A few weeks ago, a close friend made a comment that I have mulled over ever since. He said the Christian Army is the only army in the world that snipes at and takes out its own wounded and fallen soldiers. I was simultaneously intrigued and appalled at the statement. But is it true?
In modern warfare, an army will go to almost any lengths to rescue its own soldiers who have fallen, wounded but alive, or have been captured by the enemy. The Marines have a savage and historic code of honor, stained with blood over many years; they will not leave behind their fallen wounded, period. Last year, Israel waged a weeks-long battle against Hezbollah, a terrorist army entrenched just across the border in Lebanon, because Hezbollah fighters popped over the border and captured two Israeli soldiers. After the battle was over, almost an entire city lay in ruins, hundreds of lives were lost, and Israel’s national confidence was greatly shaken. But the point is, two of their soldiers were captured alive by their ancient and sworn enemies, and the country wagered a tremendous amount of prestige, blood and treasure in a high-stakes gamble to get them back.
What about Christians? What happens when one of our own falls, wounded, or is captured by the enemy? Do we do what Israel did and wage an all-out battle to get them back? Or do we set up our own sniper posts, and take pot-shots from great (and safe) distances to further wound and/or kill a person who, only a few short months ago, we called our brother or sister?
I know for a fact that in Amish and Beachy and Mennonite-land, there is some sporadic public buzz and clamor about the unfortunate circumstances in which I currently find myself embroiled. Some of this is inevitable and not all bad; prayers and support are necessary components in the aftermath of such dramatic events. But I also know from very recent, impeccable sources that there is a tremendous amount of vitriol and destructive criticism being spewed from people who are not remotely connected to the situation (as opposed to those who are connected and are involved), who have no business inserting themselves. The clanging chatter of their abrasive talk and the corrosive poison of their corrective judgments pierce ever deeper into existing wounds, creating even more mayhem and pain in the shattered lives of already defenseless targets. Where’s the love in that?
There are concealed sniper nests next door, in the next church, the next county, the next state and a thousand miles away. From these anonymous and hidden posts, from high-powered verbal sniping rifles, deadly bullets are flying thick and fast and true, and are directed, not at the enemy, but at our own.
A few final observations, and I will let it rest. In the current circumstances surrounding Ellen and me and others, there are no innocent adult parties, including myself. It’s time that fact is recognized and accepted. It’s time the burden of the bitter harvest is shared in accordance with the fault, in proportion to the blame, and not just borne by the most visible and easily-targeted actors. And it’s high time the field commanders in the Christian Army shut down the sniper nests, or at least get them pointing in the right direction, at the enemy.
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Each Sunday at Westminster Presbyterian, the children’s choir sings a song or two just before the sermon. Last Sunday the choir was accompanied by a children’s bell ensemble. The little group performed the complicated (to me) movements very well. I was impressed and moved to see these young children, between the ages of 6 and 12, performing and singing with the practiced ease of many hours of repetitious training. When I was a child, it would have been as foreign to me as going to Mars, to consider such a thing as formal training in voice and/or instruments.
Last Tuesday (5/15) a giant pillar of the Christian Right, the Reverend Dr. Jerry Falwell, passed on to his reward. For decades, Dr. Falwell has been a punching bag and boogeyman for the Left, and also, sadly, for many Christians. More than once I have heard an “evangelical” preacher scorn and scold him for something he had said that was considered intolerant. I have seen Dr. Falwell many times as a guest on some TV show or another, and he was always the model of decorum and integrity, usually right after an opponent on the previous segment had savaged him as a bigoted, dogmatic yokel. Dr. Falwell always responded with grace and good humor and spoke with clarity and vision. He was not afraid to say hard things in a diplomatic but firm manner. Without fail, he always unabashedly proclaimed his faith in Jesus Christ. Although I did not agree with him on some theological points (premillennialism, for one), over the years I learned to respect him highly as a man of God and perhaps a prophet. He labored tirelessly for many years in the vineyard of the Lord and he will be missed in the national arena.
