Viking lore like roaring falls
Plunge deep in rocky chasm
The Falls of Skógafoss
Waters from great Skógafoss
Put Iceland’s beauty on display
Rugged land like no other
Heady mix of fire and ice
Volcanoes dormant still remain
Glaciers blue with water pure
Give life to all the huldufólk*
But hidden elves will not show
Unlike the stars in Arctic sky
Snow falling to the ground
Hides footsteps in the plunging mist
Secrets guide the long departed
** — Huldufólk are the legendary hidden people of Iceland.
All Because of Shoelaces
“Reality can bring more than physical pain. Sometimes, reality can crush the heart.”
Harold dropped his ballpoint pen onto the slightly damp paper that rested on the flat, pitted surface of the ancient desk. In another place, the paper would have been crisp, but not in Sierra Leone. The desk looked like it was a long disused movie prop from when Humphrey Bogart starred in the black and white movie, Casablanca.
Like much of West Africa, humidity was high through the entire year, although there were many months when it never rained. The Sahara Desert played a huge part in the weather patterns, and during the dry season everything would be covered in a fine red dust. The red dust would seep into the very pores of your skin and the simple bucket baths only gave a few minutes of relief.
His shirt, trousers, and even his undergarments were damp from sweat. The sun’s unrelenting heat was never mitigated, and the best you could hope for was a bit of an ocean breeze to bring some relief at night.
Night brought its own terrors. Bugs, mosquitoes, and spiders the size of your hand seemed to double in size when the generator ran out of gas in the middle of the night. Resting on a damp sheet on top of a damp foam mattress, Harold knew the only think that provided some form of protection was the mosquito netting that surrounded his sleeping area. But, he also knew that the African rats scurrying around his room in the pitch blackness could easily chew through the cotton fibers if they so desired.
Yet, the humidity and the lack of modern conveniences were far from the man’s mind as he glanced back down at the paper in front of him. Yesterday’s events had rocked him to the core. The reality of being in a foreign country only brushed the surface of the depth of feelings and emotions that coursed through his body. Harold was certain that his life was forever changed simply by getting on the airplane, but only time would tell how much it had changed.
The taxi driver would be here soon to collect him and deliver him back to Lungi International Airport. It is the only international airport in Sierra Leone, but was not actually in the capital of Freetown. Freetown was across the bay but was a quick ferry ride from the town of Lungi where he was staying at the Mahera Beach Hotel.
Thoughts raced through his brain, but he found there was nothing more that he felt he could write. All he could think of was the lesson young Foday Koroma had taught him.
The last week, Harold had stayed in the small town of Moyamba, which was about a three-hour drive to the east of Freetown. A group of missionaries were teaching local pastors how to teach their own congregations about the Bible, but were also providing much needed services to villages. This included teaching the locals about bee-keeping, better irrigation methods, and improved hygiene.
Apart from a couple of trips to nearby villages, Foday had lived in Moyamba all of his thirteen years. Thirteen was not a clear number though as he had been orphaned during the brutal civil war. He had been passed from house to house but nobody knew exactly how many years had passed. Harold thought the boy might actually be fifteen or sixteen for the lad was the same height as the white man who had become a friend so quickly.
Foday’s schooling had been minimal at best and Harold guessed that the boy might read at a first grade level. Every day, Foday waiting for other youngsters to get off school or come back from the pineapple farms so they could play football, or soccer as Harold liked to call it.
With a little convincing, Foday managed to get Harold to come play with them. Too many years had passed since Harold played sports of any kind, but he had tried to keep up. Blaming it on the extreme heat of the tropical sun, Harold only managed about ten minutes before explaining that he would have to go sit under the tree on the edge of the football pitch.
An hour later, the game finished. Foday and his companions said goodbye to each other, and the young man came to sit with Harold under the tree. His lithe body glistened brightly with sweat as though it had been covered with oil. Grinning widely, Foday was happy for his side had won quite handily. From what Harold could tell, it was not really much of a contest for Foday was quite good with handling the ball at either end of the field.
“Mr. Harold, I will miss you when you go. You are good friend.”
Harold remembered the lump that came to his throat as he thought about his upcoming departure. Each day seemed like an eternity in a tropical torture chamber, but the people had made a huge impression on him. People like Foday were kind, gracious, and eager to learn of new things.
Harold simply nodded to his young friend as they stared across the grassless, dust-covered patch of ground that doubled as a village meeting place and a football field.
