Coming Around In Full Circle
Yesterday was one of those odd days where running errands meant ging from store to store to purchase the items that I needed to fill my list, and I still forgot one item, but that’s just an aside. My first stop was at Busy Beaver hardware to buy some replacement tiles for my drop ceiling that recently developed some mose nibbles. While I was there annd I was paying for my purchases, the young lady cashier asked me if I knew Alan Bottomly. I said I did and was the best man at his wedding, the very same wedding where I met my future wife Cindy Morrison Beck.
The cashier said, “I thought that I recognized you. I’m Alan’s daughter.”
I was so surprised that I forgot to ask her name, to look for her name on her manetag, or to even see if she was wearing a name tag.
While we were talking a man walked up to the couunter and I said, “How are you sir”
His gruff reply was, “Not so well.”
I turned to go to my car. I thought I’d fetch a Gospel tract that I’d left in my car and perhaps might help him.
He said, “Just like everyone else, when you don’t get the answer you want, you walk away.”
I told him I wanted to share a Gospel tract with hime and was going to my car to fetch one.”
He began to speak to me in a foreign language. He eventualy said it was Koine Greek and I was able to share with him that I’d taken two years of Koine Greek, but that was many years ago. I learned to parse and to read Greek, but not to speak it. He shared that he still taught Greek and was teaching teo students. He also warned to be sure of what was in the tracts and how it compared what was being said in the translations.
It was odd meeting a young lady that I’d possibly met only once as a child and she recognized me and to bump into another elderly person who knew Koine Greek. I’m not sure how much Greek I’ve retained and how much I’ve lost after nearly fifteen years.
After I finished my errands, I made my way to the bank for cash, to the gas station to pump fuel for my car and my mower, and finally to “the place of extreme confusion” called Wal-Mart before I headed for home.

 When Elephants Roamed the Hospital
I was supervising one afternoon shift when I heard an overhead page for a “Blue alert” on the obstetric unit. It made the hair stand up on my arms. That was an occurrence that had never happened to me before. I hurried to see what was happening.
The patient was a middle aged woman who delivered an infant girl earlier in the day. The woman’s heart had stopped. When I arrived, CPR was already in progress and I took over doing chest compressions to relieve the nurse who was tiring. The closed chest compressions were necessary to keep the woman alive. Apparently the stress of labor and delivery was too much for her and she had a heart attack.
The support of her breathing functions, chest compressions, and medications, we were able to get her heart going again. She was transferred to our coronary care unit for monitoring and recovery.
When I checked on her the next evening I introduced myself as one of the hospital’s nursing supervisors. She’d been told that I had done compressions on her chest when she arrested the day before.
She said, “So, you’re the elephant who sat on my chest.”
I laughed at her description and we talked a bit more before I left her room.
Her nurse came over to me when I walked into the nursing station and said, “I heard what she said to you and just wanted to show you something.” She opened the chart and pointed to what she had written while charting earlier. “Patient states ‘It feels as though an elephant sat on my chest.’”
I chuckled and left the unit feeling good that the woman was alive because "the elephant” had done its job.
Many years later a woman stopped me in the hospital’’s hallway. She was with a beautiful teen-aged girl. The woman turned to the girl and introduced me as “the elephant who sat on my chest when you were born.” Then she turned to me and said, “She’s graduating high school this year.”
I was awestruck. I am sure that my mouth was hanging open. This young lady was graduating this year and her mom was going to be around to see her. That was a great feeling to know that I’d had a part in keeping her mother alive for this milestone in the young girl’s life.
But the story doesn’t end there. A few years later I heard my name being called. I turned and there was the same lady and her daughter.
“We’re here for blood tests.” She said. “My daughter is getting married this month.” She broke into a wide smile.
I didn’t know what to say other than “Congratulations!” Such a feeling of wonderment and accomplishment flowed over me. Standing in front of me was this beautiful young woman about to be married and her mother was still living and able to see her walk down the awasle. What a rush of good feelings engulfed me.

