Rushing Forward Backwards

It’s been years since I last rode a train, but I recall one odd feature—some of the seats faced to the rear. Looking out the window I saw scenery flash by, a cow, a barn, a stand of trees. But I only saw each thing after the train had already passed it.

My reading in Soren Kierkegaard’s diary brought my train ride to mind when the theologian said, “Life must be lived forward, but understood backwards”.

Yesterday I spent hanging around with my son Johnny who drove down from Maryland for the holiday and for his sister’s wedding. I had not spent time with Johnny for years and we caught up on news and ideas as we talked all day. I found him to be a wise young man filled with insights and discernment as he demonstrated so much understanding of things that went on in the past.

I had forgotten many of the things that came up in our conversation especially when he drew me out about my own accomplishments in life. I knew I’d done stuff in the past, but somehow in the present, I tend to discount it. For instance, it was not till long in the evening that I remembered to mention that portions of my books have been translated into eleven languages. I knew that has happened but I discounted it as of little importance till Johnny asked about it.

Life must be lived forward but understood backwards.

If my keeping a journal for 35+ years has taught me nothing else, it’s taught me that I do not understand what is going on in my own life. Things I thought important one day, fizzle the next; things and people I wrote off as trivial, assumed major parts in my life—but like the cow, barn and trees I saw from the train, I only see that afterwards.

I think the Scripture hints that sometimes we do not know we have done the will of God till after we have done it. For instance, Paul told Timothy, “Some men's sins are open beforehand, going before to judgment; and some men they follow after .Likewise also the good works of some are manifest beforehand; and they that are otherwise cannot be hid”.

And the author of Hebrews said, “Cast not away therefore your confidence, which hath great recompense of reward. For ye have need of patience, that, after ye have done the will of God, ye might receive the promise”.

God calls on us to remember the former things. To look at what happened. At what we were. At what we wanted. At how we loved. At where we goofed—then turn around and move forward.

That’s the meaning of repentance—not wallowing in despair over past sin, but turning away from darkness towards the Light. If we continue to walk in darkness, that darkness is caused by our own shadow as we face away from the Light of Christ. If we turn around and move toward Him, can we see our shadow or any darkness at all?

Readers of the London Telegraph newspaper travel all over the world. Many of them snap photos of unusual signs seen in their travels and sent them to the newspaper where they get published about once a week at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/picturegalleries/signlanguage/ . Here’s one posted recently:

Makes perfect sense to me.

Know of a better definition of repentance?

We’ve all shown our behind at one time or another. Now it’s time to turn back.

As the Prophet Ezekiel wrote, “As I live, saith the Lord GOD, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live.

“Turn ye, turn ye from your evil ways; for why will ye die?”

My mother said I was a breech birth; I came into the world ass backwards from the word GO.

That may explain a lot of things.

Warships, Ferryboats, and Divine Guidance

Now that the Christmas holiday is over, I’m almost, but not quite, ready to go back to work writing that book about knowing and following God’s will.

I’ve worked on that book off and on for years and I’d hoped to finish my first draft back in November, but I had to put it on the back burner while Ginny and I celebrated our anniversary, then Thanksgiving, family birthdays, and Christmas kicked in and I’ve delayed going back to work.

Now, our youngest daughter is getting married on January first and I just got an e-mail asking that I pick up 35 rental chairs and deliver them to the wedding venue. That should tie up my logistics for about three more days. But after the wedding, God willing, I can get back to thinking about divine guidance.

Meanwhile, thoughts of warships and ferryboats nudge my thinking.

The fishing village of Mayport lies at the mouth of the St. Johns River about a dozen miles east of my home. From the time of the first European settlers in the 1500s, the mouth of the St. Johns has been regarded as strategic importance. The French build Fort Caroline there to keep the Spanish out of the river. The Spanish killed the French settlers and took over the mouth of the river. The English under General Oglethorpe pushed the Spanish back and established Fort George opposite Mayport.

During the Civil War, Confederate forces established forts at Yellow Bluff and at St. Johns Bluff to protect the river from yankee invaders—who took over both batteries and control of shipping in the river.

Eventually the federal government established the Mayport Naval Base, homeport for carrier groups where the USS Kennedy and the USS Saratoga each carried enough weaponry to destroy whole continents. Now, plans are in the works to expand the base to make it capable of supporting nuclear aircraft carriers and their accompanying battle groups.

Crossing back and forth between Fort George Island and the landing in Mayport is a ferry service connecting the two sections of US Highway A1A on the north and south banks of the river.. The name of the ferryboat is the Buccaneer –A1A down the Florida coast is known as the Buccaneer Trail.

What does all that have to do with divine guidance?

In the midst of holiday activities I’ve been reading bits and pieces in the 1845 diary of Danish theologian Søren Kierkegaard; Something he said sparked my thinking about Mayport.

Kierkegaard observed that the captain of a ferry boat knows exactly where he is going. He sails from Landing A to Landing B and back again. While variations in current, weather, and river traffic influence his movement, by and large, he travels a straight path from here to there.

In contrast, the captain of a warship does not get his orders till he is already on the high seas. He leaves port and takes up station somewhere in mid ocean. There he patrols that general area till he receives orders to proceed to such and such a place to attack or defend a specific target.

Kierkegaard says that we Christians are more like warships than ferryboats.

In general our orders are to “occupy till I come” so we range in our general assigned area till other orders come down from High Command. We seldom go straight back and forth between landings like ferryboats; but sometimes we do range around on the open ocean as though we had no purpose, no specific destination. We appear to be cruising aimlessly.

Not so.

Kierkegaard said, “What I really lack is to be clear in my mind what I am to do, not what I am to know, except in so far as a certain understanding must precede action”.

I’m finding that thought helpful, because to be honest, I feel as though I’m just floundering around out here in deep water.

Maybe that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Stones and Locks

The stone is sinking.

Christmas Eve I went to the cemetery to take my annual beating by my own memories.

I found my grandmother’s grave in good shape—for a grave that is. But the tombstone over my father and mother’s grave is sinking below ground level. Next week I’ll call the cemetery office to see how much it will cost to have it raised and leveled again.

I don’t know why I put myself through this ordeal every year. Just something I do. Must love guilt trips, I suppose.

The above cartoon, by David Farley at the site of Dr. Fun, speaks to me. I identify with it because most of my adult live I have worked alone on most holidays—as a long-distance truck driver, in the newsroom, at the old folks’ home, as a caregiver for terminally ill patients—all occupations needing individual attention by one man alone. God bless the poor bastards working alone as Christmas music plays over the company’s automated intercom system.

