The Empty Tomb (Information from The Western Journal)
What is the evidence that the tomb in which Jesus was buried was discovered empty by a group of women on the Sunday following the crucifixion?
First, the resurrection was preached in the same city where Jesus had been buried. Jesus’ disciples did not go to some obscure place where no one had heard of Jesus to begin preaching about the resurrection, but instead began preaching in Jerusalem, the very city where Jesus had died and been buried. They could not have done this if Jesus was still in his tomb–no one would have believed them. No one would be foolish enough to believe a man had raised from the dead when his body lay dead in the tomb for all to see. The resurrection proclamation “could not have been maintained in Jerusalem for a single day, for a single hour, if the emptiness of the tomb had not been established as a fact for all concerned.”
Second, the earliest Jewish arguments against Christianity admit the empty tomb. In Matthew 28:11-15, there is a reference made to the Jew’s attempt to refute Christianity be saying that the disciples stole the body. This is significant because it shows that the Jews did not deny the empty tomb. Instead, their “stolen body” theory admitted the significant truth that the tomb was in fact empty. The Toledoth Jesu, a compilation of early Jewish writings, is another source acknowledging this. It acknowledges that the tomb was empty, and attempts to explain it away. Further, we have a record of a second century debate between a Christian and a Jew, in which a reference is made to the fact that the Jews claim the body was stolen. So it’s pretty well established that early Jews admitted the empty tomb.
Why is this important? Remember Jewish leaders were opposed to Christianity. They were hostile witnesses. In acknowledging the empty tomb, they were admitting the reality of a fact that was certainly not in their favor. Why would they admit that the tomb was empty unless the evidence was too strong to be denied? It’s called “positive evidence from a hostile source.” In essence, if a source admits a fact that is decidedly not in its favor, the fact is genuine.”
Third, the empty tomb account in the gospel of Mark is based upon a source that originated within seven years of the event it narrates. This places the evidence for the empty tomb too early to be legendary, and makes it much more likely that it is accurate. What is the evidence for this? A German commentator on Mark, Rudolf Pesch, points out that this pre-Markan source never mentions the high priest by name. “This implies that Caiaphas, who we know was high priest at that time, was still high priest when the story began circulating.” For “if it had been written after Caiaphas’ term of office, his name would have had to have been used to distinguish him from the next high priest. But since Caiaphas was high priest from A.D. 18 to 37, this story began circulating no later than A.D. 37, within the first seven years after the events.”

Another Parting Shot of Winter
I belong to the van ministry at our church. Occasionally I am the driver, but most often I ride shotgun and am a chaperone. We collect teens, youth, and adults who need a ride to church on Wednesday evenings. Depending on their schedules and their desire to come we may have as few as one person and up to perhaps nine passengers. It’s difficult to determine from week to week so we have a predetermined schedule and make the rounds to see who is going. The pick-up times may vary a little, but the kids know when to expect the van to pick them up.
Our variables occur when a new rider wants to join the group. This past Wednesday we needed to pick up a teen from Stahlstown. He is becoming a regular. We had a teen from Normalville who wanted a ride. She was an add on, a first time rider. It meant that we had to start our rounds fifteen minutes earlier so we wouldn’t arrive late for church or youth services. The drive to pick up the youth was no problem, although my driver often complains about the curvy mountain roads. He’s a “low-lander.” He has only a short drive to the main highways where there are painted traffic lines on the road. Our trip to the church was uneventful dodging only two deer. We made it just in time to the church, walking into the sanctuary just as the congregation began to sing the first hymn.
Instead of a sermon, our Pastor showed a DVD from a series on listening to the voice of God and the reason for our conscience. He’s still recovering from an upper respiratory tract infection. His voice is still hoarse and has episodes of coughing. He is on an antibiotic.
After services we gathered the van riders quickly. Usually we let them shoot hoops in the gym for about fifteen minutes, but not that evening. I knew the weather was about to change and preferred to get them home safely instead of delaying our departure time. It was a good thing we did. As we drove, the rain changed to sleet, then wet snow. The hour we were gone the grass and trees became covered in thick wet snow. The driver was fussing because he could only use the low beam headlights. The snow was falling quickly almost blinding him. The unpainted road became darker and more difficult to see. The closer our return trip to the church was, fog added to our woes. We managed to avoid another deer before we parked the van and headed for our homes.

