I was thinking about my mother this morning. On the one hand, she can be bitter and mean. Uptight and abrupt. She holds grudges against people who have been dead for decades. Yet when we go visit my brother in prison, she'll slip off and visit with her "other sons", a couple of inmate workers who don't have visitors. She'll go over and sit down at their station where they serve coffee and popcorn so they can visit. She asks them questions about this and that, not so much because she is nosy but because she wants to connect with them.
Her humor is biting and sometimes it's not fully in jest. Yes, she can act like a total a bitch but then turn around and cry when she hears a friend has lost a loved one in a car accident. She even remembers my best friend's birthday from when he and I were in Mrs. Garrison's class in Hugh Goodwin Elementary, not to mention all of her own elementary school friends. She's not all good nor all bad.
I saw this even more pronounced in my grandmother. Yep, Mother's mother. We called her Mom. As much as I loved her, Mom was a controlling, uptight woman who could worry the bark off a tree. Look up the word "nag" in Webster's Dictionary and it has her picture! Yet I was the recipient of her love more times than I can count. When Dad ran away from home at the age of 42, Mom kept us afloat as Mother was starting a new career as a single mom. She wasn't all good nor all bad.
I think about my father, too. Yes, he really did run away from home. He left us high and dry. No financial support. Walked away from all of his responsibilities. After he moved to Houston, he lived with a woman who (in my rather jaded opinion) needed to go to elocution lessons just to rise 'white trash' status, all while he was still married to Mother. Dad used to say that when he left El Dorado in '74, he was "financially, emotionally, spiritually, morally and physically bankrupt." Yet, he still cared. In the years that followed, Dad worked on his bankrupt condition. He worked on it hard. And even though he never wanted to be married again to Mother, he still cared for her. He even offered to anonymously pay for her to go to the doctor when she couldn't afford insurance. He wasn't all good, nor all bad.
Through the years, I've known some pretty bad people. Drug dealers, addicts, drunks, adulterers, cheats and generally folks with some pretty major moral flaws. Yet, as I've gotten to know them on a heart level, I've without fail found a compassionate side to them. They may have been mean in one way but they were tender in others. I'm reminded of when I was driving trucks for a drilling company during a semester away from college back in the '70s. One time I was sent to Utah with a driller who had a reputation for drinking and then fighting. That was just part of his routine. Drink... then fight. Tomorrow night, drink... then fight. Repeat as necessary.
I was literally fearing for my safety when we had to share a motel room in Farmington, New Mexico, on our drive out west. Yet when we got settled in from a long day driving big trucks across the desert, what did he do first? He called his wife, a lady he married when she was just 13 years old! Before long, I overheard him tell his wife to tell one son that he was proud of him for dong something good at school or on the baseball team or something. "And tell him I love him. And I love you, too." He paused while she apparently replied. "I love you!" She replied again. "I love you, too!" The volley of I love you's continued for a while. Eventually, I headed out the door for an errand while they were still saying "I love you" to each other. Rough and tumble but deeply in love with his wife. He wasn't all bad nor all good.
On the other hand, how many "good" people do we know who have fallen to some "bad" sin? The list of TV preachers caught getting a little action on the side (with male or female hookers) is long. Drugs have taken down a lot of them, too. One of my all-time favorite pastors fell to adultery, breaking apart not one but two homes. I know of one Baptist preacher who was also a bootlegger and at one time smuggled illegal aliens from Mexico... all while filling a pulpit on Sunday morning! Go figure.
I believe none of us is either all good nor all bad. My ex-wife didn't agree. In her world, you were one or the other. And once you were deemed "bad", you could not recover your "good" status. And my temper secured for me a place on the "bad" list- banished from the "good" list forever. What she didn't know is that I had been working on my temper long before I ever met her. I saw it as a character flaw and was actively taking it to God for healing. But, I was still a work in progress.
After she kicked me to the curb almost a decade ago, I continued to work on my temper. I'm sad to say, remnants of the "old Todd" still linger. I'm still a work in progress. But I think she'd be pretty amazed at how much I've grown in this area. Stuff still gets under my skin. And yes, I still blow up sometime. Rarely, but sometime. When I do, I am immediately reminded of Galatians 5:19: "Now the deeds of the flesh are evident, which are:... outbursts of anger..." Busted!
I read that and I come face to face with the fact that I'm not yet completely in His control. As much as I want to do the right thing, it is still a bit fleeting. Nope, I'm not there yet. But I'm not giving up.
While we're looking at Galatians, let's take a peek at the full list of what one version of the Bible called the "evidence of the flesh". By that, I take it as evidence that we are being controlled by our own fleshly (selfish, not of God) desires. "Now the deeds of the flesh are evident, which are: immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmities, strife, jealousy, outbursts of anger, disputes, dissensions, factions, envying, drunkenness, carousing, and things like these, of which I forewarn you, just as I have forewarned you, that those who practice such things will not inherit the kingdom of God."
Whoa! I didn't see any of the biggie sins listed in there! No drugs, stealing or driving over the speed limit! I guess adultery is covered in immorality, impurity and sensuality... a sin trifecta of sorts. What I do see are a lot of things I also see in the average church member. They seem to be more about internal attitudes and decisions we make throughout each day.
I believe God created in each of us the capacity to do good and the capacity to do evil. And He gave us the free will to choose for ourselves. In addition, I believe we who have come to trust Jesus as our Savior now have the Holy Spirit living inside our hearts. As we trust Him not only as Savior (for eternity) but also as Lord (for the here and now) we also have the Holy Spirit working inside, calling us toward doing more and more good and by default, less evil. To me, it's more about doing His stuff with the natural byproduct of doing less evil stuff. Then again, I'm more grace focused than sin focused. If I walk toward Him, my back is naturally turned against evil stuff, things that would separate me from my Father.
Still, it's a struggle. It always will be. We will always be a mix of good and bad.
It's like being on a big field with homes on opposite ends. One is all good and one is all evil. Which one are we walking toward? Which one have we set as our goal? Better yet, it's like two houses next door to each other, separated by a fence. We tend to want to play in both yards, jumping back and forth over the fence.
Sadly, I see a lot of folks who give up trying. They find it is easier to just live one one side or to perpetually ride that fence. There's a definite element of safety in continuing to do what we know, the stuff we're comfortable doing already. But I love God! I really love Him! And the more I get to know and love Him, the less I want to even get close to that fence. I choose to turn my back on the fence that represents a compromised life at best, and a rebellious life at worst. I choose to walk toward His house where I'll enjoy fellowship with Him.