 Adding Insult to Injury
In my last post I shared that I lost my balance and fell taking a tumble in my bathtub while showering. I was trying to do two things at once and wasn’t concentrating well on either one. I was able to clean the soap ring under my shampoo bottle before I fell and pulled down the shower curtain bar and shower curtain. The curtain bar missed my head and bounced off my shoulder. I’m thankful for that. I didn’t need to get a goose egg on my noggin nor did I want to be found naked and unconscious on the bottom of my tub by my kids or an ambulance crew.
After exanining my self and rehanging the shower curtain, I slowly collected my thoughts. Finding no broken bones, I finished my shower. Later that day, I found sore areas that caused me to do my chores a bit more slowly over the past few days.
Now to share the event that caused me to title this post adding insult to injury. Early Sunday morning about 2:15 am I had a dream. I didn’t recognize where I was, but for some reason I was walking near the bottom of a staircase along a fancy metal railing. When I came to the end of the railing, I turned to climb the wide staircase, and…
In bed, I sleep on my side. I find I can breathe easier for me without relying on a machine to help me breathe. I’ve always slept to one half of the bed, even after my wife Cindy Morrison Beck died of ovarian cancer twenty years ago. I still sleep to one side of the mattress. It’s been my habit of sleeping on the very edge of the mattress. In my dream, I turned to climb the staircase and must have also done so in real life and fell out of bed.
One fall in the tub was enough, but this second one only added to my previous injuries. I was startled awake by the fall brushing my right shoulder against a dresser and my knee against the carpet. Once again I examined myself and found no significant injury, but in the morning I found brush-burns on my right shoulder and knee. Since then I discovered some swelling to my left hand and soreness to the joints. No broken bones, but still I managed to multiply more injuries to my list.
I may have to buy some bubble-wrap to wear around my house instead of pajama bottoms.

Hitting the Bottom OUCH
I’m sure that I’ll be getting harassing messages from my kids because I lost my balancce while showering in my bathtub. Yes, I fell. I pulled down the shower curtain and bounced on my butt Wednesday morning. I have a sore butt where the bottom of my pelvis pinched my butt cheek. Nothing broken, it’s just tender and sore when I sit. I can walk without limping, there’s no crepitous, and no shortening of my left leg. I don’t really want to look for bruises. I took a muscle relaxant, Tylenol, and turned in early and gave it a chance to recover and rest.
My fall happened because I changed the order of my shower. As I washed my hair, I saw a soap ring under the shampoo bottle and tried to clean it. I turned while still leaning over, my feet slipped to the side. As my dad would say, “Down went the meathouse.” The shower curtain also collapsed bouncing off my shoulder. I paused the shower long enough to rehang the curtain then I finished my spit and polish routine. I was a bit shaky and off kilter, but no more interruptions.
The longer the day went on, the more aches and pains other than my fanny hurting appeared. The joints in the fingers and thumb of my left hand began to complain, letting me know that they were involved as well. The muscles across my shoulders and at the nape of my neck deel tight and stressed..
My kids always complain when I climb onto my roof. At least I didn’t fall from climbing onto the roof and playing Santa to clean out my chimney. That fall would be a little more painful. It would have been a two story fall. I have no desire to try that. After coming home from the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society I finished mowing my lawn that I didn’t finish on Tuesday. The higher growth of grass in the wetter area of my lawn wasn’t mowed, so I just lopped the tops of it off Tuesday because it was so high, then finished cutting it on Wednesday afternoon before the rain could come.

 Aborting
I saw a misguided post asking why the people who want to defend their position for abortions of the unborn child being ripped from its mother’s womb by trying to compare the act of abortion with children “being ripped from their mother’s arms at the southern border and placed in cages.” First let me say they are illegal. These children are still alive after being removed from the person entering our country illegally.
Those children are still alive. No one is killing them like the aboortion industry. The abortion industry kills children for only one reason, money. The separation is permanent. There is no chance of reconnecting the child with its parents. There is no opportunity for this percious infant of growing iinto an adult. The sborted child isn’t being housed in safe places of a barracks until the parenthood can be established and the child reconnected. The housed illegal children are fed, clothed, and taken care of unlike the aborted babies who are tossed out like garbage after being killed. It is even worse when the body parts of the aborted child are sold to companies for various profit-making reasons.
The separation of illegal children is more humane than allowing them to be housed with other possible criminals, sex traffickers, and allowing them to be mules for drugs traffickers. This precedent was set in place long before President Trump came into office, but because it was instituted and now continued by liberal leaders, it is no longer in the news and is ignored right now. The caged children photographs that shared during the last presidency were laid at Trump’s feet, but were taken while President Obama was still in office.
Again, when someone tries to compare apples and oranges it only manages to create an unpalatable and indigestible fruit salad that makes absolutely no sense. But then in our present world, common sense often takes a backseat to political expediency.

