It was always gentle, the touch, almost as though the touch was a memory. At the first time I was surprised, astonished, and did not know who was touching me. I turned and did not know what to say. There was no one there but I knew I was to be never the same. Years upon years passed.
The story of the spoken words, five words with the touch. A healing touch and my life changed. Another five words decades later. A confirming and a beginning of knowledge and my life was now further to destiny. The fire within fanned into flame to show where the small fire had begun to glow.
I was running at the start, always running away from the pain that would not leave. All my life that pain and absence of love was the matrix of my heart. No one would ever get in again, it was too obvious that no one really cared. It was taken for truth that I was beyond all love. Trust was only a word about banking somehow or contracts for an exchange of some kind. I was abused as a child, running away only to find gangs and international smuggling with the usual weapons and anger. Run, they will torture you or kill you. Run and hide once again. Be wary and keep close watch on your heart.
There was a betrayal of an effort of love, love lost and cast away as a raft on the ocean far from land. No compass nor sextant nor even a chart to show what was ahead. Just adrift and always in the middle of the ocean once my land went beyond the horizon. No hope and only death to look ahead to. It was what I put away in a lock box in my heart, thinking out of sight, out of mind. That box was transparent. Most saw in it through my eyes. I knew it was safe in there.
So, adrift in the ocean of pity, I did not know what path I was on but I knew something was happening to me. Getting fed something good and drinking clear good water. No idea where these things were coming from. After all, adrift on an ocean does not include drinkable water. Even tears are salty.
Finally a meeting was available to see the one true love that betrayed me. She was in a bad way, in a hospital of recovery from her own trauma. Drugs used to dull the pain, like a path I also chose before five words began the small fire in my heart and saved me from a bad end. “Life or death, Choose now” Words spoken audibly in an empty room as I was staring at a line of heroin. Obviously life was chosen. The addiction was gone and there was no withdrawal. A miracle that took decades to see who said those five words. Our Lord Jesus. There was something ahead for my life, indeed there is.
Bluffing my way into the hospital as a youth minister working with her father who was the senior pastor at Central Lutheran, I managed to see my lost beloved before me. She was in a haze of recuperative drugs as she sat up on the bed in her room, clothed in hospital scrubs. Dazed, confused and finally focusing on the one she betrayed and had discarded the love we had. She had moved away with a Guthrie actor and hid her engagement ring. Now Right in this moment, I knew this time was different. Only the tenderness for her was in my heart. I again chose life.
She awakened and recognized me and asked; “Why are you here?” Without hesitation, I spoke the words of healing for her too. “Because I love you!” I Said loudly surprising them both and then I left soon thereafter.
I had showed her the wood camper I now lived in and had driven two thousand miles to see her. It was disappointingly impossible for us to see through the recessed windows of the locked area. The small fire in my heart was being fanned into flame. There were my habits still to overcome but the seed of love was beginning to grow within me and the marriage that came decades later to a wonderful woman was right and true. I never knew what happened to the girl I had loved in the hospital. Rumors from old friends then said she was now living in New Orleans.
I found her phone number and asked her to send me the engagement ring I gave her at Theodore Worth park just after discharge from the Navy in 1967. I had met her at the YMCA when I was playing guitar as a paid entertainer.
Sometimes the fear and trauma would return but my wife helped me and with a counselor that said those memories and fears of the past were just that. Eventually I realized there was no danger with betrayal, violence and guns of the past. A word or even a tone of voice was the trigger to be recognized as just a vapor of evil, trying once again to destroy my life with fear. It can happen to you.!
The burning one with fire in His eyes gives us the knowledge that we are, indeed, loved and worthy to tell others of this discovery within our hearts. My heart lock-box was opened and I have never been the same since. The flame of eternal love is burning bright with the Fire in the eyes of Christ. It’s pretty good.
He was a farrier for many decades and was a very kind and thoughtful man. A recent day when the winter weather was changing to colder, he came by to visit. I had just stoked the wood stove and greeted him, took his weathered cowboy hat and he took off his boots.