Looking back at the lad, he noticed the boy taking quick glances from the man’s tennis shoes and back to his own feet. Harold would not have dared to say anything and poverty was evident everywhere in Sierra Leone.
Foday’s black feet glistened through several holes in what remained of the ragged shoes. The boy’s shoes had probably been passed from person to person until given to Foday. They did not even have any shoelaces. How he managed to keep them on his feet, even while playing football, was amazing. Yet, he did and he was clearly one of the fastest in the village.
Something stirred within Harold’s heart and he asked the boy if there was anything he would like as a gift.
Foday thought for a moment and pointing at his friend’s feet, he responded.
“Mr. Harold, if I had some nice shoelaces like yours, I could run even faster when I play football. Do you think I could have your shoelaces?”
Harold sat stunned into silence. It was obvious both of them wore about the same size shoe, but all the boy wanted was the shoelaces to help hold the rags on his feet together.
Any resistance that may have been harbored in his heart toward the people of Sierra Leone evaporated like the jungle morning mist before the tropical sun. Tears had filled the man’s eyes and without a moment’s hesitation, he reached down and carefully undid the shoelaces on each tennis shoe. Slowly, he took off each shoe and handed it to Foday.
It was Foday’s turn to be stunned. He could not believe the miracle that had just taken place. All he wanted was shoelaces, but now he had a pair of tennis shoes that looked brand new. Putting them on, the grin on his face grew even larger than Harold thought possible. The lad felt prouder than if he had been elected as the next village elder.
From Harold’s perspective, the shoes were an older pair that he had brought at the last minute, but was now glad that he had done so.
Back at his hotel, Harold thought through every moment of the interaction. It was burned into his mind as though seared by the hot African sun. Putting the pen back in his damp pocket, Harold knew that it was not just Foday that had impacted his life. Every person, every smell, every plate of food, everything he had seen had changed the way he would look at life.
The reality of life in Sierra Leone caused physical pain to many, but the reality of what he had experienced had crushed his heart. It was not crushed beyond repair, but was crushed from the hardness that he may have felt toward others. It had crushed his need for the finer things of life and he knew he would forever be grateful for everything he owned, which was so much more than Foday and millions of others would ever own themselves.
All because of shoelaces!
Some aspects have been changed to keep individuals anonymous.
When Facebook Fails You
March 13th was a miserable day for many people. First, for many of us across much of the USA, we had to deal with cancelled flights to far-off destinations, too many inches of snow, and blizzard conditions that kept us from skinny-dipping at our favorite lakes.
To top it all off — Facebook decided to destroy our lives.
Our self-esteem shattered like the remains of a china shop when Ferdinand the Bull went through it. I mean, after all, how in the world could Mark Zuckerberg live with himself knowing that 97% of the world’s population lay awake in the wee hours of their night and day bemoaning the fact that FB was almost totally inaccessible?
We moaned, we cried, we lamented the boringness of life without FB. We muttered at our screens and decided that we would petition Congress to hold Mark Z accountable.
Less than 24 hours later, some people are still cut off from the real Facebook world. Their lives are shredded beyond belief. Young and old alike are already learning how hard life is when you are not able to post a new picture or video of their pet eating yellow snow, their baby staring incredulously at Dad dancing to the whimsical strains of “Baby Shark, doo-doo-doo-do”, or a picture of a half-eaten burger from In-N-Out informing the world of how much better it is than Whataburger.
As the saying goes, one must strike while the hay is on fire or make irons while it is hot. Whatever — but first, a brief caveat.
If you have never been on Facegram or Instabook and/or are able to make it through massively extended periods of time (like say 5–10 minutes) without putting something on a social media platform, then this helpful solution is NOT for you. Just go away and read your newspaper, stand up to change channels on your massive console TV box, or whatever else it is that you boring people do with your lives.
With that caveat out in the open, I am proud to announce that I am starting a new self-help club, organization, fraternity, or whatever word you prefer to use.
Extended drumroll — ok, that’s enough. May I present —
Facebookers Anonymous for Life Associations without Life Ambitions (or FA-LA-LA for short)
Don’t worry, FA-LA-LA is totally anonymous and is designed so you never have to admit to the world that you are an addict. The price is within the reach of everybody with only one low recurring price of $9.95 per month (payable in Yen, Euros, Dollars, Pesos, Shekels, or Bitcoin once every two weeks). You too can be a part of FA-LA-LA where we dance to our own tunes and demand immediate action from Mark Z.
