LOVE SONG

 This morning I'm sitting out on my back porch wondering why I'm out here instead of sitting in my recliner under the air conditioner.  It is hot and humid this morning. I just finished walking my two miles, came home and sat down in our glider patio seat. The morning is full of sound from cars making their way along Hwy 7, and Hwy 43. Occasionally I'll hear the laughter of teenagers up the street waiting for the school bus. Mixed in with all the human sounds is the chirping of sparrows and even a few songbirds. It's peaceful out here.  

I am on a profound path of renewal that God began in me early Friday morning. It began with me trying to deal with anger issues born out of frustration with the way things are going in my life. I still feel this profound grief for my wife, and a need to do something beyond that grief. The same old daily routine I've been doing for years is wearing on me. Part of that has to do with my personal relationship to Christ, and some of it is to do with frustration with those around me and their relationship with Christ. So, God slapped me hard Thursday night and told me to get going. Which brings me to me sitting here writing this blog.  As part of MY renewal, I began listening to old Christian rock bands that changed my life. When I say old, I'm talking about bands that were part of the Jesus movement of the late sixties and early seventies. The one band that affected my life more than any other was 'Love Song'. 

In my Junior year of High School (1972) there was a group of kids who were gathering in our school's quadrangle at lunch and singing songs I'd never heard before. At that time I was going to an Assembly of God church with my parents, and all I knew were hymns. These kids were singing new songs that began to speak to a hunger and desire in me for something more than what I knew. They wore long hair, and hippie clothes, and talked about God in ways that felt young and fresh.  Soon, I began to sit with them and I quickly learned the songs they were singing. One day one of the boys asked me if I was a Christian.  I told him yes, but that I was tired of the pastor of the church I was going to always preaching about tithes week in and week out.  I paid my tithes because I had a job, and my mother had taught me the value of tithes but at the same time, when a Christmas sermon could end up being about tithes, I'd had it. He told me about a group of kids who were meeting at a small church in the middle of town on Friday nights.  They called themselves Jesus Chapel, and I later learned that Chuck Smith had helped them to get established. When I first started going there, there were about a hundred kids like me packing ourselves into a building made for 150 people.  On the platform there were five college age guys singing the same songs I'd heard at my school. The little group called themselves 'Joy Song' and their love for God was simple, and beyond anything I'd experienced. They would sing and lead worship for about an hour, then the leader of the group would sit on a stool and tell the gospel story for about fifteen minutes, always emphasizing the love of God.  Within two months, they had to find another church who would let them meet on Friday nights. We moved to St. Johns Methodist Church because it could hold 500 people. Every service would see the same results, young people would flood the altars and give their lives to Christ. The police placed 40 gallon trash cans at each end of the altars where kids, and adults could throw away their drugs or alcohol without fear of being arrested.  This went on for months until they finally had to build their own facility that could hold at least 2,000 people in a service.  One Friday night while we were still using the Methodist church facility, a new band stepped up to the stage. It was obvious that our own praise band was in awe of this group. "I'm Chuck Girard," began the leader of the band as he sat down to the piano. "This is Love Song, and we are glad you're here."  The praise set was deliciously different with the music ranging from country sound, to almost a jazzy blues. When Chuck began his testimony, you could hear teenagers in the congregation begin to cry and weep. Like our own worship leader, he didn't spend a lot of time preaching, I don't think he could have. It felt like everyone was pressing up against a gate straining to run to the altar. Without knowing how I got there, I found myself on my back under the altar crying my heart out. That's when I realized that all the tradition I'd learned was meaningless and empty. My friend, James (Jimmy) was sitting at my feet when I came to. He had huge tears in his eyes, and a big old goofy smile that only teenage boys can do. We'd both experienced more love and grace than the human body can contain this side of glory. We both stood up and stumbled to our pews, grabbed our motorcycle helmets and headed home. From that moment on, I stopped buying worldly music and went out and bought the Love Song album at our local Christian Book store. Suddenly within the space of a year (1973), there was a large group of Christian rock bands that I could listen to. Chuck Girard, and Love Song changed my life, and shaped my destiny without even knowing it.  Eventually I would be introduced to Keith Green, and a host of other Christian musicians who were translating their faith into music that felt like home to me. God was doing a new thing with the very generation that had declared Him dead. There was the Latin inspired sounds of Ron Kenoli. Maranatha leaned heavily into scripture songs, Whiteheart, Petra, all eventually took Christian music to a new place it'd never been before. I think I'd be safe in saying that they all owe their existence to Chuck Girard and Love Song.  