 Are You Paying Attention
I just started to read a book titled Crowded in the Middle of Nowhere by Dr. Bo Breck. It’s an amalgamation of stories of his life as a veterinarian in the West Texas town of Lamesa. His stories are gathered from his lif experiences. He began by sharing with others by writing a column for the local newspaper. Dr. Bo talked of his youth while living with his granddad (Papaw.)  A phrase that resonnated with me was “I quickly realized that I was not paying enough attention to every day life, and it set me on a lifelong mission to discover how he perceived the world. I will be forever grateful to Papaw for loving me and teaching me to see the special moments that happen right in front of us every day.”
How many days do we struggle to get through the chores and tasks that are expected of us? How many times do we slog through the hours of each day looking forward to the gosl of finishing the shift? How many times do we wade through each day looking toward the weekend? We often forget to look at what is happening around us right now. We often pay little attention to the small miracles that slide by us every day. We miss so much when we lose the ability to enjoy what we are doing or lose the ability to recognize the small things that brighten our lives, or when we look inward at ourselves instead of actually noticing the world as it spins by. I try to share recollections that have happened in my past or that are happening now in my life. Sometimes thinking of what to share on my BlogSpot is difficult.
Our church has an intern spending eleven weeks as he learns the duties of a Pastor. He’s from Ambassador Bible College in Lattimer, North Carolina and arrived last Monday. He has been getting settled into our guest trailer that we cleaned and stocked some foodstuffs until he learns the layout of the area. He’s learning the names of the congregation, and what happened Sunday morning surprised me. When I met him, I only gave him my first name. Bur at the beginning of the service, he said, “Brother Beck, would you open the service with prayer?”
I had no idea how he learned my last name. I was flabberghasted. My daughter Anna learned how he made the connection. He met Anna Wednesday evening. She mentioned that I was her father and my name. It was just a small incident, but makes a good story to share, almost as good as the Popeye the Sailor Man ring tone and the misionaries to Greenland.

 Looking at the Bloomers
More and more flowers are starting to rise from the weed patches at my house. Some plants were long lasting plants that were given to me many years ago and are faithful to claim their corner of what was once a flower garden. Some have spread their claim to more of the flower bed. The flags or irises have multiplied their swordlike leaves, emerging from seams in the rock piles. White, purple, and a chocolate brown blossoms have crowned several of the slender stocks.
More than thirty years ago I was given a coral bells plant by Beverly Cunningham a switchboard operator at Frick Hospital, Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. Several years back, for some reason, it didn’t bloom and I thought it had died out. Beverly had passed away and I thought I’d never get another, but the next year, it grew back strong as ever. Their small pink bell shaped flowers dangle on ong graceful stems that nod in the breeze.
In a corner of one of my flower bed are miniature irises. I’m not sure where I got them, but my Mom Sybil Miner Beck always called them “a poor man’s orchid.” The small creamy-white blooms rise on stems from a jumble of thin reed like leaves. The flowers do look very much like tiny white orchids.
Two years ago, I was given several packets of flower seeds. I scattered them in the flower bed next to my walkway to see if they would grow. One packet held seeds of Bells-of-Ireland and another packet contained forget-me-nots. Last year I didn’t see anything growing and thought, “Oh well, nothing lost.” But much to my surprise this year they have spread throughout and are blooming beautifully. The green balls of the Bells-of-Ireland almost blend into the other green plants, but there are several clusters of the pale blue forget-me-nots blossoming brightly like patches of a summer blue sky.
The columbine that I planted several years ago didn’t need any encouragement to take over territory and I have a section of purple-red columbine. They start to bloom after the jonquils and dafodils have finished their display of bright and pale yellows and the lilies-of-the-valley have almost folded all of their delicate white bells into the forest of their dark green leaves.
In mt back yard the snow ball bush is filled with their snowy white “puff balls.” The wind and rain has been plucking the blooms to spread thin drifts of blossoms across the grass beneath. The blooms disappear when I mow, but I loosen more to drift down on me as I brush past on my mower.

