History and Encounters

Often tender moments of Jack’s life

Save big Money on Vanities!

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I Just finished reading Ecclesiastes and checked my in box. Really. I did not know that a Big box store was into the Prophet of extensional thought. It caught my attention for certain. An advertisement as wisdom? There is no money involved in being vain. A homonym pun for my mind.

I have a new friend in our neighborhood. We swim together a few times a week at the pool about 20 miles away. He has been taking lessons on swimming and has a whole kit bag of cool accessories for serious swimmers..Special flippers, hand paddles, snorkel. Stuff like that.

I asked him once in the locker room what he thinks will happen when we die. “Worm Food” was his answer. The answer of Camus, Sartre or Nietzsche. The sum of the reviewers in a book, ‘The Terror of Existence’ was “every endeavor, be it good bad or indifferent, will one day become undone, as death ends at the grave.”

I can’t fathom why this intelligent and caring man would exercise so well and diligently, only to believe it all comes to naught. All is Vanity says the preacher.. To enjoy the response of his body and to prolong the inevitable death? {The usual unpleasant experience that we all must do).

There is nothing new under the sun and we whirl about our little solar system in the unfashionable western spiral arm of the Milky Way, It will all wind down to dust, stardust as it is said. Nothing new under the sun as the rivers flow into the ocean and it never gets full. A beauty of a planet that weights 6 sextillion tons ( that[s a six with 21 zeros) Spinning at 1000 mph on an invisible axis at 23 degrees tilt. Who built this perfect place for us to live? An excellent mathematician as Copernicus and others have said

I walk in the graveyard with all the old weathered gravestones that once were placed there by a grieving family. Now forgotten as the once fancy pillar of stone becomes covered with patches of moss. The so called eternal stone deteriorating and indeed, becoming building materiel for the ambitious small creatures with a much shorter life spans than ours are. Vanity, all is vanity.

No standards of life, no real solid instructions on what to focus on and how to actually live as we all know we should. A moral life is some how attractive to some of us and why does this happen? Who beyond our small view of life can we rely on to show us a way out and a way to live that has meaning, eternal meaning? Only one man ever claimed and demonstrated that there is life beyond the grave. You can’t weigh or measure love, beauty or devotion. There is no end to something you can’t measure. How can this be?

He can do those things and bring them to us when we die. There is only one who can and does create eternal beauty. A man that conquered death and offers eternity with him. It is the only thing that is not vain. Chase and look for Him. He is everywhere and also with You as you read this short column. True life that is not vanity. It has and will belong to of the giver of life. As the wonderful song says it so well: “I can only imagine what it will be like. Will I sing hallelujah, will I be able to speak at all? I can only imagine” a. All life, all of us, all that will be and every thing that was. It’s Jesus. It’s pretty good.

Jack Gator

a. Mercy me

The History of Jack Gator’s Name

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

In the beginning (Jack’s favorite three words) Jack was enthralled with fiddle contests, playing in country swing bands and always admired excellent fiddlers. After all, in his middle twenties he lived in the neighborhood of ’40 acres of musicians’ He wrote a column on those times. It is available at the web site. Http://www Gatorsgracenotes.com It was publisheda few years ago in the Intercounty Leader.

There was such a panoply of musicians that Jack had the privilege to hang out and play with. Peter Ostrushko. Brian Wicklund, Craig Ruble, Pop Wagner, Mary Dushane to name a few! Mary wound up on the Prairie Home Companion. She played at Jack’s wedding along with Bill Hinkley, Kevin Mcmullin and Jack. We surrounded Julie in her gorgeous wedding gown and played Helsa Dem Hardemma, a Swedish waltz. What a heritage of being surrounded with music for years.

When Jack was living up north in Wisconsin, he began competing and judging in fiddle contests. When asked by the newspaper to come up with a photo, the only thing Jack could find was a drawing of a young alligator playing a fiddle. He was leaning back on his tail in the cartoon. The nickname of Mr. Gator stuck. Jack even had license plates proclaiming ‘MR GATOR’ Such fun silliness.

