kenlassblog

When I was a young boy I would excitedly await the delivery of the afternoon newspaper.  I would immediately rifle through it to find the comics, and my very favorite strip was Dick Tracy.  Clad in his bright yellow trench coat, Dick was the master sleuth and police detective who always identified the bad guy and always brought him to justice.  Part of me always wondered why someone who wanted to operate in secret, lurking behind the shadows, would want to wear a bright yellow trench coat.  But I figured Dick had his reasons. 

By far, the coolest thing about Dick Tracy was his wristwatch.  It was actually a two way radio through which he could talk to headquarters and fellow policemen on the beat.  I fantasized about having such an incredible gadget.  I would pretend I was Dick Tracy, and I would speak into my bare wrist and make believe I was wearing the magic watch. 

A few years ago, when I heard that Apple had come out with a watch that you can take phone calls on, I splurged and ordered one for myself and one for Sharon.  As soon as they arrived, I ripped open the box, set it up and slapped it on my wrist, immediately asking Sharon to call me.  I think I squealed with glee when my watch ring tone sounded off and I pushed the little green button. 

“Hello?”  she said. 

“HELLO!”  I screamed ecstatically into the watch.  “Who is this?” 

“This is Sharon.  I’m standing right next to you.” 

“Hello Sharon!  How are you?” 

She rolled her eyes and hung up.  No matter.  After seventy years, I had made it.  I was Dick Tracy.  I could call people on my watch.  Now if only I could find a bright yellow trench coat….. 

Actually, I found it quite amazing what my Apple watch could do.  I could watch TV on it, take a picture with it, monitor my heartbeat, send a text, order a sub sandwich, use a compass, check my email, and much more.  It’s basically a smartphone on your arm.  Dick would be jealous of me! 

But now I’m beginning to wonder how much of a blessing it really is.  Last Sunday at 7:45 in the morning, we were in the car pulling out of the garage, whereupon my watch buzzed and informed me “You are six minutes away from First Baptist Church Trussville”.  The next day, as Sharon was heading out, her watch correctly anticipated she was “ten minutes from Trussville Target.”  Our watches not only know where we are, but where we’re going.  In other words, our watches are watching us.  Taking note of where we go and what we do.  Letting us know if we are doing it correctly and on time. 

In fact, mine has gotten a little bossy.  It tells me how much exercise I still need to do that day, when I should stand up, and when I should relax and be “mindful”, whatever the heck that means.  It tells me to go get a package at my front door, that I should be on the lookout for my neighbor’s lost dog, and that it’s my last chance to buy speakers at the electronics store before they are no longer on sale.  It even scolds me when I plug in my earphones to listen to music, telling me the volume is too loud.  Dick Tracy would never put up with this. 

I guess all of this is supposed to make my life easier, but it seems a little creepy.  Is it going to start telling me not to order that banana pudding for dessert because it’s got too much sugar?  Is it going to report me to the police when I gently roll through that stop sign?  (Not that I ever do that)  Is it going to change the channel on my TV when I decide to watch trash? (I might do that)  Will it inform me that I need to change my little grandson’s diaper because he’s had another accident?  (I’ll let Sharon do that) 

Maybe I’m just overreacting.  You have to use the technology, not let it use you.  That’s what one of my tech-savvy friends told me.  I spoke to him through my watch you know.  So from now on I’m going to be more careful with the settings, and cut back on what the time piece has access to. 

That is, if my watch will let me. 

The suitcases were packed and loaded into the car.  Bags of snacks and toiletries and sun block were stuffed into the backseat.  Sharon and I were set to leave for a little Orange Beach getaway.  We like to go before schools leave out and the rates go up and the massive crowds gather. 

One last check through the house to make sure electrical appliances are turned off, doors locked, faucets not running, security system enabled.  All was good.  We excitedly opened the door to the stairs leading down to the garage….and there it was, sitting about halfway up the steps, looking us square in the face.  

