A request was before me . “Come with me and help pray for those that need it”. Not the usual request to ‘pray’ for someone with a few other people. Unusual request and never before heard by me. I said ‘sure’, I like to pray.
I was with a new friend, Bryan, A man that I soon instinctively referred to as my brother. There was a stranger near us a few weeks ago, at the next table at a coffee house, an older woman, asked who the two us who we were. Bryan and I had been reminiscing about an astounding local man and that woman was this man’s mother! I told her we were brothers and gave our names, It was my response to a simple request by a stranger that in some way felt right to Norm and Bryan. They now refer to each other as brothers, indeed. The woman was now smiling and it was because her son that we were speaking of had died recently. He indeed was a bright light to us and the community. He walked with the Lord.
A man of faith was my new ‘brother’ and as it turned out, a volunteer at a church gathering around 50 miles away. A rather large church that broadcasts their services worldwide for the spiritualy hungry. My wife and I, Julie, and a double handful of neighbors had been watching these services and were intrigued by them. The live services from the broadcast felt right and good.
A month later Bryan drove me 50 miles to that church to help in praying for a few people that desired it. I had no preconceptions about the building (campus) and when we got there, the large two story building had a parking lot filled with many vehicles, akin to the MSP airport. No cab stands but a big entrance and people holding the doors open at it. There were at least thousand cars parked. The church building was immense and yet warm and friendly. (The address caught my eye. 777, the first numbers on my old Gibson Mandolin). We went up to the second floor and Iwas given a lanyard that had ‘Prayer’ on it.
There was breakfast laid out and coffee. Everyone in the room was a volunteer. It was the first service and it was on monitors and speakers throughout the building. Bryan bought me an Americano and we went up to that volunteer room for the breakfast offered. The prayer team welcomed us and soon, it was time to go down into the sanctuary to pray for people that desired it.
The first thing I felt was the hunger in the room. It was strong and undeniable. I immediatly asked the Lord ‘was it my hunger or was it theirs?’ . “Yes” was His answer. there were about sx people arrayed as I was with “Prayer” on lanyards. The service ended and the main speaker said anyone desiring prayer to come down to the front of the platform. Astonished, I saw the people line up in the aisles. Perhaps a hundred or more, waiting for me and the team. I had no idea of what to do next, but I had been given a small bottle of anointing oil and did not know what to do with that either. “Anoint them on their forehead if they wish to have you do so.” A quote from St. Augustine: “For it is one thing to see the land of peace from a wooded ridge..and another to tread the road that leads to it”A.
Standing in front of the huge bass bin speakers, I looked at a man looking for direction and I smiled and nodded my head. The man, also smiling, stood in front of me and immediately I asked him if he would like to be anointed. “Yes” was his answer, on the forehead was his preference. I daubed a bit of oil on my forefinger and put in on the man’s forehead as a cross, then told him that this was a baptism of healing and asked the man what he would like prayer for
He sais his wife thought she was ugly and she did not believe her beauty assurance words from him. His need was personal and spoken from his heart I told him of his obvious love for the Lord and and his wife would see her beauty in his eyes later that day. We both cried a bit and the man hugged me after asking if it was OK to do so. It was indeed welcomed. After the second service it was more healing requests from dozens or more people, eager to meet a prayer warriors words of healing and comfort. The prayers I gave to them were given by our Lord to me who sees all our hunger for His heart.
The other people that came to my eye connections received what I listened for from Jesus that whispers truth to us. Many tears and quite a few strong embraces came with that given truth. I felt very well used and and astounded. Never had this happened to me so many times, with so many people eager with desperate needs. The honor of conveying the blessings of the Spirit stays steady. There will be more blessings to convey. Not only in my writing but also in person. It’s pretty good. JackGator, scribe
First published 2011 when there was deep snow on the ground
There it was, indeed a table set for family and a few friends as well. The exquisite food, paid for by a relative in advance. A wise and generous relative, gone on a Christmas day past. Loved and missed at the table now.
The family, gathered in our home, every Christmas Eve to eat well and satisfy the gathering with exotic things. Brie, Lingonberry jam, Home baked bread out of the farm’s wheat. Tasty nuggets of chocolate treats and cookies made once a year. Treats, some pulled from the larder that are saved for this time. Some from Julie’s work at Valley Sweets in St.Croix Falls.
