Author: babychristian55

Who’s That in Your Hand!

Mr. Steven Furtick (of Elevation Church) had a sermon quite awhile back in which he was sharing his perspective on the symbology of Christ’s spread hands (while being crucified) and how that relates to Jesus embracing us.  It’s like the old cliche of “getting your arms around something” or the beginnings of a huge hug from someone that loves you dearly.  As Steve (I’ve never met the man, but I feel I can call him by his first name) continued to speak, he also reminded the church about “looking up.”  Looking up to see Christ on the cross, or looking up higher to “see” God in Heaven.  Very much like when you were a young child and looked up to your dad – if you had one, or mom -if you had one of those, or to use the more unfortunate term used in public school now days – your caregiver.

So… you got the picture, right?  There are people around you that are in need of love, and that can share that love.  Just like Jesus has told us to do – love your neighbor.  And if you’re not sure you’re getting right, you can always look up to Him and check-in.

So who is that in your hand?  It’s your damn cell phone!  Satan is alive and well in that small sexy piece of plastic, metal and other electronic wizardry.  He always has us looking down, looking for answers to questions that we really need not care about.  Go to a restaurant and I’ll guarantee you’ll see cell phones everywhere; couples ignoring each other during a time which was time honored as family time – the meal together.  To not leave the kids out, let’s give them a phone too.  I read part of a book (it got redundant after awhile) about how kids don’t know how to relate to each other because their social skills have been replaced with their social media skills.

For the longest time, I have had issues believing that the devil really exists, but not anymore; otherwise, how could people purposefully do such horrible stuff to one another?

My wife & I are in a “small group” called the Empty Nesters, one of the gents brought something up last week that is just so fitting.  Remember Adam & Eve?  Remember the first sin?  The ‘good ole’ devil was there playing snake boy and talked Eve into a bite of the Apple.  Now…just think, what do most of us hold in our hand that has the epitome of sin as its trademark?

So…we spend too, too much time looking down at the devil.  Looking for love, sex, adultery (see Levi Lusko’s book titled “Swipe Right”), and God doesn’t really want to know what else.  But he does know.  Can you imagine?  Knowing your “grown-up” kids are surfing porn, but you have to let them sort it out themselves, or depend on someone to help them.

And yes, I do own a damn cell phone – but it is an Android.

Keep looking up!

Matrimony – First Contact

While going from port to port and enjoying the engine room sauna, you share stories of your life and dreams with your shipmates, or in this case “snipes” as that’s what engine room type people are called.

I became close with a couple of guys, one from Florida and the other from Idaho.  One thing about the navy, you have ample opportunity to make friends from around the country that can be there for as short as a week or they may be saying goodbye to you on your way out.  Lasting friendships are rare, at least they were for me. I randomly made contact on Facebook with a guy that I knew (never a close friend) from the “hole” or “pit”, as the engine room is often referred to. Perhaps it’s a carry over from being an only child or being crapped on by high school friends that were great one day and stabbing you in the back the next day.

Navy life during a deployment in the Med was work hard and party harder.  I missed so many opportunities to see part of the world that I’ll never see again, like Yugoslavia (it no longer exists as a country, it’s now Croatia).  To ensure that your blood alcohol level is maintained, every sailor aboard is allowed to buy a gallon of duty free alcohol. We three idiots had big plans for I & I (Intoxication & Intercourse) upon returning to the states versus the mundane R & R (Rest & Relaxation).

Somehow during my first cruise I succeeded in never contracting any venereal disease, especially since I was stupid enough to never wear a condom.  I was double lucky to have not gone to “the compound” in Turkey.  After we left that port, the lines at sick bay were a mile long for those unfortunates that contracted good ole gonorrhea.  My nearest brush was with pestilence; i.e., “the crabs.”  Which I managed to turn into amusement by shaving my crotch and getting giggles from the hookers.  A handy side benefit was that egg encrusted hair were just what the doctor ordered to force a redneck to move out of our berthing area.

As I was still nursing a bruised ego from my fiancee to be, the Florida guy offered to hook me up with a friend of his (and his wife); he was also kind enough to connect Idaho to his wife’s sister.  Somehow he thought that was the best match given our personalities (I guess) and he gave us their addresses so we could introduce ourselves in anticipation of returning to the US.  Of course I had to be my usual obscene and obnoxious self, and ask the young lady to mail me some of her crotch hair.  The three of us all had a good hoot, and were equally surprised that she even bothered to answer my letter (no hair included).

