Out of the Mouths of Babes

About a decade ago, my two amazing sisters and I got together to celebrate the 60th birthday of the youngest of us three. We always talk and laughed a lot when we were together, mostly from reminiscing about the funny things various members of our family had heard, said, and done over the years, sometimes reliving events as best we could just for the nostalgia of it. Inevitably, at some time during our conversation, one of us would comment to the others about how we should write down all these funny and endearing stories, sayings, and antics while they were still fairly fresh on our minds.

Following the passing of Martha, our older sister in December 2019, I decided that time was of the essence for me to begin putting pen to paper to compile as many of our fondest and funniest memories as I could still recall. I expect this blog to remain a ‘living’ document to which I hope to add stories as the come to mind or as they happen. When my younger sister, DonnaBeth and I one day join our parents, Martha, and DonnaBeth’s dear husband in the Presence of the Lord, it is my hope that this blog will be a small part of the legacy that we leave for our children and grandchildren to enjoy in our absence. Following are all the accounts I have been able to recount so far.

Daddy's a Poor, Lost Sinner!

Shortly after I was born, Dad was in seminary, and we lived with our mother’s parents in Dallas, Texas. Dad was offered a part-time position as minister of music at Vickery Baptist Church (which three-year old Martha referred to as ‘Vicky Baddist’). Since Dad worked at the church, we attended regularly, and on occasion, Dad would sing a solo during the worship service. One Sunday morning, Dad had selected an old gospel song that I remember having heard more than once during my childhood. Vickery was a very small church and Mom, Martha and I would usually sit together in the center of first pew, right in front of the pulpit. Martha was so very excited to be able to hear our Dad sing for the first time in church. I was standing up in the pew and Martha was on her knees next to me. Dad walked up to the pulpit, the pianist played a short introduction, and then Dad started singing the very first verse, which began, “When I, a poor lost sinner...” As if on cue, Martha clapped a hand to either side of her face with a look of horror on her face and blurted, “Oh, Mommie, Daddy’s a poor lost sinner!”

God and Jesus

After a year or so, since Dad was attending seminary in Fort Worth, Texas, we were able to rent a tiny duplex that backed up to the music building on campus. In those days, air conditioning was virtually non-existent, so windows remained open most of the time both in our duplex and in the music building behind us. One of my fondest memories was hearing the cacophony of sounds of voices and instruments wafting from the row of open practice room windows just across our back yard. Martha, was about five by now, and she often played with children of other seminarians who lived nearby on the same street. One day after having been out playing with other children for a short time, she stormed back into our duplex in tears. Our mother asked her what was wrong. She offered, “Those means girls down the street said they didn’t want to play with me anymore!” Mom asked, “Why on earth would they say something like that?” to which Martha replied, “cause they said that all I ever talk about is God and Jesus!”

Would that more five-year-olds were like my precious sister Martha!

Plink

We lived in Carlsbad, New Mexico from the time I was two until I started school at age five (I obviously was a child genius)! Dad was minister of music at First Baptist Church of Carlsbad. I have very vivid memories of the church, the three rental properties in which we lived, and the park that was just about two blocks from our little house on Ferndale Street which was right next to the railroad tracks. I also remember being madly in love with Marsha Ray, the pastor’s daughter, and best friends with Roy Bynum, who had a knack for getting me into all sorts of trouble.

The little church building, as I recall, was right out of a painting. One of those quaint little rectangular wooden structures, painted white, with a tall steeple and stained glass windows all around. Along the side of the church, between it and the parsonage (where Marsha and her family lived!), was a stand of trees which provided lots of shade and a great place to play. Marsha and I spent lots of time playing under those trees while our dad’s were working inside the church.

One day Mom took me with her to church where she had a WMU (Women’s Missionary Union) meeting  in one of the classrooms along the parsonage side of the sanctuary. Evidently, Roy Bynum's mom was there, too, because the two of us were playing with army men in the dirt under the trees. As was his custom, Roy Bynum thought up a great new way to use some of the smooth rocks we had found in the drainage ditch in front of the church as hand grenades. We began chucking the rocks, making explosive sounds and throwing dirt and plastic soldiers into the air as if the grenades had literally exploded. Everything was all fun and games until one of Roy Bynum’s “grenades” bounced off the trunk of one of the trees and ricocheted right into one of the beautiful stained glass windows in the sanctuary. Plink!

I froze in my tracks, waiting for the heavens to part and the angel of death to come swooping down on us! My heart was in my throat, beating like a jack hammer, and sweat was running down my face. I gulped, looked at Roy, and looked back at the very neat little hole in the stained glass. All things considered, it wasn’t nearly as bad as if the rock had hit a regular glass window, which would have shattered completely, making a loud, telltale noise for anyone inside the church to hear.

After a few minutes, when no one had seemed to notice and nothing happened, Roy decided that he liked the plinking sound the rock made as it poked a perfect rock-shaped hole through one of the colored glass panels, so he picked up another smooth rock and lofted it toward the same window. Plink it went as it poked a new hole through the window glass. Looking right at me, Roy grinned and said, “Now, you try it!” he urged.

Still fearful, but intrigued by the pleasant plinking sound (as opposed to the loud, shattering sound of regular glass), I picked up a small stone from our pile of “grenades” on the ground and gleefully, but with apprehension,  tossed it toward a window. Plink! I stood, breathless, still waiting for retribution, but when there was none, I grabbed another stone and tossed it, and then another and another. Plink! Plink! Plink!   Then it occurred to me that too many holes in the same window might be noticeable, so I decided to try a different window. Plink!

I reached for another rock and aimed for a new window, but the window I had just hit suddenly opened and my red-faced and obviously angry Mom leaned out and stared holes in me, too angry to speak. My heart leapt into my throat and all the blood in my face drained into my feet. Of all the windows in that side of the church to pick from, I had to choose one from the classroom where my mom’s meeting was being held!? “Paul Ray Rogers!” Mom bellowed--I knew I was in big trouble when Mom used all three of my names--“What in the world do you think you’re doing throwing rocks through the church windows?”