Primary election day has come and gone, and again my choice of candidates failed to win. Same old song, different dance. Heidi Wheaton was pretty soundly trounced at the polls as she tried to buck the local Republican machine for the office of County Commissioner. There are likely many reasons that she failed, among them some missteps made on the campaign trail. But I believe that if one digs deep enough, the real reason she lost is that the conservatives of Lancaster County simply cannot bring themselves to vote a woman into an office of real power and influence. Maybe they all need a new version of my bumper sticker (see last week’s post) stating, “Unless you are a man, you can’t be County Commissioner.”
NASCAR NOTES: Dale Earnhart Jr. recently shook up the racing world by announcing he is leaving DEI Racing, his late father’s company. Apparently Dale and his stepmother, Theresa, don’t see eye to eye on the company’s vision for the future. Strange thing is, I actually like Dale, Jr. as much as I despised his father. Old Earnhart, the famous #3, was a mean and dirty driver and a cantankerous man. But for some reason, I like his son. He is genuine, and a clean driver. Now if he could only manage to beat Jeff Gordon once in awhile…….
This weekend I am at a trade show in Ringoes (Flemington area), NJ (That’s why I’m posting a bit early this week, since I will be gone.). I call it a trade show, but it’s actually some sort of horse gathering at the fairgrounds there. Graber Supply will have a vendor booth at the event. We usually do three or four “horse shows” during the winter months; this is our first at this locale and our first this late into the year. I enjoy getting out and look forward to doing something different for a few days (although in this case, I’m mildly grumpy because I’ll miss the Preakness on Saturday). But usually by Sunday evening, when it’s over, I’ve had about all I can take of horses and horse people, some of whom are as loony as bats. The amount of money spent on horses, horse events, and horse barns in our area (MD, NJ and points east) each year is simply staggering. But if someone wants to buy a barn from us, I am happy to discuss all aspects of the horse; horse riding, horse racing, horse health, tack, horse training and horse barns, all with considerable knowledge and aplomb, until the cows (or horses) come home.
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Wilma, Johann, and Rhoda at the cookout
Wow, what a weekend. Marvin and Rhoda Yutzy arrived safely from Kansas on Friday evening (5/4). Their stay was too short; they left Monday morning early. My Saturday evening cookout was successful, and I grilled some naturally-raised “Steve Beiler” smoked sausage. Everyone agreed it tasted fantastic. My sister Rhoda baked some fresh strawberry pie the old-fashioned way Mom always made it, with a cream base and excellent crust (see picture below this paragraph), and thus my diet was shot for the weekend. This week the gym was my friend.
Well fed. Steve and Marvin at the cookout
On Sunday, Marvins insisted that they wanted to attend church with me, cementing my suspicion that they had driven 1300 miles primarily to support me and make sure I was OK. They didn’t ask if I was OK, they just packed up and came to see me, which, when I stop and think about it, is gratifying and pretty humbling. We attended Westminster Presbyterian, which I described in my last blog. Service was about as usual, except the pudgy main pastor (or is it vicar?) was gone that day and some young spritz preached in his stead. He seemed excited for the opportunity and did a commendable job. Because they had communion (of which we did not partake), we were able to slip out a few minutes earlier than usual and get back to Steves in good time for Sunday dinner (described in more detail later in this post).
Best friends relaxing after everyone left. Ira and Marvin
Shopping for a truck, I discovered last Saturday (5/5), is not exactly a picnic in the park. Marvin bravely volunteered to accompany me, and off we rumbled in my squeaky-clean Chevy to E-Town Dodge, arriving around 9:30. A genial, overweight (seems I notice and judge excess weight more discriminatingly lately) salesman named David approached us exactly ten seconds after we ambled onto the lot among the used trucks, and almost instantly after I assured Marvin that we could look around on our own and no one would bother us. David was very low-key, talkative, and accommodating. At around 11:00, after one test drive in a very nice 2005 gray Dodge 1500 4X4 with 20,000 miles, one free soda pop each, and at least six local (and very interesting) history lessons from David, we left.