Wedding Crashers
    It was my oldest child’s wedding. My daughter Amanda looked beautiful and the ceremony went off without a hitch. The church had been decorated with white bows and calla lilies. When I walked her down the aisle it was as though I was walking in a dream. So many things swirled around in my mind. I was aware that this ceremony was very much different than my son Andrew’s wedding two years before.
    My wife Cindy Morrison Beck passed away five months before his wedding. At that time I was still in a complete fog but Cindy would not have wanted the delay. Andrew’s wedding was in Cottonwood, Arizona and we lived in western Pennsylvania. It added to the stress in my life riding herd my daughter Anna, my mother-in-law, and the luggage as we flew from Pittsburgh to Phoenix, Arizona.
    Amanda’s wedding was great. The weather was as lovely as the bride. The wedding was over and the wedding party went for photographs while the guests were invited to attend the reception, enjoy cookies, and snacks until the photo session was over. Music was playing and punch bowls were filled. Guests were nibbling and mingling while we waited. It was like almost like every other reception.
    Before I tell the rest of the story, I need to explain. The reception hall we used was a community center in a rural area between the two very small towns of Indian Head and Normalville, Pennsylvania. There are no major recreational draws in the summer. There are two ski areas, but this was August. Two Frank Lloyd Wright homes and white water rafting are the only year round draws to our area.
    The bridal party arrived at the hall in a stretch limousine. They’d just stepped out and were about to walk up outside stairs to enter the reception hall when a small car sped into the parking lot. It surprised my daughter and her new husband. They turned to see what was happening.
    Initially they thought someone was arriving late and were hurrying to get inside, but they were surprised when the car halted in the middle of the lot. Car doors popped open. The wedding party watched in stunned amazement. A whirlpool of four people emerged, leaping from the car. The “visitors” ran up the stairs and asked to take pictures with my daughter and new son-in-law. One of the wedding party took the “visitor’s” camera and snapped several pictures.
    While the pictures were being taken, the strangers talked to the newly-weds. The visitors were from Israel and on a whim, seeing the bride and groom decided to stop for photographs. As soon as they got the pictures, they returned to their car and sped away.
    My daughter told me later that the bridal party looked at each other like “What just happened?”
    The reception went well. Good food, good friends, and music made the night enjoyable.
    After the honeymoon was over, my daughter told me about the strangers and the photo shoot. I said, “Why didn’t you invite them in. We had plenty of food.”
    She said, “Dad! We were so surprised and they were back in their car and gone before we could say anything.”

You Should Smoke, You’re Too Green to Burn
“You should smoke, you’re too green to burn” was one of my father Carl Beck’s favorite sayings when he was meaning that someone was too young to do something. But for real about smoking, he smoked a cigar once or twice. Someone gave him a cigar at the birth of someone’s child. He said a cigar made him sick. He never used any other tobacco products that I knew of.
I had two great-aunts who smoked. One great-aunt was in the hospital when smoking was permitted. A doctor walked in while they were smoking. One had breathing problems and was warned not to smoke. One smoked cigarettes and the other a corncob pipe. The visiting great-aunt grabbed and held both the pipe and the cigarette, saying later, “I was blessed if I was gonna let him know which one I was smoking.”
I believe that three of my uncles smoked cigarettes. My Uncle Charles smoked unfiltered Lucky Strikes and coughed like crazy. My Uncle Fred smoked unfiltered Camels. He too had a deep, moist cough. I believe I saw my Uncle Nicky smoking, but I can’t remember for sure. I never saw the packaging, but I remember seeing a cigarette between his fingers on occasion.
My Grandfather Ray Miner chewed tobacco. He was a coal miner. Chewing tobacco reminded them not to swallow the coal dust and to spit it out. His brand was the paper pouch Cutty Pipe. It was the cheapest tobacco at the time and Granddad was raising a large family. He would share with his horses saying, “The tobacco kills their worms.” He used to sit in his recliner chair with his “spit can” at his side, continuing to chewing tobacco until he died.
My Uncle Francis was a miner too. I’m sure he chewed tobacco, but he also smoked a pipe. I don’t know the brand he used.
My Uncle Dale liked his tobacco in almost any form. His chewing tobacco was Red Man. He also smoked cigars. Not the long pale tan colored zeppelin shaped ones, but stubby black ones by the name of Renzi Cigars. They were only about three inches long, black, and gnarled. Dale swore that the cigars were made from the sweepings from the floor of the factory. I believe the factory was on the Westside of Connellsville, Pennsylvania. Dale always had a chew in or the stub of a Renzi cigar in his mouth.
I was never a smoker, but when I was in the U. S. Navy a friend smoked a pipe. When he would drive to a tobacco shop, I was always glad to ride with him. The aromas of the many tobaccos filled the store. He was glad to have someone along to “push-start” his Volkswagen if needed.
 