Well, yesterday, I was cycling through my YouTube feed and saw a tribute to Chuck Girard from his daughter Alisa Childers. I sat dumbfounded as she related his last few days on this earth. I couldn't hold back the tears, and I'm even tearing up now as I write this. I can't even begin to explain how this unassuming man with a terrible tragic past has affected my life. I am here today, still serving God, because of this man who translated the beauty of the gospel into a language I could understand. I know I'm not the only one. If you were saved because you listened to White Heart, or Keith Green, or Jesus Culture, or Maverick City, Elevation Worship, or any hundreds of other modern Christian music artists, you owe a debt of thanks to Chuck.  Not that he would receive it.  I had the pleasure of hearing him one more time when he came to Ponca City, Oklahoma one summer.  I'm not sure if it was 1974 or 1975, but I do remember it well as he sang "Little Pilgrim" at an out of tune piano. I wished there was another altar for me to lay under.  

Chuck left this earth for his reward on August 11th 2025 from stage IV cancer. Even now my heart is pounding as I try to hold back the tears. We all die, it is inevitable, and at 81 years old he'd lived a long life. I encourage anyone reading this to listen to his daughter's tribute. Chuck's music, and life shaped who I am today. His testimony and understanding of grace helped me to fold away the legalism of my youth, and put on the sincere robe of righteousness that Christ gives us. 

I'm still on my journey to renewal, but somewhat saddened at the same time. My YouTube feed is filled with the music from Chuck and Keith. As soon as I slam the "publish" button I'll go back inside to my AC with a profound sorrow for what will be missing in his children's lives, and an overwhelming joy knowing that someday I'll be able to press my hand into both of their hands and tell them how much they affected my life.  Eventually I'll gravitate back to Brandon Lake, Maverick City, Elevation, Hillsong, and the myriad of other musicians who give me hope with their music to continue on.  Right now, I'm jealous of Glenda, because she adored Chuck, and Keith's music.  She probably is bugging him right now to sing for her.  

 

WHEN THE 'WE' IS 'ME'

 Happy Anniversary, Glenda.  

As soon as I finish writing this blog, I'm going to load myself up in my little Pontiac Solstice and make a quick jaunt over to Silver Dollar City to celebrate our anniversary.  It's been four weeks since I've been there, which is in large part due to the heat wave we've been in. I used to hate going because I'm an introvert, and it takes a lot of energy for me to endure large crowds. I try to never go on a weekend because the place can be a madhouse. In a couple of more weeks they'll be going back to being open five days a week instead of seven, so I'll go back to making my weekly jaunts on Thursdays.  Glenda loved Silver Dollar City, and on the morning she died almost two years ago, that is where we were going. If you came to visit us, she would take you there. It was her preferred place to meet with our kids, and grandkids. She loved to ride the rides, and she loved to see our children having fun. So, going to 'The City' as she used to call it, is something I do to honor her memory.  In the process of doing that, I've come to enjoy it myself. I usually get me a funnel cake, and then go to a couple of shows and ride 'Fire in the Hole' about once a month.  The ache in my heart caused by her absence isn't as pronounced as it used to be, but today is different. I woke up missing her.

Forty nine years ago today, Glenda and I said our vows to one another, ran off to a cheap hotel about forty miles away and prayed to God no one had followed us there.  I took her to a very nice restaurant in Stillwater, Oklahoma of which I don't remember the name or even what I ate.  BUT, I do remember her face, and her radiant smile that warmed my heart.  Today, I don't want to point out how much I miss her, or how she made me feel, I want to simply say that she was a special person, loved by almost everyone who met her. Her laugh was ready, and hung out easily just beneath the surface of her smile. She took joy in simple things, and saw life in a clarity that made everyone happy she was there. She was a much better writer than I ever was, and everything she wrote made you feel as if you were there in her story. However, if you told her she needed to publish her stories she would brush it away and quickly change the subject. After our move from Las Vegas to Little Rock, I noticed that her binder with her stories was gone.  