The entry process is simple. Just submit your name, birthday, personal email address, GPS coordinates for your local Gold’s Gym (you know the one you never use but still pay for), blood type, and type of bicycle you are supposed to ride but leave in the garage AND we assure you that you will remain an anonymous member of FA-LA-LA. Each month you will receive a personalized newsletter in which we distribute the details of each new member so you can greet them in a personalized, non-agressive-passive, anonymous type of way.
You will also find options that will never allow you to opt out of unwanted spam mails petitioning you for more money to fight the corporate giants that would make dastardly attempts to keep you from posting more of your life out in the open each and every five minutes of your life.
Don’t delay. Act now before more precious minutes go to waste away from the watchful eyes of Mark Z and his nefarious tribe.
Extolling the virtues of Facebook one post at a time,
The Executive Committee of FA-LA-LA
PS — It is our intention to share more of the benefits of joining our exclusive yet totally open anonymous club, but my wife keeps reminding me that FB is operating as normal again. At least for today or this week. Back later.
The Ugly American Syndrome
Originally from England, I have had the privilege of living on three different continents, have visited almost twenty different countries, and hope to visit many more places.
One thing I found prevalent in every country is that the ugly idea of prejudice is alive and well on planet earth.
Prejudice is defined as a “preconceived opinion(s) that is (are) not based on reason or actual experience(s).”
Visitors to England come with preconceived opinions about the food or the people. It may be something as innocuous as thinking all British food is bland or that all Brits stand around Buckingham Palace waiting for a personal invitation from Her Majesty the Queen while eating another portion of fish and chips.
Foreign visitors to the UK think that we intentionally drive on the wrong side of the road just to confuse the rest of Europe. However, the truth is that Brits know how to drive on the CORRECT side of the road and that one-third of countries around the world also drive on the left side of the road including countries on the continents of Europe, Asia, South America, Africa, and the entire continent of Australia. But I digress.
When we moved to Liberia, West Africa, we attempted to fit in with the culture and lifestyles of those we taught on a daily basis. It was a vain attempt for the primary reason that unless you were raised from birth in a particular culture, it is impossible to live exactly like the local populace.
A second reason why we did not fit in is because we were very white or light-skinned compared to every single one of our neighbors. This is a problem because everybody not only sees you as different, they KNOW you are different. You are NOT one of them. The result is unfair trading practices that would never be allowed against foreign visitors to the USA. Rent or housing is generally much higher, as are basic commodities like food, utilities, etc. In many countries, there are “local prices” and then there are the “white man prices.”
Arguing and becoming bitter though will not accomplish anything because you must remind yourself that you are NOT in the USA. Things are different in every single country in the world and unless you were born there, you are to some degree a foreigner.
In this context, foreigner is simply being defined as “a person born in or coming from a country other than one’s own.”
Understanding this basic reality will help make or break your stay in whatever country you have chosen to live in. If you are a European living in Asia, or Asian living in Africa, or African living in the Americas, it is still incumbent on you to learn to live within the rules of whatever country you have selected as your primary domicile.
This is where Americans have sadly become the laughing stock of the rest of the world. My thoughts here do not obviously define every single American, but my travels have revealed the sad reality of the Ugly American syndrome.
Wikipedia defines the term “Ugly American” to “refer to perceptions of loud, arrogant, demeaning, thoughtless, ignorant, and ethnocentric behavior of American citizens mainly abroad, but also at home.”
What does this look like?
Let’s give a few examples –
1. Going abroad to a country that speaks a language (normally other than English) and expect them to learn your language to make life easier for you.
There is a rich vastness of human language that will increase your knowledge by simply making attempts to try and learn a local language. It will endear you to many of the native population and enrich your own travel experiences.
By the way, speaking louder than normal in English with animated gestures will not make you any easier to understand, but will simply peg you as an Ugly American.
2. Going abroad and expecting the locals to act like America is a huge faux pas that will not only upset your hosts, but will just make you an Ugly American.
There is no country in the world that is just like America. Conversely, there is no country in the world that is just like Azerbaijan, Armenia, Botswana, Cambodia, France, Ghana, India, New Zealand, or any of the almost 200 different and distinct countries of this little blue ball we call Planet Earth.
3. Going abroad and reminding your hosts how much better things are in your home country will not make you flavor of the month.
