Where in the Blazes?
The idea of Hell has been weighing heavily on my mind. There are many people that I pray for, hoping they will come to the realization that Hell is an actual place where I wouldn’t want anyone to be. It is a place of torment so far beyond a person’s wildest imagination. It is a place where the human soul is forever separated from the love of Almighty God. The blessings that an unsaved person enjoys on earth will be withdrawn. The Bible says that while on earth, God will make the sun to rise on the evil and on the good and sendeth rain on the just and unjust. (Matthew 5:45.) That will no longer happen and evil will be judged. God’s protection will be removed and the soul will face an eternity unprotected from the by His love in the lake of fire. All of the comforts we feel in this world will be removed. All physical pleasures we experience will be lost. Nothing but memories will remain and those images will haunt us. The longing for a single drop of cool water will torture lost souls day and night. In the darkness of Hell the past will gnaw at the unsaved soul as they dwell in the pits of Hell. An eternity will continue to roll past and there will be no relief. There’s no hope that the anguish will ever cease. God’s mercy will be withdrawn from the souls in Hell as punishment for earthly sins will be meted out.
It seems odd that there are flames in Hell and yet there’s only darkness; a blackness that sight cannot penetrate. It’s true, when a flame reaches 1112 degrees Fahrenheit or higher, it sheds no light. Human skin blisters, reacting to the heat at a much lower temperature. Water boils at 212 degrees Fahrenheit. The condemned will be accosted by extreme dehydration, tormented by longing the memory of a single drop of cool water that will never be realized.
I believe souls in Hell will have their evil deeds parade before them in an unending loop and the many times the Gospel message was presented to them and each time they rejected the gift of salvation. It may be a part of their punishment.
What is the answer? God can free you from the penalty of sin. (Acts 16:31) “…Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ. And thou shalt be saved…”.Jesus said, “…I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh to the Father, but by me.” (John 14:6) “For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God; Being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is Jesus Christ.” (Romans 3:23-24)

Even the Gravy Train is Getting Tough
Things are getting tough all over. I just paid the insurance on my home and my vehicle. Blue Shield has raised their premiums AGAIN. I’ve noticed that the prices of groceries have continued to climb and some grocery store shelves are bare or thinly stocked. The Postal rates have just risen another three cents, the second increase in the past six months. The Federal Reserve Bank has just raised the interest rates for the eleventh time. My friends have told me that their electric bill has almost doubled and their usage has remained the same.
The mouthpieces from the media shills are saying inflation is under control because it has only risen three percent last month, but coupled with the previous rate of inflation, that makes it nearly ten percent. Ten percent is what God requires for tithing.
It’s time for Uncle Joe to pull his head out of his New Jersey basement and make changes in his policies before he bankrupts the United States; unless that was his plan all along, to make our citizens to rely solely on the Federal government. His policies have shut down the oil pipeline from Canada. At the same time, his policies have curtailed new permits for drilling for oil and natural gas. His insistence on forcing electric vehicles at outrageous costs on the public is insane. There are too many glitches and problems with today’s EVs on the market. Our power grid won’t be able to handle the increase the EVs will need. The heavier EVs will cause an increased damage to already faulty roadways and bridges. Thee inoculations from the “pandemic” are proving less effective than promised and the side effects are wreaking havoc. It almost sounds like Don Quixote, relying on windmills.
He has stopped building the wall on our southern border allowing a flood of criminals, sex traffickers, and drugs to enter the United States enter illegally. Is there any wonder that cocaine was found in the White House? A radio station host said that 71 % of the illegal border crossers are being whisked away and settled in “red” states. To me that sounds like foreign interference in future elections.
I was encouraged when National Guards were being deployed to the border until it was revealed that they were forbidden to help the Border Guards with interdiction and that they were only there to help with the paper work and processing these criminals.
It’s getting old Joe, even the gravy is getting tough.