Much later a fellow writer (Jesse Selin) drew the Gator picture and then we had to come up with a first name. A masculine one with punch. Jack’s favorite author, C.S.Lewis was nicknamed Jack, and it fit.

Jack’s real name is Norman Eric Peterson. Sort of Scandinavian. Images of sandbakkels, fattigman, lefese an of course, barrels of lye filled with lutefisk come to mind. The cookies are hard to spell and hardly anyone knows about them. Local church basement cooks, however, know these things. These images are first to come to mind and don’t seem masculine (except for the lutefisk ocean crossing ordeal) Not that Norm is ashamed of Norway and Sweden’s images, there just isn’t that instant familiar image of Norm in most of us. Friendly and as a child, a bit rough and tumble. So, the name stuck and you, dear reader, are too. It also helps for the third person writing and as Jack says; “The names are changed to protect the guilty.”

So there you have it. Jack did indeed have a rough and tumble life with prison escapes, FBI encounters, Top Secret rank, Luftwaffe pilots, Russian surface missiles and facing down danger with it all. The name fits. (He does not own a battle axe.) He is Just a slightly dense Norwegian that is ready to sail to the new land. And risk his life to do so. Adventure seems to be a trait of Norwegians and Swedes. They like to work hard too.

Words and history combined with a lot of trauma. Jack likes to write to entertain, intrigue and show those narrow escapes. All of it happened due to shape a man able to witness the saving grace of Jesus. It’s pretty good, Jack Gator

Titus Quinctius Cincinnatus

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A Roman citizen who exemplified rule for the greater good, Civic Modesty, Virtue and Humility. Several times he controlled the Roman Empire and led it to a successful fulfillment of long term vision and intelligent use of resources and strength. He lived around 500 BC. After ruling the empire several times and putting back on track of civilization (Ending the reliance upon the state) he retired and went back to his small farm.

Very much akin to our own George Washington who made certain that our nation stood by the constitution, after this was accomplished he also went back to his farm (voluntarily retirement) in Mount Vernon.

The obvious problem then, and now, is the outlook of time. Quick satisfaction of wish or long term growth and security. We are faced with this decision now in our nation. Is it growth in essential ways? Or do we wish for the things and ways that seem to satisfy our now?

Quick fix and keeping the populace settled (somewhat) and the offering of government supply and direction. Also a lot of ‘fake news’ to stir the pot of longing. We have all seen the anxiety in our neighbors for things that are not long term goals but in perceived wealth and safety (perceived). I will not pontificate of these things. They are simple things and easily seen, if we want honesty and use the intelligence we have been given.

Stimulus cash that is dolled out to make us believe in a benign economy, entertaining conflict on the airwaves or through fibre optic high speed computers. My desktop is pages long every morning of answers to satisfying images. A new electric powered car (with a power grid capable of keeping them charged?) Lowering the price of gasoline by a dime by releasing two days worth of national emergency oil.

How about getting another and another shot of security which is akin to the finger in the dike by a small vision that promises and can’t deliver. Backed up of course by fear mongering. ‘Bring out your dead’ It will probably be you. Keep those shields up Scotty! Isolate and tremble. Your saviors in the capitol will let you know when it is safe. Life is not safe, never was. Again, as C.S. Lewis penned it so brilliantly about our Lord: “Is He safe? Of course not, He’s a lion..but He’s good”

It would seem quite a few people are getting aware that it isn’t safe out there. After all, we rely on lines of paint to keep us from deadly forces of impact. Does that seem safe? If I wear a paper mask that does not allow me to breath or see, I will be safe against people. “Buy this one! It fits perfectly!” (unless it isn’t needed) We are in a hurry to pick up that deal, that stimulus check. Survival food and enough ammunition to fight off ‘those people’

Gold and silver bars and coins to trade for your miserable, isolated and fear filled life. Cincinnatus and George Washington knew a lot of these things and with their virtue and honesty, helped us out of our situation.