When we returned to port in the good ole US of A, the ladies were in waiting to take our sorry butts to Tallahassee.  Introductions were made, I have no recollection of the 2.5 hour drive to T-town.  About the only thing I could remember is that all 3 gallons of fire water were consumed, the predicted pairings occurred and my date wasn’t the type to go all the way on the first meeting – which I respected greatly – surprisingly, given my previous track record.

On to Matrimony – Courtship.

Or back to the previous blog Deployment.

Deployment

“Deployment,” sounded a bit ominous to kid from the sticks that had barely been over the state line to beat his car up on the drag strip.  However, I had grown wings: gone to CA for boot, IL for school, FL to catch the ship, and caught the ship in Cuba – I was a world traveler.  “We” were going “to the Med,” whoopee.  More hours of 130 degF heat in the engine room on essentially a 12 hour off/on basis, and that was when everything was running right.  On a ship that was as old as I was, that was a lot to ask for.

However the ship made it across the Atlantic in one piece, and so did the crew that had grown from 3000 (normal complement to run the ship) to a little over 5000 with the addition of the air wing; I was on an aircraft carrier.  The small floating airport had more people on it than existed in my hometown.

I was still considered “a boot,” so I still had the “Messenger Watch” which required me to make an hourly round through the engine room, shaft alley and stern tube. The propeller connects to the engine (steam turbine) via a very long shaft.  The shaft alley is a space that has a bearing to support the shaft; similarly, the stern tube is the last space before the shaft exits the ship so it has a bearing and a cooling water supply for the shaft seal.  What this equated to was going up and down ladders between decks 2 & 7 three times an hour for a four hour shift.  The great thing about shaft alleys and stern tubes is that you were guaranteed to be the only one in there during your shift.  Perfect place to flash back to fantasy land and take matters into hand.  It was either that or wake up stuck to your mattress.  At least that’s what I thought back in those days.

Our first port was Rota, Spain which had a small (I guess it still does) USN presence.  Being so large, a carrier just doesn’t  ‘tie-up” to the pier. The crew goes ashore via “liberty boats” that are 80 ft diesel powered launches.  My first liberty call in a foreign land, and I did what any other sailor did; got hammered and made back to the boat.  Then I could look forward to getting sick later as I was unaccustomed to foreign beer.  Of course I was properly hung over the next day which was a “duty day;” nothing says “stupid” more than knowingly contributing to a hang over that you can enjoy in a noisy engine room (remember messenger watch?).   That pattern continued until we left for the Straits of Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean Sea; next stop – Naples, Italy (the armpit of the Med).

Naples was home to a NATO base and for some reason the ‘Hey Joes’ were allowed to come aboard and sell their wares.  The Italians called every American sailor “Joe;” some bizarre carryover from “GI Joe” in WWII.  A typical bargaining session began with “Hey Joe, I got …” which could be anything from patches, trinkets, porn, and once you saw them off ship it turned to where to get drunk, dope, or hookers.

And yes, that was my first exposure to porn in the form of nasty Italian smut magazines that dear old Uncle Sam allowed to be sold on the forward mess decks of our ship.  You’re probably surprised that was my first exposure, but bear in mind I was 18 at the time and sowed a lot of oats from graduation in May to boot camp the following January.

We made a lot of port calls in Naples since there were not many places that wanted to have a carrier full of idiots storm their shores.  Every port was the same story, get drunk, get laid or both.  Despite all of the brain cells that I killed on my first deployment, I still remember one night in particular.  Drunk as usual and hooking up with an attractive, young olive skinned girl; she leads me through a serpentine path to wherever the bed is so we can consummate our arrangement.  I wasn’t too drunk not to notice, but I was drunk enough not to care, as she led me through her family’s dining room to her own bed.  I don’t recall the exact number of people present, but her parents and younger siblings were all seated at the table.  I remember the father sitting their like he was chiseled from stone, eyes straight ahead, and no sound as I staggered through his home with a beer in one hand and the hand of his daughter in another.  I cannot fathom how a father could sanction such an act with his daughter – under his own roof.

After posting this, I asked myself the obvious question: “How could I?”  The answer is that I had no clue; I thought I was doing what was considered “normal” for a male my age.

