What Have You Been Called To Do?

Do you remember where I left off last Sunday? Saul, who had been persecuting the followers of Jesus, had been struck blind on his way to Damascus.

Today, we’ll first meet Ananias, whom God had chosen to heal Saul’s blindness.

There was a believer in Damascus named Ananias. He had a vision, in which the Lord said to him, “Ananias!”

“Here I am, Lord,” he answered.

The Lord said to him, “Get ready and go to Straight Street, and at the house of Judas ask for a man from Tarsus named Saul. He is praying, and in a vision he has seen a man named Ananias come in and place his hands on him so that he might see again.”

Ananias answered, “Lord, many people have told me about this man and about all the terrible things he has done to your people in Jerusalem. And he has come to Damascus with authority from the chief priests to arrest all who worship you.”

The Lord said to him, “Go, because I have chosen him to serve me, to make my name known to Gentiles and kings and to the people of Israel. And I myself will show him all that he must suffer for my sake.” (Acts 9:10-16, Good News Translation)

Boy, I sure wish God would be that direct when He wants me to do something. Or maybe not.

It’s easy to ignore the little nudges you might feel when you’re wondering what to do in a certain situation. But when God calls your name and says, “Go” – well, we still tend to ignore Him or make excuses, don’t we? All I can do is pray for His strength to do His will.

But what happens next with Saul?

So Ananias went, entered the house where Saul was, and placed his hands on him. “Brother Saul,” he said, “the Lord has sent me—Jesus himself, who appeared to you on the road as you were coming here. He sent me so that you might see again and be filled with the Holy Spirit.” At once something like fish scales fell from Saul's eyes, and he was able to see again. He stood up and was baptized; and after he had eaten, his strength came back. (Acts 9:17-19, GNT)

And that was only the beginning for this man Saul, who would be known as the apostle Paul and go on to preach the Gospel to hundreds of people and write thirteen books of the Bible.

When we think about what God called Ananias to do, his assignment was much less than Paul’s. God called Paul to totally turn his life around, accept Jesus as his one true Savior, and share his testimony everywhere he went.

What has God called you to do?

Warmth One Winter

 

Journey of our Journeys

Chapter 6 - Warmth One Winter

 Shortly after my parents married in 1945, my dad got a job at the Owens-Illinois paper mill. At the time, it was by far the best place to work in our town. The pay was good, and the work was steady, even if it was noisy and smelly.

          Dad worked in the maintenance department, so he wasn’t stuck with the swing shift like many others. Instead, he clocked in from 7:30 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., Monday through Friday. He did have to take call, though, so he would go into work in the middle of the night or on weekends if a piece of machinery needed emergency care.  

          This also meant that if needed, he would travel across the country to one of the other mills owned by Owens-Illinois.

          Years before I was a twinkle in his eye, my father worked for an extended period of time at the Valdosta, Georgia, mill. Mom, Tom, and Judy went with him, living in company housing and dealing with the joys of submitting their northern-born bodies to the hot, humid, bug- and snake-infested south.

          Near the end of October 1967, Dad and some of the guys from his crew were needed at the mill in Orange, Texas. What a paper mill was doing there, along the Gulf of Mexico, was a mystery to me – and still is. Isn’t Texas a state known for ranches and wide-open spaces? Where do the trees that are needed to make paper come from?

          In any event, Dad took the camper to Texas with Tom Allory, Red Wurl, and a few others. When they got to Portage, Wisconsin, Dad took a wrong turn. Instead of crossing the Wisconsin River at the new Highway 51 bridge, he took the Merrimac ferry. Although there are 1,200 miles of dry land between home and Orange, we would always mention how Dad took the ferry there.

          At some point during his absence, Mom packed up Pat, me, a lady named Mrs. Lane, and two young men in the military and drove to Texas for a few weeks. For some reason, we left at four o’clock in the morning. It was pitch black outside and freezing cold that November.

          We arrived in Texas the next day to a warmth we never dreamed of in November. We were amazed that we could go outside without jackets or scarves. The motel where we stayed had an outdoor pool, which was still in use. Of course, Mom wouldn’t let us use it, but no decent mother of the time would let their children go swimming outdoors in November, no matter what the weather or where you were.

          Our jaunt to the Gulf of Mexico was rather chilly, more seasonable for us, with a stiff breeze coming off the ocean. Mom made us wear our jackets and scarves. Our plaid cotton scarves, with fringes, were almost extensions of ourselves, to be worn at all times unless the weather was extreme. Extreme cold was what we had left behind in Wisconsin that November, requiring a home-knit cap pulled down around our ears. Extreme heat was the month of July, those four weeks during the Wisconsin summer when the temperature consistently stayed above 45 degrees.

          Two of the souvenirs we brought home were silky scarves with a picture of the Lone Star State printed on them. Pat’s had blue trim, mine red. Mine is still at the bottom of one of my dresser drawers, threadbare and wrinkled, but still bearing the Texas logo.

          The other item I remember Mom purchasing was a play cowboy whip for my 16-year-old cousin. I cannot fathom why she thought that was an appropriate gift. As soon as she gave it to him, he chased Pat and me around my aunt’s yard with it.

