jesus

Freedom’s Bouquet With Tea

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I worked with a man from Stalingrad that was fluent in English, This man, Stefan, ran the largest machine in the shop. After working on the shop floor for a time, this Russian was seen as the heartbeat of the shop. Stefan was always moving, lubricating, adjusting even while the huge machine was running.

There was quite a bit of noise from the machine as it worked and no one talked much to one another. Stefan hardly spoke to anyone except Bob, the foreman. He was the first person I had ever met from a mysterious country. The impressions of Grade School duck and cover from nuclear war did not seem to fit this man. He was a man with a good job.

A simple man, obviously of some means, Stefan wore old white dress shirts and woolen trousers. In the summers and the winters. He didn’t socialize but did share lunch with the men. The only heated room in the whole building was the bathroom, so that was the lunchroom too. Running water was handy and it was a welcome break from blowing snow and gloves that made assembly hard. This factory made power poles and cross arms that held insulators for the wires.

There was a loneliness from Stefan and it was expected when you saw him. Perhaps it was because of the war and his time at the battle in Stalingrad. Rarely did he speak of these things but myself being an introvert, set myself to be a servant to him. Reading Russian classics gave me the way to treat a Zek or prisoner. It can be seen from Dostoevsky’s writing of the mid nineteenth century. ‘The house of the dead’ is a good place to begin reading this literary trasure.

As a new guy in the factory, I knew I could attach himself to Stefan as servant to a lord. Small things like bringing in some sweet rolls known as Vatrushka or smoked fish to share. It is the way things are done when men are together in the prison of work. I had a friend on the East side, a great violinist, that knew the places to go for authentic foods. Kulich sweet buns and such too. I was intrigued with Russian culture and now, at hand, was a fellow worker that lived those things. It was a path to a desired friendship.

Gradually, Stefan began to understand my respect of the way Dostoevsky wrote of those things. There was even hot tea for break time and the very young man and the very old man began to talk. Drinking tea by sipping through a sugar cube. The deeper personal things that bond and enrich life. There was so much depth to Stefan. Indeed a man of the world and holder of the highest Soviet war medal, The Orden Pobeta which translates to ‘The order of Victory.” It is the rarest order in the world. Sometime later, Stefan showed me the actual medal. It indeed was beautiful. To actually touch and hold this badge of honor, given to his new friend was humbling indeed. It was at Stefan’s simple west bank house in an old cigar box.

They sat and sipped tea from the samovar and Stefan shared his story with this young man who understood a path that creates trust with humility and service. Not patronizing. Sharing lives.The childhood trauma of my story went deep into Stefan and a calmness of respect unfolded between young and old. They were now just men in our broken world. Talking about life.

That life unrolled before me and it was a whispered call to him. A knowing that told me to listen closely to a story that was pivotal to him too. The story was about a job that Stefan had when he first came to America after the second world war. Stefan spoke of that war. A war that began to end exactly two months to the day before I was born. D-Day, June 6, 1944 After that war ended and Stalin learned from his generals who the man was that inspired courage and determination to the people of the land to stand against overwhelming odds. Stefan was that man. He learned to shoot at his fathers side hunting wolves. A revered soldier.

As a national hero of Russia, Stefan could write his own ticket to life and he chose America. The allied country of the war and the land of freedom. Russia had created the gulag and incredibly, mirrored the Nazi methods within. They had learned from the masters of war well, and now knew the intoxicating aroma of political power. It’s in all of us really. The open door of power that seems so right, did God really say not to do this? It’s our history over and over again. Stefan could see this coming and did not want to stay in mother Russia and watch it unfold.

All veterans of war can envision the minds path that intrudes and dictates behaviors unwanted. Often, or not even recognized as what has became the feeling of fear and escape. That pathway that is felt many times and triggered by a noise, a phrase or a gesture, often by a loved one. He began to explain these things and I began to see the world. It seems no one knows your pain that is hidden in plain sight. A personality that shocks and comes out of nowhere from someone you know and perhaps deeply love. Anger and rage from nowhere suddenly appears. Trauma. A pool of darkness that has always been available to us if we grasp it. Everyone has been through hell, everyone. We hide it, often believing it is the way things must be. Always.Stefan was brilliant and had more than anyone’s share of these pathways. He still does have them. There is no way to be rid of them. They are tree stumps in your path that cannot be seen until it seems to be too late to avoid the stumble. He shared with me a way to unbuckle the reaction of fear. Take a deep breath to discard reacting to that stumble and decide on a true path to clear the mind’s storehouse one more time of the of the death visions. In a way that firing a weapon requires steadiness and release of breath and tension.