On a happier note, for this afternoon (Dec. 25^th) I’m all prepared, physically at least, for my annual patriarchal devotional talk at the family get-together. I’ve constructed all my silly little visuals for the talk. The kids asked that I do my “Ugliest Virgin” demonstration again this year.

Essentially my presentation is a one-man Christmas pageant in which I play all parts, including the Virgin—hence the title, The Ugliest Virgin. The high point comes when I demonstrate how to diaper a teddy bear amid clouds of baby powder.

After that tomfoolery, God willing, my serious focus this afternoon will turn to stones and locks:

God was locked out of Bethlehem’s inn; He came into our world anyhow, born in the inn’s parking garage.

He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not.

But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name:

Which were born , not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.

And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth.

That’s Christmas.

After Jesus rose from the dead the disciples had locked themselves securely in a safe-room fearing the same enemies who crucified Him. Jesus walked through the locked door into that room and spoke with Thomas:

The other disciples therefore said unto Thomas, “We have seen the Lord”.

But he said unto them, “Except I shall see in his hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will not believe”.

And after eight days again his disciples were within, and Thomas with them: then came Jesus, the doors being shut , and stood in the midst, and said , “Peace be unto you”.

Then saith He to Thomas, “Reach hither thy finger, and behold My hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into My side: and be not faithless, but believing”.

And Thomas answered and said unto Him, “My Lord and my God”.

Jesus saith unto him, “Thomas, because thou hast seen Me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen , and yet have believed”.

Of course, eight days before this, Jesus had already walked out of His sealed tomb. He could walk through locked doors and a sealed tomb because God is more solid than flimsy physical things like stone or locked doors. Our physical world is vapor compared to the substantial presence of God—think of yourself walking through the bathroom stream of your shower. The angel had rolled the tombstone away to let the women and disciples into the tomb to see it was empty, not to let Jesus out.

That’s Easter.

The third locked door of Christmas is a little different; it is the door of the human heart. God does not kick the door and stomp on in. He knocks on our locked door to gain entrance. He respects our wishes in the matter.

In the last book of the Bible Jesus says, “Behold , I stand at the door, and knock : if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me”.

That’s salvation.

If we refuse to open the door, He remains outside.

You can let Him in—it is your heart, after all—to your own eternal delight.

Or you can keep Him locked out—it is your heart, after all—to your own eternal regret.

Well, I wrote the above this morning… my presentation went ok.

The downside is that afterwards I learned that my daughter Eve had prepared a presentation she intended to give—but I hogged the show and she did not get to give the one she’d prepared. Bummer. I feel really bad about that; I’ve had that sort of thing happen to me and I know it hurts.

Johnny drove down from Maryland to celebrate with the rest of the family; great to see him again.

Patricia called. We will not see her and Clint till the day of the wedding next week.

Ginny gave me a pack of pipe cleaners for Christmas, much needed, and I gave her a calendar.

Somebody had a laptop at the party and everyone passed it around to read my blog entry for yesterday and got a laugh.

Oh yes, some of the kids made a video on that Ugly Virgin talk and are fixing it up to go on U-Tube; I’ll post a link if they do.

A Dirty Old Man’s Erotic Christmas Dream

All I know is that on Christmas Eve about midnight while I sat in the living room putting new batteries in my digital camera for Christmas photos, I heard this scratching sound in the chimney.

When I looked up, there she was crawling out of the fireplace. She wore a red teddy lined with white fur. It gaped at the front showing quite a lot of her.

Startled, I said, “Are you San… “

“His daughter,” she said. “I’m helping out this year”.

“Want some milk and cookies”?.

“No thanks,” she said. “I just flew in from Germany, my last stop in Europe. Now, I start here in Florida and work my way north. So, what do you want for Christmas? You have been a good boy, haven’t you John”?

She laughed as she said that.

Of course, I noticed that it wasn’t her round little belly that shook as she laughed.

Nice. Very nice.

She noticed my glance. “Naughty. Naughty,” she said.

“What is it that you want for Christmas?” she asked again.

Embolden, I said, “That fur-lined underwear you have on is mighty attractive. Think I might have it”?

Slipping a teasing finger under one spaghetti strap on her shoulder, she said, “So, you’d like my fur-lined undergarment? I’ve just left Castle Marksburg in Germany. And there I picked up a little something that’s just right for you”.

Quick as a flash, she went straight to her work. I saw that she certainly filled her stockings, but she said, “What a jerk”.

She whipped out a cloth something from deep in her bag, threw it around my shoulders, and strapped me in so tight I could hardly move.

“It’s a hair-shirt for repentance, straight from Castle Marksburg’s medieval torture chamber,” she said. “How’s that for fur-lined underwear, John? You dirty old man you”!

And laying her finger aside of her nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney she rose.

And I heard her exclaim, err she drove out of sight, “Not even in your dreams, Cowart. Not even in your dreams”.

I prickle. I itch.

Did you know that a hair-shirt does not have a zipper?

How do I get out of this thing?

A Christmas Reading

Now this is how Jesus the Messiah was born:

His mother, Mary, was engaged to be married to Joseph. But while she was still a virgin, she became pregnant by the Holy Spirit.

Joseph, her fiancé, being a just man, decided to break the engagement quietly, so as not to disgrace her publicly. As he considered this, he fell asleep, and an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream.

"Joseph, son of David," the angel said, "Do not be afraid to go ahead with your marriage to Mary. For the child within her has been conceived by the Holy Spirit. And she will have a Son, and you are to name Him Jesus, ^{Jesus means "The LORD saves."">}for He will save His people from their sins."

All of this happened to fulfill the Lord's message through His prophet: "Look! The virgin will conceive a child! She will give birth to a Son, and He will be called Immanuel (meaning, God is with us)."

When Joseph woke up, he did what the angel of the Lord commanded. He brought Mary home to be his wife, but she remained a virgin until her Son was born.

And Joseph named Him Jesus.

— Matthew 1:18-25 New Living Bible

What are your Christmas plans?

In 1947...

Last night Ginny and I warped presents.

Since I had about a hundred dollars to spend and 13 people I wanted to give gifts to, I did most of my shopping at a thrift store.

Shopping exhausts me. I gave out and had to stop—that reminded me of something that happened to my grandmother…

Back in 1947, my grandmother—her name was Matilda, but everyone called her Mam—went Christmas shopping at Cohen Brother’s, then Jacksonville’s finest department store.

