A Magnificent Day!

Saturday Ginny, Patricia, (our grown, youngest daughter, who is staying with us this week while hunting a new home) and I overhauled the jungle path at the foot of our garden. Over the winter we had not worked this area of the yard at all and thick tangles of vine and undergrowth had nearly blocked the path.

Again I vowed, as I do every year, to never let this happen again.

Upkeep is important.

Things do not stay in order without continual care.

Must be some spiritual lesson here but I keep missing it.

The three of us chopped Kudzu, smilax, wisteria, and creeper vines. We weed-whacked and raked and removed fallen branches to clear the path to the bridge over the hole.

Had to restring the cord in the trimmer four times and weed-bits so caked my body that I looked like the wild Green Man of Celtic legend.

New neighbors moved in next door as we worked but I was too busy to do more than give them a friendly wave of greeting. Plenty of time to get to know them in the future.

“Why did you build a bridge over this big hole in the ground?”, Patricia asked. “Why not just fill in the hole”?

She was off to college and out in the world back when I build that bridge.

My black lab, Sheba, our dog which lived with us for 17 years, had dug that hole. The old dog loved to lay in her hole in the cool ground on hot summer days. That was the only hole she ever dug in our yard and she’d made it a good one. A huge, deep hole.

A huge fallen oak tree lays along one side of the bridge, a vine-covered fence on the other. Overhanging camphor limbs and wisteria vines create a charming tunnel, or covered-bridge effect. Some garden statues, small child’s table set up for fairies to dine, and some old toys nestled in odd nooks lend a mystic air to that area of the jungle path.

And back ten years ago, rather than disturb my favorite dog’s snuggle place, instead of filling in her hole in the middle of the path, I gathered scrap lumber and build a long bridge, about 20-feet in length, over it.

Dog lovers are crazy.

And even though Sheba has been dead for years, I have no intention of filling in her hole. I feel that would be some sort of betrayal.

No rational reason for this feeling.

But that’s the way I feel.

So Sheba’s hole stays.

I’ll build a new bridge when this one gets too rickety.

So, the three of us worked like crazy re-potting flowers, mulching leaves, weeding flower beds, mowing grass, throwing out vast amounts of clippings and debris.

It would have taken me weeks to get all this done by myself.

In the late afternoon the postman delivered the proof copy of the Richard Rogers Diary from t he printer.

The book looks magnificent!

I gloated.

Modesty means having an honest opinion of yourself. Not a low opinion, nor an exalted opinion, but an honest opinion. I think I would have admired and pleasured in this book even if somebody else had done it.

So, before beginning to proofread, I preened over it.

Looking for mistakes and imperfections comes tomorrow.

Time enough for that.

Today, I relished in the look and feel of this new ancient book.

I’m pleased with the book and with myself for my part in producing it and I present it to the Lord Christ as a thing that I treasure and I hope He takes pleasure in His part in making it possible.

After working from dawn to dusk, we were too filthy and covered with plant clippings to go inside the house; but Donald and Helen came by bring a huge feast of Chinese carry-out.

Helen, a graphic artist, designed the book cover for the Rogers Diary.

We set up a table outside in the twilight. Ginny covered it with her best tablecloth and decorated it with a crystal candelabra to blend with the cartons of food and paper plates.

We feasted and talked long into the night as the moon rose bathing the yard in white glow.

As a for-the-hell-of-it gift, Donald & Helen brought us a set of underwater lights for the swimming pool. Makes our pool look line a flying saucer had landed in the depths, like in that movie Cocoon. We all got in the pool and lounged talking in the twilight and admiring these strange lights.

Donald and Helen had spent the day doing yard work at their new home and refurbishing a bathroom from toilet seat to ceiling fan. They also replaced a back door and planned other improvements.

So we all talked about home improvements, computers, Patricia’s hunt for an apartment of her own (she’s been couching around with us and siblings for a week at a time — inconvenient for everybody but we all think she’s worth the trouble). We talked about car shopping, our granddaughter’s band camp, the Bible story of Ehud and Eglon, the fat king of Moab, bougainvillea vines, blogs, and a computer 3-D animated rendering program that Donald is working on.

Once a loud train passed on nearby tracks and we all enjoyed a spastic train-dance — all that is except Ginny who’d taken out her hearing aids when she got in the pool and who did not hear the approaching train. She thought the rest of us had gone insane when we started to dance in the moonlight.

Some women do marry beneath them.

By the end of the evening we all felt tired out of our gourds but too content, satisfied, and happy to want to quit. We engaged in a group hug and all reluctantly winded to our appointed places.

Now a lot of work remains to be done in our garden but thanks to the heavy work of this day, it looks manageable.

And this evening’s spontaneous garden party in beautiful surroundings proves that all the work is worthwhile.

Thanks be to God.

Happy Gifts

Yesterday, at her office someone gave Ginny this gift:

The note card said that the flowers were to say Thank You for a kindness Ginny had done to someone. The gift of flowers surprised and delighted my wife because she certainly did not expect anything of the sort.

And no, I’m not the one to send her the flowers; it was one of her many other admirers.
Unexpected gifts are a delight.

Last week the snail mail postman delivered an unsigned card to my house. No return address was on the envelope. The card contained $50 cash. I have no idea who sent it to me. Or why. It came right out of the blue.

Not knowing any other donor, I can only thank God for this happy gift.

That’s the way it should be.

Jesus said that when we give to the poor, we are to give in secret not blowing a trumpet to attract attention to our alms and acts of charity. In fact He said we are to give without even letting our left hand know what our right hand is doing.

That way only God gets the credit and praise.

Besides, when we give in secret, nobody else will ever know just how little we give compared to what we keep for ourselves and we won’t have to be ashamed at our parsimony.

Actually, I go the Lord one better in the giving and living department, Ginny says that most of the time my right hand does not know what my own right hand is doing.

But people always assume that I am more generous than I am.

So I don’t feel comfortable talking about how much Ginny and I give, just about what we receive.

Nevertheless, I will say this:

The Bible teaches certain criteria about people we are to give money to and last week I ran across a whole bunch of such folks who met these criteria all on the same day, so I gave each one of them a little dribble of money, and in order to give to some of them I had to go to a great deal of trouble and aggravation.

The poor are always with you and are always a pain in the butt.

Anyhow, when Ginny and I shared our experiences at the end of that day, she laughed at my troubles and said, “It would have been a whole lot easier, Love, if you had just stood at the end of our driveway and handed cash to the driver of every car as it passed”!

