Remarkable

 Remarkable

It has been fascinating to watch the skies at sunrise, sunset, and the hours in between. I have been drawn upward by the sun, clouds, moon and stars. I can be enticed even on the days when the sun refuses to shine and a vast panorama of clouds seethe and churn darkly. Occasionally the clouds are charged with twists of lightning, stirred by the deep rumbles of thunder. Sometimes the ground vibrates beneath my feet as the lightning flashes dance close causing the earth to quiver in response to the roar of thunder.
Sometimes the clouds are only a misty veil. It stirs, just thick enough to play a game of hide-n-seek with distant mountain tops. Sometimes the clouds sag low wrapping the trees and bushes with a damp blanket of fog to cover the ground with its thick blanket of cotton. When the cloud rolls away, the grass is covered with dew that sparkles as the sun or the moon rises.
The moon appears as a celestial orb, full faced and bright or as thin slices. The calendar shaves away the moon in slivers to make sickles of light. The moon evolves into the smile of a Cheshire cat or into fishhooks that snag stars in the dark night sky. Slowly stars fade as night ends and the sun begins its rise. This is where another remarkable fantasy begins. The sun’s rays pierce the darkness and dance on the passing clouds. Pale yellow light cuddles with the surface of the clouds. The light intensifies, turning the rosy glow into colors of glorious orange-gold or into a blazing hot red hue. Then the sun itself rises. It shows its brilliant face above the horizon then the clouds reclaim their virginity, white and pure.
The clouds scurry across the sky pushed by prevailing breezes. The sky’s color may vary from a pale milky hue to a deep azure blue. The wind swirls the clouds like creamer in a cup of coffee. The sun continues its journey overhead. Its path marked by shadows that the light paints on the earth beneath. Hour by hour shadows lengthen as it nears the end of the day and the time for the sun to put on its pajamas and go to sleep. The sun leaves goodbye kisses on the clouds to create fantastic scenes of light and as it settles in for the night. The sunset colors rival the morning’s sunrise, but in reverse. As the light lessens and the sun finally slips below the horizon, I sometimes think that we are looking at the underside of heaven, what will our actual view of heaven be like? It’s too grand for me to imagine. Remarkable.

Trouble

 Trouble

I’ve told my friends that I know just enough in several foreign languages to get myself into trouble. I learned a few words in Russian, reading them in a novel that are not very polite to say. In my youth, those words weren’t to be spoken in mixed company, but now it’s too often those of the female persuasion that use it just as often as their male counterparts.

I took two years of Latin in high school. Since no one speaks it, I’m safe there with a sheltered education learning only some Christmas hymns and songs. The same was true with the two years of high school French I took. I was harassed by the Spanish students who said I’d have to travel to France to use it, but reminded them I only needed to go to Canada to sharpen my skills while they’d have to travel to Mexico. Today, the Spanish language has come to us with the influx of Latinos from our southern border. My troubling knowledge of Spanish words came from the John Wayne movie, The Cowboys. It isn’t polite to speak either.

I was reminded of this because while at PNC Park in for the Pittsburgh Pirate and San Francisco Giants game. During the rain delay a young couple sitting behind me was talking in French. I was only able to understand one in about two-hundred words. My recollection of the French language has deteriorated from the last time I needed to use it. As a corpsman at the Naval Hospital in Orlando, Florida, a woman and her child fell out of a moving vehicle. They were Arabic and didn’t speak English. The doctor and I didn’t speak Arabic. The only common language was French. It was a struggle to examine mother and child with limited abilities to speak and to understand.

My grandfather Raymond Miner was Pennsylvania Dutch. I picked up some German words, but not enough to speak full sentences…just a few, counting from one to five or calling someone a rubber nose, “gummi nase.”. While stationed in Iceland, the key phrase I learned was “Ég skil ekki Islensku,” “I don’t speak Icelandic” and “Gledileg Jol,” which means “Merry Christmas.”

A phrase I learned from a Greek Orthodox coworker was “Christos Anesti” which means, “Christ is risen” and the response is “Alithos Anesti,” which means, “Truly he is risen.” Although it is too early, I will share with you all Happy Resurrection day and Easter blessings to my friends.

