"Welcome, Miles!"

Stillness calmed the room as the nurse placed my first grandson, Miles, on the stainless steel table, draped with hospital linens already soiled by his life fluids. Bright heat lamps illuminated his little wrinkled brow that refused to pose for the cameras—loud wails, shivering, shaking fists—then, muffled weeping. A strange silence swept over us as God visited this holy space, admiring His newest creation. Miles had arrived, and his God was with him.

When the doctor handed my daughter, Tara, her precious little boy, we forgot the anguish of her teen pregnancy. With his arrival came peace. Those who dared to observe his birth joined God in His beaming pleasure. Through Tara's travail, Miles drew his first shallow breath, all red and ruddy, as God's gift of promise. Mercy and grace, twin faces of hope, comforted all hearts, as his storm-dark, blue eyes greeted those who already loved the mystery concealed in this event.

The first glimpse of my grandson brought a moment of ecstasy. The doctor's butt-slap was loud applause, and Miles' screaming response was a misunderstood song of angels lauding his birth, giving glory to his Creator. All in Heaven pressed close, standing on their balconies with raised hands and voices, honoring God's newest earth-child, as God ushered this baby into our family with a command to all believers to "Welcome Miles!"

Just days earlier, this faceless little boy had been considered an interloper. He quickly progressed to intruder status; then, he burst forth on the scene as the hope for all creation—new life!

© 2010 Karen Jordan (revised) All Rights Reserved


Photo/Dan Jordan (Miles and Tara)

Photo/Dan Jordan (Miles and his namesake)

The Starter Rope

You can still see where the old pier jutted out from Fort Travis, just across the channel from Galveston Island. History says that the pier was also used as one of the first ferry landings to access Galveston from the Bolivar Peninsula, but for Dad and me it was just a good fishing spot. The old pier was a great place to anchor up, cast a live shrimp, and wait for the strike from one of those big speckled trout that cruise in and around the channel adjacent to the North Jetty.

Flywheel. It was one of those lazy summer days when numerous other fishermen anchored up around the old pilings for a morning of fishing. We watched as one anxious angler prepared to move his rig to another location. He had a fairly nice boat with a stack of Mercury cylinders hanging off the back. Now some of you may not be familiar with Mercury motors, but in the 1960’s the more the horsepower, the taller the motor. And one of the notorious characteristics of the brand was sometimes they were a little hard to start.

Needless to say, this was one of those mornings when this fellow’s motor was a little more than cantankerous. He cranked until the battery ran down, blessed the motor with a few adjectives, then popped the cowling to see if he could determine why the motor wouldn’t fire. With no obvious mechanical problem, he then retrieved the auxiliary starter rope, which by the way was just long enough to wrap around the flywheel and spin the motor one quick revolution.

Epiphany. After about twenty minutes or so of wrapping and pulling on the short rope, the ingenious fisherman got an epiphany. He dug around under the bow for a few seconds and came out with an anchor rope, from which he promptly cut a length of about sixteen foot. As we watched this activity from our vantage point, Dad commented, “Tommy, you may want to put your rod down and watch this.”

So we settled in for the show. We both could see what was about to occur, because the boat with the contrary motor was about sixteen foot long, the new starter rope was about the same length of the boat, and the guy was wrapping the rope, loop after loop around the flywheel. He then grabbed the rope with both hands and literally ran to the front of the boat, spinning the flywheel with every running step. The motor fired off in-gear and leaped forward. You learned in school that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. So true to scientific law, from the front of the boat to the back went the angler. He managed to grab the motor and stay in the boat, but by this time the boat was on a solid plane, and turning a tight circle among all the other anchored boats.

Farewell. He struggled to maintain his balance as he stumbled forward and fumbled toward the controls, all the while ignoring the hailing comments from other boaters in the area regarding his mental capacity. We were actually amazed that he successfully navigated the rampaging water craft around, through and narrowly missing collision on the high sea before getting control. As the boater lined out his rig, dad and I saw him mouthing words of farewell to the rest of us, as he politely waving over his shoulder to everyone and retreated toward the opposite shore line.

I never quite made out his comments, but I imagine he was somewhat proud that he overcame this brief inconvenience and continued his day of fishing. After all, a bad day of fishing is always better than a good day at work.

© 2009 Tommy Barnes All Rights Reserved.

Gene T. ‘Tommy’ Barnes, a retired Safety Professional with ExxonMobil, addresses topics about his faith, family, and life as viewed through work, family, and hobbies. Tommy and his wife, Penny, live in Southeast Texas. They have three married daughters and four grandchildren.