What brings the subject of anonymous giving up for me is that last night someone (who remains unknown) gave Patricia (one of my daughters who has been going through a bad patch recently) a gift of $600.

No strings attached.

No conditions to be met.

No person to thank but God.

Patricia said, “I am flabbergasted! Nothing like this has ever happened to me before”.

First she hugged herself.

Then she giggled.

Then she cried.

Thanksgiving welled up inside her and she had no one to turn it toward except the Lord God Almighty, the Giver of every good and perfect gift.

As I watched the dynamics of unknown giver and thankful recipient play out in my own living room, as a bystander I felt a sense of awe and thankfulness myself.

Watching Patricia, I felt like crying too.

We are each and every one on the receiving end of God’s continual lavish giving.

Each day brings new mercies which we, me included, often tend to view as commonplace. Ordinary miracles. Our right and due.

How boorish.

St. Paul said, “By grace are ye saved through faith; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest any man should boast”.

And what is the only reasonable way to respond to a gift?

He gives because He loves.

“For God so loved the world that He gave…”

What can we say but, “Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gift”!

————

I continue to do yard work and haunt the mail box waiting for my proof copy of the Rogers Diary to correct before starting writing my next book.

Ginny and I saw a yellowthroat at the bird feeder yesterday. This tiny bird has an olive back with a yellow breast and head with a black mask. A beautiful creature. I wish I could have snapped a photo.

Just visited the blog of my e-friend Amrita; Thursday she describes wedding customs and gifts in India. Fascinating.

Test of broke phone cord

Thoughts On Roots and Thorns

First, many thanks to Donald both for posting for me Wednesday and for fixing my severed telephone cord.

Two observations I made about roots while gardening this week:

First, Did you know that an underground telephone cord looks exactly like a root?

That’s why I cut my cord in two places removing a six-foot section of it and shutting down my own internet access.

Could happen to anybody. Right?

Second, if you see roots move, they are a snake.

We scared each other then went our separate ways.

Now, on to today’s diary entry:



Tuesday a friend who watched me garden asked, “Why in the world do you plant sticker bushes right under your windows”?

I explained that my intention is to make it easier for a burglar to rob his house that to rob mine.

Alarm systems only begin to work after a thief has broken in; my intention is to discourage anyone from even approaching our windows.

I plant wicked thorn bushes around every window. One of my favorite plants for home security is the bougainvillea vine. The photo above, from a home around the corner, shows the lovely decorative flowers. The photo below shows the tiny delicate thorns protecting our windows silhouetted against my thick glove:



Bougainvillea vines bite.

Here is a photo of my arm after transplanting one vine while wearing thick rubberized protective gloves:



And I knew about the thorns and wore protective gloves.

If a determined thief claws past those things, I doubt if the other elements of our security system would stop him. But the whole idea is to encourage him to rob someplace else instead of our house.

While I worked I remembered a joke (it has nothing to do with anything else in this journal entry) I haven’t thought of since I was a Boy Scout:

This drunk is walking through a cemetery and falls into an open grave ready for a funeral the next day.
He yells for help but no one answers.
He leaps and jumps and tries to climb out but the grave is too deep and the sides too steep. So he curls up at one end of the grave and goes to sleep thinking somebody will come by in the morning to help him out.
A couple of hours later after the bars close, another drunk takes the same shortcut through the cemetery and falls into the other end of the same open grave.
He yells and leaps and jumps and tries to climb the sides.
His activity wakes the first man who walks up behind him, taps him on the shoulder and says, “Hey, Buddy. Give it up. You can’t jump out of this grave”.
But he did.

My friend Wes came over to take me to lunch. We talked about personal concerns for ourselves and various people we care about. And we also had a long talk about the last chapter of John’s Gospel about things Jesus said after He rose from the grave. Wes, who has a legal turn of mind, pointed out that this passage meets all the criteria as a legal document which would stand up in a courtroom today.

After he left, I got to thinking more about thorns and my Spring garden work again.

The Bible says, “And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there He put the man whom He had formed…And the Lord God took the man and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it”.

Considering the work I’ve done in our little garden the past couple of days and considering all the work that still needs doing, to me this Bible passage proves conclusively that God knew from the word Go, that the work of dressing and keeping a garden is a never ending task!

Why else did He create man?

Kidding aside, thorns are just one physical effect of sin.

God told Adam, “Cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee…”
I think it odd that this effect is “for thy sake”.

Taken one way the phrase seems to mean “because of you”; in another sense, the phrase seems to mean “for your benefit”.

And that makes no sense to me — especially after my day among the thorns.

What possible benefit can there be to us in thorns?

Of course the Lord Jesus is well acquainted with thorns.

We crowned Him with them.

That was also for our sake.

But anyhow, gardening is rough, back-breaking physical work!

And I’m not used to it.

In fact, if the rest of my body were as stiff as my calves, thighs, shoulders, arms, back and neck, then the Viagra company would go out of business.

Need Internet Now!

Hi All, Dad managed to slice the phone line outside the house going to the phone jack he uses for DSL. I'll be headed over to help him out this afternoon. So this is a temporary blog post. Dad hates cutesy junk, so I'm posting some cutesy junk. Just like any good son would do! :-) --Donald
































More at my site http://www.rdex.net/fun_pics/

I Pulled More Than Roots

Yesterday I said I planed to garden all this week.

HA!

What I spent Monday doing could better be described as lumberjacking than gardening.

When we moved to this home a dozen years ago, two shrubs thrived in the front yard. Mature, well-established, big, tall, deep, deep-rooted shrubs.

For God only knows what reason (I can’t remember why we did such a foolish thing myself) Sunday Ginny and I decided to uproot these shrubs, remove them, and reconfigure our front flower bed.

Actually, she decided that she wanted me to uproot the shrubs.

Now, not that I'm bitter about this but Monday, I chopped. I dug, I pushed. I pulled. I strained.

Each shrub held fast.

They have roots.

These roots intertwine with those of a large oak tree, as well as with the roots from a bunch of vines, shrimp plant roots, pipes from the Municipal Sewer System, Mexican heather roots, rose bush roots, bromeliad roots, underground trans-continental cables, salvia roots, firecracker aloe roots, concrete laced with steel rebar from the Jurassic Era, azalea roots, and just plain weed roots.