Weary Dreary Christmas

 Weary Dreary Christmas

I already knew that Christmas Day would be unremarkable. My family had already celebrated the holiday last Saturday so that we could all be together. My son Andrew and his family were going to spend Christmas in New Mexico with his wife Renee’s parents. Because of her father’s health problems, I fully understood and supported their decision. There was no question about that.
My daughter Amanda and her husband Eric hosted the Christmas celebration at their home last Saturday and my other daughter Anna was hosting the celebration for my son-in-law’s family yesterday, so I was on my own. I live alone and was used to that way of life. There was no problem.
The rain came and the fog swirled around my house making the day seem drearier than it would have been with a light coating of snow. Clouds covered the sun with thick gray clouds that made the day seem even darker. Drips of water blurred the world around me.
When I woke about 6:30 am, and after reading my Bible, I tried to post the Scripture verse of the day and my blog post. I said try, because there was no internet connection. I was facing Christmas Day with limited connection with the outside world. My house instantly became more unfriendly and merely a dry shelter from the cold and wet outside.
I called the emergency number for my cable provider to report the outage. The voice on the phone took my information, saying, “Because of the holiday, it may be down until tomorrow.” There was nothing more I could do but make breakfast and continue to read The Hobbit. It was a book that I’d first read over fifty years ago while I was in the United States Navy.
I did feel isolated with no land line phone, no television, and no internet, but resolved to make the best of it and was able to add a few more paragraphs to s story I am writing about the biblical story of the Good Samaritan.
My isolation only lasted until about 1 pm. I received a call on my cell phone. It was my internet and phone company workman who was on call. He was going to come to my house to troubleshoot the problem. The problem was in the modem. It was not functioning. Once it was replaced and reconnected, I was now in touch with the world around me.
I would like to thank the serviceman who was able to come to my home and make the repair on the holiday. As a retired nurse, I understood the burden of having to work on the holidays. Merry Christmas.

What a Bunch of Old Cranks

 What a Bunch of Old Cranks

I wasn’t old enough to remember having a vehicle that needed to use a crank to get the engine started. The crank was located below the radiator and it took quite a bit of strength to twist and endurance to make several turns before the engine would catch and roar to life. The first car that I owned used two keys, one to open the trunk and glove box and the other to start the engine.

We had an old wall-mounted phone composed of a mouthpiece, receiver, and a crank on the side. By twisting the crank it generated a signal to the switchboard operator saying that you needed to make a call then she would connect you with the person you wished to reach. We were on a party line, meaning several people shared the same line. A person could only use the phone if no one else was using the line and when the phone rang, you had to listen to the number of long and short rings that notified you whether the call was meant for you or someone else.

I remember turning the crank on my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner’s barrel shaped butter churn. Gram would pour the farm-fresh cream that Granddad Ray Miner separated from his cows into the top of the churn. She would replace the lid and the grandchildren would turn the side crank. At first the turning was easy. The sloshing of the cream inside made a wet splash that sounded as the inside paddles spun and mixed the cream. Slowly kids began to tire as the cream thickened into butter. The sloshing sounds disappeared and an adult would take over. Eventually, pale yellow butter and watery buttermilk emerged.

In the wintertime they would break out the ice cream maker then add cream, eggs, sugar, and vanilla to the canister. It was surrounded by crushed ice. Salt was sprinkled onto the ice getting it to melt and refreeze. That made the ice cream freeze faster. Paddles inside the canister continually mixed the recipe and scraped the ice cream from the sides as a person turned the crank. Many times a grandchild would start the process then an adult would take over as the mixture thickened.

I’m also old enough to remember mechanical hospital beds that had two cranks; one to raise and lower the head of the bed and one for the feet. These were devices designed by Satan himself. Too often one crank or the other weren’t tucked safely away beneath the bed and some unsuspecting nurse would be nearly crippled in the dark while making rounds.

 

Get With the Program

Sunday was the Mount Zion Community Church’s Christmas program. It was a dramatization of the biblical story of the Wisemen who came seeking the newborn King of the Jews. The story consisted of several acts, scene changes, and changes of actors. The different scenes were interspaced by songs sung by the entire choir, a song sung by our men’s group, and a song sung by the ladies of the choir.