It was a chipmunk.  Our Trussville home is surrounded by them.  One of them must have wandered in through an open garage door.  They are as cute as can be, until they’re in your house.   

I’m not sure who was more shocked, us or the chipmunk.  Upon seeing us, it darted down the stairs and took a hard right into the finished basement room.  Not quite knowing what to do, we followed it in and closed the door.  Maybe we could trap it and take it back outside.  What followed must have resembled one of those old Keystone Cops chase scenes.  Sharon grabbed a soft bag which had contained toys we saved for when the grandkids came over.  I had a small open cardboard box.  For roughly the next hour we ridiculously ran after this little guy, bumping into each other and knocking each other down, as it scurried from under the sofa to under the love seat, to behind the tread mill, to behind the TV stand, and then back under the sofa. 

That little fur ball was lightning fast, able to shift direction at right angles, so it had no problem evading our pathetic efforts.  Clearly there was too much operating space.  So we figured if we could force it to flee into the small, connected bathroom it would be easier to corner.  It took a while, but we finally managed to herd it into the little restroom.  Now we’ve got him!  We closed the door and quickly had it trapped behind the toilet. 

When I poked at it, the creature shot into Sharon’s soft bag, which scared the Jesus out of her.  She screamed and lurched backward.  It looked like the squirrel scene from the “Christmas Vacation” movie.  Somehow the chipmunk managed to leap out of the bag, land on the vanity, knock over a bottle of hand soap, and jump back down to the floor.  The doorknob to that bathroom has never closed securely, and apparently one of us had accidentally bumped the door ajar in all the chaos, enabling the animal to escape back into the big room. 

Frustrated and exhausted, we trudged after it, resigned to starting the process all over again.  But now there was no sign of the little troublemaker.  We overturned every piece of furniture, shook every nook and cranny.  Nothing.  We remembered that the squirrels and chipmunks loved to feast on the birdseed dropped to the ground by the sloppy birds who dine at our feeder.  Sharon laid out birdseed in the middle of the room, hoping to attract the rodent out into the open.  Still nothing.  Was it gone?  Did it crawl inside the sofa and get trapped amongst the springs and cushions?  Might it have gotten through the small crack at the bottom of the door and left the room? 

By this time, we were hours late leaving for our trip.  There was no time to go to a store and find a trap of some sort, then wait for the animal to be captured.  That could take days, and there was no guarantee it would even work.  Eventually, we just gave up.  We decided to stuff blankets into the cracks under the doors to the upstairs and the finished room downstairs in an attempt to at least confine the little pest.   It was time to admit defeat.  Just go to the beach and hope for the best. 

But the drama wasn’t over yet.  As we entered the garage, Sharon saw the chipmunk scurry across the floor and under my car.  Given renewed hope, we immediately opened both garage doors, and went about shaking and rattling everything in the basement, trying to flush it outside.  We never actually saw it leave, but once again there was no trace of it anywhere.  As we got in the car and pulled out into the driveway, I chose to believe the unwanted visitor had gleefully sprinted out into the yard to rejoin his family.  Sharon was not so sure. 

The beach was beautiful and relaxing as always, but it was hard not to wonder if we would return to Trussville to find our home chewed and clawed into shambles.  After four days, we arrived back, pulled into the garage, and began to cautiously look around the basement.  So far, so good.  No apparent damage.  But when Sharon opened the door to the stairs, she let out a gasp. 

There, at the base of the steps on the floor, lay the chipmunk, stiff as a board.  Apparently, it had gotten back into the stairwell, but was trapped there and perished.  I disposed of it with a shovel, all the while feeling a curious mix of emotion.  I should have been overjoyed and relieved that we no longer had to worry about a chipmunk in the house.  But somehow, looking at his sad little eyes, his buck teeth, that cute little double black stripe down his back, I felt a strange sadness that one of God’s beautiful, small creatures had to meet with such an unpleasant end.   

I may never again be able to watch a Chip ‘n Dale cartoon without tearing up a little bit. 

