Summer is in full swing and thousands of children will be attending a variety of camps before school will resume again in the fall. This is a great time for children to feel independent from their parents and interact with their peers in a supervised scheduled surrounding. It is a way to learn new skills and to push yourself to see what you can accomplish. It is learning about teamwork while learning about something deeper inside of you.
It was the early summer of 1992. I was 15 years old and staying with my Aunt and Uncle in Tulsa, Oklahoma for a few weeks. I was slowly starting my walk with Jesus. Even though I knew who Jesus was I never really took His words into my heart. Growing up and attending church the priest sounded like the teacher from the Charlie Brown shows, "Wah Wah Wah....Wahhhh Wahh Wah" Nothing was sinking in. Church was nothing to get uplifted about. You went, sat for an hour, and you were good to go. The crowd I hung around with never really talked about Jesus or church or anything religious. Faith was something for old people, not for the young.
My view of my ideas changed when I went to a christian camp somewhere near Tulsa. I don't remember the name of it but it was my first time ever attending a camp and I was looking forward to the experience. And what an experience it was! I don't remember every single detail of camp but the parts I do remember really moved me. Each cabin was a team and we had to study a few chapters in a book in the Bible that night and the next day we would do an activity with another cabin of who knew what of that book in the Bible. I think we had to study 1 Corinthians. The other ladies in the cabin knew exactly where to go in the Bible as I fumbled with locating it. I would peek over at the table of contents quietly so the other girls wouldn't know I didn't know where that book was at and quickly get the page number and turn to that page. Reading the Bible seemed so foreign to me. We never really opened the Bible. I knew the main stories of Adam and Eve, Moses, Noah, Birth of Christ and the Resurrection of Christ but the inbetween readings were unknown to me. The other girls would talk about what they read, quizzed each other and debated over how they interrupted the scripture. I was impressed that they knew their Bible and they loved learned about it.
We would gather in a large pavillion for vespers and chapel time. The songs they sang were upbeat and fun to listen to. It was the first time I heard the christian song, "Lord I Lift Your Name On High". I remember looking around the crowd and seeing almost everyone do the hand motions with the song. I quickly learned it and followed along. We also sang "Lean On Me" and I remember everyone standing on their chairs, arms around each other shoulders swaying back and forth to the music. What a great time! It was more than just the songs, much more. These teens where there praising Jesus and loving it. They had Jesus in their hearts and were not afraid to show it. Their parents were not around to push these teens into praying and singing. They were rejoicing in God's name on their own will. Never had I ever seen anything like that before.
Each day we had a speaker preach to us. I hate to use the word preach because he wasn't talking on void ears. He grabbed the attention of all of us and talked to us on our level. It wasn't the Charlie Brown teacher at all. He taught us what the Bible is saying in ways we can understand. One man talked to us on the importance of abstinence. He explained it this way. One man really liked a girl and he wanted to impress her so he bought her a ring. After a few weeks a beautiful lady caught his attention and he bought the same ring for that lady and dated her. Some time when by and a third lady took his interest. He purchased the same exact ring for her. Finally a fourth lady won his heart and affection. He went to the same store to buy the same ring. He took the ring home and took it out of the box. He looked at the ring and as he gazed upon the ring it didn't have the same sparkle, the same pizzaz as it did once before. He thought about all the girls he had given the same ring to and it just didn't feel right giving her that ring he had given away to all the others who weren't so special as she was. Point of the story is to save yourself (the ring) for the one you want to be married to, to give them that one special gift from you to them.
Another speaker talked again on relationships and abstinence. He used a candle as a visual. When you first buy a candle it is unlit, whole, pure, just like you are. When you light the candle (he lit it) it symbolizes a relationship and how far it advances. You might get a kiss from your boyfriend or girlfriend. But when that relationship ends (he blew out the candle) and a new one begins you cannot start pure and whole again. You start from where the candle was once lit - and kissing is easy to do. Then your candle burns a little bit more and the relationship gets more advance. Then that relationship ends. The flame is extinguished. Another relationship starts back up. You don't start up near the top with kissing. You already move to where the flame was last put out and move quickly forward burning more and more of the candle out. God wants us to keep our candles (us) pure and whole until we marry. We shouldn't have our candles burn out before we meet the one we marry.