The fact that you even have the funds to visit a foreign country means you are wealthier than a fair portion of the populace in the country you are visiting. Visiting other countries, or even living in a country other than the one where you were born, is a privilege. It is not a right. You are, and will always be, a visitor in some way or another.
4. Going abroad and flaunting your money is an unforgiveable error.
When we lived in Liberia, it was considered to be the fourth poorest country in the world according to the United Nations. The average person lived off of less than $1 (USD) per day. For those who could get work, it would mean working 12–14 hours per day for that amount of money.
Our family had to learn quickly how to go about helping others and disbursing our own funds. We were obviously more well off than any of our neighbors and they never expected us to live off $1 (USD) per day. However, we did try to make sure that we lived within our means without becoming an Ugly American.
I remember while in Liberia staying in a home where we had an African American visitor come for a visit. It was his first time to West Africa. In fact, he admitted that he had never even visited a country outside of the US. He was in his mid-30s. Everything he said and did quickly became an offense to Liberians and it was painfully obvious that he was just intent on being an Ugly American. To him, the food was horrible, the room not cool enough, and there was never enough that was being done for him by the locals. He complained about everything and though throwing more US dollars at select individuals would help him be more comfortable and live just like he was in America.
5. Finally, going abroad and not using common courtesy will make you an Ugly American.
This is actually quite simple. Ask. ASK. And then, ASK again if you want to do something like — take videos or pictures of the local cuisine, of the locals, of buildings, of anything. Some countries have taboos about you taking pictures. In some places, you may find yourself breaking the law simply because you think you are entitled to point a camera at whatever suits your fancy.
Sadly, we can even find Ugly Americans in America. We were at a church years ago and had a Ukrainian choir come for a visit. It was their first time to ever leave Ukraine and this was shortly after the fall of the Iron Curtain. The pastor of the American church did a brief slide show and made fun of the food he had eaten while visiting their country the previous year. He talked about how bad the food was and that he was glad he finally found a place to buy a hamburger. The Ukrainian choir had given their best while he visited them, but it was not good enough. Many in the congregation laughed along with the pastor while the Ukrainian visitors hung their heads with shame and embarrassment.
After the church service, the members put on a huge potluck lunch. The Ukrainian visitors had never seen so much food and a couple of them even commented on the amount of food that was being thrown away in the trash. In the end, all many of them could see were Ugly Americans.
In conclusion, there is a rich heritage in every country, in every language, and in every culture. People in other countries are proud to show off their country and what they have to offer. Here are a few helpful tips that will make your trip more enjoyable.
1. Learn from others.
2. Enjoy the experiences.
3. Travel the world.
4. Practice using a few words in other languages.
5. Don’t disappoint them by being an Ugly American.
6. Be respectful.
7. Remember that you are like a goodwill ambassador of America wherever you visit. Act accordingly.
My Wife Can’t Dance
I have always loved the sound of an LP playing on the record player. For youngsters reading, just Google it. It is kind of like a CD but several times bigger and to listen to an hour of music normally involved turning the LP (or record) over halfway through your song selection.
My British uncle retired from the Royal Air Force after playing the trumpet for several of the RAF bands throughout England, Germany, and in various places around the world. I have just about every album of every band that he played in beginning with his first around 1970–1971 when he was stationed with the Southern Band of the Royal Air Force.
There was a wide selection down through the years that were recorded. These include: The RAF Band in Germany played movie themes, while The Western Band of the Royal Air Force offered a special arrangement of well-known classical pieces.
One of my favorite items that I owned as a teenager was a big record player console. It was a piece of furniture. As much as possible, it had one volume setting — LOUD!
Fast forward to the present and one of my sons obtained a nice little record player box from Sam’s Club. He and my wife promptly went to a local music store and he purchased several old albums including some nice Christmas selections as well as several Glenn Miller recordings.
I must say that the kid has good taste. I taught him well.
My girls who will both be teenagers this year often see me moving to the music and keep asking my wife to dance with me to the crackly tunes of the Big Band Era.
The problem is that she can’t dance.
My feet get to tapping when I hear the strains of Chattanooga Choo-Choo, In the Mood, or Little Brown Jug come out of the little box. It just makes me want to get up and sashay across the floor — with my wife.
The problem is that she can’t dance.
