Contemplations and Theology

Discarded

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I was in my twenties when I found an apartment that fitted my mood. Recently discharged from the military and I was going to art school! The apartment fit the inherited car from his Grandfather, an old, square shaped Buick sedan. It wasn’t like my first 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 fireman was not capable of driving or putting out fires anymore. It felt good to me to get that old Buick.

Grandpa had killed my cat when I was young, because it had to be as Grandpa could not have my cat in his home when Mom and her new husband went on their honeymoon to Sweden. I had no say as I was in grade school and felt discarded, set aside and not worthy of dialogue or even gentleness. Mom and her immigrant husband never went on that honeymoon either. One of those memories of the life of a person now dead but living within me. a.

It felt sort of similar too that my family sold my precious MGA when the draft came in with a whirlwind of death harvest for Vietnam. I signed up first before I could have gone west to the jungles. I went east to the Mediterranean sea instead.

So I sold Grandpas Buick right away, traded it for an Austin Healy Sprite. It felt good to be in a roadster again. Made up a bit for the Green MGA and the cat.

My 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 and bummed smokes from me. When I would ask him how things were going, the neighbor always said: “just take me to the dump” That memory reminds me of Marvin the paranoid android in Hitchhikers guide. “I’m not getting you down am I?”

It seems that the latest attitude we all 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. As side note, as I edit this post I just had eye surgery for cataracts and I am 81. Love it! I can drive without glasses now.

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”. Groucho Marks said: ” I want to live forever and I’ll die trying it” Truth from a great comedian.

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.

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”

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” Those standards have been firmly set by an eternal infinite loving God who knows us and desires us to love him with the same passion he loves us.

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. It’s pretty good.

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator For continuation of this story line see ‘Motorcycle Pilgrimage 1-5

a. Mark Batterson “please, thanks and sorry”

Hey Preacher Man

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Right out of the gate we start with a startling quote: “It is becoming increasingly obvious that those who avoid the painful encounter with the unseen are doomed to live a supercilious, boring, and superficial life…Pastors who see this feel more like circus directors than leaders to a new life”.

In other words perhaps, a lot of people that attend meetings about spiritual matters about God (out there or up there) instead of God within us, become part and parcel of that superficial life. As I have written before, the casual and totally insipid greeting of “how are you doing” countered with “better than I deserve!” is also boring and superficial. ‘You have no idea of what you deserve” is my immediate thought. Either that greeting is met with confusion or a laugh. I try with “I recognize your voice and your face but not your name.

The name section of my mind was wiped out by the seizures I had years ago and I casually refer to that issue as my rolodex got deleted. ” I’m Larry” is followed by a little laugh and glance elsewhere in the lobby and the encounter can get better or can end right there.

Close encounters of the non kind. (another column observing most of us are trapped in our own little existential world ) It’s easier not to go there. It’s easier to look for that Lazy Boy chair out in the sanctuary and watch the Bible on the cell phone (lighter in many ways and easier to carry) Nothing gets in or out is the lock down. It usually begins and ends with our mind focused on what to say as someone is speaking. I do not listen well, at least I know that.

I so want to get to know people. I like their face and I can see curiosity and perhaps an open depth that is obedient to more. It is reassuring in some way, reassuring that we odd ones do not get past that door. So close! Maybe this time I will find a soul that is curiously seeking. Eager to explore. To hear someone else besides myself. If asked, I will speak of these things and reveal my self. The many self’s that made me who I am this day.

The baby dandled on my mother’s lap, the reclusive and secret sensualist youngster. A reluctant military man. A young drug addict and a seeker of pleasure from women. A hardened and extremely powerful railroad track worker. These are the bodies buried in the family plot but are still within me. I do not live in those bodies any more and can briefly remember some of those things. This is intimacy within myself and can be shared with trust with another. We all have those burial plots.

The invitation to look closer and understand me as I will see who you are in return. Who are you and why are you? It’s a basic question to ask of the One that created us and if I listen quietly, I can hear an answer, in dreams, thoughts and once in a very great while, an audible kiss of the romantic one who created me.

We are told to rise for the intro of the excellent music production and I dutifully get up and instead of singing, open my Bible and read in a Sotto voce voice. Usually, the scripture I randomly pick is in harmony with what is being sung. I do like to sing but after many years of choir and performing, I sing harmony that pleases me. It throws people off nearby. Same phenomenon singing happy birthday. I like the alto/bass parts. It’s hard to sing melody for most, let alone try that with someone next to you going an octave below with a third or fifth.

