to more money and

        Young people today are used to having a decent car to drive. They have parents who are concerned for their safety, they have access to more money and they live in a time when cars don't rust in a gentle rain. My first car was seven years old when I bought it and it was so rusty it was hard to see the paint. My current car is eight years old and doesn't have a speck of rust. Different times.

       While I am happy that times change, I do think that young people miss the experience. My cars were always self changing cars. The weight changed when you hit a pothole because you left a pile of rust behind. The radio station changed for no reason. The oil changed itself. A quart on Monday and another on Friday because it leaked and burned oil. You had to change some things, like spark plugs and points and condensers and fan belts and hoses. You learned and you appreciated.

        Marsha and I got to where we needed two cars. One day I passed a car in a yard with a For Sale sign. $75. As a point of reference, that would be around $350 today. (I looked it up.) Imagine you see a car on the side of the road for $350 today. You would buy that bargain. Or probably not. Anyway, not only was it rusted out, it looked like it had been in a dozen wrecks. It was beat up pretty bad. But, at $75, I had to look.                                         I parked in the driveway and got out. From a distance of about ten yards, I could not tell what it was, so badly was the body beaten up. It was only when I got to the back could I really tell. I looked at the taillights and caught my breath. It was a Ford LTD. The luxury Ford. The bells and whistles Ford. The "I could never afford one of these" Ford. From the taillights I figured it was a 1967 model. Turns out, I was right. The year was 1976, so the car was nine years old. Old for that day. Still, it was a $75 Ford LTD. The big surprise was when I looked inside. The interior was immaculate. Luxury. 

        The owner came out and we talked. I went and got Marsha and when she saw it she was ready to kill me. Then she looked inside. She was smitten. "This is my car! I get to drive it!" So, we went away with our treasure. 

        The owner had told me the car had issues. He told me the engine ran and the brakes worked, the AC was shot but the heater worked, the battery had been in the car when it was new and the exhaust leaked into the car. You had to drive it with the windows down because of the exhaust leak and we found out on the way home that at 45 MPH, the headliner would descend and settle on your head. I was behind Marsha and suddenly she swerved and went into a yard and nearly hit a tree. It took a while to see that it wasn't some big bug, but the headliner had come down. None of that mattered. It was a Ford LTD. 

        However, it didn't take long for the whole LTD thing to wear off. We had to put a new battery in it and give it a tune up. In a week's time, we had more into the repairs and maintenance than we had paid for it. The car drew stares and laughter. The shocks were worn out, so it rocked and bounced. After a month or so, the LTD began to mean "Litter in The Driveway."

        But we needed the extra car. When you were inside the car it was great. The outside was really bad. 

        One Friday night we decided to go to a drive-in movie. The drive-in was cheap and you could easily sneak in your own snacks. We usually took a pizza and a box of Ho-Hos and drinks. It was great. Not healthy, but great.

        The drive-in was around five miles away. Marsha wanted to go in luxury, so we took the LTD. We had just gotten out of our drive when I saw flashing lights behind us. I pulled over. I started to get out of the car and heard a loud "REMAIN IN THE VEHICLE!" I sat back down and glanced in the rearview mirror. The police officer approached slowly with his hand on his gun. "This is not good, Marsha." He got to the window and shined his flashlight inside. He thoroughly checked me out, then Marsha. Then he barked, "License and registration." As he was examining those documents, another police car pulled up, nose to nose to mine, and that officer got out. He shined his light into the car. Finally, they told me to get out of the car. Other than giving me orders, neither had spoken to me. "Listen, what is this all about." Flashlight in my eyes. "Shut up." So, I shut up. They were checking my height. Finally, the first one said, "Alright, sir. You can go." The second one pulled away and I was clear to go.

        We were both shaken up and talked a blue streak on the way to the drive-in. Just before we got to the drive-in, we had flashing lights both in front and behind. State Troopers this time. Pretty much the same routine as the first time. They would not answer my question as to what this was all about, and I was starting to get irritated. They let us go and we pulled into the drive-in. It just wasn't a good night. The pizza was doughy, the Ho-Hos were stale and the pop was flat. The movie wasn't very good, either. It was almost a relief to head home. Except.......

