Something for Nothing

How many times have you heard someone say that they received something for free? I have contended all my adult years that basically nothing of this world is really free.  A free chicken sandwich from Chick-fil-A is really not free. While you may not have paid for it, someone or some entity had to pay for it.

I have observed over the years that no matter how poor or wealthy an individual may be, everyone likes to get something without having to pay for it.

This morning I left my mother’s rural home and saw one of her neighbors picking up aluminum cans on the side of the road. This individual is retired, and his wife is still working. They are not poor and needy enough to be gathering aluminum cans—oh, and by the way, this neighbor just purchased a $60,000 pickup. So why was he picking up cans, I asked. “Just getting something for nothing,” was his reply.

While living in West Africa, I purchased and gifted bicycles to a couple of young men. Our agreement was that they would use their bikes to go to villages twice a week to gather crowds to sit under a mango tree to listen to the Bible in their own language.

The first time one of the bikes had a flat tire, the young man came to me and said, "Larry, YOUR bicycle has a flat tire!" That experience taught me a lesson that shaped our years of living in this desolate place at the edge of the Sahara Desert.  Giving things away was not a good practice.

I began bartering and practiced getting something in return for almost everything that I gave someone. I would not refuse to give food to anyone who was hungry, but I would ask for chicken or guinea eggs in exchange for a rooster or a rabbit. I would get an onion for handful of seed from even the poorest villager. All the things I received in the bartering would be gifted to destitute villagers.

I began this epistle by saying that nothing in this world is really free. My ninety-one-year-old mother heard me say this and corrected me: “Air is free.” I stand corrected.

I must choose my words carefully because there is something that is out of this world that really is free—God’s grace. Take a deep breath. That’s a gift of God. Your next breath also comes from God. And, as my mother says, “Air is free!”

Walking with the Lions

Through the years I have viewed wild animals in several different countries in Africa, South America and Asia either where we have lived or on a safari with other tourists. Now when I am traveling, I don’t really look for opportunities to go on a safari, but sometimes on projects with Chick-fil-A owner/operators and corporate staff, I would go on photo safaris just to be with my colleagues.

Our team was in Zimbabwe teaching the servant leader principles to the leadership of a game park. They offered us a free “event” because they were so pleased with our sharing with them. All but one of my colleagues chose to go on a photo safari. One of the “events” was a walk with the lions. I was intrigued and asked for more information, and I found out that this was the only place in the world where one could walk with lions in the wild—no cages, no fences. This was an opportunity that I could not pass up. One of my colleagues was brave enough to join me in this adventure.

My colleague and I met at dawn with four other tourists who had signed up for a walk with the lions for our orientation about the walk. We would be walking with two three-year-old lionesses that had been taken away from their mothers at three weeks of age and raised by three handlers at the game park. They are still wild animals even though they have been around humans all their lives. We were instructed on how to act around the lions—never approach them from the front (they get very angry about this and show their teeth—as I experienced first-hand), always walk beside them so they can see you and never walk in front of their front legs. And, of course, don’t make quick movements or loud noises. That was the sum of our 10-minute orientation.

They gave us a small walking stick—that was the only “weapon” that the handlers had also—and we were on our way. During the walk we took turns walking beside one of the lions (see photos below). You have to know that I don’t like cats—all my family knows this—but I reached down and rubbed the back of the lioness. In a weird way I think the lioness actually liked that. But, as I walked with the lion, I could not help but think about lions in the Bible. I don’t know of a verse where a lion is presented as a gentle creature to pet. Every instance that I could think of was one that referred to the prowess of a lion or the roar or the bite—that gave me the creeps, and here I was walking with the lion. I was sane, but maybe not smart.

Suddenly, the two lions stopped, stared at some brush, and took off running at full speed. Just as quickly they stopped and froze a few hundred yards from us. The handler pointed with his stick at a small herd of gazelles. He told us not to be frightened that the lions would not make a kill today as they had just taken down a wildebeest three days before. He added, “Lions in the wild usually only eat every five days.” I was happy that I did not take my walk with the lions on the fourth day after they had eaten!

