The Branch of Friendship

Winters in New England will always have a special place in my heart.  As a young boy growing up in the 50’s and 60’s then world was my playground, and my sandbox was full of snow.  Lots of snow.  Nor’easters would pile up 2,3 even 4 feet of snow at a time, and we always knew how to utilize that snow to our advantage.

Sledding was at the top of our list.  The toboggan usually came out first because it would tamp down the snow as we barreled down the rolling hills behind our house.  My brother and I would gather up the neighborhood gang and head through the field and up the hill.   Looking back, I am guessing it was about a quarter mile to the top end of the field.  Actually, it was two fields, on just to the left of the other with a wide path leading between them. 

Once at the top, most of us would sit on the toboggan with anticipation of a great run.  My brother and his friend Booby were the oldest two, so they got the back seats and the job of getting us started.  Pushing on the last persons back, we began the decent slowly and as we gained speed they jumped on and settled down.  I was often in the front steering, a position that I loved.  The speed of the taboggan slowly increased and I began to anticipate the turn into the next field.

Urging everyone to lean to the left, I grabbed the front of the taboggan and tilted it left.  As the others leaned, the sled started to turn as we picked up speed, heading toward the path between the fields.  Timing had to be almost perfect to avoid allowing down the ever-charging piece of wood that held us above the ground. 

Once I could see we were going to make the run OK, t was time to start planning the next one.  We went through the path and into the other field, and I yelled out “Lean right”.  The snow went flying past us as the edge of the wooden device cut into the snow, still keeping up speed.  I took hold of the curved front end and started to tilt it once more, and that taboggan yielded to my command.  We straightened into the field and headed toward the bottom of the hill, cheering and laughing as we made our way.  Before we knew it, we are at the bottom, another successful run completed.  Although it only took about 30 seconds, it seemed like an eternity.  Then back up the hill we would go for another round.

One of the other people on that sled was my best friend David.  We had met a few summers before as I was riding my bike down the street.  I had not seen him before as he stood there alone in his front yard.  As I ode by, I cried out “Hey, you want to be my friend?”.  “Yes” was the reply.  I turned my bike around, sped into his driveway and dropped my blue bike on the ground.  Walking over to him, I said “Hi, my name’s Pete!”.  I’m David” he replied.  A friendship was started.

David and I had bigger sledding aspirations than just a taboggan, and they came to fruition on the second hole of Wachusett Country Club.  The walk was long from our house – about a mile through the woods. But it was worth it every time.  Pulling our double runner sleds behind us, we went down the path, over the brook, past the old shelter house and then through the woods until we got to the second green.  Then over the brook and up the steep hill to the top of the descent. 

The second hole was a long par 5.   The fairway started out level, then slowly started to slope downward for the first 250 or so yards.  From this vantage point, you could not see the green below. The slope increased more and more as you headed toward the green, and the last 100 yards or so sometimes seemed like it stood straight up and down.  In retrospect, it was probably about a 35% grade, which is pretty steep.  At the bottom of the hill stood a creek, it’s banks about 5 feet across.  The depth of the creek was also about 5 feet.  There was a small shabby bridge in the center with a large, much sturdier bridge for golf carts on the right side of the fairway.  From the creek, there was a gently upslope to an elevated green.  A beautiful golf hole – a surreal sledding place.

We would trudge our sleds to the very beginning f that slope, 400 yards from the green.  A running push was required, followed by a quick belly-flop onto the deck of the sled.  It was not unusual to have a nice frozen crust on the top of the snow, as the top layer would melt during the days sun-made heat and then freeze up again at night.  The sled would make its way to down the ever-increasing slope and we could light with excitement at the ride which was to come.  As the sled picked up speed, we had to make a decision – jump the creek or head to the bridge.  Often, we had to make that decision quickly because the melting and freezing process had turned that east facing slope into sheer ice.

Most people would say to take the smart route and head to the bridge.  This was definitely the smartest and safest route.  It was still a wild, fun run each time.  However, jumping the creek brought extra advantages.  If you did not lose speed, it was easy to get over the creek, past the green and head back down the trail through the woods.  The challenge of speeding through the woods was unmatched in the annals of double runner sledding in our neighborhood.