          Free souvenirs are sometimes the best. Dozens of seashells found their way into the camper only after Mom had inspected them to ensure no animals were lurking inside.

          “You know that animals do live inside those shells, don’t you?”

          “Yes, Mom,” we obediently answered and immediately thought, “Wouldn’t it be cool if one of those animals made it all the way home before crawling out when we took the shell to school for show-and-tell?”

          We really wanted to take the jellyfish to school. We found one washed up on the beach, its long transparent tentacles trailing into the ocean. It was positively unearthly.

          “Get away from that thing,” Mom shouted before we could get within ten yards. “That thing is poisonous.”

          “But Mom, it’s dead.”

          “It doesn’t matter. It is still poisonous and can still sting you.”

          So much for extraordinary wildlife.

          Dad packed us up in early December, and we headed home together in the camper, stopping at the Astrodome on the way. It was the eighth wonder of the world at the time, a mechanical feat of engineering ingenuity. Opened in April 1965, it was still new when we visited it two years later. And for many years, it was one of a kind—a structure to rival the pyramids of Giza. Even the Astroturf was awe-inspiring. Over the last twenty years or so, the space had become archaic and fell into disrepair. 

          The only thing good about returning home to the frozen tundra was that I got to show off all sorts of neat stuff to my kindergarten class.

What Happened to Saul

          In the meantime Saul kept up his violent threats of murder against the followers of the Lord. He went to the High Priest and asked for letters of introduction to the synagogues in Damascus, so that if he should find there any followers of the Way of the Lord, he would be able to arrest them, both men and women, and bring them back to Jerusalem. (Acts 9:1-2, Good News Translation)

In last Sunday’s blog post, I mentioned a guy named Saul. He was born between 5 BC and 5 AD to a devout Jewish family in the area of Tarsus and was a Roman citizen by birth. He was well-educated in Jewish law but became a tentmaker by trade.

As belief in Jesus as the Messiah spread through his area, Saul, along with many other Jewish leaders, began chasing down these new believers. They harassed, arrested, and tortured the men and women who attested that Jesus Christ was their Savior.

And then something happened.

As Saul was coming near the city of Damascus, suddenly a light from the sky flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, “Saul, Saul! Why do you persecute me?”

“Who are you, Lord?” he asked.

“I am Jesus, whom you persecute,” the voice said. “But get up and go into the city, where you will be told what you must do.”

The men who were traveling with Saul had stopped, not saying a word; they heard the voice but could not see anyone. Saul got up from the ground and opened his eyes, but could not see a thing. So they took him by the hand and led him into Damascus. For three days he was not able to see, and during that time he did not eat or drink anything. (Acts 9:3-9, Good News Translation)

If you are familiar with the Christian faith, there is a very good chance that you know how this story ends. But let’s stop here for a minute and pretend we are viewing this cliffhanger for the first time.

What would be going through your mind if you were Saul and were suddenly blinded? If a voice without a body was speaking to you, asking you what you were doing and why you were doing it? If the voice answered that He was the One who His followers believed in? And you remained blind and didn’t eat or drink for three days? What would you believe?   

(The picture above is from my third trip to Kenya, in 2015. Maybe the road to Damascus looked a little bit like that.)

My Brother, Part 2

Last Friday, I shared with you the sad story of what my brother’s life is like now. And on Wednesday, I alluded to his time in the service. Here is the rest of that story.

My brother, Tom, served in the US Army from 1965 to 1967. As you may have read in my post from earlier this week, we drove to New York in June 1967 to visit him when he was stationed at West Point.

Somehow, he dodged the bullet which took so many others to Vietnam. But before his cushy job as an MP at the military academy, he was dispatched to the Dominican Republic, where he did dodge bullets.

Ever since I could remember, the only military conflict I heard about my entire childhood was the war in Vietnam. But other places in the world were also embroiled in tension.

The Caribbean paradise of the Dominican Republic was a mess for many years. From 1930 to 1961, it was ruled by a ruthless dictator who used repression, torture, and murder to keep the masses in line. When this guy was assassinated in 1961, you would think things would settle down, but not when his son and other relatives tried to keep control. After several coups and many deaths, the US deployed troops to the island in April 1965 to keep the peace.

And my brother showed up early the following year. His role was that of a driver; whether driving military dignitaries around or picking up the payroll at the airport, it was the job of Tom and his partner to get it done.

As Tom has told the story, one time, they picked up the payroll and were driving back to base with it. The payroll was all in cash, in American dollars, so that the servicemen would have quick access to it. Also, I thought all military bases had their own airport, but in this case, the airport where they picked up the payroll was several miles away.

As they drove out of the airport in their Jeep, local rebels started following them. They could only assume it was because the rebels knew what they were carrying. When these guys with machine guns began shooting at them, their assumptions proved to be correct.

I don’t remember if Tom ever said who was behind the wheel, but one of them drove like a madman back to base while the other kept firing rounds at their pursuers.

They made it safely back to base, and the heavy chain-link gate slamming shut behind them was music to their ears.

Tom even got a commendation for it. Maybe he didn’t serve his country in Vietnam or fight to keep the communists at bay, but he still served the men and women on that base, all of them, just doing their jobs in the name of freedom for someone.