One of the treats that I brought away from this experience was some good photos to show the grandchildren, but the best one was this: I Peter 5:6-11 has been a good example of how I am supposed to act before the almighty God of the universe. But after being that close to a lion, verse eight really became so much clearer to me: “Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” It struck me: Our fear of lions is greater than our fear of the devil.

Calf Rope

When I was little, my dad would tickle me until I was forced to say, “calf rope.” I hated to say calf rope because it always meant giving up—and I actually enjoyed the attention from my dad. I would try to break away from his grip and run to safety.

The expression “calf rope” is actually in Webster’s Dictionary: “a cry of surrender.” The origin of “calf rope” is unclear. Texans say they have been using the expression for over 100 years, but then once again, everything good comes out of Texas?! Wonder if Windex was invented in Texas?  

When our children were preschoolers, we would have tickling time with each of them. As with most parents, this all started when they were babies. Tickling is an element of social bonding. A mother tickles her baby, and the baby smiles or laughs. The mother continues to tickle her baby and again she gets the same response. This is a form of communication between the infant and parent.

I had hoped to teach the phrase “calf rope” to our grandchildren while tickling them, but their parents beat me to it. Being a parent has advantages over being a grandparent in that the parents get to spend exponentially more time with their children than we grandparents get to spend with our grandchildren. Therefore, through the past 20 years, whenever I tickled one of our preschool grandkids, they invariably said, “uncle,” “I give up,” or ----

Have you ever tried to tickle yourself? You can’t do it because you can’t surprise your own brain. The brain knows our movements before we make them. Somewhere in our brain, a prediction is made about the sensation our hand will produce, and that prediction suppresses the tickling response.

As an adult I have psyched myself to where I don’t laugh when someone tries to tickle me. Tickling is reciprocity. If the person being tickled doesn’t react to the tickler, then tickling is not very much fun. My grandkids have told me that I am not fun because I don’t laugh when they try to tickle me. So, I started feigning laughter just to make them happy.

EVERYONE has stories of bad experiences with customer service reps, but I try to make them laugh at some point in our conversation. Granted, there have been occasions when I wanted to give them a piece of my mind and did not care if they laughed or not, but, generally, I try to make them laugh. Sometimes it just does not work. They are too “professional” to laugh, or they just did not understand my pun (especially when the customer service rep is in another country).

I was talking with a customer service rep on the phone last week. She asked me a question and I added a little humor in my response, and the rep laughed out loud. She thanked me for making her laugh and said that I was the first person she had ever talked to who intentionally tried to make her laugh. Before we concluded our call, she thanked me again for a good laugh.

During the years of living in West Africa, we learned many proverbs in the More’ language. My favorite is “A good laugh is better than a chicken leg.” That may not mean a lot to those who don’t know that the people we worked with were only able to eat some kind of meat on the average of every 4-6 weeks. That helps you to understand more fully the importance of laughter in the Mossi people group culture.

Laughter is powerful. God gave us the ability to laugh, and the Bible mentions laughter and happiness multiple times in both the Old and New Testaments. Sometimes it might be hard to laugh if you’re going through a difficult situation, but finding something to laugh about can be a powerful tool for overcoming troubles.

Mark Twain said, “The human race has only one really effective weapon and that is laughter.”

Laughter is therapy. Carry the spirit of laughter with you wherever you go.

Interesting trivia: Ancient Romans provided punishment through tickling: They tied offenders down, soaked their feet in salt, and had goats lick it off (Robert R. Provine, professor of psychology at the University of Maryland).

McDo

My grandkids think that I am full of trivia—the type of trivia that does not really help you in any sensible situation. So, to keep my papa trivia reputation intact, here’s one for you: The French call McDonald’s “McDo.” I think that is primarily because it is difficult for a native French speaker to say the “nald” sound, but the French are, well, yes, we all know how the French are!

I didn’t know enough about speaking French in July 1976 even though we lived in France. Granted we arrived for French language study in late June 1976, so I had a good excuse.

Some new workers were arriving at Charles de Gaulle airport, and my assignment was to meet them and get them and all their baggage to the train station at the airport and accompany them to Tours where we were studying French. Easy enough assignment even though I only knew a few words in French. I decided to take Jason with me on the train to Paris to meet our new friends. We took an early train so that I could treat three-year old Jason to a meal at a new McDonald’s in downtown Paris.

