It's All Black and White

When our family moved from Massachusetts to the southeastern corner of Washington State in 1991, one of the things we missed most was the variety of birds in the yard. In Massachusetts we’d been in the midst of mixed deciduous forest with its multitude of niches, hence bird species. In Walla Walla, we were on the edge of the Great Basin Desert, most of which had been turned in to agricultural land with the advent of irrigation, thanks to the many dams on the Columbia and Snake rivers. While the nearby Blue Mountains did have lots of bird species, down in the Walla Walla Valley there weren’t a large number of species.

There were several species fairly common around our three-plus acres: Western Meadowlark, Barn Swallows, and Black-billed Magpies. The latter are members of the crow and jay family, tend to form small flocks, and are quite garrulous. Like the American Crow, they are quite inquisitive, and, to be a little anthropomorphic, sly with a bit of sense of humor.

A few months back I mentioned our cat, Momma Kitty. Well, she had a brother, Kitty Boy. Kitty Boy was a large, solidly-built black-and-white cat. I mean, Momma Kitty is a normal-sized cat. Kitty Boy stood almost two inches taller at the shoulder. Solid, heavy. I guess I’d have to say he was mine. Anytime I was outside, he was by my side. He would follow along as I mowed the lawn, moved irrigation pipe, and dug out thistles in the pasture,…or whatever. He was always there. He wanted to be petted all the time, and welcomed visitors. He did, however, have one drawback. He loved to lie in laps. Did I mention he was big?

You might ask why this would be a problem. Well, as I said, he loved to lie in laps, and once he got in one, he didn’t leave until he was ready to. If you tried to pick him up to set him on the ground, he’d hiss terribly, and, if you actually persisted, bite your hand. If you tried to dump him by standing up, he’d just dig in his claws, and stay in place. Your lap may have disappeared, but Kitty Boy didn’t.

What, you may ask does a big, black-and-white cat have to do with black-and-white Magpies? They didn’t get along. If Kitty Boy would see one out in the pasture, he’d try to sneak up on it (he wasn’t capable of understanding that a mostly white cat will stand out in a green field). If there was only one bird, it would fly away. If there was a pair, Kitty Boy was in for some torment.

One of the two birds would walk toward the cat, as if unaware of his presence. Meanwhile, the other bird would circle around behind, and dive-bomb Kitty Boy. He never learned. He’d whirl around and head for the one that had just hit him from behind, giving opportunity to the first bird to repeat the process. This would go on for some time, until finally Kitty Boy realized he’d never win and would take off running for the barn, followed by a pair of scolding Magpies.

It has always seemed to me that Satan attacks us much in the same way as those birds attacked Kitty Boy. If you keep your eye on him from one direction, he’ll hit you from behind. No matter how hard we try, we can’t beat him, nor avoid the torment when we are out in the open on our own. The only safety is to run to our Master. You see, never, ever, was Kitty Boy bothered by the Magpies when he was in the yard with me. The birds stayed away.

Also, I have to admire Kitty Boy’s tenacity for staying in a lap. Do we try as hard to stay within the Lord’s safe arms? Or are we like the other cat I wrote about a couple of months ago, the one that displaced Momma Kitty in our garage? Louis refuses to be held, and will end up biting if you try to hold her. Two extremes. Which one represents our relationship with our Master, Kitty Boy or Louis?

Dr. G

I Never Was Much of a Fisherman

The earliest fish I remember catching was when my older brother and I were probably 7 and 6, respectively. We were living in Belgrade, Montana at the time. Our house was on the outskirts of town (truth is, at that time, if you were more than three blocks off the main street of town, you were in the outskirts). In the fields behind our house, I remember there was a small irrigation/drainage ditch, in which we caught a fairly large sucker about 10 inches long. We carried it home triumphantly, and put it in water inside our mother’s trusty galvanized wash tub.