There were other activites we did such as obstacle courses against different teams to get points. The points led to special privledges such as swimming or staying up late to attend a bon fire. Nothing stuck in my head more than the way Jesus was the focus in everyone's lives. It was a real eye opener for me. God is more than sitting at church for an hour or saying a prayer before dinner. He is indescribable. He is there for all people, all ages, whether we want him to be there or not. He is our creator. I learned that I need not be ashamed to call myself a Christian. I learned that God has given us this great book, The Bible, to read and to learn from. God has been knocking at my heart and I finally opened the doors and let him inside.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Jake Miller and His Pickle's
It seems in every neighborhood there is a kindly old couple that knows every neighbor and enjoys visiting with them as well. They are there to celebrate good comings and they are there when the family needs a shoulder to lean on. They wave to the children that pass by on the sidewalks and the children wave back knowing who they are. That couple in our neighborhood was Jake and Emma Miller.
Jake and Emma Miller lived across from us on Center Rd in Saginaw Township, Michigan. They lived in a blonde brick ranch style home with sea-green colored shutters and trim. If I think hard enough I can picture him riding his yellow and white lawn mower out of his attached garage and mowing around his house while his wife attended to the garden off to the side.
Jake was born in Russia and came to America as a young man. He told us of a story of when he was a little boy he remember soldiers breaking into his home and taking his father away and his father was never heard or seen from again. Right away I got the impression that Russia was a horrible place to be. Being older and knowing the dates I realized it was during The Great War and turmoil was all over Russia at that time.
Emma was a bit shy and quiet. She mostly kept indoors but occasionally she would escort her husband to visiting the neighbors. I just remember her being a small lady with dark curly hair and glasses. At time they would visit with my mom and sit down watching my sister, brother and I play around the yard or while we were shooting some hoops.
Every year we would expect a special visit from Mr. Miller toting a few jars of his homemade dill pickles made fresh out of his garden. We would see him on the side of the road waiting to cross the busy street. Someone would shout the news that Mr. Miller was on his way carring the jars of pickles. Then we would cringe. We appreciate his kindly gesture of sharing his homemade pickles but his pickles were not the best tasting. We were used to eating the kind of pickles with the stork on it bought from the store. Those were good. These pickles had a dull dill flavor to it.
Soon there was a knock on the door. We happily invited him inside and we all gathered into the kitchen. Mom would place the large jars on the counter and talk with Mr. Miller for a moment. Then she would open the jars and hand my sister, my brother and I a large pickle all the while telling Mr. Miller how much we enjoyed his pickles and looked forward to them every year. That was pretty much our cue to eat the pickles faking our delight in them. We mmm'ed and ahhh'ed over them but deep down my sibilings and I were thinking these are awful.
After some time he would head back home leaving the jars of pickles behind. We would sit and stare at them as if the pickles were some nasty medicine we were forced to take. Eventually we did eat them all. Mom would serve them up with dinner and we groan as we were forced to eat one. We were taught to be thankful when someone would give a gift and to use it kindly. It was a hard lesson to learn.
Jake Miller passed away September 28, 1992 at the age of 83. We moved away a year after that and later learned his wife ended up passing away October 24, 2001 at the age of 89. I am thankful that the Miller's were a part of our lives and memories even if it was a small part. I had never had homemade pickles after that but there are times when I would love to have a bite of his pickles just to bring back that fond tradition and kindness a neighbor gave to us.
Jake and Emma Miller lived across from us on Center Rd in Saginaw Township, Michigan. They lived in a blonde brick ranch style home with sea-green colored shutters and trim. If I think hard enough I can picture him riding his yellow and white lawn mower out of his attached garage and mowing around his house while his wife attended to the garden off to the side.
Jake was born in Russia and came to America as a young man. He told us of a story of when he was a little boy he remember soldiers breaking into his home and taking his father away and his father was never heard or seen from again. Right away I got the impression that Russia was a horrible place to be. Being older and knowing the dates I realized it was during The Great War and turmoil was all over Russia at that time.