Our younger members played the chimes and the congregation sang with the ringing of the hymn. I’m not entirely sure where our church got the costumes this year, but they were more realistic than the usual bathrobes and towel wrapped heads. The Roman guards are part on the costumes that our church had because of past dramatizations of Easter and for use in our other presentations.

The costumes of the Wiseman, King Herod, and the Jewish prophets were really impressive with bright colors and splashes of gold jewelry. The reading of selected Scripture set the scenes for each act. The stage crew arranged the props for each scene in readiness for the actors to take their places on the stage and to share the story of Wiremen seeking the Messiah.

As with most church programs, some small mistakes may creep in and Sunday’s performance was no exception. We made it through the entirety of the program. The congregation was singing the final hymn and the Kawi electronic piano emitted a loud sounding squawk and died. It was an awkward moment, but there was no real interruption and the congregation continued singing the hymn a carpella without a pause or break in the hymn. Even more unusual was that the hymn wasn’t a hymn that was usual to sing for the Christmas season.

And yes, I the old crow was a part of the choir and the men’s group singing. If you would like to see and hear the presentation you can view it by going to www.mtzionacme.org on the internet to enjoy the biblical story of the Wiseman and why wise people still seek Christ today.

Old Remedies Really Work

Old Remedies Really Work
During the past week I have had a small sore spot on the index finger of my right hand. It felt like a tiny splinter or the fine cactus spine. I kept feeling for a protruding spine, but I was unable to feel anything rising above the skin of my finger. I even nipped off the skin with nail clippers above the reddened area. I was hoping to either cut it out or create an escape route for the cause of the problem. I had no such luck. It only continued to be a sore spot, but now it was an open sore spot.
There was nothing that I could see, nothing that I could feel, and nothing that I could think was causing the problem. I even thought there may be a small sliver of glass. If there was a sliver of glass, I wouldn’t be able to see it, but I couldn’t feel anything there.
It made me think of older people telling me about “drawing” salves and potions. The first story was told by an older lady Leah Geary who said thorn that was stuck deep in her foot. She couldn’t remove it manually, so she made a poultice of a slice of fresh bread and whole milk. She wrapped it on her foot overnight and by morning, the poultice had drawn the thorn to where it could easily be removed. I had no fresh bread and only 2 % milk on hand and the sore spot was so very small, I didn’t want to try that.
Then I remembered that my old neighbor Fred Brown who ran a corner grocery store in White, Pennsylvania also butchered beef and pork in his basement shop. Not only did he cut up the animals for farmers in the community, but he saved the scraps of fat and tallow from beef carcasses. He would render it with other ingredients into a thick, greasy concoction to use for a “drawing” salve. Before he passed away, he gave me a small baby food jar of the “medication.” I remembered that I still had it…somewhere. I set out rummaging through the drawers in my bathrooms until I found it in the medicine cabinet of powder room.
Twisting off the lid, I found it had thickened, but still waiting to be used. I pried out a thin scraping and spread it on my finger and secured it with a Bandaid in the morning and by late afternoon, the redness and pain was gone. I have no idea what he used to create this salve, but it worked.

Plop Plop Fizz Fizz

 Plop Plop Fizz Fizz

It was an unusually busy three to eleven shift on our med/ surg. floor at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. Everyone was “flying solo.” As long as they could do a task without asking for help, we did it. Everyone was trying to get “their own work” done, without pulling someone else away from their assignments.

The call bell rang out and one of our R. N. s, Babs just happened to be at the desk and answered the call light. It was that old man who said “I really need to go bad!” It’s always a better choice for a nurse to help a patient to the bathroom than to have to change the bed linens.

That evening Babs was wearing brand new pant uniform and shoes. She almost glowed like an angel beneath the fluorescent lights. She was the only nurse at the station so she stopped taking off the doctors’ orders, hurrying into the patient’s room.

The man was thin, with wispy white hair, and unsteady on his feet. Babs helped him to stand, then stepped up behind him to help him keep balanced. She placed a hand beneath each of his armpits, to support him as he walked to the bathroom. After a few wobbling steps, Babs found herself in a dilemma. The old man began to move his bowels. Like a cow, his loose feces dropped, “PLOP! PLOP! PLOP!” on the floor, splattering Babs’s new shoes and pant legs.