We walked past the wood stove and sat as old friends do, and began to talk. We got right to the good stuff and began to learn more about each other than we had planned on. What a pleasure it was for both of us and he had to leave much too soon.
He was on a drive to visit friends across the border here in rural Wisconsin. Catching up and ministering to one and all. I asked him about his career as a blacksmith and I began to listen to his wisdom. He has shod horses all his life and he learned the right ways to do it.
He created the bond between himself and some horses that were known for bad behaviors. The rules were to be gentle, affirming and to help the horse in realizing that being a horse of strength and snorting power was not as good as being with him. Firmly he reassured the horse of his no nonsense ability and to teach the lesson of bonding with love and the feelings of being safe around him. I was reminded of Bob Smith, Secretariats trainer.
No nonsense and affirmative gentleness was the key. The horse of biting and snorting and kicking was soon seen as gently nuzzling him as the hoofs were trimmed and re-shooed. The firm and loving embrace is also the way we are gentled into our saviors embrace. Letting us know who our safe place is. He tied that horse up and pushed him over and after a while, came out to the pasture and sat on him. He loved on him quietly and then released the rope that tied his legs together. The horse was free again and knew who the safe place was.
As was I, so are you. Going our own way. Thundering and running away. Some where else.
The Lord can so many things with a heart that is open. He can do anything with a heart that is broken. Keep it open. 1.
How can we teach truth to a broken world? The essential part is listening. We all have an ache to be heard and be astounded by someone that is eager to hear us and our stories. We tie ourselves up in knots and ache for someone to love us and gently untie those bonds.
A pastor came to my kitchen table, only hours after he just missed his appointment with my mother who had died that morning. “I’ll come to you” I spoke about all the thousand religions and Buddha, Indian mystics and the like and he answered me: “We are not talking about them, we are talking about you. He pushed a book across the table to me. It was C.S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity. Not long afterward the Holy Spirit grabbed me and held me close and whispered to me: “It’s all true” I have never been the same. A firm, committed and loving embrace that told me I was loved and safe. Open up and receive, & have confidence in His love. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe
It was a good friendship. An E4 and an O6. That’s a Petty Officer third class and a Captain. We were also neighbors. Myself and Pastor Russ. Neighbors that met riding bicycles on passable blacktop roads. Russ lived about a mile and a half away from me and once in a while, we would go for a ‘spin’. There was another huge difference between us as Russ was a category 2 racer and I just liked to ride. Cat 2 is pretty professional and impressive. He was a very good rider to be with. I learned a lot.
One remarkable day, Russ was riding alone and met a very pretty and friendly bicycle rider. She was riding nearby and as Russ was married to Debra and a pastor, he was safe to ride with.
Not long afterwards, Russ mentioned to me about this woman. “She runs a lakeside camp nearby, it’s called Whispering Pines. Pretty good cyclist too!” Myself as a lonely bachelor, was intrigued. I knew where the camp was and began thinking about Russ’s new friend. Just by coincidence a real woman cyclist that lived nearby and with a job! Obviously fit and friendly. Russ said she was pretty too. I considered calling the camp. Why not?
Meanwhile, that cyclist, Julie, was out in Washington state at a conference. She was at a local bar near the Canadian border and the bartender, Margaret, was gregarious and asked Julie where she was from. She told her where the she was from and the bartender, casually wiping down the bar said, “where in Trade Lake do you live?” “What! No one knows that dinky little township!” Margaret replied, “My grandparents lived in Trade Lake” They had a few things to talk about then.
Margaret, incredibly enough, was an old friend of mine and gave Julie my phone number. Julie put it in her wallet and when she returned to Wisconsin and the camp, tossed that piece of paper into a drawer in her office. A Junk drawer holding device to eventually have some of it’s contents put into a round holding device standing on the floor nearby.