We arrived at the McDo and immediately I knew I was no longer in Vicksburg, Mississippi as this McDo served wine. The building was narrow, so the serving counter was narrow, and there was no seating available on that level. A sign directed diners to a dining area on the upper level. I noticed that OSHA would not have approved the stairway as there was only one railing—that is only one single bar to hold onto at waist level for adults. I had food in my hands, and as we were mounting, I noticed that the steps were wet, so just as I was about to tell Jason to be careful and stay close to the wall, he slipped and fell from the stairway and plunged under the single handrail to the cement floor below.

At first, I was frozen with shock. I don’t remember what I did with the food and drinks, but I ran down the steep stairs to my son who was lying on the floor below. Jason started crying, and I was grateful that he was still alive. I asked for ice, but there was no ice at this McDo, as the French do not drink iced soft drinks.

Jason had fallen on his forehead, and he was clutching his face with both his hands while crying. I cradled him in my arms while sitting in a metal chair. In all the confusion, an ambulance showed up. They loaded Jason on a gurney, and I followed. I will never forget the sound of that ambulance as the sounds of European first responders’ vehicles are much different from the sirens of the USA.

After Jason was treated and x-rayed in the emergency room, a doctor who spoke English showed me the x-rays and said that Jason had a small skull fracture. They would need for him to stay in the hospital for observation in case there was swelling.

Jason was transported to a children’s ward. The hospital staff and I were using about a dozen French words and a lot of hand gestures to communicate. An aide came to Jason’s bed and started removing his clothes—including his underwear. As she started putting a disposable diaper on him, I told the aide in perfect English, “He does not need a diaper. He is potty trained.” That went past her ears, and she continued putting the diaper on Jason. I stood up next to her and tugged at the diaper telling her with my hands that he did not need it. She rattled off something that I did not understand, and finally she said something that I did understand. She said the word pee-pee. She meant that Jason would not know how to let them know when he wanted to urinate, so he had to wear a diaper.

Exasperated with this “conversation,” I yelled out, “Madam, pee-pee is the same in any language.” And I also yelled out in French, “La meme chose!” (the same thing).

The rest of the story—I was able to make a phone call from a telephone booth (yes, grandkids, there was such a thing!) to Cheryl to tell her what had happened and to get her to have someone meet the new workers and to get a fellow worker in Paris to come to the hospital to help me communicate better with the caregivers. Oh, and Jason’s head healed quickly.

RA

Usually, I do not pay much attention to TV commercials, but this one caught my eye. No, it was not a cute puppy or an exotic island, but it was just two letters on the screen: RA. It took me a moment to realize that stood for Rheumatoid Arthritis. When my college age grandchildren see or hear RA, they would automatically think of Resident Advisor—like the ones who serve in leadership positions in college housing.

In the medical arena, RA stands for right arm. For us geography lovers, we would think of the Republic of Armenia when we see RA.

As a boy growing up in the Mississippi Delta the Royal Ambassador program in Calvary Baptist Church was a significant part of my development as a new believer. RAs was held every Wednesday night in the RA Hut at our church. I don’t remember the name of the helpers, but Charlie Hood was our chapter leader.

The Royal Ambassador program’s motto is found in 2 Corinthians 5:20: “We are ambassadors for Christ.” The program is a Bible-centered, church-based, Southern Baptist mission education program for boys in the 1-6 grades. Hands-on activities encourage spiritual growth, learning about missions, games and sports and mentoring relationships with RA leaders.

Each RA received a vest and had the opportunity to earn patches for things like campcrafts, Bible memorization, service to the underprivileged and fire-making. I still have fond memories of making those RA Racers to compete against other church chapters.

RAs is 100 years old, but it has been dying for decades. It is shameful that our SBC churches have shoved missions education to the side in favor of promoting other things. Many will say that the AWANA program is doing the same thing as the RA program, but I do not believe that. AWANA is a great Bible-centered program for children, but it is not a missions education program, nor is it a substitution for Royal Ambassadors.