She believed in hard work, following the rules, and loving those who were not easy to love. If you were destitute, or down on your luck, she was your friend. If you needed food, clothing, or just a sympathetic ear, she made sure you had it. If you were a stray, ugly, or challenged in any way, she wanted to even the playing field.  She was brilliant, but hid it behind a mask of redneck simplicity. She never thought she was enough, even when confronted with the truth of her achievements. She loved good food, and made good food.  She was an awesome baker, and worked hard to cook me out of availability. She loved comedy, and at the same time loved action adventure shows.  She was first and foremost a country music girl, and had a deep passion for the bluegrass festival at Silver Dollar City. 

If someone could give me the chance to go back to that hot Friday afternoon on August the 13th, and offer me the choice of whether to marry her again, I would, and I hope she would have, too. It wasn't easy, and I know I disappointed her many times, but that is the nature of loving someone enough to let them see you at your worst, and your best.  As I sit here writing this, I find myself wondering if I'll still be here next year to celebrate our 50th anniversary. We aren't guaranteed tomorrow, but if I am alive next year on August the 13th, I'll go buy a small cake and have them decorate it with a celebration of 50 years together.  

That's it, now it's time to head out and enjoy "The City."    

SITTING ON THE LINE

 Over the past couple of days we have had some unusually cool mornings, which I am sure have been confusing for the little sparrows in my neighborhood. Just this morning I saw a fairly big flock of them hanging out on the power line across the street from me. I'm accustomed to seeing starlings hanging out on telephone lines, especially when I worked out at Bergman School. Tyson foods has a feed mill less than a thousand feet away from the school and as you can imagine when the feed trucks leave out from the mill they will have feed fall off of their trucks onto the shoulders of the road. I know for a fact we had some of the fattest and happiest starlings in the world along the way to Bergman from Harrison.  

So, this morning I asked the Google AI why birds hang out in flocks on power lines.  The answer was pretty much what I expected except for a couple of new things I hadn't thought of. I'd already figured that it was a safe place for them to survey the world from, and Google confirmed that. From the power line, they can see predators coming from above and below.  Hanging out on the wires also gives them the ability to scout out their prey/food without obstructions like leaves or tree branches. One thing I didn't know was that they congregate to preen one another. (Is there a spiritual analogy in that?)  They also congregate to keep each other warm. Another thing that I had never thought about before was that the power lines retain residual heat from the electricity going through them. Immediately my mind went to the presence of God. We gather to feel the warmth of the presence of God. He is electric, warm, tender, and kind!  His presence allows us to see life from Heaven's view instead of from this natural view. When we gather together we experience a collective security, warmed by the invisible presence of God that we all cling to. 

The view from Heaven is a spiritual view of life where we are safe from the spiritual predators that would try to make us live in fear.  The scripture verse in Psalm 27:1 immediately comes to mind; "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?" 

If we are seated with Christ in Heavenly places (Ephesians 2:6) we have nothing to fear in this life. Sitting on the line is my metaphor for sitting with Christ in Heavenly places. If we are seated with him, He puts us far above everything that would seek to destroy us. We don't have to fear Death, because death won't, and can't hold us. 

When we are sitting on the line, our paths and purposes are laid out far below us for us to walk in. He allows us to see His purposes so that we can have confidence in what we do. BUT, it's more than just being high and lifted up with Him, it is being united with one another that gives us even more strength.  If we don't forsake coming together, (Hebrews 10:25) we can preen one another, removing old dead practices (feathers, and parasites) that keep us from doing His well .  All of this happens while we are being warmed, and blessed by the Presence of God. 

Nuff said. 

FINDING GOOD

Well, summer has officially began here in the Ozarks.  It's been 10 days since we had measurable rain, and it was 76 degrees when I stepped outside this morning.  One part of me wants to get out and get going, but there just isn't any way to escape the heat. It's a Saturday, so I'm not going to walk around the creek like I usually do, and many of the things I like to do in the yard send me into an immediate sweat.  It's even been too hot to sit out on my back porch and take in the pleasant morning air as I usually do after my walks.  So, here I sit at the dining room table tapping away on my laptop.  All around me are reminders of Glenda's presence, and even some reminders of my parents. If you came to my house to visit me, I could show you the mileposts of my life, but it wouldn't just be my life, it would be the life that Glenda and I shared. Our past surrounds me, and sometimes seems to press in on me like the hot humid air outside. Just outside the dining room window is a small birdbath that Glenda bought to be able to watch the birds from her beloved porch.  When it isn't as muggy as it is today, you would find me out there reading or playing solitaire. It is a good place to be to find my center before the day gets underway.  It's too dang hot to be out there today. So, as I sit here at the table, I can hear a couple of sparrows mixing it up around the bath and it makes me laugh. It made me thankful that humans aren't the only ones in God's creation who mix it up over stupid stuff. I can't help but wonder if sparrows ever think about the past?  What happens to that fat old male sparrow if his mate is taken from him way too early?  Does he revisit their time together?  Does he move on and hope for another mate?  Does he sit in the old nest, surrounded by the artifacts of their life together?  

