Kenneth F. Pierpont, M.Div., M.Ed., D.Min.
Bible Teacher and Pastor

“Bible Facts, Mysteries and Secrets Made Plain as Day” is a series of brief Bible lessons made available to everyone who has ever had an interest in the Bible but has found the going a little tough. Each lesson has a number and a name for easy reference. Keep reading →

It was July 4th, 1955. My buddy LeRoy Beckwith, Seaman Apprentice, as the Navy put it, rode beside me from Glenview Naval Air Station as I pointed my little black Chevy north toward the picnic park a mile or so the other side of Deerfield, Illinois. We were in “civies,” no dress whites for us this warm summer day. We were on liberty, no duty for either of us this Independence Day. What a relief.

Neither of us had ever been to a “fun day” at the Community Baptist Church. In fact, LeRoy had never been to one of their services. I had been there several times on Wednesday night and some Sunday nights, but we hardly knew any of the people. Pastor Wally Warfield had invited me to their Sunday School Picnic. “Come on out. There’ll be plenty of food and fun. You’ll like it!”– His invitation was friendly but not overbearing. I decided to ask LeRoy if he wanted to go with me. We agreed and so about 11 o’clock we showed our “I.D,s” at the main gate and the sentry waved us through. It was a thirty-five minute drive to where the pastor told me the park was.

As I pulled into the parking lot a few youngsters were playing softball. A thin early middle-aged man was tossing the ball toward children who were taking turns batting. They invited us into the game. We tossed the ball around with them and ran after the few that were actually hit softly into the little “outfield.” It was not much like a real game. There were a few young teens there, at least one I noted.

Before long it was time to eat. We had been told, “Just come. We’ll have plenty of food.” So we did. And they did! It was a good meal. As I recall there was a devotional time and a few more games. Then came time for “the ladies’ game.” We were encouraged to watch.

The six or eight ladies who were standing around looked uncomfortable, each one, in being the first to try the game. The object was to be good at throwing a rolling pin. I knew well what a rolling pin was. My Grandma Sasser had used one many time in my presence as she rolled out the dough for the many pies she baked at home for years. We all lived together. She was my second “mom.”

There was a grotesque-looking dummy stuffed into a flannel shirt and a pair of big coveralls. He was hanging from a tree, his “feet” about touching the ground. “Now ladies,” the game leader, probably the Sunday school superintendent, called out, “If your husband stays out late for no good reason, show us what you’ll do to him. Use your rolling pin.”

No one moved. No one wanted to be first. The leader asked again for a volunteer. Suddenly, from the side of the group, a dark-haired girl stepped forward. I remembered then that she had been on the “ball field” earlier that day and seemed to have the care of a young boy. I took him to be her baby brother. Later, I found out that he was. “Jimmy,” she called him. I had paid little attention to her. She looked very young and I had dismissed her from my mind.

Now this cute girl stepped forward and announced in a strong voice: “I don’t have a husband, but if I did, this is what would happen if he came in late.” Reaching out for the rolling pin in the leader’s hand, she grasped it and turned and hurled it hard toward the unfortunate dummy. To the amazement of everyone there, it traveled end-over-end and struck the “husband” in the mid-section. Instantly he was flung high in the air and his coveralls flew off and landed unceremoniously on the ground.

The young girl buried her head in her hands and fled to the back of the ladies’ group. I don’t remember how the wives there did, but to say the least they were out-shown by the reckless act of the dark-haired girl.

A few minutes later a lady spoke up as LeRoy and I stood around with some of the folk there. “Pastor,” she announced, I don’t think these young people have met” and she gestured toward the small group of teens who were there near us. Pastor Warfield gave our names and we nodded toward the young people whose names were announced. The cute girl was one of them.

It struck me that maybe some of them had older sisters LeRoy and I might get interested in. I quickly asked the group if any of them went to “Youth For Christ” in Chicago on Saturday nights. As I recall, they expressed interest in going but had, apparently, not gone before. We were able to make the arrangements for the following Saturday evening and got directions to the young girl’s house in Evanston, about twenty miles from the Naval Air Station. The lady who asked that we be introduced was a “Mrs. Shipley.” I realized she was the mother of the dark-haired girl named “Jane.”

As it turned out, Jane did have an older sister who was a nice Christian girl. She went with us to Youth For Christ. It was Jane, her sister, Sue, and a young girl friend of Jane. We visited and sang choruses and familiar hymns on our ride to and from Chicago. LeRoy and I rode in the front seat and I noticed Jane rode behind me with her sister and friend in the back as well.

Coming from a Lutheran church and being a babe in Christ, I knew many formal hymns but few choruses. One hymn we sang was “Fairest Lord Jesus.” I remember telling Jane that I knew the hymn as “Beautiful Saviour.” She inquired about the words. I began to recite them to her and I think she was writing them down. When we got to the words, “Truly I love Thee, truly I’d serve Thee” I became a little embarrassed. I was telling them to a sixteen-year-old girl. I was twenty-one. I froze on the words as Jane asked for them again. I wondered if that went through her mind too. Later I thought of the incident again. Suddenly she didn’t seem so young to me.

NEWS NOTE FROM KENWALKS.COM

I’m back. kenwalks.com has been “off the air” for quite a few weeks now. I have been moving my family to our new ministry in Portersville, Ohio, a tiny community in south central Ohio, just forty miles from where I grew up.

Our church here is a small country ministry that was founded in l864. It has always been small with only a couple dozen believers gathering around 20 or so at a time to worship the Lord and to be a testimony to Him.

The people in the church, and one man in particular have worked hard to convert the old parsonage from the fellowship hall it has been for more than thirty years back to a residence for the pastor. We are moved in now and grateful to be able to get started in ministry.

Our two youngest sons, Kevin and Nathan with a lot of help from their families helped us move the larger things on October 1st. Just Monday we moved in the last of our belongings from their storage place in Newark, where I grew up. My brother, Bill, loaned us his garage and numerous things we brought from Michigan some weeks ago were there.

We are about seventy miles southeast of Columbus. If we can help any of you out there, be sure to contact us and we’ll do all we can to help you.

We are glad to be back in circulation. Pray for us and contact us at kenwalks.com, send email or phone us at 740-342-5378. Our address is:
Ken and Jane Pierpont
15622 Portie-Flamingo Road SE
Corning, OH 43730.

In Christ,

Ken Pierpont

GRANDPA’S TALL (TRUE) TALES

The wagon wheels scored the soft earth as the old Furgeson tractor pulled it to a stop in the hillside corn field. It was November and a bit cold but not unusually so for central Ohio this time of year. As I recall, my school district was not holding classes that day so I had no teaching responsibilities. Our children were in the nearby Utica schools or the younger ones were home with their mother. I don’t quite remember the circumstance. .

Be that as it may, my dad and I were together on the old farm. We had decided to take the wagon with its sideboards up into the field to “pick up nubbins” as Dad referred to the small ears of corn the picker had missed as it passed down the rows. Sometimes the small ears would roll off the elevator as the picker fed the ears to it making their way up and into the wagon. Dad was too frugal to let them lie in the field all winter since they would make good feed for his forty head of white-faced cattle.

In the corner of the wagon lay “Old Bellerin’ Betsy” Dad’s Winchester twelve gauge shotgun. A cartridge was in the chamber. “We might kick up a rabbit,” Dad mused to me,” so, since they’re in season , we’ll see if we can get a shot.”

After about only five minutes of walking around in the soft corn field, we had our chance. The stubble of the corn stocks and a few weeds here and there offered a little cover and we knew in some of that cover there might be a rabbit. As we bounced some of the ears of corn into the wagon we spooked a nearby rabbit. from his squat. The speeding hare darted between us. Dad yelled out our characteristic response we had used so many years in hunting: “There he goes!” He lunged for the shotgun.

To my right just a few feet away was a ground hog hole. Mr. Rabbit disappeared down the hole in a flash. Dad whirled around with “Bellerin Betsy” but knew he didn’t have a shot–to close to me and too late!

“Well, he got away,” I called out in disappointment. Dad. standing there in his old “blanket-lined wamus,” as he always called his blue dungaree jacket, brown cap pulled down with the bill just off the middle, had a twinkle in his eye. He took a couple of steps toward the ground hog hole and began to look around.

“Oh, not necessarily,” he mused in reply to my disappointed call. “Let’s see, ground hogs always have two holes,” he offered quietly, and began to circle the hole into which our furry friend had disappeared. After a few moments he called to me as I stood watching, “Here it is over here by this little bush.” And, sure enough, there in a rough place around which Dad had plowed, was a pile of rocks and earth barely betraying the presence of the other hole.

Dad took a couple of steps and reached down with both hands and picked up a good-sized boulder, nicely bigger than the hole. He leaned around and plunked it down over the hole. He raised up and in ceremony scuffed his hands together. “That takes care of that,” he said as he made his way back to me and toward the other hole, our rabbit’s escape route.