The St. James Building, constructed by architect Henry Klutho, now houses Jacksonville’s City Hall, but back in 1947, Cohen’s occupied the building. The department store was famous for it’s animated Christmas windows and people made special trips downtown just to see their displays. Their candy shop offered chocolate-covered strawberries the size of coffee mugs! They had a bookstore which carried archaeology books. Ladies’ toiletries. Crystal. China. Mink stoles. A tea room. Cohen’s was a complete mall in one store…

And it even featured Jacksonville’s first escalator!

What a thrill.

So Mam had $50 for her Christmas shopping. That was big bucks back in those days, Fifty Dollars was.. She planned to shop in style at Cohen Brothers. She planed to buy presents for me and my brother, David. For my parents. For her sister, Grace, and her brother, Waverly. And for their children.

Mam wore her finest—stockings, heels, hat and gloves—back in those days a lady dressed to go shopping at Cohens. Gloves were mandatory for shoppers of Mam’s generation.

It was a hot December day in Florida. Temperature in the high 80s.

Mam rode the bus downtown to Hemming Park, in those days the bus terminal right across the street from Cohen’s.

She walked over to admire the animated display windows.

Did she ride the escalator up?

I don’t remember.

But Mam fainted inside the store.

Remember she was an old lady back then; she must have been at least 40.

But she fainted on the floor. The floorwalker called an ambulance. The medics checked her out. Just overheated.

They charged her $50 and put her in a taxi home.

Without a single present.

All her money spent.

As a seven-year-old kid, I didn’t understand why she was so upset.

Now I do.

OK. Now it’s time for a few more of those great David Farley Christmas cartoons from the site of Dr. Fun:

David Farley's Christmas Cartoons

Ever in quest of fine cartoons which reflect my own sense of refinement and good taste, I recently chanced upon the site of Dr. Fun and browsed through his archives to select a few examples of superior art which capture the true spirit of Christmas—or something.

Since I have nothing worthwhile saying at the moment, I hope to run a couple of David Farley’s cartoons this week:

I Knew Nothing About John Freeman Young

Last Sunday Ginny and I drove to Jacksonville Florida’s Old City Cemetery to visit the grave of John Freeman Young. Although I’d never even heard of the man before last week, I felt our visit made for an appropriate outing in this Christmas season.

Here’s a photo of Ginny at Young’s grave; notice the Christmas ornaments on the wreath:

Earlier in the week, while listening to a radio morning traffic report, I chanced to hear announcer Arthur Crofton say something about Young. That comment sparked my interest, so I did a bit of research and even read a biography of the man.

I’ve written two books about the history of my hometown so I was particularly surprised that I knew nothing about Young and his relationship with Christmas before.

In the late 1800s John Freeman Young served as the Episcopal Bishop of Florida. But that’s not his most notable accomplishment.

I think it odd that his biography tells about his labors as bishop but does not even mention the single aspect of his work that gained world-wide notoriety.

As an accomplished linguist proficient in several languages he translated a song from its original German into English. It’s a song you already know most of the words to—at least the first couple of verses. And I’ll bet that you and I will both be singing it within the next couple of days.

By translating the German-language "Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!" into the English as "Silent Night, Holy Night" John Young made a lasting Christmas gift to English-speaking people around the world. He published the song in 1859.

Here is a copy of the 1859 text of the first three verses—the ones you are likely to know—of his translation:

Yes, the man who translated Silent Night into English ministered right here in Jacksonville. And the wreaths placed on his grave in the Old City Cemetery each Christmas contain musical instruments as ornaments.

While most of us know those first three verses by heart—Silent Night is one of the most familiar hymns in the world—the last verses contain a deeper message in the song:

4. Silent Night, Holy Night
Here at last, healing light
From the heavenly kingdom sent,
Abundant grace for our intent.
Jesus, salvation for all.
Jesus, salvation for all.

5. Silent Night! Holy Night"
Sleeps the world in peace tonight.
God sends his Son to earth below
A Child from whom all blessings flow
Jesus, embraces mankind.
Jesus, embraces mankind.

6. Silent Night, Holy Night
Mindful of mankind's plight
The Lord in Heav'n on high decreed
From earthly woes we would be freed
Jesus, God's promise for peace.
Jesus, God's promise for peace.

Silent Night, a poem by Josheph Mohr, had been set to music and first sung on December 24, 1818, in St. Nicholas Church, Oberndorf, Austria. John Freeman Young heard the hymn and his English translation became one of the most popular and familiar of all English hymns.

A pdf copy of Bishop Young’s biography, Soldier And Servant, by Edgar Pennington can be read at http://www.archive.org/stream/johnfreemanyoung00penn#page/n3/mode/2up .

While Pennington’s 1939 biography contains much of interest to the Jacksonville history buff, it does not mention Young’s translation of Silent Night. In fact, while the biography dwells on the bishop’s church work, I felt disappointed that its diary excerpts contain little about his spiritual life.

Young, a native of Maine, began his ministry in Jacksonville in 1845, but moved to New York as the Civil War approached. Up north, he served at Trinity Church, Wall Street. It was while there he translated Silent Night among other hymns. After the war, in 1867, he returned to Jacksonville as bishop.

Tough. A yankee Episcopalian bishop in the war-torn South. One dilemma Young found was that unscrupulous yankee carpetbaggers had come to Jacksonville and taken advantage of recently freed slaves. These businessmen cheated the blacks out of real estate property and possessions. They even discouraged blacks from worship. One of the things Bishop Young did was to established several churches, such as St. Phillip’s, Jacksonville, as churches that welcomed blacks.

Bishop Young did that sort of thing all over the state. One of the more interesting portions of his diary tells how he spend three days and nights alone in a row boat, pushing it through shallow waters with a long pole, in order to visit congregations in a flooded area.

The war devastated Florida and the horrors of reconstruction left churches destitute.

Besides being a musician and linguist, Bishop Young, held an interest in architecture. He instituted the construction of a hallmark style of Florida church architecture known as Carpenter Gothic. Inexpensive local wood was used to form these distinctive church buildings, some of which survive to this day. Here is a photo of a typical example:

Bishop Young died of pneumonia in 1885. He was buried in Jacksonville’s Old City Cemetery. He is honored by a stained glass church window. The window gives no indication that he had anything to do with the famous hymn.

Nevertheless, I felt this Christmas season was an appropriate time to visit his grave:

Sleep in Heavenly peace, Bishop Young. Sleep in Heavenly peace.

What The Plumber Found

Yesterday I mentioned that my friend Wes brought a young man, Ted, to visit me for the first time. The three of us engaged in a running, free-range conversation as we went out for breakfast then returned to my house.

An incident Ted related fascinated me.

I may not have the details right because our bull session included topics as varied as work schedules, dangerous areas of the city, Bible translation and commentary, rectal exam jokes, Christmas Eve worship services, the sung fit of the waitress’ jeans, how to cook red-eye gravy, divine guidance, bosses without a clue—the typical fellowship conversation of Christian guys.

Remember what Jesus said—Whenever two or three of my guys sit around shooting the bull, I’m right there in the middle of ‘em.

So, I may have garbled details of Ted’s story but I think I heard the gist of it:

Not long ago Ted and a partner worked on an old house in Montana. An elderly woman owned the house. She had a sister who died some years ago.

The house’s old plumbing pipes needed replacing. That involved digging a trench under the house. After they had dug about two feet down, Ted and his co-worker uncovered a sealed packet which had been hidden away for years.

They unwrapped it and discovered that it contained an old diary written by the deceased sister of the homeowner. After work, they took it back to the motel they stayed at and both read it.

Ted says it contained two significant elements:

First, the sister who wrote the hidden diary detailed her promiscuous sexual encounters in vivid images; second, she vented great anger and bitterness against her family, especially the sister who now owns the home.

The diarist said nasty, hurtful, damaging things—dirty things best left hidden in the dirt.

Ted and his partner (whose name I’ve forgotten) debated what to do with the old diary. Ted felt they should keep or destroy it; his co-worker argued that it was the rightful property of the homeowner and they should return it to her.

They flipped a coin.

Next day they gave the woman her dead sister’s old diary.

At first she was delighted. She had not known it existed. But Ted said as she began to read, her face fell. Her eyes teared. The long buried words wounded her.

I wish I had access to that diary. Old diaries fascinate me. I’ve had a life-long thing about old diaries. They give the real-time experiences of ordinary people revealing their thoughts and dreams, the depths of their hearts. Seldom do they touch on “Great” historical events (When I edited and published Samuel Ward’s diary, I found he hardly even mentioned the Spanish Armada!)

I envy Ted the experience of finding a previously undiscovered diary.

But the opportunity for preserving that one is gone forever.

I have kept my own daily (almost) diary for going on 35 years. I frequently address entries to “The Kid In The Attic”, an imaginary teenager who may stumble across my diaries in a dusty cardboard box in his attic on some rainy day fifty or a hundred years from now. I want him to see what the Christian life is like in real-time for one ordinary guy at the turn of the 20^th Century. Maybe he will spot something that will encourage his own dedication to Christ.

But what about hurtful words?

Shouldn’t I clean up my act so I appear an ideal Christian?

No. If my life story is to be real, then I need to be real. I record me as I is. I hide little. I think Christ can stand the test of reality.

I’ve asked my children not to read my diary till after Ginny and I are dead (Save all concerned some embarrassment). And I’ve urged them to never read less than 50 pages at a time. That’s because if they opened to some random page on a day when I happened to be pissed at them, I don’t want them to ever think that is my whole attitude towards them. My peeves pass daily.

Oddly enough, Ginny seldom reads my diary—she sees enough of me in real-time. She knows what I am better than anybody, she doesn’t feel a need to read about it. Of course, my diaries have always been open to her. I’m a glass guy. I intend to live and be transparent.

I want people to see through me to Christ.

In my opinion more people should keep diaries. You know, I know virtually nothing about my own parents. For instance my father lived in the same house all my life. He went to work in the foundry every morning, came home, ate supper, fell asleep in his chair, went to work next day, went fishing some weekends, was once an Eagle Scout…

I have no idea what he thought, what he dreamed, who he loved, what he hated, what he wanted in life. We lived in the same house all my childhood, yet I know virtually nothing about the man.

Even if he’d left hurtful words written somewhere, he would not be such a stranger to me.

Another thought I had about Ted’s experience is what the Jesus said about buried, secret things: “For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid, that shall not be known and come abroad”.

In another place He said, “There is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known. Therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops”.

St. Paul said something similar, he told Timothy, “Some men's sins are open beforehand, going before to judgment; and some men they follow after .Likewise also the good works of some are manifest beforehand; and they that are otherwise cannot be hid” .

Yeap, good or bad, what we are, what we do, how we live—whether we write it down or not—can not be hidden away out of God’s sight.

Someday a plumber will come digging.

Searching For Lights

For the past several years Ginny and I hardly decorated for Christmas at all, but a couple of weeks ago she decided she wanted to put up a tree this year. That meant digging through 40+ years of boxes of decorations we’ve been collecting throughout our marriage to find the specific ones she wanted.

Therefore, our tree sat barren and undecorated in our living room for several days while I hunted the lights—not just any old lights. Ginny envisioned our tree shining with a specific string of lights, one shaped like tiny old-fashioned oil lamps.

This string of lamps originally decorated my mother’s Christmas tree about 50 years ago. After Mama died, we ended up with this string of lights.

Where are they now?

We had to put lights on the tree before we added ornaments.

Oh, the joys of Christmas. My face full of spider webs from pulling down sealed cartons from high on the washroom shelves. The taste of dust from front and back closets as I lifted more boxes down…. Here’s that present I meant to give that kid last year, but I didn’t see him till August and by then I’d forgotten.

Six. Eight. Ten boxes of decorations from when we used to put up floor-to-ceiling Christmas trees. Decorations we bought. Ornaments the kids made when they were little. Santa figures friends gave us years ago. A bust of Caesar Augustus, in his day the most powerful man on earth, more famous than Michael Jackson and Tiger Woods combined, now he’s just a convenient peg for dating the birth of Christ.

But, no lights. No where.

Nothing left to do but bring the ladder into the house and search the attic. There are another six or eight sealed cartons of old Christmas stuff stored up there.

As I put on my shoes to go outside to get the ladder, Ginny said, “Just a second, John. I want to check something”.

Sure enough, she found the lights hidden underneath some Santa beards in one of the first cartons we’d pulled out.

Good.

She plugged in the string to test the lights.

One brilliant flash .

Then darkness.

At that, I said some traditional season’s greetings.

Now, this old string was wired in series? Parallel? I forget which is which—the kind of old wiring that when one bulb goes out, they all go dark.

Nothing to do but test each little bulb one at a time—assuming that I was testing with a bulb that works in the first place.

The test bulb may have worked, or it may not have—end result, the lights stayed out.

After having searched for the lights for two and a half days, the next day, Ginny and I bought a new string of lights for pocket change…

Must be some deep spiritual lesson here somewhere.

Once our festive tree was up, in the true spirit of the season, Ginny and I watched a Godzilla movie.