When we moved from our home on Lone Oak Dairy road, we made ourselves throw  out as much of our past as we could. Over our years of being married, my mother had given Glenda many home decorating items, which helped to fill lifeless spaces and give the house an eclectic look. To say the least, Glenda and Mom had very different tastes, except for floral displays.  Every floral decoration in our house was done by my Mom, and they still adorn tables and vases around...my... house. When my Mom died there were many floral decorations that disappeared that Glenda had wanted more than anything. Now that Glenda is gone, I don't even think about it anymore. What would I do with them?  They would just be one more thing my children would have to decide what to do with. At the time though, Glenda was furious, and threw all kinds of accusations around.  The truth is, we don't know where they went, but the consensus was that my Dad accidentally threw them away.  Every daughter-in-law grieved the loss, as they were truly spectacular. They didn't mean anything to my dad. I have vivid memories of my mother sitting in the middle of the living room floor with boxes of artificial flowers all around her as she fussed over the color and placement of each flower. Those memories are written in stone in my brain. I can also remember the irritation in my father's voice as he tried to negotiate the minefield of flowers to get into the kitchen. So, I kinda lean toward the idea that he threw them away after she died. It doesn't matter to me because she'd filled our house with plenty of arrangements.  It's funny how without Glenda to keep the issue alive, I really don't care. Sometimes the things from our past that we hold on to can become a poison to us. I know for Glenda, she groused about it even as she faced death. 

A couple of years before Glenda was diagnosed with cancer, she and my daughter decided to make our hallway into a wonderful display of our family.  It was my daughter's birthday gift to her mother, and it was one of the greatest gifts she could give.  It is a wonderful way to recount our story to visitors and for family to stop and remember what family is.  Still, it is in the past. It's like a soft blanket that you carry with you because someone gave it to you, but you can trip over it if you're not careful. The moments in those pictures mean nothing to anyone else but our family.  The memories are in me, not on the walls. There isn't a picture that can relate the love bursting in my heart when Glenda said 'I do.'  There isn't a picture that can make anyone feel the immense awe, and fear I felt when I picked up my infant children for the first time.  Each child came with a promise, and a responsibility that only the future knew. Because I was the photographer for our little family, I don't have as many pictures of me as I do of Glenda (it's a physics thing). There are no photos of me carrying two sleepy little girls through the flea market in Mountain Home, Idaho while their mother went from table to table.  There aren't any pictures of those same little girls making snow angels with me during a blizzard in Idaho. There aren't any pictures of me holding them in my arms in church and dancing with them during the song service.  There isn't any proof I loved them and worried continually about their safety. There aren't any pictures that show my pride as we went to innumerable elementary school programs where they played instruments, or sang in choirs. Those are things that are written in my heart along with a million other moments that you can't put into words. Some of those memories will die with me, and never be recounted again because they were my memories.  They are meaningless to anyone else.  There are a few, that I've never shared with my own children because they were so special that there was no way to make those memories about them, even though they are the only reason I remember them to this day. 

