Zommies

I was talking with my five-year-old middle granddaughter Jordan not long ago, and, as usually is the case in any conversation with Jordan, our dialogue took an interesting turn. Jordan wanted to talk about zommies. Now, it was around the Halloween season and with all of the current fascination that is focused on zombies, vampires, werewolves and the like, I wasn't too surprised at her topic of conversation and readily pursued it.
"What are zommies?" I wanted to know. "they're munsters" Jordan informed me. "Well, what do zommies do?" "They eat your brain" she answered matter-of-factly, then hastened to add, "but they're not real."
I decided to press the issue just a little farther, you know, just to see where it would go. After all, it isn't every day that one gets to discuss zommies. "You know," I continued, "When I was a little boy we used to eat pig brains mixed in scrambled eggs. Would you like to try some pig brains?" She was riding in the back seat, so I couldn't see the look on her face, but I sure heard it in her voice when she replied, "Papa...that's distusting!" Bear in mind that we had just been talking about zommies eating brains, but even at five she was able to discern between a fictional zommie and actually having pork brains and eggs for breakfast.
You know, Jordan, when I think about it...well I guess pork brains are kind of distusting at that. I think I'll stick with the make believe zommies myself.

Happy Birthday Vicky

Today, November 14, 2011 is a milestone of sorts for my wife Vicky. She turned 50. I know that she's probably going to be a bit uncomfortable with me posting this and I know that it is considered impolite to discuss a lady's age, but I beg forgiveness on both counts.
Of all of the influences in my life, and there have been many, Vicky has been the greatest of them all. The woman is amazing.
Though we don't remember each other from the first grade, the yearbook shows that we were in the same class in Myrtle, MS. I was there for only a short time before moving to New Albany which probably explains this, or it could be that as a first grade boy I just wasn't all that memorable.
Whatever the case, my "official" meeting with Vicky McDonald took place in a GED class in New Albany, MS in 1978. I was there trying to correct the mistake I had made by dropping out of school. Vicky was there trying to graduate early so she could go ahead and start college. I thought that she was one of the prettiest, most lady like girls I had ever seen, so I gathered my nerve and asked her out. She turned me down.
Vicky told me that she liked me, but that she did not date guys who did not go to church. This did not set well with me and I decided to just leave her alone. I found that I could not leave her alone. I began attending the Myrtle Church of the Lord Jesus Christ so I could see this girl, and she began to tell me more about a Jesus that I thought I knew but never really had. I received the Holy Ghost on July 14, 1978.
Vicky and I were married on December 1, 1978 and God blessed our little home 11 months later on November 1, 1979 with a baby girl we named Jennifer Beth.
The one thing that has most inspired me about this wonderful lady is that she is not a "settler." If she believes that things can be better, she works to make them better. The phrase, "good enough" has never felt right in her mouth and she rarely, if ever, uses it. I've seen her rise to the top anywhere she's ever been, though there have been a couple of places that she just didn't bother staying with long enough to waste her time.
I won't go into all of the times when she's encouraged me, believed in me, and kept me going when I'd just rather have quit. I've seen her do so much with so little. I've seen her work to rise above her situation rather than to accept it and complain about it. I watched her earn her Bachelors degree in education, then go on to earn her Masters, all while balancing the life of a working wife and mother. I've held her hand at her very lowest and stood beside her on her mountain tops. She's stayed by my side through heart surgery as well as heartache. She's the mother that has encouraged, nay, insisted that our daughter not only reach for but work for her dreams. She's the Nana that is all-consumed with loving our granddaughters. I've never had a better friend or someone who was more a part of my very soul than this lady. I love her with all of my heart.
Happy birthday Vicky. You have changed my life just by living yours. Thank you for sharing it with me.

All my love, Glenn

I Guess I Really Haven't Lost Her at All

I lost my mother 6 years ago tomorrow, November 4, 2005. After typing that sentence, I looked at it and realized that, well...that’s wrong. Mom may have died 6 years ago, but I have never really lost her.

