Kids Hear The Darndest Things

Flash back to the summer of 2007.

It was a beautiful June evening. I was driving my three-year-old granddaughter Miranda home from that evening's Vacation Bible School at church. She had been in my class, and we had shared some fun that evening, and learned some good lessons about how God loves us.

It seemed like a good idea to try to reinforce the evening's lessons on the drive home.

As we drove down Gray Road, Miranda was looking towards the western sky, and noticed the beautiful multi-colored clouds glowing from the rays of the setting sun. "Grandpa, look at the pretty sky," she said.

"It is pretty," I replied, "And someday, when I die and go to heaven, I will get to see beautiful skies like that all the time."

It got very quiet in the back seat. Finally Miranda asked, "Grandpa, are you going to die?"

Uh-oh. Somehow this inspirational conversation had veered off into a dark place. When will I learn to choose my words more carefully around small children? Not soon enough, as you will soon see.

I don't think well under pressure (or most other times, either, for that matter). When I make quick decisions I usually regret them. This occasion would prove to be no exception. My brain was going into panic mode, trying to calculate, in the space of 5 seconds or so, how to reply to this innocent little girl in a way that would minimize her anxiety.

For lack of a better idea, I went with the old casual, matter-of-fact approach. I swear, before I said it, it sounded good in my head.

"Of course, honey," I said casually, "Everybody is going to die someday."

It got really quiet in the back seat again. I was hoping for a quick change of subject.

I still cringe inwardly when I recall what I heard next: the sound of Miranda's panicked little voice echoing from the back seat, "YOU MEAN WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE?"

Lord, just take me now, I thought to myself. Maybe I could get away on Southwest Airlines before I had to face my daughter, Miranda's mom.

I did my best to back-pedal, but there was no place to go. A hard truth was out of the bag, and it couldn't be denied. Three years old is a bit young to be thinking about mortality, but thanks to me, "Grandpa Death", Miranda had something new to worry about.

I tried to candy-coat it, talking about how young we were, and it would be a long, long, long time before any of us would be dying, and how dying is just part of life, and how, if we knew Jesus, we would see God and be in heaven when we died. I rambled all over the place, trying to do some damage control.

I sure wish there were times when God would just give us a do-over.

Finally we arrived at Miranda's home. I didn't know what to say to her mom Stephanie, my only daughter, my eldest child, who would most likely be choosing my nursing home someday, and with whom I had hoped to maintain a positive relationship.

For lack of a better idea, I didn't say anything. So far, every time I had opened my mouth, things had gotten worse. I decided to just shut up for a while.

The next evening, I thought I had better mention this incident to Stephanie, just in case little Miranda had remembered our conversation. So I called her, feeling quite humbled and penitent, and did my best to explain how I had inadvertently shattered her daughter's innocent ignorance about her own mortality. I went through the whole spiel about the VBS and the clouds and heaven and when I finally got done, Stephanie said, "So THAT'S where she got it."

Apparently the day had been filled with non-stop discussions of death, and how everybody is going to die, and when would the dog die, and did dogs go to heaven, and when are you going to die mommy, and on and on and on. If you have ever been a parent, I'm sure you can imagine what it must have been like.

My daughter, being a kind and merciful person, has forgiven me for being such a stupid grandpa. She knows I didn't mean to do it.

I have learned a valuable lesson. Be really careful what you say to young children, because they will always be listening to anything that you wish they had not heard. They may forget every wise thing you ever told them, but say something stupid one time, and 20 years later they'll be on a couch telling their therapist the story of how you traumatized their childhood.

In the future, I am going to play it safe and cop out whenever possible. If any of my grandchildren ever ask questions about sex, all they will get out of me is name, rank, serial number, and a story about storks and cabbage patches. I'm leaving the hard stuff for mom and dad.

* Note to Stephanie -- Should I live long enough to require nursing care, I would still prefer that quiet corner room with the lake view at the Shady Acres Rest Home.

Growing Up White

In the early 1960s, mom would take us kids to swim at a nearby beach, called Maywood Lake, on the southwest side of Indianapolis.

I was so young then that I don't remember a lot of details, but I always had fun there. There are vague impressions left in my memory: the smell of coconut oil, the warm sand, splashing in the waves, transistor radios blasting out the Beach Boys and the Ventures, kids making sand castles. It was an idyllic way to spend a summer, just me and my siblings whiling away the days at the beach with mom.

It was the summer of either 1964 or 1965 when we stopped going to Maywood Lake. "Mom, why can't we go swimming?" we asked. Mom told us the lake had closed. Nobody could go there anymore. Mom offered no explanation of why, and maybe I wouldn't have understood anyway.

When you're a kid, all you know is what is going on in your immediate little world. My world was my neighborhood. Up to the age of 10, I guess I just hadn't paid much attention to anything going on around the rest of the planet.

Some time afterward, I overhead my grandpa talking to my dad, complaining about the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and some of the businesses that had been affected by it. "He shut the place down," grandpa was telling dad.

"What place?" I interjected.

"Maywood Lake - he just shut the place down," grandpa replied, "He told me that he would close the place before he would let the government tell him that he had to let the colored in there."

That was my introduction to racism in America. It amazed me that a man would hate black people so much that he would rather go out of business than have black customers.

I started paying more attention to racial issues after that. I soon realized that a lot of people I knew really didn't like black folks one bit. Probably half the adults in my family were quite vocal about their fears of blacks "taking over the country." A lot of the kids in the neighborhood would make crude racial jokes, or derogatory comments about civil rights protesters. The "N-word" was frequently tossed around in casual conversations, and it seemed like someone was constantly coming up with new and crude racial jokes.

I had an acquaintance in my late teens who was related to some honcho in the Martinsville KKK. Once he brought me a really crude Klan "comic book" of rude, ignorant and hateful cartoons filled with all of the standard racial stereotypes of the day. He actually thought it was funny. I thought, How can people have so much hate in their hearts? And for no good reason?

I always admired the courage of the people who led the civil rights movement, because I knew they were up against some serious generationally-ingrained hatred and prejudice. I knew how bad white folks' attitudes were in Indiana. I could only imagine how much worse it was in the deep South.

So eighteen months ago, when Barack Obama was campaigning for the Democratic nomination, I would not have given him a snowball's chance in hell of ever being elected President. Whatever the campaign issues would become, I just could not believe that America would elect a black man to the highest office in the land. I grew up knowing too many people with too much irrational prejudice. I could not conceive how any black candidate could overcome such an enormous political handicap.

I knew that racial harmony had improved noticeably since the 1960s, but I assumed there was still a lot of tamped-down racial animosity that just wasn't as openly expressed as in the past. I reasoned that in the solitude of the voting booth, ingrained prejudices would ultimately hold sway.

Although I supported John McCain (reluctantly) and I am in staunch ideological opposition to President Obama's policies, I freely admit that I am happy to be wrong about the current extent of racism in America. With this election, we have turned a corner. To be sure, there are still some white people who will never see the light. There will always be some folks who carry darkness in their hearts.

But President Obama has proven, by his historic election victory, that our country is indeed moving past the era when we divided ourselves by race. Hopefully, we can continue to mature as a culture, and someday achieve a truly color-blind society.

A color-blind society with strong moral values, a culture of personal responsibility, a robust national defense policy, strict constitutionalist judges, healthy free-market capitalism, low taxes and limited government interference would be even better.

Down The Rabbit Hole

The worst economy since the great Depression?

