LOVE FIRST…LOVE MOST

Christmas time can create or invoke precious memories. I can still hear my dad repeatedly singing “White Christmas” to my new baby brother. I even remarked that I thought the little bundle who interrupted my monopoly on Christmas gifts might be getting tired of hearing that song.

Christmas is a special time of the year. However, it invokes a wide spectrum of emotional responses from great joy to deep depression, festive celebration to family chaos, heartfelt love to heartbroken loneliness, compassionate generosity to commercialistic greed.

This Christmas Memory was written in 1974 by my mom as therapy for a lonely heart. I share it with you to spark good Christmas memories for your heart in times of loneliness or family chaos.

CHRISTMAS MEMORIES   l974

Christmas commercialized?  Never!  Never!  Never!  Some may call it that; but God forbid that my husband, children, future grandchildren, and I lose the heritage so lovingly passed on by Mom and Dad.

My earliest memories of Christmas were in a large rambling two-story white house sitting on a small hillside about threequarters of a mile from Peabody Mining Camp called Superior Smokeless Coal and Mining Company, Mine #29.  The post office was named Tahona.

We grew up on this small farm at the edge of town with the idea that we were someone special.  No, we weren’t taught snobbery.  We were taught to use the God-given intelligence and physical stature to get ahead in life through education and hard work. 

Never were we taught that anyone owed us anything but an opportunity.  Neither were we ever told this would make us lots of money.  Money was seldom the central issue. 

There seemed to be enough for our necessities, some for our dreams, and a little for the frivolous things in our lives.  Dad worked seven days a week to provide this setting while Mom worked seven days a week guiding us to goal-setting that we hardly realized were being set.

Consequently, uppermost in the plans for the future were more and more education and work experiences.  Even the trials of World War II did not deter these plans.  Strange ideals coming from a coal mining family of self-educated parents.  Few such ideas floated around the environment where almost every other house made home brew and sold it to the next house. 

I guess our house was the buyer–just Dad.  Dad, tired and weary of a l2 to l5 hour shift at the Tipple, relaxed with a bottle or few before winding his way home to face the trials of six kids and an over-worked Mom.  Let it be known that Dad did the drinking for the whole family and before he got home. 

Mom kept many of these secrets hidden from us. If Dad were caught on Christmas Eve drinking from a peculiar-shaped bottle with a peculiar aroma, we were hastily informed it was Dad’s cough medicine.  That satisfied me.  I wanted Dad  healthy for the big Christmas celebration. 

As I have already said, Mom kept many secrets (just like the Christmas secrets) which made life good to us.  We grew up feeling that there was a special magic in the Floyd family blood. 

Grandparents were never a big part of our Christmas.  Grandma and Grandpa Floyd were not around for these celebrations because they had gone on before I can remember.  Grandpa and Grandma Morrison shared many holiday seasons with us.  Somehow, they were not the doting grandparents who heaped gifts upon us or held us in their laps and hugged us tightly.  There was more of a standoffish respect, especially on my part. 

Therefore, I feel the magic must have begun with the mingling of Mom’s and Dad’s blood.  I still feel there was a magic not fully understood, but deeply beloved about our home the year around– but building to a crescendo around Christmas time.  

  

Commercialized?  Yes, Dad bought three tricycles one Christmas because we had not learned that we were not an only child.  Then he had to buy two saddles for the older boys. (I know now these purchases were dearest to his hearts–later he bought all grandchildren cowboy boots–boys and girls. He liked this sort of thing.) 

I think perhaps even Big Sister got a bedroom suite for her room.  Peabody must have had a good year and gave a large bonus that year.

Now, I am more inclined to feel that this, too, was one of those guarded secrets of doing without for a year for one big splurge at Christmas for those you love. This practice continued through Mom’s lifetime. She could not manage money. She had to spend it on someone else. 

I’ve inherited the urge to spend more than I can afford at Christmas.  But I’m willing to work the rest of the year to pay for the joys of giving at Christmas.  This I inherited from Mom.  

Santa was very real to us Floyd Kids–much longer than those who lived in the camp and knew the ways of the world. My elder brothers and sisters were not the kind to belittle such beliefs. It was such a good thing to hold on to that even they were reluctant to let Mom and Dad know their doubts. 

This dedication fostered a special belief in my little brother and me.  

Finally, the day arrived that I could no longer resist asking Mom if there really was a Santa Claus. Now much has been said about the New York Times’ answer to Virginia, but I’m here to tell you that their answer to Virginia was no more legendary or effective as Mom’s answer to me. 

When she finished explaining the magic and spirit of Christmas because of the Christ Child’s putting so much love into this world, the magic Santa was greater than all real Santas who had hither fore peeped through the dining room window to see if all good little boys and girls were in bed. 

No sadness or depression filled my heart. The magic of love had filled the Santa image, and Christmas went on as usual with all the happiness, unselfishness, and love it was meant to have. 

This was the love that prompted Mom to share with the bell ringers on the streets or the paper boy who trudged through the snow to bring news from worldwide. Dad shared his tender love for under-privileged children less fortunate than his own. He would pay their way into movies so they wouldn’t have to miss life’s little goodies.

During the hustle and bustle before Christmas , one Sunday morning, Mom’s oft overworked and strained heart gave way.  All the loving family rushed to her bedside. 

Using her last ounce of strength and devotion, she spoke to each one individually to let each know that she knew we were once more gathered together. Then she slipped into eternity. 

The sorrow and lack of readiness for life without Mom flooded our souls. Although the circle had been broken, thoughts turned immediately to Dad. 

Christmas must go on as usual. It had always been special. Mom would not want it otherwise. No sorrow for the grandchildren.

Finally, as we found courage to enter the once-a-year (Christmas Season) used bedroom, we found gifts sorted and waiting to be wrapped. No, we had no written instructions. Mom was never that organized. 

But somehow, we knew which gift belonged to which child, in-law, or grandchild because of the special love for each of those individuals. There was always enough to go around no matter how large the family grew.

Never had Mom finished her shopping so early. Perhaps as she grew older, she felt she needed more time to get ready for the mob’s invasion. But to get us by our first Christmas without her in body, I like to think that Mom was prepared to provide her special type of Christmas spirit for us as we lovingly opened those gifts on that special Christmas Eve.     

My loved ones, times will change whether we want it to or not. Conditions necessitated our moving the Christmas Eve Party to my house after a year or two when the strain became too great for Dad. 

How we enjoyed the phone calls from those who were unable to attend these get-to-gathers! Now Dad, too, has gone on to meet Mom and have even greater celebrations, but Christmas Eve parties continued.

This Christmas will only memories and mailed gifts bind the remnants of this magical family? No, that is not true.

Santa may not be peeping through the dining room window at brats too excited to go to bed or parents too tired to carry sleepy-eyed toddlers up the stairway so Santa’s finishing touches could be placed under the tree.

But you may rest assured that magic of love will be prevalent in each of the six houses as the Floyd Clan gathers in each respective home for this Season’s celebration.

Love and the proud heritage of having the “blood” will live on through tales told to each generation of what Christmas really means. 

L-O-V-E–for God and man. 

With this thought in our hearts, no way can Christmas be commercialized.  A special mission we Floyd Kids and descendants have on earth is to keep this travesty from happening.

**Written l2/l7/74 as therapy for a lonely heart by Bea Floyd Blankenship.

Merry Christmas and may the Lord bless you with lots of love to share with others.

LOVE FIRST. LOVE MOST.

Create some memories!

WINSDAY WISDOM 237

CAN A GOOD WOMAN CHANGE A MAN?

NO! NOT IF HE IS AN IDIOT!

As we transition from one year to the next, I want to chime in on the age-old question that has been debated since the time of Eve.

Can a good woman change a man?

This is just my opinion. And, of course, I intend to allow my wife to review and edit my opinion before it goes public and embarrasses her.

I am a man. I was born a male and I identify as a male. I have more dirt in and on me than Adam had.

I have counseled many men. I have trained many men. I have coached young men. My best friends are men. I am well-acquainted with a man’s ways, mannerisms, attitudes, and thinking process. I know the words to the song, Macho, Macho Man, and the country tunes about becoming A Better Man.

I think almost every woman enters a relationship with the belief she can change the man into what she wants him to be. In many cases, it is the same thing he wants to be, a better man.

A better man is not the same thing as a changed man. What is the magic measuring stick for a better idiot?

How many men out there have been called “idiot”? As the preacher says, “I see that hand…and that hand…and, thank you, I see you…multitudes of hands are up. Let’s pray.”

They say there is no cure for stupidity.

Being a man is not always easy. I know family men, fishing men and farming men. When I came to pastor a church in Shreveport, I became acquainted with southern men. At our first meeting, the circle of men began to introduce themselves.

When Bo Roberts drawled out his name, I asked what kind of work he did. He replied, “Far-men.” I asked what he farmed. He looked at me as though we were speaking two different languages. He repeated, “Far-men for over twenty years.” I asked again what he farmed. Bo shook his head and said, “I don’t farm. I fight fars.” He later became Fire Chief for the whole city. I don’t think he ever took up farmin’.

So, I have also known firemen. I have encountered councilmen, businessmen, handymen, hard-working men, hunting men, drinking men, and even some cowboys. Some lived in a mansion. Some in a tree stand. Some in the doghouse.

Women live with those men amidst much frustration and angst. They also are fairly unanimous as to the problem of the disconnect. The classic answer, “A man never listens.”

My wife said I never listen…or something like that.

I never listen? Really? Never? Are you saying I have lived with the best woman in the world for over forty-five years and I never listened even once? Never?

Just yesterday my wife asked if I would get two sacks of onion scraps from the garage refrigerator that needed to go into the trash bin to be set out for the next morning weekly garbage pick-up. I checked to make sure I listened for the first time in my life.

“Do you mean all the sacks?” Affirmative. I thought I had finally broken the long-standing trend. One for all the men!

As my lovely wife prepared tonight’s meal, she asked if I would get one of the yellow onions from the garage refrigerator. I replied that I had thrown all the onions into the trash, even the yellow ones.

She looked up in astonishment. “You threw away the good yellow onions?”

I replied, “They were in a sack.”

It was only a whisper under her breath. “Idiot.”

Why can’t a man lose the ability to listen when he needs to?

Sometimes, I just assume she is thinking out loud. It sounds more like elevator music, just providing background noise.

I probably should not have described her words as elevator music or background noise. If that statement remains in the final edition, you can be assured I heard the expression, “Idiot!”

I can speak for all men, everywhere. “Unlike women, we are not mind readers”….and I will speak for all women, “We men never listen.“

Apparently, some men do not even make an effort to pretend they are listening. How difficult is that? Idiots!

I tried to pretend listening with my mom. She would always finish the lecture with her analysis that her words went into one ear and came out the other side. I think she posted that warning on my back. My wife just reads the sign as I walk away from the discussion.