Eventually, the sermon is presented to the room. No one rises. It is much easier to follow along with Bible in hand and for some, much easier to journal. The pastor/minister/priest gives a dissertation on the scripture at hand, in a few cases with interpretation in original languages. Greek, Hebrew and Latin. I appreciate that, illumination and thought provoking for certain. Exegesis of The Word and the scholarship of seminary shows forth. Brilliant really. It paints pictures in my mind but still does not engender an intimate relationship. That is the next step for me. Asking about life and complex emotions and fears.

If I could read an excellent book about my wife or her reading one about me, Intimacy is not brought forth. Love letters are are in the Bible and that’s what I like. Talking to the one you love and hearing back. An intimate relationship. Everyone loves to get a real letter. Hand written ones especially.

Quite a few times I have heard what I needed to hear. Passion, exhortation to go deep, deeper than we think we can go. Dive into our heart and meet Jesus there. Listen to Him, allow Him to speak and guide us. The ministering gives us the opportunity to move in the waters of life. How deep under the water with Jesus do we want to go? Let that sink in. The minister is not a social organizer, he wants us to awaken to life itself. It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

With great thanks to Frederick Buechner, Mark Batterson and Henri Nowen

Unrepeatable Beauty

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There it was, so fleeting perhaps and gone quickly. So many moments in our lives that stun us that we cannot reproduce. The fragrance of a smile in the midst of a ferocious storm or a measure of music that was perfect, even in a recording cannot reproduce the moment you heard it. A memory of beauty is not the moment it was seen or heard or even smelled. A farmer working his field with the music of his machines. A hummingbird, dancing in the lilac bush just outside the window that I opened. The sound of It’s wings, the sight of the bird going back and forth, dancing for his mate just inches before him. Exciting, unexpected and so intimate that I had to sit on our bed and thank my creator for that gift.

The beauty of paintings that come close is a slight opening to the painters grasp of a face. The Mona Lisa of Leonardo described by Vesardi :”There was a smile so pleasing that it was more divine than human” As I meandered in the halls of the Vatican almost sixty years ago, I was silent and amazed at the masterful paintings, the priceless paintings that came close. They made me long for the painters mind and visions that he tried to capture. Beauty close but not all of it. The smell of the oils, the touch of the brush on canvas and the gift to see what conveys some of the experience.

Later in my life there are moment’s still strong in my memory of desert sunsets. The sound and motion of lying in my bunk at sea, rocked to sleep with the rush of the warm bunker oil beneath the deck. Describing it can invoke memory but it is not being there. Beauty and comfort in a war.

The sound of laughter and an overwhelming partnership between a couple next to me. We were playing and singing in upstate New York, Cafe Leena near Saratoga . I was with Bill Hinkley and Judy Larson on my left. The song was obscure but the music swirled about them. Judy’s laugh and Bill’s smile created beauty for eternity.

A small storefront in Northwest Wisconsin that my family had transformed into a place of musical worship was beautiful. To the family, remembering years afterward of those moments of unity indescribable. We all played and sang together in the evenings. The small, hand painted sign over the sidewalk, hanging from the awning is gone. (Recently, that prayer room has been turned into a tattoo parlor.)

When we were there, the Pioneer bar that gave free internet to us through the brick walls. It burned badly years after we left and that bar looked like it got the wrong end of a 105 mm. Next to the burned bar building was a closed bakery storefront. No small tables with good breakfasts and glass cases displaying the sugary delights. All memories that cannot be captured with photos, smells or conversation. No more pedestrians walking out with with white bags of donuts. Those memories are stored away within and are precious.

As I edit this, the bar is being rebuilt, with the bakery part of it. A common plaza shared by them offers me a vision of sitting there with a crafted beer and a donut, enjoying the new view and ‘sus’ the ambiance of a rebirth. Worship music on the jukebox perhaps? God does interesting things.