Helen Louise Stanton-Ervin (and after my dad died, she remarried and became Louise Loden) was born at home in Baldwin, MS on April 16, 1930. She was born the middle child of 6 children in a family of sharecroppers who were doing the best they could to survive during the ravages of The Great Depression.

Life was simple. Life was hard. Mom once asked me what I knew about the Amish. I told her that they were simple, hard-working people with no cars, no electricity or other modern conveniences. I went on to explain that they took care of their own, they raised what they needed in gardens and on farms, and that their main mode of transportation was the horse and buggy. When I finished Mom exclaimed, “Well I’ll be...I was raised Amish and didn’t know it!”

Mom grew up and married a charming young man from Bolivar, TN named James Franklin Ervin. I describe him here as “charming” because mom was fond of saying that she thought he had angel’s wings when she met him (I’ll leave that debate alone right there so that I may continue with my story.)

In April of 1961, just two days before her 31st birthday, she gave birth to her first child, a boy whom she and her husband named James Glenn Ervin. (In contrast, my daughter just recently turned 32 and has a 7-year-old, a five-year-old, and a year and a half old.) Four years later she brought my brother, Danny Joe Ervin, into the world.

It would be an understatement to say that this woman loved her boys. She was the kind of mother who poured her life into her children; she gave it her all. My mother was and is the strongest woman I have ever known.

My dad was a good man, but alcohol held him in a vice-like grip from which he was never able to break free. Not to the very day he tragically died with his brother in a house fire. Mom was the glue that held our family together. It has been said that if the father is the backbone of the family, then the mother is the heart. Whoever said that was talking about my mother.

Mom, who became “Mamaw Lou” to many who knew and loved her, lost her battle with cancer on November 4, 2005. She died at home in New Albany, MS with her family around her bedside. Her last words to me were, “I love you.” I’m glad to have heard her say it, but the statement was unnecessary. I already knew that my mother loved me. Not once in my entire life had I ever doubted it.

Mom taught me some very important principles about living that are still with me to this day:

She taught me the importance of having fun, where to find it, and if it couldn’t be found then how to make it up (she taught me to use my imagination.)

She taught me that hard times had to be faced and dealt with, not run away from.

She taught me faithfulness.

She instilled within me a lifelong love of books.

She taught me self-sacrifice.

She was the first person to tell me about Jesus and the story of Calvary.

And so, so much more. I still miss her to this day. Always will. She is still the first person I want to call when I get sick. It has taken years to stop reaching for the phone to call and check on her (or just to say goodnight) at 9:00 PM.

Yes, Mom is still here. She’s in the way I love my wife, cherish my daughter and play with my grandchildren. She’s in the color of my hair (I once told Mom that I got my white hair from her, to which she replied that she in fact got her white hair from me.) She’s in whatever is in my heart that is tender and easily touched. She’s in my faith in the Savior that I have come to know and love.

No, I guess I really haven’t lost her at all.

In Their Own Words

I received a card in the mail today from a group that calls itself Mississippians for Healthy Families based out of Jackson, MS. This card contains several reasons from the perspective of this group, as to why people should vote against Initiative 26.

While I could spend a lot of time debunking their reasons not to protect human life on a government level, I would like to focus on just one statement that these folks put in their own literature, it says:

“Sadly, not everyone is ready to be a parent - Initiative 26 would mean more children growing up without the love or support they need.”

I had to read that again to make sure that’s what this group really said. In this one statement:

1. They call an expectant mother a parent. Being a parent means that you have a child. They know and admit that it is children who are killed by abortion.

2. They say that more what? Children would grow up without the love or support they need.

Abortion kills children. Little boys and little girls. The only difference between them and the boys and girls who blow out a single candle on a birthday cake is that their lives are snuffed out before they get to have a birthday.

So the answer to making sure that children grow up with all of the love and support they need is to kill the ones that are unwanted by their parents? Really? Excuse me, but somebody failed to talk about the people on waiting lists for years just to be able to adopt a little boy or girl. There is no such thing as an unwanted child.