As you can surmise, this friendship was beginning to blossom between the old warrior and the young man. The introverts began to trust one another with their secrets.

The perfect job Stefan was offered on his emigration to America was by the U.S. Coast Guard. They know what it is that makes a man ideal to be a lighthouse keeper and he was such a man. Tough and experienced and willing to be alone. An introverted man with the drive to do a job well. Learning the ways of clockworks and rotational precision was second nature to him. The tractor factory had many types of machines that required those skills. As a youth, boating on the Volga was also an experience that added to the requirements of the job, along his being a strong swimmer.The Coast Guard, new to managing the lighthouses of the country, also was well aware of the publicity of hiring a world hero and the ideal placement would give Stefan the peace he wanted.The lighthouse Stefan was sent to was in one of the world’s largest fresh water lakes, Lake Superior. It was to the an Islands lighthouse he was sent. It has a 3rd order Fresnel lens for the light. It has a 90 foot tower. It stands alone on a rock. Isolated and quiet. Few visitors.

There was however, no peace for Stefan when he arrived at his dream job. The real dreams kept coming and there was no place or way to hide for him. Just a lonely tower in the middle of a lake that had no meaning to him. The peace he thought he would find was pushed aside by his past once again. Pounding up that ninety food stairway gave him a bit of respite as all he could do was breathe and climb. Up to the top to look out upon the empty water, now alone and filled with only his panting breath and his medal of victory below decks. It was worthless now, just a bauble of his past struggles which had returned with him.

He was once again back to the tractor factory, spotting for Vassili Zaitsev and struggling for food and ammunition. The seemingly unstoppable Wehrmacht troops delayed somehow for a time. His comrades determined to defend their families. The captured Germans could have cared less about the propaganda speeches they were given, survival and those men close to them were only on their minds. Each side had to fight. General Khrushchev told them this was the pivotal struggle of the war.

What music to play today and which instrument to use. He brought his old French Minel viola along with and played now and then in a melancholy mood. He played a lot in B flat and the minor notes were beautiful and sad. Not even the fast dance music worked. His old fingers tried to build a concert of gaiety and, once again, the time signature changed and the fast tapping feet became another man’s that was walking with five others, carrying a sad wooden box. As the cigar box that he now carried with him with the medal inside. The cigars were smoke now. the box still carried the odor of their passing.

Now there was no need to find a hiding place, behind something, out of sight and for a moment, out of danger. There was no one on the island but him but the threats and violence of his life were there. The wind would blow and the storm surf would crash and his dreams roared on with the flash of another night in the ruins. Thunder indeed. The German sniper Major Konig was always searching and aching for his mirror flash on a spotting scope.

There were moments at his job that brushed away the past and gave him drive to make certain the beacon of light would reach far beyond his eyes. A clear danger signal to the ore boats steaming through the waters of Superior. Loaded, cutting the angle of the waves but still, the forward hatch dogs giving way to the astonishing power of water. Sending men out on deck to once more, secure the ships cargo bays. Stefan knew that fear too, it was no doubt similar to his own death looming large, just beyond sight, but out there. Waiting for weakness and powerful.

Those battle thoughts were oddly comforting, familiar. They gave reassurance to one man standing in the breach of the storm, a role as a defender. Holding the signal of danger with a beacon of light. The lighted path. These thoughts, bright as the lightening would shock him and one time brought a memory of an old story of a man that was brought to his knees with an incredible light. A story his mother had read to him. She was the true motherland for him. She knew many stories, ones of the old days, of mystery and valor. Books printed in Slovenia way before this war. Books that were not popular with government and it’s tight grip.

She told Stefan of another warrior from Eisleben that fought for truth, from Germany of all things. His name had been used to describe someone that created beauty out of fine wood. A lute player and builder. This man did indeed create beauty that caught young Stefan’s spirit by surprise. He would remember these moments. His musical mind was so powerful that he could hear a song for a short time after it had ended. Audibly. I have this odd gift as well and the two of them shared songs that still endure, heard now in their minds.

They remained friends long after they both left the cross arm factory. They both enjoyed my MGA convertible, driving out to obscure Russian enclaves with attendant coffee shops and restaurants. It was a solid friendship that they both needed.

One day, as they both sat near the Mississippi river with their tea, they began talking once again about the early days of their lives. The real early, pleasant days, fishing times. Stefan on the Volga and me in Northern Wisconsin. Both with their fathers, alone in good waters and catching fish that were plentiful and delicious. Old leaky boats and different sorts of fish that fresh, were the best. Tenderness remembered before the world’s darkness began to intrude on quiet and safe lives.

