Life In The Gas Lane

Don’t you just love God?

What a faithful Friend He is. I had recently ‘bragged’ on my God to a friend that throughout my twenty-five years of disability, and with everything that can go wrong with that, there has never been a time He has abandoned me when I’ve been caught in a desperate situation. Have I felt abandoned during those years? Well, yes, of course, but that does not change the fixed truth of the matter. Not one iota.

I can recall when Sandy and I were dating some years back. We were college coeds, heading to see our college basketball team play at another school campus ninety minutes away. It was a rainy night and especially dangerous on the roads as I remember. I was traveling around seventy in the far left lane of I-75 when suddenly my right front tire blew. Somehow I managed to negotiate through the heavy rush-hour traffic all the way to the shoulder of the highway. When I parked the car, I put my head in my hands and cried. I felt so helpless. How could I get out of the car in my wheelchair? I would certainly have to be at least part way in the lane of oncoming traffic. Then, even if I could, how am I supposed to change the tire? I can’t make my new girlfriend get soaking wet doing it. God, what to do, what to do…

That conversation lasted a full five seconds when headlights swung into the lens of the rear view mirror. Within moments a gentleman appeared in the window of the passenger side and I rolled it down. How did this stranger know to pull over? How would he know the man driving the car would need assistance? These are questions only God can answer, but I have my suspicions.

In minutes the ’stranger’ had the tire changed and with a salute and smile he was running back to his car where he lurched back into traffic and disappeared into the night.

That kind of stuff happens to me all the time.

Just today I had pulled into the bay of a gas station to fill ‘er up when my van’s wheelchair lift took a notion to cough and quit while I was halfway out and halfway in. There I sat, suspended somewhat, unable to operate the thing. I patted my front pocket for my cell and discovered, to my dismay, it was empty. Turning my head to the dashboard, I remembered I had set the phone in its cradle to charge it up and it was way out of arm’s reach. God, what to do, what to do…

A young man in a suped-up Caprice Classic pulled in one bay over but the hip-hop wafting from inside his car was so loud he could not hear my “excuse me” over the full-bodied bass. Besides, whoever was singing was pretty angry about something and growling out obscenities and using a wide range of sexual innuendoes. No, forget innuendo. It was hard-core.

But after his car came another, a red SUV, piloted by a gentlemen who, by the look and sound of things, was quite happy with life. He hopped out of his car whistling, looked at me sitting freeze-framed in mid-air and smiled. He looked in the direction of the music and frowned and playfully covered his ears, while shaking his head. I had a sense the Lord parked him there right away. I spoke to him as he passed by, asking if he wasn’t in too big a hurry would he mind giving a hand. This stranger, who turned out to be my brother, wheeled quickly and with an enthusiastic “how can I help?” bounded inside the van and in minutes had me on my way. Rescued again.

Before we parted ways, I felt led to ask the gentleman, “You love the Lord, don’t you sir?”

“He’s my life, my everything,” he said. I looked to the ceiling of the van and offered up a quick missive of thanks to my Faithful Friend who, once again, came to my rescue with real skin, blood and bones.

I wanted to bless the man and when I asked him for a card, thinking I might send a check or something. As he headed toward the station’s mart he said that no blessing was needed as I had blessed him with the opportunity. Still, while he was inside I asked the Lord how he might be blessed. The answer came: “fill his tank with gas.” Of course, I only had a debit card, no cash, and he was likely paying for his gas inside. When he came out again I asked if he had paid for his gas and he told me he had. I thought to myself, shoot!, but he went on to tell me he was only putting a couple dollars’ worth in the tank. I knew that wasn’t near enough to pay for a tank these days, so I offered to fill his tank.

“No,” he said. “I only live around the corner. I was glad to help. No thanks necessary.”

I found out my brother was a veteran on fixed income and when I insisted, he finally let me. We’re family, after all, and family looks out for each other. I left there this afternoon sensing I had looked into the face of God. It was a different color than mine, but it was Him nonetheless. Funny how you can easily find the family likeness on the side of a highway or next to a gas pump. You just have to look.

Or cry out for assistance.

Unplugged

So…

Where ya been?

The keyword of my life lately has been ‘connect’. That, and the woeful lack thereof, as the case may be. As you are well aware, little is heard from Green Pastures or Sound Bites these days except the plaintive whistling through the hollow reaches of cybersphere and the occasional tumbleweed meandering across your monitor. And the amaranthine chirping of techno-crickets.

