Archive for the ‘Family’ Category

That scrumptious Sunday dinner was beginning to wind down. My brother and I ate rapidly because our afternoon was just getting started. We were headed for the hills—okay, how about the “woods.” That’s what we called it when we went to the mountains east of our little town. And we were on a mission! Well, kind of like a mission. You see, our family was heading into the woods with our old Chevrolet truck to get trees. Now, I should probably tell you, that truck was quite the thing. It was old. How old? It was old enough that it had a small hole in the center of the front bumper. Some of you already know what that was for, don’t you? Sure, it was for the crank. But some of you are thinking: “Crank? What’s a crank? Isn’t that the old guy that lives next door to Grandma and Grandpa?”

Well, stick with me a bit. First off, cars and trucks weren’t quite as dependable at that time as they are now—and that included the batteries. Trucks, and even cars during those days, usually had a crank that was carried along, often under the seat. You didn’t start that truck by simply inserting the key into the ignition and turning it. In fact, I don’t know that this old truck even had a key. Nor was there even a button on the dash like Popular Mechanics magazine may have been talking about at that time that all the really “modern” vehicles had. No, what we called the “starter” was on the floor. Sure it was. You got into the truck, turned a switch on the dashboard to the “ON” position, and then you took your foot and pushed on the starter, which was located on the floor. It took a pretty good hard push, too, before you would hear and feel the starter begin to turn, and therefore the engine would begin to turn over. And if the charge in the battery was weak and didn’t have a good charge? Hey, that’s where you got the old crank out, put the end of it through the bumper and felt your way along with it till it engaged the hole in the wheel on the front of the engine made for it, and then you put your muscle into it—and I mean put your muscle into it—throwing your weight into turning the crank and starting the old truck. And I should tell you that we used that crank quite a bit, too, from what I remember.

By the way, as I think back on that old truck it reminds me of the turn signal. And it did have one. Pretty modern and “up town,” right? Well, hardly. It was a long piece of metal, shaped kind of like an arrow someone would point with, and it hung from the corner of the cab, on the outside, behind the driver’s head. Sure, some of you folks know just what I am talking about. You can remember reaching up over your head next to the door and pulling on the cable, or chain to make that signal move so that people behind you knew which direction you were about to turn. If any of you don’t know what I’m talking about, go ask your Grandma or Grandpa, or maybe your Mom or Dad. See if they can’t describe it to you.

Say, here I go again, getting way off track. Anyway, we were headed for the woods on a mission of sorts. A mission to get Christmas trees—lots of trees. Christmas trees for nearly everyone in our extended family, or so it seemed. And we were going to get tall trees, short trees, and trees in between!

This had become an annual event in our family. I had concluded that there must be very few trees fit to serve as a Christmas tree in the state of California. I had determined that fact because most of the trees we were cutting were for relatives and friends who lived in Southern California. For a little more than a dollar or two each, my parents would wrap freshly cut white fir trees securely in burlap bags (gunny sacks to my brother and me), attach mailing labels on the outside, and they would be hauled to the railroad stop in town where they would be shipped out along with all the other items the Postal Service was handling. When the relatives received the trees they would unwrap them, shake them a little bit to allow the branches to fold back out, and before long have one of the best looking Christmas trees on the block decorated cheerfully in their living room. They always seemed to appreciate the trees.

But that Sunday afternoon trip was more than just getting the relatives a Christmas tree. We always found one for our own family, too. My Mom and Dad, with plenty of helpful advice from my brother and me, would search through the forest until we found a tree that we knew would be just right for our living room. It had to be tall and bushy. In fact, we usually had to cut a portion off the bottom to get it into our living room, and sometimes even a piece off the top so a star could be placed at the very top of the tree right against the ceiling. We liked big Christmas trees!

While my parents were looking for trees for the relatives, cutting them and dragging them to the truck, my brother and I would be scouting around for our own trees. You see, each year when we went on this tree-cutting trip we found our own trees which went in our bedroom. Since we were each determined to have our very own tree, and we slept in the same room, our bedroom had two trees each Christmas. Each was decorated in a wild sort of way and even had lights on them, as I remember. Now, these trees we picked for ourselves were never more than 2-3 feet tall. We liked them a little on the small side so we could get both of them in the room, for one thing.

