Historic Rocks Continue to Speak in the Middle East
Luke 19:40 “And he said in answer, I say to you, if these men keep quiet, the very stones will be crying out.”
I Peter 2:4-5 “As you come to him, a living stone rejected by men but in the sight of God chosen and precious, you yourselves like living stones are being built up as a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood.”
Israel and Egypt are awesome countries to visit. It’s hard to walk anywhere a prophet, a biblical hero, or our Savior, Jesus Christ hasn’t walked before. There are stones a plenty in most parts of the world. But in Israel, they say “every stone tells a story.” My next few posts take the reader on a photo scan of the rocks at several important sites in the Middle East.
1. The Rocks of the Pyramids
Did Moses, Joseph, or Jesus see the pyramids? I really care about that question. I wanted to see what Joseph admired as he served the Pharaoh of Egypt. I wanted to find a way to understand some of the early experiences of Moses and Jesus. All three of these historical figures most likely saw one or more of the pyramids. Of course, they have changed over the course of three thousand years, but the basic view remains the same.
I am one of the fortunate people who has visited China on numerous occasions. And, ever trip taught me more about the unfathomable differences and similarities between Americans and Chinese. The common people of all lands, even those enslaved by years of a false hostile ideology or those that believe that their country is the only one on earth, immediately with little reluctance, are overjoyed to meet people from another country when in a non-hostile environment.
I am thinking about my many trips to China. I have to drift back to 1980 when I caught my first glimpse of mainland China. That resulted from an unexpected gift from a friend. The date was early 1980. I was in Tennessee for a one-year furlough from missionary service in Colombia, South America. The phone rang and Dr. Marie Blackwell quickly asked me whether I was going to Hong Kong in May to attend the organization of Hong Kong Presbytery.
Dr. Maree Blackwell
My response was simple…”No, I will not be able to attend.” Her next question was as simple, “Why not?”
I answered without thinking, “That is very expensive.”
She said, “I think you should represent the work in Colombia. Would you go if I pay your way?”
I was in Hong Kong on May 4th, 1980 for the organization of the presbytery. Those were the years while Hong Kong was still a British Colony. But we did take time during the visit to travel north to the border between Hong Kong and Mainland China. I peered cautiously from Hong Kong into mainland China. This was just four years after the death of Mao Zedong.
From 1966 to 1976 during the Cultural Revolution, the expression of religious life in China was effectively banned, including even the TSPM. The growth of the Chinese house church movement during this period was a result of all Chinese Christian worship being driven underground for fear of persecution. To counter this growing trend of “unregistered meetings”, in 1979 the government officially restored the TSPM after thirteen years of non-existence, and in 1980 the Chinese Christian Council was formed.
Little did I know I would one day travel widely around China to visit sites of interest in the ministry of the Christian Church.
The Organization of Hong Kong Presbytery
The Birth of the Taradiddle
My father started the story-telling tradition for our clan. He actually gave birth to what I would call a taradiddle, even though he never used the term. Most of his narratives came straight out of the humorous realities from his life. He replayed them time and again whenever he had a willing audience. And like most stories, over time, Dad’s stories grew. From childhood, Dad amazed us with his recollection of playing against the Harlem Globetrotters in the 1930’s in Yarmouth, Iowa. I never thought to question Dad’s thrill of a lifetime; after all if he said it, it must be the truth. People began to question the veracity of his story and that ticked me off. So, I set out to document his claim. I am still looking, but I have found enough circumstantial evidence to keep his recollection leaning strongly to truth rather than fiction.
The Globetrotter’s began their march to fame in Chicago in 1926 when Abe Saperstein formed a team of black basketball stars named the “Savoy Big Five.” My dad was nine years old at the time. The first team included people like Bill “Ham” Watson and Walter “Toots” Wright. The team name was changed to the Harlem New York Globetrotters and began touring to seek worthy opponents. They arrived in a Model “T” Ford in Hinckley, Illinois, for their debut game in 1927 in front of 300 fans. The total game payout was $75. From there they toured Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa into the 1930’s and gained more and more credibility and fame. They played their 1,000th game in 1934, meaning they played approximately 120 games a year in a variety of cities and small towns in the mid-west. It is a strong possibility that one of those small towns was Yarmouth, and if so, Dad would have been at the front of the line to play. He would have been seventeen and in the prime of his high school basketball career. In May of 2012 I asked Uncle Major, my dad’s brother, (age 95) if he had any recollection of the Globetrotters in Yarmouth. And, without blinking he said, “Yeah, I remember them smoking cigarettes and eating candy bars in our school lunchroom as they waited for the game.” Why all those weird details unless it really registered in his vivid memory.