I remember fishing at a county park a few years later, in Washington State. My brother and I were on a dock that went out into the lake, and we had our new fishing poles. We didn’t know much about fishing, but we could see some fishermen out in boats near the lily pads, casting their bait towards the pads. Figuring that was how you fished, we’d lay out our lines with bait on the dock behind us, and whip our poles over our heads, trying to get the hook out as far as we could. We never did catch any fish, although once my brother did catch our grandmother who was standing behind us.

When I was twelve, we were visiting relatives in Monte Vista, Colorado, and stumbled into a fishing derby at the town’s new fishing pond. We caught a couple of small fish there, but nothing else. A few days later, we went up to a private lake near the summit of Wolf Creek Pass, and I caught two fish, one a ten-inch trout.

The only other fish I remember catching was maybe two years later. My brother and I had gone to visit our mother’s parents, who were living in the small town of Marblemount, Washington. This town was a wide spot in the road surrounded mostly by secondary growth forest. Some distance out behind the trailer court our grandparents lived in was an abandoned railroad bed. We hiked it a number of times.

Toward the end of our stay, we looked down from a bridge that crossed a small stream, and saw a fish almost three feet long. We quickly got down to the stream and caught it with our bare hands. I don’t remember where we got it from, but we came up with some fishing line, and hung the fish from a pole between the two of us. We returned to the trailer court in triumph, only to learn about the condition of salmon that have already spawned. The flesh was unfit to eat, unless you were a bear.

To the best of my remembrance, that is my fishing experience. About like Matthew, the tax collector, I suspect. Now, Peter, there was a fisherman. For him and his brother Andrew and the other brothers, James and John, fishing was a way to make a living. When Christ called them, they were fishing. And after the resurrection, Peter talked several of them to return to fishing. Christ had told them that they would become fishers of men, but it seems like they kept returning to the fish. Finally, after all this, Christ told Peter to feed His lambs. "Stop fishing. Feed my lambs. I know you love me, feed my sheep. Take care of my flock." I don’t recall any mention of Peter ever going back to the boat after that.

Teaching in a public school has its limitations when it comes to witnessing for the Lord. We certainly can not be involved in fishing for men (children). But, I’m convinced, our words and actions, our kind attention and smiles can certainly feed the lambs. And I think He expects us to.

And we don’t even have to deal with smelly worms or other types of bait!

Dr. G

Feel Like You're Living In A Waste Basket?

The desert areas of North America are populated by a large variety of rodent species. In my opinion, the most attractive of these (remember, I’m a biologist) are the Kangaroo Rats (genus Dipodomys), of which there are 22 species. The truth is, these are not rats, but are actually more closely related to the squirrels. They are called Kangaroo Rats because of their long hind legs and long tails, which they use in the same manner as kangaroos in locomotion.

Kangaroo rats are nocturnal animals, and are actually relatively easy to catch. When my brother and I were in graduate school in southeastern Washington, it wasn’t uncommon on Saturday nights during late summer or early fall for small groups of biology majors to head down toward the confluence of the Walla Walla and Columbia Rivers where there was still a significant amount of desert scrub: sage brush, grasses and various herbaceous plants. Driving the dirt trails, students straddling the headlights of a car and armed with insect nets could sweep up “dippies”, which is what we called them, as the animals hopped down the road in front of the vehicle. The animals are relatively docile, and I don’t recall anyone ever being bitten by a specimen when it was being handled, even when freshly caught.

In August of our second year, the two of us had brought a dippy back to the office we shared. We had a nice-sized metal waste basket (about 24 inches tall) that we filled with papers, and placed our new co-resident into it as his new home. We got a Petri dish, filled it with a variety of seeds, and placed it along with a second dish filled with water beside the container.

In a short time, the paper in the waste basket had been shredded; we added more. Over time, the basket was completely filled with shredded, fairly compacted paper into which our dippy had fashioned tunnels and a burrow. It would come out in late afternoons and evenings, ignoring our presence, and hop around the room, eat some seeds, sip water occasionally, and then return to its burrow. After a while we introduced a 2 inch diameter Super ball, which Dippy learned to push around the room.