The age difference now between the old Bohemian and the young Swedish man was the same but they didn’t notice it and people they occasionally met assumed it they were father and his son. Somehow they went along with that too. “Kind of old to be your dad, isn’t he?” Idiott. Russian word. Seems to translate well.

The dreams still bothered Stefan and I finally was told by my very best friend of all to tell him about Jesus, the best friend of all. He was drawn the the story. I had never told him of the drugs and miracles I was delivered from. It was time to share, introverts and wounded man to man.

The story of deliverance went deep into Stefan and the war was eclipsed by the promise of war defeated. The light of the explosions and lightning was flowing into him along with the long ago story of the man delivered by blinding light. The story once again told by me that was the same one Stefan’s mother read to him when he was a boy. It went deep and deeper still till they both began to shed tears of the truest friendship anyone can have. Stefan and Norm now were together with a bond that will now last forever.

(many real events and and then woven together with dreams in a fabric of truth) Jack Gator

Patterns of Causality

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 4 Comments

There are many phrases most of us use. These usually are heard when we speak of a life event, small or large.

Perhaps a crop fails unexpectedly or a deer is found in front of you while speeding through the highway. Many times these life events seem negative, and cannot be understood. Such things are said to others that seem casual but have world views that alter the basic ways we feel.

An example: A neighbor suffers an accident that kills them. A neighbor that could be seen as a ‘bad neighbor’ that has done things most of us would refer to as wrong behavior. The usual phrase would be: “He deserved it” or “that’s what happens when you go against Jesus’ command to love our neighbor” Bad Karma, darkness generates dark results, the inevitable outcome of sin. Forgiveness not judgement is very hard but is our part of the neighbors errors.

These thoughts are a result of our fear to assign events, good or bad, to a thing resulting in attitudes or behavior of us or others that has consequences. A logic statement that is basic is, ‘Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc.’ It means: ‘After something, therefore because of that something’ Confused yet? An example of belief in charms we have nearby. Talismans, anything to deny God and the horror of an uncaring and empty universe.

Being relieved that you remembered to put that plastic replica of a saint on your dashboard or your Bible in a certain reserved spot at home or in a public worship setting. Horse shoes nailed open side up by your doorway.

Anything, anything to express a reason behind an event, good or bad. Being relieved that you were wearing the same outfit you had on at the casino when money came your way… again. Your lucky shoes perhaps? Up to the point of blaming ourselves for failing in some way has logical explanations that the universe does not consist of random events. There is a ‘Post Hoc’ event that determines Propter Hoc.

The usual example for that feeling about bad things that happen to us is ‘ Well, I guess I deserved that’ or someone else saying it about you.

Anything to not view our world as just random atomic activity creating obstacles or bridges that govern all events. An excellent research paper on this will start with the book of Job in the Bible. (it’s in between Esther and Psalms) The whole book is about a man that is accused again and again by his three friends that he has done something against God that has caused his misery.

Job’s friends accuse Job of being an unrighteous man, a sinner in some way. Job’s reaction to these accusations? As he has lost everything of value to his life he states: “ I know that my Redeemer lives” After all the things that God has allowed (not Done) Job will worship God. Faith, the very gift of God.

Do we look to the creator of all that is and all that will be as our servant? Do we look upon Him as evil? Do we look and worship Him in seasons of good and bad as our master and creator that loves us more than we can even imagine. There indeed is a seductive evil upon the world.

“As someone asked C.S. Lewis, “are you really asking me to believe in this creature with horns and a tail that causes misery and actually demands I worship him?” Lewis answered him “ I don’t know about the horns and such but if you do desire to meet and see him and obey him, you will see him indeed.

As for me, I will worship my redeemer, whatever comes upon me. It’s not easy, there is never a guarantee of ease. Only the guarantee that He is my treasure.

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Hovering

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A nice family gathering on Friday. The entire family, all six of us at the expanded kitchentable for the Shabbatt celebration that We do every week with the three of us, Soren, Julie and myself. We lit the candles to God and Tabetha sang the song of dedication in Hebrew. Beautiful, I love it when she does it when she is here. Her mom, JoBeth, flew up from Florida to be here..

As usual, a great supper, this time with abundant servings of our garden. Potatoes, carrots, peas,beans and tomatoes. New balsamic from a good friend just returned from Italy with it.

“ Please pass the chicken (sauteed in basil and olive oil) “Bjorn”, Can you top off my wine with that blackberry? Tabatha bread for the blessing and our candles are burning bright at the middle of the feast. We eat the bread and toast the Lord. Baruch, Hashem, Adoni with the wine.