But what is heartbreaking is that we had to take away his truck to keep him from ever driving again.

A Really Big Waterfalls

Here we are on Chapter 5 of my Journal of our Journeys. Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures of the really big waterfall from that trip. This snapshot of my favorite falls, O-Kun-de-Kun, will have to do.  

The first big trip we took in the new camper was to New York State. We visited my brother Tom, who was stationed as an MP at West Point, and then we went to see Niagara Falls. It was June 1967. I never realized until many years later how close this journey took us to New York City.

As a kid, I was wildly in love with the Trixie Beldon mystery series. I thought the coolest thing would be to live where the Beldons, Wheelers, and all their friends lived in the Hudson Valley north of the Big Apple. I never knew that I had actually been through the area where my childhood fictitious heroine lived. I’m sure this information would have freaked me out when I was twelve and reading about another girl’s adventures. Now, I’m just amazed that I was that geographically challenged. Didn’t my parents ever show me an atlas?

Anyway, the trip took us through Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. I remember next to nothing of West Point and absolutely nothing of my brother’s role there. He was 21; I was just a kid, a punk, not even in kindergarten.

A lifetime later, when I mentioned it to my husband, he was impressed that my brother had gone to West Point. I had never thought much about it. So what? Tom was at the prestigious military academy. As a kid, I didn’t know what West Point was and never thought more about it.

Well, no, he wasn’t a cadet there. Heavens, no. He’d been sent to Fort Bragg for basic training and then to the Dominican Republic to drive around important officers and deliver the payroll. From there, he worked for the military police on the West Point campus.

But I knew none of that at the time.

I do remember Niagara Falls, though. I can still hear the thunder of millions of gallons of water rushing over the edge of rock eons old. The ground underfoot shook from the power of it. I can see the lights they turned on at night, illuminating the falls in a rainbow of color.

Dad took my sister Pat on a trip under the falls; I was too little to go. The story of my life was being left behind with Mom while Pat did something cool with Dad. Pat was all excited about it, but she never admitted until 20 years later that it had scared the wits out of her.

We returned via Canada, crossing into Ontario at Niagara Falls and coming back through Michigan and its Upper Peninsula.

It became a quest during the 1980s and 1990s for my sisters and me to visit every waterfall within a two-hundred-mile radius of where we lived. Even the tiniest trickle of water tumbling downstream was a fascination and a photo op. The smaller waterfalls were usually the better ones, with fewer people, often no people, just lots of peace and stillness, except for the hypnotic sound of water. If we had to climb a treacherous trail or slide down a slippery slope to get to that waterfall, all the better. We were always game.

Niagara Falls was certainly the biggest waterfall I’ve ever seen, but would I return there? With all the congestion and commercialism? I will take a ten-foot waterfall in the woods in the middle of nowhere. But the passion of it all may have begun for me at that New York state tourist trap.

The Martyring of Stephen

        

           Stephen, a man full of God’s grace and power, performed amazing miracles and signs among the people. But one day some men started to debate with him. They were Jews from Cyrene, Alexandria, Cilicia, and the province of Asia. None of them could stand against the wisdom and the Spirit with which Stephen spoke. (Acts 7:8-10, New Living Translation)

After Stephen shared with these men about their Jewish heritage, from Abraham to Moses to David, he finished with the following verses.

“You stubborn people! You are heathen at heart and deaf to the truth. Must you forever resist the Holy Spirit? That’s what your ancestors did, and so do you! Name one prophet your ancestors didn’t persecute! They even killed the ones who predicted the coming of the Righteous One—the Messiah whom you betrayed and murdered. You deliberately disobeyed God’s law, even though you received it from the hands of angels,” Stephen said. (Acts 7:51-53, NLT)

 And this was their reaction.

          The Jewish leaders were infuriated by Stephen’s accusation, and they shook their fists at him in rage. But Stephen, full of the Holy Spirit, gazed steadily into heaven and saw the glory of God, and he saw Jesus standing in the place of honor at God’s right hand. And he told them, “Look, I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing in the place of honor at God’s right hand!”

Then they put their hands over their ears and began shouting. They rushed at him and dragged him out of the city and began to stone him. His accusers took off their coats and laid them at the feet of a young man named Saul.

          As they stoned him, Stephen prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” He fell to his knees, shouting, “Lord, don’t charge them with this sin!” And with that, he died. (Acts 7:54-60, NLT)

Being stoned to death must have been horrific. I can’t imagine how terrifying and painful, but Stephen’s faith did not waver. Could any of us continue to testify that Jesus is our Savior as we fell to our death?

Stephen was the first of many believers to be martyred in the Bible, and many more would follow, many at the hands of this man Saul. Do you remember him? And who he became? 

Saul was one of the witnesses, and he agreed completely with the killing of Stephen.

A great wave of persecution began that day, sweeping over the church in Jerusalem; and all the believers except the apostles were scattered through the regions of Judea and Samaria. (Some devout men came and buried Stephen with great mourning.) But Saul was going everywhere to destroy the church. He went from house to house, dragging out both men and women to throw them into prison. (Acts 8:1-3, NLT)

Hopefully you’ve already heard of this guy Saul, and if not, you can read about him here next week.