All of the biology staff and other graduate students were acquainted with our pet, as were the janitors. We made sure they knew not to empty that container, no matter how full it looked.

After about five months, my brother returned to the office from a lab one afternoon, only to discover, to his horror, an empty waste basket. Unknown to us, a new janitorial worker had been assigned to our building. Not realizing that the full wastebasket wasn’t a trashcan, she had dumped the whole thing in the large trash container behind the building.

Rushing outside, my brother pulled the lid off, and looked down. There, on top of all the trash was a small, forlorn-looking kangaroo rat, small front legs folded as if pleading for help.

Over the years, the vision of that small animal, seeming to implore the viewer for rescue has remained in my mind. In fact, there have been times that I felt like I was in the same position. Have you ever wished that someone would come along, lift the lid off the trash heap we live on, and rescue you? Oh, how much I wish the Lord would come back to take us to the nice home He’s preparing for us. I believe the promise, don’t you?

Dr. G

Whose Mess Is It, Anyway?

While driving to work this morning, I saw something that brought back memories of a situation from a few years back. Then, as now, I was an ESOL teacher in an elementary school, spending the majority of my time working with Kindergarten children.

A young boy at a table in front of me was struggling to color a picture. The crayons weren’t quite the right colors he wanted. When he pushed them, they tended to not stay inside the lines. Several crayons broke; the paper got wrinkled. I could sense the frustration rising, the tension building. I asked if he would let me help him.

He quickly said OK, so I slipped into a chair next to him, and asked him which part of the picture he’d like to work on, and what color he’d like. I don’t recall exactly today which part or color, but I remember he did respond. I got the color he suggested, and put it in his hand, and began to guide his hand, showing him that coloring slowly and smoothly helped the crayon stay inside the line.

But he wasn’t happy with the speed at which the picture was being colored, so he began to apply pressure to the crayon, trying to force my hand to move it more rapidly. I had him look at the part we’d colored together, and compared it with where he’d worked alone. His response? “I can do it.”

So I backed off, and instead of intervening, decided to only give suggestions. He tried to follow a few of them, but found he couldn’t quite do it. Perhaps there was a maturity issue. Perhaps the frustration was flooding his system. At any rate, after a few minutes, he announced unhappily, “I can’t do it.,” tossed the crayon into the basket and crumpled up the paper, threw it into the waste basked and went to get a book to look at.

Now, what on earth can you see at 6:15 in the morning, driving down a dark country road in a light drizzle that could bring back such as memory as I had? Easy.

We pass several churches on our way to work. Most have small reader boards that announce pastor’s names and service times. A few have larger boards on which are displayed various messages. And it was one of these that caught my attention this morning. A small country church offered up a great message:

“If you give God your mess, He’ll turn it into a masterpiece.”

How true it is, but how difficult it is to do, sometimes, too. Like that little boy, we frequently ask God to help us, but we try to hang onto the crayon, hoping to have some influence on the outcome. Sometimes the Lord doesn’t act directly, but tries to give us suggestions, perhaps in something we’ve read or heard. But we try to do it on our own. And what happens when we reach the point that little guy did, wailing, "I can't do it!" and thrusting our hands into the air?

History is full of people who came to that realization, and they quit trying. They walked away from the potential victory, and focused on something else. I could have helped that little boy produce a nice looking picture, but he wouldn’t let go. God can do something wonderful with my life, and yours, if we’ll just let go. As long as I hang on to it, it will remain a mess. Only when I release my grip and let Him take firm control can it become the masterpiece He has in mind.

Have a great day, and don’t push the crayons so hard that they break.

Dr. G

When You Call Upon Me

It was almost time to leave for the airport yesterday morning, and I was going through my final check of necessary items. My wife and I had flown into Baltimore on the evening of December 27 to spend time with family. While flying I had kept my boarding passes and driver’s license in my shirt pocket to have them readily available for security. Now, the morning of January 4, I had my boarding pass and had reached for my wallet for my license, only to discover it wasn’t there.