On to Matrimony – First Contact.

Or back to the previous blog Blue Water Train.

Reflections – Genesis

My wife and I continue to dig through the mire of how & why I became so deeply entrenched into porn. Part of this mining expedition involves re-reading books that were read during counseling; i.e., Every Man’s Battle & Every Heart Restored.  In the ‘Heart’ book it mentions that the (male author) attributed a large chunk of cause to his poor relationship with his father and the necessary input he should have had from him at around age 12.  Not knowing my ‘real’ father and having The Pig as a stand-in during that time frame seemed to have a connection to the author’s theory; however I was having issues seeing the light.  This led to reading a couple of other books from the same author: Preparing Your Son for Every Man’s Battle & Every Young Man’s Battle.  Note that there’s a common theme and that his wife has written a similar series for girls & women.

During the years with senor piggly wiggly, I had thought the biggest issue was the verbal and physical abuse to my mother and I.  After marrying my first wife (while in the service) and then getting out of college, we started discussing starting a family.  I was so afraid that I would treat my kids the way the pig had done me.  A point in my favor was that I have never struck a woman, so at least I hadn’t learned that behavior.  Did I spank my kids – yes, you bet. I tried to rationalize the need to spank them only in instances where there continued behavior could hurt themselves – like running out in the street.  Did I spank them in anger – unfortunately I did, and immediately felt ashamed.  The only solace was that I never beat them like the pig did me; i.e., leaving bruises, etc.

However, after so many years, too many years; I discover that I did the three of them an incredible disservice in the same manner that the dreaded step-father did me.  I never taught them how to respect a woman. For one thing, I myself had no clue.  Masturbation and porn were alive and well in my way of relating to women – it was my norm, and I had no clue how sick & sickening I was.  So…yes, I have an excuse for not showing them the right way, but it doesn’t mend my heart for that mistake, nor does it mend their hearts or minds.

My youngest son has broken off all contact with me for over a year now.  I have no idea why.  My imagination can conjure a multitude of reasons.  All I can do at this point is pray that he calls – someday.

Please continue to the Formative Years – Getting Schooled.

Or go back to the previous blog Genesis.

Man’s Best Friend

Whenever someone says something about “Man’s Best Friend,” you immediately conjure up an image of your immediate canine companion or perhaps a childhood buddy never forgotten, or there’s a multitude of other reasons that my cause you to pause and form some mental picture of an animal with paws.

Depending how you search the interweb, you might find that dogs were domesticated around 33,000 years ago, or domesticated in two different geographic locations (Europe & Asia), or they domesticated themselves (wolves were the first table beggars).  Independent of the history, the present canine condition is that dogs are everywhere.  Now more so than ever, since mankind has seen fit to ‘play God’ with their DNA and created ‘hybrid animals;’ e.g., a “Morkie” (Maltese + Yorkshire Terrier).  Supposedly there are 340 breeds, but the American Kennel Club only recognizes 167.  No wonder that the beloved animals now come in almost every conceivable color, size, shape.

I saw an interesting news piece the other night regarding dogs and cancer research.  Evidently dogs & humans have a 95% match in DNA, especially with regard to the immune system.  What’s bad for the dogs but good for us is that when a dog gets cancer, the disease manifests itself just as it would in a human.  No surprise then that dogs are prime candidates for cancer research for potential cures especially for melanoma, and breast & prostate cancers.

It’s hard to believe that those noble researchers are not only trying to find cures for our cancer, but trying to cure the disease in dogs.  Especially when you read about that PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) has been trying to stop what goes on in our nation’s laboratories and universities.  PETA estimates approximately 60,000 a year are used for research with the priority being ‘toxicology.’  What this equates to is the injection of dogs with toxic substances to determine how much it takes to make them sick.  A certain university was caught buying homeless animals from shelters in the areas for their research; supposedly that practice has ended.

So at this point (like me) you’re probably a combination of being sickened and angry.  How could ‘our researchers’ stoop to such vile practices against helpless animals?  Just look around you as you drive about, putz around your yard or see it on social media; at some time you’re likely to see an animal that’s either homeless or improperly cared for.  People seem incredibly capable of rationalizing why it makes sense to just kick a dog (or cat) out on the side of the road, leave them in a house when they move, or literally kick them out of the house and repeat the abuse if the animal dares to come back.  Maybe these are the lucky ones when compared to the ones that are never let out of cages, forced to live in their own excrement, and maybe even eat it as they starve.