The good news is we have God living inside us. He sees our desires and pours out grace to keep moving toward God's house. Sure, we sometimes stumble and hop back across the fence but hopefully those times are less and less frequent as we are moving toward Him.
By the way, the world has probably painted for us a picture of God's house as being drab and boring filled with rules and stuff we can't touch. That's a lie. The only true joy in life is only found in His house. Jesus promised us that "living water" would flow from our bellies, overflowing joy. That also means fun and peace and a whole list of good things. Plus fewer and fewer of the things listed in Galatians 5:19 - 21.
None of us is all good nor all bad. We are all facing the same question every minute of every day: which way are we pointed? Are we growing toward the good or sliding by gravity toward the bad? Thanks to the Holy Spirit, I don't have to face that challenge alone.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
A Chance Meeting in the Desert
A friend and I were talking about missions the other day when I was reminded of a chance meeting I had while on my way to start my life as a missionary. It was June of '83. I had worked with Dad a couple of years but it just wasn't working for me. I had a passion for ministry that just wasn't being satisfied wearing a hardhat and steel toes. So, being a "good Baptist" I went down front at church and "surrendered to the ministry". Yes, I did think about going down and raising my hands in a "don't shoot!" gesture but I didn't think the folks at First Baptist of Monroe would get the joke.
In any case, I applied and was accepted to seminary in Fort Worth. But, before I got to seminary, I was invited to be the PR guy at the Baptist ministry to the Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. The only rub: no salary. I was considered Mission Service Corp and raised my own support. OK, no problem. If God calls, God also equips. I made a list of folks I thought might be interested in supporting my work, prayed over the list and started knocking on doors. All but one were happy to invest. The only one I asked who couldn't was a single dad with kids to raise. I didn't think he'd be able to anyway. My monthly income was cut by 90% but that's a story for a different blog.
Driving in my '69 Ford van towing a couple of dirt bikes, I took three days to make the drive west. Now, picture the van. It was jam packed with everything I'd need for a year and a half. That meant books, more books, stereo speakers, amp, turntable, my "essential" albums (a few dozen), clothes and a few more books. Oh, and a couple of Nikon cameras and a bag full of lenses. And slide show equipment including two projectors, an electronic controller and a projection screen. And I bought a few books along the way. I had built a couple of storage compartments on my motorcycle trailer so all my tools and riding gear stayed outside. I had my racing bike and a street legal dirt bike. What? You mean not every missionary doesn't have a couple of dirt bikes?
I guess it was late on my second day out that I got tired of I-40 and decided to take a little detour. I ended up in Tuba City, Arizona. It was getting late and I needed to park the van for the night. I stopped at a little store for a snack and struck up a conversation with a man outside. He seemed like a nice guy as we talked about this and that. As the conversation winded down, I told him that I was a Baptist missionary on my way to the west coast and asked if he knew of a church or someplace safe where I could park for the night.
"Well, I'm a Baptist missionary, too. I pastor a church just over that hill. You're welcome to park in my church parking lot for the night. Follow me."
Uhh... really? Can you imagine how this blew me away? Keep in mind, this was in the early '70s when we didn't even use long distance credit cards. It was quarters in pay phones with exorbitant rates. I had left my family in Monroe and El Dorado and was heading out to a new life in California. Beyond casual chit chat, I hadn't talked with a soul in almost three days. I missed home and longed for true fellowship. And I met a pastor in a convenience store!
I followed him to the church where I stopped the van in the parking lot. He lived in the parsonage next door. His younger son came out and really thought the dirt bikes were cool. I felt like a big man, I admit it. "Yeah... this one is for playing but this one is for racing!" The next morning, the missionary sent his son out to the van to invite me in for breakfast with the family. The parsonage was modest and I remember being served what I figured was some sort of traditional Native American meal. They were these flat round cake type things. I asked him what they were called. "Pancakes... it's the altitude." We all laughed at my ignorance and then they pulled out the latest copy of Missions USA, the Home Mission Board's monthly magazine.
I loved reading Missions USA for the great articles. Solid writing and world class photography, it was a real favorite. But they went to the back of the magazine where I never bothered to look very much. They found that day's date and read aloud the missionaries who were celebrating birthdays as well as I think a missionary of the day to pray for. And then we prayed. Over those high altitude pancakes, the missionary told me about how God called him to the mission field as an adult with a family and an already established career.
He said he started having an unexplainable passion for the American Indians. He couldn't read enough about them. Teaching boys Sunday School, he would break down in tears when the lesson involved reaching the Indians. I can't remember what he did for work before becoming a missionary but it wasn't a "ministerial" type job. He was just like the rest of us... working. Then God changed everything.
I kept up with this missionary family for a few years. Just now, I pulled down my "analog address book". That's an old fashioned pen and paper address book for the younger crowd, how we did things before computers. Sure enough, I still have that missionary's address. A quick internet search and it appears he's still working in missions... now ministering to Indians in New Mexico. I think I'll drop him a note.
In any case, I applied and was accepted to seminary in Fort Worth. But, before I got to seminary, I was invited to be the PR guy at the Baptist ministry to the Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. The only rub: no salary. I was considered Mission Service Corp and raised my own support. OK, no problem. If God calls, God also equips. I made a list of folks I thought might be interested in supporting my work, prayed over the list and started knocking on doors. All but one were happy to invest. The only one I asked who couldn't was a single dad with kids to raise. I didn't think he'd be able to anyway. My monthly income was cut by 90% but that's a story for a different blog.
Driving in my '69 Ford van towing a couple of dirt bikes, I took three days to make the drive west. Now, picture the van. It was jam packed with everything I'd need for a year and a half. That meant books, more books, stereo speakers, amp, turntable, my "essential" albums (a few dozen), clothes and a few more books. Oh, and a couple of Nikon cameras and a bag full of lenses. And slide show equipment including two projectors, an electronic controller and a projection screen. And I bought a few books along the way. I had built a couple of storage compartments on my motorcycle trailer so all my tools and riding gear stayed outside. I had my racing bike and a street legal dirt bike. What? You mean not every missionary doesn't have a couple of dirt bikes?
I guess it was late on my second day out that I got tired of I-40 and decided to take a little detour. I ended up in Tuba City, Arizona. It was getting late and I needed to park the van for the night. I stopped at a little store for a snack and struck up a conversation with a man outside. He seemed like a nice guy as we talked about this and that. As the conversation winded down, I told him that I was a Baptist missionary on my way to the west coast and asked if he knew of a church or someplace safe where I could park for the night.
"Well, I'm a Baptist missionary, too. I pastor a church just over that hill. You're welcome to park in my church parking lot for the night. Follow me."
