A 90-Year-Old Dying Man

Please Note: Over the next few days I am changing this site. The address will stay the same, but I have to transfer to a new software, new server, new format, new look, new features, etc. But it’s the same old me.

While making these changes, I plan to re-post some of my favorite entries from former days. Please bear with me as I learn how to work this new system. This post comes from page 185 in my book A Dirty Old Man Goes Bad:

— Thanks, John

A 90-year-old Dying Man

My friend Ginger, a nurse in a major area hospital, often tends to dying patients. After her shift Tuesday morning, she called inviting me to breakfast. She’s run into a situation which upsets her.

The patient, a man in his mid 90s, was a preacher. He’s suffered a stroke with many medical complications. Heart problems. Kidney failure. Diabetes. And a host of other age related ailments. When he is lucid, he appears to be at peace and ready for death. As the Bible puts it, he is full of days and ready to be gathered to his fathers.

But his daughter insists on every possible medical intervention to keep him going.

This daughter, a deeply religious person, wants the hospital to get the old man well enough to travel. Then she plans can carry him to a faith-healing meeting conducted by one of the television preachers she watches. There, she feels, the old man will be cured.

The lady sits by her dying father’s bedside continually with a huge black Bible open in her lap. The room’s television blares out religious programming. And the lady loudly proclaims to any and all passers-by that she expects God to perform a miracle and heal her father.

Several things about this situation upset Ginger.

“John, she’s going to be devastated when the old man dies,” she said. “I think she’s going to just lose it and come apart.”

She thinks this lady feels so desperate for hope that she’s relying on religious fantasy instead of realistic faith.

Jesus never cured anybody of old age.

Ginger, a dedicated Christian who wants to live as a testimony to Christ among her coworkers, is also concerned about the effect this woman’s stance has on the hospital staff.

When skeptics see this Christian lady’s frantic clinging, how can they take what we Christians say about our belief in the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come?

Does our own behavior belie our own words?

This dear lady proclaims that she expects a miracle, for God to make a sick 90-year-old man healthy and young again.

Can God perform such a miracle?

Certainly.

Is that likely?

There’s a reason they’re called miracles.

Once I had a toothache. An abscessed tooth. I did not have money enough to see a dentist. I could not get into a charity clinic. I suffered and suffered and suffered.

I prayed for God to heal me, to ease my agony, to make my pain go away.

Nobody home in Heaven that week.

Finally I boiled a pair of pliers, rinsed my mouth out with alcohol and pulled my own tooth.

I do not recommend this.

Did my faith in a loving God fail?

Damn right it did!

Nothing like a good toothache to turn this particular Christian into a practicing atheist.

Why did God let me suffer in agony like that?

I have no idea.

I do know that He himself suffered anxiety:

“Father, if it is at all possible, let this cup pass from me…”

I do know that He himself felt abandoned in pain:

“My God! My God! Why hast Thou forsaken me?”

I do know that He himself cared about the family of the dying.

“Woman, behold thy son…”

I do know that the life Christ offers us is based on physical reality:

“I thirst.”

No fantasy about it.

Buried under dirt in a tomb for three days Christ — like a visitor to a hospital burn unit walking out with a validated parking ticket in hand — headed back Home.

He once said, “In my Father’s house are many mansions… I go to prepare a place for you so that where I am, there you may be also.”

I grieve for Ginger. This is the third big hit she’s taken this week.

I grieve for the lady clinging to her Dad because I think this is more about her than about him.

I wonder how much of my own faith is fantasy and how much is reality.

My experience teaches me to view the world as a pretty screwed up place, and it seems that Jesus holds that same view; He said he came to save the utterly lost in the worst possible situations (the incarnation did not take place in Disneyland).

But this world ain’t the whole show.

We live in a staging area.

Temporary quarters.

Transitional housing.

Dorm rooms for the semester.

Resurrection and Home lie ahead.

Two More From The Past:

Please Note: Over the next few days I am changing this site. The address will stay the same, but I have to transfer to a new software, new server, new format, new look, new features, etc. But it’s the same old me.

While making these changes, (Hope, D.V., To Be Done About March 1^st) I plan to re-post some of my favorite entries from former days. Please bear with me as I learn how to work this new system. This post comes from page 182-187 in my book A Dirty Old Man Goes Bad:

— Thanks, John

A Little Tin Box

One morning last week I made myself a couple of new matchboxes.

As a pipe smoker I prefer wooden strike-anywhere matches. Pipe smoking carries an entire ritual of behavior patterns that add to the satisfaction, and for me decorating match boxes is part of that ritual.

In recent years I have used the tin boxes that package Altoids peppermints. Friends and family save the tin boxes for me and every month or so, I fix a set of them up for my matches.

Usually I fix a batch of five matchboxes at a time: for the car, for my pocket, for my desk, for beside my reading lamp, and for the tv room.

Here’s how I do it:

First clean the box with a damp napkin then glue a striking surface to the bottom. For strikers I use either a scrap of sandpaper or the rough strip from the sides of a cardboard match package.

I trace the curved shape of the Altoids lid on a sheet of clear stiff plastic and use that as a template for my design. I place that clear template over a picture that suggests my mood at the moment and trace around it. Then I cut the picture out with scissors and glue it to the cover of the tin box

I keep a file folder of magazine clippings (National Geographic is a great source) of photos which appeal to me for box covers. I choose matchbox cover pictures to fit my mood, or relate to some writing project I’m working on, or touch on some holiday or event important to me. Usually I glue a photo of a bikini girl who strikes my fancy inside the box.

This photo shows some of the matchboxes I’ve used while working on the Glog manuscript.

I suppose there are better ways to spend my time than pasting pictures on little tin boxes, but it keeps me off the street.

One Downer Of A Posting:

Depression is such an Everest of a feeling that it overwhelms.

I’ve avoided writing in my journal or my blog the past couple of days. I’ve felt that nobody wants to hear me whine. I think readers have enough downers in their own lives that normally I want my writing to give a lift. So I try to enter bright sunny postings reflecting the joys of Christian life.

That’s dishonest.

Yes, I am a Christian.

Yes, I am a happy man.

But there is a flip side to my life also.

And recently I’ve been pissing against a spiritual wind.

But that’s shameful and I don’t want readers to know about that side of me. I have a reputation to maintain. I don’t want to give folks another reason to reject Christ; I don’t want to bring reproach on His name. I want readers to think I’m a nice guy.

So, I lie.

I pretend to be happier, cooler, more spiritually in touch than I really am.

Well, this past week my faith has hit the fan.

Over the years I have written scads of biographical profiles of successful businessmen for Chamber of Commerce type magazines. I’ve also written a number of biographical sketches of outstanding Christians. And one thing always bothers me in collecting materials for such articles: biographers tend to tell only the good stuff about their subjects.

That bugs me and leaves me hopeless.

I mean if I’m reading a life of some spiritual giant hoping to find some inspiration and meaning in my own life, but all I read about are his successes, then what is there that I can relate to as I stumble through life without a clue?

Don’t these Real Christians ever have an off day? Aren’t they ever tempted to say, “To Hell with it.” Don’t they ever just give up and lay in the dust for a while before climbing to their feet and trudging on?

Maybe I’m just a hypocrite.

Maybe I’m not “Filled With The Spirit.”

Maybe I’m not a true, dedicated believer.

But I’m here.

I put a certain premium on honesty. I’ve resolved to be honest in my journal entries and record what’s there, not just what ought to be there. And I try to do that in this blog. The subtitle of this blog is “a befuddled Christian looks for spiritual realities in day to day living.”

Sometimes that spiritual reality is ‘Being A Christian Sucks.”

Am I still a Christian? Yes. As Peter said, “To whom should we go, Lord? You alone have the words of eternal life.”

Am I a hypocrite? Yes. I do want to put my best foot forward. Once I even wrote a newspaper article on hypocrisy (Right-hand column, www.cowart.info ).

Anyhow even though today’s posting is a downer, it’s what I have to say.

That’s what you get here: one miserable bastard — and Jesus.

I hope someday some guy who’s down will read the stuff I write and say to himself, “You know, if a stupid looser like John Cowart can try to walk with God, maybe there’s hope for me too.”

Three Days In June

Please Note: Over the next few days I am changing this site. The address will stay the same, but I have to transfer to a new software, new server, new format, new look, new features, etc. But it’s the same old me.

While making these changes, I plan to re-post some of my favorite entries from former days. Please bear with me as I learn how to work this new system. This post comes from pages 72-74 in my book A Dirty Old Man Goes Bad:

— Thanks, John

Everything I know about prayer, I learned from my dog.

For some reason today I’ve been thinking a lot about what my dog taught me about prayer and understanding God’s will.

