Begorrah! Tis March the 17^th, 2017. St. Patty’s Day!

          Which to me, being Irish, is all rather silly.

          St. Patrick’s Day, like so many religious holidays that have oozed up within the Catholic Church, has become something totally different than what it was intended to be. Christmas has people exchanging gifts and drinking rather than really focusing on the birth of Christ. Fat Tuesday has people involved in debauchery rather than preparing mind and soul for the Lenten season. Easter has the giving and consumption of candy and the eating of a great ham to somehow commemorate the Resurrection of Jesus, who never would have eaten a ham. St. Valentine’s Day has people buying diamonds and chocolates and flowers and cards to honor a man for whom nothing is really known, except that he died for his faith in Christ. And St. Patrick’s Day, a day to participate in the drinking of green beer, parades and being involved in the drunken pub crawls, is to remember the man who brought the Gospel of Jesus Christ to Ireland.

          Patrick didn’t have an easy life. Stolen as a boy, he spent six years in slavery. As a man with a calling to share the Gospel to the Irish people, he battled paganism on every side. While he lived, Patrick was a hated figure. He was trying to lead people away from what they thought to be truth. His life was under threat at all times. His selflessness as a man who loved a people who hated him eventually began to allow him to accomplish his life’s work. Hardly seems fitting that such a man is remembered in the way he is remembered.

          Not that I didn’t try to use St. Patrick’s Day to my own benefit when I was younger. Before I was married I would say to a pretty girl on St. Patrick’s Day, “You know, lassie, anyone can be Irish on St. Patty’s Day. But a girl kissed by a true son of the Irish sod is herself Irish for the whole week!” Pretty smooth, right? It never, ever got me kissed. But it was the effort that counted, I suppose. I was young and foolish in a lot of things.

          I don’t drink or brawl or parade for St. Patrick’s Day. And I don’t wear green for St. Patrick’s Day, either. Irish Catholics wore green, Irish Protestants wore orange. I don’t wear orange on St. Patrick’s Day. Doesn’t look good on me.

          But I have thought a lot about Patrick. A fifth century evangelist who gave far more of himself to the service of the Lord than he gave of himself to the Church. A man despised by the people he was reaching out to and still reacting with love and compassion. A man of courage, but one who shunned violence. A great man.

          He died in 461 AD at the age of 76. He never knew anything other than hardship. And now, he walks with Christ. Not because the Catholic Church says so, but because he was a believer in Jesus.

          Doesn’t seem right to knock back a brewski in remembrance of such a man, does it?   

          Some background to set this particular story up.

          At one time, I was a member of the American Association of Christian Counselors. This was a national organization of counselors who had to meet certain requirements of education and experience to belong. In our county in Ohio there were only two of us and in the next county over there was only one. Consequently, other pastors would occasionally call me and ask me if I would meet with someone in their church. This got to be such an occurrence and took so much of my time that our Elders finally asked me to not take any more people from other churches. I agreed. It was taking a lot of my time away from my own ministry.

          In our small town, we had an Episcopal church. The priest there was a woman whose first name was Anne. The custom in the Episcopal church is to call their priests ‘Father.’  Anne insisted on being called Father Anne. I just called her Annie. Anne had been married three times and had come away from the experience pretty much hating all men. Her dog’s name was Bock, which was a combination of Bob and Chuck, husbands number one and two. She said it was fitting since they were real dogs. She had bought a hamster just so she could name it William, for husband number three, whom she said was a rodent. The first time we met she chewed me out for being male and for hating her for being a woman minister. I told her that I didn’t hate her for any reason. I told her that the only yardstick I had for was that she be a good pastor for one of the churches in my community. After that, for whatever reason, I was her good buddy.

          That’s the background. One day in February 2002, Annie called me. She had a married couple in her church who were headed for divorce. She had been counseling them and clearly saw the handwriting on the way. The husband was seriously at fault, a regular brute, and there was just no way this poor, defenseless wife could continue to be married to him. But, to do due diligence, would I be willing to meet with them. I agreed and set up a time with the wife first.

