both of them were writers of a ‘different’ genre. The same authors were on their ‘best seller list’ as well. Aristotle, St.Francis, Origen, Pascal, Bunyan, MacDonald, Chesterton, Lewis. Just a few come to mind as this is written.

It didn’t take long for those ‘next door neighbors’ to discover they could talk for hours about an obscure and beautiful writing from Shakespeare or Milton. New stuff flew into their physical mailboxes, Jack as well as his good friend and confidant, Miss Thrope. They critiqued each others writing and columns written. No one knew what to make of it. C.S. Lewis had Mrs. Moore at the Kiln’s and no one knew what to make of them either.

Miss Thrope is now gone from all of us. She wore out herself. She made it to her late 80’s, and Jack misses her laughter and intellect. Two peas in a pot as Stan Laurel said. Jack is still Jack, even though he is married to a wonderful gal and they have three sons. None of them write steady, the youngest shows great promise though.

Jack still eats his breakfast alone most days and retreats now and then to another place in his mind. He likes the description of his life and Miss. Thrope. Her first name was Ann. Put it together, It’s pretty good.

Jack Gator

There is a common rule among all drivers now. 5 over. If you are in a hurry, 10 over. If you are in a real hurry, pass everyone even if it means a turn not far ahead (or passing on the double yellow.) In the early morning commute, the vehicles stack up behind you like a string of expensive glowing pearls. Keeping a common camaraderie among them month after month..”Oh here comes old one eye up from Bad Elbow, wonder when they are going to get that headlight bulb replaced”

Big rigs with huge grills, metallic white sharks so close that their headlights aren’t visible in your rear view. Hid headlights that allow them to see 17 miles ahead Old clapped out Chevy something or another, wheezing along with hydrocarbons sleething into your ventilation intake. Black Suburbans with lots of antennas, incognito.

The usual crowd found bellying up to the fuel bar, old acquaintances and odd new models. An occasional tuner with the uneven hot sound of cam work, masculine exhaust tones and turbo blowing off after passing. The triple porthole Buick bar where everyone knows how to ballroom dance. “See you at the Legion later!”

So, the unwritten rule, as stated, is at least 5 over for the pearl parade. Adjust that cruise button as needed beyond the basic when the string stacks a bit. An occasional maniac passing the whole string on a curve, over the double yellow because they estimate safety with oncoming headlights. Rebels living on a thin line, snorting adrenaline glee.

Jack has done that recently. Passing an old motor home that was towing a trailer, it seemed there was enough passing length to do it. The motor home, impossibly, began accelerating and another truck with a trailer moved up where Jack’s car was. They did not slow down to let Jack back in. Blocked and an oncoming car was now ahead of calculation. Jack had to floor it. Blessedly enough, the newer V6 responded and at 80+ Jack pulled in just in time in front of the head on death rendezvous. Greta was not thrilled. There was no other recourse except to head for the very steep ditch on Jack’s left. More death, a bit slower perhaps.

Of course, Jack had a good excuse to defy death. This time. The oncoming driver just flashed his lights. As though Jack could do something else but sprint. “I’m not slowing down for this idiot!” Death coming near.

So, if we tolerate the ease of breaking the speed limit (not TOO much, just enough to be unnoticed by the flashing blue/red lights donuts folks. Plain cake, doesn’t get on your uniform. They know the five over game too. The cops work hard and are on the line for us. I’m not critical, I know a few and they like humor.

So, the question is: How much ‘sin’ is 5 over the limit? 10 over perhaps? There are some folks that believe the more they sin, the more grace abounds. There is a long name for that attitude: antinomianism. Neat name for professing Christians that don’t worry about Jesus too much. “I’m OK, not as bad as the prodigal son!” So the question bears upon us: What do we do with the sin limit? What is it? Oh, and by the way, in case you miss it,

I am threatening you with the worm that never dies and the fire that never goes out. 1.

There isn’t any get out of hell card. We are all deserving an ‘ unpleasant eternal existence’ unless we realize that and come to a place where we want to be saved. Saved from what? Saved from the Father is the best explanation. He does not tolerate any of my sin. None of it, zero. We make up a ‘sin limit’ “I’m not so bad, really!” We Are.