I dug more to expose the deep roots of the shrubs.

I swung my ax fruitlessly.

I panted.

I faded.

The roots clung to the foundations of our house.

The shrubs stayed defiantly triumphant .

I hate to ask for help.

But when dealing with roots, sometimes it’s necessary to admit you can’t do it yourself and call upon a higher power for help.

That’s what I did.

I called my daughter to come over with her four-wheel drive truck. I bound the roots with a hefty tow-chain, the kind used to pull tractor-trailers out of a ditch.

I hooked the chain to her trailer hitch.

The truck tires gripped.

Then slipped.

The truck slewed sideways.

The roots held fast.

Twice the chain shackles broke.

Three times I rigged the chain again.

The truck dug in.

Wheels spun.

The roots loosened.

The bush came partially out of the ground. A friend and I got down in the hole and chopped thicker tap roots. The truck moved again. The bush broke free. The truck drug it across the front yard to the curb for the trashmen to collect.

In doing all this, for some reason I thought of a half-remembered Bible verse where the Apostle warns us:

“Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord: Looking diligently lest any man fail of the grace of God; lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled”.

Until I looked it up this evening, all I could remember of that passage was the phrase, “root of bitterness”.

I find that in my own soul, bitterness puts down deep roots. I find that bitterness springs up in me faster than kudzu or monsoon bamboo. A word, a real or imagined slight, even a facial expression — and there bitterness sprouts again from roots deeper than the World Tree of Norse mythology, roots deeper and more painful than an aching wisdom tooth.

But, as I said earlier, “When dealing with roots, sometimes it’s necessary to admit you can’t do it yourself and call upon a higher power for help”.

With bitterness, chains, shackles, and a four-wheel drive truck prove too weak to uproot it.

Bitterness gets rooted in the heart.

Nothing less than the blood of Jesus withers that root.

I believe that.

Sometimes.

Wish prayer worked on the other kind of roots too.

But I pulled more than roots today.

It’s not advisable to sit in front of a computer for months on end then jump right into stump pulling with no exercise in between. Therein lies madness.

Tonight, I’m so sore that combing my hair hurts!

On the up side of Monday:

Working outside today, for the first time in my life I saw a pair of rode-breasted grosbeaks in our yard. These colorful birds are not native to Florida, but Jacksonville lies in their Spring migration flight path. I crept into the house and brought out our new digital camera to snap these two photos.

I’m thrilled.

My Coming Week In The Garden:

Sunday Ginny and I recuperated from car shopping. That project will continue this week.

More importantly we discussed my next career move.

This involved a slight disagreement:

She thinks I should move on to the top A-1 priority on my list of writing projects; I feel I want to clear my desktop of two B-list projects so I can devote full, uninterrupted time to that A-1 project afterwards.

We agreed that since I’ve been working so intensely on the Richard Rogers diary that, God willing, for most of the coming week I should spend working on outside Spring cleaning and heavy-duty gardening — uprooting and transplanting some large azaleas and shrubs, cleaning rain gutters, either tearing down or repairing the bridge on the jungle path, planting more cedar trees along the back fence line — chores designed to get myself away from writing for a week between one book and the next.

I’d forgotten, as I always do, the rubber band effect of completing a manuscript; once the tension of that final push to finish is gone, I pretty much collapse… You know, like when you take the last final exam in a college course how the surge of exhaustion hits. After all these years, I should remember that that happens at the conclusion of every book, but I always forget and think I’m stronger than I really am.

Some lessons God has to teach me again and again.

Wheels II : Yesterday’s Post Reconsidered

After sweltering for seven hours Saturday under the blazing Florida sun as we roamed aimlessly among hundreds and hundreds of glaringly shiny new cars with no shade in sight; after car shopping all day with this lady who comparison shops in the grocery store and takes 20 minutes to decide on which can of beans to buy — and after NOT having actually bought a car yet — I wish to retract yesterday’s post.

Maybe God is not the one who likes me and wants to see me buy a new car!

Wheels: Does God Like Me Better Than He Likes You?

I hesitate to write about this.

It’s not my intention to upset, belittle, or aggravate anyone as one of my recent diary entries did.

I do not want to cause anyone else to sin, to be filled with lust, coveting and envy, or to harbor resentment in their hearts.

I do not want to trouble the mind of anyone reading my blog, but the fact of the matter is that God likes me better than He likes you.

I can prove it.

Today Ginny and I plan to shop for a new car.

We think God has enabled us to do this.

Back when we were poor, we lived in actual, physical want, lacking many basic necessities of life. We lived with hunger. Back then when I’d go to church and hear some brother testify about how God was prospering him and providing means for him to do this or that, I’d hate the bastard.

And I’d worry that if owning physical goodies were a sign of God’s favor and blessing, and there I stood without bus fare to make it home, then that meant God liked that guy — but did not like me.

I hear tv preachers say that sort of thing all the time, “The King’s Children Always Travel First Class,” they say. “Give and it SHALL be given unto you”, they say. “Send me a donation of cash as seed money and god will prosper you with wealth,” they say, as they flash diamond rings and Rolex watches (which they did not purchase via a special on-line e-mail offer).

God gives goodies, is the insidious message of heresy and liars.

God does not give goodies — He gives crosses.

Jesus, the Son of God, did not own the boat He preached from. He walked everywhere or borrowed a donkey. He ate meals cooked in someone else’s kitchen. He slept as a guest in someone else’s home. The cross He died on was not his own, it was the property of the Roman government. And He was buried in a borrowed tomb — which He returned to the owner in good condition, hardly used, after three days.

Yet the Scripture teaches that He was owner of all creation, King of kings, Lord of lords, the bright and morning star, all the cattle on a thousand hills.

Christ is no pauper.

He set aside His wealth for a reason.

So, what of His followers?

Is it true that the godly get more goodies?

BULL!

The night Ginny and I had to walk miles and miles after midnight to get home with her as swoll-up pregnant as Mary on a Christmas card, God loved us just as much then as He does today when we are going car shopping.

When we had to gather up beer cans under the stadium in the pre-dawn hours so we could cash them in to buy milk and cereal for the kid’s breakfast that same morning…

When I dropped my last quarter in the world into the payphone to call about that job only to get an answering machine…

When I used a pair of pliers to pull my own tooth because I could not afford a dentist…

When I gave my son the guitar he longed for but did not have money to buy the strings for it and saw the disappointment cloud his face…

When all the kids dashed home excited and waving packets of their school photos, but I could not afford to buy any of them…

Although I could hardly realize it at the time, but the Lord Christ was with me in those days as much as He is today as I shop for a new car.