Queen Esther
King Ahasuruerus was the ruler of Persia. Persia was a vast empire where the King’s decree was the law. His domain ranged Paddan-Haran to India and even unto Ethiopia. He called all of his princes and servants, nobles, and princes of the provinces to come to a feast. He put on display all his riches of his kingdom for one hundred and fourscore days. His wife and queen Vashti made a feast for the women. When the King’s heart was “feeling merry,” he made a command for Queen Vashti to parade before the princes, but she refused and the King and the King removed her royal estate from her.
Shortening the story, there was a search for Vashti’s replacement and the winner was Hadassah a Jewish girl, whose name was changed to Esther as a disguise of her heritage. Even though God’s name was never mentioned in the book of Esther, His finger can easily be seen. Esther had to find the courage to approach King Ahasuruerus under the fear of death to save herself and her people from and evil enemy.
I was invited on Saturday afternoon to a musical matinee performance of Esther at my oldest Granddaughter’s school. Celine is a junior this year and had a singing part in the performance. It wasn’t a leading part, but her singing and dialogue in several scenes was on cue, on key, and very entertaining. The musical departed from the biblical text, but paralleled the story to be easily recognized. The important things taken from Esther are that God is always present and He will protect His Chosen People from destruction. It also revealed one person can make the difference in the outcome of a situation.
After the performance we went to eat at Applebee’s. Because we were a larger group, there were nine of us; we had to wait until the staff could move tables together to accommodate us. I was seated across the table from Celine and I was shocked because of how she had grown. She has become a beautiful young lady. I teased my kids that I was impressed how handsome and lovely they were, considering the gene pool. I was doubly impressed as I looked across the table.
 

 Sometimes Surprised
I had to wait at home Thursday for my lawn tractor to be picked up. I couldn’t get it to start even after I charged the battery. I removed the solenoid and took it to my nearby John Deere dealer to see if that was the problem. It was good, so I made arrangements to have it picked up for repair. (PS: I am mechanically dyslexic and knew I couldn’t put it back together.) I also asked that they change oil and sharpen the blades while it’s in the shop. Once it was loaded, I left to do some shopping.
Thursday was a gloomy, gray, rainy day and I decided I needed a few groceries. It was close to lunchtime and I decided to hit one of my usual restaurants. Many times when I leave the cash tip, I also leave one of my business cards for my waitress. The card shares information that I am a “Wordsmith and Author.” It also lists a few of my books and that I have a blogspot.
One of the newer and younger and very pretty waitresses came over to my table. She wasn’t my waitress and I was certain that it wasn’t because I was a handsome Prince Charming, but what she said took me by surprise. Another waitress to whom I shared a business card remembered that I was a writer and told her that I was an author. She explained that she was in school and wanted to become a writer. I know I pass out a lot of business cards, but this was the first time that someone else recognized me from my card. I imagine part of it was I am a regular and foist a card as well as a tip for my waitress. They knew that the new waitress had a desire to be a writer and that I labeled myself as one. We talked for a few seconds and I gave her one of my business cards. I told her that I was retired and wasn’t pimping for folks to buy my books. Six of the seven are at the Mt. Pleasant Library and on Kindle, so they can be read for free as is my blogspot. I told her I was glad to have more readers.
On the back of her card I wrote a few words of encouragement. “May your mysteries be solvable, your adventures good ones, and your love stories be true.” She smiled and walked away allowing me to eat my meal. PS: I don’t know which other waitress told her I was a writer, but I did leave a nice tip.

 Wash Day
I can remember my mom Sybil Miner Beck as she washed our family’s clothes in the old Maytag wringer washing machine. Mom would have me fill the square tub of the machine with hot water and the two galvanized rinse tubs with cold water. The side-by-side tubs were on legs wirh wheels on the legs and a drain on the bottom of each tub. Those tubs were placed next to the wringer arm where it could swing over top of both tubs.
Mom would dump soap powder into the washer and pull out a red recessed knob to engage the agitator allowing the powder to mix with the water and get frothy. The bright red knob on the side of the washer reminded me of a bellybutton.
The first items to go into the washer were white and light colored clothing; underwear, socks, undershirts, and dress shirts. Mom would figure out how long to allow the clothing to slosh around until they were clean. She would push the agitator button in and the sloshing would stop Mom would fish the clothes from the hot water with a wooden spoon handle and feed the clothes through the wringer that was positioned over the tub with the “first” rinse water. It was interesting to watch the clothing flatten out, squeezing the wash water back into the washing machine. Sometimes trapped air would hiss and cause the water to squirt high into the air as the pocket was compressed. The flattened clothing rolled out into the rinse tub.
Once the washer was empty of clothing, the next load was tossed in; bright colored tee shirts, shorts, dress pants, and shirts. Mom would allow the whites to soak in the rinse water swirling them around with her hand. Just before the brights were washed clean, she would swing the wringer over the center between the two rinse tubs running whites from the “first” rinse, into the “second” rinse water. She’d swirl them to soak the last of the soapiness from them.
Back went the wringer and Mom would run the bright clothing from the washer into the recently vacated “first” rinse and toss in the jeans and darks into the washer. The wringer was turned to the far side of the “second” rinse and the whites would be forced between the rollers, to tumble down into a laundry basket. It was time to hang them on the clothes line outside.
Loads of towels, sheets, my dad’s work clothing, and finally the rugs were washed in the washer then rinses, only to join others on the rope clothes lines. It didn’t matter the weather, Mom would hang the clothing outside. (She didn’t wash on rainy days.)
In the winter, she’d come back inside, her hands reddened from the cold on her moistened hands from the clothes. More often than not the clothing was frozen stiff before next piece could be hung. Even though the clothing had been soaking in cold rinse water, steam would rise from the wet clothes in the frigid air. Once the clothing would “freeze dry” Mom would fetch them in to re-hang them on lines in the basement to finish drying. She’d take them down and iron them to get the last of the dampness out of the clothing for storage.