        We were pulled over about a mile from the drive-in. Deputy Sheriff. Same drill. Another county car blocked us off, both drivers approached with their hands on their guns and flashlights trained into the car. This time we both had to get out of the car. Finally, they let us go. We pulled away and a mile down the road, two local police officers again pulled us over. Two different guys than the first time, but still not answering any of my questions. Finally, we pulled into our drive just as the flashing lights hit us again. State Trooper. Just one this time. Had to get out of the car again. And again, he checked out my license and registration. But this one seemed a little more laid back. So, I took a chance and asked him the same question I had asked before.

        "Officer, we have been pulled over five times now tonight. Can you please tell me what is going on?" "Well, sir, there was an armed robbery tonight at the convenience store over on North Ridge Road. Sixty year old lady behind the cash register and the guy pistol whipped her pretty bad. A witness saw a car that matches the description of this car pulling away." "Oh, wow. Well, if he was driving a car that matched the description of this car, he hasn't gone far." The trooper looked at me quizzically. "Why do you say that?" "Because he is probably broke down somewhere." For the first time that night I saw a little smile. "Sir, I would advise you to park this car and not drive it anywhere until we catch this guy." "Yes, sir."

        We sold it the next week. Got $100.

        So, the theological application: there is none. Just sharing. Drive safe.      

                                                                                                        

     It is a chill and crisp Fall morning here in Northeast Indiana. I love days like this. Soon there will be frost on the pumpkin, as they say, and I love that as well. Then there will be snow in the air, and that is where the love affair ends. It isn't the cold, but the ice that comes along with it. I am at that point in life where slipping and falling is not funny. But for now, I will gladly take a crisp and clear morning.

    This particular blog has nothing to do with the weather. I just wanted to share a little pleasure of mine. What we are actually going to look at a particular song writer. Honestly, I am not so interested in what a song says to me. I am more interested in what the song said to the one who wrote it. Or more to the point, what they were thinking when they wrote a particular song. I am going to stick with church type music. I don't particularly care what the thought process was behind "Hey Jude." 

    William F. Sherwin was born in 1826 in Buckland, Massachusetts and grew up there, moving to New York as a young adult. He was more interested in learning music than playing the games the children played at the time. Though not well educated in a traditional sense, he was self taught in music. Particularly sacred music. The sacred music of the day had its roots in England four and five hundred years earlier. Sunday Schools were coming into being in the 1840s and 50s, and Sherwin felt the need to write catchy little songs for this new ministry. Sunday Schools originally developed as a way of teaching children the Bible. As such, they needed something more than the style of church their parents enjoyed (or endured) and catchy little songs were a part of that effort. Not surprisingly, many of the old guard did not like the separation of children from their parents and they did not like the non-majestic songs the children were being taught. But Sunday School was catching on. William was uniquely gifted in this form of music.

    And then came the Civil War. Thirty four years old and suffering from various ailments, the not so young New Yorker was not eligible for service. But he visited the convalescence hospitals and offered music and wrote letters for men too wounded to be able to write. What he saw deeply troubled him. However, it also inspired him. He heard stories of heroism, and he also talked with some who had let cowardice take hold and who were terribly ashamed of their actions. William carried the Good News of Christ to each one he talked to and offered prayers when a wounded soldier would allow such.

    Still, he wrote the catchy little songs he was known for, Sunday School songs for little children. But the suffering and pain of the soldiers stayed with him. Then, one day at one of the hospitals, he heard several soldiers singing one of the songs he had written for Sunday School. He saw the men all enjoyed the music and he realized people preferred pleasant music with movement to the old, clunky church music. He wasn't a hymn writer, but perhaps he should give it a try. There was that blind lady, Fanny Crosby, and the young Philip Bliss, who wrote for D.L. Moody, the up and coming evangelist. This was a new style of music, freer and more buoyant. Of course he could write that music!

    But, in the end, he was a writer of Sunday School songs for children. He was maybe the best ever at that form, but that style of songs did not age well. As Sunday School became more and more integrated into church life, the 'Opening Assembly,' where such songs were given, has gone away. Sherwin filled a niche for a time, but he wanted to tell the Gospel in a more permanent way.

    Perhaps he was trying too hard. Perhaps it wasn't what the Lord had for him. Perhaps he was destined to slip into obscurity, never to be heard from again.

    Except......