My Brother Tom

 

          I've wanted to share this story for a while now, but it's been too close to home, too raw. Every day, sometime between ten a.m. and two p.m., it feels like the scab gets ripped off, and I'm left bleeding again.

          I've been praying, sometimes pleading, with God to lift this burden and grant peace to me and those surrounding me in this struggle. And just when I was ready to throw in the towel, God gifted me with a miracle.  

          As you may know, my brother Tom is fraught with dementia, and I'm struggling to keep him – and myself – together. Once he gets up for the day, between 10 and 2, he could call me six to eight times to tell me the same thing, or to tell me eight different things. We've decided that he has to go into assisted living, and his medical providers wholeheartedly agree.

          I visited a facility here in town last week and thought it would be a good fit for him. In the past, I've mentioned to him that we should get more care for him and that maybe he isn't safe at home alone anymore. He has met those suggestions with angry defiance.

          Tuesday afternoon, we had an appointment for him to tour this facility. My heart banged against my chest when I picked him up to drive him there. I didn't tell him where we were going until we were on our way.

          I opened with something like, "Tom, I have to tell you something, and you are not going to like it, but I want you to just listen."

          So, I reminded him that the plumber had been to his house the day before, that he needed his well worked on, and that his water wasn't safe to drink until it was fixed. That was the truth.

          Then I told him a few fibs - long stretches of the truth. It would take a couple of weeks for them to fix the problem, and he would not have any water during that time. And that they would have to clean out all his water pipes in the house, which could cause poisonous gases to be in the air.  

          He agreed, mostly saying that they have to do whatever they can to fix his water.

          I continued, with words as slow and even as I could. He would need to move out of his house then for a few weeks until the plumber was done, and I had found him a nice place to live, where he would have his own room, his own TV, and a small refrigerator to keep his Mountain Dew. This place would prepare and serve him three meals a day, and even wash his clothes, clean his room, and help him shower once a week. (Not showering has been our biggest point of contention, as he claims it is NOT healthy to be clean.)

          He actually listened to everything I said. And when I was done, he answered, "That would be great."

          Tears popped into my eyes. I couldn't believe it. Praise God, praise Almighty God in heaven.

          We toured the place, and he picked out a room just inside the lobby, where a TV was only steps away. He said he wouldn't need a TV in his room if he could watch that one. He asked how much the meals were, and we assured him they were included in the price. And how much is this place, he asked. I told him it was being taken care of, between his monthly social security check and money from the VA through their Aid and Attendance program.

          All the way home, we talked about it, and he still seemed on board.

          When I got him back to his house, though, he asked when his truck would be done in the shop (where he believes it has been for two months, waiting for repairs, when it has been in my yard most of the time).

          I told him that once his water is safe to use again, in two weeks, maybe his truck would be ready too, and he could move back to his house and drive his truck again (which is NOT going to happen, but if you've dealt with anyone with dementia, you know it doesn't pay to argue with them; tell them what makes them happy and move on).

          He was fine when I left him that afternoon and has been in a good mood since then.

          A miracle. An answer to prayer!

          But then God said, "I'm not done yet."

          Shortly after I got home, Hubby's orthopedic surgeon's office called. He had been scheduled for shoulder replacement on June 10, but it was bumped back to August 12 because of an infection in his tooth. We were worried that surgery that late in the summer would mean he couldn't drive the bus yet when school started a few weeks later. Plus, he's been in a lot of pain and just wanted this shoulder fixed.

          The woman on the phone said they would have to cancel his surgery in August as the doctor would be out of the office.

          "Okay," I numbly replied. 

          And God was about to chime in, "Gotcha!" when I heard the words, "But we can move the surgery up to July 30 if that would work for you guys."

          I said, "Yes, of course, that would be perfect," and wanted to add that you could have opened with that.

          God chuckled and thought to Himself, "I'm still not done."

          This might sound so minor, but it still means so much to me.

          While I was on the phone with orthopedics, I had another call. When I checked messages, it was Home Health calling to schedule an appointment to visit Tom. But this just wasn't any nurse; this was a woman I had frequent contact with when I worked at the clinic. Anyone who has gone through stress like I have over the last two months knows that a familiar name and voice can make such a difference.

          There you have it. I have rambled on for long enough. But I need to let you know that there is a loving, caring God, Who listens to your every prayer, Who knows what you are going through and will lift you out of your despair when the time is right. Don't ever give up on Him. 

(The portrait was taken in 1991, as a Christmas present to our parents from my brother, both sisters, and me. Before ugly sweaters was a thing.)

 

The Dells through a child's eyes

Chapter 4 - The Dells

Our first trip in the new camper was a weekend getaway to Wisconsin Dells. Now, it is known as the Water Park Capital of the World, but in 1966, it was a calm, restful place for parents to let their young children discover all that is kitschy, while Mom and Dad try to absorb the natural surroundings of rock and water.

          Henry Hamilton Bennett is credited with putting the area on the map. In the late 1800s, when the Dells was called Kilbourn City, Bennett began taking photographs of the natural wonders along the Wisconsin River. He experimented with new and innovative photography and changed many aspects of how pictures were captured. As word spread of the amazing photographs he sold, tourists began journeying to Kilbourn City to see these places for themselves.