I have been beset by mind-cramps, faithful reader, and those incessant mental charley horses have caused me to seize up and rub it out until it goes away.

My Outlook Express has decided to join the mournful processional by going feet-up for the past two weeks. So help me, if I have to look at another ugly window popping up telling me my server has not connected for the past 60 seconds and would I like to wait another 60 seconds, I may be shopping for yet another laptop as this one will be sporting a nice clean 20-gauge grin in its kisser.

No telling how many emails I have idling out there which has given me the uneasy sensation of having my tether ripped free from the mother ship and being slowly drawn far out into collapsing darkness and utter cold. Nooooooo!

All this has me looking for a soccer ball with which I might strike up a friendship and wondering how I’d look in a long, scruffy beard.

Now I find out that my internet browser is giving me the cold shoulder, sharing the news that it has encountered a problem and must shut down and asking me to forgive it for any inconvenience. Again and again. For the past twenty-four hours. You are most definitely not forgiven, Firefox.

All my bookmarks, all those saved articles, every designated folder. Gone. Kablooey. Kaput. With a resigned sigh, I regrettably slump back toward my old nemesis, IE, and pray it will accept me back into its good graces. Great. Just great.

Welcome, old friend. Where have you been?

(grinning fiendishly) We knew you’d be back…

Lest you think all in my life has been on disconnect, I need to tell you about a connection that I made recently that trumps all these bloopers rolled into one. This past weekend I spent twenty-four hours with my son who has been away at a school for troubled youth for nearly six months. I haven’t said much about it, and won’t, except to say that our prayers for a jubilee over his life seem to have a strong hearing in Heaven and the recent shifts in the atmosphere tell us that a very significant corner has been turned.

Will it last? Not sure. There may be setbacks and hard miles yet to come, but we have assurance that whatever it is that God wanted to get out of him in this chapter of his young life, He seems to have done just that.

Our life with Graham has consisted of a weekly ten minute phone call and a handful of short visits. It’ll tear your heart out like nothing else when you take your monthly visit and when time’s up, to watch your only child disappear slowly behind the front door of an austere barrack-like building and you drive away, leaving him there, facing a fourteen hour drive home. And all you want to do is call it all off, that this can’t be right, that we can make it work, but knowing every agonizing minute that the battle for his soul requires such sacrifice.

So be it, Lord. Get Your glory in this…

I came within an eyelash of not making July’s visit and, boy, am I glad I listened to God.

Thursday morning, Douglasville, GA.
I lay in bed, sensing the Lord was telling me I needed to go. How can I, Lord? The drive alone will put me back into Shepherd for more skin surgeries. Go. But, Lord, gas is so high. Go. But there’s a special speaker at church this Sunday and I’ll need to introduce him. Go, go, go!

It took some convincing of Sandy to let me do it by myself but we agreed it was right however I’d need to ask a special favor of the school. I reached for the phone and dialed the all-familiar number.

“So, Mr. Mitchell, are you coming?”

“Yes I am, but I need to ask a huge favor…”

Thursday morning, SAME EXACT TIME, Northeast USA.
Graham was bummed because he’d been told his parents would likely not be able to make it for the upcoming visitation. He asked to stay in his room and fast through lunch, crying out to God for a miracle. Please, God, let my parents come and see what you’re doing in my life. Make a way, Lord.

Early that afternoon, a knock on the door startled his praying. A head popped in informing Graham that he was needed in the counselor’s office. He was met there by his primary counselor and given the news that not only was his Dad coming for the weekend but they were giving special dispensation to have Graham spend the night in the hotel.

I cannot tell you all that transpired in those twenty-four hours but suffice to say what I hoped from them and what he hoped were not only realized but nitrogen-boosted beyond our expectations. Around 1 a.m. and back at the room finally, Graham pulled out his guitar and asked if he could play a song that has become his testimony. I said yes, of course, and found myself praying that the Lord would give temporary deafness to anyone behind those thin walls wanting to get a good night’s sleep.

There is a God who loves me

Who wraps me in His arms

And that is the place where I’m changed

And that’s where I belong

Take me to that place, Lord

To that secret place where

I can be with You

You can make me like You

Wrap me in Your arms

Wrap me in Your arms

Wrap me in Your arms

I’d been up for over twenty-four hours; in fact, I’d only had two hours’ sleep in the previous 40, but there was no fading on my part. Miraculously, I was wide-awake still and glad I had not missed this. And, wonder of wonders when my son looked at me with those bright, shame-free, tear-washed innocent eyes and said, “thanks, Dad, for sending me up here.”

