jesus

Christmas Feast

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

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 / Jack Gator

The Firebricks of Orion

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

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.

It’s pretty good, Norman Peterson / Jack Gator

a. Justin Rizzo

Conversation Desire and another Glimpse of Eternity

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I

Escape and Capture II

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

July 27th 2024 revised

ESCAPE AND CAPTURE II

There was nothing to be done about getting discharged after 2 years at sea. A big disappointment for me and my division Chief. He cried when I was led away in cuffs. After all, the next step for me was the same one he took. Brown shoe navy, separate mess decks. Promotion with perks.

My discharge said ‘Undesirable’ Bad paper it is called and loosing that Top Secret clearance came with it. It was years that I lived with the tag of that paper and it certainly lurked in my spirit as true. I felt I was indeed undesirable. I joined a big commune in Minneapolis when I returned from California. The New Riverside Cafe. (motorcycle diaries 5 )

I worked with old and new hippies and I fit right in. The only veteran, and after a time, I told the story to a co-worker and she told it to her father. He was ‘connected’ and he wrote a letter to the Judge Advocate General in D.C. (His last name was Kennedy.) The revised discharge arrived and it now says Honorable. I would never have the small beautiful rural farm, my unbelievable wife and two great sons if I had not been able to get the GI loan to buy the place in NW Wisconsin. Another ‘coincidence’ In my motorcycle diary series.

Years went by and then there was a phone call from Maryland. It was Chuck’s wife telling me that Chuck was in hospice with cancer and would like a visit. Long way, expensive flights and rental car. There wasn’t any money to do so when a good Navy friend showed up at our home with an envelope with 10 hundred dollar bills.. “Go visit him Norm” and the ex Navy chief turned and walked away.

I flew to D.C., and during the approach to landing I saw all the lights up and down the coast and thought, it says in the Bible that God knows every hair on every head, impossible, that’s a lot of hair! Immediately I heard the Lord say immediately, “That’s no problem, it’s a finite number” Oh, I forgot that detail.

Chuck did not want to talk about my refreshing new faith, just watch movies together and talk old times. I talked about Jesus anyway and when the week was up, it was time to go. Chuck could still walk and we went outside when I was leaving. I said: “When it’s my time to ‘cross the bar’ (seaman’s term) I want to see you there” Big splashes of water were on Chucks jacket and it wasn’t raining. I don’t know those things work, but I believe that he will indeed be there to embrace me and I will see that smile on my saviors face I have been longing for. Face to face.

About a month later, I got a call from Chuck and he asked “What are the words?” There are no ‘words’ Chuck, I answered. Let’s just talk to Jesus about it and ask Him to forgive all of the things we did together and apart. The young men talked a long time and then Chuck asked “is that it?” ‘Pretty much’ was my answer and they closed their talk well. (I also forgave Chuck for all that I had been led into as well.) Cathartic for both men. A month later Chuck’s wife called and said that Chuck wanted to be baptized. That was also very good news.

Less than a month later, I was deep into listening to a sermon at a Baptist church nearby. Eyes closed and quiet as a good Deacon should be in the front row. Suddenly, there was Chuck before him, walking away towards the drum set on the platform, pointing over his shoulder saying, “It’s better than you said!”

My eyes flew open and I began weeping and and saying “It’s Chuck…I just saw him..leave.” Julie began asking what was happening and so forth. Upon returning home, the answering machine had a message and it was from Chuck’s wife. She simply said; “Chuck passed away this morning” We called her back and thanked her for the call and then told her about the brief visit Chuck made before leaving at that same time. It seemed to be very reassuring for her for everyone that knows me and my stories. A gift from our Lord.. Why?

Therefore, another experience for me to use when explaining why I feel the presence of Jesus so strongly. It’s called having a convincing witness, It’s a perfect way to relate to others and it takes a bit of trust to accept that story. It’s OK, its real, I was there. I didn’t believe in Pompeii until I had been there. There is so much detail as there is in real stories. Read the Gospel of John that’s a real story too.

There are many such stories akin to this. Perhaps folks attribute these things to ‘good luck’ or ‘good Karma’, ‘The luck of the draw’ or my favorite “’it was an amazing coincidence!”

That’s OK. Seeds are planted and the sower goes on to do it many, many times. all. Stay alert readers, God is presenting Himself to you more than you can perceive. Listen as He is for you and the path can be hard to understand. Most of the time I am still amazed. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator