Guns, the CHL, and the Second Amendment

     For most of my adult life I have owned some sort of weapon…i.e... a rifle or a pistol. Not that I ever felt a need security-wise for one; it was more a matter of “well, you never know…,” or perhaps it was just a sort of neat thing to possess. About the only time I ever had a use for a weapon (at least during my non-military years) was when we lived in Wyoming and did a lot of hunting. My brother-in-law, Buddy, and I bought Remington BDL 7mm magnum rifles with scopes and used them for several years in our quests for deer, antelope, and elk. Additionally, for all the years we traveled in our campers and motorhomes, I always carried next to my seat a twelve gauge shotgun with a pistol grip and shortened to a comfy length. Not sure why, I just seemed to feel safer with it there because “well, you never know.”

     Along the way, I have collected a few pistols, small calibers like .22s and .25s, primarily from my parents and other opportunities which presented themselves. Having moved to Texas in the early nineties, the opportunity to shoot, recreationally or otherwise, has not presented itself very often because, in the final analysis, I’m not a dedicated gun aficionado and do not look for reasons to whip out a weapon, flash it, fire it, or brandish it. I know, I know, I’m in Texas now, and I need to become a little more ornery and trigger-happy.

     Not only am I in Texas, but I am also now in Houston, which presents a somewhat different kettle of fish. During the seventeen years we lived in Baytown, I never felt an uneasy sense of an imminent threat, but now that we are living in Northwest Houston, we are surrounded by over four million people, and, if you watch the ten o’clock news, it appears that a good percentage of them are attempting to break into various neighborhood homes anytime during the day or night. We are fortunate to be living in a fairly quiet neighborhood, but it seems that once one pulls out of our neighborhood onto FM1960, it’s every man for himself. Every time some of those quality citizens rumble up next to me at a traffic light in their $2,000 car with the $4,000 set of 24” custom wheels and a hammering stereo blasting, it make me want to click off my safety on my….I mean, if I was packing, that’s what I would feel like doing.

     So, to cut to the chase, for the last year or so, I have been considering applying for a Texas Concealed Handgun License. I have been encouraged along the way by a pack of guys with whom I have breakfast every Friday at 9:00 a.m. sharp at a certain respectable establishment noted for good breakfasts. When Shirley and I moved to Spring we began attending Bethel Tabernacle, and these men are all (amazingly) respected members of the church. In a short time, they all have become very valued friends, and as I told them a few weeks ago, I feel like I have known them for years and have every confidence in their character, spirituality, and loyalty. I like them because they are quick-witted with a sharp sense of humor and can dish out the verbal good-natured jabs as well as take them. They are my kind of people.

     They are also….well, let me put it this way, when I am with them for breakfast, I feel VERY safe. They are hunters and gun aficionados to the max, and at an early age (I think) they memorized the entire Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution and can smell a threat to their right to bear arms from a very great distance. I, too, am a fan of the Second Amendment; however, I have learned that even such phrases as “But, you know, something needs to be done” can raise a red flag in their eyes, so I limit my comments concerning the issue to such intelligent responses as “Ain’t it the truth!” and “Yep, he’s gonna try to take 'em!” Anyway, they encouraged me to get my license.

     The first problem was I didn’t have a heavy enough weapon to do my shooting with. One must qualify with at least a .32 caliber, and my heaviest was a .25 semi-automatic. Apparently you can’t qualify with a sawed-off 12 gauge. (Tears up the targets.) My good friend, who shall remain nameless…we’ll just call him Jerry, graciously offered to let me use his Sig Sauer 9mm Model P226 semi-automatic, to which I just as graciously accepted. He even threw in a box of shells. At the same time all this was transpiring, my daughter, Kim, had also expressed an interest in obtaining her CHL, so with her reserving for us a Saturday date for classes at a local gun establishment, we decided to go to Gander Mountain and take a few practice shots in preparation for the upcoming qualifying and testing.

     That was where I began to realize that this endeavor was not going to be particularly inexpensive. At this point in our nation’s history, those who fear for their gun rights are creating a run on the market, and weapons are selling for twice their suggested retail prices, and ammunition is hard to find. Personally, I think the flames of the whole buying panic are being fanned by the gun manufacturers and dealers themselves to generate incredible profits. No government official has yet mentioned gun confiscation, yet even the mention of the word “registration” can drive the prices of guns up another ten percent. Somebody is making a lot of money out of this artificial hysteria.

     Be that as it may, Kim and I, after sitting through an obligatory gun safety video (Do not play with loaded weapons!), finally got our chance at the firing range (at $25/hour.) Not being familiar with the 9mm, I will admit (don’t tell Jerry) that I loaded the shells in backwards on my first attempt, but quickly realized my mistake when the clip wouldn’t go into the grip. Hopefully, no one noticed. We only had 50 rounds of ammo between us, so we shot carefully. I’ll say this…that Sig Sauer P226 9mm is a sweet shootin’ pistol. I had also brought two of my other pistols to fire, and Kim had brought her Beretta. We fired them when we ran out of 9mm shells. My little .25 would not load, however, and I asked the monitor for assistance. When he looked at my Czechoslovakian Z Aut 6.35mm Pistole, he said, “Wow! That is a rare gun!” Which it is.  Manufactured in Brno in 1950, the pistol is about half the size of my hand and was very popular during the Cold War as an assassination weapon of choice. The trouble with the gun is it may be small, but you can’t hide the noise…it is deafening when fired. He couldn’t get it to fire, either, but a few days later I gave it to my friend, Jerry, to examine, and within 24 hours he had it looking and working like new.

     So on a recent Saturday, Kim and I were at Tactical Firearms in Katy, Texas, bright and early at 8:00 a.m. to begin our classes. As we walked into their showroom, there sat some sort of monster machine gun on display and ready to fire…at $140.00 per 30 minutes plus a dollar a shell (40 shell minimum.) Let’s see, what do they say about big boys’ toys? There were about 50 people in our class, and therein lay the first surprise. I expected a room full of red necks drooling chewing tobacco and wearing hunting vests; in actuality, there was a substantial percentage of women and even men who looked like they might have had the intelligence to read. All in all, it was a cross section of Middle America. I wondered how many were there out of an instinct for self-preservation or simply a love for firearms.

     The instructor was a cool guy. He came into the classroom carrying a rifle of some kind (my ignorance is showing again,) and proceeded to tell us this was his 320th weapon to buy, and in his home he had 190,000 rounds of ammunition. “Am I paranoid?” he asked. I kept my answer to myself. Apparently in his eyes, any crime committed within a 20 mile radius of his home was justification to buy another weapon. I just hope his home never catches on fire…if it happens at night, it will be July 4th fireworks in the neighborhood. Knowledgeable, however, the instructor was about gun safety, gun law, and my rights as a gun owner.

     Right off the bat, it was time to go fire our weapons for qualifying. In Texas for a CHL, a candidate must fire fifty rounds at three targets and score at least 175 out of 250 possible points. The process was very regulated and well monitored. The last time I was on a firing range was in Berlin in 1967, at which time I received my “Expert Marksman” ribbon. 46 years later, I didn’t do too badly as I scored 247 out of 250. What really impressed me, though, was Kim made the very same score. Must be hereditary. The firing took nearly two hours, primarily because there were 50 of us candidates and only fifteen alleys to fire in, so we fired…and waited. Afterward, we sat through about three hours of instruction; however, that three hours of instruction took nearly 6 hours as we took breaks, lunch, etc. We also had a representative from an organization called Texas Law Shield who gave us a combination lesson/sales pitch concerning the use of deadly force in Texas. At the conclusion he offered an insurance package which offered to us a bank of lawyers skilled in gun laws who would step in to defend us in the event we had to use deadly force to protect our properties. It was reasonably priced, so I bought it. So now, be VERY careful when you step on my property.
     The last event was the Official State Test for Concealed Handgun License. Fifty questions and not too hard. My kudos again to the instructor who had practically given us every question and answer in advance. Kim and I both made perfect scores. It’s hard to be humble when you’re….never mind. We finally made in back home about 5:30…a full Saturday shot, but hopefully a goal accomplished. A couple of days later, I went on line and initiated my application for my CHL to the Texas Department of Public Safety. Since I am a senior it only cost me $70 (!). Kim’s will be $140. I had to pay in advance also for my fingerprinting…another $10.

     The following Monday I went to a local fingerprinting office and was officially verified as being clean as a whistle and not an escaped convict from Georgia. The next day I sent my fingerprint verification, my CHL class attendance verification, and my registration checklist to Austin so they can reaffirm that I’m on the up and up. Apparently, I can expect my real license to arrive in about four weeks. So we wait.

     Hopefully this whole effort of obtaining my CHL will be an exercise in futility, in the sense that I hope and pray I will never have to raise a gun in anger or defense. But I also realize that we are no longer living in the 1950’s when homes were seldom locked and cars were parked with the windows down. Random violence is evident not just in the big cities, but even in the village hamlets scattered across our nation…witness Sandy Hook. Violence is no longer a geographical phenomenon, it is a reflection of a nation and a world besotted with movie violence, video violence, and television violence. Those who argue in favor of these forms of media say they simply reflect the trends of society. I am convinced that it is the opposite…the media influence society, and, regrettably, society establishes its standard of behavior from the media. A child will witness 58,000 killings via movies, television, and video games by the time he/she reaches 18 years of age. If a moment of anger or conflict is suddenly thrust upon that child, the first impulse will be to violence. In today’s world, parents face a formidable task in teaching their children…as the scriptures say…”in the way they should go.”

The 1954 Mercury

     Many men (well, maybe most) have some sort of weakness which, should a temptation approach them that appeals to their innate psychological Achilles tendon, causes them to turn into weak-kneed bowls of jelly totally unable to offer any resistance. To some it may be the evil vice of booze, or smoking, or gambling…maybe even the irresistible attraction of the opposite gender.  But for me and a generation of kids who grew up in my era of youth, namely the fifties and sixties, it was the magnetic attraction of the American automobile. It’s possible that I inherited my addiction from my dad who loved cars and was a “Mercury man” for nearly thirty years, but whatever the source, by the time I turned twelve I knew the engine size, horsepower, weight, length, width, height, and color choices for every automobile manufactured for the current year by the Big Three (Ford Motor Company, General Motors, and Chrysler Corporation.)  Back in those days, most new model cars were introduced to the public around the first of every October. Shiny new models were well kept secrets, delivered to dealers while under heavy canvas hidden from prying eyes

until the Holy Day of Revelation. On the Blessed Day there would be hundreds of people at the showrooms to see the latest offerings from the manufacturers. I have seen police at local dealerships directing traffic because of the demand to see the new models of various cars. Most dads took their sons to football games; my dad took me to every new car showing in Baytown. I was there the day the first 1958 Edsel was uncovered at the dealership on Commerce Street and heard a couple hundred people gasp at its radical styling. I had stacks of brochures and studied them thoroughly. I knew more about the cars than the salespeople did. Needless to say, I lived for the day when I could hear my own car keys jangling in my pocket.

    That watershed moment occurred in the summer of 1959. I had just recently turned sixteen years old and, with the wisdom that comes to a young teenager, had been pressuring my dad for months to allow me to buy my own car. Looking back, I think I used many of the same sales closing techniques that in later life would help me to make a living as a professional sales person. Closing points like, “Dad, if I have a car, I can take my sisters to school, and they won’t have to get up so early to catch the bus!” and                                                                                     “Dad, if I have my own

car, I won’t have to borrow your car when I go out on a date…and I’ll use my own gas!” Oh, I was good….and successful. When I had closed the deal and Dad had acquiesced, there was only one place to go…to the Mercury dealership. Dad had recently bought a 1959 Mercury ParkLane, one of the new “baby Lincolns” that Mercury was then offering (length 222.9 inches, wheelbase 128 inches, width 79.9 inches, weight 4550, engine 430 cubic inches, 345 horsepower…observed top speed 125 mph), and it never occurred to him or me to go anywhere else to look for a car.

    There on the lot was a gorgeous yellow and black 1954 Mercury Monterey. Although it was a four door sedan and not a two door coupe, I didn’t mind. In a matter of minutes I was following Dad home in my very own car. My world had expanded to unlimited horizons as I took the giant leap toward independence. The fact that Dad had made me go to the bank and borrow the money and I was now saddled with a heavy car payment of $39.41 didn’t faze me. After all, I was working at Weingarten’s Grocery making $25.00 per week, so I had PLENTY of money!

    The only thing wrong with the Mercury was it didn’t sound good, and the sound of a car was very important during the Stone Age. I took the car to Creel’s Auto Parts in Highlands (future extended family member) and had dual exhausts installed with Smitty glass packed mufflers. There is NO sound like the deep (not loud) rumble of a four-barreled V8 American engine. Well, maybe a little loud is OK. There was a strip of North Main Street in Baytown, just north of Texas Avenue, where for about three blocks the sidewalks were narrow and the buildings were close to the road. Late at night if the coast was clear (you know…no cops, no traffic) I would turn onto that strip of road, floor the accelerator, and revel in the echoing thunder of those Smitties as the sound reverberated off the buildings. Cheap thrills. Of course, the Mercury did not have air conditioning and also had only an AM radio. So I did what a lot of young guys did in those days…I kept a bottle of Aqua-Velva in the glove compartment, and just before I went to the door to get my date (99.9% of the time it was Shirley), I would splash on a little dab to clear away some of the summer…um…heat. But actually, I did not miss the AC all that much. After all, no one had AC and as a result, most of us were much more acclimated to warm weather than we are now. My dad’s new ’59 Parklane was the first car my family owned with factory air conditioning, and I will admit that there were a few special occasions when I borrowed Dad’s big Mercury just so I could stay a little cooler. The ’59 Mercury was a world apart from my ’54…two feet longer, radically styled, and with TWICE the horsepower. Boy, that thing would run!…I mean…that’s what it said in the brochure, anyway.

