I cut my firewood this week and remembered Dougy,
Dougy
Last winter, for the first time in my life, I had too much firewood. I cut it in the fall and now it’s split and stacked in the utility room and the back yard and by the gate and by the driveway. I even gave some away. I drove my little pick up to a place in the mountains called Keeney meadows which is the best, closest place around here to get firewood and I tourtured the timber.
My pickup is a little under powered and has a messed up front door on the drivers side from the time I left it open and fell a tree on it. Luckily the tip of the tree was all that hit the door so it didn’t tear it off the hinge. It sags really bad, kind of like a bird with a dislocated wing. I fixed it the best I could but it still has a big dent in it. My wife hates it because she thinks it makes us look poor, but I think it looks macho. I finally took the drivers side rear view mirror off because the bolts came loose and wallered out the holes so it remained quite wobbly no matter how much wire I used to help secure it. There is also the place on the front mud guard under the chrome bumper where I hooked a choker cable around when I pulled it out of the woods with a D4 Cat. By the time I was home free the choker had sucked down tight and ripped a long, jagged, horizontal gash in the mud guard. Now, it looks like my little pick up has a shark mouth. A junior high kid I know described my pick up as, and I quote, “gross.” It is the perfect wood getting truck. It’s small so you don’t have to work your tail off to fill it up with a good load of wood. You spend the better part of your time drinking coffee and eating chocolate snacks on the way up and back which is nice, especially if it happens to be snowing sideways. Although small, if you really try you can grossly overload the pick up and come back with a pretty impressive jag of wood. It’s downhill all the way home. The citizens of Mt Vernon never really let on that they were impressed but some of them did remark about the size of my woodpile, which caused me to swell with pride although I always blamed it on the chocolate.
I pretty much disliked wood cutting until last fall when I was forced to get my entire supply before they shut the woods down in November. When I lived on the ranch I got my wood as I needed it because it was right out the back door and easy picking. But now, living in Mt Vernon I have to get my wood from the national forest, which required permits. But the wood is of much better quality and I would learn to love good firewood, although getting wood was, as near as I could tell, work and I am not particularly fond of working when I could be out trapping chasing coyotes, or fishing or hunting or writing about it. But my friend and back yard neighbor Dougy offered to go with me and show me the best places to get firewood, and he brought most of the victuals. Although he is somewhat of a health food nut I ate just about all his food and drank most of his distilled water because I wanted him to feel welcome as a guest.
Our first load was somewhat of a half-hearted attempt on my part. To save work I cut the wood a little long not wanting to run the saw any more than necessary and forgetting that the length of my wood stove is about sixteen inches. Dougy made the comment that he thought perhaps I was cutting fence posts which I thought was pretty funny coming from a man who’s neighbor had just eaten all of his organic cheese puffs. Also, somewhat in denial I had elected to wear my Romeo’s to get the first load because throughout the course of the summer I had chosen to forget how much work getting firewood is and how steep the ground can be and also how quick slippers fill up with sawdust. And somehow the head fell off of Doug’s splitting mall when I was using it. It thought it was a weird coincidence because I had just broken the handle too.
On the way back we were only able to travel at a top speed of thirty five miles an hour because I had neglected to fill my tires with air. Under the weight of a fairly good load we swayed back and forth like an over loaded barge in rough seas. I could tell by the nervous look in Dougy’s eyes that I had made quite an impression on him. Fortunately, my wife fed him a big dinner that night. He happily joined me for more loads throughout the course of the fall.
As autumn wore on I began to enjoy our wood gathering expeditions into the mountains and even became obsessed with the idea that there was wood up there for the taking and if we didn’t get it some other Mt Vernonite would. I made trip after trip, sometimes with my family, sometimes with Dougy or another friend and sometimes by myself and I am happy to report I only lost my chainsaw once. I had been king around looking for the perfect tree and having picked a so-so candidate I stopped to sharpen, oil and gas up my saw. Afterwards I decided that the tree I had chosen was marginal and I began hearing voices. Actually it was one voice, the voice of a tree. A Tamarack “Oh Yooohooo.” The tree whispered. Did you forget about me?” The voice groaned lasciviously. “I’m straight and I'm tall and I’m…”
“Yes, gulp,” I said, What, what?
“I’m standing, dead!” Suddenly I remembered the straight grained, dead-standing-beauty that was calling me. She was just up the road a couple miles. Such was my passion, I threw in my saw and chose not to take the time to close the tailgate. As I roared up to the tree I jumped out and went to grab my saw but it was gone. It was then I knew exactly what I must do, so without hesitation, I panicked. Leaping into my pickup I fishtailed wildly up and down the road searching desperately, franticly, and at one point, not noticing a particularly high bump, airborne. The dread of replacing a seven hundred-dollar saw was only enhanced by the thought of reporting my folly to my wife Linda, who would most likely cost more than seven hundred dollars to replace. When I returned home, I was clinically depressed. “How was wood cutting honey?” She said. “I’m thinking about committing suicide.” I wimpered.
“That’s nice,” she said. “Don’t track mud in the house.” She calmly put an ad on the local radio while I slumped into the corner, sucking my thumb in the fetal position. The next day a kind fellow who had been grouse hunting in the area returned my saw.
Challenges like this only strengthened my resolve to cut more wood. I became a fanatic. Early in the morning I would rise, sharpen, oil and gas up my saw, clean her air filter, clean my pickup, air the tires and shut the tailgate. The Blue angels take less care in pre-flighting their fighter jets than I did in preparation for a day of wood gathering. Once prepared, I called Doug.
Me: “Good morning ol’ boy. Ain’t it a beauty? Listen, I’ve got gas and my tailgate’s shut!”
Dougy: “Is this some kind of an obscene phone call?”
Me: “Saw’s sharp, tires aired and I’ll be by to pick you up in five. Any questions?”
Dougy: “Just one. Who is this?”
Me: “Don’t be funny, you know exactly who this is!”
Dougy, “No speaky de spanglish.”
Me: “Nice try Dougy, but it’s too beautiful of a day to waste laying around in bed.”
Dougy: “It’s three o’clcok in the morning for Pete sake!
Me: “I’ll take you out for breakfast!”
Dougy: “The restaurant won’t be open for two hours.”
Me: “I’ll come over and we’ll eat your food. Got any more of those organic cheese puffs?”
Dougy had a certain flair and style all his own. He was a sweet, ragamuffin like fellow. His dark brown, long hair was a little messy and he usually kept the top button of his jeans unbuttoned although I don’t really know why because he was slender. Sometimes he wore suspenders and left the tails of his flannel shirt un-tucked causing them to get kind of bunched up but he never seemed to notice. In contrast, he operated a chain saw with meticulous precision; the tip of the bar never touched the dirt when Doug was running it. Dougy was an unusually and wildly hard worker. He was slim and not tall, but he was solid muscle, and very strong. He was never really at home in Mt Vernon, not because he didn’t belong but because just two years earlier he had lost his sweet little wife to cancer. He had struggled since Lisa died. She was the love of his life. All he ever really wanted was to be with her again. But he kept himself busy helping people, and driving a log truck for Kenny Speakman, a logger who we both had worked for on different occasions. Slowly but surely Doug was coming back to life. He had even packed up some of Lisa’s stuff in boxes. He hadn’t touched it in two years since her death.