Take comfort in not being perfect. There was only one perfect man and he died for me and you and actually, every person on the planet including ones not yet born! The incredible writer of over half of the New Testament put it well: “but I am carnal…for what I will to do, that I do not practice, but what I hate, that I do…Oh wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

It seems so simple and yet is the hardest thing to do. Admit the truth about yourself. Talk to Jesus, do it now before it’s too late. He will speak to you and give you joy. Talk to Him about all these things. Every day is a good idea. Saved and loved, It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

1. G.K. Chesterton and Jonathon Edwards 2. Paul of Tarsis

It was a long time coming. A revelation of the deep things Jack has stored within himself. It was quite a few years ago when Jack was just out of the Navy. He was living in his Mother’s basement and going to junior college. The third house that had a remnant of the Gator household, now containing Grandpa, Mom and the Swedish fireman. Not pleasant but the best Jack could do after getting discharged down in Virginia with one more free plane ride to ‘go home’. Not like coming home to a small town and getting the welcome back treatment on main street. Big city home and new neighbors that are somewhat crabby about mom’s Buick convertible, Grandpa’s older Chevy Biscayne and the Swede’s ‘spaceship’ with the huge tail fins.

A job came up for Jack, working the YMCA youth program. That is where Jack found the love of his life. A quick engagement and suddenly, she disappeared. Jack looked all over the big city, usual places, he could not find her nor anyone that knew her either. Weeks went by and the tension was unbelievable. A little Later, Jack found out she had left him for a famous stage actor.

That was a traumatic event that got filed away in Jack’s emotional file within him. It never occurred to anyone, especially Jack, that there was an emotional paradigm that was operative for decades.

Jack found his old fiancé in a mental lockup downtown quite a few years later. Same friend that told him about the actor. Jack bluffed his way in posing as a youth pastor. His past love was in a bad way, drugged. She came out of the fog briefly and asked Jack bluntly: “Why are you here?” Without thinking about an answer, Jack just told her; “because I love you!” A shift occurred within Jack. Unknown to Jack that was not the whole story for him. The fear and conviction of being abandoned again was deep in Jack.

Every time that a person, often Jack’s wife, would somehow disappear, the trauma would slide into Jack and unbeknownst to Jack, he would be back getting that phone call about the actor and his old fiance. The reaction would be to assume that the disappearance was some inadequacy in Jack or flat out abandonment. When it finally came to light; that emotional response, it was stunning and explained a lot of Jack’s odd behaviors and emotional oddities. Anxiety, depression, expected abandonment. It finally came forth around the kitchen counter, piled high with peppers from the garden. Jack kept focusing on a pepper that had a damaged part that jack really wanted to cut off. A very interesting focus when viewed afterwards. Cut out the damaged part. When he was brought back to what was being discussed about this age old wound, Jack had a life changing epiphany. Expecting abandonment around every conversation, every giving of attention and love. Why fight it, no one really cares enough to let you in on the secret dashing off to someone that is much more important.

Lies that Jack has embraced for at least a half a decade or more. Has anyone else ever made that unconscious decision to pull the pin again on that emotional grenade? It doesn’t go off with a sudden bang, it’s more like a nerve gas release. A vaccine to remove attachment to anyone that Jack would give a piece of his heart. The more pieces, the greater possibility of withdrawing. An unpleasant disconnect that was not apparent to Jack. Another ‘checking out’ to his loved ones. “I thought you might have called when you got there” or “I was out with our son in the shop, all you had to do was text me” etc..Expect, oh yes expect adoration from everyone because soon, they will dump you for someone else. Make sure you get the ring back. One of those trauma/wounds that lingers like a deerfly in the raspberry patch. At the end of this conversation, both Jack and his patient wife began to pray.

Revelation and freedom can indeed occur, it really can happen with a distinctly unique ‘tool’ that the Gator’s keep handy. Easy tool to find, you just have to want to find and use it. Prayer. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Everyone has one. It’s often the go-to place when your world does not make sense. A child’s ‘fort’ in an easily climbed tree or a cave of sorts nearby. A place found when wandering a bit perhaps. Created or found, a secret place is usually not such a secret from family. However, it is such a place that is a wonderful secret. Many times the only person who sees it as a secret place is the only person who knows of it.They Know what happens there and why it is there.