Hoping to lessen the severity of my inevitable punishment and to shift the blame from myself to my cohort in crime, I sheepishly responded, “I wasn't throwing rocks through the windows, I was just trying to throw them through the holes that Roy Bynum has already made!” Needless to say, Mom didn’t buy it!

Not surprisingly, when I got home that evening, Dad’s leather belt and I had a not-so-pleasant reunion.

Stories Our Mom Told

Our dear mother taught fifth grade in public school and also taught five-years olds at church. Working with children is never boring. Mom had a multitude of stories that she shared with us over the years. We always encouraged her to write them down, but life always got in the way. Mom went to be with Jesus on Resurrection Day, 2007, so it has fallen to me to compile all the priceless stories from her years of teaching in Sunday school, Vacation Bible School, and public school.

Mary and Joseph’s Flight to Egypt

It was just before Christmas in Mom’s Sunday school class of five-year-olds. As was her tradition, she read to the children what is commonly known as the “Christmas story” from Matthew, chapter 2, and then asked the children to draw pictures based on what they remembered from the story. As the children were creating their artwork, Mom would wander among them, admire their creative efforts, and encourage them as they created. Stopping at one table, she noticed a boy working on a very interesting drawing. It was a crude drawing of one of those single-engine, open-cockpit, parasol-wing planes with two seats—one in front and one in back. In the front seat, steering the plane was a man with a mustache and wearing a large sombrero. In the back seat were crammed a long-haired man and a woman with a head covering, holding an infant. “Oh my, how very interesting.” Mom exclaimed. “Would you like to tell me about your picture?” she asked the young artist. “This is Mary and Joseph’s flight to Egypt.” the boy responded. “Oh, I see,” Mom replied, trying hard not to snicker. “This must be Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus in the back seat.” she said. “Yeah.” the boy muttered. “So who is this in the front seat with the big hat?” she inquired. Looking at Mom as if she had a third eye, he responded, “Well, that’s Poncho the pilot!”

Round Yon Virgin, Mother and Child

On another Sunday right before Christmas, Mom was observing other young artists at work drawing various Christmas-related pictures, and spied a picture of what looked like a very crude version of the nativity scene. It included a stable with a manger containing a stick-figure baby, surrounded by stick-figure shepherds, crudely drawn sheep, cows, a donkey and even what looked like angels hovering just above the stable. Kneeling behind the manger looking down at the baby was a woman and standing next to her a curious short, round, bald man in a robe and sporting a halo.

Stopping to admire the drawing, Mom knelt down and said, “Tell me about your drawing.” “Well, these,” she offered, pointing to the stick-figures surrounding the manger, “are all the animals, some shepherds and the three wise guys. Up here at the top are the angelic hosts and hostesses.” “And who are these folks around the manger?” Mom asked, pointing to the trio that she assumed were Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus. With a look of disbelief, the little girl pointed to them and blurted out, “Well, that’s round John Virgin, mother, and child!”

Spelling Lesson

In the middle of my fourth-grade year, our Dad was called to First Baptist Church in Harlingen, Texas, which is in what is erroneously referred to as “The Rio Grande Valley” in south Texas. In reality, this area is actually a perfectly flat delta with palm trees and irrigation canals, but it was 25 miles from the Mexican border and just under that distance to Padre Island. All things considered, it was a great place to grow up. 

Mom taught fifth grade in public school for most of the time we were in Harlingen. One year, Mom had received a new student into her class whose family had just moved to Harlingen. This student was a tad behind in spelling, so Mom took him under her wing to help bring him up-to-speed with the rest of the class. She worked with him using flash cards, phonetic spelling, and breaking words into syllables and sounding them out one syllable at a time. It was tedious work for both Mom and her student, and some days he would become very discouraged and want to give up, but Mom would encourage him, praise him when he did things correctly, and do all that she could to motivate him to continue.

One day, after a week of particularly difficult tutoring sessions, her new student bounded into the classroom beaming. It was obvious that he was excited about something so Mom asked him what had made him so happy. “I know how to spell Weslaco!” the boy exclaimed. (Weslaco was about 20 miles west of Harlingen. At that time, there were only two major network television stations in The Valley: one in Harlingen and the other in Weslaco, just down the road.) Eager to encourage her student’s newfound success, Mom responded, “That’s wonderful, tell me, how do you spell, Weslaco?” The excited youngster, grinning from ear-to-ear, cleared his throat, stood up straight, and in his most professional-sounding voice enunciated, “K-R-G-V-T-V, Weslaco!”

Carry the One 

As I recall, Language Arts was Mom’s strong suit, and unlike Dad, who majored in math, she didn’t find math terribly easy to teach. Being creative and having a good sense of where her student’s minds were, however, helped Mom to get the point across, no matter the subject matter.

In one particular class, a young girl was having difficulty with the concept of ‘carrying’ numbers when adding in arithmetic. Mom worked with her privately, but to no avail, until both became frustrated. Trying desperately to find a better way to explain this concept, Mom began to think outside the box a bit and came up with an analogy that she thought might be helpful. In desperation, she inquired of this little girl, “Honey, how does your mother get her groceries from the car to the house?” “She totes ‘em,” replied the little girl.

Sensing a potential light bulb moment, Mom responded, “Okay, then when you add numbers and the sum is greater than nine, you ‘tote’ the remainder to the tens place.” Immediately, the light bulb came on in the little girl’s as she comprehended the concept. She’s probably a math professor at some Ivy League university today!

Nice Old Lady

A year or so after we had settled in Harlingen, a military family moved in next door to us. They had a four-year old daughter, Niki, who became fast friends with my younger sister, DonnaBeth, who was five at the time.