Emma was a bit shy and quiet. She mostly kept indoors but occasionally she would escort her husband to visiting the neighbors. I just remember her being a small lady with dark curly hair and glasses. At time they would visit with my mom and sit down watching my sister, brother and I play around the yard or while we were shooting some hoops.
Every year we would expect a special visit from Mr. Miller toting a few jars of his homemade dill pickles made fresh out of his garden. We would see him on the side of the road waiting to cross the busy street. Someone would shout the news that Mr. Miller was on his way carring the jars of pickles. Then we would cringe. We appreciate his kindly gesture of sharing his homemade pickles but his pickles were not the best tasting. We were used to eating the kind of pickles with the stork on it bought from the store. Those were good. These pickles had a dull dill flavor to it.
Soon there was a knock on the door. We happily invited him inside and we all gathered into the kitchen. Mom would place the large jars on the counter and talk with Mr. Miller for a moment. Then she would open the jars and hand my sister, my brother and I a large pickle all the while telling Mr. Miller how much we enjoyed his pickles and looked forward to them every year. That was pretty much our cue to eat the pickles faking our delight in them. We mmm'ed and ahhh'ed over them but deep down my sibilings and I were thinking these are awful.
After some time he would head back home leaving the jars of pickles behind. We would sit and stare at them as if the pickles were some nasty medicine we were forced to take. Eventually we did eat them all. Mom would serve them up with dinner and we groan as we were forced to eat one. We were taught to be thankful when someone would give a gift and to use it kindly. It was a hard lesson to learn.
Jake Miller passed away September 28, 1992 at the age of 83. We moved away a year after that and later learned his wife ended up passing away October 24, 2001 at the age of 89. I am thankful that the Miller's were a part of our lives and memories even if it was a small part. I had never had homemade pickles after that but there are times when I would love to have a bite of his pickles just to bring back that fond tradition and kindness a neighbor gave to us.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Amityville Slaughter House
I do not know why men think women are dainty creatures that needs protecting. Perhaps some women do faint at the sight of blood or scream at the sight of a snake crawling across the floor but not me. I was raised with the enjoyment of blood, guts, and gore. While some girls I knew found gratification of looking at clothes and jewerly, I was finding pleasure in horror movies and getting down and dirty. As a child my sister and I would watch the movie series Friday the 13th and our VCR had a slow motion button to it. There was a scene where a cop ran through the woods trying to chase Jason Voorheis. The cop came to a small run-down cabin. He is looking through some things when Jason comes up behind him and slams the hammer claw into the back of the cops head. My sister and I would click the slow motion button and watch how the cops eyes would look as if are popping out of his face once the hammer was entering the back of his head. Morbid, I know, but my sister and I were laughing too hard to care. My family is twisted.
I was only dating Brian a few weeks when he asked if I wanted to join him in the semi-truck to make a pick up in Chicago. It sounded exciting and it was. Sitting up high in the semi-truck you can see everything. You felt powerful and tall. In Chicago traffic you can look down into people's cars and see what they are doing or little children will look up and beg for the air horn to be blown. Sometimes Brian would blow it and the kids in the car would hoot with delight.
He was scheduled to pick up meat from a slaughterhouse in Chicago. It was called the Amityville Slaughter House and it lived up to its name. He told me to wait in the cab as he went inside to deal with the paperwork. I looked around through the cab's windows and there wasn't much to look at. Older looking cars were in the parking lot, weeds vined up the broken down fence that surrounded the building, and the building looked old. I even watched a pig being escorted in the air by a Bobcat 4-wheeler across the parking lot. Little did this pig know but its final ride would lead him become bacon and ham. Did my mouth just water, I thought.