This day, conditions were perfect for a huge run.  As I came down that sheer ice, there was no doubt in my mind.  Jump the creek and go for the record.  David followed me as I barreled full speed ahead to the bank.  My sled was full throttle and I cleared the creek with no problem, as did David.  I barely lost any speed as I headed over the green and saw the opening at the other side, heading down the path through the woods.  Now the task was dodging trees, as the trail was only about 3 feet wider then the handlebars f the sled, and it weaved like a river through a farm field.  I held on tight as David slowed behind me and kept going. Dodging one tree after another at full speed, I came up the shelter and then the bridge over the small creek in front of it.  I was amazed at how little speed I had lost at this point, so I kept going up the slight incline that led into the backyard of another friend.  I could hear David shouting me on as I went. “Go. Pete.  Get the record.” He cried out.

After the last snowfall, some of the bigger kids in the neighborhood had transformed the back of this friends’ house into a bobsled run of sorts.  The had built up the walls and smoothed down the edges of the run so it had extra speed all the way down to the next creek.  The run itself was aa sledding experience which we all enjoyed day after day.  I was about to enter that bobsled run I had enough speed.  Excitement began to build as I realized my sled was going to make it into the chute.

When I hit the top of the small hill and looked ahead, the bobsled run stood before me.  Its walls seemed huge as I entered it, the double runners hitting that hard-packed surface and not cutting in.  Once again, my speed picked up as the chute took control, guiding me as I went.   I just had to stay inside the walls.  Speeding faster and faster, I curved my way through two more back yards, over the bridge that crossed the creek and up into the deep snow of the field that had nor prepared for any sled.

As I closed to a stop, I could hear David, then others cheering for the run I had just accomplished.  Fear never entered my mind as I sped down that hill, through the woods, over the creek and down the chute to the longest run anyone had made.  At least three-quarters of a mile, and perhaps a full mile of sheer delight.  No one would ever do that again, at least not that I can remember. 

With all the excitement that sledding provided, nothing would prepare me for what happened on a January afternoon in 1960.  Fresh fallen snow blanketed everything in sight as the sun roamed low in the sky with dazzling brilliance.  My friend David and I were dressed warm enough. Snow pants, heavy coats, mittens and stocking caps made us snug and happy.  We were all geared up for an afternoon romp in the deep New England snow.  The world was our playground whether it was sledding, or a toboggan, a snow ball fight or building forts in mounds made by the snow plow.  We spent hours outside at a time, best friends making the most of a winter day.

This day we headed out through the farm field across from his house.  We climbed over the wire fence that was meant to keep intruders out.  A slow slope was easy to navigate as we scampered across the field. The ground was covered with waist deep snow which made the adventure more interesting.  We trudged our way down to an old farm pond about 200 yards from the road.  The ice-covered pond was windswept with snow, making the ice on top look rugged and not suitable for skates.  There was a large willow tree on the south side of the pond.  The dangling branches of the willow flowed down almost to the ice.  There were also a few small white birch trees near the water’s edge. They looked feeble and about ready to fall onto the ice, the heavy wet snow bending them down.  As I reminisce, I realize what a picturesque place it was.  A regular Currier and Ives setting.  With the two of us standing by the edge of the ice, and you could have a Normal Rockwell painting sure to inspire.

We made around to the west side of the pond and noticed there was a small opening in the ice about 100 feet from the shore.  Since we loved playing games and were both great competitors, we decided to have a contest.  An old stone wall was near the water’s edge, broken down by years of wind and wear.  This left many small, medium and large rocks sitting around the shore. We decided to see who could throw the most rocks into that hole.  David went first, and he just missed the small target.  The rock he threw bounced across the ice halfway to the other shore.  My first try wasn’t any better as it skipped the same direction.

After several more attempts, we realized this game was harder than we thought it would be.  I came up with a plan to make it easier and more interesting.  Why don’t we throw some of the bigger rocks out there  and see if we can make the hole bigger, so we would have a bigger target?  David liked that idea, and we started picking up the rocks we thought we could throw far enough to make a difference.  This required more strength, and often we had to heave them out there.  It was working great and the hole was getting bigger with every rock we threw.  Soon it was about 6 feet across, and David said that’s good enough.  We now had a target we could easily hit with the smaller stones.  He started picking them up and throwing the, hitting the hole every time.

I disagreed.  I had to outdo him, and the only way to do that now was to make the hole even bigger then he had.  I searched around for the right rock.  This was no throwing rock, at least not from that distance.  I had to get much closer to get this rock near enough to break the ice and make the hole bigger.  I picked it up and started out on the ice to make sure I could get it close enough to heave it into that hole.  I was about 10 feet from the hole when I heard a noise of cracking ice.  Before I could retreat, the slab of ice beneath me gave way.   I dropped the rock as soon as I felt myself going down, but it was too late., I was suddenly in the frigid water, my heavy winter clothes dragging me down into the pond.

Scared was not the right word.  I quickly started flapping my arms to try and get to the surface.  I was a good swimmer, so did not have too much of a problem getting up.  Some of the gold water had been gulped up, but I was OK at this point.  I got to the surface and out my arms up on the ice in front of me only to have it give way.  Plunging back down into the water a second time was not what I had anticipated.  The ice was supposed to hold me up!

Now my coat was wet all the way through and it was harder to get back to the surface the second time.  As I lunged upward with my arms, I was able to get above water and put my arms up on the ice again, only to have it give way once more.  Oh my, down I went again.  I was running out of strength.  I had heard the stories – third time up is usually the last.  Panic set in.  I had no idea what was going on up above as I floated downward that second time, trying to get up the strength for one last pass at the surface. 

David was frantic on the shore, and all I can do is give you his account of what he did.  When he saw me go under, he yelled out to me, but of course I did not hear him.  Ten he saw me surface and the ice break beneath me and knew I was in trouble.  As he surveyed the area, he saw those old birch trees leaning down from the snow.  He quickly ran over and grabbed one of them, pulling it up with some supernatural strength for the moment.   He saw me go down for the second time and knew he didn’t have a moment to lose.  With that tree in hand, he sprawled across the ice and put the tree right over the hole where I was.  Tears welled up in his eyes as he knew he had to get this right.

I had no idea the tree was there.  I mustered up all my strength to get to the surface one more time, and there it was.  That branch was right where I needed it.  I heard David yell out to grab it and I did.  He held on and so did I as he dragged it back toward the shore.  Some ice still broke beneath me, but finally I arrived on the surface of the ice and crawled as he dragged, I was exhausted and elated.  He was shouting for joy.  But I was also quickly turning into ice as we finally got to the shore and hugged each other.  The house was 200 yards away across a snow filled field an over the fence

It took forever, it seemed, to get there.  The snow was waist deep and I was completely soaked.  I was freezing.  David went before me, trying to open up a trail through the snow.  He tamed the snow down to make a path so I could get through easier.  Following the same path we had come down on made it easier.  I was getting bluer and bluer as we went, shivering all the way. My body and my clothes felt like they were turning to ice as I moved.  We got to the edge of the field and climbed over the fence, heading across the street. We got to his house and ran inside.

“Mom, Mom, Peter fell through the ice” David cried out.

His Mom came running out and quickly had my clothes off and a towel around me.  Oh, that felt so good.  I was blue all over my body, but quickly started to warm as David’s mom gave us hot chocolate and delicious hot-cross scones.  It took a while, but finally I was warm enough to get dressed, and David gave me some of his clothes to wear.  Once I was warmed to a normal state, we took the ¼ mile walk to my house.

My Mom greeted us as we walked in the door and gave me a quizzical look.  “Do you have David’s clothes on?”

I simply said “Yes, Mom.  All of them.”  And then we told her what had happened.

After high school, David joined the Army.  It was the middle of the Vietnam war, and he decided that he wanted to fight for his country.  He went on to become a ranger in the army, and a 1st Sargent.  God only knows how much that incident that day prompted him to take on such a daring life, but I’m sure it did in some way.  He changed his name to Jason during this time because he wanted to forget the childhood he had in his mother’s home.   Before he got back to the states, he committed his life to a higher calling then that. He accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior.