So, how did this little story start?  Instead of going outside this morning, I went into my office where my 'love me wall' is, and found myself staring at the accomplishments of my time in the Air Force. I am proud of my service, and thankful for the opportunity to have worked on three distinct weapons systems. When I went into the Air Force in 1980, the world was in total chaos.  We were at the height of the Cold War, and involved in minor incidents in the middle east. The end of my service was marked by Desert Storm and eventually operation Deny Flight. Those days are gone! They're in the past and time has gone on without any memory of my contribution.  This is the way of things, and isn't something to be concerned with. As I sat in my recliner trying to put together the events that were marked on my wall, I realized that none of it meant anything. I doubt seriously any of my children will want my 'shadow box' nor the flag that flew in one of the hangars at Tonopah. My achievements, held within cheap plastic frames, means nothing to anyone else but me, and even now they hold very little importance.  I find myself trying to find the good in holding on to those memories. The thought occurred to me to just take them down, place them in document protectors and place them in a binder. Yep, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to put my past into a binder and close it up.  I'll put those memories in a plastic tote and let my children decide how they want to handle those memories.  At the same time, I'll cherish Glenda's 'love me wall' filled with the faces of friends and family, and happy times. You see, I think I've finally learned that finding the good in our past means cherishing those who will live on in the future.  

Besides, I'm not a sparrow.  

WHEN GOOD IS NOT GOOD

 When I began writing the 'Sparrow's Perch' blogs in 2012, I began it as a discussion of living in God's presence.  I'd just finished reading Psalm 84, and was overwhelmed by the heart of the Psalmist as he yearned to be as close to the presence of God as the sparrows who nested in the Holy Place of the temple. Since beginning this blog, I've seen sparrows as examples of God's tenderness, and His love of His creation. 

Since beginning of this blog, I've learned a lot about the common house sparrow. They are some of the most prolific birds throughout the earth, choosing to dwell mostly in the presence of men.  They make their nests in almost any structure we humans build, and they actually help to keep down annoying insects, as well as help clean up around our trash bins, parking lots, and restaurants. They are monogamous as far as we can tell, and they rarely live longer than 3 - 5 years.  

Yet...

Jesus chose these inconsequential animals to exhibit God's concern, and care for us human beings. In Matthew 10: 29-31 Jesus points toward the Sparrow as an example of God's care for even the tiniest, and common of animals.  "Are not two sparrows sold for a Penney?" This selling is in reference to the price of a poor person's sacrifice at the altar of God. "Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father's care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. SO, don't be afraid, you are worth more than any sparrows."  

Our lives in this present age are much better than we can ever imagine. Most of us who live in this great country live in the comfort of air conditioned homes, own one or more cars, and have more food than we can eat. Life is good!  The average lifespan for men is 75 years, and for women it is almost 80 years. About 2% of the population in Europe and the United States provide the food for our entire populations, and even provide foodstuffs for many other nations throughout the world. The current work week is on average less than 40 hours per week.  In many developed countries the work week is 32 hours.  In other words, we have it good.  We have it so good, that obesity, heart disease, and diabetes are among the biggest killers in our modern society.  Sometimes having it good, isn't good. Depression, loneliness, and anxiety have increased exponentially within the last 60 to 70 years as our standard of living has become better. Sometimes being blessed, is not as good as it appears from the outside.  We become convinced of our ability to provide for ourselves without the provision that God has promised. 

There is a benefit to being dependent upon God for our needs, and that is captured in the words of Jesus when he tells us to "take heart" (Don't be afraid.) I've come to believe that trusting God is essential to a happy life.  So, if you find yourself being overcome with fear, or feeling that God has somehow forgot you, take a moment, and think of just being a sparrow and nesting in the Holy Place, the presence of God.  Look around you, and see that God is good, and that He will take you through whatever you are facing and be there with you through it all, and even on the other side.  

Psalm 84:

How lovely is your dwelling place, Oh Lord of Hosts! My soul longs, yes, faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart and flesh sing for joy to the living God.

Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself where she may lay her young at Your altars, O Lord of Hosts, my King, my God.

Blessed are those who dwell in Your house, ever singing your praise!  Selah!

Blessed are those whose strength  is in you, in whose heart are the highways to Zion. As they go through the Valley of Baca they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools. They go from strength to strength; each one appears before God in Zion. O Lord God of Hosts, hear my prayer; give ear O God of Jacob!  Selah!

Behold our shield, O God; look on the face of your anointed! For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere.  I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness.  For the Lord God is sun and shield; the Lord bestows favor and honor.  No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly.  O Lord of Hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in you!

*The Holy Bible English Standard Version (ESV) copyright 2001, by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers.