Nowdays a gentle smile gleamed underneath Dougy’s mustache and he usually had a twinkle in his eyes, especially when I was doing something humorous such as breaking his splitting maul. He was a nice guy and trustworthy. We had a hole in the fence between our yards through which I would send my four-year-old son Wade whenever I needed to borrow something. Dougy was not only trustworthy in that I could entrust him with my young son, but also in that he only tried to fix the fence once, and he didn’t try very hard. We made a fine team, united by our covetous lust for firewood, which we suitably entitled “Wood Greed.” It was our own private, insider joke. Most men lust for money and power and women but we lusted after firewood.
What were once half-hearted attempts at gathering wood became well prepared forays into the woodlands to extract the straight grained tamarack and red fir bounty. No longer did we hack up a haphazard load and toss it indiscriminately in the back of my pickup. We became hagridden with an insatiable urge to find dead standing firewood logs, cut them with fastidiousness and even take precious time to hand hew the rounds in order to make a tight stack with no voids. I have seen fancy ski lodges that were slapped together with less care than the loads we hauled out of the woods. The wood was stacked as high as possible with ultimate care, then tied down hard and fast with a lariat rope. Once, when we ran out of saw gas, we broke off the last twenty feet of a tamarack snag by means of hacking it with a little hand axe and jumping madly up and down on it until it snapped, because, although there was no room left in the pickup, I wasn’t about to let the tip of a perfectly good wood log go to waste or worse yet, be found by the competition. By the time it was lashed on the pickup the knarly snag stuck far out over the cab of the truck. It looked like the mast of a log laden pirate ship. Luckily it was downhill all the way home. Log trucks pulled off the road in awe and reverence as the tiny king cab swayed and swaggered out of the woods under the gargantuan load of seasoned wood rounds, the gnarly snag on top valiantly pointing the way home. Local folks referred to the scene as an ant carrying a hummingbird. Children playing in their yards ran for cover as the straining, grimacing Datson thundered by, causing loose berries to rattle off Juniper trees. She squatted down hard in the back and rose high in the front as if popping a permanent wheelie while hauling the glorious load out of the woods, the shark mouth mud guard wide and vicious and impressive as the tiny pick up creaked and groaned under it’s mammoth burden into my yard already buried in firewood.
One time during a particularly blizzardy day we went up for our second load and became engrossed in an Oregon Ducks football game that was on the radio. Previously Dougy had shown no inclination towards being a football fan. The Ducks were down by two touchdowns when we finally found a good tree. We were both hollering and cheering as we sat in the clear-cut and watched the blizzard go by the windshield. By the time the second overtime was over, the blizzard had subsided, Dougy had nearly cut a load of wood, I polished off a thermos of hot chocolate and the Ducks had won by one point. I had stayed by the cab to oversee the hearing of the game and to offer Dougy technical advice such as, “Hurry up, it’s starting to snow again!” It was a most memorable day. We were in our glory.
I will always remember the fall that Dougy helped me get my wood. But my memories will be bittersweet.
Three days before the fall equinox and one day before his fortieth birthday Dougy was killed in an accident while unhitching the trailer from his log truck. I was down at the church and the secretary told me she had got a call that Doug had been killed in an accident. I jumped in my pickup and tore up to Kenny’s shop as fast as I could, hoping that there had been some kind of mistake and praying that Dougy would come back. But when I got there and saw him I knew that he would never come back. So I held his hand and Said “Oh Dougy.” I couldn’t think of much to say. I asked him why. Then I told him goodbye.
Later, Kenny told me Doug wasn’t even supposed to work that day but he had offered to come up for a few minutes, just to help out. Dougy deserved to die a more noble death but it does not surprise me that he died helping somebody out. He was always helping somebody out.
Besides giving me a hand he spent his spare time getting little ol’ ladies free loads of firewood for the winter. I had accompanied him to unload some firewood at the little ladies homes, so now that I have this insatiable lust for firewood and I know where the little old ladies live, the job belongs to me alone.
Mt Vernon has lost one of her very finest. When I peer over the back fence and see his little home, dark and deserted and lonely, I feel very empty. I see his wood stack (that he had brought in last year) and the splitting maul that I had broke. (He fixed it) There is no smoke coming from his chimney. I try to understand. I stare at this paper. I try to understand. I grab an armload of firewood for the stove and I flat just don’t understand.
But life goes on.
Next fall while I am gathering firewood, alone, for myself and the little old ladies of Mt Vernon, I will invariably find myself with a hand axe beating on a snag and madly jumping up and down on the stupid thing in an effort to break it. Dougy will be in the presence of Jesus, laughing, and dancing in the arms of his sweet little wife. Some things in life are just not fair.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Encouragement
I have long been a believer in encouragement because I have such an adamant hate for discouragement, especially the kind that comes from outside sources. Yuck. Give me good a old compliment any day and trust me too fill in the gaps on my own. At least that is my theory for dealing with other people. I'm talking about sharing information or teaching or motivating others to keep trying.
I break and train horses as and advocation and the first rule of thumb for teaching anything to a horse is to reward the slightest change and the smallest try. So that is the foundation I use when working with horses and people. By people I mean sixth grade basketball players although I think it works for everyone. If I'm trying to teach a horse to take a step backwards I put some pressure on the bit in his mouth by pulling on the reins. As soon as he even thinks about taking a step back I release the pressure on the reins. I build on this foundation.
It is the same with teaching kids to play basketball. I help coach my boys team each fall and at the beginning of the season some of them are so lousy they can hardly heave the ball within orbiting distance of the hoop let alone put it in the hole. So I often encourage some of them with a heart felt attaboy in hopes that they will at least keep trying until they can get the ball near enough to the rim that it may go through the hoop. But I try to be honest and not shine them on. I try to encourage them so maybe they will go home and practice and get to the point where I can say "Hey, nice one, you made it (or touched the rim) now try this technique" I show him the technique such as hand position on the ball or bending the legs more. Sure enough the next shot, in most cases, hits me upside the head. But the point is, if he is encouraged in such a way as to keep his confidence up he may at least practice on his own enough to where a foundation can be laid upon which to build.
Another case in point. One Danny Dunne. I met him on a on line humor writers group. He is niether a sixth grader nor a basketball player but his story will serve to illistrate how encouragement works. When he first started posting his missives to the group I feared for his life because he seemed to have a preoccupation with his own death. He posted hilarious stories such as, My Life as a Dead Person and My Obituary. They were not necessarily the lighthearted, humorous stories normally produced by the group. He'd scratch out a few morbid words in random sentences that flowed painstakingly uphill until coming to a merciful ending by which time we first readers were contemplating our own death.
But nobody in the group was critical of his writing. We just encouraged him and made a few kind suggestions sensing that any undue harshness might discourage him or possibly cause the old boy to throw himself off a cliff or try to strangle himself with his own mouse cord. Sure enough it wasn't long before he wrote an amusing story about his childhood. Then another about his high school mishaps. They were lighthearted, interesting and actually contained a laugh or two. Nothing about death. What we didn't know was that what seemed like a preoccupation with death was really a dry sense of humor with a unique little twist. Before long he had his own Blog and had written a book that could be categorized as "delightful" with favorites of mine like Shower Songs. And, I'm looking forward to some that will be even more delightfuler. (Thats the beauty of belonging to the encouragement crowd, you can get away with delightfuler)
Danny and I have branched out from the group and created a group of our own now. We are prohibited from saying anything negative by federal mandate and professional courtesy since we have both been, ahem, published. You would think it wouldn't work very good but every time he reads my work and compliments me on a funny line it motivates me to write something. The nearest thing we come to criticism is reporting if something isn't clear. "Tim, not sure what delightfuler means. Please extrapolate." "Dan, not sure what extrapolate means, please..." etc.