Jack’s secret place is known by the whole clan and they know where it is. “Up in the cathedral” A planting put in a ‘few’ decades ago that reminds Jack of the Vatican. Somehow, the Swiss guards let Jack in just to wander about. Jack had been living on the street for several months and most likely was taken by the guards for what he was: A street urchin seeking value and truth and wonder. The seemingly endless corridors that had perspective there stamped a vision into Jack. Long narrow corridors, lined with incredible artwork are, at the least, Cathedrals.

The Sistine Chapel was pretty good too but the Vatican itself was stunning to the artist within Jack.

This day was difficult as the family pooch had disappeared/run off/vanished. She even had on her electronic ‘call’ collar on and the hand held unit showed no signal bars from the collar. Out of range. Not good.

Everyone searched the whole property, up and down the township road too. Roaring about with the 4 wheeler that the pooch loves to race, no response. Oh oh. Hours went by and everyone retreated to their own secret places. Eventually, Jack did the same thing. Up the hill, into the pines and sat on the new bench (green treat wood) and began complaining to the creator of the universe about his beloved dog. Seems reasonable. He knows our hearts and impossibly, spends as much time with us as we want, just to talk. After all, He invented time so He doesn’t need a Rolex. More complaining from Jack as concentration on the conversations is difficult for him.

Please show me where she is! You know where, you know everything. Why is this happening to us, don’t you care? How can we find her? Can we do anything?

More of the same. That’s what nice about a secret place. You can get loud and passionate without concern for others around. They aren’t. So, just a day ago, God showed Jack that He heard him by dropping a pine needle right on jacks sweatshirt, right over Jack’s heart. When asked to show Himself, He did immediately and so now what to do.

Jack left his cathedral and walked the long way back to the homestead. Depressed but still moving. Mrs Gator gave Jack the remote control of the collar buzzer which of course, showed no signal from the dog.”Why don’t you drive around the block or something? Maybe you’ll get a signal!” Jack drove out the driveway and turned right and at the next driveway over the hill, he turned right again. Ok, this is where Mrs Gator looked before but it’s as good a place to start again I suppose. Long driveway, a mile in, Jack went left to the steep, washed out gravel road and stopped by a new home. Not willing to go down a very steep incline ahead, Jack put the car in reverse and looked at the data on the hand held. Five bars! The dog was ten feet away. Filthy and covered with burrs, she got in the back seat and Jack drove back home to a bathtub for the dog. Deeply thankful and knowing, he was led by a very quiet, still small voice. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Jack reads..a lot. There are open books scattered throughout the house, some dog eared, others left for perusal at some undefined date. Some of those books are older ones that Jack read some before. There is a bit of wonderment, even from Jack, why would he read once again a book devoured times ago?

There is a joy involved in reading again a MacDonald, a Bunyan or even a Dante that defies a description by observers or even Jack himself. “ I thought you had read that one” or “ I guess you need to go through your Lewis again” It’s not that at all. It’s a hunger and the joy of a meadow once trod upon that comes into view. Quite unprepared for astonishing beauty, the lay of the land forgotten and unexpected things underfoot. Vague memories, stirred into sight and remembered more strongly than before.

It’s hard to leave and there is a presence that brings a smile and appreciation of it. The time Jack was reading his care-worn ‘ Mere Christianity’, and it occurred to him why some folks, even his own, are a bit puzzled about this habit of his. Almost as though a reaction to eating again a well prepared meal from the Mrs, or impossibly devouring a sandwich eaten years ago. Of course, there are favorite dishes, and the memory of them is fleeting but pleasant. “Didn’t we put horseradish on this sandwich last time?” can always pop the bubble for the cook.

The point is, it’s not the exact same sandwich eaten long ago, but seen and tasted anew. Even the drawings or lithographs are seen with more experience and depth. Perhaps, akin to the horseradish, it is better for the lack of it. It is, however, the same book that was not quite as absorbing or understood before.