Living in a very humid climate with mostly mild temperatures, many houses had carports rather than garages. Our carport became a great covered play area where DonnaBeth and Niki would build play houses out of card tables covered with blankets and sheets. The door from our kitchen into the carport had a jalousie (louvered) glass windows that cranked open and shut. Mom could keep a close eye on the two girls while they were playing by peering out this window. She also could hear them, as we kept the windows open in our little house most of the time.

(I should insert here that Mom had beautiful jet-black hair until her late 30s, when inexplicably it all turned prematurely white. Thankfully for her, it was that beautiful snowy white rather than the mousy gray, and she always kept it nicely coiffed.)

One day after the girls had been playing in the carport for some time Mom baked a batch of chocolate-chip cookies and brought a plate of cookies, fresh from the oven, and two glasses of cold milk to the girls for a snack. Niki took a cookie and a glass of milk and thanked Mom profusely! She took a bite of the cookie and exclaimed, “Oh, Mrs. Rogers, this is a delicious cookie?” Being unaccustomed to this kind of gratitude from one so young, Mom replied, “Why thank you. Niki. You’re a very nice young lady.” “Well, thank you,” Niki responded, eyeing Mom’s white hair, “And you’re a very nice old lady!”

Vacation Bible School 

Vacation Bible School was always a challenge. My sisters and I often volunteered to help Mom with the five-year-olds. This particular summer, I was in junior high and Martha, my older sister, was in high school. Mom had a particularly rowdy group of children who were difficult to corral and keep quiet. We took them outside about mid-morning to let them play and work off some of their steam, hoping that they would calm down a bit before afternoon nap time. Each day following playtime, we would turn off the lights in the room, play soft music, and spread mats on the floor to encourage the children to lay still and quiet for 15 or 20 minutes.

On this day, however, they were neither still nor quiet. In desperation, we thought that perhaps if we lay down with the children, it might encourage them by example. I stretched out in the middle of a group of rowdy boys and Martha, laid down on a mat with a particularly precocious little girl. We were able to get most of the children quiet, if not still. While Martha lay quietly on the mat, her young mat mate talked quietly to herself and played with Martha’s hair, her jewelry, her belt and virtually anything else she could reach. While running her hand up and down Martha’s back, she stopped suddenly and blurted out very loudly, “Miss Martha, I can feel your brawl!” The entire room erupted, bringing an abrupt and noisy end to nap time.

Following the abbreviated nap time, Mom decided to try reading to the children, in hopes of keeping them calm. She had us put the children’s chairs in a semi-circle around her chair and she sat with a book in her lap, waiting for the children to settle and quiet down. As was her custom, Mom would remind the children periodically to put their feet on the floor, their hands in their laps, and to stop moving and talking.

After a longer-than-usual wait time, to Mom’s chagrin the children were still chatting and popping up and down in their chairs. Mom was getting more frustrated by the minute and it began to show. Finally, after several unsuccessful attempts of quietly reminding them to settle down, she spoke in her most stern teacher voice, “Children! This is the last time I’m going to tell you. Put your hands and your feet in your laps and be quiet!!” Once again, the room erupted in laughter. And I'm fairly certain that Mom dispensed with the story on that day?

Another incident in Vacation Bible School occurred when the children were having snacks—a staple of VBS. Snack time was to be also a quiet time (as much for the sake of the leaders and for the children). Mom was also big on decorum and tried to instill in the children good manners. She often had to remind them to not talk with food in their mouths and to chew with their mouths closed. She presumed, wrongly so at times, that they would know not to play with their food or spit it on each other!

One day, this especially rambunctious group was eating and talking while dribbling food down their chins. Having already reminded them several times to not talk while eating, Mom was quickly losing patience with them. Finally, in a state of sheer frustration, Mom blurted out, “Boys and girls, please do not talk with your mouths open!!” Whether out of obedience or confusion (perhaps waiting to be told not to eat with food in their mouths), the rowdy group became silent, at least for a few minutes.

Manners 

Mom did her best to teach my sisters and me good manners as well. One particular area where she was a stickler was phone etiquette. It really got under Mom’s skin when she would answer the phone and hear someone blurt out, “Is so-and-so there?” She worked laboriously with us to teach us always to ask if we might please speak with the person whom we were calling. It was really none of our business, she would remind us, whether or not they were home. Our asking to speak with that person would at least give the person answering the phone the opportunity to say yes or no. Anything more than that, according to Mom, was more than we had the right to ask.

Another pet peeve of Mom’s was calling other folks and receiving a blunt, ‘Hello!’ on the other end. Back in the days of rotary phones (and before Caller ID), the only way to know for certain if you had reached the number you were intending to dial, was if the party on the other end volunteered that information. Therefore, when teaching us phone etiquette, Mom taught us to answer the phone by stating whose residence the person had reached and to whom they were speaking.

When I finally was old enough to be privileged to answer the home phone, I rehearsed my greeting ad nauseam. “Hello. Rogers’ residence, this is Paul speaking!” I got so good at this that I would race my sisters to the phone when it rang in order to impress the unwitting caller with my superior decorum.

One evening we had a visiting dignitary from the Southern Baptist Convention over for dinner before he was to speak at our church. For reasons which I am sure I will never fully understand, Mom called on me to offer thanks for the meal. Caught completely off guard, and having worked so very hard on my phone answering skills, I began my prayer with, “Dear God, this is Paul speaking!” Not particularly shy in speaking her mind, Martha, whom to my misfortune was sitting next to me, elbowed me and whispered in a less-than-friendly tone, “He knows who you are!”

Tita Bowman 

The Bowman’s were friends of ours from church. They had a daughter with a long and exotic name, but we always knew her as ‘Tita.’ She was about five, as I recall, when we had her over to play with DonnaBeth and to spend the night. When it came time for dinner, Mom called everyone to the table. Even at five, having been raised as a proper Southern lady, she had impeccable manners, which delighted Mom, and an unmistakable southern drawl. After our evening meal, Tita politely inquired of Mom in her sweet southern drawl, “Mrs. Rahjahs. Was that dinnah or suppah?” “Sweetie, we call it supper,” Mom replied. 
“Well, then, thank you for that delicious suppah!” she offered.