Our SBC leaders failed us when the Brotherhood Commission was absorbed into the Home Mission Board because RAs was a casualty. The program was eventually given to the WMU, and over the years RAs has lost its status as a key ministry of the local church.

I am pleased that a few churches continue to have RAs, and I salute them for their passion for missions education for boys. The WMU Foundation has established an endowment to promote the RA program in Florida, and eventually, once the endowment corpus reaches $100,000, funds will be distributed outside of Florida.

Ultimately, the responsibility of teaching missions to our children and grandchildren lies with us as parents and grandparents, but the church’s role in missions education is so important, and I pray that more people will understand the importance of teaching missions education in our local churches. Missions education can change lives. It did so for me. My first call to missions was when I was a Crusader in the RA Chapter at Calvary Baptist Church in Greenwood, Mississippi.

I still remember the RA pledge that all RAs had to memorize (and get a patch for doing so):

As a Royal Ambassador I will do my best to become a well-informed responsible follower of Christ; to have a Christlike concern for all people; to learn how to carry the message of Christ around the world; to work with others in sharing Christ and to keep myself clean and healthy in mind and body.

Baby Food

All four of our kids have been different in many ways. One of those is not one that I had anticipated. It has to do with raising children. I expected them to use different techniques, practices, and rules in discipling their children. After all, the way we raise our children has a lot to do with the way that we were raised. But, if we treated our children the same in discipling them, then would it not be sensible to think that they would all discipline in the same manner as their parents. Not so, or at least that is what I believe.

I contend that our children raise their children more like they would like to have been disciplined themselves while growing up. Over the years as I have watched our children dealing with their children, there have been many times when I would have liked to say something in the way of a suggestion, but I tried to keep quiet and let my children raise their children the very best that they could. I slipped up sometimes, and for the most part my kids would let me know that I had spoken out of turn. Rightly so!

There are things other than discipline where our kids have differed in their approach to various things—for example, daily chores, teenage dating, allowances, buying “things”, drinking sodas, etc.

One thing that I have noticed big differences in has been what and when to feed their babies. I am thinking more about solid food rather than milk. Our kids had different opinions about when to feed solid food. I was ready to feed them smushed up purple hull peas when they were six months old, but the parents did not agree with that. I slipped them a little sweet tea every now and then. They all ate baby food at one time or another as did our kids—when it was available i.e. none in West Africa.

When I fed our babies baby food, I wanted to just feed them and get it over with-- at my pace which is always fast. I would shovel it all in and you know what happened? Sometimes the baby would spit it all out on me, and I deserved it.

What I did not understand was that our babies needed time to process this new sensation. I was about finishing the task without concern for how to get there. Those babies needed more time to enjoy the texture, the movement in the mouth, and the blast of tastes. I was in too big of a hurry to get the food down so I could move on to something else.

A lesson I learned from these experiences—later in life—was this: when you are delivering a message to someone, your audience may not hear your message as quickly as you deliver it. They may be listening, but understanding takes more time. Sometimes we talk our message to death and the other person or persons cannot absorb what we need to say to them. Let them savor your words and understand you. It takes a few minutes to process the meaning of words. All words have meaning, and we want others to understand the intent of our words.

Doc to Dot

My mother’s name is Wilma Frances, but no one calls her by either of those names. Everyone knows her by the nickname “Dot.” 

The first time my dad, Pete, went to date my mother, he was driving an old school bus. It was a 1938 Chevrolet, and it was not a manufactured school bus but a makeshift one. The old truck had a flat bed with a metal cover over it. It had two seats running along each of the outside edges of the bed. This old school bus had been operated by my granddaddy for many years until he gave it to Pete when he finished high school and started working for the forestry commission.

My mother and dad were both raised on a farm, and although their homes were less than 20 miles apart, they went to different small rural schools. Pete met Dot through an introduction by a mutual friend. The first time Pete drove to Dot's house on winding gravel roads, he thought he would never get there. He was driving the old school bus, and when he finally arrived, he saw several men out in the front yard. Dot had seven brothers, and they had a reputation for being rough and tough dudes. Pete said to himself, “What have I got myself into.”