 Worries, Not Me
“Don’t Worry, Be Happy” was a song that was a hit not very long ago. It suggested that a Happy-go-lucky life was the way to go. Some may think that this is a fable, a mythical creature like the unicorn. I just want to remind my readers that the word worry is not mentioned in the Word of God. It is never mentioned, although many passages point to the word in many other forms. The feeling of worry is never in a positive sense. It is always negative.
A lot of the passages say to “fear not” because God will take care of His own. The Word shares how God takes care of the sparrows, the lilies, and His children. He never forsakes His own. Time after time the Bible shares how God guides and protects us. It shares that God is faithful. The rising of the sun and moon and the rotation of seasons show His design. He has each star named; think of the number of them that are spread out through the universe.
God has each hair on our heads numbered; on some of us he has less work to do than on others. He knows the number of grains of sand on every beach along every ocean. God says don’t be concerned. I created this world and all that is in it. I am in control.
When the storms in life come along, remember that Jesus, God’s Son spoke and stilled the wind and the waves. And why not; He merely spoke and created everything into being from nothing. And today, the worlds and all that we can see, feel, and hear is being held together by His will.
I’ve tried to eliminate the word worry from my vocabulary. The closest I come is to substitute the word worry with the word concern. When I am concerned, I am compelled to turn it over to God. In my weakness God reveals His strength. I can’t think of anyone or anything stronger than the Creator of the universe. Can you?

The Wild Wild West
Recently I have had the urge to reread some of the stories of Louis L’Amour. I’ve slowly collected almost an entire library of his short stories. I thoroughly enjoy his writing. He gives a detailed description of places and people that puts my imagination into the stories. The other thing that draws me to his writing is he often uses wonderful turns of phrases that thoroughly describe a situation, that are so enticing it makes me wish I’d have said it before him.
I’ve read that Mr. L’Amour lived in many of the areas that he writes about, including the tales of a sailor at sea aboard ships in the South Pacific and as a detective in the hills of California. His ability to share his knowledge of the West and other areas of life staggers me. He makes me envious of his skills.
I find it easier for me to write short stories having difficulty to stretch a story into a book. That may be why my first four books are composed of short stories. Many of the core characters are the same, but each chapter is a mystery. Tommy Minerd is the main character in all of them. He is a retired homicide detective from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Because he’s retired, he cannot “solve crimes,” but can be involved in solving mysteries. My editor said that my writings are cozy mysteries, because I don’t include a lot of bloodshed or violence. In several of my first books I used a few curse words, because criminals don’t say, “Oh, golly gee” or “Rats.” I learned to use less and less of them in each consecutive book.
In one of my stories I wrote to be in a collection of tales for a fund raiser was about a gambler who escaped the wrath of a casino owner by riding a ship along the Newfoundland and Labrador Coast. He figured it would be the last place the angry husband of the woman with whom he had a dalliance. I relied on my trip there, remembering the sights when I traveled to Nain on the ship named “The Northern Ranger.”
It was an attempt to write like Louis L’Amour. I wrote to share what I’d seen on the trip with others, but what I got from my peers was that I should write travel brochures. Eventually, I needed to eliminate one lovely old lady. The other writers felt that her part describing an interlude had no direct bearing on the story

Characters
As a naval corpsman I met quite a few characters. Some of them were patients and some of them were fellow staff members. Some things I share are the stories from patients past lives that they shared with me.
The following tale involves all three. A retired veteran was in and out of the Orlando Naval Hospital for problems from his diabetes. We heard him say that as a young soldier he had ridden with Pancho Via at the request of the United States government to harass the Mexican officials. Later, when Texas broke free from Mexico, he rode against Pancho Via to protect the independent and sovereign state of Texas until it was annexed to the United States of America. He also protected the towns, farms, and ranches in Texas from other marauding desperados. He shared these stories with us while he was a patient.
His diabetes had crippled him. He had lost one leg to gangrene and finally the second one was due to be removed because of a lack of circulation. His first re-admission after losing his second leg was an embarrassing moment for my corpsman roommate and yet it was humorous at the same time.
As a health care worker you develop a routine when admitting a new patient, asking the same questions in much the same order. This was what happened when my roommate Eric asked the old veteran what was his birth date, whether or not he had any allergies? Eric eventually asked, “How much do you weigh?”
The old man replied, “I weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds when I still had one leg.”
Eric automatically asked the next question. Can you guess what it was?
“How tall are you?” Eric said and as soon as the question escaped his lips, he recognized the question for what it was. Immediately, he understood his blunder. He was flustered and said, “Never mind” and went asking the rest of the admission questions.
Although the old man was very sick he would smile and relish sharing with visitors and other staff members about Eric’s mistake and embarrassment.
Another patient I recall was a doctor. He was a mule skinner in WWI and used his GI bill to go to medical school. He was a quiet, frail man who spent Christmas in the hospital before passing away.