Sheba, our black lab, lived with us for 17 years; she’s been dead for four years now. After her initial shots, we never took her to the vet again, and, in spite of common knowledge to the contrary, we usually fed her table scarps, and on rare occasions a can of dog food..

One day as I was driving in heavy rain the rubber blade on my windshield wiper gave out. A nuisance. The next Saturday I bought some replacement blades and took them home to mount on the car.

Here I am parked in our drive on a bright sunny day trying to squeeze those rubber refills into the metal fixture. And Sheba sat alertly watching what interesting thing I was doing.

She whined and pawed the ground but she never took her eyes off me. She could not have watched more intently if I’d have been opening a can of Alpo. She cocked her head from one side to the other and gave every indication of yearning to help me accomplish whatever it was that I was doing. She seemed distressed that I was having trouble getting the task done.

I laughed.

And I just loved that stupid old dog for wanting to help.

That night at my prayers I puzzled over some situation I just could not understand; why had God let such-and-such happen?

Why didn’t He listen to my fervent prayer and advice about how to remedy the situation?

How can I follow the will of God when I don’t even understand what it is He’s trying to do?

Why does God want us to pray when most of the time we don’t even have an inkling of what to pray for?

As I struggled with such questions, the image of Sheba sitting in the drive staring intensely at me as I worked burst back into my mind.

I realized that I can no more understand the actions of God than Sheba could understand why I was changing the windshield wiper blades!

And I thought that maybe our Father may just enjoy our company, attention and good will—even when He has no need of our advice.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

A Writer's Life: Adventure, Passion, Thrills & Romance

I sat in front of the computer all day editing the manuscript of Letters From Stacy; up to page 100 now.

When Ginny got home, for our Friday Night Date we drove to the library to check out pleasure reading. Then we drove to Bar-B-Q Junction on San Juan Avenue where we read our books, ate great BBQ, and watched the rain hardly speaking to eachother.

Back home we put on some music, sat in our rockers and read our books all evening.

Can you stand the excitement?

Sunday, June 05, 2005

No good deed...

Ginny claims that when I go out of the house a huge neon sign floats in the air above my head flashing the word “SUCKER.”

Bums, winos and street people see this flashing sign and home in on me knowing instinctively that they’ve spotted the world’s softest touch who will swallow any sob story.

Well, I was out mowing a neighbor’s huge back yard (long story) in heat pushing 90 degrees. As I worked in the thick grass I was thinking that I’m too old and feeble to do such heavy work. I looked up from my work and there in front of me stood a stood a stranger, an elderly gentleman older and more feeble than I am. He asked me if he could mow the yard to earn a couple of dollars because he is hungry.

Now, obviously I could not turn a total stranger loose in my neighbor’s back yard, so I told him that I had to finish this work myself, but that maybe I could find a bit of help for him. Since I was working in my swimsuit and tee-shirt, I had no cash on me, so I left him sitting in the shade while I walked back to our house and to get a bit of change to give him.

Had to scrounge around in pants, billfold and dresser drawer to scrape together some cash. Then I walked back to the neighbor’s and handed the old guy enough to buy a burger.

I was feeling pretty virtuous about how kind I am to God’s poor and how righteous I am to go to all this trouble to get the old man a few dollars, and how that I am a shining example of Christian charity in action.

The Good Lord in Heaven looked down on the scene and said, “John Cowart, you smug, self-righteous prick! I’m going to have to take the wind out of your sails.”

So I handed the stranger his money, graciously received his thanks, waved bye as he left, and immediately stepped back into a nest of fireants.

God’s tiny little creatures responded.

They climbed upward and began stinging at my knees and proceeded to work their way north.

It’s difficult to feel smug and self-righteous with fireants conducting war games in your pubic hair. I think I could swear that I heard tiny helicopters and music playing “Flight of the Valkyries” from Apocalypse Now.

Unregenerate cynics sneer saying that no good deed goes unpunished.

Even though I’m a Christian, today I’m inclined to agree with them.

Two Things On My Mind Before Christmas

Please Note: Over the next few days I am changing this site. The address will stay the same, but I have to transfer to a new software, new server, new format, new look, new features, etc. But it’s the same old me.

While making these changes, I plan to re-post some of my favorite entries from former days. Please bear with me as I learn how to work this new system. This post comes from page 259 in my book A Dirty Old Man Goes Bad, I wrote it a few days befofe Christmas in 2005:

— Thanks, John

Two Things Occupying My Mind Recently

Well, it’s Friday already and I still haven’t finished Monday’s 2do2da list. I’ve stayed busy all week but have accomplished little.