          H. H. Bennett Studio is still on Main Street, and as part of the National Register of Historic Places, it serves as a historical museum.

          In the 1920s, enough Americans owned automobiles that they could truly flock to The Dells. In the first half of the twentieth century, the beauty of the Dells themselves, the rock formations carved by thousands of years of the rush of the Wisconsin River and the work of glaciers were what people came to see. The famous ducks, amphibious vehicles engineered and first used by the military, would ferry tourists across land and directly into the water for scenic views of the area beginning in the late 1940s.

          By the 1950s various entrepreneurs saw opportunities to expand the tourist attractions. One of the first such attractions was Storybook Gardens and Mother Goose Land. These beautifully landscaped grounds had life-size figures from all the beloved fairy tales of my youth. There was a little cottage with statues of the three bears, waiting to greet any girl willing to be their Goldilocks. There was the wall Humpty Dumpty sat on precariously. There were three men in a tub in the middle of a pond. Many more settings from children's stories dotted the grounds.

          When my family visited the Dells in 1966, Pat and I ran from one fairytale scene to the next. We pretended to eat porridge with the bear family and carried on imaginary conversations with some statute children outside a giant shoe. We climbed the crooked ladder to the roof of the crooked home of the crooked man and his crooked wife and slid down the crooked slide.

Storybook Gardens closed in 2010, and the local fire department burned down the big boat at the entrance the following year as part of their training exercises. It's a shame that today's children don't have the chance to live out fairytales like my generation did. It's a shame that their idea of fun is going down the waterslide over and over again without using any imagination. Do they even know about Mother Goose?

          For me, though, since I can't swim, it would always be enough to frolic in the grass and pretend that I was Little Red Riding Hood.

Anyone who has seen any pictures of Wisconsin Dells, has seen these iconic formations. When H.H. Bennett started photographing the area, he took pictures of his son jumping across this space. Now they have a German Shepherd do it. And there is a net underneath him. I took this pictures in October of 2021 when Hubby and I spent a weekend in the Dells. 

The Coming of the Holy Spirit (aka The Tongues of Fire story)

Today, I’m writing about the time that the Holy Spirit came on the disciples by placing flames of fire on their heads, allowing them to speak in other languages. Crazy, right? But two weeks ago, I shared the Great Commission, where Jesus told His disciples to go out and spread His word to all peoples in all lands. Challenging to do when you don’t speak the language.

It's a long passage, so I took a few verses out.

(from Acts chapter 2, verses 1-12, 14, 22-24, 32-33, 36-40 in the New Century Version)

When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Suddenly a noise like a strong, blowing wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. They saw something like flames of fire that were separated and stood over each person there. They were all filled with the Holy Spirit, and they began to speak different languages (or tongues) by the power the Holy Spirit was giving them.

There were some religious Jews staying in Jerusalem who were from every country in the world. When they heard this noise, a crowd came together. They were all surprised, because each one heard them speaking in his own language. They were completely amazed at this. They said, “Look! Aren’t all these people that we hear speaking from Galilee? Then how is it possible that we each hear them in our own languages? We are from different places: Parthia, Media, Elam, Mesopotamia, Judea, Cappadocia, Pontus, Asia, Phrygia, Pamphylia, Egypt, the areas of Libya near Cyrene, Rome, Crete, and Arabia. But we hear them telling in our own languages about the great things God has done!” They were all amazed and confused, asking each other, “What does this mean?”

          But Peter stood up with the eleven apostles, and in a loud voice he spoke to the crowd: “My fellow Jews, and all of you who are in Jerusalem, listen to me. Pay attention to what I have to say.

“People of Israel, listen to these words: Jesus from Nazareth was a very special man. God clearly showed this to you by the miracles, wonders, and signs he did through Jesus. You all know this, because it happened right here among you. Jesus was given to you, and with the help of those who don’t know the law, you put him to death by nailing him to a cross. But this was God’s plan which he had made long ago; he knew all this would happen. God raised Jesus from the dead and set him free from the pain of death, because death could not hold him.

“So Jesus is the One whom God raised from the dead. And we are all witnesses to this. Jesus was lifted up to heaven and is now at God’s right side. The Father has given the Holy Spirit to Jesus as he promised. So Jesus has poured out that Spirit, and this is what you now see and hear.

“So, all the people of Israel should know this truly: God has made Jesus—the man you nailed to the cross—both Lord and Christ.”

When the people heard this, they felt guilty and asked Peter and the other apostles, “What shall we do?”

Peter said to them, “Change your hearts and lives and be baptized, each one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. This promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away. It is for everyone the Lord our God calls to himself.”

Peter warned them with many other words. He begged them, “Save yourselves from the evil of today’s people!”

Thankfully, our missionaries who go out in the world today have the opportunity to learn the languages of the people they are teaching. Or at least have been educated in how to learn a new language directly from native speakers. I give them all credit; I’ve tried learning other languages, but somedays plain regular English is enough of a challenge.

(The picture is from a Christmas Eve candlelight service at my church. No flames above anyone’s head; just flames from our candles.)