There was that time when I desperately wanted the attention of my two older brothers, so I deliberately annoyed them until they chased me through the house with bad intentions.  I knew you were in the kitchen.  You always seemed to be in the kitchen.  So I ran and hid behind you.  You shielded me from a certain beatdown and scolded them for not being sweet to their little brother.  This was a scene that repeated itself daily. 

There was the time my big brothers grew up and left home and I had to go to bed all by myself in the cavernous upper floor of our old house.  I would shudder under the covers as the raw winter wind whistled through the window sills and the walls creaked and groaned like a crying ghost.  I was convinced there were all manner of monsters up there ready to pounce on me.  So I would take my pillow and sneak down the stairs into your bedroom and lay down on the soft rug at the foot of your bed.  Dad would be snoring so loudly he never even heard me come in.  But I knew that you knew I was there.  You never said anything because we both knew if Dad woke up, he would send me back to the tower of terror. 

There was the time you spent all day at my bedside when I was in the hospital for a hernia operation.  In those days they didn’t allow parents to stay with their children overnight.  When the nurse said it was time for you to leave I threw a fit, terrified of spending the night in a strange place with no family around.  I remember you pleading with her to allow you to stay, and finally she relented. 

There were the times I tagged along with you as you walked to your mother’s house a few doors down to bring her mail in to her, as you did every day.  Grandma loved to bake and she always had a big slice of whatever sweet, delicious treat she had whipped up ready for me.  Until the time we arrived to find her lying on the floor, dead of a heart attack.  It was the first time, maybe the only time, I ever saw you cry. 

There were the times I was bored and you entertained me by luring me into a game of Scrabble.  You would regularly beat me like a rented mule because you had such a sharp mind, and because you had the Scrabble dictionary memorized.  To this day I still don’t think “dweezle” is a real word.  Especially when you built it in to a triple word score. 

There was the time you forbade me from going out for football.  You thought I was too small and the bigger guys would crush me.  It broke my heart because the football players were the most popular kids in my high school, not to mention they dated all the prettiest girls.  Today I have countless friends who walk with permanent limp, or can’t raise their arms above their shoulders, or have recurring headaches, and attribute all of it to their football days. 

There was the time when I stunned you and Dad by announcing that I wanted to drop out of college after two years, both of which you paid for, and instead attend a radio/tv/film school you had never heard of, which I also asked you to pay for.  Dad was dead against it, and you had your doubts, but you recognized it was my dream and you talked Dad into allowing me to chase it. 

There was the time in 1983 when I told you that Sharon and I were moving far away to Alabama.  After Dad passed away you bravely navigated some of the hugest and busiest airports in the country alone and flew to visit us and spend time with your grandchildren.  I brought you to church and introduced you to my Sunday School class.  Of course, they all fell in love with you and asked about you for many years. 

There was the time when you turned one hundred years old and the family threw you a big birthday party.  You had always played the ukelele and everybody wanted to hear you play again.  You strummed one song, I believe it was “Toot toot tootsie”, and then you handed the uke to me, because you were always uncomfortable being the center of attention. 

Then there was the time you turned one hundred and three, and you wondered why God had not called you home.  Nine months later He did. 

There were those times and so many more.  Just wanted to say thanks, Mom, and happy Mother’s Day.  Say hi to Dad for me. 

Hello.  My name is Ken.  And I’m a sodaholic.  To be more precise, I’m a diet sodaholic.  For most of my adult life I have been hooked on Diet Coke, Diet Pepsi, Diet Mountain Dew, Diet Sprite, you name it.  If you wrote the word “diet” on a bottle of dish washing liquid I would be tempted to drink it.  “But there’s no sugar!” I would proudly proclaim.  I convinced myself diet soda was healthier, despite the fact the list of ingredients resembles a recipe for motor oil. 