Don’t be fooled by these hypocrites. They know that abortion kills children. If you are in favor of recognizing life as life, and truly believe that our Constitution guarantees Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, then please, vote yes for Initiative 26 on November 8.

First Princess

Tomorrow, November 1, is my daughter's birthday. Thinking of the day she was born makes me miss her more than ever.
I am fond of saying that of all of the things I've done wrong, Jennifer is one thing that I got right. Some may ask, "Do you think that your daughter is perfect?" The short answer? "Yes."
I wrote the following poem just a few months before Eliana was born. I'd been thinking about how much I doted on Rachel and Jordan and called them my princesses, and it occured to me that with all of the attention I was giving the girls I might be neglecting Jennifer, my first princess. The following poem was written for her. (Happy birthday baby girl.)

First Princess

Once my only princess, all lace and pretty curls

I had no way of knowing then, you’d have three little girls

The games we played, the memories made, are now with grandkids done

But not to worry princess, for you were my first one

Without you, there’d be no songs of crows out in the yard

No Cinderella slippers, no children’s handmade cards

A fairy tale is just a book, but children make it live

And because you were my princess, I have all these things to give

I love to watch your children play, but it’s really you I see

I thought that I was teaching you, but you were teaching me

Your little girls love Papa now, but I was first your dad

And I know how to treat a princess, because of the one I had

Little boys are wonderful, and in this world they have their place

But little girls are special, for they teach a man’s heart grace

There’s nothing like a princess, to make a dad feel like a king

And I can grow old happy now, for I’ve had everything

I’ve had music in my soul, and I’ve had singing in my heart

I’ve had little hands to hold, I’ve driven monsters from the dark

I now have two more little girls, and soon, another one

They’ll all be Papa’s princess, because you were my first one.



Friend of Sinners

 Pastor Raymond Bishop once said of Jesus, "They called Him the friend of sinners...and I'm so glad He is."
That quote has stayed with me down through the years, and was the inspiration for the following poem:

Friend of Sinners

(Matthew 11:19)



Not everybody called Him Lord, and some still don’t today.

Not everyone saw any more than a baby on the hay.

Born among the losers and a stranger to the winners,

They looked at their Messiah and they called Him “friend of sinners.”

What kind of king could He have been? He wore no royal crown.

Breaking bread with publicans, He sought the common ground.

What kind of God would warm His hands over common people’s cinders?

Religion labeled Him a fraud and called Him “friend of sinners.”

He came two thousand years ago to seek that which was lost

And since then untold multitudes have knelt at Calvary’s cross.

Some have served Him all their lives while some are just beginners,

And I for one thank God He came to be the “friend of sinners.”



The Myth of Time

I wrote the following poem back in '08. When I looked it up to post it today, I was surprised
to see that it was three years old. Well, the slipping away of time is what the poem is about. Pause a moment and think about it.

The Myth of Time



Time is a myth we believe when we’re young

We believe that its all in our hands

We fancy ourselves having plenty of time

To pursue all our dreams and our plans

Time is a myth that young parents believe

They think they have plenty of days

Too busy to play with the children right now

Concentrating on getting them raised

Time is a myth we believe as we labor

Retirement is so far away

Too busy to notice the sun going down

And ability slipping away

Time is a myth old folks don’t believe

They know that they have it no more

The only time left is to look away back

And it’s gone like the tide from the shore

"Trouble Me Not"

"And he from within shall answer and say, Trouble me not: the door is now shut, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot rise and give thee." -- Luke 11:7