In true human fashion, we can swing from one extreme to another, and how we treat our best friend is no different.  On the positive side, dogs become part of our family – nothing is too good for them. They’re lavished with love and ashamedly get better care than homeless people.  Dogs are trained to walk into danger along our side in law enforcement and the military.  They offer their guidance to the blind and solace to those of us that suffer from PTSD.

In summary dogs see humanity in every light and in darkness. They hear our love and hate; not just what’s directed to them, but what we say and do to one another. Just like God.

Isn’t it ironic that Dog is God spelled backwards?

Shush, Listen, Love

I have been thinking about pursuing a path in pastoral counseling, with a specialty in addiction counseling.  I keep wondering if it’s the right way to go.  If it’s what I’m being called to do.  If I can truly help anyone.  The urge is driven from the CRAP.  It is a worthy cause, since crap is the code word my wife & I refer to for the event that almost destroyed our marriage.  The  current plan is to do a reader’s digest condensed testimony at the local life line recovery group in hopes that there are people in the group that would feel comfortable to approach my wife and I about their issues.  My wife needs to be a part of this, just as much as shes a part of me.  Both stories need to be heard; the example has to be there to be seen.  But I’m wandering a bit, I woke up the other morning with the realization that I have a big disconnect in practicing what I preach.  I’ve met a few people recently that I turn away from.  I don’t want to hear their story of them.  I feel like I’m  short changed because they don’t want to hear about me; gee, do I sound like counselor material?  I have been a good listener.  I can be a good listener.  I just cant be a selective listener.  Jesus wasn’t, Jesus didn’t.  If I truly want to help people, then I need to work through that it’s not about me (although it is); it’s about them.  I need to shush…listen…love.

Tears, Coincidentally

Fast forward again to present day…

My wife and I are reading a book together in the evenings. It’s a about whether you’re a fan or follower of Jesus, and the ramifications thereof.  It started off pretty good, but tends to get repetitious – a lot of dead horses gave up their lives for the beating they took in the writing of the book.  The point that the author is trying to make, is that you have to give yourself to Him; lock, stock and barrel – no Kings-X, no holding back.

So the following morning, I do my usual prep before driving to work. An important part of this is connecting the iPod to the car’s audio system and ensuring that the Christian music playlist is set on random.

Maybe 10 minutes into the drive, Casting Crowns’ “What If I Gave Everything” comes on. I go into sing-along mode and barely make it to the chorus before the tears are rolling.  Please see lyrics below:

All my life I longed to be a hero
My sword raised high, running to the battle
I was going to take giants down
Be a man you would write about
Deep in my chest is the heart of a warrior
So why am I still standing here
Why am I still holding back from You
I hear You call me out into deeper waters
But I settle on the shallow end
So why am I still standing here
So afraid what it might cost to follow You
I’d walk by faith if I could get these feet to move
But I don’t want to live that way
I don’t want to look back someday
On a life that never stepped across the line
So why am I still standing here
Why am I still holding back from You
You’ve given me a faith that can move a mountain
But I’m still playing in the sand
Building little kingdoms that’ll never stand
I hear You call me out into deeper waters
But I settle on the shallow end
I’m so tired of standing here
What if I gave everything to You
What if I gave everything
What if I stopped holding back from You
Starting now I’m stepping out onto deeper waters
What if I gave everything
What if I stopped holding back from You
Starting now I’m stepping out onto deeper waters
I want to see some mountains move
Ready to give everything
Say goodbye to standing here

The immediate next song is The Newsboys playing “Live With Abandon.”  It’s a bit more upbeat, but does nothing to stop the flow; please see lyrics below:

Chasing after this world makes me tired
Praisin’ my own name leaves me dry
There’s gotta be so much more to life than this
A higher calling that I missed
I want my life to count, every breath
I wanna live with abandon
Give you all that I am
Every part of my heart Jesus
I place in your hands
I wanna live with abandon
Give you all that I am
Every part of my heart Jesus
I place in your hands
I wanna live with abandon
Drop everything and follow you
It’s only your hands I hold onto
There’s gotta be so much more to life than this
A higher calling that I missed
I want my life to count, every breath
I wanna live with abandon
Give you all that I am
Every part of my heart Jesus
I place in your hands
I wanna live with abandon
Give you all that I am
Every part of my heart Jesus
I place in your hands
I wanna live with abandon
I’m not looking back
I’m done with that
Wanna give you all I have
I’m not looking back
I’m done with that
Wanna give you all I have
I wanna live with abandon
I wanna live with abondon
Give you all that I am
Every part of my heart Jesus
I place in your hands
I wanna live with abandon
I wanna live with abandon
Wanna live with abandon

Coincidence? Don’t think so.  Nope, not even a nefarious plot by Kleenex to keep their stock up.

