Tender Life experiences

Mail Call

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Catching attention is that announcement over the 1MC (That is the speaker system throughout a Navy Ship)

Mail call! Overseas, it was a light moment, usually news from home. Packages of cookies and such were obvious and demanded attention from one’s division. Hopefully a large box. After doing a few tours in a war zone, it was a welcome diversion. Mail was found aft, at the Mess deck by the ship’s Gedunk.

Being on watch 24 hours with 12 hours to sleep was a bit uncomfortable. The mail call was a pleasant relief besides Folgers coffee or Mid rats on the mess deck.

We all do it, walking out now to the box at the end of the driveway to see what’s there. On Tuesdays when the trash is also in it’s container there, it’s an easier job to not have to clutch the rolling trash can and the mail at the same time. You can tell what to toss in the empty can. Sometimes, it’s the whole days mail with all the ‘Special offer just for you!’

Every one on a rural route knows the drill with the flag up to signal there is outgoing mail in the box. Country folk nowadays usually skip doing that flag thing. It used to be convenient, but now there are a very small minority who have a calling to inspect boxes late at night with flags up.

There is almost a romance with the mail. It is something our government really got right to establish the Postal Service. Our language has responded with phrases and words particular to our mail. Special Delivery, Tracking, Return to Sender, Postage Due, Return address’, Zip codes and the inevitable, Junk Mail (spam for Gmail)

There was a rumor afoot that messenger and email type communication would completely eliminate mail. At first, paper mail was called ‘snail mail’ but electronic mail is easily lost and addresses are tricky too.

A few years back, I was told to walk a bicycle trail and then cross the highway to find a treasure. One of those gentle commands that cannot be ignored. He told me to keep my eyes open!

Or course, I thought of treasure of some sort. Nothing but trash and discarded cigarette butts. Not even field stripped. (ask a vet about that phrase) Then He told me to cross the highway, leave the trail. A nice ditch next to a golf course came into view.

There was old mail in the ditch. Dozens of envelopes. I opened one and it was from Korea from a local soldier asking about the crops and the tractors and things like that. Keeping in touch and letting the folks know he was thinking of them, their dad, a soldier overseas. There was a broken cedar box in the midst of the scattered white envelopes. The last name on the envelopes address’ was familiar and it was a name of a girl we had in the Kinship program

We called the number of the last name and the local town. It indeed was that girl and when we told her what I had found, she excitedly said; “There was a break in at my grandfathers house not long ago!” It was a flash of understanding that the thieves opened the box in their getaway vehicle and seeing the old letters, tossed the box out the car window. We bundled up the letters and gave them back to the family and it was very good to do so. There was the return of precious memories.

Personal mail, ah, that is the treasure at our mailboxes! It even surpasses envelopes with checks to cash. A real letter that shows a friend that cares enough to gather ink and pen and encourage us immediately when we see the return address. We all get Email and that has no impact as a folded piece of promised love from an old friend. I get those letters often when I need them.

So, what have we always had that is faster and never has any junk mail or spam with it? We have a passel of love letters from a very dear friend which bear re-reading and we have the incredible permission to answer those letters with just..thoughts. Spoken alone or with friends or just found behind our eyes. The only requirement to receive those letters is to understand them and if needed, ask for clarification with our response. To hear and read and feel our hearts move to get closer to the writer and speaker to our very core.

It’s time now to read and understand and respond to the best correspondent that is and always will be. You know his address. Jesus. Among His many names is ‘The Word” He’s waiting for you to read his letters. Pay attention, it is very important that we do so. Think seriously about those spoken and writtern special letters from your best friend and devour them with joy. Send a response with all your heart, mind, soul and spirit. He is delighted to hear from us, especially you.

It’s pretty good. Norm / Jack

Painful Changes

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

An analogy, inspired by an author that I owe a greater debt than anyone for language. Imagine that there is an automobile that is sentient. With it’s own thoughts, desires and purpose. Then you own this automobile and are constantly tinkering with it: Redoing the paint and finish. Taking out critical things and making them better and more powerful. Putting the engine right with better pistons and timing components. Literally ripping out the seat coverings and replacing them with better fabric and even airflow types.