My family doctor tells me I should stop.  So does my neurologist, my urologist, my podiatrist, my dentist, my auto mechanic, and a guy at the gym named Gus who washes the towels.  So, God help me, I’m doing it.  I’m going cold turkey.  No more diet soda.  Instead I am determined to drink (ugh) water.  I don’t like tea.  Milk is for kids.  Alcohol is fattening.  So it’s water.  Just plain old water. 

Problem is, I hate water.  You can squeeze lemon into it, or drop a packet of Splenda into it, but it’s still boring old water.  I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to eating a bacon cheeseburger and french fries, and washing them down with…..water?  (ugh again)  Or enjoying a giant slice of pepperoni pizza topped off with a big gulp of….water?  How about a good ole southern barbecue plate with pulled pork, baked beans, cole slaw and…..water?  Yikes.  This is going to be hard. 

As I write this, I am in the first week of my new life.  I’m doing pretty well.  I haven’t had a diet soda all week.  Of course, it’s Monday morning but you have to start somewhere.  I think I’m going to be okay here at home.  But Sharon and I love to go out for lunch, and we can be regularly seen at Trussville area restaurants.  Our favorites include Edgar’s, Moe’s, Chicken Salad Chick, Full Moon and Zaxby’s.   

What do these establishments all have in common?  All of them allow you to draw your own drink after you order.  You learn a lot about yourself doing this.  Just how much will power do you have?  I give the nice lady behind the counter my food order, then I hesitate, struggling to get the next words out of my mouth.  After what seems like several minutes, I manage to groan in a low, pathetic voice “and I’ll just have water to drink.”  She gives me my cup and off I go to the drink machine.  This is the moment of truth.  It is hard enough to order water.  Unfair torture to have to tap it yourself.  

It would be so easy to push that Diet Coke button.  To savor that wonderful, carbonated mess flowing freely into my cup.  To slink away to my table and revel in my guilty pleasure.  But no, I won’t do it.  What kind of man would I be?  Surely I possess the inner strength and courage of my conviction to handle this moment.  So I do the only thing a real man would do.  I give my cup to Sharon and tell her to draw my drink, while I find a place for us to sit.  Hey, we’re not all cut out to be heroes.   

On the plus side, I have noticed that ordering water does have its financial rewards.  Most eating places are charging between two and four dollars for a drink, but nothing for water.  This can’t last forever.  A tightwad such as me (I prefer the word “frugal”) needs to take advantage of this policy.  It’s almost worth enduring the lack of taste.  Almost. 

Bottom line is, all of my doctors say switching to water will make you feel better, give you more energy, help you think more clearly.   

Well, it’s been nearly a whole day now.  I’m still waiting.  

So I was having this conversation with a friend the other day.  She’s 81 years old, looks twenty years younger, and is quite possibly the sweetest, kindest and friendliest person I know.  We were just making small talk which, of course, always leads to complaining about the weather.   It was a frigid January morning and we got on the subject of school kids having to wait outside for the bus in the cold. 

It was at this point I remarked that many of today’s kids are so lucky that their parents drive them to school each day.  I groused about spending many mornings in my over-sized parka, shivering out on the road in the sub-freezing temperatures, waiting for a rickety old bus to pick me up.  I swear they forgot to put shock absorbers on that thing, because every crack and bump in the road sent us flying off the seats toward the ceiling.  I was one of the first pick-ups on the route, so I had to endure that bumpy journey for over an hour every day of my school life, right up through graduation.  Nothing gets your school day off to a better start than showing up queasy and car sick. 

Poor, poor me.  I guess I was sort of fishing for my friend to feel sorry for me and sympathize.  Instead, she broke into a knowing smile and told me this story:   

She was born in 1942 in Alberta, Alabama, a little community about 30 miles from Selma.  Alberta was a mixture of black and white folks who got along and lived together in relative harmony.  But schools were segregated then.  So at the age of six my friend, who is black, began to attend Alberta Junior High, which was actually an elementary, middle and junior high combined.  The school was five miles away. 

School bus?  Nope.  Every morning all the black kids in the neighborhood would gather as a group and walk it.  Rain or shine, they made the trek.  She recalled it even snowed occasionally.  She had a vivid memory of walking across grass that crackled and snapped after an overnight frost.  

I stopped her there.  Wait a minute, I said.  Aren’t you exaggerating?  Isn’t this one of those “I walked to school in the snow every day uphill both ways” type of stories?  She insisted it was absolutely true, and she had the detail to back it up.  Five miles every day.  Her mind is sharp as a tack and her memory is specific and comprehensive.  Besides, I don’t think her deep Christian values would allow her to tell a lie even if she wanted to.  She’s well beyond the point of needing to impress anybody. 

She went on, revealing that the daily trudge was especially challenging because she had a lame right leg as a child, and she had to kind of drag it as she walked.  She suspected it was some sort of polio, before they knew what polio was. Thankfully the condition improved as she got older.   

Upon finally arriving at school, they would enter a building with no central heating or air, and no cafeteria.  The kids brought their own lunch.  Heat would come from a tall pot belly stove in the room.  Her lunch often consisted of biscuits and syrup.  She would have to wait her turn to put them on the stove to warm up.  There was a dress code.  Girls were not allowed to wear pants.  But during the cold winters they were permitted to wear them underneath their dresses, so long as they took them off once in the building.   

At the closing bell it was back out on the street for the long march home.  She did this every day through the eighth grade.  It was not until high school she was able to board a bus that took her eighteen miles away to Wilcox County Training School.   

She never forgot her humble childhood.  It motivated her to work hard to build a better life for herself, which she clearly accomplished.   

Wow.  After hearing her story, I felt pretty foolish complaining about my experience.  It certainly gave me a new perspective.  Suddenly that bumpy bus ride I took every day seemed like a blessing instead of a curse.  There’s a lesson in here somewhere.  Appreciate what you have, because many others have a far more difficult life than you.  I learned that from my friend.   

I suspect there is a lot more I can learn from her. 

In the summer of 1971 I made a life-changing decision.  I chose to drop out of college and attend Radio-TV-Film school in frigid Minneapolis, Minnesota.  For the first time, I would be in a place where I knew absolutely no one, far away from family, friends and familiar surroundings.  

I will never forget the feeling I had watching my parents drive away, leaving me alone in this big city, after helping me find a room to rent. I didn’t own a car. Didn’t own much of anything except a small portable black and white TV and a few changes of clothing.

I felt incredibly lonely and a bit scared.  But shortly after school began I met two classmates named Steve and Dan.  Steve was from upstate Minnesota and Dan was from Iowa.  It didn’t take long to sense they had the same off beat sense of humor as me, and we began to cut up and joke around together. It was like we hit it off immediately, quickly becoming buddies. Best buddies. Before long we were sharing an apartment together.  The school’s program was a one year curriculum, and during that year we were the three musketeers, doing everything together, or at least as much as three broke young guys in a big town could afford to do.

We went to cheap movies, threw the frisbee around at the park, found free outdoor concerts to hang out at, and existed on White Castle hamburgers. Sometimes we would stay up all night playing poker, using Cheerios as currency. But mostly we spent endless hours excitedly listening to local radio deejays and watching TV newscasts, studying and discussing how they wielded their craft. We were so pumped up about doing that sort of thing as a career, sharing our dreams about someday becoming big time broadcasting personalities. Our ambitions bonded us closely together. The world would be our oyster. It was one of the best years of my life.

But time marches on, and upon graduation we vowed to stay in touch forever, as we headed off to different parts of the country to begin our media careers.  We found that remaining close was easier said than done. In those days staying in touch required more effort than it does now.  There was no internet, no smart phones, no text messaging or email.  You either had to pay for a long distance phone call, or take the time to sit down and write a letter. We managed to pull it off for a couple years, but eventually we all got married, started raising kids, moved around to different cities, you know how it goes.  Communication dwindled and eventually dried up. 