Babs couldn’t let go and allow the shaky elderly patient walk unaided, but she didn’t want the poop to continue splashing onto her new clothing. All she could do was to hold onto him and keep going. She kept spreading her legs wider and wider to try to avoid stepping in the feces and to keep her uniform from being splattered.

By the time she made it to the bathroom entrance, her stance was almost too wide to go through the bathroom door. She eased the man through the doorway and sat him on the commode. Leaving him with the call bell cord, she exited the bathroom, cleaned the mess on the floor, and went to the nurse’s lounge to wipe off the worst of the feces from her shoes and pants. She couldn’t remove enough of the feces from her new pants and wore a pair of operating room scrub pants, allowing her new pants to soak in cold water.

For most of the evening, she was upset, but after a few times of us moving past her with our arms out in front of us and walking with our legs spread wide, she saw the humor of the whole incident and managed to smile by the end of the shift.

Too Darn Cold

Too Darn Cold
I have never been a huge fan of winter’s snow and freezing-cold weather, but living in Pennsylvania I have two choices, shut up or move. I don’t like either option so I will continue to complain. I just came back inside after clearing my driveway. For the most part, cleaning my driveway wasn’t horrible because I pulled out my snow shovel yesterday morning. I had anticipated that I might have to drive to church.
I didn’t go out yesterday because our church services were cancelled. Too many folks were drifted-in and couldn’t reach the highway. The highway was for the most part snow-covered, passable, but not a delight to navigate.
The snow plows as usual had deposited eighteen to twenty inches of packed snow at the entrance of my drive. It was a chore to clear it away, but it could be much worse. If the compacted snow had frozen into an icy mass it would take more than a shovel to remove. Much of the time I carry the shovels filled with snow to the opposite side of the road. If I would dump it on my side of the road, the drifts would only become larger and the snow plows would end up pushing it into my drive anyway.
Yesterday and last night the snow accumulated to about twelve inches high where it didn’t drift. The drifts competed with the packed snow in my driveway to nearly twenty-four inches high. The drifts were difficult to walk through, but tossing the snow aside with the shovel made walking much easier.
I’ve always been paranoid about keeping my drive clear. When I was younger, I was always concerned that one of my kids would get injured or become ill and I would need to get them to a hospital. When I was older, I worked at a nearby hospital. I was never “on call” but sometimes would get called in to cover a “call off.”
There wasn’t much wind this morning, but the icy breeze certainly chapped my cheeks and the cold made my teeth ache. I was certainly glad to have finished that chore for today and I am back inside sitting in front of my computer and sipping a hot cup of tea.
My blood sugar was elevated this morning. It’s strange, each time when I go outside and do some chores or work, my morning blood sugar is more elevated than if I did nothing but make breakfast, take my morning meds, and eat. I guess I need to stop exercising.

Cold and Windy

 Cold and Windy

No, I’m not talking about myself, but the weather outside. The more I age, the more I dread the frigid temperatures and the gust of winter air. I like to have snow, but when it gets cold and the breeze becomes something that my grandfather called a lazy wind, count me out. He said when the wind goes through you and not around you it’s a lazy wind. I want to tell Canadians to keep their refrigerator doors closed when the Arctic clippers decide to sail south.

I met my neighbor at the mailboxes and he said, “I don’t recall a December being thiis cold so early.” And I agree.

Don’t suggest that I move to Florida, although I have some relatives who want me to visit them in Florida and there are some relatives who wouldn’t mind if I left Pennsylvania, but I have no plans to make the move below the Mason Dixon Line.

I lived in Orlando, Florida for two years, courtesy of the United States Navy as a corpsman and I didn’t really like it. Mosquitoes, sand spurs, and the humid heat in the summer aren’t on my menu. The only thing I found enjoyable about Florida was the fishing and my relatives. Winters were heavy jacket weather, but no boots unless I was wading in the rain.