The sighing of the wind through a tree top, the sudden smell of flowers as my son rides by on his opposed transverse 4 cylinder Honda. The sound of the power coupled with that wind. Where does it come from and where does it go? That is an old question asked by Jesus to Nicodemus. No isobars and satellite images that guess at where the breath of God comes and goes. Nicodemus could not answer that question either. Can you? As the song goes, “This is the air I breathe”

A combined beauty of things seen, felt and smelled that cannot be captured to enjoy again. Fleeting and a glimpse of eternity. Our memories are reminders but not the real moments, of stunning beauty

My navy best friend Chuck told me about it in five words. “It’s better than you said!” He said those words appearing to me just as he died several thousand miles away. Another memory, strong, stunning and indescribable. I do wonder what I said when I visited him. We grasp the wind and paint with our camera’s lens, beauty heard and seen.

“At the family burial plot, all the people I have ever known are buried there—the bouncing boy, my mothers pride, the pimply boy and secret sensualist; the reluctant military man; the beholder at dawn through the hospital glass of my first born child. All these selves I was I am no longer, not even the bodies they wore are my body any longer, and although when I try, I can remember scraps and pieces about them, I can no longer remember what it felt like to live inside their skin. Yet they live inside my skin to this day, they are buried in me somewhere, ghosts that certain songs, tastes, smells, sights, tricks of weather can raise, and although I am not the same as they, I am not different either because their having been then is responsible for my being now.” Frederic Buechner: ‘The Alphabet of Grace‘

It’s pretty good. Norman Peterson / Jack Gator

Unexpected Grief and Joy

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

One of those jobs to clean up the closing of a lifetime. It was a gardening day and the weather was pretty good except for the mosquitoes and expected tick removals. A bit of weed removal with the swell DeWalt battery powered weed whacker with four .40 ‘strings’ on the business end. Culvert, dandelions in the garden. Usual mess of doing things the lawnmowers cannot do. Tipped the business end just so to utterly destroy the pokey plants and the dandelions. I took the weed whip and put it in the pick up. It was nowthe time to do that delayed chore on the township road up ¼ mile from the mailbox.

It was time to remove the old sign for the shop. The really nice one put in when the boys were young and the sign bright and visible. A sign donated from the local parts supplier and put up with a sticker from the county on the back that made it official, it was just far enough from the private field and close enough to be seen with an arrow pointing down Lakewood drive to our sign at the beginning of our driveway. Fine Tuning Automotive Repair also on a big black metal pole. The road sign was a beauty decades ago. Now the wind and weather had taken their toll. Part of it was torn and the words and arrow sort of visible. The sign at the driveway is still there. We had an Eggs for sale on it for a while.

The shop had been closed less than a year after my best worker, really a son, had so little good work, that financially it closed. Excuses flowed from me and about technology difficulties in the automotive field. Financial updates, recession in the country. Reasonable excuses. That loved and faithful worker lost interest and the cash flow was less than a good job as working as a machinist in a local business. A good decision for good work that a talented metal manipulator and machine tool worker could do.

Decades before that time, I ran the shop by myself since the late 70’s and it was enough for our small family to survive on. Our new man who lived with us, ran it for a few more years after I had a period of seizures and was aging into my 70’s.

Big jobs, as before, were the meat and potatoes of income. Engine rebuilding, brakes and suspension problems. The reputation of my shop was electronic diagnosis and repair. When I began the business as a ham radio guy, I was not afraid of wires and electronics. The business grew and after a while, I doubled the building size. The old wood stove was replaced with modern waste oil furnaces and the sliding wood doors upgraded to real ones with electtic openers. Things like that. The electronic tools increased and technology did too. Check engine lights came on and hardly anyone knew what to do to put that light out with the accompanying loss of performance.

The reputation of my shop was solid and drew customers by word of mouth without much of an advertising budget. Customers from other counties and restorations now and then for thousands of dollars.

It was closed now and our friend who lived with us for years was getting ready to move away to a different life with his new life and newly wed wife. They left and took everything that was his contribution to the repair tools. Even an Led light bulb in a ceiling fixture his distant dad gave him. Understandable nostalgia. They moved to his Dad’s place, 35 miles away. There was no reason to stay and his Dad needed him there. It made sense but still was hard to see them go. They don’t see each other anymore. The memories of their times together are vivid. Worshiping with him on piano, my son on drums, Julie and I also singing and myself on viola and violin. oddly, there was no communication from him and his wife and it was hard. The big Bumper to Bumper lighted sign on the front was still there but the fluorescent lights had long been out. The parking lot started emptying out and the land line was canceled after a brief message of the shop going out of business.