Story of my life.

Two things have occupied my thoughts recently:

A few months ago I decided to stop clicking on internet pornography sites to look at girly pictures. So far, so good. But I’m being tempted to return to that practice.

What is it about the Christmas season that makes me want to lower my standards and look for license? Observing the incarnation of God into the world should make me grateful to Him, but instead I’m tempted to celebrate the season by cutting loose to look at girls in (or out of) red flimsies.

I’ve been told that mature Christian men out grow such adolescent fantasies, but you couldn’t prove that by me. Apparently I’m a 67-year-old man with the mental outlook of an 11-year-old boy.

I have not given in to the temptation yet, but knowing my own history with temptation – I have rarely been tempted to do anything that I eventually didn’t do it — .I’m not guaranteeing anything.

But at the moment, this bugs me.

At the other end of the spectrum, I have also been thinking about the essential nature of God. (Hey, my mind works that way).

At breakfast Monday, my friend Barbara mentioned something about God being “Wholly Other” and I’ve been thinking about that.

God is unique. That is, there is nothing else like Him. He is one, complete in Himself. He is not exactly like any other being in, or beyond, the universe.

He is Creator, all the rest of us are creatures of His making.

Men, roaches and archangels have more in common with each other than we have with Him. He is Creator; we are all created entities.

Yet, in creating us, He apparently stamped nature with some hints as to His own nature and character. The majesty of thunderclouds, the power of the tornado, the potential of an egg, the wings of a butterfly, the protective coloration of a caterpillar, the love shared by man and woman, the splendor of an angel, the thoughts of the human mind – all these dimly reflect some element of the One who created all.

He is above all and in Him we live and move and have our very being.

That’s scary.

For one thing it means He’s big.

Huge.

Immense.

I don’t picture the Incredible Hulk when I think of God, but that’s close.

In a way I think of when I go downtown and stand at the base of a skyscraper and tilt my head way back and look up; even though I’m standing on solid pavement, I feel as though I’m falling and I get dizzy.

God scares me because He is so big. He holds all the universe in His hand as though it were no bigger than a peanut.

He makes me feel fragile.

I don’t think my view is uncommon.

Remember for yourself one of those times when you felt close to God in your own experience. Regardless of the circumstances, I suspect that you felt some of the same things that I felt.

In my own 67 years, I can only remember a few times when I’ve felt particularly aware of God’s presence. These experiences were almost overwhelming and I feel uncomfortable, embarrassed, even remembering them much less speaking about them.

Oddly enough, only one of these occasions occurred in a church service. Once it happened when I was a kid in my bedroom, once when I was out camping in the woods, once when I saw a girl in a yellow dress, and once when I was dissecting a pig in a biology class.

Odd places to encounter God.

Whatever works for you.

My experiences probably have a few things in common with your own:

While I felt a fear of God, I also felt a strange attraction to Him. I was afraid but at the same time, there was an incredible sweetness. I wanted this awareness of Him to never end.

Was it that way for you too?

I became keenly aware of my own unworthiness, insignificance, uncleanness – not for particular things I’ve done, but just in the light of His holiness. I felt as though I were someplace I didn’t belong – but I was being welcomed anyhow.

Know what I mean?

Now I’m a guy with all sorts of questions, complaints and problems, but during those time I felt aware of being in God’s presence, all that stuff faded into insignificance. No questions were worth asking. No complaint worth voicing. No problem worth discussing. The only thing that mattered was God Himself; nothing else counts.

So here I was, a worm and no man, in the presence of the Almighty, yet I felt loved, accepted in the Beloved, welcomed. And this felt overwhelming, that the Mighty God cared about me. The King of the Universe really cares.

That’s a hard thing to get over, isn’t it?

Now, I’m thinking about the incarnation, that the Creator of the universe, King of Kings and Lord of Lords cares about us.

He sees that we’ve scrambled the eggs He gave us, and He reduced Himself to become a human baby to come into this world and unscramble the mess we’ve made and are helpless to unscramble ourselves.

Somehow I envision the Incredible Hulk in a straw manger.

Yes, in the incarnation, the Lord God emptied Himself of some of His prerogatives, focused His scary immensity into a tiny baby – nothing to be scared of – and came to seek and to save the lost.