     Ok. I'm the kind of guy that it bothers to be "bothered." If you want to irritate me, just catch me busy with something and demand that I drop what I'm doing and take care of another task...now. My daughter even used to do a pretty good imitation of me. She'd pretend to be sitting at a desk and start moving her hands all over the "desk top" while saying, "Not now, I'm busy...I'm busy."
     In Luke 11, Jesus is teaching about prayer. His point is that if we keep asking and believing, that God will respond. I know I'm about to take the Scripture a bit out of text here, but please, bear with me. I was laying in my assigned place in the bed this evening (the middle, so I can have Rachel on one side and Jordan on the other) watching Shrek 2 for the eleventy-seventh time when the above portion of Scripture came to my mind.
It troubles me that there are only so many more of these moments. I want to look at life and say, "don't trouble me; don't demand for time to go on. Don't make kids grow up and get married and have my grandchildren and move them to Greenville."
     I know...I know. I know all about the will of God being that a man is to leave his parents and cleave unto his wife. I know that my son-in-law is answering a call upon his life that requires this move. I know what an important part of that calling my daughter is to his ministry (at this point, I may know that better than even she does.) I know from my own experiences in this very field. Been there. Done that. I understand and support them in this venture.
     But right now, while Shrek and Donkey try to rescue Fiona, don't trouble me with all of that. The door is now shut, and my (grand)children are with me in bed; I cannot rise and give thee. Just leave me alone for a little while...I'll be ok.

With Strings Attached

I came home from work last night to the sound of a blood curdling scream coming from the guest room. I hurried down the hall to the bedroom to find my oldest granddaughter, Rachel (6) standing in the full-length mirror examining her mouth with Nana right behind her, telling her to "Push up on it!" I asked what was going on, and Rachel turned her tear-streaked face towards me, revealing a long string dangling from a very loose and yet still intact tooth.

Losing teeth is a big deal when you're 6. It's an event. And if you're Rachel, it's a dramatic event. Pretty soon, the whole family was involved. I called in some over-the-phone backup thinking that Rachel may settle down if she heard her mother's voice. Nope. Rachel had changed her mind about having the tooth pulled, and was by this time on the verge of hysteria at the thought of parting with it. The problem was that afore mentioned string had now slipped up over the top of the tooth at the gum line, and the only way to remove the string was to extract the tooth.

It was about this time that my middle granddaughter, Jordan (4), nonchalantly leaned back on the bed and said "This is going to take all night" and suggested that she and I go to the other room and watch a movie. As appealing as that suggestion sounded, I was determined not to forsake Nana, who was being fought loose tooth and claw. That tooth had to come out.

About that time the phone rang; Papaw Terry was sending in his support. Rachel took the phone and through sobs and tears, with afore mentioned string flapping on her quivering chin, explained to Papaw that she was just not willing to let that tooth be pulled.

Terry's phone call did however allow Nana to catch her breath and refocus. After the phone call ended, she announced, "Let's change tactics. Papa, let's pray." This is getting desperate. Now we've gotten Jesus in on this thing.

What's that Scripture about the violent taking it by force? That was finally the path we chose. I had Nana to hold Rachel from behind in a big, gentle bear hug. My plan was to take hold of afore mentioned string and give it one sharp, quick yank. Simple. And now with her arms gently pinned to her sides, I reach for afore mentioned string...and discover that my baby knows tae kwon do (if you've ever seen Billy Jack, think of the fight scene in the park.)

Now fearing for my own teeth, I held her legs with one hand and in one sweeping move grabbed afore mentioned string and plucked out the tooth.

Phone calls were made, congratulations given, I held Rachel and petted her, begging her not to be mad at me, was assured by her that I was forgiven, and that night Nana slipped five $1 coins under her pillow. I personally remember a quarter being the accepted payment for a tooth, but then, that was a long time ago (and without the drama.)

I love my family. And I particularly love the way we all come together, even by telephone, just to get a child's loose tooth pulled. Strings are not always attached to loose teeth, but they are always attached to tight familys. I guess that's what is meant by "family ties."

Something Greater

Sunday, September 11 is Patriot Day. The following poem is a small, yet heartfelt tribute to the heroes of 9/11, and to the everyday heroes who touch our lives just by living theirs. (John 15:13).

The shadows finally come to claim each man of woman born.

Darkness finally overtakes the life of every morn.

A life that’s but a vapor is the only hand we’re dealt,

But heroes live to die for something greater than themselves.

Love is the grounds for sacrifice, the greatest one can give.

When death becomes an honor so that others get to live.

A mother faces agony, a soldier wades through hell.