     I was able to upgrade my radio with the first major improvement to radio sound during that era…the “reverberater.” This was a rear speaker with a sound delay that caused the sound from the rear speaker to emit just a split second after the front speaker. It created a cool, almost stereophonic sound sensation and was, in fact, the precursor to true stereophonic sound that was to come later. Trouble was, the reverb speaker had a mechanical device sensitive to road bumps, and once in a while I would hit a bump and the rear speaker would pop like a gun shot. It would wake you up if you were daydreaming while driving. Maybe it was a safety device.

     The absolute greatest feature about the ’54 Merc has become practically extinct in today’s mundane, cookie-cutter vehicles, and yet it was one of the most appreciated…the front bench seat. Even the ’54 Chevrolet Corvette had a bench seat in those days, and the idea of splitting the front seat into buckets was still a radical idea. There is no greater feeling of happiness and accomplishment to a young guy than to be cruising down the road with the glass packed mufflers rumbling quietly, at the same time getting the occasional whiff of your girlfriend’s cologne, and feeling her presence as she snuggles up next to you holding your right hand while you drive with your left. And of course, if the car happens to come to a stop on a bluff overlooking Galveston Bay, and the moon happens to be rising, and a gentle bay breeze happens to freshen the air…well, all the better. I felt that rush of happiness about 63 years ago with a young lady…and today I’m still happily married to her. In fact, I’d buy another car with a bench seat today if I could find one.

GED...A Second Chance

      In 1931, during the Great Depression, my dad, though only in the seventh grade, dropped out of school. In spite of his aptitude toward math and in spite of his teacher visiting his parents’ home and begging them to allow him to stay in school, the decision was a forgone conclusion. Dad was the fourteenth of fifteen children living with parents in the farmland of Western Oklahoma, and for the family to stay afloat financially it was necessary for the children to contribute their fair share of labor for the family good. So dad went to work farming at the age of fourteen.

     His story is not an uncommon one from those depression years. Families lived from hand to mouth, and food on the table today was much more valued than an education in the future. And yet the children of those years survived, and learned valuable lessons concerning hard work and thrift. To many, the hard times did not end until the beginning of the United States involvement in the Second World War in 1941. Overnight the men went off to war, and the women went off to the factories to manufacture the tools of combat. And education for many was put on the back burner “for the duration.”

     With the war’s end, disarmament of the armed forces rapidly flooded the job market with young men and women who had only a few months earlier been in the thick of combat. Older, wiser, perhaps more jaded in their outlooks about life, they nevertheless recognized the value of further education and what it could contribute to a more financially comfortable future. However, they were trapped by their own maturity. Unable to return to the high schools from which many had dropped out to enlist, and unable to enroll in colleges because of the missing high school diplomas, these veterans were trapped in educational limbo until the federal government came to the rescue with the creation of the certificate of General Education Development…more commonly known today as the GED. The GED battery of tests was actually developed in 1942 to help the early returning World War II veterans, but the demand for the tests skyrocketed when the war ended in 1945. In 1947, the GED exams became available for civilians which effectively gave anyone who had left public school for any reason an opportunity for a second chance to complete or continue their education.

     With the opportunity for continuing education, many young people developed their professional skills and were successful in obtaining well paying, desirable jobs in the open market. Others, however, chose more traditional jobs which did not require an education but simply strong backs and willing minds. And in the America of the 1940s, 1950s, and early 60s there were plenty of those kinds of jobs available. In the area of Texas where I live which is heavily populated with oil refineries, chemical plants, and manufacturing facilities, many a young man, tired of the drudgeries of high school with homework and boring classes, opted to drop out and go to work for the local refinery, and many of these young men put in their forty years and retired, having lived successful lives.

     As America moved into the 70s and 80s, however, the job market experienced a dramatic metamorphosis. Computers, electronics, and sophisticated machinery were developed which required, not strong backs, but strong minds to operate, and as a result America witnessed a decrease in the labor-intensive jobs of the past. Many were exported to countries where manual labor is much more cheaply purchased, and as a result, many young people today, though willing in heart, mind, and body to work, are having great difficulty locating gainful employment if they do not have the educational clout on their application. Sometimes this hard lesson of life is learned after they have already dropped out of school due to various personal reasons. The trend toward more educationally demanding, technical jobs continues to this day. In addition, even those who were happily employed at an early age because they dropped out of school are finding that they are now bumping up against a promotional ceiling because the position they desire requires a certificate of further education.

      Twenty-three years ago, I began teaching for Harris County Department of Education, Adult Education Division as a GED instructor. It was a part-time, evening job which complemented my day position as a professional teacher in the Pasadena ISD.  To be perfectly honest, when I began work, I knew very little about the workings of GED; I only knew that I was familiar with the material which needed to be taught, which was primarily high school level math, language, and reading. Besides being a public-school teacher, I have taught such courses for real estate and insurance licensing schools since the early 80s, so I knew I was familiar with the product. I quickly learned, however, that the GED student was a different challenge compared to the former students I had experienced. All the students studying for their insurance or real estate licenses were excited about reaching for new goals. With the gleam of a new profession in their eyes, they sat attentively with an impatience to get their classes over so they could take off to new horizons.

     The GED student, however, first walks into the classroom acknowledging that he/she has already made one mistake in life…namely dropping out of school. With that acknowledgement comes a touch of embarrassment and perhaps a reduction in self-esteem. In my mind, it is the mission of the GED teacher to accomplish two tasks: first is simply to give the student the educational wherewithal to pass the GED test, but secondly, and perhaps more importantly, to offer to the student the opportunity to recapture the enthusiasm for life, to forget the mistakes of the past, and to anticipate the challenges of the future.

     There is no “typical” GED student. Coming from all walks of life, ethnicity, economic status, and region, they are a cross section of America, representing sometimes the best and sometimes the worst. But out of their diversity comes a common goal, and that is to better themselves. The objective may be purely a monetary goal through a job promotion, or it may be the first step toward college and a profession, or it may be simply a matter of self-esteem.

     One of my most memorable experiences since becoming a GED teacher involved my oldest student. She said she was sixty-two years old and did not need the GED. Her husband was a successful businessman, her children and grandchildren were grown, and they had no financial worries. But she told me she had married young and always regretted not getting her high school diploma. She worked hard in my class, and I will always remember the day when I picked up my ringing phone and heard a voice screaming, “I got it! I got it!” She had passed her GED exams. These are the moments teachers live for.

     The Adult Education Department of Harris County Department of Education has grown exponentially in the last few years. I have been privileged to be a small part of its outreach. Though we teachers classify ourselves as “GED” or “ESL,” the fact of the matter is our true mission is to be second chance facilitators for those who truly need a second chance.