          Based on description, I expected Stella to be a defeated, weary woman. What I got was a fiery, belligerent woman who was on her way to hating all men. She was a tiny woman but was filled with venom. I could clearly see evidence of Annie’s counseling efforts. But, the story she told was interesting. Her husband was all business. He had been on a business trip to Los Angeles and had been gone a week when Stella got sick. She had been going along just fine until one evening she passed out at her Mom and Dad’s house. They rushed to the hospital and found she had an infection. She went into a coma for two days. At 9 AM the next morning her father called her husband. I asked why the delay and she said that her Dad said that everything was so chaotic that he actually forgot to call till then. But her husband didn’t bother coming home for four more days. She woke from her coma terrified and her husband wasn’t there.  

          There are two sides to every story, but this story seemed pretty cut and dried. Regardless of the business deal, you would think that if a man loved his wife he would have gotten on a plane and come home. Still, I would meet with George in a few days and get his side.

          When George walked in I expected, by Annie’s description, to see an arrogant bully of a man who had no respect for anyone but himself. What I got was what I had assumed Stella would be. Weary, beaten, confused. Tears in his eyes. He sat down and started to tell me his side. After he got to the phone call from his father-in-law I interrupted and asked why he hadn’t gotten a flight home. He looked at me with a puzzled look. “You don’t know what day I got that phone call?” No, I replied. “Her father called me at 6 AM LA time on September 11, 2001.” Right at the moment the first plane was flying into the World Trade Center. I called the airline and booked the first plane to Cleveland. We were ready to board when they announced that every private and commercial plane in the country was grounded. Rail was halted for a few days, too. I rented a car and drove straight back, catching an hour or two of sleep at a time at rest areas. I just couldn’t get home.”

          So, that was the other side of the story and that changed everything. When next I talked to Stella she told me that Father Anne told her that George was very resourceful and could have gotten home if he had wanted to have gotten home.

          The moral to this story is that sometimes we can become so blinded by our own perceptions that we fail to see the whole picture. We can be convinced of something, really believe it is God’s will, and still fail to see the other side. We may feel totally right about something, but while what we feel may be eight, there may also be multiple ways of achieving the goal. When we close our minds to any other concept, we have lost.

          Just so you know, last I heard from them, George and Stella were living in Atlanta where George had taken a good job with no travel. They are happier than they have ever been in their lives. Their experience with Father Anne drove them away from the Episcopal church and they are happy members of a Baptist church just outside of Atlanta. Once Stella allowed herself to see the predicament George had been in and once George understood the terror Stella had felt when she woke from a coma, the rest was easy. And, believe it or not, Father Anne was angry at me for not counseling divorce.

          Feel with your heart, act with your mind.

          There is going to be an interruption in getting this blog out. I am not sure when that will begin because I am still waiting for a call from my doctor. But the interruption is coming and will last at least two weeks. One must do what one must do. After the interruption, I will be changing some things in my life, one of which I will be avoiding fried foods. As the years have gone by we have gotten further and further away from fried anything. It is kind of a rarity now to have fried meat. But, as I think back to my childhood, everything was fried and everything tasted great.

          My mother was from Kentucky and was a true genius when it came to making fried chicken. I asked her once how she did it and she sang a little song. The tune and words were quite unique.

Take a chicken and kill it

And put it in the skillet

And fry till its golden brown.

That’s southern cookin’

And its mighty fine.

 

Take a K and an E and a N

And a T and a U and a CKY,

That spells Kentucky (eee-haw!)

But it means Paradise

          I suppose there was more to the recipe than that, but I didn’t really care. All I wanted to be sure of was that a golden country fried chicken leg graced my plate every Sunday afternoon. Life was good so long as visions of skillet fried hens danced in my head.

          Then, I got married. Marsha, the city girl, had little knowledge of anything kitchen related. Not surprising, considering her mother was a genuine kitchen hazard. We were pretty safe with grilled cheese sandwiches and we were on solid ground with boiled hot dogs, but beyond that it was a bit dicey. Understand, she is a great cook now. It is hard to believe that it is the same woman who, when first married, thought ’city chicken’ was actually chicken. (For those who don’t know, city chicken is actually small chunks meat, usually pork, that have been either molded into the shape of a chicken leg or held together with a wooden skewer, and then fried. Popular in the so-called Rust Belt, it dates back to the Depression era.)

          Marsha knew my love of fried chicken and she was determined to make my favorite dish for me.

          We had been married for two weeks and were living in Chattanooga, Tennessee where I was in college. I was working midnights in a textile plant across the state-line in Georgia, so it was home from work at 7:30 AM, first class at 8:00 AM, home by 2:00 PM, to bed by 5:00 PM (after a few hours of study) and up and getting ready for work at 9:30 PM. My shift started at 11:00 PM. I normally ate my supper around 10:00 PM.

          We had been to the grocery store for the first time, which is always a milestone in every young married couple’s life. Trying to act grown up. Staying within your budget, looking for deals but not really not knowing what to buy. It is sweet and memorable. But my wife did know that she wanted to purchase a chicken to fry.

          And she did purchase that chicken. She promised me that on the following Monday night I would dine on authentic southern fried chicken.

          On the appointed night, I awoke to the smell of, well, something really bad. Almost as if you had cooked that skunk you found lying on the street. I sat on the edge of the bed and wondered what it was I was smelling. My wife was bustling around in the kitchen humming the tune to the Kentucky chicken song I mentioned above. There was no way I was smelling fried chicken, but it was coming from the kitchen, so what else could it be?

          It was, indeed, the chicken. It was just coming out of the pan as I walked into the kitchen. What a knock-you-off-your-feet smell. But the wife was beaming with pride as she set it down on the table.

          Actually, it looked alright. Maybe a little over done, though still recognizable as chicken. But it was certainly lighting up my sinuses.

          “Mmmmmmm. Baby, that smells good!” Lying never came easy for me, but Marsha didn’t seem to notice. 

          We sat down to eat and I said grace. I seriously wondered if God would consider it blasphemy to say grace over something that smelled so rank, but I prayed anyway. After praying I helped myself to lumpy mashed potatoes, corn, peas and three pieces of that finger-licken’ good chicken. Marsha, on the other hand, shied away from the chicken. She didn’t like poultry to begin with, so I said nothing about that at the time.

          I ate with gusto. What else are you going to do? Married less than two weeks, the wife going to a lot of trouble, her pretty eyes on me to see if I was enjoying. Even though it tasted like it smelled, I shoveled it away like a starving man.

          “How is it, honey? As good as your mom‘s?” Such a sweet voice! Such a sweet face! The love of my life!

          “Sweetheart, I’ll guarantee you that my mother never made chicken that tasted like this.” Of course, that was not a lie. Since I was saying it while I was chewing a piece of chicken and acting like I was really enjoying it, she took it to mean it was better than mom’s.

          Later, when I had to leave work and go to the hospital with food poisoning, I found out what had happened. The chicken was actually spoiled. It came from the store like that.  Marsha said that when she opened the package the smell made her gag. But she assumed that all Tennessee chicken smelled that way.

          Sweet memories! 

          Everyone likes the idea of angels. Heavenly beings, flitting around, watching over us. There have been TV shows about angels. These shows didn’t talk about Christ not did they mention God very much, but they were all about angels. You can collect them, wear angel pins, read books about angels, and watch movies about angels. It seems that they are everywhere these days. Lots of money is made in the business of angels. The thought of these heavenly creatures give us comfort and peace. It is too bad that the world’s current understanding of angels is largely not Biblical.

          For instance, not all angels have wings. In fact, in Scripture wings are the exception rather than the rule. Most of the angels we see in Scripture are wingless. Often the angels are mistaken to be human. The idea of flaming angelic swords held by soaring creatures bathed in heavenly light is mostly false.

          Actual angels are beings that can eat, walk, speak, sing and do all the things you and I can do. Of course, they can also do much more than we can do. They can appear and disappear, they can influence our actions and they can come into the physical presence of the Lord.

          The purpose of angels seems to be to give praise to God and to act as messengers between God and men. The word actually means “messenger,” although the way of delivering messages may be varied.