There is a Christmas ham in the crock pot that simmered all day and filled the house with it’s savory smells. Appetites were honed and sharpened as the winter of winters was preparing another snow storm. Already the new sidewalk was drifted half over from the bitter sleething of fine snow. The wind had not abated much from the night and the drive home from a delightful worship service was fraught with drifts on the rural highway. Narrow triangles of show, now created by the dry snow the county plows had just cleared that day.
It is perhaps the only time that snow is seen as beautiful and appropriate. The old images of sleighs to visit. Pulled by a team of Percheron horses. The blankets and even a few hot bricks tucked in to be heated up again for the ride home. Wood cook stoves and wood or coal parlor stoves that worked pretty well at heating a home. No worry about the pipes freezing because there were none. We have a painting of a sleigh heading for a church but the horse looks fake somehow in mid stride. Tough to convey motion in a painting. I think maybe a slight brush stroke of snow behind an upraised hoof would have done the job. Art critic.
Candle light services with luminaries out in the snow to entice and welcome. Classic songs to be sung, you know the ones. Everyone has them memorized. The big round wood stove in the corner (should be in the middle of the aisle thinks the same art critic) We all have these memories of times past before we were born. Stories passed down by past generations that had to walk miles uphill in heavy snow. To school as well as church.
Another image that I have is the short peace in the midst trench warfare in France. Soldiers apprehensive and then hearing the opposing army singing Silent Night in German. Slowly rising up from the trenches and walking towards one another, perhaps with a bit of whiskey or brandy to share. Impossible to contemplate with the guns and cannons silent the enemies meeting on no man’s land. Men’s vision to be truthful. The Man full of grace and truth who someday will come for you. This is the reason the fear was pushed aside. We have all been afraid a long long time, but Papa is here and He will take the fear away.
There is impossible joy in the midst of the world’s battle for many things. Power, possessions, and dominance.
We all know the story, even those of us who think the story of Christmas is only about being rewarded because we have not been naughty. We think we are on the ‘better be good’ part of the perceived equation. It’s not any of those things. The reason that Christmas has the impact year after year is because the story is true and the good news is impossible to explain with only words. It is indeed a feast. It is felt and it is known by all men. It is joy and the present of good news that cannot be earned. It is indeed a Christmas present that must be opened by everyone that sees it and know what it is. The only present that still surprises with astonishment. Every time. It’s pretty good. The feast of life with Jesus Norm Peterson / JackGator
It was a hard morning to get ready for a 30+ mile drive south. It was early, my coffee was getting cold and I was getting cold as well. It was still dark and I was getting depressed. It was from fear of the world’s ways and loss I was seated in the impossible heavenly beauty and renewed and encouraged once again. The usual triggers that affect us: Checking account down under a C note, bills creating a breeze magnet on the table and prices getting into the ridiculous range at the grocery stores. Six bucks for a somewhat light loaf of bread? It must be organic, Vegan and sort of good for you if you like that sort of thing.
It is not good for anyone in the family to concentrate on those negative things, let alone the destruction of our state and country. Demented teachers running hard after perversion and seduction of children that, impossibly, seem paramount to the education agenda. No one I talk to has the slightest interest of those ideas, incredulous of how such a thing has happened.
Certainly the striped and incorrect depiction of our flag folks will respond to the above short paragraphs. I have strong memories of being underway on my Navy ship, flying the flag night and day. With a strong light upon it. The real flag, Superman’s flag of “ Truth, Justice and the American way” Not indoctrination, brain washing and the Orwellian ways. No one I meet, casual or acquaintances, has any truck with this nonsense. It’s the rural life of family, neighbors and reality.
It was time for the ritual which my young son enjoys. Laying out his coffee equipment before he awakens. Thermos, sugar and long stirring spoon. Turning on the Keurig and holding the storm door open for him (from the outside to clear his load of lunch, motorcycle helmet and warm jacket.) Then standing on the porch that faces the driveway to wave him off. It is a family tradition. If he is driving his car, he keeps the dome light on briefly so I can see him waving back. I watch till he turns north at the end of the ¼ mile driveway. With colder temps and snow, the bike goes into the storage shop and his pickup comes out of the big shop door. Power door. The exhaust from the truck swirls and a bit of heat is lost until his remote commands the door to close. The luxury of a heated garage with a hoist and many tools from the days of running a repair shop.