We need that attitude today. Modesty and the greater good visions. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Diversify

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

The morning ritual, perhaps a few of us look forward to it. It ends with the half cup and half caff and a screen at eye level. Jack often wonders at the medical frame straighteners that are taxed with the continual efforts to adjust us to these times. You know the posture. Head tipped forward, about 25 to 30 degrees, left hand upraised and the digits of the right tapping on the small rectangle of plastic.

“Hi Eddie, what’s going on this morning?” “Ed?” Oh hi Jack, I was just checking my account.

The isolation of the postures of those around us. Walking, sitting on a bench perhaps or strap hanging on the metro. It has become a reservoir of escape and capture even on Jack’s email in the morning ritual. An interesting article on a Sunday lecture series is delayed a little bit by advertising that pops up.

We all know how it works and sometimes there is a short escape with a click down in the lower right of the screen that says; ‘Skip ads’ Or perhaps an X off the the right that deletes the ad. Jack has noticed sometimes the ad pops back up. Golly, Jack just wanted to read that article in the New York Bad Times about the collapse of civilization and an opinion of an expert on technical issues with the pending doom.

Old news articles, pulled off with a simple copy and paste. Here’s the news and it isn’t pretty. The immediate thought about that lecture or sermon diminishes to fear. Images of young thugs staring at your car as it is stopped at the red light. Red means danger close. Images of that property that is not selling as fast as it should because the market is skewed. Fear of an empty shelf at the destination locked into the GPS. Why was it always toilet paper that is the first thing missing, even at the two dollar store? “It’s those truckers! It’s the inflation causing something I don’t understand!

The good reporter/bad reporter sets us up for the ads hooked into the online reading. “Invest! Diversify! There is a way to guarantee the future for you and your family!” Another go-round on the roundabout of collapsing faith. Looking at failure and perhaps death by ingestion of food that does not contribute to nutrition. Fake food. Fake news.

As it was said thousands of years ago, there is nothing new under the sun. Same old game we play when we loose faith in the life given to us by the solid reliable source of all knowledge. Where is our Lord and Master? You know, I am doubting things and I am going to make sure every base is covered!

Diversify. There are other ways to make certain of my survival! ‘This offer is solid gold! It will get you through the hard times you have even been promised by that leader who seems to have disappeared ”Bullion. Shiny and eternally so. Secure as the bank. Diversify and survive. Nothing new under the sun.

Is it pretty good or is it just fear and lack of trust? Jack Gator

Creativity of a Wordsmith

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, does glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven; and as imagination brings forth the forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing, a local habitation and a name.” a

There is a great deal of unread and unnoticed wisdom floating about. Often, those words get clouded over with brash recitation. The meanings almost completely lost for the listener to the erudite speaker. We all do it. As a radio would just become background noise to alleviate the lack of conversation, so does great literature and poetry become in the hands of a tone deaf musician. After all, music is poetry put to sound. Prose and poetry are intoxicating concertos when done well.

Of course, there is a beginning to listening and that is a decision to be made by us all. Do we believe in what is being said as truth, real truth? Or does the effort to inculcate us with excitement in discovered truth not appeal? After all, You and I are most ignorant of great wisdom that lies just about, flat and bound in cardboard or fine leather. Stacks of those at times around my comfy chair that somehow manages to lull me to sleep. Just when my hungry mind starts to come awake, I fall into a slumber. Too much of the fruit of the mind can be intoxicating. Small doses work better for me.

Am I getting tedious and bit vague now? Good, that’s the point. Trained at an early age to embrace ‘speed reading’, I become a bit of a prig without understanding well. The words were read correctly and their meaning understood. There is a word that showed up on the old, yellowed report cards now and then, comprehension. A good illustration would be a story about a young boy that had an extraordinary experience. This boy in the story found a treasure that was revealed later in the book. I instantly thought of booty and coin like. My intellect was not engaged in the story.