Be Safe Today and Everyday

Oh, boy, it's Friday the 13th. Anyone with suspicions out there? If I did, I would have to believe that every day of the last two and a half years was a Friday the 13th and a full moon besides.

But I have something rather unexpected to share.

First, here's another question. Do you know where asbestos comes from? Think about it a minute before you read on because I had NO idea, none whatsoever.

Hubby and I watched an episode of Mysteries of the Abandoned last night. They start each segment with a series of clues to the location they are at and let you try to figure out what this mammoth abandoned structure had once been used for.

Once, they had an iron ore dock, like the one that used to be in Ashland, Wisconsin. I can't remember what country that one was in, but I was pretty excited that I knew instantly what it was.

Mural of the Ashland Ore Dock, which was taken down around 2010.

Okay, so last night's ruins, which threw me for a loop, were located on the border between South Africa and Eswatini (which I had never heard of before but which used to be Swaziland). The Havelock Mine was initially started for mining gold, but when that didn't pan out (pun intended), they realized something even more valuable was in the ground. A group of naturally occurring, fibrous silicate minerals, which were useful in insulation and commonly used in building materials prior to the 1980s, when we all realized it was toxic and carcinogenic. Yikes!

So, back to that question above, did you know that asbestos is a natural substance? Or, like me, did you think it was manufactured from a bunch of other things, which, when combined, turned out to cause mesothelioma and lung cancer? And can you imagine how sick all those workers got? They did, and there were many lawsuits, before the mine finally closed. But sadly, I read that only 66 countries have banned the use of asbestos and it is still mined in some places.

I'm just sharing this tidbit of information today. Have a good weekend, stay safe, and don't push your luck by messing with any insulation made in the seventies or before.  

Sweet Ride of my Childhood

Last week I told you about the vehicle my parents and siblings took to California. Today, I introduce you to the sweet ride of my childhoot. 

Chapter 3 - The Pickup Camper

In 1966, Dad bought an aqua-blue Chevrolet Pickup truck with a standard transmission, a white roof, and white stripes down the sides. The white stripes must have been standard on all vehicles in the 1960s because every car or truck we owned during that era seemed to have them.

          When we went for trips in the new pickup, Pat and I sat in the front seat between Mom and Dad. I didn’t know of any extended cabs or trucks with backseats. One of us kids would use the wide metal clip of the seat belt to “shave” the stick shift. We’d slowly move the metal clip across the black ball of the shift, listening to the click, click, click sound and feeling the vibration as we traveled down the road at 40 to 50 miles an hour. At such speeds, no one ever wore a seat belt or thought of it as anything but a nuisance (if you were Mom) or as an electric shaver (if you were a five-year-old).

          Along with the new truck came a Hiawatha pickup camper. It was the coolest thing I had ever seen. It had a small refrigerator, stove, sink, furnace, and toilet in a closet. The dinette folded down to make a bed for Mom and Dad, and to this day, I have no idea how they slept in such a minute space. Pat and I had the best sleeping arrangements; we got the bed over the cab of the truck.

          We not only slept there, we played there, and when traveling down the road, we lay there on our bellies watching out the front window, a magical land of the unexplored rushing towards us. We waved at every passing motorist and pedestrian who would look our way. Sometimes, we wrote up signs to flash at these people, something benign and amazingly original, such as “hi” or “smile.”

          It never occurred to anyone that all it would take was for Dad to slam on the brakes and our two dense heads would crash through the window. Our flailing bodies would fly through the air straight into an oncoming Buick.

          Mom and Dad were not, however, totally unconcerned about our safety. They laid down one rule for us.

          It was the law of the land, which we were never to break, that when the truck was moving, the door at the back of the camper was locked, and we were under no circumstance to get within three feet of it. The edge of the dinette marked as far as we could go. After that, the closet on the left, the enclosed toilet on the right, and the door straight ahead meant certain death, for we were sure to fall out onto the pavement to be crushed by a passing semi if we went near the door when the truck was moving.

          Other than that, we had free rein within the camper. On rare occasions, we’d play cards at the table as we rode down the road, but more often than not, we’d instead crawl to the bed above the cab. To view all the wonders of our world.

A Tail of Two Pups

 

I can’t remember what year it was, but I’m going to guess close to ten years ago, when we were camping at Mclain State Park in the UP one July. We pulled into the parking lot on the other end of the park and let Dino, our wonder dog, out of the SUV. He was good about staying near, so I hadn’t put his leash on him yet. For some crazy reason, he trotted over to the only other vehicle in the lot and jumped in the front seat of their car.

The owners of the car were good-natured about it, and after many apologies, I had Dino under my control again.

Flash forward to this past Sunday. Dino has been gone nearly two and a half years, but he lives on.  

An Amazon car pulled into our yard to deliver a package. Hannah was in the yard and got to him before either Hubby or me. She was ready to launch herself into his vehicle. This is the dog who was terrified of getting in any vehicle only two months ago, but apparently, Dino’s spirit connected with her.

Our Corgi, Hannah, was born just a few days after Dino crossed the rainbow bridge. She has his soul, and it’s obvious where she will live out all of her days.

The Long Trip West

 Last Wednesday, I started the Journal of our Journeys. This week, I take a look even farther back, back before I was officially part of the family. I missed out on a great trip, but at least I got to hear the stories. 

