imgMissing-PersonToday, I saw a photo of Greg Keenen holding his new grandson, Maverick Jude Davis.  I was imagining the joy that Greg must have felt at that moment.  I thought of the new relationship that began that day and of how exciting it will be to see it develop.  I thought of the other pictures with different people holding him, loving him, dreaming for him, projecting their hopes for him and I’m sure there were prayers for him and will continue to pray for him (see my article, “Prayer Warrior”).

These people, and others, will collectively do their best to inform him, teach him, guide him and direct him to grow into a man of character, integrity and godliness.  They will spoil him, as they should, up to a point to where it will not damage his maturity.  They will make mistakes.  He will make mistakes.  Hopefully, both parents and child will learn from their mistakes and acquire a greater understanding of what is best for him.  In a sense, he will be jointly mentored. Continue reading

The Great Contrast

I have been thinking about the horrible act of terrorism that occurred in Moore, Oklahoma this last week.  A man was fired from his job.  He then went to the corporate office attacking a lady by stabbing her and beheading her.  He then attacked a second lady; he was in the process of stabbing Lambher, when the CEO of the company, who was also a police officer, shot him.  Throughout his attack, it was said he was yelling Islamic phrases.

I kept thinking about the great contrast in the two sets of beliefs.   From the two sets of beliefs we can identify two different gods to worship.  From my perspective, there is a false god (Allah) and a True God (Jehovah).  There are two different ways to Paradise/Heaven. Continue reading

Prayer Warrior

prayer warriorMy sister made a comment on my story, “Queenie and Bob” (https://pleasemaam14.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=113&action=edit), about my mom being a prayer warrior.  A prayer warrior has been described as anyone who is committed to praying for others or the needs of others.  As I thought about my sister’s statement, I wanted to delve into the subject deeper and make some observations.

I’m not sure when my mother became a Christian.  It was well before I was born.  As I have said in previous stories my father did not seem to be interested in spiritual things, but my mother was.  From an early age I remember distinctly going to Sunday school and church services in a white painted wood framed church building in Lamont, California.  In my mind I can still see my dad sitting on the sofa, he wore a “wife beater” undershirt and khakis and smoked a cigarette, while he shined our shoes getting them ready for us to wear to church.  He would not go, but he did want our shoes to be shiny.  Though a little different, I think of it like Norman Rockwell’s painting “Easter Sunday”.  In that painting Dad was in his pajamas reading the newspaper while the family paraded behind him on their way to church.  Dad had a sheepish look on his face knowing he should have been going as well. Continue reading

Queenie and Bob

boxer-164349_640I miss having a dog.  It’s been almost twenty years ago, since we had a pet.  I miss talking to him (since I’ve been married, all of our pets have been male), picking ticks off of him (not that much, but you have to do what you have to do to maintain), taking him for walks and car rides.  Just things you would do with a friend.

We had a cat for a long time, he was a Siamese named Po Chow Mao (little boy cat).  Terrie had an art class in college and one of her fellow students was from Thailand.  She asked him for a name and he suggested Po Chow Mao.  Po had a pretty grey/black coat and blue eyes.  He was fine, a little quirky, but he was a cat.  It is irrational to expect a cat to behave like a dog.  There was not greeting you at the front door when you came home, not wagging his tail like it was going to fall off, no “happy” look on his face.  When I came home, Po might walk through the living room, might twitch his tail once (it looked to me like it was a nervous twitch.  I don’t know for certain that he was nervous, but that’s what it looked like), the look on his face was like “Oh, you came back!  Are you going to feed me now?” When Greg Keenen lived with us for a while, Po would like to surprise him around Greg’s bedroom door.  Sometimes from below the door, he would dart out a de-clawed paw and tap Brother Greg’s ankle.  Greg was not really a “cat person”, so it would startle him.  Sometimes, Po would wait for Greg to come home, by balancing on top of the open door.  He would wait for Brother Greg to quietly walk through his door, and then Po would drop down to say “Hi” in his cat language.  Brother Greg would visit with me about how dis-settling that was, I would talk to Po and tell him that was unacceptable behavior toward a young and nervous, Baptist preacher/house guest.  Po would agree and promise to do better, but I could not convince him to apologize to Brother Greg.  We started converting the garage into a den, and Po lost his mind.  He just could not handle the change in his habitat.  We could not tolerate his methods of expressing himself.  Po was about 96 in cat years, when his life ended.

We tried a couple of rescue dogs.  Dog’s people just didn’t want anymore.  As dog foster parent’s we did not do well.  I guess I always compared them to our first pet, Queenie.  Queenie was a tan, white, black Boxer; we had when we lived in California.  She was a good companion.  Boxers are loyal to their family and very protective.  I recall a time, when Mom and I were wrestling around in the living room.  Nothing rough, but Mom would yeller out once and a while with a phony cry for help.  Queenie had been watching us and after Mom yelled out, Queenie got up, walked over to me and gently, ever so gently placed her teeth over my cheek, as if to say, “Don’t get carried away.  I’m watching out for your Mom.”  Ok, I didn’t understand dog language, but she made the point to me.  One day, Dad brought home a younger male Boxer named Prince, not the artist formerly known as Prince, but Prince.  I’m not sure who was responsible for naming our pets, but I did not get to cast a vote.  I guess Queenie and Prince got along ok, but I guess our neighbors didn’t like us having two dogs.  In the night, someone gave poisoned hamburger meat to Queenie and Prince.  They were both dead when the sun came up.

So about thirty years after Queenie passed, we got a dog I liked.  He was a black Labrador that I named Bob.  Bob didn’t need a fancy title, a fancy house, or matching sunglasses/bandana.  Bob was happy just to be with me.  He had that “happy” dog smile that just made you love him.  Sometimes, I would invite into the house.  Terrie didn’t like that much saying, “Bob is an outside dog and outside he must be!”  Bob looked hurt when she said that, ’cause he didn’t want to be anywhere he wasn’t wanted.  One day, after work, I was sitting on the back patio steps.  He came to me, placing his head on my lap.  I started asking how his day had gone and after some time, he shared with me how sad he was that Terrie didn’t want him around.  I was able to talk to him about being married; how that she gets to run the inside of the house and I get to run what’s left.  Since he was young and unmarried, he didn’t completely understand how that all worked, but I did my best to explain it.  That changed after we got some new neighbors.

The rent house next door was leased to a family, who owned female Rottweiler’s.  I didn’t think much about it until I went to the back patio steps to visit with Bob and he didn’t seem interested in me.  He kept pacing up and down the length of the fence.  The two frauleins were wearing a perfume that was driving him crazy.  Up until this point, Bob had always obeyed me and wanted to be with me, but not anymore.  You could see tBlack_Labrador_Retriever_portraithe wheels turning in his dog brain, “I’ve got to get over that fence!  I’m in love!!”  I pulled him over to the steps to have one of our talks.  I told him it was not true love.  He must resist and do the right thing.  The next day, an unhappy neighbor was at my door, telling me my Labrador had dug under the fence and had known, in a biblical sense, his Rottweiler’s.  My heart sunk!  Bob, my Bob would do that?  After I talked to him, he did it anyway.  I apologized to the neighbor.  He said he didn’t want any of Bob’s kind to ever be with his Rottweiler’s again.  That upset me.  Bob was just as good a dog as the neighbor’s dog.  Sure, he didn’t have papers, but you don’t have to have papers to be a friend.  I went to the backyard to see the situation.  The evidence of escape was still there.  Bob was lying in the backyard, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette with smoke rings above his head.  I was going to confront him about how he got cigarettes, but decided the fraulein situation must be dealt with first.  I could see he had developed a smirk, arrogant attitude overnight.  He admitted to what he had done and said he wasn’t going to stop seeing them.  I told him he had to for his own safety.  He had to stop digging under the fence.  He could see the disappointment in my face.  He said he would stop digging.

Bob didn’t dig under the fence anymore.  He started jumping over it.  I borrowed an electric dog collar from someone and it was effective for only a short time.  One day, I caught him half way over the gate.  I pushed the button to activate the collar.  The tazing seemed to have no effect on him anymore.  The next day, when I got home, Bob was gone!  My friend had left home.  The most consistent theory was that he jumped the fence and didn’t come back.  But somehow, I will always believe the German frauleins came back to help him escape.  He was whisked away to some hidden bunker, never to be seen in public again.

So you can see, just going out to get a dog is not that easy for me.  It has to be the right dog.  It has some big paw prints to fill.



If you are going to dream, dream BIG!

W1963-JAGUAR-XKE-S1COUPEhen I was going to Central Elementary/Middle School in Bethany, we lived in a house on NW 36th between Ann Arbor and Meridian.  I walked to school from our house to Ann Arbor, turning north to NW 39th to a crosswalk, crossing NW 39th to my school.

When we would travel from California to Oklahoma, I gained an appreciation for the automobile.  I appreciated a clean, good looking, and stylish set of wheels.  I would notice these vehicles from the back seat of our car.  Often, we would have an Oldsmobile, Buick, or even a Cadillac.  In the back floor boards, Mom would lay our suitcases down and place pillows on top of them, forming a bed for the three kids.  We would sleep “hobo” style.  We called it “hobo” though none of us actually knew how a hobo slept.  Larry would lean against the door.  I leaned on Larry.  Brenda leaned on me.  That’s “hobo” style.

I walked by a used car lot, that was at the corner of NW 39th and Ann Arbor, on my way home.  One day, I stopped to look at the cars.  They had two cars that I was interested in.  On the front row, was a shining black 1963 Jaguar XKE coupe.  It had bright red leather interiors and wire wheels.  The markings on the windshield said they wanted $3,000.00.  To a thirteen or fourteen year old boy, without a job or even an allowance, that was a lot of money.  The other car was on the back row.  It was a 1956 Ford Crown Victoria coupe.  The windshield shoe polish stated $300.00 for this beauty.  I walked back and forth between the two cars, trying to soak up every specialty of the vehicle.  The inevitable car salesman came out and said, “Can I help you, Sonny?”  I didn’t like being called “Sonny”, but I knew that he knew I could not have been a serious buyer.  “I’m just trying to decide which one I want!” I said with a break in my voice.  “Well, you can look, but don’t mess with them.”  He turned and walked back into his office.

Well, I didn’t g1956_ford_crown_victoria+et either one of the cars.  I’m sure there was probably another car that struck my fancy a week later.  So I say, “If you are going to dream, dream big!”

End of a Time

yamaha-yg-1kWe left Colorado and moved to Marlow, Oklahoma.   Marlow is in Stephens County between Rush Springs, to the north and Duncan, to the south.  Its population was around 4,000 or so.  As I remember, the people were friendly, down to earth, with a mainly agricultural background. Good people.

We found a rent house that was at Highway 81 and W. Chickasaw.  Highway 81 is a state highway that runs north and south.  Our house was on the east side of the highway with a grocery store next door.  Directly across the street was a Sunray DX gas station.  Just north of the DX, was a house with a rock porch.  In front of the porch sat a 1959 greyish blue Buick.  The car was huge.  The back of the car had some chrome trim going all the way across the width of the car.  The trim always reminded me of the horns of a Texas Longhorn bovine.  From our front yard, we could see a lot of activity from the highway, the gas station, and the grocery store, but almost none from the house were the Buick sat.

Dad was working in Lawton.  I don’t recall where Mom was working at the time, but I’m sure she was working.  Larry was coming back from the Navy.  I was in the eighth grade and Brenda would have been in the sixth grade.  Our time in Marlow must have been fairly short.  I don’t remember much about school except for being in band and taking a Spanish class.  Knowing what I know now, I should have paid more attention to learning that language, but I was struggling with English.

My Uncle Loy was pastoring a small church located a few blocks from our house.  During the week, he was a crane operator on a bridge crew.  On the weekends, he would preach.  He told me Aunt Lois was the pastor and he was the preacher.  She knew about all the families in the church and their needs.  Their mobile home was located between the church house and the parsonage.  The ladies of the church would come together, in the parsonage, to make quilts.  They had a quilt frame suspended from the ceiling.  They sat around the perimeter of the frame, each working their own area, making quilts, building friendships.

Mom and Dad went shopping one afternoon.  Brenda and I were left alone at home.  We would normally horse around and “rough house”.  On this day, the horsing around was in the form of chasing one another.  So that you might better understand what happened, let me give you the layout of the house.  The front door opened into the living room.  The kitchen was beyond the living room.  Immediately to the right was a front bedroom.  From that bedroom, a doorway opened into a hallway that ran parallel to the living room.  From the hallway, you could enter the bathroom and a back bedroom and the front bedroom.  I was chasing Brenda, when she started for the hallway.  I pushed her and she hit the inside of the hall wall.  As she stepped away from the wall, her outline remained in the form of broken sheet rock.  We picked up the pieces and cleaned up the best we could, but you can’t really hide the outline of your sister on a broken wall.  Our parents would be home soon.  We wondered what they would say and what would they do.  We would soon find out.  We tried to act normal, but what was normal when you knew a storm was coming.  About ten or fifteen minutes after they got home, Mom went into the bathroom.  She saw Brenda’s outline and began screaming, asking “What is this!!”  Just typing those words are not adequate to indicate her displeasure.  I would have to add volume control for typing with instructions to turn it all the way up.  Well, that outburst caused Dad to take a look, and then he wanted us to look.  Of course, we had already seen it.  There seems to be a black hole, in my memory, concerning the discipline we received, but I think that I am technically, still grounded.

We did have some friends in Marlow, beside our cousins, the Fowlers.  Harold and Barbara were brother and sister.  Harold owned a Vespa scooter.  Vespa’s were made in Italy.  They were not really powerful, but they were a blast to ride.  It was just a delight to ride through the uncrowded streets of Marlow at maybe thirty miles an hour.  I loved it and wanted to have one.  I would walk downtown to Main and 2nd street.  There was an ice cream shop at the corner.  Their fudge ripple was very good.  Just west of the ice cream shop was a place that sold Mopeds.  Mopeds were somewhat like a hybrid of a bicycle and a motorcycle.  You would have to pedal it to get the motor started.  It had a very small engine and I’m sure I would have been disappointed with it, had I bought one.  But that did not keep me from going into the shop, just to smell the machine.  There was and is something about the smell of a motorcycle shop that was like catnip to me.  I would go into the showroom and imagine myself riding the iron horse to freedom.  But no, it would not happen.  Leaving my sister’s outline in the sheet rock ended that dream.

We left Marlow and moved into a house on N. Muellar Ave. in Bethany.  It was a two story house with a detached garage.  My brother and his new wife were living with us for a while.  I stated attending Central Elementary in Warr Acres.  In the Putnam City School system, elementary went up to the eighth grade.  High school was ninth through twelve grades.  This place was very different than Marlow.  I guess there were as many students at Central, than there were in the entire school system of Marlow.  One thing that I noticed pretty quickly was I did not have the same type of clothes the other kids had that rode our bus.  I had a pair of non-descript shoes, a pair of jeans, and a shirt.  The other boys had a pair of burgundy penny loafers, jeans, matching belts and a light yellow or light blue oxford button down shirt and an HIS navy colored light weight jacket.  They were very stylish for the time.  The times, they were achangin’.  I was becoming more aware of popular music.  The James Bond films were influencing the young.  And my family was falling apart.

I was still struggling with English.  My dad and brother were working in Texas.  They would come home on the weekends.  Mom was working as a nurse’s aide, if I remember correctly.  When Dad would come home, he was usually glassy eyed from drinking.  He always had a box of peppermint flavored Chicklets in his front shirt pocket, to try to cover the beer on his breath.  As you can imagine, weekends were not a lot of fun with my parents arguing for most of the weekend.

A short time later, I came home one Friday and found my Dad had brought me a gift.  This was highly unusual.  In the drive way, was a new Yamaha 80 motorcycle.  It was black and grey and chrome and it was mine.  I thought back to my dream of having a motorcycle and here it was.  But it came with a big price tag.  My dad told me a friend of his gave it to me.  Still being naïve, I thought how very nice it was for someone to want to give me a motorcycle.  I didn’t even know them!  Brenda and I drove it around the house and occasionally on the street, but I wasn’t supposed to because I didn’t have a driver’s license.  After four or five weeks, I came home from school and the motorcycle was gone. I asked about it and was told they took it back because “we” didn’t make the payments.  I said I thought it was a gift.  I was told it’s gone and that’s the end of it.  I then found out my Dad’s friend was his girlfriend.  And because Mom found out about his girlfriend, my motorcycle was gone.  After I found out about where it came from I didn’t want it either.  I later learned, Mom thought because I enjoyed the motorcycle, that I condoned my Dad’s girlfriend.  But as I said, I never knew he had a girlfriend.  Mom thought I was being disloyal to her and it hurt her.  I was guilty of being naïve, but I was not disloyal.  I hold loyalty very high on my scale of characteristics/virtues.  I want to be loyal and I expect others to be loyal to me.  I cannot read a story or watch a movie, if there is unfaithfulness going on.  It sickens me. Perhaps, this is the source of that feeling.  On the other side, I admire and appreciate, very much, that the Bible tells us that our God is faithful and true.  As a side note, I was discussing this with my brother, a couple of weeks ago.  He told me what he knew of the situation.  He said the motorcycle was supposed to be his, if he just agreed to say whatever Dad said.  He could not or would not do that, so the motorcycle was giving to me.

We had to move again.  The new house was on NW 53rd, off Portland, near Deaconess Hospital.  The house had a large picture window in the living room.  My dad decided I needed a haircut.  He dropped the sheet that was covering the window.  Placed a dining room chair on top of the coffee table and instructed me to sit in front of the whole world – to see me get a haircut from my dad.  I was really embarrassed.  I knew we didn’t have the money to go to the barber, I would have preferred to have it done on the back porch, were it was more private.

An empty field was just east of our house.  The next house was a lot nicer than ours.  They had a teenager closer to our age.  He was really into The Man from U.N.C.L.E. and building model airplanes.  There was a small lake and an abandoned sports club immediately behind our houses.  We would occasionally swim in the lake, until the day I cut my foot on a broken whiskey bottle.  The guy next door talked Brenda and me into climbing through an open window of the sports club.  Left behind was broken furniture, announcement papers, but nothing of value.  At least once while we were trespassing, this guy would make some noise and yell out the cops were there.  We would escape through the small open window, nearly missing the imaginary police.

I did not want to write this story.  It was a time of uncertainty and sorrow in my family’s history.  There were great changes in how I viewed my parents, life, and myself. Changes would have to be made.  But what?  What could heal my parents’ marriage?   What would hold us together?  My relationship with my dad was not very strong to begin with, but now it was even weaker.  It was an end of a time…a time of trust.


It’s been a long and tiring day.  First, I thank The Lord, to the best of my knowledge,  the United States of America was not attacked today by terrorist.  I believe it could have happened, but by Gods grace it did not.