The story in mind was a fantasy about real things of spirit and life. The author (a recognized master) had written the story to engage both our excitement and awareness of our selves in the story. After a paragraph or two, stories like this one should be vivid. We paint pictures and set in a sound track. After the story or movie per se’, the author rather insists we go beyond and play the melody of words that add a great deal. Great literature can resemble piano lessons. Suddenly the flatted fifth is beauty..

The next time this happens, I catch himself either dozing, editing to make the story make sense in my mind. ‘This isn’t relevant to me. Why am I listening/reading this? Just as wheat is combined, the sifting begins to yield the golden kernel hidden in a plain looking stalk. The loaves of bread in the promise are not seen by casual glances. Gleaning it is called and we are called to glean wisdom from everyone we meet in person or not. Our choice. Be arrogant and think of ourselves as complete as we are, or open up our hearts and find treasure at hand. Treasures abound if we look for it. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

a. William Shakespeare With much thanks to George MacDonald for his novel, At the Back of the North Wind

Conversation Desire and another Glimpse of Eternity

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was one of those soirees, delightful providence of food and people well all yearn for. It went on for the perfect amount of time. Beautiful children, eager pets and faces and voices familiar. Polite words of promise and the search for lives barely understood. Surrounded by a choir, singing a light opera of intimacy, queries and laughter. The author of the notes and stanzas still in the wings waiting for the stage call.

Bits of the score, heard but not completely understood are jealously embraced, acted in a dream that night. The unrecognized but palatable yearning to be written into the opera at various stanza’s almost heard and ended many times with recognizable laughing voices.

Sometimes, you have the impression that the author has saved your savoring for last powerful measures. The ending of stunning beauty, only felt by a few actors still remaining on the stage. Duets mostly but with engagement of song between several singers. Fulfillment and with the dishes put away and the snap of tables folded for the next production in the background. The final notes played like beautiful, loud trumpets and kettle drums building to your then silent departure.

We have all been there. It was an invitation with promise and the invitation given casually. Turn on the voice in the car and follow her instructions. ‘Turn left’ almost going through the stop sign while looking for the road she was telling you about. Blue tooth on the car radio and it works. Sometimes. Upon arrival, it was anticipated that parking would be somewhat complex. It was a breeze this time. A few decades of months in the winter past, the sleigh and the snow complicated parking. A wonder of landscaping came into view. The stage was set.

The guest of honor spoke after a delightful lunch. myself and Julie, sitting in the front heard him plainly. The intriguing thing was his demeanor. Engaging. You knew he was not used to speaking and it really helped him. Not smooth but truth easily heard and personal as weakness’ and surprises as well.

After he spoke there were the inevitable requests for clarification and he handled that very well. Professional speakers are a dreadful bore in those circumstances. Thanks be he was again, engaging and the time sped by.

Since we were in the front row, it was natural to approach him and reassure him. We talked and talked well. There was no lecturing. Fascination. Worlds presented from far away. The mission to intrigue and cause a slight tip of the head to look beyond sight. The author delighted in us.

A light opera, conducted just for us it seemed. As indeed the accouterments were put away and no one else was seen or heard around us, we realized it was the curtain call. The car was easily seen as the other ones were gone.

Every one of the guests and hosts had politely exited and we felt very honored as we conveyed the mutual pleasure of the evening to one another. Real conversation. After all, the opera of honor was well written and well sung by all. Silence and delight at what had been given.

The author of the play is still with us. He has a habit of doing that. He rode back with us and is, as usual, still about the ranch. He helps me write, he surprises us with snippets of astonishing beauty that we have never seen before. We long for more, always. We hunger for the meal again as we wait with eager anticipation. At times, He shouts his name over us. Jesus, author and finisher of our faith. it’s pretty good.. Jack Gator Scribe

Sproul Plaza in the Genteel World

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Some of you older folks may remember the ‘free speech’ movement in Berkeley back in the 60’s.
There were all sorts of speakers ‘for the people’ declaring the freedom to say anything they wanted to and thus, enabling everyone to do the same.


