Plop Plop Fizz Fizz

It was an unusually busy three to eleven shift on our med/ surg. floor. 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 and almost glowed like an angel beneath the fluorescent lights. She was the only nurse at the station and 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.

Losing Your Cool

        Dot was one of the nurses with whom I worked in the emergency department. She was an older woman who was meticulous. Her uniform was spotless , her shoes were shined within an inch of their life, and she always fastened her nursing cap securely on top of her dark curls with a bevy of hair pins.

            An emergency room doctors was her complete opposite. If you remember the television program, “The Odd Couple” you can understand what I am trying to explain. His clothing was always rumpled and more often than not, covered in dog hair. He wore his gray hair longer, unkempt.   He had one big bug-a-boo. He hated when a restroom door was left ajar. He wouldn’t just close it. He would slam any door that was open. You knew when he made rounds, somewhere on the floor a door would BANG shut.

            Dot was fastening her hat in the restroom one afternoon when Dr. Vandy entered the adjoining lounge. He poured his cup of coffee and as he turned to leave. He saw the door was open. BANG! He slammed it shut. Turning on his heel, he walked out to the desk at the nursing station.

            A few seconds later, Dot stormed out of the lounge. She was as hot as the doctor’s coffee. Her face was red and there was dirt and debris strewn across her hair, her hat, and spread across the shoulders of her crisp, white uniform. When the doctor slammed the door, the air pressure lifted up the ceiling tiles and dirt that collected for tears on the top side of the tiles rained down on her.

            She stood beside Dr. Vandy until he sat his cup of coffee down. She grabbed his coat sleeve and dragged him back into the lounge. She shoved him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, not just once, but… WHAM, WHAM, WHAM! We could hear it in the nursing station. She left the lounge and went into a patient’s restroom to brush off her uniform and to pick the dirt out of her hair.

            A few minutes later, a much chagrined Dr. Vandy emerged from the lounge with a sheepish smile on his face. He was covered in a large amount of dirt, dust, and debris on his head and shoulders. He rolled his eyes, ran his hand through his hair, and brushed at the dirt on his jacket.  It didn’t seem to faze him, but rather seemed amused about it all as he picked up his cup and took a sip.

Always Something Else to Do

The usual editor and composer of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society’s newsletter is unable to continue producing our quarterly publication, so I am trying to shoulder some of the burden. I have never done this before; assimilating and coordinating the information needed for our members in an interesting way. Hopefully, with some encouragement and help from a few of my friends I can create something that I need not be ashamed of. Let me say this, composing a newsletter was never in my bucket list. For any of my new readers, my last post was about bucket lists and how I thought they came into being.

While I am mentioning the Historical Society, I’d like to remind all of my readers that as you clean out your homes or relative’s homes, any local souvenirs, postcards, memorabilia, written documents or photographs that are no longer wanted, may be just what your local society is looking for and may be what is needed to complete the story of the area. If you have old photographs, there is no need to give them up. They can be copied, placed in the archives and be preserved for others to see.

I’ve been cutting up meat for the freezer. I am getting some ready to can and even may even have enough left over to make some jerky. Everything that doesn’t go into steak, I call “chunk meat.” The orts may be too small or too tough for anything but to be canned or to be made into jerky. The steaks are in the freezer, but I will need to get some canning lids and some spices to make the jerky.

I know how my kids love to hear this, and I will certainly get brow beaten, but there was a jolly fat man on my roof yesterday making sure the chimney was cleaned out. The next few days call for rain and I definitely don’t want to be climbing on a metal roof when it’s raining. The dry roof and my rubber soled tennis shoes held well. There wasn’t one slip and the good news was, the chimney was basically clear, so I only needed to run the pole up and down a few times. Some people like to read my hospital stories. Stay tuned, this may turn out to be one.

I’d like to build a small coal box to store a load of coal. Up to now, I’ve routinely burned wood, but I know that adding coal will cause the fire in the furnace to last overnight. No middle of the night waking up and going to the basement to add wood to the fire. It sounds like a promise of Eden to me. For many years, my parents only had a coal furnace to keep our old brown Insulbrick house warm through the long cold winter nights.

