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This photo was taken by our daughter, Sarah Timmons, or my wife, depending on who you ask. We were in Rehoboth Beach, DE on Easter Sunday, 2011.


Several years ago, on the way home from a family vacation, I picked up a notebook and quickly recorded an incident that had occurred involving our son. Eventually, I used that story to illustrate something about my spiritual walk as a believer in Christ. Thus began a deliberate attempt to document the significance of everyday events. Almost any ordinary circumstance in daily life can become fodder for another story. This, almost by definition, lends itself to a blog.

Of course, many of the entries here are just ordinary diary style stuff... the stuff of ordinary blogs. Good grief, I don't want to be ordinary.


Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Never EVER do THIS.

I was using a staple gun to fasten down underlayment for some flooring I am installing.  Ran out of staples, so first thing this morning I made a trip to Lowes.  The box included instructions for the use of the staples, along with this picture.

Apparently, there must have been some occurrences of contractors holding nail guns to the heads of co-workers, otherwise this warning would be unnecessary.

Such people give contractors a bad name.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

The Original Story: A Lesson in Humility

At the age of 8, I spent a summer with my Uncle Bud, my Aunt Tinka, and my cousin Mike in their home in Louisville, KY.  Thirty six years later almost to the day after that summer, Uncle Bud, Tinka, my wife Tina and I all sat at their dining room table in Louisville.  We listened to music from 1969 - a black woman, Nina Simone, sang haunting songs about the mistreatment of African American women in 1960’s society.  Uncle Bud talked about the glory days of sitting on his front porch with Tinka and friends in the early 70’s, discussing how they were going to make the world a better place to live, a world where everyone respected the rights of everyone else.  We talked about Abe Lincoln’s depression, and how ironic it was that such a depressed man would take on such a depressing job of leading this country through a war, just to save it.  We talked about how he must have laid in bed at night and wept as he thought about Americans killing Americans in an effort to forge a united country.  We talked about Tinka crying upon hearing the news of Kent State, another case of Americans killing Americans in an effort to define themselves as a country.
Visit to the Lincoln Memorial in Louisville in 2010,
 Bud on the right.

We did not discuss the things that an 8 year old and a 31 year old spoke of in 1969.  We had matured 36 years.  I was now 44, Uncle Bud a still going strong 67, and Tinka… somehow still a beautiful 29 years of age.  We talked about how those 36 years had changed us.  We discussed the similarities between 1860, 1960, and present day America and the events that shaped our country during those critical years.  In each case, someone rose up who was able to clearly articulate ideas he held dear to his heart.  This very day we had visited Abraham Lincoln’s birth place in Hodgenville, Kentucky .  Scrawled everywhere was evidence of a man who could express his heart and mind.  How fortunate we were, as a nation, to have a man who could ponder life, and then speak so clearly, so briefly, in a way the average 1860 citizen could understand.  Certainly Martin Luther King was one of those men in 1960.  Certainly this woman whose songs we were listening to was one of those women.  But who were these men and women today? Was it one of us?  Was it one of our young children playing out in Tinka’s pool?  Perhaps a great gene of wisdom passed from my grandfather, through Uncle Bud and my mother, through me, and would surface one day in our now 2 year old son Asher, or so we jested.

We were right in the middle of listening to Nina sing one of her more famous songs, the song which reportedly encouraged Mick Jagger to pursue a life of music, when life happened.  As if on cue, practically by the hand of an all-knowing God determined to restore humility to my large head, we heard a cry from the latest member of my family’s wise gene pool, the one appointed by us to be the next great communicator, Asher.  Apparently he had fallen and cracked his young and still small head on the counter of Tinka’s Art Deco 1950’s diner-style table. 

There was a small gash on his head, about an inch and a quarter long (a carpenter’s rough estimate).  It appeared to be a cut just to the top layer of skin, and did not bleed to any great degree.  Uncle Bud matter-of-factly asked if we needed to go to the emergency room for stitches.  Upon closer inspection, that did not appear to be necessary, but I could see that Tina was not totally convinced and was concerned about scarring.  We decided a call to a nurse friend in Delaware would give us more information by which to make a decision. Turns out, the nurse friend was visiting another nurse friend, and upon discussing the situation with them, we concluded that butterfly bandages would be adequate for this crisis.  The cut was well within the rule of thumb for stitches… it wasn’t even close to a ¼” wide gaping wound. 