The shop was still warm and my tools were still there. My youngest son, Soren, and I worked on the family machinery and there are no more tow trucks arriving at night with ’emergency repairs. Often vehicles that had not been running for a year or so. The emergency was that vehicle was now needed by the owners

So I unbolted the road sign after gardening and put the battered pieces in the truck bed. I then drove up to the local big dairy tourist shop for a bottle of Merlot wine. I could not get out of the truck. The Minnesota license plates kept rolling in and rolling out with ice cream cones and fresh cheese curds in hand.

I could not get out of the truck. I felt like I was driving a hearse and there was a body in the truck bed. More than the phone goodbye message, more than the big empty parking lot, more than the absence of our close friend and his wife. The loss and the finality fell inside me and the death of Fine Tuning was final. I took the sign to the metal scrap yard the next week and the burial was done. Some tears inside the old Ford Ranger as the tourists came and went. After a time of mourning it was time to move on and get things done at the dairy. A few pleasant words with the wine tasting gal and a sip of good wine from her and a bottle of Merlot, it was time to head home. The spring tourists had snapped up the fresh cheese curds.

The body in the bed was now quiet and the familiar farms and homes on the country and township roads were seen as stable and unchanged. A few new names can be seen on some of the mailboxes. I still see the one with the front door blocked by missing stairs. Home again for the Friday Shabbatt and the sign, dead in the truck bed, acknowledged by Julie and she understood my sudden grief. The morels, asparagus with the good Merlot were delicious.

Years later our son who began supporting us, started the complete remodel of the shop. Removing the customer counter and many of the bolted on tools and workbenches and pulling down the ceiling in the old back shop. It all went into a 20 foot long roll off and a borrowed bobcat hauled a lot of blown in insulation and panels out to that roll off. New trusses and panels, rewiring all the ancient stuff that was there from 50+ years ago when I moved to the farm. A new roof and siding. A propane furnace that is now required by our insurance company and all the things that need updating on a massive project. I helped, at 81 now, slower but able to haul branches and tree parts that had somehow appeared at the back of the shop. We had removed the huge totes parked there that held the waste oil and sold them and the furnace. Now was the time to get the debris removed. The roll off delivery driver bought the lighted sign for his man cave! He even helped to remove it. Four foot square sign up about 12 feet on the front of the shop. The wasps had made a weather proof home there and had to be evicted.

I was pleased with the transformation and all the new space for our machinery, boat and the still useful tool boxes and attendant bigger tools. 30 ton press, 3 freezers that were now easy to get to. Usual things that garages are full of, usual farm things. Even room for the Kubota tractor and snow blower. Warmer and handy without all the necessities for a commercial operation. I did not have grief this time, but relief and astonishment at my son’s vision and speedy work. He is very talented and fit for the work. I am over 80 and can still run a few things. Mostly the wheelbarrow and the small John Deere LT with a trailer. I never did run the old wheat combine. Too many chains and gears and the cab makes you feel as though your are in a carnival ride, hovering in space.

The grief has been replaced by acceptance and the pleasure of change. It was gradual but did not take a long time to see the logic and rightness of my son’s vision of his inheritance. Very pleasant to see that and even help to do it. Not many older people experience this part of life. A lot of farmers do. They get off the big tractors and combines and hang out with their sons and daughters who inherit the vision of family farms.

Life itself is the inheritance and values around the pancakes and home grown food. I am blessed by our lord with these gifts and I know that Daddy is pleased to give them. “Come to me and all these things will given to you.””I pray this for your joy.

“Your Daddy’s so proud of you., your Daddy’s so proud of you. You are faithful with much, faithful with little. Faithful with words for others. Well done, well done. Daddy’s so proud of you” A,

I live for this vision and the joy of His gifts and presence.

It’s pretty Good. Norm/Jack

A. A song I learned at River Valley Christian Church.

Resurrection

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A synopsis of the four Gospels account of the Resurrection. There are issues with formatting this document I wrote. The numbers one through four indicate the Gospels themselves. The large font and bold names are the book authors after the quotes. Confused? I was too as the accounts differ in the descriptions of events. It is one of the pivotal events in the history of our Universe and so it’s easy to forget details when you are there when it happened. Astonishment seems to be a common thread. Enjoy, I did when I wrote these things down.