On a particularly perfect day for cycling, I decided to call the camp and asked for the director. I gave her my name and mentioned my friend Russ. I also told her that Russ and I rode a lot together and asked if Julie would like to ride sometime. “It’s that Guy! The friend of that bartender way out west!” Julie consulted the head cook, Cora who was her trusted friend if it would be OK to go ride with me. “why not? Sounds safe, a pastors friend” she replied
So Julie told me OK, and being mostly clueless but aware that neutral territory was not at her place nor mine, I suggested we ride our bicycles towards one another on county road M and we meet that way. I saw Julie coming towards me, uphill and riding strong. I waited for her, watching her technique. Pretty good climber.
We did a short 50 mile ride and I asked her out to eat afterwards. Little Mexico, a great local restaurant with homemade guacamole and chips, they had good Mexican beer too. Cora said: “why not?” And so we went. This time I drove my car, a Volvo wagon with a bike rack on the roof of course.
That wise cook had some chocolate cake for our dessert when we returned. After many enjoyable rides later, some of them with pastor Russ, it began to be clear that this whole thing was a coincidence of extraordinary circumstances.
Sometime later when my old friend, Margaret, the bartender, got in touch, I told her the delightful bicycle romance story and then she added one more fact. The exact place on County road M where Julie and I met, was right at the driveway where Margaret’s Grandparent’s had lived. As this story has been told many times, I always say; “It was a miracle, God’s handiwork”.
Julie continued managing the camp until another director was chosen for the job. She moved in to my farm and we played house for a time. We also began working at 7 pines lodge nearby in Lewis. Fresh caught brook trout and fried carrots was the main menu. It was also the only thing on the menu.
The manager was a good fly fisherman and had us, the waiters, put on mystery dinners. All the guests became suspects in the mystery murder and myself and Julie played the hosts of the hotel where the murder was. The manager did not take part in the play as he was busy in the kitchen.
Out of the blue at home, Julie and I proposed and it seemed to make a lot of sense to us. ‘Shacking up’ later on when I became baptized, we realized living in sin was also a description. It seemed good and right. I did get the wedding ring made from my Grandmothers ring. Proposing was an equal opportunity proposition. It worked for us. Still does. More perfect timing. We were married at 7 pines lodge and the wedding was a fabulous affair. The square dance band that I played in (Duck for the Oyster} came to help with the music as well as Bill Hinkley and Judy Larson and Mary Dushane from the Powder milk Biscuit Band. Myself and three fiddlers stood in a circle around my beautiful bride and we played a Swedish waltz, Helsa Hem Dar Hemma.
A Real log lodge with a stream house that straddled the trout stream, that was where we spent our wedding night. The running water made bathroom breaks occur often. It was glorious and one of those memories that is permanently set within us. The dance was at the West Denmark church hall and we still have a photograph of Julie’s dad strutting down the middle of the Virginia Reel dance. More food and leftover wedding cake.
My mom drove up in her Buick convertible to attend our wedding. She almost left in the beginning of the ceremony saying that her dog needed her at home. She stayed with some gentle urging from a good friend of ours. It was obvious that something was going on with mom. Dementia. Her dad had the same issue and died not long afterwards of the onset. Mom was still living in her third home in Bryn Mawr Minneapolis.
After a few years went by and our two children were growing and our farmhouse was rebuilt to double it’s original size. (right before Bjorn, their first born arrived) My Mom agreed to help finance the huge mound system that was needed for the ‘upgrade’ to our home. Bedrooms for the kids after all.
My mother was fading and I drove down at least every week to help her out. Managing the bills and looking after things. Not too long afterwards, about a year, we moved Mom up to our area into a nursing home. Julie had an old pastor friend, Barry, agree to come up to talk to my Mom. however, she died that night and he came up anyway and spent hours with me at the kitchen table. “Mere Christianity” was referred to a lot and I brought up other religions, Buddhism, Islam and my early family attendance at a Christian Science church in Minneapolis. “What about you? What do you think about all this, we are talking about you” It was a very important Question. This was serious and I had a lot think about. Barry slid the C.S. Lewis book across the table and it made sense the more I read it. Still do.