I was mystified. “What’er we goin to do.” I asked as I saw the ornery look coming on to Dad’s face. His reply startled me.

“Let’s dig him out,” Dad said with a laugh. I shot back, “You can’t do that!” He instantly replied, “Why not, he’s not goin anywhere,” he chortled as he reached for the three-pointed shovel he always had on the wagon. I remember shaking my head and smiling with some satisfaction.

So began our dig. The soft earth turned easily as we began at the open hole into which “Peter Cottontail” had disappeared. We threw the dirt back to our right and the pile began to mount at once. Taking turns on the shovel and chuckling as we went, our breathing created twirls of condensation rising away from the scene.

After a while it became evident that we had taken on a challenging task. Deeper and deeper we shoveled into the moist autumn soil. Pausing occasionally to survey our work, we saw the hole deepen to surprising size. Finally I said, “… seems irreverent, what we’re doing doesn’t it?” I smiled at Dad. He smiled back and offered: “Yea!” And we dug on sounding as giddy as a couple of schoolboys.

Now the dirt pile had taken on the proportions of an oil drum. We dug on, pausing only as we traded the shovel back and forth for a few moments’ rest. The hole was getting ridiculously big and we were getting tired. Now it crossed my mind that it would take us some time to fill the hole back in once we got the rabbit. If we did! I was pretty sure Dad had never dug out a rabbit before and I knew I hadn’t. I wasn’t quite sure how we would know when we were about there. I soon found out.

Our hole now seemed the likely burial plot for a good-sized piano. Still no rabbit. Just then Dad pushed my hands back after I had turned a shovel full of dirt. “Wait!” He stooped down and carefully watched the dirt in the hole for a moment. Suddenly, a small portion of the dirt moved! Dad reached down with his right hand as he hovered over the hole. In a moment he plunged his hand into the dirt and with appropriate fanfare swung Mr. Rabbit up to his left and to me, with a tight grip on his ears.

“You can do the honors,” Dad chortled to me, bringing back memories of our many rabbit hunts when I was a kid. He meant, “I have him, take him by the hind legs, turn him down and whack him with the back of your hand to break his neck.” I did. The kicking bunny breathed his last. Our hunt was a success. We knew the answer to our question: “Can you dig a rabbit out of a ground hog hole? Yes, you can!” I tossed the cottontail up onto the wagon and turned to begin filling in the hole. Later that afternoon, Dad skinned him and committed him to freezer for future reference, namely a nice meal.

Somehow, this experience seemed to remind me of a joke my niece, my brother Bill’s eldest daughter, Diana, had told the family a year or two before. I remember her smiling face as she related the joke, part of which she sang:

“Uncle Ken” she said, “Little Rabbit Fo Fo, walkin’ through the forest, grabbin’ all the field mice, bashing ‘em in the head. Along came the Good Fairy, and she said: ‘Little Rabbit Fo Fo, if you don’t stop bashin’ the field mice, I’m goin’ to turn you into a goon.’ I’ll give you one more chance.”

“Then came the next day: ‘Little Rabbit Fo Fo, walking through the forest, grabbin’ all the field mice, bashin’ ‘em in the head. Along came the good fairy, and she said, ‘Little Rabbit Fo Fo, I told you yesterday to stop bashin’ all the field mice. Now I’m going to turn you into a goon. And she did.’

“Now the moral of that story is: ‘Hare today, goon tomorrow.’” Reminds me of our rabbit in the holed: “Hare today, gone tomorrow!”

I suppose I’ll always remember that crazy fun day with my dad so many years ago on the old farm. I love you, Dad, I’ll never forget you.

GRANDPA’S TALL (TRUE) TALES

It was a typical wintry afternoon, that January day in 1969. School had been canceled before we all left for classes that morning. That meant that Melony had not boarded the bus for her trip to Quincy, Ohio early in the day and her little brother Kenny was home too. Their teachers, Mrs. Curl and Mrs. Short with their fifth and third grade responsibilities were home. I taught a fourth grade unit and so was off as well.

We lived in Logansville where I pastored the Logansville Christian Church. Normally I would have made my hospital rounds after school on a day anyone was in the Bellefontaine Hospital we knew. Today was different. I was home. There was time to see the sick folk.

There was a problem, however with the weather. It was not especially snowy but there was some new snow down and the roads were slippery. We waited for the weather to improve. It was getting gradually better but not fast enough to suit me. I was looking forward to getting back to have the day for study and relaxation with the family. Kevin was small and Nathan was just three weeks old. I decided to get ready to go.