Bucket List

Over the past several weeks, I began to think about my advancing age and the things that I still want to do and the things that I’ve done. Looking back, I can see more clearly the things that I’ve not been able to do yet. In today’s lingo, that is called a bucket list. I believe I understand how it got its name. When I was much younger, I had a mental list of what I wanted to do before I died. One phrase to describe dying was to say “kick the bucket.” I wonder, is this where the term “bucket list” comes from?

I remember as a child I was drawn to the continent of Africa. I wanted to see the elephants, rhinoceros, zebras, and lions. As close as I ever came to this desire was to visit zoos in Chicago and in Pittsburgh. It isn’t the same, but I believe that it is as close as I’ll get to actually visit Africa. If I sit in a seat for a long of a period of time my lower legs become cramped, edematous, and my sciatic nerve will cause leg numbness. I’d not be able to enjoy the excursion.

One thing that I’ve been able to accomplish is to write and to have someone actually read the words I’ve written. To have someone enjoy the books I’ve had published and to have people read and comment about the ideas I share in my BlogSpot was one item in my bucket list. One thing I haven’t yet done with my writing is to have a poem set to music as a hymn. I’m trying to get a musically inclined friend to help me do that.

I’ve been slowly going through my belongings and to get rid of things that are no longer useful. I’m not a hoarder, but I don’t want to leave meaningless bits of flotsam and jetsam for my kids to sort after I’m gone. I’m also trying to get my finances in order. The money under my mattress isn’t a fortune, but I am trying to find ways to pass it on to my children without the government taxing the money for a second time. The government must like the Captain and Tennille’s lyrics, “Once is never enough.”

I imagine that I don’t have a lot of years left to get my bucket in gear and to try to empty my bucket list before I kick the bucket.

Emergency

One evening as I worked in the emergency department at our small hospital, Joanne was working with me. Joanne was a Licensed Practical Nurse that we affectionately called Mrs. Kleen because of her overly tidy attitude. She’d just bought a new pair of nursing shoes and was wearing them for the first time. About three quarters of the way through our evening shift, she began to complain that the shoes were hurting her feet. She disappeared into a storage area, then into the nurses’ lounge. When she returned a few minutes later, she was wearing a pair of patient slippers on her feet. At the time, our hospital was issuing flimsy green foam foot coverings. Now, if you use your imagination, think of a pair of green foam slippers on her long, slender feet. It looked as though she had a pair of cucumbers at the end of her ankles instead of feet, but she stopped complaining of sore feet. It seemed to be working.

Near the end of the end of the shift, an ambulance crew delivered a young man who’d been involved in an automobile accident. The man was strapped to a gurney and cocooned in sheets and blankets. Hiding in the sheets and blankets were small pieces of glass from the automobile’s shattered windshield. The pieces looked like tiny cubed dice. When they moved the young man from the stretcher to the bed, the pieces of glass scattered across the floor at both bedsides.

We hurried to asses and treat the patient. Joanne was there helping to disrobe the man so a thorough examination could be completed. As she hustled around the bedside, the foam slippers were almost no protection from the shards of glass. They were like caltrops and Joanne began to complain about the glass hurting her feet. “Ouch, my poor feet,” she cried as she stepped on one piece of glass after another. The auto accident and shattered windshield was trying to claim another victim.

I said, “Joanne. Go back to the lounge. Change back into your shoes, before the glass really cuts you feet.”

She looked across the patient at me and said, “Those shoes hurt my feet worse than the glass does.” Okay Joanne, end of story.

Checking Things Out

The chill is on and I am trying to get myself ready to go hunting. Not like the man of the nursery rhyme and looking for a rabbit skin to wrap my baby bunting in, but for venison. Deer hunting with my brother has become an annual tradition. I’m not the trophy hunter like some. I can’t eat antlers. It was and still is all about putting meat in the freezer.

