How many interruptions occurred today? I just get started on writing some really inspiring column and my phone bleeps. Perhaps Julie stops by my desk in mid word or thought and asks simple question or mentions a task that I forgot or was important to her?
It happens every day to all of us. I have seen drivers behind me get furious when I interrupt the velocity they were driving or even slow down so they can pass me safely. We are a busy people and focused on the tasks of our lives. Driven to accomplish what we have set before us by ourselves. Pushing that shopping cart at warp speed to get to those sale items or just some orange juice. Fuming at a cart parked right in front of the shelf we need to examine.
A very wise older priest said: “ I complained for too long that my work was constantly being interrupted, until I discovered the my interruptions were my work” A.
Resentment that my life was not going the ‘perfect’ way I had planned hours or minutes before. I have learned that instead of the irritation I can turn these things into concentration or even conversation. The shopper or the clerk ‘facing’ a shelf for example. I stop, park my cart out of the way, pretend I am looking elsewhere and glancing at the workers name tag, then address them and ask how things are going. Pretty busy today eh. Or perhaps say: “excuse me, could you direct me to the place where I can find organic beef broth? An interruption for them but not rushed. Quiet and gentle. It works and I learn a little bit about grace and even can ask them as they answer how it’s going today in the store. I learn and once in a while can listen to a slight problem they have, just listen and acknowledge the common lives we lead. Humanity 101.
At home or with friends that stop by (interrupting my precious time at work) I find with listening that what they need done in speaking or asking is an opportunity to give the love and attention I am asked to do. Gently spoken by my best friend and gentle guide, Jesus. He is never interrupted. He teaches me how to live my life and quickly quiets my anxiety with His voice.
The rush and bustle I absorb from the times I live in stops, and helps me realize indeed, this is my work for today. To affirm love and concern to another. To let them know they are important to me and perhaps dismiss apologies from them. “sorry for interrupting you” with a simple “Oh, that’s OK, I was in no rush” something gentle and affirming them that they are more important to me than my agenda. I listen and learn and even affirm. I like it. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator.
It seems like a great idea, perhaps it is. The information age has confused, obfuscated and presented knowledge in compartments of illusion. How do we know which is a conspiracy theory and a conspiracy? How can we be certain of anything that relates to our lives? I usually go up to my communication central and ask for truth. It’s not too hard to find and I have written a column on it. I call it ‘The Cathedral’
A bench, facing a long row of 40 foot tall pine trees. A path goes straight ahead of the bench with other paths parallel to it. High up on a ridge so the pines sway in a gentle breeze and the wind is the backdrop to silence.
This day I was, as usual, shouting a bit and waiting for answers from the owner of this place. He has always been around and helped me plant those trees. He made my son that built the wood bench too. He has many names, my favorite one is a secret to you, not to Him.
As per usual, the reason I came to the sacred place was to get directions, answers and to just complain about things I do not understand. It’s a good place to do that. Aso as usual, the answer I got was a parable of sorts. An answer to a study some friends and I are enjoying about a blind man that was healed of a lifetime of blindness. The story in the Bible is pretty basic in ways and simply states he was blind and now he can see.
Of course the blind man had heard stories too. Words telling him of the wonders of colors. Reds and Blues and Yellows if he could only see their beauty. The words meant nothing but longing to know what they meant. Given sight, most likely 20-20, he saw color and movement and shadows and light. The story tells us nothing about the blind man’s knowledge or study. It just tells us he was blind and now he could see. Everything.
I asked the owner and creator of all things where I was sitting; what does this mean to me?
He told me that there was no great mystery behind the story. The blind man is me and I have studied and analyzed and taken tests on my knowledge of the words I have read about the Man who wrote all the words of life. My Lord wrote them so I could seek His face and touch eternity.
The words promised this but I did not know why I was still seeking His light. Stumbling around, tripping over the worlds roots under my feet. I read more and more and suddenly I was given a gift. The words were guides but they were not what I sought. I listened into the wind up there among the trees. I opened my innermost self and waited for a long time.
He came and told me that this was what I needed to open my eyes and see him in His glory. Everywhere, as much as I could do so. The words said beauty, until my eyes were open I did not know what that word meant. All those words kept me looking for Him. Song of Solomon puts it well. “Tell me if you see Him, I am lovesick”
A deaf man can read music but it again is just words and notes. The sudden sound of a miracle of healing and he hears; “I love you and will never leave you” A whisper that shakes the world.