“Honey, I’ll take Kenny with me. He can sit in the lobby and read while I make my calls,” I called to Jane in the other room. She soon had him buttoned up for the trip into town. I enjoyed having him with me and his mother enjoyed my having him with me!

We piled into the ‘61 Dodge we were so proud of. It was white, a “hard-top convertible.” I backed out of the garage into a light snowfall and pointed the nice sedan east toward Mary Rutan Hospital in Bellefontaine, just ten miles away. The “318″ engine I liked so well purred assuringly and with some caution we moved along Ohio Route 47 toward our destination.

The terrain on Route 47 in that part of the country is slightly rolling and the road was generally smooth but a little narrow. Here and there were imperfections in the blacktop with some creases that tended to “guide” the car for the driver at times. Not a good thing!

We had covered about four miles on the slippery pavement when we approached a downgrade portion of highway, coming up on a road that led away to the right. Here some noticeable creases in the blacktop presented themselves and the yellow warning stripe told me I was into a “no passing zone” from my lane. I took a tight grip on the wheel to pass over the rough pavement.

The eight-year-old Dodge was in good shape but typically that year model could have rather loose steering. It was difficult to avoid over-correction with the problem of slightly sloppy steering in the event of a slip. I was hoping I wouldn’t have one. But, I did! At the worst possible second we met a passing car headed west. There was no way to fudge on the centerline.

In a flash the big Dodge slipped slightly left in front as it tried to follow a nasty crease in that direction. I corrected just a “tad” to the right to bring it back. It didn’t come! Instead, it darted farther left and we started into a full downhill slide coming around all the way to our left. I toed some brake but that didn’t help and we blew down the hill gradually leaving the pavement broadside and off to the right.

With a death grip on the steering wheel I yelled to Kenny, “Here we go,” and jerked him back to me since there were no seat belts. The car was sliding through the apron area of the road that was coming up on our right. A bare farm field lay off to the right and a little lower on beyond the road area and we made our grand slide off the berm and into the field, still full broadside!

I know Kenny liked excitement but I didn’t have time to glance at his face as we bounced into the field, still sweeping around in our broad turn. As we slid downhill we were rapidly coming up on a modest sized phone pole that had no intention of getting out of the way. Within the next couple of seconds I saw the bottom end of the pole pass over the Dodge’s hood and then flop unceremoniously back into place. Mercifully, we ground to a halt about sixty feet into the field.

The situation had our full attention. Just as we bounced to a stop, three schoolboys came running up the side road we had just passed over and were headed to the car to “rescue” us. Taking one look at the broken wires lying on both sides of the car, I quickly rolled down the window and yelled for them to get back. Kenny looked okay. I was all right and I knew we could drive away from the wires and then determine whether they were telephone or electric.

One of the boys dashed away to phone authorities. I called after him, “Call the Sheriff.” Hearsay in that area was that a motorist would often get a better deal from a deputy than a “state boy.” It was worth a try.

After an embarrassing wait of about twenty-five minutes a black cruiser appeared labeled “Logan County Sheriff.” The officer was a nice man. He insisted we had missed the phone pole (and it was a phone pole) since it was “still standing.” I assured him it was curtains for the pole. He then reached out and pushed it. The bottom coasted out about a foot and back into place. “Yep, you’re right,” he called. Of course, the broken pole was technically “still hanging,” not standing, since the wires were partially still in place.

The deputy offered to call a wrecker. I noted that the ground was hard, as in frozen, and felt I could drive our injured “steed” from the accident site. I did. This time we turned back west and headed for home. The car growled in objection since the wheel housing was smashed on the right rear and the wheel itself was bent and wobbling on a badly damaged hub.

That day was the end of our ‘61 Dodge. We limped into town and arranged a trade. I could ill-afford to trade cars then but at least we were still only visitors to the hospital, not residents as a result of our “slide for life.” Thank the Lord!

The school superintendent had been right. It was too bad to be on the roads that day!

Scripture Text: Acts 16:25-31

Contrary to popular sentiment, the Christian faith has ever only taught exactly one way for human beings to get to God’s heaven at the end of this life. To be sure, there are many denominations of Christians who hold differently on relatively minor issues. But, the Christian faith holds in solid union the single way to Heaven as revealed in the Bible, God’s holy Word.

There are probably many mistaken notions about Heaven and how to get there, but in my forty-five years as a minister, the ones I illustrate below are among the main misconceptions people seem to hold.

I will give them as I recollect them and then, at the end, I will explain what the Bible teaches about God’s plan of salvation.