So the angels told the shepherds, “Don’t be scared… it’s only a baby.”

Then … well, you know the rest of the story as well as I do.

But there is one other thing I recall about my own experiences of being aware of the wholly other God. I was aware that the scary, sweet bliss I felt would not last. I knew that I was only seeing a temporary glimpse for that moment, that the real, permanent awareness of God still lies far ahead.

Meanwhile there remain bills to pay, phone calls to make, oil to change, leaves to rake, people to love (or at least tolerate), Christmas presents to buy --Yes, in Him we live and move and have our very being – but we do that here and now.

So I need to spend this day catching up on Mondays list — and not clicking on porno sites.

Lord, please be merciful to John Cowart, a sinner.

A Tragic Loss Of Life?

Yesterday dawned bright and beautiful, top-down, windows open, shirt sleeve weather with the temperature here in Jacksonville pushing 70. So Ginny and I ventured out on a day trip driving all over the rural towns of northeast Florida and southeast Georgia, stopping here and there as the spirit moved us, and eating way more than the Spirit might think prudent.

Our aimless quest led us to browse in five or six roadside antique shops, consignment boutiques, and book stores.

At each store Ginny asked about a pattern of dishes she treasures.

At each store I asked about tobacco pipes and old diaries.

She bought a couple of three dollar dresses which she said would cost over $80 each in a mall. And she bought a birdhouse that struck her fancy.

She said that these antique stores offer more and more things that we already own or once owned but gave away. We are turning into antiques ourselves.

At one store a sign above the cash register announced:

We Buy Junk.

We Sell Antiques.

While we browsed, a distraught lady rushed in asking about her glasses. She been in that shop earlier and lay her glasses down somewhere to squint at a price tag, then left. “I can’t see to drive without them,” she said.

I winked at the guy at the counter and told the lady, “You just missed them. We sold that pair of glasses about ten minutes ago”.

The guy cracked up laughing.

That’s me, a Christian spreading light and joy wherever I go.

Not to worry, we found her glasses and she left rejoicing.

At another antique warehouse, I asked the mature couple minding the store about pipes.

No joy.

I asked about old diaries.

The man at the cash register said, “We’ve got one. Just came in. Mind you, it is a bit risqué. Mother, where did we put that girl’s diary”?

“That thing was filthy,” the lady said. “Dirty language about sex. It was trash and I put it in the trash. Won’t sell such a thing in my store”.

“She was just a young woman telling about her life experiences,” he said.

“Well, she shouldn’t oughta been having experiences like that! And she certainly shouldn’t have been writing about it. Garbage is garbage and that’s where it belongs”.

As the conversation developed, I gathered that the girl had been a flapper during the 1920s, or maybe a hippy chick from the 1960s.

In a way, her diary doesn’t matter because it is lost for ever, discarded among headless dolls, mildewed teddy bears, castoff chicken bones, soggy cardboard boxes, cracked DVD discs, hamburger wrappers…

How do I know?

Because as we left the store, I checked in the back ally dumpster hoping to salvage the lost diary.

No joy.

I know how much effort it takes to write a diary; I’ve kept mine for over 30 years. On one level I’m heartsick that the record of this unknown girl’s life was trashed as of no value.

On another level, I know that the record of this girl’s life—of all lives—is inscribed in the mind of God and that one day all the books will be opened, all secrets revealed. The Lord knows the thoughts and intents of the heart.

Did Jesus come to save only the prim and proper?

Or, is the love of God commended toward us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us?

Our omniscient and merciful God looks upon what we do—and why we did it.

Think of a nurse monitoring me in an intensive care unit. Can’t burp without her knowing. She sees me sleep. She sees me suffer. She knows what is crucial to my well-being and what I must simply endure. She watches overall and occasionally intervenes in my distress.

She watches me die.

I think that nurse demonstrates how God always watches us.

Not standing by like Big Brother with a cattle prod looking to zap the sinner with glee.

In Him we live and move and have our very being. We exist in His intensive care unit. The hairs on our heads are monitored. Nothing is lost to Him with whom we have to do.

Yet, St. Paul mentions that there are some things that “perish with the using”.

Maybe this girl’s diary was one of those things.

Maybe my own precious writings are another.

Things do serve their purpose and are then rightly cast aside.

That antique stores are full of them.

So the girl’s diary was judged trash and consigned to the dumpster.

I harbor a prayer that when the Lamb’s Book Of Life is opened, she herself will see her name recorded in Glory.