          The Bible tells us to be careful how we treat strangers because we may actually be dealing with angels. Maybe you meet someone who touches your life in some special way. While you are in contact with that person you never witness them in the act of sin, but that doesn’t even occur to you till later. They may seem to have some sort of wisdom that is beyond yours, but there is no arrogance in that wisdom. Or, it may be just a quick contact that you never think of again.

          That kind of a visitation may have occurred in my life. I cannot recall a time when I dealt with somebody who had that unusual wisdom and who really touched me, yet was only in my life for a very short while. I have had, however, momentary encounters with people that have left me uplifted but strangely baffled.

          One such event occurred while living in Miami, Florida. One very hot day I drove through the drive-up at a fast food restaurant and got my meal. A large mall was nearby so I drove over to park in their parking lot and eat while I read. It was a huge parking lot and, at noon on a Tuesday, was mostly empty. I found a spot that seemed to be a half mile from the nearest car and parked my pick-up. I left it running with the windows up so I could keep the air conditioner on and then settled back to read my book and enjoy my burger and fries. 

          I had read every bit of two paragraphs when there was a sharp rap at my window. It startled me so much that I started to yell at the person who had ruined my solitude. However, when I turned to see who it was I was met by the steady gaze of a wizened up little old man dressed in a heavy coat and looking like he needed a shave and a good meal. He looked like many of Miami’s homeless. The heavy coat was to store all their earthly belongings and to provide padding when they lay down at night. It is a sad story that is repeated over and over in America’s cities.

          Anyway, I rolled the window down and asked the gentleman what it was he wanted. All he wanted, he said, was a dollar so he could go back to the same fast food place I had been at and get a coffee and some fries. (This was a long time ago, if a dollar could buy coffee and fries.) I felt bad for him, so I gave him a five dollar bill and told him to get a meal. At that time he could eat Two meals on that five dollars. He thanked me several times and held the bill up like it was prize. He smiled a big, toothless smile, said thank you again and set off in the general direction of the restaurant.

          I had just rolled my window up when I thought about the long walk to the restaurant. It was a long, long way to the next car. The fast food restaurant was even further. There was absolutely nothing around, not even a tree, for a long distance. The old guy would have to walk a pretty good piece under a brutal sun dressed in a heavy coat. Giving him a ride and getting back to my spot would take all of about five minutes. I jumped out of the truck to call to the man and tell him I would run him over to get something to eat.

          He was gone. He hadn’t had the time to get much farther than my tailgate, but he was gone. It was just as though he had never existed. I looked in the bed of the truck to see if he had crawled in there. I dropped to my belly and looked under the truck to see if he had fallen and rolled under. I jumped into the bed of the truck for a higher view and looked around. Nothing. He was gone.

          There was no where he could have gone, but he was most definitely gone. I even pulled my money out of my wallet to see if I was five dollars short. (That may sound weird to you, but I am one of those people who knows how much money I have at all times and all of it faces the same way. The twenties come first followed by the tens and fives and ones. Come to think of it, that sounds weird to me.) I was short the five dollars, so I knew I had given it to the man. Everything had happened just as I remembered it, only now the man was gone.

          I have told that story many times and someone always has an explanation. Alien abduction is my favorite. Some have said that I fell asleep and didn’t realize it. Others say that we all lose track of time occasionally. But I was there and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was just an instant. So where did he go?

          Home, I suppose. I think he just went home.

          Blessings to you all.

          Before continuing the ministerial auto saga, I have to stop and answer a question that was put to me. Why did we drive such heaps? The answer was, we drove what we could afford. During all this time I was in school of one type or another. For some of it, Marsha was in school, too. Also, I was in ministry and the ministry is a much lower paying profession than most people realize. They see the big televangelists on TV and assume we are all like that. Big homes, fancy cars, nice clothes. That is not how it is at all. In those early years it was far more important to me that my wife and son have the things they needed rather than me having a nice ride. Besides, I had my trusty tool box.