The aftermath is the dishes being washed right away by Julie and Tabetha’s mom in the nearbysink. The rest of us move to the parlor and conversation begins to accompany the clatter ofthe dishes settling in the drying rack.

I hover over the conversing and sit in my chair and meditate on an open a C,S. Lewis book on prayer. I Left, out of sorts and I walk out on the porch, say hello to the outside cat and walk over to the swing under the Chinese elm that shades it. I contemplate moving further away and decide to open the garden gate and walk to the middle and sit on the restored bench, surrounded with flowers.

I sit and pray for guidance of my desire to speak but my feelings of ‘Hovering’ witch is social signal to join in when I do not desire to. I hear a humming bird also hovering and look up to see it an arms length away, facing me and emitting chirps I did not know they did. Back and forthwith the buzz of it’s wings, closer than belief. God was speaking to me. “you are seen”

I get up and walk back to the gate and am distracted by a butterfly next to me, feeding on the nearby zinnia’ One I have never seen with distinct yellow dots. It did not flap it’s wings like the monarchs do while sipping. It’s enough Lord, thank you. I leave the garden and go directly back to the house.

“Where did you go?” I answer the best I can about speaking to God in the garden. And then I enter in to conversation. Eventually there are hugs and waves goodbye and we clean up more and head off to bed. I have an interesting dream about editing a series of slides about the life ofAlbert Einsteins life for production and awaken before anyone and light up my computer to edit this column. A snack and orange juice and finally it is time to stack fire wood and get another 2 firewood loads from a stack at a neighbors. It is nice big chunks that our neighbor sold to us as they had quit heating with wood.

Our wood shed is about half full for the winter of 26 / 27.

Life is pretty good. Jack Gator

Song of Solomon

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It is a book that is either devoured or skipped. Misunderstood on the surface and dismissed with all those images of sheep teeth, pomegranate foreheads and couches and dark tents.

It is another book, written by the wise one, Solomon. He wasn’t just writing about worldly romance and the flesh longings. Why is it in the Bible anyway? It is there to show us who we should be, how we can see our time here as a great battle for our hearts. A battle against the world and it’s blindness’. A battle against our own weak love.

Solomon 8: 6-7 as a starting illumination. “Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; For love is as strong as death, Jealousy as cruel as the grave, it’s flames are flames of fire, a most vehement flame. Many waters cannot quench love, nor can the floods drown it. If a man would give for love all the wealth of his house, it would be utterly despised”

How about this line: “I am my beloved’s and his desire is toward me” There are many such allegories in this book and a lot of them have been dismissed as even pornographic or lusty. My oh my, again why would this be in scripture? In my limited study and instructions I have found Jesus in every book, every prophet, every word from Genesis to His revelation. Indeed He is mine and I am His. I have searched for him without even knowing who I was searching for. The ‘watchmen’ have beaten me as they did Him. I have indeed heard His voice right outside my door but I opened the door and there was no one there. I was blind and could not see but I could hear alright.

Think about these things in every book of scripture where Jesus is revealed time after time. Could this be yet another book of revelation? Of course. Jesus shows up and is given a tithe. The name given is Melchizedek. He shows up under that name a few times. Just to ‘prime the pump’ of man’s astonishment and wonder. The questions, the queries and the exegesis begins when ‘Mel’ shows up.

Another name of the reason for living, the creator of living and the totally righteous one. Moses asked who shall I tell sent me? “I am” Tell them that.

Actually, a beautiful song written by Misty Edwards uses the exact words of the song mentioned above that starts in Song of Solomon 8:6

Perhaps it is not comprehended by many but I learned it and it indeed, is a powerful image of truth. I am His and He is mine. Talk to Him without thinking of the next thing to say or proclaim. Yes, He is creator of anything that was made. Ask Him why he made you. He will tell you if you listen. I try to ask him questions, not “lift up” someone he made. He does the heavy lifting. He knows these things. Ask Him for faith and truth.