Yesterday, I walked around in one of our usual places to hunt to see what I could find. I’m not as spry as I once was, if I was ever spry. Last year I was summoned to jury duty in Fayette County. For hours upon end I was forced to sit on hard wooden benches and chairs, waiting for trials that never came. Long before an end came to the first day, my right leg was aching and my foot was numb. I complained to the woman in charge of jurors. She listened to my plight and excused me for that session. To this day, I still have pain in that leg and occasional numbness in that foot. It has aggravated my sciatic nerve.

The tour of the hunting area was slow, walking, stopping, listening, and watching for deer sign and for any deer that might be sharing the woods with me. It was a chilly start, but the sun came out and warmed the air until I could no longer see my breath. Birds and chipmunks were out searching for their breakfasts. The leaves underfoot were still damp and made little noise as I walked. The only other sound was made by the wind, high in the trees overhead. I moved slowly, searching for movement.

I had just moved to an area that was more open than a brushy spot I had been standing, when I saw a silent, slinking form that moved in from my left sign. As it drew neared, I made a soft snort.  The animal came to a stop. It was a fairly meaty three point buck. It stopped and stared in my direction. The wind was in my favor. I stood just as still as it was. Finally, it bounded away into thick cover, giving a few soft whistles.

I continued to circle back to my car without seeing anything but a few birds. I drove home to rest my aching leg. Oh, by the way, the Monday that followed my jury duty and release, I found another summons for jury duty.

Egging On

I am sharing some random thoughts about some eggs in my life. Of course, the eggs I am proudest of are the three eggs that my wife made and became our children: Amanda Dawn, Andrew Thomas, and Anna Elizabeth. How could I share any stories about eggs without naming them? The next proudest would be of my granddaughters, Celine Noel, Moriah Ann, and Hannah Elizabeth, but I use them as a lead in to my thoughts. These are just bragging rights and have nothing to do with the story I plan to share.

I had no idea what to write until I recalled something that happened last Friday while at the Ohiopyle Buckwheat and Sausage Festival. Someone gave a dozen free-range chicken eggs to the sausage fryers to cook on the grill for some breakfast sandwiches. Some of the volunteers like to make a “McOhiopyle” sandwich to “sample” the sausage and to curb their early morning appetites. Buzzy, one of the volunteers cooked six of the eggs on a side griddle and put them on a plate for the other workers. He then began to cook the remaining eggs. As is sometimes the problem with finding and collecting free-range eggs, the less diligent farmer cannot attest to the age of each egg.

Buzzy, the rotund cook, cracked open one egg, then two. When he cracked open the third, it began to sizzle. It was then that the stench hit him full in the face. The white of the egg bubbled around the black yolk simmered on the griddle. The egg was rotten.

Immediately, Buzzy began to gag and dance. Not just once, but deep gasping, stomach wrenching sounds. Those around him expected a geyser of gastric contents to erupt at any second. Another volunteer across the griddles escaped hurriedly, unable to listen to the great gagging sounds. Later, he told us that had Buzzy actually hurled, he would have been through for the day.

Buzzy finally gained control of the waves of nausea and managed to clean the now hardened and stinking mess from the grill. As he threw the fetid mess into the garbage and before he could get rid of the already fried eggs, another worker entered and constructed a “McOhiopyle” sandwich. Buzzy noticed him just as he was about to take a bite and stopped him. The “McOhiopyle” sandwich and the entire batch of eggs ended up in the trash. All day long, the workers teased Buzzy with rotten egg jokes.

Pick and Choose

Another weekend where I should have been cloned, but I am really glad that I wasn’t. Friday was the semiannual Buckwheat, Pancake, and Sausage Festival in Ohiopyle Pennsylvania. These two events are the major fundraisers for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department. While many other fire departments rely on street fairs and ticket sales, the community comes together to setup, clean, and cook for three days in the fall. I’ve shared before that I started to volunteer there while dating my wife almost 45 years ago, working up from washing dishes, to baking cakes to finally frying sausage. Friday I was on my feet from 8 o’clock AM until 5 PM.