What a bunch of typical deceptive left-wing crapola. (My apologies to readers who are sensitive to the use of uncouth grammar, but sometimes there is no substitute.)

No, this is not the worst economy since the great depression, but it is the worst economy since our last leftist president, Jimmy Carter, was in office.

We Americans have many things to be proud of, but our grasp of history is not one of them. We are lucky to remember what we had for breakfast, much less recall the political and economic events of recent decades.

We have had it so good, for so long – and have become so spoiled and so clueless – that I wonder sometimes if we have all gone brain dead.

So you think your life is rough? Feeling a little low today? Tough times got you down, Bubby? Well, let’s take a little misery index test:

Did you eat today?

Are you wearing clothes?

Do you live in a climate-controlled shelter?

Are there shoes on your feet?

Are you free to read what you want, think what you want, and speak your mind openly?

Then welcome to America, friend! Whatever challenges you are facing, you are among the richest 5% of people alive on this planet. (The appropriate response now would be to fall down on your knees and thank God for the privilege of living in a place like this.)

Now that we have put things in perspective, let’s take a stroll down memory lane.

When Ronald Reagan became president in 1981, he inherited an economy in shambles, and all the economic indicators looked much worse than anything President Obama has had to deal with. The economy was so bad, the press had to create a new word to describe it: stagflation. We had double-digit unemployment rates, a double-digit inflation rate, and double-digit interest rates.

Did President Reagan use this “crisis” as an opportunity to try to seize government control of the economy? Absolutely not! President Reagan believed in the power of free enterprise. He believed in the wisdom of limited government, and the ability of free people to create prosperity for themselves, and thereby, for the country as a whole.

His domestic agenda was simple: President Reagan cut taxes. He pushed through de-regulation of the energy and transportation systems. His goal was to reward entrepreneurs and allow people to keep more of the fruits of their labors. Thanks to Reaganomics, the economy went on a 20-year growth spurt, the longest period of prosperity in our history.

In foreign policy, President Reagan believed in peace through strength. He believed America was a great country that was destined to lead the world towards liberty. He built up the armed forces, especially the Navy, so that America could defend herself against any aggressor.

The American Left ridiculed him for his “Star Wars” missile defense proposals, but thanks to his foresight, we are continuing to develop a substantial, and successful, missile defense program, which is really coming in handy in this era of rogue terrorist states. If North Korea ever launches an ICBM towards our west coast, millions of Californians will owe their lives to Ronald Reagan.

Now let’s take a look at Obamanomics. Compared to the Reagan era, it is like we’ve fallen into a rabbit hole. President Obama says we need more government control.

The government needs to take over automobile companies and banks. We need the federal government in control of our health care system. We need to begin taxing “excessive” carbon use through Cap & Trade legislation. We need to raise gasoline taxes. We need to dictate what kinds of cars people can drive. We need to spend our way into “prosperity” by piling up trillions of dollars in debt that our children will never be able to repay.

President Obama’s foreign policy is even more disastrous. His groveling “world-wide apology” tours to Central America, Europe and the Middle East were the most embarrassing displays of appeasement in my lifetime. He is signaling to every tinhorn dictator on the planet that the USA will not be an advocate for liberty and human rights, because we don’t want to interfere with another nation’s business, however dirty that business may be.

Political prisoners of despotic states around the world have a new reason to weep.

And what about peace through strength?

For a man who can dump billions of dollars down the rat hole of government bailouts, without batting an eye, President Obama suddenly turns into Fred Mertz when it comes to the military budget.

So, Iran and North Korea are on the verge of ICBM capabilities? Well, let’s cut the missile defense budget. So, China is doubling the size of its navy? Let’s continue to cut back on ours. Under the Obama budget, every single sector of government spending is set to grow, except for defense.

One pesky detail that President Obama seems to have overlooked is the fact that our national defense is the federal government’s primary constitutional duty.

From where I sit, the future is looking pretty bleak. We have elected a president with no grasp of economic realities, no understanding of the dangers we face in the world, and have granted to him, via a Congress controlled by Democrats, almost unlimited power to reshape this country into whatever kind of socialist welfare state he can envision.

So, is this the worst economy since the Great Depression? No, not yet, but give it time. As President Obama likes to say, “We are just getting started.”

Economic Facts of Life

When I was a boy, my grandpa spent a lot of time trying to teach me things. Sometimes I got tired of listening to him, because it seemed like he repeated himself so much. Now I realize he was just trying to emphasize the high points.

Grandpa was always saying things like:

"You don't get anything without working for it."

"The world doesn't owe you a living."

"An education is the only thing that nobody can ever take away from you."

"You have to be responsible for yourself."

"If you don't have the money to pay for it, make do without it."

"Pay yourself first - save 10 cents of every dollar you make."

Many of us have heard these nuggets of financial wisdom. Simplistic they may be, but they are powerful because they are true.

But I wonder, is there anyone left in America who still believes in them? Apparently no one in the American Left does. The Left tells us that the world does owe us a living, whether we work or not. We are not responsible for ourselves, but Nanny Government is. Can't afford to own a house? No problem, borrow as much as you can at a low interest rate to stimulate the economy. And yes, you can get something for nothing, but only if you vote for Democrats, because those evil greedy capitalistic Republicans don't want you to have anything unless you earn it.

With so many fragmented families and single-parent households, I wonder how many kids today have responsible grandparents around who can pass along to them the economic facts of life? Perhaps the biggest problem facing America now is the simple fact that too many kids are just growing up, and nobody is taking the time to raise them properly.

My teenage neighbor was visiting me a while back, and brought over a buddy of his from school. His friend was talking about his old dilapidated bicycle and how he just wanted to get another bike. He was hoping that the next time his dad visited from out of town, he could talk dad into buying him a new one.

I couldn't restrain myself. "You know," I said, "Spring is here, and I guarantee you could make yourself $100 a week if you just had three or four steady lawn-mowing customers. You could have that new bike in no time, and have plenty of spending money all summer long."

The kid looked at me like I was from Mars. "I don't cut grass," he said condescendingly.

I sincerely hope he is still walking around without a bicycle.

I can't help it, but I just can't respect people who think they are too good to get their hands dirty in some useful labor. Working, sweating, and getting grungy are great character building exercises. (In the interest of full disclosure, let me state here that I no longer cut my own grass, but pay to have it done, because I am getting old and tired and whatever character I have is already built. But I still work and get dirty at my day job, and I did cut plenty of grass when I was younger.)

It takes some "tough love" to refrain from granting a request, so that the person you are mentoring can learn the value of satisfying that desire through their own resourcefulness. When my #1 daughter (whose daddy loves her dearly) turned sweet sixteen, she came to me and said, "Well, dad, I'm sixteen, and I have my driver's license...all I need now is a car."

It pained me to see the look of dejection on her beautiful young face when I introduced her to the real world. "Honey," I said as gently as possible, "There is just one more thing you need before you get a car...and that's a job so you can pay for it."

She wasn't happy with me at the time, but she did get a job. Soon after that she bought a used car. She has worked ever since, and has been financially independent for many years now. Making her buy her own car was the best economics lesson I could have ever given her. (As an added bonus, it left an extra $3000 in dad's retirement fund.)

I have known otherwise intelligent adults, people who should have known better, who nonetheless bought their teenage daughter a brand new car. Ponder that with me for a moment...what could possibly go wrong with such a decision? I know what you're thinking, and you are right...the new car was totaled within four months. Because she didn't have anything invested in it, the young woman never really appreciated it.