As I’ve been thinking about searching for the lights, I remembered how in my younger days I boasted about being a Seeker after light—saying I was a seeker sounded so much better than admitting I was a sneaky sinning snot.

But, God turns the tables.

O, I’d see a flash of light now and then in my spiritual quest and I’d think I was on the right track—light on my terms.

But I was not seeking Light—I was evading it.

In reality, Light seeks men, we rarely seek Him.

Picture a criminal climbing over the prison wall in the dark of night. The last thing he wants is for the searchlight to spot him. And that’s just the mental image I get when reading the Apostle John’s account of Christ coming into the world:

“In Him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not….

(Jesus) “was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world….

“And this is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil”.

I’ve been going through a thing about an evil deed recently.

There’s something I want to do that God does not outright forbid; the Bible just says that to do it is a shame.

That gives me some wiggle-room…Or does it?

That’s the thing about Jesus.

He gives more light than I want.

On a happier note, early this morning I saw a photo that greatly pleased me.

It’s on The Far Side Of The Sea blog in Norway at http://felisol.blogspot.com/ .

The photo shows a Youle-nisse, that’s a sort of happy Norwegian Christmas elf. The one pictured at the library desk is reading a copy of Glog, a book I wrote!

Felisol, Thanks. I was so surprised to see my book displayed amid your sparking decorations. Gave me a lift! Your photo made my day.

This morning my friend Wes brought someone to visit me for the first time. The young man faces two job opportunities: one in Iraq, the other in a gambling casino out west. Serving in either place is sure to challenge his Christian life.

Christmas In A Little Tin Box

After three phone calls—and close to three hours talking with customer support—AT&T finally restored my internet connection.

Left me exhausted!

I browsed back over my files from last year to see what special Christmas post I’d offered and found a video film clip my youngest son made of me playing with a little tin box. The film only takes five minutes to watch but it takes a long time to buffer.

The link to my debut as a movie star is at http://www.blip.tv/file/1572083/ or at http://cowartvideo.blip.tv/

Pop some corn and watch—on second thought, there’s already enough corn in my performance.

I had fun with the movie. Hope you do too.

computer problems today: Nothing loads right

Newspaper clipping about Jacksonville’s Bible Lady:

I was all set to write about me this morning, but this clipping from today’s Florida Times-Union by Jim Schoettler is more important. I never met Mrs. Jarvis, but I think we would have understood each other.

Sarah (L) and Jefferson Jarvis (R) flank their grandson Kenneth Justice Barrow
at his Terry Parker High graduation.

Jacksonville's Bible Lady killed in accident: Sarah Jarvis preached for Jesus on the streets of East Arlington for 22 years

Sarah Jarvis is home.

After witnessing for Jesus on the streets of East Arlington for 22 years, the neighborhood fixture known as The Bible Lady died Monday after being struck by a truck.

The accident occurred as Jarvis walked across Mount Pleasant Road about dawn, Jacksonville police said. Witnesses said the driver had a green light and tried to brake before hitting Jarvis, 73, tossing her and her Bible into the street. The driver knew Jarvis from her walks and was distraught, a friend said.

Jarvis was hit near one of several school bus stops she visited daily with Bible open, reminding youths about prayer and staying in school. Those students fondly remembered Jarvis as they stood across from a makeshift memorial Wednesday.

“I never knew somebody who believed in God so much that they would just come up to people they didn’t know and talk to them,” said Hannah Adamec, 12, who attends Landmark Middle School. “Everybody in the community knew her.”

Jarvis’ subtle preaching touched generations. Adamec’s mother, Amanda, said she remembers listening to her as a first-grade student at Sable Palms Elementary.

“She’d come to the bus stop every morning to let us know how important it was to make sure we did the right things in life and looked out for people around you,” said Amanda Adamec, 27. “She was just a gold-hearted soul.”

Most area residents knew Jarvis only by sight, but admired her determination and devotion. She spent every morning but Sunday, rain or shine, walking on or near McCormick and Mount Pleasant roads reading her bible. She always wore a hat with a JESUS pin stuck to it and carried an umbrella.

Jarvis would occasionally bless vehicles as they passed. Every Sunday after church she’d sit in a lawn chair at a neighborhood bus stop and read her Bible. She also held Bible studies in her Spanish Point home and comforted neighbors in need, including a man who recently lost his wife.

Though gone only a few days, Jarvis’ absence has shaken her neighbors. Some called her the community’s guardian angel.

“You miss seeing her,” said Katie Fulton, 27, who lives across from where Jarvis was hit. “It’s a normal routine.”

Jarvis was a native of the Caribbean island of Montserrat, said Jefferson Jarvis, her husband of 53 years. The retired postman said the couple was living in New York 26 years ago when his wife gave up partying for preaching. He said she simply picked up a Bible one day and began to witness in the streets and hospitals.

Jarvis, 78, said his wife was on a lifetime mission to better people’s lives.

“She spoke to God. God spoke to her. Who am I to interfere?” he said.

Jarvis said his wife continued walking when the couple moved to East Arlington with their three children in 1987. He said she’d leave the home by 5:30 a.m. and would stay out three or four hours, greeting friends and strangers over several miles.

“It didn’t matter if the person was a saved person or a lost person. She wanted to reacquaint them with what she felt in her heart,” her husband said.

Upon returning home, Jarvis spent much of her day going from room to room reading individual Bibles and praying. She had few other interests, her husband said.

A few hours before her death, Jarvis said he watched his wife turn and smile as she headed out the door. He said he’ll never forget how she seemed to glow with love for him and for God.

And then she began her trip home.

Services
A visitation for Sarah Jarvis will be from 6 to 8 p.m. Thursday at the Monument Point Fellowship church, 13720 Mount Pleasant Road, Jacksonville. A Celebration of Life for Jarvis will be Friday at 11 a.m. at the church. The public is welcome to both events. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to World Harvest Missions, 3357 Pinehurst Drive, Lake Worth, FL, 33467.

Gone To The Dogs

Just as I started work Monday, my friend Barbara White called inviting me to lunch. Ever diligent in looking for any excuse to avoid writing, I quickly agreed to go.

At the Silver Star, a favorite Chinese restaurant, Barbara told me about the sense of contentment she’s found after the last of her cancer chemotherapy treatments. Initially, she felt that since she’s apparently been granted more days to live, she ought to work harder at achieving something significant.

But she said, “Recently, I’ve realized that it’s ok to be insignificant”

As she prayed about what to do with the rest of her days, she said that a sense of calmness, peace and deep-seated contentment came over her as she realized that she did not need to do anything to gain God’s approval.