All Assignments on One Page 

As I mentioned earlier, we had moved to Harlingen in the middle of my fourth-grade year—NOT a great time to change towns or schools. I was very conscientious and compliant as a child, always wanting to please my parents and others in authority. And I was, and still am, one who takes things very literally. My first week of school, my teacher was filling me in on class procedures and such. She mentioned that for each subject we should keep all of our assignments on one page of our class spiral notebooks. Did I mention that I always took things very literally?

I turned in my first math assignment--long division, if my memory serves me--and ten problems were squished onto one page of my spiral notebook with numbers so small that a magnifying glass was needed to identify them. The teacher gave me an ‘F’ on the assignment because she couldn’t read any of my scrawling enough to tell whether or not the problems were done correctly. I was devastated.

I cried to my parents that I did my best and that I was certain that all my answers were correct, and that I have followed the teacher’s instructions to the letter. My parents promised to speak with the teacher and following their conference with her, it was determined that I had completely misunderstood her instructions. What she meant was that we were to list all of our assignments on one page of our spiral notebooks, not try to squeeze the entire assignment onto that one page. Did I mention that I took things very literally? I guess it was a good thing that I figured out what the teacher meant before I tried to cram my first three-page essay onto one page of my spiral!?

I Think I'm Gonna Bomb 

When Martha’s son, Mark, was around five or six, he had a problem with car sickness, especially when riding in the back seat. Mark had his own peculiar lingo and when he felt the urge to upchuck, he would say, “I think I’m gonna bomb”--‘Bomb’ being Markspeak for ‘throw up.’ On one particularly long trip, Martha noticed him rocking back and forth in the backseat and muttering something in rhythmic fashion, but she couldn't understand what he was saying. Looking around and listening more closely, she discerned him faintly muttering, “I think I’m gonna bomb! I think I’m gonna bomb!” Unfortunately, they were on a two-lane highway with almost no shoulder, so Martha assured him that they would hurry up the road and stop the car as soon as there was an adequate shoulder on which to stop.

After breaking the speed limit for Mark’s sake, not too far up the road, Mark’s dad found a place where they could stop safely, so he pulled the car over to the side of the road. “Quick, Mark. Jump out before you throw up in the backseat!” Martha exclaimed. No response from Mark. “C’mon, Mark. Jump out before you make a mess!” Still no response. Martha turned around and asked Mark, “I thought you needed to throw up, Honey?” to which Mark responded in his rocking and rhythmic manner, “I already did! I already did!” 

The Power of Prayer 

It's no surprise to anyone who has lived awhile that most individuals have two childhoods--the first in their preadolescent years and the second in their latter years. I’m finally old enough to be enjoying my second childhood. When this second childhood sets in with some senior adults (not by choice) they lose their memory and often, some of their filters. As a result, like children, they blurt out whatever they are thinking, often saying the funniest, and sometimes, most inappropriate things.

A case in point occurred during prayer requests one morning in Mom’s senior adult Sunday school class. She was taking prayer requests before the lesson when one of the class members’ hands shot up. She seemed particularly distressed, and so Mom asked her how the class could pray for her. “Please pray for my husband. He may need surgery on his left eye. His doctor said that he has a detached rectum!”

Praying for Backsliders

I’m far too young to remember this story, but my parents used to tell of the country pastor had delivered a poignant message on the consequences of sin and the reality of hell. At the end of his sermon, he invited all the lost sinners in the congregation to come forward to be saved. After a protracted invitation, the pastor then would invite members of the congregation who were backsliders, loose livers, as the pastor often called them--those who had drifted away from their faith--to raise their hands so that he could pray for them.

Having slept through most of the the sermon, an older woman on one of the back benches suddenly awoke, jumped up, and shouted “Pastor, please pray for my husband!” The pastor asked her, “So is your husband a backslider?” “Oh, no, not at all” the lady replied, “but since you were praying for loose livers earlier, I thought you might also pray for my husband’s “floating kidney!’”

Mama June, Music, and Me

A small bead of sweat formed at the corner of my eye, magnifying a momentary reflection coming from off to my right. As I turned toward the light, he caught my eye. He seemed so lifelike, positioned prominently among wicker and wrought-iron furniture pieces and a few odd-looking implements from a much earlier era. Standing guard over this melange of aging accessories on the front porch of a quaint, two-story, salt-box home, this stoic sentry seemed to beckon to me. I ambled toward the cluttered porch for a closer look at my weathered, wooden friend. As I approached, the front door opened suddenly and I was greeted by a most affable and charming woman.

"Hello," she said warmly. "I'm June."

"Hi, I'm Paul," I responded, awkwardly thrusting forward my hand and then drawing it back.

"Folks around here call me 'Mama June.' This is Jake." she offered, dusting off a shoulder of the statue.

"He keeps an eye on the place."

Jake seemed an unconventional name for an Indian chief, but I raised my right hand and offered a mock greeting to the motionless mannequin.

Casually surveying the arresting assortment of antiquity all around me, I blurted out, "I'm intrigued by all this...uh..."

"Junk?" she interrupted with a laugh. "That's what most of it is, but I can't seem to part with it. That's why I decided to become an antique dealer, so I'd have a legitimate excuse for keeping it around. Can I interest you in a particular piece?" she asked.

"Oh, no." I replied. "I was just..."

"Great!" she interjected. "I'm not in a selling mood right now anyway. Why don't you come in and meet my niece. She's just taken a batch of cookies out of the oven. I'll make some lemonade and we can sit in the kitchen where it's cool and visit."

With that, she took my arm and led me through a foyer stuffed with odds and ends of every conceivable sort toward the kitchen. On the way, June explained that this was not only her antique shop, but also her home. The kitchen was warm and inviting with its magnificent, ten-foot, textured ceiling, glass-front cupboards, butcher's block, and an antique wood-burning cook stove that had been converted to gas.