Better mirrors to see what is behind and clear glass to see what is ahead. The basic model now being turned into a high performance one that is seen as needing these things. Not things the car wants to be done to it, but things the engineer knows will bring it closer to the ultimate car.

What would that tearing apart and scraping and stripping be like for an automobile that is aware of itself? The first thought would be “I did all that is needed before! I get from place to place in a reasonable fashion. Why make me go through all these painful changes?”

And so it is with us. Our Lord and builder and designer of us has plans to improve us now that we have the ability to do our own modifications which are part of His plan. The changes are only powerful and go deep if we connect with Him and then start the process within us. I go to a church meeting at least twice a week. It’s as if a man, desiring physical healing, went to a lecture about medicine. Great teaching and preaching for sure but it is a window into truth for me. I must act on this revelation again. It is up to my will to go deep and open my heart to the Lord. My pastors are showing me the door and the doorbell. It is a door locked from my side and I have the key to open it.

All the good intentions we have are just that, thoughts. Our inner core can’t be changed by good intentions. Can’t be changed by a good friend telling us what is wrong. Worse yet, sometimes a good friend will tell us to ‘just stop doing that!’ As though a leaking faucet can be fixed by giving it good advice to stop dripping. The faucet needs a good plumber and we need our Creator. The one that knows us and would love us to change. The change can’t be done by reading the instructions we are given by loved ones.

The change comes by us opening our hearts to the only one that can actually do it. We can be changed if we finally realize we need to. The creator of all things and us, can fix us in an instant if He wished. He knows all things but we must discover how to find Him and ask Him for help. There is no other way, no other path, no other treatment, no two for the price of one, no spiritual duct tape that will do the job. We must die to our raging, often wounded, basic core and ask for the warranty that is offered for our spirit man, Heart, and soul. (Whatever phrase works for you.)

I have answered the gentle knock on my door and accepted the life offered. He could blow down our doors if He wished, but those changes have to come from our wish, our surrender, giving up love for the wrong things we have thought were right and the way we accomplished them.

Our Creator knows us and desires us to know Him more. I talk to Him as often as I am able. The way He showed me how to talk to the Father. A good way to start is to sing to him. Works for me. Singing scripture is another form of prayer. Worship with the Word it has been called by some, and it’s pretty good. Jack Gator

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

A Vision of Forever and Ever

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe

The Watchmaker in Paradise

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I have always wondered what we say about ‘going to heaven’ for ourselves or others. I have been told by people that I was with during their last days or hours, that if possible and permitted, that they meet him when he ‘crosses the bar’. (old Navy term) Seems reasonable. As though we can figure out what eternity is like and can make requests to arrange things. First class comes with perks after all. We all know who is in that club along with our dear friends. We really think we know who is on the list, like Santa Claus with his naughty or nice.

Eternity is not just a long, long time. “If you cried one tear every year in paradise, you eventually have enough water to cover the earth. In no time at all” 1. How about walking to the crab nebula at a really fast pace? Just to take a look and wander about. Billions of years which of course, is a time measurement and is meaningless.

I once asked our Lord when flying over the east coast, how can you count all the hair on everyone’s head? I saw for several hundred miles in each direction. A lot of lights, millions of people. The answer was swift and humbling. “Easy , it’s a finite number” Oh yes, forgot about that little detail.

So if we are going to live forever if we have been saved from the Father’s wrath, what are we going to be doing eternally? Sort of the same thing we spent our lives doing so far? I get interested when think about worshiping with music. There are times when worshiping that are transcendent and stunning. Music then seems a reasonable eternal life style. My back aches at times when I stand and play. Ensemble worship teams that really only last a short ‘time’ are tolerable. With a new body and an incredible vision before me, I figure it will be the best gig ever. After all, the hours are good (forever), the pay is decent (deliverance from eternal suffering and hell), and the flaming sea of glass with the elders sounds like a happening place.