Prayers (And Feet) For Son Jong

This was in my inbox today.

Let the Body of Christ feel the chains.

Let us rise up as one and pray.

May our pleadings before the Throne bring to ruin the purposes of the enemy.

Precious friends,

It is with anticipation and with some sadness that I share this story with you today. I am full of anticipation because I know our Lord does great things and can deliver anyone from a death sentence. He already has for those of us who follow Him. However, it breaks my heart that Christians all over the world are not living in freedom like we do here in the States. My prayer today is that some of the sadness I feel over this situation with our brother in North Korea, will subside as millions of you get involved and come to the defense of this precious brother.

The Voice of the Martyrs has set up a special webpage that will give you all of the information you need to get involved and to tell others how to get involved with helping the persecuted. But first, let me brief you on the situation.

Yesterday there was a press conference at the National Press Club in Washington D.C., concerning the situation with Son Jong Hoon’s brother. Senator Sam Brownback and representatives from VOM attended the Press Conference. The following is part of the press release from yesterday:

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Son Jong Hoon, who is visiting the United States from his home in South Korea, today pleaded with the world to pressure North Korea to release his elder brother awaiting public execution for the crime of simply being a Christian. For more than a year, Son Jong Nam, former North Korean Army officer-turned-underground-evangelist, has been beaten, tortured and held in a bleak, North Korean death row basement jail in this capital city. He has been sentenced to public execution as an example to the North Korean people.
. . .

VOM was been joined in the initiative by Brownback, a noted supporter of human rights for North Korean refugees. Brownback sent letters last week, also signed by Senators Baucus (D-Mont.), Durbin (D-Ill.), Inhofe (R-Okla.) and Vitter (R-La.) asking U.S. Secretary of State Dr. Condoleezza Rice and U.N. Secretary General Ban Ki-moon to work to secure the release of the Christian prisoner.

VOM is directing people go to its web site, www.prisoneralert.com, where they can compose a personal letter of support and encouragement to Son. The letter is to be mailed to the North Korean delegation to the United Nations, along with a cover letter asking the North Korean government to spare Son’s life, release him from prison immediately, report on his current status and deliver the personal letter to Son.

“We are asking for prayers for Mr. Son, but also that people around the world take action on his behalf,” said Todd Nettleton, director of media development for VOM. “Jesus said ministering to a prisoner was like ministering to Himself. Every letter and email can make a difference.”

To learn more about this situation please click here to visit the website set up specifically for this.

Please visit www.prisoneralert.com

Thanks Everyone and please pass it on,

Stacy L. Harp
Voice of the Martyrs

Re: Memelicious

Mandy, at ForBetterForWorseForLife, has tagged me with my first ever meme in which she has asked five random questions. The idea is for me to answer her queries, then come up with five new questions of my own and tag five other bloggers. First, the Q’s and A’s, then the five lucky bloggers I’ve chosen and the questions I would like for them to answer:

What set your spouse apart and made you choose him or her?

Most of my readers know by now I am in a wheelchair so it is easy for me to say when I was dating Sandy twenty-five years ago, I loved how I felt when she walked beside me. Simply stated, I never felt like I was disabled when I was with her. Still don’t. I loved how Sandy would walk beside me and carry on a conversation as though I too was walking. It was so strange. With others, I still felt like the chair was glaringly obvious. With her, at the risk of sounding sappy, I could quickly forget there was any hardware between us. And that has never changed.

What type of music should someone play for you if his goal is to drive you insane?

Oh, this is a good question! (And some of you think you know what I’m gonna say) Though I like all types, I’d rather have bamboo shoots slid beneath my fingernails than hear the headbanging music of the hardest rock out there. To hear a guy growling into a mike, yelling unintelligible words with no discernible melody is, to me, the seventh circle of hell.

Would you rather watch sports at the stadium, or at home in the recliner? (Or never, unless your only other option is to have your toenails pulled out one by one?)

Hands down, the recliner. Can you say ‘remote control’? No crowds, foods that I actually like as close as my kitchen or on a TV tray with no lines and not costing me the equivalent of the GNP of Lithuania…of course, I’d hit the mute button if Tim McCarver or Marv Albert were broadcasting.