Once in the kitchen, June pointed me to an empty chair at the massive oak table next to her niece, Rene. I set my sample case on the floor and as I slumped into the chair, Rene slid a plate of fresh-baked sugar cookies in front of me. June poured us each a glass of cold lemonade and then joined us at the table.

"This is Rene, my niece." June shared.

"She's a nursing student at a school in Pittsburgh, not far from here, and is visiting for the weekend. I guess I'm the relative closest to Rene's school, so she comes here to get away when she doesn't have enough time off to go home. Of course, since I live alone, I'm always very happy to have Rene here."

I introduced myself to Rene and explained that I, too, was a college student, and that I was in Morgantown just for the summer.

"I'm a musician," I explained, "and I had hoped to spend the summer playing jazz with my trio from school, but at the last minute, that fell through. I tried to find a decent job at home, but most of the good jobs were taken, so...well, here I am in Morgantown selling books door-to-door."

"So, you play jazz, do you?" queried June, as she motioned for Rene and me to follow her into the living room--another large room with a high ceiling brimming with handmade musical instruments from a number of different centuries. June made her way through the delightful diversity of this rich room to an antique armoire in which she had hidden a very contemporary and elaborate stereo system. Next to the turntable was a shelf laden with vinyl LP records. She thumbed through the LPs, ultimately pulling one out and holding it up for me to see.

"If you're into jazz, you'll really love this!" she insisted. "Have a seat on the sofa there and I'll spin it for you."

She carefully slid the vinyl disc out of its jacket, placed it on the turntable and set the stylus gently into a blank groove somewhere near the middle of side two. The voice of Duke Ellington could be heard above the din of a crowd as he introduced his composition, "Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue." Following exuberant applause the rich euphony of a classic, big-band ballad began to delight our ears. June sat beside Rene and me on the sofa and smiled at me with a knowing grin. We settled back to relish the moment together.

This particular piece began with the full band playing. After several verses and a few choruses by Ellington on the piano, there emerged a tenor sax solo that would redefine the ultimate "jazz experience" for me. I'd heard lots of great jazz solos in my day--I had listened to jazz since about the seventh grade--but this one was enchanted. I'd not heard of saxophonist Paul Gonzalves until that day, but I would never forget him after that.

Gonzalves started off typically enough, embellishing the melody of the song, but as he progressed, the festival crowd was being stirred into a frenetic celebration of music and musician like none I'd ever heard. Several choruses into the now infamous "ride," Jo Jones, a well-known jazz drummer, began to beat time with a rolled-up program offstage. As simple a gesture as that was, it ignited the crowd, provoking pandemonium, ecstatic dancing, cheering, and general mayhem. Twenty-seven astonishingly improvised choruses later, Gonzalves took his seat while the ingratiated crowd responded with thunderous and sustained applause. The occasion was the Newport Jazz Festival in 1956, and fortunately for us all, the event was carefully recorded.

As I listened to Gonzalves' epic solo, I locked onto his groove and rode it like an ocean wave to it's frenzied and electrifying conclusion. Even after the "wailing interval," as it has since been deemed, was complete and the applause faded, I was still as electrified as if I'd been there in person, and as spent as if I had played along, note-for-note, with Gonzalves. That's the appeal of jazz for me. It has to be experienced. And what an unforgettable experience that was for me. I'd heard plenty of improvised solos before, but never one that impacted me like this one did.

We all sat in silence, savoring the moment. Something wonderful had happened that afternoon, but it was more than just the music. It was, as Duke Ellington said of his first engagement at the famous Cotton Club in Harlem, "a classic example of being at the right place at the right time with the right thing before the right people." Surely, nothing binds soul-to-soul as sweetly as music. In that brief hour, June, Rene and I bonded so that it seemed as if we'd known each other for years.

Through the living room window, I could see the sun sinking low in the sky behind the distant hills. I knew it was time to gather my things and begin the long trek back to the boarding house where I was staying, especially if I wanted to get there before dark. I finished my cookies, drank the last sip of lemonade and then bade June and Rene farewell as I headed out the door. As I past Jake, the cigar store Indian chief who had greeted me on my way in, I could have sworn that he was smiling! I turned back to June, who was still standing in the open door, and asked, "Just out of curiosity, how much are you asking for ol' Jake here?"

"Oh, he's not for sale." June responded. "He's family!"

"Of course he is!"

I smiled as I skipped down the porch stairs and headed home.

Love Letter from God

My Precious Child,

I wanted to write you to tell you how very special you are to me. I gave you my Word as a constant reminder, but I understand that sometimes you may find it difficult and time-consuming to dig through all the “thees” and “thous” to get to the verses that talk about my love for you. I hope that you’ll find the time to dig deeply into my Word, though, because I have hidden innumerable treasures within it for you to discover. As I have said clearly throughout my Word, those who seek me in earnest will find me.

First of all, I want to remind you that I made you. I dreamt you up before there was a heaven or an earth. I wrote your blueprint in the palm of my hand before I laid the foundations of the world. I knit you together in your mother’s womb before you were born. I gave you the light in your eyes and numbered the very hairs upon your head. I made you in my image and destined you for greatness.

Before you came to be, I devised a plan and purpose for your priceless life. It was a plan to prosper you, to make you successful, and to protect you from disaster. A plan to give you hope and a future. Through my deep, abiding, and eternal love, I made it possible for you to succeed in all your endeavors. I promised you that I would never condemn you or be angry with you. I forgave you before you ever sinned, and spared you the punishment that you deserved. Through my Son, Jesus, I freed you from the ultimate penalty of sin.

I redeemed you—bought you back—from the curse of the law and brought you unto myself because of my love for you. I made you a new creature. I crucified the sinful person you were on the cross with my Son. His blood cleansed you and covered all your sin. I placed my Spirit in your heart to guide you into all truth. Through Him, you are now free from the power of sin.