Uhh... really? Can you imagine how this blew me away? Keep in mind, this was in the early '70s when we didn't even use long distance credit cards. It was quarters in pay phones with exorbitant rates. I had left my family in Monroe and El Dorado and was heading out to a new life in California. Beyond casual chit chat, I hadn't talked with a soul in almost three days. I missed home and longed for true fellowship. And I met a pastor in a convenience store!
I followed him to the church where I stopped the van in the parking lot. He lived in the parsonage next door. His younger son came out and really thought the dirt bikes were cool. I felt like a big man, I admit it. "Yeah... this one is for playing but this one is for racing!" The next morning, the missionary sent his son out to the van to invite me in for breakfast with the family. The parsonage was modest and I remember being served what I figured was some sort of traditional Native American meal. They were these flat round cake type things. I asked him what they were called. "Pancakes... it's the altitude." We all laughed at my ignorance and then they pulled out the latest copy of Missions USA, the Home Mission Board's monthly magazine.
I loved reading Missions USA for the great articles. Solid writing and world class photography, it was a real favorite. But they went to the back of the magazine where I never bothered to look very much. They found that day's date and read aloud the missionaries who were celebrating birthdays as well as I think a missionary of the day to pray for. And then we prayed. Over those high altitude pancakes, the missionary told me about how God called him to the mission field as an adult with a family and an already established career.
He said he started having an unexplainable passion for the American Indians. He couldn't read enough about them. Teaching boys Sunday School, he would break down in tears when the lesson involved reaching the Indians. I can't remember what he did for work before becoming a missionary but it wasn't a "ministerial" type job. He was just like the rest of us... working. Then God changed everything.
I kept up with this missionary family for a few years. Just now, I pulled down my "analog address book". That's an old fashioned pen and paper address book for the younger crowd, how we did things before computers. Sure enough, I still have that missionary's address. A quick internet search and it appears he's still working in missions... now ministering to Indians in New Mexico. I think I'll drop him a note.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Feeding the Hungry One Bag At a Time
Last night I was at a friend's and we bounced around a lot of ministry ideas. One of them was a passion we share: feeding the hungry. We both feel giving them money almost always only serves to feed some addiction. I don't want to fund their next drug purchase or pave the way for their next drunken haze. But, I am commanded to feed the hungry.
For years, I've put together food packets for the homeless. A gallon-size baggie works well. Last night, we bounced around ideas on what to include in these food packets. Tonight, I was thinking about it again and it dawned on me that this could be a great teaching tool for us to get a better handle on what it means to be without a home.
The next time you go to the grocery store, look for things you could eat if you were homeless. Remember, you wouldn't have a stove or refrigerator. Minimal food prep means hopefully some water. Probably not even a place to wash your hands.
As you walk down each aisle, look for items that would apply. No canned soup. Even if it has a pop top, they probably have no means to heat it up. Bread would only last a few days. Fruit would be nice but would you eat fruit offered by a stranger? Horror stories of nutcases spiking Halloween candy come to mind. Nope. I prefer factory sealed packaged food items.
OK, now let's carry this mindset around through the rest of the store. Like over in the toiletries department. Deodorant, soap, shampoo, lip balm, sun block... they are in our bathroom medicine cabinet. The homeless don't have a bathroom, much less a medicine cabinet.
Last night we tossed around some questions such as how far do we help the homeless? How do we balance grace and accountability? As I read my New Testament, I only hear Jesus commanding us to feed the hungry. No limit to those outside of the family of faith. Ah... but for our fellow church member, we're given the charge of: if you don't work, you don't eat! The implication to me is that a believer should get off his butt and work. But, what if he isn't able? What if he isn't functional whether by mental illness or some sort of substance abuse of his own making? At that point, I feel compelled to feed them.
Jesus never said to donate to the hungry. He did say to feed them. And love them, possibly one gallon baggie at a time.
For years, I've put together food packets for the homeless. A gallon-size baggie works well. Last night, we bounced around ideas on what to include in these food packets. Tonight, I was thinking about it again and it dawned on me that this could be a great teaching tool for us to get a better handle on what it means to be without a home.
The next time you go to the grocery store, look for things you could eat if you were homeless. Remember, you wouldn't have a stove or refrigerator. Minimal food prep means hopefully some water. Probably not even a place to wash your hands.
As you walk down each aisle, look for items that would apply. No canned soup. Even if it has a pop top, they probably have no means to heat it up. Bread would only last a few days. Fruit would be nice but would you eat fruit offered by a stranger? Horror stories of nutcases spiking Halloween candy come to mind. Nope. I prefer factory sealed packaged food items.
OK, now let's carry this mindset around through the rest of the store. Like over in the toiletries department. Deodorant, soap, shampoo, lip balm, sun block... they are in our bathroom medicine cabinet. The homeless don't have a bathroom, much less a medicine cabinet.
Last night we tossed around some questions such as how far do we help the homeless? How do we balance grace and accountability? As I read my New Testament, I only hear Jesus commanding us to feed the hungry. No limit to those outside of the family of faith. Ah... but for our fellow church member, we're given the charge of: if you don't work, you don't eat! The implication to me is that a believer should get off his butt and work. But, what if he isn't able? What if he isn't functional whether by mental illness or some sort of substance abuse of his own making? At that point, I feel compelled to feed them.
Jesus never said to donate to the hungry. He did say to feed them. And love them, possibly one gallon baggie at a time.
Homeless With Beautiful Blue Eyes
A good friend is helping organize an outreach to Monroe's homeless population this weekend. Over the past few days we've bounced around all sorts of ideas for non-perishable food and personal items to include in "Survival Sacks" they'll be handing out. All this talk of the homeless brought back memories of when I had a homeless couple living in my van out back behind my building in Monroe.
Back then, I had a building directly on the river and next to the railroad bridge that crosses over to West Monroe. It was right in downtown Monroe. I lived in a loft apartment upstairs and had my business downstairs. My "yard" had lots of foot traffic with folks either crossing the railroad bridge or getting to the other side of the seawall. Quite a few homeless lived on the other side of the seawall when the water wasn't too high. For years, I'd given food packets to the homeless. Not wanting to enable any addiction, I couldn't give them money but was always ready to give them food.
As I saw it, I was called by my Lord to feed them. That meant either giving them food or taking them somewhere to eat. One or the other. Some of the regular homeless guys in downtown Monroe came back from time to time asking for more food. I could tell they were hungry and sincere. They were really appreciative, too.
Downtown Monroe at night isn't the safest place in Ouachita Parish. Even though I hadn't had any problems at my building, it was still creepy sometimes. One evening, just past sundown, I headed out to get a bite for supper. I parked my truck around back and headed out the shop door, out of view from the street. Maybe twenty five or thirty feet outside my shop door was my old Ford van. It was my hippie van from high school and college days, saved in hopes of swapping the engine and other stuff into a street rod. Stepping outside through the rear dock door, I saw a dark figure of someone stepping out of my van.
Crap!!!!
The van was supposed to be locked! I was unarmed and just a few feet away from a fairly large stranger getting out of my van. And it was getting dark. Just then, I heard a man's voice. "I'm not a bad man. I'm just down on my luck and need a place to stay."
Somewhat calmed but still a bit cautious, I moved closer as the guy stepped out of the van, introducing himself as Roger. He stood a couple of inches taller than me and was slender with dark, wavy hair. With a quiet voice, Roger told me he was working but just didn't have enough money for rent yet. I explained that I had just lost the building to bankruptcy and that I'd be moving soon, too. Back then I was running back and forth between Monroe and El Dorado taking care of my mother whose health had started to fail.
"Hey, in a way, I'm homeless, too!" I joked and we both laughed. "All I ask is that y'all keep an eye on the place when I'm gone. You're welcome to stay." It was fall and the nights had begun to get a bit chilly. I asked if he needed a blanket or anything. He said he'd be fine.
The next morning, I assembled a bigger than usual packet of non-perishable food... Vienna sausages, raisins, fruit cups, crackers, bottled water and moistened towelettes. Stuff like that. It felt funny knocking on the door to my own van, but Roger opened the door. I handed him the food and he said "We really appreciate it." We? Just then, he opened the other door and I met Crystal.
I'd seen her walking around downtown before, usually carrying a styrofoam box, the kind you get with take-out food, always coming from the direction of the Salvation Army and heading across the seawall. She appeared to be in her 40's, a bit plump with medium length blond hair. I'd always tried to make eye contact and wave but here eyes were always glued to the street a few feet in front of her.
She moved forward closer to the door and for the first time, I saw her beautiful blue eyes. She wasn't necessarily pretty but here eyes were piercing blue. Whoever named her Crystal pegged the name in describing her eyes. She thanked me for the food and then asked with deep compassion in her voice about my mother. I guess Roger had told her my story as well. We chatted a while and I headed on out for the day.
I'm still haunted by those beautiful blue eyes.
Roger and Crystal stayed in the van for a few months. We'd wave and exchange pleasantries as I'd see them coming and going. We never hung out or anything, but they really did take care of the place. In time, I guess he saved up enough to get a place of their own and they moved out of the van.
No longer were they just two homeless people. They were Roger and Crystal. And in a small way, they looked out for me and I looked out for them. Nice neighbors.
Back then, I had a building directly on the river and next to the railroad bridge that crosses over to West Monroe. It was right in downtown Monroe. I lived in a loft apartment upstairs and had my business downstairs. My "yard" had lots of foot traffic with folks either crossing the railroad bridge or getting to the other side of the seawall. Quite a few homeless lived on the other side of the seawall when the water wasn't too high. For years, I'd given food packets to the homeless. Not wanting to enable any addiction, I couldn't give them money but was always ready to give them food.
As I saw it, I was called by my Lord to feed them. That meant either giving them food or taking them somewhere to eat. One or the other. Some of the regular homeless guys in downtown Monroe came back from time to time asking for more food. I could tell they were hungry and sincere. They were really appreciative, too.
Downtown Monroe at night isn't the safest place in Ouachita Parish. Even though I hadn't had any problems at my building, it was still creepy sometimes. One evening, just past sundown, I headed out to get a bite for supper. I parked my truck around back and headed out the shop door, out of view from the street. Maybe twenty five or thirty feet outside my shop door was my old Ford van. It was my hippie van from high school and college days, saved in hopes of swapping the engine and other stuff into a street rod. Stepping outside through the rear dock door, I saw a dark figure of someone stepping out of my van.
Crap!!!!
The van was supposed to be locked! I was unarmed and just a few feet away from a fairly large stranger getting out of my van. And it was getting dark. Just then, I heard a man's voice. "I'm not a bad man. I'm just down on my luck and need a place to stay."
Somewhat calmed but still a bit cautious, I moved closer as the guy stepped out of the van, introducing himself as Roger. He stood a couple of inches taller than me and was slender with dark, wavy hair. With a quiet voice, Roger told me he was working but just didn't have enough money for rent yet. I explained that I had just lost the building to bankruptcy and that I'd be moving soon, too. Back then I was running back and forth between Monroe and El Dorado taking care of my mother whose health had started to fail.
"Hey, in a way, I'm homeless, too!" I joked and we both laughed. "All I ask is that y'all keep an eye on the place when I'm gone. You're welcome to stay." It was fall and the nights had begun to get a bit chilly. I asked if he needed a blanket or anything. He said he'd be fine.
The next morning, I assembled a bigger than usual packet of non-perishable food... Vienna sausages, raisins, fruit cups, crackers, bottled water and moistened towelettes. Stuff like that. It felt funny knocking on the door to my own van, but Roger opened the door. I handed him the food and he said "We really appreciate it." We? Just then, he opened the other door and I met Crystal.
I'd seen her walking around downtown before, usually carrying a styrofoam box, the kind you get with take-out food, always coming from the direction of the Salvation Army and heading across the seawall. She appeared to be in her 40's, a bit plump with medium length blond hair. I'd always tried to make eye contact and wave but here eyes were always glued to the street a few feet in front of her.
She moved forward closer to the door and for the first time, I saw her beautiful blue eyes. She wasn't necessarily pretty but here eyes were piercing blue. Whoever named her Crystal pegged the name in describing her eyes. She thanked me for the food and then asked with deep compassion in her voice about my mother. I guess Roger had told her my story as well. We chatted a while and I headed on out for the day.
I'm still haunted by those beautiful blue eyes.
Roger and Crystal stayed in the van for a few months. We'd wave and exchange pleasantries as I'd see them coming and going. We never hung out or anything, but they really did take care of the place. In time, I guess he saved up enough to get a place of their own and they moved out of the van.
No longer were they just two homeless people. They were Roger and Crystal. And in a small way, they looked out for me and I looked out for them. Nice neighbors.
We Built a House But Not a Home
Eighteen years ago this week, I was on my honeymoon. Today, that life seems a million miles away. I didn't get married until I was almost 35 and barely survived four years. Looking back, I'm still trying to learn from my mistakes and share them with you in hopes I can save you some heartache. Or, in the case of marriage and divorce... a lot of heartache.