“When we pray for someone, He hears that prayer. He hears them all. When answered, we often have a tendency to rejoice that our prayers or many were the cause. When the event that we prayed for occurs, your prayer has always contributed to it. When the opposite event occurs your prayer has never been ignored; It has been heard, considered and refused, for your ultimate good and good of the whole universe. But this is, and must remain a matter of faith. You will, I think, only deceive yourself by trying to find special evidence for it in some cases more than in others. “ C.S Lewis

Regards, Jack Gator

photo is of the ‘cathedral in Trade Lake

The Best Advice, the Hardest to Do

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 2 Comments
Al Quie

Chuck Colson

There is a man that I trust. More than any other man I have ever met. I’ll tell you about him in a little bit. There is another man, I talk to him less often, but the trust bond is there as well. This other man tells the truth to people. How many of us have a job like that? Tough job, really. Lot’s of training involved, study, college and ‘ample’ on the job training as well. The part that may confuse you is that this man’s desire is to tell stories about the other man! Oh yes, truth is absolutely a job requirement for both men as well. Character, discernible, is a gateway into seeing these things. Usually, the eyes are the first indicator to character. You may do this without even knowing that you do so. Eyes that look into you as you look into them.

I have spent a lot of this life looking away, fearful of what I might see (or be seen.) You also know this without it being something you think about when you meet an old friend or are introduced to someone. When the eyes, portals into the mind are not giving information, I usually forget their name as soon as it is said. This may also due to short term memory function a bit lacking. There are tests for this, usually avoided if possible. Who would want a total stranger telling them they were old ten years ago. “get used to it”

The second man has a lot to say to me and often, in a room filled with others, I will notice an unease in some as what this man has to say is a bit disconcerting and perhaps even confusing to those of us not used to communicating deeply. Questions are raised, sometimes boldly seeking some other fine point of the this man’s spoken words. Good questions, even encouraged and I have questions but usually hold them back because I am aware of an awkwardness of focus to others.

I would rather be silent and let the talk by the second man sink in a bit deeper without a distraction of speaking aloud. There was a man that did this speaking better than anyone since. He is long gone from us unfortunately. His name was Jonathon Edwards. A standard to which most speakers of truth aim for. There was one ‘speech’ that Mr. Edwards delivered that was so powerful and so convicting that a room full of ordinary listeners fell on their faces. There really was no other response that could be made when hearing the most important and life changing truth for everyone within hearing. A long time has gone by since that original speech but it remains powerful, convicting and stunning still.

The bold and inescapable truth taught was how bad we really are, especially if we think we are OK and are pretty nice. Compared with ‘those people’ we are in the ‘swell’ zone if there is a measuring device that could do that. Actually, there is a ‘swell’ or ‘free of faults’ measurement and on the other side of the gauge: ‘Bad and Wicked’ There is a thumb on the scale however and surprisingly, it’s our thumb. I leave it to you reader to decide which measurement the scale defaults to. Every time.

The revelation of who is first man is now at hand. He has many names that are used by many people to address Him. Somehow all those names are powerful nouns and are recognized easily by people that have met Him. Some of them are: Yaweh, Lion of Judah, First and Last, Beautiful, Shiloh, King of Kings, Everlasting, I AM, Chief Cornerstone, Teacher, Dayspring, Son of Man, Prophet, Alpha and Omega, Bread of Life, Savior, Light of the world, The Word, Branch, Good Shepard, Jesus. Those are just a few of his names.

As an illustration of what the first man does for those of us who look to Him for help, I will use the story of Al Quie and Chuck Colson. Many of us remember Watergate and Mr. Colson was convicted of conspiracy. Minnesota Governor Quie, quoting an obscure law, offered to serve the remainder of Mr. Colson’s sentence. Chuck did not take him up on it. The offer was real. Look it up.

Quite a bit of time passed after that before the Al Quie center was built at Lino Lakes prison. It was for the prisoners there to study Jesus and hear sermons from dedicated men that wished to serve. I was part of this ministry and was always told to give a sermon on the wrath of God. It was hard for me and I suspected the ministry leader was giving me an honor to select me for the task. Think about teaching a room full of prisoners about wrath and judgment! A challenge for certain. I have finally found out about God and His wrath. We deserve it but the first man has taken it upon Himself. All of it, for all of us. Impossible we say, but it’s historical truth.

There are many incredible stories about this Man. No one is like this, no one will ever be like this again. Now I am flat out preaching and it feels good to do what my friend does for me.

“There is something going on and you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?” Bob Dylan

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Sea Anchor

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Moving through a hurricane, we had a sea anchor set. This anchor, set at the stern, is adrogue that gives a steady pull, deployed like a huge parachute dragging behind the ship.Steering into the oncoming waves at an angle to prevent being pushed sideways and the pull from the drogue preventing us from pitching forwards. (It’s called pitch poling in nautical terms.)

We had to keep steaming to punch through and keep adjusting the helm to enter another wavecoming at us. I was standing two decks above the main deck and the waves were thirty feetabove me. The ship had a big draft to the plimsoll line, so I figured 60 foot waves.