I kind of broke off from the original group when an old nemesis of mine, posing as a writer no doubt infiltrated the group as a new member with no other thought in mind but to commit the fox paus of criticizing my work. Its not that I don't want criticism. Its that I don't appreciate rude criticism. And I don't like criticism that is based on personal preference. I took a break from the group after the critiques became so rude and opinionated I could take no more. I came back a year later but when I wrote a humorous story about elk hunting this certain member me took offense and criticized me sanctimoniously about what seemed to him a flippant attitude towards the taking of a game animal for meat. I wrote a scathing rant about people that despised hunting but wore leather boots and used leather saddles and ate chickens without so much as batting an eye. Poor chickens.
Also there is the public speaking story. Actually it was preaching. My wife and I took a preaching class at our church. When it was my turn to do my little preaching deal I shared about Gods love and told a story about my third grade teacher Mss. Klampee who washed poor David Dunleavys mouth out with soap for Saying "Gawwd." Not that he meant to take the Lords name in vain but probably because he had heard everyone in his immediate family say it a million times daily since his feetus hood.
Unbeknownst to poor David the wrath of God came in a fiery hand full of that pink powdery hand soap that Ms. Kampee shot up his nose when she crammed it in his mouth. About half killed the poor kid right in front of all of us. The event so traumatized me and our entire third grade class, let alone poor David, that, upon regurgitating (no pun intended) the sad tale of woa to the preaching class I burst out in tears and slobbered and snorted out the rest of the "sermon." The instructor a lady preacher was very gracious to me in front of the class and did not criticize my "delivery" for lack of a better word. She told me in my quiet prayer time God would show me where I could improve my style.
When my wife and I got in the car I asked her what she thought the lady preacher might have meant. My wife sayed, "Well, she probably meant that you shouldn't go SSNOOORRRRTT! and wipe your nose on your sleeve if you happen to be overcome by emotion on the pulpit" My Pookie does not often feel indebted to the non criticism clause in the federal mandate or anything else for that matter. She is handy too have around when one must cut the crap and incorporate a more direct approach. It saves time.
Anyhoo, it was sweet of the kind reverend to leave me with some dignity intact in front of the class. Dignity and confidence go hand in hand with encouragement. I went on to preach quite a few times after that when it would have been just as easy to give up. Ive also never forgotten her kindness. Also, thanks to my wife I have learned to keep poised when addressing a wowed congregation amidst a sea of tears and snot. Thanks Honey!
And finally there was the bucking horse ride I actually made in front of a small crowd where I received a compliment that I have never written about. I was attending a horse training clinic in Montana during the days when I fancied myself as a proud buckaroo and rider of the rough string. In reality I was neither but at least I was young and gullible enough to not know any better. An elderly lady brought a big mare that she had kept out on green grass who was tight as a tick and higher on grass than any crack addict in the territory. A group of people on horseback were instructed by the clinician to gallop their horses to the end of the arena and back. On the way back the slick fat mare packing the elderly women broke in two as it were, exploding in a wild bucking horse fit that culminated with the old girl homesteading a fine piece of arena dirt with such an awful violence that the crowd leaped to its collective feet and dashed to her aid. She sat up and emitted this horrible groan such as old people do before gasping their final breath. Then, she collapsed like a dead lady.
She was fine. Since she was an old cowgirl from Montana she didn't even break a hip, but she did need a little rest before riding again. The clinician said, "Wheres that Rawlins kid?" And I happily volunteered to ride the wild beast because I fancied myself a young bronc stomper and also because I was stupid.
I climbed on the mares back and waited and listened while we were given instruction. Before long the mare decided to blow up again into another bucking fit. In my typical fashion I rode her to a standstill much to the amazement and awe of the appreciative crowd. It was a spectacular bucking display if I do say so myself but because the old gal had topped her off before me my ride contained an element of surprise that most of my bucking horse rides did not, which was that I wasn't actually harpooned into the arena dirt myself. The crowd, which consisted of horsemen and family and pretty girls and basically everybody who I could have hoped to impress in the world granted me a lively ovation much to my humble and craving delight. To top it off, when the crowd quit clapping the experienced and highly revered clinician turned to his hapless assistant and said, " Alan, that kid's got more talent in his little toe than you have in your whole body!"
Compliments like this did not happen to me often or maybe ever but I will never forget the unfamiliar boost I get every time I think about it. I don't know about poor Allen. I guess I should bury the hatchet and contact my old writers group and see how he's doing.
I break and train horses as and advocation and the first rule of thumb for teaching anything to a horse is to reward the slightest change and the smallest try. So that is the foundation I use when working with horses and people. By people I mean sixth grade basketball players although I think it works for everyone. If I'm trying to teach a horse to take a step backwards I put some pressure on the bit in his mouth by pulling on the reins. As soon as he even thinks about taking a step back I release the pressure on the reins. I build on this foundation.
It is the same with teaching kids to play basketball. I help coach my boys team each fall and at the beginning of the season some of them are so lousy they can hardly heave the ball within orbiting distance of the hoop let alone put it in the hole. So I often encourage some of them with a heart felt attaboy in hopes that they will at least keep trying until they can get the ball near enough to the rim that it may go through the hoop. But I try to be honest and not shine them on. I try to encourage them so maybe they will go home and practice and get to the point where I can say "Hey, nice one, you made it (or touched the rim) now try this technique" I show him the technique such as hand position on the ball or bending the legs more. Sure enough the next shot, in most cases, hits me upside the head. But the point is, if he is encouraged in such a way as to keep his confidence up he may at least practice on his own enough to where a foundation can be laid upon which to build.
Another case in point. One Danny Dunne. I met him on a on line humor writers group. He is niether a sixth grader nor a basketball player but his story will serve to illistrate how encouragement works. When he first started posting his missives to the group I feared for his life because he seemed to have a preoccupation with his own death. He posted hilarious stories such as, My Life as a Dead Person and My Obituary. They were not necessarily the lighthearted, humorous stories normally produced by the group. He'd scratch out a few morbid words in random sentences that flowed painstakingly uphill until coming to a merciful ending by which time we first readers were contemplating our own death.
But nobody in the group was critical of his writing. We just encouraged him and made a few kind suggestions sensing that any undue harshness might discourage him or possibly cause the old boy to throw himself off a cliff or try to strangle himself with his own mouse cord. Sure enough it wasn't long before he wrote an amusing story about his childhood. Then another about his high school mishaps. They were lighthearted, interesting and actually contained a laugh or two. Nothing about death. What we didn't know was that what seemed like a preoccupation with death was really a dry sense of humor with a unique little twist. Before long he had his own Blog and had written a book that could be categorized as "delightful" with favorites of mine like Shower Songs. And, I'm looking forward to some that will be even more delightfuler. (Thats the beauty of belonging to the encouragement crowd, you can get away with delightfuler)
Danny and I have branched out from the group and created a group of our own now. We are prohibited from saying anything negative by federal mandate and professional courtesy since we have both been, ahem, published. You would think it wouldn't work very good but every time he reads my work and compliments me on a funny line it motivates me to write something. The nearest thing we come to criticism is reporting if something isn't clear. "Tim, not sure what delightfuler means. Please extrapolate." "Dan, not sure what extrapolate means, please..." etc.