Christmas Memories

     The latter part of the month of December each year is usually a special time for people of all areas of the globe, regardless of religious bent or lack thereof.  Every major religion, it seems, has a day during this period for honoring an ancient patron of their movement, and even the most cynical agnostic takes time during the holiday season to relax and reflect upon the passing of another year.  Because a new year is quickly approaching, individuals have a tendency to take stock of their lives, and the idea of “new year resolution” begins to flitter about the thought processes.  Health centers and weight loss institutions will confirm that January is the busiest month of their business year as well-meaning individuals attempt to change the course of their lives.

    December in the Downing household has always been a special time.  Being a product of down home, southern, Christian, Anglo-American influences, the Downings have always celebrated Santa, Frosty, Rudolph, and all the other traditional players in the secular Christmas tradition, but we also understood that the true reason for Christmas was found in the New Testament.  This understanding for the R.L. and Ethel Downing family was evident even before they became regular church goers, because it was part of the fundamental fabric of America.  Believe it or not, America was once a Christian nation with Christian principles interwoven throughout the social interaction of its citizens.

    This little treatise is a not another rant about how America is going to the…um..dogs…in a handbasket (whether it be true or not), but in a much lighter tone simply a remembrance on my part of the more pleasant events surrounding the Christmas season.  The R.L. and Ethel Downing family, consisting of said parents along with favorite son Bobby (me) and daughters Judy, Kathryn, and Mary, was tradition-minded down to the core when it came to Christmas, and every new season meant a big tree, decorations, and gifts.

R.L. and Bobby Downing, 1946

    Of course, in the early years of 1943-1947, basically the entire family Christmas universe swirled around me, their only child, and I confess that my memory, though fairly sharp in some areas, is a little vague during this time.  In 1947 my first sister, Judy, came along and messed up a good thing for me, since then I had to share toys.  Regardless, somewhere during these early years I received two toys which I remember to this day.  The first was a wooden truck which my dad made by hand for me.  In another of my blogs I wrote how those early years were a struggle for my parents, and store-bought toys were a rarity, so to me the home-made truck was as good as any in the store.  By the next year, however, things must have improved for my parents, because I received a red, all metal, battery powered fire chief’s car that would run around in circles with a red light flashing.  I was amazed at the technology.

    After my family moved to 206 Hafer Street (see blog, “206 Hafer”,) Christmas became a big partying affair with Downings from far and near converging on our household for Christmas celebrations.  My dad made a recording on Christmas Eve, 1948, of the Downings in party mode which I now have on CD.  Seventy-five years later, it reminds me of how far we have come since those pre-church days.  Sadly, of all the Downings whose voices are on the CD, I am the only living survivor…and that includes the children whose voices are preserved on the recording.  When I listen to the CD now, I feel a little...lonely.

     Big events in toy land, though!  I’ve mentioned before that today my dad would be termed a techno-geek because he enjoyed the latest in electronics. Consequently, I received a movie projector one Christmas on Hafer Street, along with 16mm movies of The Three Stooges, Bugs Bunny, Hopalong Cassidy, and Gene Autry.  Neighbor kids would come over and sit in awe as we watched Moe slap Curly (just like in the pitcher shows!)  Although the projector went away years ago, I only recently pulled the old 16mm cartoons out of a box and watched them crumble before my very eyes.  Celluloid movies are not lifetime movies. 

     The crowning Christmas gift of my early childhood came just before my family moved to the farm.  I received a Lionel electric train set, complete with transformer, whistle, and track.  Made of heavy cast metal, the engine was a work of art.  I would set up the track on the floor and watch for hours as the train followed its assigned path, engine chugging real smoke from the stack and whistling loudly at the crossings.  The train set saw heavy use in its first few years and then went into storage, only to be unboxed and run every few years during fits of nostalgia.  As recently as twelve years ago, I built a new track for it in my garage and renewed my memories as I watched that old train make its circle.  I showed it to my grandson, and there was not a single spark of interest.  Not a soul in the family gave it the slightest attention.  No video and no keyboard, you know.  So, after sixty-plus years of enjoyment, I put the whole set on eBay and sold it for a lot more than what my dad paid for it.  It was hard to take it to the post office and see it go away.

R.L. Downing, About 1985

        By the early fifties, we had moved to the farm (see blog “Animal Farm”) and I had two sisters.  Among us three kids, we made sure the spirit of Christmas stayed strong.  Our Christmas tree was always large and well decorated, and the old phonograph played only Christmas carols the month of December.  By now Mom and Dad were better situated financially, and we kids could always look forward to some cool Christmas presents.  Mom and Dad never overindulged us, but we received more than enough to keep us happy.  The problem that we kids had was when Mom and Dad started putting gifts under the tree sometime around December 10, we couldn’t stand it.  We agonized over what the gifts could be and shook, rattled, and rolled each one trying desperately to guess what each one was.  It was wonderful torture.  Eventually we would whine, wheedle, and cajole Mom and Dad into allowing us to open a gift before Christmas day (just one!).  We would, of course, promise that we would never ask again, and usually Mom and Dad would crack and allow us to open a gift…of their own choosing.  I think they were protecting the big gifts until Christmas, because what we would wind up opening would be something like new underwear or a pair of socks.  However, that strategy would backfire sometimes when we would show a little disappointment in our new socks and reinstitute our whine for opening another gift. 

     Our family began to grow in 1959 when my last sister, Mary, was born, and in 1961 I brought home my bride, Shirley, but the traditions continued.  The tree, the music, the celebration (both of the season and of family) continued.  Actually, it worked out pretty well for Shirley and me.  Since her family had deep Christmas family traditions also, it was now possible for she and I to enjoy Christmas twice every year by visiting and celebrating with each household.
     In the early fifties another tradition, not necessarily family, began.  After Mom and Dad became part of Peace Tabernacle, they met a very musically talented woman, Miss Anniedeen Bateman, who every Christmas season directed a church choir in presenting a Christmas "cantata" (choir arrangement) to celebrate the Christmas story.  We young people, once we hit the teen years, were expected to participate in the agonizing practices and final presentations.  We moaned and groaned, but she wouldn't take no for an answer.  Once the final performance was completed, however, we felt a certain amount of pride in our work.  For nearly fifty years, Shirley and I participated in Christmas programs, and though they required lots of work, the cantatas became part of our Christmas tradition.  In 1971, while we lived in Tulsa, Oklahoma, I actually directed a Christmas choir myself, but mercifully there were no accomplished music directors around to see my amateurish efforts.  Shirley's mother passed away in 1957, and eventually my father-in-law married the very same Miss Anniedeen Bateman, and my new stepmother-in-law worked us unmercifully every Christmas season in an unending series of cantatas, both in Texas and in Wyoming.  Unfortunately, our participation in Christmas programs has diminished dramatically in the last few years, primarily because the traditional Christmas programs generally have been cast aside in favor of contemporary musical gibberish designed to impress the listener with one's musical talents rather than celebrate the Christmas story.

