Contemplations and Theology

Desparate

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I was with a new friend Bryan in a coffee shop about 20 miles from home. We began speaking of the former owner and praising his character and the way he lived. He died a few years ago and we miss him. At the table next to us was a woman by herself and she asked us who we were. Instantly I said Bryan was my brother. It felt right. From that moment on, we have been brothers to one another.

She was now smiling and said she was the mother of the man we were speaking of. She was drawn to her sons name and we were pleased to have spoken so well of him with her nearby. Another ‘coincidence’ arranged for us and her. That man, Jake, was indeed a bright light to all who knew him. He walked with the Lord.

My brother was a volunteer at a church that was about 60 miles away in Minnesota. It broadcasts it’s services world wide for the spiritually hungry. My wife Julie and I and a dozen other neighbors had been watching those services together. There was authenticity and it felt right and good.

A month later, Bryan asked me to help him pray for people that were attending those services. He drove he and I down to the ‘cities’ the next week on a Sunday morning. I saw a parking lot as big as the one at the Minneapolis airport, filled with cars. We parked near a sidewalk that did not seem to be a parking spot but Bryan said it was fine, he parks there all the time. There were at least a thousand cars parked already.

I was expecting cab stands, I drove them a long time ago and this place seemed a good spot to wait after dropping people off. No cabs seen. The big double doors were attended by a handful of people with name badges on. As we walked towards the door, I noticed the address of the church. It began with 777 and those are also the numbers inside my old Gibson Lloyd Loar A model mandolin! Those things catch my attention. A confirmation and connection. The people at the doors were very bright and welcoming, that got my attention too. It didn’t feel forced or phony, It was genuine. I noticed that Bryan had on a name badge as they did. Really neat ones with magnets under shirts or jackets to hold them in place.

We went up a large spiral staircase and on the second floor, Bryan gave me a lanyard that simply said ‘prayer’ We walked down the balcony and into a room labeled ‘volunteer central’ There was breakfast laid out and tables that faced several TV screens that had the live stream of the service going on in the sanctuary nearby. Where, I had no clue yet.

Bryan had already bought me an Americano coffee downstairs and we sat down and were greeted by members of the prayer team. Soon, it was time for us to go and pray for people. I still had no idea what that was going to be like. Bryan led the way down the balcony the way we had come and we kept going past the stairway to a corridor that led to a doorway on our left. There was no one else in that hallway.

Bryan opened the door and there was a small platform with stairs to the left going all the way down to the main floor and leading to the left side of the stage where the Pastor was speaking. I stood there crying as I looked out upon thousands of people looking down and instantly knew I was experiencing a strong emotion of hunger. Through my tears I whispered: “Lord is it their hunger or mine I feel?” He said yes. It was overwhelming and never before had I walked through a door like that one!

Bryan and I walked down that long stairway to the left of the stage. The prayer team was there already. The service ended and the pastor said anyone desiring prayer would come down to the front of the stage. Astonished again, I saw many people come up from their seats and head down to where we were standing. The team leader quickly handed me a small vial of anointing oil and told me to ask them if they would like to be anointed on their hand or forehead. “For it is one thing to see the land of peace from a wooded ridge…and another to tread the road that leads to it” 1.

I was standing in front of the big bass bin speakers and I saw a man looking for direction and I smiled at him and nodded my head. He came over and stood in front of me. Right away I asked him if he would like to be anointed and chose to have his forehead be so. I dashed a small amount of oil on my right forefinger and drew a cross upon him. I told him this was a baptism of the Spirit and then asked him what he would like prayer for.

He said his wife was convinced she was ugly and did not listen to him when he told her she was beautiful. His need was personal and spoken from his heart. I told him of his obvious love of the Lord and today, his wife would see her beauty in his eyes when he returned home. Those words came directly to me to say, they were firm prophetic words. I had never considered that prophecy, Just listening.

We both cried and that man hugged me after asking. It was indeed OK and welcomed. After the second service it was more healing requests from dozens of people, eager to meet a prayer warriors words of healing and restoration. All of the prayers were given to me as a response to hunger.

Many tears and many strong embraces were in response to the words I gave. I felt well used and astounded again. Never had this happened to me so many times. People with desperate needs to connect with truth. The honor of conveying blessings from the Holy Spirit stays steady in my heart. There are blessings from my public writing and there will be more from speaking them as well.