I saw my oncologist this morning.  According to their scales, I have lost eight pounds.  I thought maybe three or four, but not eight.  You know I have a bit of “white coat” syndrome, manifested in my blood pressure being “jacked” up.  I took my blood pressure, in my car, before going in the building.  It was 151/65.  I go to the fourth floor and sign in.  I was early, so I knew I would waited for a little while.  After fifteen minutes, I’m called back for stats,  He weighs me, has me sit down in the orange chair and hooks me up to the ox-pluse and BP machine.  Oxygen is good.  Pulse rate is good.  Blood pressure is 174/76!!!  I say to Henry, “Look, I know I get jacked up, but I’m not THAT jacked up!”  Henry says, “Oh, OK, let’s use the Bigger cup then.”  BIGGER CUP!  You mean you’ve been trying to blow my fingertips out using a SMALL cup?  Bigger cup measures 154/84.  Did you notice my lower number shot up?  Now they have me jacked up!  I see the doctor and he adds some BP medicine and orders blood test.  He wants to make sure the Avastin has not scarred my kidneys.  I go downstairs to the lab and wait until I’m called back.  My past experience has been. It only takes six or seven minutes and I’m gone.  Today it took about fifteen to eighteen minutes.  The tech had a hard time finding a vein, ending up sticking me three times.  The morning is almost over and I head north to Edmond.

At work, they have me pulling the oar without stopping.  I keep hearing the metronome of the drum beat, as first his left hand, then the right hand strikes the well worn skin of the drum.  Finally at the end of the day, they unlock the handcuffs and leg shackles and I’m allowed to come from below and into the sunshine.

I drove home and picked up Terrie.  I was going to make a hospital visit in Norman and then have some supper.  We drive the seven miles south to Norman with Terrie talking with me about her day.  We arrive at the south entrance of Norman Regional Hospital.  Terrie waited in the van as I went in to see the man I was going to visit.  I saw the sign to call the operator for room numbers since the counter was unattended.  I punched “0” and ask for the mans room number.  The nice lady tells me the number and says I would need to take the northeast elevators.  I said, “I’m at the south entrance, right?”  Cheerfully she replied that I was and would have to walk to the opposite side of the hospital.  I see a stand that has a hospital floor layout.  I picked up one of the pads of paper. Studied it and if I scaled it correctly, the room was about three blocks away from my house in Oklahoma City!  I looked at the layout again and thought to myself, that it looked familiar to me.  Then I got it!  It was the same configuration as the ant farm kit they sold at TG & Y, years ago!  As I got to the northeast elevators (Tulsa campus), my hip joints had just started singing the third verse of “Just As I Am”. ‘ …Just as I am, tho’ tossed about, with many a conflict, many a doubt’.  I find the room, introduce myself, had a short visit, prayed for him and his wife, left some verses on how to become a Christian and left.  I remembered the ant farm layout and started for the south entrance.  After a while, I came upon a older man walking in the same direction I was going.  His pant waist was higher than what I prefer, his was about three and a half inches below his armpits.  As I examined him, it struck me that he knows the way out of the ant farm!  I get in behind him and begin a NASCAR draft on him.  In just a short time, I begin to recognize my surroundings.  I can now see the south entrance.  It’s time to make my move!  I pass him on the right as I go by a guy in a sleeveless tee shirt, who was playing the grand piano in the lobby.  He was pretty good, I thought, he was bobbing his head  around, like he was really into it. I crossed the finish line called ‘the revolving door’ and headed toward the van.  As I got there, my hip joints had finished “Just As I Am”, “Softly and Tenderly”, and had just started “Art Thou Weary”.  I sat in the drivers seat and admitted that I was tired.

I turned the van back toward Oklahoma City.  We stopped and had supper.  We enjoyed being together more than we enjoyed the food, but that was fine with us, we were together.   Driving home, it started to get quite.  The tension on the main spring of life was now less than at the beginning of the day.  But isn’t that normal?  The rewind of the spring inside of me would be accomplished overnight, as I slept.  Only God can do that.  As I lay on the bed, I began to review the day that was coming to a close.  It had been a tiring , but good day.  The Lord had been gracious to me and to America.  We were blessed more than we deserved.  He provided all that we needed.  I sensed His Hand upon me and I felt safe and secure.  It was good to be home.



Laundry Night

dryer_250To paraphrase the old Swingin’ Medallions song, “Double Shot (of my baby’s love)”, I need a double shot of caffeine or something.  It happens, almost every morning, following laundry night.  Last night was a two-load laundry night.