Finding Myself in a Pickle
It’s that time again; the beginning of another canning season. The ripening process hasn’t hit full ripeness yet. We are finding ourselves on the cusp of another garden harvest season. Tomatoes are hanging in thick green clusters. Peppers are filling out in a fine array of colors. Acorn squash vines are trying to take over several rows of the garden hiding their bottle-shaped fruits beneath a thick-leaved canopy. The corn is more than the “knee high by the Fourth of July.” Its reach to the heavens is thigh high. The dark beets are filling out quite well. There has been one picking of string beans already and are quite tasty. Lacy carrot tops have been waving in the wind. A watermelon vine has been stretching its vines trying to take over the space of the onions. The two zucchini plants are trying to invade the acorn squash territory. We made a second picking of cucumbers that have thickly carpeted two partial rows and must be feeling powerful to challenge the acorn squash plants.
Early we went to a friend’s blackberry patch on the advice that it was full of blackberries…and it was. Most of the berries were red and not ripe yet. They will need a few more days. Dew drenched and thorn scratched we headed back to the garden. Cucumbers and pickling was on the agenda for the day. From this garden and one other, we gathered a five gallon bucket and half a box of the green torpedoes. The vines were so thick that it was an adventure hunting for the cucumbers in the jungle of leaves. Back at my friend’s house we began the process of washing, sorting, and trimming the cucumbers into the necessary shapes for the type of pickles to be made. Some had to be sliced, some had to be quartered and some were left whole. The brine was heating while we packed the jars. Once the jars were filled with the cucumbers, the brine was ladled in, and the lids secured on each jar. From there the jars were carried and placed into large kettle of boiling water to finish the canning process. It was necessary to do several batches. As we readied the next batch of jars for their bath, we could hear the soft pop of the lids as they cooled and sealed. There were 20 pints and 2 quarts of sweet pickles. There were 22 pints, 8 quart, and two, half gallon jars of dill pickles. Day two of canning, we made 27 jelly jars of peach preserves and we’ve only just begun.

Seek and Ye Shall Find
A friend asked to see some information from a certain postcard that I recently shared. Does she know just how much work that involves? I have been cheating by daily sharing post cards that pop up as Facebook memories instead of taking a new photograph on my cell phone and jockeying the picture to be right-side up and making sure it is in focus. I have to hold the camera by hand over the postcard and snap the photo. Sometimes it’s difficult to keep the phone’s camera steady, to be sure that there isn’t a shadow, and to make sure the light is just right. So now you know my little secret. I’m not being lazy, but frugal with my time and effort.
I began the search through my boot box filled with postcards last evening. The postcards from the early 1900’s are most fragile. I have begun to sort them out and plan to place them in plastic-sleeved photo albums where they can be seem without being handled. I don’t want them to be damaged anymore than they are. Some have smudged ink on their backs. They are becoming difficult to read. Some were written in pencil. They are even harder to read. The graphite is rubbing off and many words are nearly illegible. I don’t want any more deterioration than has already occurred.
Most of the older postcards are from my Grandfather Edson Thomas Beck and my grandmother Anna Nichols Kalp Beck. Several are to or from my grandfather Ray Miner and my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. There are even a couple of postcards from my great-grandmothers. I have cards from my aunts and uncles when they were kids.
I have cards sent to me by friends and some that were bought and carried home to me for my collection. I have cards from Iceland, England, Israel, and Estonia. I keep the prayer postcards from missionaries that our church supports. I have those cards from Africa, Haiti, Greenland, Spain, Germany, Myanmar, Japan, Costa Rica and several other countries. I have kept postcards advertising church camps, Vacation Bible Schools, and church postcards announcing Easter and for Christmas.
I imagine that if I posted a different card for each day of the year, I would not repeat (unless there is a duplicate card) for nearly a year and a half. So back to the original hunt and seek, I am still looking and am about halfway through the cards. (I have more postcards that were sent to my children. They are separated and stored in other shoe boxes or the amount of postcards I have would nearly be doubled.)

I Love a Stormy Night But Not Last Night
Last night I was glad I had stayed up later than normal, if not my house would have been able to float Noah’s Ark. Usually I leave the screened windows open summer evenings so that the cooler night air might come in and cool the house and me. When I gear the approach of a storm, I leap from my bed and rush through the house closing windows. If the storm or I fail to close windows in time, I have small ponds just inside each unclosed window and curtains that are drenched.
I saw that there were storm warnings earlier on the television, but I’d seen warnings the past several nights and I’d seen a few scattered drops of rain. I had more moisture by yesterday’s morning thick fog, so I was unconcerned. I found that too often, the weather person’s prediction is often unreliable.
I was revising a story that I hope will eventually become a book. It’s about a novice trapper and a stray dog’s adventure. The sounds of approaching thunder rolled through the open window into my computer room/office/converted bedroom. I hurried downstairs to close those windows as the wind increased and began to make the curtains dance. I often will almost close the windows entirely allowing about one inch to remain open for circulation; and that’s what I did. I headed back upstairs to do the same.
As I semi-closed the last window, the breeze turned into real gusts of air. The rain started and the wind was so strong, it pushed the rain through the gap in the window. I had to hustle to close the windows completely.
Either the wind or the lightning caused the electricity to flicker, then to cease several times for nearly a minute. I sat in complete darkness except for the fluttering light from the lightning outside, and of course my computer went down. I was glad that I’d saved the changes to my manuscript before I made the marathon dash through my house twice, shutting windows. Looking out my windows this morning I’m thankfully not seeing any storm damage and my apple trees are still filled with ripening fruits.
I know that I will have to upright my front porch patio furniture when I go outside like I have to when I get strong winds, but my basement has remained dry. The morning fog has returned and all is peaceful and quiet.