Be kinda nice to see me listed there too—maybe in the appendix?

You should read some of my early journals… but then again, maybe not.

When Faith Hits The Fan

Please Note: Over the next few days I am changing this site. The address will stay the same, but I have to transfer to a new software, new server, new format, new look, new features, etc. But it’s the same old me.

While making these changes, I plan to re-post some of my favorite entries from former days. Please bear with me as I learn how to work this new system. This post comes from page 252 in my book A Dirty Old Man Goes Bad:

— Thanks, John

When The Faith Hits The Fan

Sometimes I hate being a Christian.

Case in point – last week an elderly lady of my acquaintance phoned asking for help with a minor chore, a chore which should take me about three or four hours to do. Instead of telling her to go to Hell, I agreed to help the dear old soul.

It turned out that the simple chore consumed three whole days of my life and mind because she kept changing the perimeters of the chore so that it became more and more difficult for me to help her. She just made the thing harder and harder for me to do. Could it be that she treated me like I treat Jesus???

Instead of a one-shot deal, this lady’s chore expanded like the Chicken-Heart-That-Ate-Cleveland. It involved three personal visits from me, two from Ginny, and between eight and 12 phone calls.

And each step of the way, I grew more and more resentful and frustrated and bitter until what started out as a simple act of Christian charity transmogrified into an occasion of black seething sin inside me. At one point I vowed never to help anybody with anything ever again in my whole life! Ever!

You know, it’s relatively easy for me to think I’m a Christian when I alone with my books and my computer, when I’m thinking deep thoughts about my imaginary god and imaginary people — but let me get out in the world dealing with the Living God and real people, let my faith hit the fan, let my idealized version of Christianity inconvenience me, then I feel put upon and I grow bitter, resentful, depressed, angry… Mad at God and man.

What the hell kind of Christian am I anyhow?

Probably a typical one.

But we won’t go into that.

So dawns the season of light and joy, of Peace on earth and Good Will toward men – and here I’m peeved and ready to kick ass.

In spite of my vow to never help anyone anywhere ever again, will I eventually calm down and act like a Christian again?

Possibly.

Probably.

But today might not be the best day to ask me for a favor.

Dressing For Heaven & I Do Not Turn Green

Please Note: Over the next few days I am changing this site. The address will stay the same, but I have to transfer to a new software, new server, new format, new look, new features, etc. But it’s the same old me.

While making these changes, I plan to re-post some of my favorite entries from former days. Please bear with me as I learn how to work this new system. This post starts on page 248 in my book A Dirty Old Man Goes Bad:

— Thanks, John

Dressing For Heaven

Traditional imagery pictures people in Heaven as wearing gold-foil hats and flowing gauze robes. Friday, I imagined a different picture; I imagined that I would stand before the throne of God wearing the very same clothes that I have given to the poor.

Yes, all afternoon Ginny and I padded around the house in our underwear trying on all our clothes to see if they fit as we cleaned out our closets and packed up clothes to send to the poor at the mission.

Ginny is infuriatingly systematic, methodical, and self-disciplined. In her closet she has 20 green clothes hangers, 20 blue ones, 20 white ones, and 10 clear plastic hangers. She keeps 20 dresses for work on the green ones, 20 casual outfits on the blue ones, etc. I’m not sure about the exact numbers or color codes but you get the idea.

She refuses to add to the number of hangers.

That means that whenever she gets a new office dress, an old one must go. A new casual blouse means that one now on the hanger must come off.

That way she only has her very favorite clothes in her closet at any given time. No muss, no fuss, no clutter.

She’s the same way about her books. She has one bookcase. When she gets a new book, an old one must be replaced so her shelf space remains constant…. On the other hand, I have ELEVEN bookcases in our house and piles of books on the floor, in chairs, under the bed, in the closet… Well, you get the idea.

Yet, somehow this strange woman and I remain married.

Another factor adds to the clutter in our house. For some reason our friends, neighbors and children bring us stuff to go to the mission. I mean, even back when we did not own a car, folks who did would bring mission donations to our house and I’d have to borrow a van or something to get the donations out there to the poor. That still goes on, so the foyer of our home is always piled with bags and boxes of stuff to go the mission.

We cleared the foyer yesterday morning and took out a load, but already another three black plastic garbage bags full of clothes are in our foyer. I’m looking at them right this minute!

Anyhow, yesterday Ginny and I also cleaned out our own closets. This meant we were constantly having to make decisions as to what clothes to keep and which items should go to the poor.