The blind man has never been the same and you will not be the same either. Thunders and lightnings and a storm all around the Man with eyes of fire will show you what the words say. Intimacy. Embrace Him, whisper back to Him and your secrets will become a pathway and a song sung to you.
Words, they fail me right now. How can I describe the touch from the lover of my soul. It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator
A very versatile word. So many images come forth with that word, bridge. My favorite is the musical ones. A transition from one part of music to another or another part within.
There is an important part of a guitar that holds the strings to the face with bridge pins and it is glued on to the face usually about half way from the upper bout to the end pin, got it?
That’s musical bridges as far as I know. Might be more.
There is the classic card game, bridge. The place on our ship where the captain and all the controls were located is also the bridge. Above that was the CIC or combat information center, but everyone called it the combat bridge.
A bit down the list is the structure bridge which usually connects land over rivers, estuaries, canals and gorges and rivers. We drive over them every day and the only glance is usually to see if there are fisherman to be avoided or if it is slippery or icy from the cold air beneath it.
There are a lot of bridges in the bay area of California, my favorite was ‘the Bay bridge’ which connects San Francisco to Oakland/Berkeley. I went over it a lot and my favorite time was with a fast Triumph on loan that started rising up on the front shocks when I twisted the throttle wide open at 60. I thought the front wheel was next to rise up. Stunt riders do these things, not me.
The Golden Gate that connects ‘The city’ to Marin country is famous and the toll was one dollar each way back during the summer of love and Haight Ashbury days. Perhaps the better word would be daze. I understand it is at least 8 dollars now. Four lanes each way and always full. You can walk across either of them. You can see Alcatraz island if you know where to look. It’s a tourist trap, don’t even bother. To complete the scene is the New Richmond bridge and no one knows where the old one was.
The bridge I am fascinated by is the one between us and Jesus. Written about by scholars and fools like me for centuries. It seems like an impossible chasm to cross and it seems to be that there is only room for one at a time on that highway of Holiness allowed. No one can cross it with you and the bridge toll is your life. You know it’s there, everyone does. The journey usually begins with getting into the water going under for a bit till you are ready to come up. Dead for a bit. That’s what pastor Barry said to me when I was baptized. What did you see when I was down there on the sand bottoms? “A dead man” was his reply.
I once had a lucid vision of Swimming in that water with Jesus, a while back and He and I were doing the side stroke, face to face. He told me He knew I enjoyed swimming and I could breathe under the water. Wow. I asked Him how deep was it and He answered, “how deep do you want to go?”
I opened my eyes, sat bolt upright and realized my damaged leg was healed and I have never been the same since. It’s called a baptism in the spirit. Another ‘bridge’ in my life that connected me with eternity. So many bridges we have around us and now and then, one comes to us that in crossing it, we never need to go back.
My current assignment is to tell people the difference between understanding and believing. Knowledge and faith. It’s just words until they go into your heart, then Faith occurs. Read about that too, Faith, the very gift of god. It’s pretty good, Norm the Gator Jack
They were always the best gigs. Weddings. Playing for a wedding was indeed, icing on the cake. The music our band played was very polished and incredible. I was the guitar player and we had a mandolin, stand up bass and our leader was the fiddler. Square dance music from the old days and we also had a caller for the dances. Several of them. We were well known and royalties were coming in a little from the sale of our CD. On our way to small fame and fortune. Years rolled by and the gigs kept coming. We had a reputation and were in demand within a few states drive. It was fun and the energy was very high paced. We loved one another, often rode together. I was known as the rhythm monster as I changed up things from easy swing to double time back up, back and forth and it was fun and it worked.
After a few years, the CD’s sales began to drop off and the royalties faded. Every musician knows these things. If we had done vinyl recordings, we would have made the racks of records that are found in many quality music stores. Also in second hand thrift shops.
Our children were young and the constant travel every weekend took me away from my family. None of the other musicians had children. At my last last gig at the Duluth band shell it was known by the band that it was my last one. Poignant and emotionally charged for us all. We had been together for years and it was time. I was needed at home and that was good and right.
During this time together, at one of our band rehearsals I put forth at our upcoming dance camp that we have a church service on the Sunday. Our leader, the fiddler and his wife quickly refused. I acquiesced. The mandolin player did not stand up for the Sunday morning idea. I was young in the faith and my enthusiasm for our faith was not shared. I knew then, it was an important pivot point for me and my family.
