GROWING PAINS, #5, RUN KELLY, RUN

RUN KELLY RUN

By

Howard Merrell

Published in Bristol Herald Courier, Feb. 22, 1998

                By the time the young women who run the distance events began their last minute stretches, stride-outs and psych-ups, the track meet had taken on a certain subdued character of its own.  At any one time you could observe some athlete totally focused on giving his maximum exertion to his event, while nearby another participant would be taking a nap.  Groups of participants who had already competed earlier in the day stood around and talked.  Spectators were hot, hungry, and tired. Their attention to the events was sporadic.

            As the parent of a distance runner, I had become familiar with the pre-race ritual.  The routine had an almost religious regularity. Those of us who knew the liturgy could tell that the girls 1600 meter race would begin soon.

            The talk in the stands, among those of us who knew and cared, turned to: Who was fast? Who hadn’t been doing well? We wondered what kind of time the pre-race favorite, last year’s state champ, would have.  The parents and loyal fans were moving to places where they could see better and more effectively yell encouragement to their favorite runner.  Watches were cleared. The fans have their ritual, too.

            Then I heard it—not the real thing, only a weak imitation—from out of a group of fans I heard, “Run Kelly Run”. The three words uttered by a veteran fan brought instant chuckles and conversation from all of us who heard.

            “Is he here?”

            “I think he’s on the bleachers on the other side of the track.”

            “I wonder if we’ll hear him over here?”

            Those of us who knew him had no doubt he would be heard—maybe in the next county. Everyone else was soon convinced.

            The crack of the starter’s pistol had hardly died—the girls were still accelerating; the faster contestants had not yet distinguished themselves from the starting pack—when we hear the voice, the real thing.  It boomed across the infield with a power that defied one to not look for its source.  The voice, sort of like an articulate chainsaw, the two end words elongated for effect, the last slightly less than the first, “RUUUUN KELLY RUUUUN!”

            We were in the presence of a phenomenon, before whom lesser mortals had to shrink.  I am loud, and I often yell myself hoarse at sporting events, but this man is the Babe Ruth of cheering.  The Sultan of Chant!

                                                   RUN KELLY RUN—Page 2

            Like a fog horn on a stormy night, the chant repeatedly fills the track, the bleachers, the surrounding countryside.  The three words of encouragement so fill the air that it is difficult to find the point from which they emanate.  Just the other day I found the source.  I was near enough to him that I could hear not only the famous three words, but words of endearment and quiet encouragement he shared with his daughter when she ran near his seat—or standing place—or pacing area.  The famous chant came from the heart of a dad who loved his daughter so much that he was willing to make a spectacle of himself to help her run.  She chose to run.  He was going to do everything he could to see to it that she did it to the best of her ability.

            “Run Kelly Run!” was still echoing in my mind when I thought about the kid to whom I had given a thumbs up, a “Way to go!” after his event.  I remembered another youngster I had congratulated about a good finish. I wondered about the disappointed kid for whom it just hadn’t happened that day, or the one for whom everything had clicked—he had the performance of his life.

            Don’t get the idea that these are generic kids, made up to flesh out a story.  Each of them has a name.  Each of them is real.  Each participated in the same track meet as Kelly, but there was no one there for any of them.

            I had never seen a mom or dad there to yell for any of these kids.  Oh, there were those of us who seek to encourage them to run, throw or jump, but it isn’t the same.  It can’t be.  Our cheers are sincere, our wishes genuine, our desire to encourage, console, challenge is real.  I’m sure they appreciate the recognition, but I’m equally sure that all of it together wouldn’t measure up to one single heartfelt word of praise from someone who really cares today, cared yesterday, and will still care tomorrow.

            Kelly didn’t win that race.  She came in second, behind the state champ, but she ran a good race.  I am confident she did her best.  I don’t know Kelly or her dad, but I think she will continue to do so.

            I don’t know what kind of a father he is.  I only know that on race days he models something that our culture, our kids, could use a lot more of—parents who are willing to give their kids the priority in their lives that they desperately need and deserve.

            My bellowing friend went to the track meet to encourage his daughter to run.   In the process he encouraged me to be a better dad.

                                                         

                                                        RUN KELLY RUN—Page 3

Newspaper Footnote:  Howard Merrell doesn’t really know Kelly Rector’s father, V.T. Rector, III.   Merrell—from another town and rooting for another team—noticed Rector’s enthusiasm for his daughter.  Three words inspired this story and caused a stranger to re-examine his own role as a parent.  Rector, a graduate, former teacher and coach at Patrick Henry, has been an educator in Washington County, VA, since 1966.  He is currently principal at Rhea Valley Elementary.  Kelly, a 1995 graduate, was All-State in cross country and currently attends James Madison University.  She ran track the first two years but suffered a hip injury and no longer competes.