    Four years after the war he was still visiting convalescence homes. Soldiers who would never get their lives back. To badly injured to be much good, at least in their minds. Most of these men were from the same regiment. That was how it was done. Each community had raised a regiment or two (or three or four) and they had marched off to war together. William noticed that occasionally their former commander would come to see his men. When word came that their colonel was in the building, they would straighten their clothes and come as close to attention as they could. The colonel would go around to each man and speak to him, and that soldier would do the best he could do to be military. William was moved by this, and he came to understand that although these men were injured or disfigured or mentally affected, there was a pride in what they had done and there was pride in who they had followed into battle. When Sherwin went home, he took a quill and paper and put together the song for which he will always be remembered.

1.   Sound the battle cry! See, the foe is nigh;
Raise the standard high for the Lord;
Gird your armor on, stand firm every one;
Rest your cause upon His holy Word.

o   Refrain:
Rouse, then, soldiers, rally round the banner,
Ready, steady, pass the word along;
Onward, forward, shout aloud, “Hosanna!”
Christ is Captain of the mighty throng.

2.   Strong to meet the foe, marching on we go,
While our cause we know must prevail;
Shield and banner bright, gleaming in the light,
Battling for the right we ne’er can fail.

3.   O Thou God of all, hear us when we call,
Help us one and all by Thy grace;
When the battle’s done, and the vict’ry’s won,

May we wear the crown before Thy face. 

      

    

     Since I have already written one blog out of time and place this week, I may as well write another.

      In 2017 I had triple bypass heart surgery. Quite the ordeal. It wasn't long after that when I passed out at the wheel of my car and nearly killed several people, including Tami Overman, before I wrecked and totaled my car. This was the result of a medication error on the part of the hospital. When I got the chance to talk to the doctor about it, he checked my chart, saw his error, and said, "Oh! My bad." A true professional. And to go along with it, I was never set up for cardiac therapy. 

    About a year and a haft later I began to have trouble with my legs. Eventually, ulcers began to develop. Very painful wounds. It got so it was an agonizing torment to walk. I kept them wrapped, but they seeped and bled. Ed Fitch kept telling me to go to a doctor and I refused. Finally, he came to the apartment and called an ambulance. Off I went, back to the same hospital that performed the bypass. Looking back, I may owe my life to Ed. Just don't tell him. He wouldn't let me forget about it. Anyway, I spejnt a week in the hospital. I had the beginnings of an infection. They treated that and then they began to treat the wounds on my legs. no one had any idea why this had happened. And the treatment on my legs was just basically the same wrap I was doing already, only with antibiotic ointments. I was going in and being wrapped once a week and was doing my own wraps the other days. Eventually, even though I still had a couple of places, I was released. Also, during this time I had A-fib, so I was a mess.

    As all this was going on, I was still making visits as much as I could. The pandemic came and visits had to cease anyway. And the ulcers began to come back. As things opened back up from the pandemic, I realized that making visits was unreal painful. And the A-fib had returned. My doctor, associated with the same hospital I went to for the bypass, was not to concerned about either the ulcers or the A-fib. My health began to really fail and the pain all came back.

    I made trips to Ohio to see my best friend from childhood as he was dying from a lung ailment. I kept telling myself I was going to go to a Parkview doctor when all those things with Keith (my friend) evened out. But then he died, and I went back and did his funeral. By the time I got back I was in constant agony. I didn't realize it, but I had a serious infection going. Finally, Barry Swanquist took me to the ER in Wabash. I may owe my life to Barry. Just don't tell him. He wouldn't let me forget about it. From ER in Wabash I moved to Huntington and the hospital. One doctor who came to me in the hospital, Cynthia Wellman, told me a year later she was surprised I had lived through the infection. From the hospital till now I have had one doctor's appointment after another. Parkview medical took care of the infection, the A-fib and they found the cause of the ulcers and we are working on that. It goes back to sloppy work during the bypass. 

    It has been the ulcer wounds on my legs, however, that have been the most visible reminder of how sick I have been. What a struggle and so much pain. Slowly, almost so slowly you could not see the difference, they have healed up. When I would go in and be depressed because there was no healing, the nurses at the Wound Care Center in Huntington would show me pictures from when they started. Slow, but this time it was being done right.

    From July of 2021 until now, September 2022, I have limped into the Wound Care Center at least once a week. I know all the doctors and nurses there. Several times I have prayed with different ones as they struggled with things in their own lives. I know about their kids and their husbands and their vacations and more. And they have been caring and professional and compassionate toward me. All but one are young enough to be my child (one could, technically, be a grandchild) and the other is old enough to be a friend. My appreciation for those people there runs deep. Never, ever, ever speak poorly of nurses to me.