  1. Mary Magdalene went out to the tomb early, dark. She saw the stone had been rolled away and ran back to Peter and John and they both ran to the tomb. John outran him and looked in the tomb and saw the linen cloths but did not go in. Peter then came in puffing and, and went into the tomb and saw the cloths and a handkerchief that had been around the Lords head, not lying with the linen cloths but folded together in place by itself. Then John came in and saw (he did not know the scripture that Jesus must rise from the dead.) They went back home. Mary stuck around and looked into the tomb and saw two angels in white, sitting at either end and they asked her why she was weeping…she told them she wanted to know where they laid Him. She turned and saw Jesus and thought he was the gardener. He said “Mary” She knew it was Jesus. “Do not cling to me for I have not yet ascended to my Father” She then went to the disciples and told them He had spoken to her.
  2. JOHN 20.
  3. On the first day, very early they and certain other women and they were perplexed and two men stood my them in shining garments. They bowed their heads to the ground. Those men told them, “why do you seek the living among the dead?”They remembered Jesus’ words about this. They went back and told the 11. Mary Magdalene, Johanna and Mary the mother of Jesus told these things to the Apostles. They did not believe them. THEN Peter ran to the tomb and saw the linen cloths lying by themselves and departed, marveling to himself… Two of ‘them’ were at Emmaus, seven miles away. They talked about things and Jesus drew near, but their eyes were restrained. They told Jesus about the women. They chatted over supper, Jesus broke bread and blessed it and gave it to them and then their eyes were opened, knew Him and He vanished. They went back to Jerusalem and told rest of them about seeing Jesus when He broke bread with them. Then Jesus appeared to them “peace be with you” He showed them His hands and feet and then asked for food. They gave him some broiled fish and honey comb. LUKE 24
  4. When the Sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Salome brought some spices. “who will roll away the stone?” Then they saw a young man clothed in a long white robe sitting on the right side and they were alarmed. He calmed them and said to them to tell His disciples and Peter that He is going before you into Galilee and there you will see Him as He said to you. They fled from the tomb and said nothing to anyone for they were afraid. BUT..on the first day of the week, He appeared to Mary Magdalene and she went and told those that had been with Him, mourning and weeping, they did not believe her. The two at Emmaus followed that story line and then then He appeared to the eleven and told them to go out into the world and preach the Gospel. Baptized (or else) cast out demons, speak with new tongues, take up serpents, lay hands on the sick and be immune to poison they drink. Then He ascended and sat at next to God. MARK 16.
  5. After the Sabbath, the two Mary’s came to see the tomb and there was a great earthquake and an angel of the Lord descended from Heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His countenance was like lightening and his clothing was white as snow. The guards shook with fear and became as dead men. But the angel answered to the women, “do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for He is risen, as He said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay, and go quickly and tell His disciples that He is risen from the dead, and indeed He is going before you into Galilee; there you shall see Him. Behold, I have told you” So they went out quickly from the tomb with fear and great joy, and ran to bring the disciples word. As they went to tell His disciples, behold, Jesus met them saying, “Rejoice!” so they came and held Him by the feet and worshiped Him. Then Jesus said to them, “do not be afraid. Go and tell My brethren to go to Galilee, and there they will see Me.” (As an afterthought), the soldiers reported to the elders and were given a Large sum of money to tell people that the disciples came and stole him away while we slept. If this comes to the governor’s ears we will appease him and make you secure…this saying is commonly reported among the Jews until this day. Then the 11 disciples went into Galilee to the mountain that He had appointed to them. When they saw Him, they worshiped Him, but some doubted. Jesus told them that all authority had been given to Him from heaven and on earth. “Go and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you, and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age” Amen MATTHEW 28

How Far, How Much Time?

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

As usual, I have a good amount of time to drive to my study or to rendezvous with my Son

and ride to where we work on Sunday mornings. It is a 25 mile drive for me Sunday morning and I leave around 5:15, leaving plenty of time. I drive under the state limit, 45 miles per hour. There are animals crossing, especially deer, and the stopping distance is adequate IF I pay attention. From our driveway exit to the main highway I see 2 to 6 deer lounging at the shoulder or prancing across. There is very little time to brake when one of those fall harvest animals are going full bore.

It works for safety and on a Sunday, there is very little traffic behind me. I can see headlights behind on Highway 87 and it is a game to see if they are getting closer by estimating distance and velocity. Sunday is casual but often, a vehicle comes up quickly and follows me at a close distance, after all, I am going under the speed limit. The dash gauges show me I am getting over 30 miles per gallon or more and I am on time.