Footnote from HM:

As it says above I never really knew V. T. Rector.  Chris, my son who is a runner, and I used to refer to him as "Run Kelly Run."
At the meet that I mentioned in the story, somebody took a picture of V. T.  He was kind of hanging out over the railing of the bleachers where he had taken up residence.  The picture which was published with the article above, shows me in the background.
When V. T. died this past year, from complications related to Alzheimer's, the family invited me to read this story at his memorial service.  The service consisted mainly of tributes to V. T.  Kelly's older siblings told how he yelled the same way at football games, and even marching band competitions.  The picture is Kelly and me after the memorial service.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

Other Stuff, #6, Joy in Washing a Car:

Who would have thought.
I'm not really a car guy.  I do confess to enjoying a nice ride, but I'm not one of the types who takes pleasure in car-ish things per se.  Yet here I was, this morning, taking a strange joy in washing an automobile, and the car isn't even mine.
It's my grandson's.
It is just about the perfect ride for him.  It's a 2000 Isuzu Rodeo, a vehicle more associated with young soccer moms, who can't afford the latest auto-fashion, than a young man of seventeen.  But my grandson is a drummer. One of the features he was hoping for in a vehicle was enough room to be able to haul his drums to the next gig.  It's a nice car.  It has some of the typical 12 year old car issues, but all in all quite impressive.
One reason I took such joy in cleaning up his car this morning is he bought the car mostly with his own money.  He landed a job with a landscaper/lawn service company.  That little silver SUV represents a lot of days spent in oppressive heat and humidity, walking behind a lawn mower, running a trimmer or operating the most basic of earth-moving equipment--a long-handled shovel.  He was by far the youngest guy in the crew, but he earned the respect of his coworkers by carrying his own load.  I'm pleased not only that he worked for his car, but that my son and his wife insisted that he do so.  In a day when so many youngsters feel entitled to a car of their own, and way too many parents feel obligated to provide their offspring with one, it is good to see this kind of "work for it" standard.
I took joy, as well, in knowing where my grandson drives that car.  Right after I cleaned it up, it went to get ready for a concert he is playing in this evening.  While his music wouldn't be to the liking of many who read this blog (as if many read this blog), it is music played to the glory of God.  Day before yesterday it went to a Bible study with his pastor and another young man.  I figure there is up to ten percent alcohol in the fuel tank.  I'm confident there is none in the driver's tank.
I guess, bottom line, I just took pleasure in knowing that something good is continuing on.  I felt like Joshua, "As for me and my house we will serve the Lord."  Thanks Christopher for living the kind of life so your Papa can take joy in helping you out.

But don't get your expectations up.  That might be the first and last time it ever happens.

Other Stuff Table of Contents

GROWING PAINS, #4, A NEW CARD IN MY ROLEDEX:

A New Card in My Roledex

For most of his eighteen years whenever I wanted to speak to my son I would yell upstairs.  If he wasn't there at the moment I was confident that hunger, desire for TV and the need of a phone that operates without dropping in a quarter would soon compel him back to home.  It wasn't unusual for me to leave some note on his bed, or to stop into his room right after he had gone to bed, plop down in his chair and shoot the breeze for a few minutes.

All of that changed the day I wrote my son's name and address and phone number in my Roledex and in the little directory that I carry in my Day-Timer.  Such a simple action, as a pastor I do it all the time.  There is someone's name and number that I don't want to forget; I write it down.  But in the midst of the doing, the significance of what was being done hit me.

I thought of the fence that I erected in the back yard to try to contain him.  I smiled as I remembered how he climbed out.  I shuddered again as I remembered the time that Kathy thought I was watching him, and I thought she was, and I looked up to see a policeman walking him down the driveway.  My two year old son had been walking down the middle of the road.  "If this was my boy I'd take better care of him."  The officer sternly said.  Afraid and relieved and humiliated, I stammered some reply. 

I remembered firsts:  the first day at school, his first week at camp, the first time he stayed at grandma's, the time he spent the night with my newly widowed mom because he didn't want her to be alone, his first trip, on his own, in the car. 

This day had been coming all along.  I knew it.  I encouraged it.  I even wanted it.  I am not by nature a sentimental person, but when I put the pen to that little card to write down my son's--different than my own--address it brought a lump to my throat.  Would he be all right, off on his own?  Each of the firsts had brought its own time of anxiety.  Was it too soon?  Had I adequately prepared him?  What if something happens?  Will he remember what I taught him?  Each time the boundaries of his freedom were increased and the level of his responsibility was raised, the potential for disaster was increased as well. 

For years I had preached against the selfish actions of some parents--their trying to hold on to their offspring to meet their own emotional needs.  I still agree with what I preached, but the next time I do so I will do so with a great deal more empathy for those parents who just can't quite cut the string.

I was just thinking about a day in my own life.  I was five or six.  I had mastered the "two wheeler."  My range was limited by the block on which I lived.  I could ride on the sidewalk around the block.  I could ride down the alley that bisected our block, no more.  That way I never had to cross the street.  On the day I'm thinking about, my parents told me that I could cross the quiet residential street on which we lived.  The mailbox on the corner across the street, all those houses and yards seen from afar, the unseen world of the other side of that block were now a part of my domain.  On the day that my parents had doubled my world, as I was crossing the street, a drunken driver doing more than twice the speed limit hit me right in front of my house. 

Were my parents foolish to let me cross the street?  Let me answer with a question:  What would you think of a 43 year old man who never left the block on which he lives?  Maybe it was too soon, but I don't think so.  Try as we will we cannot eliminate risk from the lives of our children, and if we love them we will always have to deal with the fear.  Will he be OK on the school bus?  What if she falls with her roller-skates.  If she strikes out and looses the game will she be marked for life?  Can I trust him to treat that young lady as he should?  If I let him cross the street will a drunken soldier in a Road Master Buick run into him? 