It seemed like it was no time at all before the old truck was loaded with trees and it was time to head back to town, driving a bit slower as we bounced over the rough mountain roads, getting home just about the time the late winter sun was sinking below the horizon. We “men” unloaded the trees, standing them up in a corner of the yard alongside the house. They were going to be making some folks mighty happy before long. Mom stoked up the two wood stoves in the house and before long we were pulling off our mittens, stocking caps, boots and heavy clothing we had been wearing to keep the winter chill away. And then, before we headed out the door for church once again, it was time for hot chocolate. And it wasn’t the “instant” kind, you understand. They did not have instant hot chocolate in those days, as far as I can remember. It took time to heat and prepare but hey, was it ever good—lip-smacking good! And then, like I said, it was off to church again. We had church on Sunday nights in that little town—hard wooden benches and all. But those church benches being hard didn’t stop two young boys from catching some much deserved rest after a hard day getting the Christmas trees in.

You know, those trees no doubt helped some of our friends and relatives have a happier Christmas. But have you ever thought of trees being “happy”? In Psalm 96 beginning with verse 11, we find these word: “Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad; let the sea resound, and all that is in it; let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them. Then all the trees of the forest will sing for joy; they will sing before the Lord, for he comes, he comes to judge the earth.”

Almost sounds as if creation was getting ready for Christmas!

Prayer: Father, help us to see a fresh, new reason for praise as we look at creation all about us. You have blessed us with so much and yet we often fail to really see it and understand all that You have done for us. Thank you, Father. Amen.

Pastor Bill

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™   Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

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It was Sunday. I imagine, as I think back upon it after all these years that it was probably in early December. My mother had hustled my younger brother, Andy, and I out of church and the two blocks up the street to our home. My brother and I enjoyed going to Sunday school and church. Other than “regular” school it was the main source of social activities for us. In a community which probably could boast of 100 people on a good day, the small white church we attended was typical of many small towns across our country. It had a steeple with a bell in it. That bell did not just set up there idle, it was rung several times each Sunday, announcing that Sunday school was about to begin, and later, the morning church service was ready to start.

The church was painted white on the outside, like any good country church would have been during those days, and when you stepped inside you found yourself in a small sanctuary with a wood floor that slanted downwards toward the front till it became level a few feet before the altar. I wonder, how many times over the years I heard a penny, nickel or dime dropped onto the floor by some little urchin at the back of the sanctuary, and then listened as it rolled all the way to the front, coming to a stop against the altar. That always seemed to happen during a moment of silence or at some particular point in the pastor’s sermon where it was sure to cause a disturbance and gain the attention of the entire congregation for a few moments.

I suppose, in looking back after all these years, that the floor and the pews are the two main things I remember about that little church. The pews were made out of wood and had no cushion of any kind. Let me tell you, now, they made it difficult for a boy to get a decent bit of a nap during the pastor’s sermon unless you were really worn out from a good SS class.

Well, I am getting off track here. Let me get back to my story. Mom and my brother and I had hurried home, like I mentioned. My Dad, who did not attend church with us, had the long oval-shaped table in the dining room set with dishes and silverware upon a blue and white checkerboard pattern tablecloth. I would not be surprised if we could have smelled the sweet aromas coming from our kitchen long before we entered the house. A mouth-watering meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, vegetables, and sourdough biscuits browned just right and hot out of the oven was about to be placed on the table.

My brother and I needed no urging from Mom or Dad to dip some hot water out of the boiler on the wood range in the kitchen, splash it into the metal wash pan, and quickly give our hands a washing. Sometimes we even used a bit of soap that our grandma had made! That stuff could clean your hands in a snap, let me tell you! And you “felt” clean after using it.

Dad placed the last of the piping hot serving dishes on the table. A thin curl of steam was drifting upwards from the hot mashed potatoes and, on looking closely; the same was true for all the other bowls and dishes on the table it seemed. It appeared as if all that food was just crying out for two hungry boys, fresh from napping through the last half of the friendly pastor’s sermon, to “dig in” and savor every single bite before it cooled. And my brother and I seemed to take full responsibility to insure that none of this bounty was wasted.