“When I was a girl, about 13,” she said, “I realized that God loves me. That’s never changed. And I hadn’t done anything to please Him then. It was His grace. That hasn’t changed either”.

The love of God is commended toward us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

“We don’t have to be important, to be important to Him,” she said.

As her sense of contentment and peace grows, Barbara says she is letting go of many attitudes and activities once important to her. These things are just drifting away. No feeling of giving them up. They are just not important to her anymore.

Her focus for years has been on simply knowing Jesus and being in His presence; that element of her life continues to grow and grow.

I suggested that people are like dogs.

A dog loves nothing better than to be with his master no matter what the activity. A dog loves to ride in the car with head out the window, earls flapping in the breeze. But he’s just as content to chase sticks. Or to lay on the floor with his head resting on your slippers while you read.

He needs to do nothing else to be a perfect dog.

Barbara said, “John, I like your analogy, but it’s only true if that dog has a home”.

Months ago, I thought of giving my diary this year the title, A Dirty Old Man Goes To The Dogs… I had in mind Francis Thompson’s poem The Hound of Heaven: it’s about how we run away from God, away from Home,

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

  I fled Him, down the arches of the years;

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

  Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears

I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

Few things are sadder than a dog without a home, without a master. Poor mutt, coat unkempt, ribs showing, ranges back and forth across the highway dodging cars.

Bewildered.

Homeless.

Fearful.

Lost.

And, there is a dogcatcher on the prowl.

Fear not, Puppy. The whole message of Christmas is that your Owner has come looking for you. Your picture and name, He’s posted on every telephone post in town. He came into this world to seek and to save the lost.

The eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to shew Himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect toward Him.

No sooner than this picture entered my mind, than I remembered the refrain of Will L. Thompson’s (not the same guy who wrote Hound of Heaven) 1880 hymn Softly And Tenderly Jesus Is Calling:

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,
Calling for you and for me;
See, on the portals He’s waiting and watching,
Watching for you and for me.

Come home, come home,
You who are weary, come home;
Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,
Calling, O sinner, come home!

After lunch, Barbara drove me over to Hall’s Nursery where I bought a live Christmas tree in a big black pot, and two poinsettias.

The Mouse In The Can

Today marks the 68^th Anniversary of the japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941 when they started America’s involvement in World War II. Historians say that 418,500 Americans died over the next four years. The National Archives maintains an honor roll of their names at http://www.archives.gov/research/arc/ww2/ . The dates of August 6^th and August 9^th, 1945, mark the end of Japanese involvement in that war.

Sunday Ginny and I enjoyed lunch at Crabby Ben’s, a favorite seafood place.

Waiting for our order, we observed a seascape picture on the wall and a pelican on a pilling ornament outside our window. These decorations got us to talking about nautical things and Ginny reminded me of a bit of devilment I got into years ago.

Yes, although I carry the reputation of a serious, solemn Christian gentleman, at heart I’m a prankish wag.

During the 1980s I worked at the Florida Times-Union as a sort of mail clerk who could be blamed for a lot of things that can go wrong at a newspaper. Knowing I was a Christian, editors and reporters alike teased me by calling me a rabid fundamentalist. I accepted the nickname and used Rabid Fundamentalist as my computer screen name.

At the time, the nine-day wonder news story in Jacksonville involved a man trying to get money from the Coca-Cola company; he claimed to have gotten sick and traumatized when he found a dead mouse inside his can of the soft drink.

Let’s just say the plaintiff’s name was GWPM NCCN.

The Coca-Cola company wheeled out a cadre of lawyers. Their public relations department issued detailed explanations of the bottling process proving that no mouse could ever get in a Coke can at the plant.

GWPM NCCN insisted the touch of dead mouse on his lip as he sipped from the can had ruined him for life and he wanted a cash settlement.

Coke brought in the full CSI Team—independent labs, scientists, forensic pathologists and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew—who performed a detailed autopsy on the dead mouse proving it had not drown in Coca-Cola.

For weeks the newspaper carried almost daily updates on the story. Locally, GWPM NCCN became as famous as Michael Jackson.

Finally, under the pressure of scientific evidence, GWPM NCCN confessed that he had stuffed the dead mouse in the can of Coke himself. He was brought up on charges of product tampering, attempted extortion, fraud, and Lord knows what else.

What does this have to do with me?

Ever notice my avatar, that small photo of me in my website sidebar? It’s a photo of me building a ship in a bottle, one of my hobbies in my younger days when my eyes were stronger:

Well, one Christmas CSX Railroad, the company that owned the newspaper back then, sponsored a craft contest for employees. They set up a big display in the Times-Union lobby.

I can do crafts.

On one side of my exhibit space I displayed a schooner in a bottle—constructed by John W. Cowart, the Rabid Fundamentalist.

For the other side of my exhibit space, I fabricated the forecastle, bowsprit, dolphin striker, rigging, anchors, and jibs of a tiny clipper ship. And I inserted it in a Coca-Cola can so the foreparts of my little ship were visible jutting out the little triangular opening.

I labeled the plaque for my exhibit:

Three-mast Clipper Ship In Full Sail—constructed by GWPM NCCN.

The judges, reporters and editors just about choked laughing—and I won a blue ribbon.

I Forget Little Things

It was either in St. Augustine, Florida, or in Little America, Wyoming, or in Pickle Gap, Arkansas—I forget which place—that we bought the unique razorback hog refrigerator magnet Ginny asked me about yesterday.

Her doctor gave her a vitamin D supplement to increase her energy level and it must have kicked in yesterday because she decided to rearrange furniture beginning with the magnets on the refrigerator and progressing to the attic. Dr. Woody should have given that vitamin to me instead!

Anyhow, when she asked me about the boar’s head with glaring red eyes and white foaming tusks, I’ve forgotten where we picked up that lovely work of art.

Having no taste in fine art, Ginny put it in the go-box.

She also asked me where I put a cork board she wanted to use for a Christmas display at her office; I either stored it in a closet, or sold it in a yard sale, or gave it to some kid, or put it in the garden shed—I forget what I did with it.

Back in September, I forgot our youngest daughter’s birthday.

Just plain forgot.

Forgetting is nothing new with me. When I was a boy, my mother used to say, "Johnny, you'd forget your own behind if it wasn't nailed on". But my forgetting seems to be getting worse now that I'm past 70.

Yesterday Ginny also wanted to know what I did with our Christmas tree stand?

Have you seen it?

Me neither.

Today I need to get the ladder and climb up into the attic to see if it’s up there. We haven’t put up a tree for the last two or three years and I’ve forgotten where I put the stand.