 Timidly
When I woke this morning about five am this morning, the world outside of my bedroom window was dark and silent. There was no sounds of a breeze, no sounds of traffic, and it wasn’r raining. I remained in bed thinking I could possibly gain a few more minutes of shut-eye, but it was not to be. I was awake. Slowly the darkness outside lightened so I could make out the shapes of the trees and I heard the first tentative notes of a bird. It wasn’t a full song, only a few uncoordinated notes. The notes seemed tentative as if the bird was testing its voice. The silence returned. The feeble light remained, but was growing stronger. The sound of the same bird called out again. There were a few more notes, but still it was not completing its song. The bird’s calling fell silent again.
I remember reading that when the birds begin to sing that there are poores in the leaves of the trees which close at night and open in the daylight. The open pores take in carbon dioxide and release oxygen, retaining the carbon that nourishes the plant. Scientists have linked the opening of the pores to the singing of the birds. The bird songs seem to stimulate the trees to open their pores.
These thoughts were steeping in my brain as the morning light and the calling on this single bird grew longer and stronger. Soon several other birds joined the choir. Their songs blended together as the sun rose. After their melodies swelled into a cantata celebrating the morning, they seemed to still for awhile. Perhaps they were looking for breakfast.
I am awake now, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and thinking of the tasks at hand. Soon I will be shuffling through the house making breakfast noises and starting another day by adding a few more lines to the pages of my life.

 When Shadows Fall
When purple shadows fell and fireflies would come out to dance in the summer’s deepening evening sky, I would listen to the songs of a whippoorwill on a fence post at the edge of my grandfather’s Raymond Miner’s field. Sometimes a pair of mourning doves would add their sad sounding tones to the chorus of crickets and frogs from the swampy area behind the chicken house. I remember sitting on one of the two green Adirondack chairs and settee that claimed spots on my grandparents Miner’s wide concrete porch. It extended across the front of my grandparents Miner’s large two-story farmhouse. There was another settee made of twisted grapevines and sapling pieces, but very few people sat on it because the ribs of the twisted vines made the seat uncomfortable for people to sit.
Four tall hemlocks guarded the entrance of the brick walkway. They spread their branches to protect the house from the heat of the sun and the chill of winter winds. The porch became a shady haven for me where I often played or sought a quiet refuge beneath their thickly needled limbs. It was a cool sanctuary on the hottest of days, a dry shelter when the rains poured down, and even protection from the cold winter winds.
Grandma Miner would store her rugs on the Adirondack settee in the winter. They made a great cocoon where I could to burrow deep into their warmth away from the cold and the noise of aunts, uncles, and the horde of cousins still inside the house. It was a blessed relief after the activity, boisterous voices, and accumulated heat of Gram’s wood burning cook stove and the mass of people gathered inside.
Gram’s house had one other sanctuary. It was found in their formal sitting room. Children were forbidden to step foot inside, but if I was careful and quiet enough, I could slip inside unobserved and crawl behind the bulky sofa. It was clad in pale blue stiff, almost porcupine-feeling plush fabric that was prickly and rough for any kid to sit on when they were wearing shorts. The stiff fabric caused bare legs to itch almost to the point of being unbearable. It eliminated a child’s ability to sit still for more than a few seconds.
Sometimes my memories fade as I age and shadows fall blurring facts or hiding names and places from my remembrance. That’s why I share these recollections in writing as they emerge from the past. I want my thoughts to be captured before they become lost as the darkness falls and the lights fail.