That was dealer # one. After dropping Marvin off at Steves, I stopped by Giant to buy supplies for that evening’s cookout and unloaded them at home. I then ventured out to the New Holland Dodge dealer located about a mile east of my house. I stepped out of my truck and was immediately accosted by Adam, a very alert young salesman who looked to be no older than 17 (no exaggeration), who had recently moved into the area from Philly. You can imagine how that went. The only truck on the lot that even remotely interested me was a 2004 fully loaded Dodge 1500 4X4 with, guess what, 20,000 miles. One problem: it was bright, fire-engine Dodge Red, even the grill. Adam convinced me to take it for a test drive with him; it drove very smoothly and the engine roared with muted thunder from dual exhausts. Adam claimed that the dual exhaust system gets better gas mileage (I wouldn’t know.). He was undeterred even after I told him that by my calculations, the only person who would drive such a loud, all-red truck was someone who had to prove he was a man, something I felt was unnecessary for me to prove to anyone. “Oh no,” he assured me, “this color will grow on you.”
After we sat down at his desk, the pressure escalated, ending with Adam shoving a paper across his desk for me to sign committing to a certain price. After some brief reflection, I said that my truck was mine, fully paid for, and that I didn’t have to do a bleepin’ thing. Adam hastily agreed, but said he would like my truck to be theirs (a nice comeback). These salesmen are sharks. Feeling drained, I escaped and drove back home to prepare for the cookout. I have since mulled much over the apostle Paul’s admonition to be generally content in whatever state one finds oneself and have decided to be satisfied with my gas-sucking Chevy 2500 HD pickup, at least until a deal comes along I can’t refuse. By the way, Adam has my home phone number, and something tells me that more adventures with him are in my future.
New bumper sticker on my truck. Courtesy of Fred the Curmudgeon.
Available on his website on my Links Page.
I am no horseman (in fact, I hate horses), but each summer I watch the three major horse races; the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont Stakes. The first of the three, the Kentucky Derby, was last Saturday, to be run at 5:30, or so I thought. The Queen of England was even attending (I pause and tug my forelock. As a Canadian, I am a subject of and proud to salute the Queen.).
My cookout was scheduled for 6, and I let it be known that everyone was welcome to come early and watch the race on the little TV in my garage. Marvins arrived around 4 to help with cookout preparations and to visit. At 5:20, we were in the garage, and I lighted the charcoal. Then we discovered that the race would be around 6:30. By then, almost everyone was there. I was working the grill, when a loud shout inside the garage alerted me the race had started. I rushed inside (about 2 steps) and we all hollered for our horses. I had picked Sam P. (reminded me of an Amish name), an unknown horse that was listed at 45:1 odds. It was a wild race, and Street Sense, the favorite, who lagged comfortably in 19th place for most of the race, surged to victory by several lengths. Sam P., aptly named, plugged along dismally and ended up ninth. The odds makers had him pegged right. Let’s just say that I’m glad there was no real money on the table for him.
Lancaster County’s gardens are bursting from the ground in full bloom, but mine isn’t. We always planted a small plot, probably 10×15 ft. square, beside the garage. I even bought one of those tiny little Honda tillers several years ago, the kind you can easily pick up and carry around. I like the Honda because it doesn’t require the gas/oil mixture like the Mantis does, and well, because it’s a Honda. This spring, on of our friends asked to borrow it for some landscaping work around her house. “Gladly will I lend it,” I said, “but let me sell it to you instead for a very good price.” My price was right and the little Honda tiller now has a proud new owner. My fresh veggies this summer will be harvested from the local farm stands.