My dad stuck with that story until one year before his death when he kicked it up a notch and began to say, “You know the Globetrotters tried to get me to go on the road with them.” He lost me there…but the first edition still intrigues me and causes me to wonder. Dad wasn’t interested at that point in telling his history, he focused on the “story.” How do you separate the truth from the fiction as a biographical writer? You cannot do that completely! You can only demythologize your memories to the limit of your desire to keep your story honest. Dad was a great storyteller, but he was a greater man.
Thug Can Be Only Skin Deep
Dad taught me with his thoughtfulness that a woman loves to receive flowers, wants to be pampered, and desires both closeness and space. He may not have bought many flowers during a more than fifty-year romance, but certainly brought Mom a lot of wild ones. Those deep purple winged violets and root beer brown and deep yellow daisies brought a loving pause to Mom’s busy meal preparations for an unpredictable number of friends and workers.
Dad had incredibly good taste in selecting the prettiest woman in the county. He was a small town boy—a very, very ornery one. The following photo makes him look a bit like a thug. But, then, like father like son. The next picture was taken of me taken 28 years later.
My Dad Was One of the Best
My father had a real sharp eye for the unusual. He could be cultivating on a tractor and spot a small arrowhead between the cornrows that some Native American had lost while hunting years and years ago. He would walk across the lawn and suddenly stop to reach down and pick a four-leaf clover that he always saved for my mom. He could see a morel mushroom while others saw only grass and dead leaves. I asked him how he did those things and he said something profound, “Look for something that isn’t like everything else. Look for what shouldn’t be there.” I would learn later that with a little adaptation that insight would help my fictional writing. The key to writing is the ability and willingness to see what isn’t or shouldn’t be there.
Dad was a hardcore romantic. He loved to sing to my mother. One song always caught my attention–“Can I Canoe You Down the River?” Here are full lyrics.
“Can I canoe you up the river
Can I canoe you up the stream
Can I canoe you up the river
Like I did in last night’s dream
We’ll drift a moment in the moonlight
I’ll fish for little things to say
And with the help of Mr. Moonlight
Maybe you’ll see things my way
I tried to tell you how I care
But never made the grade
Now things might change if I could have
A setting for my serenade
So, can I canoe you up the river
I’ll be as nice as I can be
And hope that while we’re up the river
You’ll go overboard for me”
A Boy Does What a Boy Has to Do!
You are nine years old. You are playing a little league baseball game in the visitor’s area of the Iowa Army Ammunition Plant near Middletown, Iowa. You stand in pain in right field waiting for the end of the fourth inning. A crisis looms just below your belt. No bathrooms exist within site. Your mind races for a solution. No large trees or storage building can be seen. You cannot hold this growing problem for another hour or more. What should the fellow do?
Finally a viable creative idea yells, “Let it rip.” I decided I would just go ahead and alleviate my pain, await the last out of the inning, run at lightening speed to the bench, pick up the water bucket, and “accidentally” pour it over my entire body effectively erasing any tell tale signs of wetting my pants. Relief, sweet relief! Oh, the kids laughed at my clumsiness but they never knew the rest of the story.
via Daily Prompt: Relieved
It is my hope people hearing or reading my stories will be motivated to write and tell their stories. Everyone is a storyteller. Some are just better than others. Think about how many times you say or hear, “I remember,” “You should have been there,” or “Now listen to this.” Those are phrases that indicate the speaker is about to weave a tale of one sort or another.
I used to play a game with my grandchildren in order to tell my stories. I called it “Truth or Fiction.” I would weave a tale and then ask them to guess if it was true or fictitious. This game excited their interest while allowing me to testify to many of the “mighty acts” of God in my life or expose them to some of our family lore. I hoped some of the stories would be etched in their minds and that some of them would take up the family tradition of storytelling.
Our life is a series of moments. They follow one after another in endless succession. A series of moments make an experience. It is fair to say that most moments are hardly discernable and seldom processed. Brief experiences only provide a small effect on our life and are then filed in our subconscious and eventually forgotten. However, important transformational experiences impact our life in one way or another in terms of who we are as a person. As Sue Monk Kidd wrote in the Secret Life of Bees, “Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.” The sum of our experiences determines who we are.
We begin to understand why we act the way we act when we retrace our life to identify transformational moments and how we responded to them. It is like walking backward with a personal characteristic in hand trying to find the place or moment where we picked it up. Transitional moments can be negative experiences such as the premature loss of a parent that drove us into a responsibility for our family that we certainly didn’t want or expect. Or, on the positive side, they can be the special attention given by a teacher that birthed our positive self-concept. Every moment carries the potential for a positive or negative impact upon life, but only a few really make dramatic and immediate changes. Most of my writing focuses on such transitions whether serious or humorous.