I predestined you for eternal life. I provided the means and the motivation for you to receive my Son, Jesus, as your personal Savior and Lord. I have made it possible for you to life a godly life on earth, and I have prepared a place for you in heaven so that when your time on earth is over, you can come and spent eternity with me. I have designed a perfect, glorified body—one that will never decay—for you to wear in heaven. On the day when you finally meet me face-to-face, you will be forever free from the very presence of sin.

I placed my Spirit in you as your Comforter and a guarantee of your eternal salvation. You belong to me and are continually under my protection. I have given you the same authority over the devil and his demons that I gave to my Son, Jesus. I have even given you the power to crush Satan under your feet. In your behalf, Jesus disarmed principalities and powers, making them a public spectacle, triumphing over them in the cross. Nothing can in any way harm you, my precious child. You will never be separated from my love.

Through my Spirit and my Word, I have given you everything you need for life and godliness. I have made myself your total sufficiency in every area of your life. I am the provision for all your needs, your strength, your health, your protection, and your victory. I am the Light of your world, and you are a reflection of my light. To me, you are a sweet-smelling fragrance. I have given you my glory and my joy in full measure, and I have flooded your heart with my love. I am available to you whenever and wherever you may need me. I will never leave or forsake you. You can always rely on me because I never change.

I have made you a joint heir with Jesus of everything that I have. I have caused all things—good and bad—to work together for your good. Because I am for you, no one can ever be against you. You will never be put to shame because or your faith in me. I have given you the authority to reign as a king. One day you will judge the world and angels.

I will comfort you in your times of trouble, and discipline you when you go astray. I must allow you to endure suffering so that you can share in my glory, but my boundless consolation is available to you whenever you need it. You may be hard pressed on every side, but you will never be crushed. You may be perplexed, but you will never be in despair. You may be persecuted, but you will never be abandoned. You may be struck down, but you will never be destroyed. I have made you more than a conqueror in all things. One day, you will be led about in my Son’s triumphal procession.

Finally, I want you to know that to me, you are the righteousness of Christ Jesus, my Son. I have set you free and brought you to myself. I have given you the mind of Christ and made your body the dwelling place of my Holy Spirit. I have enlightened you and lavished upon you the riches of my grace with wisdom and understanding. I have made known to you the mystery of my will according to my good pleasure. I have chosen you and predestined you according to my plan, and I will work everything out in your life according to my desire. I will give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation so that you can know me better. You are my workmanship, created by me in advance to do good works. Nothing that I have ever created is more precious to me than you, My Child.

My hope for you is that you will remain in me so that I may perfect you and fashion you into the magnificent masterpiece that I had in mind from the beginning. I have begun a good work in you and I will complete it. I am working in you now to conform your will to mine and to cause you to do that which is pleasing to me. You have my peace, which passes all human understanding, to guide and guard your heart and mind. I am working within you to make you holy in my sight, without blemish and free from accusation. One day, Jesus will present you to me without fault and with great joy. Until that day, My Child, hold on to me as I have held on to you, for I am faithful. I will bring about all that I have planned for you in your life. Therefore, lay aside every weight and sin and run the race before you with patience so that you may ultimately receive the prize. And when the race is over, I’ll be at the finish line to welcome you home to glory.

Well done, my good and faithful servant!

ABBA

Family Ties

Recently, I spent a weekend in Waco visiting my family-Mom, both sisters, nieces, nephews, inlaws, and all the offspring they have produced--and what a magnificent weekend it was. It was wonderful seeing everyone. There were almost 25 of us at dinner Saturday night. I reminded Mom, in the middle of the melee, that she was primarily responsible for ALL of it!

What a fine heritage Mom has created for herself! All three of her children were there, along with most of her grandchildren and six of her great grandchildren. It was the closest thing to a family reunion we've had since the McQuade girls and their families got together in Pipe Creek, Texas back in 2003.

It was such a treat to be nestled in the warm and comforting confines of my older sister's home, surrounded by several generations of family. There is such a bond among us all that bridges the generational divides of a family ranging in ages from six weeks to 89 years old. I have no less affinity for the most distant kin in this group than for those living in my very own household. Who could create such intergenerational love and affection but the Creator of us all?

My daughter, who is pregnant with her first child, actually suggested the trip, wanting to take a video camera and record Mom telling about growing up as part of the McQuade family. We actually filled an entire video cassette with Mom's meanderings, and are saving it for posterity and a reminder to future generations of where they came from. I sat through the entire taping session and was intrigued by all that I heard, only a small portion of which I'd heard before. Mom was the second oldest of five sisters, so you can imagine what kinds of tales she told. My sisters and I have been after Mom for years to write down all the funny and intriguing things she's shared with us over the years. Perhaps this will be the catalyst needed to start such a process.

In Mom's defense (as if she needed one!), she has been writing down many of her life stories to submit for publication. Already a published author, it would be incredible if she could publish some of her stories for others to read as well. I will post her stories here as they become available.

Postscript: Mom went to be with Jesus early on Resurrection morning in 2007. We drove the hour and a half to Waco to Mom's nursing home to be with my sisters and other family members. When we got to Mom's room, she was still laying in her bed with her hand over her heart, a smile on her face, and her eyes wide open, looking upward. I believe that before her life slipped from her, she had seen the face of Jesus! On what better day and in what better way could a believer expect to meet Jesus than on Resurrection morning in peaceful slumber, smiling, and looking directly into the face of Jesus?

Dad's Promise

©1992 Paul R. Rogers

Life, sometimes, can seem unfair,
and we don't understand
how God, in the midst of our troubles and woes,
could still hold us, secure, in His hand.

But though it appears He's indifferent to us
and we're subject to His every whim;
if we trust Him, we'll find that our needs are intended
to make us dependent on Him.

You see, nothing escapes God's unlimited view;
He's aware of our grief and despair.
And He promised to walk with us all the way through;
to encourage, to strengthen, to care.

So, when pressures of life try to squeeze us to death,
and replies to our questions are few;
Disappointment, confusion, and doubt overwhelm us,
and we can't decide what to do.