When kids don't learn the value of labor; when they don't make the mental connection between effort and reward; when we don't teach them to be responsible and work for what they want, then we are conditioning them to become pawns in the Brave New World of the government welfare state. We are cheating them out of the opportunity to learn how the real world operates.

As adults, they will be inclined to carelessly vote for whomever promises them the cushiest smorgasbord of government handouts and benefits. They will not understand the damage being done to America's financial health when the government punishes production with taxes, and rewards indolence with benefits.

They will be happy to trade away their liberties for the promise of government care. It is happening already; just look at President Obama's push for socialized medicine. In his worldview, the solution to every problem is more government control, and growing numbers of Americans are jumping onto that bandwagon.

It may make for a pleasant fantasy to imagine that we could all kick back and let someone else take care of us. Let's put the government in charge of allocating resources so that everyone gets their fair share of prosperity. Let's allow Nanny Government to "spread the wealth around."

But at some point, as there are more people taking out of the pot, and fewer people putting in, the pot comes up empty, and there is no wealth left to be spread around. Then we will experience not just a severe recession, but a calamitous depression.

That is when another one of grandpa's favorite proverbs will again prove itself to be true: "There's no such thing as a free lunch."

Soldiers I Have Known

I write this today, and you read this today, because hundreds of thousands of American soldiers, engaged in various battles that spanned over more than two centuries, fought and died for the cause of freedom.

I have had the privilege of knowing some of these men and women. They are regular, everyday working people, paying their bills and raising their families. They don't consider themselves special. They will, without exception, tell you that they were just doing their jobs during those times when they risked life and limb to accomplish some extraordinary mission.

I have known my wife's uncle Roy for over 35 years. A great guy, a retired automobile salesman, Roy (known to everyone as "Nick") has always been a fun guy to know. We get to see each other at least once a year at a Labor Day family reunion, and I have always enjoyed sharing some laughs with Nick. In all that time, I never knew he had been in the military.

Last summer, my wife and I were visiting at Nick's new home in Greenwood. He was gone at the time, and his wife, Aunt Marilyn, was giving us the nickle tour of their new place. Hanging from a wall in the hallway was a custom made plaque that Marilyn had given Nick. On one side was a black and white photo of a trim young Nick in a United States Marine uniform. On the other half of the plaque was a print of the famous WWII photo of the Marines raising the US flag atop Mount Suribachi on Iwo Jima.

I mentioned to Marilyn that I had never known that Nick was in the Marines. "Oh yeah," she replied, "He was all over the Pacific back then. He went to Guam and Tarawa and Iwo Jima and a few other places." She mentioned it so casually, it almost sounded like a cruise itinerary.

I was astounded. How could I have known this man for all those years and have never heard about this?

"He doesn't talk about the war much," Marilyn said, "Except when he gets together with his old Marine buddies."

Guam...Tarawa...Iwo Jima...these were some of the toughest, ugliest battles in a tough and ugly war. Why would Nick ever talk about this except with people who could really understand? Only another soldier can empathize with those kinds of scarring memories.

About that time, Nick returned home, and I told him I wanted to thank him for all the sacrifices he had made for this country. He waved his hand dismissively and said, "We all just did what we had to do. Everybody made sacrifices." I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I dropped it.

This incident with Nick occurred within a few months of me seeing the Clint Eastwood film about Iwo Jima, Flag of Our Fathers, and also the television debut on PBS of Ken Burns' WWII documentary, The War. Those images of the suffering of American soldiers were fresh in my memory, and I tried to envision what that frightening time must have been like for Nick and his fellow Marines.

I'm a life-long civilian who has never had to worry about anyone shooting at me. I cannot imagine the bravery of soldiers who take on the duty of going to war.

For lack of a better idea, I decided to write Nick a letter and express my appreciation. I hope I am not embarrassing him, but this is what I wrote:

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Dear Nick,

Ever since the day at your house when I found out you were a Marine in the Pacific during the war, I have been trying to think of some way to properly express my gratitude and admiration for what you and your fellow Marines have done for this country.

I cannot find the words.

I know you will say, “We were just doing our jobs.” And that is true, to some extent. The whole country was dragged into war after Pearl Harbor, and everybody made sacrifices.

But you Marines really did the heavy lifting, especially in the Pacific. I have read enough history to know that the campaigns you fought in were some of the toughest in the war. You guys were a bunch of kids rushed through boot camp and sent halfway around the world to engage an enemy that would fight to the death. I cannot imagine the hardships you suffered and the obstacles you overcame.

Over the past few years I have read and viewed a lot of material concerning WWII. Especially after seeing a movie like Flag of Our Fathers, I was just overwhelmed by the ferocity of the combat and the grueling conditions our troops endured. The whole Pacific campaign was a tough, dangerous job that had to be done, and you guys did it.

I have always liked you, Nick, and I am amazed that I could have known you for all these years and have never been aware that you were part of such an elite group. You are now officially added to my list of Top Ten Most Admired People.

This country owes you and all the other good men who served with you a tremendous debt of gratitude. Because of your generation’s perseverance and sacrifice, we are all free today, living in the greatest, most blessed nation in history.

Please allow me to say “Thank You” and “God Bless You” to you and all of the men you served with. You did what had to be done to defeat an evil empire that would have enslaved the world if it were possible.

I thank God every day that I live in America, and I thank him for people like you who sacrificed so much to keep us free. I am honored to know you.

God bless the Marines!
Dave Smith


About a month later, I opened my mailbox to find one of the nicest letters I have ever received. Nick had written back to thank me for my letter. I trust he will forgive me for sharing it, since his note speaks volumes about the attitude of the greatest generation:

Dear Dave,

I too, thank God I live in America. I do appreciate and thank you for your letter. It certainly means a lot to me to know there are still people who remember what sacrifices were made back then.

I consider myself fortunate to be related to just one person who is thoughtful enough to take time to write such a meaningful letter. It brought me to tears.

Thank you again for being so thoughtful and caring enough to write me.

Uncle Nick

What can you say about people like this? Uncle Nick and his generation have bequeathed to us blessings of liberty and prosperity that most of the world could never imagine. Everything we have in this country we owe to the goodness of God, and to the sacrifices of our military men and women.

If you know a vet, young or old, take time to thank them for their service. It is the very least that we can do, and it is the thing they will appreciate the most.

God bless all of you who have sacrificed so much to protect our freedoms. Thank you for doing your job.

Pass the DNA, Please

By now everyone who watches the news has heard of "Ida," the fossil that humanist scientists are breathlessly proclaiming as a possible missing link in the evolutionary chain.

In a story by Allie Martin at OneNewsNow, she reported that "scientists in New York unveiled what they described as the missing link in human evolution, a fossilized skeleton reportedly 47 million years old. They said the creature -- nicknamed "Ida" -- had four legs and a long tail, was about the size of a small cat, and had human-like nails instead of claws, along with a bone in her foot that is similar to humans."

This story reminds me of the hoopla a couple of years ago when scientists who were studying the genome of some ape made the astonishing announcement that the animal's DNA was 99% the same as a human's, thereby proving the truth of evolution.

Imagine that! Who woulda thunk it? Wow, another brilliant victory for modern science! Joe the Bartender could have looked at an ape and a human and guessed that there was a lot of common DNA happening there. Are we to jump to the conclusion that because God created things that were similar that one must have evolved from the other?