After getting home from work and visiting with Terrie for a little bit, we go in to have our supper.  I carry our over-filled laundry “barrel” (we call it a barrel for some odd reason) into the laundry room on my way to the kitchen.  I do a quick sorting of clothes, separating like materials and start the first load.  We finished up our supper and I go back to our bedroom to read while the washer is efficiently doing its job.

I was lying on the bed, reading my Edgar Wallace book “The Daffodil Murders”, when the weight of my iPad became too much.  The iPad slipped to my stomach causing my eye lids to close and before I could protest, I was asleep.  Thirty minutes later, I get up and place the wet clothes in the dryer and start the second load.

I am fully awake by this time, so I start to read my book again.  Around 10:30, the buzzer on the dryer announces that it is finished for the night and would like to go to sleep.  I would like too.  But I can’t.

Years ago, I developed a strange case of insomnia, when the clothes dryer, we had at the time, lost the ability to turn itself off after completing its cycle.  I would stay awake, while the dryer turned and turned and I would periodically check the dampness of the clothes, until they were dry and I could hang them up.

So, last night, I could not go to sleep until after 12:30 because of the nap and because of my dryer craziness.  To make the sleep time, more enjoyable, I had two leg cramps, conveniently timed to give me no more than two hours sleep between horror sessions.  Waking up at 5:30, left me with a need of a double shot of my Baby’s love (yeah, yeah, yeah).



I was visiting  with my brother, last night.  He asked me how I was.  I thought for a moment and said.”Good, happy, excited to have been able to create something like my blog (with a little help from my friends)”.  As I was driving to work, this morning, I was thinking about that subject.

It has not always been easy for me to talk with people.  Once, I was criticized by a co-worker for being slow to respond to his statement.  I didn’t have an immediate response because I was thinking of what I wanted to say and how I should say it.  I find I can communicate, somewhat better, through writing.  Through writing, I have time to build the structure of my thought. I start with the bare thought and add to it or take away, as necessary.  That is how my stories are formed.

The start of this blog is a result of the encouragement I received through my Facebook page, “Please Ma’an, let me finish my thought”.  While that page is sufficient for posting a story, it did not exactly meet my needs in regards to appearance and being able to separate my post from a dancing cat video or the latest terrorist post.  Here, I think it will be save to say, you will not find any dancing cat videos.

I am humbled to know that anyone would be interested enough to read one of my stories.  I get excited and encouraged, when one of you clicks “like” or would leave a comment.  I am in awe, when you sign up to “follow” me.  This blog is not a commercial venture.  It is just a place where we can visit together, to inspire one another, and if it could be, a place to honor the Lord Jesus Christ.

The Water Hose

leaking water hose

The Lord has been gracious to keep my lawn green for most of the summer. I have only watered it twice. The first time was a week ago Saturday. The day I worked in the yard. I had the water on for one hour and the doorbell rings. It was The City of Oklahoma City water department with a warning that I was watering on an odd day when I’m an even. I could probably have a forty-eight minute discussion on the previous sentence, but I won’t.

The second day I watered was yesterday. Even-even, everything ok with the City. I notice my water hose had a small leak in its side, as it lay across the drive way. The water fountained up from the needle size opening. Thinking as a man thinks, I went into my garage to find my duct tape. I bought the extra strong tape that should hold anything. Locating the puncture site, I wrap the tape for six inches on either side of the leak. I put away the tape and turn on the water. After making sure the sprinkler coverage is what I was envisioning, I turn to see my water hose now looks like an anaconda that has swallowed a capybara!! The anaconda-like hose then ruptures itself unto the drive way, with three dollars’ worth of water rippling toward the hard street, which I’m sure eventually ended up in the Gulf of Mexico.

So I asked The Lord if it couldn’t have committed suicide on the grassy knoll, instead of the hard, lifeless drive way, couldn’t it God? He said, “yeah, I suppose so, but not for you. You get to get a brand new hose between now and next summer. Oh, and Steve…I can take care of the watering year round. I can. Trust me.” I believe; help my unbelief.