To all the women talkers pouring out their heart emotions and life struggles, please understand that every man is naturally equipped with a mute button. It is right next to his mixed signals button.

We also tend to take most things we hear literally and at face value. Men are more prone not to understand there might be a deeper meaning to a woman’s words. And unlike women, men can never read between the lines.

And for the record, I do not think you women say all that you think you say. Sometimes, a woman’s mouth moves but no words come out.

Non-verbal hints never arrive to the male mind. When a woman says she would never want such a thoughtful gift, we assume she means all thoughtful gifts should be off the shopping list. How about a new vacuum cleaner?

Yes, I think it can be male operated. The advertisement states it is idiot-proof.

Why do the minds of women and men work so differently when it comes to grocery lists? Stopping at the store is one way I enjoy helping out my wife. Our marriage version started out with verbal requests. She wanted one can of tomatoes for the soup.

That sounds so simple…to a woman! A man thinks in terms of not needing to go back to Lowes for a three-quarter-inch screw when he picked up a half-inch one. So, the efficient thinking man buys both, knowing he can use the other one in the future.

I did not know there were so many variations of canned tomatoes…peeled, diced, petite diced, fire roasted diced, diced with green chilies, whole, crushed, stewed, puree, even tomato sauce. We now have all of those in our pantry. Most canned tomatoes remain good up to two years. We have some expired varieties that only remain in the pantry to remind me that we already have that kind of canned tomatoes!

Verbal requests can be lost in translation. When the wife says to her husband that she needs some “flour” if he wants her to bake him his favorite cookies, do not be surprised when he presents her with some “flowers” that he proudly purchased on sale. Yes, that has happened. That makes sense to a man. Pro Quid Pro.

My wife switched to the written lists, both paper and text. I often missed she wanted “two” of the items. So, like Santa, I always make my own list and check it twice. Somehow, I keep returning home “Naughty” not “Nice”.

She thought it wise to number the items on the list. I interpreted the numerals as how many she needed of each item, So, I brought home (one) milk, (two) dozen eggs, (three) 10 lb. bags of sugar, and (four) 10 lb. bags of flour. I was out of breath just hauling in the supplies. In my defense, I thought she must be baking lots of cookies.

The “check with me if you don’t understand” system did not work any better. My wife got tired of answering the phone every five seconds.

Now she just sends me to the store with pictures and crayon instructions.

Many women spend more time wondering what men are thinking than men actually do thinking. And just for informational purposes to any newlyweds out there, “What were you thinking?” is a woman’s rhetorical question. Do not answer! You will only prove her point.

Apparently, a man needs a woman’s voice to tell him which direction to drive. Thanks Siri. I like to make different turns just to frustrate her. I’m a macho, macho man! Siri is a relentless woman!

A woman desires to discuss the problem, preferably, several times. A man just wants to fix the problem once he gets part of the facts. He might even interrupt the monologue of her concerns with a solution. What idiot would do that? I bet you know at least one.

Let me provide some clarification pointers to the women in the audience. Why the women? The men are not listening. Here is a major part of the problem as this one man sees it.

Women expect men to listen like, well…other women. But men don’t. Why? Why don’t men listen? God made us that way. The loss of a man’s listening ability is directly connected to the rib he lost.

My thoughts on that are somewhat shaped by one of the most classic romantic movie quotes by Tom Cruise to Renee Zellweger in Jerry Maguire, “You complete me.”

The duo also copied Adam’s classic comment used to stop Eve’s heartfelt monologue, “You had me at Hello.”

Whether it is “complete me” love or the “hello” kind, I admire all the wonderful women out there who have stayed by your man during the bad times…even if it is just to remind him that none of the bad stuff would have happened if he had listened.

God made man to be completed by a good woman. Not changed, just completed.

That is why I need My Girl. She has made me a better man. Still very flawed, but better.

I guess I should say something somewhat spiritual.

Be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to anger...If any man is in Christ, he is a new creation (#1 Textbook)

That is our only hope for changing a man. God has to do it.

Be thankful for a God-changed man. Be patient and hopeful. He is not yet perfect, but he is learning how to love you first and most. Complete him. Without a word, show him how.

OK, thank you for listening…or not listening.

I am thankful God has a sense of humor.

I encourage you to keep laughing together. I hope that never changes.

I hear the chorus of women out there whispering through their Renee Zellweger tears:

“I LOVE HIM FOR THE MAN HE WANTS TO BE, AND I LOVE HIM FOR THE MAN HE ALMOST IS.”

LEGAL DISCLAIMER: The views and expressions in this article are solely the opinion of just one man. He answers to the name, “Idiot!” These comments do not necessarily reflect the views of all idiots. Other men should not be held liable for the author’s sentiments.

The names, characters, places, events, and examples are fictitious or should have been. Any similarity to anyone you or the author might know is purely coincidental.

This information is not intended as professional advice, except for this counsel: Please continue to pray for God to change your “idiot” while you continue to love him for the man he almost is.

WINSDAY WISDOM 236

We have lost it! I mean, literally, we have lost it so much that we do not even know what the “it” was that we lost.

Last week, our political leaders went from stupid governing inactivity to throwing elbows in the House of Representatives and cage fight challenges in the U.S. Senate.

My uncle who was a master at observing people and politics would be aghast!

A pro basketball player wrestled down another player with a choke stranglehold. A professional hockey player intentionally slashed the throat of his fallen opponent with the blade of his ice skate. A woman’s rampage and verbal threats caused an airline flight to be rerouted.

Two men got into a pushing argument over whether Chef Boyardee was a real person or just a company branding name. (Answer: real person). The highlight of the week might have been the two idiot tourists filming themselves taunting a moose in Wyoming. The threatened moose turned the tables. Moose-2. Terrified Tourists-0.

The more serious confrontation involves descendants of Isaac and Ishmael continuing to fire rockets at one another whenever they are not in hand-to-hand combat. Somehow, the rest of the onlooking world has joined one side or the other.

My aghast uncle would be reminding all of us, ‘This is a dog-eat-dog world, and vice versa.”

I admit that I was already a little shaken up this week over my grandson’s high dive onto my stomach. Our dog chased a frightened bunny around the backyard which only added to the confusion. A bee settled the incident by stinging our dog. The bunny escaped, but the dog’s swollen eye looked as though he took up the Senator’s fight challenge to “stand your butt up.”

If any of the politicians want to “finish this” at my house, I can guarantee you that our dog will take a bite out of both their butts whether they stand up or not.

What’s going on? That’s what Marvin Gaye sang in a bye-gone era when fighting had more of a purpose than just being a macho man.

What’s Going On? was a plea for peace on this earth in a world gone mad. It was the cry of someone fighting for what is right in a world focused on suffering, injustice, and hatred.

Mother, mother, there’s too many of you crying

Brother, brother, brother, there’s far too many of you dying

You know we’ve got to find a way to bring some loving here today, yeah   

What’s going on? Yeah, what’s going on?

The Village People covered the Macho Man title. The past generation swayed to the soft pleas for peace and then rocked to the rhythmic disco beat in the heart of every real man.

Hey! Hey! Hey, hey, hey!
Macho, macho man
I’ve got to be a macho man
I’ve got to be a macho, macho man, yeah
I’ve got to be a macho!
Alright! Hey! Hey! Hey, hey, hey!

Our Oklahoma Senator is a Macho Man in Washington and his constituents in his home state love it. No one puts Baby in a corner! (Oh, sorry, wrong movie.)

In case you missed it (you must have been in another state or another state of mind), during a government hearing about corporate corruption and union tactics, the honorable U.S. Senator from the grand state of Oklahoma got into a feisty verbal exchange with the Teamsters’ boss.

What brought on this macho throwdown? The union guy posted some “mean tweets” about the political guy. That is correct. The duel at sunrise was over a “mean tweet” on Instagram. I do not claim to understand how things work in New Jersey, but everyone in Oklahoma knows that a “mean tweet” will not bounce off us like sticks and stones would. It is legal grounds for fisticuffs or gun duels or drag racing or a cage fight.

This was not Mr. Smith Goes to Washington or John Wayne defending The Alamo. This was Al Pacino in Scarface or The Godfather, unhinged at the Teamsters Union boss as they traded insulting barbs. Just two tough guys about to brawl. No one gets called a clown around here without a knockdown.

One senator commented, “Things got to a fever pitch, where they wanted to fight and were calling each other names. It looked like a Third World country or a Banana Republic.” Another senator yelled, “Hit him again!”

When things get dysfunctional in Congress, it’s time to “duke it out.”

Who needs representation in Washington? We have Rambo defending our honor. And don’t ever call him a baby!

I truly believe we have lost it, whatever “it” was.

Losing it—the loss of control of one’s mind or emotions or actions; the loss of civility; the loss of something good.

“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves” (Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare).

That is true for all of us. We become frustrated to the breaking point over the flaws and injustices in society. We think we have done everything right, when suddenly everything goes wrong.

Frustrated consumers and newsworthy macho politicians try to balance (or imbalance) the sensible and the psychotic at the same time. Anger needs a voice! Or a face to punch!

Last week, I was watching a binge-worthy TV drama fest with my wife. One character was a very evil and conniving woman, ruining the lives of others, including the woman she surprisingly and snarkily greeted at the door. My wife smelled a rat and wanted to save the main actress from greater misery.

The tense movie scene was interrupted when my wife suddenly shouted out, “Slap the crap out of her!” She just blurted it out!

I was slightly shocked and greatly amused. I thought to myself, “I think she has finally lost it!” But I knew this was not the best time to tell her that!

OK, just admit it. We have all wanted to shout that at times.

To all the villainesses out there, don’t challenge Momma to a cage fight! That angelic face will light you up if you insist on being a macho bully.

(Note: For the record, I have never seen my wife throw a punch, but, then again, she has never been challenged to a throw-down by a U.S. Senator or Mafia boss or someone who hurt her grandchildren. If that ever happened, it would be worthy of pay-per-view. I would be in her corner dancing to the taunting chorus of Macho, Macho Man.)

Why politicians need to defend their honor in a cage fight or professional athletes need to engage in a chokehold only represents what is going on inside each of us. There is a world of hurt and anger ready to explode.

Is this the end of civility, once taught as politeness and courtesy in behavior and speech? Or are we back to the days of the Old West and showdowns at High Noon?

Those were the days, my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.                                                                         (Mary Hopkin, Those Were the Days)

Most families gather for the holidays hoping that religion and politics are not on the menu. Politics, finances, and current events affect us all as the most anxiety-inducing holiday topics. It is difficult enough not to fight over the leftover portions of the sweet potato casserole or when tempers flare over the last piece of dessert.

I think we all fear the loss of our way of life filled with our beliefs, our comforts, our standards. We search for ways to defend and hold on to our hopes and dreams. We would even fight for them.

