Get Out There and Push

This morning I had to take Bill to the Jacksonville airport.  He is headed for Colorado for some meetings and some skiing.  On the way back to Amelia Island, I was traveling in steady traffic on A1A, and I came upon an interesting sight.

An elderly man in a white shirt and dress pants was pushing an antique car.  I am not an expert on classic cars and have no idea what it was, but it was definitely pre-1940s, and had been beautifully restored.  However, something was obviously wrong with the mechanical components, and the car had apparently ceased to function on the busy road.  A woman, probably the man’s wife, was in the driver’s seat steering, and the senior citizen, dressed as though he was on his way to church, was pushing the car to try to get it on the side street.

The light at the intersection was red, so I had to stop, and this gave me the opportunity to watch the situation evolve.  Along came a pick-up truck.  The occupants quickly sized up the situation, pulled over and put the hazard lights on.  Two young men jumped out and literally ran toward the crippled vehicle.  Both men were tall and well-built.  Either they do manual labor or they spend time in the gym.  They quickly began to help push the old car.

They had no sooner arrived on the scene, when a sheriff’s car turned off A1A and pulled up behind them.  The officer put on his flashing lights and traveled slowly behind them, warning approaching vehicles and providing them with protection.

A young boy got out of the passenger side of the pick-up truck and watched the two men helping the disabled car.  I supposed him to be about 10 years old and the son of one of the men.

The light turned green and I had to move on, but I kept thinking about this.  There are a lot of nasty awful mean people in this world, but there are also some kind-hearted helpful ones.  What a wonderful example those two men were setting for a young boy.  I have encountered young men who don’t seem to understand what being a man is all about.  They get some perverted notion that it is all about sexual prowess.  But what that young boy was seeing was an example of real masculinity.  Men who are willing to jump out of their vehicle, and put their time and energy into helping someone in need.

What a better world we would live in if everyone got out and pushed.

Light Will Come

Long before its appearance,

There are hints of the coming glory.

Streaks of color creep around

The fringes of the earth’s orb.

The horizon at the ocean’s edge

Turns orange and pink and purple.

The palette of colors blending uniquely

With the dawn of each new day.

Then a pinpoint of vivid color

Overpowers the pastels.

I am amazed by how quickly

It silently rises and grows.

Sunrise in all its glory.

Too bright for human eyes.

A radiance too powerful,

A searing, piercing light.

There are hints of the coming glory,

The dawn of a new day is approaching,

And we will all be amazed by

A radiance too powerful for human eye.

A searing, piercing Light will come.

Feeling Rootless

Perhaps two months is too long for me to be away from home.

Two months is long enough that I want to begin putting down roots where I am, but the knowledge that I am leaving soon hangs over me.  I have been away from home so long that I am beginning to feel disconnected.  The consequence is that I feel like I am drifting, and I am unsure of where I actually wish to land.  As I float along on an unfamiliar breeze, my roots are hanging below me like strings from a balloon.  I wonder where they might drag along and catch hold.

I have tried to keep myself busy here.  Thus far, I have read 11 novels, knit 3 scarves, made costumes for 2 grandchildren, given 1 chapel message at my grandchildren’s school with another scheduled tomorrow, taken an online writing course, and done all the normal household things like laundry, grocery shopping, meal preparation, cleaning, and paying bills.  I have also made some friends here.  I walk the beach for an hour most days, sometimes with one of my new friends, who is a neighbor here at the condo units.

I really like the church we attend here.  Our Sunday School class is comprised mainly of couples our age.  We have been out to brunch with the group, and they are friendly.  The music and preaching at the church are top notch.

But…

I don’t really live here.  My permanent address is a long way away.  I have a lovely home that is furnished to my tastes.  The can opener and iron there actually work.  I don’t have to think about which seasonings and spices I have available when preparing a meal.  I have a bit of a part-time job and some volunteer activities.  I am involved at two different churches there, and I enjoy both.  I have lots of friends and acquaintances….although, no one to walk the beach with or even to trudge through snow drifts with me.

 I also have boxes and boxes of “stuff” that needs to be sorted if I am pondering a move.  The downsize done six years ago wasn’t nearly sufficient.  Going home also means facing some tough issues and decisions.

Where am I supposed to spend the rest of my life? 

What is there yet for me to accomplish?

And…

Since only my first class mail is being forwarded, what has happened to all my junk mail?  

Holograms and Truth

I recently read that there are scientists who believe that everything we know is actually part of a two-dimensional hologram.  We experience it as three-dimensional, but it is in fact two dimensional.

I have been pondering this.  We know and live in three dimensions of space and one of time.  We can create holograms which are two-dimensional, but appear three dimensional.  It seems to me that an omniscient God who probably knows more dimensions than we can imagine, could create our less dimensioned world, and that it would take us awhile to figure this out.  Perhaps, we are just now beginning to comprehend the multiplicity of dimensions which exist.  That there are realities beyond what we can perceive either with our senses or minds or experiments we contrive which are dependent on our senses and minds.