I, on the other hand, went the opposite direction.  There was no discipline in my life, and I fell into a well of lust, booze and drugs.  They took over my life.  For the next 5 years after high school my existence was a blur of parties and missed opportunities.  I had received a full ride to a great technology school on my grades and blew that chance because of drugs.  They even gave me a second chance, but I threw it away.  I was whirling out of control.

Then came my 5th high school reunion.  Lo and behold, David was there, now Jason.  We talked and talked.  We spent time together after that night.  He tried to tell me about Jesus, I didn’t want to listen.  But our friendship was renewed and we vowed to keep it going.  For two years, we corresponded as I stayed at home in my drug filled life and he travelled to Florida, met a girl and moved to Iowa.  We wrote to each other regularly and he would send a scripture address each time, forcing me to look it up.  After two years I finally went to Iowa to visit Him. There, I accepted Jesus as my Savior as well.  Jason saved my life a second time.

Jason and I are still best friends 55 years later.  He has suffered a lot of depression and PTSD because of the two wars he served in.  Sarin gas and Mustard gas both have eaten away his body.  During these years, I have talked him down from suicide several times.   I think of it as returning the favor of him saving my life twice.  Now I am upon life, and he is the same.  Putting our trust in our Savior above is what keeps both of us going.  We talk almost every day and are closer now than we have ever been.  We reminisce a lot about those days and many of the other things that we have been through together.  I am so thankful for his friendship and that God has kept us close, despite some very hard times between us.  It’s a friendship that will last a lifetime.

Boxed In

I was a bit crazy in my youth.  Maybe more than a bit.  Maybe a lot.  Especially when it came to driving. I wrecked three cars and should have died at least once, but God had some other reason to keep me alive, and here I am to tell about it.  I also was not serving God despite being raised in church, so this is not going to sound anything like my typical posts, at least not at first.

I purchased my first car from my Mom.  It was a 1965 brown Ford Fairlane.  The year was 1969 so it was a fairly new car.  I bought it for a buck.  Quite a bargain, right?  It was far from a perfect car though.  You see, I was driving through a shopping mall parking lot on a cold winter night.  There were slick spots everywhere.  I came to one of those cross aisles and a car came up from my left.  I put the brakes on, but was on a slab of ice and T-boned the car.  Granted, I was only going about 10 MPH, but the front end was damaged pretty good.  A new fender and radiator was in the works.  My mom collected the insurance and got a new car.  I got the Fairlane for a buck and fixed it up.  Not a bad deal.

I drove that Fairlane for several years, drunken rides, high rides, sometimes pretty blind rides.  We went to concerts and came home drunk, hopped bars all night long and were not at all sober. Drove to the Cape, to the mountains, to the Canadian border.  We would drive to New York on Sundays to get liquor because they didn’t sell it in Mass on Sundays.  I don’t know if I ever really drove sober.  I know, that’s a bad thing.  But it was a different era and there was not as much fanfare over drunk driving back then.  I remember once driving home from a day on the cape where we had driven to P-Town, drank beer all the way there and all the way back.  We got in the middle of a traffic jam in Plymouth and the cops were right there in the middle of it.  We had the floor of the back seat filled with beer cans and one of us passed out in the seat.  Nothing happened, but we were worried.

I finally traded the Fairlane off for a Triumph Spitfire.  This white car with a convertible black top was my dream car.  Fast, maneuverable and good looking.  This was the ultimate party car.  We drove it everywhere in new England, flying down the curvy roads at 60 or 70 MPH, weaving in and out of traffic and just not caring a bit.  I’m not sure if I had a death wish or not, but people would think so because of my driving.  The times I remember most fondly are when we would have about 8 of us in the car.  We folded the front seats all the way down and sat semi-circle in the car, passing beers and joints all day as we drove through the White and Green mountains viewing the most beautiful Fall scenery in the world. 

One time we were driving at night looking for a friend of mine who was high and tripping out.  We were flying around the countryside when a cop pulled us over.  We had definitely been drinking.  He came up to the window and asked what the hurry was.  I told him of my friend and that I was pretty sure we could find him, but we needed to do it soon or he could fly out of control.  The cop actually let us go!  We did find our friend and all turned out OK. 