I am now at a different campus and am involved in media production with my son. I occasionally slip into an area overlooking the right side of the stage after my work is temporarily done. I am hidden there as I am dressed all in media team black. I pray up there and watch to see if any of the prayer team needs help. I love that team too along with all the other volunteers that make a huge difference for the people who attend. It makes a big difference in us too. The joy goes both ways.

This is how I envision ‘church’ Like the very first ones we read about. Prayer to one another in unity with spiritual songs and and spoken words of His timeless blessing for us. The teams realize this and that is pretty good. Norm Peterson, Eagle Brook church volunteer.

1.St. Augustine confessions VII.

God’s Grease Monkeys

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was at a time when I was very enthusiastic about community service. Problem was, I didn’t have a clue why or what that looked like. From earliest days, I was a loner, growing up selfish and smug. Protected. Stuck in the usual ways. Find pleasure and personal peace. The voracious appetite for self importance and recognition. We all have that, it’s impossible to see real land when in the middle of the ocean. We feel alone and adrift most of our lives. A lifeboat existence.

I was an automotive shop owner/ mechanic, and and doing well at making a living . By an amazing coincidence, I chanced to see the head line on the Sunday edition of the Star and Tribune. ‘God’s Grease Monkeys’ Perfect fit! New to the faith, eager, and I had the usual images of what that meant. Be nice and get extra points for doing something for a stranger. It was in the Bible somewhere. God likes that stuff after all. God himself is pretty nice and that seemed to be the ticket for theological success!

I read on and the article outlined a garage in the cities down south that repaired cars for people that had little or no money. Perfect! A shoe-in for me. I picked out a few hand tools, a code reader (that would show the one’s in charge I was a professional and serious)

I showed up and they gladly put me to work. An oil change and a headlight bulb or two for starters. On the floor of the shop. Later, the next month, the staff figured I could do more complex things and assigned me a brake job and a tail light. That helpful team even stuffed my Volvo station wagon with food that was part of the Grease Monkey outfit! “Spread it around your neighborhood” were the instructions.

Right. My neighborhood is primarily lake homes and farmers. We ate most of it and gave some bagels to a fellow mechanic in town. Isn’t that what freezers are for? It was good food, veggies, breads and canned goods. Once a month I went down there, I connected with another mechanic as well and we developed a friendship.

I was racking up God points and then the inevitable for all car ministries occurred: The repeat ‘customer’ with yet another car, and another after that. Judgment time. Point blank. No mercy. The Ministry was buying the parts too. Tires, wheel bearings, blower motors, filters, window regulators (look it up) and lots of light bulbs.

When questioned about those things, often the car owners response would be “oh, I sold that one you fixed a while back” There was disappointment and later, much later, I realized they are just like me. Then I Felt used and ineffective. Just like I usually felt. God seemed silent on the matter, and I needed help in hearing Him. After all, they couldn’t afford to fix their vehicles and this was a way out of financial distress.

The concept of a ministry involving my repair skills still made sense though, and a short time later I started another one, closer by with my new church and friends. Same thing happened. ‘Why am I doing this?’ “I’m just being used!” This time I was ready to listen to the Lord.

“Correct Norm, you are being used. What are you learning, what is happening to you? Do you find joy no matter what, do you connect with Me and talk to me? I will show you things beyond your dark curtain that will give you great joy! It started to dawn on me that I was not praying, not abiding and not listening to Jesus. Why am I here? Good question!

I got better after that. It took some time, and eventually I began to get serious about these things and started seeing and listening to Jesus. The attention I always craved was always there, from Him. I surrendered leadership. Not instantly as most of you know. Eventually I began witnessing to the owners of the cars we were repairing. Now the question came from the car owners! “why are you doing this?” There was, indeed an answer now, a somewhat surprising answer to everyone. “Because Got told me to”. Most people just take these sorts of ministries in stride and as I did, never wondered why anyone would help a stranger like me.

Later now, the car and food ministries are gone for me and my family and other ways to serve have taken their place. Volunteers are always needed in many God centered ministries and those ministries are everywhere.