My uncle Amos Jacob Stahl and his wife aunt Helen Beck Stahl decided to move their family south. He was a stone mason and the seasonal work that Pennsylvania weather provided could hardly support his large brood. They packed up and moved to Florida where he could work all year round. Their one daughter Anna stayed with us until she finished her senior year in high school.

While I was in the Navy, “Jake” or one of my cousins would want me to visit every weekend that I was off duty. They were all wonderful people. Amos and Helen have passed away, but Florida is still peppered with cousins and other kin.

I frequently get invitations from them to come visit and I may. I left Florida over fifty years ago the year before Disneyland opened and haven’t been back since. Although the adventure of touring the Disneyland Park is something that entices many, I prefer to keep my memories of the less bustling metropolis of Orlando intact. Perhaps it would be nice to see the faces of my loved ones again. It may become closer to reality and become a stronger desire if these days of the lazy winds persist.

Christmas Character

 A memorable person that I met and cared for while working at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, was a wizened older gentleman who had been a mule skinner in the United States Army during the Great War. He took care of the mules that were used to drag the cannons and caissons in World War I. It wasn’t called World War I until the Second World War was fought. He told us that he had been very young when he signed on and when the war was over he went back to school and had become a doctor. He talked about the animals he had charge over and about the several that he owned rather than war stories. The time he spent with those animals that he cared for seemed to be what he chose to remember about the war.

His terminal cancer sent him to us to care for. He became weak and could no longer take care of himself or control the ever-growing pain in his cancer withered body. He came to Frick Hospital because he needed our help.

It seemed that Belladonna and opium suppositories with an occasional injection of morphine gave him the most pain relief. I tried to make time to stay with him until he was able to obtain some pain relief. He would talk to me as he waited for the pain relieving effects of the medications to take hold of his frail body. After that he would settle down to sleep until the pain woke him again.

He told us that he was a surgeon. This fellow warrior in the health field came to us just before the Christmas holidays. Some of his friends brought the gift of a small artificial Christmas tree that was covered in tiny lights and delicate ornaments. The little tree was beautiful and filled his room with soft light. This was a time when hospitals still allowed electric lights to be used.

Sometimes when we would make rounds he would be awake quietly staring at the tree. The tiny lights glowed in his eyes. He was discharged to a long term care facility shortly after Christmas and I never heard from him again, but the Stories of his life glowed in my life like the Christmas lights from that small tree glistened in his eyes even if it was only for a little bit.

Traditions

 Traditions

Most families have created traditions to celebrate the different holidays. They display different decorations; some of which have become heirlooms, passed down to their children. Certain foods are served to honor memories of childhood celebrations. At the beginning of the year, some traditions serve sauerkraut and pork. Others serve black-eyed peas, collard greens, and salted pork. Easter celebrations may share colored eggs, chocolate rabbits, or braided breads. Thanksgiving a turkey with bread stuffing, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pies topped with whipped cream may grace the table. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck would serve spaghetti carbonara and deep-fried smelt on Christmas Eve, while my mom, Sybil Miner Beck would bake deep-dish French toast for brunch on Christmas day.
Most traditions are harmless. They help pass the joyous celebrations of holidays to our children. Many times they’re links to memories and don’t affect reality. At Christmas we celebrate the arrival of the Magi at the Manger. The Bible doesn’t record that there were three Wise men, nor did the Kings arrive to worship the Christ Child in the manger. That tradition strays from the truth. Many believe that Eve ate an apple in the Garden of Eden, but that was not so. The Word of God only records that it was fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. All are minor variations, but even that can cause people to believe there are contradictions in the Bible.
When traditions conflict with the Bible, traditions are wrong and can become harmful. When tradition is promoted above the truth in the Word of God, it should be cast aside. When books are added to the Bible or an entire religion is based on “New Revelations” from God, avoid them like the plague. Galatians 1:8-9 reads, “But though we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed. As we said before, so say I now again, if any man preach any other gospel unto you than that ye have received, let him be accursed.”
In the Revelation, the Bible warns, “For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book: And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book.”
Celebrate family traditions, but don’t let them confuse the truth of the Bible.