Eternally gazing upon the face of God and His Son would be the picture in a dictionary describing ‘Ecstasy’

What about writers, cab drivers, laborers and medical people? What are they anticipating with this Eternity promise? I, of course, don’t even have a clue. I have had visions as above. Exploring creation. Macro and micro. Living forever? Are there restaurants in Heaven? Perhaps asparagus with butter and salt on the menu along with German Chocolate cake. Are there bathrooms in heaven? Saunas and shampoo with eternal odor?

All these pleasures of our life now are like weak images for eternity. We have nothing to compare our lives with the thought of eternity. C.S. Lewis has written a few stories that describe hell and escape. The endings leave you hanging a bit, of course. Riding a powerful white stallion into the mountains of eternal beauty sounds good. I assume saddle sores are not included and the tack never gets worn. Is there such a thing as boredom there? That is a clue. I get bored easily. What if eternal fascination is completely encompassing. Forever?

The watchmaker be would assigned orbital mechanics and timing for the world he just left. Asking The Lord, Why me? “I thought you would enjoy it” is perhaps the answer. So, Joined with Copernicus and Kepler and others keeping the whole show on track. Making certain that the interiors of the suns are at the correct stage of nuclear fusion. No office cooler needed. Being a useful servant feels really good. Jesus knows all these things. He loves us.

It’s impossible to know Holiness from our position. It’s a Nice thing to contemplate though. We sing about the Holy Father and Jesus and give Them praise as we can. The Holy Spirit gives us the words. It feels right, it feels eternal. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

1. Gregory Koukl

The first signs of things to Come

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Signs of otherness. Different ways of looking at the world. Wondering about the people involved in these things. Speculative questions, because history of things of the past can only be derived from writing of eyewitnesses (the best type) or records from the time and place. The more corroborating evidence,the more assured history can be derived. Autobiographies are the best. They have to be believed of course. Fiction does not read as history does. Historical accounts usually have odd things and twists of life that authenticate them.

A few examples: I had the earliest General Class Amateur radio license when I was in grade school. The examiner at the downtown courthouse said that. That examiner didn’t specify whether it was just in the state or the nation. Thirteen words a minute Morse code and the ability to sketch a power supply and an oscillator circuit. Things like that. Laws and rules of radio frequencies and basic electronics/electrical knowledge to round it off.

I remembers too asking my 3rd grade teacher when the class would be studying soil and earth crust stratification. She laughed and said “later for that” Odd, I thought. I really wanted to know those things. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself and the class’ was also said. Don’t stand out was the message. It won’t go well.

I wondered why his classmates talked about leaves in trees and stars and other things far away. I was very nearsighted and finally was examined and got my first set of glasses. ‘Four Eyes!’ Bullies, finally finding an in road to beating me up. My ‘favorite’ was a Croatian boy. Face washing in the snow was one of the highlights of winter. All that young boy wanted was to have a friend. I was perfect, an outcast and very different. Third grade children do not talk about ionization of the atmosphere and radio signals blocked from the sunspots. I turned out pretty good and I really know now what I have been prepared for. All that curiosity I was gifted with, all those other gifts. These things were designed to help me write about another man. A man that I don’t need a radio to communicate with, a man I can hear in my mind and spirit. Clearly.

That man lived a long time ago, and did such astonishing things that are written down in a very reliable history book. Quite a few books actually. That young man, not a child, but a young man of no reputation, did things that no one has ever done since. He was at a social event, a wedding with his Mother, and the guy who was throwing the party ran out of refreshments. A social blunder of the first sort, especially at so important an event. The revelers had drunk all the wine and it was getting embarrassing for that host.

The young man’s mother, she knew his father very well. She pointed out the problem then, and her son told her it was “not His time”. An odd thing to say of his life from then on. Never the less, Mom told the waiters to do whatever her Son told them to do. As recorded, after a short time, her Son told the waiters to fill up all the empty jugs with water. A lot of wine jugs and a lot of water. One of the guests drew a flagon of the fluid from one of the jugs and pronounced it the best wine of the celebration. “Most hosts save the cheap box wine for the end! This wine is exquisite, the best I have ever tasted!” Water to wine, bypass the vineyard and all that messing about with stomping grapes and aging. This was the very beginning of the young man’s tale. Just a peek behind the curtain of eternity. So, Discerning historical events isn’t too hard to do. No one would make up a story like that.