At the next dotted center line, the following vehicle passes and often, leaves unburned hydrocarbons in it’s wake. Bad exhaust converter, and and faster then the double oxygen sensors can compensate and report it. You know the smell, and it isn’t a flat skunk ahead. Passing velocity in excess of 65 or so. Quickly to avoid the double yellow ahead. Or ignore it.

I shake my head and laugh when at the lower limit ahead, I am behind them and count the seconds behind. Fifteen or thirty perhaps. I see brake lights ahead, and they are still in sight. Why the rush? I remember velocities from research. If we drive at 60mph, 24 hours a day, every day, it would take 165 years to get to our sun. Probably, a few years less at 45 mph. Just in time to have a flamed out truck or car.

It’s now sunrise and time to get out the sunglasses. Another statistic, there are ten galaxies for each of us in the universe. Lot’s to look at another ‘time’ Myself, I want to ask our Lord to see the interior of a black hole or a super giant sun. Lots of time as there is no time in eternity. As I pray for the truck passing me I wonder when they cross the double yellow they may get to those 10 galaxies soon. Time means nothing to me then, I am on earth going 67,000 MPH and going on a roundabout of the sun that takes a year to get around. Mercury has a shorter time to get around, but the pavement and us would be ash in less than a second. An unpleasant place to be and Venus is further but the same issues arise. It’s a dump and I chuckle at terraforming talks.

We are living in a perfect place and mars is further out and another joke as it has a miniscule atmosphere and it’s a dump too. Check out our moon and see if you can spot the small used car we left there. It took a lot of money to make it and leave it there, but the price is cheap if you can afford AAA to tow it back for you.

I am getting the impression we are living in the only place possible and the only reason we are here is we were placed here by our God who is able to laugh at our talking about eternity as though it’s just a few big numbers and time and distance. Evolution is a child’s concept.

After all, 65 is the new 55 and it means nothing except if we are late for a very important date. “Rushing is not of the Devil, it is the devil”. He hates us and he hates eternity. I can only imagine what it would be like to spent eternity alone without our Lord. There is no roundabout and the atmosphere may be like Mercury, who knows, it might be there.

Anyone can go there and you don’t need a Saturn 5 booster set to do so. All that is needed is to dismiss reality and live for only yourself. I don’t want my neighbors land, I just want the land that is next to mine! Venus, the Greek Goddess of love might be just the ticket!

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Work at It’s Best

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

“The world is a work-in-progress, and we are partners with God in it’s ongoing creation”

Meister Eckhart 13th Century Mystic

When I meet a person, fairly alone at an ‘event’ of artwork, I like to ask questions of them. Way too many times I begin by talking about myself. That’s boring and being a boor to think right out of the box that it’s all about me. Why do I do that? Life is art and I like the praise of a nice arpeggio or a quick cartoon in pencil.

Both of them with a smudge stick to make it look real and with the shadows I put in there. Now, I like to discover with delight and astonishment of a Mondrian in the works, painting a tag on a building or Another Emily Dickinson wordsmith in the rough, ready to take a nine iron pencil and land the whole thing in the cup. It’s spirit excitement and good food to give them an auditory nod of my head. Hand grasping not clapping.

I write things like this one and I never know what I am doing, or how it comes about. Just get in there and paddle and the rapids will come and you will know then what to do.

Many things can be taught but poetry, prose, music and dance are beyond training. There are all sorts of helps but listening to the Spirit telling us what is around the corner of the canvas is the best.

I learned how to touch type when I was listening to Morse code, so typing is my springboard to launch. It helps to have word correction of spelling or weasel words. Fun in a weird way to type a half sentence and discover my fingers are not on home plate! Yjsy vsm nr gim mpe smf yjrm after I really nail it in my mind and then look up at the screen.

If you get a tingle and a smile from your muse, go for it! Look at everything with wonder and grasp the light fantastic which appears right in front of you. Julie and I saw a dancer at a Christmas event at a big church years ago. All the live animals and central casting and stylists were on board that night. It was posh, it was pretty OK and way up in front, a girl unfolded in a dance. Julie and I gasped at the revelation and union of spirit and flesh. It was worth the whole trip and is still a vivid memory.