I kind of broke off from the original group when an old nemesis of mine, posing as a writer no doubt infiltrated the group as a new member with no other thought in mind but to commit the fox paus of criticizing my work. Its not that I don't want criticism. Its that I don't appreciate rude criticism. And I don't like criticism that is based on personal preference. I took a break from the group after the critiques became so rude and opinionated I could take no more. I came back a year later but when I wrote a humorous story about elk hunting this certain member me took offense and criticized me sanctimoniously about what seemed to him a flippant attitude towards the taking of a game animal for meat. I wrote a scathing rant about people that despised hunting but wore leather boots and used leather saddles and ate chickens without so much as batting an eye. Poor chickens.
Also there is the public speaking story. Actually it was preaching. My wife and I took a preaching class at our church. When it was my turn to do my little preaching deal I shared about Gods love and told a story about my third grade teacher Mss. Klampee who washed poor David Dunleavys mouth out with soap for Saying "Gawwd." Not that he meant to take the Lords name in vain but probably because he had heard everyone in his immediate family say it a million times daily since his feetus hood.
Unbeknownst to poor David the wrath of God came in a fiery hand full of that pink powdery hand soap that Ms. Kampee shot up his nose when she crammed it in his mouth. About half killed the poor kid right in front of all of us. The event so traumatized me and our entire third grade class, let alone poor David, that, upon regurgitating (no pun intended) the sad tale of woa to the preaching class I burst out in tears and slobbered and snorted out the rest of the "sermon." The instructor a lady preacher was very gracious to me in front of the class and did not criticize my "delivery" for lack of a better word. She told me in my quiet prayer time God would show me where I could improve my style.
When my wife and I got in the car I asked her what she thought the lady preacher might have meant. My wife sayed, "Well, she probably meant that you shouldn't go SSNOOORRRRTT! and wipe your nose on your sleeve if you happen to be overcome by emotion on the pulpit" My Pookie does not often feel indebted to the non criticism clause in the federal mandate or anything else for that matter. She is handy too have around when one must cut the crap and incorporate a more direct approach. It saves time.
Anyhoo, it was sweet of the kind reverend to leave me with some dignity intact in front of the class. Dignity and confidence go hand in hand with encouragement. I went on to preach quite a few times after that when it would have been just as easy to give up. Ive also never forgotten her kindness. Also, thanks to my wife I have learned to keep poised when addressing a wowed congregation amidst a sea of tears and snot. Thanks Honey!
And finally there was the bucking horse ride I actually made in front of a small crowd where I received a compliment that I have never written about. I was attending a horse training clinic in Montana during the days when I fancied myself as a proud buckaroo and rider of the rough string. In reality I was neither but at least I was young and gullible enough to not know any better. An elderly lady brought a big mare that she had kept out on green grass who was tight as a tick and higher on grass than any crack addict in the territory. A group of people on horseback were instructed by the clinician to gallop their horses to the end of the arena and back. On the way back the slick fat mare packing the elderly women broke in two as it were, exploding in a wild bucking horse fit that culminated with the old girl homesteading a fine piece of arena dirt with such an awful violence that the crowd leaped to its collective feet and dashed to her aid. She sat up and emitted this horrible groan such as old people do before gasping their final breath. Then, she collapsed like a dead lady.
She was fine. Since she was an old cowgirl from Montana she didn't even break a hip, but she did need a little rest before riding again. The clinician said, "Wheres that Rawlins kid?" And I happily volunteered to ride the wild beast because I fancied myself a young bronc stomper and also because I was stupid.
I climbed on the mares back and waited and listened while we were given instruction. Before long the mare decided to blow up again into another bucking fit. In my typical fashion I rode her to a standstill much to the amazement and awe of the appreciative crowd. It was a spectacular bucking display if I do say so myself but because the old gal had topped her off before me my ride contained an element of surprise that most of my bucking horse rides did not, which was that I wasn't actually harpooned into the arena dirt myself. The crowd, which consisted of horsemen and family and pretty girls and basically everybody who I could have hoped to impress in the world granted me a lively ovation much to my humble and craving delight. To top it off, when the crowd quit clapping the experienced and highly revered clinician turned to his hapless assistant and said, " Alan, that kid's got more talent in his little toe than you have in your whole body!"
Compliments like this did not happen to me often or maybe ever but I will never forget the unfamiliar boost I get every time I think about it. I don't know about poor Allen. I guess I should bury the hatchet and contact my old writers group and see how he's doing.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The Troubleshooter
The Troubleshooter
>
>
> MY Pookie, God love her, spends her every waking moment
> doing chores, thinking up chores to do, or thinking up
> chores for me to do. On a weekend night when its time for
> normal people to wind down she will curl up on the sofa with
> a magazine and a sleepy look in her eye. I will be in my
> chair, almost drooling with non productivity, which to her
> Protestant way of thinking is one of the seven deadly
> sins. She, on the other hand will look up at me with a
> lascivious look in her eyes and say: "This Magazine I'm
> reading says right here in the home maintenance section that
> you should check your dryer duct to make sure a bird doesn't
> build a nest in it and burn the house down.
>
> Of course I'm thrilled to hear this revelation because
> I have often wondered why all of our houses keep burning
> down. I know better than to say something smart so I act
> bemused to hear this interesting tidbit of home owner
> information. Also, I'm acutely aware that if I make a
> wisecrack, six months later a bird will build a nest in our
> dryer duct and burn our house down. So I act interested.
>
> But all I am interested in at the time is watching the Suns
> Play the Blazers while I'm surfing the internet on the
> laptop to find out more about my cholesterol. I make an
> interesting discovery. Stress is what raises your
> cholesterol. Also, stress can give you a heart spasm and
> make you croak. I'm more determined than ever to stay
> relaxed now. To me relaxation is being productive in a very
> manly way because it ads years to your manly life.
>
> Moments later she pipes up again. "It says here that
> you can go to this cool website and type in "handyman
> tips" and watch a video of a handyman explaining how
> to do all kinds of household projects from pluming a kitchen
> sink to remodeling a house." Apparently she has
> forgotten about the last thing I tried to plumb.
>
> Now she has lost the sleepy look in her eye and is
> enthusiastically thumbing through the pages. "How
> many minutes did you use your text messaging this month? she
> asks.
>
> "Not very many, but I did just use it." A friend
> of ours texted me to reminded me it was our anniversary
> Friday, I neglect to tell her that part because I already
> made sure she knew I remembered our anniversary. We made
> plans. I just didn't think it prudent to mention how I remembered.
>
> "So would you say you use it five, maybe six times per
> month?
>
> Actually, I wouldn't say, because I don't want to think at
> the moment. "Yeah, give or take."
>
> "It says right here that I could save up to seven
> bucks a month if I canceled our unlimited texting. I never
> use mine"
>
> It is tempting to suggest that she should start right now but
> I'm on shaky ground here because I don't want to lose my
> unlimited texting privileges. It's very handy to text
> when you don't have time for an actual phone call or you don't
> want to have a phone conversation that could turn into a
> detailed dialog when you just want to send a quick message,
> or if your in hot water. Convincing her to keep the
> unlimited texting is doable but it would require me coming
> up with all kinds of provocative thoughts and lawyerly
> arguments which would be stressful. Also the game looks
> like it could go into overtime.
>
> I need to come up with something because it has been my
> experience, that if I don't have unlimited texting and have
> never needed it anyway, for some reason in the near future I will most likely be using up texting minutes faster than the rate at which the
> national debt is tallied and suddenly there will be an
> emergency and I will need to send a quick text such as
> "house on fire" and my texting minutes will
> immediately expire.