I’m forgetting a lot of things recently. Trouble is, I forget the wrong things. I vividly remember slights and grudges and faux pas and sins and mistakes I’ve made in the past—those things well up in my mind all the time; but I forget little everyday things.

Like cancer.

Yes, Friday Ginny and I went to the office of Jim Love, our State Farm Insurance agent. We spent two hours in a delightful conversation about insurance and Jacksonville history. He’s just returned from taking his family to see the Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York and one of his sons begins training as a firefighter next week. So, since I’ve written a history of firefighting in Jacksonville, we had all sorts of good things to talk about besides insurance.

But, when we did talk about life insurance on me and filled out all the blanks on the application (including the questions about my medical condition) and we were all set to sign on the bottom lime, I suddenly remembered that I happen to have prostate cancer.—which renders me uninsurable.

I’d forgotten.

I think Mr. Love was shocked.

How could a man forget he has cancer?

I felt like a fool.

How could I have forgotten a little thing like that?

Here I’d just been telling him all sorts of details about a local plane crash that happened during World War II. That , I remembered. But I’d forgot my own prostate cancer. What kind of warped mind works like that?

We tore up that insurance application and our conversation continued along other lines talking about more important things.

St. Paul once said, “This one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus”.

I need to commit that verse to memory.

I’m going to do it right now!

I’ve just read it, so I’ll just close my eyes and say it from memory:

“Forgetting my behind… I press forward….”

A Writer's Wife

Both Ginny and I are a trifle deaf; this makes for some interesting conversations.

The other night as she made a Christmas list of people to send cards or to buy for, I asked, “Are you listing individuals or couples”?

“Combining husbands and wives,” she said.

“Well, we know some folks who live together but are not married, as well as some homosexual couples, so your card could say—To You And Your Significant Other”.

“I hate that term, Significant Other. It sounds so cold”.

“Well,” I said, “You could address the card to Cohabiting Units”.

Ginny paused a moment with the eraser of her pencil tapping her teeth, then said, “I didn’t know we even knew any Eunuchs”.

See what I mean about interesting conversations?

Last Tuesday, my friend Wes treated me to breakfast at someplace that isn’t Dave’s. In the course of our conversation, he remarked, “John, your wife is the best thing that ever happened to you”.

I hardily agree.

Ginny did something particularly nice for me that very afternoon—she brought me a book, the latest Stephen King novel, Under The Dome.

Back in April or May, when Ginny first heard the new King novel was coming out, she reserved a copy to give me. At that time, my name was number 89 on the list. But Tuesday, when she heard my copy had arrived, she took off work at lunch to pick it up and bring it home to me.

She hardly ever reads Stephen King herself, but she knows my great admiration of his skill as a storyteller, writer, and craftsman, so she went to a lot of trouble to get this 1,074-page book for me. So far I’ve only read the first 484 pages, so I can’t say how the book will meet my expectations because I think Stephen King is…

But, this is not about him, but about her.

From the word GO! Ginny has supported me 100% as I’ve pursued my career as a writer for the past 35 years. We’ve especially set goals and planed to be able to do exactly what we are doing today. We are very deliberate persons.

I wrote my first magazine article because I suddenly lost a job I’d held for eight years. At the time I raised mosquitoes for test purposes for the local mosquito control board. As everyone knows, a man who knows how to grow mosquitoes can write his own ticket in the job market.

Well, not exactly.

I could not find work of any kind.

Our money ran out.

We faced starvation.

As we prayed about our own dire situation, we realized that other people might be in the same boat. So, I wrote an article about coping with unemployment as a Christian. Wrote it with a pencil in longhand on a yellow legal pad. Ginny typed it for me.

Problem was, I did not have money enough to buy stamps to mail it to a magazine.

Ginny believed in me.

When she was a little girl, Ginny had collected postage stamps.

She dug into the back of the closet and pulled out her old stamp album. She peeled out mint, uncanceled, stamps. We mailed my fledging first attempt at writing using 25-year-old stamps from her girlhood collection.

That article sold, but not for much. So I began writing articles about coping with poverty.

That’s how I got started.

And that’s a tiny part of what Ginny did to help me get started.

I know little about Stephen King’s career or his personal life other than what I read in press releases. I imagine that as America’s best-selling author, he is blessed with a fortune. I just pray the poor guy is also blessed with such a wife.

Beware The Yellow-Crested Night Heron

Back when we were poor, each night I walked to a dock on the Ribault River and cast a net all night to catch enough shrimp to feed my family the next day.

Yes, I lived as a food-gatherer in our high-tech society.

But, we survived.

Back then, I often saw different species of waterfowl lingering over the marshgrass hunting food just like I was. In the small hours of the morning, mist rose off the dark waters and I’d hear the grunt of gators seeking mates or prey. On full-moon nights, the mist glowed with haunting beauty and no soul in the world seemed alive except me and the herons.

Yesterday in a pity party as I licked my wounds feeling sorry for myself and regretting my failure as a writer , I thought about those birds—the Great Blue Heron, the Tri-colored Heron, and the Yellow-Crested Night Heron.

One night as I pulled in my net, I glanced toward shore to see a huge Great Blue Heron standing majestically in the shallows. I’m 5 foot, 11, and this silent bird stood a good six or eight inches taller than I am. It was the largest bird I’ve ever seen. The sight of this king of birds awed me. Perhaps as a Christian I shouldn’t admit this, but I felt strongly tempted to worship the creature.

The Great Blue Heron hunts passively. That is. the bird stands perfectly still in the shallow water watching for an unsuspecting fish, shrimp or crab to venture close. When one does, the heron snaps him up.

On the other hand, the Tri-colored Heron hunts actively and aggressively. No patient waiting for prey for him. No, he runs through the shallows squawking, splashing, flapping his wings as he runs. The commotion scares schools of fish into fleeing near the surface. And when they do, the Tri-Colored Heron gobbles them up.

Often as I cast my net, a Yellow-Crested Night Heron accompanied me. This thief crowed against my legs waiting for me to pull in my net so he could snatch shrimp out of the mesh before I could pick them up myself. I’d have to shove him out of the way to harvest my own catch and he appeared quite indignant at my interference. Of course, when I brought in a netfull of pogies, small trash-fish, I’d throw the old Mafioso a couple as an extortion tithe for doing business in his domain.

I’ve been mulling over my encounter with the Butterfly Girls on Monday. They really pointed up my failure and the uselessness of my work—if you can call it work. Dabbling at writing may be a more appropriate term.