Thunder and Lightning
As I sat on my front porch, gray clouds scurried overhead pushed by a stiff wind from the southwest. The clouds weren’t thick rain clouds, but they did release scattered drops of rain. In the distance I heard a faint roll of thunder, too far away to see the heavenly spark of lightning. The scenario reminded me of several things in my past. The first was of my mom Sybil Miner Beck who would yell at us kids if we were on the telephone. It was a black, wall mounted telephone with a coiled cord to the mouthpiece. She’d say, “Kids. Get off the telephone. It’s lightning out. It could come in through the wires and get you.”
The other thing I was reminded of was her telling us, “”Kids, get out of the shower right now. The lighting will hit you.” She felt the lightning strike would follow the water and the pipes into the bathroom. She’d also tell us to unplug the television.
Another short lightning story is of my aunt Helen Stahl. She was unfortunate enough to be struck by lightning three times. Each time she was outside on her damp concrete porch in her bare feet. I’m not sure if it was a direct hit, but it certainly made her feet tingle.
The story that stirred in me as I sat on my front porch happened at my house just outside of Normalville, Pennsylvania. The front porch had a wonderful view of an old barn, a field, and a valley that pointed in the direction of the Indian Creek Dam, but I couldn’t see the dam or the water because of the heavy foliage. Often fog and the storms would follow the valley upwards to our mobile home and the front porch was the perfect spot to watch the storm’s advance. Long before I could see the lightning or the rain, the sound of thunder would roll up the valley until it collided with the side of my house. Eventually the lightning would appear. It would march up the valley on bright jagged electric legs.
My wife Cindy would often fuss with me as did my mom about the lightning. Cindy wanted me to come inside. Is it just a mom thing? She was worried that I’d be struck by lightning.
Eventually I’d come inside, but I always enjoyed the storms. Her pleas became more strenuous when our older daughter would join me on the porch. I believe that my daughter still enjoys watching storms to this day.

 Miraculous Minds
I started to relax and read a book this evening and a line read, “The mind is a miracle: and it caused me to think how fragile our memories are. An illness, fever, or an injury can steal our past and leave us adrift in the present or they can distort our imaginings into a dream or a nightmare. How quickly music or the lyrics of a song can whisk us pack into the past as if it was only yesterday. The song can bring back great memories of love, passion, or great times with friends. A song may stir the emotions of sadness or remorse. A song may soothe taking us to a place of peace, relaxation, and joy. The song may cause past skeletons to rattle in our brain’s closet.
Someone may say something in a manner of a loved one who has passed that opens a Pandora’s Box of nearly forgotten emotion. The flood may be overwhelming that floods our souls and eyes. Someone may say something that snaps on a light, pulling a memory from its dark hiding spot in our brain. It may turn the switch and a locomotive of remembrance roars out of a dark tunnel, its headlight focuses our eyes on our old familiar memories.
Feelings of Déjà vu may give us concern. Have we been here before? Can the familiar feeling be caused by an actual place we’ve been and that has been locked away for so long that it has been forgotten and only a trace remains? Could it be a memory that we’ve tucked away so deeply that only a shadow remains. There used to be a radio program, “Only the shadow knows.”
Taste is another sense that may turn a key to open past memories. How many times have I heard someone say, “This tastes like food my mom or grandmother used to make?” Or “this doesn’t taste like the food my mom made.” Is our memory faulty or is our mind sharing a memory that no one can ever compete? I know that I’ve tried to replicate a recipe and have fallen sorrowfully short.
Because of my head injury in February 2015 I have phantom smells. Odors that aren’t actually present, but the olfactory area of my brain says that they’re present. There are times I wander through my house trying to locate the elusive odor, only to find it’s nonexistent. There are other scents that will lead me back to a certain time and my brain will reactivate the moment. It will come alive again by a single sniff.
The brain and the memories housed within are precious. Be careful with them.