Examine your own life and you too will find many times and places that the Lord has used people to help and steady your walk (and drive!) As a favorite song goes: “open the eyes of my heart Lord, open the eyes of my heart, I want to see You, I want to hear You”

Guidance as I was guided, to yet another new area of my life. It seems that happens to everyone. It always has. We are led to places and people flow towards us as we live. Myself, I am enjoying the humor and strength that our Lord uses with me as He shows me that narrow highway of Holiness that leads me on to Eternities Eternity and His smile.

After all is said and done, that’s why I write about it! It’s getting pretty good. Jack

Junk Drawer

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It is a missed opportunity for a Game Show! “ I am a plumber, what’s in my junk drawer in the kitchen?” Easy one to start with rubber drain plugs, Teflon pipe tape on a roll, Monkey wrench etc.

“I am a philosophy professor and writer, what’s in my junk drawer?” Used dialectic cliff’s notes, puns to cause groans during a debate. Disarming platitudes, Names of noted Greek philosophers, half full glasses of water.

“ I am an atheist and my wife is a deist, what’s in our junk drawer? Slightly tarnished valuable shelf gods of antiquity, pocket tracts of Richard Dawkins, various colors of silly putty for repairs to the idols and a small bible with “don’t panic” taped on the cover.

Our junk drawer is good to use as a collectible at the Smithsonian as Americana sculpture. The Norman Rockwell of junk drawers. It would be a hands-on installation starting out with a drawer that was sticky and had a screwdriver at the top that prevents it from opening.

Compartments that have several paper clips and stamps on a roll intertwined. Small flashlights that don’t and are empty of AAAA batteries.

I can give you an absurd compendium but I tire of trying open it and then find a small set of pliers that I wanted last week. There is a small Phillips screwdriver in there that I needed to disassemble a worthless scanner in there that we inherited. Being a ham operator it was irresistible to try and get it to work. The junk drawer revealed it on the bottom in the back of course. Stuck under a large pencil sharpener.

I recycled the old scanner because the batteries in it came from a pyramid excavation and I recycled it before the charger caused a melt down. There is a gap in King Tuts hand which the ancient scanner would fit. I saw that in Washington’s Smithsonian where his body is on show. Who can refute that? Another conspiracy story akin to the fake moon landings. I have made an offer for the used Moon rover but the shipping was out of this world.

Collectibles are an American tradition along with second hand stores. I can do away with the humorous and self sarcasm but there is a collectible that is often found in many homes and it is bound with old leather sometimes and dates back to the family for generations. A book written in 1611. The originals are priceless and can still be read! The King James Bible. The only thing in my junk drawer is an old Yad from Israel for reading such books. A pointer used to read scrolls of the words of wise antiquity.

If I just dig it out of the drawer, I know it has to be in there! I did find an old 5 shekel coin once and gave it away but I don’t think I gave away the Yad, Or did I?

I know it’s old and most of those sorts of things are pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe.

Worship

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A common word, found in everyone’s vocabulary and is used quite often in many signs and personal conversations. The tricky part is, what and where does this occur?

The most seen places are church bulletin boards or big outdoor signs. My personal preference is to call them by their resemblance to marble cemetery markers. Tombstones. Often lit. Sometimes they have times listed and can be read if you are going slowly. They always say Worship.

I studied worship at a school down in Kansas City and it became clear to me where the words and body postures came from! Hebrew origins from a while ago. A long while ago.

The first one is very familiar, Hallal. It shows up in a lot of singing and is the base word of Hallelujah. It means to be clamorous and be seen as foolish in praising the Lord. I have been surprised at my own responses when a band sings Jesus, Jesus, you make my heart tremble. I toss up my hands and weep at His name. I am reserved because I do not want to smack someone nearby in my enthusiasm for His name.

Sitting up front with no one in front and room to step out works well for me.

I have asked camera operators if it is OK that I am there and they understand and try not to hit me with the back panel of the hand held camera. I tell them I am aware of their fiber optic cable and will not step on it. (stepping on a coil of it when it is on top of itself is a cardinal sin) Fiber means glass. Operators worship too but it is easy to forget when you are working to tell the story.

I am involved with media production of worship and the simultaneous thrill of the clarity of worship can goof up a good camera shot when you are dancing with joy at the same time. It’s good to be close and among the leaders of the room’s worship. You know it’s real.

Shabach means clapping and shouting. That encourages musicians and if it offends you then you are probably in a bad mood or in the wrong place. Pentecostal worship is exciting and easy to engage with. I love it when the singers Shabach. It’s spontaneous in many places.