There is one book that Gator reads over and over and always finds something new. It’s fascinating. The undeniable, “That wasn’t in there the last time!” It feels as though one of the Gator family has stuck a page or paragraph into the book just to astonish and puzzle Jack. Fun game if it were real. But of course, none of us are talented as bookbinders to pull it off. Jack does know a good friend that could do it. That friend doesn’t need to put paragraphs into Jack’s favorite book. It’s his favorite book as well and Jack, at times, puts paragraphs into his book by just speaking them. It’s called scholarship. Good friends, they share the love of old books and they both have the same favorite.

As usual in this column, you probably know the book Jack reads as his favorite. It’s a history book which goes back to the time before time. At the last chapter the book looks ahead in time to tell us history to come. Amazing. Some folks dismiss this book as fiction instead of history. Some people re-write it to agree with their feelings. Some people read it and see themselves revealed in it. It’s a real thriller, lot’s of intrigue and miracles. Whole nations becoming rich and powerful and then serious mistakes are made that destroy those nations. Tough people and weak people. People who put trust in pieces of trees (really!) People that destroy their own children for gain (sound familiar to the abortion industry of today?) Fierce battles, foolish kings. Prophets, people that hitch rides on flamed out chariots and valleys of bones turning into an army. The Earth turning backwards, complete burning destruction to cities and even a woman that turns into a pillar of salt! The whole story hinges on the hero of the book. It’s a young man from a crummy town that can heal people and give them the truth about themselves and all life’s purposes. He gives his life for everyone and promises those who love and trust him a grand eternal life. Oh yes, the hero dies and comes back to life! It’s the Bible, still the world’s best seller, available at quality book stores everywhere. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

A very pleasant late afternoon driving home. Riding in the Gator sedan with Greta in the left hand seat, Jack as co-pilot. A little controlled breeze from the sunroof swirling as it exited a slightly open right rear window. Delightful.

An exquisite meal at Watershed earlier with communion. Chianti, artisan bread with the Baruch, Ashem, Adonai toast at the end. On the deck overlooking the Osceola Creek. The rapids burbling and rushing below. Perfect.

Gator and Greta dressed to the ‘nines’ and being themselves as they enjoyed ‘eating out’ with more class than the nearby burger joint up the hill. A few conversations overheard as a gifted raconteur regaled his table well. Stories loud enough to somewhat enjoy. He was enjoying himself anyway. Don’t we all do that at times? Grace.

Driving home, commenting on the beauty of the homes visible. Two story with carpenters lace and porches, some with widows walks and many flowering bushes and perfect accouterments. A river town built right. There was a lot of traffic but jake braking was forbidden, the noise of the vehicles would just be a small rushing inside. They envision living there but without the other buildings, the maple trees and gardens. It would not be the same. Next window neighbors is the price for being capable to walk downtown for nice things.

As they drove by a Friday night concert in another town on the river, Jack was suddenly transfixed. There were a lot of people on lawn chairs, watching a stage below them. The band was just getting started as they slowly drove by. Heading north of highway 8 to their exquisite farmstead. The opening notes where instantly recognized by Jack as Johnny Cash’s ‘Folsom prison blues’ As the first lines began to fade the transition to old memories and surrealism.

Stuck in a prison vs living in the lap of luxury and just enjoying an old ballad that was never and will never be part of those listeners reality. Home to toast and honey afterwards. Driving a car or truck home without fear and without the air on for a change. “what’s in the fridge honey? Or should we go out?” More pretty swell homes overlooking the river and soon after, a half dozen trucks with boat trailers at the landing. Nice boats on the river. Fishing or just cruising on a swell night. Are you getting the picture?

We are millionaires in the world’s eyes and are worried about our 401k accounts. When our brief lives end, there is the auction with collectibles and coins. Antiques and machinery of all sorts. Not worth as much as when it was purchased, but hey, enough to pass on to the next family collector of wealth. Usually. Gator is not ranting about our wealth, not at all. His family is ‘doing well’ or as the usual greeting: “Hey, how are ya? I”m good” The usual banter when often Jack can’t remember the person’s name. We are good. Back to the concert and the old memories. “Stuck in Folsom prison and time keeps dragging’ on..”