The Seven Mistaken Notions About Heaven

1. BEING SURE OF HEAVEN IS NOT CONDITIONED UPON HOW NICE YOU ARE

The Bible teaches that there are actually NO nice people in the world as compared to God’s holy standard. We are all sinners, according to God.

As an example the Bible says of human beings in Jeremiah 17:9

“The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. Who can know it?”

2. BEING SURE OF HEAVEN DOES NOT RELATE TO MEMBERSHIP IN OR ATTENDANCE UPON ANY CHURCH OR SYNAGOGUE

The day Christ died on the Cross He guaranteed Heaven to a man who had probably never darkened the door of any house of religion.

The thief on the cross that was adjacent to Christ’s, repented of his wickedness and called to Christ to save him. Jesus said: “Today you will be with me in Paradise” Luke 23:43.

Hundreds of times in Scripture the needs of men’s souls are discussed in Scripture. Not one time is it ever said or implied that salvation has anything whatsoever to do with attendance upon or membership in any church. In fact, the Bible never mentions church membership even once. Of course church membership has its place but that must not be confused with preparation for Heaven.

3. BEING SURE OF HEAVEN DOES NOT DEPEND UPON HOW RELIGIOUS YOU ARE

All references in the English Bible come from just two Greek words and are given exactly five times total. Four of the five mention religion negatively. The single reference to religion in a positive sense deals with being merciful to persons who have need such as widows.

Religious rituals are never spoken of in the Bible as a part of one’s salvation from sin. The Bible is not really a book about religion. It is a book about God’s redemptive plan.

4. BEING SURE OF HEAVEN IS NOT CONDITIONED BY ONE’S PHYSICAL HEALTH

Jesus tried to help the lame, the blind, the deaf and the downtrodden in His earthly ministry but there were many in His native land He never saw or was in a position to help. Those unfortunate souls He did not help were not victims simply because of their physical misfortune.

Heaven is never taught in Scripture to be a place of mere compensation for those whose health is poor. Weak and sickly or well and strong, neither in any way shape or determine one’s readiness for Heaven.

The Bible says “there are first that shall be last and last that shall be first-
Luke 13:30. God has a different way of measuring equity than we mere humans understand. No, Heaven is not a reward for those who have been unfortunate in this life.

5. BEING SURE OF HEAVEN DOES NOT DEPEND UPON THE STATE OF YOUR MENTAL HEALTH

Being sure of Heaven is not a scheme hatched out as a crutch to help dependent-type people who have trouble coping with “real life.”

The reality of sin and its consequences do not lead to poor mental health. Actually God’s Word assures us that understanding His Word is helpful in this regard: The Bible says: “God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind” -II Timothy 1:17.

6. BEING SURE OF HEAVEN DOES NOT HINGE UPON HOW BAD YOU ARE

According to Acts 10:34, “… God is not a respecter of persons.” In the eyes of God every person is a lost sinner until God saves him or her. There are not essential differences.

Regardless if your heart is as black as Hell with sin or if you have tried your hardest to avoid evil in your life– we humans are all lost until God saves us. We are, in that sense, equals.

The Apostle Paul, probably one of the most religious men of his day said of himself, before he became a Christian, that he was “the chiefest of sinners.” -I Timothy 1:5.

7. BEING SURE OF HEAVEN DOES NOT DEPEND UPON HOW MUCH FAITH YOU HAVE

Jesus said the faith the size of a mustard seed could move a mountain. God is sympathetic to the person who has a little faith even. A man cried out to Him one day: “… Lord I believe, help my unbelief.”- Mark 9:24.

It is not the quantity of faith that saves a person. It is the object of faith that we all need. Faith must be simply and only in the person of God’s dear Son who died on the Cross for us all.

Conclusion

The Roman Governor, Pilate, in presenting the tortured Christ, abused by soldiers and bedraggled by tormentors, said to the angry mob about him: “What will you do with Jesus who is called the Christ.” Of course they all said: “crucify him.” And that was done.

But that death on the Cross was for you and me. The simple truth is that if any sinner, regardless of how bad or self-deluded into thinking himself not a sinner- regardless, Christ and Christ alone can save any and all.

The sinner’s prayer, so-called, is based upon an incident in Scripture where a poor sinner man called out for God’s help. He said: “God be merciful to me the sinner” -Luke 18:13.