If you could choose any person to mentor you, living or dead, famous or not, who would that be and why?

I’ll go with Joe. You know, “I Am Joe’s (whatever)” in Reader’s Digest? I don’t know who Joe is, but it takes a lot of guts to put yourself out there like that.

And on a serious note, I would have LOVED to be one of the Twelve, mentored first-hand, up close and personal, by Christ.

M & M’s: plain, peanut, almond, crispy, or peanut butter?

PEANUT!!!!!!

And now I’d like to have JT, Byron, Richard, Timbob and Caleb kindly answer these questions and link back to me. Remember, answer the questions, then come up with five new questions that you will send on to five of your blogging buddies. Simple.

Here you go, fellas:

1. What teacher has had the most influence in your life? Why?

2. If you could write the “Great American Novel” what would the first line be?

3. Which job would you prefer: the guy holding the ‘slow down’ sign in a work zone, a ring announcer at a world championship boxing match, or the person serving sample snacks at a Sam’s or grocery store?

4. If you have just awakened from a coma, who would you like to see first and why?

5. If you could get a do-over in high school, what would you change?

Hard To Be Me When I'm Mostly Right

Thank you, my beloved readers for your patience as I continue to recharge my batteries and take a breather from my hectic posting pace for a few more days (oh, and Mandy, don’t give up on me…I hope to have your meme assignment finished soon). Meanwhile, join me in this survey du jour and please post your results in the comments section just for kicks. I wasn’t too terribly surprised with my own results, and here they are:

You Are 45% Left Brained, 55% Right Brained

The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning. Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others. If you’re left brained, you are likely good at math and logic. Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet. The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility. Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way. If you’re right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art. Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports.

Are You Right or Left Brained?

How Free Do You Wanna Be?

“Master, to whom would we go?”
(Peter, 1st century)

Imagine a slave being given his freedom. Now imagine that same slave telling his master, “No, Master, I love serving you! My place is here with you. May I stay?” When the novelty of Christ wore off on His audience and His popularity waned, particularly when it dawned on them that His mission was not to come and make us feel better about ourselves but to make us holy, He watched a steady stream of “wanna eats but not wanna bes” walk away from Him and hitch a ride onto the wide road. We’ll just find somewhere else to take our business to, they sniffed.

When nary a soul remained He turned and saw His ragtag band of wannabes (save one) standing pat. “I’m not going to make you stay, fellows,” He offered. “You may leave anytime you wish.”

I can visualize Peter grouping The Twelve together in a sort of huddle and the subsequent whisperings, sometimes strained but mostly quiet and orderly. Then, I see as the small clutch of disciples breaks and they watch as Peter approaches the Master. “Lord, we’ve talked about it and pretty much all of us agree: where else could we go? You have the words of life. May we stay with You?”

In the Old Testament, when a slave of Judah was granted their Jubilee pardon, and one decided to stay put in his master’s household, he (or she) would place their earlobe against the doorpost of the master’s house and with a hammer and awl, the master would open a bloody hole in that part of the ear and after inserting a gold or brass or silver ring, the slave was his for life. By choice.

I take you now into the Upper Room on a melancholic Passover evening in Jerusalem’s first century, not too long after the aforementioned conversation. There we find thirteen men lounging around a table laden with the customary lamb, the herbs, the wine, with Jesus as its head. Judas is on one side and John is at His breast. The arrangement is quite telling. At Jesus’ back is Judas. At His front, near His heart, is the beloved disciple. Now, don’t miss this: John’s earlobe is pressed against the Master who has called himself in John’s gospel—and in his gospel alone—the Door. The picture is too good to miss. Here is John, by choice through intimacy, intentionally making himself the Master’s bondslave.

I’m not sure if this was ever attempted but I wonder what it would say of a slave if he or she was to tell their master, “Not just this ear, Master, but my other one as well. I want everyone to see, from all angles, that I belong to you and desire Your reign over me.” I could see an impetuous Peter, a doe-eyed John or a decisive Paul doing just that.

That’s freedom’s cost: a bloody ear. So how free do you wanna be?

One ear or two?