This last Sunday, I got up early as usual and put on another Glenn Miller album and turned up the volume a notch or two. Considering we had just lost an hour of sleep, I thought that Moonlight Serenade might be in order; however, everybody was still asleep. What I thought about doing was picking up the phone to dial Pennsylvania 6–5000 and ask my wife if she wanted to wake up and come into the living room so we could cut a rug together.
The problem is that she can’t dance.
She did wake up, and came to the living room where I pretended that I was asleep in my easy chair. But I had not fooled her because one of my girls had already gotten up and had seen my feet tapping to the sound of trumpets and jazz.
Standing to my feet, I put one arm around my wife, took her hand in mine, and proceeded to waltz around the floor. She dipped while I tried to sashay. She swung around while I tried to shimmy in my best James Cagney or Bing Crosby impersonation.
That’s when I learned the sad truth.
The problem is that I can’t dance!
I can’t even make a serious attempt at pulling off a Carlton Banks dance from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. The truth is that instead of looking like a graceful pair of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, my form looked more like — well, the above picture will give you an idea.
At least nobody else saw us and we still had fun!
Reflections of What Will Come
The earth below, above is sky
Soon it will be my turn to die
Life’s road was traveled way too fast
Never possible to go back to the past
Fleeting memories in my mind
But even more I cannot find
Of what good the years of life
If I live them full of strife
The sky is warm, the earth so cold
A life well-spent worth more than gold
Hear my words, young ones of earth
Too quick you’ll leave after your birth
Spend wise the time entrusted you
Knowing eternity is soon in view
Death creeps, but I am not afraid
To cross the shadows of the glade
I look up, my hope is sure
My heart’s love will long endure
Long may tears from family fall
When I must answer heaven’s call
Life was hard, but I am strong
For time with God is what I long
A resting place with no more pain
A hell to shun and heaven to gain.
A West African Cane Beats TSA
Rarely do I find anything nice to say about the TSA. Thanks to the events of September 11, the overzealous efforts of Congress, and the willingness to surrender more of our freedoms, Homeland Security began to make life much more difficult for travelers.
Personally, I resent the intrusions imposed on American citizens simply using airlines as a quick mode of transportation from one part of the US to another. However, I do have some appreciation for the protection airport security seems to have provided in keeping terrorists from boarding airplanes again.
Strangely, those same terrorists though can still just walk across a very unsecured border from Mexico into the US or from just about any part of Canada into the US as well. But I digress as that would be a story for another day.
In 2012, our family moved from Liberia, West Africa back to the United States. As we prepared to depart, we checked our bags and entered the Duty Free Zone at the Roberts International Airport located in Monrovia. While there, we availed ourselves of one last shopping experience as we purchased several Liberian artifacts from the various shops.
One of my purchases was a very nice walking cane that had been carved by a local artist. It was carved out of one of the hardwood trees that are found in abundance throughout West Africa. Before making my purchase, I asked to verify that there would be no issues in getting my cane through customs as we made our way first to Europe and then back to the US.
Assured that there would be no problems, I purchased the beautiful walking stick and we prepared to board the plane.
Nobody said a word to me about the cane and one or two stewardesses even commented on the beauty of the hardwood as well as the artist’s skill.
Arriving in Brussels, Belgium, we proceeded to walk through the entire airport for about five hours. Not once did anybody stop me or ask me if the cane was some kind of a weapon. Common sense prevailed and again I had a couple of staff members comment on how nice a cane I had. At no point did I attempt to walk with it. There was nothing on the bottom to prevent it from slipping on the tiled airport floors and it was really only for decoration.
We arrived back to the US and landed in an airport on the east coast. Disembarking, we had to get all of our bags, go through Customs, and then to make our connecting flight, we had to recheck our bag and go through Security again.
Remember, I have been carrying my new West African cane through three different airports on three different continents. Not one time did anybody question me about why I was carrying this cane with me. Not one time did any police or soldiers follow me and wonder if I was going to attack somebody with my prized possession.
Until we had to go through TSA security to fly from one US to another.
Having already been up for way too many hours, we did not want to have to deal with another inconvenience, but had no choice.
Finally arriving at the front of the line, the TSA staff member took one look at my cane and said, “You cannot take that with you on the plane!”
She was NOT rude about it, but simply had a job to do.
I asked what I was supposed to do with it. Her response was that I would have to check it in and it would go into the hold of the plane. However, I knew full well that somewhere along the way that my exquisitely carved cane would disappear and would never make it to our final stop in Memphis, Tennessee where we had family waiting to pick us up and welcome us back to the US.