Photos/Tommy Barnes

Mr. Johnson's Thumb

Growing up next door to Mr. Johnson was fun. He was always nice to me, even when Mama ran me out of the house for fighting with one of my brothers. He didn't have much hair, but always pulled it over the top of his head. I asked him why he did that one time, and he said that if he didn’t, his head would get sunburned. I thought a hat would have looked better, but I didn’t tell him.

Once, he invited our whole family to come over to have homemade ice cream on his front porch. He made it out of red strawberry-flavored soda water with lots of sugar. There was not any left over because everyone liked Mr. Johnson’s strawberry ice cream so much. Mr. Johnson really knew how to do a lot of things.

I especially enjoyed it when Mr. Johnson worked in his yard. I could sit in my swing in our front yard with my dog, Luke, and watch him yank on his lawnmower. He would wrap the short rope around the engine over and over again, pulling it until it started.

One hot summer day, while Mr. Johnson was mowing his grass, he ran his mower up against our Hurricane fence, and one of the wheels got stuck. Mr. Johnson leaned over and yanked the edge of the lawn mower to get it loose, and the edge of the mower raised up like it was going to flip over.

Suddenly, the mower died, and Mr. Johnson hollered “Oooh!”

It scared me when I saw blood on Mr. Johnson’s hand, so I ran inside and told Daddy. He bolted out the front door and jumped our fence to help him.

Somehow Mr. Johnson’s hand slipped under that mower, and the blade cut his thumb off. Daddy saw his thumb laying on the ground, so he picked it up with a rag and took it to the doctor with them. There was a lot of blood. I wondered if the doctor would sew it back on when they were gone for the two hours. He didn't.

After that, I couldn’t look at Mr. Johnson's hand. That little “nub,” where his thumb used to be, made me feel funny. It stuck out about an inch and was useless. He couldn’t hold a spoon to eat his strawberry ice cream with that hand, and I saw him cranking that ice cream machine with his other hand, too. There were lots of things Mr. Johnson couldn’t do because of that missing thumb. When I asked him if it hurt, he told me, “Only when I think about it.”

I had no idea what that meant, but I nodded my head like I did.

Losing his thumb didn't seem to change Mr. Johnson much. Once I climbed up on their back porch and peeked in their back door, and I saw him putting up blackberry jelly into little Mason jars with Mrs. Johnson. That’s when I looked down at my hands. I guessed that losing a thumb wasn't that bad after all.

But I was still happy that I had both of my thumbs. I might need to hitchhike sometime.

© 2009 Tuck Mantooth All Rights Reserved

New Day, New World

Everyday is a brand new world
Full of hopes and dreams;
A time to look at life afresh,
Dispense with yesterday’s schemes.

Everyday is a brand new world.
A chance to begin anew,
To close the door on things of the past
And make a wish come true.

Don’t let yourself get caught in the trap
Of those things that might have been.
God has new things in store for each of us,
A chance to begin again.

So, secure in His Love, just trust in His Grace,
Even with tears in your heart.
Turn life’s page as the sun goes down,
With dawn comes a brand new start.

© 2004 Linda Miller  All Rights Reserved

Linda Miller lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, where she works for the Arkansas Baptist State Convention. She is a widow, mother of four children, and grandmother of eight. Besides family, she loves God, music, and words. Her purpose for being is to share glimpses of glory, to brighten the lives of those around her, and to affirm that God knows best even when we don’t understand.

Photo/Ledbetter family (Erica and Megan, Linda's granddaughters)

A Hunting Tale

Excited about the first true hunt of the year, I eagerly, but groggily, get out of bed at 4 a.m. I load the last of the gear, start breakfast, and go to wake my 6-year-old hunting partner, Connor. This is where it begins to go bad.

After a few minutes of effort, I finally get Connor awake enough to understand that it was time to go hunting. With a very confused look, he checks the window, looks at me, and says "Dad, it's dark outside."

Uh-oh!

He gets up and starts to get ready. Then exhaustion sets in. He melts down about not wanting to go. He's too tired, and he doesn't want to kill ducks because they're cute and cuddly.

Oh, geez!

Then, my daughter, Katie, gets up because she has had an accident. Much drama ensues. My wife gets up to deal with her. Humor is in short supply.

Katie realizes that we are leaving to hunt. She wails at the top of her lungs because she will miss us.

Two kids wailing and my wife in a foul mood, my dreams of a glorious hunt are fading fast.

My wife leaves me to my fate with two distraught kids. I console my daughter and calm her enough to get her back to bed. I turn my attention to my son, pooched lip, crocodile tears. Clearly, he's not up to an early hunt. Resigned to my fate, I tell him to go back to bed.

