A Little Boy Remembers

I knew my Grandpa Bailey, but I guess I really didn’t know him.  I knew my middle name was the same as his first name because my name carries the names of both of my grandfathers.  I knew he was in the Spanish-American War because as a child I played with his old army campaign hat, and I knew that he made his living as a bricklayer all of his working life.  But I guess I never knew him as an extraordinary person with an ordinary story to tell.  He was just my grandpa.

My Grandpa Bailey was the first person I ever knew who died.  He died of inoperable cancer on August 7, 1948, a week before his sixty-eighth birthday.  His last words to my mother, as they wheeled him into the operating room were, “See you in church.”  I don’t think my grandfather was a very religious man, but perhaps he was making his peace with God.  I heard my mother tell the story of those last words many times over the years.  You don’t forget the memories and the last words of a dying father.

I was ten years old when he died, to young to understand my feelings about death very well, but I did know that I felt a kind of sadness that I had never felt before.  His casket was placed before the brick fireplace he had built with his own hands in the living room of the house he and my grandmother shared on West Ninth Street in Jonesboro, Indiana.  Sometimes I moved around the room, sometimes I went outside and sat quietly on the porch, and sometimes I sat on the periphery, watching his friends and neighbors pay their last respects in muffled tones.  When there was nobody around, I stood next to his casket and just looked at him with an emptiness in my stomach.  He was dressed in his best double-breasted pin-striped suit, and his rimless glasses rested on his nose.  His eyes were closed, just as I had seen them many times before as he was dozing off in his easy chair.  His callused hands from forty plus years of bricklaying were folded at his waist.  On the fourth finger of his right hand was his 32d degree Masonic ring.  I cried that he was gone, and I knew I would miss him. 

I remember my mother telling my younger brother and me that we would be going our house with Dad for the night, but she would be staying with grandma.  I was glad we didn’t have to stay over night at Grandma’s house because I wasn’t sure about sleeping in the same house with a dead person, even if that dead person was my grandpa.  There seemed something odd about a dead person resting in a living room.  “That’s why they have funeral homes,” I thought to myself.

The funeral service was conducted in his living room, and his pall bearers were friends from the organizations that meant the most to him throughout his life -- Masons, Spanish-American War veterans and members of the brickmason’s union.  After the service and the hymns, the casket was placed in the long black hearse of the Jay and Swift Funeral Home and a solemn parade of cars, with little blue flags fluttering from the bumpers signifying our special place that day, slowly proceeded up Main Street and across the Mississinewa River to the Riverside Cemetery in Gas City. 

Small stones pinged under the fenders like hail on a tin roof as the procession rolled through the gates of the cemetery and up the white crushed stone road toward his burial site next to his father, mother and younger sister, who had gone before.  A soft summer breeze ruffled the fringes of the tent and the American flag covering the casket as the mourners gathered under the green open-aired tent set against the blue of the Indiana summer sky.  The family took their seats on the folding chairs placed beside the casket.  The pastor said a few words, “dust to dust”, and that sort of thing, the sad and lonely notes of Taps echoed across the cemetery and then it was over.  Friends and family said a few quiet words to each other and began to go their separate ways. 

As we walked back to our car in silence, I took a quick glance over my shoulder to catch a final glimpse of where my grandfather would be buried forever.  Dad started the engine, and we eased our way out of the cemetery and on to the road back to Grandma’s house.  The silence was broken when my father reached over and turned on the radio.  As the music began to play, I can clearly remember feeling the great burden of grief being lifted from my body.  Suddenly, I felt better.  The program on the radio was normal.  The traffic was normal.  The sunshine was normal.  The green of the trees and grass was normal.  Everything was normal, and the world was indeed going on as usual.  I guess it was my first realization that death’s rituals pass and the world, as it had done while I was away, goes on about its daily business.

Little Sammy Carl

Mexican Baptism!

As I stood outside the beautiful old Catholic church in South Minneapolis, the various baptismal families began to arrive.  It was a heart warming to see the little children dressed in their Sunday best.  Their clothes were sparkling and spotless; White dresses for the girls and little white suits for the boys.  Each and every one of them was beautiful, innocent and precious.

Later at the baptismal party, the adults all sat in small groups in Spanish conversation.  There were twenty or more kids who sat together or ran around all speaking fluent, non-accented English.  These children are an important piece of the next generation of Americans; piñatas, tortillas and all.

Our families were all immigrants at one time or another.  Many of our own ancestors didn’t speak English, but worked hard and sacrificed to establish the next generation and the future of our families in America.  In this modest backyard, full of happy children, I witnessed the legacy of America continue.

God Bless America!

Sam

Forgiveness!

Matthew 18:21-22 Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.

Forgiving others can be easy, but total forgiveness is harder. True forgiveness must be embedded deep in your heart. Perhaps the most important part of forgiving is that is freeing. When you hold onto a hurt, it only hurts you in the long run. The other person is oblivious to your hurt.