I watched the spray covering the bow back to the masts as we kept steady onward. I heard thatwe were in the ‘shadow’ of the island of Malta. The place where Paul the disciple was shipwrecked. A real place of peril for everyone. Right in the middle of the Mediterranean sea.

It occurred to me in afterthought as I was listening to a podcast was the phrase of being safe and secure as an Anchor was used, quite a few times. We had huge anchors and used them when we had to ‘anchor out’ at a seaport. Tied up at a dock, we used hawsers and fore and aft ‘spring lines’ to stay steady. Anchors kept us in one place of course. The anchor of my soul gives me the image of the sea anchor. Moving through my life with it’s usual storms and holding on as best I can and relying every time now with staying the course with the Lord’s sea anchor. Keeping me pointed straight through my life filled with peril and

my penchant to change course in rough places.“My anchor holds against the gale” Not to stop but keep pressing in to the goal. Don’t get off that true and righteous path.

“ The safest road to hell is the gradual one—the gentle slope, soft underfoot, with out sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts “ C.S. Lewis

Stay the course, He will hold you and guide you and give you peace. It’s pretty good and guaranteed.

Norm Peterson/ Jack Gator

The Sight of a Smell

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was early in the morning when I saw the delightful smell drifting in from the kitchen. A haze,It was Soren my son cooking bacon for the family breakfast. Delightful, visible and delicious.A combination of several senses at once.

Another combination is lightning. The stroke, which grasps our sight as suddenly it appears and continues for a very brief time afterwards as dark lines as we blink it away. Then comes the sound. Calculating the speed of sound @ 1125 ft/s we come up with a mile every 4.7 seconds.

It’s fun to see how close the strike is by the timing of the thunder. So, we have sound and sight in combination. If the lightning is close, there is a smell of the ozone as well. The fertility of the earth is enhanced by the generation of Nitrogen. A natural fertilizer and the ozone protects us from the harmful radiation from sunlight! Quite a few senses involved. Sight, smell, hearing and the engagement of our mind in calculation and awe.

Along with the lightning, comes the wind and the rain. So now we combine sight, smell and sound in a different way with seeing the rain, hearing it spatter on our head or the rap on a roof. Then comes the smell of freshness. Does anyone have few words for the smell of the rain? It’s the smell that aromatic companies try to duplicate for those car ‘fresheners’ or scented soaps and dryer sheets. That isle in the big box store that gives us the challenge of holding our breath until we wheel past with the wobble-wheel cart, looking for toilet paper (Same breath holding reaction to the kitty litter aisle)

There is the smell of an old bound hard-cover book while reading it. We could talk about the delight of those two, but that’s another sense we have. Awe. It’s a natural emotional response to the senses combined. It’s a sense of presence of the Numinous Creator God. You may call Him a different name in your awe, I call Him Yahweh or Lord or God, the best one for him is Jesus.

Another sense often occurs with that Awe, shivering or a tingling of suddenly being aware of the supernatural that is always with you but now, sometimes visible (It HAS happened to me, but it is very rare.) After all, no one is supposed to see the face of God lest he die. In the words of Pogo..”Death, I can live without it”. It’s not the of God I have seen, it’s the result of His presence I have seen. I know He has permitted me to see things and hear things, along with that presence that is unbelievable when I talk about them. That’s OK if someone scoffs at these things, I was there.

As I have said before, I am not claiming any thing else. Just a gift we get if we know it is so. I look forward to this gift from Him with a smile of expectancy. None of us knows when it will occur, but it does and gives all of us more than we can try to describe in the description of senses. You have had this happen to you, but have thought of it as incredible luck or coincidence unexplained. It’s Joy, that’s for certain. Its pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

The Streetcar The Dentist and a Violin

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was in the middle of the last century that as a preteen I was given the task of taking streetcars to the family dentist. I know, it’s sounds like a long time ago. It was. Streetcars were the way to get around town. Everyone knew where they went. As the buses that replaced them, there were placards in front telling destination and the routes were memorized by all. There were transfer tickets, if you asked for one, that enabled the ride to go further in a different direction.

I was five or six years old when I went by myself downtown and further. There, of course, were young kids that would roll a big snowball onto the tracks. Harmless fun as the trolly would plow through them easily. The bigger kids would do those sorts of things. I never did it but saw it done by boys quite older than I. Older by a year or two! Usual seniority of life in public school.

We all would throw a penny off the top of the Foshay tower downtown. It was the tallest building in town and is still there. Now it’s the smallest tall building in town. Word was if the penny hit someone it would go right through them! Terminal velocity of a coin that weighs the same as a hummingbird.