Chapter 2 - "The California Trip"

Before I was born, but a few months after I was conceived, the rest of my immediate family took what is now known as the "Trip to California." Because I wasn't there (not really), I may never understand why this trip still lives on so strongly in family history. But ask any of the surviving members, and they will get this look on their faces as if they are savoring some delicious German chocolate.

It was the summer of 1961. My sister Pat had just turned two years old and had long honey-colored hair and bangs. Her body was round with baby fat, making her look too short and pudgy to be able to walk. There was always an innocent smile on her face.

My brother Tom and other sister Judy would have been 15 and 13, respectively. They were good kids, by most accounts, passed down over the years, but times were different then, and most kids were classified as "good." Especially if compared to today's adolescents.

Mom, in her mid-30s, was still thin. I've analyzed trip pictures and sure couldn't tell she was pregnant. As was the fashion for women of the day, she usually wore dresses, often even while camping. Her hair was permed and all brown, with no gray showing through. She wore cat-eye glasses, which were only slightly less fashionable than Judy's.

Dad had jet-black hair and was heavier than in later years. But he was never overweight, just muscular, solid. Though quiet and unassuming, he still carried a debonair air about him, which none of his kids inherited. When you could get him to smile, or he had a good cribbage hand, only one side of his mouth lifted mischievously.

The vehicle they drove on this trip had been a mystery to me for many years. The family referred to it with great affection - The Greenbrier. I always, for some bizarre reason, pictured that it had to be green, and could never figure out why, when looking at home movies, I never saw them drive anything green.

Then, one day, when looking more closely at one of these 8mm movies, I noticed the maroon and white van, which resembled a VW bus, had an emblem on its side, which appeared to be the word "Greenbrier.” I was amazed as well as humbled.

Why did I think the green in the title came from its color? Greenbrier was only the name of the model made by Chevrolet. This maroon vehicle with a white stripe took center stage in a great many home movies of the time, so it only made sense that it was the Greenbrier of California trip fame.

Chevrolet introduced the Greenbrier Sportswagon in 1961, and Mom and Dad must have gone right out and bought one. It was modeled after the VW bus, which began production in 1950 and was very popular. Surprisingly, in road tests, the Chevrolet wagon proved to have more power than the Volkswagen, but like the German vehicle, it had its engine in the rear. Production of the Greenbrier was discontinued in December 1964, part way into the 1965 model. In all, a total of 57,986 had been produced, and there still are a few on the road.

But I do have to admit, the new VW bus, known as the Buzz, is absolutely adorable. Unfortunately, it is only available in an electric model (I won't get into my thoughts on that here, though). (Oh, and it is also way out of my price range.)

Dad, being ever inventive, built beds in the Greenbrier for sleeping. Thus, Mom and Pat slept in the Greenbrier, while Dad, Tom, and Judy slumbered in the tent.

The tent could be a whole story in itself. It was certainly not today's nylon dome model. Instead, it was an "umbrella tent" named such because of a pole that stood in the middle, rods thrusting out of it supporting the ceiling. It was an old canvas creature of military issue, drab olive green, heavy, and smelly. And when it was wet – it was even smellier.

I remember the tent well because, after its important role in the California trip, it resided for years, wrapped in rope, taking up a lot of room in the space above our garage. Occasionally, it would still go camping, but more commonly, Dad pitched it in the backyard as a fort for Pat and me. Unfortunately, Mom was scared to let us sleep in it because bears occasionally wandered through our yard.

The sleeping bags they used were just as weighty, malodourous, and the same olive green. Dad must have gotten a deal on camping equipment at the Army surplus store.

Other than that, I don't know what they took with them, what route they drove, or how long they were gone. They covered a lot of ground, traveling through Iowa, Nebraska, Utah, Oregon. They also drove through the mountains and through a giant sequoia in Yosemite, literally. They ate their meals outside and brushed their teeth outside. They frolicked in the Pacific Ocean.

They took other trips, as family movies and black and white snapshots will attest. Among the places they visited were St. Augustine in Florida, Monticello in Virginia and Lake of the Clouds in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

It certainly was a simpler time, a time when a family was Mom, Dad, and the kids. And they spent time together. Not this quality time versus quantity time debate of today's harried family. Just time. And that was all they had.

(The picture is of Tom with the Greenbrier in our yard, taken, I think, shortly before this trip. Click this link if you want to fall in love with this vechicle. )

Acting on it

 

When I started my December blog series, I thought I would go through the Bible for a full year of posts. I thought I should share the actual stories instead of always just the verses that inspire me and, I hope, inspire you.

Here we are on the first of June and I honestly don’t know where that idea went to. Okay, so I will plow forward at this point and see how it goes.

The Great Commission

Then the eleven disciples left for Galilee, going to the mountain where Jesus had told them to go. When they saw him, they worshiped him—but some of them doubted!

Jesus came and told his disciples, “I have been given all authority in heaven and on earth. Therefore, go and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Teach these new disciples to obey all the commands I have given you. And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:16-20, New Living Translation)

The last words of Jesus in the book of Matthew are like something you would hear at the end of an action movie, where the hero says goodbye to his fans, but he needs to leave it open for the sequel. The Book of Acts would be the first sequel to the story of Jesus.