That's when the world says, "You've come to the end
of your rope; tie a knot and hang on."
So we dangle there, helplessly, waiting for rescue
and hoping our wait won't be long.

But our heavenly Dad says, "I'm still in control,
I'll protect you and keep you from harm."
"If you trust Me," He says, "then let go of your rope
and fall, safe, in my strong, loving arms."

My Interstate 40 Angel

If you don’t believe in angels, you may not fully appreciate this story, but it happened exactly the way I’m telling it. I’d be skeptical myself, if it hadn’t happened to me.

Back in 1976, I had flown to Memphis, Tennessee from the Virginia Peninsula to load our little Datsun station wagon full of household goods and drive it back to Newport News, where I had accepted my first full-time ministry position. I had spent most of the day loading up the wagon, and before I got all the way out of town, I had had to stop twice to fix a stuck accelerator linkage. I finally hit Interstate 40 just before sundown, heading east toward Nashville with my station wagon loaded to the ceiling and my bicycle strapped to the roof.

As the sun began to set behind me, I turned on my headlights but noticed that the dash lights were unusually dim. I had had trouble starting the car earlier, and I was afraid that perhaps the alternator wasn't charging the battery properly. I decided to keep going for fear I wouldn’t be able to restart the car if I stopped. I was barely a hundred miles into my thousand mile journey. Needless to say, I was concerned.

Not ten minutes later, I noticed the engine beginning to sputter and the lights going completely out. Almost instinctively, I reached for the key and turned it in the ignition. For some inexplicable reason, doing so caused the engine to start and the lights to come back on, but when I returned the key from the start position to the on position, everything went black. I turned the key again, and once again, everything returned to life, but only for a moment. I turned the key to the start position again and tried holding it there, but after a few minutes, my hand began to cramp.

I found a screwdriver in the glove compartment and slipping it's blade into the slot on the top of the key, I wedged it between the steering column and the dash to keep the key in the start position. For the moment, this seemed to do the trick. I had lights and the engine was running.

I prayed for an exit, hoping to find some help. Having made the trip from Memphis to Nashville many times, however, I was well aware that there was not much in the way of civilization between Jackson (which I’d long since passed) and the west side of Nashville. The sun had completely set, and I noticed that even with my makeshift key wedge, the dash lights were once again growing dimmer. I began to panic. I could feel my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest.

My headlights were now so dim that I could no longer see the road in front of me. Not even the moonlight was enough to navigate by on this very dark October night. I slowed and slipped the car over onto the shoulder of the road where the dim glow of my headlights reflected slightly against the continuous row of markers beside the road. I had visions of being stranded in the middle of nowhere with a car full of my family's most prized possessions and my bicycle on the roof. I began begging God to help me.

My headlights finally faded out completely, and as they did, I whispered yet another prayer for help. Almost immediately, I noticed faint headlights in my rear view mirror. I slowed a bit, and as the car drew closer behind me, its headlights shone brightly on the reflective markers on the road’s edge. Able to see my way now, I sped up a bit, hoping to find an exit before the car passed me and I was left alone in the dark once again. I tried to maintain my speed and, almost as if by design, the car behind me did the same. Like a celestial guide it stayed right with me, lighting my path by its headlights illuminating the reflectors along the shoulder.

After what seemed like hours, I finally saw lights in the distance indicating that there might be an exit. As I approached the lights, a green interstate highway sign flashed by announcing the next exit. Hope was rekindled for a moment. As I got closer to the exit, I noticed that just off to the left of the Interstate was a small service area, complete with garage, restaurant, and motel. I headed toward the lights, up the off ramp, and prayed that God would forgive me for running the stop sign at the end of the ramp. (I was sure that I would not be able to restart the car if I stopped.)

As I turned left and crossed back over the highway on the overpass, I glanced to my right to catch a glimpse of my nighttime benefactor. To my surprise, there wasn’t a car in sight. I slowed a bit and looked up and down that long, lonely stretch of Interstate 40, but saw nothing. I looked behind me to see if the car had followed me off the highway, but there was no sign of a car anywhere. My expressway escort had simply vanished!

I turned into the drive of the service station just as they were closing the giant doors of the garage. I rolled into an empty bay and came to a stop. I asked the attendant if he could possibly charge my battery overnight, and he kindly agreed. I took my bicycle from atop the car and rode it to the motel across the street. I asked the clerk for a room and he announced that he only had one left, but that I could have it. I checked in and asked if the restaurant was still open. He said he doubted it, but that I could take my chances, which I did.

I rode my bike back across the street and parked it just as the last customers were coming out of the restaurant. I slipped in the door and was greeted by a friendly, older woman with a kind face. "We're closed!" she said, almost apologetically. I briefly explained my dilemma and told her that I'd eat leftovers if she had them. She smiled and said she'd see what they had left in the kitchen and that I could stay and eat while they cleaned up.

I finished what was one of the best home-cooked meals ever and pulled out my wallet to pay for it, but she waved me off and said that she'd already cleared out the cash register and that it would be more trouble than it was worth to try to ring up my meal. I thanked her profusely and rode my bike back over to the motel.

Next morning, I woke up early, made arrangements with the Datsun dealership in Nashville to work on my car, and then called friends who lived there and asked if I could hang out with them while my car was being worked on. They picked me up, took me to their home, fed me, and entertained me for most of the day until my car was ready. Several hundred dollars later--evidently, I had fried my entire electrical system, including voltage regulator, alternator, battery, and ignition system--the car was ready to go, and so was I.

I made it the rest of the way to Virginia without incident, but I will never forget the night my "Interstate 40 Angel" guided me safely to food and shelter.

Homerun

I was only five, but I had watched the big boys play baseball and dreamed about playing with them. I had been at the ball field every day that summer, watching and dreaming. On this particular day, a day that I’ll never forget, one of the coaches noticed me and asked if I would like to have a try at bat. I MUST have been dreaming!