Zamar is worshiping our Lord on musical instruments. Plucking strings and joyfully singing praise. Zamar at nine and eleven would catch my attention! I especially like Banjo Zamar.

Barak is kneeling down or bowing down. Rhythmically bobbing works for many. I have seen a few people in a sanctuary just disappear as they fold up in front of their seat. It’s easier if the seats are further apart. Don’t worry about the carpet, facilities staff cleans it after every service.

Yadah is the extension of your hands. There is a separate word for halfway up in the air, I will have to look that one up sometime. You have done all of these things! It’s quite OK as the posture of worship is very traditional and as we all know, God never changes so it seems we should pay attention to that fact. Worship is a romance and Love is most of it but astonishment and joy are hooked on. It’s impossible for me to ignore knowing that I am involved in the timeless and overwhelming beauty of meeting with the creator of all things. Crying happens.

“Don’t you get shy on Me, come on and praise the Lord” Joy, it’s pretty good. Norm the Gator

Never betray Love

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was a child’s romance. A romance brought into full bloom by trauma and the need to escape it somehow. Fresh from the military that literally tortured me, my path beckoned me strongly to dissolve myself in marriage, somehow.

The only job I had when I got home after discharge was performing songs learned from warm and scratchy vinyl recordings. Joan Baez, Peter, Paul & Mary, Carolyn Hester. The job at the YMCA for youth was better right away than the red line brig in Spain and got me the attention I craved. A brand new Martin D-28 Helped it happen.

At that time the Brazilian rosewood model was an even $400. I bought it right off the exhibition wall at Schmidt music instantly when I came home. I had one shipped overseas a year before and it never showed up and no one knew where it had gone. I had paid the cost and Schmidt’s had the invoice. No charge with hard-shell case ready to play. They even tossed in some strings. I still own it.

I met my fiancé at the YMCA gig and she ditched her date and I drove her home that night. I began to meet her family and she and I became young lovers. I was living in my Mother’s basement and we spent times down there accompanied by the washing machines loud symphonies. An old habit of hers surfaced and she ditched me.

My beloved disappeared. I frantically swam through all the places she should be, and finally, a good friend told me years later that she had run off with an actor from the famous Guthrie. She was a ticket taker at the theater and easy sexual prey to be taken by a Lothario of the stage. After all, better prospects than a recently discharged service man living in his mother’s basement.

Stunned again by sudden betrayal, I went deep into the rabbit hole and gave up the promised good life and got involved with another vet who hooked me up with some heroin smugglers in California.

(check out Motorcycle pilgrimages on gatorsgracenotes.com)

Money, a mansion in the hills of Berkeley and using my Military skill set, I became a member of the air force of drug smugglers. I was an experienced radio operator and built a portable air to ground Ground to ground radio. Flight plans were Mexico to the California desert.

We had a steady customer in The City, Sly stone and the musicians that lived there. My pilot gave me the magic white powder that the whole team was using. I thought, wow what a gift.

Heroin gave me relief from all the pain of life. The poppy blooming in my core became the path to victory. No back pain, no mental anguish, no fears. Just nirvana and total oblivion. Betrayal covered by powder on glass.

Deep into addiction, a voice entered my room in the mansion just as I was getting ready to snort a line of the drug. The voice said Five simple words: “Life or death, choose now” Stupefied and thinking hard about voices from the thin air, I chose life and was instantaneously delivered from my death path. No withdrawal. No craving.

Of course, the swell new job was over and the usual reaction was another betrayal and a narrow escape. I left the flying circus of Berkeley close to the ocean trade, alive and another life came upon me. I lived in my home made camper truck for a while and played that Martin front of Safeway stores. I got rescued again by a friend and finally made it back to Minneapolis.

Back home to a drug free city government gang that drove cabs. I was a Hippie restaurant singer and dishwasher and then got a good job as a steel track worker that finally paid well. The city gang was left for the railroad gang, but Something was awry and had to be done for freedom from the inside pain upon me again. Never trust your heart to another. That was entrenched into my very being, traumas of the past.

Through that old city friend, I found my ex’fiancé’ locked in a mental ward downtown and bluffed my way in posing as a youth pastor to see her. Her father was the senior pastor at Central Lutheran and I knew him from the visits, and meals when I was engaged.