Another time we set our sights on a vacation to the Blue Ridge Mountains.  We had our stash in hand, a cooler full of beer and cash to boot.  We set out in the evening only to get 90 miles down the road and have the head gasket blow out of the car.  It was late at night and no one was around.  We limped back home, putting water in the motor several times before we arrived at my house round noon the next day.  When my mom came home from work, we were sitting on a sofa in the basement, oblivious to the world.  She asked what happened to our trip, and we just groaned and said the car broke.

Yes, I had plenty of adventures and misadventures with cars in my youth, but one stands out from them all to this day.  As I said before, we were speed demons in that little Triumph Spitfire.  We would dodge in and out of traffic going 10 to 20 MPH over the speed limit all the time.  I hated it when someone passed me.  Of course, the semi drivers hated my little car whizzing up from behind them and then ducking back in.  One day as we cruised down the 3 lane Massachusetts Turnpike, I was on just such a mission.  I wove around several semi-trucks and was just cruising fine.  I came up behind on in the right lane and screeched out from behind him to pass, only to find another semi was in the middle lane up ahead.  As I went to veer into the far left hand lane, another semi came up fast behind me, boxing me in on three sides.  I tried to pull out, but a fourth one came up behind, and we proceeded to go 60 MPH for about 5 miles.  I was out of my mind, as was my friend.  We were boxed in with no place to go.  These big rigs could crush my little car without getting a dent. I seriously thought about creeping under one of them on my side, but the car was a little too tall for that.  That was the most harrowing 5 minutes I ever spent in my car. 

Finally the semi behind us slowed down and the one in front pulled ahead so we could get out.  They all blasted their horns as we drove off up the road ahead of them.  I got the message loud and clear.  They were in charge of the road, not me.  They had mu number anytime they wanted to, and I better remember.  My days of weaving in and out of semi-trucks was over.  I respected them from then on.

There are times in our lives when we are going along without a care in the world.  We’re just having fun and enjoying this gift of life that God gave us.  We are not overzealous, but we are good Christians doing what God has asked us to do.  The road seems clear ahead and we just keep going forward.  Then someone comes along and says something that offends us.  We are taken aback by that, and are not really sure what to do.  The good book says we should go to them and clear it up, but that seems a bit too much for this small offense.  It will just go away.

This offense festers in our mind until we have to talk to a friend about it.  Well, now our friend is upset about it too!  They want to get back at the offender but instead they start to say bad things about them to other people.  Before we know it we are surrounded by negativity toward this person, and it was all such a small thing when it started, like that first semi I passed.  No big deal.  It’s just one truck.  But then another and another got involved, and before I knew it I was boxed in.  Before we know it I was boxed in with guilt that this whole thing has gotten out of control 

Now you have to do something.  You feel bitterness start to arise within you, and know it must not fester.  That’s the worst thing that can happen.  Finally you go to the person who originally offended you and you open up to them.  You tell them what happened and you apologize profusely, asking their forgiveness.  You back track to everyone else and let them know the truth.  This is a hard lesson, like being encircled with big rigs was for me, but you learn it well.  Take care of offenses at the outset.  It will pay great rewards and relieve you from a lot of regret down the road.

I have never again driven like that.  I learned my lesson well.  And I hope that I never let offenses go too long without taking care of them.  I never want to be boxed in again!

A Love For Words

I have long realized that I have always had a love for words.  I really don’t remember much about this when I was younger, but I do know that in my high school years, I started writing poetry.  These poems were just scribbles at that time, and I really did not write a lot of poetry until after high school. I fondly remember my twelfth grade English teacher, Mr. Edmonds.  He was a little bit unorthodoxed and taught his class with a certain flair that dared us to be creative in our writing and take chances for a good grade.  The room was set up in a horseshoe shape, so we all had to face each other, and his desk was in front of the chalkboard at the open end of the horseshoe. He stood and taught more than he sat, and walked around the room when he was not using the chalkboard.  Often, when he did sit at his desk, he would put his feet up on the desk. 