Barry’s church, a Congregational one, agreed to do mom’s funeral with a meal and even light a candle every Sunday for a week or two. No charge. Character in a great man of faith. We began attending as we both were becoming closer to being Christians. Julie already was one, I was still wary.
Soon thereafter, I had a life changing experience at Russ’ church (Russ was in the Navy as a chaplain then and there was a new pastor) . A Christmas cantata was offered and I reluctantly said I would go. Of course, Bjorn and Soren, our sons, were in Jammies, and went up on the choirs risers just before the concert! Great embarrassment for us as we were not well known even though the church was only a mile and a half away from our home. Zion Lutheran.
The Holy spirit overcame me as the choir was singing ‘Mary did you know’. A man in the choir began reciting the words of the song. All I saw was his face and those words changed my Life. Forever. “It’s all true! He is creator of all things! Somebody had to do it! Random evolution never made sense to me.
Pastor Barry said Christ loves me! I still believe the Holy Spirit was running the spotlight up in the balcony so the man reciting had the light directly on him and the angle of the light reflected right to me. It was the major point in my life. The church is still there and once in a while we go to a smorgasbord there. That experience was so overwhelming that attending would not work. The memory is too strong. I stopped once and told the new pastor about these things and he showed me the sanctuary where it happened. It seemed to encourage him. He has the same last name as ours, Peterson. Small world indeed.
Our marriage continues to grow as Julie was already a believer in Jesus. It was good news to her as well. Many times that story still brings tears to me. You know the feeling. Words began to fall short and it’s hard to speak them. That song, obviously, is my favorite and I weep and worship when it is sung.
Our whole family began attending Pastor Barry’s church near Amery, but with the two boys, it was hard to go 80 miles round trip every Sunday. There was a ministry too even further away at Lake Elmo, it was an automotive repair ministry (God’s grease monkeys) and I continued to be a volunteer there. Our Volvo was filled with food while I was working. I was a foreign car shop owner at that time and I was pretty useful. It was another blessing that continues on in various ways. Every church gathering we attend has miracles when we look. He is pouring His spirit out on us. You too.
Later, at a sweet corn feed at a local church, we met Pastor Roger Inoway and the relation with Grace Baptist, a church association for us began. It was only ten miles away in Grantsburg, Wisconsin.
Our family began attending that church and eventually we started a successful food ministry there. The monthly event was named Feed My Sheep. It was coupled with an automotive repair ministry, Grace Garage. The food ministry was a bright spot for us as we got to minister and pray for the people waiting in an adjacent room. They were waiting to be called to get in line for the food distribution. People still comment to Julie and I about those prayers and some healing that occurred. The church made me a deacon in the process too.
News came that the camp, Whispering Pines, was in need of a temporary manager while it was up for sale. Julie and I stepped into that position and soon after, two pastors showed up on motorcycles at the camp. They expressed interest in buying it! Perfect. Keep the camp Christian owned and run. A good vision for us for certain. We got baptized at Whispering pines soon afterwards. Pastor Barry had never performed a baptism and so dunked us three times. “Father, Son and Holy Spirit” and I saw him above me in the clear lake water. I asked him what he saw as he looked at me. “A dead man” he perfectly replied.
There was a quick transition to those new motorcycling pastors church with the blessing of the Grantsburg leadership. Back south of Highway 8 again! Our family fit in well and eventually became the worship team there. We were licensed as Pastors but weren’t installed. When the two Pastors they were hoping would buy the camp didn’t buy it we left. The camp was sold to a real estate developer and after a neighborhood fight about loosing the beautiful Methodist camp to a developer, it was developed into high end lake homes (½ mile of lake shore went with the camp) It was time to find a church closer to home and after dreaming together about their next move, both of us got the same named local pastor.
That church seemed appropriate and it was only a few miles away. You have noticed that a lot of what is called ‘Church Hopping’ occurred for us. It wasn’t that at all. It was Church involvement and being led by the Spirit. About five years at each house of worship was average. All of it extraordinary and good.