Asher in 2006, on our way home from our
second annual KY trip, in Sharpsburg, MD
The last thing I wanted to do was spend the next 6 hours in an emergency room.  It was not what I wanted our kids to remember about their trip to visit their Great Uncle Bud and Aunt Tinka. 

So here we are in Louisville, history repeating itself 36 years later.  You see, I had fixed a light fixture for Uncle Bud during my previous visit.  So coincidentally, once again, I find my great mechanical aptitude being summoned for a small repair task.  Broken lights… a flesh wound… is there really that much difference?  Besides, I now had the wisdom of 36 years behind me.  So Uncle Bud and I valiantly volunteered to drive to the pharmacy for the bandages.  As I stood before the shelf searching for the butterfly type, I spied a product called “liquid nails”, no wait, make that “liquid bandage”.  Immediately my great knowledge of Vietnam trivia came to mind. I had heard that super glue was originally invented to mend battlefield cuts during the Vietnam era (this was later found to be only partially true).  I shared my wealth of trivia with Uncle Bud, and decided that in addition to the butterfly bandages, we would get some liquid bandage.  It seemed especially good for this application, given the proximity of the cut, which was in a place not easily bandaged.  So we left the store, having been sent after a couple of small bandages, with only nine fewer dollars in our pocket.  Normally I am much more frugal, but frugality went out the window when it came to my child.  And knowing that Uncle Bud would insist on paying did not hurt either.

We arrived back at Tinka’s, and began with surgical precision to repair Asher’s cut.  The cut was just over his eyebrow.  I was concerned about leaking the liquid bandage on to his eye, so I firmly rested my pinky under his eyebrow, which also served to close up the wound, a task which had been suggested by our nurse friends.  We carefully applied a little of the liquid, and waited the suggested 30 or so seconds for the bandage to set.  Our plan was working beautifully.  No liquid in the eye.  No bleeding.  No gaping.  No problem.

As I relaxed and began to loosen my hold on Asher’s head, he began to whimper.  It was then that I realized a small flaw in the procedure.  The directions, which I had carefully read (no kidding, I am compelled compulsively by nature to read all directions, even in such crisis situations) said that the liquid flowed freely until setting.  Indeed, it had flowed from the wound down the entire length of my pinky.  My great intellectual ability to anticipate possible side effects had paid off.  The one small glitch was that my pinky was now affixed to my son’s eyebrow.

Asher and Uncle Bud at
The Farmington House in Louisville, KY
I announced my predicament, and Tina quickly resorted to her faith with an exclamation of "Oh Lord!”, and obviously began quietly petitioning our God for help.  I recalled from the directions that some type of oil would release the adhesive, so as calmly as possible I requested that someone read the box to clarify what the antidote was.  Mineral oil was the answer.  Tinka had just used up the last of hers, but drawing from her culinary experience, did a quick conversion, and rushed into the midst of the chaos with olive oil, about 1 cup's worth.  All but a few drops ended up in the carpet and Asher’s hair.  I was too busy to look Uncle Bud’s way, but he was quiet, obviously concluding that this was a situation better left to the parents.  He had been terribly concerned that he would not know what to do with four kids in Louisville.  I hated the very idea that he had to witness this at all.  He had told me just weeks previously that he would never have the audacity to try to tell me how to raise my children.  He remained true to that conviction to the nth degree in this situation.

As Asher cried and struggled to free his head of his father’s finger, the grip between our flesh began to loosen, and I could see that an end to the nightmare was in sight.  With a little more coaxing, my finger was free, and Asher had a layer of liquid bandage on his small cut.  With a little distraction by a basketball in the pool, in a short while he was pretty much back to his old self. 

We may grow in “wisdom”, but needless to say, we are always in a position of needing more.  Our experience may equip us to better handle a situation, to handle it in a cooler fashion, to improvise, or to let someone else do what they need to do without interfering or making it worse.  But when faced with the stuff of life, there is absolutely no better approach than to just say “Oh Lord”. 

It is in such situations that the only thing you can be is yourself, that is, what The Lord has crafted of you so far.  What comes out is what is deeply rooted inside.  You don’t tell yourself how to behave.  You just do it.  And if you have learned anything at all in life, the way you behave will demonstrate a little growth since the last time a crisis arose. 