I did let it slide but I think that it was important to make it known It was important to me. The lead fiddlers wife is Jewish and I lightened things up and lightly said, “Well, how about on Saturdays?” Nonetheless, she was not a Messianic Jew and did not consider Jesus as her Messiah. She did not attend Temple either. After the light laughter it was over. No worship service at our Sunday gigs. I would have conducted it myself but our leader did not even consider that. It was offensive to him as his father was a pastor and there was resentment. It happens with some children that get put into believing when they do not.
A short time ago, a similar disappointment occurred to me when a paper I was columnist in told me that I had to stop writing references to Jesus. After over three years with the paper, the new owner decided it was offensive to the readers in NW Wisconsin. His choice and now, my choice. I decided I not comply and was politely fired. Two other columnists who quoted Scripture were let go and I was next on the list. There was disappointment among a lot of readers for these decisions. “What happened to pastor Seth and Sally?” was commonly said. After a while it was accepted by the populace. The paper continues to get thinner. Just a coincidence?
The editor, a good friend, gave me the news of the impending cancellation and approved my way of bowing out of my column but said to me, “I envy your faith” I miss writing every week with them and in my last column just told a false hood that it was too demanding to write a column every week. It felt good and right to quit gently rather than make a fuss that is not constructive to the way I am supposed to live.
Actually, I write a lot, sometimes every day. It was a graceful way to leave. My readers were puzzled and once in a while someone will tell me they miss my column in that local paper. I do too.
At my last concert in Duluth, we were going to play my favorite waltz, ‘ Ashoken Farewell’ by Darrell Angar. The fiddler did not like it when I played along with him, I was not his equal but it was a good duet for me. I went to hook up my fiddle and he instantly began playing, not waiting for me. It was hard for me to know, once again, I was indeed, second fiddle. I did not make any mistakes but in retrospect, I should have accompanied him on guitar. It is easier to play a tender song like that with keys or a guitar in the background.
At Julie’s and my wedding we had four fiddlers stand around her on the alter and we all played a Scandinavian waltz, Helsa Dem Dar Hemma. Kevin McMullin, Bill Hinkley, Mary Dushane and I.
After the Duluth last gig, Kevin asked me “How does it feel to be finished with us?” I answered, “relieved” Not the answer he was expecting as I looked at his face. Now I stay at home more and helped raise our two sons. Home schooling and all the neat books by Dr. Suess and lots of Veggie Tales. It worked, Julie did most of the education work as she has a Masters degree in those sorts of things. At this writing I am now working with my oldest son, Bjorn, as his assistant media director at Eagle Brook Church in Minnesota. My youngest son, Soren. is the drummer in a worship band for the Riders for the Son motorcycle group. Julie is now a Bible study leader with members throughout the world on the internet.
It can be hard to stand for our faith. When I remember that time again with the Ducks, I pray for them. Often. I was replaced with another guitarist, but he was not a rhythm monster. They went on for a while and quietly disbanded. It was not the same for them and I do miss it. There was a lot of love among us.
I went on to play with a few worship bands and led worship at several church gatherings. My family began a house of worship in a local town and we had wonderful times singing, playing and writing songs. It lasted for almost 4 years.
These days, at 80, I have not been playing out anymore. I miss it but am now writing about our Lord; a lot. Almost 400 columns now and also write for my web site. Another newspaper near Lake Superior, The Bottom Line News and Views welcomes my writing. It feels good and right and continues to grow my prayer life. I still play music at home now and then, not ensemble, even learning on the keyboard. That feels good and right too. It’s pretty good, Jack Gator Scribe
Often referred to as ‘rock hounds’ they are at home on the shore of the biggest fresh water lake on the planet. Superior. Walking among the big and medium rocks and peering down to see what treasures the fresh wash reveals. The pros have a flashlight to shine through the crystalline formations and see what is in there.
Julie and I visit the ‘North Shore’ once or twice a year and wander several beaches that are known to have agates hidden among the clutter and clatter of stones. The waves wash up and that’s a good place to look too.
Very old stories of rocks and water wash through our minds. How long has that incredible Agate been polished and tumbled about? Where did it originate from? Grasped with thumb and forefinger and turned around a bit in the light. Plunk. Into the handy bucket you are carrying or, if it is reasonably flat, and not an agate, it is skipped out across the water. Skip, skip. Skip, Skip plunk. “nice one, four! A little curl on the forefinger, spin and whip flat to the surface.