This presents me with a dilemma.

What do I sent to the poor, what do I keep for me?

Pants are easy. If they still button and zip and I can sit down in them, they stay. Those that have shrunk too much for me to zip up, some poor guy can wear them.

Shirts present a different problem. Some are easy to send to the suffering poor. For instance that tee-shirt with cute fuzzy kittens in a basket on the chest that Aunt Hazel gave me – hey, the poor like kittens, don’t they?

But here’s that neat tee-shirt I bought myself, the one with the pack of wolves eating into a harp seal with blood and seal guts strewn about in the snow — That’s a keeper. Definitely a keeper. I’ll be such a hit when I wear that one to Jennifer’s Christmas party.

So I made choices about which shirts to send to the poor — that’s when I got the idea that the clothes we’ll have to wear in Heaven will be the ones we give to the poor here on earth.

As I recall, Russian writer Leo Tolstoy said that what we have there, is what we give here; and I think C.S. Lewis said the same thing about the books we’ll still have in Heaven. Apparently, we lay up treasure in Heaven by giving to the poor on earth.

I doubt that’s right. Sounds too much like salvation-by-works to me but, nevertheless, I suspect that Christ approves of us giving our best.

We can’t brown nose God. Giving to the poor should simply be an expression of our love for the Lord Christ, Prince of the Poor, who though He were rich yet made Himself poor for our sakes.

Be all that as it may, as I packed stuff to go to the mission, I got this ridiculous idea about what clothes I might have available to wear in Heaven.

Do I really want to appear before the throne of Almighty God in castoffs, with my bare belly hanging over pants that won’t zip and wearing fuzzy damn kittens on my chest?

Speaking of clothing… The following entry is from page 66 of A Dirty Old Man Gets Worse:

I Do Not Turn Green!

When I get uptight, scared or angry, my ribs hurt.

Why do my ribs hurt?

Because I press my elbows so tight against my sides; I also cross my ankles and press my knees together so hard that they hurt too.

I spent most of yesterday and last night and a good part of this morning in that condition.

This is not good.

Oddly enough, this doesn’t happen in times of real danger or crisis, just in social situations. I can speak before a large group with no problem because that is a structured situation, but at a party or funeral or Sunday School breakfast, or such… I clam up big time. It’s really painful.

What about the peace Christ is supposed to give us Christians?

Doesn’t work for me.

Not in social situations.

Anyhow, inspired by the movie I watched last night, as we dressed this morning I put on my Incredible Hulk tee shirt to work in while I formatted the Joseph Pyram King autobiography.

Ginny noticed my Hulk tee shirt and said, “Are you going to be the Incredible Hulk today?”

“No,” I said. “I wish I was. When I get hurt or angry I don’t turn green, grow huge biceps and smash things; I just get quite and withdraw into my shell.”

“I’ve noticed that,” she said. “When you get upset, you turn into --- the Incredible Sulk!”

I love her dearly, but sometimes Ginny is a smart ass.

Tits & Tobacco: an odd occurrence

Please Note: Over the next few days I am changing this site. The address will stay the same, but I have to transfer to a new software, new server, new format, new look, new features, etc. But it’s the same old me.

While making these changes, I plan to re-post some of my favorite entries from former days. Please bear with me as I learn how to work this new system. This post comes from page 126 in my book A Dirty Old Man Goes Bad:

— Thanks, John

Tits & Tobacco: an odd occurrence

All day I unscrewed pool fixtures and carried out my usual Friday duties.

Gin & I both celebrated birthdays in the same week earlier this month and her mother sent us a nice birthday check (Thanks, Alva). So, for our usual Friday night date, we splurged by cashing the welcomed check and going to Donna Maria’s, an open air Mexican restaurant on the waterfront.

Scrumptious.

While there I saw a bird (actually it landed on the table next to us). I’d never seen one like it before. But Ginny calmly announced that it was a boatswain grackle The scope of the woman’s knowledge amazes me.

Anyhow, this Mexican place sits right next to a Hooters Restaurant which also has an open air section. The two places blend together, so while we dined, I watched a fascinating jiggle show as sweet young things bent over vigorously polishing tables .

An aside: We went to a different Hooters once years ago when Ginny’s new boss treated the office staff and spouses to dinner there. About 18 or 20 people attended. Four or five waitresses brought out huge mounded platters of chicken wings and everyone prepared to dig in. But the new boss tapped her glass for attention, stood up, and said, “Mr. Cowart, I understand you are religious. Would you say grace for us.”