All heroes live to die for something greater than themselves.

There are those who live their lives and never heed the call.

They never look death in the face and agree to give their all.

Their greatest gifts are offered on the altar to the self,

But heroes live to die for something greater than themselves.

Southern With A Capital "S"

I wrote the following several years ago and it is one of my personal favorites. It has appeared as a column in both The New Albany Gazette and the Pontotoc Progress newspapers. Hope y'all enjoy it.

There simply exists no other culture on earth like that of the South. You will note that I use a capital "S" for South. The reason for this is, where Dixie is concerned, South isn’t a direction, it’s a place. Southern is a mind set; a way of life. Indeed, Southern is a culture.
For instance, we Southerners may share a common language with the unfortunate masses who live outside of The Land of Cotton, but we speak it with our own distinctive dialect. I never hear Southern English being spoken without pausing to listen for and to appreciate every syllable...or the exclusion thereof. Whenever I try to educate people who are from directions instead of being from the South (you know, "up north," "back east," or "out west") I always point out that to speak like a Southerner, one must insert syllables where they do not belong - as in ca-yab for cab - and omit syllables where they do belong - as in Miss-sippi for Mississippi.
Other than our language, another Southern distinction is our food. Oh sure there are "Boston baked beans" and "great northern beans," but how can beans ever hope to compete with Southern fried chicken, Mississippi fried catfish, Memphis barbecue, or a Louisiana crawfish boil? We Southerners take our eating seriously. The first thing a Southern family will want to do for their guests is to feed them. In fact, any and every event worth celebrating (birthdays, holidays, weekends, having all the young ’uns over, etc.) calls for what my late father-in-law called a "feed." Any true Southerner will tell you that a good "feed" involves cooking something outdoors, whether on a grill, in a fish cooker, or over an open fire. If it requires outdoor cookin’, then its sure to be good eatin’.
While we’re on the subject of Southern dining, I should also point out the that our beverages are as unique as our food. I’ll give a brief nod here to the mint julep, as well as to a certain elixir which is famously stored in Tennessee’s wooden barrels, but the beverage I have in mind has been called The house wine of the South. Of course, I am referring to sweet tea. I remember once while attending a conference in Cincinnati, Ohio, that while ordering lunch at a local restaurant, I quite innocently ordered sweet tea with my meal. The waitress looked at me as if I were from another country and informed me that the tea came unsweetened. She did however point out the white, pink, and blue packets on the table with which I could sweeten my own tea. Come to think of it, I guess I was there from another country. You can get your tea sweet or unsweet in Dixie. But if you want something other than tea, you can always order a co-cola. Not a pop, not a soda, but a coke. There are many varieties of cokes in the South. There’s Pepsi, Mt. Dew. Seb’m-Up, Sprite, RC. (RC is the required beverage if you’re eating a Moon Pie); we have all of these cokes and more down here. You can even get a Coca-Cola coke.
Then there is Southern music. Whether its Southern Gospel or Southern Rock, the sound is every bit as unique as the people who play it, sing it, and listen to it. To the Southerner, the term classical music means Elvis, B. B., Hank (Sr. and/or Jr.), Skynerd, and the Florida Boys. There are of course many, many other great Southern artists which time and space prohibit mentioning, and we also appreciate classical music in its traditional context: Beethoven, Bach, Chopan and the like, even tough those boys weren’t from the South. But music ranks right up there with family and food in Dixie.
Now, religion is another thing that shapes the Southern mind set. This is where family, food, and music all come together. Regardless of your denominational persuasion, your church experience is lacking if you have never attended an all-day singing with dinner on the ground. This is the Bible Belt, and that's how we we were raised (obey the Bible or get the belt).
Close to religion is Southern sports (sometimes its hard to tell them apart, except where nine people in black robes have the audacity to tell us not to pray). Everybody everywhere loves their teams, but Southerners seem to take it to the max. I have worked security for the Ole Miss vs. LSU game. I know what I’m talking about. And don’t forget that NASCAR is a Southern sport. There are too many more to mention.
It would be stating the obvious to say that I love the South, but I do love the South. I love slogans like, American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God." I love the South without apology or hesitation. Whether its magnolias, fried chicken, cornbread, the Stars and Bars, or the South’s National Anthem, Dixie, I love all things Southern. Dixie always has been and always will be my homeland, and home just seems to mean a little more down South. That is, down South...with a capital "S."