I had a good life as a single guy. I owned a couple of businesses, had everything paid off including my home, office and warehouse, airplane, motorhome and a couple of trucks. Money wasn't what drove me though. Working hard was. Even more, spending quality time in an intimate relationship with my Lord meant everything to me. My office manager knew that if I didn't show up until 9:30 some mornings, it was because I was having an intense time in Bible study and worship out at my little cottage on the lake. I found out back then that I could get more done in five hours in an intimate walk with Him than what I could get done in twelve hours going on my own strength. Yes, it was a good life.
I always longed for a family, to have a partner and to build a life together. I married a widow with a 12 year old. Looked great going into the relationship. But, the picture changed real quick.
Discussing any of her issues is pointless. Actually, I think a lot about something I heard from one of her favorite counselors at her old church in Tennessee: "What is my sin in the situation?" The other person's stuff ain't my problem. I can only deal with my stuff.
Soon after we said "I do" I started dropping the ball. I was used to living alone and a quiet home where I could read and pray and worship whenever I wanted to. Moving in to a home with two others was a big change. And I simply never created a place in my new world to include private time for growing in my relationship with Him. Don't get me wrong, we went to church regularly. We were definitely a "Christian couple". No question about it. But most of the time I was doing it under my own strength. I yearned for a close relationship with my new family more than anything. Didn't happen.
Soon, the pressures of life started taking a toll on me. I had always traveled, typically a hundred nights a year. Not my idea of the life of a family man. So, I tried to diversify my business in not one but two ways. First, I started up a small business not at all related to my regular work. It was something I was interested in and something I needed as a business service. I was my own first customer. But, it took a lot of work and never really got off the ground. Second, I brought on a local salesman and expanded into some heavy industry type service work. My goal was to make money in the local market instead of bouncing all over North America and beyond. My overhead went through the roof and that hot shot salesman never sold enough to cover his draw on commission.
Meanwhile, I designed a new home for my lovely bride and stepdaughter. We tore down my one bedroom cottage on the lake and built a house four times larger. I served as the contractor. It was a lovely house. But it never was a home.
So, where did I go wrong? The biggest blunder as I see it was failing to maintain the intimacy I had once known with my heavenly Father. My prayer life went from passionate and sweet to shotgun prayers while driving to the office. Being still and knowing He was God (Ps. 46:10) was replaced with juggling a gazillion details, most of them demanding immediate attention. Soon, I was running on empty. No matter how much I wanted to be a good husband, I had very little to offer. Meanwhile, she was pretty needy. She had major surgery only a few months before our wedding and the recovery was a bit more intensive than either of us expected. She needed me and I wasn't there for her. I failed her.
Or, more accurately, I was there for her, but there was nothing inside.
I learned the hard way that I can't handle nearly as much as I thought I could. And more than anything, I learned that I really can do all things through Christ who strengthens me (Phil 4:13)... so long as I'm spending time with Him for the strengthening.
Will I ever find a partner for life? Will I ever say "I do" in front of family and friends? Maybe. Hopefully. But I can assure you one thing, I won't make that step unless I'm secure in an intimate, daily relationship with my heavenly Father. And, that I feel confident she and I can maintain that intimacy as a team. Not only maintain, I can do that on my own. To grow in Him while holding hands with another... that would be the stuff a future could be built upon. I could enjoy that!
Until then, I really like being able to pray whenever and wherever I want to. Frankly, I'm not even where I want to be in my spiritual life... yet. But, I'm heading in that direction.
I had a good life as a single guy. I owned a couple of businesses, had everything paid off including my home, office and warehouse, airplane, motorhome and a couple of trucks. Money wasn't what drove me though. Working hard was. Even more, spending quality time in an intimate relationship with my Lord meant everything to me. My office manager knew that if I didn't show up until 9:30 some mornings, it was because I was having an intense time in Bible study and worship out at my little cottage on the lake. I found out back then that I could get more done in five hours in an intimate walk with Him than what I could get done in twelve hours going on my own strength. Yes, it was a good life.
I always longed for a family, to have a partner and to build a life together. I married a widow with a 12 year old. Looked great going into the relationship. But, the picture changed real quick.
Discussing any of her issues is pointless. Actually, I think a lot about something I heard from one of her favorite counselors at her old church in Tennessee: "What is my sin in the situation?" The other person's stuff ain't my problem. I can only deal with my stuff.
Soon after we said "I do" I started dropping the ball. I was used to living alone and a quiet home where I could read and pray and worship whenever I wanted to. Moving in to a home with two others was a big change. And I simply never created a place in my new world to include private time for growing in my relationship with Him. Don't get me wrong, we went to church regularly. We were definitely a "Christian couple". No question about it. But most of the time I was doing it under my own strength. I yearned for a close relationship with my new family more than anything. Didn't happen.
Soon, the pressures of life started taking a toll on me. I had always traveled, typically a hundred nights a year. Not my idea of the life of a family man. So, I tried to diversify my business in not one but two ways. First, I started up a small business not at all related to my regular work. It was something I was interested in and something I needed as a business service. I was my own first customer. But, it took a lot of work and never really got off the ground. Second, I brought on a local salesman and expanded into some heavy industry type service work. My goal was to make money in the local market instead of bouncing all over North America and beyond. My overhead went through the roof and that hot shot salesman never sold enough to cover his draw on commission.
Meanwhile, I designed a new home for my lovely bride and stepdaughter. We tore down my one bedroom cottage on the lake and built a house four times larger. I served as the contractor. It was a lovely house. But it never was a home.
So, where did I go wrong? The biggest blunder as I see it was failing to maintain the intimacy I had once known with my heavenly Father. My prayer life went from passionate and sweet to shotgun prayers while driving to the office. Being still and knowing He was God (Ps. 46:10) was replaced with juggling a gazillion details, most of them demanding immediate attention. Soon, I was running on empty. No matter how much I wanted to be a good husband, I had very little to offer. Meanwhile, she was pretty needy. She had major surgery only a few months before our wedding and the recovery was a bit more intensive than either of us expected. She needed me and I wasn't there for her. I failed her.
Or, more accurately, I was there for her, but there was nothing inside.
I learned the hard way that I can't handle nearly as much as I thought I could. And more than anything, I learned that I really can do all things through Christ who strengthens me (Phil 4:13)... so long as I'm spending time with Him for the strengthening.