 Brain Drain
Have you ever woken up and thought “I don’t wanna? I’m not hungry. I don’t wanna eat. I don’t wanna read my Bible and pray. I don’t really wanna go to work. I don’t wanna get out of bed.” The only reason you stir at all is nature calling and your bladder is full almost to overflowing and you stumble half awake into the bathroom. Now that you’re up, what are you gonna do?
That’s what I felt like this morning. I was greeted by an early morning feeling of nausea. I believe that it is one of the side effects from the experimental medication I am taking for my diabeted. Believe me, when it happens, it is not something that I look forward to. It also makes me appreciate what pregnant women go through when pregnant and now I can sympathize with them.
When I am feeling like this, what do I eat for breakfast? The thought of frying an egg makes me want to head back to bed and hide, but I’ve already taken my morning meds and I have to eat something so my blood sugar doesn’t hit rock bottom. Sometimes I will eat leftovers so I don’t have to cook anything, but I had mashed potatoes and two chicken drumsticks as leftovers and for some reason that menu didn’t seem too appetizing today.
I managed to sort through my refrigerator to find and consume a container of yogurt. I decided it would be the least offensive to my queasy stomach. At last I am able to sit in front of my blank computer screen and try to wring out today’s post. This is it. I’m sorry if it’s not up to my usual dribble, but it is what I have left in me. Maybe I can think of something better for my next post.

Repairs and Preparation
Yesterday was a busy day. It wasn’t as busy as many of my days, but I had something to do most of the time. I had an early apointment with my friends at the experimental diabetic medication center too tur in my diary, have blood drawn, and to get my next bottle of capsules. I imagine that this medication is similar to the injectable Ozempic, but it is oral. I’ve still not been told whether it is a placebo or the real thing, however since I have occasional side effects as the injections, I am on the real thing.
After the blood draw, I drove into Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania to eat breakfast. I had to fast, not eating anything for my blood samples. I enjoyed a quiet breakfast and took my morning medications at a restaurant called “Valley Dairy.” The food is good, ther servers are friendly, and the prices are reasonable. I hurried home to slowly work through the clutter in my office. It’s a never-ending chore. Each assault I make I must decide what to keep and what to toss; flotsam and jetsam. They only things that have no sentimental value are the weekly advertisements in the mail and the dust.
After lunch, I drove to the church for a mini-work day. We are readying the “Prophet’s Chamber/ guest trailer for our summer intern. He is a theological student from Ambassador Bible College in Lattimore, North Carolina. We have had other interns who we house, feed, and have them get the feel of being a youth pastor and learn the responsibilities of being a full time pastor.
There were four “workmen” of the Apocalypse gathered with tools in hand to move the beds into different rooms replace the privacy & room darkening window shades. One of the bedframes attacked me and scraped my shin. OUCH. We had to reposition the curtain rods for the valences and curtains. It was a job that needed to be done Tuesday, because the ladies of the church needed to have all the “mess” done so they could do the final cleaning for the intern’s arrival this coming Monday. We also have a young man who is doing a “meet and greet” and will be staying at the trailor for several days as a possible candidate for the assistant pastor. It’s a meeting to see if he and our church would be compatable and in God’s leading.
Last evening I attended my Granddaughter Hannah Yoder’s spring chorus concert. I had an enjoyable evening, but by the time I got home, my back was tired and so was I.
 