We had to do speeches in his class, and most people hated giving speeches, but I never minded that part.  The lectern was always set on a desk to the right of his desk, facing the room.  The visibility was obvious, and you could see the reaction of every person in the room when we gave speeches.  The subject matter ranged from book report, to politics to comical.  I was never very good at the comical stuff.  One speech I gave stands out in my mind more than any other.  He assigned us to give a five-minute speech on any topic we wanted to, but we could not use any notes.  This was the last speech of the year, and he felt we should be able to pull this off.  I didn’t have to think too long on what topic I would choose.  When it was my turn, I approached the lectern with great confidence.  I started my speech, then sputtered several times, repeated myself often, got things out of place, and had a terrible ending. Not too much to my surprise, but maybe to your, I got an A!  He loved the speech and so did the entire class.  I knew it was by far the best speech I had given all year, and it met the criteria of not using notes at all.  By now you may be wondering what the title of that speech was.  The title was “How Dumb It Is to Give a Speech Using No Notes.”  Mission accomplished – I gave a horrible speech!

Another assignment was written poetry.  I had been dabbling a little by this time, but had never had an assignment to write one.  My poem turned out to be a long, winding poem that went through the seasons of the year in one-line statements.  In fact, it was three pages long!  Since that was over 50 years ago, I do not still have the poem, but I do remember the wording was very good and it was a free verse poem.  There was no rhyming at all.  I received an A on that one also.

In the latter part of my senior year, I started keeping notebooks of poetry.  All kinds of poems.  Some rhymed, some were free verse.  Some were very short, others quite long.  Some were more like reflections on life, others more like riddles, and others made no sense at all.  I later typed these all out and made a few copies, but I did not retain them.  I really wish I had.  A few I do remember, which are just silly, go like this:

                     Whatever is, isn’ t whenever whatever isn’t is.

  

                     What is the difference between a duck? One of its legs are the same!

 I warned you they were silly, and strange.  I started doing my fair share of drugs after my senior year so you can see why I had some strange poetry.  There was another poem that was written sharing my experience at a dance hall we frequented in Leicester, Mass.  This one was long and rhyming, and was written more like a song than a poem.  It was called “The Dilapidated Dance of the Drunken Drummer.”  I continued to write poetry for several years after high school.

I also did some journaling at this time.  I would carry little 3×5 pocket notebooks that opened on the ide with me all the time.  As I went through my days and weeks, I would write thoughts down that came to, whether sober or stoned, and save those notebooks.  I would also have my friends write in them, or people I just met along the way.  I was a traveler, and loved to just go on long drives around New England with no real destination in mind.  Often in those days, people would be hitchhiking and you were not worried about picking them up.  When I picked one up, I would have them write in my book.  I think I ended up with a dozen or so of these little 100-page books when I was through with them.  But, again, I did not keep them and really wish I had.  As it turned out, these were really the only journals I kept in my entire life.

In 1978, I met Janeen. When I made the decision to move to Iowa and follow God more closely, I started writing more poems.  There was a flurry of activity during those two months before I moved to Iowa, and also many letters written back and forth to her.  Letteer writing was something that I became pretty adept at because my good childhood friend, Jason, and I had been sharing letters back and forth from Iowa for the past two years.  I still have a large majority of the letters written during those two years with Jason and two months with Janeen.

After moving to Iowa, my writing stopped for a long time.  I was busy with family and kids and building a career.  It was during these years that speaking became more of an outlet for my loves of words.  The one way I did write was sermon notes and note in my Bible.  Prolific notes.  Underlines, highlights, different colors, all over the page and in the margins.  I began to do a little preaching in the early years, sharing at fellowship meetings and at my own church on occasion.  I also started to do more singing and became a worship leader.  I loved the songs of faith and studied the words carefully.

When we I started to work for PSI, I joined a group called Toastmasters.  I had been invited several times, but could never attend because my previous job had a semi come in every Friday morning when the meetings were held.  If you are not familiar with Toastmaster, I will take a moment to fill you in.  Toastmasters is an organization that helps individuals build leadership and communication skills.  There are speeches given designed around a specific goal you want to achieve, whether that be sales, motivational, leadership, or public speaking in general.  There is also a session called Table Topics are little questions or ideas that are given to you at the meeting, and you have to give a 1–2-minute mini speech on that subject. While these things are going on, there’s someone timing the meeting, another is leading the meeting, and people are listening for good and bad grammar.  Needless to say, the meeting are full, and the rolls are rotated from meeting to meeting.