    The mid-sixties brought changes in our schedules, as Shirley and I became military participants and even more so when we became parents.  In 1965 Shirley and I spent Christmas alone in our apartment in West Berlin, Germany, thousands of miles away from family.  In 1966 I spent Christmas totally alone in West Berlin because Shirley had gone home earlier in preparation of the birth of our son, and I volunteered for extra duty to keep my mind off the idea that I was miles away from everyone I loved.  When our son came along, we suddenly had three Christmas traditions to sustain…the Downing, the Creel, and our own little family.  Being blessed with good memories of our respective family traditions, Shirley and I followed the same pattern as we begin to establish our own Christmas experience so that by the time our daughter was born, we were flying under our own power with our own preferences for trees, our own favorite decorations, and our own children to make happy.
     The only time I ever had problems with the Christmas season was just after graduation from college when I became a manager for Sears, Roebuck and Company.  This was back in the day when Sears was the big dog in retail sales and controlled a major portion of the market.  It is difficult for workers in retail sales to get the Christmas spirit because of the shopping preparation and pandemonium which lead up to Christmas Day.  For seven years, Christmas Day was more than anything else a day of extreme relief that the season was finally over.

     We lived in Wyoming for seventeen years, but as far as I remember, we missed only one Christmas with our Creel and Downing parents.  The Creels were, of course, with us in Wyoming, but the Downings were still in Baytown, Texas.  So, every Christmas season we drove the 1400 miles one way to the old Downing homestead to continue tradition.  By this time the R.L. and Ethel Downing family had grown dramatically, what with married daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren.  The family gathering became a major event, but the traditions and spirit never changed.  It was always good to be home.

    Today, the torch has been passed, and my father-in-law, mother-in-law, and my parents have gone on to their rewards, and whatever Christmas tradition exists now lives within my family, and the families of my sisters.  Each of us now has a combination of children, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren, in-laws, and spouses who have in turn created some sort of Christmas spirit and tradition within themselves.  Shirley and I are finding that we are spending more holidays at the homes of our children rather than our children migrating to our home.  As a result, with our home no longer the center of the action, we are finding less incentive to heavily decorate.  In Disney's "The Lion King," it is celebrated as the "cycle of life."  We have entered a new phase of life...the "fragile seniors' stage."  I can only hope that, in years to come, as my children and grandchildren approach the sunset of their years, that they, too, can look back on childhood memories replete with the warmth of family love and harmony.

Ronny and Jerry...65 Years later

     In 1950 my parents made a life changing decision when they became members of Peace Tabernacle, a United Pentecostal Church pastored by Reverend V.A. Guidroz  (See my blog “In Memory of Pastor V.A. Guidroz..)  Brother Guidroz had a large family, with children ranging in age from 5 years to beyond 20, and of course each one played a role in church activities and was vital to the operation of the church.  I was seven years of age at the time of my parents’ conversions, and my first Sunday School teacher in the Primary class was Sister Glory, who I learned later was Glory Guidroz, one of our pastor’s grown daughters.  I can remember to this day the Sunday she put the fifth star next to my name on a display board and said to me, “Well, Bobby, you’ve been here five Sundays in a row; we’re glad to have you in our class!”  I had found a home.  A couple of years later, when I graduated to the Junior class, Sister Glory gave me a small book of poetry with an inscription from her.  I still have that little book of memories.

    In one my family’s earliest services, I was sitting quietly on one of the pews just before the service began, and this skinny kid sat down next to me and said simply, “I’m Ronny, and I’m six.”  To which I replied, “I’m Bobby, and I’m seven!”  That pretty well set the pecking order, but though Ronny was my junior, he was to play a major role in my years of youth.  Truth be told, he is probably responsible for my remaining in the church to this day, for my marriage to the love of my life, and, without being too dramatic, perhaps for the good life I have enjoyed.

    I soon found out that Ronny was another of those Guidroz kids (they were everywhere,) but in time and with the benefit of now having been associated with many preachers’ kids over the years, I can look back and say unequivocally that Ronny was not your typical PK.  The description of the typical preacher’s kid will have to be reserved for another essay, and considering the fact that I married one, I would need to be careful what I said anyway.  As a rule, however, PKs live by a different set of rules.

    But Ronny, I found out, was a true friend.  I honestly cannot remember every being miffed at him, much less really angry.  He was a true disciple of his father’s ministry, and he preached the word in spirit and deed every time we got together.  Not that he preached a sermon or was patronizing, but that he lived what his father taught.  Example:  his father taught that we should let “our nays be nays and our yeas be yeas” and even words like “gosh” and “darn” should be avoided like the plague.  One time we were playing some sort of game and he said something profound. To which I replied, “Well, I’ll be doggone!”  For a second I thought I was going to be lightning struck when Ronny yelled, “Bobby! Don’t you know you can go to hell saying words like that!”  An overreaction?  Maybe.  But I can tell you this; I never said the word again, and to this day I’ve never gotten into the habit of throwing out those “marginal” words.

   Ronny and I shared many Sunday afternoons together.  Church would dismiss around 12:30, and we would go home with one of our families and spend the afternoon doing whatever young boys do, playing, talking, and eating.  We had no video games, no cell phones, no computers, nothing electronic…it was awful!  Actually, we never missed any of those things because we didn’t know what they were.  We played outside, created our own amusement, and had a great time.  Church time began again around 7:00 p.m. and we would reunite with our families.

    Many other precious memories of my association with Ronny have been described in my blog concerning Pastor Guidroz, so I won’t repeat them here, but suffice it to say, my early years were patterned by the behavior of my good friend.  If Ronny said it was OK, it was OK; if he said no, it was not.  It was probably a strange arrangement, a young kid giving another kid who was a year his senior advice concerning behavior, church affairs, and whatever, but I was new in the church, and Ronny always seemed mature far beyond his years.  Another example:  I have always been fairly athletic (well, used to be, anyway), and in junior high I began to excel in baseball, track, and to a smaller extent, football.  I could run the 100 and 220 yard dashes  (no 100 meter races back then) faster than the guys on the school track team and could hit or throw a baseball farther than anyone else (OK, another friend, James Shelby, could out throw me.)  As a result, the school athletic coaches were after me constantly to “go out” for track, or football, or baseball. 

     I never participated in school sponsored organized sports because Ronny told me that it would be detrimental to my church relationship.  It was not a threat; he (and his father) said simply that association with sports would demand my attention and draw my loyalties away from the church.  In sports activities, he said, I would be surrounded by people to whom church had no value and would hear language that was not appropriate.  Compare that philosophy to today's parental influences which push children into every after-school, non-church activity possible...and then the parents lament that their children won't stay in church.  Truthfully, my parents, though not excited about my association in sports, did not discourage me but let me make my own decision.  The influence of my friend, however, was strong, and I never participated in organized sports all the way through high school.  In our church there were other young people who did participate; some spiritually survived; some did not.  It is not for me to judge, but I made my own decision.  Sometimes when I’m watching a baseball game, I wonder, “What if…?”  but I get over it quickly.  I am content.