I slip in to our bedroom to tell my wife that we are not going hunting. In the iciest voice I've ever heard from my sweet bride, she says, "Now I know why they have duck camps."

I ask if that means I can buy a cabin near Stuttgart. As she rolls over, she mumbles, "Yes."

Having salvaged something of the day, I dutifully assume my place on the couch to finish my long winter's nap.

© 2009 Jeff Corley All Rights Reserved

Jeff Corley works for the Arkansas Baptist State Convention. He and his wife, Jill, and their two kids live in Central Arkansas.


Photo/Jeff Corley (Connor Corley)

Photo/ABSC (Jeff Corley)

Why Christmas?

It’s not about the pretty lights
Nor the gifts beneath the tree
It’s not about the songs we sing
Nor the glad festivities.

Though we may long for mounds of snow
And strings of cranberries
The happiest time of every year
Is not about any of these.

It is instead a special time
To recall with heaven and earth
The actual reason for this special season,
And to rejoice at our Savior’s birth.

He brought us hope, when we had none
A chance at redemption, for all we had done
He paid the price for you and for me
So we could share His blest eternity.

We wonder anew at His sacrifice
And share with you His Gift of Life
Merry Christmas to one and all
But Thank You, Jesus, most of all!

© 2009 Linda Miller  All Rights Reserved
 

Linda Miller lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, where she works for the Arkansas Baptist State Convention. She is a widow, mother of four children, and expecting her newest grandchild in January. Besides family, she loves God, music, and words. Her purpose for being is to share glimpses of glory, to brighten the lives of those around her, and to affirm that God knows best even when we don’t understand.

Christmas Guilt Trip on Ice

In 1989, the ice storm arrived as predicted. I warned Mother that we might not be able to make the dangerous eight-hour journey for Christmas.

Even though Southeast Texas seldom experienced freezing rain or snow, we already saw evidence of the storm in Arkansas. But Mother belittled our fears and urged us to attempt the trip. "The weather report here looks okay to me."

Mother's pressure prevailed again, as usual. Against our better judgment, we submitted to her demands and packed our car.

Snow and ice covered the roads from Central Arkansas to Southeast Texas. We held our breath and prayed as we witnessed stranded motorists and dozens of accidents. Cars spun off the road all around us, but we continued in spite of the hazardous road conditions.

"Watch out!" I yelled, as a black sport car darted around us on the shoulder of the road.

"Eeee!!!" our 14-year-old daughter, Tara, screamed.

"Be quiet, and let Dad drive!" her older brother, Adam, complained.

The argument and complaints continued from the back seat.

Tara begged, "Dad, would you stop at the next exit?"

"We just stopped! We’ll never get there at this rate!" Adam griped.

My husband, Dan, sighed as he gripped the wheel, dreading the long drive with sleep depravation and three other restless passengers. More than just the icy weather chilled the atmosphere in our car with two teenagers and two cranky adults on board.

We reached the halfway mark in our journey after 12 long hours, due to the slick roads and traffic accidents. Exhausted, we searched some fast food and a cheap hotel room. Dragging my suitcase behind me, I looked back at the luggage carrier on our car and asked, "Are our gifts locked up?"

"Nope!" Dan sneered.

When I called my mother about our delay, I sensed her anxiety. Without electricity, her concern for her own comfort and safety emerged.

After another risky eight-hour drive, we pulled into Mother's driveway. By that time, Dan and I only grunted at each other when necessary. And our teens feared to utter one word of complaint. So, we all bailed out of the car, hoping to find solace inside. But when my stepfather peeped out the window, I knew more trouble lurked on the other side of the door. Mother greeted us with the news of lost power. So, stranded without electricity, our tempers flared in the dark, nippy atmosphere.

Soon, we discovered our extended families had cancelled the holiday parties because our local relatives feared traveling across town. I sensed the tension building, and I feared tempers might spew any second from this pressure cooker environment.

As we unpacked our gifts, the framed pictures of our children, slid off the icy hood of the car and broke into a thousand pieces. When we arrived home a few days later, we received a call from my mother-in-law. Apparently, the crystal clock we gave her exploded when it thawed after we left.

When I told Dan and the kids about the clock, we all laughed.

"I promise--I'll never let Mother persuade us to travel that far on the dangerous, icy roads again--even for a Christmas party.

Dan just shook his head and snickered, "Right!"

© 2009 Karen Jordan All Rights Reserved

Photo/Dan Jordan (Mom cooking for Christmas)

Photo/Dan Jordan (Adam and Tara posing by Christmas tree)

Photo/Mary Jordan (Tara, Adam, Karen, and Dan posing for annual Christmas picture)