Scared out of my wits, but more eager than I'd ever been in my life, I slipped through the space in the fence and made my way to the batter’s box. He handed me a small, wooden bat and guided me up to the plate. I knocked the dust off my shoes, as I had see the big boys do, took my stance, such as it was, and waited for the first pitch.

Whoosh, pop!

The pitch was perfect, but I just stood there as it whizzed by. “Strike one!” growled the umpire.

Whoosh, pop! The second pitch flew by.

“Ball one” shouted the ump. "Whew!" I sighed. I wasn't sure that I could lift the bat off my shoulder. I was so paralyzed by my excitement that I just stood there like a stone statue and watched the balls zoom by.

Whoosh, pop! This time, I managed to swing, but I missed the ball by a mile!

“Stri-eek!” yelled the ump in an almost mocking tone.

Yikes! Two strikes already, but before I could react another ball whizzed by.

Whoosh, pop!

“Ball two!” said the ump.

"Get a grip!" I said to myself, fearing the humiliation that I knew I would receive if I struck out in front of all the league players.

Whoosh, pop! "AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!" No time to think, just swing.

“Ball three!” said the ump.

“You can do it!" I said to myself. I knew that I had to hit the next pitch.

The pitcher wound up. I stepped back, planted my foot, and lifted the bat off my shoulder. He let the ball fly. I closed my eyes, stepped into the pitch, and swung for all I was worth.

Swoosh, crack!

I actually HIT THE BALL! I couldn't believe it. I just stood there with a bewildered look on my face as the ball disappeared into the outfield grass. I hit a grounder between first and second base, but with enough speed that it kept rolling and rolling. When I stepped up to bat, the outfielders had come almost into the infield, thinking I couldn't possibly hit the ball any farther than that. The ball rolled past them. I stood there with a goofy grin on my face, basking in the moment. Then reality struck!

“Run, boy, run!” the coach screamed.

I took off running toward first base with the bat still in my hand. “Drop the bat, boy, drop the bat!” yelled the first base coach! So I dropped it, right on the first baseman's foot.

“Go on to second, go, go!” the first base coach shouted, so I took off toward second base. The centerfielder had collided with the right fielder while the ball rolled past both of them and down the slope toward the river. As they untangled themselves and began chasing the ball down the embankment, I rounded second and headed toward third.

“Come on, come on!” motioned the third base coach. I sprinted toward third as the centerfielder fished the ball out of the shallow edge of the river.

“Go on home, go on home!” yelled the coach as I rounded third and headed for home plate. I couldn't believe that I actually was about to score. My heart was pounding even faster than my feet.

The ball came flying in from the centerfielder, but only reached second base. The second baseman relayed it toward home just as I was approaching the plate. “Slide, slide!” screamed the coach. I threw my feet in front of me and hit the dirt. Clouds of dust formed all around me. I couldn’t see through the cloud of dust, but after sliding for what seemed like a mile, I felt my feet hitting the edge of home plate with a thud. Pop went the ball into the catcher’s mitt. “SAAAFE!” shouted the ump.

I laid there in the dust for a minute, catching my breath and then it hit me. I had just hit a homerun! Not a grand slam, mind you, but a homerun, nonetheless! Wow! I couldn’t believe it. Me, a little five-year old baseball wannabe, hit a home run off a peewee league pitcher.

-----

You're probably asking yourself what this story has to do with anything, right? Well, then let me cut right to the chase. I still remember that experience as vividly as the day it actually happened, even though no one has ever been able to verify that it actually did happen. Maybe it was just a dream I had, but either way, the impact it has had on me is very real. I still remember the feelings I had as I stood there, petrified, waiting for that first pitch. I also remember how it felt to run the bases and the heart-pounding sensation of racing to beat the ball to home plate. But the BEST feeling was when I first realized that I had hit a homer and saw and heard all the other players and coaches cheering for me. Sometimes when I'm feeling down, I think about that experience and it makes me believe that I can do almost anything.

It doesn't much matter whether or not this story is true. What matters is that I never forget those feelings. Why? Because even though I'm all grown up now, I still experience paralyzing fear and discouragement. Remembering that experience helps me to view negative circumstances in a more positive light. If all those positive and wonderful feelings can be stirred in me from the mere remembrance of a perceived experience, imagine what could happen if I actually believed the truth about me? It's mind boggling.

The fact that my memory of this childhood story elicits such positive feelings in me tells me that these feelings are likely more the product of my will than of my intellect. In other words, what matters most is not whether or not I actually hit the homerun, but that I believe that I did or could. My emotions respond to my perception of an event or circumstance, regardless of whether or not it actually is real. Do you understand the true significance of this?

Dr. Maxwell Maltz wrote several books in the 60s on the subject of "Psycho Cybernetics." As I recall, the basic premise of this principle was that the human nervous system cannot discern the difference between real and imagined experiences. For example, if you're walking in the woods and hear or see something that you believe is a bear, your central nervous system responds to your perception, even if what you saw or heard turns out to be merely a squirrel or another hiker. If this principle is true, and I happen to believe that it is, then imagine the power it gives us over our worst feelings.

Upon closer examination, the theory of Psycho Cybernetics sounds very much like one of my favorite verses from the Bible. "For as he thinks in his heart, so is he." (Psalm 23:7a) Even though truth is not relative, our perception of it may be. That's why it's so important that we accept and believe what God says. That, to me, is the ultimate, undisputable truth. Dr. Maltz just helped me to understand that I have the power to overrule my negative feelings by replacing negative thoughts with positive ones. If I think I'm a loser, you can bet I'm going to live up (or down?) to my own expectations and act like a loser. If, on the other hand, I believe what God says about me, I will ultimately act accordingly. The only real effort I had to put into my homerun experience was to keep running until I reached home plate. I had to believe that I could make it or I would have stopped short.

Simply believing something doesn't immediately change how we feel about it, but if we act in faith on the facts of God's Word, our feelings will inevitably follow.

Remember this principle the next time you're at bat!