Say, now. What a meal that was! It was not unusual for us to be joined by extended family members or friends for Sunday dinner—they all knew about the meals my Dad prepared. And then the “old” folks would sit around the table long after the plates had been scraped clean and the food had been cleared away, just talking—just visiting, telling stories, and enjoying the pleasure of each other’s company. Those were really good times.

You know something? I believe that Jesus enjoyed the dinner table during the time when He walked upon this earth. In reading through the Gospels in the New Testament you find numerous occasions when he was seated at the table with folks, enjoying their company and, no doubt, some good food. He dined with all classes and manner of folks and the people must have appreciated that. He also used the occasions at the table to share significant teachings as well as to give some of those closest to Him important instructions. In Acts 1:4 we find these words: “On one occasion, while he was eating with them, he gave them this command: ‘Do not leave Jerusalem, but wait for the gift my Father promised, which you have heard me speak about. For John baptized with water, but in a few days you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit.’”

Those instructions, and that promise, and the impact it continues to have on the lives of Christians, was given at the dinner table! Aren’t you thankful for the dinner table? The next time you sit down at the table, whether it is with few or many, please try not to rush—take time to enjoy the company of the others present as well as the food set before you. Listen to what folks are saying. And don’t be afraid to share with them, either.

Prayer: Thank you, Lord, for the example of the “dinner table” you have given us. Help us appreciate its significance in our lives as we begin our meals with prayer and close them with wonderful  and unhurried fellowship. In Jesus’ Name. Amen.

Pastor Bill

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™   Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

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Have you ever wondered what God has in common with sourdough biscuits? Probably not! In fact, you are probably wondering why such a question would even be asked in the first place—God . . . . and sourdough biscuits? C’mon, now! Well, stick with me for a few moments and I think you’ll understand.

It has been some years now since two of my grandsons, Alec, who was 7 years old, and his 5-year-old brother, Drake traveled from their home in Southern Idaho to the home of their grandparents in the Idaho Panhandle. This was always an adventure the two boys looked forward to. They knew that there would probably be very few dull moments once they set foot on the curb in front of Grandpa Alec’s and Grandma Grump’s home (She was really not grumpy—that’s just what the boys began to call her when they were very small). They knew they would love every minute of their time at the old place. It was understood that their great grandparents would often have a surprise or two in store for them. On this particular occasion it was a cookout.

Say, now! Let me tell you, those two young boys could hardly wait to get the show on the road, so to speak, when they learned a cookout was in the works. They knew Grandpa and Grandma were both the greatest of cooks and they also had learned there was nothing like cooking out in the wilds over an open campfire. Oh, yes. They surely did love the outdoors! There was a bit of a problem on this trip, though. They soon learned they were not going out into the “wilds,” for this cookout. The wildest things were going to get, it turned out, was in the “wilderness” of the living room of Grandpa and Grandma’s home in a residential area of the city in which they lived! Say, what?

The boy’s grandmother wasn’t even sure what was getting “cooked up” as she sat in her favorite living room chair, knitting, and observing the activities of the two young boys as they began lugging heavy red bricks into the house from the back yard. They carefully placed the bricks on the hearth in front of the living room fireplace. As Grandma continued to look on, they moved the bricks from the hearth to the inside of the fireplace where they stacked them neatly in two rows, one on each side. Several minutes later, here came Grandpa lugging a heavy iron grill, rescued from a hunting camp many years earlier. He placed the grill atop the bricks the two youngsters had stacked in the fireplace. By now, Grandma was beginning to have serious questions about what she was observing take place. But Grandpa and the two young boys had no doubts.

The boys left the living room and returned a short time later with several pieces of old newspaper, small twigs and sticks, along with several larger pieces of firewood. They carefully laid out the materials for their fire and, within minutes and with the help of their Grandpa, they had a blazing fire snapping and crackling between the bricks, and beneath the grill. Smoke was rising steadily up the fireplace chimney as the wood burned rapidly and a bed of bright coals began to glow. The boys sat back on the living room rug, admiring their handiwork for several minutes. Then, it was time to be about the business of preparing the feast.