The things that I write about are similar. No one can make up stories like that. If you know where and how to look, you know. Other historians, distant in the past, or right now on this page, want to tell truth. It is so fascinating and astonishing to discover a world outside of ourselves that tells us who we are. Tells us what we are and why we are here.

Of course, the young man was Jesus and his Mother was Mary. His Father I leave to you to discover. It’s a great family tradition. Don’t get confused, Just talk to Jesus. He’s pretty good. Jack Gator

A life Hidden and Seen

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was several years ago when my whole family went to Washington D.C. we even took a friend with us. It was her first flight and she did the usual casual cool luggage rack and seat location. I had a little disagreement at the boarding ramp. The attendant told me my airline case for my viola was baggage and had to go into the hold. A stewardess for the flight was nearby. I explained to the attendant that the viola was made in France in the late 1700’s and it was not going into the hold. It was a bit of a standoff and the nearby stewardess told me to board the plane and she found a nice place for the case where the crew puts their stuff. I was thankful and very effusive with my praise of that crew member.

When the Delta flight began it’s roll out, the friend that was with us was a little nervous at the turbine noise and the acceleration. Like every first time flier, when the gear came up with it’s thumping and noise, she reached over and grasped my hand tightly. Every new flier does it. Grab the arm of the seat, anything. When we arrived at the airport in Maryland, we rented a van and the best driver of the family took the wheel. If you hesitate for more than ¼ of a second off the white line when the light turns green, you get the horn in back. Every time. Soren, our son, drove well and knows where the horn is on every make and model.

we found our rental apartment in an average city block which all their acquaintances who had been in D.C. Said was a neighborhood to avoid. Their host was very gracious, the stainless steel appliances were first rate and the first time we went to the national mall, a neighbor knew somehow where they were going and told them where to get off to catch the subway/metro. Nice neighbors in spite of the need for bulletproof glass at the local cafe. We had two tables and we sat at one. There were five of us. One of the cooks came out with an extra chair for Jack. Very aware folks in that neighborhood. It was pleasant. Our apartment was downstairs with a separate entrance. We leaned on the short chain link fence and chatted with the sidewalk passers by. One gal from next door kept trying to bum a cigarette. It was tempting to buy a pack across the street at the check cashing store, but our new friend on the bus said we would be out of cigarettes soon. None of us smoke.

That lady was focused. Becoming city mice, our family took an Uber back to the Airbnb. Cheaper than the Metro and without the burned oil smells of the fast train. The acceleration of the Metro was nice for me and Soren. Old drag racer and his son that drives a modified turbo Saab. Strap hangers swaying with the close walls flashing by, we enjoyed it.

All of us were there to protest abortion in a very unusual way. Each state had a tent on the national mall and there was 24 hour worship and prayer for our country and the unborn children. It was hot, it was crowded and it was wonderful. I saw the original stars and stripes at the Smithsonian and there was the actual Apollo 1 capsule among Saturn booster engines and the like. The original Spirit of St Louis was there too. It has hanging from the ceiling.

The whole mall was filled with tents, each one with a sign that said the state the worship team was from. Julie went up to the Washington monument and there was a Tepee there. She went inside and saw the drum circle. An older man looked up at her and firmly said, “You are First Nation” How do you know that? was Julie’s immediate question. “It’s in your eyes” was the immediate response. True. Her great Grandmothers name was White Feather.

After a while at home, We went to visit Grandma and Grandpa about 5 hours drive to the southeast. After a scrumptious meal, I went into the living room and relaxed to the point of a bit of sleeping. A dream/vision swept over me. A young, pretty girl with dark hair ran up to me and grasped me in a strong hug with her head on my shoulder. She was about the same height as Julie. It was a very Vivid vision, The young girl was wearing a thick wool coat, it was tan and her hair was dark. I did not know what to say or think. Visions from the Lord are sometimes like that. I heard His voice: “This is your child Greta who was miscarried. She just wanted to touch you and tell you it was OK. She is with Me now”

Startled awake, I went back into the kitchen and sat down at my place at the table and told the dream. I saw a glint of a tear in Grandpa’s eye. It was tender and reassuring really, this father of Julie did not show emotion, ever. All conversation was covered with a salesman’s chuckle and laughter, as though life was some sort of running comedy. Not this time. Serious stuff, he knew this.