I graciously told the TSA staff member that I was not prepared to put my nice new cane and asked why there should be a problem. I told her that we had now crossed three continents and three airports without one concern.
She looked at my wife and I for a minute and responded.
“The only way that you can take the cane on the plane is if it is a medical device.”
I looked back at her and said, “But it is not a medical device.”
She paused, looked at my wife again, and spoke again but emphasized a few words.
“Sir, the ONLY way that YOU can take the cane ON the plane is IF it is a medical device!”
My wife nudged me as she caught on a little quicker than I had done. “Sweetheart, she is saying that you have to use it as an actual cane.”
Not wanting to be dishonest in anyway, it was true that I had been sick in Liberia. In fact, one of my daughters and I had almost died. While I did not use the cane to walk around, it often hurt just to walk. My joints ached from the ravages of severe cases of typhoid and malaria, but I did not want to mislead the TSA staff member either. While in Liberia, I did have to use a walking stick regularly to help support myself at times while on the various roads and trails in the jungles.
“Yes, I can use my cane as a medical device.” I informed her hoping that with such a declaration she would let us pass and we could board our fourth and final flight.
The TSA staffer said, “Sir, in order to let you take the cane on the airplane, I will have to see you actually using the cane as a medical device or aid to walking.”
Are you kidding me?
The bottom of the cane was slick wood and we were on a slick tiled floor. By the time I was done demonstrating my “need” for a cane, I probably would need a real cane or a wheelchair.
However, not wanting to lose my cane, I decided it was best to oblige. With a few slightly exaggerated limps, I sashayed, glided, and attempted to do-ci-do across the TSA Security enclosure while making sure that I did not slip, fall to the floor, and crack my head open.
With a wry smile, she responded. “Yep, looks like you definitely need your medical device. Have a safe trip!”
It was all I could do to keep a straight face as I used my medical device to limp my way around the corner and away from the TSA area.
I still have that cane and every time I see it, it reminds me of the day that a West African cane was allowed to beat TSA at their own game.
To the kind, unnamed TSA staff member, “Thank you and walk on!”
A Tie for Every Occasion
Packing our bags for the long drive, I was certain we had everything we needed. Making sure the children were tucked in nice and warm, we started our journey from the sub-zero temperatures of South Dakota and headed for the southern part of Kansas. It was the week before Christmas and we wondered whether we would soon be moving.
The drive down went without a hitch and we arrived in a tiny little town that was located way out in the middle of Kansas wheat fields. It was flat with nothing of interest between us and Wichita which was about an hour drive to the north.
The town itself had a population of less than 2000. After driving around the entire town, my wife and I were convinced that the number on the sign must have included all the stray dogs, cats, and chickens we saw running around.
Pulling in at the only motel in town, I gave my details to the owner who gave us a warm welcome and stated that if there was ANYTHING we might need to just let her know.
Taking the key to our room, we were the only people staying there for the night, so we expected that it would be quiet.
Unpacking, we prepared for the next morning and my interview process. You see, the purpose for my driving to the middle of nowhere Kansas was to candidate for my first pastorate. It was Saturday night, and I was still not certain that I was prepared.
I was meticulous about the notes I had written and studied for two morning church sessions and one on the Sunday evening. I had also meticulously prepared my answers for all the questions that I thought the church and the pulpit committee might or might not ask me. My notes were ready, my Bible was ready, and the only thing I needed to do was make sure my clothes were ready.
Laying out the clothes for our children for the next morning, I was also meticulous in making sure that my shoes were shined again, that I had my shirt ironed, my suit had been freshly dry-cleaned before coming down, and that I had the perfect power tie to go with — —
What?? Oh no!!!
There was no way this could be happening. We looked high and we looked low. We checked, rechecked, and then rechecked again every part of our vehicle, but to no avail.
I felt like I was going to be committing a cardinal sin. Here I was over 500 miles away from home on a Saturday night, preparing for a nerve-wracking day of interviewing and preaching, with no stores any around that were open at almost 9pm, the problem was –
I had NO tie.
What preacher or pastor stands up to deliver a message in the mid-1990’s without being properly attired?
I would have settled for a string tie, or a cowboy tie, a bowtie, or even a wider fat tie, but I really wanted the nice power tie that I had ready to make the trip. However, my power tie was still resting on our bed back home in South Dakota.
Needless to say, I was embarrassed, but I remembered what the elderly lady at the front desk had told me.