The entire universe shows itself in a Monarch cocoon, ringed with royal gold and filled with beauty and rebirth. We look for those things and they usually find us instead. We join the Balinese in saying “We have no art. Everything we do is art”

It’s pretty good. Norm / Jack Many thanks to Frederic and Mary Ann Brusat for inspiration.

In the garden of eatin’ here at home.

Parking Diagonally In Small Town America

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Nature and God—I neither knew yet Both so well knew me. They startled, like Executors of my identity”

Emily Dickinson

Frederic Wisconsin, is a small town with almost a thousand people, and several deer. A small red fox runs across the state highway by the gas station around 4:30 every morning. The town has a restored railway station which is very authentic. There’s a caboose on a siding, a semaphore signal, a metal-wheeled cart with wood barrels and a bright yellow track-section car. A chain-saw carved wooden bear, stands near the roadbed where the metal tracks once ran. We live 7 miles to the west. A short buggy ride for the Amish who are half a mile from town.

The train station anchors Main Street, which is about a block and a half long with diagonal parking. Frederic has a smattering of small shops: a hardware store, two bars, a library, and the usual shops that sell antiques and knickknacks to tourists and used furniture to the locals.

Leaving town on the state highway you will find a gas station with well made waist-expanding doughnuts a car dealership and a tidy golf course with another bar. It is a cute town with a nice cafe and a second rate self-service car wash. The people in the town are fairly reserved but will speak with you if you speak first to them. A few of the people will wax nostalgic about the glory days of the railroad and the daily passenger train.

When first told of the twice-a-day train schedule, I knew I had missed something by being born 20 or 30 years too late. Of course, the tracks are gone except the siding with the caboose but the roadbed is now a merged bicycle/snowmobile trail. The bicyclists park by the bakery and the snowmobile folks park at the bar on the corner.

Much to the towns confusion, the bakery has been closed for several years from a fire. Now they only sell wholesale and the main street side windows are covered up. There has also been a fire next door above one the bars. A fire no-sale. Two for the price of 1. Soon, the two buildings, which were destroyed, will rise from the ashes become one. A patio for patrons of the bar and bakery will finish the project. As I write this there is still windows and doors to install and the insides finished. The town is excited about the project. Have a pastry with your beer and relax.

There are five churches of the usual preferences, and even a small Amish community on the edge of town. Their carriages and the clip-clop of the horses add charm and fertilizer to the main street. The small town chugged along pretty well and the years brought the expected changes. A late night two dollar store and an old department store now selling secondhand furniture and dishes. There are treasures worth searching for: top line toasters and old hard-bound books. The two dollar store has a red box for last years latest movies. I always wonder why everything anyone buys from those quick two dollar stores smells like laundry detergent.

The early-morning men gather every morning, parking in the same parking spots and sitting at the same table. sipping passable coffee and eating good sourdough toast. The restaurant on the corner was named ‘Beans’ and now is known as ‘The Tin Shed.’ It is an early morning place of connections and warmth on winter days. The Tin prefix refers to the new metal siding. Well done face lift. The huge ventilation fan, dripping delicious smelling grease is still around the corner over the sidewalk. Bacon and french fries mingle their smells delightfully.

On those snowy winter days the village sweeps while its people sleep, the snow and drift removal goes on with the metallic rasp of shovels and the diesel snort of the plows. Some merchants shovel other store-front sidewalks because they have hearts for it. There is camaraderie in the winter, a hunkering and shared misery too: dead car batteries, ice on the roofs and leaking roofs in downtown with all the flat roofs common in row-house shops.

The down-town sometimes appeared like an old man with teeth missing. There were too many empty store-fronts. The draw of the big box stores about 25 miles south takes a toll on local merchants. A small town can only support one antique store or one that has used books, Jackets and couches. Frederic had a burned out bar, the bakery with no public access, an empty appliance store and an excellent hardware store, an old one with everything you need. A new pharmacy and clinic. There is a friendly grocery store with a deli and things the big box does not handle. (My favorite is Lingonberry jam.) There is an exit power door that sticks open slightly and that is a reminder that the wholesale grocery business operates on a rather slim margin. It still works but keeps the entryway nicely cool in the winter.

There is a food truck that shows up in the summer by the old railroad depot with great gyro sandwiches. A tow behind coffee business is faithful a block up the main street parked at the laundromat lot. Great coffee. to be continued

r

Islands of Reality

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I began to feel the undercurrent of life on Malta. It now reminds me of stories from ‘Jack’ about towns that are dreary but in vivid memory, stand out to once again astonish me. Real life.