Any person who will confess to God that he or she is a sinner and wants a way out of sin, can call upon Christ to save him or her. And He will. You can demonstrate that to your own satisfaction by calling out to God to save you. You can do it today. If you do, write to me and I will send you helps for your new Christian life. Come to Christ today for His perfect salvation. The greatest question of your life and mine is: “What will you do with Jesus who is called the Christ?”

Rev. Kenneth F. Pierpont

GRANDPA’S TALL (TRUE) TALES

It happened one evening near Halloween in 1964 but it was no prank. It involved a task the men of our church were to do around 6 o’clock at the parsonage. We were to move a piano.

This was not just any piano. It was one of those monsters musicians call “an old upright.” The huge instrument had presided over the living room of the old Parmalee place near Hopkins, Michigan for many years. Jim Parmalee, the young adult son of the family had been called upon to move it, more than once, I understand. Later that evening Jim’s dad told me Jim hated to move the gargantuan beast. He had said, “This piano belongs on the Hopkins Dump.” The Parmalee family had loaned the house to the church as a parsonage which accounted for our presence there. My wife played it occasionally but I never attempted to move it. (Simpson’s my name, not Samson!)

Our church had just finished its new building. The plan was to donate the old instrument to the church for use until we could get one a little more suitable. On this particular prayer meeting night some of us had agreed to move it out and take it to the church in a truck and the others would gather at the church to move it in.

Chuck Davis, one of the young guys showed up with his red Chevrolet pick-up and backed up to the front porch, a big concrete affair. He dropped the tailgate and it looked like we had a fighting chance to wrestle the piano aboard. After a short planning session we were ready to gang up on the dark walnut finished and beautiful old instrument.

Shoulder to shoulder six or seven of us staggered and strained toward the front door with our greatly challenging burden. Mercifully we made it through the opening and onto the truck’s bed without incident. When we set it down the vehicle seemed to strain an objection as it absorbed the weight. No matter, it was in the truck and we were safe now.

The decision had been made that Chuck, one of the teenage boys and I, the pastor, were to accompany the piano to the church where we were to bring it in, dedicate it to the Lord’s work and hold prayer meeting in the lower level of the church. The other guys rolled away in their cars to meet us there.

As Chuck hooked the heavily- laden pick-up in gear he remarked, “Do you suppose we should tie it down?” Never one to give a bashful answer, I remarked, “Are you kidding? Where could it go, as heavy as it is?”

“Okay,” he said, “We’ll just take it easy.” And we did.

The trip called for about a three-mile run over a “tarmac” road which had its share of potholes. Chuck decided, instead, to enter the 131 Freeway at Hopkins and proceed north to the Wayland interchange and get off there, just yards from the church site. He eased the heavily-laden truck out of the yard and onto the road with our youth, Brian, riding between us on the seat.

The drive over the back road to the interstate was uneventful. The three of us laughed and joked as we made our way toward the Hopkins interchange. That particular junction was unlighted and as we approached the big highway, coming along the side road, we were presented with a gradual grade leading to the ramp. Chuck accelerated slightly to climb the grade but was moving ever so slowly. A slight left turn was necessary to finish the trip to the top of the ramp. Now for what we didn’t notice:

Just at the last turn to the left, the pavement was slightly concave with a small dip to the left. I don’t remember what Chuck and I were talking about but our conversation was rudely interrupted. In a split second the truck rocked violently to the left and just as quickly lurched upright again. At that moment, even with the windows rolled up, we were all aghast by the terrible sound we heard.

The shattering crash was followed immediately with numerous other sounds, both high and low, tinkling and rumbling. I looked at Chuck with a start. “What was that,? I muttered. Of course I knew what it was but I didn’t want to believe. He jumped the brakes and we all piled out of the truck in amazed disbelief.

On the pavement, to the left and scattered all around was “the piano.” No, not a piano but a twisted mess of broken walnut finish wood, wires, broken keys and other debris too smashed to recognize. What happened next is the most incredible part of the story. The three of us stood momentarily in the now hushed darkness and, together, broke out into uncontrollable laughter.

Suddenly our darkened and awful picture was brightened by approaching headlights. A car coming very tentatively up the same grade, driven by a middle-aged lady, moved slowly around our pile of ruin. As the lady passed she stuck her head out the window and called, “Do you need any help?” So help me, I could not come back to reality. I merely blurted out, in my frozen state of stupefaction, between rolls of laughter, “No, ma,am, we’re just working with our piano!” Giving the whole scene an incredulous look, she drove on.