A package of wieners was opened and several were placed on the grill to begin roasting. Grandpa then brought into the living room an old blackened frying pan (another hunting camp relic), and it was not long before a “hunter’s stew” was in the works. It consisted of potatoes, onions, macaroni, cheese, a few pieces of Polish sausage for flavor; all immersed in milk seasoned with butter, salt and pepper. In a short time the aroma from the bubbling stew and the wieners broiling over the coals was wafting throughout the house. But the greatest part of the meal was just about to make its entrance.

As the two boys sat on the carpet watching their feast cooking in front of them, licking their lips occasionally, they looked up to see Grandpa walk into the living room carrying a metal reflector oven in his hands. It was obvious that this old oven had seen many a campfire over the years. On the rack in the oven were small mounds of sourdough that had been kneaded, molded and pressed into just the right shape to become out-of-this-world, mouth-watering biscuits when baked. The boys scooted off to the side and Grandpa placed the oven on the hearth were the heat from the glowing embers of the fire would be reflected into the oven to bake the sourdough into golden brown biscuits.

Say, now! If you had walked into that living room a few minutes later the pleasant and lip-smacking aromas that would have confronted you would have been downright pleasurable! The scene of the two young boys having a cookout in the “wilds” of their grandparent’s living room was truly a sight to behold. The warmth of the crackling blaze in the fireplace, the boys seated cross-legged on the floor with their grandpa, the pleasing smell of roasting wieners and the hunter’s stew cooking over the open fire, and the heady aroma of sourdough biscuits baking in the reflector oven……it makes me think of God—especially those sourdough biscuits!

But, wait just a minute—God and sourdough biscuits? Sure! The warmth of the fire, reflected against the harsh metal of that oven, changed those individual lumps of cold sourdough into warm, golden brown delicacies, which became a sight to behold and a delight to the tongue. That is not unlike the life of an individual living in a world that can be cruel, harsh and hard. Yet, when the love of God is fanned into a flame that warms the heart and reaches to the very depths of the soul, and is thereafter reflected into every aspect of a person’s character, the transformation that takes place is beautiful to behold!

In 2 Corinthians 3:17-18, we find these words: “. . . .and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.”

If you are not familiar with this freedom which is spoken of—if you have not experienced the transformation we just read about, why not plan on attending a Bible-believing church in your community this next weekend. You may not actually find sourdough biscuits there, but you can find God and He will warm your soul!

Prayer: Heavenly Father, help us to vividly reflect your glory to those around us—with those we come in contact with today. May others see Jesus in us, Lord. In your Son’s Name I pray. Amen.

Pastor Bill

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™   Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

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I can hardly believe it but, it has happened again—Black Friday. It has proved to be the longest day of the year for me. Up before 5 AM to make sure I am not too far back in the long line of shivering humanity, most of whom are holding cups of steaming something-or-other. It is cold and folks are moving about shuffling their feet, pushing their hands deeper into their pockets or blowing on them. Some are pulling the hoods of their coats or sweatshirts tighter about them. Like I said, it is cold!

Suddenly there is a stir ahead of us—something is happening up ahead. We can’t see the front door of the store as the line is long enough it bends around the front and down one side of the big building. My son and his friend and I are about halfway down that side. We see the reason for the stir. One of the managers has come out and gives some instructions on what to watch for once we are inside. Then he looks at his watch and says loudly, “One minute till the door opens!”

“Ooh, boy. we are literally down to seconds, fellas. Hang on!”

Suddenly the line begins to move and as I watch people are putting their heads down and beginning to shuffle forwards with increasing speed. It takes only a few brief moments and we have rounded the corner of the building and the lights at the front are before us—then the doors appear and before you know it we are inside. Some people are already at the check stands on their way out before I begin my search for the prized item I have focused on. Oh, me. Where is it, anyway?

Within a period of probably ten minutes I have found the items I want, along with some I had not intended to purchase, and I get in line for the check stands. I can tell this is probably going to be the longest stretch of the morning. There are really a bunch of people in front of me. Oh, well, patience is the word of the day.

Then the first really bad news of the day comes along. A manager comes up and asks us, his eyes scanning several of us standing in line at the point, if we are sure we are in the correct line. What? Oh, oh.