Tedious work and it can lead to forward bending that lasts a bit longer than the expedition. Bring the treasures home and then put them in a larger container. Everyone around here has one. Some polish them in tumblers and even cut them and make them into jewelry. Usually though, they wind up in a glass canning jar and the lid gets a bit dusty. Treasure, it’s like that. Acquisition is the thrill and the exchange of worth is one man’s treasure is another man’s..rocks.
This is why when I haul the garbage container up the driveway (empty) I look down at the gravel and every now and then, stop and pick up a likely candidate of Stone treasure. Nope. Maybe! Nope. It was raining today so I didn’t have to spit on one to see if it was what I hoped it was.
That’s’ my life. Treasure hunting. Books are the best place for me to hunt. Suddenly words catch my minds eye and I look a bit closer and see treasure. Stop and look. Can I see or hear without getting in the way? Centuries of beauty in plain sight and there is no purchase involved. Just look and gaze into eternity flowing into you. Don t’ forget to breathe. Tears are OK. They wash our stony hearts and the glow is seen that was always there. Once again Adonis is mine, and I am His. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator
It’s usually very early in the morning that the howling of the pack of coyotes comes through the small open window in our bedroom. Just a little fresh air is nice, even in the winter, but the hoot of the owls and those pesky coyotes wake us up now and then.
Tempting to get out the big flashlight and the flat trajectory rifle that shoots tiny bullets very, very fast (4,000 fpm) a .220 Swift. It’s too early in the day and we all are asleep. There are no sheep to protect and we tire a bit of the old chickens that are down on production anyway. However, they are in the coop and the pets are in the house so we roll over and pull up the quilt.
Those coyotes remind me of Facebook and my postings of these columns in a way. How many hits have I got from yesterday? We eagerly howl and prance around with success of the hunt for fame and perhaps even a meal or two. “Lets have lunch sometime, I really liked your latest”
It’s a relatively new addiction for everyone. Not too long ago with 56K modems and twisted pair phone lines, the concept of watching movies and world wide communication with almost instantaneous speed was reserved for the military.
Back in the sixties, I would be in the top secret communications room. Locked in. And with teletype hooked into a pretty fast network at sea, we did pretty good. When I was a teenager, it was with CW ham radio (continuous wave, Morse code) I was able to communicate with other ham operators overseas sometimes. It was fast but no audio and certainly no video streaming! After all, light speed is pretty fast but the technical description would be, Not much bandwidth.
So now, I sit at my desk with fiber optic internet hooked up to my computer and look at my stats for my face book and my Word Press web site at the same time. How many ‘likes’ and even comments on my latest posts! Even a heart emoji takes the thrill to a new level.
The internet coyote howls arise as some of my blogging pals have a huge fan club and mine is just starting to grow with only 400 columns so far. Encouragement isn’t bad of course, but the bragging and howl in my spirit is taken as more than encouragement. Come to the feeding trough of fame! You are important and we will trade the meals as you chow down on my blog and I on yours. Wait till my book comes out!
As I write about my best friend, Jesus, I realize the coyote howl is a world’s weak way of expressing worth. Power and fame and sometimes even fortune to those that can get the pack to howl the loudest. When I am gone, those coyote howls will be gone too. There is treasure in the Lords still, small voice of eternity speaking of real worth to me. It is the greatest treasure. And it is forever indescribable love. It’s pretty good.
Jack Gator ( with a poetical thank you to Allen Ginsberg for his Howl.)
Immediately after the illuminating and inspired message from a man before us is an invitation for those in the room to come to the front if they wish for prayer. It was my first assignment to assist, to help those who would know their hunger enough to be bold and come forward.
My first experience at this large church gathering as I came out to a landing high above the room I began to weep, immediately. I was overcome with the hunger I felt from a thousand souls facing forward. Was it my hunger I asked. “Yes it is also their hunger that is now overwhelming you with all men’s hunger.” Like all of us as children when we need bread for our body, we run towards our parents for food but it is first of all we need their love.
I went down the long side stairway to the main floor and did not trip with my worn shoes and soul. I went forward to stand before the huge bass bins (speakers) and faced the room with my friend who knew what to do and knew I was in the right place with him. Still stunned by the voice that told me it was hunger that all of us have. What can I say to them that ask me for prayer? Those words are suddenly given.