It’s a hard life at times and our whole family has had many challenges from both of our pasts. We are still together and praising the Lord and his way of loving them. Our Lord does not have a plan. He is plan. Now we listen to Him and we follow His leading. The Lord speaks quietly and we are getting better at listening.
We continued singing and playing songs to Him and about Him, writing a few of those songs as well. It’s better than my bar band, and I am not even obligated to wear a cowboy hat. We did move to another church again to a refurbished bar that I played with the country western band! It was a new life about 30 miles away. I occasionally played Viola and the Mandolin there. South of highway 8 again. As I write this we have again been called to another gathering, Eagle Brook in Minnesota. I am working with Bjorn who is the media director and he asked me to become his AD (assistant director) It’s a long drive but he drives most of the way after I drive to his place about 28 miles south. I am also being trained as a camera operator.
We do wear our faith on our sleeves. Just like in my Navy days in a way. This story catches attention to unbelievers. It still catches our attention around May 23rd as well. our anniversary day.
Who can foretell the leading of the Lord? Jesus guides as he provides and that is challenging and exciting.
I was at an ongoing book sale that a local library has in one of their meeting rooms. The books are arrayed with spines up and a double row so you can see all the titles. Only a dollar apiece and they are in excellent condition.
I looked and muttered authors and titles to myself as I fingered my way down the front row. Most, if not all were novels. The impression I instantly got was they had all been read by a handful of devotees to the genre and were not getting checked out anymore.
I was startled when one of the back row books had a title of Spiritual Literacy. Quite a change from Danielle Steele’s work. Nice bindery and excellent glossy cover that book had. It seemed it was not checked out much as it wound up in the ‘cut out bin’ too. I quickly grabbed it up and flipped a page or two and what I read was enough to make the dollar price insignificant. Yard sale gem or a find at the second hand stores.
The Quote I randomly turned to was indeed on spiritual awareness and in a most direct and refreshing statement of truth. The statement tendered the astonishing way contact with the spirit of all life occurs and how we expect it to. A full range of eastern sages to modern thought was summed up. We think of a spiritual department of our life. Activity at the penthouse of our minds. Top floor.
If you are feeling a need for such things, get going and punch that 43rd floor button and get ready to pray, meditate, chant, focus on something to get in touch with the real deal of life.
Hence the steeple chase for western minds that a steepled building is the place where these things are talked about and experienced. I do look for the pointed buildings as I drive and wonder what they mean, why are they pervasive and how do you build and keep one?
Those steepled buildings are an excellent place to taste the sacred and also a good place to trigger the hunger for more. It’s the whole idea to grow and mature in our faith.
That one reference I randomly turned to goes on to state we can experience the sacred in everyday life. One simple statement startled me: “I come alive when I hear or play music” or “I come to life when I am in the garden, working with my hands” A.
Those are the areas when we are spiritual. To be vital, awake and aware. I did this today when I was swimming my laps. I started looking through the water as I swam and began to pray for the other swimmers I saw and often knew. Strokes and styles and finishing pushes. I have a really good instructor that almost won gold in a relay race. The only reason she didn’t was that a teammate jumped into the water at the triumphant finish and the whole team was disqualified.
She is my wife and I firmly believe the win. She taught me things and I teach them to fellow swimmers when they are receptive to small changes.
I like to do that and it makes me feel alive. It is connection with spiritual activity. I did not realize that until I saw the wisdom in that incredible book.
Another example: A small group of people get together regularly in a home or in a church and discuss and answer one question. They go deep and share their lives stories.
Spirit led and gifts of spirit. Volunteer work is as rewarding to the people served as the servers are. I was not aware of why I felt fulfilled working on weekends in a large church gathering, helping in media production. Visual and sound. I found people approachable and eager to share their lives with me. If I was asking questions of them instead of banging on about myself it usually ended in mutual prayer. There was connection and an uplifting spirit.