         A ‘69 Nova followed the Honda Civic. This was in 1983. As I said, I drove what I could afford. The Nova stands out in one important way. Some of the teeth were broken off the flywheel, so on occasion when I turned it off the flywheel teeth and the starter drive would not sync up. When that happened I would have to get the crowbar and crawl under the thing and pry on the flywheel until the teeth lined up. I hated that car. Next, in ’84, came a ‘72 Torino wagon, which was actually given to me in exchange for working on a fellow student’s VW 412. (This particular student had been paying me in rabbits. He would call me and tell me his VW was ailing and I would go wherever he was and get it running. Within a day or two there would be a couple of dressed out rabbits ready for the pot when I got home. Finally, I went way out in the countryside to fix his VW. The next day I came home to find the Torino.) His name is Ray and Ray reads this blog sometimes. Hey, Ray.

          In 1985 we bought a 1981 Ford Escort, which was one of our great cars. From 1985 through 1987 we drove that car well over 100,000 miles. In 1987 we bought a ’73 Pinto for $50 as a second car. Within a week the Escort threw a rod and we were left with the Pinto. That was fun.

          Shortly thereafter, still in ‘87, we bought a Mercury Bobcat. We were back to two cars. Until the Merc threw a rod less than a month after we bought it. The Pinto held up until the very first day at our new church. I was the new pastor and I wanted to make a good impression. I wore my best suit that first Sunday and my wife wore her sharpest outfit. She had our six year old son looking like a little preacher himself. Everything was great as we neared the church. Then, just as we turned into the church driveway the Pinto’s engine seized up. Something let go and oil spewed all over the exhaust system. Two of our deacons were standing outside the door of our new church to welcome us and we rolled into the drive in a cloud of blue smoke with an engine that was making banging noises. The car stalled and we coasted to the pastor’s parking spot in a cloud of smoke. All three of us bailed out of the car gagging and hacking with eyes watering. I sure made an impression.

          I needed another car quick and the only thing I could find in my budget was a 1979 Mercury Capri. Cost me $150, and I got what I paid for. It had been in an accident and while at the impound lot someone had removed the stereo with a crowbar. The accident had been on the passenger side so the passenger door wouldn't open. Since it was just a two door, that meant only the driver's door opened and we all had to climb through it. Adam, our son, first, climbing over the seats to the back, then Marsha, climbing over the gear shift, then me. It was 1988 and I thought I could have nothing worse than the Capri. Then I bought a ‘78 Chevy Chevette. Never, ever think it cannot get worse. I bought that car from my sister for $80, and with that she was ripping me off. The floor on the driver's side rusted out and I had to hold my feet up while I drove or they would drag the road. At stop signs or red lights I would take the opportunity to put my feet on the roadway to rest. It was a miserable ride in the rain or snow because anything on the road wound up in my lap.

          In 1989 things began to look up. We came into possession of a 1985 Gran Fury. I loved that car. We drove it 182,000 miles and enjoyed almost every mile. As a second car we bought a 1976 Mercury Comet. Very low mileage and also a very good car. It had a big V-8 in a very small engine compartment. It also had a racing cam and it would FLY! We were set for vehicles until 1995 when we had to let the Fury go. We bought a 1993 Geo Metro, at that time the smallest car sold in the USA. It had a weight limit of 680 pounds. 10 inch wheels. The doughnut spare was larger than the regular tires. Every time you got in you felt like you were strapping on a coffin. But, it got 54 miles per gallon. Our son was soon to be 16 and he had plans for the Comet that could FLY! So I sold it and bought another Ford Escort. Two cars great on gas. This got us through till 1998 when both cars died at the same time. Out of desperation we bought a 1991 Subaru. That’s when I found out what desperation really was. In March of 2000 we traded the subaru in on our first new car ever, a Hyundai Accent. Since then our automotive life has been much more normal. I have decided I don't like working on my junk just so I can drive to the hospital in the morning to be with a family. It really is nice to to just go out and start the car and go.