Saturday, I had to choose to fry sausage, volunteer at the historical society, or join others of our church family for the Seedline Project. Seedline is a ministry that is based near Cincinnati, Ohio and prints the Bible and other parts of Scripture in different languages to be distributed to missionaries and churches abroad. The texts are brought to our church, assembled, stapled and trimmed before being boxed and readied to be shipped. This collection of John and Romans Scripture was in English and their destination will be South Africa. In the past we have assembled French, Portuguese, Spanish, and Croat. This time we assembled 8,233 booklets.

I had to leave hurriedly to drive to my Granddaughter’s birthday party. It was a small gathering of Parents, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, and Grandparents, but very important to Hannah. I was glad to get home and raise my puffy, tired feet.

Sunday, there was no choice, only whether to go to church or not. Because I am in the choir, that isn’t a choice. Yes, I am in the choir. Because of a curse of my mother, I have always tried to tell a joke, story, or sing a chorus that had something to do with something said. My mom Sybil Beck had the habit of singing ditties and that habit has transferred to me.

If you think that isn’t strange enough, our Assistant Pastor is starting a men’s quartet and I was asked to join. I’ll keep you informed as to the location and date when we will make our debut.

Foggy Brain Freeze Wednesday

When I woke on Wednesday morning, both of my hips ached and my calves sore. I wasn’t sure whether it was a weather change or I slept awkwardly during the night. My calves being sore could have been left over from the intermittent cramps that I’ve been getting. The quinine in the tonic water helps when I remember to drink it.

Between keeping up with my blog, entering my Haiku poetry into the computer, and adding to my next Tommy Two Shoes and Cora Mystery book I’ve been busy. I have my laundry caught up and volunteered for several hours at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. I abandoned them after only two and a half hours because of the discomfort in my hips. Shifting between sitting and walking jobs, I managed to put in a few hours.

When I came home, I took something for pain, watched some television, then napped. When I woke, I was confused as to what day it was. My brain kept telling me that going to church was imminent and from that, I thought it was Saturday. When I finally got the details worked out in my head, it was 8:45 p.m. and the Wednesday evening prayer meeting was 15 minutes over and done.

Thursday, more work on my Haiku and Tommy Two shoes. My cousin Peggy’s daughter Dawn Bermel Osborne called. She and her husband were taking a mini-vacation and driving through the area from Illinois. She is researching and visiting the Rugg and Miner (Minerd) cemeteries and homes.

She messaged, saying she was in the area and we met for the evening meal. At home, we always called it supper, but many call it dinner. At home, dinner was always lunch, so I never know how someone will interpret what I write.

Anyway, we had a nice meal; we chatted and caught up on our families and what was happening in the area. I got a few hugs and took a picture.

This gives me more incentive to visit Illinois, cousins, and my Fourth of July Facebook friends and visitors. Look out. I may just visit you guys one day.

The Burning of Old Glory

It angers me when I see someone burning Old Glory

Disrespecting America’s flag and its great history

Dishonoring all who sacrificed to keep it flying

Suffered horrific wounds, loss of limbs, and even dying

From its inception with George Washington at Valley Forge

Patriots rallied to our flag against tyranny’s scourge

Our banner of freedom flew high in the War of 1812

Defiant of the oppression it waved at our southern gulf

Sadly dividing father and son in our Civil War

Its powerful ideals too great for many to ignore

Again our boys waved it in World War I and World War II

To stop the slaughter of innocents: Pole, Czech, Slav, and Jew

Our men fought in Korea and Vietnam ‘neath its hue

Facing uncertainty because their country asked them to

Nine-eleven came. True Americans loved that flag too

Citizens gathered for safety ‘neath the red, white, and blue

What’s happened to patriotism, loyalty, and all?