    Ronny’s influence really hit high gear when we discovered that girls were not so bad after all.  It’s probably hard to believe now, but there was a time when I was so shy I could hardly speak, especially to the other gender.  Ronny became my spokesman.  He would come to me and say, “Hey, Bobby, Shirley says she like you!”  To which I would reply, “Well, I like her, too.”  He would pass the message back to her, and suddenly Shirley and I were an “item.”  That is, until Ronny would come to me at some later date and say, “Shirley doesn’t want to go with you, anymore.”  After a moment of heartbreak, I would send my message of reply, “OK.”  This whole scenario happened more than once.

    In 1957, Shirley’s mother died, and a little more than a year later her father married Geraldine Lewis, a widow from Beaumont.  With her came her daughter, Jerry Ann, and within a short time both Ronny and I had something to live for and dream about: he about Jerry Ann and I about Shirley.  By that time I was driving and we foursome shared many dates together.  Even then, Ronny gave me guidance about dating such as (1) Always open the car door (passenger door, not driver door) for your date, (2) Carry a bottle of Aqua Velva in the glove compartment on a hot night in case you sweat, and (3) NEVER touch your date’s ears.  That last one I still wonder about. Besides, I was so shy it took every bit of my nerve just to touch her hand, anyway.  After every double date, Ronny and I would go to a nearby restaurant, drink a Coke, and Ronny would give me a de-briefing of my activities for the night.  Generally I would have made at least one faux paux which I dutifully promised not to repeat on the next date.

    For 99.9% of my life, there has only been one woman…Shirley. During the one major period in which Shirley and I were not communicating, Ronny set me up with the only real official date I ever had that did not include Shirley.  I picked up Carolyn Barrett in my dad’s brand new 1959 Mercury Park Lane and we headed to Galveston.  I took her to the best seafood restaurant on Seawall Boulevard, and she never ate so much as a cracker.  She looked like she wished she were somewhere else, and I was wondering what Shirley was doing.  Needless to say, in my report to Ronny, I said first date=last date.

    In 1959, Brother Guidroz resigned the pastorship of Peace Tabernacle, and my good friend moved away…not far…but away.  We stayed in touch and managed to visit somewhat regularly at the Creel house, the home of our loves.  On some occasions, I would visit Shirley and Jerry when Ronny was not around.  During this time Jerry wanted to learn to drive a car, so we three would pile into my car and head to an unpopulated area, usually out Tri-Cities Beach Road.  There Jerry would take the wheel while I sat in the middle (God bless bench seats in cars) with Shirley on the right.  Jerry would take off, screaming bloody murder as she drove shakily down the two lane road.  I would monitor her progress while Shirley and I…um…discussed politics.  Those were the days.

   Shirley and I married in 1961 with Ronny as my Best Man and Jerry as Shirley’s Maid of Honor.  It was a foregone conclusion that Ronny and Jerry were on their way to matrimony, but their schedule became clouded when it was discovered that Geraldine had developed cancer.  1962 became a year of triumph and tragedy as Ronny and Jerry married, and Geraldine succumbed to her battle with cancer.  For me, my best friend had become my (step)brother-in-law. We foursome became even closer.

   Our closeness took a hit in 1963 as I joined the United States Air Force.  Don’t ask me why, I just did.  The result was Shirley and I became somewhat nomadic for four years as we bounced between assignments in Texas, Indiana, and Germany.  Ronny had followed in his father’s footsteps and became a minister, and our paths seemed to drift farther and farther apart.  Fortunately the distance apart was only a geographic distance, and we managed to keep in touch and visit one another when the opportunity arose.  Ronny became a successful pastor and teacher, and Jerry a faithful, dutiful minister’s wife while enjoying the coming of beautiful children.  They have been a great service to churches throughout the United Pentecostal Church organization.  Shirley and I have lived in 29 different locations, but are happily retired and settled within easy distance of our kids and grandkids.

     In 2011, Shirley and I celebrated our fiftieth wedding anniversary in Hawaii.  A year later, Ronny and Jerry celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary with a grand reception at Bethel Tabernacle.  A veritable Who’s Who of the United Pentecostal Church was in attendance, and it was clear that their outpouring of love and appreciation for Ronny and Jerry (excuse me, Reverend Ronald and Sister Jerry Guidroz) was genuine.  Their children talked about their parents’ stability, and various ministers talked about their dedication. Given the opportunity, I would have talked about their friendship, and what it has meant to Shirley and me.
     Shirley and I have settled into a retirement routine involving part time jobs and lots of rest and relaxation; whereas Ronny and Jerry are constantly on the move ministering in churches across the United States.  Just hearing their travel schedule is enough to wear us out.  Regardless of our conflicting views concerning how time should be spent in one's latter years, we two couples manage to touch base occasionally to reminisce and enjoy again our time together.  In Proverbs 18:24, there is a scripture which, although describing God, also describes my brother-in-law, Ronny Guidroz…”and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.”

Cedar Bayou and the Downing Boat



The boat and I, 1956

     A few months ago, I wrote about my 2019 trip to Wyoming and the fishing trip I enjoyed with my brother-in-law, Buddy, and his son-in-law, Mitch.  I still think back with a certain bit of awe when I remember the boat that Mitch brought for us to use.  It was a brand-new Ranger Sport Fisherman with a 250 hp Mercury outboard, a 9.9 hp backup motor and an electric trolling motor connected to GPS.  What this meant was once you found the fish, a tap on the GPS would lock in your position and the trolling motor would automatically adjust to keep you in the location where the fish were.  Naturally, it was equipped with sonar and stereo, and it could hit 60 mph without even breaking a sweat.  A gleaming, sparkling, colorful, sleek fiberglass torpedo, it was a work of art.  I’m sure all these features I’ve just described are old hat to contemporary boatmen, but to a guy like me hopelessly locked in the middle of the last century, this boat was as impressive as a ride in one of the space shuttles (which of course have been retired because even THEY are obsolete.)

     I happen to be glancing through some of my old (what else?) family photos a few days ago and ran across some pictures of the boat my dad and I spent many hours in during my early youth.  Dad was always a fisherman, as were most of his brothers and sisters.  In the early fifties, when I was just a small kid, I would go with my dad and uncles as they fished along Cedar Bayou in Baytown, Texas.  They especially enjoyed fishing the rice canals thereabouts because there were some monster catfish which lurked in the rather muddy looking water.  I can remember especially a 47-pounder my Uncle Orville caught.  Hanging in his garage, it was as big as I was.  They also enjoyed fishing in some of the backwaters of the Trinity Bay portion of Galveston Bay.  Back in those days, especially because they enjoyed fishing at night, a fisherman had to be watchful for alligators in the swampy parts of the shores.  My dad told the story of one of his brothers being run over by an alligator one night as they were walking through the tall grass near the water’s edge.  Apparently alligators, when on land and suddenly spooked, will make a beeline for the water.  My dad and uncle were walking single file along the shore when my uncle slipped on some mud and fell, hitting the water with a big splash.  Up the hill a ways was a big alligator which heard the splash and headed for the water and safety.  The fact that my uncle was in the way made no difference to the alligator, and the spooked beast clamored over my uncle and disappeared into the water.  My dad and his other brothers, being kind, gentle souls, never let my uncle forget that event for the rest of his life.