Therefore I will have to call and try to
> explain to her why I didn't rush out and check the dryer duct
> the moment she brought it up months ago. I will remind her
> that if she wouldn't have canceled my immortal texting
> minutes we wouldn't be having this argument, which, by
> the way, could give me a heart spasm.
Luckily the leak from my last plumbing project will extinguish the fire, a small victory for me which will settle the score. The score is Blazers 106, Suns 103, Cholesteral 199, National debt: negative five hundred
> trillion, Pookie: positive five hundred trillion,
> me two, Unlimited texting zero, Marriage: 15 years.
>
>
> MY Pookie, God love her, spends her every waking moment
> doing chores, thinking up chores to do, or thinking up
> chores for me to do. On a weekend night when its time for
> normal people to wind down she will curl up on the sofa with
> a magazine and a sleepy look in her eye. I will be in my
> chair, almost drooling with non productivity, which to her
> Protestant way of thinking is one of the seven deadly
> sins. She, on the other hand will look up at me with a
> lascivious look in her eyes and say: "This Magazine I'm
> reading says right here in the home maintenance section that
> you should check your dryer duct to make sure a bird doesn't
> build a nest in it and burn the house down.
>
> Of course I'm thrilled to hear this revelation because
> I have often wondered why all of our houses keep burning
> down. I know better than to say something smart so I act
> bemused to hear this interesting tidbit of home owner
> information. Also, I'm acutely aware that if I make a
> wisecrack, six months later a bird will build a nest in our
> dryer duct and burn our house down. So I act interested.
>
> But all I am interested in at the time is watching the Suns
> Play the Blazers while I'm surfing the internet on the
> laptop to find out more about my cholesterol. I make an
> interesting discovery. Stress is what raises your
> cholesterol. Also, stress can give you a heart spasm and
> make you croak. I'm more determined than ever to stay
> relaxed now. To me relaxation is being productive in a very
> manly way because it ads years to your manly life.
>
> Moments later she pipes up again. "It says here that
> you can go to this cool website and type in "handyman
> tips" and watch a video of a handyman explaining how
> to do all kinds of household projects from pluming a kitchen
> sink to remodeling a house." Apparently she has
> forgotten about the last thing I tried to plumb.
>
> Now she has lost the sleepy look in her eye and is
> enthusiastically thumbing through the pages. "How
> many minutes did you use your text messaging this month? she
> asks.
>
> "Not very many, but I did just use it." A friend
> of ours texted me to reminded me it was our anniversary
> Friday, I neglect to tell her that part because I already
> made sure she knew I remembered our anniversary. We made
> plans. I just didn't think it prudent to mention how I remembered.
>
> "So would you say you use it five, maybe six times per
> month?
>
> Actually, I wouldn't say, because I don't want to think at
> the moment. "Yeah, give or take."
>
> "It says right here that I could save up to seven
> bucks a month if I canceled our unlimited texting. I never
> use mine"
>
> It is tempting to suggest that she should start right now but
> I'm on shaky ground here because I don't want to lose my
> unlimited texting privileges. It's very handy to text
> when you don't have time for an actual phone call or you don't
> want to have a phone conversation that could turn into a
> detailed dialog when you just want to send a quick message,
> or if your in hot water. Convincing her to keep the
> unlimited texting is doable but it would require me coming
> up with all kinds of provocative thoughts and lawyerly
> arguments which would be stressful. Also the game looks
> like it could go into overtime.
>
> I need to come up with something because it has been my
> experience, that if I don't have unlimited texting and have
> never needed it anyway, for some reason in the near future I will most likely be using up texting minutes faster than the rate at which the
> national debt is tallied and suddenly there will be an
> emergency and I will need to send a quick text such as
> "house on fire" and my texting minutes will
> immediately expire.
Therefore I will have to call and try to
> explain to her why I didn't rush out and check the dryer duct
> the moment she brought it up months ago. I will remind her
> that if she wouldn't have canceled my immortal texting
> minutes we wouldn't be having this argument, which, by
> the way, could give me a heart spasm.
Luckily the leak from my last plumbing project will extinguish the fire, a small victory for me which will settle the score. The score is Blazers 106, Suns 103, Cholesteral 199, National debt: negative five hundred
> trillion, Pookie: positive five hundred trillion,
> me two, Unlimited texting zero, Marriage: 15 years.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
March: The Year of the Cat
When I was in High School in the seventies there was this song that was a major hit called The Year of The Cat by Al Stewart. I dont really know what the song was about but it must have been deep and very meaningful because in March of 2009 some scant thirty years later my wife couldnt keep our darned cat out of the house! Yeah, I always hated that song too.
The amazing thing to me about the wife verses cat scenario is that Pookie is normally the standard bearer for savvy home /farm /business interactions and has no trouble whatsoever in dealing with livestock or people in general. Take today for instance. We were in the barn when our neighbor pulled up in is dump truck, intorduced himself and offered to remove a gigantic mountain range of large rocks that decorates our property (about eight dump truck loads worth) for the sum total of eight hundred dollars.
"Six hundred" were the first words out of her mout. No hesitation, No stammering.
I swallowed my bung hole. These people dont even know each other yet the man comes uninvited to my home, makes an elaborate proposal, and The Pookstress slaps him right up side the head with: "Six Hundred." Ha, Ha, Ha, she said. Ha, Ha, Ha, he said. Gulmp I said.
I was glad they were yucking it up adding levity to the situation and all because my standard comeback to such a proposal would be to freeze in a frozen position and become all serious and say: "I'll see what my wife says." Or if I'm feeling special sporty and confident I might come back with : "A thousand, and you've got yourself a deal!" So without my teliprompter I'm pretty much stuck with the standard, I'll see what my wife says type answer for ALL situations. I think I'm this way because I've been taught by well meaning preachers and Sunday school teachers since my youth that my job here in this life is to convert everybody I come in contact with to Christianity. Also, it was sometimes implied by the Powerful Religeous Implyers to Children Union (PRICU) that it could definately, possibly be your fault should an average aquaintance burn in Hell for all of eternity. So I'm slightly self concious about always being perfect when meeting someone. Its a great strain but now, as an adult, I've learned to deal with the stress by returning to my home and yelling at the children.
But Pookie could give a fat rats fanny about what you or me or anybody else thinks about her. I admire this trait in her often, sometimes with my jaw dropped. She can talk down a health insurance billing type person by meer persistance and even be quite blunt and think nothing of it. I can assure you we have not paid one penny extra on any of our bills and often get a discount because of her schrewdness. Sadly, none of the billing people are converted to Christianity that I know of thanks to Pookie and her go to hell attitude.
If I was left to do the bill paying I would probobly pay extra to avoid conflict and make sure any people encountered along the way were convinced I was a nice guy so they would convert to my religion. I doubt I have any conversions to my credit using this technique but it is engrained in my phsychy. Therefore I have a little trouble because I try to get people to like me and sometimes they take advantage of me because I am what is commonly refered to as a people pleaser. But Pookie has no trouble with the concept of people not liking her. Rather, she invites it, but people seem to like her anyway. She looks out for herself (and me) and the kids and we always get the best deal and makes sure no one takes advantage of me. Like I say, she's savvy.
But she is a total moron when it comes to keeping the cat out of the house. She should know better. She grew up with animals, has a Bachelers degree in animal science, has opereated large horse breeding facilites, trained horses proffesionally and most recently has kept an entire squardran of my sons uninhibited chickens from pooping on aproximately ten billion square feet of asfalt that composes our driveway. (As a sidenote I've neuterd pigs. Actually, I just watched as Gary Detwyler, when we were seventh graders, neutered a flock of piglets with no adult supervision while I held them down. He sprayed purple stuff on 'em when it was over. I know this is about Pookie but I didnt want her to get all the glory).