In the blink of an eye, 44 years had gone by since I had seen or talked to them last.  Once retired, I was determined to track them down, anxious to catch up, to learn where their lives and careers had taken them. Finding them wouldn’t be a problem I thought, not in this wired up age.  I scoured the internet, searching under every name, phrase and location I could think of.  But no luck.  It was like they had disappeared.  There didn’t seem to be any digital footprint of them anywhere.  Then, one day, I must have stumbled upon the right search phrase.  A link on Dan popped up on my screen. 

Ecstatic, I immediately clicked on it. The article that came up on my laptop caused me to go numb all over.  It was an obituary.  Dan had died in 2003 of cancer.  The article said he had been working as the morning show deejay at a country radio station in Madison, South Dakota.  That brought a melancholy smile to my face. That was so Dan. He loved country music and I’ll bet that was his dream job. He must have been popular, because the local newspaper had a huge write-up on his passing. He was just 47 years old.  We hadn’t spoken in over four decades, yet when I learned of his passing I felt as though a part of my life died with him. 

I’ve never located any information on Steve.  I pray he is still out there somewhere, and that life has treated him kindly.  I hope all his dreams came true, as most of mine did.

Good friends are a special gift from God.  If you are blessed to have them, don’t ever let those relationships wither away.  There will come a time, all too quickly, when they cannot be retrieved.

I have good news.  In this age of huge, urban, metropolitan areas soaking up all the people and dictating the culture, I am pleased to report that Small Town, USA is alive and well.  I know this because Sharon and I recently took a nine hour car trip to Branson, Missouri for a little vacation break.  Branson was awesome, but I will write about that another day. 

The most intriguing part of the journey was the drive through the Ozark Mountains.  A lovely romp on US Highways 412 and 65 through breathtaking autumn colors and majestic mountain vistas.  Miles and miles of uncivilized countryside, interrupted every so often by tiny communities that have somehow managed to survive the epic migration to the big cities. 

The names of these little towns have real character.  Sharon and I enjoy trying to guess the stories behind them. Some are easy.  For example, Blue Eye (population 46) must have reflected the facial features of its founder.  Rose Bud (population 494) clearly came from the gardening habits of somebody important.  Curves (no population listed) is an obvious reference to the zig zagging roads up and down the hillsides.  Marked Tree (population 2,286) is pretty self explanatory.   

But there are many town names that are more enigmatic.  Yellville (population 1,178) must be very noisy.  Gassville (population 2,171) was either named after the number of filling stations, or local folks who ate too much spicy food.  I thought maybe Bellefonte (population 411) was named after Harry, the famous singer, until I realized it’s a different spelling.  Lead Hill (population 274) might refer to metal discovered in the ground.  There must have been a lot of burning going on in Ash Flat (population 1,137). 

My favorite town name was Smackover (population 1,630) where discipline must be very strict.  Then there were a few villages where I don’t even want to know the name origins, such as Weiner (population 647) and Bald Knob (population 2,522).  We were impressed by the little burg of Valley Springs, whose welcome sign stated its population was just 134, yet they had their own high school.  The school building was roughly the size of the Chick-Fil-A in Trussville.   

Traveling through these rural hamlets can make you work up an appetite.  We stopped in Bee Branch, Arkansas and checked out a gas station called Doublebee’s Gas It & Grab It.  Best fried chicken in all of the Ozarks I reckon.  Sometimes our trip seemed downright biblical.  We saw road signs directing us to places such as Canaan, Judea, Egypt and Palestine.  One town had a shop called “Guitars, Guns & Knives”.  Sounds like the title of an old country song.   

We noticed the “hub” of each of these wide spots in the road centered around four basic things.  A bank, a gas station, a Dollar General, and a Baptist Church.  This confirms my long-held suspicion that if you have a little money, gas, food and God, you have everything you need.   