It’s easier if you allow the spirit to move within and give you guidance for the hungry and open hearts. It’s very enjoyable and often leads to continuing growth and friendships. Growth in us and them.
Recently I have been mourning the deaths of so many close friends and immediate family. Why me? Now things have changed and I am seeing the Spirit moving around me, with me and in me. Church is great and we have heard that we are the Church.
As Thomas Aquinus reminds us: “ Diversity is the perfection of the Universe” 13th Century Jack Gator Scribe
A. Brother David Steindl the music of silence
With many thanks to the Grantsburg Library andThomas Moore, and Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat
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 himself downtown and further. The only street gangs were young kids that would roll a big snowball onto the tracks. The same thing as throwing 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. Or just throw one. It was a Nickle which is much heavier but could buy candy as well. A conundrum to a young anti-social Asperger genius. Three Musketeers or a Butterfinger. Tough choice.
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 dentist! It seemed the delicate skill sets were just the thing for success. 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 their wallets either. The bow cost was even higher. It’s 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 is so. He was a master carpenter and worked with wood . He is known throughout the world. Ask me if we meet, I can introduce you to Him. Jack GatorScribe
The shop was our sole source of income and it worked for us. Several sources of heat to keep it going in the below zero temps were used. Wood heat at first, a primitive waste oil burner that poured oil all over the floor when I forgot the drip feed at night and the oil covered the floor. One overworked shop vac and a lot of squeegee work cleaned it up. The shop vac needed to be tossed but at least the shop was safe.
Another waste oil furnace, mounted up high worked for years until it wore out and the expense to replace it with another one of the same company was unreasonable. It had ‘issues’ that would not be fixed by the supplier.
Back to wood heat and recently, a pellet stove that kept the shop warm enough to protect the well pressure tank and pipes. We had a much newer waste oil furnace hanging up there that refused to run.
It was an exhausting week. Our shop was cold and the weather was closing in with single digit temperatures close to thanksgiving. My son, Soren was spending hours, days, working on the shop furnace. Up high on the Little Giant ladder, propped up near the burner module on the waste oil burner. We have hanging from the ceiling in our small automotive shop built decades ago. New parts, a total rebuild of the oil module and ignition, cleaning the cabinet. As the saying goes, the whole nine yards. No joy and it was going to be in the single digits in another day at night.
We all prayed for wisdom and help from our Lord Jesus to solve this problem. The next day
I had a vivid dream and in it I saw the furnace pressure gauge steady at three pounds and the furnace running. The manufacturer’s representative talked with us on the phone and there were a few tests but to no avail.
Soren took the burner module out for the third time and examined a very small inserted nozzle below the main nozzle. It resembled a very small deburring tool with slits. It had a few clogs from carbon blocking the heated air and oil. Just a few. He removed the entire oil distribution block and with new brushes and the wash tank gave it one more try.
It began to fire and swapping oil supplies didn’t change things but after bleeding air out of the lines and resetting many times, it began to work, and work well. Steady heat and the pressure was perfect at three pounds and after tweaking the air pressure, it was done. Perfect flame from the view port seen from below and after gaining shop temperature, restarted with no hesitation and ran all night with no lock outs and when I went out this morning, it was still perfect.
Steady and warm and exactly at three pounds pressure. The gauge in my dream was the same only in the dream it was in perfect focus. This picture was as good as my cell phone can get from the shop floor this morning. A quarter way up the gauge face which is exactly three pounds pressure.
With much Thanksgiving this morning before the family feast and an unbelievable sense of peace I awakened to walk to the shop and take that photo so I would write this column.
He is good. Once again before us and beside us and all around us. Within us. He is for us and I was blessed with the comfort he gave me in that dream. It will be OK and this is what it will be soon. Strength and endurance given and the cleanup began last night and we put things away and got a good start on all the drips and drops of waste oil on the floor. The light brown shop ‘floor dry’ works best and you can scrub the oil spots with your boots. Broom it up and it looks good. This time we had to just do it till the bag was near empty. Also, this time the boot scraping was more of a dance and there was internal joy and remembered music too.