    But progress is unstoppable, and Dad began thinking about a boat and the greater access to fishing areas such an item would offer.  In the mid fifties, the local Sears, Roebuck and Company store in Baytown was located at 721 West Texas.  Sears was the big dog in retailing at the time, selling everything from clothing to hardware, to sporting goods, to boats, and even to cars.  Yes, friends, I can remember when brand new Allstate automobiles were lined up on the Sears parking lot for sale.  Anyway, inside the store there was a marine section, complete with boats, motors and all the goodies.  On this particular day, Dad and I went to look at boats.  Little did I know at the time that the same area in the store where the boats were sold would , eighteen years later, be the toy department and I would be the manager.

    Think about this, in 1955 the average boat owned by the average fisherman was ten to twelve feet long with an outboard motor ranging from 15 to 22 horsepower.  The boat was made of sheet plywood cut to fit a frame of hardwood, or actual planks of wood screwed to a frame.  With lots of joints came a common problem with leaks, so most boats had a raised floor, usually a couple of inches above the hull, so that as the water leaked in the boat, the passengers did not have to traipse through the water.  As the boat was underway, a drain plug could be pulled in the back of the boat to dump the water, but one also had to remember to replace the plug when stopped. Otherwise, what goes out will come back in.

    In 1955, however, the Wolverine Boat Company came out with a great new innovation.  The Wolverine boat was made of mahogany plywood, but as the plywood was being made, it was molded over a boat frame so that the wood was formed in the shape of a hull.  It was incredibly strong, and with no seams or joints, was practically leak proof.  There was no tell tale raised floor because the boat did not leak, and it had a deep bow which took heavy waves like a knife through butter.  It was the cutting edge of boat technology; plus, it was a big boat…14 feet long!  Dad took one look and was captured.  He took home the boat on a new Sears trailer, with the biggest engine he could get…a 22 hp Evinrude.

     The boat was an open design, with a covered front deck, but had no steering wheel, so Dad had to sit in the back and steer the boat with the motor's handle.  After a few trips up and down Cedar Bayou, Dad decided he needed a steering wheel, and thus entered our neighbor across the street, Otto Purfurst.  Otto was a German in every good sense of the word.  His speech was accented, and he could not stand idleness.  He and Dad were good friends, and Otto offered to install a wheel on the boat.  Rather than put the wheel all the way to the front, he put in a center console and fabricated all the hardware for the controls himself.  It worked like a charm, but he wasn’t finished.  In those days, it was a real task to launch a boat.  Basically one would back the trailer into the water to the point that the trailer would disappear under the surface.  With luck, the boat would be buoyant enough for you to push the boat off the trailer, but it was always a lot of work.

    Otto had an idea to avoid all that hassle, and he offered to build Dad a new trailer.  His design looked like a normal trailer, but along the middle of the trailer were three rollers from old wringer washers (I’m sure you remember those!).  These were attached together by cables which ran to a lever on the front of the trailer close to the trailer hitch.  One had only to pull back on the lever, and the boat would be raised about two inches, sitting on the three rollers.  You could push the boat off the trailer with one hand.  The added bonus was one did not have to back so far into the water when dropping off or picking up.  At the front of the trailer was a winch, and, when loading the boat, one had only to hook the cable to the bow of the boat and it was an easy crank to reload.  It was a marvel of engineering at the time.  People used to watch us launch or pick up the boat and ask us where they could buy a trailer like that.



1973

   After a few runs, Dad decided the Evinrude wasn’t enough.  Besides, Johnson Marine had just come out with the SeaHorse 25, and Dad traded engines.  Now, with the Wolverine molded plywood boat, the fancy trailer, and the big SeaHorse 25, we had the biggest, baddest boat on Cedar Bayou.  Adjusting the fuel mixture while underway, we could just touch 30 mph, and we thought we were flying.  Over the next few summers we took a lot of people from our church boating with us, not to mention Downing family members from near and far.  I remember one person especially.  Gus Locklear, one of the Locklear/Downing clan from Oklahoma, came to Baytown fairly regularly, working with Dad at the roofing company.  He loved to ski, and Dad enjoyed trying his best to throw Gus off his skis.  We would roar up and down Cedar Bayou cutting all sorts of shenanigans, but I never remember Gus falling.  He was a good skier.

    One time we were out fishing at the mouth of the bayou where it empties into the bay.  With us was a long time family friend (my memory is a little vague…I don’t think he was relative), Harold Linderman.  Harold like to catfish with a humongous weight on his line with a big hook.  This one time he pulled back and with a mighty swing aimed for the center of the bayou.  Dad felt a heavy thud of the weight and then felt the hook go deep into his neck right behind his right ear.  Stunned, he fell back into his seat while Harold turned pale and yelled.  I was transfixed.  Harold began to yell, “Oh, my god, R.L!” as Dad gained his senses and realized what had happened.  Dad told Harold to get the pliers and pull out the hook.  Harold grabbed the pliers, but his hands were shaking like he had palsy.  “Pull it out!” said Dad, and Harold got ready, then said, “R.L., I think I’m going to faint!”  “It’s got to come out…pull it!” Dad replied, and Harold clamped down on the hook, closed his eyes, and yanked.  Out the hook came.  They decided they had better go find a doctor.  As we traveled back to the dock, dad reached down occasionally and got a handful of salt water and put on his wound.  The doctor dressed the spot, and later Dad said it never even got sore.

    For fifteen years, the boat got heavy use, and space here does not allow me to describe all our experiences.  In the seventies, after Dad had experienced several heart problems, he handed the boat down to me.  I upgraded the boat a little bit, installing a windshield and moving the steering wheel to the front.  The old Johnson had become a little cranky and was a challenge to get started.  By the mid seventies wooden boats had practically disappeared, and fiberglass had taken control.  Not to mention, engine power had increased dramatically.  One of the last boat trips I enjoyed was when my brother-in-law, Buddy, and I went out into Galveston Bay and did a little fishing some time in 1973.  In 1974, facing a major move to Wyoming, I did something I regret to this day…I sold the boat.  The fellow came to look at the boat, and I started the old Johnson SeaHorse 25 up for him.  It ran beautifully, and he took the boat and went away. 

     A few months later, I happened to run into my boat buyer in a store.  He said he was happy with the boat, but once he got the boat home from our house, the motor never once started.  He finally bought a larger motor.  I think the old motor was just homesick.