Politicians have forgotten the “Never forget” call

They’ve hidden their rank disloyalty in freedom’s banner

Allowing desecration of our flag in any manner

They praise entertainers’ disrespect and taking a knee

It may be normal for these traitors, but never for me

If you hate the red, white and blue, leave you don’t have to stay

If you think things are better elsewhere, please just go away

I’m proud of Old Glory. May it ever fly over our land

May it ever freely wave and always for freedom stand

Friendships

It seemed like the entire weekend was focused on friendships. Saturday evening I attended the wedding of a daughter of my wife Cindy’s best friend Debbie Detar. They were friends for many years and we spent many of our holidays in their home or them in ours. Bill and Debbie Detar had three children as did Cindy and I, two daughters and one son for each family. We lived little more than two miles from each other which made it convenient to visit frequently. It was Debbie who fixed Cindy and I for our first “blind” date. I met Cindy at my cousin’s wedding, so we knew each other slightly.

After an evening spending time celebrating with my children and grandchildren sharing the festivities, I made my way home feeling tired, stuffed with good food, and with a need to relax.

I was invited to attend a Friends and Family event at my son’ Andrew’s church. The Bible Baptist Church is located in Brownsville, Pennsylvania. Sunday morning started with Sunday school taught by Pastor Tommy Dallas’ father-in-law Pastor David Bixler. Pastor Biller drove from his church Emmanuel Baptist Church in Williamsport to speak at this event. Pastor Dallas invited him because he is family and a special friend. Pastor Bixler spoke about friendship, not just acquaintances, but real lifelong bosom buddies. Having a friend with whom another person can rely, no matter the situation or the time of day should a need arise, a special friend who will stand beside them during the thick and thin times with a friendship that will outlast distance and time.

Pastor continued same theme into the message that immediately followed the Sunday school. He mentioned several friendships in the Bible. One of the strongest was with David and the son of Saul the King. It was a friendship that was so steadfast and strong that Jonathan protected David from Saul’s wrath and from the plan to kill David. He shared that we have a friend in Jesus, who gave his life for all mankind. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13 A young man and his sister came forward to accept Christ as their Savior.

A potluck meal was served and everyone was invited to stay. As with most Baptist potlucks, the food selection was vast, varied, and very tasty. When our appetites were sated, we waddled back upstairs to have the second service in lieu of a later evening service. Pastor Bixler expanded on the love and friendship found in Jesus Christ.

I made it home in time to attend choir practice and hear another sermon from our Assistant Pastor, Christian Garcia. He spoke on setting goals in our lives, either the things of the world or the things of God.

Doubled My Pleasure

Even cutting out my two volunteer days, I found my dance card a bit full. Wednesday, I had a monthly meeting and meal with the “Grand Dames” of Frick Hospital. It is a chance for me to rub elbows again with the nurses with whom I’ve worked and who have retired from Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. The meal was held at Brady’s Restaurant Acme, Pennsylvania. The good thing is that I didn’t have to cook, the restaurant was local and didn’t have to drive very far, and the food was good as usual. There nearly two dozen ladies there and I was the only rooster in the hen house and garnered free hugs from all. I hope I don’t regret this 40 years from now. Ha, ha.

Wednesday evening was prayer meeting at my church. The church also has separate programs for the children and youth.

Thursday, it was the Retired Frick employee meal. Twice a year we gather to eat, relax, and talk together. This session was held at the Black Dog Pub, just across Route 31. Recalling and retelling stories that made life memorable while working there, meeting those we worked with and shared our lives with for so many years. It was great reestablishing those ties and seeing old friends.

I was to attend a writers meeting at the Mt. Pleasant Library Thursday evening, but the aching in my hands and hips caused me to stay home, take some pain meds, and try to type more haiku poetry into the computer.

Saturday I have a wedding to attend and reception. It is the daughter of my wife’s best friend. We spent many holidays together in their home or ours. They had three kids as did we. It seemed to work out quite well. Gift exchanges equaled out.

Sunday, my son Andrew’s church is having a friends and family day. I plan to attend if at all possible.

Each week I fool myself thinking I’ll have a few quiet days, and again I find that I’ve lied.