I give you dear reader the encouragement of His goodness and promise in these little things that are not world shaking, but were for us. The timing was perfect and the work was hard, messy and seemed endless to no avail. Why? “Please Lord, show us how!”
Indeed, this morning is November 28th and we are thankful for the two deer that Soren and Julie got early this week. A healthy and tired family and our older son and his wife will be here soon to prepare the feast and heart felt thanks for all things. I can smell the turkey and the mince pies cooking and it’s pretty good, Jack Gator Scribe for the Peterson family
My family loves to play games, especially with guests after dinner. Sometimes with old TV dinner trays in the living room. The ones made out of wood that seem wobbly and will spill your dessert on your lap. Almost antiques inherited of course, from childhood, watching Lunch with Casey or Captain Kangaroo while munching on mac and cheese.
My family, especially me, hesitates when the announcement from my wife comes: “Hey, let’s play a game!” Somehow it takes place and I really get into it, but reluctantly at first. Why do I hesitate? I know why, because I play games all day and it would be good to stop for a while.
What games do I play? First one today, try to undo the new toilet paper roll without it looking like the cat shredded it for fun. Next, see if I can get my pants on while standing up without any wobble. Make the bed while counting how many times I have to go to the other side.
My record is twice when the cat does not complicate the game.
Driving to my morning rendezvous with my son and counting how quickly I can dim my head lights just before a car comes before me. If I get them before they do, I win. Best strategy is to see them coming before around a curve ahead. I think it’s courtesy foremost but it is actually my game as I declare; “I win” if I do it first.
It’s fun for me and it distracts me from the tedium and sameness of some of life’s tasks. I realize as I am writing this how much I do this. Counting things is foremost, like chess only my ‘opponent’ is random and usually myself. How many times can I throw the Frisbee perfectly flat and fast for our dog to leap and make a perfect catch? She even plays the game and takes a long run after a spectacular leap and snatch. I call it a victory lap.
The best game is when I swim very early and try to guess how long I will have to wait to get ‘my’ lane (wall lane) and the best part of the game is to see how long it takes me to pray for the other swimmers as they are also up early and playing the game of timing from the big clock at the other end of the pool.
I win the game if I pray for them, the swimmers, the drivers very close behind me in the dark, even the oncoming cars with a headlight out. Then the game becomes a delight and no longer a game of counting but an attitude of gratitude for the opportunity to once again, talk with our Lord and thank Him for His help in giving me delight in people around me. He likes that and I wonder at His smile and laugh when the supposed game turns out to be true life. It’s pretty good.
A saying I attribute to Sitting Bull. He spoke of the two wolves inside of us as well. I wondered about this wisdom this morning and ran across more wisdom from Michelle O’Rourke. The little bulls are the battle we have with the little deaths we all must experience in our lives.
The loss’ of physical strength or stability in using what I have left. The bull of my early times swinging spike malls and 16 pound sledge hammers. I agonize over that when I should just join that death with me being the matador and the bull, joined with that blade.
We all have them, those little bulls we embrace. The world inside that speaks failure and personal weakness or loss as the source. To rise up from the sand and brandish the blade and put that snorting thought to death. There are also the worlds many wolves that linger, just beyond the glow of our inner campfire. Eyes lit and eager to pounce upon our sense of worth and trample the fire.
That indeed is the leader of the wolf pack, sense of worth destroyer. I think I am worthless because of changes that come to us all. Physical strength, provision fears. What will become of me when those around me see this?
We indeed do change as we approach death. In old age or in disease or accident. All of us.
My favorite quote from Woody Allen: “I am not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens” Why do I cling so hard to my little bulls when I know they must die with me as everyone knows. Playing games within that Jesus will return and I will just be caught up with Him. Maybe I am akin to Enoch and will just ‘leave’ (after a long life) or Elijah who ascends in a flamed out custom chariot with really fancy custom wheels.