 The Partridge Family
    My mom Sybil Miner Beck loved books and loved to read them. If she wasn’t working, she most often had a book in her hand. She shared her love of reading with us kids and would read to us before bed. I got my desires to read and write from her. I also learned to play with words. That evolved from her. She played with words too often taking something we’d say and sing a song or chorus that matched.
     We would sit beside her on the wide couch after our evening baths and she would read. Most of the readings came from old reading books that she had collected from hand-me-downs or some bought on bargain tables. She preferred the short stories that could be finished quickly and not in a series of chapters. She would read several stories in an evening, and then tell us it was time for bed. We pleaded, “Just one more story.”
    Usually she would relent. I think she liked us to hear us plead for “just on more story.” We wanted to hear one more story just as much as we wanted to delay going to bed for a bit longer.
    After hearing several of our pleas, she would finally say, “Okay, just one more story, then off to bed with you.”
    “Yeah.”
    This night the extra story was about Mrs. Partridge and her family. It talked about this wild bird protecting her chicks and searching for food. It shared how she’d gather her chicks beneath her wings to keep them warm and safe. Mom was doing well with her reading, each paragraph spoke of Mrs. Partridge.
    After about five paragraphs, her dry mouth and tired eyes made an error. Instead of saying, “Mrs. Partridge.” She said “Mrs. Fartridge…”
    We three kids sitting on that old orange flowered couch began to giggle. Even though it was funny it was the wrong thing to do.
    “That’s it. Get to bed. I told you I was tired before I started.” And she slammed the book shut. There was no leeway for that argument. There was no reprieve.
    Years later, in high school, I would read two or three books at a time. They would be scattered throughout the house. One could be upstairs in my bedroom, one might be in the living room, and one was always open in the family room.
Mom would fuss, “I don’t know how you do it. You have one book in every room of the house and I know that you read one before you go to sleep. How you keep all those stories straight.”
    I tried to explain, “I learned it in school. We don’t go the whole way through the math book before we start history or geography. We’re expected to read them all at the same time. That’s nothing different than what I do at home.”
    She would shake her head and walk away.

The Partridge Family
    My mom Sybil Miner Beck loved books and loved to read them. If she wasn’t working, she most often had a book in her hand. She shared her love of reading with us kids and would read to us before bed. I got my desires to read and write from her. I also learned to play with words. That evolved from her. She played with words too often taking something we’d say and sing a song or chorus that matched.
     We would sit beside her on the wide couch after our evening baths and she would read. Most of the readings came from old reading books that she had collected from hand-me-downs or some bought on bargain tables. She preferred the short stories that could be finished quickly and not in a series of chapters. She would read several stories in an evening, and then tell us it was time for bed. We pleaded, “Just one more story.”
    Usually she would relent. I think she liked us to hear us plead for “just on more story.” We wanted to hear one more story just as much as we wanted to delay going to bed for a bit longer.
    After hearing several of our pleas, she would finally say, “Okay, just one more story, then off to bed with you.”
    “Yeah.”
    This night the extra story was about Mrs. Partridge and her family. It talked about this wild bird protecting her chicks and searching for food. It shared how she’d gather her chicks beneath her wings to keep them warm and safe. Mom was doing well with her reading, each paragraph spoke of Mrs. Partridge.
    After about five paragraphs, her dry mouth and tired eyes made an error. Instead of saying, “Mrs. Partridge.” She said “Mrs. Fartridge…”
    We three kids sitting on that old orange flowered couch began to giggle. Even though it was funny it was the wrong thing to do.
    “That’s it. Get to bed. I told you I was tired before I started.” And she slammed the book shut. There was no leeway for that argument. There was no reprieve.
    Years later, in high school, I would read two or three books at a time. They would be scattered throughout the house. One could be upstairs in my bedroom, one might be in the living room, and one was always open in the family room.
Mom would fuss, “I don’t know how you do it. You have one book in every room of the house and I know that you read one before you go to sleep. How you keep all those stories straight.”
    I tried to explain, “I learned it in school. We don’t go the whole way through the math book before we start history or geography. We’re expected to read them all at the same time. That’s nothing different than what I do at home.”
    She would shake her head and walk away.