Walking from our room to the motel lobby, I told her my embarrassing predicament. She informed me that her husband had passed away a few years ago and that she had only just a week or so ago finally cleared out all of his clothes including the dozens of ties he owned.
I would have been happy with just one of them.
Not to be unhelpful, she said, “Wait a minute, I know somebody who might be able to help.”
Picking up the phone, she dialed a number.
“Hey, this is Martha down at the hotel. I have a gentleman here who has a slight problem. He has no tie for service tomorrow when he comes to preach at YOUR church!”
Are you kidding me? 2000 people in town and the one person she calls for help was actually one of the church deacons and the head of the pulpit committee for the very church I will be at in the morning.
I was mortified!
Deciding to put my best foot forward, I agree to have the man come over to our hotel room and bring me a selection of ties.
A few minutes later, a deep throated roar split the air. My boys run to the window and look out to find a short, heavy set man with a graying beard dressed all in leather and wearing a Santa hat. He was riding a 1936 Harley Davidson complete with Christmas lights that twinkled as much as his eyes did for the Christmas season.
My wife and boys found the scene quite funny, and I was just trying to figure out what we had gotten ourselves into. The head of the pulpit committee didn’t look like he had ever worn a tie. In fact, my boys were fairly certain that Santa was real after all and he lived in southern Kansas.
The man laughed and tried to put me at ease as he handed me a selection of ties. With a quick round of greetings, he said, “These are the only ones I have, so you can take your pick. See you in the morning.”
With that he was gone and I thought I had just witnessed a rather quaint Kansas version of “The Night Before Christmas.”
Looking down at the ties in my hands, I was appalled. The selection of six brightly colored ties looked like they had come from the very bottom of the bottom of the bottom of the bottom of a barrel at Goodwill that time had forgotten from the 1970s. You know the ones that could have passed for a bib or apron.
However, Saint Nick on his Harley Davidson had also handed me a box that contained a nice brown striped tie. With no other option before me, I decided that it would have to be the one that put me front and center before the congregation of the country church. If they don’t like me because of having no tie, then we would simply go back to South Dakota.
We arrived to the church early the next morning and I sat on the front row trying to keep anybody from seeing the tie I was wearing. Thankfully, the head of the pulpit committee and his wife make a late appearance and showed up right before service started. My intention was to make a quick dart up to the platform and hope that nobody noticed my tie did not quite match the rest of my attire.
Standing to start the service, I moved quickly to the platform and turned to face the small congregation whereupon the deacon and his wife start chuckling, then laughing out loud, and the wife starts snorting. She is turning red as she tries in vain to keep from disrupting the service.
Feeling like a failure, I decided to start the service by admitting my error from the night before. Relaying the entire story, I knew my face was red with embarrassment. There was no way this church would be voting to call a new pastor who could not even remember to bring a tie. This was despite the fact that nobody else was wearing a tie.
Summing up my story, I concluded, “So, that is what brings us here today and why this is probably the first and only time I have ever worn a tie that can do this!”
Reaching down, I grabbed right below the knot and with a small twist, the tie stood straight out — like a board.
Because that is what it was.
Actually, it was made of several pieces of board from different trees. They had been glued together and placed on a strip of leather with a Velcro strip around the top that allowed the wearer to keep it in place around his neck. The tie I had chosen from the box was actually a gag gift that the deacon had stored in his closet for years.
The deacon and his wife were beside themselves and so was the rest of the congregation. It broke the ice and I don’t think any of those present would ever forget the day the new pastor wore a wood tie to church.
As for the outcome of what would be a new career change for me, the church decided to vote that next Wednesday on whether they would extend an invitation to call as pastor the man with a tie for every occasion.
They voted 100% to call me as pastor.
5 Quick Tips for Writing Better
If you are like me, the amount of material on how to write better can be overwhelming. Bookstores, websites, blogs, seminars, etc. make it hard to choose which direction to go, especially when there seems to be a media format for just about every imaginable genre.
The wise King Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes 12:12, “My son, beware of anything beyond these. Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh.” (ESV)
So, here are five quick tips, in no particular order, to help you write better.
1. Write for yourself!
You MUST like what you write. I love watching cooking shows like Top Chef. One of the maxims food critics and judges live by is that a chef must stand behind his or her dish. Stand behind what you write because your words should be a reflection of YOU!