Sometimes, it is High Noon and the Marshall Kanes of this world must stand up to the bad guys, whether it is at the Tombstone corral or in the sacred chambers of our political institutions or on the basketball hardcourts or from the places where the Word of God is faithfully preached.

The # 1 Textbook reminds and encourages us, “Do not lose IT.“

Love the Lord your God, walk in His ways, and hold fast to God (Deuteronomy 11:22).

Hold fast to wisdom (Proverbs 4:8).

Let your love be genuine; hold fast to what is good. (Romans 12:9).

Hold fast to the word of life, so you do not run in vain (Philippians 2:16).

Hold fast to the hope set before us (Hebrews 6:18).

I just looked up from my writing to see two fighters losing it and going at one another on an ESPN broadcast. It was not Fight Night. This was the press conference weigh-in. Apparently, someone yelled out, “Stand your butt up” and there was no intervention by Senator Bernie Sanders begging for civility.

Wait! My bad! The television knockdown was a Fox News presidential debate! The future candidate with the best verbal insults and most damaging right uppercut will be on the next ballot.

There but for the grace of God, go I.

The quote was attributed to an early English Reformer, John Bradford, who spoke the phrase while watching criminals being led to their execution. Sherlock Holmes repeats the line in one of his detective stories (The Boscombe Valley Mystery).

There but for the grace of God, go I. That truth is echoed by the Apostle Paul in the #1 Textbook (1 Corinthians 15:10).

There is no reason to be judgmental of anyone else. Friend or Foe. Patriot or Fool. Warrior or Laker.

When we see others react to insults or hurt or unwanted circumstances, we have two choices. We can condemn them for their choices and rejoice that they are getting what they deserve. Or we can note the event with some degree of empathy and gratitude that we are not walking in their shoes.

God’s overly abundant and continued kindness to us should overflow toward others. The Apostle Paul never forgot the cage fighter inside him. It had reared its head in the past and was always present and ready to take on the next challenger.

However, the love of Christ won out. The old self was constantly in need of being put away so that the new self might shine in the face of a showdown.

Think of what God has done for you. Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world but be a new and different person with a fresh newness in all you do and think…Be honest in your estimate of yourselves, measuring your value by how much grace and faith God has given you (Romans 12:1-3).

KNOW THE WORD OF GOD BUT DO NOT LOSE YOUR GRIP ON KINDNESS.

We live in a world of social media taunts and monetary-driven sound bites.

Be prepared for when the next cage match challenge jumps into the conversation. Remember that the #1 Textbook instructs you to be kind to others, tenderhearted, and forgiving just as God is to you (Ephesians 4:32).

Then shock the world by breaking out in song with the words from the Otis Redding classic, Try a Little Tenderness. Trust me; the whole scene will go viral.

Try a word
Soft and gentle
Makes it easier
To bear

You won’t regret it
And it’s all so easy
Just try a little tenderness

Yep, just try a little tenderness. Anytime. Anyplace. What do you think about that, Mr. Senator?

Sometimes my mind frightens me!

So, the next time you look and listen to one of these stupid news sound bites, just whisper to yourself, “There but for the grace of God, goes Rex.”

REWIND WINSDAY WISDOM

Where is the leftover turkey? He is sitting on the couch!

That’s me! No Black Friday shopping. No weekend chores. No nothing! Just a big stuffed leftover turkey sitting on the couch sleeping through a TV football game.

Most of us have some Thanksgiving traditions. Some traditions have to be altered through the years. I now realize what my mom wrote about years ago as she shared her Thanksgiving prayer with her family.

“Lord, we know You prepare different tables with different circumstances each day and each year. But at every table, let my cup overflow.”

The rest of this session was written five years ago by my precious daughter, Kala. It closes with my mom’s Thanksgiving prayer. Listen to her words as you reflect on your Thanksgiving blessings.

Eighteen years ago, my mom got a phone call I will never forget: my Granny Bea had passed away during what was supposed to be a routine heart procedure. I will never forget hearing my mom’s side of that conversation.

My heart shattered into a zillion pieces as one of my favorite persons left this earth. My heart has broken every February 25th since. I constantly wonder what she would think about my professor husband or my four kiddos.

I know she’d have lots to say about our current political state, and I’m sad that I didn’t care enough to join in one of those conversations when I was younger. I know she’d be excited about all of her grandchildren’s pursuits and be thrilled for every single one of us, even if we are scattered across the miles.

Gosh, I miss her. And oh, how I wish for more time, more memories, more Thanksgivings and Christmases in Spiro.

The thing is, though, I have been immensely blessed by all of my grandparents. Papa remarried Helen, who became a light in the Blankenship family. And then you have my precious Grandmother Clara Logan, GiGi to my kiddos.

Grandma is the epitome of perseverance during the most difficult times. She became a widow in her twenties, when she had five kids under the age of 6. When I begin to think my life is hard, I’m reminded of GiGi. She has shown me what it means to be faithful and to love big even when it is most hard.

I am so grateful for all of the memories I have with all three of my grandmothers, and I’m particularly thankful that I still have the opportunity to get hugs from Grandma Clara. I’m grateful my kiddos have been able to experience the joy of time with her, baking cookies and singing and having fun. I’m thankful for every single moment.

When I was in Spiro for Granny’s funeral, I stumbled across something she had written many Thanksgivings before. I read it every Thanksgiving now, but I find it applicable to everyday life:

Psalm 95:2
“Let us come before His presence with thanksgiving.”
Psalm 23: 5
“Thou preparest a table before me…my cup overflows.”

These are Granny B’s words:

When I think of my own upbringing – the Thanksgiving as a child when that was one of the three or four days a year that Dad took off from his job as a company man for Peabody Coal Company – I’m reminded of the excitement of the day as we drove toward Grandpa’s house in Hartford, Arkansas.

We always passed people gathered around scalding pots or scraping hogs. As a child, I couldn’t understand why this day –a holiday – was hog-killing day. We killed hogs on other days. This was the day to go to Gramps.

I’m reminded of the love and care lavished on me in my youth, the kind of home I was born into, the community in which I was reared, my Church, Sunday School and singing, the gracious influences I encountered, the examples that were held up before me, the fences that were passed, set to keep me from “wandering away.”

I must indeed feel such gratitude for the memory of my parents, my teachers, my friends, those who wrote the books I’ve been privileged to read through the years, and my husband of 46 years this week. Yet I know that they themselves had it all from Christ. Nothing would have been there if Christ had not come to seek and to save that which was lost.

So, as I crawl out of bed on Thanksgiving morning, I’ll not feel sad that my Holiday tradition has been changed many times since those early years.

In later years, we all went home to Mom and Dad’s. Then, my husband Gerald and my brother Sherman started having football teams good enough to get into the playoffs and they’d often be playing on Thanksgiving – plans stayed in the air. Now, my son Bill is coaching and going through that routine.

So early Thanksgiving morning, I hope to peer out the kitchen window and see that pinkish-orange glow grow brighter and slowly fill the kitchen. A whole new light will be cast on that day.

I’ll repeat, “Thou prepares a table before me. My cup overflows.”

Surely this is God’s message in the gift of a brilliant sunrise that we must not sleep through. Many unexpected blessings are waiting to be discovered around our tables on this day.

Let us be thankful for those who helped us get where we are, for those who are with us now, and for those who are waiting for us where we are going.

LORD, WE KNOW YOU PREPARE DIFFERENT TABLES WITH DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES EACH DAY AND EACH YEAR. BUT AT EVERY TABLE, LET MY CUP OVERFLOW.

I pray your cup overflows with thanksgiving.

WINSDAY WISDOM 234

DO YOU EVER PROTEST AGAINST GOD ABOUT YOUR LIFE CIRCUMSTANCES? WHY?

We don’t call it a protest, but that is exactly what our complaints lead to when pandemonium rules our hearts. Why? I have included some important thoughts for your consideration that began with my first-hand observation of college protests. Surprisingly, there is a spiritual connection with a valuable lesson for your life.

In a previous session, I referred to being tear gassed during my college years while sitting in a tree watching the encounter of riot police with disruptive student protesters from the mixed trifecta of anti-war, racial equality, and women’s liberation groups.

That spring brought the protests even closer. Several hundred students participated in a group sit-in protest at the main college offices. Their refusal to leave elevated the tension.

About seventy people from the local chapter of Students for a Democratic Society marched into University Hall and pushed out the administrative staff and faculty. The assistant dean of students was forcefully evicted.

The protesters refused to leave as they chained the doors from the inside. As the building takeover continued through the night, about five hundred additional students joined in the office sit-in by climbing through the windows.

By the next morning, four hundred police armed with shields, clubs, and mace stormed the building. The students were carried out of the building, handcuffed, and placed into a paddy wagon. A few came out bloodied from a baton striking the head. College learning was at its finest.

Nearly three thousand students gathered to watch the altercation. I had a front row seat for this. Actually, it was a balcony view from a second-floor dorm room less than twenty yards from the action. We should have sold tickets.

This was quite a shock to this small-town teenager whose picture was included on the front page of the Boston morning newspaper. This was almost as entertaining as the Love Story movie which just completed filming on the campus.

My purpose for this account is more than a documentary of social unrest at college. These events shaped my skepticism of our democratic process. These were future nationally elected politicians who demanded others submit to their current worldview. They would use lawful disobedience and force when necessary.

Today, the latest social disagreements get TV time on CNN and Fox News, with seemingly the new players on stage using the same dialogue and tactics of days gone by. I have seen all this before in The Way We Were.

While I reminisce, allow me to include the massive student rally held in the football stadium for the purpose of debating the War and its protests. There was a call for “a new revolution.” Over ten thousand students attended, mainly because it was a nice sunny, spring day.

Note: I repeat my personal observation that college student protests take place in comfortable weather conditions. Students are not as dumb as they act.

Pandemonium ruled our hearts that day. Please try to follow along. This was wild, crazy, bizarre, and just wrong. It was a preview of today’s political scene.

At the stadium, a liberal speaker called for a student vote to extend their unofficial boycott of class attendance as a protest to the government’s continued and escalating involvement in the Viet Nam War. There were four hours of speeches and votes.

One would think the prospect of not going to class would prevail in any college student vote.

However, when the time came to yell “Yes” to continue the strike or “No” not to strike, the chorus of “No” was unmistakably much louder than those in favor of cancelling classes.

Following the cheers, the unhappy student leader on the microphone announced the verdict was too close to call. A second verbal vote sounded much like the first. However, a protest of the protest counting method was submitted by a young lady trying to run the entire meeting.

The person at the microphone announced an amendment to the voting because some students were yelling too loud. Yes! Yelling too loud!

The leadership called for a re-vote by a show of hands with each section assigned a vote counter. After a lengthy time of counting the votes, it was announced the classroom strike had been defeated by a sizeable margin.

But do not be discouraged my dear liberal friends. The young lady reappeared at the microphone to protest the vote count. She countered that many students had raised both hands into the air, thus eschewing the correct tally.