My old lover was heavily drugged and overweight, groggy but she came into focus for a short time and asked me “why are you here?” ‘Because I love you!’ came quicker than thought and the pain of that rejection was over. There is still other trauma within me but I am learning how to quickly recognize it and shut off old learned instincts of survival and to run away from perceived trauma.

The heroin that never lasted and blinded me to the fact that the miracle of deliverance was love. This was Jesus seeing and telling me truth about what I really was. The the light grows slowly but surely. There are plans being revealed to me to take me to places I can’t imagine. Places of trust. Real fulfillment. Reality. Now I am writing columns to others to share that love.

‘Never betray the sword, never betray beauty, and never betray a friend’. It’s a good way to see the life we live as men and warriors of the Word. Freedom from fear and self hatred is a special gift that can only come from our Lord and Savior Jesus.

“I sacrifice the land unto you, all who I love there, and who loved me: I sacrifice this land unto you, and all who I love there, and who loved me; when I have put our seas between them and me, Put Your seas between my sins and thee.

As the trees sap do seek the root below In winter now I go where none but you, the Eternal root of true love I may know.” John Donne ‘Hymn to Christ’

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Common Sense Insights on Love

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

So many books, letters and columns are at my desktop and littered around my favorite living room chair. I read them as I am inspired at the moment and that is why I put post in notes at the pages where I leave off.

It’s a mess and a trip hazard if I am not tidying up now and then. Keep them out of the meander lines of nighttime walks to the bathroom. Common sense.

Lately I have been researching for love and what it really is. I have at least been instructed from early writers like Descartes and Augustine as good starting lines to start at. My usual trivial descriptions are easily dismissed. “I love my guitar”, “I love how that sounds” . I love that look or thousands of songs with essential love me or leave me themes. Movies with passion (Greek Eros) those lists are not endless but my point is, they point to opinions and attractions.

Reading an author that makes me look up from the book and wish I had a pen and pad at hand. Astonished at brilliance and clarity. My hero, C.S. Lewis, said he got a lot of inspiration from authors like G.K. Chesterton and George MacDonald and used their clarity and thoughts in his own writing.

Another example of common sense: “The mutilation of children is not “gender-affirming care.” Anti-white racism is not “anti-racism.” Illegal migrants are not “undocumented ‘new neighbors.’” A bisected cow in a tank of formaldehyde is not an important work of art”. 1.

This tells me that love is coupled with common sense which goes back to Descartes, look him up. He wrote thousands of years ago and he pervades truth which is also found in my favorite small book, John Chapter 17. The best example of love which C.S. Lewis expounded upon. Trying to love your neighbor is not easy, Just treat him as though you loved him and eventually, you will. So what is love? It has respect and admiration built in but it is far more than those things. As I have stated, I would not know my wife if I read some books or biographies about her. I can’t love my neighbor if I looked at a plat map. I can’t even really love fully my God and Savior by reading about Him! There is a decision to go deep into myself, to my core and then be silent and listen to the spirit that gently tells me what love is. The flood of love itself moves within me and is love itself. It is common sense and has always been since we were made.

I

Falling in Love with love that is visible in your eyes, your tears and sometimes a tremble of astonishment of Joy that overtakes. This is true love, the words fail me but you know what I am writing about. The breath taking embrace of a long lost person comes pretty close. How about being embraced as a long lost person? I look ahead to that embrace as I enter eternity.

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator 1. Roger Kimball

Casa Del Pas

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Sitting in my comfy chair and reading in the morning. The snow sneaked in last night and the small step ladder outside the kitchen window shows six inches on the three steps. A sturdy little thing of aluminum that helps the reach to the kitchen roof with the snow rake. Just clean around the two vents and try to control the ice dams.

Musing on writing something and finding solace in a brief Tennyson quote: “Death closes all, but but something near the end, some work of noble note, my yet be done” 1.

It occurs to most of us, that what have we yet to do now that the curtain is getting close to coming down on the play? As most of us, I have worked hard and made a few good choices to be where I am now. The great dream of a beautiful wife, younger than I! Two great sons of intellect and achievements that love us and our 30 acre homestead.