The Navigator's Prayer

I'd like to dedicate this post to my friend and son-in-law, Pastor Delbert Tritsch.

The following prayer is in the form of a poem I wrote not long after the church I was pastoring at the time, Christ the Rock Apostolic of Oxford, MS, moved into our then newly aquired building.

To be a pastor is one of the most challenging and rewarding things I have ever done in my life. Bro. Delbert will no doubt find it the same.

I have every confidence in his ability, because I know his burden. I believe in his calling, because I know his faith. The Greater Faith Tabernacle has placed their trust in the right man as a pastor.

Godspeed Bro. Delbert.

The Navigator's Prayer

The ship on which I'm called to sail does not belong to me, but she depends on what I do to sail her o'er the sea.

I serve her mighty builder, King Jesus, Lord of Hosts. I am her navigator, and I chart where she goes.

'Tis an awesome task, with the choices I must make, for I could bring catastrophe with the smallest of mistakes.

Should I decide to leave the course and sail another way, the travelers who are in my care will be the ones who pay.

And so I look to you Lord, and I pray to ever feel, your Holy Spirit guide my trembling hands upon the wheel.

For I'm the one they look to, as I steer them 'round disaster. I am the navigator, but the travelers call me "pastor."



The Still Small Voice

¹¹And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the LORD. And, behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the LORD; but the LORD was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the LORD was not in the earthquake:

 ¹²And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.

 ¹³And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave. And, behold, there came a voice unto him, and said, What doest thou here, Elijah?

- I Kings 19:11-13

You know the story. Elijah had just seen the prophets of Baal defeated with a demonstration of God's "fire power." But, as is often the case, the revival fell short of his expectations. Instead of Queen Jezebel and her hen-pecked husband King Ahab repenting of their idolatry and turning to JEHOVAH God, the queen put a hit out on Elijah.
This was just too much. The prophet had done everything that God had instructed him to do and had been instrumental in God's display of fire falling from heaven (so powerfully that even the stones of the altar had been consumed in its fury) and he was still running and hiding from a backslid king and a wicked queen. Now depression smothered Elijah like a palpable thing; he even prayed to die.
But God wasn't finished with Elijah just yet (in fact, this was one prayer prayed by Elijah that God never regarded. The prophet never died. Instead, he was taken up to heaven in a chariot of fire). And God wasn't finished with Ahab and Jezebel yet either; they both had their "dog days" coming. God had another demonstration in mind, and this one was just for Elijah.
This time the answer didn't come in the in wind, or the earthquake, or the fire. This time God wanted his prophet to understand that not only did He speak out of power and revival, but that He also speaks to His children in the quiet, lonely, and yes even the depressed times in our lives... if we will but listen.
I wrote the following poem several years ago during my own version of Elijah's "cave man" mentality. I trust that it speaks to your heart as it did to mine.

The Still Small Voice

The thunder rolls and tears the sky, but you won't hear Him then
The wind may scream and terrify, but you'll not see His hand
Infernos rage with fervent heat, smoke fills the blackened air
The earth may quake beneath your feet, but you won't find Him there
Where is this awesome, mighty God? When do you hear His voice?
The answer, though it may seem odd, is actually your choice
For He is found when you decide to enter pastures green
To rest your soul and sleep beside His peaceful flowing stream
For when God speaks He whispers, to your heart not to your ear
The souls who search the Scriptures are the ones who long to hear
When you take the time to listen and close your ears to worldly noise
Its then you'll hear the lesson, taught by the still small voice

Legacy

"I’ve got the Holy Ghost, down in my soul, just like the Bible said
I’ve got the Holy Ghost, down in my soul, just like the Bible said
Well I’ve been to the water and I’ve been baptized
My soul got happy and I’m satisfied
I wouldn’t take nothin’ for my journey now
Just like the Bible, just like the Bible, just like the Bible said"