Autumn Buckwheat and Cider

It’s time again for the Autumn Buckwheat and Sausage Festival in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. This year the date falls on October 12, 13, 14, 2018. The tradition of using buckwheat flour to make pancakes goes back much farther than the beginnings of the Ohiopyle Buckwheat Festival which started in 1947. The festival had very humble roots, starting out as the fund raiser for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department and by the community wanting to keep alive the history of the area. It still remains the chief fundraiser for the fire department.

Early methods to fry sausage and “bake” the buckwheat cakes started out by cooking the food in cast iron frying pans over single burner open gas flames. The ground pork was hand shaped by helpers before they made their way into the skillets.

That way of cooking continued at least until 1974 when I started to volunteer there to spend time with my-wife-to-be, Cindy Morrison. For a few years, my job was to wash dishes. That was a major undertaking. It seemed there was always something to wash.

I was pressed into service baking the buckwheat cakes, a move up in responsibility. This takes sweat and special care. By then, wide griddles had been introduced. It was a hot job. The temperature of the griddles must be maintained for even baking of the cakes, limiting the air flow to that room. Smoke and heat quickly accumulates and at times it becomes very uncomfortable.

I was “rescued” by my father-in-law, Elmer “Bud” Morrison to fry the sausage. Soon afterwards, the sausage frying area converted to the wide grill surface. They hold nearly 3 dozen of the seasoned pork patties. At last count, there were a dozen grills thoroughly cooking the sausage patties before serving. I have volunteered for nearly 45 years.

Chris Fennimore and WQED television came to shoot a segment on volunteerism one year and usually repeats its showing this time of year. Most years he makes the trek from Pittsburgh to visit the festival.

The sausage patties are placed in huge roasters to be transported upstairs to the dining area or to the school building next door to be kept hot and ready for those who came to enjoy the autumn leaves, Ohiopyle Falls, and the meal. The only change in the menu was the addition of pancakes for the palates of a younger generation. Steaming buckwheat or pancakes, sausage, freshly fried potatoes, bread and butter pickles, and applesauce are placed on the table to assuage the taste buds and hunger of the diners.

Suits of Armor

Our Pastor finished sharing a study on Ephesians 6:10-18, the armor of God. It wasn’t a onetime message, but each piece of the armor was addressed in depth. Sometimes, the information about a specific article of the protective covering took two sessions to describe how it was worn and why it was worn. Roman soldiers controlled Israel and its cities. So, it’s natural for the Disciple Paul to compare Christians to the soldiers around him.

Before I share the different pieces of armor, I want to share some of my own thoughts. As a recruit in the United States Navy, I underwent basic training to harden my muscles and my resolve. In the Navy, I only had to get used to the itchy wool uniforms while Marine and the Army counterparts had their uniforms, weapons, backpacks, and armor which was heavier and more uncomfortable than what I had to endure.

At first, the gear issued often would feel awkward to don and uncomfortable to wear, but as the recruit becomes familiar with the attire and hardened to the task of wearing the protection, it became almost second nature to them. The armor was there for one reason only, protection. Whether the soldier was in a defensive position or in an attack mode, the attire was there to save their lives.

I won’t attempt to share all of the spiritual ramifications, but Paul mentions that we should gird ourselves with truth. The girding holds everything in place while covering abdomen to the knees protecting the soldier from being wounded. It also secures the breastplate of righteousness, holding it securely to the body to keep the back and the chest safe from attack. Spears, arrows, darts, and swords were less likely to pierce the thick leather and metal of the plate.

Paul mentions having feet shod with the gospel of peace. Roman boots protected the soldier’s feet from the rough terrain and often had shin guards, many had hobnails for traction. Then there is the shield of faith. The shield was large, rectangular, and became a shelter for the soldier from fiery darts. The helmet of salvation protected the head, ears, and much of the face. The final piece of equipment was the sword of the Spirit, the word of God.

Many people think that the sword was the only offensive piece of the armor, but the shield and boots of the Roman soldier often became weapons of a trained warrior. Just like the recruit, the ease that a Christian has with the armor comes from its daily and repeated use and familiarity.