          Before I begin with this edition of my blog, I would like to apologize for not putting out a posting this past Friday. I was busy most of them day with some personal medical issues and the blog had to go on the back burner. Hopefully I will now be back to three times a week. Also, I again would invite you to visit the blog of Mrs. Mary Earle. The address is http://mary-marysmoments.blogspot.com/

          And finally, there is a place at the bottom of the blog for comments but it asks you to submit a profile. If you would like to say something to me my e-mail is oldirishguy51@yahoo.com In case you wondered, I am an old Irish guy and I started using that e-mail waaaayyyy back when I was 51. On to today’s post.

          My favorite professor of all time told us that our two most important tools in our ministry would be our personal libraries and our vehicles. The books to give us information and the vehicles to get us to where we can do ministry. Over the years, my library was always worth way more than whatever vehicle I was driving. I needed the information in the books. The vehicles I could keep running one way or another.

          Many of my ministry memories include various cars. I have consumed countless cups of coffee driving to hospitals or nursing homes or wherever. I have become an artist at the task of driving a manual shift while digging a cheese burger out of a McDonalds’ bag. My cars have been rolling offices, almost as cluttered as the desk in my office. They have been my refuge at times, my place of prayer, the place I have put together sermons in my mind. I have pulled over and slept in my car and, on a few occasions, fallen asleep before I pulled over. For all the tens of thousands of miles I have driven I have gotten very few tickets, although that has been mostly good fortune. Like most pastors, I have never made a lot of money. Because of this I have had a series of cars that already had their best years behind them when I took ownership. Every once in a while, I got a car that actually had a working radio. Most leaked, either coolant or oil, usually both. Sometimes they leaked gas, too. Hoses and belts were normally well rotted by the time I started in on the car. For years, I drove on Maygo tires, as in ‘may go at any time.’ I thought ‘Fix-a-Flat’ was a great invention. I became very good at jerry-rigging exhaust systems, by-passing heater cores, patching leaky hoses and all the rest of the things you must do to keep a heap no one else would think about driving on the road. All have left a memory. Some are special memories. And they all had a name. Every car or van I have ever owned has been named Betsy. For no good reason. But, every time I get into my car and put the key in, I think to myself, “Come on, Betsy. Start!”

          I think that over the next few blogs I would like to list these partners in ministry. I do this so that one day, when the exhaust fumes reach the critical level in my brain and my memory fades, there will be a record.

          Our ministry, and our marriage, started in 1975. I had a 1967 Impala at the beginning of that year, but it died from rust poisoning. It was followed by a ‘69 Maverick. We traded that for a ‘62 Volkswagen van. (Yes, I know. I was a real wheeler-dealer. Thought I was, anyway.) The clutch was nearly burned out when I got it and we finally had to park it till I could get the part. While parked, someone helped themselves to it. It was followed by a ‘67 Buick wagon. All that was in 1975. In 1976 we had a ‘66 VW Beetle that threw a rod, a ‘62 Rambler that did what Ramblers did back then, which means it died, a ‘66 Ford Fairlane, a ‘64 Biscayne and, finally, a ‘73 Vega. Of all those cars, most would think that the Vega was the worst. But it took us 120,000 miles in three years, so it was actually a great deal. The only problem we ever had with it was I broke the wiper arm off trying to get the frozen wiper blade off the frozen windshield. After that I would simply drive down the road with my left arm out the window holding the wiper arm and manually wipe my windshield. Sometimes you have to improvise. The 66 Fairlane also deserves a quick mention. We were living in Tennessee at the time. I bought the car for $100 and it ran pretty well. Except I had to fill it up every 60 miles or so. I couldn’t figure it out. The gauge always said FULL and I would rap on the tank and it was always full, but I was left stranded a number of times. Finally, I got a fellow in our church to look at it. There was nothing wrong with the car, but the gas tank had been sectioned off. I was only able to put 3 gallons of gas in it. The other 15 gallons was moonshine. It had been a car used to transport moonshine and they used the gas tank to fool the police. It still had a load of ‘shine in it.