The parlor wood stove is now working well with new firebricks and angle/strap supports. All installed by their son. welded, ground brick to fit and cleaned and got filthy in the process. It works so much better. Warmth in later fall is welcome and secure feeling.
And so there I sit, in my chair in the dark living room of early morning. Holding my coffee, looking up at our library walk and above it at the big half round window. This morning, it was perfectly aligned just for me and, showing the families favorite constellation, Orion. His belt and his sword clear and the words came loud and clear . “He made me alive, when I was dead and he raised me up and seated me with Christ. And it’s by His grace that I am saved and it’s through faith, the very gift of God.” a.
Once again, I know my creator is smiling at me and the ‘coincidence’ perfectly arranged to show me I am seen and loved. The message is clear. Jesus is with us and sees all the trepidation and troubles of our lifes. “This time too, it will be OK” Just as the way the Lord has used his power and audible voice to literally save my life several times. This time the Lord of Lords is with me. It is not the book of Job, It is the new Testament books of Jesus healing and loving that are reflected in that window. High above and in the darkness. My family is seen and we are not alone.
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 GatorScribe
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
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?
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
There is a saying that in these times your young men will have dreams and your old men will have visions. What are these things really? Why do I remember some dreams vividly and others barely at all, or even if a dream came to mind upon yawning awakening? Some dreams we have never forgotten as well as some ‘visions’. First things. Looking up the definition between the two reveals this: Dreams actually occur 3 to 6 times a night and last from 5 to 20 minutes. Visions usually are contained within a dream and can be somewhat translated by ‘The Word’ Scripture, the Bible.
After all, there is a great mystery about these things and many highly educated people have completely declared great and lofty dissertations upon these things. Rem sleep (rapid eye movement) Psychological triggers for actions or action to be taken stuff. The experts will fill us in on something they have dabbled in and graphed oscilloscope tracks, written long and indecipherable dissertations read by other long winded professors that pontificate lengthily on their dreams and their contents. Education is often a great thing, no question there. Often the high brow attitude can be a trap for us when we are ‘rightly lauded’ for some theory that sounds good.
I have had visions and dreams as most of us have. I remember some of them still after decades of ruminating on his strange and yet, rewarding life. Thankfully, my dreams are made clearer when I write them down. Writing is a version of the two-edged sword. It gives others a story that they have not heard before and it gives the writer an outlet and sounding board for that writing. I welcome critique or praise of my writing. It means someone actually read what I wrote besides the editor and proof reader! It’s quite easily done, at the bottom of every column there is a choice to ‘like’ or comment. I assure you, every of these options, I see and reply to.
What makes a reader of books do so with alacrity? Re-reading old favorites is an indicator of a reader, even beloved children’s tales of Mr Toad and Badger. One of my dreams is my favorite: I was running towards a tall man with one eye. I had a stone in my hand and I was going to stone the man as he was ‘unclean’ Obviously a dream set a some time ago when that was popular behavior. (people still stone, but with letters to the editor and on Facebook with words.) Sticks and stones rhyme has a somewhat unpleasant origin per-Se.
So, I ran to the one eyed man that kept smiling at me and there was no fear on the man’s face. As I drew near the man said; “Look behind you” There were scores of men, running down a hill coming near, also with stones in their hands. When they were on the other side of a fence quite near, the one eyed man declared: “In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is King.” Astonished and deeply convicted, they, along with me, dropped our stones. End of dream. You can sort that one out, I have an interpretation. Dreams are more direct and can be within a dream or heard or seen while awake. I have had several of those kind as well. They have saved my life. They have led me to impossible, simple tasks that have affected strangers. One was punctual and healed a hip problem while I was sitting in a large room delightfully listening to a team of musicians and singers praying to the Risen Lord.
Jesus appeared as we were swimming (one of my favorite physical things of course) The Lord and I were both doing the side stroke facing each other and Jesus said “Do you want to go down? You can breathe down there!” I asked him, “how deep is it?” Jesus answered, ”How deep do you want to go?” The vision abruptly ended and I was healed. How deep do you want to go? I got out of my chair in that room and began to dance around. It’s pretty good. Jack Gatorscribe
It was only by a random act of kindness that I wound up at a old whore house in the middle of the city. I was living in my truck at this time. In the bed of the old International was a wood frame camper. I had built it a year ago with a saw, screwdriver and a Swiss army knife. It even had skylights of Plexiglas that were now covering up with snow. I was sleeping in the camper and was very ill with Hepatitis and with no heat in the truck, shivering a bit. The renter of record at the apartment had pity on me and let me in the upstairs shotgun apartments to sleep on the couch. After all, I had eaten there a few days before and the chef had Hepatitis.