Look to the Sky
In the past few days, the sky has been so intensely beautiful, I can’t express in words the vivid colors and design I’ve seen. Even Bob Ross with his happy little “wet on wet” techniques would be hard pressed to come close to the excellent expressions that God has painted. I take photographs of the most impressive and share them on Facebook, but they only stir memories of skies that I have seen in my past.
One such sky was while camping at The Great Sand Dunes of Colorado. As we arrived, vast arches of rainbows greeted us. There were three rainbows that slowly dissolved into one, growing brighter as they joined together. Later that night as we set up camp there were no lights for miles and the sky was a velvety black. Huge bright stars hung just out of reach above our heads. The air became even clearer and stars more pronounced after the storm and its dazzling lightning display passed by. The rain seemed to clean the air and polish the stars.
I’m also reminded of the hues of the sky and its reflection in the ocean at the northern tip of Newfoundland. As we waited to board the Northern Ranger, the sky melted into the water of the bay. They almost melded into one. Only the ship moored there gave definition to the location of the water.
The sunrises and sunsets from my house have been so very impressive. The colors have been so intense that they almost seem artificial. The smorgasbord of passing clouds adds even more interest to phenomenal designs in the sky. The skies’ palette is filled with pastel hues to brilliant primary colors. That boggles my mind. The old adage comes to my mind, “A picture paints a thousand words.” But it fails miserably at describing the majesty, beauty, and colors of the various skies’ presentations.
I like to think that this is the underside of Heaven and if the bottom of Heaven is this wonderful, I can’t imagine what Heaven will be like. I am at a loss for words to try and describe what Heaven will actually look like. I do know the Bible describes Heaven as being filled with jewels and having streets of gold. Heaven’s gates are huge pearls. It’s an eternal place where moth and rust can’t destroy. It is too great a thought for any human to comprehend.

The Plot Thickens
When I first began writing, I was naïve and thought that devising an interesting idea for a story plot or if I was able to see a special view for a poem that was all that it took to become an author. Inspiration is only a part of being a writer. It is the germ of a thought process that has caused the journey to begin. It is followed by hours of diligence and perspiration. Some people think it is as easy as writing a letter or shooting a text to a friend; not so.
Many items come into the decision making. When you write about people there are the things that they do and say remain consistent? Are their conversations normal and not stinted? If they have an accent or dialect, is it true to their area and remain true? When I choose a location, does the story reflect the nature and weather of the place? Time of day, time of year, and the time period and the type of clothing and the customs must remain true to form. There must be an agreement of facts. There is always someone who is more of an expert than you and will find fault if you stray away any minute detail. All of these items must match, integrate, and deal with the plot with how you share it.
After this a writer must read through the story time after time, looking for errors in punctuation, misspellings, or grammar. Sometimes the author will insert a word that is not actually there as they read it, leaving the reader confused because they don’t understand what is missing.
The fun is just starting. Most writers have a friend or several friends to read their writings. Really good friends will tear it apart. They will pick apart each and every mistake that you make. They will point out everything from weak places in the plot or feebleness in characters to errors in punctuation, typos, and incorrectly spelled words. Then it’s time to go back to the drawing board, trying to remedy anything that was not done well. It may require the introduction of a new character or writing a new twist to the plot.
I’m not complaining. I love my eagle-eyed friends. I wanted to share what it takes to get a book ready for publication. Even then, there will be errors. I just hope that the plot of the story and characters allow some tolerance for this author.
 

Hey Sweets
I was working the night shift on a medical/surgical floor at Frick Hospital in Mt/ Pleasant, Pennsylvania. There was one rotund middle-aged man who was a bit off. His elevator wasn’t riding to the top floor. Sometimes it seemed that his brain travelled from side to side instead of up and down. He spoke with a slur and reminded me of a shorter, warped Uncle Fester from “The Addams Family.” I’ll give the man the name of John and I don’t know if this fact had any bearing on John’s unusual behavior or not, but he frequently bragged that his mother was a bus driver.
He was in and out of the hospital for multiple problems, but several things remained constant. He always had busy hands under the sheets. We never asked him what he was doing. No one really wanted to know. He always had several pieces of cellophane wrapped candy in a little pile on the sheet beside his leg. John would make the offer to help yourself to a piece. However, it was always to the women that entered his room. He’d say, “Thay thweeth, take a pieth of candy.”
Then he’d ask the person for a favor. “Thay Thweeth, how’th about a cup of coffee.”
Sometime among his frequent stays, he had a colostomy. A colostomy is formed by surgery to make an opening in the stomach wall and attach a loop of bowel to the outside so that feces will exit the body there instead of through the normal route through the rectum. A bag is placed over the stoma opening to catch the stool. To make part of the seal leak-proof, an application of aluminum paste was necessary. The application and the paste itself was just as messy as it sounds. The silver metal-colored paste was thick and many times was applied with a tongue depressor, like spreading butter on toast with a butter knife. The paste and extra colostomy supplies were kept at the patient’s bedside when they were needed to make the changes quickly.
Making our rounds one night we entered his room and found him completely naked. A naked patient was no big deal. It was something we often encountered. What made him remarkable was that he’d spread the thick aluminum paste from neck to knees, saying, “I’m an airplane. I’m an airplane.” It was a major task removing the paste. He had to be scraped, before we could wash it off. He looked like a silver-skinned alien from outer space. I can remember his bulging abdomen shining silver in the overhead light to look like a silver balloon.