I love to tell this story as it means a lot to me and Julie and it plants the flag of stopping abortion clinics firmly and unmovable in our hearts. People I tell it too are moved and I like to tell them how precious is our Creator and the life He gives. There is life after death, we are ‘overbuilt’ for life as it seems. There must be more than this short life, it’s hard wired into us to wonder about, dream about and even write about. Why do some folks rail against these things? Grace is given and Faith is the gift of God.

I love to quote writing and songs in my columns. I like this one. “There’s something going on and you don’t know what it is. Do you, Mr. Jones” 1. Indeed. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe

1. Bob Dylan

A Perfect Triple

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A great quote from Francis Schaeffer: “ Everyone matters or no one matters” I was at the big box, getting the usual things. One thing from the far Southwest end and another two from the far Northeast end. Special stuff with all the right names and contents. It went very well, a perfect match to the pictures on my cell phone.

The store was packed with bad drivers of a certain genre. Fast moving carts darting around with determined pilots at the helm handles. Dodging and weaving. A familiar looking woman called out my name and since the seizures, her name was unavailable to my memory. She filled me in when gently told why I didn’t recall and the memories came flooding back. This has happened many times. There is a pathway that was closed to this type of recall but a detour can be available. Patience. They chatted for some time, it was very good. I and the older friend began chatting and exchanging catch-up stories near the avocados and plums. No matter which way they parked, it seemed they were in the way but it was OK. People seemed always in a very big hurry somehow. A delightful conversation and it was time to check out in the under 20 items line.

Hustling the cart out to the car, I thought he recognized another old friend chatting with an older woman with swell round glasses and a classy blouse. I put the groceries in the trunk, carefully putting a wool blanket around the refrigerated items and then, patting his pockets, he realized he did not have his phone.

I hurried back in and went to the customer service desk. There was a woman with her boys ahead of him putting change into a large bowl to be counted. Rolls of coins. Many rolls of coins. I just waited until another friend behind the counter called him over. I was just blurting out “Has anyone found a cell phone?” Within a second, not longer, a woman walked up to the counter and declared she had found a phone in the meat section.

It was mine. I thanked her profusely and prayed for her and her boys. I Told her to keep listening to the small voice that directs us to serve one another. I was overjoyed at the timing.

Leaving the store for the second time, phone in hand, I went to the woman he recognized in the parking lot. She had the hatch open on her van and they smiled and said each other’s first name as a greeting. Another conversation that was a real catch up type and she began on the subject of pulling the bad things we harbor in our spirit by the root. I told her: “be right back!”. The newspaper he bought he grabbed and brought it back to her, pointing out my last column.

The exact phrasing, “pulling bad things we harbor out by the “root” It seemed appropriate. She was so pleased at reconnecting after ten years had gone by since they had been in a church fellowship together. I was pleased at the timing again. She prayed for me and for those weeds in my spirit to be pulled out for good. The weeds seemed to be a lack of trust in the Lord and, of course, trust in anyone else.

Some folks refer to that type of thing as faith. One of my mentors said he threw out the faith word in conversations and replaced it with trust. If it works for you, great. Otherwise bypass that direction. Trust me, it’s OK.

Driving home, somehow fulfilled to the brim, I realized that my best friend Jesus, had hit a perfect infield triple. Three people blessed me, three people interacted with perfect timing to get on base. Not really a game, of course. This was the first thing I imaged when I reflected on what had just happened. Doesn’t happen very often in baseball either. Timing is the key. The lord who created time (first three words of scripture: “In the Beginning”) It was incredible.

I have been digging at the root of not trusting for a long time. Too many disappointments in life. Too much trauma. Too many bad things let into my spirit that generated a lack of trust. Again, in the words of Mr. Beaver in ‘The lion, the witch and the wardrobe’ “Is he safe?” asked Peter in the story. “Of course He’s not safe. He’s a lion! But He’s good!” a The Lion of Judah. It’s pretty good.