A True Redhead

 A True Redhead

Often my brother, Ken and I would hop onto our bicycles and ride to our friend’s house about half of a mile away. Our friend and his brothers would join us and we would take to the shaded lanes and abandoned fields near their home. The one area where would ride was an abandoned Boy Scout campground. The deeply rutted road ran through wooded sections and through open areas of the old camp. Some of the large open meadows were where my family picked wild full-flavored strawberries. Some areas had quiet little niches where campers would place tents or small Scotty trailers. This Scout campground was abandoned but people still drove in to use the campsites.
Sometimes we would ride to the old camp just to swim in the stream that had been dammed up and other times we rode for the joy of feeling the wind in our hair. It almost seemed like a paradise to us as kids. We had the freedom to ride long distances without the fear of traffic. If we got warm we rode in the shaded areas or if we got chilled we would relax on the grass in the sunshine.
This particular morning was sunny and cool, the perfect weather for riding our bicycles. It was cool enough to ride in jeans and a polo shirt without overheating when we pedaled furiously. Here and there, wisps of fog curled in low lying areas of the road and at the campsites.
It was a time of freedom. We were riding for the sheer joy of it, feeling the cool air rush by with our shirt tails flapping behind us in the wind. The morning was filled with the aroma of honeysuckles and stale wood smoke. There had to be campers about.
Tucked tightly into one of the small campsites was an older Scotty trailer. It was turquoise and white. Coiled around its bottom was a large bank of fog, about thirty inches high. The door to the trailer was open. Framed in the dark doorway was an alabaster skinned, statuesque woman. She was sky clad…absolutely naked… not wearing a single stitch of clothing. It was as though Aphrodite herself was standing there. The fog swirled around her feet and she appeared to be standing on a cloud.
In the soft morning sun her skin shone like polished translucent milk glass. She had wide hips, a narrow waist, and breasts the size of small grapefruit. It truly was “Venus on the Half Shell” standing there in rural Pennsylvania
It was a heady and titillating moment for my brother and I. We stopped our bicycles just out of sight. We weren’t sure what to do, but it was the only road. That meant riding back past the Scotty trailer and this woman. After a short rest, we decided to ride back, but we were disappointed. The door was still open, but empty. The one thing that I can say for sure was this woman was definitely a red head.

Snow-filled Memories

 

Snow-filled Memories

As I drove from my home just outside of the village of White, Pennsylvania to Indian Head, I began to recall the many times I’d ridden or driven the same two lane road in the snow. The twisting wooded lane is called Poplar Run. No matter the time of year, it’s always beautiful. The snow hanging heavy on the bare branches of beech, oak, and maple, made lacey patterns that glistened in the sunlight. At night they sparkled in the headlights of the car. Mountain laurel still line the banks of Poplar Run. Their dark glossy leaves in contrast with the white snow.

The most beautiful sight of all was the young pines standing on a steep slope with their feathery branches heavily laden with newly fallen snow. They seemed to spread their arms wide to gather as many of the flakes as they could hold and then wrap themselves in a thick white quilt. They’re much older now with fewer needles, but at one time, in their prime, they wore heavy dark green coats. That wondrous sight would suddenly pop into view as I made a sharp turn. It was as though a visual feast was spread out just for me. I knew it was there, but its beauty always appeared suddenly. It was the darkness of the branches gracefully sagging beneath the weight of the new-fallen snow. It was the surprise I enjoyed even as a child riding in the back seat of my parent’s Carl and Sybil Miner Beck’s car. My views were often hampered by sharing the backseat with my brother Ken and sister Kathy, but it was always enjoyable.

Other roads that my dad drove gave me a different memory. I can recall times when I had to press my face against the car window to look upward to see the bright blue sky over the top of the drifted and plowed high banks of snow.

Another snowy memory of my dad was that he hated to be late. His mantra was, “If you’re not early, you’re late.” One Sunday morning we tried three different routes to get to church during a snow storm. The roads were covered in snow and very slippery. As Dad pulled into the parking lot of the white clapboard Clinton Church of God, the music was already playing for the first hymn. Dad said, “Get back in the car kids” and he drove us home. I’m sure that God wouldn’t have minded, but Dad was a stickler for being punctual.