This reminds me a bit of Plato’s Cave in which chained persons cannot see or know the reality outside of the cave, so they cannot comprehend it.  They believe that reality is only what they can see.  They have no understanding of the bigger reality outside the cave.

I do not really understand String Theory or a unifying Theory of Everything, but I know they require multiple dimensions.  I have no difficulty, as a Christian, with scientists experimenting and reasoning to try and discover how our universe works….and if it is part of something infinite. 

As long as one is seeking truth, he will eventually come face to face with Truth….omniscient and infinite TRUTH.

Tide Pools

Created by the waves,

Carved in the sand,

Temporary pools,

From an artful hand.

Scratched out by fingers,

Pulled toward the sea,

Rippled, undulating,

Fascinating me.

Fragments of memories,

Puddled in my mind,

Pools of joy and sorrow,

Caught and left behind.

Guilt Trip in Publix

One of the things that bothers me when I am in Florida is the contrast between the haves and the have-nots.  Along the beach in the condos, the residents clearly do not want for much in the way of material things.  These are the ladies that stroll the aisles of Harris Teeter and Publix finely dressed and not in any hurry.  Their hair and nails are well cared for.  They have probably been to the spa for a massage recently.  Many of the male shoppers appear tanned and fit for their age.  They are retired and able to live well.  Some of them pack their groceries into hot little convertibles with the tops down.

At the check-out counter are clerks and baggers who should be retired, but who apparently cannot afford to be.  I would think if they were working to stave off boredom, they would choose a different type of employment.  They are unfailingly polite and gracious, but I wonder if any resentment burns underneath the façade.

Today the gentleman who bagged my groceries was wobbly just moving the twelve inches from the end of the counter to my cart.  He was wrinkled, stooped and gray.  He was also slow.  The check-out clerk helped him finish bagging, because he couldn’t keep up.

When he had placed the last bag in my cart, he looked up, smiled and said, “Help you to your car?”

I wanted to cry.  I wondered whether he could actually make it to my car!

I assured him, I could manage by myself and returned his smile.

I wondered if he was hoping I would say ‘no.’  He seemed so frail.  I tried to guess his age, but the ravages of old age seem to happen so unevenly.  Was he 10 years older than me?  That would make him in his early 80s, but he could still be in his 70s…not that much older than I am.

As usual, I have lots of questions and few answers.  But, it did make me feel privileged because I can choose whether or not I work, grateful for good health, and a bit guilty for enjoying blessings I don’t deserve. 

The Face of a Murderer

Almost twenty years ago, a woman named Bonnie Hector was murdered a few miles outside of our city.  She worked for Geico insurance company in a small office along a busy highway, but not in a densely-populated area.  The property was adjacent to the Fort Drum military base, and a trail ran along the back of the building.

It appeared that she had come out of the building at the end of the work day and was shot and robbed on her way to the car.  The evidence seemed to indicate that her assailant had come and gone on a bike via the trail behind the building.

A couple of days later, I went into a bargain store that I frequented at the time for basic household supplies.  I nearly always used my credit card there, so I was surprised for multiple reasons when the clerk said, “Do they usually ask to see your ID when you use your card?”

I thought this a strange question for multiple reasons:

            *I used the card there regularly and had never been asked for my ID.

*He was the clerk and should have been trained in the store’s procedure.  Why would he ask the customer?

*Did he not understand that running my card through the computer meant there was an automatic check on the validity of the card?

I sized him up making eye contact.  He was young…probably late teens, a good-looking black fellow, polite when he spoke, nothing stood out as being odd about him.  But, his question caused me to look at his name tag and notice that he had an unusual first name…Provard.  I had never heard that first name before, so it locked in my brain.

I told him that I was not asked for my ID, but that it was my understanding that the card was computer checked when it was run through the machine to make sure it was not stolen.

He put my purchases in a bag, handed me the receipt, and off I went.  The fact that the encounter seemed strange stuck with me.

Within a few days, Provard Jones was arrested for the murder and robbery of the woman from the insurance office.  It was then that it was revealed that it was not just the money bag from the day that had been stolen, but also, her purse….with her credit cards.

I was chilled to realize that the pleasant store clerk was a murderer, and that his question to me was an attempt to figure out whether he could safely use her credit cards.  The card I used that day was a Mastercard with a picture of Boldt Castle on the front.  Clerks sometimes commented that they hadn’t seen a card of that type with that picture before.  I wondered whether she had the same card with the same picture, and if that prompted him to ask me his question.

I called the detective on the case and told him my story.  It was not evidence, but it spoke to his callousness.  The case did not go to trial.  Mr. Jones took a plea deal and got 30 years to life.

I am thinking about this, because yesterday I was in a store and the clerk gave me the creeps.  He looked miserably unhappy and his face and voice were expressionless as he handed me the receipt and said, “Have a great day.”

I wonder what his story is.