The #4 re-vote of the #3 re-vote required us to stand in affirmation or negation of the proposed class boycott. Another count was instituted, section by section and row by row. The motion was defeated…again.

Based on some technicality that Harvard moderators could not count and amidst a rising sense of student dissatisfaction with the entire endeavor, another vote by secret ballot was required. Each student had to show a university identification card before being issued a ballot for the #5 re-vote.

Many ballots were just airmailed to the stadium turf. The Wright brothers would have been impressed with the varied versions of paper airplanes launched from the Coliseum steps.

The vote was closer, but the motion was defeated. More speakers joined Miss “I Know Better Than the Rest of the World.” The heated exchanges were not entertaining enough to hold the crowd’s attention any longer.

Some students were suffering from sunburn. More importantly, it was now dinnertime and those interested in eating before the dining room closed voted with their feet as they left the stadium in hordes.

As we crossed the river bridge over a half-mile away, there was a small roar that went up from the nearly vacant stadium.

ANTI-WAR HARVARD STUDENT BODY VOTES TO BOYCOTT CLASSES. That was the headline of the next morning newspaper. It reported that the Harvard student body voted to stop going to classes as a means of protesting the war.

That is correct. The newspaper reporter was part of the protest movement.

This was Politics 101, whether conservative or liberal. The politicians use questionable tactics to manipulate, overturn, redefine, recount, or alter the desire of the voters to get what the politicians want. If all else fails, scream louder or manipulate the vote counts.

Am I a skeptic? Many of the student protest leaders at the stadium fiasco ended up in national politics. I have never been shocked by the incompetence of our government leadership. I am familiar with the breeding grounds.

This student protest on the Harvard campus was not the first or the last.  Over two hundred years earlier, the students of 1766 staged the “Butter Protest.” With the rallying cry, “Behold our butter stinketh!” The college responded by expelling one hundred fifty-five students.

Now, the students just have a sit-down protest over climate change during the halftime of the great Harvard-Yale football rivalry.

In my days of student unrest, the response by the university’s administration to the student protest was unprecedented. The university leadership was as mixed up as the dining hall goulash. They also had about as much spine as the chef’s Jello salad.

The university declared that students in opposition to the war protesters’ boycott would be given the option to attend classes to improve their grade point average. However, to appease the anti-war crowd, the university would allow students not to attend classes and receive a pass-fail grade based on their current standing in the class.

I never voted to go on strike, but I never attended another class that spring. It was my favorite semester in college. The weather was very pleasant. I spent a lot of time sitting in the sun, down by the banks of the River Charles. I also became a regular at the Boston Red Sox baseball games where students could sit in the right field bleachers for one dollar.

For the record, I passed all my classes and that helped to raise my GPA. Go figure.

PROTEST: a statement or action expressing disapproval of or objection to something.

DO YOU PROTEST AGAINST GOD? MOST OF THE TIME, OUR LIPS SHOUT “NO” WHILE OUR HEART WRITES THE NEWS HEADLINE THAT WE VOTED AGAINST GOD’S RULE. WHY?

1. At the superficial level, we all believe we can run this world better than whoever is in charge.
2. At the most foundational level, we distrust the goodness of the God who is in charge of our lives.

We want to rule our world and everyone in it. However, there will be a countless multitude of people lined up to protest how you want to rule your world.

What do you say when you do not like the path where God placed you? How do you react when you do not approve of God’s plan for your life? Do you protest to God or about God? Do you organize others to march in consolation to your perceived mistreatment?

The old preacher, Dr. J. Vernon McGee wrote, “This is God’s universe, and He is doing things His way. You may think you have a better way, but you don’t have a universe to rule. If you don’t like that, go get your own universe.”

Our protests are generated by our questions of God’s goodness. We consider God to be unfair. We entertain the thought that God is withholding goodness we deserve. That is exactly the protest which began with Adam and Eve. We inherited that same spirit of protest.

We begin to think God is unable or unwilling to meet our desires. We decide God is not truly good when it comes to our circumstances.

We are powerless to change God’s plan and placement, but that does not prevent our protests. We might not use signs, but the expression of our countenance clearly signals our displeasure.

We might not organize a boycott or strike against God; we just skip Bible reading and church fellowship. We do not want to hear God’s Word, and there it is…the problem with our protests.

OUR IGNORANCE OF GOD IS AT THE HEART OF ALL OUR PROTESTS.

Why do we protest? We do not know God which leads to distrust of God’s goodness. That is the root cause of our protests.

God’s Word shows the foolishness of our protests. Everything God does is wise, right, and good. God works all things together for our greatest good. God’s goodness and mercy chase us down all the days of our earthly lives, and He promises unlimited and unending goodness forever.

THE ESSENCE OF GOD IS HIS GOODNESS.

God’s love, grace, righteousness, mercy, longsuffering, compassion, and forgiveness to rebel protesters are all summed up in His goodness. God is good.

“The Lord is righteous in all His ways and kind in all He does” (Psalm 145:17).

GOD ALWAYS LEADS US IN THE RIGHT PATH BECAUSE THAT IS THE ONLY PATH GOD EVER WALKS.

This is not the time to jettison the leadership of your Savior and Lord. This is not the semester of life to stop learning how to love first and love most.

God understands how you feel and why. God will not come at you with a nightstick. God will not suspend you from His discipleship school.

God encourages you to sit down and talk about your feelings. He already knows, but it is good for you to hear your thoughts as you protest to God. Those are the moments you realize how foolish it is to protest against the One Person who knows what is best for your life.

“The Lord is good to everyone; His compassion is intertwined with everything He does … Each generation tells the next what glorious things God does…Everyone will talk about how good God is” (Psalm 145:4-9).

God’s goodness is unquestionable. God overflows with goodness. He has not failed to be good to you and all those who protest against His ways.

God’s goodness has no selfish motivation. God is good to us without expecting anything in return. God’s goodness always exceeds what any of us deserve.

God is good. God never changes. Let our protests end in peace.

Let’s get back in the classroom and learn how to love first and love most.

TAKE THE BRIEF TEST

WINSDAY WISDOM 235

I am a graduate of Harvard. I am not sure if that is an accomplishment or a criticism. My college professor once called me “an embarrassment to Harvard.”

Another professor wrote a note on my test in large red letters, “If ignorance is bliss, then you are headed for a very happy life.”

When I received my diploma at graduation, the Eliot House President stopped me for a visit on the platform. That public discussion left my watchful parents fearing my diploma had been denied or revoked. That just proves how little confidence anyone had in my college studies.

For the record, the president congratulated me on my football success against Yale.

Ten thousand men of Harvard gained victory today!

I am most likely the least educationally distinguished and lowest worldly successful graduate of Harvard…ever. I was blessed by the opportunity to attend Harvard and fortunate to survive the challenge. I cherish the friendships from there.

The favorite part of my give-back to the university occurs when I receive the annual fundraising solicitation phone call from a current student. I tell the volunteer fundraiser that I would gladly donate if he could tell me if Harvard has returned to its initial purpose. After he or she responds with some prepared text to highlight the benefits of the Harvard experience, I ask if the college student is aware of the reason Harvard was founded as an institute of higher learning. That always leads to my opportunity to quote the university’s original purpose.

“Let every student be plainly instructed and consider well the main end of his life and studies is to know God and Jesus, which is eternal life (John 17:3) and therefore, to lay Christ in the bottom as the only foundation for all sound learning and knowledge, seeing that only the Lord gives wisdom (Proverbs 2:3).”

My repetition of the college’s original purpose statement always results in silent shock to the student caller. I use the time to tell them about my personal relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ and encourage them to reconsider their chosen path in the pursuit of wisdom.

I repeat that I am not the poster child for the modern Harvard student. I cannot point to worldwide recognition or financial prosperity. However, I have pursued the original intent of Harvard’s founding fathers.

The Harvard University motto is “Veritas,” which is the Latin motto for “TRUTH.”

The original adopted shield and motto for Harvard College was “Veritas Christo et Ecclesiae,” meaning ‘Truth for Christ and the Church.’ The 1692 approved shield symbolized the vital importance of God’s revealed wisdom from the #1 Textbook. The founding fathers of Harvard College considered God’s Word as foundational to all wisdom. It is also essential for the proper understanding and application of educational reasoning.

Sadly, Harvard dropped the Christ reference from its university shield and motto. Christ’s relevance was diminished many years before that. Some Harvard people got so smart that they no longer needed a proven method for wisdom. The school continues its short-sighted exhaustive scope and exhaustive research in the pursuit of vanity.

The wisest man who ever lived (other than Jesus) presented his conclusive thesis from the most extensive educational research ever undertaken. Solomon had more money than Harvard. He had the position, power, understanding, skills, resources, and time to engage in the most thorough study of humanity’s search for ultimate purpose and lasting happiness.

Solomon explored every possible advantage in life. He worked the hardest and partied the wildest. He built the biggest, possessed the most, invented the newest, enjoyed the finest, and became the greatest. He explored the farthest, lasted the longest, climbed the highest, and sunk the lowest.

He went to the limits of amusement, alcohol, achievements, agriculture, architecture, abundance, adoration, affairs, and ambition. They all came up empty. After he exhausted all the A’s, he moved right on through the alphabet of activities until he had finished the Z’s. He had more and did more than anyone else before him or since.

Solomon’s study determined lasting satisfaction cannot be found in things, money, pleasures, treasures, fame, or fortunes of this world. That pursuit is like chasing the wind. He called it the “vanity of vanities.”

The conclusive statement from the most extensive and thorough research of wisdom and happiness declared that apart from God’s revealed wisdom, every human endeavor will ultimately be doomed foolish and futile. Any other educational or philosophical method is built on a foundation of sinking sand.

I continue to be instructed in God’s Word. I have considered the main goal in life and live for the most important thing in life, love for God and others. I know God and Jesus and desire to know them better. I have been given eternal life. Christ is the only foundation of my life. He is the basis for all sound learning and knowledge. I believe the Lord is the only source of true wisdom.

There is no Veritas without Christ. That is the Truth since before the beginning of time. It mattered in the time of Adam’s pursuit of knowledge. It mattered in Solomon’s educational explorations for true purpose and happiness in life. It mattered to the original founders and instructors of Harvard University. It should matter to every student of life now. Any other foundation for learning and knowledge will NOT be “sound.”

One either builds his/her house of learning on the rock or on sinking sand. When the storms of life come, the Truth is revealed.

Truth or Lies? What is your personal house of learning built upon? Have you ever had your foundation inspected?

The truth of God’s Word matters today in an enlightened culture of humanistic education. No wonder minds are darkened, and understanding is lost in a world where people are lovers of self and lovers of money (things) rather than lovers of God.

Our education is advanced and high tech. High-capacity computers cannot hold all the knowledge data. We can exhaust the depths of literature and explore the science of the stars. Yet, our educational philosophies set aside the greatest textbook ever written.