Mario Savio, Jerry Rubin and others were up there on the steps at the college,ripping up the air with
megaphones and every filthy word they could muster up. The lizard was let out of the cage and it really
still belongs in there today. I have noticed things that are acceptable nowadays that were not so a short
time ago. Movies, literature and people on some sort of insane voyage seem to be heard and amazingly, understood and endorsed by many. It seems as though Allen Ginsburg and his ‘man/boy’ agenda has been given a new look and found politically correct this time around.


It appears that insanity and the collapse of thinking is here. Turning our children into the opposite sex
and actually having people in Washington unable to define the difference between a man and a woman.
That sort of thing happens in fantasy movies. Usually it is some sort of super power that appears in those
kind of films.

Now, the super power is saying things that are not real and people that hear these things
believe them. These new believers get angry when those of us see absurdity spoken and written. Easily
seen if you haven’t drunk the cool aid. Feminine personal products available in men’s public toilets just in
case they are needed. Men competing in Women’s sports events because they have changed their
names to female and wear clothing to match.


Our country is on a acid trip that Timothy Leary stated would be so cool if LSD was put in all the water
we drink. Conspiracy theories abound. Free injection needles for drug addicts. Creating ‘safe zones’ for
rioters we now call disenfranchised and troubled youth. Shootings every night by criminals that ‘we
created’ because of our racist history (which is being re-written by George Orwell’s ministry of truth)

Now we have criminals from other countries who just drifted in to enjoy the home of no savings and the land of free stuff. It is insane and we wait to awaken again in the morning to unlock the doors and peer out down the driveway to see it is still calm. Even here in rural American farmland.


I experienced the tip of that iceberg a few years ago at night. I was at a public reading by a university
professor with many endorsements and accolades from the usual foundations and politically correct
intellectuals. Books for sale too. Autographed as soon as the cash was given. An author that I worked alongside decades ago in a local food co-op we put together. It’s still there. I was eager to see her again and reminisce.


It was Sproul plaza again. This time without the megaphone. A totally inadequate sound system and
refreshments for those of us who need those sorts of things. It was put on by a government funded
institution, the St. Croix Falls Library. We were out in the delightful perfect summer evening on a plaza. Nice chairs and very friendly people.


A lot of them were friends too. The main speaker, my old friend, was reading a book of her own and it began to segue into language that is now free to use. Language of bar habitués in questionable parts of cities.


The small gathering of intellectuals began to titter and appreciatively express their delight in the continual use of curse words and the denigration of our Lord. As though He was the cause of sorrows and arbitrary wrong doing. “Is He safe? Of course not, He’s a lion but He’s good” A.


The lemonade and grapes and crackers were leaving traces to follow the crowd along. It was a
courtesy by the staff to comfort us and prepare us for the endorsing of the cool-aid of the times. How
exciting to hear an endorsed intellectual (with the mandatory book signing afterwards) speak those words
that we all want to speak casually. Polite society is not ready for that yet. It was sad for me to experience such drivel and ‘worldliness’ from an old friend.

Before I left, I asked why she used so many F bombs and added I was offended. She replied, “I was just reading a book!” That disconnect was incomprehensible. She wasn’t reading an old Ginsberg book, she wrote this one and she owns it.

I had brought some of my columns for Sharon, my friend and fellow author, to enjoy later but I tucked them back into my journal and left. It was not very good. I was sad. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

A. C.S. Lewis. ‘The lion, the witch and the wardrobe.

Another Day in Small Town America

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A trip to town, only about 7 miles on a good highway. It’s hilly with familiar landmarks seen and spoken of. Around the lake just over the hill from the farm, there is what appears to be a small village out on the ice, fishing for whatever is down below the ice. Dozens of trucks and fishing shacks (wimps, we just sat on upside down white buckets ‘back in the days) No tip ups seen from this distance of over ¼ mile.

Then up the hill and there’s the old brick church with red crosses on the doors and a beautiful brick chimney for the coal furnace. Stoked in the past by Walter Wilson every Sunday morning. Good worker and farmer. A family name that is still around with his generous son, Lloyd.