I was in the wrong line. I was in a line for people who were apparently purchasing certain “big ticket” items. I was told I would need to go to “that line over there…..” And it was a long line, let me tell you!

Friend, make sure you are in the correct “line” as you approach through life. Better yet, make sure you are in the correct “line” all through life, the one that Jesus has mapped out for you.

Blessings to you.

Pastor Bill

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Early this morning I was seated in my living room staring out through the sliding doors at the beginnings of a day still blanketed in darkness. As my gaze wandered across the black landscape, looking at the multitude of sparkling lights which seemed to give promise of some life in the cities which hugged the valley floor, I began to contemplate the reality of the retired life. That’s right–retired. The “R” word.How can that be? I am surely not old enough to be retired! Retired? You must be kidding me!

Retired people are old people, arent’ they? If they weren’t old they no doubt had a rich uncle for a benefactor who died early and left them a tidy sum of cash to dispose of. And I am just not that old, or at least I don’t feel old…..till I try to crawl out of bed early in the morning…..or work to drag myself out of the car after a long drive seated in the same position. Now, I must admit, there are a few times like that when I wonder if old age may be approaching. And of course I have to agree that I feel shortchanged if I miss out on my regular afternoon nap. Yes, I do take a nap. You don’t have to be old to do that, do you?

But, don’t retired people just sit around, like on a porch swing or in a rocking chair, and watch the world go by? People who are retired usually go to a warm climate in the winter so the cold weather does not hinder their lifestyle, right? And if you are really retired, don’t you feel that way? Just what does a retired person look like? How should they act? Do they talk different than anyone else?

Hmmm. I just happened to think of one retired person who I always had deep respect for–my Dad. He seemed too young to retire when he stepped into that uncharted territory of his life. He didn’t look any older after he left 32 years of employment as a postmaster in a small, rural community of North Idaho. He didn’t act any older to me, either. As I watched he and my Mother they seemed to be just as active as ever though they did seem to take a few more trips to the mountains and the Oregon Coast since they had a bit more time to spare. I think my Dad also took longer naps, and he certainly spent more time with the grandkids, which they all seemed to enjoy. He also began to spend more time in the kitchen, grinding flour in a small flour mill and baking bread once each week that would make your mouth begin to water before you opened the door to their home. He also spent more time caring for his lawn and the flowers around their home.

One of the really neat things about my Dad’s retirement was that he seemed to have more time to talk with me when I stopped by. He rarely seemed to be in a hurry. I liked that. I miss that, for you see, my Dad’s gone now. Though it is a bit frightening, it seems I have stepped into that vacancy he left behind. I wonder how I will do? I hope I will take occasion to remember my Dad and his seeming approach to retirement. And what was that? Though he did slow his pace, somewhat, I don’t think he ever quit. Life still held its challenges which he enjoyed facing. Life still had its occasional troubles which he faced squarely and worked through. And life continued to hold its joys and the good things that made up each day. He never saw growing old as an impairment–it was simply part of life. He continued to be useful throughout his entire life.

My Dad reminds me of many of the well-known people in the Bible. In Exodus 7:7, we read these words, “Moses was eighty years old and Aaron eighty-three when they spoke to Pharaoh.”

Wow! These guys were still being used to lead a nation in what some would have seen as the “declining” years of their lives. And they still had a lot of years to go. They were of value and did not see their age as a hindrance when it came to serving God and His people. I wonder how I stand in light of their example–and the example of my Dad? Maybe retirement won’t be so bad–if I maintain a Godly attitude.

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This really was not my thing. Standing in a long line of people in front of the locked doors of a large department store, in the early-morning darkness, in the rain, and on a Thanksgiving Holiday to top it off! No. This really was not my thing!

It all began when my brother, who lived a few blocks from my parents in a city in another state, got in touch with me to say he was giving our folks a gift for Christmas of a year’s subscription to cable TV. Hey, all right! That was an unexpected act of generosity on the part of my younger brother, let me tell you. But, he went on to say that he thought it would be nice if I were to get involved. (I should have known something like this was coming!) He went on to tell me that the television our parents presently had was in very poor shape and it would be nice if they had a new one for that cable to be attached to. So that was it!