THE NEST

 About two years before my wife Glenda passed away, she came into my office and asked to borrow my cordless drill. I did a quick double take because she had never asked to use it before.  Being a handyman by trade, I'd grown accustomed to her telling me she needed me to do something for her. My job around the house was relegated to killing bugs, fixing cars, replacing ceiling fans, and other 'handyman' stuff. Occasionally she'd ask me for my hammer or a screwdriver, but never one of my power tools. Hmmmmm! She had me wondering what she was up to, so I asked her.  She smiled, and said not to worry, she didn't require my help. Now, she had me really interested.

I said, "Okay." It was a strange request, but after being married to her for nearly 44 years, I knew better than to press. She was perfectly capable at hanging pictures, nailing boards together, and even turning an occasional wrench, or vice grips. Years back I'd made her a little plastic box filled with a few odd screws, nails, and even fencing staples, and I would keep it restocked any time I went to use it. I also bought her a cheap tool box with a hammer, screwdrivers, and a few little things I knew she'd never use. Asking to use my drill was a step beyond the usual, but I went out to my truck and brought it to her.  

"Are you sure you don't need my help?" I asked.  "Yep, I'm sure." she said as she glided out the door. 

 A little bit later I could hear my cordless drill motor just outside the window where I was sitting watching TV.  She was humming, (as she often did when she was working around the house), and about twenty minutes later she came back inside with her box of screws.  She put the drill on the table next to my recliner with a smug smile and went into the kitchen.  I calmly got up and went outside to see what she'd done and found that she'd put up some kind of funky wire type plant holders, with a funky grass like mat in them.  She'd put one on each leg of our trellis. Better yet, they were hung better than what I'd have done.

Hmmmmmmmm!

For the next two years she would change the matting until she got stung by a red wasp that had made a nest in the bowl of matting.  She went out with wasp spray and killed them...dead, I mean the mat was dripping with wasp killer.  It was like the great flood with drowned wasps falling to the ground. Hell hath no fury like a woman stung!

The next summer she didn't get a chance to change the matting because she was fighting for her life against brain cancer. Sadly, she didn't live more than eight months and during that time I didn't bother to check the condition of her planters, and she didn't ask me to.  She died in September of 2023, and I moped around through the winter doing small things around the house that I couldn't do while she was fighting cancer. She'd had a 'honey do' list before she was diagnosed with cancer, and to say the least none of it got done.  A couple of months after she died, I found it in a drawer in my office, and I stuck it to my work order board. I felt like I needed to do the things she wanted done even though she was gone. Our little 80 year old house was our nest, and I still felt the need to finish the things she'd wanted done. BUT, the wire plant baskets were not on her list.  I blindly walked past them day in and day out without giving them a thought until the other day when I was walking with my grandson around the yard. He stopped suddenly and pointed toward the basket and asked; "What's that Grandpa?" I looked closely and could see where the small hole that had once only been big enough to let wasps go in and out was now big enough for a wren or a sparrow to nest in. I got on my tip toes and could see the remains of eggs at the bottom of the nest. In my mind's eye, I could imagine two sparrows feverishly working to build a soft mattress at the bottom of the nest, while awaiting the eggs that would soon appear.  Nature goes on even through tragedy and death.

Now, I don't think Glenda had ever foreseen that her little decorative plant holders would be used for a bird nest, but I knew her well enough to know that she would have enjoyed it, and forbid me to do anything to ruin it. My love of sparrows will keep it 'as is' as long as it endures the weather. It will be a home for a new sparrow family next year.

Seeing that empty nest started me thinking about 'home' a lot. Glenda, and I put a lot of work into our remodel of this old house, and with the exception of about five projects, it was what we'd planned for it to be before she died. It was 'our' home. It has a garage that she laid claim to, and she'd been with me through the nearly 18 months of remodeling we did before work, after work, and over weekends. It was her home, her little nest, and has her stamp on it.  For me, it was a place I could finally call...Home! It was a place to hang my hat, and to know that my 'heart', Glenda was there. 

I would wager that almost everyone has heard the saying "anywhere I hang my hat is home," or "Home is where the heart is."  In my childhood, I always associated these sayings with wanderers, or vagabonds. As a child, I always thought of home as where my mom was. She was as solid as a rock, tender, kind, loving, and wise. She was a place I could run to when I faced things I didn't understand. My dad, was a truck driver during my formative years and didn't have much influence over my early development. On the other hand, my mom was the center of my universe until I graduated from school. She was the one who told my Dad that they were going to buy a house instead of living in the 12 x 60 foot trailer we lived in. So, buy a house we did!  She was the one who went to work out at White Sands Missile Range so that she could furnish her new home. Dad was forced to leave his truck driving job and become a mobile home repairman in town so that he could help provide the stuff for the nest and help her raise us boys. It was 'my' home for nearly ten years, and the memories of that small tract house in the suburbs are still with me to this day.  It's funny how "home" stays with you forever.