That kind man who welcomed me in was William Teska (Bill) an Episcopal priest whose Diocese funded the New Riverside Cafe as a neighborhood ministry.
The neighborhood was mostly tie dyed with a few bpm motorcycle club members hanging out at the Triangle bar a block away from our apartment on 605 1/2 / Cedar Avenue. Second floor, above the free store.
It turned out that my recent friend, Charley Jirousek, from the Berkeley adventures lived there and sort of reluctantly, had room for me and my guitar. After all, the two of us shared a love for country blues on our guitars and we both ate a lot of peanut butter to survive. Charley still had his massive black and white Malamute and the dog was always delightful and took up about as much room as I did.
It was not long after I showed up that there opened up a job at the local restaurant/coffee house down the block. The New Riverside Cafe.The job’s wages were: Rent, food and an occasional pitcher of beer at the 400 bar, kiddy corner from the Cafe’.
There was a stage and seating at the Cafe’ and nights brought in an audience from all over the city. The big light of talent attracted as lights usually do to flying life forms. We served organic vegetarian food and it was pretty good stuff, especially the soups. For a while, we had no prices for the food. People would come in for the incredible music and ask how much for the menu items. ” Pay what you can.” I would lean over the counter and comment, “Nice shoes! Where did you get them?” People did pay well as they could afford. A few locals a bit up against it would ask for the soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. We gave them the soup and the grilled cheese was a paying proposition. Free coffee too. Working in the kitchen was a ballet and it was a good dance. I was a swamper (dish washer) and I liked it. After all, the only things I knew how to prepare were PBJ’s and Dinty Moore beef stew.
The music was also excellent and it was a mix of blues, folk and bluegrass mostly by the musicians in the small neighborhood. It was not, however, a usual neighborhood in a big city. It was Hemmed in by several freeways, a river and the downtown tall buildings along with the state university. Approximately 40 acres with small business’ that reflected the times. The West Bank of Minneapolis.
It was obvious that the population of that neighborhood consisted of a majority of eager and talented professional musicians. Singer-songwriters, Guitarists, fiddlers, banjo players, bass players and so forth. It was stunningly thick with them. I remember five world-class fiddle/violin players alone. One of them turned out to be a roommate, Bill Hinkley with his wife Judy Larsen along with a harmonica player and stand up bass player. I was invited to tour with a handful of them to the east coast.
We played college campus’ and coffee houses throughout the Midwest and east coast. This was heady stuff. A bit of a learning curve of the professional circuit sorts of things. A few of the locals were a bit puzzled by my being included in that tour. Most of the local pickers played and sang well, but the overwhelming number of them all wore cowboy hats and had rodeo buckles. Horses and corrals were never seen nearby. Their outfits were the folk music image of that time.
My new friends were the remnants of the beat generation. Tough and a bit rough around the edges, I got to play with Jerry Garcia when the Grateful Dead came to town and I was asked to join them! A good friend who was the hip radio stations night time DJ, Alan Stone, was at that music party. KQRS radio and he began recording me and my fellow veteran, Bruce Berglund of the motorcycle diary series at this web site.
The cowboy folks did not care for us. Nor did the locals who had made it to vinyl records that sold pretty well. Koerner, Ray and Glover. It was the usual musician fear and ego. We all were competitive for the stages in the area and most of the music was pretty swell really. The local guitar shop sold lots of D’Addario stirng sets for sure.
By the way, I declined the invitation to join the Grateful Dead. I knew the band name was very prophetic as all those musicians are gone now, most with heroin OD’s. Living in Berkeley and being involved with a heroin smuggling outfit, I got addicted. It takes all the pain away, physical and mental. I liked it. I remember those times vividly as we sold most of it to Sly and the Family Stone across the bay.
Another story of God’s deliverance when a voice in my private room said: “Live or death, choose now” I obviously chose life, it seemed a pretty serious event. The addiction was gone immediately and there was no withdrawal. A miracle from the Lord. It was one of ‘those events’ that are life saving and we don’t know who to thank.