Two Times
I have three llac bushes at my house. They were blooming for about three days. One of my writer friend’s favorite flowers is the lilac. Since they started to bloom I wanted to gather several of the flower clusters and take it to her. She lives about fifteen minutes away.
The flowers on one of the lilac bushes were starting to look bedraggled and I decided that it had to be now before it was too late. I bought a low clear glass vase earlier. I bought it especially to create a bouquet of lilacs for my lilac-loving friend Jan McLaughlin. At the same time, my snowball bush began to show off its white puff balls of blossoms. I collected snowballs, lilacs, lily of the valley, and a few other purple flowers from my flower patch. The purple and white nosegay looked very nice and springlike.
Jan also enjoys to eat dill pickles and to drink the pickling juice, so I stopped on my way to her home amd bought a jar of midget dill pickles. Friday I delivered the pickles and flowers. I surprised her with a knock on her apartment door. She was very happy to see me. I got a hug and she loved the pickles and flowers. We sat and talked for almost an hour before I had an appointment to keep. All in all, it was an enjoyable time.
Later in the afternoon, I was walking to my mailbox and my phone rang. Now I was surprised. The call was from another of my writing friends, Joanne McGough. I hadn’t seen her in more than a year. I thought it was an odd occurrence to hear from both of my two writer friends in such a short time.
Joanne was checking on me. Apparently she had a dream about me. In the dream I was mean and nasty, not at all like my usual self. The dream was so real that she decided to check on me to be sure that I was okay. We chatted for about twelve minutes until she was sure I was still alive and doing well. After agreeing that we needed to get together at a nearby writers meeting or to meet somewhere for lunch, we said goodbye for now.

 Saddened
Very recently two older Godly ladies have passed away. I was blessed to know them both, one for a relatively short period of time and the other much of my life. The lady I knew for the shorter amount of time lived in Citrus Heights, California. She was my friend’s Aunt Leah Taynton. I flew to California three years ago with my friend Kathy to visit. I wrote about that adventure and the wonderful time we had during theat vacation. She passed away a week ago.
It was a trip my friend and I almost didn’t make. We stayed the night before the flight at a hotel and in the middle of the night, I remembered I’d need my driver’s license to board the plane. It was at home, tucked inside of my checkbook. I didn’t think I’d need my checkbook and left it at my house. We quickly drove home to fetch it, We made it back in time to eat a “Continental breakfast” before being driven to the airport.
Leah’s death was a surprise and relatively sudden.
The second lady was Miss Jessie Husak. She was a long-time member of our church. Foor as long as I can remember she has been a Sunday school teacher, teaching the younger children. She became ill and was admitted to the hospital. She underwent abdominal surgery in an attempt to correct the problem. With her age and the amount of surgery required, she couldn’t recover. She too passed away. Her funeral is Saturday.
The sadness that the friends and family have is tempered by the knowledge that both these ladies knew Jesus as their Savior and are now walking the streets of heaven. They are with their loved ones who are already there. That is where the comfort lies.
First Corinthians 15:55-57 O DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING? O GRAVE, WHERE IS THY VICTORY? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ,

 Afraid. I’m Afraid I Am
I am fearful of what I am thinking of what I am about to do. This past winter has made me deadset on downsizing. I can no longer manage to live in and care for a four bedroom house by myself. At 75 why do I need a house this large? Keeping it clean is a major undertaking and I find myself falling behind on many chores. Cooking and “redding” up afterwarc is more than enough some days. I have begun to actively search for a smaller home on one level with a basement, garage, or storage building.
It’s the thought of moving that causes me to cringe. The last time I moved was almost 45 years ago and that was a Herculaean labor. I was under thirty and had a wife, in-laws, and parents to help. Now I have three kids, spouses, and granddaughters. But they have their lives to live as well. I don’t want to impose on them, but it will have to happen. Some of the things tucked into the attic, basement, and nooks of my house belong to them. I have told them that when I make the move, I will take what I want and need; the rest will stay in the house.I will give them one month to retrieve what they want and the rest will be sold at auction. Once the house is cleared of everything that is not nailed down, I’ll sell the house. It is the only way I can save my sanity. Any other way will be much too stressful.
The jumble of paperwork and legal intricasies that I face are another of my concerns. Back during my first attemp at establishing a new home, my wife Cindy Morrison Beck was there helping to explore the purchase of land, mobile home, and set-up. As newly weds, it was an adventure.
Later when we sold that home and bought this home, the move was definitely a task. Cindy’s dad Elmer (Bud) Morrisan helped us move with his truck. We carried out load after load and Bud said, “Are you carrying out from the back and then back inside?”
We had things stored everywhere and because this house is bigger, it will be much worse. I cower at the thoughts of sorting through the accumulated ‘heirlooms” and ever multiplying paper trails. This has been the collection spot for my past generation and I’ve lived here for nearly forty years.