I hope, I really hope that Ginny and I never face such hard times again, but if we do, I look for Christ to stay just as present with us as He is today. As He was back in our former days of HUD housing and food stamps.

Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today and forever.

Anyone who thinks good stuff equals the presence of God has not understood the Book of Job. Things are peripheral. God gives us what we need — or withholds the things we think we need — for one reason only: to draw us into fellowship with Himself.

If the godly get more goodies, then by that reasoning, Bill Gates must be the most godly man on earth! Whether he is or not, I have no idea; maybe he is; but, if so, it is not because of his wealth. He is wealthy and prospers because those factors give his particular soul the best chance to know Christ better.

The poor, barefoot tribesman who owns nothing more than a loincloth and a sharp stick to grub roots with, lives in his state of poverty for that same reason: because those factors give his particular soul the best chance to know Christ better.

I am where I am, here between Bill and the tribesman, so that I can come to know Christ better. Although I must confess that I like being able to car shop better than I did walking without bus fare.

Fear not! God does not like me better than you because He’s letting me shop for a new car today.

Maybe He’s just sick of hearing me complain about our old car.

That Puritan Is Off My Chest

Thursday I dressed in chic black swim trunks with a red racing stripe and my special writing tee shirt. Because I am a grossly fat robust gentleman, my shirt is so large that it takes two passes of the computer scanner to capture the whole picture on my chest:

No. I’m not superstitious and this is not a lucky shirt.

It’s just that the mystic charm of the picture on my chest strikes my fancy.

Nothing magic about it.

I just like it.

It’s my custom to wear this particular shirt on the day I finally send a manuscript off to the printer for my proof copy. That’s what I did at 3:30 Thursday afternoon with the 16^th Century Richard Rogers Diary ms that I’ve been editing for all these months.

It’s done.

Thanks be to God!

I’m glad to get this writing project off my chest so I can move on to my next one. Yes, another two editing projects await in my Work Pending file.

Shouldn’t say this about a book I hope to sell, but I’m sick of Richard Rogers!

Too spiritually helpful and up-beat for me to get my heart into.

The title of the 140 page book is Seeking A Settled Heart: The 16^th Century Diary Of Puritan Richard Rogers. In a week or ten days my proof copy will come back all bound and shiny from the printer. I expect it to look like this:

I always expect my work to come back looking something like that.

But I’m a realist.

I know all too well the truth illustrated in the old cartoon that hangs framed on my office wall, it features that famous writer, the owl Shoe :

I know exactly how Mr. Shoe feels.

Vision meeting reality disappoints.

However, another writer, Ms J.K. Rowling, had better watch out; my Puritan Richard Rogers book will become available before her next wimpy Harry Potter book hits the stores.

Do you think my book will sell as well as Ms Rowling’s books do?

No?

Well, neither do I.

But I’m pleased with it anyhow.

Glad to get it off my chest!

Two Ladies To Visit:

Yesterday my friend Barbara came to my house straight from the hospital where she’d just learned that her daughter’s cancer is back and looks worse than before.

Barbara’s new blog, Along The Way, can be found at http://alongthewaybybw.blogspot.com/

Yesterday also, Amrita Singh, an e-friend from India who has often commented on my blog posted her own first blog entry. Her site, Heat And Dust, can be found at http://amrita-heatanddust.blogspot.com/

Please visit these two ladies to welcome them to blogging, to see what they have to offer, and to tell them you care.

I Think I Don’t Know The People I Think I Know

Years ago I became friends with Betty, a tiny, bent, white-haired old woman who had served as a WAC (Women’s Auxiliary Corps) during World War II.

She and I each owned off-brand, long out of date computers which used ink ribbons in the printers. Apparently we were the only two people in Jacksonville to still own these computers.

A salesman in a computer supply store realized that we were both seeking new ribbons (which were no longer being manufactured) and he put us two strangers in touch with each other. She visited my home to discuss our cussed computers and we became friends.

We’d call each other on the phone and meet every few weeks to exchange garden tips and plants. And every once in a while we’d go out for lunch.

This went on for several years.

One day as we worked to replace the rubber band in her computer that spun some kind of drive wheel (yes, these computers ran on a real rubber band between gears), lunch time came, I asked her if she liked Chinese food, and we drove to one of my favorite Chinese restaurants.

We walked in.

The manager greeted me.

Betty said something to him.

He said something to her in return.

They began an intense prolonged conversation in Mandarin Chinese.

Even though I’d know Betty for years, I had no idea that she spoke fluent Chinese. Later she explained that as a WAC during the war, she’d been an interrupter. She spoke a number of Chinese dialects as well as many European languages.

I thought I knew Betty.

But I didn’t.

She had depths I never imagined.

Then there was my friend Randy. I’ve known him for over 30 years. One day as we sat talking, he began fiddling with a sheet of notebook paper. He folded it this way and that way until a dragon with flapping wings took shape in his hands.

Turns out that Randy is a master of origami, the oriental art of paper folding, but it had never come up in our conversations.

I thought I knew him, I knew his wife, I knew his daughter, but I did not know this important element of his make-up. His skill at origami was a revelation to me.

Another such revelation awaited me two days ago.

This time it concerned my youngest daughter, Patricia.

Monday I’d talked with my neighbor, Bubba, the old man whose window was smashed by the brick-throwing drunk. I’d listened to his troubles for about half an hour when Patricia drove up, coming to raid our refrigerator.

As soon as she walked in the room, she began counseling Bubba. She drew him out mirroring the things he said. She pointed out his projections. She reinforced positive statements — she employed advanced counseling techniques as though she were a trained counselor.

I sat back silent and amazed watching the dynamics as this amazing young woman, whom I thought I knew, comforted and counseled the old man.

He’d come to my door down hearted and discouraged, distraught over the recent death of his wife. He left appearing to be uplifted and feeling better, with hope in his heart.

I had no idea Patricia had such skills.

I thought she was a flake.

She said she’s never taken a course in counseling, yet she exhibited a natural compassion and ability that astounded me.

I discovered that I did not know my own daughter.