    So, why am I telling you all this? Two reasons. Although you have known I was having issues, (hard to hide it) only a couple have known the extent of my illness. No doubt some have been disappointed in me as I have at times failed to be a good pastor. I have missed very little time in the pulpit, but being a pastor is so much more. This period of time will always be my greatest regret of my ministry. I still have a road to travel. I do, however, so appreciate the compassion you have shown to me.

    The second reason I am telling you this is because, today for the first time in four years, there are no wraps on my legs. The doc did tell me that I was a high risk to return, but today I was released from the Wound Care Center. And now I know the drill, I know what I have to do to be healthy and I plan on stopping in a time or two to visit the crew at the Center, but I am done with the Wound Care Center at this time.

    I hope I haven't bored you, but you are my friends. I wanted you to know what is going on. I wanted to share with you my great blessing.

    Joy to you.  

     

                                                                                                                                   

        

      Sometimes I don't see things quite right. I am thinking that this is one of those times. I mean, what I read could not possibly be true. At least, I don't think so. Let me tell you what I think I read and then you can get hold of me and let me know how wrong I am.

     The way I understand this, in Illinois, as of January 1, 2023, there will be no more bail allowed to be posted for someone who has committed a criminal offense. Normally, this would indicate a problem with the bail system over there. I would have no idea what that problem might be, but for some reason they are eliminating the bail system.

    You would think that this would lead to massive overcrowding in the city and county jails, but the folks in the Illinois statehouse have that figured out. Now, this is where I must be totally wrong, because this could not be. But it seems that what I read is this; the really big crimes, like premeditated murder, would not have bail anyway. But to do away with the bail system, the elected officials that make the laws there have designated twelve non-detainable offenses. If you are arrested for one of these offenses, you are processed, given a court date and then released until that court date. These twelve offenses are; second degree murder, arson, drug induced homicide, robbery, kidnapping, aggravated battery, burglary, intimidation, aggravated driving under the influence, fleeing and eluding, drug offenses and threatening an official. Any offense less than these are already just process and give a court date.

    I know I have read this wrong. There are some serious offenses here. These are not community service types of things. These are the kind of thing that send you to prison. If someone has an altercation with someone and pulls a weapon and kills them, they are given a court date and sent on their way. If a man snatches a girl while he is high on an illegal substance and he intends to molest the child and she struggles and he beats her to death, he would be booked on kidnapping, aggravated battery, second degree murder, drug induced homicide and intimidation. He would be taken in, have his picture taken, given a court date, sign his name promising to appear and then walk out and get into the same van he used to snatch the girl and then drive far, far away. 

    I know some would say it is just Illinois. It isn't here. That is not the point. California and New York will quickly go the same way because they will be embarrassed Illinois beat them to it. But even that is not the point. Our society is changing. It is becoming more and more corrupt. 

    2 Timothy 3:1-4 says this, But understand this, that in the last days there will come times of difficulty. For people will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, heartless, unappeasable, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not loving good, treacherous, reckless, swollen with conceit, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God, 

    I believe we have arrived at the last days. It is time to pray.  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

        My father, nor, for that matter, my friends' fathers, had much use for imagination. WWII took care of that notion. Tom Brokaw called them the 'Greatest Generation," and I would agree with that judgment. But the price was high. War had taught them that there was a job to do, and the job was right in front of you. Your weapon, your orders and your superiors. Imagination could get you killed. Stick with the proper military order of things and you at least had a chance of living. You were either headed for Berlin or Tokyo. That was it.

        I, on the other hand, had a great imagination. Give me a book and I was one of the characters. When we played backyard football, I was Jim Brown. I could put myself into any situation. My friends and I played army (with toy guns and we were killing the enemy, but none of us grew up to be mass murderers), we played cowboys and Indians, which would be very politically incorrect now. Get this; my sisters played with dolls, my sisters wore dresses or skirts, fussed with their hair and talked late in their room about boys. My friend's sister had an Easy Bake Oven, with which she made small cakes and brownies and with which she nearly burned their house down. A different time that created pretty good men and women. Men and women who do not need to go into panic rooms so they can scream out their anguish if their political god loses and election.