The elevator was free but you had to use a coin to use the telescopes. It was a Nickle which could buy candy as well. A conundrum to a young anti-social Asperger genius. Three Musketeers or a Butterfinger. Tough choice. I thought the splitting of the Musketeer bar was a nice image of comradery. Too messy, no one ever did it.

So, onto the trolley (which had to switch the electric pickup mast when a change of tracks had to be done) the conductors had neat uniforms and a coin box with a little chrome handle that he would constantly twirl to sort out the coins dropped in. I Still remember the sound. Right hand, kachinka, clatter, kaching, etc. I would Get off on Hennepin avenue and walk down about six blocks to Washington avenue. There was a news stand on the corner and they always had the latest science fiction magazines. Later they hawked Mad magazines along with newspapers from all over the country. The next trolley would take me to the family dentist. Great, fun trip.

The streetcars are long gone, along with their tangle of electric power wires overhead. The tracks are gone and recently, tracks got put back in for fast and quiet streetcars. Metro transit. Every one misses the ding ding bell and the rattle of the glass and chrome change hopper. At least people my age do.

It was much later in the end of the century that I was shopping for my first fiddle and a friend in the string instrument world steered me to that family dentist! It seemed the delicate skill sets were just the thing for fine wood work. Oliver G. Olafson was the dentist/violin maker. He made 26 of them in the 1950’s The auction houses of today know of him and list his violin work as ‘inconsistent’ mine must be a consistent one.

I bought one and my friend bought one too! We called them by special names and they aged well. Since the dentists name was Olafson, mine became Olie.

My dentist was known in Mineapolis’ instrument players circles and the choice was good and neither of us needed dental care at that time. There was no Novocain for us either. The bow cost was even higher. It’s good advice from fiddle pros to spend more on your bow than on the fiddle itself. A local shop had a one star N.R. Pfretzschner bow for a few hundred dollars. The bow is now worth 3 to 6 thousand. It’s a nice bow. Musical instruments get better when they get older. Just like us.

That fiddle of mine is so loud that a microphone is usually not needed in small rooms. It’s a beauty. I am not aware of what it is worth. With age comes wisdom. Sometimes. So far I have not been listed as an antique writer but who knows. I can imagine the antique road show now. “We’ve got an 80 year old Swedish model that is a little careworn. Still has hair of sorts and speaks pretty good.” A lot of miles left on this one!”

Actually I have already been bought and the price was impossible to imagine. You know the buyer, at least I pray that you do. He was a master carpenter and worked with wood . He is known throughout the world. Ask me if you are curious and I can introduce you to Him. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Prayer in the Big City hospital

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

The intrigue of the new name, written on a white stone. The only name for you, one of a kind and a blossom in the garden of the Lord. From the beginning of time made to blossom.

As the pattern and majesty of the mighty oak is placed within the acorn, so is our life given as each one of us is created unique, a perfect fit for us and seen on this side of eternity.

The Brief glimpses of Jesus’ heart which can overwhelm and bring us to our knees. Sometimes to the floor. There is a gift given which is the most precious stone indeed. Only revealed on that day we see the beams of light coming from Him as he smiles and blesses us. As the light flows from His beauty, it penetrates our heart, our spirit. The revelation of Christ indeed.

There is a hospital, that a fellow writer I had recently met at the local library was recovering. In hospital as the odd phrase goes. Much akin to a sailor that says “what ship did you serve in?” Conveying a mutual experience. As most of us, being in hospital after ‘procedure’ we become very aware of our frail body and also are anxious to be seen alive and belonging. My friend, Wally, was pleased to see me show up.

He had just come under the knife to save his life. A removal of a growing thing that did not belong inside of him. As he laid in the bed, I was allowed to come in and see him with deeper sight. He also saw me with new eyes. A caring visit from afar just for him. The visit that was as others that have been given to me, Irresistible and also fulfilling in ways of love for another. Also I gave him prayer for a powerful healing and it was well received by him.

(I see him now and then, sitting under a tree where he lives. I try not to stop and interrupt him. He is deep in thought and communion and I love to see him there. He is well.) He rolls his own smokes and I pray he would also be cured of tobacco addiction. I do not chastise or try and guide him away from the addiction. I used to smoke as well and the last thing I needed then was an evangelist telling me the truth. What would I have thought about advice from someone that doesn’t smoke?

After and reassurances, it was time to leave the hospital with the promise of return firmly known. When I left that room, I noticed a tall young man walking slowly by in the hallway. One of those endless hallways with perspective ahead. Walls extending a long ways. I was surprised at the instant inner voice to walk and pray for him. This young man had large hoop earrings. It was merely an affectation I thought. It have been a symbol or recognition trigger. Didn’t matter to me at all.