Asher at the Lincoln Memorial Park in 2010
If only Abe Lincoln could see how his life had inspired Nina Simone to write her songs about freedom, who inspired Mick Jagger to write his songs, and then see me bring a whole new meaning to the song “Under My Thumb”.  We had seen that day that Mr. Lincoln came from humble beginnings, and would forever remain humble.  Since it didn’t seem to be coming naturally, God would see to it that I forever remained humble as well.  And I was reminded that the task raising our son would always involve a balancing act of trying to decide when to keep him under my thumb, and when to encourage the separation of our flesh in its proper time.

Within a few minutes of this incident, it was obvious this was a story we would tell and laugh about at some later date in the future. We had inadvertently set up a memorial on the bank of the Jordan during our Louisville visit.  And I was thankful for that memorial.  With any good fortune, Asher would indeed have a scar we could look at for his entire life, a memorial which would cause us to reminisce about 8 members our family visiting together in Louisville.  And through the fine art of storytelling, Asher would learn of his battle scar, which he would proudly display and talk about for years to come.  It was a battle scar that would remind us of the day we discussed the fate of the world and how to solve its problems.  We would recall that day in which The Lord loudly and clearly reminded us of our constant need to be dependent on Him, because even in the midst of our best effort and greatest wisdom, we fall short.  And if through that incident we are able to communicate that lesson in dependence, then Asher’s cut was well worth it, for there is no greater lesson we could pass on.

(This story occurred in the summer of 2005, and was written shortly after that.  Asher does indeed have a small scar over his eye.)
©Brent A. Timmons 2011

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Hippies

We were sitting at the dinner table tonight discussing the book "To Kill a Mockingbird", which my daughter and I were reading together.  She wasn't that impressed with the story, and brought up another more interesting book she was reading.  In this book, the mother and father were hippies, and had changed their names to Ed and Dreamy.  Our oldest boy says emphatically "Hippies don't get married and they live alone."  We all looked at each other..."What?!"  Turns out, he was thinking of "hermits."

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Album Review: Keep Singing by Vinyl Shockley

Play me a song that tells a story, and you’ve got my attention.  Play me a song that tells a story I can identify with, and I’m hooked.  Throw a bluesy voice into the mix and you end up with what Shockley calls “blue eyed soul”.
   
Vinyl Shockley's songwriting is shared primarily by Ed Shockley of Lewes, Delaware and Kevin Walsh.  Watch them live, and you soon come to understand that these guys go way back, as do many of the folks Shockley surrounds himself with in this band and others. Perhaps it is those kinds of relationships that produce such songs.

Ed Shockley and Kevin Walsh
"Keep Singing" is, for one, a story of coming home.  It is a condition most of us have experienced at some point in our lives, whether physically, or as a matter of the heart.  It is the reason this album will strike a chord with anyone who may have walked that path.

While in no way marketed as a gospel album, interspersed throughout are references that surely have their roots in faith.  One can’t help but wonder about the title of the opening track "Child of the Dove".  Shockley proclaims “I’m still a child of the dove”, and with the line “I just can’t seem to quit and un-learn the golden rule” removes most doubt.  Right off, the writer identifies this place of faith as home.

While the lyrics allude to the beauty of this great country, in "Baptize Me", one can quickly see the imagery of that great act of identifying with the work of Christ .  “Take me under, I surrender, in the name of love Baptize me.”  Whatever Shockley had in mind, a believer can take this song and use it as an anthem to his own coming home.

The Reminders at Barratt's Chapel
But such a serious theme does not weigh down the album.  This music is good clean fun, as are the live performances.  Shockley also sings about family, cars, and even throws in a beach tune (that’s beach- not the shore, and definitely not the ocean), complete with Beach Boys melodies. 

Coming home.  In its simplest form, it is coming to a realization of what is most sacred to you.  It is an old and common theme, familiar to most.  And Shockley nails it.   "Right Here at Home" says it best.  “I’ve looked all around, and wouldn’t you know, I found it here at home.”

Note:  When I first heard Vinyl Shockley perform, I had a hunch about his faith.  In time, we learned that he is indeed a believer.  Since then, Ed joined with John Thompson and Kevin Short to form the gospel band "The Reminders"More to follow on them.
 ©Brent A.Timmons 2011

Sunday, July 17, 2011

The Farm

I recently visited my grandparents’ old farm, which had been sold to a nursery business in the 70's.  The house was burned down intentionally a few years ago after falling into disrepair. Now the nursery business has abandoned the use of the property altogether. 