Our space age scientists declare our total ignorance of what makes up most of our enormous universe. The experts can only guess at its size and postulate about its origins. New discoveries only reveal how little has been known.

We cannot count the galaxies much less the stars and yet, God knows each star by name. We cannot number the grains of sand and yet, God knows the exact count and weight. We do not know the future and yet, God declares it from the beginning.

What are we doing? Where are we going? Why are we here? What will we leave behind for our families and beloved friends? Apart from God’s truth for our lives, nothing!

Truth? What is truth? It depends on whom you ask. Our culture reshapes truth to fit its latest whims. Historical truth is rewritten by social agendas. Scientific truth fluctuates with new discoveries. Philosophical truth varies with each new viral TikTok sage. Laws of truth are changed to accommodate current morality trends. Love is redefined by personal convenience.

We live in our own man-centered world of “relative truth” and “situational ethics.” University professors and students scoff at the concept of truth. Truth is now clothed in preferences and opinions and lifestyle choices. Our normality has become filled with fake news, edited selfies, and padded resumes. Now we have Artificial Intelligence which computes faster, thinks better, and confuses truth and fake realities beyond what our minds can discern.

Does it matter? Yes! Our self-made versions of reality are flawed from inception.

1. We post our best selfie-image as the center and controller of our world. We have substituted a man/woman-made model. That is NOT the likeness of the one created in the image of the Creator God.
2. We are NOT the Founder of humanity. We did NOT begin our own lives. We do NOT rule our own lives because this is NOT our universe. The reality of all truth is connected to its Creator.
3. Our lives did NOT begin at our birth date or with any calendar whether Solar, Lunar, Sumerian, Egyptian, Roman, Chinese, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Gregorian, or Harvard. Life did NOT start with the ever-changing dates for the Big-Bang Theory. We were known by God BEFORE the creation of this world.

TRUTH OR LIES? Each of us stakes our earthly and eternal life on what we believe. Each of us lays a bottom for the foundation of sound learning and knowledge, hoping it will produce wisdom. You do NOT need to go to Harvard to find the TRUTH. Just be sure NOT to lose it there.

TRUTH OR LIES? My Harvard class on the New Testament required a term paper be submitted by each student. Some subjects chosen included Gay Rights in the NT, Social Justice Redefined, Racial Issues Evolving from the Use of Slavery in the NT. However, the NT Professor refused to accept my paper on the subject, A Personal Relationship with Jesus. He argued that had nothing to do with the New Testament material. I questioned whether he had ever read the New Testament which uses the words, “My God…My Lord…My Savior…My Shepherd”…all indicators of a personal relationship.

This session is not my argument or debate with anyone. I do not condemn those who share a different opinion. I am just stating my college thesis. The question is whether this #1 Textbook affirmed by the early Harvard leadership is the sole foundation for wisdom. Or is it to be rejected as irrelevant and unnecessary to learning as subsequent university educators propose? I believe it is what it claims to be.

God’s #1 Textbook declares itself to be the sole, supreme, and sufficient source of Truth. “The sum of God’s Word is Truth.” It reveals the Creator as the “God of Truth.” Jesus proclaimed that he came into this world as the “revelation of Truth” in human expression. Jesus is the showcase of the true life and love of God. God loves first and God loves most. Everyone who has a personal relationship with Jesus is part of that universal reality.

Truth means nothing apart from God. That is an unchanging reality whether one comes from Adam or from Harvard. When any person refuses to honor or thank God, his/her thoughts become futile; his/her foolish heart remains darkened. Professing to be wise, they reveal themselves to be fools (#1 Textbook).

One cannot disassociate truth from the knowledge of God revealed in His #1 Textbook. Life does not work that way, no matter how many people lecture, vote, or protest.

The skeptical Roman ruler, Pilate, responded with the rhetorical question, “What is truth?”

Well, for all the Pilates out there past, present, and future, I do not claim to be the expert. But there is One who is proven qualified. No search or soliloquy regarding truth will be successful apart from Him.

Truth is not subjective. There has to be a starting point. Any other starting point than the Creator God revealed in His self-revelatory #1 Textbook will be a person-based philosophy full of hidden flaws and ultimate futility.

Good and evil, right and wrong, honor or dishonor, love or self-centeredness, beautiful or ugly do not exist in the eye of the beholder. They are not subject to personal feelings and cultural winds. They cannot be redefined by social media editorials, political arguments, or mass protests. They come from the unchanging truth of the only wise God who has our best interests at stake.

The most important thing in life remains true: Love God and love others. Love first and love most. That is not only what makes this beautiful world go ‘round; it remains the only way to make sense out of it. You cannot know who you are or why you are here on this earth apart from God. There is no Veritas without Christo.

Live your earthly life for what truly matters. Invest your life into something which will outlast your earthly existence. Do your diligent research.

Jesus Christ is an historical man, not a myth. He cannot be dismissed as just a good man or wise teacher. He claimed, “I AM the TRUTH.”

Jesus is either a LIAR, a LUNATIC, or the LORD.

So, here is the question you face even if you reject Jesus. I say I know Jesus; so, what do you think of me?

Examine my life as a Harvard graduate. If LOVE for Jesus and others is not the best expression of wisdom, then I am either a LIAR or LUNATIC.

You cannot discount me as religiously indoctrinated, culturally limited, poorly educated, politically motivated, or brainwashed by family or cults. I am not a red-state renegade or religious bigot. Why? Because I graduated from Harvard, where I was taught to challenge truth, think for myself, find my own way, and debate every belief. I was even instructed that the #1 Textbook had no connection to a personal relationship with Jesus.

If I was exposed to any indoctrination, it happened at Harvard, the epitome of liberal education which challenged and condemned every fiber of my belief system. I was surrounded by and interacted with educators and students far superior to me academically and professionally. I read all the assigned books. I listened to the wisdom of the ages and their sages. I had a front row seat to the cultural lectures, debates, and protests.

Contrary to my cultural enlightenment, I still believe Jesus is real and lives inside of me to lead me to others He intends to love through me. I am not perfect, far from it; but I embrace the #1 Textbook as the foundation of all sound learning and wisdom.

Am I a liar or lunatic? Have I built my life on sinking sand? Go ahead, form your conclusion. I can take it and I will continue to love you and defend your right to search for truth wherever you choose.

I hope you will grab the #1 Textbook today and be plainly instructed and consider well the main end of your life and studies is to know God and Jesus, which is eternal life.

Lay Christ in the bottom as the only foundation for all sound learning and knowledge, seeing that only the Lord gives wisdom.

I pray you will join me in life that seeks to Love First. Love Most.

WINSDAY WISDOM 233

Is my name really “Rex”? Does anyone care?

Last week I went to buy a barbeque sandwich at my favorite local venue. The young man asked for the name with the order. Then he asked me if “Rex” was my real name. I replied with a simple, “Yes, it is.”

He laughed, “I thought “Rex” was just a dog’s name.” (Well, Ouch.)

My youngest grandson, Gentry, thinks Bubba Rex is short for Tyrannosaurus Rex.

I should have ended the conversation with a smile, but somehow, I felt the need to continue. Is “Rex” my real name? How often does the reality and origin of my name come up in a normal conversation? Only the IRS is interested in the correct response. My wife, best friends, and schoolteachers never asked.

Here was an inquiring mind. Maybe he had a bet on it with a co-worker.

Contrary to my usual non-talkative nature, I replied that my dad liked the idea of naming me after a singing cowboy movie star from long ago named Rex Allen.

The young man’s follow-up question sent a reality shockwave through my body. Only a few of you can identify.

He replied, “Do you mean a long time ago…like in the ‘90s?”

My mind was racing with possible retorts. “Are you kidding me? Did you not have a high school American History class? Or Social Studies? Have you never listened to some of the greatest music ever written?”

Seeing the look on my face, he quickly added, “Or the ‘80s?”

Yes, Einstein. Time is relative.

I tried to save face. I did the worst thing one can do in these embarrassing moments. Less is more, but I kept talking.

I smiled and tried to cover the tracks of my golden years. “Oh, it was much longer ago than that. Rex Allen was a movie cowboy in the ‘50s…when my dad was alive.”

(Note: That was a deluxe coverup, since I lived through the ‘50s. I know that probably shocks you!)

Then my mind went bonkers. There is no other explanation for what I said next.

Anyone who truly knows me understands that I am not a fountain overflowing with information. I would have been a good CIA operative. My normal conversation is name, rank, and serial number. Again, less is more, but I kept pouring out details important only to me.

“Rex is the Latin word for king. My mother liked the idea of naming me after her father and brother who were named King Philip.”

The young man smiled at his expanded education. “Well, I’ll be darn. I thought “Rex” was only a dog’s name. Now I know that “Rex” is Latin for a movie cowboy.”

I continue to be amazed at my communication effectiveness. Can I just get my sandwich?

And by the way, yes, I lived long ago when the world was just black and white. Have you ever watched Leave it to Beaver or The Andy Griffith Show?

(Note for family legacy: I believe our King Philip Floyd relatives were named for an early American Indian warrior chief, not the British, French, or Spanish crown counterparts. There are some family members who support the reference to King Philip of Greece, father of Alexander the Great. They are the same ones who deny that we are related to the famous outlaw, Pretty Boy Floyd.)

“Rex” the Pretty Boy King or Maximus Rex. That would have satisfied the inquiring mind.

Unless you have legally changed your name, you had no choice in what people named you. Someone had some reason for your given name.

I guess I have always looked for an occasion where this old story might fit into a conversation. A young Indian boy asked how his father came up with his children’s names.

The chief responded, “When your older brother was born, the first thing I saw was a Soaring Eagle. When your sister was born, the first thing I saw was a Running Deer. Why do you ask, Pooping Dog?”

Sorry, I have always thought that was funny. It will probably be edited out.

Shakespeare asked in Romeo and Juliet, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Juliet vowed that the names associated with their rival families of Montague and Capulet held no value to her. She would love Romeo by whatever name he chose.

In Biblical times, a name often identified one’s character and actions. For example, Jacob was the “cheater, the supplanter” who took the place of another by stealing his brother’s birthright (Genesis 25:26). Moses was “pulled from water” (Exodus 2:10).

When her husband and sons died, Naomi, “the delightful one,” changed her name to Mara, “the bitter woman,” (Ruth 1:20). Barnabas was called the “son of encouragement” (Acts 4:36).

Today, names are mostly labels to help us distinguish one person from another.

I am sure what others think of my “Rex” has no relation to the name’s origins or meaning. One’s character is more important than a name.

Sometimes one’s name becomes identified with a specific characteristic.

Judas. Benedict Arnold. John Hancock. Rockefeller. Frankenstein. Samson. Geronimo. Sloppy Joe.

Others include Chatty Cathy. Debbie Downer. Doubting Thomas. Joe Cool.