A handful of a thousand felt that hunger and came to us to tell them once again, that He loves them, in that moment. They needed to know that He would never leave them when their world grows dark and holds them in His arms and loves them the He way he always does.
The real needs we have for healing and assurance are always known by our eternal Father. His desire is first for us to reach towards His heart and loving presence. The giver of life wants to give us Himself and indeed tell us once again of His love. His Spirit in our hearts is kindled to flame and His tender voice is heard.
The tears flow among them as the hunger for Him brings forth His presence once again, in that moment, He holds us close and fills us with the bread of life. The one thing that we needed, the only thing. It is the wonder of the words, audible at times when we are alone, that indeed say, “It’s OK, I am with you right here, right now.”
Most of us are a bit shy about asking for prayer and just the moving forward to ask another to join in with you is brave surrender. In the past, prayer with others was done by a handful of us behind doors. It started in our pastors office, then we moved to a small room that had a sign on it. Prayer. It’s a declaration of hunger for God to others and the others are most likely just as hungry to join you. After all, Jesus said when two or more of us join together this way, He is among us.
It’s pretty good, Jack Gator
Thanks once again for George MacDonald and Jon Thurlow for truth written and often sung.
The carriers of hope move through the earth, walking among the hungry ones. Those that hunger and thirst can be seen as glowing coals waiting for the fire to grown within. The burning one is walking and seeking those that are looking for their fire to grow.
They are waiting to be overcome with light and then flare the fuel in them that waits eagerly for the kindling.
It is the job of small pieces of kindling to be gently placed upon those coals that have been waiting for a bit of fuel to once again, bring into flame the passion for the remembered fire that blazed within them. A small amount of the spirit is enough to once again, bring the banked fire once again into the heat of fire that can be seen. The warmth begins to radiate out and be a place to rest and bask at.
It is the gift to be the giver of that small amount of spirit, to be the donkey that has the small pieces of kindling fire starters to lay upon the banked fires. To gently walk among the glowing coals in the darkness’ and encourage them, once again to be blazing light that illuminates and radiates to the hungry ones to be the lights in the darkness of the world.
There is joy within the donkey servant that brings that small amount of encouragement to help, once again to a seen flicker of fire. To bring a handful of fuel to create the heat of spirit. To tell the ones that within them that it is good and right to become a carrier of kindling too.
The larger and larger flames begin to grow until the small fires radiate the heat of love and laughter of smiles among the people as it grows. Drawn to the place they know that this can occur once more. The hunger is beginning to be satisfied within with tears of joy. Knowing this is the reason they are together.
The donkey moves along with it’s kindling. Quietly looking for that glow that shows hunger for those thin and light burdens of fuel that once more will fan the fire into a blaze of satisfying joy. The yoke of the wood is easy and well placed to carry. It is early morning as the night fades and eagerness of gathering begins again.
The small donkey knows it’s mission continues and the smile within him grows and becomes visible as the tears flow once again. The shepherd opens the gate and the he moves again, eager to obey.
It was a white van, one of those tall ones that have a contractor’s business painted on the sides. Sometimes on the front hood as well, but reversed so you can read it in your rear view. That is an oddity of mirrors we get used to. I never even think I am really shaving the right side of my face when it looks like the left.
So the van was parked at a loading dock at the local church building. Right away I want to make that clear. The building houses the church. Usually it is called the church of…something. Named after one of the gift’s of the Spirit. A rarely seen one is the First church of Self Control.
The white van had the sides (and the hood) painted with the name of the group: Easy Yoke of Deliverance. Obviously transporting something that was needed for the people at the church building. e)narevileb fo ekoy ysae seen walking up to the front of the van. That way you can see it in your mirrors!
I stopped to chat with the driver and he had a name badge on and was very friendly. It wasn’t long after that he asked me if he can pray for me. Seemed appropriate with the cross over the loading dock and all. I asked him why he would do so for me, a stranger. He told me that compassion is the fruit of solitude and the basis of all ministry. A pretty old saying from St. Anthony from the fourth century. Wisdom, given to me from two thousand years ago that was timeless. The more I mulled it over, the more sense it made. I called myself a Christian, but had never experienced nor heard these things. Intrigued and stunned, I wanted to hear more.
His prayer was short and unusual. There was no ‘Christianese’ and flowery language. He prayed right into me and told me simple things that I struggle with and that there was great hope in Christ who lives in my heart. Stunned and pleased with that directness, I began to follow the people that hopped out of the van. They waved a plastic pass card and entered into the building.