I’ve seen this sort of phenomena with others of my own children also. For instance, I knew that Fred, my oldest son, was an experienced traffic surveyor having worked for the same company for over 30 years. But when we visited his home a few years ago, I discovered that he is a master gourmet chef and has outfitted his kitchen like something out of the Starship Enterprise.

I found I did not know the man, my own son.

And I knew that Johnny, my second son, is a skilled computer consultant, but on his last visit here, he revealed that he had to get back to Maryland on a certain date because he was a finalist in a ballroom dancing competition.

I never knew that he could dance at all.

I do not know the people I think I know,

Then, of course, there’s Jesus.

Were someone to ask me, “Do you know the Lord”? I’d probably say, yes.

But my knowledge of Christ is so superficial that He constantly surprises me with new revelations about facets of His character and person that I’d never guessed at before.

I know a few hazy facts picked up here and there: Born in a manger with a drummer boy and a red-nosed reindeer standing by with some kings and shepherds; said not to hit back when you get hit; walked on water; brewed wine from water; got killed on Easter; great teacher; dressed in either white robes or a camel-skin coat and ate locus bugs, wild honey and chocolate-covered eggs, — the sort of hodgepodge information and misinformation that everybody knows.

In one sense we all think we know all about Jesus.

Really?

We have five sources of information to base our knowledge on: the four, independently written historical accounts called Gospels, and our personal experience.

The Gospels are not biographies of Jesus. All four devote a third or more of their length into portraying a single week in His life.

Instead of biographies, I suspect it’s more accurate to think of them as verbal photo albums. They resemble a collection of snapshots taken by four different guys at the same event with four different cameras snapping pictures from different angles.

Thus Luke and Matthew start their albums with baby pictures which the other two guys didn’t get. I can imagine the four Gospel writers sitting around comparing their photos saying, “Here’s the one I got of Jesus walking on water”… “Say, I got one of Him raising Lazarus from the grave, you three missed that one”… “Yeah, but I got one of the Transfiguration on the mountain, and you didn’t”… “Say, there are two angels in your snapshot, one was out of the picture when I took my picture.”

The Gospels are not comprehensive but they tell us what we need to know; The Apostle John said, “There are also many other things which Jesus did, the which, if they should be written every one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that should be written”.

Why did these men go around recording the doings of Jesus?

John explained, “Many other signs truly did Jesus in the presence of His disciples, which are not written in this book: but these are written, that ye might believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God; and that believing ye might have life through His name”.

In the area of personal experience, the Scripture says there is a light that lightens every person coming into this world. We catch distant flashes of that light and move toward it — or away from it. “Men loved darkness because their deeds were evil”.

Seem to me that we react to the revelations God gives us in one of three ways:

We may be indifferent, going about our business ignoring the mighty God as unimportant, trivial. We stick Him on a back shelf and chose not to think much about Him one way or the other.

We may be repulsed. When St. Peter caught a glimpse of the glory of Christ, he fell down saying, “Depart from me, O Lord, for I am a sinful man”. Of course Peter came around later. Paul felt revulsion to Jesus at first also; then he met Jesus on the Damascus Road. I think revulsion is a more hopeful response to God than indifference.

Or, we may join with angels and archangels and all the company of Heaven worshiping Jesus and coming to appreciate His beauty and counting Him worthy.

When it comes to personal experience, we each chose our own way.

Yesterday I got to thinking along these lines as I sat in the garden taking a smoke break from my editing work. I began to reflect that I hardly know Jesus at all because He is so much greater than I can comprehend.

Once, when Fred was a tiny boy he memorized a Bible verse for his Sunday School class. It was the Psalm which says, “Great is the Lord and greatly to be praised and his understanding is infinite”.

I asked Freddy if he knew the meaning of the word infinite?

“Sure,” he said with a five-year-old’s confidence, “It means that God has got all the jelly that you’ve got bread for”.

I remembered that incident as I sat in the garden contemplating the Virginia Tech shootings, the bomb-killed and mangled young people in the Iraq war, traffic accident victims, disease, the drudgery and office frustrations many workers endure day in day out, the general everyday horrors and despair of unhappy marriages…and such evils go on and on and on.

Let’s face it, if the universe ever needs an enema, this world where we live is where they’ll plug it in.

Yet God left the purity of His holy dwelling place to come down among us, right here where we live. He was not afraid to get dirty in rescuing us.

Yes, I marveled that in the midst of all the debris of this falling world, the love of God still shows through. That we catch vague glimpses of His beauty and majesty in the turmoil around us. That He comes to us as the still small voice amid the clamor.

I marvel that even with the falling world as bad as it can be and getting worse, we still see sights of love around us. Everyday people who do acts of kindness. Some husbands and wives who truly love each other. Children and parents who love. Bad guys who take in stray kittens. People who donate hard-earned cash to charities. Acts of unselfish love abound.

All this love has some Source.

Where there is love, there is a Lover.

I marvel that even as evil men nailed His hands to the cross, at the same time He was upholding the entire universe by the word of His power in those same hands, for in Him dwells the fullness of the godhead bodily.

Such love for us.

Such incredible love.

Do we know Him?

No.

But we’re beginning to.

We all have that chance.

Isn't that wonderful? Utterly wonderful!

————

Two historical notes:

A pall of thick smoke hangs over Jacksonville as four massive wildfires burn just north of us across the Georgia border. Sixteen months of drought conditions, no sign of rain in the forecast, and high winds spread the flames over thousands of acres. Updrafts of intense heat create tornados of fire in the forests and dry swamps. Whole towns have been evacuated because firefighters have not been able to curtail the spreading flames.

Of course, a guy down the street picked Tuesday to build bonfires in his yard to burn leaves so that smoke, sparks and burning particles from his fire float in the air and blow across our yard.

I spoke to him about the burn ban which is in effect but he thought that smoke from the Georgia forest fires made a perfect mask for his own illegal burning.

He continued to pile dry leaves on his two fires.

I felt reluctant to hassle the guy because life is hard enough for him, but his actions threatened our home as burning particles landed in the wooded area behind my house. So I prayed about it then called the fire marshal’s office to report and let them put out his fires, speak to the guy, and possibly issue him a citation.

The other things in today’s news is that Monday Cho Seung-Hui, a student at Virginia Tech college in Blacksburg, Virginia, went on a shooting rampage killing 32 fellow students and wounding more than 20 others before turning the gun on himself.