I have fond memories of that old house on Wilshire Street in El Paso. Later when us boys grew up and moved away, we always referred to it as the 'Wilshire house'. I saw a picture of it on Google Earth a while back, and it looks nothing like what I remember. During the 60's, and 70's it was a magical place with a lush green carpet of grass in the front yard, bicycles abandoned all through the yard, and the laughter of children everywhere. We lived in a great neighborhood, with fantastic kids for friends. Over the years the house was given a few remodels inside, and the walls covered in paneling which was the rage back then. My brothers and I were required to dust the living room every day because...we lived in the desert southwest. My mom taught us how to do the dishes, how to do laundry, how to vacuum, make beds, and as we grew older, how to cook. She made sure we could take care of ourselves, but she also liked being the kind of Mom who provided everything we needed. Mom had her little nest, and she was happy with it, until...we all began to grow up and leave home.  I was gone about ten years after they'd bought the house, and my younger brother left 3 years later.  The youngest brother had the house to himself for about 6 years before he left. As time went by, I noticed that my mom wasn't as happy as she used to be.  She'd stopped playing the beautiful organ my Dad had bought for her, and she didn't sing around the house like she used to.  The only time she was happy was when we brought the grandchildren home to visit. I'd seen the old adage come to life that a house isn't a home without people in it.  She, and Dad spent more time on the road going to see all of us kids than they'd ever traveled before. Mom definitely suffered from empty nest syndrome, while Dad was just happy for any excuse to get out on the motorcycle.  

I saw the same thing happen with Glenda and I. After our youngest left home, Glenda went into a blue funk that I couldn't fix. Then the grandchildren started coming, and she was filled with joy.  Only the grandchildren could make her smile.  Don't get me wrong, I love our grandchildren, but they were hers. She made their visits fun, and allowed them to do things their parents wouldn't let them do. Our home was filled with laughter and love once again.  Now that she's gone, I find myself sitting alone at home trying to figure out what I want to do. The grandchildren are almost all grown now, and my children have their own lives to live. I've tried not to put any demands on them for visits, or guilt them into visiting. Still, I miss the busyness, the noise, and mostly the wonder of children. It's especially bad when the weather gets extreme like this summer has been, and eventually like the winter will be, I sit inside wondering what I can do with my time.  Now, before someone jumps up and says go back to work, let me tell you that having had to 'work' since I was eight years old, the idea of going back to work isn't what I want to do. I believe every man, and woman deserve a time of rest in their life, if finances allow it. I'd hoped to go through this time with Glenda, but I guess it wasn't meant to be. I'm not depressed, and I'm not destitute.  Glenda, and my parents all died within two years of each other, which left me a good inheritance, and a small compensation. I can't afford to go crazy and spend that money on silly stupid stuff, but I have enough to last a few years thanks to my parents.  

What amazes me, is that the little 'empty' nest I made for Glenda, is not really a home without her here. I watch 'youtube' videos, play video games, and do all the necessary daily things that everyone does. When I think about home, there isn't a time that I don't think of my Mom and all that she taught me to do.  It's because of her that I can cook, I keep the 'house' clean, and do my laundry. Good job, Mom! Because of my Dad, I have to be busy, so I try to do one spruce up project a month. Sometimes when I'm busy cleaning the house, I'll find myself thinking about my mom and hearing her sweet alto voice singing hymns. It was part of my childhood and is written in deep memories that I hope never fade. Other times, I swear I can hear Glenda humming in the kitchen, or laughing in the living room.  She was the life that made our house a home for 47 years.  I'm just marking time till I join her, but still thankful for the home she left me. Don't feel bad for me, I'll get going again this fall once the weather cools down a little, and I'll do a few things in the yard that need doing. One thing I won't do is change out the planter material.  Sparrows need a home just like we do.