After my comments about my bad experiences with the sleeping drug Ambien, Ellen emailed me that I should ask the doctor for a different drug. She suggested Lunesta. So on my follow-up visit last week, I asked Dr. Sammitt for Lunesta. After again unsuccessfully broaching the subject of drugs for my depression (I don’t know what it is with these doctors.), he agreed and gave me some free samples and a prescription. The TV commercials for Lunesta portray flitting butterflies above a peaceful, sunlit meadow of waving grass beside the placid sea. My Lunesta-induced slumber isn’t quite that idyllic, but it sure beats the Ambien experience.
I am now the proud owner of a new digital camera, a Samsung S630 with 6.0 mega pixels, whatever that means. I asked Patrick at work if it would be sufficient for my needs to take pictures for this site, and he assured me that it was more than enough. I bought it at Circuit City, where it was on a Mother’s Day sale for $99.99, not bad. They had a choice of green and pink and silver. I got the silver one.
CORRECTION: Last week I mistakenly wrote that the May primaries would be held Tues. 5/8. I was wrong; it’s this coming Tues. 5/15. I’m very embarrassed. I thought I was better organized than that. I also received a bit of mild chastisement for slamming Senator Mike Brubaker. So I concede that Mr. Brubaker is a nice man. But I still support Heidi Wheaton for County Commissioner. So on her behalf, I ask all Lancaster Countians to vote for her on Tues. 5/15.
Steves had everyone for Sunday lunch (we call it dinner) and invited Ellen’s brother, Paul Yutzy and his family as well. Paul is a cousin to Marvin Yutzy. After a delicious meal, we all sat around in a dull stupor digesting the food and drinking coffee. I decided to go home for a nap and to change clothes. Around 5 PM I headed back. I drove up the hill to Steve’s house and saw a large 15-passenger van, which I didn’t recognize, parked by the garage. Thinking to myself that this development can’t be good for anyone, I snuck into the kitchen, where Steve’s daughter, Ella, was sitting with little Johann, her son. I furtively asked her who was here visiting in the living room. Turns out it was the Lester Lambright family. Lester and Marvin had grown up together and were friends years ago in Bloomfield, Iowa. I knew Lester and his wife Sadie as well. They moved to the Lancaster area from Michigan a year or two ago and attend Charity Fellowship in Ephrata.
What to do, what to do? Go in and shake hands and visit and wait for the inevitable questions, or stay hidden in the background? (Them, in blithe, happy tones: “Where is your wife today?” Me: “She’s working.” Them: “Oh, where does she work and what does she do?” Me: “She’s a nurse and works in the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix.” Them: “Oh…..Phoenix, Arizona?” Me: “Yup.” Them: “Oh……” Conversation quickly deteriorates into muddled embarrassment for everyone in the room.) After envisioning this scenario and considering my options for about one-tenth of a second, I made the obvious choice; stay in the kitchen. A few minutes later, much to my relief, Paul Yutzy, bored because he didn’t know Lesters and couldn’t really join the conversation, wandered into the kitchen. I nabbed him and we sat out on Steve’s deck on the back of the house for the next half-hour and had a very enjoyable discussion about various things. After awhile, the large 15-passenger van puttered away and Ella informed me the coast was clear, so I joined everyone in the living room. I thought the whole thing moderately humorous. Such is life after separation. (Lester and Sadie, if you read this, it’s nothing personal. I was just trying to avoid an embarrassing situation.)
At some point, once things get settled, ownership wise, at work (Graber Supply), I want to start a new page with pictures of the Graber team. I love my job and enjoy working with everyone there, which is more than a lot of people can say about their work. I have also been working on resizing more pictures and hope to open a new “More Pictures” page this weekend (NOTE: New Page has been posted as of 1 PM Sat. 5/12). I have also posted several more pictures on “The Ellen Years” page.
STATE OF THE BLUE COOLER IN MY GARAGE: Occasional food appears, for which I am most grateful. On an evening when I open it and behold, there is food, I feel like Elijah being fed by the ravens (except for the prophet part, of course).
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