2. Don’t imitate others!
You will NEVER write like Tom Clancy, James Michener, or J.K. Rowling. The simple reason is this — YOU are not Tom Clancy, James Michener, or J.K. Rowling. If you are ever going to be successful as a writer, set your own rules that define what you are or what you want to become. Be yourself.
3. Use available tools!
You do NOT have to spend large amounts of money to purchase specialized software, to go to seminars, or to take advanced classes on writing. Research what is available. For example, Open Office is a free word processing software that includes spell and grammar checkers. Use them liberally. There is little that is hard to endure than glaring spelling or grammatical errors that could have been easily fixed with an extra minute using a free available tool.
4. Write, write, write!
This should be self-explanatory, but it seems that some who want to be a writer think that staring at a screen will improve their chances of making a best seller list. Write on paper, computer, clay tablet, or even paper napkins at your favorite restaurant. Write on a mountain, on a train, or in a box. Write in English, Hindi, Russian, or Mandarin. JUST WRITE!
5. Be a drudge!
Ignacy Paderewski was a master concert pianist. It is said that at one concert, a woman was enamored with him and his playing. After several minutes of this unwanted attention, the great pianist is said to have stopped her and said, “Madame, before I was a genius, I was a drudge!”
Don’t worry about whether you are good right now. Write and write — going from drudge to genius will take care of itself.
When Church Goes Wrong
“Churches are full of nothing but hypocrites.” — Quote attributed to many
Hypocrite — a word that is used to describe somebody who is not real. Is often associated with a sneer or turning up of the lip when speaking of a particular individual that is in question.
For example, the word has seen an uptick in usage over the last few years particularly as it applies to people in politics or in religion.
The word hypocrite actually stems from the Greek word ὑποκριτής or hupokrites. The word is used approximately 20 times in the New Testament Scriptures including several times by the Lord Jesus Christ.
The origin of the word referred to a person who was an actor or a stage player of which Greek and Romans were quite fond. The actor or stage player would represent or pretend to be something or someone that he was not in real life. The actor would often wear or hold a mask in front of his or her face when playing the false part.
When an ancient Greek or Roman then heard an individual called a hypocrite, they would immediately recognize that the person in question was an actor or they were considered to two-faced.
The Reality
EVERY person can be a hypocrite to some degree or another. For example, have you ever gone to work, church, or the store and met up with somebody who is but an acquaintance? The other person then asks, “Oh hi, how are you today?”
They may not really have any interest in you but are simply being polite. If this is the case, then they are being a hypocrite or two-faced.
In return, you force a smile, despite the fact that life is a struggle and you may be under the weather, and respond, “Fine, doing just fine.” Sadly, you have once again become a hypocrite or two-faced towards another human being.
Why is this important to learn and understand?
Very simple — Churches are often made up of people who are hurting JUST like you. They want to be REAL but have been told by society and culture that you don’t express your feelings to people who are not close to you. A church is like an island in a vast lake providing sanctuary from the storms of life.
Asone who served as a pastor and as an overseas missionary church planter, I have seen a lot of hypocrites. In fact, I have even played the part of an actor at times myself. It is not something I am proud of, nor is this confession a means to make light of how I have responded to others.
Is it true that there are churches that are not worth the time of day?
Yes, bad theology and a lack of true love for others mean some that classify themselves as a “church” should be studiously avoided because they are dangerous.
However, for a person to avoid church with the excuse that it is only full of hypocrites is nothing more than an excuse. It reveals the truth that you have not faced up to the reality that you and I are also hypocrites when things don’t go our way.
If the church is going to be avoided, then do yourself and others a favor and tell the real reason, not lame excuses. Using lame excuses simply places you in the same camp as the people you claim to be avoiding.
There are bad apples in EVERY aspect of life. There are hypocrites in EVERY workplace. There are hypocrites in EVERY church.
The question you should be asking is this –
If every church member were just like me, then what kind of church would my church be?
In other words, you can and should have a role to play wherever you and your family choose to attend. There are hundreds of millions around the world who are in a much tougher situation than you and I are or will ever be in.
It should not matter what you wear, how much you make, or the kind of car you drive. The true church should be a reflection of the glory that will be seen in heaven when it is ALL about Jesus Christ.
Church should be an opportunity to be real, to be genuine, to be honest, and where we are willing to love and serve others because that is what Christ calls all true Christians to do.
To do otherwise makes you and me nothing more than a hypocrite.
Mark Anthony Books 