Onward past the old auto yard of Nelson Motors which was the home of Doctor X, wrestler extraordinaire on TV. It was pro wrestling back in the days of cathode ray tubes and rabbit ears. The Crusher was a big draw too. They were very good actors with perfect athletic skills to fall and crash and bounce around. There were no stunt men nor mixed effects modifications. I liked the bouncing off of the ropes moves.

My dad watched wrestling every Sunday while the rest of our family went off to the ‘Mother Church’ downtown. I would have preferred to stay with Dad but most the cigar would not be shared. It was alone time for Dad, everyone needs it now and then. My dad made a mean pot of Chow Mien then which was waiting for our return. With noodles. No fortune cookies. A memory all from the distant past brought forth from passing a junkyard on the highway. Fred Nelson motors, (pro wrestler is not on the old sign)

Memories flood me as I drive the twisty highway now past the resort where Dad and I rented a boat for our last fishing expedition at the mouth of the local river. The Lake is called Round Lake, how many round lakes there are just in NW Wisconsin? This one is not round either. Pot holes are round. The resort is gone and so is Dad, but the memory is clear even with the color of the boat and the squeak of the oarlocks.

Up the hill now, passing the old schoolhouse which was turned into a pretty nice antique store.

Around the corner where a memorial used to stand by the ditch where a exchange student from Russia was killed in a rollover accident. His hockey stick which leaned on the cross was still there. Jack weeps internally every time to town and back at the loss and the thoughts of that kid’s parents back in the old country. When I tell the story of the many car ditch events right at that curve, I include the name of the owner of the house right there. Rolloff.

Past the milking barn with the huge ventilation fans on it’s front and across the road from where Edwin Anderson lived. I went to the estate auction there. Steamer trunks with old passports inside with the folded linen and other treasures are suddenly images within me.

The thought of how to give country directions to someone from out of town. Just turn left at Tony’s barn which is right across the highway from Edwin Anderson’s old place.

An old Irish story comes to mind: A tourist asked a farmer near a road which way he can get to Dublin. “If I was a goin T there I wouldn’t start from ere” was the reply.

There are many road markers for me. Einer’s mountain (long climb for a bicycle, we did it a lot. You had to keep an eye on your rear view mirror for Edwin driving his Buick. ) A weaving driver with questionable eyesight he was.

Then you pass by the Amish farms and then down a small hill into own. You can make it all the way to the post office if you put it in neutral at the top of the hill. A few errands are done and the snow and ice and drifts are a challenge to get to the library.

Suddenly, a lone maple leaf blows by in the snowy ditch. I picked it up as a sign or signal of some sort. Maybe spring is coming soon? I made a visit with my editor at the newspaper publishing building and he gave me 15 bucks to pick up some strawberry/rhubarb pie mix in the bigger town down the highway. Our smaller grocery store cannot stock those sorts of delicacies . I then met someone new by the library and a conversation ensued about the man’s forefathers coming over in the 1600’s from England.

We met by an older building next to the Pioneer bar that my family had a prayer room in. When our family was there, there was a drum cage, singer mics, my instruments and a keyboard. Our family worshiped Jesus with songs and sung prayers a few times a week. There was even good WiFi from the bar next door, right through the brick walls and with permission and the password. Four years of memories there. Now it’s locked with a Realtor’s coded lock and the scroll work scripture is gone too.

It’s an average short trip to town in many ways and it’s time to head back home. I forgot that man’s name but the conversation was another bright exchange of history and is not forgotten.

It’s slushy and cold and the recent snow fall has made the roads slick here and there. My newer car has automatic stability control and antilock brakes to go with it. A few jiggles on the curves and it’s home to check the mailbox at the end of the 1/8th mile driveway. Oops, the wind turned it 90 degrees (or was it the plow?) No mail today. I can see that it turned before the mail delivery was attempted. Otherwise the mail would be scattered in the snow.