My parents associated certain names with their sons’ actions. Only the names can be made public. James Green. Kelly. Sharver. Jones.

What’s in a name? The #1 Textbook declares there is one Name above all names with a purposeful meaning of vital and eternal importance. “Jesus” means “The Lord Saves.”

The name of Jesus gathers mixed reactions, from worship to hatred. Some people are indifferent, and some are vehemently opposed to the name of Jesus. Some see Jesus as benevolent and some as irrelevant. Others follow Jesus as a social activist.

Jesus asked his disciples, “Who do people say I am?” (Mark 8:27-30).

They replied that some thought he was a prophet, perhaps the reappearance of Eiljah or John the Baptist. Others considered Him to be a great teacher.

However, the real game-changer question was when Jesus asked, “But who do you say I am?”

Simon Peter buzzed in with his response as if he were a contestant on the Jeopardy TV game show.

“You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

Christ is a Greek word for the Bible’s Promised Messiah. Peter announced, “You are God’s Anointed One, the King of kings. You are the centerpiece of God’s plan to deliver His people.”

Jesus confirmed Peter’s correct answer.

JESUS IS THE KING OF KINGS, THE SUPREME “REX” OF THE UNIVERSE.

The central theme of God’s Word highlights Jesus Christ as Lord of all, all the time. Jesus declared that Peter or anyone else can only know His name and purpose through God’s revelation.

Understanding Jesus’ identity cannot be discerned by study or smarts or investigative techniques. It is not subject to a religious group, majority vote, or cultural bias.

FAITH IN JESUS AS THE KING OF KINGS IS A GIFT FROM GOD WHICH COMES FROM HEARING THE WORD OF CHRIST (Romans 10:17).

Are you a good listener? Peter became a good listener. Prior to Peter’s declaration, Jesus had publicly read the Scriptures about the coming Messiah in the presence of the leaders of the synagogue. When He sat down, Jesus said they were now seeing what they had heard about.

“The Word of God has come to you today. I AM HIM, the One who heals the brokenhearted, gives sight to the blind, helps the downtrodden, and opens deaf ears” (Luke 4:18-21).

Those religious leaders hated Jesus and drove Him out of town. They even tried to kill Him. These and others would mock Jesus as He died on the cross because He said, “I am the Son of God” (Matthew 27:41-43).

When the Samaritan woman at the well declared that the promised Christ was coming, Jesus told her, “I AM HE” (John 4:25-26). God opened her heart and changed her life.

Do you believe Jesus is the Christ, the King of kings? It is a personal question. The answer is a turning point in your earthly and eternal life.

When you really hear what Jesus said about who He is and discover why He lived, you are faced with a decision that eliminates the position of neutrality. Either Jesus is Lord of all, or He is a big time Liar. He is either the King of kings or a crazy phony.

“Jesus” is more than a name. He is God in human form who came to this earth to save us from the sinful self-centeredness associated with our own names.

In Isaiah, God declared “He is the only God and Savior.” There is no one else and all the world will someday bow their knees and acknowledge Him as the only sovereign Lord God (Isaiah 45:15-24).

In Philippians, Jesus is identified as the same Savior God named in the Old Testament. Jesus was raised from the dead and exalted to the highest throne where He was given the NAME THAT IS ABOVE EVERY NAME, the Lord Jesus Christ. One day, every knee of everyone, everywhere, will bow down (willingly or unwillingly) and confess with their mouth that Jesus Christ is Lord (Philippians 2:5-10).

You will call Him Jesus because He will save God’s people from their sins (Matthew 1:21).

There is salvation in no other name than Jesus, the Lord who saves (Acts 4:12).

There is no room for any doubt; God made Jesus, whom you killed on a cross, to be both Lord and Christ (Acts 2:36).

Jesus is someone you need to know personally. In Jesus are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge (Colossians 2:3).

If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved (Romans 10:9).

Whenever the Bible refers to Jesus Christ as Lord, it is an affirmation regarding His true identity as the supreme and sovereign God of everyone and everything, all the time. Jesus is the King of kings and Lord of lords (Revelation 17:14; 19:16).

The name and fame of Jesus will never fade.

Our heavenly hope is that one day we will see and rejoice in the wonder of the Lord Jesus Christ, the King of kings, seated on the highest throne of glory and honor. We will be transformed to live and love in the same manner as Jesus (Revelation 4-5).

WE WILL LOVE FIRST AND LOVE MOST.

What’s in a Name? Your God-given NAME is inscribed in the palm of God’s hand (Isaiah 49:16) and written in heaven’s Book of Life (Psalm 139:16; Revelation 21:27).

What’s in a name? JESUS IS THE NAME ABOVE EVERY NAME. JESUS IS THE KING OF KINGS, THE SUPREME “REX” OF THE UNIVERSE.

Join me in praying to our God for one thing first and foremost, “We want to see Jesus and live in the beauty and wonder of His glory every day of our endless lives” (Psalm 27:4).

WINSDAY WISDOM REWIND 11

The highlight of my athletic life happened when I was twelve years old. That moment sums up the Wikipedia account of sports stardom for this writer. I peaked in the first dozen years.

Why was this moment so important? That can be answered only through the perspective of a twelve-year-old boy who loved sports because his hero dad was a high school coach. I hope you will see what I saw, feel what I felt, and learn what I learned that unforgettable night.

Like many dads, mine taught me the game of baseball. He bought me my first glove and trained me to use two hands to cradle catch fly balls and to crouch for the hard-hit grounders.

Dad coached a twelve-year-old baseball team when I was seven. He gave me a uniform and inserted me into right field for the last inning of games when our team was far ahead. Of course, I thought I should be playing more. At one pre-game dinner, I asked Dad to stop treating me as though I was his son. That night, I sat on the bench for the entire game. One lesson learned.

When I was twelve, our family spent the summer in Stillwater, Oklahoma, where my dad was in the university summer school classes to earn his Masters’ Degree. Dad signed me up for Little League baseball. I played second base for a team who welcomed this outsider onto its homegrown roster.

It was a fun Sandlot type of summer. Our team had good players and coaches. We won every contest. My parents found a way to attend every game, even with Dad’s heavy load of schoolwork. They cheered loudly for the team and especially for me.

I repeat, Dad was my hero. The post-game stops for a milkshake or ice-cold root beer were memorable celebrations of victories and our relationship.

The successful season culminated with our team playing in the area championship finals. A trip to the national championship in Williamsport was the prize to the winners. It was the last inning and our team led by one run. Three outs from victory and more weeks of summer baseball.

However, we had to change pitchers. Our best pitcher had maxed out the limit of pitches allowed by the Little League rules. The change in pitchers was normally not a problem for our team, but tonight would prove differently. Why? Our second best, equally dominant pitcher, was sidelined with the mumps.

Our third pitcher was on family vacation in Colorado. Who goes on vacation on the weekend of the season’s most important game? What parent does that? This is the championship game! Get your priorities straight!

Our coach called in our first baseman to pitch. Mark was tall and lanky for twelve. He also was wild with his pitches. Eight throws, eight balls, two men walked on base. The tying run was on second base, and the potential winning run for our opponent stood on first base.

The coach walked to the pitcher’s mound, took the ball from Mark, patted him on the back, then pointed at me standing near second base. I looked around like a kid caught stealing cookies. It must be someone else! No, the coach signaled for me to come pitch.

I had never pitched, not in a real game. I sometimes pitched in batting practice because I could throw the ball over the plate in the strike zone, but slow enough for everyone to hit it. That is why it is called batting practice, not pitching practice.

The coach handed me the ball and told me not to walk anyone as Mark had just done. He said to take a deep breath and remember that the whole season is on the line.

Thank you, coach, for piling all the weight of a pressure-packed moment onto a twelve-year-old kid. “Go big or go home!” The Coach seriously underestimated my desire to go home.

I looked at the opposing team’s batter, then at the tying baserunner on second and the winning baserunner on first. I was nervous! I could not breathe!

The first pitch went right over the plate. Unfortunately, it also flew over the catcher’s head and the umpire’s head before landing against the backstop. Now, the tying run was at third base and the winning run was standing on second base.

As the catcher tossed the ball back to me, he shouted his seasoned advice, “You’re killin’ me, Smalls.”

I heard someone could be so nervous his knees would knock together. Mine shook so violently they were missing each other.

What happened next could be described as a miracle. The batter wildly swung at my next three pitches and struck out.

This was not “The Colossus of Clout” or “Mighty Casey” who struck out. This was possibly the worst Little Leaguer in the history of baseball. I cringe at the possibility he might read this account of his infamous moment. I do not understand why he swung at those pitches and neither did his coach.

One out! My teammates shouted encouragements to steady me. The opponents yelled insults to rattle me. Coaches and parents screamed at their counterparts on the other team.

The next batter popped up my first pitch to him. I caught it and now there were two outs! Maybe, I should have been pitching all summer. We were one out away from winning the championship, and I would be the star relief pitcher.

This was my iconic High Noon showdown at Tombstone, taking place at night in a ballpark. I planned for my pitch to be faster than the opposing player’s swing. I would mow down the bad guy, toss my glove in the dirt, and ride off into the night with my girl, whom I simply called Mom.

I stepped on the mound ready to end this game. I was like ice in a cool breeze. I looked at the potential tying run at third base, then glanced at the winning runner standing on second.

I glared at the opponent stepping into the batter’s box. He rearranged his batting gloves, pounded his bat on home plate, then got into his hitting stance.

Our eyes met. It was a stare-down standoff. The suspense heightened. My body tensed with every labored breath. I waited for the batter to blink first. The haunting theme music from “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” played over the loudspeakers in my head.

The music was suddenly halted by the umpire’s scream, asking if I were going to throw the ball or just stand there all night. I think he even called me Karen.

The next pitch would be the last one of this game. The excitement and tension were at their highest levels. These are the moments that define the Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Defeat.

I went through my wind-up and heaved the ball to home plate. The batter swung and hit a short, soft blooper in the direction of first base. It was an easy out.

Next came the leaps into the air, the shouts at the top of the lungs, and gloves thrown high into the air, followed by the traditional dog pile.

Wake up! My head turned to watch our first baseman catch the ball, but Mark stood uninvolved and unmoved, still in shock from his ill-fated pitching experience. I reacted instinctively as I ran toward the basepath with my eyes on the descending ball.

I stretched out my arm and the ball plopped softly into my glove. We were one second away from the championship when suddenly, our substitute second baseman crashed into me, knocking both of us down.

The ball fell to the ground and rolled across the white chalked line towards the dugout fence. I looked up from my prone position to see the tying run cross home plate and the winning runner racing around third base headed for home.

I scrambled to my knees and quickly crawled through the dirt to retrieve the errant baseball. I popped up on my knees and threw the runner out at home. That is exactly what happened…in my mind, but not in reality. As my arm went into its throwing motion, the baseball slipped out of my hands and softly fell to the ground behind me.

Anyone who has ever played or watched a youth baseball or softball game understands what happened next as the emotional rollercoaster turns from ecstatic happiness to total heartbreak. One team is jumping, hugging, shouting, tossing gloves and caps into the air, and celebrating the championship victory.

The other team mourns the loss. Some players slump to the ground; some angrily throw their gloves and caps. Some cry. I did all those things. Championship defeats hurt badly, whatever the sport, whatever the age.

My team lost, and I was the reason. Everyone knew whose son cost our team the championship. My hustling teammate did not cause me to drop the easy pop-up. The baseball had already bounced out of my glove before the collision.

I attempted a sweet one-handed grab instead of the safer two-handed style taught by my dad. I dropped the ball a second time with my attempted throw to our catcher. I was crushed beyond belief. Devastated.

The distance between the joy of victory and the depression of defeat is one very small step. The time between dancing on the mountaintop to crying in the valley is measured in seconds. There was no joy in Mudville that day. My world had ended.

The philosopher, Aristotle, wrote about the metaphor, catharsis–the process of releasing emotions in the face of true tragedy. He described it as both helpful and healthful to the heart. Aristotle never played Little League baseball.

Cathartic? How is this supposed to be good for the heart? This little kid was heartbroken. I sat motionless on the bench with my cap pulled down to hide my tear-filled eyes. Sad thoughts raced through my mind.

This is not how the movie was supposed to end. Gary Cooper’s Marshal Kane does not get shot by a faster gun at High Noon.

Catharsis? I was releasing emotions. It was neither helpful nor healthful. Forget you, Aristotle. I dropped the baseball.

The Agony of Defeat. I can still taste the dust. Seriously, my mouth is dusty dry even now. I cringe at the thought of that baseball slipping out of my hand.

I vividly remember the sight of the opposing team’s runner joyfully jumping onto home plate. I still feel the sadness and darkness deep down in my memory bank.

The coach sat us all down in the dugout and talked about what a great season it had been. He encouraged us all to get better so we could win the championship next year. Well, I would not be back next year because I did not live in this town; besides, my teammates would not want me back on their team. No one would be calling, “Shane! Come back!”

When the consolation talk finished, the distraught players slowly exited the bench area, while the coaches bagged the equipment.

I sat there in silence. Heartbroken. Tears still streaming down my cheeks. I bit my lip and pondered an exit strategy. The coach literally helped me to my feet, guided me out of the dugout, and patted me on the back as we left the ballfield.

In that moment, I decided to run away. I could not face my disappointed dad. I could not answer why I dropped the ball while acting like some showboat star player.

So, my solution was to run away. I did not know where. I did not know for how long, but anywhere would be better than my present option.

I stood there at the edge of the ballpark, head bowed, shoulders slumped, with my cap pushed down to cover my eyes. The stadium lights were turned off causing the surrounding area to darken. The gravel parking lot lay ahead and the tree-lined park behind. This was the crossroads of my twelve-year-old sporting career.

Would I run? What direction?

I raised my head slightly, just to see our family car in the parking lot. I saw two feet standing next to it, obviously belonging to my father. I did not want to hear a parental lecture on how to properly catch a pop-up fly ball. I certainly did not want to look into my dad’s disappointed eyes, but I did want to see him one last time before I ran away in the opposite direction.

What I saw in that moment brings me to tears even now. It shaped my life…forever. Not just as an athlete, but as a son, as a father, as a grandfather, and as a man seeking to influence and impact the lives of other sons and fathers.

I looked up with those moistened eyes and trembling lips to see my dad standing by the car. He was looking at me. He was waiting for me…with his arms opened wide.

This twelve-year-old boy ran across the gravel parking lot as fast as he could go, jumped into his dad’s arms, and sobbed uncontrollably. I can still feel those huge forearms wrapped around me in a big bear hug.

Finally, I mumbled how sorry I was for dropping the ball. What I saw and felt in that moment were superseded by what I heard.

“That’s OK, Son. I still love you! Let’s go home!”

Never have I heard words which impacted me more. I understood in that moment words which would carry me through the rest of my life. Words that would teach me about my relationship with my Heavenly Father. Words that would shape me as a father to my kids. 

It’s OK! I still love you! Let’s go home!

• God’s love always comforts; it never condemns.
• God’s love always continues; it never ceases.
• God’s love always takes us home; it never closes the door.

No matter how I mess up in life, intentionally or unintentionally, I am still loved. No matter how often or how far I try to run in the wrong direction, I still have a home.

I AM IN AWE OF HOW AND WHY GOD LOVES ME.                                                                    I am thankful to a dad who taught and demonstrated that love to me.

What is your biggest mistake or disappointment in life? Where did you drop the ball? What hurt, fear, worry, guilt, or loss has you weighed down under its heavy burden? What causes you to want to run away from God and others?

God is always with you. God is always for you. Whatever the mess, God never loves you less. 

GOD NEVER LOVES YOU LESS!

One of my favorite verses declares our Heavenly Father’s wonderful promise: God is over you, beside you, in you, around you, and underneath you (Isaiah 41:10).

God has you covered in His love. God’s loving arms remain wide open. You never face a game or a challenge or a crisis alone. You never go through difficulty and suffering alone. You never experience trials, troubles, and tribulations alone.

God’s infinite love is wider, longer, higher, and deeper than you can ever imagine.

Whenever I drop the ball in loving others, I run into the loving arms of my Heavenly Father. My prayer is that you will join me. It will change your life forever.

NO MATTER WHAT SEEMS TO GO WRONG IN YOUR LIFE, YOUR HEAVENLY FATHER NEVER, NEVER, NEVER LOVES YOU LESS.

Please allow me to speak directly to your heart. “It’s OK. I still love you. Let’s go home.”

Love first. Love most.

WINSDAY WISDOM 232

Have you ever been tear-gassed? My college experience was terrifying.

I heard there was something big happening at Harvard Square, the main intersection next to our college campus. I raced five blocks from my dorm to where the action was taking place.

Pandemonium–a situation where a crowd of people act in a wild, loud, uncontrolled manner. Commotion. Confusion. Craziness. Crisis. Chaos.

This was the flash point that led to the Harvard Square tear-gas confrontation. A student group organized a parade down Boston’s Beacon Street. They crossed the Harvard Bridge and marched down Massachusetts Avenue which ended at the large intersection in front of the entrance to Harvard Yard.

This protest united the anti-war crowd with the radical Black Panther group. If that were not enough, they were joined by members of the Women Liberation. It was the trifecta of protests!

The protest crowd eventually swelled to three thousand students on this sunny, spring day.

Note: My personal observation is that college student protests take place in comfortable weather conditions. Students are not as dumb as they act. I have not studied all historic revolutions, but I imagine most began in good weather. For example, Paul Revere’s famous ride occurred in April along with the cherry blossoms, not when New England was covered with snow.

The sound truck was used to exhort the crowd to “march on Harvard Square where the enemies are.” The growing rage evolved into some street fighting as traffic was blocked and some store windows were smashed.

By seven o’clock that evening, the protest crowd had attracted a similar number of onlookers. The riot police force formed an unbreakable barrier. Most stood and watched as protesters threw rocks at store windows and the police.

I raced to the scene. As I turned the corner from the side street, I hit the brakes. I was staring into a long line of Swat team guys dressed in riot gear. They stood united in their helmets, face guards, shields, and nightsticks. They were holding tear gas guns.

It looked like a war zone.

My sudden appearance from around a dark corner startled some of the riot force. Their reaction frightened me. My heart pounded and my feet quickly reversed my path as several officers stepped in my direction.

As I retreated to the edge of the street, I scaled a small tree and sat on the branch. I looked like Zaccheus waiting on Jesus to pass by.

From the tree branch, I had a gallery seat view of the riot scene. Students protesting the Viet Nam War were sitting in the street blocking traffic. They held signs and water bottles.

Loud protest chants echoed through the Square. An occasional object was hurled in the direction of the police blockade. Loudspeakers blared with instructions demanding the students to peacefully disperse.

Oh, the irony. Students protesting the war would not peacefully depart the confrontation without an altercation leading to injuries and arrests. This was not pictures of the modern day Palestinian-Israeli conflict and its American counterparts protesting in the streets. Anti-war, Equality, and Liberation protesters were smashing windows, throwing rocks, and overturning police vehicles in the middle of the Home of Freedom.

The police warning was reiterated again and again. When the protesters did not leave the Square, the side-by-side police force moved closer. I could have sold my VIP perch for a lot of money. I had a panoramic view of the entire area.

The melee worsened. Women taunted the police with their screams and signs. Several draped bras over the shoulders of the men assigned to keep the peace. The standoff went on for hours as the tensions heightened.

Some protesters sat in silence blocking the flow of traffic while others issued defiant screams. A few protesters’ rage led to broken store windows and two overturned police cars. Several fires were set. A few members of the tactical force wildly swung their clubs as protesters screamed into their faces.

Pandemonium ruled the night. The protest speeches were loud and passionate. The riot squad was quiet and intimidating. The firemen were putting out the fires. Tempers flared as this peaceful protest march transformed into a war zone.

Suddenly, the police force fired cannisters of tear gas into the raucous crowd. The protesters began coughing and choking, trying to cover their faces as they ran into the nearby darkness.

Tear gas can cause shortness of breath and a burning sensation of the eyes, mouth, nose, and lungs. I watched as the crowd dispersed in all directions. Some needed help to see. Many stumbled for safety as they passed right under my tree limb.

I had never seen anything like this except on television. It was a little frightening and a little humorous…until the mixture in the air reached my tree.

My eyes began to burn. My throat tightened. I could not see nor breathe. I quickly dropped from the tree landing on two fleeing students. They thought they had been bombed. I thought I was going to be trampled. We all picked ourselves up from the sidewalk and fled down an alleyway.

Jesus did not need tear gas to get Zacchaeus down from his tree stand. This had the same result. I was going back home to have a “Come to Jesus Talk.”

For the uninitiated, the “come to Jesus talk” is where a person of authority has a heart to heart meeting regarding the necessity for the other person to improve his/her attitude and actions. A change has to be made.

In my case, a lesson was learned. Tear gas flows outward and upward. If you sit down with the ducks, you might be mistaken for a duck.

Arrests were made. Makeshift medical rooms were set up in local churches. A curfew was set. Calls were made to parents just settling in for their evening slumber.

“Hey, Mom, guess what? I just got tear-gassed at the university.”

Nothing like this had ever happened in my little hometown. My exposure to such challenges to authority were limited to two students spraying graffiti on the lockers because they had been suspended from school for disrupting an English class.

A loud lady organized her private protest of the local IGA store because they ran out of their soda sale items. Karen had more problems than Pepsi with no fizz. She was also missing a few coupons.