Will I ever find a partner for life? Will I ever say "I do" in front of family and friends? Maybe. Hopefully. But I can assure you one thing, I won't make that step unless I'm secure in an intimate, daily relationship with my heavenly Father. And, that I feel confident she and I can maintain that intimacy as a team. Not only maintain, I can do that on my own. To grow in Him while holding hands with another... that would be the stuff a future could be built upon. I could enjoy that!
Until then, I really like being able to pray whenever and wherever I want to. Frankly, I'm not even where I want to be in my spiritual life... yet. But, I'm heading in that direction.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Four Foot Vinyl Jesus
I visited a friend's apartment the other day, your typical one bedroom apartment, and noticed a four foot vinyl patch of floor right inside the front door. The apartment has wall to wall carpeting in all areas except for the kitchen, bathroom and this "entry area" by the front door. It got me to thinking about Rev. 3:20: "Behold I stand at the door and knock. If any man will hear my voice, I will come in and dine with him."
Jesus is a gentleman and I feel He only moves into areas where He is first invited. So, we hear a knock. And we open the door. But how far do we let Him into our homes?
Do we treat Him like the door to door salesman or the neighbor down the street? We may hear him on the front porch so frequently that we think we have invited him into our homes. We open the door and go out on the front porch to talk. We may even have a friendly conversation. But, have we invited him inside? Has he crossed the threshold into our home?
For others, we may truly invite Jesus into our lives but never let him get beyond that little vinyl patch. Is he technically in our lives? Yes. Does he have free reign? No. Is he really welcome? Yes, but with limitations. Our limitations. Our locked doors. He will only come inside as far as we invite him.
Let's go to the next level of inviting someone into our homes. Say we get a visit from an casual friend from church. Not a really good buddy but somewhat of a friend. Maybe even a new friend. In this case, we invite them into the living room. Look around the room. Everything in here stays nice and tidy. There may be a newspaper on the floor plus a few things out of place; but its generally presentable. We've got the Bible on the coffee table (though probably dusty) right under the remote controls for the TV, VCR, DVD and cable box. Generally, everything in this room stays pretty and "appropriate." Granted, you can have some good visits, maybe even share a laugh or two. But, we generally stay on our best behavior in this setting. We may get to know somebody on the surface but its not at any sort of level of intimacy.
Where do we go from here? How about being invited into the dining room for a home cooked meal? It is a natural progression of the preliminary living room experience. There seems to be enough substance for a relationship to move beyond nice, polite talk to move toward a sharing a meal together. At first, a meal with a new friend is limited to remembering our manners and generally behaving ourselves.
Before long, the walls start coming down. We relax enough to put our elbows on the table. We start to enjoy the company.
OK, so we shared a meal or two. No disasters yet. Generally acceptable behavior. Nothing weird. After a few times together we may even ask our new friend to help out in the kitchen. Now we are getting into "real relationship" territory… we feel close enough to ask for them to help. Granted, the 'help' may only be getting something out of the oven or setting the table. But, it is still growth for the relationship.
And, our meals may not be quite as fancy as the first ones. We are enjoying the company so much that we no longer feel the need to try to impress with our culinary skills. Take out pizza or a burger on the grill is enough as we move to a new level of intimacy. We even let them help out with the dishes. Hanging out together is the point, not the display on the table. Fellowship is getting sweet.
As a friendship grows, we will even ask them to help on special projects like building a deck or doing some remodeling. There is something special about working side by side with a friend… a special type of bonding. But, this is a real test of friendship. Are you going to ask anyone but a real friend to help you doing something that involves sweating in the summer sun? Not likely. Sometimes it is easier to just hire help to do something tough like moving or heavy landscaping. Only the tightest of friends would feel free to ask some one to work that hard for no pay beyond a nice meal. But to share an experience like this takes friendships to a decidedly deeper level.
Do we invite our new friends into all the rooms in our home? While they may get more and more free reign, there are usually a few areas where the doors stay shut. For some, it may be a spare room that acts as a "catch all" for everything that doesn't seem to fit elsewhere. For others, it may be a closet where we hide things that aren't acceptable for every one to see.
Few people are really good at housekeeping. As we go through the work week, it is easy to let a few things slip. But, most of us can kick in and do some quick cleaning to keep the house presentable. For some, though, it goes beyond being a little messy. For some, it is a real challenge. Sure, they can keep the front rooms pretty clean but no one is allowed to go through their rooms past a certain point. It may be their bedroom, a spare bedroom or "that" closet. Keeping the front of the house clean takes just about all the strength they have. The back of the house is neglected with a promise to get more organized "someday." But that someday never comes. It becomes more and more of a mess until cleaning it is well beyond our reach.
Their mess gets so bad they wouldn't even allow a close friend to help them clean it up. It's too shameful for them to even hire help to get it done. They are simply embarrassed that things have gotten that far out of control. Before long, it becomes a deep bondage without anybody to help. They are drowning in something of their own design. In time, the clutter can creep into more and more rooms until finally, no one is allowed inside. These people have become prisoners in their own homes. Maybe it is a defense mechanism. Maybe it is a sickness. Maybe they have been told they weren't any good at housekeeping. Whatever the case, they need help.
We can have lives like that as well. A little mess gets bigger and bigger until we turn around one day to realize we are all alone and ashamed to ask a friend for help. But, that is precisely the point where Jesus rolls up his sleeves and offers to dive in and help in the really tough stuff. We have to ask but he is ready and eager to help.
One of the neat things about Jesus' help is there is no shame. He took all that on the Cross. There is love and acceptance as we work with him toward health and restoration. Granted, it may take some time. The house didn't get cluttered overnight. It may take a while to get it back in order. But, we have a Lord who is patient and will work with us a lifetime if that is what it takes. He has a purpose and that purpose is restoration, peace and health.
My point is, Jesus longs to be the kind of intimate friend to us who would roll up His sleeves and do the dishes or help clean out the closet. He wants to be much closer than just a "living room friend" but only as we allow it. He's a gentleman and won't go anywhere without an invitation. Our invitation. Yes, it can be scary... but it's worth it.
I'm going to break this up into more than one part in order to make it a bit easier to take in. I hope you enjoy thinking of your relationship with Him as a house guest.
Jesus is a gentleman and I feel He only moves into areas where He is first invited. So, we hear a knock. And we open the door. But how far do we let Him into our homes?
Do we treat Him like the door to door salesman or the neighbor down the street? We may hear him on the front porch so frequently that we think we have invited him into our homes. We open the door and go out on the front porch to talk. We may even have a friendly conversation. But, have we invited him inside? Has he crossed the threshold into our home?