I go through such depressed mulling about my life and work often. And as I enjoy my wallow in self-pity I always eventually conclude the same thing: I do what I do because I do it.

But thinking about book sales made me remember the three types of Herons.

I am a lazy passive hunter like the blue heron. I stand still as a statue waiting for some reader to venture close and buy one of my books.

The Butterfly Girls resemble the Tri-Colored Heron—splashing and running and creating a commotion to scare up business.

There exists a thriving industry of cheaters who make their living preying on unwary writers. They resemble thieving yellow-crested night herons lurking to snatch away what you have legitimately caught

I am not sure the ladies heard anything I said the other day, but I did advise them to consult the Writer Beware website at http://www.sfwa.org/for-authors/writer-beware/ . A Google search for Writers Beware brings up a host of related or similar sites.

Writer Beware tells about various scams instituted by scurrilous companies and individuals that pretend to help writers, but only cheat and steal. These vicious predators have discouraged many a new writer and chewed up his dreams. They not only take the money but suck dry the soul.

So, I may not be much of a writer or book salesman myself—I’m just one voice crying in the wilderness, “Prepare ye the way of the Lord”.

But, at least I can warn other writers: Beware The Yellowed-Crested Night Heron.

The Butterfly Girls

Ever encounter a puppy delirious with the sheer joy of seeing you?

The puppy will bark and quiver and roll on the floor and wag and wiggle and bark and leap on you and express utter exuberance just because you are there.

The three young women who visited my home Monday morning reminded me of a trio of such happy puppies. The enthusiastic girls plan to start their own publishing company, Butterfly Books, they hope to have it up and running by mid July, and they’d come to see me to explain their project and ask about the process of publishing startup.

Here’s a picture of their initial logo:

Apparently, Julie, Patsy and Helen, my daughter in law, came to see me solely because I’m Donald’s father. All attend the same church. When they realized that I’ve written some stuff, they got the idea I might be of some use.

Good Heavens but they’re a peppy crew!

They bubbled and gushed and talked over one another, caught up in the pleasure of talking about their project. They envision an initial press run of 2,000 copies and speaking tours and book signings and tv appearances and spreading their message all over the country.

And their message is important.

These young women have suffered, endured and survived the devastating circumstances endemic to young women of our generation. Their testimonies will resonate with thousands of other girls overwhelmed by choice and circumstance. Abused, violated and abandoned, the authors these women have collected to work with them range from a pastor’s wife, a former exotic dancer, a formidable career woman, a wealthy socialite—all sharing the joy of deliverance and new life through the mercy of Jesus Christ.

Peppy. Peppy. Peppy—walking and leaping and praising God.

That’s them.

And then there’s me.

John Cowart, human manatee. Propeller scars on my back. Here in Florida, the waters abound with manatees, sometimes called sea cows. The fat, sluggish vegetarians have no natural enemies but speedboats. The slow creatures cruise just below the surface and boats run over them chewing propeller slashes in their backs. Naturalists identify individual manatees by the pattern of propeller scars on the animals’ backs.

So here I am. Minding my own business. Not bothering anybody. Moseying along at my own speed. I starts slow, then I tapers off… Then here come Christian ladies on jet skis. Wildly enthusiastic about Jesus, about deliverance, about life, about youth and dreams and plans and visions of their own world-wide Christian publishing empire.

As best I can tell, they have one book’s text actually written, one partially written, and two waiting in the wings.

Dower. Sour. Morose and moss-covered, I meet this mighty rushing wind of Christian femininity in my own living room. They are hellbent on publishing; I’m just hellbent.

You know, they say a pessimist is just an optimist with experience.

Yet I do not wish to quench the Spirit enlivening these young women. I want to caution them about all the sharks in the publishing waters without hindering their spirit.

The words of King Solomon occur to me: “Of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh. Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man. For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing , whether it be good, or whether it be evil”.

I’m all too familiar with the “Weariness of the flesh” phrase in this verse.

But these ladies have great experience in marketing books. They bounce. And one of the things they bounced on was my shortcomings in sales. They began to develop an all encompassing plan for my life. They expound all sorts of ideas to help me achieve success as a writer.

And when I balked, they accuse me of being a fearful coward , of not trusting God, of betraying my gifts, and of being prideful in false humility.

They are probably right on all counts.

They quoted Joshua at me—strong, good courage, battle manfully, all that crap.

One said she thought God had led them to my house, apparently to straighten me out.

Could be.

But here’s an ongoing problem I have:

I can’t tell the difference between a temptation and an opportunity.

Are all these marketing ploys the ladies talked about temptations to lure me away from writing; or are they indeed an opportunity to speak about Christ to a larger audience?

Of course the only question I really need to ask is “Lord, what will Thou have me to do?”.

These women had made the appointment and came to me asking for help—now they saw flaws in my life-process and were offering to help me… and they were much more gracious about it than I make it sound.

Nevertheless, I cringed.

Writing books and selling books are two different disciplines.

One of the women has worked in the past with well-known established religious publishers.

I asked, “Why do you want to start your own Christian publishing company when so many well-established ones already exist, and you already have access to some of the major ones”?

“This is something God has given us,” one said.

In the face of the girl’s enthusiasm and child-like confidence, I recalled that section of Psalm 68:

“But let the righteous be glad ; let them rejoice before God: yea, let them exceedingly rejoice Sing unto God, sing praises to His name: extol Him that rideth upon the heavens … and rejoice before Him.

“A father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows, is God in his holy habitation. God setteth the solitary in families: He bringeth out those which are bound with chains: but the rebellious dwell in a dry land. …

“Thou, O God, didst send a plentiful rain, whereby thou didst confirm thine inheritance, when it was weary .

“Thy congregation hath dwelt therein: thou, O God, hast prepared of thy goodness for the poor.

“The Lord gave the word: great was the company of those that published it”.

But isn’t the market flooded with religious books?

No.

A Christian writer competes with no one else; we each seek our own place in God’s scheme of things, and no other person on earth can fill the niche God has for me alone.

The praises of the Slain and Risen Lamb echo from every tribe and tongue and nation. As St. John observed at the end of his Gospel after he told how Jesus rose from being dead, “There are also many other things which Jesus did , the which, if they should be written every one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that should be written”.

Meeting these young women made me feel like a dew drop caught in a cloudburst!

For some God’s salvation comes as silently, as imperceptibly as dew forming on blades of grass; for others God enters life in a cloud of dust and the pounding of hooves and a shout of Hi Yo, Silver Away!!

I met these women—and suddenly I feel aswirl in a Christian version of Girls Gone Wild!