My brother continued by stating he had seen a newspaper ad that indicated a local outlet for a large chain store was having the “grand-daddy” of all sales within the next several days. The advertisement included a “limited number” of high-quality, name brand, 19 inch color televisions. He suggested that if I were to choose to be so kind as to purchase one of them for my parents it would be an excellent Christmas present from my side of the family. My brother knows how to put the pressure on—in a nice way, you understand. Since my wife and I were going to be traveling to the city in which my parents lived for the Thanksgiving Holiday, I could go to that sale!

He concluded his “presentation” with the real bad news last. The sale was on Thanksgiving Day, yet! Not only that, it was between 7:00 and 9:00 AM! I had to wonder if there were no holidays that were sacred any longer. And it is barely light at 7:00 AM! Aren’t you supposed to sleep in on holidays? My brother suggested that I might wish to be at the door of the store a “little” before 7:00 AM, so that I could purchase one of these fine electronic marvels for my parents. Why, it would make the entire year 2000 much better for them!

So, that is how I found myself standing in a long of people, a light rain sprinkling down on all but a small group fortunate enough to be standing beneath an awning over the doorway, wondering how long it would be before daylight would arrive. Some folks had planned ahead and had mugs of coffee and umbrellas. I determined they must be professional “door crashers.” They had come prepared!

As the hands on my watch crawled towards the unearthly hour of 7:00 AM, I began to count the number of people between the doors and where I was standing. It appeared there were about 50. A turn to look behind me, towards the end of the line, showed there were roughly another 150 people waiting for the “checkered flag” and the line was growing longer all the time as people came into the parking lot from all directions, some of them running towards the line as soon their feet hit the pavement.

As I stood watching and listening to people I overheard a lady say, “Are you here for one of the TV’s?” The reply was a mumbled, “Yup. That’s what I’m after. Wish we could have more than one.”

Then I heard another voice, “They say they are back in the middle of an aisle by the Electronics Department . . . . . . And they only have fifty of them.”

Say, now! That last comment grabbed my attention—only fifty? I counted the number of folks in front of me and, sure enough, I was real close to being number fifty. What if all those people in front of me were after television sets. This could be close!

Suddenly I heard the sound of keys in the lock of the doors and, at the same time, the line began to surge forward. I pulled my hat down over my eyes and began to move along with everyone else. No sense going against the current in a deal like this!

As I squeezed through the doorway with several other folks at the same time it became clear that this group of people were determined about what they were doing. As the group swept through the door and into a long left turn, some lay all restraint aside and began running up one of the main aisles of the store. Though I was unfamiliar with the layout of this business it did not take a genius to determine where the crowd was headed and I just rolled along with them, thinking to myself that this would not be a good time to trip and fall! Several people dropped out of the line to grab shopping carts and I suddenly found myself struggling to keep my place in the moving mass of people as a lady pushing one cart, and pulling another behind her, tried to force her way past me. Say, these people were serious about this!

The crowd of men and women roared into another turn, to the right this time, and headed down the stretch toward Electronics. Suddenly I realized I was meeting people who were going against the “current,” and they were packing huge boxes with pictures of a television set on the side. Hey, I must be getting close. Then I heard someone yell, “They’re going fast. One pallet’s gone already!”

Oh, oh. I realized the mass of people was slowing, while at the same time people seemed to become more focused in their determination to achieve their goal of getting a low-cost TV set. I looked over the heads and shoulders of those ahead of me and saw a huge mountain of boxed televisions sets that was disappearing with a speed that was utterly incredible. As I continued to struggle ahead I realized, in those tense moments, that I may have waited in the dark, and rain and cold for nothing. The boxes of televisions were almost gone!

Hmm. . . . . . I read a story this week about a scene very similar to the one I have just described. In that case, the hundreds of people who thronged into the store to find the best bargains failed to notice a man who was trampled by the crowd. Nobody went to his aid as busy shoppers continued their mad dash to accomplish their mission. At the end of the day, when the store manager locked the doors for the night, he was shocked to see this helpless victim. The person on the floor looked vaguely familiar.

It was later learned that the stranger trampled in the Christmas rush was a man named “Jesus.”

It is something to think about, isn’t it? Oh, by the way, my parents do have a new television set.

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