Let us consider the puzzle of the lime and lemon. I'm not the sharpest crayon in the box, but I would be willing to bet my "Yes We Can" campaign button that if Mr. Scientist was to analyze the DNA of a lime and lemon, we would be hitting right around that magic 99% similarity mark.

So now we have to wonder, which came first: the lime or the lemon? Hokey smokes, Bullwinkle, with that 99% common DNA thing happening, something must have evolved from something! And don't even get me started on horses and zebras!

It takes more blind faith for a humanist to swallow the circular logic of evolutionary theory than it does for me as a Christian to just believe what God has told me. It makes perfect sense to me that in a world created with every conceivable type of animal and plant life, there will be some creatures with similar characteristics. Like any creative person, God often uses variations on a theme.

Of course if you're walking blind, without God, you have to concoct some kind of worldview that helps you make sense of all this natural splendor. That's how you stumble into worshiping the creation instead of the creator.

Looking For Yourself?

I recently read another story of someone’s search for their roots. Syndicated columnist Leonard Pitts made a trip to Africa, as he put it, “Looking for heritage.”

I don't fault anyone who is curious about their heritage, but in the grand scope of eternity, where you have come from means very little. What really matters is where are you now…and where you are going.

By the grace of God, I am going to spend eternity in heaven. This never ceases to amaze me. Despite the fact that I am a sinful, flawed, short-tempered, moody, sometimes foul-mouthed and often unpleasant person, I have been invited into the Kingdom of God.

Imagine a schmuck like me being adopted by the creator of the universe! This is not because of anything good in me, but because of his great love and mercy. And since he is no respecter of persons, God extends this invitation of eternal life to anyone who will turn to him, in humility and respect, and seek his forgiveness.

If you are searching for the meaning of your life; If you are trying to find yourself; If you want to know your purpose and your destiny — there is only one place to go, and that is to the throne of God, the creator of YOU, who holds the answers to all of your questions about life. The only way to really find yourself is to find HIM, and let him take over the management of your life.

The Bible tells us that we are all born with a sinful nature, and that it is impossible for us to please God. We are lost, and separated from God by our sin. Hell is our default destination. That is why Jesus took it upon himself to become one of us, to live among us, to suffer and die for us. Jesus took the debt of our sin upon himself. His suffering and sacrifice satisfied God's judgment against us.

The only way to get to heaven is to follow Jesus there. Because of his unique access to the Father, there is no other way for us to be accepted by God. That is why he made such emphatic statements like, "No one comes to the Father except through me," and, "Unless a man is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God."

This kind of talk makes a lot of people mad. We are stubborn creatures, and we want to do things our own way. We don't like anybody, even God, telling us what to do. It almost sounds un-American, giving up your independence like that. That's why so many people try to pretend that God doesn't exist. They just don't want to admit that he's the boss - perhaps if they ignore him, he will just leave them alone.

Others think that somehow they can earn their way to heaven if their good deeds outnumber their sins and they try to "live a good life." But to think this way is akin to mocking Jesus while he hung on the cross. He did not allow himself to be crucified on a whim. He endured that awful torture because he knew it was the only thing that could save us. It is the ultimate insult to God to discount the salvation that Jesus suffered so much to purchase for us.

There is only one logical thing for you to do. Stop whatever your're doing, right now, and do some serious business with God before it is too late. It is time for you to ask Jesus to be your Savior and Lord.

Coming to Jesus means that you admit you need His forgiveness. You make a commitment that you want to follow him. When you repent, and give your life to him, his spirit comes to live within you, and you are born again. He forgives every sin that was held against you, and guarantees your citizenship in heaven. Not because you deserve it, but because Jesus paid a debt that you could not afford.

As if that wasn't enough, Jesus also promises to walk with you and guide your life. He sticks with you, as your Savior and Lord, for all of eternity. If you are wise enough to obediently follow him, he will lead you into a life that is filled with purpose and service.

Your walk with Christ will take you through sorrows and joys, trials and victories, and persecution for the sake of His name. Is it easy? No. Is it always fun? No. Is it worth it? Absolutely!

Jesus once said, “For everyone who tries to save his life will lose it; but he who loses his life for my sake will find it.”

Unintended Consequences

There are unintended consequences to everything the government does. A recent chance conversation illustrates this point.

An acquaintance was telling me about her son, and his live-in girlfriend, and how they had been planning to get married this summer. However, the girlfriend recently discovered she was pregnant, so now the wedding is postponed.

Postponed? That seems counter-intuitive. Normally an unplanned pregnancy would accelerate wedding plans - but not in the age of Nanny Government. You see, as a single mother, this girl is eligible for a whole slew of government benefits - handouts she would not receive if she was married.

There is no reason her boyfriend can't step up to the plate and take financial responsibility for his child. But why should he? We have inculcated a whole generation with the idea that you should let the government take care of your problems. You won't be held accountable for your actions, because Nanny will be there to bail you out.

This couple could get married. They could pay their own way. People have done it for centuries without government assistance. Instead, they will take the path of least resistance, and become moochers at the government trough. You and I (assuming you are a productive, tax-paying member of society) get to pay for their prenatal care, hospital bills, formula, diapers, and on and on and on.

We have, in effect, discouraged this young couple from getting married. Nanny Government has become the surrogate father. Instead of encouraging responsibility, we are breeding dependence and immaturity.

How long can we continue this madness of rewarding people for making bad choices? How long can we keep taking away from responsible people so that irresponsible people can avoid the consequences of their actions?

Government assistance should be reserved for people who really need help. Our current welfare policies create a climate that does more to enable irresponsible behavior than it does to support the truly needy.

The entitlement mentality that now corrodes our culture explains why a junior senator, with no real world management experience, could become President of the United States. Barack Obama told everyone what they wanted to hear. The government is going to take care of you. We're going to spread the wealth around.

I will give President Obama credit. He told us what he planned to do, and he is busting his hump to get it done. We are rapidly becoming a socialist welfare state, with enough debt accumulating to crush any hope our children may have for a chance at prosperity. Nanny Government is spending money as fast as it can be printed.

And, inevitably, we all will eventually suffer from the unintended consequences.

The Birds, The Bees...and Me

(Reader alert: This column is rated R for sexual content and coarse language. You have been warned. Do not complain to me later if you continue.)

When you’re a kid, all you know is what you know.

If nobody has told you anything; if you haven’t studied it at school; if a topic has not been clearly explained to you by someone you trust – well, you just don’t know then, do you?

Looking back, I am amazed how clueless I was about sex as a young child. I have always liked girls (I even managed to get in trouble in first grade for necking with Becky Johnson in the back seat of the school bus) but for a long time in my youth I was blissfully unaware of the particulars of human sexuality.

I can remember my parents and grandparents sitting around the kitchen table, drinking and telling jokes that they all thought were hilarious, which I, of course, didn’t understand. I can also remember some of the bigger boys at school (those intimidating 6th graders!) making crude references to body parts, which I, again, did not understand.

I was smart enough to know that there was something I didn’t know, but not smart enough to figure out what it was.

I recall once in fourth grade hearing an older boy call another boy a name that I later learned is slang for an organ on the male body. I did not know what he was talking about at the time. Later, at home, when I asked my mom, “What’s a !@#!?,” she flushed with embarrassment and mumbled something to me about it meaning that someone is a cheapskate.

So I, being young, ignorant and trusting, believed what my mother told me.