I became hooked on Toastmasters.  My favorite portion was the Table Topics because I was pretty quick witted and could have a lot of fun with the topics. Over the next 20 years, I would be involved in 10 different clubs around North central Iowa, two of which I was a founding member.  I competed in many competitions, held many leadership roles and made many very good friends.  I was in sales and I attribute my success in sales on my Toastmaster experience.  I became very adept with the spoken word during the years when I was not writing.

Janeen and I also got involved in a theater group called the Iowa River Players. Wed played roles in several plays together when the group first got started.. This was very time consuming, not only being at practice by learning the lines. It had been a long time since I had done any memorization, and I got some pretty big parts in those plays. We had so much fun doing these plays, and some day I may decide to become a part of the group again.

In 2010 the writing started again.  There will be a whole chapter devoted to that journey back, but let me just say that once I started writing poetry again, the flood gates opened up wide.  I wrote many, many worship choruses and Christian song, and am still writing today.  Sometimes tow or three a ay would come through my pen, or computer, or cell phone.  When I felt inspiration, I wrote.  I really never did much editing of anything after I wrote them and often recorded the songs on my phone as I wrote them.  This still goes on today, 13 years later.  To date, I have over 500 songs and worship choruses, and over 2,000 poems.  Many are on my web site and many more are still to be published.

In 2016, when I had cancer (again, another whole chapter), I began to build a blog based on Bible studies I was doing.  I started with Philippians, then to Galatians, the Psalms, Sermon on the Mount, the two letters to Timothy, Titus and Hebrews, which is sitting unfinished at this time.  Theses short blogs were written from the heart.  Each day I would take a portion of scripture and just share what I was seeing in those passages.  This is a phenomenal exercise for anyone to take.  It helped me to understand my faith a lot more, and gain knowledge into the heart of God. 

Also during this time of recovery from cancer, I ran across some old notes while tidying up our basement.  The notes were from a Sunday School lesson I had but together almost 30 years earlier.  I did a deep study on prayer and called it A.S.K – Ask, Seek, Knock.  At the time, I really thought it would make a good book, but I never had the time to put that together.  Now, while stuck at home recovering, I decided to research the basic principle of the book and put it out in pieces on my blog.  When it was finished, I had 45,000 words, and realized the book was right in front of me.  I got together with a publisher and ‘The ASK Principle” was published in 2017.

Our words are powerful.  We all have varying vocabulary and different ways of expressing ourselves. In my teen years and early twenties, I would use some type of swear word every sentence, it seemed. When I accepted Christ as my Savior, that type of language immediately left me.  Before I made that change, I was a pessimist who used words like darts to dig into peoples’ hearts.  But I had a Pastor who took me under his wing and had me read a book called “The Power of Positive Thinking.”  My perspective was permanently changed to one of optimism and pleasant words.  Ou could ask anyone and they would say that I am always happy. This is because I am always blessed by words – the words of scripture, the words of songs and the words of people I meet.

In the Bible, God created everything when He spoke.  He had people down through the ages record what He said and what He did.  He anointed people to write powerful words of praise.  There is nothing on this earth more powerful than words.  They can bring down government or build up a pauper.  They can uplift the downcast and bring down the proud.  They can restore order and bring chaos.  All of us use words to go through life.  I pray that your words will be those that minister grace to the hearer every time, because this is the heart of God.

Pete Gardner

MY Life, In So Many Words

Several months ago, I started writing a biography of sorts so that I could better acquaint myself to an online friend I had met through my blogs. This biography is far from complete, but I want to throw it out on this site and maybe get some feedback from those of you who have not heard from me on this site for a while. My other two blogs have been getting all of my attention, and this main site has been stagnant for quite some time.

This biography is written a little different than most I have read (which are not too many). My understanding [f how a biography should be written is that it should follow a chronological pattern, bring the reader from early years to the fulfillment of a persons life. The story of my life is, instead, told by categories. Things like my love for words in many forms, driving experiences, churches I have belonged to are all chapters in this book. There are also addendums to some of these chapters, as certain stories really belong in a chapter by themselves. Many of these chapters are not complete yet. but I put as much information in as I could think of at the time. I’m sure, after I read them over and over, I will think of other events or people that should be mentioned. This is a start, though.