I walked around trying to find a foundation, or maybe some ashes.  But there was no evidence of the house at all.  I resorted to trying to imagine the house behind me, looking down the drive towards the entrance.  I wished my mom and dad were there so we could compare thoughts. 

I walked back to where the chicken houses once stood on the farm.  At the far end of those buildings there used to sit a little bungalow where the family who tended the chickens lived. 

Now, near the location where one of the chicken houses had once stood were an old mobile home and some out buildings, put there by the nursery business.  Behind where the farmhouse had stood were the skeletal remains of greenhouses. 

Besides trying to mentally reconstruct the farm, I was trying to get an idea of what it would take to clean it up.  There was a song struck in my head.  Tim McGraw’s  "I Miss Back When"  had just been getting a lot of radio airplay.  While I did “miss back when”, my thought was not to bring back what once was, but to start something new on land that had once been very precious to the Tingle family.  

I wouldn’t bring back the old house.  I wouldn’t rebuild the chicken houses or the little caretaker’s house.  But I might dig around and actually find that old farm house foundation, and build a new house there.  I might build a go-cart track for my children and cover one of those greenhouse frames and get my wife to start a little nursery business.  I might divide off four lots and build houses for our children, if they wanted. 

I’m a dreamer.  The reality is there is a huge problem with the whole idea… money.  So it was just a dream, and would remain a dream barring some miracle.  At the heart of that dream was my family, more specifically my grandfather Elias.  As I stood on that farm, I wasn’t just thinking of the house and buildings on the farm.  I thought of Elias. I think he would have been pleased that I had come to the conclusion that this place had value, that this place was more than just another piece of real estate.  He would have been pleased that I wanted to build on what he had started. 

Or would he have?  Perhaps if he had felt the farm was that important, he would have hung on to it.  Perhaps he concluded that there were more important things than this farm, more important things to build on.

A large part of what defined my grandfather as a man was his keen mind.  It was apparent to anyone who knew him.  That mind shaped his life.  And while I did not get a large chunk (much to my dismay), my inheritance from him was a small piece of that mind. 

I did not work for that inheritance.  It was given to me freely at birth, and was developed over the years with the encouragement of Elias, my parents, and many other influential people in my life who helped me appreciate the inheritance I had received.  While the value of the inheritance did not change, its worth became increasingly apparent to my own eyes as I aged and matured. 

Something WAS actually built on what my grandfather had started after all.

That inheritance, as much as I may appreciate it, is only on the level of earth, and has no eternal value.  But there is another inheritance we have been given.  The Old Testament speaks of an inheritance promised to the family of Abraham.  That promise of an inheritance continues on through the Bible, and in Ephesians 1:18, Paul prays “that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, so that you will know what is the hope of His calling, what are the riches of the glory of His inheritance in the saints …”

 What is that inheritance for believers today?  Some say it is salvation, some say heaven.  What is it that God has that is of utmost importance to pass on to us?  And at what point do we receive that inheritance?

That inheritance of which I speak becomes available at the moment we profess Christ as savior.  It is given to us due to the fact that we become children of God, grafted into His Family by the work of Christ Himself.  We receive the inheritance completely, all at once.  As we walk with Him, our eyes are increasingly opened to its value.  Other believers help us appreciate that inheritance and discover its riches in the midst of life together.

That inheritance is embodied in Christ Himself.  It is Christ that God has determined is of the utmost importance for us to have. 

Elias Tingle would be saddened to see me fretting over his farm and my inability to acquire it.  But no doubt his heart would rejoice in knowing that every day of my life is a testament of the real gift I have received from him. 

How does that compare to God seeing us living in the reality of our inheritance of Christ?  Nothing must warm His heart more than watching His children, His family, living in the understanding that we can live today enjoying the inheritance we have already received.

Note:  Since the writing of this story, my grandparent's farm was sold to a farmer who owns an adjoining property and happens to have been a classmate of mine.  He cleaned up the property, and is now tilling the land.  

©Brent A. Timmons 2011

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Do What You Love, and Starve


T.S.Smith, Bridgeville, DE
As we had been to the festival many times before, we were looking for something completely different to do.  The orchard store had offered tours of its processing plant in the past, so we headed in that direction.  No plant tours that day, but we jumped at the opportunity to go on an “orchard tour”.  Looking at apples growing sounded only moderately interesting, but we knew the kids would enjoy the hay ride.

A gentleman in his fifties packed us up with little conversation, and we headed down the road sitting on our hay bales.  I wondered what the “tour” would be like, and speculated it may simply be a quiet ride through the orchards.