Better to listen to our God with his Mighty hand and outstretched arm that delivers time after time and tells me how much He loves me and will never leave me. Loves me the way only He does.
Many times He has shown me my true worth. Small things that are even bigger than the wolves that whisper and howl. He says, “Go here and talk to someone I will show to you” A purpose and all I have got within me. The reason I have had things happen that I can’t explain as excellent and good. My life unfolding with a mystery of loss and gain. Not embracing my mind and the abilities that I have been given as my very own brilliance and creation.
Indeed, the blade must go deep and true to put to death all those thoughts of self importance.
Listen to the creator of all things brilliant. He will give you all the encouragement and worth you ever have needed. He will turn your losses, your grief, and sadness into joy as you dance in the light of His light. Sit at His campfire and the wolfs of the world will not dare approach. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator
On my way down the local 2 lane, I started counting barns and old farms. A way to stay alert besides scanning for deer with my fog lights on for extra vision on the shoulder. I had already noticed most barns had all equipment of a dairy operation, but no lights on for early morning milking, no bulk trucks and a silo cuddled up to the barn. The blue Harvestore silos looked fresh and functional. Most of the rest of them had no caps often the barns were at their service life end.
I remember the past time when I visited a neighbors dairy farm and was asked to shovel silage to the cows. It was either that or start hooking up the Delaval milkers. Some of the farmers showed me how to hand milk. “Just hold her up higher with your closed hand and squeeze gently from the top down.” Splash splash into the stainless bucket. Wow.
Mostly, when I shoveled the silage from the convenient opening in the barn, I liked the smell of it. Almost tasty like a good granola smelled. Rich and nutritious and sweet. I asked a few questions about the ease of loading the wheel barrow in the barn and how silage was made and how did it come out of the opening in the wall. Silos, snugged up to the barn and filled with crops grown during the summers. I didn’t taste the silage.
I saw the cycle of dairy farming that made sense. Some of them even made cheese. The milk house vat was scooped for breakfast coffee or baking. It was good and special to me. Daylight was breaking and after we finished and let the cows out to pasture, it was time for that coffee and pancakes. I felt like I was experiencing farming and did not stick around for the planting, tilling, praying for rain and the harvesting.
Hard work, many hours of it and a connection to the land that was comforting and astonishing for a city transplant. I respected my neighbor and understood his life.
I was a railroad track worker and knew hard work but I was working for someone else for wages and there were only wooden ties, spikes, fish plates and ballast to go around for 8 or 10 hours. A city job with commuting in my old 41 Ford. I miss it in some ways, mostly the wing windows when it was summer. I am sure air conditioning was in the works for cars but expensive as a choice. I was used to sweat and my old farm house had good screen windows too.
Now, fifty years later, I look at that old dairy farm as I drive by and the silo is empty, there are no cows getting muddy at the pond and the house chimney has a little pipe sticking out of it for the propane furnace. There are no lights visible in the small barn windows either.
A gigantic green tractor with all the implements scattered around is warming up and getting ready for work. Field work. There are gravity corn boxes and big corn cribs but no bulk trucks backed up to the barn.
Hundreds of acres of corn and soybean fields surround the old farm and all that vegetation gets trucked to a buyer nearby, usually called a dairy. No cows there either, just huge corn cribs and drive through scales for the trucks filled with glowing kernels of corn.
I feel the world has changed and it isn’t neighbors farming. They are cropping for money and not getting much pay for their labor after buying more land and very expensive equipment. A lot of older people I chat with notice this change in rural life too.
Everyone in the township works hard and some of them move south after they feel their work is done. Good beer and restaurant food and relaxation comes with the cost of leisure. Cruise boats are not Glastron fishing boats at the local lake. Fast food and leisure engenders visits to the clothing big box stores. The patio parties and ocean views do not have neighborhood charm. The good old days are replaced by the sirens call from the Odyssey of Homer.
Jack gators grace notes 