          In ‘78 we bought a ‘69 Impala. Just in time, too, because the Vega’s engine was finally packing it in. As a second car we purchased a 1968 Ford LTD that was immaculate on the inside and unbelievably battered on the outside. It looked like it had been one of those cars used in a charity sledge hammer beating. We went to a movie one night and were stopped five times by various police agencies. They would search the car and then send us on our way. None of the officers would answer my question of why we were being stopped until the last fellow. He told me a car fitting the LTD’s description had been involved in a robbery/shooting. I stared at him and said, “A car fitting this thing’s description?“ He laughed and said that yes, there was evidently another car just like it somewhere. They finally caught the criminals. They were drug addicts. To drive a car like that you either had to be addicted to drugs or incredibly broke.

          In ‘79 we bought a ‘71 Ford Pinto. That was in the years that they were called rolling bombs because of the location of the gas tank. After that, also in ‘79, we bought another Vega, this one a ‘74. It was one of the worst cars I ever had. It does have one memory, though. We lived in Florida and a hurricane blew in. The storm surge ran sea water way up our river and for days after people were catching sea creatures in the Miami river. I was driving somewhere one night and ran over a sea turtle on the highway. The thing was almost as big as my Vega and nearly flipped the car. The turtle died. Personally, I would have rather the turtle lived and Vega died.

          After the Vega, in 1980, we bought a 1973 Ford van. It looked great, being Florida and all, but it was a delivery van and only had one seat in it and no carpet. I wanted to take our church Youth group somewhere in it, so I told them all to bring lawn chairs. Some people think I am wise and thoughtful now, but that is only because I made my really stupid mistakes decades ago. I got all those kids in the van and started out. The first stop sign I came to they all started sliding in their lawn chairs and wound up crunched up against the dashboard.

          After the van came a series of company cars, which I had access to because I was a bi-vocational minister and my secular job was running an auto parts store. That ended with the purchase of a ‘71 Nova in 1982, just before we returned to school. Great car, that Nova. Until it broke. Literally. Broke in half just behind the front seat. Another story for another time. After that was a 1975 Honda Civic, which was an okay car. The only two problems the Civic had was that it had a bad starter and had to be pushed to start. (manual transmission) I did get a starter to put into it, but my hands were too big to get into the place they needed to get into. We were living out in the boondocks of Florida and I could not find anyone who would put the thing in for me. (“Don’t work on none of them rice burners, preacher boy. Get yerself a ’Merican set of wheels and Ah’ll hep ya out.”) The other thing was that the driver side door was hanging by just one hinge. You had to lift the whole door to shut it. That was really hard when you were by yourself and you had to start it. Since there are no hills in Florida I would have to get out of the car and start pushing it while the transmission was out of gear, left hand holding the door up and on and right hand on the steering wheel. Once I had sufficient speed I would jump into the car, lifting the door into closing position and slamming it shut with my left hand while clutching with my left foot, shifting with my right hand and steering with my right knee. Then, door closed, transmission in second and the car going more or less in a straight line, I would pop the clutch. Sometimes it would start, sometimes it wouldn’t. If it didn’t I would do it all over again.

          I am going to end this for today, I think. Hopefully, I will continue with this narrative in a few days. There was, however, one thing all these cars had in common; I kept a tool box in the trunk. Yes, sweet memories.

          I was in a pastors’ meeting once and one young pastor was complaining bitterly about the people in his church. Backstabbers, hypocrites, gossipers, just plain evil. He wrapped his tirade up by saying, “I wish I could have a church with no people in it!” To which an older pastor said, “With that attitude you’ll have that church in no time!” It got a big laugh, but there was truth, too. You cannot have a ministry without you have people to minister too. Where people are involved you will have some interesting moments. Some will leave memories you would rather not have.

In one church where I served as music/youth/assistant pastor, a drunken lady came to the Sunday evening service. Just as the pastor was about to begin his message she jumped up and announced she had a song to sing. She started toward the pulpit and I stood to head her off, but the pastor signaled me to be seated and he let her come up to sing. All the time she was walking to the front she was rolling the front of her dress up into her belt until, by the time she got to the pulpit, she had a knee length dress on in the back and a mini-dress on in the front. Then she launched into something called "Walk Around My Bedpost, Jesus," which I am not even sure is a real song. There is a song called “Walk Around Me, Jesus” and the chorus contains the words “Walk around my bedside.” This could have been the song, but she was so drunk it was hard to tell. (There is a YouTube video presented by a lady who is not drunk and can sing, if you would like to hear it. Go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bfnEKEmKDmY Enjoy.) No musical accompaniment at all, just her raspy, slurred voice. When she had finished, she stumbled back to her seat. By that time, I had figured out that it was all a lesson of some type cooked up by the pastor, but he never commented on the song or anything. He just got up and preached as though that had been the special music. I asked him later if there had been a point to all of that, but he refused to talk about it other than to say that if someone had something from the Lord to bring you shouldn’t stop it. I guess my faith is weak because I was never able to see the Lord’s hand that time.

Titus 2:14 in the King James Version reads; Who gave Himself for us, that He might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto Himself a peculiar people, zealous of good works.  The key word is ‘peculiar.’ It is a word only used the one time in Scripture and means that something belongs to someone and no one else. It is an archaic definition that is rarely used anymore, although it was in literature as late as a hundred years ago. The NIV says Who gave himself for us to redeem us from all wickedness and to purify for himself a people that are his very own, eager to do what is good. This is, of course, easier to understand in our context today, but I prefer the King James, simply because I think we are all a little peculiar.

 I was the interim pastor of a small church in the mountains of Tennessee. A particular Sunday came and we had six visitors. That was kind of a big deal, except that they were a radio ministry group that visited a different church every Sunday. The one fellow, Brother Bob, did the preaching and sang lead in the Gospel singing part. His wife played the piano, two brothers played guitar and two others sang back up and provided the ‘Amens’ to the preaching. They had a half hour every Sunday afternoon at 2:00 PM on the local radio station. They were the stars of the Sunday religious programming in the area. I knew Brother Bob quite well. In that little town he was like a rock star. For whatever reason, he had taken a liking to me and treated me like I was gold.

          This Sunday he wanted me to come and sit in on their live program down at the station. I agreed, figuring it would be part of my education.  

          I got to the station at about ten minutes to two. I was looking forward to this because I had never witnessed a live broadcast before. I went in, shook hands and took a seat next to the wall in the small studio. The announcer proclaimed the name of the show to the listeners and cued Brother Bob. They threw themselves into their opening song, “I’ll Fly Away,” with great gusto. As they ended there were shouts of ‘Amen’ and ‘Glory.’ Brother Bob stepped up to the mic.

          “Brothers and Sisters in Christ, it is a great blessing today that we can gather together around our radios and listen to the Word of God. Right now the Holy Ghost is moving on me, so we are just going to go into prayer as the Spirit leads.” With that, he and everyone else in the group dropped to their knees and began to pray. Fervently. Mightily. Silently. The one thing that radio types hate more than anything else is dead air. All of a sudden, and for the immediate future, the air was dead. To the folks at home it sounded like the station was off the air. Not good for business.

          The engineer/producer/announcer looked up in alarm. He began to frantically tap on the glass window separating his booth with the studio. I looked up and he began pointing wildly to the microphone. Realizing he needed something, I stepped up to the microphone. What should I say?

          “Well, good afternoon folks. My name is Pastor Larry Wade. While Brother Bob and the good folks here are praying, I thought I might invite you to the services at our church....” I went on like this for a couple of minutes. I invited them to our church, I invited them to their own churches, and I invited them to listen to Brother Bob every Sunday at 2:00. It was near the 4th of July, so I invited them to the fireworks show. While I was doing this, I slowed my speech pattern way down. I really wanted Brother Bob to sign off from God and get back to the mic, but to no avail. Finally, with nothing else to invite them to and with no sign that the fervent, mighty and silent prayer was going to let up, I sang every verse of “Amazing Grace” without any musical help whatsoever. Halfway through the last verse they started winding up their prayers. Shouts of ‘Amen’ and ‘Glory’ once again filled the air. They joined me on the last line and then they went on with their program.

          That ended my radio career, despite the fact that Marsha once told me I had a good face for radio. I never even drove by the station again. However, everyone in town thought it was a great show.

          The very essence of ministry is people and people can be peculiar. That makes ministry sometimes very strange. But where else can you get such entertainment for free?