        But back to imagination and my father. He didn't like me laying on my bed upstairs reading a book. He wanted me downstairs watching Gunsmoke or Rawhide or Have Gun, Will Travel with him. Something that would make me a man. But the book, the story and the imagination took me places I could never go in person.

        What about imagination now? A girl can't play like she is a mother with her dolls. After all, she might grow up to be a father. A boy can't play with a toy gun because he will grow up to be a psychopath. Children don't really know what gender they are, and they are being urged to change their gender to suit their moods. Boys can't play tag with girls because it is sexual abuse and the world caves in on them if a five year old boy gives a five year old girl a quick kiss on the cheek. Imagine the confusion that is clouding their little minds as they deal with their biological instinct as opposed to what they are being taught. And, most of all, they have less and less imagination. Your imagination is totally politically incorrect.

        Then we look at our own imagination. Around fifty years old, we find that we have spent most of our imagination. Life falls into a rut. Oh, vacations come, and we feel a little excited, the holidays come, and we feel anticipation, we go to see the grandkids do something and we look forward to it. Little sparks of imagination. What are we going to see on vacation? We will see the kids for the holidays! The grandkids are great at whatever they do. But mostly, years of experience with life, age and heartache has taken the imagination right out of us. How do you know when imagination is gone? When you no longer have challenges.

        So, let's look for challenges. Let's stretch our minds. Let's rekindle our imaginations. We are all going to exit this earth one day, but wouldn't you rather go out swinging than slumped in the dugout?

        Imagination, that is, our dream for betterment, is a Spiritual thing. Speaking of the last days, Joel made this prophesy in the Book of Joel 2:28, "And it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh; your sons and daughters shall prophesy, your old men will dream dreams and your young men will see visions." 

        There is a place for imagination, now more than ever.  

        The fact is, I hate vacations. Always have. Even as a youngster. Please don't be offended by this, but to me they are a complete waste of time. I took a week off back in 2019 and it was awful. In 2020 we had the pandemic and there was so much to do as we learned how to do the videos and then worked on recovery from the pandemic. No vacation, and I felt I had dodged the bullet. 2021 I managed to miss three Sundays due to illness and I didn't take a vacation then, either. I just counted those three Sundays as vacation time. In fact, the week in the hospital in July 2021 was much more relaxing than the week of vacation in 2019. So, since that week in 2019, I hadn't really taken a vacation. I had slipped away for a day or two. In January 2020 I took three days during the week and went to Pittsburgh to do the funeral of my foster daughter's husband, then I took a couple of days to see a sick friend in the hospital in Cleveland and a couple of weeks later took two days and go and do his funeral, and I took a couple of days to go see my month old grandbaby. But vacations are the pits.

     My son also hates vacations, and for the same reason I do. A waste of times. However, his work insists he take a vacation. I have gotten some flak in the church about not taking time (I think people just want to be rid of me for a short while). So, when my son called me and told me he had a week off the first full week of September and he was going to come here, I told him no, I would take a week off and go there. After agreeing once again that vacations are terrible, we hung up. I cleared the week with the Board, and then I waited.

    Finally the day came. No excitement here. Load the car, slip on the sunglasses and off I go. Arrive at my motel room. Dump the load in my car and head over to my son's place. It was nice to drive in the town where I ministered the longest and where my son grew up, but there were important things to do back in Urbana. That is where I minister now and where life is important. I pulled into my son's drive and he came out to help me up the steps (young twit acts like I am old). In the house I walked into a room where my granddaughter was sitting and playing. Nine months old. I hadn't seen her since she was a month old, which is a literal life time for her. She looked up at me. I expected her to draw back. She didn't know me. She has the biggest blue eyes ever, and she fixed those eyes on me. Her face lit up in a smile and she reached up to be held. Once in my arms her little face got close to mine, always smiling. I really felt she was happy to see me again.

    Best vacation ever.

    I spent time with my son, had some talks with my daughter-in-law, Marsha was there and we talked. But Kiri was the fun part. She smiled every time I saw her. I held her, I talked to her, I let her rearrange my face. I actually felt bad when I drove away. But I felt good, too. Amazing what a little girl can do for your mindset. 

    I know my health has kept me from being the Pastor I should be. It is so frustrating to not just get up and go and do. But, I have a granddaughter who apparently thinks I am pretty cool. I don't trust myself to reach down and pick her up, but she doesn't care. I am her Grandpa Indy and I am pretty neat.

    Best vacation ever.