We made our way across the highway and eventually to a turn-off leading into the orchard.  The driver bounced us down a stretch of dirt road and then stopped the tractor and turned off the engine.  It was only then that he introduced himself.  The man who I thought was just a farm hand was in fact one of the brothers who own the orchard. 

He explained that his great grandfather had started the business over a hundred years ago.  He pointed out the modest house he lived in, and the old broken down chicken houses in which the family had at one time grown Delmarva’s favorite bird.  He mentioned that back in the day, there was a small residence built right in the center where the caretaker would stay. 

He spoke of the pride his family took in making a living from farming this land, especially for such a long period of time.  He told us about irrigation methods the company had been using for years which were ahead of their time, and how they had always been careful not to contaminate the small stream which made its way through the farm and eventually dumped into the Chesapeake Bay.  The love this man had for the land and his farm was obvious.

I recall hearing a commercial for this very orchard, T. S. Smith & Sons, as a child in the 1960s.  I had never been to the orchard growing up, as it was all the way on the other side of the county.  Mr. Smith and I discussed the commercial, and he mentioned that a few years ago he had tried to get a copy of it without success.  I told him that when I was young, the only reason we ever came through this part of the county was if we were going over the Bay Bridge.  He said I should have told him that the only reason we came was to buy their apples.  I agreed.

At our last stop in the orchard, we were allowed to pick our own apples.  I picked three, and ate two.  One of our sons picked a dozen.  With all the apples our family picked, it easily covered the small fee we had paid for our ride.

The tour was a huge success for our family - one of those things that everybody enjoyed.  The thing that most impressed me was the longevity of the family business, and the pride and pleasure this man took in showing us his farm.  He had succeeded in building a rapport with us in the brief time we were together.  I wondered about the possibility of our children perhaps getting summer jobs at the store.

I thought to myself, "this farmer must be an illustration of some saying", but I couldn’t recall the precise wording of it.  A few minutes on the internet led to the quote - “Do what you love, and the rest will follow”.  This sounded slightly better than another quote - “Do what you love, and the money will follow.”  “Do what you love, and starve”, while funny, made a good point.  All these quotes were in the context of making a good decision about how to spend your days, specifically in how to make a living.

Then I found yet another one which caught my attention.  The context was also someone trying to find just the right career.  The commentator wrote “Do NOT what you love: do what you ARE".  This twist on the other ideas was taking into account that there are all kinds of things we love to do, but those things don’t always translate into income.   Her suggestion was essentially to do what you are geared to do.  I suppose if you combined the best of these various thoughts, you could end up with “Do what you are, and the rest will follow.”  Yea, that sounded pretty good to me.
Perhaps my farmer had stumbled into this pattern of living.  He certainly seemed to be “doing what he was”, and seemed very content in “the rest” that followed.  It was a refreshing thing to see.

While these quotes were aimed towards vocation, there is a more general across-the-board application in the life of the believer.  “Do what you are”, if carried out in the correct context, is the life believers are called to live.  It is the “what you are” part that causes all the grief. 

According to 2 Corinthians 5:17, when we come to Christ, we become “new creatures”.  That’s relatively easy to swallow.  But 2 Corinthians 4:11 very boldly says “For we who live are constantly being delivered over to death for Jesus' sake, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh.” 

If we believe this and walk in it, then “doing what we are” should involve allowing Christ to be manifested in our mortal flesh.  But what if I was actually a dirty rotten scoundrel at one point in my life, and I'm still carrying around some of that baggage?  We know we have no license to behave in such a way, no license to “be who we are” in that context.  As the first part of 2 Cor 4:11 explains, The Lord intends to deal with those things of the flesh.  As He does, and that flesh is put to death, we see less of our flesh, and more of Christ manifested.

We often live under the misunderstanding that “what we are” are miserable sinners which God desires to fix up over time.  So we spend our lives focused on all those things we see which are in need of repair.  And we live in a constant state of asking The Lord to change us, never satisfied with where He has brought us thus far.

Certainly He does intend to do a work in our hearts.  But it is The Holy Spirit Who will be faithful to deal with that flesh. Perhaps I need to spend less time on worrying about His work, and more time on “doing what I am.”  What I am is a vessel for the Life of Christ.  The rest will follow.

After all, we aren’t the broken down old chicken houses of the orchard, we are the trees.  And the fruit we bear is Christ.

©Brent A. Timmons 2011