About a week later, the grownups were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking and talking, and I asked my grandpa to give me a dime so I could go to the store and get some candy. He denied my request, and said something about me needing to learn the value of money. I’ll leave it to your imagination, dear reader, to picture the look on his face when I jokingly said, “Grandpa, you’re a big !@#!”

For that matter, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on my mom’s face, either.

Even worse, when my grandpa finally caught his breath and was able to speak, and asked me, “What did you say?” – I repeated it.

Later that evening, my dad had a long talk with me, and among other things, made me promise that all future vocabulary questions be directed towards him.

About a year later I was still pretty ignorant. One day in fifth grade, our teacher was telling a story in religion class (at St. Roch’s we had a religion class every day) about a young unwed mother, and all of the complications in her life as a result of her sin. I listened to this for a while, but became perplexed, because we had previously been told that babies come from God.

So I raised my hand in class, and asked the teacher why that unwed mother should feel bad, since she couldn’t help it if God had decided to give her that baby before she got married. I knew right away, from all of the giggling, that I had said something stupid, but again, I wasn’t smart enough to know what it was. (This has been a recurring problem my whole life, by the way, but that’s another column.)

Unbeknown to me, the teacher called my parents that evening, told them what happened in class, and suggested that they have a talk with me about the facts of life.

We were a large family living in a small house, so it was hard to find time for private conversations. My parents decided that the best way to talk to me alone would be to wait until all of us children had gone to sleep, then wake me up for “the talk” while my younger brothers and sisters were in dreamland.

So it happened that late one evening I was awakened from a sound sleep, led into the living room, and seated across the coffee table from my parents. I could tell they were uncomfortable. They hemmed and hawed and beat around the bush, asking me if I had any questions about girls. I was still half asleep, wondering what the heck was going on here, and why was mom blushing?

Before long they got on with the program, and they were showing me anatomy diagrams from some big book, and explaining how moms and dads who love each other can have sex and make babies…well, you know the drill. I was doing my best to keep up, still being sleepy and all, but when they got down to the real nitty-gritty about the mechanics involved, I just was not connecting.

This all sounded kind of rough to me, trying to look at it from the female’s perspective. For some reason I had this mental image of the girl being hurt by all of this probing activity. I was thinking about pain and ripping flesh and bruising. I just couldn’t get past this idea of force, and I thought, why would a girl ever want to do this?

The more I questioned their explanations, the more embarrassed my mom became. I could tell that dad was getting frustrated, since he kept getting louder, somehow believing that would help me to understand. They kept trying to explain things to me, and I just was not grasping the concept. I thought mom was going to cry. Dad was getting so loud I was afraid he would wake up the whole house, and I was already embarrassed enough.

They were pitching, but I wasn’t catching.

Finally, in exasperation, my dad threw has hands up, and then slammed them down onto the coffee table. He glared at me, with his jaw clenched, and said, “Dammit son! When you eat a banana, do you force it into your mouth?”

At that moment, the scales fell from my eyes. I finally saw the light, and my expression of comprehension must have been revealing, because I swear my mom let out an audible sigh of relief. This whole ordeal had been rough on her.

Dad wanted to follow up and make sure I was connecting. “Do you get it now, son?” he asked, in a conciliatory tone.

“Yeah, dad, I understand. Can I go back to bed now?”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people so happy to end a conversation in my entire life. They both hugged me. “Go back to bed, Davey. If you have any more questions later, just come and ask us.”

Right…like I’d ever get into this discussion with them again!

Looking back, though, I do have to give my parents credit. They did make a sincere effort to talk to me about a very important subject. They could have thought it through a bit more, but their hearts were in the right place. Too many parents neglect their duty to help their children understand and navigate some of the more complicated issues in life, sex being at the top of that list.

So, patient reader, indulge me here while I make a posthumous testimonial: “Thanks, mom and dad. I miss you both. Thanks for doing your best to help me grow up. You weren’t perfect, but neither was I. Thanks for having your hearts in the right place.”

“I can’t help but think of you every time I walk through the produce aisle.”

The Greatest Gift

Mom died way too young. She was only 46 when a brain tumor choked the life out of her.

She started having terrible headaches around the time of Thanksgiving in 1981. The doctors found her tumor right after Christmas. She died on March 5, 1982.

My youngest sister is faithful about visiting her grave every Mother’s Day, and she always brings flowers. I am more hit or miss. Sometimes visiting that grave just makes me too sad. I prefer to think about happier memories.

Nancy Jo Hopkins was a small town girl, born in Connersville, Indiana, smack dab in the middle of the Great Depression. Her family nicknamed her "Pigtails" thanks to her favorite hairstyle. On Sundays she would walk downtown with her brother to go to the movies. She loved Roy Rogers. I'm told she was an excellent dancer, and taught ballet lessons when she was a teenager. I can remember, when I was little, watching mom practice her pirouettes in the living room.

She moved to Indianapolis after graduating from Connersville High School. She found a job as a clerk with the Fort Benjamin Harrison Army Finance Center.

In the autumn of 1953, Mom’s older sister, Alice, had a date with a young man named Howard Smith. Alice and Howard didn't hit it off, but Howard took a serious interest in Alice’s baby sister Nancy. They went on a whirlwind courtship that lasted a whopping three months before they decided to get married in January of 1954.

I came along in late November of 1954, becoming the oldest of six children to be born in a twelve-year span to this fertile young woman. Mom always told us that the best she ever felt was when she was pregnant. She never complained of morning sickness, and when I was older, and she was carrying my younger brothers, I never noticed her condition slowing her down much. She was born to breed.

There were a lot of advantages we lacked growing up, but I am eternally grateful for one thing we absolutely did have – a kind mother who loved us. I can still remember lying on the couch, watching TV, with my head in mom’s lap. She would stroke my fuzzy crew cut with one hand while munching popcorn with the other.

Mom was a soft touch. If you every needed a hug, she had one. If you were upset, she was there to listen. She loved her kids, and she would bend over backwards for any of us.

If she had a fault, it was that she was too easy on us. Looking back, I realize now that we took advantage of her easy nature. We should have helped her more around the house. She did all the shopping, cooking, cleaning, and laundry for a family of eight. She was a busy woman.

I do think my sisters helped with the housework when they got older, but all I can ever remember us boys doing was messing up the place.

To my shame, there were times as a child when I complained about her cooking, or something she forgot to get for me at the store, or some other childish desire I had that she had not fulfilled to my satisfaction. In my youthful ignorance, I did not fully appreciate the gift God had given me – a kind mother who loved me.

One of the many bad things about losing a mother so young is that you haven’t had time to grow up enough to truly appreciate her. If she had lived longer, reality would have had more time to catch up with us children, and we could have expressed to her how grateful we were for her love and nurturing.

Mom has grandchildren now who have only a vague fuzzy remembrance of a petite woman with dark hair. They have been denied the pleasure of growing to know a woman who would have been an outstanding grandmother, and who no doubt would have spoiled them with kindness just as she did her own children.

My greatest consolation is that I know mom became a Christian shortly before she died. Mom was a good woman, and had believed in God all of her life, but she had never been born again. She had never made the decision to repent and surrender her life to God. But in the spring of 1981, before she became ill, we sat down one day at her kitchen table and she asked me to lead her in a prayer of repentance. At the age of 45, mom finally knelt before the King of creation, and asked Jesus to become her Lord and Savior.

So I have a fantastic reunion to look forward to. There are a lot of people I want to visit when I step into eternity, but the first person I’ll be looking for is mom, and I have no doubt she’ll be waiting for me. I may even just lay my head in her lap for old times’ sake.