The first book I wrote was about everything Jesus began to do and teach until the day he was taken up into heaven. Before this, with the help of the Holy Spirit, Jesus told the apostles he had chosen what they should do. (Acts 1:1-2, New Century Version)

And so, the next act in the life of the disciples begins. Appropriately titled the Book of Acts, it was written by Luke, the physician who wrote the gospel, which bears his name.

In Acts, we read about the travels of the disciples as they spread the gospel of Jesus Christ. We learn about new apostles, the most famous being Paul. We hear of several of them being martyred for their faith.

I’d love to share all of those stories and more, but we’ll see how much time I have. In the meantime, however, you could start reading those stories on your own. I hope you do.

(The picture above is from my second trip to Kenya in 2013, taken on a rutted road near the village of Saikeri. It reminds me of the desolate roads the first disciples traveled, except this one has much more greenery.)

This Beautiful Time of Year

 

It is that time of year, beautiful in the woods with leaves and flowers popping out in the warmer weather. But something else is popping out. 

I was much tougher when I was a kid than I am now. Back in the day, after we yanked a stuck wood tick off of our leg, we'd twist the little bugger's body into two with our bare fingernails.

Or if we were in the house, we might flush it down the toilet if Dad wasn't around. He'd yell at us for wasting water.

If Dad was around, he would light a match and burn the scallywag. I can't remember, though, what he burned it on. The ground? His pant leg? His finger? Any of those locations would explain a lot.

But here we are in 2025, and I'm an adult making adult choices. But, man, those wood ticks are still wicked this time of year. And killing one can still be highly satisfying.

A few weeks ago, I was ironing a piece of fabric I had bought at Joann Fabrics, coz you know they are going out of business, so I had to buy lots of cloth I didn't need.

I saw a dark speck on the end of the ironing board. What is that? I asked myself.

Ohhh, nooo, a wood tick. How did it get on my ironing board? Who knows, it's just the curse of living in the woods and having a dog in the house again.

But there I stood with the ultimate killing machine in my hand—a hot iron.

           I lowered my weapon to the villain until it was a millimeter over its nasty head. The steam kicked in, and the tick's legs curled under it.

Total and complete satisfaction on my part. But I still flushed the tiny carcass down the toilet.

(I didn't take a picture of my back yard just for this post, because I have so many pictures of my back yard. Or not. The one above is from 2014 and is the only spring-time one I could find.) 

Journal of Our Journeys

 Years ago, I wrote about the family camping trips I went on as a kid. I posted them to my blog, along with scanned, often black and white pictures from those travels. Recently, I dragged out those stories and decided to edit them and slap them into a book. It won't be a book I will promote to the masses or to critical strangers, but a book to share with my family and interested close friends. Or with the innocent followers of my blog. 

Over the next twenty Wednesdays, I'll share a chapter a week from the Journal of Our Journeys. And maybe someday, it will be available as a paperback for you to hold in your hands. 

Chapter 1 - "The Family Vacation"

"When I was a child... I thought like a child." 1 Corinthians 13:11 (NIV)

 

Which is why, when I was a kid, I thought that since my family went on a trip every summer, everyone else's must have too. I don't know why because none of my friends ever went on a vacation with their families. My family, however, did travel somewhere every summer. These family trips were never spectacular, no vacations in the south of France or even south of the Border.

          My middle-school friend once asked me if Mac, our family mutt, stayed in the hotel with us on vacation. I was dumbfounded. Hotel? I can count on one hand the number of times I stayed in a motel, hotel, or inn before I was old enough to drop out of college. I must not have been a very sharing friend not to have told her about the camper.

          Nope, we never stayed in motels or even resort cabins. We slept, ate, and played cribbage in Dad's pickup camper. Along with the faithful dog.

            It was a simpler time. People didn't have to jump on a plane and travel halfway around the world to see new and different things. Growing up in the sixties and seventies in the rural upper Midwest, it took very little actually to get us excited. Everything was new and different for my sister Pat and me. Everything was an adventure for us. And everywhere we went, our eyes bugged out in wonder and awe. And our lungs filled with laughter.

            I could never imagine having had a childhood like the kids today. Where it is go, go, go, all the time, non-stop. A barrage of internet images, high-speed everything, information overload, and your favorite song is always available on YouTube. A cell phone in everyone's hand, a finger or thumb scrolling up or tap, tap, tapping in an attempt to get more points than Rusty McNutts, who you assume is another twelve-year-old but is actually a forty-year-old creeper.

And it never stops, even on vacation. While riding down the road, today’s kids watch cartoons on the TV screen in the back seat of the family mini-van, instead of absorbing all the marvels passing them by on the side of the road.

            Mine is the last generation to live through that simpler time. We didn't know anything. We didn't get carpal tunnel or tech-neck. We ate SpaghettiOs for supper and Wheaties for breakfast. We didn't play team sports; we played dodgeball and tetherball at recess unless there was snow, and then we had snowball fights. And that's the way it was.

            All those memories from an uncomplicated youth. It was a time when it was all right to spend time with just Mom, Dad, your sister, and, of course, the dog.

            As if I had a choice.