We have all worked hard and with sweat and satisfaction through most of it. The gardens of provision and beauty, our mechanical shop of provision and repair, still usable now for us and friends. Tools that only need an occasional handle because we use them. Heating with wood and always splitting and stacking and calculating supply. I have gotten so fussy in the winter that I have a tape measure out there to make certain certain lengths are put in the wheelbarrow. Long, short and gnarly for day and night fires in the stove. It’s in the middle of the house.

All of the accomplishments great and small some of which are still visible. Some are tenuous and need conversation to reveal them to one another. Pictures on the stairway wall of births of the kids, a summer kitchen and a field all limned by a photo of Julie, very pregnant with our first son, Bjorn. Myself, just our of basic training taken by a pro in town with my cover just so, leaning to my right in my dress blues. I look happy and am looking to my right and smiling.

Another accomplishment that I just heard today from my son Soren’s good friend Zeke. I asked

him before a Saturday breakfast what he would call our home. He only paused for a few seconds and said; “Casa Del Pas” house of peace. A good handful of men come to join us at times. Good strong young men that are bonded with Soren and us. All of them live in the area but many times Julie and I awaken to extra boots in the entry.

Making sure the coffee maker is filled with water and the fire is properly set and banked is my job as I rise earlier. Breakfast on Saturday mornings with pancakes and eggs/bacon and good coffee after an hour or two. One bathroom and the ballet for it and the preparation for breakfast is done as the snow keeps coming. Pastor Zeke blesses the food and our meal is shared. House of peace indeed. “The author appears on the last act, the best of all” 2 1 and 2 Lord Tennyson

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe for Norm

Tolstoy and the Endless Fireworks of Life

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

The flash and flare in the east and it is time. Move away from the comfort and deep sleep, awaken to
dawn. Shut of the alarm clock, rise to the circadian rhythm of my body. Grasp my robe from the hanger on the back of our bedroom door. Close the bathroom door and glance at my tousled hair. A small pleasure in the new toilet seat that lowers itself slowly and doesn’t bang.


There are duties and places to be and now, it’s easier to find things because there is light beginning to arrive from the east. There is a small Brownian movement from the dust and I turn on the coffee maker. Go back in the parlor and open the side draft, rake the coals and put on a few pieces of wood.

I Find the good bread and drop two slices in with the timer set to max. The good bread is heavy. I ponder finding the cash for that upgrade on my cell phone already as I check the wood stove. Can we afford it? After all, everyone in the family has a new phone. Mine is old and I need to be current. It is the state of made things, they are old by the date they are put for sale. New and improved. No ‘good till’ or expired dates on your cell phone, but now I can’t find a screen guard to replace the cracked one. “You have to get a new one, yours is several years old. How much? Only 35 bucks a month forever.

It’s better with the shredded wheat on the shelf, we all know it’s good for a few years on our shelf. Silly thoughts along with dream remnants that linger until they too, pass into the storage area in my mind that is never too full and unavailable now and then.


There is a shuffle and purpose at hand to indeed waken fully and the hot caffeine warms my old ceramic
cup. Carefully, set it down besides the fresh toast and open up a book next to the vitamins and various
pills. The accouterments of morning rituals. The book now at hand is a collection of short stories that take slow reading to understand. Sarte, Sallinger and the rabbit eared current choice is Tolstoy’s ‘The death of Ivan Illych’

Nothing to it. Toast and coffee and a little orange juice to sluice down a hearty meal of existential
writing and with some of the greatest short stories ever written. It’s still early and my son is stirring a
bit. I come to the part of the story when Ivan knows he is dying and no one will be honest with him
about how they feel about it and him. Only a peasant boy tells him the truth.

A quote from la Rochefoucauld is remembered: “One can neither stare long at the sun nor at death” During the war the thought was, it will come quickly It did to that shipmate on the horizon. It was close but I am OK. Next stop, Palma De Mallorca. Great liberty! My acquaintances ship has been sunk over the horizon. Tough luck. Time to celebrate after freedom from with the liberty boat and have a few drinks in his memory.


We go on, inwardly feeling we will live forever and poor old Ivan, it must have been his diet or that he
just wouldn’t go to gymnasium as they advised him so many times. After all, his whist game was more
important to him. There was nothing to be done. and here I am hundreds of years later, dressed for a church funeral service. I am Still in my book and almost awake.