My point here is that this women should know a little bit about animal psychology. But that cat has her number. The cat can sense when we are leaving and Pookie wants her out of the house. Pookie emmits these intense, womenly brainwaves that all women send out when they are leaving their home. These brainwaves say ok I'm leaving therefore my house must be perfect when I return or I will be incomplete as a human. At this point the cat understands that these preliminary brainwaves are merely ornamental serving only to ignite the primordeal switch in the women that excites her to clean, do the laundry and vacume the entire stratosphere before any leaving takes place. About the time I turn off the remote and stand to leave when Pookie hollars "Load Up! to the kids, and remembers the cat, Ol' Butterscotch squirts under the bed where she is innaccecible to an enraged women who is suddenly in a hurry. Even more amazing is the fact that this women is the ultimate planner when it comes to activities. In February She'll plan for an event that will take place in June with an urgancy that would suggest that its happening today. "Lets see, we better make reservations because Saturday mornings can be swamped at the Pancake house in the third week of June. I'll give them a call, hand me the phone. Hurry."
But as important as it is that there is no cat in the house during her absence Pookie refuses to plan cat evacuation operations untill the very last minute. To make things worse, Pookie panics when when she tries to catch the cat. She often uses the same language the dad in Christmas Story uses when he tries to fix the furnace. Its uninteligible. "Concarn melmfing Patafinga!" she hollers.
So its at times like these, as the head of the household I "step up to the plate" as father and leader to take care of the cat procceedings on our home. I can do this from my chair. When the little woman begins emmitting the womanly rays I pick up on the situation almost immideately because in fifteen years of marriage you lean to read these imperceptible que's with uncanny accuracy. Also she begins vacuming in front of the TV. I'll signal one of the kids over and say, "Gracy, baby, would you please put the cat out. Gracy will walk into my bedroom where the cat is preening herself on my bed. Picking up the cat who remains as limp as a wet bathtowel Gracie plops her outside with no effort whatsoever.
Upon whitnessing this event Pookie, the rule maker extrodinare of the household will make a decree throuout the living room that "from here on out the cat shall remain an outside cat sleeping in the barn and performing other barn cat type chores such as catching and consuming mice for her room and board." What she doesnt know is that at precicely the moment of said decree Charlie is in the other room letting the cat back in the house. Or sometimes the Queen herself will, in a fit of cat empathy, let the cat back in on a cold night resulting in an entire new cycle. The cycle is never ending, only intereupted when the cat pees on our bathroom little rug, always the south rug, never the north, like clockwork. If the cat finds out that she is engaged in an actual fued, in the rare event she does spend the night out of doors she will "hold it" untill Charlie lets her back in through the forbidden living room window. The cat will run into our bathroom, with its legs crossed, barely making it in time to pee. It never ends.
I was awakened the other morning by the sounds of Pookie grabbing an armload of firewood at o 'dark thirty, when I heard the familiar mutering that signals the begining of a cat eposode. "You stupid cat, dont you do it, GET BACK HERE PADAFIINGA! (sound of an armload of firewood being dropped all over the floor) A few seconds later I hear the sound of little paws as the cat gallops by my bed where she vanishes out of reach. I make no attempt at hiding my myrth and even holler out a few barbs in jest at my hapless wife who is now blowing the hair out of her eyes and picking up the mess on the floor. She has to laugh, only because the scene has replayed itself so often at our house that it has become ironic. An hour later I'll walk by silently with a limp, purring cat, strutting by as if to say, "whos your daddy?" and gently plop the cat outside. Poor Pookie. Where would she be without me?
The amazing thing to me about the wife verses cat scenario is that Pookie is normally the standard bearer for savvy home /farm /business interactions and has no trouble whatsoever in dealing with livestock or people in general. Take today for instance. We were in the barn when our neighbor pulled up in is dump truck, intorduced himself and offered to remove a gigantic mountain range of large rocks that decorates our property (about eight dump truck loads worth) for the sum total of eight hundred dollars.
"Six hundred" were the first words out of her mout. No hesitation, No stammering.
I swallowed my bung hole. These people dont even know each other yet the man comes uninvited to my home, makes an elaborate proposal, and The Pookstress slaps him right up side the head with: "Six Hundred." Ha, Ha, Ha, she said. Ha, Ha, Ha, he said. Gulmp I said.
I was glad they were yucking it up adding levity to the situation and all because my standard comeback to such a proposal would be to freeze in a frozen position and become all serious and say: "I'll see what my wife says." Or if I'm feeling special sporty and confident I might come back with : "A thousand, and you've got yourself a deal!" So without my teliprompter I'm pretty much stuck with the standard, I'll see what my wife says type answer for ALL situations. I think I'm this way because I've been taught by well meaning preachers and Sunday school teachers since my youth that my job here in this life is to convert everybody I come in contact with to Christianity. Also, it was sometimes implied by the Powerful Religeous Implyers to Children Union (PRICU) that it could definately, possibly be your fault should an average aquaintance burn in Hell for all of eternity. So I'm slightly self concious about always being perfect when meeting someone. Its a great strain but now, as an adult, I've learned to deal with the stress by returning to my home and yelling at the children.
But Pookie could give a fat rats fanny about what you or me or anybody else thinks about her. I admire this trait in her often, sometimes with my jaw dropped. She can talk down a health insurance billing type person by meer persistance and even be quite blunt and think nothing of it. I can assure you we have not paid one penny extra on any of our bills and often get a discount because of her schrewdness. Sadly, none of the billing people are converted to Christianity that I know of thanks to Pookie and her go to hell attitude.
If I was left to do the bill paying I would probobly pay extra to avoid conflict and make sure any people encountered along the way were convinced I was a nice guy so they would convert to my religion. I doubt I have any conversions to my credit using this technique but it is engrained in my phsychy. Therefore I have a little trouble because I try to get people to like me and sometimes they take advantage of me because I am what is commonly refered to as a people pleaser. But Pookie has no trouble with the concept of people not liking her. Rather, she invites it, but people seem to like her anyway. She looks out for herself (and me) and the kids and we always get the best deal and makes sure no one takes advantage of me. Like I say, she's savvy.
But she is a total moron when it comes to keeping the cat out of the house. She should know better. She grew up with animals, has a Bachelers degree in animal science, has opereated large horse breeding facilites, trained horses proffesionally and most recently has kept an entire squardran of my sons uninhibited chickens from pooping on aproximately ten billion square feet of asfalt that composes our driveway. (As a sidenote I've neuterd pigs. Actually, I just watched as Gary Detwyler, when we were seventh graders, neutered a flock of piglets with no adult supervision while I held them down. He sprayed purple stuff on 'em when it was over. I know this is about Pookie but I didnt want her to get all the glory).