Right away, I asked that man if it was OK to walk with him. Surprised and pleased that a stranger would walk slowly beside him, the man nodded yes and they walked ahead. ” I walk pretty slowly” I replied to him that there was no hurry for me at all. I am a slow walker too. They began to converse.

This man said that his doctor told him to walk in a every day around the floor that his room was on. Stairways were not on the menu. I slowed down and walked. I am getting used to doing these types of things, not denying that small voice within me. Too many times, I have balked at doing such a simple task asked by my best friend Jesus.

I asked a few polite questions and we began chatting about what was around them and then why they were there. Truth exchanged between two strangers by an arrangement of the Lord. Fear revealed and spoken of. It took a while to get to the turning of the corridor. I said I must go to the right and had to “find the place my car was parked.” (A small joke among people of the city that deal with five story tall cement parking ramps).

I then asked permission to put my hand on his shoulder and pray for him. A prayer of immediacy and details I have forgotten were given to this wounded young man. “Well, I must go” I blessed him and thanked Jesus with the last words of prayer.

Astonished, the man said: “Are you an Angel?”…. I smiled and said “No but I was sent and told to pray for you”

I eventually found my car, and the joy of fulfilling two men’s need for prayer overcame me. A gift given to listen and then pray what I hear. Silence and then listening without thinking what to say.

It is a recent lesson I learned from reading in a brilliant book, “It is a restful heart that will attract those who are groping to find their way through life” a.

As the old Story of the desert fathers is written; “The Messiah lied to me, he said He was coming today and He has not shown up. Ah! replied Father Anthony. “He didn’t say He was coming, He said listen”

It was good, Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

a. The way of the heart Henri Nouwen 1981

If You come to a Fork in the road, Take it.

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There you have it, an old saying just modified a little bit. There is truth behind this. There is no longer any option to travel. One way or the other, left or right. Up or down, etc. Having a good map really helps when this happens. That’s why we have Alexei in our GPS apps to tell us which exit on the roundabout to take. Of course, it gets confusing a lot with those choices and names. At least you can go around for another shot at it.

So it goes with travel. An old Scotsman farmer remarked to a lost tourist. “Well, if I was going there I wouldn’t start from here” So where do we start with other forms of travel such as serious choices? Which way to turn? Travel is a multipurpose word. It can also mean our lives as well traveled or not so much. Of course, if one is of a mind to be blasé’ about life in general, turns and forks just mean another adventure. I lived like that for a great amount of my life. The buzzwords were: Karma, or life path. No choice involved, just what was lined up for you. Studying chapter and verse on such worldviews was a path to meaninglessness. The standby word for unexpected paths was “whatever.”

C.S. Lewis’ writing on these things is succinct:”The road to hell is a gentle slope, soft underfoot. No warning signs, no signs or turning.” There is the thought of my master in writing. That there is no fork in the road once you decide to pursue it.

When I was on our ‘walkabout’ on my Royal Enfield, I knew the destination but took a few forks in the road on the way. laissez faire sort of travel, led to all sorts of adventure. There was a map on board but the dominant thought for me and my best friend, Bruce, was the unknown path. (Bruce was riding an old BMW R59)

Mistakes were made, ones that were ‘challenging’. Both of us had recently been discharged and it was nifty to choose your own path. Bruce’s bike had an arrangement of the front suspention on his bike, it was called an ‘Earles Fork’ Getting tired of the homographs? A few more to go.

There were also plenty of forks in the road in the early days, not even seen as decisions that had to be made. Just ‘chance’ or ‘luck’ or ‘destiny’. There weren’t any warning signs either. A simple ‘rough road’ or ‘falling rocks ahead’ would have been enlightening. I am not certain that forked decisions are destiny or foolishness. After all, if you can even hear the screams or explosions, it would seem prudent to go some other way or just do a U turn. So, random fork choosing can be fun, dangerous, thrilling or destructive. How can you tell which road or path is correct?

There is perfect advice available and it isn’t Map Quest. Consult the map maker himself, He will advise and tell you of the choices. You decide. That’s called freedom. One fork will lead to a fulfillment destination and the other one will lead to eternal captivity of an unpleasant type. The Map Maker will even tell you which fork in the road is good and correct. If you choose to listen to Him. Take the wrong turn anyway and you will not be saved from falling into Judgement, the eternal type.

That’s right. He will save you from His Father. 1. That’s what salvation means. It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

1. Gregory Koukl The Story of Reality