And then I will be sure to thank the Lord, face to face, for giving my siblings and me the greatest gift God can give someone on this earth – a kind mother who loved us.

Entitlement Mentality Syndrome

I did it without even thinking. As I look back on it, that scares me most of all.

As much as every conservative bone in my body aches over the entitlement attitude in our society today, I tripped over myself and ordered two $40 coupons for digital TV converters for my home.

I don’t need a handout from Nanny Government. I am gainfully employed, and live a comfortable life. But the deadline for the TV switch to digital was looming, and I applied for my coupons so I could save a few bucks on my digital converters.

I should have known better. This program is costing us taxpayers HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS of dollars. Yet I got sucked in by the desire to latch onto my government “freebie” just like everyone else. It is a sad commentary on today’s America that we think we deserve a federal handout to help us update our TV technology.

As a nation, we are suffering from Entitlement Mentality Syndrome: an irrational belief that the government owes us something, accompanied by an irresistible compulsion to snatch as much as possible from the government, whether we need it or not. From food stamps, to ADC, to the Earned Income Credit, to corporate bailouts, it seems like everybody in America is lining up to get something from Washington.

Possibly the worst abused program in America is unemployment compensation. Funded through employer contributions, it is controlled by the government, and we ultimately pay for it (as we do with all government-mandated programs) through the higher prices we pay as the employers pass their costs along to their customers.

Don’t get me wrong - I am glad that the fund exists, and it is a great idea to have a safety net for folks who are out of work through no fault of their own. What bothers me is the attitude that too many of us have about unemployment insurance, and the myriad schemes that people use to game the system.

Two months after 9/11, I was laid off for the first time in my life. It was a scary and ego-deflating event. I knew it would probably be difficult to find another job quickly since so many other people were being laid off at the same time.

Several of my friends gave me basically the same advice: Get downtown and sign up for your unemployment. You can draw it for over 6 months. Enjoy some time off, and when your unemployment is about to run out, start looking for another job.

To my mind, this is a pretty lame attitude. Sad to say, I know a number of people who have done exactly that – took a “paid vacation” on unemployment and milked their benefits to the max.

Well, I was going to sign up for unemployment, just in case, since you never know how long it will take to find a job. But before I had time to do it, I actually did find a part-time job, and then two weeks later I snagged a full time job, with a higher salary than I'd had before. Yet I had a friend tell me I was dumb to start working instead of drawing my unemployment. After all, I “had it coming to me.”

Such is our mindset these days.

Seasonal workers in the construction trades, back in the days before unemployment compensation, either saved money to tide them over during the off-season, or found part-time jobs during the off-season, or both. Now they take a winter vacation and rest up, drawing unemployment.

Why work when you can get paid to watch Oprah?

We all know people who have drawn unemployment without really looking for work. We all know people with very comfortable lifestyles who have drawn unemployment, not because they needed it, but because it is available and they feel entitled to it.

Disheartening stories like these are repeated thousands of times every day, all across America. We are becoming a nation of moochers - and those of us who do go to work every day are footing the bill.

I don’t know what the future holds for a country like ours, a country that used to be populated by independent, self-reliant, productive people who built the greatest economic engine in the world, but is now spawning a generation of slackers who are continually looking for their next handout from the government.

I don’t know what the future holds, but unless we change our attitudes, I predict it will not be prosperity.

I Say, "Nuts to ACORN!"

Until this past presidential campaign, I doubt most Americans had ever heard of ACORN, President Obama's former community organizing employer.

ACORN (an acronym for Association of Community Organizations for Reform Now) has received hundreds of millions of dollars over the years from the federal government. In turn, ACORN has made millions of dollars in campaign contributions to liberal Democrats, so that liberal Democrats can keep funneling more millions of our tax dollars back to ACORN.

I have been missing the boat! I must be a chump to work at a real job and pay my own way through life. But those days are over. Allow me to announce the formation of my new civic organization, Deadbeats Using Federal Funding (DUFF) and invite you to join me.

As a member of DUFF, you will be part of a great political movement designed to ease the financial strain of the working class.

We will implement our DUFF agenda using the ACORN template. First, we apply for a federal grant of $1 million to set up shop. Out of that first million, we can pay five staff members an annual salary of $100,000 each. We'll use another $200,000 for miscellaneous office expenses and overhead.

That leaves us $300,000 that we can contribute to help get more Democrats elected: Democrats who will be so grateful to us for our campaign donations that they will gladly increase our funding to $3 million in the next round of federal pork-barrel appropriations. Way cool!

Now that we have $3 million in the new annual budget, we can increase our staffing to 15 people making $100,000 per year. We can upgrade our offices and increase our overhead allowance to $500,000 per year. I'm thinking we need a gym and a nice wine cellar in the new administrative complex - and don't you think I'd look hot tooling around in a new company Humvee?

This still leaves us a cool $1 million to contribute to more Democratic candidates. We are rubbing elbows with the real movers and shakers now. Politicians with their hands out will see DUFF as a steady cash cow. It will be a cinch to get our DUFF appropriations raised to $10 million in the next Porkulous Bill.

The sky is the limit here! We at DUFF can grow as large as the government allows, and we never have to worry about producing anything, since we don't have to answer to any customers. All we have to do is make sure we keep about 30% of our budget in reserve to pay kickbacks - oops - I mean, give campaign contributions to our Democratic benefactors.

The politicians in DUFF's pocket are happy to appropriate all the money we need. After all, it's not costing them a dime. It's tax dollars, taken from the fools who keep electing them, and they love to gain favors using other people's money.

Think hard about this: a politician can steer millions of dollars of OUR money to any group he wants to fund. It costs him nothing. In return, he garners a steady annual stream of campaign contributions that helps keep him in power. The group receiving the tax money is living entirely off the government. They don't have to earn what they receive. It costs them nothing to "give away" campaign contributions to the people who gave them the money in the first place. Where is there any incentive for accountability?

It is my understanding that ACORN is slated to receive $4 BILLION from the new Porkulous Bill that former ACORN member President Obama just signed. The president certainly knows how to take care of his own, doesn't he? If it was anybody else but the federal government doing this, there would be a RICO investigation underway!

My question is: Why do we allow organizations that receive federal funding to make campaign contributions? This is such a blatant conflict of interest that it should be a no-brainer. There should be a law against this - but it will never happen until we get rid of the band of thieves that currently controls Congress.

There is another thing that bugs me about ACORN. This organization ostensibly began as a non-profit group to register voters. Now think really hard about this: the federal government is funding voter registration drives.

Is this really something we should be paying for?

Call me old-fashioned, but guess what I did when I turned 18 and was eligible to vote - I went downtown to the City-County Building and filled out a voter registration form at the County Clerk's office. No ACORN representative ever came to visit me. Nobody held my hand. No one had to persuade me that I needed to register. I did it on my own. When I registered to vote, the only expense to the taxpayers was the cost of the form. What a novel concept: self reliance!

That is the way it should be. This is America. We are supposed to be free, independent and responsible citizens.

It is easier to register to vote than it is to sign up for food stamps. There are even voter registration forms you can send in with your automobile license plate renewal. If there are people out there who cannot get themselves registered to vote without federal help, I sincerely question whether they should be allowed around sharp objects or small children. What kind of doofus is so far gone that he needs an ACORN rep to hold his hand through the voter registration process?