My point here is that this women should know a little bit about animal psychology. But that cat has her number. The cat can sense when we are leaving and Pookie wants her out of the house. Pookie emmits these intense, womenly brainwaves that all women send out when they are leaving their home. These brainwaves say ok I'm leaving therefore my house must be perfect when I return or I will be incomplete as a human. At this point the cat understands that these preliminary brainwaves are merely ornamental serving only to ignite the primordeal switch in the women that excites her to clean, do the laundry and vacume the entire stratosphere before any leaving takes place. About the time I turn off the remote and stand to leave when Pookie hollars "Load Up! to the kids, and remembers the cat, Ol' Butterscotch squirts under the bed where she is innaccecible to an enraged women who is suddenly in a hurry. Even more amazing is the fact that this women is the ultimate planner when it comes to activities. In February She'll plan for an event that will take place in June with an urgancy that would suggest that its happening today. "Lets see, we better make reservations because Saturday mornings can be swamped at the Pancake house in the third week of June. I'll give them a call, hand me the phone. Hurry."
But as important as it is that there is no cat in the house during her absence Pookie refuses to plan cat evacuation operations untill the very last minute. To make things worse, Pookie panics when when she tries to catch the cat. She often uses the same language the dad in Christmas Story uses when he tries to fix the furnace. Its uninteligible. "Concarn melmfing Patafinga!" she hollers.
So its at times like these, as the head of the household I "step up to the plate" as father and leader to take care of the cat procceedings on our home. I can do this from my chair. When the little woman begins emmitting the womanly rays I pick up on the situation almost immideately because in fifteen years of marriage you lean to read these imperceptible que's with uncanny accuracy. Also she begins vacuming in front of the TV. I'll signal one of the kids over and say, "Gracy, baby, would you please put the cat out. Gracy will walk into my bedroom where the cat is preening herself on my bed. Picking up the cat who remains as limp as a wet bathtowel Gracie plops her outside with no effort whatsoever.
Upon whitnessing this event Pookie, the rule maker extrodinare of the household will make a decree throuout the living room that "from here on out the cat shall remain an outside cat sleeping in the barn and performing other barn cat type chores such as catching and consuming mice for her room and board." What she doesnt know is that at precicely the moment of said decree Charlie is in the other room letting the cat back in the house. Or sometimes the Queen herself will, in a fit of cat empathy, let the cat back in on a cold night resulting in an entire new cycle. The cycle is never ending, only intereupted when the cat pees on our bathroom little rug, always the south rug, never the north, like clockwork. If the cat finds out that she is engaged in an actual fued, in the rare event she does spend the night out of doors she will "hold it" untill Charlie lets her back in through the forbidden living room window. The cat will run into our bathroom, with its legs crossed, barely making it in time to pee. It never ends.
I was awakened the other morning by the sounds of Pookie grabbing an armload of firewood at o 'dark thirty, when I heard the familiar mutering that signals the begining of a cat eposode. "You stupid cat, dont you do it, GET BACK HERE PADAFIINGA! (sound of an armload of firewood being dropped all over the floor) A few seconds later I hear the sound of little paws as the cat gallops by my bed where she vanishes out of reach. I make no attempt at hiding my myrth and even holler out a few barbs in jest at my hapless wife who is now blowing the hair out of her eyes and picking up the mess on the floor. She has to laugh, only because the scene has replayed itself so often at our house that it has become ironic. An hour later I'll walk by silently with a limp, purring cat, strutting by as if to say, "whos your daddy?" and gently plop the cat outside. Poor Pookie. Where would she be without me?
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
April, Barn Raising Month
The warm weather and the long days are like an interveneous shot of antidepressants to my soul, empowring me to, once more, to head out to the barn and dig some holes and plant some posts and raise some beams, and yell at the chickens (will you guys SHHUUTTT UUPP!!!) (sound of me pulling my hair out) etc, untill at last the barn is complete and my life has reached its ultimate destiny and I can, with clear conciounce, hurl myself off a cliff.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Does Sin Sepeate us From God?
Does Sin Separate us from God?
At childrens church last week the curriculum called for us to blindfold two children and ask them to find two other volunteer children, the results being that the blindfolded children groped about in the darkness unable to find their friends. The purpose of the exercise was to illustrate how sin separates us from God.
I realize that by and large this is pretty much your standard church doctrine and does have a bit of truth in it but as Christians we sometimes make big sweeping statements because we have taken a passage of the bible and applied to all instances without asking who, what , when, where, or why. We read in Isaiah 59:1 Your iniquity has separated you from God. A little study reveals a hard hearted, backslidden, unrepentant people who are hands are covered with blood and hearts filled with hypocrisy.
I?m not saying that sin cant possibly in any way have an effect on our relationship with God, All I?m saying is I think we need to find out what sins might separate us from God and how much of that sin separates us and how it can be and why. Especially when the bible says that God is no longer imputing our sins against us because of the work of Jesus and our faith in that work- and beyond that the word also tells us that we have the ministry of reconciliation: God is not imputing your sin against you.
In adult church w$e are learning that we are the righteousness of God. That If we blow it and sin and feel condemnation for that sin we do not have a sin problem we have an identity problem. Sin doesn?t separate us from God- but condemnation for that sin will. And of course people sometimes freak out with this type of preaching because they feel it will give people a license to sin. And it must be pointed out that people are doing a fine job of sinning without a license. You don?t even need a learners permit. There is no paperwork involved. But that is not good enough for these people. Why? Because as children they have learned in Sunday School that Sin separates us from God.
Now there are tons of scriptures you can go to to prove a point in the bible but I?m not really trying to prove any points, I?m just saying we need to make it clearer to the children, what the bible says without sweeping blanket statements from one scripture to apply to every instance. Believe me, I grew up in a church that was very legalistic and some of the notions we kids and adults came away with was staggering. (as in, stagger out of church, again) Somehow either directly or indirectly we came away with the idea that if you sinned, you weren?t just out of fellowship with God (which I don?t really buy either but it?s a step up from what I cut my teeth on) No, in our outfit if you sinned, certain fractions were pretty open minded to the idea that if you didn?t hurry up and repent before you died you could go to Hell or worse yet need to go forward in church and repent in front of the entire church. In our church going forward was this huge deal fraught with guilt and shame, and ultimately sweet relief. I went forward a record three Sundays in a row. Thank you very much.
At least in the churches I frequent these days (the last 15 years) Its basically understood that everybody sins and everybody is aware of it so most everybody goes up front to at least be prayed for something specific, and sometimes because we just feel the need to go forward because our hearts getting a little hard. Its standard maintenance. But in the old days you went forward for a complete overhaul. While the audience was, as I understood it, basically, sin free, and proud of it. Which explains why I went forward so much. Ok, call me mister Black and White but I had recently sinned, therefore I went forward.
So these days I?m fascinated with gray areas because now at least I can see them. So think about it. Sometimes we are in the closest fellowship with God when we do sin. The holy spirit convicts us. It can be very intense communion. Right?
And did God expel Adam and Eve from the Garden because he could not fellowship with sin? No he continued to talk to them and pursue them even after they sinned. He expelled them from the Garden so they would not eat of the Tree of Life and live forever in their fallen condition.
And yes, I?m aware that Jesus taught that if we don?t forgive others God cant forgive us. Also in the new testament Peter writes that if we treat our wives harshly God will not hear our prayers. Also, if we regard iniquity in our hearts God wont hear us. I think we need to sober up about sin. But we don?t need to be in a tormenting fear of it, because we all do it.
It is our faith that links to God and if we do not properly maintain our faith our relationship with him can be interrupted but that is on our end, not Gods. Part of maintaining faith is maintaining a clear conscience. I somehow ended up with an overactive conscience that needed to be retrained. When I understood the bible more clearly my conscience became bearable. Bearable or not, if we defile our own conscience our own faith can become shipwrecked and shipwrecked faith does not take us to our destination, which is our salvation, daily. By Grace ye are saved, through faith.