Places that have no ‘eye appeal’ as hungry land realty people describe places and homes of no value to them. Only our limited impressions that puzzle us and them. Why would anyone live there with joy and smiles of satisfaction? Folks willing to help and extend hands of welcome when it seems poverty overwhelming is seen.

When Julie and I were bicycle touring the shores of the Great Lakes, we took a boat ride to an island in lake Huron, Mackinac (pronounced Mackinaw). Recently wedded we booked a fabulous hotel on that island that allows no motorized traffic. Perfect and quiet. Expensive. All of the hotels around the perimeter are almost castles. Nothing is heard through the open windows expect some wind and the clip clop of delivery wagons of milk and supplies.

Only a surprising motor sound of the turbines of the ferry twice a day. Delightful, being back on our farm with only the sounds of fishing boats on the lake over our hill. Waking up to breakfast prepared with linen and silverware arranged correctly downstairs. An expensive luxury we heard about and were enjoying.

Another hotel next to ours just as stunning akin to a multilayered wedding cake, perfect white siding and horse liveries waiting for riders around the perimeter. We decided to ride our Santana tandem bike around the nice road. Half a way around there was a road heading inland like slicing a pie in tow pieces. Irresistible and quiet with our bike we pedaled into a small village in the middle. Unassuming and welcome to strangers on a bicycle gazing at their town.

We were on a honeymoon of sorts and different. We were shown to a small tavern that had a one lane bowling alley. Set your own pins. It was fun and we talked truth. The people that lived there were the workers of the hotels and referred to themselves as islanders and we were cottagers. No linen settings and luxury king beds were there. Just honest and friendly working people as we were. More memories embossed. Commoners that sold clay pipes on Malta and worked for visitors as people do on islands throughout the worlds waters.

Those unforgettable memories are the best gifts given to us by the giver of all things. Guided by the gentle voice of the Son of God to hear and see life. Pause and listen to Him as the gentle whisper once again shows us that path to redemption of our souls. Beauty and love on that road that leads us to the middle of creation itself. It’s pretty good, Norm / Jack

Gratitude

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I was feeling very grateful and looked in my library for some references to that word.

“If the only prayer we say in our lifetime is ‘Thank you’ that would suffice” Meister Edkhart

“It puts everything into it’s proper place and perspective Rebbe Nachman

“Taking things with gratitude and not taking things for granted” G. K. Cthesterton

“God is the source of all good, so we must thank Him for it.” Shashiko Mirata

“It’s the breath in our lungs so we pour out our praise to You only” Ingrahm,, Leonard & Jordan (Authors of ”Great are you Lord ‘)

“A good time is a taste of God” John Auelio

Good and perfect advice I have found from these authors. You can look them up and I will tell you where to look if you ask me. (gatorjack75@gmail.com)

One of them is a Hasidic teacher, another a scholar of Islam. There is a Protestant preacher. A Catholic priest. A Suffi seer and poet and a famous British writer. This small compendium is just a start of the wisdom to be found throughout literature. I would earnestly urge reading and searching. This generation does not read in general. A lost art. Primary and secondary schools not long ago encouraged reading the classics.

It seems just recent authors are taught, many of them with political or radical thoughts. Mathematics still depends on scholars of Greece to which we can say thank you to. One of them figured out how to measure the great pyramid by his shadow without a laser sight or a spotting scope! There is brilliance and mystery available in dusty old books. Seek them out, most if not all of them are hardbound. I look in free book kiosks. (I found one on classic Russian authors!) The kiosks resemble nice bird houses.

A great Islam scholar stated that God is the source of all good, so we must thank Him for it

I was once admonished for writing about religion as a columnist and only focusing on the Bible. Recently I have found wisdom from all sources of faith. Why do we say ‘thank you’ many times a day? It’s Life 101 and we all have learned that, even our pets thank us for kindness. We usually don’t purr or lick ears to express gratitude. At least most of us. Our family has ways of doing these things and it’s our deal.

Excitement and pleasure are found in many places. “Hell is excited about your arrival” A quote from C.S. Lewis’ great divorce It’s difficult for me to comprehend my favorite author acknowledging the devil as having any sort of pleasure but what do I know about these things?

As the old paper boys would shout “Read all about it!” It’s pretty good, Norm / Jack