A funeral then to go to. The fact that we are soon to be in that silken and narrow box does not cross our conscience. Even when the preacher tells us we are off the hook by death of Jesus’ sacrifice, we do not comprehend the sacrifice, it’s not totally understood. Tithe well and we might walk as Enoch did and not have to suffer as Ivan illych did. That’s it! The second coming and it will all work out! Don’t worry, be happy.

Death is defeated knowledge lingers and we are all good to go. Mourning seems to have passed us by. Ask not who the bell tolls for, it’s you. Old Ivan, it was his time to go. The rest of our family is up and dressed and we drive a dozen miles to the church for a funeral for a neighbors son.

Is there lunch after this funeral? Should be. It’s good here at the church of endless life. Maybe if I get in line before every one else does! I do not want to miss that apple pie I saw as I walked by the kitchen!

No one knows the hour of our death. People of faith in Jesus know what His resurrection means for us. Still, I like it here and I know my loved ones will have Shiva at the house. I do not like to think about the weeping, just as I wept as the coffin wheeled by me and I reached from my seat and gently prayed as the polished wood slid beneath my extended fingers. A young boy taken from us in tragedy.

Live well, love well and spend a lot of time speaking and listening to our creator that knew us when we were yet to be born. “why me?” “why am I here and what am I to do? I ask of Him. He answers gently. “I knew you would know the joy and sorrows of life and I Like how you write and talk about it and Me. That seems pretty good.

Jack Gator

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A Tap on the Shoulder.

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was always gentle, the touch, almost as though the touch was a memory. At the first time I was surprised, astonished, and did not know who was touching me. I turned and did not know what to say. There was no one there but I knew I was to be never the same. Years upon years passed.

The story of the spoken words, five words with the touch. A healing touch and my life changed. Another five words decades later. A confirming and a beginning of knowledge and my life was now further to destiny. The fire within fanned into flame to show where the small fire had begun to glow.

I was running at the start, always running away from the pain that would not leave. All my life that pain and absence of love was the matrix of my heart. No one would ever get in again, it was too obvious that no one really cared. It was taken for truth that I was beyond all love. Trust was only a word about banking somehow or contracts for an exchange of some kind. I was abused as a child, running away only to find gangs and international smuggling with the usual weapons and anger. Run, they will torture you or kill you. Run and hide once again. Be wary and keep close watch on your heart.

There was a betrayal of an effort of love, love lost and cast away as a raft on the ocean far from land. No compass nor sextant nor even a chart to show what was ahead. Just adrift and always in the middle of the ocean once my land went beyond the horizon. No hope and only death to look ahead to. It was what I put away in a lock box in my heart, thinking out of sight, out of mind. That box was transparent. Most saw in it through my eyes. I knew it was safe in there.

So, adrift in the ocean of pity, I did not know what path I was on but I knew something was happening to me. Getting fed something good and drinking clear good water. No idea where these things were coming from. After all, adrift on an ocean does not include drinkable water. Even tears are salty.

Finally a meeting was available to see the one true love that betrayed me. She was in a bad way, in a hospital of recovery from her own trauma. Drugs used to dull the pain, like a path I also chose before five words began the small fire in my heart and saved me from a bad end. “Life or death, Choose now” Words spoken audibly in an empty room as I was staring at a line of heroin. Obviously life was chosen. The addiction was gone and there was no withdrawal. A miracle that took decades to see who said those five words. Our Lord Jesus. There was something ahead for my life, indeed there is.

Bluffing my way into the hospital as a youth minister working with her father who was the senior pastor at Central Lutheran, I managed to see my lost beloved before me. She was in a haze of recuperative drugs as she sat up on the bed in her room, clothed in hospital scrubs. Dazed, confused and finally focusing on the one she betrayed and had discarded the love we had. She had moved away with a Guthrie actor and hid her engagement ring. Now Right in this moment, I knew this time was different. Only the tenderness for her was in my heart. I again chose life.

She awakened and recognized me and asked; “Why are you here?” Without hesitation, I spoke the words of healing for her too. “Because I love you!” I Said loudly surprising them both and then I left soon thereafter.

I had showed her the wood camper I now lived in and had driven two thousand miles to see her. It was disappointingly impossible for us to see through the recessed windows of the locked area. The small fire in my heart was being fanned into flame. There were my habits still to overcome but the seed of love was beginning to grow within me and the marriage that came decades later to a wonderful woman was right and true. I never knew what happened to the girl I had loved in the hospital. Rumors from old friends then said she was now living in New Orleans.