Jack Gator

a. C.S. Lewis

The Fletching and the Arrow

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Chain saw and the Trout stream

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 2 Comments

It was an average late spring day and I was up in the birch trees in the middle of my land. The fairly new big Jonsered chain saw was running good. I had recently purchased the saw at a friends hardware store in the 40 acre musician neighborhood down in the cities.

I had washed dishes with him and we listened to incredible folk, jazz and bluegrass music with our hands in the sinks.

So, with the new saw, I was cutting light firewood for the new wood stove to go with the old farmhouse. City boy, railroad gandy dancer swinging that big saw around with muscles from the railroad track gangs.

Spotting the mail get delivered about a quarter mile away, I set the saw down and walked the hypotenuse of the field and got the mail. There was an official death notice of my father in California in the mail. I hadn’t heard from Dad since he and his third wife went to her home town in Tanzania.

Dad had sent me a a postcard when he remarried. That postcard had a picture of his “new family”. Most of them were working for Jacques Custou exploring the ocean or were involved with climbing Everest and getting their PHD’s in research of some kind. I felt a little out of it with Dad’s new family. Railroad Track worker on 30 acres seemed of at the other end of the success spectrum. I had no idea what had happened and did not get an invite to the funeral or the reading of the will for that matter. I went back and picked up the chain saw, walked or staggered back to the house and dialed the old black wall phone in the kitchen, I knew only one number in California, Dad’s,and got my uncle on the line!

The will had already been taken care of and my uncle now lived in Dad’s ritzy home in Rancho Bernardo, near San Diego. “He told me I was to be the executor of his will!”I shouted into the old Bakelite wall phone. I was puzzled until I realized my uncle has the exact same name as I do. “What did he leave me?” Was the somewhat broken question.”Nothing but we will send you some pictures he took and his camera too.”

Staggered by the theft, I could only say one thing, “I want his ashes, I know what he wanted me to do with them” Uncle and Cousin sent the ashes of my father and photos/camera and as a bonus, a metal box with fly fishing hand made flies. It was a small box in the mail box at the end of my driveway. Dad wanted his ashes put into a trout stream. They fished together back in the days before the family imploded when I was in high school

At a folk music gig way up the coast of Lake Superior, I noticed a small stream next to the lodge and in the morning, took Dad’s ashes down to the stream and tossed them in a hand full at a time. There was a surprising swirl of man sized ‘smoke’ over the waters each time! I took the identifying metal dog tag and skipped it out in the lake at the mouth of the river. Just like a flat stone would skip. I got a triple splash before the metal tag plunged into the water. It was a tough goodbye without knowing the story of the death and not even knowing he was ill. The tears fell into the small stream at the loss and shock of a ruined family coming home in yet another surprising way. Coming back to be burned down again.

I went back home after telling that pleasant man that owned the lodge the story. It was a nice place to stay and the owner was an acquaintance of my Berkeley house mate, Charley, who played with me the night before at the lodge. Good music to get lost in. Old country blues with a 12 string and my 6 string D28.

About a week later, got a call on the old black wall phone from the lodge owner. “Hey, just wanted to tell you I caught a really nice Rainbow just up stream from the lodge” The owner knew the story. It felt right, It was a trout stream, a good one and I still remember those man size swirls of ash from the ceremony beside that stream. I tossed the box, but not into the stream. It was a perfectly done task for my Father.

So, there was no inheritance from Dad’s money but my cousin did get to send his kids to college with the estate. I asked him when my boys were grown, decades later, if now he could help sponsor their expenses for college. “Nah, I’ll pass” was his response. My other cousin refers to him as ‘Rotten Rodney” Seems to fit.

The memory of that funeral by the river still lingers long afterwards.. It was the perfect and right thing to do. The stream’s name is the Cross River, way up shore of Superior, and later in my life, Jesus became the center of my life. I found the eternal truth about the Cross and the money I lost means nothing now. The honor that the Lord set forth for me is on that steam is the real treasure.

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson

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