I do realize, of course, that we are talking about members of the Democratic Party, an organization that wants to enfranchise convicted felons, vagrants and illegal immigrants, on the assumption, I presume, that the more politically ignorant the voter, the more likely he will vote for liberals.

I don't want to deny the vote to anyone. It is one of our most precious rights. But let's put on our big boy pants here and be realistic. If some people are so uninformed and unmotivated that they cannot make the token efforts necessary to register themselves to vote, I believe our political conversation is better off without their input.

Anyone who does not have enough common sense to register himself to vote should do all of us a favor and stay home on Election Day.

ACORN deserves to wither on the vine. It is ridiculous that we funnel our scarce tax dollars into this cesspool of graft. How long will liberals bleed the US Treasury dry before we figure out we have been played for suckers?

Doing What Has To Be Done

America had a wake up call on September 11, 2001. Unfortunately, most of us have since hit the snooze button.

On that terrible day, we finally got a taste of the kind of horror that Israelis live with daily. Surrounded by millions of angry Muslims who openly advocate their annihilation, the citizens of Israel do not have the luxury of ignoring reality that we Americans think we enjoy.

Over the past six months, Hamas terrorists in the Gaza Strip have launched thousands of rockets into nearby Israeli towns. Though the rockets are crude and haphazardly aimed, they have caused the deaths of scores of innocent civilians, and created an atmosphere of terror.

Strangely, the fact that scores of terrorist rockets are daily launched into Israel never seems to make the evening news. It’s as if the worldwide media have decided that shooting at Jews is just “the way it is” and not worth getting worked up about. A few more rockets, a few more suicide bombers, a few more dead Jews…ho-hum.

But now that Israel has had the temerity to fight back, and has invaded Gaza and made it clear that the fighting will not stop until the rocket attacks cease, the worldwide media is in hyper-drive-frantic-mode. Daily news videos of Palestinian corpses and the sea of wounded flooding the Gaza hospitals reminds us of the carnage of war and evokes sympathy for the innocent civilians caught in the crossfire.

Of course, evil Israel, the “little Satan” is to blame for this horror. The media that has no concern when Israel is attacked is now wall-to-wall 24/7 with humanitarian stories about the plight of the Palestinians in Gaza.

But here’s the question no one seems to ask: If terrorist fighters take up positions in your home, or mosque, and turn that facility into a military target, whose fault is it when the place gets hammered? Israel doesn’t bomb mosques to express contempt for Islam; the Hamas terrorists have already done that by turning a “holy place” into a legitimate military target. All Israel wants to do is destroy the enemy’s capacity to wage offensive strikes against her territory.

The reason there are so many civilian casualties in this round of fighting is because Hamas employs the cowardly tactic of storing weapons in, and launching rockets from, residential areas. While hiding behind women and children, and daring the Israelis to come and get them, Hamas creates the conditions that we see on the news each evening – scores of innocent women and children, dead and wounded, because their neighborhoods were turned into war zones by terrorists.

And as an added benefit, Hamas gets to use the dead children as propaganda and blame Israel for the carnage. It’s a win-win situation from a terrorist’s point of view. Of what account are the lives of a dozen or so families each day as long as you can get some sympathetic media coverage?

Now, back to the wake up call. Suppose a few dozen rockets were launched tomorrow from Ciudad Juarez, Mexico into the suburbs of El Paso, Texas. Do you imagine there might be a few Texans ticked off about that? Do you think the US would wring its hands and worry what world opinion might be if we were to respond and take out the lunatics who were shooting rockets our way?

Let us hope not. Let us hope that our government would have the strength and determination to respond immediately and forcefully to put a stop to such attacks. At that point, would we care much what Mexico thought about it?

Israel has endured relentless threats, attacks and provocations for the entire 60 years of her existence. She is a country forced into a perpetual war footing. She is a tiny nation surrounded by large, wealthy enemies that openly declare their desire to destroy her. Despite the ceaseless turmoil, and the need for stringent security measures, Israel remains an oasis of liberty and tolerance in a Mideast desert of brutal despotism and fanatical hatred.

Israel is one of our best allies. Together, we struggle against the common enemy of Islamic-fascism (remember, the USA is the “great Satan”) and we share a common philosophical commitment to the values of individual freedom and limited constitutional government.

It is in our national interest to stand with Israel in her struggle to survive. If we ever allow a friend like Israel to fall, our common enemies will be emboldened, and the USA will be that much more alone in a hostile world.

Our message to terrorists everywhere should be the same as Israel’s: If you don’t want to get bitten by the bear, don’t poke him in the eye with a stick.

The Poetry Corner

Despite my best efforts to be disciplined, I am not doing so well with my resolution to add a weekly post to this blog.

I am being reminded why I have never amounted to anything as a writer. It's that pesky discipline thing. There are always a thousand other things you should be doing, and the people in your life are always tugging you in different directions.

To find a few moments of peace, and the energy and inspiration to say anything remotely worthwhile at the same time, just doesn't happen too often.

Hence, the importance of discipline. Which I sorely lack.

Anyway, for today I shall cheat, and post an old poem, instead of conjuring up new words of wisdom.

Do not be alarmed. I write very little poetry, and most of what I do write will never see the light of day. The world is drowning in bad poetry, and I have no desire to add to the cesspool. However, once in a great while something pops out that I feel must be a gift from God, because it just rings so true.

The Lord has led me through some troubled times on my journey, many of my own foolish making. As I look back, I am thankful for the wonderful people he has brought across my path to minister to me when I needed extra attention.

Nickee was one of those people, a very kind woman who befriended me at work when I was struggling mightily through a long period of doubt and depression. Hence the title of the poem. Don't read too much into this. There was nothing unseemly or illicit going on. This was a nice platonic relationship, among several good friendships that I have enjoyed with some kind women at different times in my life.

God is good, and he has been very good to me. So, without further blather, the post for this week...

With Thanks to Nicole

Sometime in a dark little room God will place you
when your heart is all tatter and fray
so that all of the sorrows of life come to face you
while there's no room for running away.

There are shadows of darkness that forever could blind you
and make you forget what you've known.
There are terrors in darkness just waiting to find you
defenseless and tired and alone.

When dreams turn to ashes too many to bury
and grief covers hope like a shroud,
you can give up your heart; it's too heavy to carry --
too stubborn, too cold and too proud.

Yet hope whispers softly, faith flickers undaunted,
though there's no air to breathe anymore.
Then the God of all comfort, who now has what he wanted
sends an angel to open the door.

A Farewell To Max

My dog died this evening.

We had adopted Max in the fall of 1999, when he was about five years old.

Marguerite, a friend of mine, had lived next door to Max’s original owners. They had bought Max as a puppy, and had his papers – he was a full-blooded blonde Chow and they had paid $300 for him.

A short time afterward, when the woman next door died, her husband was so consumed with grief that he moved away, leaving Max behind to be cared for by whoever happened to be renting the house. Max lived on table scraps and neglect, and Marguerite took pity on him, taking him food and water, and trying to find him a new home.

So we ended up bringing Max to our house. It was not easy.
Max had spent most of his first five years living alone in the back yard, with little love or attention from anyone, except Marguerite. He was not used to being around people, and he was pretty much scared of everyone.

The day we picked him up, Marguerite coaxed Max over towards the gate, bribing him with some doggie treats while sweet-talking him. I was concerned about being bitten by a spooked, frightened dog, so I had brought along a muzzle and some dog tranquilizers. We had slipped a tranquilizer into his treats, and after a bit, while he was relaxing and being petted by Marguerite, I got the muzzle slipped over his snout and carried him off to the back of our van.