This year, snow has come in surges as did my recollections of snow ball battles, sled riding, and other scenes of cold wintertime beauty that remain stored in my brain.

I Have Never

I Have Never
I’ve never in my seventy-seven year of life seen so many politicians whose desire is to rewrite, reinterpret or actually destroy America’s founding document, the Constitution of the United States, but I am beginning to understand why. The Left has been infiltrating our positions of power with an aim of changing this bastion of freedom into a Socialist or Communist country. There is one main reason. Many of the principles were written into the Constitution by our forefathers were based on the Bible.
Our founders came to this new land to escape crippling bonds of tyranny. As they chose the ideals for this landmark document, they took into consideration many variables that might lead back into tyranny again. These farsighted men crested a plan that would prevent a central government from EVER wresting control from the people, safeguarding liberty and freedom for future generations. Their aim was to establish the rights of the average citizens and defending them from intrusion of government’s unrestrained power.
That’s why the Bill of Rights and a system of checks and balances were codified, written out in plain and easy to understand words. The definition of many of these words have been twisted and altered so Federal and State governments have chiseled away these basic inalienable rights. This assault is intentional.
The tenets upon which the Constitution and America’s laws were written had roots in the Bible and the Christian ideals. The United States stands like a light in a dark world and that’s why America has drawn downtrodden from nearly every country in the world. That light shines from the pages of the Bible.
As America continues to turn its back on God that light dims and “God bless America” is changing. God has begun to withhold His blessings. It will not take much longer before He begins to judge the United Stated, just as He’s destroyed other mighty nations of the past. I don’t claim to be a prophet calling out a warning like Jonah, but God caused him to preach repentance and a turning back to God to the evil empire of Nineveh Jonah’s plea caused the king’s heart to change, and the great city of Nineveh was spared.
Oh, that we could get our country to turn away from the evils of abortion and immorality and to return to a loving God. Jonah preached repentance. It’s not too late for America to turn back to Him.

Freedom of religion is one right not to be infringed upon, but with the Covid pandemic, the first thing government tried to control was the assembling together to worship. With this in view, how long before Christians in America will join the persecuted souls from other countries? 

And the Mountain Roared

 And the Mountain Roared

I often heard my wife’s mother describing a sound that she would hear. Retha May Morrison would pause at whatever she was doing; cock her head to one side, and say, “Shush, just listen to the mountain roar.” And indeed the wind in the trees did. She and Bud her husband were groundskeepers at Camp Christian near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. The camp was surrounded by thick wooded hillsides and was graced with a small stream running through it. When the wind would blow from a certain direction, the sound of the wind did give a low, guttural growl.

Camp Christian once had been a summer retreat for weary people from Pittsburgh and the surrounding communities. They would ride the train to spend a day, a weekend, or even a week in Killarny Park. The park was a place of escape where people could boat, swim, and fish with lodging and meals available for those who were able to afford it.  Many would pack a lunch and for the price of the train fare they could relax, hike, wade, or swim, away from the smoke and noise of the city.

The camp had a large two storied Millhouse. It was of white clapboard hotel-like bedrooms upstairs. Downstairs was a huge kitchen, a banquet room with multiple tables for eating, and an open, wraparound porch. At one end of the dining room was a large stone fireplace where a fire frequently burned in the cool of the evening. There was a chapel and also a few rental cabins with little more room than to provide shelter and sleeping quarters. The white clapboard shelters were snug and provided refuge from the rain and wind.

A large metal bell perched atop a stone pillar at the front of the Millhouse and summoned diners when the meals were ready to be served.

Eventually Killarny Park was purchased by a consortium of churches in Pittsburgh as a summer camp. Reserved on different weeks, the camp was available for adults, for couples, and for children. One week was set was always aside for the underprivileged kids of Pittsburgh. Although the Millhouse has now been replaced with a more modern dining hall and kitchen, children’s’ shouts of laughter still echo in the camp.

As I sat this morning, deciding on what to write I heard the mountain outside of my windows roar. I live near White, Pennsylvania and although the trees aren’t as close to my house as the trees that surrounded Camp Christian, my mountain roared. The wind was just right. The sound of the wind’s roar entered my home, as did the memory of Retha’s words entering my brain.