     The old Pentecostal chorus rang through the Marshall county woods. It was a hot, sweltering Mississippi July 14^th, 1978.
     A 17 year old boy made his way to the altar. It was camp meeting time for the MS District of the Assemblies of the Lord Jesus Christ. It was life changing time for the young man.
     The services were being held in an open air tabernacle just down the hill from the Bethlehem Church of the Lord Jesus Christ in Potts Camp, MS (there is nothing in the world like an open air Apostolic church service.)
     At 17, I had not been raised in church and had never seen anyone receive the Holy Ghost. I just knew that I wanted, needed, the Lord Jesus to be my Lord Jesus. I lifted my hands in surrender to His Spirit and the next thing I knew I was speaking in tongues.
     I turned around to see that Vicky McDonald was standing off behind me with tears of joy running down her face. I made my way back to her and hugged her. Right there in front of God and everybody, I hugged Vicky McDonald.
     Exactly 33 years and one month later, Glenn and Vicky McDonald- Ervin’s oldest granddaughter, Rachel, received the same Holy Ghost.
     Rachel’s mother, My daughter Jennifer, received this Holy Ghost just before her 5^th birthday. Jennifer grew up and married a fine young minister named Delbert Tritsch. Rachel was with Delbert’s mother at church when she experienced this Holy Ghost.
     Looking back over my 50 years, I haven’t always done things right. But one thing I know I got right was embracing the Bible plan of salvation found in Acts, 2:38. Another thing I did right was to embrace Vicky McDonald that night at camp meeting.
    

Lip Prints

     A significant part of my job in security is is to fingerprint people during the pre-screening phase of their employment. By the time they get to me, they have already submitted character references along with their application, those references have been contacted, the applicant has submitted to a drug test, and then they come see me to be fingerprinted.
     Instead of the outdated blotter and ink, we use a computer program that allows the individual to press his or her fingerprints onto a glass surface (similar to the scanners seen at grocery stores), and their prints show up on the monitor and are stored in the computer. At the end of the process, I electronically send their prints to the FBI in Jackson, MS for a background check. At that point, my job is finished. I personally do not have access to the results of anyone’s background check. That confidential information stays with the personnel department.
     However, there are certain things I can tell about a person while I am conducting the fingerprinting process. For example, I can usually spot a mechanic by the scars on his knuckles and fingers. It is also pretty easy to spot a guitar player by the callouses on the fingers of the left hand. Then there are the students and office workers who have the tell-tell paper cuts, and those who have a history in working with harsh chemicals because of the difficulty of being able to get an acceptable print (the prints have often been damaged). A person’s prints can tell you an awful lot about them.
     But of all the prints I’ve seen, the ones I saw at home last night will no doubt stay with me from now on. Vicky pointed out an unusual set of prints on the windowpane while we were on the sofa relaxing after supper. Now, with three granddaughters we have become quite accustomed to seeing their little fingerprints smeared all over this particular windowpane. The window is low enough to the floor that even little Ellie has started pulling up and pressing her little hands against the panes.
     But what Vicky pointed out were not fingerprints, they were lip prints. Three little kisses in a vertical row. Too low on the glass for Rachel, too high for Ellie, we looked at each other and said, "Jordan." These, like all prints, tell a very accurate story about the person who made them. It was just like her; creative, bold, independent, and a bit mischievous (ok, maybe more than a bit).
     The random fingerprints left all over the window are the result of the girls pressing their fingers against the glass while they look outside. But the lip prints were placed there on purpose and in a specific order. They say, "Jordan was here."
     I look for this one to leave her unique mark on the world wherever she goes in life. She has already established herself as an individual who cares little for following the herd. She’d much rather stampede it.
     I have nearly five years worth of Jordan stories, and I won’t try to give them all to you at once. Just let me say that in a world filled with middle children who tend to go unnoticed and remain rather invisible, this one ain’t.
     A little Windex will remove her lip prints from the windowpane, but Papa’s heart is covered with indelible Jordan prints that have changed him forever.