You cross a lot of creeks in these parts, and most every one has a fun name.  We went over Dead Timber Creek, Huzzah Creek, Crooked Creek and Little Mingo Creek.  My personal favorite was Hog Thief Creek.  Must have been a hangout for pig rustlers back in the day.   

When you’ve been driving through boroughs of a few hundred people for several hours, a city like Harrison (population 13,069) seems akin to New York City.  Here you find rare sites such as a movie theater, a barber shop and a furniture store.  They even had a dentist and a post office!  And a four lane street!   

The adventure coming home was a little more intense.  Have you ever been at the complete mercy of your GPS?  Out in the middle of nowhere with no clue where you are, relying solely on the directions your device is giving you?  That was our experience when the gadget told us we had to take an “alternate route” to avoid a road closure at the Tennessee border.  We kept getting diverted on to roads that became more and more remote, and eventually wound up on an unpaved gravel connection between two state highways.  Just about the time I started thinking about writing my eulogy for when our bodies would be discovered, the pavement reappeared and we were greatly relieved to see a sign welcoming us to Beaver, Arkansas.  Population 64.  The rustic, two-pump gas station was a beautiful site. And if the doors to the little Baptist Church hadn’t been locked, I would have stopped in to give thanks. 

Eventually we made it home to Trussville which I suddenly realized was many times the size of any town we had been through in the last seven days. Of course, we waited forever to make a left turn off busy Highway Eleven to get into our subdivision. 

I’ll bet they don’t have that problem in Smackover. 

(kenlassblog.net) 

He stood nervously behind the lectern in front of a large Sunday School class. He had little confidence in his ability as a speaker, and had brought a handful of note cards to help him get through it. But he knew this was a story that didn’t translate well to notes. It had to come from the heart. A story he felt compelled to share with anyone who would listen. So he had begun to seek small groups to talk to, and this was his first.

It was really the story of his entire life, but his time in front of the group was limited. So he began in the middle. It had been quite a year for him. It began with he and his wife rededicating their Christian faith in church. Shortly after, he determined to get up the courage to witness to his sister who had fallen away. He had put that off long enough. It was time. He brought her a Bible and did his best to lead her back to God. Her response was tepid at best.

In the spring he accompanied a Men on Mission group on a journey to Maryland where they were to build a new church. He had always been a skilled build-it and fix-it man, something he much preferred to public speaking. A few days into the mission, he was working on the new building when he began to feel chest pains. This wasn’t indigestion. He knew the difference. The pain kept getting worse and, though he hated to leave his fellow workers, eventually he conceded the need to be taken to a local emergency room. By coincidence, his wife happened to call him from home in Moody, Alabama just to say hello and ask how his day was going. Not so good, he replied. He then informed her he was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. He told her not to worry. He’d been through stuff like this before. He’d be all right.

He was wrong.

Doctors determined he had a brain bleed. It wasn’t his first. He’d had them before and still carried the stent in his head to prove it. But this one was more severe. Gradually it began to shut down his bodily functions, and ultimately he fell unconscious. He had often heard stories about folks who have had near death experiences. How they saw heaven, and saw loved ones who had gone before. Saw the beauty and the peace. He had always looked forward to that journey one day, but this would turn out to be a vastly different path.

Instead he told the group he actually saw hell. He saw the lake of fire. It was real. It was burning the walls of the new church he had been working on. He felt the pain of his skin burning. He says he cried out to God, saying this was not what he had been promised by the Scripture. He pleaded to be delivered from that awful place.

When he woke up, he was in a different hospital, his head resting on a pillow that was wet from his crying tears. He was surrounded by his wife and adult kids. He had been transferred to a major facility in Baltimore in a desperate attempt to save his life. His church family had arranged flights and hotels for his loved ones to get to Maryland to be with him in his final hours. He couldn’t help noticing the doctors and nurses appeared surprised he had awakened. It was clear everyone expected him to be dead.