The Miner Farm
My grandfather Raymond Miner and his wife Rebecca Rugg Miner owned a small farm near Indian Head in the southwest corner of Pennsylvania. Granddad raised a few cattle, a couple of horses, several pigs, a flock of chickens, and a passel of kids, eight to be exact, six girls and two boys. The only crops I can remember Granddad growing were hay, corn, and of course Grandma’s garden.
Their farm was dominated by a large two story farmhouse and a weathered gray barn. There were several outbuildings, a block shelter for the spring, two chicken coops, a smoke house, a corn crib, and of course the outhouse. The farmhouse had a large basement that contained a myriad of shelves to hold canned goods, the pump for water, a coal bin, and the huge coal furnace with its octopus maze of heating ductwork. At the end of the steep stairs descending to the basement was a huge flat stone approximately three feet by five feet creating a platform before stepping down onto the basement floor. Cobwebs decorated much of the less frequently explored areas. The lighting consisted of single light bulbs that dangled from ceiling wires.
Three large hemlock trees shaded the long front porch, their roots lifting a few of the bricks in the walkway to the porch. Later, I remember the back porch being “built in” to house “indoor plumbing” and make room for a toilet and bathtub. I was too little do more than get in the way as the men dug a hole to place the septic tank and ditches for the drainage field. That was a blessing for Gram and her progressing rheumatic arthritis. She no longer had to make trips to the outhouse or use the chamber pot, but Granddad still kept the two-hole outhouse. With so many kids and grandkids the outhouse was often necessary in peak demand times at gatherings to butcher hogs and the bull or for holiday celebrations.
Granddad donated a small lower field to the Church of God when they were looking for a new location to build and expand. At one visit to their home, the minister described Granddad as Enoch-like. He said Granddad was a quiet man who, like Enoch walked with God when he died.

 Covering Your Butt
This morning I was reminded of a story my brother Kenneth Beck told me about a hunting buddy. I was wearing a shirt with a longer tail and as I sat on the commode, I almost forgot to tuck it in. That would have been a huge mistake and an even larger mess. That simple act took me back to the time Ken shared his tale.
He and his buddy were hunting during deer season. His friend had a brand new one-piece hunting outfit with a hood. Like many hunters, the urge to purge came upon him and he dropped his drawers answering nature’s call. He was careful to unzip the suit and tuck everything out of the way before he fulfilled the adage of the bear in the woods. After completing the task, he scrubbed his hands in the snow, continuing on his was searching for some venison on the hoof. Occasionally his buddy would get the odor of what he had deposited and left behind earlier. Again and again his buddy would scrub his hands in the snow and in any stream of water he approached, and still the odor remained.
At the end of the hunting day, he met my brother at their vehicle. His buddy was removing the one-piece hunting suit and to his surprise and dismay, his deposit was residing in the hood and had been following him around all day. In disgust, his buddy whipped out his hunting knife and cut off the hood instead of flicking out what he was able, then washing it at home.
Another hunting story involved my dad, Carl Beck. We were hunting at an old favorite spot. Dad arrived early…God forbid that we would arrive late for anything. He hiked along an old logging road through the woods to his favorite spot. As he crossed a knoll, he noticed a fluorescent orange color in his chosen spot to sit and watch for deer. Disgusted, he chose another spot nearby, keeping an eye on the orange “hunter.” After hours and the spot didn’t move, Dad decided to stroll closer. As he neared, he recognized it as a hat without a hunter beneath it. Inspecting the scene, some hunter used the hat in lieu of toilet tissue and tossed the hat and it was NOT the hood from my brother’s buddy.