A Bouqet of Weeds

As a child, did you ever pick your mother a big bouquet of flowers only to discover later in life that those "flowers" were actually weeds? Probably. So did I.
I was reminded of this not long ago while spending a little time outside with my two oldest granddaughters, Rachel and Jordan. I was showing them how to get a drop of "honey" from a honeysuckle (a rite of passage for all Southern children), much to their delight.
Jordan wanted to know, "What other kinds of flowers can we eat Papa?" At this point I began to question the wisdom of teaching this little honeysuckle trick to the girls...well, to Jordan anyway. I could just see her sampling every blossom, bloom, weed and leaf she came across. I did my best to let them know that only honeysuckles were permissible, and even then only under adult supervision (yeah, I know, good luck with that, Papa). The afternoon ended with Rachel picking a big bouquet of honeysuckles to take to her mother. I wonder, of all the ladies in the world who received flowers that day, how many got honeysuckles?
I remember picking my own mother a bouquet of bitter weeds when I was a kid. To have seen the look on her face and the fuss she made over them, you'd have thought that I'd brought her a dozen long stemmed roses. Once I found out that the "flowers" I'd been picking for mom were actually called "bitter weeds," I stopped picking them.
That's kind of sad, isn't it? Not that my mother didn't get any more bitter weeds, but that children reach a point to where they see a difference between flowers and weeds. From that point on, the world isn't quite as pretty anymore. Something of innocence is lost that we never quite get back. We begin to see people in the same way as we do flowers and weeds. That's when bullies and cliques are created.
I know that thorns and thistles were created as a curse upon the earth for the sake of sinful mankind, but I also know that Jesus wore a crown of thorns, not roses, when He died to redeem us from sin; my curse upon His head.
All I'm saying is that it will not surprise me a bit to get to heaven and find bitter weeds growing right along with the flowers. Not because they're weeds, but because they have pretty yellow petals. If they are indeed growing there, I'm going to pick a big bouquet of them for my mother.

Tears

A couple of months ago, a co-worker of mine was having a pretty bad day. So bad, in fact, that the hurt she was feeling couldn`t stay inside and came running down her face in the form of tears. I wanted to do something to help, and in an effort to do so, I wrote the following poem:

Tears

Healing never comes without some hurting

Feelings let us know we have a soul

At midnight it’s the dawn for which we're yearning

But without tears we'd never be made whole

In a perfect world there'd be no sorrow

Our emotions wouldn't hurt us 'til we're numb

But the world in which we live is far from perfect

So we cry and wait for better days to come

Whatever pain, we're all in this together

We've all had hurts that cut us to the bone

My soul has scars that from yours may be different

But we were never meant to cry alone

God lets us all experience the storm clouds

That we may tell each other of the sun

We long to see the beauty of the rainbow

But without a storm no rainbow has begun

Embrace your tears and never try to hide them

For each one's a drop of mercy on your face

In crying we release the pain that blinds us

Tears wash our eyes that we may see God's grace

                                                                                

After some coaxing from my daughter, I'm cautiously stepping away from my pen and paper journals into blogging. Things won't really come together here for a few weeks until I purchase a new computer. The one I currently own is so old that I think it may be an original upgrade from the telegraph.
Anyway, I've named my blog Stepping Stones because that's the name of my collection of original poems and thoughts that I have compiled over the years, and I plan to post many of them here. The main reason for the title Stepping Stones in the first place is that my poems and prose represent my journey. I, like the rest of us, have had dreams and goals for which I have reached, and most of them involved getting to a place in life where those things were more attainable. Many have been fulfilled by now, some I have held for a season only to see them slip away, and still others have yet to be attained. I guess that's why Carolyn Arends' song Reaching  is so special to me. The chorus says:

We are reaching for the future, we are reaching for the past, and no matter what we have we reach for more.
We are desperate to discover what is just beyond our grasp. Maybe that's what heaven is for.

Maybe it is.