I culled these comments from news articles of interviews with student survivors:

“He was always really, really quiet and kind of weird, keeping to himself all the time. Just anti-social, didn't talk to anybody. I tried to make conversation with him in August or so and he would just give one word answers and not try and carry on the conversation."

"I didn't know what (Cho's father) did for a living. But they lived a poor life."

“Cho ate his meals alone in the dining hall and shunned attempts at friendship”.

“Never saw him with any friends”.

“Everybody thought he was just strange. Never in a million years could they imagine him to be the kind of person who would kill 32 other people and himself in a three-hour spasm of violence on campus”.

“He was my roommate,, but I didn't know him that well, though."

Organizing My Life & Time:

Over the weekend Ginny voiced a serious accusation against me.

No, not that one.

Something else entirely.

On Friday, our daughter, who had been sleeping on our sofa for the week while apartment hunting, moved in with her sister for a while. So, on Sunday afternoon, Ginny and I held an intense and uninterrupted conversation for close to six hours.

Mostly we talked about the direction our life has moved in recently and where, God willing, we’d like it to go in the next five years — assuming God gives us life and strength that long.

Or, our winning Lotto, whichever comes first.

After talking long and hard about these things, we decided to organize and write down a specific but tentative plan to reach various specific goals.

We believe Christians should plan, but hold those plans loosely.

Future plans are always written on air.

Funny how two different people approach reaching the same goal.

Women are strange.

I organized my list according to the tools needed to get the job done. Thus, since we want to paint the house, I wrote that project up in terms of replacing some boards on the deck, pressure washing, etc. My first step would be to buy a Skill Saw.

My list did not satisfy Ginny.

She conjured up a computer thing called an Excel Spread Sheet and entered the same goals I had, but organized according to each room in the house. In her system, we’d begin by replacing the squeaky ceiling fan in our bedroom, work down to buying a blue bedspread, then removing the boxes of books under the bed, and finally replacing the carpet. —— Then she repeated such a process with each room in the house.

For each area she set up spreadsheet columns for estimated costs, needed materials, and timetable.

Amazing, how her mind works.

I plan from the outside in; she plans from the inside out.

But so much of accomplishing a goal from either prospect hinges on two things, time and attention.

That’s where her damning accusation came in.

“Love,” she said, “You let other people dictate the course of our life”.

She said I react to the needs and problems of other people as soon as I see them. It’s a knee jerk thing with me.

For instance, when Felony, the bull dog belonging to a neighbor, faced being delivered up to the dog catcher. I devoted enormous time and energy, worry and aggravation, to save a dog that does not belong to me. For a week, caring for that dog controlled my life.

(Incidentally, Felony died this week end in spite of all our efforts to save her; You can read about it on my daughter-in-law’s blog at http://www.elemental.name/pai/ ).

Now, Ginny is the most charitable woman I’ve ever known. She’s accomplished amazing feats of giving and caring for others.

Both Ginny and I take seriously that Bible verse that says, “Whoso hath this world’s good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth”.

But entirely aside from that, I like to feel useful. When I see someone dealing with a problem, my Boy Scout training kicks in, I want to jump in and help. To do the job right. To take charge. Be the rescuer, the super hero.

All well and good… but I do this to the neglect of my own soul, my own wife, my own family, my own house. My own business.

“Love,” Ginny said, “You let other people dictate the course of our life. You need to learn to mind your own business”.

She wants me to concentrate more on my personal duties rather than be distracted by other people’s problems.

Following her advice is so hard for me.

Why is it that I can see how to solve other people’s problems so much easier than my own?

Your life is so much easier for me to run than my own.

The Scripture says that we are to help others, even our enemy, get his ox out of a ditch; at the same time God warns us about being a busybody in other men’s affairs.

I err on the busybody side of that spreadsheet.

Most of us seldom have to chose between good and evil; our most common choice lies between the good and the Best.

It's a Mary and Martha thing.

I often avoid the Best by merely settling for the manageable good.

And, as the Scripture says, even the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.

Yesterday, Bubba, an elderly neighbor, came by my house to talk. Some drunk relative of his had thrown a brick through his window and he needed some glass replaced.

I can do that!

No.

No, I can’t.

I have specific duties of my own that demand to be priorities for my day; I would have to neglect these in order to go down and fix Bubba’s window.

Instead of doing the job myself, I helped him call a glazier (he can’t see well enough to read a phone book or dial). It will cost him money he can ill afford…

I try to tell myself that his window is not my problem.

But, today, I feel guilty as hell.

Titanic Anniversary

Tomorrow marks the 95^th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic.

On April 14, 1912 at 11:45 p.m., an iceberg grazed the side of the Titanic; soon afterward the ship sank.

At least 1,502 people died in the shipwreck.

Among the dead was Dr. Robert J. Bateman of Jacksonville, founder of a local rescue mission. He was the only Floridian on board the ship.

A letter from a prostitute had led the minister to be aboard the Titanic.

Years ago I became interested in Dr. Bateman’s rescue mission work because I dabbled around the edges of such work serving in soup kitchens and such. I began researching Bateman’s Central City Mission as one of the earliest of such charities in my home town. This began even before I learned about his dying aboard the Titanic.

For several years I was asked to be a speaker at local memorial services for Titanic victims

Here’s a photo of me speaking at such a service with the flag of the White Star Line displayed in the floral wreath:

Here’s one from another year’s service held at Dr. Bateman’s grave (Yes, his body is buried here in Jacksonville):

If you would like to see some more related Bateman/Titanic photos, click on http://www.cowart.info/Monthly%20Features/Transfer%20Copy%20of%20Titanic%20px%204%20web/Titanic%20pix.htm

Something really odd happened during the speech in that second photo:

All four local tv network news programs and the local newspaper covered the event. At one point I looked up and realized that one of the tv reporters was crying.

I can’t be sure why.

Perhaps it was sympathy for the shipwreck victims. Perhaps, dust got in his eye. Or perhaps God’s spirit touched the man’s heart in some way during the service

The thrust of my speech about Dr. Bateman emphasized how the love of Christ motivated this physician to give up his medical practice and give his life trying to establish a home for “wayward women” enslaved in whorehouses in the notorious Jacksonville Tenderloin where customers could rent girls as young as 8 years old..

I wrote a couple of magazine articles about Dr. Bateman’s ministry and heroic death (Yes, newspapers of the day hailed him as a hero and credited him with several rescues of fellow passengers on the Titanic).