We must teach and trust and teach them to trust and obey, and when the time is right we must let them cross the street.  And we must pray.  And we must listen for the sound of screeching tires, or keep their address handy in our Roledex so we can pick them up if they fall and help them through the next phase of growth.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

Other Stuff #4, A Bedtime story for the Christmas Season:

Recently, I've been writing some bedtime stories.  My main audience is Kira, one of my grandchildren. I'm using this one, however, in church this morning, for a kid's time.  This morning is our annual "Getting Ready for Christmas" emphasis.

After some cookies and milk get the kids gathered round.  Snuggle and enjoy.

(It's OK for grown-ups to enjoy the tale as well.)

A Lost Donkey Finds His Momma, And . . .
by, Howard Merrell

Dudley just couldn’t hee-haw any more.  For a while he was glad that Daddy Donkey wasn’t there.  Daddy Donkey always said, “If you want to amount to anything, like your Grandpa Darius Donkey you have to learn to “hee-haw” with royal authority.  The lesser beasts should hear you at least a mile away.” 

Dudley had practiced and practiced until his hee-haw shook the leaves on the bushes.  Not as good as grandpa Darius--he could make the palm trees sway-- but not bad for a little donkey. 

Earlier in the day when Dudley called out to Momma Donkey he was at his best.

Sheila Sheep looked at him and said “Baa.”

Cameron Camel slowly turned his head toward Dudley and slobbered in recognition.

Doreen Dove lighted on the bush next to him and said “Coo, coo.”

Howard Horse trotted by and whinnied in reply.

Even Baxter Buzzard swooped down to get a closer look.

But no matter which way Dudley turned his big floppy ears he couldn’t hear a Momma “hee-haw” reply.   Momma Donkey didn’t answer.

It all started a few days earlier, a long way from here, up in Nazareth.  Joseph, Momma, and Dudley’s kind owner came and put the halter and blanket on Momma and said something about a trip to Bethlehem.  Dudley had never heard of Bethlehem so he figured it must be far.  If Momma was going to Bethlehem, what would happen to him?  Momma was telling Dudley to “Just be quiet.  It will be all right.”

But before she finished Dudley let out the saddest most pitiable “Hee-haw,” you ever heard. 

Joseph looked at the little donkey and rubbed him right at the base of his ears.  Dudley loved that.

“Why little fellow, you act like you can understand what I say, but don’t worry.” 

As Joseph spoke Dudley snuggled his head in the carpenter’s course woolen robe.  Sometimes the little donkey would find an apple or some other treat, but not today.
“Don’t worry little fellow.  You can tag along.  I guess the Romans will count you, too, and probably charge me more taxes, but I won’t leave you here by yourself.”

With that, Dudley looked so relieved, that Joseph just stood there in amazement.  “Sometimes I think that donkey understands every word I say,”  Joseph spoke out loud, but to no one in particular. 

Right then, Momma gave Dudley “the look.”  You know, the look that means, “Don’t you dare” do whatever it is that you were thinking about doing right before she gave you the look.   So Dudley just munched some hay, acting like he had no idea what Joseph said.

But he did.

Joseph gathered some hay and grain into a sack, and leading Momma out, said, “Come on Little Fellow.”  Joseph didn’t know the little donkey was named Dudley.  “You just follow behind your momma.”

And Dudley did just that.

Where is this Bethlehem place, where they were going?

Why were they going there?

When would they come back?

Dudley was full of questions, but he knew they would have to wait.  Right now he just watched.  Joseph very carefully and tenderly help his wife, Mary, onto Momma’s back.  Dudley had heard, not only from Momma but from listening to the people talk, that Mary was going to have a baby very soon.

“I wonder why we’re going to this Bethlehem place, right now?” He wondered.  But that was just one more question that had to wait. 

Joseph,  Mary, and Momma went right down the path that led to the Jordan River, far below in the East.  Dudley went from one bush, to a butterfly, to an interesting looking rock, to a flower, to another bush, to an anthill.  If he got too far from the path he would hear Momma call.  Dudley was surprised that Mary and Joseph didn’t seem to hear when Momma would call his name, but Dudley could hear just fine, and when he did, he’d say, “Ok, Momma,” and bound back toward the little travelling group.  Mary would smile a tired smile when she saw him, but she never seemed to hear.

“Hmmm?”  thought Dudley,  “another question.”

That night, Joseph found a place for his little family to spend the night.  Dudley listened to Mary and Joseph talk and knew they weren’t in Bethlehem, yet.  They still had several days of walking.

After some hay and a nice roll in the dust, Momma was ready for sleep, but Dudley had so many questions.

“Just one, Dudley.”

“Aw, Momma, two?”

“No, I’m tired, and we both need to sleep.  We have another long trip tomorrow.  Just one.”

“OK.  Momma.  Why do the people always act surprised when we act like we understand them?”

“Oh, I’ve been wondering when you would ask about that.  Do you see these big ears that Lord God gave us?”

Dudley nodded.

“Well these ears let us hear so much more than the people hear that when we talk we talk so quietly that they can’t hear us.”  So they don’t know we can talk, and I guess they just assume that we don’t understand either.”