We three stood in the darkness like transgressors presiding over the results of our sin. Together we sounded it out: “What do we do?” Then Chuck came to life: “Didn’t Jim Parmalee say it belonged on the Hopkins dump. Let’s take it there.” We looked at each other and then at our “piano.” I managed a grunt of agreement with Chuck and we slowly began “loading” it into the truck.

Loading went quickly what with the smallness of the largest pieces now that we had “broken down” the job. In only a few minutes we had finished and had arrived at the dump just a mile or so away. As we finished throwing off the debris, I reached down and retrieved a “morsel.”

Like three kids tardy to school we drove sheepishly into the church parking lot. The congregants, assembled on the front porch, were in no mood to look the other way at the empty truck.

“Where ya been?” and “Yer late!” Were the most common calls that reached our ears. But the ones that presented the worst challenge were: “Where’s the piano?” and the one my wife raised, “Oh, no!,” as she held her head.
Once inside, it became my “solemn” responsibility to explain. But, alas, the rolls of laughter again began to spill out. Giddiness took over and I could only stammer as I raised my solitary “souvenir,” an ivory from one key, and blurted out, “This is all we saved!”

No, I wasn’t fired, because, I think, nobody else could stop laughing either. I think that, secretly, everyone agreed with Jim.

The Regime Change in Iraq

Four years ago today Mr. George Bush, the president, started the war with Iraq. He had been saying he was going to do so for several previous months. One of the phrases he used to promise coming war was: “It’s time for a regime change in Iraq.”

As we start the fifth year in this war tomorrow, I feel compelled to ask the question, “Has it been worth it to change regimes in Iraq?” This morning on the nationwide television, Ms. Rice, Bush’s Secretary of State was asked this very question. After polite comments of sympathy to families who have lost their sons and daughters to regime change, she answered, “Yes, it was worth it.”

I write tonight with a single motive, to save my grandchildren from the clutches of Bush’s “regime change.” You see, we are no closer this minute to regime change than were we four years ago. If it be argued that “We are keeping the enemy from coming to the shores of America with his mass suicide and car bombings by having our youth die in Iraq,” I remind those who confuse the issue thusly, that those things had already happened here before we went into Iraq.

The reason for going to war was this regime change to “get rid of Saddam Hussein and his weapons of mass destruction.” As Mr. Bush said in his speech at the time, it was to bring “freedom” to the people of Iraq.

Well, where are we four years later? I will summarize:

1) A bad dictator is gone and now we have a government which exists only within the confines of a “Green Zone” of the heaviest of military protection the U.S. can offer. Open this fortress and the government wouldn’t last an hour!

2) “Freedom” has come and now it is so dangerous that most of the cultured and educated key people in Iraq have fled elsewhere or are trying desperately to do so. Almost two million have left the country as I write

3) Our American boys, and some brave women, are still in Iraq in numbers so great that our American military is now accepting convicted felons in a desperate attempt to fill its dwindling ranks. Rather than being “greeted as liberators,” as our irresponsible vice president put it four years ago, the vast majority of those “we liberated” want us to go home!

4) Now that “major combat operations have ended,” as President Bush put it, standing under a sign reading “Mission Accomplished” a few weeks into the war, we are losing an average of three soldiers or marines a day–still!

5) The oil that Iraq possesses, which was to be tapped into to “pay for the war” is in such short production that it is still below pre-war levels. “Who is paying for the war,” you ask. The answer is “No one!” That is, no one is paying yet. You see, the 437 billion dollars it has cost so far is borrowed money. My children’s children, and yours, will still be paying for it in the years that lie ahead since the war is being financed on credit. Mr. Bush has never made the war a part of his regular budget proposals!
6) Going into Afghanistan after the “9/11″ attacks was justified. We had the moral and ethical high ground. We had been attacked and devastated. Going into Iraq was the opposite. We did, with our unprovoked attack upon Iraq, what Hussein had done in Kuwait. We made up a cock and bull story and came rumbling in with our tanks. At that moment we gave up not only the moral high ground, we gave up the divine right to wage rightful war. God has not, cannot and will not bless such trickery! This has been made all the more culpable by our president and his administration because Mr. Bush professes Christ as his personal Savior.