If you would like to read what I wrote, click on http://www.cowart.info/Monthly%20Features/Titanic%204%20web/Bateman%204%20web.htm

The tale of Jacksonville’s Titanic Hero is one chapter from my book Strangers On The Earth: A Collective Biography of People Whose Faith Got Them Into Trouble. If you would like to learn more about my book, please click on John Cowart’s Online Book Catalog at www.bluefishbooks.info

To conclude my talk at Dr. Bateman’s graveside, even though the crowd and I were miles from the ocean, I thought it appropriate to read a section of the service, For A Burial At Sea.

Seldom have I done anything to warrant tv news coverage, so I relished my brief brush with fame. But that same night, I spend cleaning toilets because back then I worked as a night janitor to support my family and my writing habit.

Nevertheless, tv and newspaper fame did not elude me altogether.

The next morning in the Winn Dixie grocery store, as I stood in the checkout line, the tinny-bopper cashier recognized me.

Excited, she called over another young woman and introduced me saying, “This here’s that old guy from the tv. He was on the Titanic and sank it”.

I saw no reason to correct her.

————

Ginny and I plan to be involved in a neighborhood clean up effort this coming weekend, so I doubt if I will post here in my diary again before next Monday or Tuesday.

Note to myself: Ilst2PLC/JLCllda2da — More Drama Stew.

Wednesday I Twitted Myself Thus:

No visitors.

No phone calls.

I spent Wednesday in uninterrupted work!

Got 67 pages edited.

And I feel wonderful about that. With God’s help, I hope to have this manuscript ready to go to the printer for a proof copy by Friday.

Of, course, I’d hoped to have reached this step two months ago. But as they say, “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans”.

I’m preparing an updated edition of the diary of Richard Rogers, a 16^th Century English Puritan, because I find his diary so inspiring and helpful in my own daily life.

Back on January 3^rd and 4^{th ,} (in my blog archives) my posts tell about how this work got started and why I’m so excited about it. (There’s a picture of Rogers there too).

If, God willing, I can get in another two days uninterrupted work this week, I’ll feel like I’m in Hog Heaven!

Rogers felt the same way about his work.

On August 4, 1587. Rogers wrote, “I cannot yet settle my self to my study, but through unfitness of mind, weakness of body, and partly discontinuing of diligence thereat, I am held back. And I am in every kind of study so behind hand, more than I was some years agone, that I am much discouraged”.

A month later he said, “ Sometime by unfitness and journeying my study is intermitted, and, except in place thereof my mind be well taken up some other way, even that is cause sufficient for hindering my purpose in proceeding. For I am exceedingly cast down when my study is hindered”.

And on October 30, 1587, he wrote, “My study, as time hath suffered, hath not been unpleasant to me nor much neglected, save that I have been much abroad in good company and visiting the sick. Once in this while, I see mine untoward heart to my study; it appeared so gross to me that I twitted myself thus…”

I know what he means.

———

I feel a sense of loss.

Humanist author Kurt Vonnegut died yesterday at the age of 84.

He wrote 14 novels, many of them best-sellers, as well as dozens of short stories, essays and plays.

Among his works were Slaughterhouse Five, Cat’s Cradle, Galapagos, Breakfast of Champions, Welcome To The Monkey House, and Deadeye Dick.

My favorite among his many quips is: “The only reason God put us on this earth — and don’t let anybody ever tell you different — is to fart around”.

Another is: “A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved”.

Mr. Vonnegut and I viewed Jesus in quite different lights. While I’m convinced that Jesus Christ is Lord, God come in the flesh, Mr. Vonnegut was a humanist who did not believe in God.

He once said, “What does “A.D.” signify? That commemorates an inmate of this lunatic asylum we call Earth who was nailed to a wooden cross by a bunch of other inmates. With him still conscious, they hammered spikes through his wrists and insteps, and into the wood. Then they set the cross upright, so he dangled up there where even the shortest person in the crowd could see him writhing this way and that. Can you imagine people doing such a thing to a person”?

On another occasion Vonnegut said, “We had a memorial service for Isaac Asimov a few years back, and I spoke and said at one point, "Isaac is up in heaven now." It was the funniest thing I could have said to an audience of humanists. I rolled them in the aisles. It was several minutes before order could be restored. And if I should ever die, God forbid, I hope you will say, "Kurt is up in heaven now." That's my favorite joke”.

I feel a sense of loss.

He made me laugh.

He made me think.

We Live In A Bus Station

About ten years ago as I walked past a closing business, I spotted a tapestry the workers were throwing out into a dumpster.

The business that was closing was a bus sub-station.

The tapestry featured the famous Greyhound Bus Company logo woven in heavy carpeting material.

I spoke with the site manager and he gave me permission to take the heavy wall-hanging home with me. At the time, we did not own a car so I balanced the awkward rug between the seat and handlebars of a bicycle and walked the thing a mile home.

The Greyhound rug delighted Ginny.

We often joked that so many people pass through our house that it’s like living in a bus station.

We placed the colorful rug in our entrance foyer to greet visitors.

The number of folks who visit amazes me. Essentially we are quiet, shy people who live to ourselves, read, write, love, pitter in our garden, and don’t bother anybody. Our home lays in a cul-de-sac off the beaten path where I work on my manuscripts absolutely alone.

Sometimes.

Then, there are days like today when Ginny says .our Greyhound rug seems symbolically appropriate:

Before Ginny left for work, my friend Wes came over and took me to breakfast then we returned home to talk about the future of the printing industry, loneliness, aversion to church attendance, medical stuff, Christian dating, and the place of homosexuals in the Christian community.

As Wes left, my daughter Patricia came out to talk about household matters. She told me that her friend Greg is in town today taking a history test to become a naturalized American Citizen.

Greg passed his test with flying colors.

I’m proud of him.

His accomplishment pleases me.

Prepare for a stupid aside rant:

When Greg arrived at our house to take Patricia to lunch to celebrate passing that test, naturally I asked him an important history question: Who was Nathan B. Forrest and why are some people protesting this week to have his name removed from a local high school?

Greg, like 90% of the people here in Jacksonville, had never heard of Nathan Forrest. He was a significant Confederate General during The War. After The War he organized a resistance movement against enemy occupation and carpetbaggers oppressing Southern people. But, the character of his group changed over the years and the KKK earned its present-day reputation.

Last week protesters demanded changing the name of the high school which has for many, many years borne his name.

Feelings run high in the community.