“But Momma, why do you and Daddy Donkey, and Grandpa Darius always act like you don’t understand anyhow?”

“Well, young donkey, that is another question, but I’ll answer it anyhow.  We do that because it is easier.  We really know what they are saying, but we act like we don’t.”

“Is that why you gave me the look, when we were back at Joseph’s house?” 

“Now that’s three!  But, yes, that’s why I let you know you should play dumb.  The look! Indeed! You must have been talking to your Daddy again.  Now, get to sleep.”

It was dark and Dudley couldn’t see, but he knew Momma was giving him the look.  Soon he was fast asleep.

It was late in the evening when Joseph and his family arrived in Bethlehem.  The trail was full.  There were people, and horses, and camels, and more people, and Dudley knew Joseph was in a hurry.  Momma tried to hurry without jostling Mary, but even Dudley knew the time for her baby to be born must be soon.  As they were hurrying along, a big group of Roman soldiers came by.  The flags floating in the breeze, the big fierce-looking horses and the shiny brass armor on the men dazzled Dudley.  Dazzled him so much that he lost sight of Momma, and all the hoofbeats, and soldiers talking, and merchants yelling, and camels grunting, and strange donkeys hee-hawing was so loud that Dudley couldn’t hear Momma either, and now he was lost. 

He went on in the way he thought they would have gone, but even when he did his best Grandpa Darius Hee-haw, he couldn’t hear any reply.  Soon he got even loster and the sun was going down, and he got cold and loster.  Now, he wouldn’t have cared if Daddy Donkey teased him about his pitiful little Hee-haw, he would have loved to see somebody he knew, but no one answered, and the darker it got, the loster Dudley got, and the colder, and the sadder, and the . . .

Until he couldn’t “Hee-haw” any more.

All that came out was, “sniff – snuff.”

Poor Dudley’s head was down between his legs and his ears were dragging the ground when he smelled something.  Donkeys can smell almost as well as they can hear.

“Sniff, sniff, sniff,” went Dudley as he lifted his head into the breeze.

“I know that smell.”

“It’s  fire.”

“People make fire to keep warm.”  Just thinking the word made Dudley feel better.

Dudley started walking in the direction of the smell. 

“Maybe, thought Dudley, “these are my people,” and if they are my people, Momma will be there!” 

Dudley was trotting now.  Soon he could see the glow of the fire behind some rocks.  He was running now.  He burst into the little group around the fire, but they weren’t his people and Momma wasn’t there. 

Dudley’s head hung, and his ears drooped.

“Hey, little fellow.”  Said one of the shepherds sitting around the fire.

“How’d he know to call me that?” thought  Dudley.  “That’s what Joseph calls me.”

But the fire looked so warm--and could it be?  Was that man holding out an apple?--that Dudley moved closer to the fire, and took the apple from a little shepherd’s hand.

That’s when it happened!

Suddenly the sky was as bright as noonday.  All the shepherds fell on the ground like they were dead.

Dudley didn’t know what it was.  It looked like a man, but it was like it was made out of fire, only much brighter than the fire around which the shepherds had been huddling.

“Do not be afraid;” the thing in the sky said, with a voice like a people voice, but as loud as Grandpa Darius’s hee-haw.

“ for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. “This will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:10–12, NASB95)

Then the sky was full of these creatures of light saying with a sound that Dudley thought would split the rocks, “Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace among men with whom He is pleased.” (Luke 2:14, NASB95)

Then they were gone.  The shepherds just stared at the black sky, dotted with stars, wondering where these marvelous creatures had gone. 

Then one of the shepherds, one with a big black beard like Joseph’s, said, “Let us go straight to Bethlehem then, and see this thing that has happened which the Lord has made known to us.”

Dudley’s little donkey brain was all in a whirl.  Didn’t those wonderful creatures in the sky say something about a baby?  Could it be Mary’s baby?  And it if it was Mary’s baby then Momma couldn’t be far off.

So when the shepherds picked up their staffs and tied their robes around their waists, Dudley followed right behind.  They “came in a hurry and found their way to Mary and Joseph, and the baby as He lay in the manger.” 

Soon the shepherds left.  They told everybody they saw about what they had seen.  Dudley’s big floppy ears could hear them talking a long time after they left.  In fact he could still faintly hear them when he drifted off to sleep snuggled close to Momma.

Other Stuff #3, Three Little Things with Large Impact

(This piece fits in both places, so I am posting it both here, and at the View Through My Keyhole.)

THREE LITTLE THINGS WITH LARGE IMPACT


That wisest of men, Solomon, often spoke of the power and importance of little things. He encouraged the lazy man to consider the ant (Prov. 6:6). He admired the little conies (Prov. 20:26) for their tenacity. He warned about the moment that could ruin a life (Prov. 7:22).


A recent biking accident has left me with a lot of time to think. I’ve spent a good bit of that time thinking about three little things. One involved a tiny amount of time, another a rather insignificant amount of space, and a third that in comparison to so much more that was going on just doesn’t seem so big, but it was, and is:


#1: If I had only looked over my shoulder before making that left hand turn into the path of a pickup truck that was passing me, none of this would have happened. A split second of neglect has affected me for the rest of my life.


#2: If the pickup truck had been six inches the right, I would be dead.