At this, the four or five waitresses paused in their serving, lined up posing and jutting, and stood in an impressive, but respectful, line. Other noisy customers packed the place but the stance of the girls caused a hush to fall.

Normally I believe in praying in secret, i.e. in private, not public, prayer. But what do you do when asked to pray in public in a Hooters?

Stunned, I stood up at the table and prayed aloud saying something or another in thanks for food, jobs and beauty. Then the feasting began .I’ve heard it said that a Christian needs to be ready to preach, pray or die at a moment’s notice — but this really caught me off guard. I have no idea what I said, but afterwards several people commented about how appropriate the prayer was.

Anyhow back to tonight, I enjoyed my fried peppers stuffed with something and coated with the Mexican version of Velveeta. And I enjoyed the scenery of boats, birds, and boobs galore.

Afterwards, Gin & I strolled holding hands along the Riverwalk. A guy came up with a cell phone pressed to his ear. He stopped us and launched into a long story about wife and kids in a broke down car, dead battery, expensive hotel room— and could I give him $57 to make ends meet. Ha! Fat chance.

(The asking price of panhandlers has gone up. My Daddy told me that back during the Great Depression a running joke was:Q: “Say, Buddy, you got a nickel for a cup of coffee?” A: “No. But I’ll get along somehow.”)

I gave the man a bit of change and he pressed for more till I said that was all I’m willing to give. I suspect the cell phone was only a prop for his scam; panhandling is illegal on the Riverwalk and there is a strong police presence.

So much for that.

Now here’s where things get weird:

As Ginny & I drove home we stopped at a Walgreen’s drug store because they were having a sale, a dollar off, on my brand of pipe tobacco. I bought my tobacco and Gin picked up a couple of things she needed.

Now remember: the sum total of my thinking all evening – tits, tobacco.

As we walked to the car, I saw a homeless man. No shirt. A ragged bundle of clothes. Thin as a rail. Not a hair on his head. Looked like an AIDS victim with a really bad T-Cell count. He foraged in a trashcan, found a plastic soda bottle with a little liquid left in the bottom, and he drank it ( heat index of 105 today).

Now without thinking I gave this man a tiny courtesy, nothing big, just the sort of normal kindness you’d extend to anybody you know.

He started crying.

He stepped close and threw his arms around me and lay his head on my shoulder and cried his heart out. I have a great aversion to being touched; it’s so strong in me that I cut my own hair rather than let a barber touch me. And here this stranger is embracing me and crying. I deliberately shelved my aversion, steeled myself to being touched, and put my arms around him. I cradled him in my arms. I patted his back and rocked him back and forth like a child.

All I said to him was, “It’s ok. It’s going to be alright. Don’t be afraid. It’s all going to be ok.”

I said this over and over.

I think we stood like that in the Walgreen’s parking lot for a good ten or 15 minutes. Ginny quietly got in our car and waited.

Now, here’s what’s odd.

This man sobbing in my arms said, “Forgive me. I’m just a sinner. Please forgive me. Forgive me.”

I had not said one word about religion. I quoted no Scripture. I gave no testimony. I didn’t read Four Things God Wants You To Know. I did not lead him in The Sinner’s Prayer. None of that standard Christian witnessing stuff – Tits & tobacco had been the only things on my mind. – And here I felt God was using me??? Why? Maybe He’s scraping the bottom of the barrel for witnesses here in Jacksonville.

Yet, nevertheless, this poor bastard was crying for forgiveness with tears streaming down his face and snot dripping from his nose.

Finally, he pulled himself together. Wiped his face with his forearm, picked up his bundle and walked down the street sniffling and saying, “Lord, forgive me. Lord, forgive me..”

I really don’t know what to make of this.

Don’t you have to be pious and prayerful and “on fire for the Lord” to be used by God?

Or, maybe I was not “used by God”

Maybe I just ran into an emotional AIDS patient.

Maybe the man is a kook who does this with everybody?

Or, was this some kind of scam? Cynical Christian that I am, after embracing, cradling, and rocking this guy, I immediately checked to see my wallet was still in place – it was.

I really don’t know what to make of this odd incident.

Was I on Candid Camera or something?

Puzzling.

One commenter remarked:….I can see you at Hooters saying, "I don't pray publicly too often, but I'll try my breast."