Not only was he very much alive, but he experienced a remarkably quick recovery. Within days he was on a plane with his family heading home. His story could have ended there. That, in itself, was evidence enough, he thought, of God’s power and influence in his life. But the thing he believed most miraculous was waiting for him when he got home.

Upon arriving, he was contacted by his sister. She told him she had been praying mightily for him. That she had been overcome with the feeling that Satan was punishing him because of what he was trying to do for her. She said her faith had been rekindled by his safe return.

It was all an incredible spiritual revelation to him. Over the next few months he felt God leading him to find audiences for his experience. He had a message to deliver. Prayer works. Faith will be rewarded.

His time was up. He finished his talk, thanked the group for the opportunity, gathered up his note cards and began to walk toward the door. There was silence for a moment, and thoughts went racing through his mind. Would anybody believe it? Be inspired by it? Did he tell it well enough?

Suddenly, the people in the room exploded into applause and expressions of gratitude. A big smile of relief rippled across his face. He realized then it truly was a story worth telling. No matter how nervous, how uncomfortable he was telling it, the effort was worth it. Faith really is rewarded.

Word would get around quickly. There would be more lecterns, more groups to stand in front of. More note cards. More people who needed to hear.

That would be okay. He was ready now.

Driving through your neighborhood these days may bring you to a startling realization. Halloween has gotten big. I mean that figuratively and literally. The number and size of Halloween lawn decorations have exploded. I dare say it has begun to rival Christmas in popularity.

Which I am not at all sure is a good thing. While the themes of Christmas are generally positive, happy and even spiritual, the concepts of Halloween seem to be getting darker and more graphic. It was not always so. Lawn decor used to be laden with friendly, white-sheeted ghosts, smiling pumpkins and an occasional benign witch who never did anything more threatening than stir a cauldron.

But these days bigger is all the rage. Not to mention scarier. Giant skeletons and monsters with jagged fangs and claws, wearing evil grins, some of them leaning forward as if about to pounce on you. Massive spider webs with humongous spiders heading down toward you. We’ve come a long way from Casper the Friendly Ghost.

It’s not cheap to go this route. I saw a nine foot, animated grim reaper listed on one website for $209. A twelve foot giant skeleton had a price tag of $99.98. That’s a lot of cash to turn your front yard into a scene from Friday the 13th. But it’s a price more and more folks are willing to pay for the opportunity to send a chill through the neighborhood kids as they pass by. Adults too.

America has become obsessed with being scared. Have you checked out the movies lately? The horror genre has never been more popular, even when it’s not Halloween season. TV shows like The Walking Dead are among the most watched. I stumbled upon a website titled “The 20 Best Horror Shows on TV Now”. I didn’t even know there were twenty horror shows on TV.

What is it about being frightened that seems so appealing? Psychologists say getting scared out of your wits releases a hormone in your body called dopamine, which they claim is stimulating. They also say the feeling of emerging safely from a terrifying experience, such as watching a horror flick, gives one a sense of accomplishment. The same thrill you might get from conquering a high speed roller coaster.

This is not true for everybody. I prefer to chicken out of scary situations. I’d rather get my adrenalin rush watching my favorite football team score a touchdown, or hiding behind the drapes while playing hide and seek with my grandkids, only to discover they had long since lost interest in the game and have gone outside to play. Yes, that makes me eminently dull and boring. But at least I don’t have to worry about crapping my pants while watching some serial killer ravage the suburbs.

I’m trying really hard not to have the grumpy old curmudgeonly “get off my lawn” take on this. I get that it’s all supposed to be in good fun. Kids like to be scared, so long as they know it’s controlled. But I do wish the season could evolve into something a bit less gory and a little more playful. I truly appreciate our local churches who take the edge off of the creepiness by putting on fall festivals that emphasize more wholesome adventures.

Anyway, I hope your biggest problem this Halloween is buying way too much candy, only to discover the kids don’t trick or treat in your neighborhood anymore. Meaning, of course, you have to eat it all.

Now that’s really scary.