#3: We’ll wait on that one for a while.


Too many of us assume that life is made up of a sequence of big events: birth, graduation, marriage, having children of one’s own, death. To be sure these, and other events like them, are seismic happenings that leave the landscape of our lives changed, but the bulk of our life is not lived there. If we picture our life as a container filled with various sized rocks, from quite large down to grains of sand, we would find that the most volume is taken up with sand and pebbles--little stuff. I’m not saying we ought to ignore the boulders, but I fear too many of us live life in an attempt to jump from one big rock to the next. In the process of only living our life looking back to the last great happening, or ahead to the next big event, we fail to appreciate the cumulative power and weight of the little things in our lives. Furthermore, as my experience demonstrates, one never knows which little thing will swell up to instantly life-altering dimensions.


On the lovely fall day when I smashed my hip and collarbone on the side of a pickup truck, my heart, with the rest of my country was heavy. A few days before terrorists had attacked New York, and Washington DC, killing thousands of men, women, and children. Others had died in Pennsylvania, apparently able, at the last moment, to prevent the hijackers from crashing this plane into yet another public building, but unable to save their own lives.


When a little girl at my church heard about my wreck, her response was, “Didn’t he look?” No, I didn’t. I’ve been biking for years. I always look. Such a little thing, yet on this occasion, as the sound of the approaching truck was masked by the noise of a departing car, that failure to look was a near-deadly, certainly costly oversight.


In the time since the accident, I’ve thought numerous times of the perversity of me being laid up by such a small matter, when all around me events that will fill the pages of history were transpiring. I even felt guilty that my little-thing-inspired calamity would sidetrack others from praying about, and showing concern over the big one that was going on all around us. I’m coming more and more to realize as I contemplate the whole matter, that I just have to leave that with the Lord. He was not busy in conference with President Bush, when I was distracted just at the moment I needed to be paying attention. He was not wringing His hands over the whereabouts of terrorist leaders, when flesh met steel on that country road. He was there. He is here. I think “little” and “big” are concoctions of my mind, not His. He keeps a running total of the sparrow population. He knows the number of hairs on my head. He can tell you how many times I get up and lie down (For a while now, that number has been zero.). He is intimately acquainted with all my ways, not just the “big” ones.


Perhaps there is another way of putting it. It humbles me to even type the words. Anything that has to do with one of His children is a big thing.


One of the first questions most of us learn to ask is, “Why?”


So why did this happen? I mean, I was out there trying to get some exercise. Numerous health-care workers have commented on my “good veins,” no doubt the result of years of aerobic activity. But look where it has gotten me now. Lots of folk with cholesterol laden blood, and waistlines that done-lapped a long time ago are up and about and doing their thing, while I huffed and pumped and dieted, and now am stuck in a space about the size of a baby’s playpen. Why?


I pastor a great church. We had just entered what I think is the greatest time of potential growth in our history. Plans were in motion. Things were beginning to happen. It’s fun to get up and go to church at Covington Bible. I didn’t even want to go on vacation, though I was planning to visit some missionaries in a couple of months. Day after tomorrow will be the third Sunday I haven’t even been able to be at church. I figure there will be at least that many more before I get to roll or hobble in. My participation in the mission trip is cancelled. The disappointment compounds—the ticket is nontransferable and for me to use it later will cost a considerable amount of money. Why?


I could go on about the incredible inconvenience it is for my wife to have an invalid husband, about how all the kindness being directed toward me could be funneled in much more profitable directions, if only I hadn’t . . .


I find many reasons to ask, “Why?”


So, Why did this happen?


It happened because, in the words of the little girl, I didn’t look. I’m not being flip when I say that. God has so constructed His universe that the choices we make, the actions we take or neglect to take, the words we say, or withhold, have real consequences. Yet, in the light of Romans 8:28, from another perspective, I have to say that this bed represents God’s will for me. I can be sure that God watches over and cares about the little things. Often those little things bear such incredible consequences. Could God have prevented this accident? Not only do I answer, “Yes,” but I am inclined to believe that on other occasions God has sovreignly, providentially, guided me away from disaster. Not only was God in control in relation to my failure to look at its critical timing, He likewise gave the six inches that saved my life.


God has so made His universe that my actions and yours are truly significant—they matter—yet He is not wringing hands in worry over how it will all come out. If there is one little thing in this world over which God’s sovereignty does not extend, then He is not truly Lord. To follow the logic of the old poem, if God is not sovereign over the horseshoe nail, then He cannot be in control of the battle, the nation, or the world.


I figure on that Saturday afternoon I was about six inches from dying. I was making a left hand turn off of the blacktop onto a dirt road. I slowed to allow the car that was behind me pass, then I quickly stuck out my arm for a signal and started to turn. The little pickup’s noise, must have been covered up by the sound of the car that had just passed. When I signaled a turn he was probably already in the left lane passing me. He almost succeeded in his attempt to miss me. If he had gotten the truck six inches further left, I would have been badly scared, upset at myself for not looking, not much more. If he had failed to get as far to the left as he did, by just six inches, I’d almost certainly be dead.


I love the Lord, and I’m looking forward to heaven, but I’m glad to say that I’m still here. Call me carnal if you wish, but I have a wife to love, work to do, sons to watch continue in their growth, grandkids to love and spoil. I’m very glad for that six inches that spared my life. I enjoy my food. I’m incredibly impressed at the kindness of my wife and others. I guess you could say I’ve gained a new appreciation for little things.