After a while an uncomforting feeling came across me. I needed a bathroom. Oh how I envied men who can just stand hidden in a corner to use it or relieve themselves in a bottle or jug. God just did not make women that way. I looked at the mulitple doors to the building. I didn't know which door to go into. I looked around for another business, perhaps a gas station would be nearby. There was nothing but old, run-downed, two story homes. Please God, let Brian come out soon! I anguished. After what seemed like forever Brian came back to the truck to check on me. The shippers were still messing with the paperwork. I told him I needed to use the bathroom. He asked if I could hold it. I have him a look of urgency. He begged me to hold it because this wasn't a nice place to use the bathroom. "I don't care," I pleaded, "I am about to squat in front of this truck if I don't get to a bathroom now!"
He comes around the truck and opens the door for me. "I don't want you looking around. Keep your eyes on the floor. There is disgusting things in here." he says tenderly as we approach a set of doors.
Disgusting things? Did that ever get my curiousity going! We entered the first set of doors and a lady sat behind a window with papers shuffled across her desk. Brian asked where the bathroom was for me. The lady gave him instruction through the factory maze. We entered another set of doors. It was loud and smelled nasty. As we rounded a corner the floor turned red. It's wasn't paint either. But I was mindful and still kept my eyes on the ground, mostly because I didn't want to step on the chunks that was litered on the ground. We entered another area and he told me that when he says "GO!" we have to move quickly forward. I couldn't look down any longer. The urge to look up was too great. I told Brian I can handle this. I looked up and gasped out loud. Brian was so concerned and disappointed that the image I seen was terrifing to me. On the contrary that was a gasp of excitment.
This is a part of our food chain that most people don't get to see and here I was observing it. Up above were skinless headless pigs hanging on hooks through its feet cascading around on a system that looked like a cruel roller coaster ride. It went from an upper level and down across the room we were in and into a lower level room for more processing. As we passed through the room, we had to dodge between the hanging pig corpses. It was thrilling. A smile even emerged from my face which confused Brian.
We went down a flight of grated stairs. I placed my hands on the railing. It was sticky and gooie feeling. I knew it was because of pig blood. I quickly let go of the railing. Just because I found this experience interesting I didn't want to feel it. We finally found the bathroom. It wasn't pretty, to say the least. It looked as bad as it did the slaughter house. I didn't care. I had to use it. A toilet was a toilet and I was thankful.
We made our way back up the sticky stairs, dodged the hanging carcas of pork, and back around to the lady at the window. Brian walked me back to the truck apologizing for the sights that I seen and that a lady shouldn't of seen something to that degree. I told him I found it rather interested and I liked it but he didn't understand how someone could like something so grusome. I climbed back into the truck and Brian went back inside to finish up on the paperwork. I sat there wishing how I could see the rest of the factory and how a pig goes from being carried on bobcat to becoming bacon on our breakfast plates.
After some time Brian comes running to the truck. "We have to go now!" he says urgently, "The inspectors are closing the factory down! They just finished loading our truck and we have to leave before they lock up the gates." He gets the truck moving fast and starts shifting gears. A few other trucks were in line of leaving the premises quickly.
We get back on the road and Brian says, "I bet after that you won't want to eat meat anymore."
I looked at him, smiled, and replied, "Actually a grilled ham and cheese sandwich does sound good." Then we rode off on the highway. I think Brian then realized that I was different than the other girls he knew.
I was only dating Brian a few weeks when he asked if I wanted to join him in the semi-truck to make a pick up in Chicago. It sounded exciting and it was. Sitting up high in the semi-truck you can see everything. You felt powerful and tall. In Chicago traffic you can look down into people's cars and see what they are doing or little children will look up and beg for the air horn to be blown. Sometimes Brian would blow it and the kids in the car would hoot with delight.
He was scheduled to pick up meat from a slaughterhouse in Chicago. It was called the Amityville Slaughter House and it lived up to its name. He told me to wait in the cab as he went inside to deal with the paperwork. I looked around through the cab's windows and there wasn't much to look at. Older looking cars were in the parking lot, weeds vined up the broken down fence that surrounded the building, and the building looked old. I even watched a pig being escorted in the air by a Bobcat 4-wheeler across the parking lot. Little did this pig know but its final ride would lead him become bacon and ham. Did my mouth just water, I thought.