The last time I remembered having it in my hand was when I rented our car at the Baltimore airport. Perhaps I had placed it in the inner pocket of the jacket I had been wearing. Going to the closet, I checked every pocket. No license.

Perhaps it was with the rental documentation in the glove compartment of the car. I hurried out there in the hopes of finding it. “Sorry, only rental documents here,” the envelope seemed to say. Now what? I voiced a brief prayer to the Lord to help me find it. I searched the small backpack I had for carry-on materials. I didn’t find it there. I dumped my wallet a second time. Where could it be?

Aha! Maybe it was in the pocket of the shirt I had been wearing on the 27th. I mean, that is where I’d gotten used to putting it as we had traveled from Nashville to Phoenix, back to Nashville and then on to Baltimore. That must be it. I hadn’t worn the shirt since arriving, and probably hadn’t noticed it when I folded the shirt to put it in the suitcase hours earlier.

The suitcase was hauled out of the car trunk and taken back inside the house. Dirty shirts were toward the bottom, so almost everything had to come out for that one shirt. The pocket was empty: no license. Another quickly breathed prayer was offered, as I announced the situation to my wife, son-in-law and granddaughter. “I can’t find my driver’s license anywhere!”

So I proceeded to totally empty the suitcase, going through every pants pocket, every shirt pocket (including those I’d not worn). Nothing. Then my granddaughter came running, shouting. “Grandpa, Grandpa! Daddy and I prayed that Jesus would help you find your license.”

Grateful for her attempt at helping, I thanked her, and hurried out to the car to look one more time. It wasn’t in the glove compartment. Nothing was between or under the seats. I returned to the house, where my wife was now on the phone with the airline, looking for guidance. She’d already contacted the car rental company to see if I’ left it there.

One last look in the oft-checked wallet. I took everything out, including the photo wallet. Then I noticed a crevice underneath the license holder. And there it was! “I’ve found it,” I yelled. “He found it,” the airline folks were told. Our granddaughter came running, eyes wide open.

“Jesus helped you. I prayed!” she exclaimed. I gathered her into my arms, thanking the Lord for a trusting little girl.

I remember a passage in the scriptures where the Lord thanked the Father that what was going to happen would strengthen the disciples’ faith. And I thanked the Lord that He had waited until that little girl had prayed so that her faith might be strengthened. We serve such a loving God!

Don’t leave home without your license, and don’t leave home without Him!

Dr. G

Have I Seen Those Hands Before?

The gifts were being passed out around the Christmas tree at the house of my wife's sister up in Maryland.  Her husband had dressed up as Santa for the benefit our our granddaughter.  With a full beard and hearty belly-laughs, "Santa" went person-to-person, distributing the gifts.  When he came to our four-year-old granddaughter, she paused as she took her gift.  She looked carefully at his hands, and then at his eyes.  A small smirk appeared on her face, but she said nothing.

After the gifts had been given to their rightful owners, "Santa" withdrew quietly and went upstairs to change.  Shortly thereafter, my brother-in-law came casually into the room and joined in the conversation and the exclamations over the presents.  Upon seeing him present, she looked again at his hands, and let out a noticeable "Mmmm-Hmmm."  She knew his hands.

When I was told of this event (I had been in Arizona for Christmas), the thought came to my mind, "DoI know my Lord's hands well enough that I can recognize His workings in my life?"  I am a firm believer that He is active in people's lives, so it only makes sense that I should be able to see things that He does for me every day.

 The men's chorus with which I sing has a song entitled "Love Through Me."  The basic thrust of the song is a prayer that the Lord use us to reach others.  It goes with the passage in Matthew 24 where Christ offers recognition to those who serve those less fortunate, "the least of these," in His name.  When we do such things,we are serving as His hands.  Has anyone recognized the Lord's hands through my actions, or yours?

If a little child can recognize someone by their hands, shouldn't we be able to see His hands in our lives?  Furthermore, shouldn't we provide others with the opportunity to see His hands in action?

May you have a wonderful New Year, and may the Lord hear lots of "Mmmm-Hmmm's" as we reach out to others.

Dr. G