Really, though, that day is no different than any other. God is not like the airbag in the steering wheel of an automobile—the only time it comes out is in time of real danger. Rather it is just that God’s care for me was clearly evident that day. Paul told the Athenians that “in [God] we live, and move, and exist.” (Acts 17:28) Jesus taught that our life is not maintained by the food we consume, but by the word of God. (Matt. 4:4) David pointed out that his times are in the Lord’s hand. (Psalm 31:15) Amid the twin-tower like destruction of ancient Jerusalem, Jeremiah saw that it was God’s mercy, God’s mercy renewed each day, that kept us all from being consumed.. (Lamentations 3:22-23) Indeed, Paul points out that not just we, but all the creation is held together by the power of God. (Colossians 1:17) Not only in the sense of my creation, but moment by moment, I am because God in His providence makes it so. It was not only that day that he gave space to live. He does so everyday.


In a morphine fog I was talking to my physician. He had in his hand the paper that would give him permission to operate on my bashed-up hip. There were all kinds of really discouraging “could happen”s on that sheet: You could develop a rupture at the site of the incision. It might not work, we might have to do a total hip replacement, etc., etc. I thought about a man I know who recently came to this point concerning a surgical procedure, and just said, “No.” I understood perfectly.


More than anything else on my Doctor’s list of horrors, a statement about a little nerve grabbed my attention. Sometimes the nerve that allows one to pick up his foot (pull your toes up) is damaged, and one has a “drop foot.” I was told if that happened I’d have to wear a brace. Somehow that one really got to me. Visions of special shoes and walking sticks and me walking “funny,” filled my mind. “I’m not sure I can bear that.” I thought. But it was clear, even in my less than alert state, that this was what I ought to do, so I signed.


“Mr. Merrell, I’m going to give you the drug to put you to sleep now. The next thing you know you’ll be in the post-op.” I nodded and for all practical purposes died.


I blinked my eyelids closed and opened them to an intensity of awareness that I had never known. It was as if a pure white strobe light was firing at a million times a second. One flash was the ceiling of the post-op, the next some image from my memory, then to a dream scene, back to post-op, more rapidly than I can possible explain. “Where am I?” “Am I dead?” “Is this heaven?”


“Pastor Merrell,”


I looked at the foot of my bed and saw Laura. She’s a nurse, a friend of my son. I don’t know what else she said, but her presence pulled me back to reality. My focus lowered to my left foot. My brain sent the signal and I watched the toe wag up and down.


Thank God for little things.

Tales From the Hogback #11, How Lightnin' Jones Went Down and Up at the Same Time:

How Lightnin' Jones Went Down and Up at the Same Time

"Slink" is hardly a word you expect to hear used next to the name of a man who weighs over 300 pounds.  But any honest observer would conclude that Lightnin' Jones was slinking around--lugging bags of sugar in a furtive way, stoking the fire with as little noise as possible, looking skyward in the vain hope that by sheer force of his will he could prevent the plumes of smoke, that rose from the fire, from alerting anyone--no not any one, One particular someOne--from knowing that Elijah (Lightnin') Jones was again in the whiskey business.

Lightnin's reputation as a moonshiner was as large as his considerable girth.  It had been the talk of the ridge a few month's earlier when word got around that Lightnin' "had got religion, and wadn't gonna make no more whiskey."  The problem was he wasn't making much money either.  Winter was coming on.  The Jones family had plenty of corn and sugar--laid in before Lightnin' gave up the moonshine business.  Mrs. Jones had been trading sugar for eggs, milk & coffee.  Lightnin' had made a deal to have some of the corn ground and the rest he was feeding to some hogs.  He'd been hiring himself and his wagon out to haul stuff for folks.  He had plenty of fire wood and next spring he had plans to plant a big garden and get a cow. They'd make it, but right now all the children needed shoes & the elder Joneses had no way to get any.

Strange, back when Lightnin' was making whiskey full-time he had plenty of money but didn't really care if the kids did go barefoot.  "If they's cold they kin just run faster." he would have said.  But a compassion for the needs of others and love for his family had been growing in a surprisingly tender heart, considering the very rough exterior in which it lived.  A few nights before a fly on the wall would have observed Lightnin's hulk next to a tiny woman, his great, ham-like hands folded in prayer.  

"Lord, purty soon it's a gonna be cold up on this ridge.  My three boys 'n' little Lucy ain't got no shoes, 'n' Lord, fer the life a' me, I cain't figure no way to get em none.  Lord we's grateful fer the corn & such, 'n' we thank ya Lord we been doin' tolerable good, but we sure could use some shoes, not fer me 'n' the missus but fer these little uns.  We don't even need 'em new, Lord, long as they's nice, 'n' it'd be awful nice if Lucy Jane  had some a them fancy buttons on hers.   Amen."

After you hear the rest of this you might think one of those fellows from the Rowdy Gang was a fly on the wall, listening to Lightnin's prayer.  I rather think someone else who knows those Rowdys very well, passed the word along.  I can't say for sure, but I do know that the very next morning two of the Rowdys came calling at the Jones house.