 

WHAT IF...YOU'RE WRONG

This will be one of a handful of Sparrow's Perch blogs that isn't born out of an experience with my little feathered friends, or my observation of them. For my brothers in Christ, this will be a head slapper, maybe even a head scratcher.  It came about as I was talking to a stranger I met while walking the other day. I was sitting down on one of the benches along the creek enjoying the nice cool morning air when a man sat down next to me and asked how I was doing.  I'd seen this individual many times before walking early in the morning and he was always cordial when I offered up salutations.  (Some people appear uncomfortable when you greet them with 'good morning,' or 'how are you doing.')  I understand being reticent about replying to a stranger asking how you are doing.  What business of it is theirs to query my well being?  I on the other hand enjoy it when someone greets me regardless of how the greeting is being offered.  My time in the Air Force made me very comfortable with saluting officers, and offering the universal 'good morning, Sir...or Ma'am as the case may be. Holding doors for strangers, addressing elders with proper respect, and assisting people if they are overwhelmed with kids or packaged items.  I call it the Edwardian ethic.  (Sorry, back to my story.)   

He remarked about seeing me often, and I replied the same.  He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties to me, which is a great time in life. I simply asked "How are you doing?" out of courtesy.  To say the least I wasn't ready for what happened next. "I'm doing good, but I could be better."  he replied.  Now I've heard that response and have used it myself so without thinking I asked him how it could be better.  He was having 'kid' problems, and was frustrated by not having an answer.  He was a Christian man like me, and like most Christian men, he wanted his children to be as faith filled as him. His oldest daughter was going to school at a big university out of state, and had come home spewing disdain for the way her father had raised her as a Christian. It was heartbreaking to him as she began to tear into the fabric of his faith, and blame him for holding her back from her full potential.  She'd come for 'Father's day' out of obligation, and he wished she'd just stayed at school.  He tried desperately to counter her arguments, but for every reply he made she had a 'learned' response.  Finally, she ended her visit with the zinger question I've been asked a hundred times by atheists and agnostics alike over my lifetime.  "What if you're wrong?"  " What if there isn't a God, and we just die?"

Actually I wish I'd have been there because that is the easiest question for me to answer.  As someone who'd grown up in the early stages of the space race, and seen aircraft go from dope and fabric to steel and aluminum, I was in awe of science.  I had a 7th grade science teacher who was openly atheist and loved challenging all the Christians in his class to prove God.  At that time in my young life, I didn't have a clue, but I knew one thing he didn't.  During the summer between 6th and 7th grade I went to church camp and got filled with Holy Spirit.  Suddenly, the doubts were gone.  There is a God, and no amount of argument could change what I'd experienced.  I never challenged him and never had to. (In his desire to prove mind over matter, he put his hand in a terrarium with a tarantula in it. He was allergic to its bite and had to be taken to the hospital that night.) When he came back a month later still swollen, he was a lot more humble.  HOWEVER, that doesn't mean I didn't think of a snappy come back to him, I just didn't unleash on him. That reply has been used countless times throughout my life as I've encountered smarter men than me asking me the same question.  "What if you're wrong?  What if there isn't a God?"  What if there's nothing when you die? 

"I won't know, I won't care, I'll be dead."  When I first started using this reply, it usually took people a few days to digest what I said.  For those who were quicker on the uptake, (maybe a handful,) the next question is usually.  "Well doesn't that make most of your life meaningless? You've spent all this time trying to please a God who doesn't exist.  Look at all you've missed."  

"What have I missed?"  I'll ask.  "What debauchery have I avoided, what hedonistic practice have I been denied because of my faith?"  I've never understood an atheists need to destroy another person's faith, let alone point out how much of life Christians miss out on because of their faith. What have I missed?  I truly believe that if more of us Christians would be content in our lives, the issue of missing anything would be moot.  Because I know Christians are going to be the only ones reading this blog, the question of 'what if' is nothing for us.  We resolved it the day we gave ourselves to the Lord Jesus Christ.  If you can be talked out of your faith in Christ, then your hope is gone.  

 Because we are Christians, we've found a life of love and goodness that makes our lives meaningful, and also helps us to be grateful to the one who gives us all we need. Yes, I feel great sorrow for those who've once known the goodness of God, to allow the enemy to steal their faith.  So, here's my answer back to the daughter who felt the need to crush her daddy's heart on Father's Day; "What if you're wrong?"