Our Barney Fife cop once had a face-off with our town’s top drag racers. He parked two blocks away and honked his horn. The showdown at midnight never generated any arrests. That was probably because most of the town was lining both sides of the speedway. No one felt the need to protest.

I had been introduced to student protests at my liberal college in Boston. My young Writing teacher spent several nights in jail when he refused to stop distributing war protest materials on the city streets. He took it out on my freshman writing assignments. One of his comments written across my latest book report included the thoughts of his antiwar thinking.

“How did you get into this school with your simplistic writing ability?”

I wish he had stayed in jail. Then I could write him some notes filled with “simplistic” sarcasm.

That spring brought the protests even closer. I will save that account for another time.

Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” The phrase is used in our everyday speech to indicate doubt of someone’s sincerity regarding the strong denial of the truth.

Do you ever protest? Too much, methinks?

Protests are becoming more prevalent. All groups want the culture’s attention. So, there are marches and rallies and counter rallies. There are slogans and shouts. Some group responds with a cancel culture of their opposing group who has already blacklisted them.

Families and individual relationships get in on the protest of grievances. We join the parade.

We often seek to shift the blame of our situation onto someone else. We demand better treatment. We scream, carry signs, engage in stubborn sit-down moments, and even go on strike, refusing to love or consider reconciliation.

We demand our rights or, at least, our wants.

Does it actually help?

A protest can help raise awareness about issues that might not yet have reached the mainstream. However, a protest does not guarantee that others agree with your viewpoint.

Too often, our words spread like tear-gas. They hurt and burn and create distance in the relationship. Wrong words can stab the soul and crush the spirit.

However, a word remains the most powerful of all the four-letter words. The right word at the right time can breathe life into a dying soul. It produces hope and courage in a fearful heart.

“Words fitly spoken are like apples of gold in a setting of silver” (Proverbs 25:11).

Colors fade. Shorelines erode. Leaves fall. Empires crumble. But right “words” spoken at the right time are like a personalized piece of gold jewelry. It fits the person perfectly and, most importantly, it endures.

The love language words of Jesus are life changing. They empower the soul with courage and hope.

The greatest message you can share is to love first and love most. Start with the words and actions mentioned by Jesus as the Golden Rule. “Do for others what you would want them to do for you. This is the teaching of God’s Word in a nutshell” (Matthew 7:12).

If you wonder where to start in a relationship, start with the Golden Rule. It prevents the need for protests or a long list of rules.

Just put yourself in the other person’s place and think, “What would I need if I were him or her?” Then do it.

We all protest too much, methinks. Let us set aside our personal protests. Practice the Golden Rule. The words will be precious. The actions will be powerful.

WINSDAY WISDOM REWIND 10

I’m gonna tell you a story about my town…
Yeah, down by the river
Down by the banks of the river Charles
That’s where you’ll find me
Along with lovers, muggers, and thieves
Aw, but they’re cool people

Well, I love that dirty water
Oh, Boston, you’re my home
—Dirty Water by the Standells, also covered by Bruce Springsteen (The song is played during home postgame victory celebrations by the Boston Bruins’ hockey team and baseball’s Boston Red Sox.)

The flashing blue lights and siren startled us as the Boston Metropolitan Police car came flying off the interstate racing down the banks toward the River Charles which flows through Cambridge, Massachusetts, into the Boston Harbor. That’s where they found us. We were not lovers, muggers, or thieves. I did think we were pretty cool people.

We were just a bunch of first-year college students enjoying a springtime bonfire down by the river where the Ryan O’Neal and Ali MacGraw movie, Love Story, was filmed earlier that year. Our fun event entailed tossing the frisbee, roasting marshmallows, and lots of laughter with friends. It was a nice break from the studies routine.

Our frolicking festivities were temporarily interrupted by a couple of young adolescent boys running through the campfire group. They were just kids, but they might have been part of the “thieves” hanging out near the dirty water. They would grab the frisbee or the football. We would chase them and retrieve our stolen item. This snatch and grab followed by our catch and grab was executed several times. It became very annoying.

As time passed, my frustrated friend Joel established his own no-trespassing rule. He picked up one of the small branches to be used for the bonfire and issued a threat to the next intruder. They came and he chased. His stick was more for defensive purposes, but he did look like Thor wielding a mighty sword to protect the ladies in distress.

The delinquent villains ran away, and we all returned to the party. However, Joel was spent. The anger and energy had spoiled his social game. He retreated to the dorm for a shower. This time, we did not hide all his clothes. Going to Widener Library wearing only a towel was frowned upon, even in our liberal arts school.

The fun and games down by the river continued. The skies darkened and the bonfire blazed. Stories and laughter dominated the conversations. No one was spouting political jargon or printing banners for the next social protest. This was college…the way it was meant to be. Faces of friends shining amidst the fire’s glow.

Then we heard the sirens from an emergency vehicle. That was not unusual since the interstate was located near the river. We saw the flashing blue lights approaching. Suddenly, the police car swerved off the road and down the highway embankment toward our campfire alongside the river.

The speeding car squealed to a stop about fifty feet from where our group gathered. Two policemen jumped from the car. One approached us and ordered us all to stand still. The other police officer opened the back door of his car to let out a passenger. It was the little rag runt who had spoiled our party.

As the officer and the little kid closed in on our party of ten, the boy pointed at me and yelled out, “That’s him! That’s him!”

The lawman asked if the squealer was sure. You had to love his reply. “Yes, I’m sure. I remember that smirk on his face.”

My quirky smirk has been a trademark and nemesis throughout my life. It’s not a smile and it’s not a frown. I think it is usually a response of muffled amusement. Or that my mind is engaged in some planned retort that should never see the light of day. Some might call it a sheepish grin. Others would say it is distracting or judgmental in tone. It is just a defining funny look.

This kid stooge certainly pointed it out. The officer grabbed my arm and declared I was under arrest. He forcibly marched me to the patrol car. I was ordered to lean face first against the car and place my hands behind my back.

He handcuffed me. I was told I was being charged with Assault and Battery. Then the law enforcement officer read me my legal rights, especially the right to be silent.

This was Boston, not my little Midwestern hometown. No one had heard of Miranda Rights or the River Charles. If you wanted action, you went to the Fireworks stand or Tenkiller Lake. You could catch an occasional weekend fight at Sunset Corner.

Our town had only one Barney Fife deputy. Most of the time, he slept in the police car as the drag racers sped down the main highway. If anyone was guilty of anything in our small town, the police called your momma.

My major crimes in that hole-in-the-wall place never led to arrest, court sentencing, and hard prison time in the state penitentiary. Now that the statute of limitations has passed and my parents are enjoying heaven, I confess to a few unnamed misdemeanors.

My enjoyment of fireworks and destruction included blowing up my little brother’s toy soldiers and beautifully detailed model airplanes with well-placed cherry bomb explosions. It was a fun way to teach the young man a life lesson. Sometimes, hard work and dreams just go up in smoke. Sorry, kid. Don’t cry.

My Uncle Derwin did jokingly, but shamefully, accuse me of taking money out of the church offering plate. I packed my bags that afternoon and started walking my six-year-old body to the bus station.

The point of these storied diversions is that I did not have the crime profile of a hard-edged criminal. I had been a reasonably good kid growing up.

Now here I was as a college student in the big city of Boston and under arrest. Oh, the shame and embarrassment. The officer turned me around and yelled in my frightened face, “Why did you hurt this young boy?”

I pleaded my innocence. The little lad kept crying and pointing at me. “That’s him, officer. That’s the guy who hit me.”

The two police officers were not in any mood for questions or explanations. It was just time to put away the hardened criminals, especially this one. They thought I  might be one of those student protesters.

When Jesus was questioned with false accusations, He did not answer. I lacked the spiritual fortitude to withstand the attack. I was scared. I stuttered, “What did I do?”

The officer raised the shirt of the juvenile accuser to expose a large bruise on his side and back. The kid screamed, “That’s where he hit me with the big stick.”

Everyone was yelling and no one was communicating. The devilish delinquent was yelling. The policeman was yelling. My friends were yelling. I would have been yelling but my throat locked up from fright. At least, I don’t think I was smirking.

This is the point where the Prison Captain in the movie Cool Hand Luke speaks the infamous line to the prisoner played by Paul Newman, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.”

Thankfully, the girls in our group came to my defense. The guys remained silent for the most part. No gladiator stood up to defend my honor. They found the whole dilemma quite amusing.

My roommate, now a Harvard lawyer, did not remind the police to read me my Miranda rights. He just stood behind the group, contemplating the enjoyment of visiting me in jail. Andy would eventually reason with the officers about the mistaken identity of the accused.

The police were just doing their job. Abuse is an extremely serious issue. Every abused spouse or child needs protection. Every accused man declares his blamelessness. There was nothing different about this situation…except for the cluster of pretty women pleading my innocence.

Never underestimate the powerful pleas of a pretty girl. They convinced the officers that I was not the guy who had a run in with the terrible tyke. That person had left the banks of the River Charles and returned to his dorm. He was not guilty, and neither was the smirker. No one had touched the accuser who had infiltrated the bonfire party.

I wrestled with thoughts about jail time and how to tell my parents. After much discussion, the officers were convinced that I did not belong in handcuffs. Under strong questioning, the juvenile admitted that his dad had beaten him the night before. That is so sad and far too prevalent in this world.

The law enforcement car left the premises headed for the kid’s home. We returned to the bonfire down by the banks of the River Charles. We just chilled along with the other lovers, muggers, and thieves. The cool crowd had a story to tell.

Let’s all do better at loving first and most. You never know whom you meet along life’s highway or what they are facing in life. Some are guilty of self-centeredness, and some are victims of abuse. Some are falsely accused or socially abused. Some judge and condemn. Some hide in shame. Others struggle to survive.

The men and women in blue are much needed and should be much appreciated. They have their own family issues to deal with as well. A few might be black sheep, but that does not discount the mass of self-sacrificial guardians of our freedom and safety. Share a friendly wave. Be sure to make all five fingers visible.

Let us all be thankful for those precious moments with our families and friends. Let us all be mindful of those struggling in their family or involved with the wrong kind of friends.

And let us all be grateful for the merciful forgiveness of the Supreme Judge who does know all the wrong things we have said and done. We belong in an eternal prison of darkness reserved for the guilty, yet He treats us to the highest place of heavenly honor. Why? Our innocence was secured by the great love of Another willing to be bound and punished for our wrongdoing. It was not a case of mistaken identity. It was voluntary, substitutionary love.

Let us learn from Jesus how to love others first and most.

Oh Lord, help us not to be quick to judge or condemn others. Please help us to stop just saying we love people, but to show it by our actions.

I want my soul to sing and dance with the thoughts expressed in one of the greatest hymns written by those of us who stand accused by the adversary:

The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade;
To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.

Oh, love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure—
The saints’ and angels’ song.

                          —The Love of God by Frederick Lehman