7) Finally, though there is much more that could be pointed out, the greatest cost is that to the poorer people of our country, for the most part, whose sons and daughters have borne the awful cost of this war in lives lost and tragically changed forever. As of today 3,218 coffins filled with their remains have made their way back home, where is it now illegal to film their arrival. More than 24,000 have been wounded. Thousands of these have lost limbs are burn victims, brain-injured, paralyzed, and on it goes. Thousands of others have an injury no one can see. It is called “post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Four years ago I stated, at the beginning of Bush’s shameful war, that “Saddam Hussein is not worth Jeremiah’s life.” Jeremiah is my brave grandson who fought from a tank in Baghdad in the assault Bush ordered him and thousands of others to make on April 19, 2003. Jeremiah has relived, apparently many times, his ordeal of killing young Iraqis under this president’s orders. Now he is suffering from PTSD. He has been granted at least partial disability benefits. He has been told this may change upward. Nope, I stick by what I said four years ago: “Hussein is not worth Jeremiah’s life.

I would like for someone, after carefully considering what I have said, to write and tell me one good permanent change that has taken place as a result of this war. You see, when we entered an immoral war, with made up excuses by which to convince the populace that it was okay, we took our country away from the blessing of God. We have paid heavily and we always will until the day we go back to the place we abandoned God’s blessing, repent, and try to do right. The regime of misery and woe in Iraq is still with us—four years later! God have mercy on us!

Two days ago I was talking to a tow truck driver about his volume of calls this time of year. He said, a common call he receives in early spring is from homeowners who get stuck in their own yards.

I had a keen interest in what he was saying because, at the time, I was one of his statistics. Let me tell you how it happened.

I had just picked up my wife from work and was approaching our driveway when I spotted a number of trash objects which had accumulated in our yard just beyond the drive. I casually pulled down to where they were lying and eased up beside them. After exiting the car and picking up the trash items, mostly paper things, I returned to the car and instead of backing away and onto the pavement, I decided to loop around and head back toward the garage. Mistake!!

My “co-pilot” remarked as I made my turn, “This might be soft here.” Her words were terribly prophetic! Immediately the car mired down in front. Our Buick has front-wheel drive and is somewhat heavy. After a couple of attempts to “rock the car out,” I quickly gave up.

I think Jane was somewhat surprised that I capitulated after so brief a struggle. Well, we have a tractor in the garage with chains on the wheels. Had I used it to pull us out the back yard would have been cut to ribbons with enough holes to bury all the neighborhood dogs. I decided that was out. Then too, rapidly shifting back and forth is tough on a modern automatic transmission; a bit of an expensive risk.

It looked like a good opportunity to apply Car and Driver Tip #3, “Winching Your Car Out.” But, alas, I was not on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere. I was “on display” about thirty feet from a busy street. My efforts would have brought in neighbor guys and others and we would all have been up to our ears in mud in short order.

Actually, I surprised myself even, at the ease with which I went into the house and called a towing service. When the wrecker arrived he pulled up adjacent to the car and unrolled his winch cable and quickly attached it to the back axle. He made it look surprisingly easy as he hooked the winch in gear and slowly “wound me out.”

As I handed him my credit card, it occurred to me that I could have done worse. I remarked to him: “The only thing more embarrassing than getting stuck in your yard would be to get stuck in your neighbor’s!” He agreed.

So, my driving tip today is simply this: always inspect, on foot, ground that might be soft before pulling into it. Especially avoid pulling the drive wheels over such ground unnecessarily.

Picking up those three pieces of trash cost fifty bucks. I could have walked for them a lot cheaper. And today, my back, feet and legs are sore from shoveling and tramping the holes back into shape for spring mowing. Watch those soft places!

WHAT IN THE WORLD?

A Moral Mandate

Today, March 13th, Marine General, Peter Pace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff found himself in a very difficult spot. He was responding to an inquiry about how the military’s policy of “Don’t ask don’t tell” regarding homosexual persons in the military was working.

In the course of his comments he gave a very clear presentation stating that military persons “who sleep with the spouses of other military persons” are immoral and implied that this worked to the determent of the military.

Following the same logic, he compared similar behavior between homosexual military persons and made clear the immorality of it.

Very soon a storm of protest began to arise. One spokesperson for the media I heard stated that General Pace had been called in by Defense Secretary Robert Gates, his boss, to explain. Apparently under fire, the general then declared these beliefs to be his own in order to appease those who “were offended.”

I bring this to my readers’ attention at this point because President George Bush was elected and reelected on a platform of personal declaration that he is “an evangelical Christian.” I invite each Christian reading this to keep his and her ear to the ground to see if Mr. Bush, as an evangelical Christian comes to the defense of his beleaguered and courageous general. I certainly pray that he does. What a perfect opportunity to let his Christian testimony shine.

One thing is absolutely clear, no evangelical believer who knows his Bible either would or could defend homosexual practice. That puts every Christian on the good general’s side. More power to him.