The plane fact is that sin is deadly and has consequences and we will reap what we sow, but yet, somehow God is not imputing our sin against us. Lucky for us because if you get truly caught up in the doctrine that all sin separates us from God and buy into that line of thinking hook, line and sinker then I don?t think you know what sin is. Whatever is not of faith is sin. Doubt, worry, unbelief, negativity, covetousness, sarcasm, gossip, self righteousness, pride, knowing to do right but not doing it, judejmentalism. Trust me, you?ve got some of that going on. And what about the sins you don?t know about? You have sins you don?t even know about. Ask the people around you. You might be a jerk and not even know it! Congratulations!
What sins? Sometimes we fall into the trap of thinking that we are doing ok because we don?t do the bad sins. I don?t drink, smoke or chew or run with them that do! There are no good sins. Call me crazy but I don?t think it goes over all that well with God when we practice the good sins and judge those who commit the bad sins.
I have heard it said that the really mature Christians do not necessarily improve with time but cling tighter and tighter to Jesus. They have discovered their need for reliance on him because they can see clearer and clearer how truly sin ridden their old man is, especially the more they know God and His nature and His Holiness and His Glory and Goodness. I guess you could make the argument their sin drives them closer to God.
The only sin that keeps us from God is basically unrepentace- you could lump it in with a heard heart, or unbelief, or pride- its all kind of basically the same animal. Known, habitual, unrepented sin will most likely make you at least feel alienated from God- yet his spirit hounds you and is ever present, ready to invade that hard heart at the first sign of repentance. Why do you think Jonah got into such a snit with God and experienced the big fish ordeal and everything? He was mad because he knew if the Ungodly so much as hinted at repentance God would forgive them. He didn?t like that. Of course, my theory was that he was told in Sunday school that sin separates us from God. Permanently.
At childrens church last week the curriculum called for us to blindfold two children and ask them to find two other volunteer children, the results being that the blindfolded children groped about in the darkness unable to find their friends. The purpose of the exercise was to illustrate how sin separates us from God.
I realize that by and large this is pretty much your standard church doctrine and does have a bit of truth in it but as Christians we sometimes make big sweeping statements because we have taken a passage of the bible and applied to all instances without asking who, what , when, where, or why. We read in Isaiah 59:1 Your iniquity has separated you from God. A little study reveals a hard hearted, backslidden, unrepentant people who are hands are covered with blood and hearts filled with hypocrisy.
I?m not saying that sin cant possibly in any way have an effect on our relationship with God, All I?m saying is I think we need to find out what sins might separate us from God and how much of that sin separates us and how it can be and why. Especially when the bible says that God is no longer imputing our sins against us because of the work of Jesus and our faith in that work- and beyond that the word also tells us that we have the ministry of reconciliation: God is not imputing your sin against you.
In adult church w$e are learning that we are the righteousness of God. That If we blow it and sin and feel condemnation for that sin we do not have a sin problem we have an identity problem. Sin doesn?t separate us from God- but condemnation for that sin will. And of course people sometimes freak out with this type of preaching because they feel it will give people a license to sin. And it must be pointed out that people are doing a fine job of sinning without a license. You don?t even need a learners permit. There is no paperwork involved. But that is not good enough for these people. Why? Because as children they have learned in Sunday School that Sin separates us from God.
Now there are tons of scriptures you can go to to prove a point in the bible but I?m not really trying to prove any points, I?m just saying we need to make it clearer to the children, what the bible says without sweeping blanket statements from one scripture to apply to every instance. Believe me, I grew up in a church that was very legalistic and some of the notions we kids and adults came away with was staggering. (as in, stagger out of church, again) Somehow either directly or indirectly we came away with the idea that if you sinned, you weren?t just out of fellowship with God (which I don?t really buy either but it?s a step up from what I cut my teeth on) No, in our outfit if you sinned, certain fractions were pretty open minded to the idea that if you didn?t hurry up and repent before you died you could go to Hell or worse yet need to go forward in church and repent in front of the entire church. In our church going forward was this huge deal fraught with guilt and shame, and ultimately sweet relief. I went forward a record three Sundays in a row. Thank you very much.
At least in the churches I frequent these days (the last 15 years) Its basically understood that everybody sins and everybody is aware of it so most everybody goes up front to at least be prayed for something specific, and sometimes because we just feel the need to go forward because our hearts getting a little hard. Its standard maintenance. But in the old days you went forward for a complete overhaul. While the audience was, as I understood it, basically, sin free, and proud of it. Which explains why I went forward so much. Ok, call me mister Black and White but I had recently sinned, therefore I went forward.
So these days I?m fascinated with gray areas because now at least I can see them. So think about it. Sometimes we are in the closest fellowship with God when we do sin. The holy spirit convicts us. It can be very intense communion. Right?
And did God expel Adam and Eve from the Garden because he could not fellowship with sin? No he continued to talk to them and pursue them even after they sinned. He expelled them from the Garden so they would not eat of the Tree of Life and live forever in their fallen condition.
And yes, I?m aware that Jesus taught that if we don?t forgive others God cant forgive us. Also in the new testament Peter writes that if we treat our wives harshly God will not hear our prayers. Also, if we regard iniquity in our hearts God wont hear us. I think we need to sober up about sin. But we don?t need to be in a tormenting fear of it, because we all do it.
It is our faith that links to God and if we do not properly maintain our faith our relationship with him can be interrupted but that is on our end, not Gods. Part of maintaining faith is maintaining a clear conscience. I somehow ended up with an overactive conscience that needed to be retrained. When I understood the bible more clearly my conscience became bearable. Bearable or not, if we defile our own conscience our own faith can become shipwrecked and shipwrecked faith does not take us to our destination, which is our salvation, daily. By Grace ye are saved, through faith.
The plane fact is that sin is deadly and has consequences and we will reap what we sow, but yet, somehow God is not imputing our sin against us. Lucky for us because if you get truly caught up in the doctrine that all sin separates us from God and buy into that line of thinking hook, line and sinker then I don?t think you know what sin is. Whatever is not of faith is sin. Doubt, worry, unbelief, negativity, covetousness, sarcasm, gossip, self righteousness, pride, knowing to do right but not doing it, judejmentalism. Trust me, you?ve got some of that going on. And what about the sins you don?t know about? You have sins you don?t even know about. Ask the people around you. You might be a jerk and not even know it! Congratulations!
What sins? Sometimes we fall into the trap of thinking that we are doing ok because we don?t do the bad sins. I don?t drink, smoke or chew or run with them that do! There are no good sins. Call me crazy but I don?t think it goes over all that well with God when we practice the good sins and judge those who commit the bad sins.
I have heard it said that the really mature Christians do not necessarily improve with time but cling tighter and tighter to Jesus. They have discovered their need for reliance on him because they can see clearer and clearer how truly sin ridden their old man is, especially the more they know God and His nature and His Holiness and His Glory and Goodness. I guess you could make the argument their sin drives them closer to God.
The only sin that keeps us from God is basically unrepentace- you could lump it in with a heard heart, or unbelief, or pride- its all kind of basically the same animal. Known, habitual, unrepented sin will most likely make you at least feel alienated from God- yet his spirit hounds you and is ever present, ready to invade that hard heart at the first sign of repentance. Why do you think Jonah got into such a snit with God and experienced the big fish ordeal and everything? He was mad because he knew if the Ungodly so much as hinted at repentance God would forgive them. He didn?t like that. Of course, my theory was that he was told in Sunday school that sin separates us from God. Permanently.
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