For others, we may truly invite Jesus into our lives but never let him get beyond that little vinyl patch. Is he technically in our lives? Yes. Does he have free reign? No. Is he really welcome? Yes, but with limitations. Our limitations. Our locked doors. He will only come inside as far as we invite him.
Let's go to the next level of inviting someone into our homes. Say we get a visit from an casual friend from church. Not a really good buddy but somewhat of a friend. Maybe even a new friend. In this case, we invite them into the living room. Look around the room. Everything in here stays nice and tidy. There may be a newspaper on the floor plus a few things out of place; but its generally presentable. We've got the Bible on the coffee table (though probably dusty) right under the remote controls for the TV, VCR, DVD and cable box. Generally, everything in this room stays pretty and "appropriate." Granted, you can have some good visits, maybe even share a laugh or two. But, we generally stay on our best behavior in this setting. We may get to know somebody on the surface but its not at any sort of level of intimacy.
Where do we go from here? How about being invited into the dining room for a home cooked meal? It is a natural progression of the preliminary living room experience. There seems to be enough substance for a relationship to move beyond nice, polite talk to move toward a sharing a meal together. At first, a meal with a new friend is limited to remembering our manners and generally behaving ourselves.
Before long, the walls start coming down. We relax enough to put our elbows on the table. We start to enjoy the company.
OK, so we shared a meal or two. No disasters yet. Generally acceptable behavior. Nothing weird. After a few times together we may even ask our new friend to help out in the kitchen. Now we are getting into "real relationship" territory… we feel close enough to ask for them to help. Granted, the 'help' may only be getting something out of the oven or setting the table. But, it is still growth for the relationship.
And, our meals may not be quite as fancy as the first ones. We are enjoying the company so much that we no longer feel the need to try to impress with our culinary skills. Take out pizza or a burger on the grill is enough as we move to a new level of intimacy. We even let them help out with the dishes. Hanging out together is the point, not the display on the table. Fellowship is getting sweet.
As a friendship grows, we will even ask them to help on special projects like building a deck or doing some remodeling. There is something special about working side by side with a friend… a special type of bonding. But, this is a real test of friendship. Are you going to ask anyone but a real friend to help you doing something that involves sweating in the summer sun? Not likely. Sometimes it is easier to just hire help to do something tough like moving or heavy landscaping. Only the tightest of friends would feel free to ask some one to work that hard for no pay beyond a nice meal. But to share an experience like this takes friendships to a decidedly deeper level.
Do we invite our new friends into all the rooms in our home? While they may get more and more free reign, there are usually a few areas where the doors stay shut. For some, it may be a spare room that acts as a "catch all" for everything that doesn't seem to fit elsewhere. For others, it may be a closet where we hide things that aren't acceptable for every one to see.
Few people are really good at housekeeping. As we go through the work week, it is easy to let a few things slip. But, most of us can kick in and do some quick cleaning to keep the house presentable. For some, though, it goes beyond being a little messy. For some, it is a real challenge. Sure, they can keep the front rooms pretty clean but no one is allowed to go through their rooms past a certain point. It may be their bedroom, a spare bedroom or "that" closet. Keeping the front of the house clean takes just about all the strength they have. The back of the house is neglected with a promise to get more organized "someday." But that someday never comes. It becomes more and more of a mess until cleaning it is well beyond our reach.
Their mess gets so bad they wouldn't even allow a close friend to help them clean it up. It's too shameful for them to even hire help to get it done. They are simply embarrassed that things have gotten that far out of control. Before long, it becomes a deep bondage without anybody to help. They are drowning in something of their own design. In time, the clutter can creep into more and more rooms until finally, no one is allowed inside. These people have become prisoners in their own homes. Maybe it is a defense mechanism. Maybe it is a sickness. Maybe they have been told they weren't any good at housekeeping. Whatever the case, they need help.
We can have lives like that as well. A little mess gets bigger and bigger until we turn around one day to realize we are all alone and ashamed to ask a friend for help. But, that is precisely the point where Jesus rolls up his sleeves and offers to dive in and help in the really tough stuff. We have to ask but he is ready and eager to help.
One of the neat things about Jesus' help is there is no shame. He took all that on the Cross. There is love and acceptance as we work with him toward health and restoration. Granted, it may take some time. The house didn't get cluttered overnight. It may take a while to get it back in order. But, we have a Lord who is patient and will work with us a lifetime if that is what it takes. He has a purpose and that purpose is restoration, peace and health.
My point is, Jesus longs to be the kind of intimate friend to us who would roll up His sleeves and do the dishes or help clean out the closet. He wants to be much closer than just a "living room friend" but only as we allow it. He's a gentleman and won't go anywhere without an invitation. Our invitation. Yes, it can be scary... but it's worth it.
I'm going to break this up into more than one part in order to make it a bit easier to take in. I hope you enjoy thinking of your relationship with Him as a house guest.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Snow and the Bitter Cold
Note: Originally written Feb 9, 2011
El Dorado has a nice blanket of fluffy white snow tonight. It's kind of pretty. What makes it really nice is that it didn't bring with it any ice and the lights are still on. Driving through the snow today I was reminded of my first trip up north. Waaaay up north. And I remembered cold like I'd never known before.
It was the winter of '82, maybe February. Dad and I had a cleaning project at a paper mill in Amos, Quebec, about four hundred miles north of Montreal. When we got there they were enjoying a heat wave. Yep, just a few days prior it had been 56 below zero. It had warmed all the way up to 30 below when we showed up.
The mill was actually out from town. There were no motels anywhere near so we stayed in the "man camp". These are temporary housing units set up for the duration of the construction project. Imagine a bunch of single-wide house trailers coupled together into a maze of halls. Our bedrooms were spartan, to say the least. Twin bed, plastic chair with chrome plated legs and that's it. No TV. No radio. Nothing. Tile floors, wood paneled walls. Not even a window. Oh, it did have a gray metal trash can.
The eating is good up in these man camps. They have to feed the workers well or else they may not stay! Years later, I worked up near Mackenzie, almost 600 miles north of Vancouver. Up there they told me the average construction worker gained something like 35 pounds working on these remote projects. Being that far from home, guys may not go home for months.
I remember feeling like the first day at college walking into the cafeteria. We didn't know our way around and no one knew us. Everybody looked around at the two new guys. We didn't look like the Canadians. For one, we were clean shaven. Everybody has beards that far north. Besides, there are no women. Who cares what they look like? And two, we wore "consultant clothes". Back in those days, superintendents and specialists like us wore slacks, not jeans. I still don't wear jeans at work very much.