Reminders
Last evening after church services, my youngest child Anna Prinkey and I were talking with another church member. Anna shared a story about an incident that happened to her when she was younger. She was so young; she has little actual remembrance of the incident other than the oft-time told story about it. This occurred in a time when baby seats were little more than plastic scoops with wire legs to position the baby seat at different angles. Today’s infant car seats are like Sherman tanks when they are compared to those old plastic car seats.
My wife Cindy Morrison Beck and our two other children Amanda Yoder and Andrew Beck were shopping at Fisher Big Wheel department store. It’s been so long ago, I have no inkling of what we were shopping for. We just entered the store and placed the car seat with Anna into the trough on the shopping cart that was made for toddlers to ride while parents were in the store. These thick wire enclosures had holes for the kids to put their legs through and sit on the trough-type seat. If my memory is correct, they didn’t have the safety strap seat belt to keep the kid from climbing out like the carts that stores have today.
So, back to the story. We’d just settled Anna with her car seat in the trough of the shopping cart, my wife Cindy Morrison Beck was at the helm pushing the buggy. Amanda and Andrew were clutching the side of the cart. Suddenly they decided at the very same instant to climb up onto the side of the shopping cart. The shopping cart offended at their assault and tipped over. Anna still strapped into the plastic car seat, slid out of the trough and skidded across the hard tile floor, scooting along for nearly 12 feet. Scared, the two tipping culprits sprinted to a nearby clothing rack to hide. Cindy began to scream, “My baby. My baby.” Anna was safe and unharmed. She was quietly waiting to be retrieved.
I remained calm when I knew that Anna was unharmed. I righted the shopping buggy, gathering up Anna and her car seat into my arms. Cindy stopped screaming when I placed Anna back onto the shopping cart. The two perpetrators of the entire commotion coyly peered from the depth of the clothing rack. When they felt it was again safe for them, they reappeared and were on their best behavior. Not a single employee came to investigate what had happened. To this day, I’m still unsure if we actually bought anything.

One of Those DUH Moments
Have you ever done things in a certain way until they have become a habit? Or created a thought pattern until your response has almost become rote? Sometimes there comes a day when those thoughts and habits are challenged and jarred awake. Too many times I have corralled my mind inside a closed box without options to do things other than my way of thinking. Or I’ve never had an idea presented that was different from the path I was following.
I had one of those “DUH” moments while I was on my Thursday morning walk. I was walking more slowly because of the aches in my right knee. It was the recent injury to my right foot that slowed me down even more. The cool morning air with just a slight breeze made it perfect for the stroll. I did need to make an adjustment in my footwear though. Shoes needing to be tied with strings pinched on my bruised and swollen right foot. I decided to wear the pair of lined Crocs that my daughter Amanda Yoder bought as a Christmas gift. They worked quite well for my walk along a paved highway. I’m not sure that I would want to travel cross country in them.
In my past jaunts, I would try to keep record of the amount of time I spent walking, but because I stop to take photographs, keeping the amount of time is far from accurate. Lately, since I know the distance of certain walks, I’ve used that as my guide. The distance from my house to the village of White, Pennsylvania is one mile. I’ve walked halfway there many times, thinking that I walked one-half mile. So smart right? Not really. As I was walking Thursday morning, reaching the halfway point, I thought, “It’s time to head back to the house.” It suddenly dawned on me. I wasn’t just walking the half mile, but I was also walking another half mile to get back home. DUH!!!
For the entire time I was trying to measure the distance I’d been walking, I was short changing myself by half the distance. Now I know better. Sometimes these “DUH” moments can be terribly enlightening.

Not So Exciting
Today is nearly kicked in the can and there have been no bright spots or highlights in my day. My view to the east this morning was soggy, sodden and gray. A heavy drizzle from thick gray clouds barely allows me to view the woods across the neighbor’s field. I definitely couldn’t see the mountains or the rising sun. The wind whipped the rain onto my front porch and lifted the protective tarp from my firewood. I waited for a break in the rain before I dragged out my wheelbarrow to haul in two loads of firewood before recovering and securing the tarp in place in an attempt to have drier firewood.
My excitement for the day was eating some of the leftovers from my refrigerator, opening a can of beets, and washing and drying a load of towels and washcloths. My right knee has been complaining all day long. Each time I climb the steps from my basement, it protests loudly. I guess it has serviced me for almost 74 years and other than an infection in my left knee when I was a teen, they’ve kept me moving forward.
The incident with my left knee was caused when my foot went through a wooden well covering, only stopped when the two boards at each side pinched my knee. The resulting scrape allowed bacteria to infect my knee. It didn’t affect me then, but some time later, I was shinnying up a tree and pressing that knee joint against the rough tree bark stirred the pot and I developed a cellulites. I spent an entire week in the Connellsville hospital getting antibiotic injections in my butt. The lack of activity and the assault on my fanny was a terrible intrusion on the life of a teenage boy. I was almost to the point of tying sheets together to make a rope to escape through a window.
God is still good. I have both of my legs that allow me to walk and I still have my brain, although those brain cells have weakened. I blame it on my fall and head injury in February 2015. I have had to keep a desk calendar; listing upcoming appointments to be sure I don’t forget. I also have a pad of paper on my desk. On it I write a grocery list when I find something I need and I also list chores I have to do: get gas for the car, make an appointment for a haircut, have taxes done, etc. A younger me thought, “How can a guy forget to pull up his zipper.” Now I understand.