After a while an uncomforting feeling came across me. I needed a bathroom. Oh how I envied men who can just stand hidden in a corner to use it or relieve themselves in a bottle or jug. God just did not make women that way. I looked at the mulitple doors to the building. I didn't know which door to go into. I looked around for another business, perhaps a gas station would be nearby. There was nothing but old, run-downed, two story homes. Please God, let Brian come out soon! I anguished. After what seemed like forever Brian came back to the truck to check on me. The shippers were still messing with the paperwork. I told him I needed to use the bathroom. He asked if I could hold it. I have him a look of urgency. He begged me to hold it because this wasn't a nice place to use the bathroom. "I don't care," I pleaded, "I am about to squat in front of this truck if I don't get to a bathroom now!"
He comes around the truck and opens the door for me. "I don't want you looking around. Keep your eyes on the floor. There is disgusting things in here." he says tenderly as we approach a set of doors.
Disgusting things? Did that ever get my curiousity going! We entered the first set of doors and a lady sat behind a window with papers shuffled across her desk. Brian asked where the bathroom was for me. The lady gave him instruction through the factory maze. We entered another set of doors. It was loud and smelled nasty. As we rounded a corner the floor turned red. It's wasn't paint either. But I was mindful and still kept my eyes on the ground, mostly because I didn't want to step on the chunks that was litered on the ground. We entered another area and he told me that when he says "GO!" we have to move quickly forward. I couldn't look down any longer. The urge to look up was too great. I told Brian I can handle this. I looked up and gasped out loud. Brian was so concerned and disappointed that the image I seen was terrifing to me. On the contrary that was a gasp of excitment.
This is a part of our food chain that most people don't get to see and here I was observing it. Up above were skinless headless pigs hanging on hooks through its feet cascading around on a system that looked like a cruel roller coaster ride. It went from an upper level and down across the room we were in and into a lower level room for more processing. As we passed through the room, we had to dodge between the hanging pig corpses. It was thrilling. A smile even emerged from my face which confused Brian.
We went down a flight of grated stairs. I placed my hands on the railing. It was sticky and gooie feeling. I knew it was because of pig blood. I quickly let go of the railing. Just because I found this experience interesting I didn't want to feel it. We finally found the bathroom. It wasn't pretty, to say the least. It looked as bad as it did the slaughter house. I didn't care. I had to use it. A toilet was a toilet and I was thankful.
We made our way back up the sticky stairs, dodged the hanging carcas of pork, and back around to the lady at the window. Brian walked me back to the truck apologizing for the sights that I seen and that a lady shouldn't of seen something to that degree. I told him I found it rather interested and I liked it but he didn't understand how someone could like something so grusome. I climbed back into the truck and Brian went back inside to finish up on the paperwork. I sat there wishing how I could see the rest of the factory and how a pig goes from being carried on bobcat to becoming bacon on our breakfast plates.
After some time Brian comes running to the truck. "We have to go now!" he says urgently, "The inspectors are closing the factory down! They just finished loading our truck and we have to leave before they lock up the gates." He gets the truck moving fast and starts shifting gears. A few other trucks were in line of leaving the premises quickly.
We get back on the road and Brian says, "I bet after that you won't want to eat meat anymore."
I looked at him, smiled, and replied, "Actually a grilled ham and cheese sandwich does sound good." Then we rode off on the highway. I think Brian then realized that I was different than the other girls he knew.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Last Day of School
As kids, the first day of school is equally as exciting as one other day. That day is the last day of school. Sitting in classroom as a child it seemed as if May kept adding hidden days to its calendar. It never seemed to end. Then June arrives and in no time we are giving our teachers a final hug as we dash out the classroom doors, down the halls enter on the bus to take us home for another exciting summer adventure.
The last week of school seemed like fluff. There really isn't homework and we get extra recesses in to pass the time. In elementary I remember going through all the text books we had in our desks and look through the pages for any pencil marks we might of made during the year. As I got older I would intentionally leave notes hidden on the pages of the text. On one page I would have turn to page 34. Then turn to page 88. I would end it with a "Hi" or something silly. With buckets of warm soapy water we wiped down the front and back cover of our books and piled them neatly on a shelf for next years students. We would pull lost papers out of our desks and reveal them to other students nearby. Other students would also share their lost treasure of papers hidden in the depths of the desk. Then we would take the wash rag again and rinse out the desks.