I found her phone number and asked her to send me the engagement ring I gave her at Theodore Worth park just after discharge from the Navy in 1967. I had met her at the YMCA when I was playing guitar as a paid entertainer.

Sometimes the fear and trauma would return but my wife helped me and with a counselor that said those memories and fears of the past were just that. Eventually I realized there was no danger with betrayal, violence and guns of the past. A word or even a tone of voice was the trigger to be recognized as just a vapor of evil, trying once again to destroy my life with fear. It can happen to you.!

The burning one with fire in His eyes gives us the knowledge that we are, indeed, loved and worthy to tell others of this discovery within our hearts. My heart lock-box was opened and I have never been the same since. The flame of eternal love is burning bright with the Fire in the eyes of Christ. It’s pretty good.

Norman Peterson / Jack Gator scribe

Who are you? Why are We Here?

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There is a common feeling and conversational platitude. When asked where did you grow up, we usually respond with the name of a city or region of the world. Appearing to be clever or witty some of us will say “in a house” but where when the slight smile goes with the second question, the answer is a nice neighborhood. A sheen of ‘normality’ and wit to deflect focus from ourselves.

Some of us grew up in homes that were destroyed physically or internally. Our childhood is not just a growing up like a house plant. We are awake and like the potters clay, are formed into someone unique and beautiful as our creator meant us to be.

Our world is filled with people that grow like trees, all of us have a heritage of leaves and branches and roots that grab a hold. We are meant to grow near streams of living water and our roots then go deep and we grow strong. That image has been written about and sung.

Images of buck thorn also come to mind and the pain of touching one of those is not forgotten. What happened to creation and why was it there? We want to cut it down. I don’t like them and it seems they don’t like me either. It is then that judgment on many grow. I think of the superintend”of a dormitory that Anne of Green Gables lived at when she was in college. Anne described her as ‘prickly as a cactus” Katherine Brook. She was portrayed as that.

A potter can throw clay on the wheel and when it is fired and glazed it becomes a work of the hands. “The colors are off” A painting of beauty seen before the first brush stroke comes forth framed and a thorny one remarks that there is a smudge on the corner. Written poetry is put on paper and given to another. “Oh, I really like that image of the withered branch!” But a critic notices a spelling mistake or a missing comma. Love within trapped by our own thorns.

A tree that has weathered storms can be gnarly or even destroyed. The work of the potters hand can be broken and written poetry can turn to ashes. Chainsaws, anger and indifference are the tools wielded by the thorny ones. I use a chainsaw by the way, a small one to cut down prickly ash and buckthorn. No one likes those except Goats who eat them.

The question for me and you is, am I a buck thorn among the grove? Do I find fault instead of the poetry of creation? Do I listen and see the light? There are many things that can change us into grapevines that tear down the trees. We have our excuses, some dredged up by a therapist we did not know was an operating system in our hypothalamus! I was told I had 6 tenths of a second to differentiate between a threat or an old memory. It took a while to deal with that but it is possible.

A hand gesture like a pointed finger, a tone of voice spoken what seems harsh. Triggers that instantly made me run away, to get away. To leave that danger by the small boy that still lives inside. PTSD from experiences recent or long past. All the same fear and loss.

As children we are much more aware of our world than we know. We draw conclusions about our world, nurtured or abandoned. Abused or cuddled. Fully alive, taking it all in and processing to make sense of where we are and who we are.

I think of John the Baptist and Jesus in their mothers wombs. Joyful at meeting one another before they were born. Why is that in the Bible? Tender words, gentle voices that guide us. We know who is our mother. It feels so good and perfect when a very new person responds to our smile and soft words. “Be like children” good idea, the best advice given by the One who made us. Again, Anne of Green Gables, a kindred spirit like two tuning forks ringing together.

Just close your eyes and think what it will be like when Jesus opens His arms and smiles as He embraces us. In His presence, all fear is gone. Eternity, is calling me away, eternal song is calling me home. It’s still there in our spirit, the wish to be seen and wholly loved. It’s me, the prodigal son. I see my Father running towards me. My tears he holds in His heart and He cries them over me as we embrace. Eternities, eternal song, is calling me; calling me away, calling me home. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

thanks to Misty Edwards for her song Eternity