At this time, I am going to schedule these blogs to go out two times a week, on Sunday and Wednesday. I have several chapters completed, and will be scheduling them now in no particular order. By the time these finish running, I hope to have more chapters written.

I hope you enjoy this journey, and I really hope to hear from you, my readers. Your input into this endeavor is much anticipated and appreciated. be honest with me, please, and tell me if these stories catch your imagination, and if you think this will make a good book one day. I am just a regular guy who does regular everyday things – nothing spectacular. But I love to write, and this is a legacy for my children and grandchildren.

Thank you for reading! The first addition will be posted Wednesday.

Jesus Paid it All! March 8

The laws of inheritance are still in effect today.  It’s pretty amazing that the world wants to reject the Bible, yet so many of the principles laid down in the Word are still active and present in our society.  Can you even imagine what would happen to our culture, and our world if the laws and rules laid down in the Bible were not enforced in today’s world?  Murder and theft would run rampant, as would sexual lust and dishonoring parents.  In fact when I think about it, isn’t this what is happening in the world right now?  Something to think about, isn’t it? 

Joshua is chosen as the next leader and Moses is told he is going to die without entering the promised land. He did one little thing wrong, and his punishment is pretty severe, if you ask me.  And Moses knows that he is going to die once he goes up that mountain to see the land.  I don’t think I would like to know the time and place I was going to die.  I would do everything I can to avoid going to that place.  I would complain to God that I wasn’t ready to die yet.  But we see none of this with Moses.  He does what God asks humbly and meekly.  This is how we should obey, no matter what comes our way!Endless sacrifices, all without blemish.  This is the theme of our reading this morning.  I always thought of the wilderness as a desert-like ecosystem, with sparse vegetation and a lot of sand.  But how could they possibly raise this many sheep and cattle to fulfill all the sacrificial requirements. If it was that bad.  Think about it with me.  2 rams a day, first year rams without blemish.  That’s 730 a year.  For 40 years in the wilderness, that’s 29,200 rams, of the first year, without blemish.  That’s just the daily offerings.  It does not include any burnt offerings, sin offerings, or trespass offerings that might be due.  It does not include the offerings for all the feasts,  The Sabbath offerings would have totaled 4,160 lambs.  The monthly offerings totalled 960 bulls, 480 rams, 3,360 lambs and 480 goats.  The offerings for all the feasts combined, for 40 years, would be the same 2,720 bulls, 760 rams, 6,000 lambs and 400 goats.  Plus all the grain offerings to go with each sacrifice.  Can you tell I like numbers? That’s a total of 3,680 bulls, 30,740 rams, 13,520 lambs and 980 goats.  All the first year, all without blemish.  This did not include any other offerings that were due because of sins, or trespasses.

Aren’t you glad Jesus paid it all?  All these offerings and sacrifices are no longer due to the Lord.  Jesus was our perfect lamb, sacrificed without sin in His life. He took the punishment for our sin.  The stripes on His back from a whip laced with stones so that each lash sunk deep into his flesh and ripped it open.  A crown of thorns placed on his head, thorns long enough and sharp enough to pierce the skin right to the skull, and make blood flow from each embedded thorn.  The nails in His hands and feet went right through His limbs, causing intense pain.  The cross on which he hung slowly was strangling Him to death as He tried to pull himself up by the nail-pierced hands, or push His body upo using the nail-pierced feet as leverage.  He suffered the agony of a brutal death so that we would no longer have to offer all these sacrifices to make atonement for our sin, or to appease almighty God.  If we have accepted His sacrifice in place of our own offerings that would be due, He saves us from all that.  I am so glad Jesus did this for me.  I can’t even imagine the blood required for all of my sins!

Have you made a decision to make Jesus your sacrifice, and allow Him to be Lord over your life?  You have a debt to God that is enormous.  You need a sacrifice that would cover it all.  Jesus is that sacrifice.  Won’t you accept Him today?