I could tell Max was nervous, and I just stayed with him in the back of the van and held him during the short drive back to our house. I spent that evening just talking to him and hugging him, and through his drug-induced haze I think he began to realize that he had a new and better home.

It took a while for Max to warm up to the rest of the household. For a while, I was his only buddy on site. Marguerite stopped by a few times to check on him, and he was always happy to see her.

Max had been so neglected, for so long, that he kept to himself most of the time. Sometimes he did not even come to me when I called him. For a while, we were concerned that he would not ever bond with us.

As time passed by, Max became more affectionate. One major milestone was reached on the day that Max came into the house and laid down for a while in the living room. Prior to that he had always stayed outside, and he seemed afraid to cross the threshold from the back porch to the kitchen. But we had finally worn him down. He was becoming a member of the family.

Max was a Chow through and through. He was loyal, loving, yet at the same time, independent and stubborn. You could not make that dog do anything that he really did not want to do. He did not like having medicine put on a sore paw. He did not like sitting still to have his nails trimmed. He did not like being treated like a common dog, and would refuse to sit up and beg for treats.

The one exception to that rule was a pig’s ear. So irresistible was the aroma of a pig’s ear that Max would lose all self-control, and hop around like any common dog begging for a treat. I let him debase himself in this manner on several occasions, but then my conscience began to bother me. I knew Max would hate himself in the morning after forfeiting his dignity like that, so I would simply call him to the back door, graciously give him the pig’s ear, and watch him trot around the yard, snout pointed towards the heavens, pig’s ear lifted high.

After a proper procession, the feasting would begin. Another thing Max did not like: being disturbed while chewing on a pig’s ear.

Once, when I changed his brand of dog food, he expressed his displeasure like this: he picked up the bowl in his mouth, holding it high while he marched around the kitchen table for four laps. Then he walked straight up to me and flung the bowl down at my feet, then turned and walked away. I’m not the sharpest crayon in the box, but I did figure out it was time to get a better brand of dog food.

Max would not do tricks, or catch a Frisbee, or play ball. You couldn’t walk him on a leash, because he would drive you crazy since he was always picking up some stray scent and wanting to wander off to who-knows-where. Another thing Max did not like: being restrained by a leash when he wanted to wander off to who-knows-where.

Max did like getting his ears scratched. And his back scratched. And like all Chows, he liked to maneuver himself around so that the back-scratching turned into a butt-scratching – well, actually, an end-of-the-back-above-the-tail-scratching, but we always called it butt-scratching. Anyway, he liked it a lot. I don’t know how long he could sit there being scratched, because my arms always wore out before Max’s back did.

He was just a sweet dog, a dog that wanted to be loved, and who became part of our family. I am going to miss him.

He was aging, of course, and was getting arthritis. His hearing wasn’t good, and his eyesight was dimming. But until this evening, I had no clue of any major problems. Earlier today Max seemed lethargic, and I thought he was trying to vomit.

Before we left for a family get-together this evening, I took a few minutes to pet him and talk to him out in the back yard. I told him I was sorry he wasn’t feeling well, and I scratched his ears and back, wishing that I could do something to make him feel better. He just stood there quietly, and then I petted him one last time and left.

We got home later this evening, and right before I went to bed, I thought I would check on Max, and maybe let him in the house for a while to warm up. (Chows are furry dogs, and they love the cold weather, so he stayed outside most of the time.)

Stepping out the back door, I saw him lying on his side, right outside the porch. I called to him. I knew something was wrong. He was lying so still. I reached down to pet his neck. He was already stiff and cold. Some time between 5:00 p.m. and 10:00 p.m. this evening, Max laid down for the last time.

I am so glad I took the time to talk to Max and pet him one last time before we left this evening. I wish there was something else I could have done for him, but I had no idea he was so ill.

We never know how much time we have. We never know how much time anyone else has. It is a good idea to keep short accounts. Whether it is a pet, a spouse, a good friend or neighbor, we never know if we may be speaking to that loved one for the last time.

Another good reason why God tells us to always speak in love.

Learning Our Lessons

I had to apologize to my granddaughter the other day.

She spent the evening with us last Friday, and we had breakfast together on Saturday, then we played games and puzzles for a while in the morning before her mom came to pick her up.

She is a sweet five-year-old, but as all children can be, she was a bit of a pill during her visit. She has a pretty smart mouth for a child so young, and I have warned her, just as my grandpa used to warn me, “Someday that smart mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble!”

Her little smart mouth had been grating on me most of the morning, but I was trying to be pleasant and not make a big deal about. Eventually, though, I ended up doing the worst possible thing.

Instead of being a mature responsible adult and dealing with her at the outset of her offense, and nipping it in the bud, and controlling my irritation, I did, as I have already confessed, the worst possible thing. I snapped at her - rudely - right before she left to go home, which meant she could stew over the sting of my rebuke without us having a chance to discuss it.

Bad grand parenting. Two thumbs down.

It bothered me all week. I could still see the hurt look in her eyes, and I could still feel the limp, hesitant goodbye hug that I got before she left to go home.

God has a good reason for giving us a conscience. We should feel bad when we do something that hurts someone else. Guilt is a powerful motivator towards proper behavior.

Well, guilty I was, and guilty I felt. There was really nothing to do but humble myself before a five-year-old and ask for forgiveness.

I had my chance the following weekend, when we took Miranda and her younger cousin Zeke to the model train display at the Garfield Park Conservatory. The kids really enjoyed watching the model trains, and we had a nice time roaming through the tropical forest planted in the large conservatory greenhouse.

I grabbed a few quiet moments with Miranda while we were at the conservatory and grandma was chasing little Zeke down the forest’s pathway.

I asked her if she remembered me getting upset with her the week before. Of course, she did. I sat her on my lap, and looked straight at her. “Miranda,” I said, “I am very sorry that I hurt your feelings. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you right before you went home. I love you and I never want to hurt your feelings. Will you please forgive me?”

I could feel the strain between us being erased.

“I forgive you, grandpa.”

Now that I had cleared the air, we were free to talk about why I was upset, and that her behavior had been inappropriate, and I even warned her that I would be paying closer attention in the future to her attitude, and that she would be in trouble right away if she was being a smart-aleck at our house.

Miranda was fine with all that. She understood it was fair, and she understood that we expected her to behave with good manners.

And then I got a good hug. A good hard warm “I-love-you-grandpa” hug, the kind of hug that grandpas live for. I was so glad at that moment that I had not quenched the pangs of guilt that my God-given conscience had been prodding me with.

I wonder if all of we grandparents and parents should examine our hearts more closely, and search out offenses against our children for which we need to ask forgiveness. If we love our children enough to humble ourselves before them when we blow it, we not only obtain forgiveness, and right a wrong, but we teach them an object lesson about repentance and mercy.

How will our children ever learn to repent if we do not teach them the concept by demonstrating it with our own lives? How will they learn humility unless they see us behaving humbly? How will they learn forgiveness if we never give them an opportunity to forgive?

Children need boundaries. They need discipline. They need to learn responsibility. They need our guidance and our love. Perhaps most of all, they need our good example.

So I beg you all to love your children. Do all of the “tough love” parenting stuff that God calls you to do. But when you mess up, as I guarantee you will (and probably on a daily basis) do not be too proud to humble yourself before that child and seek forgiveness.

God has a lesson for both of you to learn from the experience.