"We's havin' a big dance down to the town square in Mount Elmo and we need to get us some refreshment, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."  Lightnin' scowled.  "I ain't in the whiskey business no more."  As he spoke he turned to close the door.

"We'd pay top dollar, cash on the barrel head.  Ten bucks extra if'n you deliver."

Many a time Lightnin' Jones had torn that door off its leather strap hinges in a fit of rage, but the mention of ten dollars cash at the very time that Lightnin' spotted one of the hounds chewing on an old worn-out shoe made the door too heavy to move.  Ten dollars was more than he had made in a month.  He already had everything he needed to make a batch of whiskey.  No body had asked him to haul anything for more than a week. . . .

"Them Rowdys 'll jest git it somewheres else if'n I don't make it 'n' I jist cain't stand the thought a my little uns going to school barefoot n'more."

The door reversing its direction was all the answer Johnny Rowdy needed. 

"Twenty five quarts oughta do it.  If'n theres any left we kin always sell it after the dance, or take some home in case somebody wakes up with a headache." he chuckled.

"Usual price?"  Lightnin' muttered.

"Yep."

As the last drop of distilled corn mash dropped into the last mason jar, the last remnant of hope evaporated from the huge moonshiner; there was no more miserable creature than Lightnin' Jones on the face of God's earth.  His misery was only slightly lifted when he took the axe he'd been using to split wood for the fire, and so mangled the still that it could never be used again.

"No matter how much they offer me that'll be the last whiskey Elijah Jones ever makes."  He huffed as he leaned the axe against a tree.

Lightnin's mood,  slightly elevated by the destruction of the mechanism that had produced so much whiskey and misery,  sank lower and lower as each jar of whiskey was nestled into its bed of straw in his wagon.  By the time he started toward Mount Elmo, the shadows creeping across the road matched the growing darkness in his spirit. 

"I feel lower'n a snake's belly in a wagon rut."  He said staring at the rutted track before him.  "Lord, if'n you get me outa this here mess, I promise I won't never get into no meanness agin!" 

The wagon's lurching progress and the great load that pressed down on Elijah Jones' spirit brought his massive head lower and lower,  bowed down so he could no longer see the rough track that passed for a road.  Not since the time when he was six had tears forced their way from his now moist eyes.  His daddy had whipped him until the sobs had forced their way past his guard, then continued the beating until the tears and wails were repressed once more.  He'd endured broken legs, the death of his favorite dog, burns that raised great raw blisters, all before he left home at twelve, and never again did his self-resolve fail.  By the time he entered his teen years it never occurred to him to cry.  But now the dark, wet stain between his muddy boots told the tale.  At first Elijah didn't recognize the shaking in his breast, the contractions of his facial muscles and the moisture on his cheeks.  When the memory from long ago told him he was crying, he made no effort to stop.  Like a backslider of another day, he "wept bitterly."

Maybe it was a particularly severe bounce that caused Lightnin' to look up, maybe it  was the hope that if the Lord had forgiven Peter on that night he denied the Lord--hadn't Parson Smedley said so?--maybe he'd forgive a reprobate, back-slidding moonshiner.

" Jeb!  Did you see some'n up aire?" Lightnin' asked, after blowing his nose on his big, red bandana.  The mule didn't reply--which isn't strange, because mules often keep things to themselves--and if there was someone up there they were out of sight, going down the steep part of the road that led to Crawslie's Ford.  About then the wind shifted and Lightnin' thought he heard somebody. 

"Jeb, somebody's singin'." 

"My Lord walked that lonesome valley.

He had to walk it all by hisself . . ."

Lightnin' strained to hear as if by some effort he could cause the music to overcome the sound of the wind in the dry leaves of an oak.  The wind died just long enough for him to hear:

"I've got to walk that valley by myself."

"Whoa, Jeb.  You 'n Stuart jest take it easy fer a spell."

There on the top of Hogback Ridge, under the golden orb that had just cleared the horizon, a mountain of a man lifted a mountain of guilt to the Lord, and took his place next to the rough Galilean fisherman.

"Lord it ain't right fer me to ask you to let me git by with this sorry business that I got myself into, 'n' then make it alright later.  Lord I ain't gonna have nothin' more to do with it  from here on out.  I reckon my younguns 'll hafta git shoes some other way 'n them Rowdy's 'll be a good sight better off without this here shine.  I don't reckon you won't  care if'n I give it to my hogs.  They's penned up 'n' won't do no meanness like them Rowdys."

He was back in the wagon seat and had already clicked to the mules when he added, "Ah, shoot.  Amen, Lord.  I know you know, but I ain't much good yet at this prayin' business, Lord, but I'm 'onna git better.  I promise ya."

Whether it was cat, coon, or fox, Lightnin' never could tell, but before he could turn the wagon around there was a steak of brown that ran right under the mules.  That might have been OK, but hard on the brown streak's tail was Rufus Hawkin's dogs, all twelve of them.  Even yet peace might have prevailed had not Rufus cut loose with his old 10 guage, behind a tree right next to Jeb's ear, both barrels.  Jeb laid his ears back flat on his neck, and the fire in Stuart's eyes outshone the new moon.  Lightnin' nearly rolled off the back of the seat as the mules went from dead stop to full run in about one heartbeat.  It was soon clear that pulling on the reins and yelling "WHOA!" made no difference.  Lightnin' quickly dismissed the temptation to cuss the animals thinking that perhaps the language the mules had lived with most of their years would get better results.  "I ain't 'bout to run up no more credit with the Lord this evenin'."