Perhaps the greatest story of forgiveness is a story about the Amish. In 2005 a man went to a one room Amish school. He lined up the girls and the boys. He sent the boys away, and then turning his gun to the girls shot them, execution style. Five sweet little girls were killed. He then turned the gun on himself. Later the Amish families went to the home of the killer and said that they forgave him. They were in deep mourning, but knew that in order to move on they must forgive as Jesus taught them in the Bible. Later the school was torn down to erase part of the tragedy from their view. This forgiveness is almost unbelievable, but this deeply religious sect lives by God's word to its fullest.

There is a man I know very well, who had a estranged relationship with his oldest son. He did not speak to his father for about five years. His father forgave him. Whatever the reason it was now on his son's shoulder. The man moved forward without anger. His son had an enormous school debt, which was about to stress him out. Due to the untimely death of their youngest son, the father and mother received a fairly large amount of unexpected money. Neither felt they should be given money because of this family tragedy. No amount of money could sooth the hurt of losing a son.They decided to help their other son by helping him reduce his school debt.

It was then the father, who thought he had forgiven, was challenged as to whether he had truly forgiven in his heart. The money came from life insurance, paid upon the death of his brother, with whom he also did not speak. The father prayed and sought counsel about whether he should help his son with the debt he, himself, created. The answer was finally revealed that, yes, if he had  truly forgiven, then this gift should be given, no strings attached  That put the binding seal on true forgiveness.

As hard at it is to forgive sometimes, it is the only way to find deep happiness in your own life.

Think about forgiving a person in your life who has affronted you. You will be amazed as to how freeing it is.

Samuel

Here Come Da Judge!

"Do not judge, or you too will judged. For the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you." Matthew 7: 1-2

I've always been troubled by that oft quoted verse. It is plain that it says that you should not judge others, but how do  we do that? How do you not judge? You most make a judgement in order to make a decision. You must judge, not to judge not. I decided to research some Biblical scholars about this the subject

First I learned that it is often the most misquoted and misused verse in the Bible. You have to go beyond the first two versus.

"Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ' let me take the speck out of your eye,' when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your ow eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye."

So what it says is that before you judge, look at yourself. So it is more about being a hypocrite than judging. We certainly have experienced even the clergy who speaks from the pulpit about sins, but at the same time commit adultery or molestation of you boys.

In order to judge you need for your own house morally in order, We know we are all sinners and will fall short. Our lives must be guided by a moral compass that is a part of every major religion in the world. I have found people when a person charges me with being too judgmental, it is a sign that they know their stuff is not in order. It is an attempt to switch the blame back at you. It is then they invoke the "Judge not...".

The important thing about judging is not judging the person, but judging their behavior. In my case I have little use for drunkenness or drug use, abuse, liars, cheaters, non-payment on loans, or a situation where a person continues bad behavior and expects different outcomes. I am very patient person in my relationships and give the benefit of the doubt and continue to try to help a person in whatever way I can. When things don't change, eventually I must make a decision about whether or not I want to be involved in this person's life.When the negatives becomes too strong, I must move away, but will be there when there is a change, and truly wants my counsel. I usually asked if they had considered the church. I don't push, just put forth an option in which they may see how to get their lives back. It is now time that the person must look at themselves.

I break people in to two oversimplified types, givers and takers. Givers will always continue to give even though they may have burned. Takers will always take. With them it's always somebody else's fault.  I have little room in my life for takers who continue to be takers.

Well that's enough sermon for today.

Have a nice day!

Samuel

The Evolution of Bad Language!

There is no question our language has become courser over my life time. I must admit cursing is my ongoing sin, although I am trying to do better.

Swearing and crude language has come a long way in my lifetime. I remember distinctly going to see Gone with the Wind, as a young teenager. I was truly shocked when Rhett Butler uttered those immortal words, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." That was the first time I had heard a curse word in a movie. Compare that to the 506 times the F-bomb was dropped in The Wolf of Wall Street.

A friend of mine's granddaughter, age about seven, happened to drop the F-bomb at home. I doubt if she even knew what it meant.  Her brother was quick to point out that she learned at the school bus stop. He was about ten.

I remembers, as a kid, the F-bomb was a forbidden word. You even felt ashamed if you used it, especially if it was around a girl or girls.  Now the F-bomb is one of the most popular words with young woman.

Let me take you back to an age of innocence, the late forties, early fifties. Most terms revolved around body parts and bodily functions.  I had a "Johnny", not a penis. My butt cheeks were called "peaches".There is nothing more beautiful than a baby's "peaches". It was common in my family to use the words when loving on a baby," Pinch a peach." Now you could be charged with child molestation. If I had to pee, I would go "wee wee". Of course, there is the infamous "stinker", "Did you let a stinker". Followed by "The dog did it, or silent, but deadly" To poop, the term would be, I have to "grunt". Of course Number 1 and Number 2 were also acceptable. When I was in the hospital last November, I told the nurse I had to go to the bathroom, she actually asked, "Number 1 or Number 2". It's nice to know some things don't change.

When my brother and I were about eight and five, we had a neighborhood friend our age. He was famous for using the term "Shitass." Our mother had a little talk with us that we should not use that bad word. My brother, who was swinging on the door exclaimed, "He says just plain shit too".

Well so much for the evolution of swearing.

Have a nice day. And I still have sweet peaches.

Sweet Little Sammy Carl.