Build an Ark

     “These are the times that try men’s souls!” the author famously wrote, and though these words were written back in what we would classify as the “good old days,” they seem to be especially true in our present world.  America is at a low point in its confidence in its government, its leaders, and even its citizenry.  One need only to listen to a few politicians (from our president to our local dog catcher) or cable news commentaries to quickly determine that truth has been thrown out the window in favor of unsubstantiated claims and impossible promises…all for the primary goals of winning/retaining office or advancing an agenda.  It is a general curse; both major political parties have been captured by the lunatic fringes whose mantras denounce democratic communication and compromise.  The result has been a paralyzed government unable to see to the needs of its constituents and unable to break the political logjam.

    Although we point condemning fingers at government and rant about the inability of our leaders to manage the ship of state in a responsible manner, the fact is, government is a reflection of its citizenry, and just as government has perfected the skill of dodging responsibility, we the citizens have raised the art of passing the buck to a level that probably makes our politicians green with envy.  Being no longer responsible for our actions, we label alcoholism and drug use as “illnesses” which we somehow contract.  If we accidentally shoot ourselves in the foot, we blame the bullet.  Violent actions on our highways are now described as “road rage” which of course is caused by some sort of terrible stress we happened to be suffering at the time.  Social rudeness, vulgarity, and aggression are labeled as freedoms of speech and expression, and anyone who objects to these “expressions” is branded as repressive and narrow-minded.

    If we claim to be Christian and subscribe to the fundamental doctrines as presented in the Bible, what do we do when we see our society crumbling around us?  It is not a matter of persecution…a majority of non-church goers consider Christians as nice people who make good neighbors but are hard to find on Sunday mornings.  You know, nice, but relatively harmless, and definitely not dangerous.  However, the concept of danger is an integral part of our society in this current age, and with good reason.  Our society has become increasingly violent, and the general philosophy concerning violence is to fight fire with fire.  Think about the recent shootings in...well, you name it...they seem to be occurring with increased frequency across the country.  What were the results in each event?  An uptick in the sale of weapons in the area.  We are reaching the point where we perceive any stranger as a potential threat and act accordingly.  We are vigilant wherever we go, be it a Walmart, a gas station, or a restaurant.

     In Genesis 6: 11-22 we read the story of Noah and his building of the ark.  The scriptures state that with the ark, Noah was able to save himself and his family when his world as he knew it was destroyed.  I am convinced that for us to survive in the 21^st century, we, too, have to build arks.  They should not be arks made of gopherwood and pitch, but rather spiritual arks which achieve the same goal as the original ark of wood…save our families.

     It is interesting to read the account of the building of the ark because it offers a pattern for our spiritual arks today. God was very specific in the instructions for the building of the boat.  The length, width, height, materials, and design of the ark were exactly determined.  I was amazed to notice that the original word for “pitch” as used in Genesis 6:14, is also found in Leviticus, but there it is translated “atonement.”  The word “atonement” means “satisfaction given for wrong doing,” meaning a payment to correct a wrong that was done.  The New Testament states that Jesus’s blood was the atonement for our sins, meaning that his blood removed our sins.  Think about this…without the pitch (atonement) the ark never would have floated.  Pitch is a natural substance that was used for centuries in wooden boats to seal the wood from leakage.  Today we have massive churches which appear to be great arks of safety, and yet they do not accept the concept of atonement through the blood of Jesus Christ or the receiving of His spirit (Holy Ghost) as specifically described in the book of Acts of the Apostles. As a result, these modern, great arks will never float when the flood waters (which can be best described as all the negative influences which prevail in our current world) begin to rise, and the trusting souls therein will perish.

    For our spiritual arks to float, they must be sealed with spiritual pitch, and herein lies our quandary.  We try to skimp on the use of our spiritual pitch.  Somehow, I cannot imagine Noah walking through the ark and, upon seeing a wooden seam sealed with the protecting pitch, asking himself, “I wonder if the ark will still float if I remove this bit of pitch?”  Suppose in his curiosity he removed the strip of pitch, and, sure enough, water began to come into the boat.  But it was only a little bit of water, so, unconcerned, he wandered off.  Because he had some other use for the pitch, he began to remove more strips, each time letting in some additional flood water, but each time the amount of water seemed insignificant.  The problem with this scenario is as the small bits of water accumulated, the ark would have sunk further into the flood waters, and its ability to weather the heavy storms would have been sharply diminished.

    This is exactly the same dilemma we face in our churches today.  Though our churches may appear to be sealed with the “pitch” of the Holy Ghost, we who are in the ark of safety seem determined to see how many strips of pitch we can remove and stay afloat. Each small strip we remove and each worldly influence which we permit inside the church seem so insignificant at the time that we justify our actions by saying, “I don’t see any scripture against that!”  Yet with each bit of pitch removed, the integrity of the ship is compromised to the point that when a great storm arises, we may not be able to stay afloat.

    The following examples can be written off as the rambling of a man hopeless trapped in the past, so I ask you in advance to forgive me   Our former church had a second level balcony in the main auditorium, and I had visited that lofty area only a couple of times.  In this particular service, I went to the upper deck for some reason and spent a few minutes watching the service.  My eyes wandered over the audience below and I was astounded at the number of little glowing screens scattered throughout the seating area.  There were a few adults with their iPods (I’m sure they had Bible apps!) and the usual teenagers on their cell phones, but the majority were small children playing video games, totally oblivious to the service in progress.  My mind flashed back to the days of my early childhood when I watched services although I did not understand what was going on.  I still remember how, when those worshipping saints shouted the victory, the dust would rise from the seams in the wooden floor, and I learned that, when our pastor closed his Bible, he was about finished. Years later, when as a teenager I gave my heart to God, I did so on the basis of those early experiences.  I have to wonder…at what point in a child’s development do you take away their video games and tell them from that moment on he/she needs to pay attention in church.  Additionally, when you finally pronounce that judgement upon your child, what are the chances of the child following your instruction?  I think…slim.  It's already too late.

    In another service, I was at the altar after the sermon praying with someone.  There were many others praying, tears were flowing, and loud praise was rising.  I happened to glance around and noticed two cute little girls, probably five or six years old bouncing around the altar area taking in the action with wide eyes and lots of excited whispering.  For a second, my teacher spirit rose up in me, and I was about to tell them to sit down and be quiet.  But I caught myself and determined, “No, they need to see this.”  Though they may not have understood what was happening, God can plant a seed of remembrance in their minds, and, who knows?  Some day in the future they may be drawn in earnest to an altar.

    In Hebrew 11:7 we read that “By faith Noah, being warned of God…moved with fear, prepared an ark to the saving of his house; by which he condemned the world and became heir of the righteousness which is by faith.”  Noah followed the instruction of God explicitly and in doing so served as a pattern for us.  If we have an ark…it is no time to be removing the pitch.