Bored to tears, I remember walking to the TV room where a bunch of French-speaking construction workers were watching the only channel available... Canadian public TV. In French, of course. No one spoke English. No one! Going back to my room, I read my Bible for a while though it was hard to concentrate. It was Friday night (we worked weekends) and the guy next door had apparently been doing some hard drinking.
That's when I found out that throwing up in French sounds just like throwing up in English. Not a bit of difference.
It was maybe a hundred yards from the man camp to the paper machine building. Opening the door, the cold hit hard and we didn't waste any time getting from point A to point B. Once inside the paper machine room, it was a nice 70 degrees as we had specified. Our chemicals need at least that temperature, higher is better.
It was a brand new paper mill. That meant a lot of the equipment hadn't been started up yet, including the firefighting equipment. We were spraying a solvent, a combustible chemical. While it was hard to get our solvent to catch fire, if it ever did, it would burn pretty well. It was safer than diesel or kerosene, but still able to ignite. They had to bring fire hoses from outside the building. This meant the exterior doors were ajar by about four inches. In no time at all, ice grew up the hose about four or five feet. In the end, those doors were frozen closed.
The only other door was big enough for an 18-wheeler to drive through. Just imagine. Seventy degrees inside. Thirty below outside. That's a one hundred degree difference. Opening that big door pulled in a blast of cold air that was enough to knock you down, if not take away your breath. It was truly hard to breathe for a few seconds.
As it turned out, that project was a particularly tough one. We were removing a temporary coating from some big rolls. Unfortunately, they had heated the rolls with steam before we got there. It baked the coating onto the surface of the metal. It was burnt to a crisp. I think we worked for 30 hours straight on that project.
I had never worked through an interpreter before. That far up into Quebec, we only found one guy who could speak English. He did a great job translating, too. Unfortunately, he only had one leg so he climb the ladder to go inside the paper machine. It was on this project that I learned how to point in French. Since then, I've learned to point in five other languages as well.
At some point during the first day, a guy came up with a menu from a local cafe. They were going to bring meals in for us so we didn't have to shut down work to eat. I was hungry for a hamburger. I pointed at something and asked if it was a hamburger. The French-speaking construction worker agreed. Little did I know, he'd have agreed had I asked if it was a Volkswagen. I was hungry so I motioned that I wanted two. That's pretty universal... two fingers held up.
A little while later, our meals showed up. And, sure enough, I had two of them. What did I get? Half a baked chicken... in each box! As I recall, it was really good, though.
Hey, that was better than braving the cold and walking across to the dining hall!
El Dorado has a nice blanket of fluffy white snow tonight. It's kind of pretty. What makes it really nice is that it didn't bring with it any ice and the lights are still on. Driving through the snow today I was reminded of my first trip up north. Waaaay up north. And I remembered cold like I'd never known before.
It was the winter of '82, maybe February. Dad and I had a cleaning project at a paper mill in Amos, Quebec, about four hundred miles north of Montreal. When we got there they were enjoying a heat wave. Yep, just a few days prior it had been 56 below zero. It had warmed all the way up to 30 below when we showed up.
The mill was actually out from town. There were no motels anywhere near so we stayed in the "man camp". These are temporary housing units set up for the duration of the construction project. Imagine a bunch of single-wide house trailers coupled together into a maze of halls. Our bedrooms were spartan, to say the least. Twin bed, plastic chair with chrome plated legs and that's it. No TV. No radio. Nothing. Tile floors, wood paneled walls. Not even a window. Oh, it did have a gray metal trash can.
The eating is good up in these man camps. They have to feed the workers well or else they may not stay! Years later, I worked up near Mackenzie, almost 600 miles north of Vancouver. Up there they told me the average construction worker gained something like 35 pounds working on these remote projects. Being that far from home, guys may not go home for months.
I remember feeling like the first day at college walking into the cafeteria. We didn't know our way around and no one knew us. Everybody looked around at the two new guys. We didn't look like the Canadians. For one, we were clean shaven. Everybody has beards that far north. Besides, there are no women. Who cares what they look like? And two, we wore "consultant clothes". Back in those days, superintendents and specialists like us wore slacks, not jeans. I still don't wear jeans at work very much.
Bored to tears, I remember walking to the TV room where a bunch of French-speaking construction workers were watching the only channel available... Canadian public TV. In French, of course. No one spoke English. No one! Going back to my room, I read my Bible for a while though it was hard to concentrate. It was Friday night (we worked weekends) and the guy next door had apparently been doing some hard drinking.
That's when I found out that throwing up in French sounds just like throwing up in English. Not a bit of difference.
It was maybe a hundred yards from the man camp to the paper machine building. Opening the door, the cold hit hard and we didn't waste any time getting from point A to point B. Once inside the paper machine room, it was a nice 70 degrees as we had specified. Our chemicals need at least that temperature, higher is better.
It was a brand new paper mill. That meant a lot of the equipment hadn't been started up yet, including the firefighting equipment. We were spraying a solvent, a combustible chemical. While it was hard to get our solvent to catch fire, if it ever did, it would burn pretty well. It was safer than diesel or kerosene, but still able to ignite. They had to bring fire hoses from outside the building. This meant the exterior doors were ajar by about four inches. In no time at all, ice grew up the hose about four or five feet. In the end, those doors were frozen closed.
The only other door was big enough for an 18-wheeler to drive through. Just imagine. Seventy degrees inside. Thirty below outside. That's a one hundred degree difference. Opening that big door pulled in a blast of cold air that was enough to knock you down, if not take away your breath. It was truly hard to breathe for a few seconds.
As it turned out, that project was a particularly tough one. We were removing a temporary coating from some big rolls. Unfortunately, they had heated the rolls with steam before we got there. It baked the coating onto the surface of the metal. It was burnt to a crisp. I think we worked for 30 hours straight on that project.
I had never worked through an interpreter before. That far up into Quebec, we only found one guy who could speak English. He did a great job translating, too. Unfortunately, he only had one leg so he climb the ladder to go inside the paper machine. It was on this project that I learned how to point in French. Since then, I've learned to point in five other languages as well.
At some point during the first day, a guy came up with a menu from a local cafe. They were going to bring meals in for us so we didn't have to shut down work to eat. I was hungry for a hamburger. I pointed at something and asked if it was a hamburger. The French-speaking construction worker agreed. Little did I know, he'd have agreed had I asked if it was a Volkswagen. I was hungry so I motioned that I wanted two. That's pretty universal... two fingers held up.
A little while later, our meals showed up. And, sure enough, I had two of them. What did I get? Half a baked chicken... in each box! As I recall, it was really good, though.
Hey, that was better than braving the cold and walking across to the dining hall!
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