Lightnin' knew that if the mules started down the grade at this clip the likelihood of him making it to the bottom with a loaded wagon was mighty slim.  He only knew of one hope.  "If the brakes'll hold maybe I kin slow these muleheaded mules down enough to get some sense into their heads afore they kill themselves 'n me too."

He put his big right foot on the brake lever and shoved for all he was worth, and when you figure it by the pound Lightnin' Jones was worth a whole lot.  The different creaks and groans from the lurching wagon and the smell of the brakes heating up told Lightnin' he was having some affect, but he could see the point where the road dropped away rushing toward him.  "A little harder." he thought , as he twisted his hulk to place more of his weight on the lever.  Unfortunately the lever was saying something like, "Not an ounce more!" 

It was only the sudden increase in speed, that accompanied the snapping of the brake lever, that kept the big man from tumbling forward.  Now all he could do was hold on.

The drop was so steep that for a moment the mules vanished from Lightnin's sight.  When the wagon whip-lashed over the edge and began it's descent the back row of mason jars hurtled out of their straw nest and shattered on the road.  That row gone, the rest of the load was loosened so that when the mules, now running for their lives, hurtled around the hard left turn, jars flew to the right smashing and shattering as they went.  Those that remained rose in a gentle arc and landed squarely on a rock, when the wagon ran over a stump a few hundred feet further down the mountain.

Lightnin' had begun to think that he might actually make it to the bottom when he saw something in the road.  With frightening speed he recognized the black coat and hat as that of Parson Smedley.  The preacher was singing so loudly that he couldn't hear the hoof-beats and clattering that were bearing down on him.

"Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch . . ."

Sairee, hearing the racket just in time took a leap to the right, Lightnin' pulled hard left.  A hickory limb caught Lightnin' square in the chest.  It would have knocked a lesser man from his seat, but the limb broke with a rifle-like crack, and on he rolled. 

By the time the parson picked himself up from the brush pile where he had made a wretched landing, he didn't know what had happened.  When he picked up his hat he actually looked for a bullet hole.  The only evidence of his near fatal encounter was a strange smell in the air and the clatter of the wagon below.

"Well, Lord, I reckon I'm Presbyterian enough to thank you that that's over."

Hat retrieved, coat dusted, he mounted Sairee and continued song and journey.

" . . . saved a wretch like me."

I fell off my mule, but now I'm back on.

Thank God, You're watchin' over me.”

“Not bad huh Sairee?"

That Sunday the Joneses were in the front row.

Smedley appreciated their eagerness to hear, and he would never say anything, but he really wished Lightnin' would sit somewhere else.  Half the congregation could hide behind him.  But there he was.

"I wonna speak to you today about the God who gives us a second chance.

Look over in your Bible to the book of Jonah. 

Now before I git started let me tell you that the really 'mazin' thing 'bout the book a' Jonah ain't that God made a fish big  enough to swaller Jonah whole, 'n give him room to live there fer a while.  God does things like that three or four time before breakfast jist fer amusement.  The really 'mazin' thing about Jonah is that he takes ole stubborn hard-headed people like Jonah 'n me 'n you 'n gives 'em a second chance . . ."

By the time the Parson and Lightnin' came out of the meeting house--a smile on his face befitting his size--everyone had gone except Jake Smith. 

"It was a good service, wadn't it?" said Jake

"Yeah, it was a real good service."  Lightnin' replied with a conviction in his voice that said, "It was good fer me, 'specially me.  I'm awful glad God'll give me a second chance."

"Say, Elijah, didn't I hear somebody say that you was in the haulin' business now?"

"Yeah, I got a good rig & their ain't no finer pair a mules on the Hogback than Jeb & Stuart."

"You know that flatlander that put that fancy stock up on Locust Ridge?  Folks told him that spring up there'd go dry in the fall, but nothin' ud do him.  Anyhow he came down to the store the other day lookin' fer somebody to haul water up to keep his cattle goin'.  Nobody else'll mess with him cuz he's so contrary, so he'd pay good if somebody'd help him."

"I reckon I could help him out." Lightnin' replied.

He said if I could find somebody, he'd buy a load a feed from me.  I'd be glad to pay you to haul that up there, too.  Only things been pretty tight lately.  I'd have to pay you in stuff from the store."

"You wouldn' happen to have any shoes wouldya?" the big man asked.

"Funny, that's why I'm low on cash.  A feller over in Mount Elmo came up here the other day.  He said he had a bunch a shoes he needed to get rid of.  Said they was gonna have a big dance 'n' he needed to raise some cash to pay the fiddler 'n' such.  I bought 'em all."

"Is that your little girl?  I cain't swear to it, but I think I got a pair a them fancy shoes with the buttons & all that'd jest bout fit her."

He couldn't carry a tune in the back of his wagon.  He couldn't even remember all the words, but I have no doubt that the angels fell silent while former moonshiner, Lightnin' Jones lifted his head heavenward and praised the Lord,

"Amazing Grace, what a wonderful sound, that gave a second chance to a poor wretch like me."

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