I say remove all school names, give them all numbers, and teach the kids to read and make change for a dollar — which skills seem beyond many high school graduates.

On the same note, since many people object to college football and other sports teams being named after Indian tribes (Although no school would name its team for any but the bravest and the best) I have a solution to that too:

Pass a law mandating that all football teams must be named after plants.

Thus, instead of the Florida State Seminoles vs the Georgia Bulldogs, we’d have the Florida Sandspurs vs the Georgia Pansies.

You’d never guess which team I cheer for, would you?

Didn’t mean to go there! Anyhow, let me get back on track here.

As Patricia, Greg and I talked, our conversation ranged from cats to race relations and my own tiny, minor role in the Civil Rights movement during the late 1960s (Bunch of people, both white and black, shot guns and such at me back then).

As that conversation was going on, Jennifer showed up to carry a load of donations to a rescue mission…

As we loaded her truck, Pat, a blind friend of mine, called saying she was on her way over in a taxi to talk with me.

I gave Jennifer, Greg and Patricia cash to buy their citizenship celebration lunch so I could listen to Pat alone.

At the same time, my brother called wanting to talk about his recent eye surgery. Successful.

Pat arrived upset that the Pakistani taxi driver had made overtures hitting on her and seemed pushed out of shape because she did not want to date him.

Since last fall she’s lost 45 pounds and is looking sharp.

She and I talked about her frustrations of living with low vision, her recent job interview, her pet dogs, how she needs a seeing-eye dog, dating and relationships in her situation, etc. etc.

Then Rhonda came over to take Pat back home.

By the time Pat and Rhonda left, it was already 4 o’clock and I sat down to smoke a pipe before shaving to meet Ginny. I fell asleep immediately with my pipe in my hand and the pages of a book crumpled in my lap. (Likely to set myself on fire one of these days).

When Ginny came in, we rushed off to the library to return overdue books and ate out, sharing our days activities over a meal.

When I told her about the flow of visitors today she remarked on how our Greyhound Bus Station rug is just right for our house… And here’s where this gets interesting:

Since my Father-in-law’s funeral last month, I’ve fallen way behind in my reading (usually I try to read three books a week) but my schedule is way off kilter. Recently I have been reading excerpts from the works of Meister Eckhart, a 13^th Century German Christian mystic associated with the pietistic movement.

At supper I bemoaned to Ginny the fact that in all today’s socializing, in all my conversations with all the people who crossed my path today, not one conversation was Christ-centered.

All conversations were superficial froth.

I got no work done.

I gave no witness.

I prayed no prayers.

I made no difference.

Ginny said, “John, what you are is your witness. Your listening to people is your testimony. Your being there for them is your Christian work. A Christian’s witness is as unconscious and natural as his breathing”.

Now, I doubt if Ginny has never heard of Meister Eckhart, but her thoughts echo his exactly: About the year 1300, he said:

Christians never need to think so much about what they ought to do, but they should remember what they are. If people and their ways are good, their works shine forth brightly. If you are just, then your works are also just.

One should not think of basing holiness on one action, one should base holiness on being.

However holy the works are, they do not sanctify us at all in so far as they are works; but so far as we are and have being, to that extent we sanctify all our works, whether it be eating, sleeping, keeping vigils, or whatever else.

Those who have not much being, whatever works they may perform, nothing comes of it.

When we got home from the library, the message machine blinked at me. Two phone calls to return.

And my e-mail baskets overflow with everything from requests about historical photos of trains to observations about a recent blog posting.

I may get to all those tomorrow…

Maybe…

But the next bus leaves this station at 4 a.m.

I plan to be on it.

A Bad Weekend For Pussycats

No humor in my post today.

Nothing uplifting.

Only tragedy.

Tragedy for cats.

Mrs. Morris died suddenly on Saturday.

My son Donald and his wife wrote poignant tributes to this cat in their blogs. Donald’s blog is at http://www.rdex.net/blog/ Helen’s blog , along with photos of Mrs. Morris, is at http://www.elemental.name/pai/ .

Their blog entries show that Mrs. Morris was a well-loved cat (and the photos prove that she was in no danger of starving).

The tragedy really upset Donald and Helen.

Mrs. Morris was not the only cat to die over Easter weekend.

Early Saturday morning fire broke out at the Jacksonville Humane Society. The facility sheltered over 200 cats and dogs at the time — plus a few exotic animals, rabbits, parrots .ferrets, etc.

Over 70 Jacksonville firefighters responded to the alarm.

When the roof of the building collapsed, four firemen were injured; one remains hospitalized with serious burns.

The firefighters risked their lives to save as many animals as possible; yet more than 70 cats and many dogs burned to death still locked in their cages.

Adding to the tragedy was the fact that some animals, once rescued, became so frightened by the smoke, flames, noise, and confusion, they sought safest in the most familiar place of safety they knew — they ran back to their cages inside the burning buildings.

Because the fire destroyed Humane Society offices and records, no one is sure how many animals died in the blaze. And because of the location of the flames, practically all the cats housed by the society died. More dogs were saved than cats because the dog kennels were located toward the back of the building.

Since the fire, many citizens of Jacksonville have put in to adopt animals from temporary shelters and have contributed large amounts of cash for the care of the animals and for the rebuilding of the Humane Society.

But sometimes cash and caring is not enough:

Last night our youngest daughter came home from Gainesville upset about one of her kittens, a stray that’s taken up around her apartment building.

As Patricia was leaving for work at her new job, as she walked to her car, she noticed the kitten had passed out on her balcony. The cat lay in such a way that rain poured from the roof overhand onto its head but it was in such sad shape that it could not move out of the rain.

Patricia gathered the cat up and wrapped it in a blanket.

The cat showed its gratitude by pissing on her new work outfit.

Patricia asked her neighbor, Greg, to watch over the cat as she drove away trying to avoid being late on this, her 6^th day on her new job.

She and Greg, who both have a lot of experience with cats, think that this kitten is showing symptoms of feline leukemia.

The prognosis is not good.

I am not exactly a cat person, but my heart aches for people whose pets enliven their lives so much. And I’m at a loss as to how to comfort them.

The only thought that occurs to me is that in the Kingdom of God, where the lion will lay down with the lamb, perhaps the lion is not the only cat on the scene, I could not prove it by Scripture, but I imagine the Lord has room for other, smaller, cats too.

Nevertheless, it’s been a bad weekend for pussycats.