They knew the driver had prayed for me and waved me in with them.
It was fairly early in the day and the lobby had only a dozen people moving about. It was obvious that ‘services’ were being anticipated and the waft of fresh brewed coffee was in the air. It was pleasant and there was a genuine welcome in the air too.
The driver came alongside of me and showed me about this large and pleasant atrium and the second floor area as well. Everyone we met had a name badge and they were moving about cleaning, preparing snacks in a room for them and popping popcorn! My escort prayed with a handful of them and I saw from the balcony other groups of two and three doing the same for one another. My escort (Bryan) prayed for the popcorn man and we walked about with a fresh bag and greeted and prayed for more staff and volunteers we encountered.
Escorted into the huge empty sanctuary I promptly began to feel tears welling up and asked if it was hunger going on with me or an anticipation of the people soon to fill the empty seats. The answer was yes. This was definitely not church as usual. I was in love and knew beyond doubt, I was in love with the builder of this building, the town, the city and the planet. The builder and giver of life to me and everyone that I saw. Never had this happen before and I have never been the same since. That answer “yes” just came into my thoughts with clarity and authority. Still does.
I stuck around and I was captured by this love. Eventually, I joined this team I met and the joy at praying for people was so refreshing, I had to do this. Not only in the building, but everywhere I went. I began to be bolder and found baristas and store owners along with commercial drivers that deliver packages to me, welcoming the prayers. I now ‘see’ the hunger for that romance of Christ’s love. What a gift! I never seem to run out of that gift I can give now. There was a lot of preparation for me before I saw that white van. It became very clear that my life had been formed and fashioned to cradle the love of Christ. It took a long time for me, but there are similar stories. I thought I was through and tired of life. I was actually tired of death.
A new ‘job’ or calling as the van driver told me. One of the best jobs and the benefits are all written down in the company brochure, the Bible. It’s pretty good. See you there. Jack Gator scribe
It is not as a child that I believe and confess Jesus Christ. My hosanna is born of a furnace of doubt.” ~Fyodor Dostoyevski
It is indeed, Doubt that is essential to the path of faith in Christianity. At first, it seems that doubt is gone, once faith is embraced. But is it? I must confess that I doubt at times in the seemingly impossible promises of eternal life and all that precedes it.
Protection, provision, guidance and comfort. At times it seems my life is not protected nor provided for and the comfort I desire seems as though it is the carot out of my grasp. The guidance is forgotten for a bit and I lapse into some sort of swampy thoughts. It takes the silence to look back on my life when I have been blessed by all the excellent things that I have not even asked for.
Simple things that have been the foundation of the questioning expression on my face. You know that move of your own face. A slight tilt of your head, a slight frown and the wrinkle of the forehead. Looking down a bit and your eyes pulled in along with the frown. Sort of a sad look combined with the look of puzzlement. Trying to understand a missing thing. A lost tool or something said that you didn’t quite hear. Doubt of your ability to understand or grasp reality. Doubt and confusion coupled. That can’t be right. I just saw that object. What did she say? Things akin to doubting your own understanding and not quite trusting your memory of touch, sound, sight and proprioceptive sense of balance. Off kilter in puzzlement.
Perhaps tripping over your own feet and falling to the ground or falling to the depth of your being. Doubt.
In isolation it can be devastating. With the help of someone who loves you, there is a helping hand. Reaching in to pull you up out of your fear. Love abounding to once again, reassure and rescue us from our own self doubt. A rescue that can give faith. “You’ve got this, your OK and I am here beside you, always.
Faith in another one’s words and showing you your own worth. Faith in the words of your rescuer.
This is the path to remove the doubt, the doubt that diminishes and eliminates faith. This path is well known and written about in scripture. Everyone has doubts. I look back when I feel the doubt sleeting into me. I look back on the miracles and to others, impossible communications I have been blessed with. Indeed, the helping hand of our rescuer. Jesus. He has been with me when I did not know who He was. He has whispered words to warn and guide my life to love rather than follow my indifference or even hatred of other people and really, myself.
The only way for me is to silence my mind and listen. A very old desert father in the third century put it perfectly. “Where is your savior? Why don’t you ask Him yourself? He said listen” He doesn’t lie to me and if I really am quiet and listen, He will talk to me and tell me truth about the path of Holiness. That narrow path that anyone can walk. Neither looking left nor right but walking true. Listen and walk true to the spirit of God.
Jack gators grace notes 