Jack was recently in a men’s Bible study with a couple of dozen men around the tables. There was talk of jail ministries and suddenly, Jack asked the men: “Any of you guys ever done time? Even overnight for a minor infraction or a mistake by the police?” Those guys looked at Jack in an interesting way. The way someone is gazed upon when they are not wearing the right clothing or none at all.

Jack spent only a half a year in a Marine Red Line Brig in Southern Spain. Hard labor. It had it’s moments. We all marched double time to the mess hall and one of the guys had to bring that ubiquitous metal tray with food for the guard on duty. It was covered with a similar tray to keep the food warm. All the guys flipped the trays when running. It was a way to get back for a ‘dance’ in the isolation cell. It was really satisfying when the meal was mashed potatoes with gravy and shortcake. The term ‘Red line brig’ means if one of the ‘re-trainees’ stepped over the red line painted on the entry way floor, the duty guard was free to shoot you with his trusty 1911. No one tested the resolve of the door guard. Actually some of the guards were bored out of their gourd and would chat. It wasn’t too bad, really. Southern Spain gets a little warm in the summer when your shoveling sand or running a swing blade. The sleep deprivation and water to wake you up every hour for three days and nights was over the top too. Just a little welcome courtesy to show you around the place. And of course, put you in your place.

In some ways it made Jack have some empathy for the prisoners he would minister to much later in his life. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

The inspiration, a glimpse of Truth. The flag that Jack served under. Flying free from the fantail of his ship. All hands on deck. The enemy of our country aiming it’s guided missiles at him. Still the flag was there and it flapped off the fantail. Declaring we are the country of the free, home of the brave. A country that doesn’t give up when the odds and the enemies around us say we must quit, we must knuckle under people that don’t want those things, or worse yet, know those things and desire their own power more than the freedom we have.

We won all battles and we will do so again. These times, once again, will bring the true ruler into view. The only one that knows our hearts, sees our weakness’ and non-the less, loves us and heals us when we talk to him.

There are true lovers of the real power behind all things and these lovers have done, and continue to fight for the inalienable rights all men are endowed with. When told that all men are endowed with those rights,they pray for guidance that tells them how to honor all men and stand strong in their trust. Standing for that honor and knowing how to do so. The right ways to stand, the eternal rights given to stand. The knowledge that their hearts, given freely to their King, are guided and given strength. Enduring pain and suffering at times to do so.

You, reader, know these things. It was taught to us and if we suddenly realized that this teaching was right and true, there is no power on earth, no power of hell that can take that away. There will always be struggle to heal and be healed of hearts broken and at times, body breaking things to discourage us. It is imperative we do not give up nor give in to the weakness’ offered to us by evil and comfort offered. Judgment of our fellow man is just one of the weakness’ shown to make us less than what we are. C.S. Lewis, beloved author, suffered through two world wars and wrote great words that still show those truths to us. To no other man do I owe more for my ability to speak the truth. Sometimes I even listen and brought up short, I get back on that path of real life.

There was a time when Lewis was in a church service and he was critical of all the music he didn’t like and did not inspire him to love. He looked over the aisle and saw an old farmer, hands raised in adoration. A shabby old farmer with dirty boots, perhaps the only shoes he had. The farmer was weeping with joy and with his connection with God. Lewis realized suddenly he was not fit to clean and tie the laces of that man’s boots. Humbling and filled with the truth of his hearts emptiness, Lewis was transformed as Jack is when understanding how timeless and truthful that image is. Lewis too was nicknamed Jack. A good name Gator aspires to.

No one can denigrate the few men that saw these things, wrote these things and acted upon that truth. Our forefathers that open our eyes time and again. The constitution, the bill of rights. Inalienable rights to feel proud for the best things for us, here and now. It’s the good pride that sees beauty and love in others. Humbling pride that produces change in Gators heart. Change that gives great hope and real rest to him and all of us. We need to know the beauty of healing our hearts and minds together. We are broken and we must help one another to be whole. It’s the way of God. He gave us this beautiful way to stand together. No man is an island.

There is no greater thing than to love our God and love our fellow man, our neighbor. Love them even more than we love our own lives. The best love, the kind that never grows dim and gives joy and trust in the good thing. Joy that never fades, and gives us courage to be healed and made whole again. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator