Adventure

Stories of Real adventure in Jack’s life

The life of a Lover of Jesus

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

How can this be? A quilt of life that is surprisingly delightful and just as easily not comprehended. Everyone has this road of travel and when trying to explain our lives. For me, it seems like I am bragging about adventure and failure, fear and success and a thorough drifting about life as a blown about maple leaf in the street. Just there by some random wind. Wrinkled by the forces that put me there, run over a few times and still seen as it once was. Life that hangs onto creation, fluttering in the blown wind of God’s breath and now, seemingly bound for …somewhere.

To that leaf, it seems an exciting life, watching growth and seeing other maples growing nearby. Weathering snapping lightning and severe winds. Basking in life giving light and warmth and envying the oak leaves that are better at hanging on through the winters.

Being reborn every year and feeling the contribution of energy given in enough amount to give again the impossible sap that nourishes the created tree and the people that know the sap is also to nourish them with sweetness that always delights.

What is my purpose in life? To grow and feel my life unfold with reward and danger. Then be gifted and surprised by hearing it’s OK to be what I am and to move with the wind of the presence of God’s breath and guidance. It wasn’t always obvious I was being prepared to a purpose of serving when it seemed that survival and pleasure was my given life. Subjective or Objective reality. The Tau and the famous Greek philosophy or our own versions of truth which are subject to us and our emotions. Instead of listening to the perfect truth of Christ. ‘The abolition of Man’ by C.S. Lewis explains these things better than I can.

The trauma of violence of childhood, and then wandering throughout the land and being blown about by seemingly random events that formed me. Having my own secretary at 16 years old in a mansion in Minneapolis, working with the Boy Scouts communicating via Ham Radio to a far flung camp without a telephone. Then failing my calculus in engineering at MIT, joining the military and being caught up in a war at sea. More wandering and evading death in California many times, once with the audible voice of God I did not know, eventually I started an impossible auto repair business in rural Wisconsin. It was Successful and then I was blessed with marriage and two children and a beautiful and faithful wife. Hearing again those words that can’t be believed by many people. Gifts of God.

I saw my best friend, speak five words to me and enter heaven from 2000 miles away. Many things that eventually lead to leading worship in a tiny rural church that gave me and my wife documents saying we were now pastors. We put them in a drawer. My whole family built a house of prayer in a small empty main street shop if Frederic, Wisconsin and staffed it for almost 4 years. Singing and playing and praying. We were overcome with God’s beauty and love. We also traveled a little around the country worshiping with other lovers of Jesus. Our sons with us in DC and other places.

Now the maple leaf is indeed withered and quieter, still blessed with sustenance and beauty. And now joined with other people that have similar blessings and and need for sustenance and encouragement.

I tap into that flow of life once again that I am given by my creator, that gift of light and love that was always there. I am beginning to watch and stop and listen for the voice that is the best book and the words given to me. What’s next for the weathered one? Excited and puzzled and weary at times, I keep looking ahead to another chapter and move with that breath of life. Often I still look up at that tree of life and know the very atoms I am made from still spin within me. It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson and written by Jack Gator

Who’s Got your Six?

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It began in the Navy when the Russian guided missile frigate came after Norm’s ship at midnight. The missiles were aimed right at him as he was walking aft for midrats. A Tomcat fighter came down from above at mach1 and the Russians veered off , That was a miracle and death was averted. (Six day war, a proxy war between Russia and us.)

Next time, Norm was in lockup for a drug crime he did not commit and the man he pointed out as the culprit was in the same bullpen as he was. He came after him at night and a best friend fought the man off. The next night, Norm and his friend escaped by climbing down a three story drain pipe and went on the run. Eventually, the charges were dropped and the record expunged. Military stuff. Brig time for the escape and an honorable discharge followed.

A motorcycle adventure with another good friend went sideways down in Kansas. They had foolishly given small town girls rides on their motorcycles. Attracted to these ‘romantic’ motorcycle men, by their bold appearance perhaps. They camped outside of the town and after the pleasant riding, the small town cop asked them if they would like to spend the night in his jail. Startled them and then the cop told them “their boyfriends are coming after you tonight at your campsite” We declined as jail was unappealing. We thought about the warning and what we would do if those townies came. Bruce ( a vet fresh back from ‘Nam”) put forth the idea that we could take the tent poles and hold them under our arms with only the metal ferrules exposed and they would appear to be shotguns. “Is that the best idea you’ve got?” It was, and sure enough the slam of pickup doors resonated close by and it was time for the walk to the parking lot. Side by side they walked in the moonlight with those tent poles pointed at the sidewalk and Bruce spoke, “Don’t shoot till they get close” The pickup doors slammed shut and the big block truck roared off.

The town cop showed up soon after to view the carnage and we stood there, unarmed, and told him it was all peaceful.

We decided to beak camp and head for Oklahoma quickly. Night riding and the traffic was light in rural Kansas.

As we motored into a very small town in Oklahoma the next day, Bruce’s bike came to a halt and with throttled twisted would not move. We quickly dissembled a few parts and found a woodruff key had sheared off to the driveshaft. Great. A young man appeared behind us and asked about our trouble and as he jingled his key ring. he proclaimed, “it’s Sunday but my dad owns the hardware store, let’s go take a look!” Inside the back door he pointed out a Graymill’s cabinet and the top drawer had woodruff keys in compartments. “Eight millimeter right? Better take a few” Very few people have experience with a shaft driven motorcycle and know the size of that key by glancing at the empty half moon slot. Especially in a rural town with about 600 people. A miracle for certain. ‘His dad owned the hardware store’, it took quite a few decades to understand that truth. his Dad owns everything. Everywhere.

Back at the bike the key fit perfectly with a satisfying ‘snick’ and we turned to thank the young man and he was gone. “What a conicedence!” people say sometimes about this story. Providence is a better word.

At our destination in Berkeley, I began to work for a group of men that smuggled heroin in airplanes. Good money. I really liked the drug. As I was getting ready to take another hit, I heard a voice in my room say: “Life or death, Choose now” I hesitated a bit, and then chose life. No withdrawal nor desire and I was quickly out of work. Bruce rode back to Minneapolis. He had been on painkillers when he was blown up overseas in battle and he knew the struggle with them. He left before I got hired by the ex-Luftwaffe pilot. Not warning just, “watch your six” The fed’s were very interested in the pilot from previous ‘business’ experiences and found me at my new job. I knew nothing and they also knew that. I went back to where I was living at that time. Enjoying Maclure’s beach in San Francisco while relaxing at my new home, the back of a Chevy pickup with a wood camper I had built. It had french doors and I would sit with the doors open and heat up a can of Dinty Moore beef stew. Next day I would go back to work in Oakland.

I lived in that truck that I traded for the worn out Enfield bike and made my living on a limited salary playing guitar in front of Safeway supermarkets. A big young man came up to me and stated. “what you goin’ to do if I take that guitar?” Immediately I told him, “I’ll just fight you for it till one of us dies” We stared at one another for a while, unblinking, and he turned away and said “that’s cool” Soon after I drove off to a commune in Eugene and stayed for a bit as the bread baker and part time mechanic. The bay area had lost it’s romantic appeal. The summer of love had faded. Saved again. Providence.

Back in Minneapolis I had a girlfriend I met on a folk music tour out east and we had a comfy little house on the west bank. I worked hard on a railroad track gang and it was OK. The truck was traded for a 1941 Ford coupe with a new flathead V8. One night, while I was out at the 400 bar, the neighborhood rapist victimized my girlfriend in our bed. The next night, I walked the streets of the westbank neighborhood with a German 9mm military luger tucked in my back, looking for that man. A half block away, a cop walked across the street and I quickly placed the gun behind a bush. I ‘lost interest’ in revenge and later came back and retrieved the side arm and gave it back to a gangster that gave it to me. Saved again by providence it seemed. The girl and I parted company. The usual consequence of trauma for her.

Five decades later, I had moved to rural Wisconsin right after the West bank experiences, got married and have two wonderful sons and a beautiful wife. Minneapolis had lost it’s charm and Bruce lived a half mile away from my new run down farm. The house got fixed up gradually and a new friend told me to remodel the kitchen because that is the way to find a good woman. It worked and I eventually met my wife. (That story is in ‘Bicycle built for two’ at this website) more providence.

Now, as a man that embraced his Lord Jesus (finally!) I realize who had my six, my back. Saved me again and again from myself and danger. I am Now on a media and prayer team at a large church, back in Minneapolis working with my oldest son, the team director. I know without a doubt that I have been set in a place I was meant to be. Almost 80 now and in love with my rescuer from sin. I Thank God’s Mercy and Providence again and again . It’s pretty good.         Jack Gator.

Maps and Destinations

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There were two rebellious mid twenties men. Just out of the military and eager to break out of their mediocre lives and go reaching for meaning, adventures. The usual. It’s in an earlier story of the ‘Motorcycle Pilgrimage’ series one through six at the website: Gatorsgracenotes.com

Just two reliable, strong, determined young men traveling across this wondrous country they had just finished defending against all enemies, foreign and domestic. I did not know that the domestic enemies would be soon in control. Some of us with any classical education and moral knowledge are aware of our human condition. We follow our wicked hearts and believe they are right and true. Same old game of new ideology. Interesting how the core of that word translates really well from the Russian word; Idiot.

We had to find a way to San Francisco and in those days there was no Alexa, Map quest or cell phones. Paper maps, usually free in friendly gas stations were the guides. We had heard of Route 66 and that was the path they traveled. The maps helped a great deal as we got sidetracked now and then with short cuts that were not.

This is all well and good and not the real topic of this column. It’s just a lead in to the real focus of my mind. Of what use is a map, a good one? How does it help us reach a destination or better yet, an achievement at the edge of the map? Memory savants can memorize the entire map in a second or two but that isn’t the point. Arrival, fulfillment, are these destinations? Of course not on the map as promised by our minds.

Our destination was freedom, fellowship, worth and enjoyment of life itself. The map said San Francisco. “If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair” went the song sung by Scott MacKenzie. It was number ten on Billboard and everyone knew it and the sentiment. Destination for the true believers of freedom. 1967, the summer of love. It wasn’t but that’s not the topic of this column either.

If we have a really good book, the best book about anybody. An autobiography written by a new friend Would we know them? Would I know about my wife Julie? Facts certainly but knowing someone is only done with intimate relationship. Talking, looking, asking and conversations. The heart of the person that is in print is not felt by us. Nearness, face to face and honesty are keys to knowing a wife, a friend and the object of a map of some kind. A complex map, a map drawn by the lover of our souls.

Being a scholar of scripture can be wonderful but it only goes as far as the map and our imaginations can go.

Asking brilliant questions and getting answers from other seekers of Jesus. His wonders, His appearances and guidance are spoken of and the most brilliant teachers are eagerly embraced and listened to.

But.when you have studied this map and followed it to the end a decision must occur. Listen and focus on Him and Him alone. Pray for His prescience in your heart. Do not invent pious sounding prayers and expound on your extensive knowledge to script your thoughts. Embrace Him with all your heart and just be quiet without expectations or images. Pray for His spirit to be seen by you as it has been there within you when you have asked for it. Open up your heart and accept, the beauty and love that you believe. This is the promise of Faith and it is the very gift of God. He will put the robe upon your back and ring upon your finger. He is the lover of your soul, created at the beginning of time. Yours and yours alone for such a time as this. You are embraced.

The navigator has indeed been correct and the map is good and true. The Helmsman has followed the stars, compass and the sextant and the destination comes into view. Just over the horizon is landfall and joy breaks forth within. Now reality firms up and studying is over, conversation and excitement now occurs that’s right and true. The harbor pilot comes aboard and it’s time to put aside the maps and charts. Prayer becomes intimate conversation and when it’s time, then comes the liberty boat to take you across the bar and home. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe

The Wreck of the Old 97 II

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was the call of the foreman. In the middle of the night as well. There’s been a derailment down by Red Wing! Report to the section house with some clothes and get aboard a section car or drive down to the mainline. Dreary and dreading, Jack drove to what he knew would be days of making wages the hard way.

Not resurfacing, not replacing ties on a crossing but cutting and drawing out bent rails. Pulling out smashed ties from steel wheels ruining them and gathering the plates and pulled spikes from the roadbed. Working around the broken cars while the huge cranes lifted pieces of them up. Sometimes lifting just the trucks of axles and wheels with the open bearing boxes dripping greasy packing.

The engine is already righted and placed on the continuing track siding, ready again to work. Sort of. The cleaning of the cab (the engineer and conductor were just injured but their coffee and lunch and such usually don’t fare as well) and the testing of the motor and generators has yet to be done. ’roundhouse’ men are already swarming about the engine panels and spreading absorbent around. It might run.

All of this mess creating by a train going through an open switch the wrong direction. Sometimes a yard engine would push through a set of points on a switch not set for them and get away with it. Fully loaded trains at speed hitting an open switch backwards is another matter. Oh yes, the switch would have to be totally rebuilt. Hopefully the wrecking crews transport would have brought some fourteen foot ties and all the steel and switch parts. The ties were a ‘bit’ heavier and the foreman would have to direct us in the building and precise gauging.

Thinking back on those times. Meals at picnic tables set up in empty box cars, sleeping quarters about the same comfort level. Sometimes, Jack could drive his old 40 ford coupe to the job site and bring along his fiddle. At night, after a late supper, he could lean back on a chair on the end platform, feet up on the brake wheel and begin playing what he knew how to do. No one complained, it seemed to fit. A harmonica would have been OK too.

Lonely sounds like the late night steamers going around the big city. Blowing the steam whistle at every crossing. The letter of Morse code, Q, Long long short long. The last long drawn out and fading to a bit lower note. Only the steam engines could do that. When he was a child, half asleep, Jack would hear that lonely sound from the west side of the cities. It told him, “I am lonely. I know what it’s like” It went in deep to Jack’s memory. The trains still do it today. At all crossings. The electric air horns do not make the same sound however.

So the work was hard and dangerous and Jack made a little extra overtime pay. The food was not roast beef slices on Brioche buns but it filled. Jack’s fiddling got gradually better and the section crew was gracious for the sound and even the mistakes. It felt old time, out on the plains of the 1800’s perhaps with the very old boxcars. Sort of like the old 40 and 4’s of WWII vintage. 40 men or 4 horses capacity.

Same gauge tracks, same wooden ties, same spike malls. Bolts and fish plates and plates under the track. The old rails were 80 to 90 pounds, still found in older switch yards and piled near section buildings. 120 to 130 pound rails unless there was ribbon rail ¼ mile long to be dragged into place, wriggling like a worm.

Nowadays, Jack reminisces and as an analogy, sees his own life as a train wreck at times. Getting off the right rails and into disaster. Who runs the gauge and lays those tracks for Jack? What are the switch points for and what’s the point anyway? Jack was made to run well, run smooth and stay the course. It’s getting better now that Jesus is the engineer and lets Jack know when the derailment is possible or happening. He is the road-master and builder of it all. He wears the white hat of pure light and is trustworthy through it all. It’s pretty good. JackGator

Are you Experienced? Have you ever been Experienced? a.

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

If perhaps, you have read some of Norm’s columns, you may have noticed a familiar ‘ring’ to most of them. It could be described as being experienced [sic]. There is an astonishment and puzzlement when I have one of these ‘experiences’ and remember them even with accents and vocal tones.

The time at a wonderful, thoroughly scholarly Bible study for example. It was early in the morning at the study and there was a mention of a prison sentence for one of our brothers. Of course, I had to bring up the fact that I had spent a ‘bit of time’ in a prison in southern Spain. Before I surrendered this experience to the large table of solid and mature men, I asked: “has anyone here ever been in Jail?” Silence. “Just for an hour perhaps as a mistake in a traffic violation?” All eyes were on me . Another awkward realization as to what different lives those men have lived in contrast to mine.

. Oh well, no use prevaricating about it. All of those things are known by Jesus and those things are what He has for us to build the charactor and our usefulness to Him and His plan.

So I explained how it goes with guards and camaraderie in the ‘bull pen’. It was only six months at hard labor (summer in southern Spain gets a bit hot) but it felt awkward in the telling. As if I was tainted somehow OR more holy because I was a worse sinner than they were. Awkward because I was one of them that and also now I embrace the Truth and Beauty. I envy them a bit but not too much. Envy is not nice either. They missed out on a few things, things that sometimes result in a maturity and understanding of the world we live in.

The stories of Peter and Saul come to mind. They claimed they were the worst of sinners and I feel in am in good company with those men. Aren’t we all? There is an admission that eases the pain of being such a bad person. All the guns and drugs and the things polite people don’t talk about when military men seek employment. Sinful things. The easy sins to recognize. The so called ‘small sins’ of omission or even thoughts of enjoyable bad behavior are just as bad. Lust and greed are easy traps for us. There is a rescue in my story.

Someone that stole money from my wallet that was lost at Tractor Supply, but they turned in the wallet! But that doesn’t change any judgment of the theft does it? Half way efforts are pitiful. Don’t misunderstand me. I was thankful that all my credit cards and license were untouched. It took awhile for my to forgive the thief and thank them (whoever it was) for just taking that two hundred dollars.

Another example: Cursing that old driver that is going too slow instead of ramming them doesn’t change anything. I am working on that one, having pretty good success too. It only takes a few seconds to repent the words or even the thoughts. It still takes time. Most often, I am the slow driver and sometimes get a hand salute as I am passed or a friendly honk of the horn! The unburned hydrocarbons that linger as I drive on are a bit annoying but I don’t mind. Too much. perhaps I mutter about a bad catalytic converter as I breathe in the fumes. Remembering the old speed limit signs of yesteryear’s. They had two speed limits on them. Night and day limits. The nightime one was black and ten miles an hour less. I usually use the nighttime limits all the time. It is hard to go slower than 60 or 65 that is common. I mutter “scoff laws!” which of course justifies my legal but irritating behavior.

Living a holy life seems impossible and the good news is that it is impossible. I am doing much better for certain. I am not trying to kill someone and have not done too much of my old life stuff. A little bit perhaps which in the eyes of the judge is the same as all the rest of us. “Thank God I am not like that Tax collector over there!” An old quote of judging another. Same deal. We are all bad even though we think in degrees of badness.

Yes, I am a bad person. But the best part is knowing it! Not the I’m better now thought but the thoughts of being directed more and more to listen to the Lord and live the life He has for me. Small things that are actually good! Someone we all know did live a perfect life and gave his perfect life for me!

I am saved from judgment. All my sin? How can this be? God dying for me. I was drowning and a hand reached down and pulled me out. All I had to do was yell for help and mean it. An absurd story describes a drowning man refusing that hand reaching down from shore. “Oh, it’s easy for you!” Same way I used to look upon those men I described earlier in this column. Grasping those cold steel bars and looking for someone to save me. I didn’t know who was right there with an outstreached arm and a mighty hand.

This week I got in the pool a bit early and by the time a new acquaintance showed up, all the lap lanes were full. That quiet and undeniable voice told me to surrender my lane to this man. Three times (an old number of denial) I shrugged that action and instruction off and finally at the shallow end of the pool, I stopped and asked the man if he would like to use my lane. “that’s OK, I can wait!” was his gracious reply. Three or four minutes later a lane opened up.

The important part was our surrender. It felt right. It was simple really. It wasn’t easy though. It was enough obedience to expand the relationship between us too. We still do it. It delighted me that I could actually do that and mean it. One small step and the feeling that freedom can be found in Jesus. It’s pretty good..

Jack Gator, Scribe a. Jimi Hendrix

A Vision of Forever and Ever

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

It’s always been there and it always will be. Described by a man thousands of years ago when he was on an island in the Mediterranean (Patmos). Eternal joy. I was given a two second glimpse of that years ago. It was pretty good. Ask me about it, I love to share these things.

My family has been given some of those enticing and wondrous glimpses into that joy too. What a gift it is. I am certain that quite a few of you reading this have experienced the curtain of eternity pulled aside briefly. We wait behind that curtain for our part in the play and it is irresistible to peek.

There is something, there is everything, there is wonder and amazement just so close to us. Often, without even knowing it, we are given a sneak preview of that grand production. Another gift. I have written about these things as long as I have been writing. Most of it falls short. After all, if I was capable of writing perfectly, I wouldn’t have to keep trying to get it right. It’s close sometimes but always in need of a sequel to flesh it out again. Like this one. This time I will get closer and capture even my own attention? That’s the best way.

As Augustine stated: ” Teaching is essential, praise is a sweetness, but persuasion is a reward.“

There is that writing that I mentioned in the first sentence. It was written by a man named John. He saw what we all yearn for. Meaning to life. myself, a musician, really resonates with this vision as it has a lot of music in it. Can you even imagine a breathtaking song that you listen to and become a part of forever, and never tire of it’s beauty? Never ending as the slow breath of a perfect song.. The music of the spheres at night that are the innumerable stars, all singing, just for us because of His love. Things like that.

Music that sings of that beauty. About that beauty and sung to the author and creator of the songs of beauty. It is an eternal song that never grows weary and is always fresh and stunning again and again as it reaches farther than the small galaxy that sings along.

Myself with my family once sang a song echoing that. We sang a prayer that went on for a few hours and when it was done, we saw that the clock in that room had stopped running at the precise time we had begun. Appropriate. It was the last song sung in that prayer room. The new owner of the building did not know about these things. For the family it was another glimpse and kiss from our Creator.

There is a place that sings these things and has been doing it for over twenty years. It’s an old tradition that began in the upper reaches of Bavaria. Many centuries ago. Antiphonal singing that is written about the Moravions led by Count Zinzindorf. Non stop. Comparable to Davids singers in scripture.

Now on the internet, every few hours, another team of musicians steps up and continues the worship. Available on an incredible machine that funnels that worship into homes via a length of glass.

Worship also that continues on a sea of glass mingled with fire in eternity. In many ways gatherings throughout our world, worship is available any time of our day on the internet.

It is a delightful way to connect heart to Heart. I turn on my computer and put on the headphones early, and I listen and watch. A cup of coffee and worship is a good way to start the day. Amazing. You can dial into your own church’s recordings and watch and pray with those teams?

Different people taking the yoke of beauty in rooms of worship that never stops. In a very small way, echoing that vision given thousands of years ago on that little island in the Mediterranean sea that I spent a few days on. It is Malta.

We were there with the sixth fleet, anchored out with our ship and taking a liberty boat to the shore. The same shore that Paul the apostle was shipwrecked on. Much time has passed since Paul and it still feels like yesterday that both of us were there. Beauty forever there too. because of the creator of beauty that was revealed to a man on another island in the Mediterranean sea. John on Patmos. A man known by Paul. What a coincidence or is it Providence?

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe

Chosin Reservoir

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was unexpected. The usual surprise when the phone call came. The funeral was up north where he lived. The smiling in-law and survivor of war and crime was being ‘put to rest’ next week and can “you come?”

His pain is gone, but the ‘rest’ part seems ambiguous to me. As though death was a train station you just sacked out in, waiting for the eternity express to rumble in. Like the one in the movie ‘Matrix’ for those of you that have wondered about that place. What’s on the ticket you have in your hand? They always say ‘Judgment seat, last stop’. The ticket also says ‘payment pending’ Better get on the train and get a good seat. Be a slight delay at the Judgment station. The conductor says there is a crowd there. He also says ‘today’ with a slight smile. If you know what is coming, it gives you a sharp uncertainty, everyone does it the conductor says. Open mouth and realization that the truth was told to you. “Did I make the cut?”

So with this imagery in mind, I softly walked into the church building and took a pew seat towards the front. The front rows had the soldier’s sons and the family, and us of course. It was a different ceremony, a different faith stream but with the same feeling. I did not know the drill, so I just read and reread a passage in my NKJ Bible. Matthew 22: 32..”God is not the God of the dead but the God of the living” This was a passage of those that will live forever. I had no doubt that this rough and tumble Marine was going to be with his Savior. We had talked with him earlier in the year. There was certainty about him being saved from condemnation by his faith in Jesus.

At the end of communion, the Priest requested the eulogy to be given. The two sons looked at each other and then turned and looked at me . I took my Bible and ascended to the pulpit. I read, almost from memory the few lines of scripture I had just read over and over. I finished the short reading and then began to honor the fallen Korean war vet.

I saw the VFW guys in full dress and the colonel and the bagpiper nearby. Solemn but focused. On me. And the casket with the American flag draped perfectly over it.

I thought about the time when we asked him to turn down the TV for our young sons sitting with us. He replied in no uncertain terms that we were in his house and would do what he pleased. A little rough language tossed in for emphasis. Then afterwards we all went the Post and played pool. Our youngest son made a pretty good bank shot and Dad-in-law offered a fireball shot of whiskey to him. our son was about 15.

Those images were set aside as I eulogized about the fallen Marine as a man of bravery and honor. A Chosin reservoir survivor in the Korean war, followed by decades of police work in Milwaukee. It felt right to bring those things to light. His buddies at the VFW knew him well. His license plate read: I’ll buy one’ His other car read: ‘Stop 4 one’ Cops all knew him and they also know about survivors and trauma. They made sure he got home from the post.

We followed the casket behind the Piper and experienced the seven men shoot blanks three times. I thanked the Colonel and then went in for the lunch. The Priest was walking next to me and I said: “Father, thank you for speaking of our savior” He turned to me and said: “Yes! It’s all about Jesus!” I will never forget that.

There was a proposal by his sons to give the VFW a budget of a thousand dollars for that days bar tab. We said OK. We did not go. Soon afterwards it came time to go back up north and figure out what to do with the estate. My wife’s brother handled the record keeping and we all spoke up for what we wanted. The sons wanted the vehicles and I wanted the man’s sidearm, an Ithaca 1911 .45. The Grip handles were well worn and there was some cleaning to do. It appeared to have been used somewhat.

Other things were attended to and it was pretty equitable between the six of us.

The house was cleaned and I got some Pendleton shirts and some slippers. The freezers were emptied and there was quite a lot of steaks and roasts to be salvaged. I also spoke up for the powerful garden tractor that was top of the line. Stuff like that, most of us know what it is like. Left behind has a different meaning.

We have all been through this and I wonder what it will be like when my precious instruments and other stuff is given to the family and friends. None of it will pay that ticket we all get when we get on that train for the Judgment station. We will tremble and yet look forward to our Friend that has spoken to us many times in different ways. There are some tickets that can’t be paid and then there are the rest that will say ‘paid in full’ The next stop is eternal joy but the unpaid tickets will have to go on for the Perdition station. ‘End of the line!’ Lets talk about that ticket payment sometime, it’s pretty good. Norm

The Fletching and the Arrow

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There is an often neglected or perhaps, unseen part of almost everything we see or do. A critical part that is absolutely essential. It was when our family was having one of those intense conversations in the comfy living room at Home. all of them were struggling to find a deeper meaning to the intensity of their lives. The seemingly insignificant impact they have on truth and the revealing of truth to the world. “How can what we have done be of any use whatsoever?”

I suddenly remembered a musical incident, decades ago that I treasure but I didn’t really know why. The incident was in a crummy and run down city neighborhood, up on the second floor overlooking the main street. A very famous band was in town and the place where I lived had a living room large enough to encompass half the neighborhoods up and coming musicians and the band. The band arrived as the word was out in the whole country that this apartment was a Mecca for music skill and release among peers of that skill. It was on the west bank of Minneapolis, right across the Mississippi from the U of M.

The band casually set up a few guitars and the local musicians began arriving after their gigs and a few bottles and hippie combustibles were handed around. A circle around the famous ones formed and one of the neighborhood pedal steel players, (Cal Hand) clueless, asked the band leader; “Do you guys sing?” “ Sure” the band leader replied. Why don’t you do one of your songs the steel player said. And, the impromptu orchestra began to play. It was loud with about 15 or so playing and I too was in the circle doing what I play. I was Intimidated by the fast picking and skill of the others for sure. One of those skilled guitar players just stepped in front of me and began furiously playing 5 notes a second in a brilliant bluegrass style. I moved back and put my guitar back in the case and just listened to the crescendo. By the way, that musician is still playing bars and cafes all over the twin cities. Looking for that big break from Vince Gill or Ricky Skaggs. That pedal steel player went on to play for Tom T Hall by the way.

A while later after some imported beer from Wisconsin, the band leader sidled up the me and asked me to go with him and the band back to San Francisco. I knew I wasn’t the caliber of the room full. “ I like what you added” Was the response. Jerry Garcia asking me that question was any of the rooms players fondest hope. Having just come from Berkeley and a narrow escape from death by heroin there, I said “thank you, but I can’t. Jerry had said, “The few notes that you played made the song richer” Stunned again, I thanked him and my friend, a well known area disk jockey, was standing there besides them. Alan Stone from KQRS. The radio station every one listened to. He reminded me of that brief conversation years later when some reel to reel recording was done of my self and my close military vet. The recordings have been lost since, but the stunning invitation has always given me a sense of worth in music. I actually would become famous but then I also would be dead as are the rest of the Grateful dead band. Heroin did them all in. Janis Joplin, Grace Slick, the Plaster Casters and Big Brother and the Holding company, Jimmy Hendricks too. A long list of the bay areas best and famous ones.

I still try to play the fast stuff and gets awestruck by the speed and skill of a music major that I played with, Jeff Warren. I played with a few notes, Soft sometimes. Lingering and bringing forward what I hear to an ensemble. A harmonic that soars briefly at times. very similar to a few words of declaration, a witness to one person by you is just as valued as a stadium filled hearing a healing message. The value is not in the size of contact, It is in the accuracy and the intent of the message. Much like an arrow, shot from a powerful bow with a razor sharp point. The target will be missed because of the lack of a small part. The fletching on the arrow. Even one or three of them. I have experienced listening to those notes and words that float into my mind and stay, for a lifetime.

The Lord of all we see, hear and feel tells us our uniqueness and how we fit into His plan for Him. The point of His plan and of it’s destination is of eternal value as the accuracy and beauty of it.

Value is indeed, in the eye of the beholder. You are precious and well known. Jesus loves you, this I know, for the Bible tells me so. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

Soaring

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

It’s an incredible photo from a walk close to Norm’s homestead. It prompts another deep region, even a place unnamed, and familiar. A perfect photo by his son of an Eagle, flying overhead and a gasp of purpose and life as viewed when Soren showed 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 Norm 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.

Norm thought back to the fighter he saw launch from an aircraft carrier about 300 feet away. On the port side of his 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 Norm’s ship and quickly dropped It’s missiles midships, right at him. He was on deck, headed aft for mid-rats. It didn’t look promising. The ship 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 (CIC). Those missiles dropped from vertical incredibly fast with the sound of a hammer being cocked on a very large pistol.

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 and prepared it’s talons. The sound and sonic boom was heard clearly by everyone. Including the sailors on the Russian Frigate.

Norm was still alone on the long deck, still poised to go get midnight rations (midrats). Suddenly he had lost his appetite for anything available, good or bad. A narrow victory for the 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 the command from the carrier, a bit over the horizon, with eyes on the Russian ship.

There is a bit of prose that Julie remembers while Norm writes 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

Warp Ten Scotty

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

We have heard the command many times in ‘Star Trek’ for the Enterprise space craft to go as fast as it can to watch where no man has gone before, or to catch somebody that can almost go that velocity in outer space. The speed of light is a measurement as is a cut of precision in a 2 x 4. Measurements great and small are the concept of our minds. We measure everything we live with: “what time will you be here?” “How many of those do you need?” “How long will this trip take? (one minute driving, an hour walking as does my phone map app says) Incidentally, electricity and radio waves travel at the same velocity, speed of light. Why?

Why do we then measure, or try to measure the distance of stars? Because we want to put them all in our concept of time. Absurd lengths as the speed of light and the star group of Alpha Proximas is only four light years away! It’s the closest one to us, let’s get going and see what is around it, at 36 thousand miles per hour it will only take 78 thousand years! That’s were Voyageur is headed after leaving our solar system some time ago. It has a record of Chuck Berry’s ‘Johnny Be Good’ aboard. No record player though. If they get it it will only take four years for them to call us back via radio and ask us how to use it! Light and electrical waves travel at the same velocity. Who do you think set that up? Again, 186 thousand miles per second. Six times around earth in one second. Close to 2 seconds to the moon and back. Eight minutes for sun light to reach us. So when you see the sun it is actually 8 minutes past what you are seeing. It’s quite a distance when I think of those things. And that’s just our neighborhood.

There is research on a warp drive which is much akin to surfing (I surfed for the better part of a year at Hermosa Beach in California) You just ride the wave in an Alcuberre space craft which would only take 20 years! Of course, the space craft is a gram sized wafer. Theoretically of course. Smallish. Coach class only.

We do not understand infinity because we live and think in time. As Novatian stated in the third century (200 to 263 A.D.), “All our thoughts, will be less than He, all our loftiest utterances will be trivialities in comparison to Him”

Of course, being locked into time ourselves, we can’t really understand eternity (unless you are Stephen Hawking who is now dead, eternally) He tried to. We try when it is a convenient time in our comfy chairs or even listening to a sermon about the infinite God. We misuse that word infinite as it is convenient to bring eternity into our reasoning. “It took him infinite pains to paint that!” or “She had unlimited patience with her class” Really? Or as A.W. Tozer puts it, “ We say unlimited wealth or boundless energy” which for us is absurd and only applies to an infinite being.

I asked a question as I was flying over the East Coast, close to D.C. It was a clear night and I figured each light represented two people. I saw lights all up and down the eastern seaboard. I asked our Lord. ‘How can you count every hair on our heads?’ “Easy He said, it’s a finite number”. Oh of course silly me. Enlightening and a very quick response to a fairly decent question.

Why do we do this with our words and thoughts? It’s a toss out in speech or writing to trivialize something we can’t understand. Whether we admit or not, everyone contemplates eternity and even the atheist states that they will be eternally dead as though eternity was a really long period of time.

One of my favorite songs is “Strong Love” and it has the lyrics to describe God as Neither height, nor depth nor length or width can separate us from His strong love” Rightly said. Closely sung and experienced, we are singing about four dimensions which, of course, include eternity. It’s fun to think about our eternal God while eating breakfast and reading one of my favorite books of Dr. Tozer. At some point (another measurement) I reach for my coffee and take a sip and contemplate the day’s schedule.

Much akin to a 20 amp circuit breaker in the gray box, my mind goes to a familiar place and things inside that box. A safer place. A place that has measurement in hours and days and even split seconds as hearing the micro-wave beep finish the now warmed fore mentioned cup of coffee. A place that the circuit breaker is allowed to safely trip and allow some ‘time’ to redirect concentration.

So have fun with the Eternal Revenue Service that only asks for everything you are, everything you have and everything you think and believe. In turn, if you are truthful on your return form and are genuine in your giving everything, then our Lord will give you love and joy and eternal life. It’s pretty good.

Jack Gator, Scribe