Next we would pile out to our lockers with huge garbage bins lining the hallways. Some lockers were neat as a pin and others were thankful for the garbage bins. It seemed as if there were always lockers that had a lost juice box stuck to the bottom or a lost hat left over from winter. Classroom posterboard projects were usually curled up and pushed towards the back. The teachers would had out extra bags for those who wanted to take their items home to share. Then another use for the wash rag and the lockers had to be cleaned from top to bottom. It wasn't so bad. It seemed more like playtime than work.
Teachers would usually toss in extra goodies into our bags on the last day. Sometimes a textbooks when the school is getting newer textbooks, summer packets to work on, or pictures that were taken throughout the year.
The bus dropped us off one last time at our house. We would run inside anxious to take off our school uniform and put on summer clothes. Mom would always be inside awaiting our arrival and wanting to hear about our last day. My sister, brother and I would each have our highlighted time with our mom sitting on the couch as we go through all the papers and books and other treasures we brought home. The other two sibilings would sit on the floor patiently waiting their turn and also engaging into the conversation. It usually ended by a competition of whose work was the hardest. I usually lost because I am the baby of the family and everyone could do my work. I value those moments that I had with my family then.
With my children waiting for their last few days of school I can only imagine what they are doing around the classroom, excited children can't wait for summer break and feeling older as they go on to the next grade. As a parent the roles have changed. I still get anxious waiting for the bus to get home and 5 little ones come running up the driveway waving their backpacks eager to show me their stuff. And I sit there on the couch for our special time and have them show me all of their papers and happily hear all their stories.
The last week of school seemed like fluff. There really isn't homework and we get extra recesses in to pass the time. In elementary I remember going through all the text books we had in our desks and look through the pages for any pencil marks we might of made during the year. As I got older I would intentionally leave notes hidden on the pages of the text. On one page I would have turn to page 34. Then turn to page 88. I would end it with a "Hi" or something silly. With buckets of warm soapy water we wiped down the front and back cover of our books and piled them neatly on a shelf for next years students. We would pull lost papers out of our desks and reveal them to other students nearby. Other students would also share their lost treasure of papers hidden in the depths of the desk. Then we would take the wash rag again and rinse out the desks.
Next we would pile out to our lockers with huge garbage bins lining the hallways. Some lockers were neat as a pin and others were thankful for the garbage bins. It seemed as if there were always lockers that had a lost juice box stuck to the bottom or a lost hat left over from winter. Classroom posterboard projects were usually curled up and pushed towards the back. The teachers would had out extra bags for those who wanted to take their items home to share. Then another use for the wash rag and the lockers had to be cleaned from top to bottom. It wasn't so bad. It seemed more like playtime than work.
Teachers would usually toss in extra goodies into our bags on the last day. Sometimes a textbooks when the school is getting newer textbooks, summer packets to work on, or pictures that were taken throughout the year.
The bus dropped us off one last time at our house. We would run inside anxious to take off our school uniform and put on summer clothes. Mom would always be inside awaiting our arrival and wanting to hear about our last day. My sister, brother and I would each have our highlighted time with our mom sitting on the couch as we go through all the papers and books and other treasures we brought home. The other two sibilings would sit on the floor patiently waiting their turn and also engaging into the conversation. It usually ended by a competition of whose work was the hardest. I usually lost because I am the baby of the family and everyone could do my work. I value those moments that I had with my family then.
With my children waiting for their last few days of school I can only imagine what they are doing around the classroom, excited children can't wait for summer break and feeling older as they go on to the next grade. As a parent the roles have changed. I still get anxious waiting for the bus to get home and 5 little ones come running up the driveway waving their backpacks eager to show me their stuff. And I sit there on the couch for our special time and have them show me all of their papers and happily hear all their stories.
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