There are many trips to towns nearby 30 miles away but they do not hold quite as much nostalgia. Turn up the worship music on the CD player and sing along sometimes. Today I was trying to sing acapella the Patsy Cline song ‘Crazy’

I love the octave jump back at the first line. Doesn’t everyone have days like this? If you share them, people either think you fit the Patsy Cline song name or they share their roads traveled with you. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

Telestati

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

The downtown Minneapolis square block window show is coming back. It was at Dayton’s store and will be again. Myself and my family would walk around the huge building, viewing every window’s offering to the story of the world’s Christmas. Fashion, appliances, gifts of all sorts. The window that I really looked ahead to was the one with the electric trains. A young boys fancy and dream. Who predicted that when I was barely a reasonable man, I would be building those train tracks for the Burlington Railroad. Not as much fun as the models. Good pay and more fruitful that going to the gym to work out.

Decades later, I found the real Christmas story. Not the story of the manger and the shepherds and the three wealthy astrologers from the East. The most amazing story. The little boy Jesus, asleep on the hay, coming to make a trade for all of us with his Father, by dying one day. There really should be a Roman cross over the manger scene.

Does this offend some of you? I know I was shocked when I heard the Greek word Tetelestai and found it’s meaning in the Bible. The word means completed, finished, paid and done. A debt satisfied completely.

This is why Jesus was born, this was the mission he accomplished. He was to pay off a debt owed to his Father. A debt so monumental that it is still impossible to comprehend the size of it. Everyone’s debt except His own and he had no debt of sin. I’ve never seen a son like this before.

Jesus did not come to us to teach us social justice. He did not preach salvaging the poor. He did use the phrase “Poor in Spirit” but this has nothing to do with wealth. It means those of us that know we are lacking in connection with His Father and need to know Him and pray for an awakening in our heart and Spirit. He did not come to us to teach about feeding lots of people or being really nice. It was foretold by many of the prophets in the Bible as to what he came for. Freedom and Joy and Everlasting life. The three basic food groups of love.

Jesus came to give Himself to be the perfect, unblemished sacrifice for a sinful world. Us. That is why he was born. Not to preach love and peace and care for the poor parse. God told Mary and Joseph that Mary will give birth to a son, and you will give him the name Jesus, because He will save His people from their sin.

John the Baptist points to Jesus and declares: “Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” John, who was Jesus’ cousin knew about this. After all, the two of them met before either of them were born. Nice story, it’s good reading and, of course, astonishing and beautiful.

For centuries the Jewish religion demanded sacrifices of animals and food to atone for their sin. It made everyone feel a lot better as we go on sinning in spite of our tremendous offerings. God, giving Himself to death for the ones he created is the only cure.

I know about about sin, I should, I consider myself the be the chief of sinners at times. that’s a phrase I borrow from Peter the Apostle. Since my last name is Peters son I inherited that penchant for sin. That was 42 generations ago. Yet, The key is not bragging about how bad you were and are, It’s the thing that is true for every one who has, is, or will be living. All of us no matter how nice you believe you are.

You know it, even though we all think we will ‘make the cut’ because we’re not so very bad and we even go to church and give to the poor!’ An illusion we all embrace at some time or another. That’s in scripture too by the way. Talk to Jesus and listen to what He says. There is the moment that gives us incredible joy when we are delivered from a sinful behavior. It makes life real and purposeful for us and our loved ones. Still, we sin, and have sinned. The debt we owe to the judge of all things can’t be paid by us. We are to be holy and we are not. Now we are on that Highway of Holiness and shall not go astray.

That debt is the reason Jesus was born. He taught and loved and healed and showed us His perfect life. The only perfect sacrifice for us. A spotless Lamb which was a usual Temple sacrifice. But now, a lamb of God. Given to death for all , once and forever. Tetelesti. There is so much more, there isn’t room in this short column. It is indeed the Good News that we are ransomed from the righteous wrath of His Father. We deserve death, “He made me alive, when I was dead and He raised me up and seated me with Christ. It’s by his Grace, that I am saved and it’s though faith, the very gift of God”

Oh yes, Jesus is alive. I’ve never met a man that’s more alive. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator.

With many thanks to Gregory Koukl

Chosin Reservoir

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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