I’m being told something and it seems God has chosen music to reach me (again).

 

No More Tears

Back in my mother’s day – you didn’t cry.  You sucked it up and carried on.  It was a sign of weakness to cry.  To this day (she’s in her 80’s) she still subscribes to that belief.  Kind of epitomized  from the music from her era; i.e., Big Girls Don’t Cry – 1962 – The Four Seasons (among others).

Being exposed to that mentality, both hers and the macho stupidity in general, I also would avoid crying at any cost. An example of which from music in my era; i.e., Harden My Heart – 1981 – Quarterflash.  I’ve included a snippet of lyrics:
I’m gonna harden my heart
I’m gonna swallow my tears

Fast forward to the divorce from the long term marriage that yielded my three children and my heart has surprisingly softened.  I cry at anything, just because I seem to be more sensitive to the moment.  Silly as it sounds, I’m getting weepy eyed writing this – just…one…of…those…things.

I guess in 1981 there was a slight shift in the musical world with the advent of the group “Tears for Fears.” Formerly called ‘History of Headaches’, they made the change due to an inspiration related to primal therapy.  Courtesy of Wikipedia:

“Primal therapy was developed as a means of eliciting the repressed pain; the term Pain is capitalized in discussions of primal therapy when referring to any repressed emotional distress and its purported long-lasting psychological effects.”

Essentially you scream like a maniac to release all of those tears you had to swallow after hardening your heart.

Long Playing

Life is like a record. A record like vinyl that DJs used to use for scratching before they got high tech and started using CDs.

On the record players of yore you had to select the rotational speed; i.e. 16, 33 1/3, 45, or 78.  I never had a 16 speed record. Had a few 78s, but the sound quality was pretty sorry – but I digress.

My analogy of life to a vinyl record is that both have a beginning and end. A record has one continuous groove that the needle/stylus has to follow. Within that groove are little peaks and dips; like life’s ups and downs. And just like that little needle, we soldier along from the start to finish.

The record has various songs or tracks. Some so mellow that it’ll make your skin crawl, sad to the point of tears, filled with rhythm to where you just gotta get up and dance. Life is like that, filled with emotion – some desired, some not so much, but there nevertheless.

Once in awhile, if you don’t take good care of your record playing system and keep everything clean that needle will get stuck in one place. When that happens you get to hear the same 7 second (or so) piece play over and over again. Until you get off your butt and do something about it.  Sound familiar?  Ever get in a rut?

Back to speed. Get wild and put an LP on the 45 setting and it sounds like a bunch of chipmunks.  Like life, if we try to go too fast we lose our connection.  Set it on 16 and you’re in quaalude land, depressing to say the least.

Turn Over a New Leaf

Picture a crisp fall morning, it has a cool nip in the air, things have their own unique scent.  You can even smell the sunshine cause its so bright.  Under the old tree in the yard you see that it has lost a good bit of its leaves and you get a bit introspective.  Thinking about the phrase or cliche of “turning over a new leaf,”  you stoop over to pick one of the leaves and think about what you’d like to change about yourself.  You think about it…You ponder… Then you recognize the fundamental thing you need to change and then lay the leaf back down on its other side.  A symbolic gesture of change and apparently a fleeting one as an errant breeze zips through to carry your leaf away.  However now you’re hooked in this little game because – of course – you just didn’t think of just one point of imperfection.  Unfortunately it was a virtual smorgasbord of things you’d like to change in you.  So you find a wind sheltered little nook and begin again; no need to redo the first one – what’s done is done.  You get a few more leave flipped and here comes Mr. Breeze to put things in perspective.  The key is not the physical act.  It’s the knowing of what needs done, and doing the deed.  Who will know what you’ve changed that day?  Everyone will know, and God knows.