The whole Cedar-Riverside scene ended when a developer (Heller and Segal) bought the entire neighborhood and began building high rises. I then quit the Riverside cafe and began a career as a railroad worker but still lived on the west bank. I eventually moved to the country, hours north. A small farm on the GI bill, about the same acreage as the old neighborhood. Rural Nothwest Wisconsin where I and my family still live.
Moving north to a farm was scary. I played fiddle in the barn before walking into the house while the rental van with everything I owned in it sat parked. It was raining on April fools day. The walk into the house was very strange. Alone and I had Never owned a house before. It smelled funny and the first challenge was to find all the light switches and figure out where to sleep. My orange cat didn’t come out of the van for a day. The house was heated with a fuel oil furnace and the previous owner left a note that mentioned the fuel oil tank was over 1/2 full and figured “It was a pretty good deal”. Of course, the new home smelled a new smell to me.
My old friend, Bruce, lived about 3/4 of a mile away, just down the road. That helped a lot. Bruce is the other motorcyclist in ‘Motorcycle diaries’ He introduced me to some of the locals and one young man became a good friend and was my roommate for a while. He taught me how to cut firewood and built a new chimney for the house and then proceeded to hook up and run a wood stove. It was a ‘step stove’ made locally and it worked quite well until it later developed a hole in it’s side. my new friend was a good man known for his kindness and smile. His nickname is Smiley, of course.
I started playing my fiddle on the back of a bunk car, feet up on the brakeman’s wheel when I worked the steel gangs on derailments down in southern Minnesota. The other men never complained. It felt like I was sitting around a campfire playing a harmonica after a long day on the trail. Folksy along with the missed notes and scratchy bowing.
At first when I began section work, I worked with the section gang at Dinkytown, just over the Missisippi from the west bank. More stories of a great foreman, Big Leroy, and all the trauma and injuries when men work around trains.
A visit to an old Cafe friends hardware store in Cedar-Riverside after work brought forth a sturdy chain saw and really swell touring bicycle. Still have both of them although the Jensrud 80 doesn’t start very well and pulling the starter cord almost breaks my wrist. My youngest son won’t even use it. Why bother when his Farm Boss Stihl weighs half as much and also starts pretty good.
I was injured at a section yard just across the St.Croix and I could not do the 12 pound hammer swinging anymore. I first began playing in a local country western band. Bars within driving distance with three other guys. Dandelion Wine was our name. . Mandatory cowboy hats for the band. No horses or rodeo buckles but nice vests and boots. I guess the lesson was to look the part as it made it easier for the audiences. We played the classics; Bob Wills and Johnny Cash sort of things. A touch of fiddle tunes and a hint of bluegrass. One of the local bars we were regulars at is about 30 miles away, Louis’, became a nice church called New Life. Appropriate.
The house business of repairing foreign cars came to life and I ran it for 40 years. It was a good income and the commute was a breeze.
Much later, I met my wife Julie, riding bicycles together (another column, (Bicycle built for Two).They built a real home together. Men build houses, women build homes. I then started playing with a square dance band as an upgrade. No cowboy hats, but Julie made me a really nice vest with ducks on it. The band was called Duck for the Oyster it is the title of a a square dance.
Bill Teska wound up marrying Julie and I about 30 years after I met him. A few of those 40 acre musicians played with me in the wedding. Bill Hinkley, Mary Dushane, Kevin McMullin and myself played a Swedish waltz surrounding Julie in her wedding gown right after the processional . It was pretty swell.
A decade or so later, I became aware of Jesus during a choir presentation up the hill from our home. Good move. It was a Christmas Cantata conducted by Hellmuth Bycoski at Zion Lutheran church. The holy Spirit got through to me during the song ‘Mary Did you Know’ and I have never been the same since. I love the changes even if they are very painful. It takes time to surrender. Julie is patient with me. I got better and continue to do so.
Our family got good at playing and singing worship music It was a big change from seeking admiration and money to the fresh air of a calling that began when I was 10. I now had discovered worship is the best music on and off the planet. Our family built and staffed a small house of prayer about seven miles away in Frederic. We were there about four years until the building was sold.
Now I write these columns about the transformational life and love that comes from Jesus, our Creator.
I still have the instruments and occasionally take them out and I play at home with recordings of some worship leaders I have met. It’s a world of growth in many ways, and the spirit within me and my family keeps growing stronger every day.
Jack gators grace notes 