Still A 'Grasshopper'

With respect to some advice I received long, long ago from a mentor, I go through life more a learner than a teacher. These are some things I have learned of late:

• This one really caught me by surprise: my Sandy is now a prolific fan of country music. This pains me to no end as I just have never been able to get it. Let’s just say I’m open (last word spoken carefully and drawn out). One of her girlfriends (may she find ants in her fruit loops tomorrow) plugged her into that nonsense and now she romances me with the phrase, “I’d like to check you for ticks.” I dunno, I think that’s a good thing? Seems the old girl and I are living the famous Donnie and Marie duet.
  

• Jerald tells me my blog is R-rated according to mingle2.com. Seems I’ve used some no-no words like “dead”, “pain”, “kill” and “bomb” in some of my posts. Sorry folks, I’ll clean it up. This just kills me! (Doh!)
  
  
• Studies show if a cat falls off the seventh floor of a building it has about 30% less chance of surviving than a cat that falls off the twentieth floor—seems it takes a cat about eight floors to realize what is happening and to adjust and right itself
  
  
• In every episode of Seinfeld, you can spot a Superman figure or picture
  
  
• The chess term “checkmate” is derived from the Persian Shah Mat which means ‘the king is dead’
  
  
• To my horror, I recently discovered a blog featuring the smuttiest of porn news had linked to one of my posts (800 Pacos, June 19th)…evidently the lines “Believe me, you are being lied to. That bottle sitting by your bedside. That strange woman you are bedding. Or want to. That next fix you are dying for. The invitation you received to that wild party. Even your vain philosophy. The code you live by: I’m the Captain of My Soul. The estrangement from your family. The penthouse, the pearls, the pools. The porn, the booze” got its attention, perhaps to mock me? Who knows, mebbe it’ll turn out to be a good thing and someone will find deliverance through a pagan medium. And, no, I will not tell you the site.

• Silly thing, I know, but I did just learn that “Big Ben” is named for the bell in the tower, not the clock
  
  
• A duck’s quack doesn’t echo and nobody knows why
  
  
• Bert and Ernie, renowned pals on Sesame Street, were both named for It’s A Wonderful Life characters: Bert the cop and Ernie the taxi driver
  
  
• The phrase “rule of thumb” comes from an old English law that says you cannot beat your wife with anything wider than your thumb
  
  
• The plane in which Buddy Holly died was called “American Pie”, hence, the title of Don McLean’s famous song

Viva Italia!

Sandy and I are a match made in Tuscany heaven and here’s empirical proof. We both took the test and our results are identical:

You Are Italian Food

Comforting yet overwhelming.People love you, but sometimes you’re just too much.

What Kind of Food Are You?

Blind Leading The Blonde

You may have noticed so few posts here recently. Of course my wife and I were out of town a few days visiting my wife’s folks in Florida but that’s not the real reason for my absenteeism. I confess there’s been so little in the way of inspiration of late. Today’s post is evidence of that.

I’ve got a ‘blonde’ joke for you.

Before I regale you with side-splitting humor, let me give you a little background. While in Florida, I visited one of my favorite church fellowships, the Calvary Chapel of St. Pete. The message was, as I’ve previously found, refreshing, poignant and heartfelt. As was the worship. The cool thing I experienced was some fellowship I enjoyed with a gentleman minutes before the service began. He took such an interest in me, my background and the fact I was a visiting pastor. About a minute before, he said, “Oh man, I gotta get up there” and nodded to the platform. Well, I knew he wasn’t the pastor because I remembered him, so I asked, “Are you on the worship team?” He smiled and said sheepishly, “Yeah, I guess you can say that. I’ve led worship here for twelve years.”

Thirty seconds later, Bob Corry was on the stage with two other men, leading us in acoustic worship that was water to my parched soul. So cool.

Anyhoo, Danny Hodges, the man I remember as pastor, got up to speak, expositing from the gospels on the teaching ministry of our Savior. Nestled within the exposition this man launched into a blonde joke that took quite a risk but, frankly, he pulled off.

Seems a blind guy walks into a bar. He tells the barkeep he wanted to tell a blonde joke.

“I’ll have you know, sir,” the bartender said, “that I am blonde and could toss you out of here with no problem. I’ll also have you know the guy sitting next to you is a weightlifter and benchpresses several hundred pounds. He’s also blonde. And over your shoulder is a blonde guy who weighs over three hundred pounds and works as a bouncer. You still want to tell your blonde joke?”

The blind guy smiles and says, “Not if I have to explain it three times.”

The crowd roared and, last time I checked, the man is still pastor there.

I know what you’re thinking: Hurry up, Scott, and get inspired. This stuff is rubbish.