Then Dot came out on the porch, and everything was ok. He was happy that he had made the journey. He made the rounds greeting all the brothers, and as they were talking, he heard them refer to my mother as “Doc.” He thought she had been introduced to him as “Dot,” so he was confused. The brothers informed him that her nickname was indeed “Doc” because ever since she was a little girl she always bossed her older and younger brothers and sisters. It was always Doc’s way or no way. She was her mother’s favorite according to the brothers, so she was always right and never got into any trouble. Since they thought doctors were at the top of the food chain, they said she acted like she was a doctor, so they started calling her “Doc.”

At 91 years of age, my mother still gets her way in all things and still bosses everyone around. As she gets older, she does not do it with as much grace as in younger years, but we all tolerate Doc and love her and follow her orders or pay the consequences!

By the way, Pete did not want to date someone named “Doc,” so he continued calling her Dot during their 72 years of marriage.

Dog Gone II

When we first started working in Upper Volta (called Burkina Faso today), one of the first strategies we used to introduce the Gospel in this new area was a hand crank cassette player with some recorded songs and a Bible story in their own language. I had begun discipling 3-4 young men, so we provided for them a bicycle and the hand cranked recorder and sent them into a village to sit under a mango tree and draw a crowd.

Before we could send the young men out, we would go into a village to meet with the chief to gain his permission. This was usually a formal process showing respect for the village chief. Here is the way it usually played out: we arrived in the village and announced that we wanted to visit with the chief. We were seated on stools (handmade ones about eight inches tall and six inches wide) and waited. It was proper village for the chief to keep his guests waiting, so sometimes we waited up to an hour. Once the chief took his seat in a chair—looking down on us—we would bow and greet the chief. Villagers had to do more that a bow as they would get on their knees and bend over and put their head on the ground and wave their hands up and down beside their head pretending to throw dirt upon the back their heads. That was just a reminder that before the chief they were nothing but dirt.

After the greeting the chief would snap his fingers or call out and the “welcome water” would arrive. It was water with some ground millet and very hot peppers served in half of a calabash. After having severe stomach problems from drinking village water, I became proficient in pretending to drink the welcome water. I would keep my mouth closed but would make a loud swallow and let the water run down both sides of my cheeks. After more small talk we would finally ask the chief for permission to send a young man into the village to listen to some songs and a Bible study. Sometimes the chief would ask to hear it first before giving permission, but generally, we had no problems getting permission.

Not until we met with the chief of a village names Largho did we have a problem. The chief gave rejected our request with a very strong rebuke not to have any activity in his village at all. I have a couple of young men with me who were new believers, and before we returned to my vehicle, we stopped in the shade of a mango tree. I read them Matthew 10:14. “And if anyone will not receive you or listen to your words, shake off the dust from your feet when you leave that house or town.” We prayed for the chief and the villagers and left.

A couple of months later I had to drive by Largho to go for a Bible study in another village. There were no roads for vehicles as we had the only vehicles in our area, so we had to maneuver through fields and rock formations and our route took us right next to the outskirts of Largho. As usual, I was traveling with three young men, and all of sudden a dog came running from the village. Animals were not accustomed to vehicles so they were not afraid of them. The dog ran straight under the front of the Land Cruiser and there was a heavy thud as I continued to drive. Frankly, I was afraid to stop and confront the villagers since they had previously mistreated us. I looked in the rearview mirror to see that the dog was laying out but still kicking in the air. One of the young men yelled, “Larry, you killed their dog.” They knew about the previous encounter I had with the chief, so they understood why I did not stop.

The problem was that we had to return by the same route as there was no other way to get the vehicle home. The whole time we were leading the Bible study, we all were praying about the return trip.

As we approached Largho, we saw a crowd of people walk out to greet us. We had to stop. There was not way I was going to just run away again. We prayed fervently that the Lord would protect us from any anger that the villagers might have.

One old lady stepped out of the crowd and came up to the window on my side of the vehicle and said to me, “Larry (all villagers knew my name because at this time we were the only white people around for many miles), I just want to thank you for running over my dog. We have been trying to catch him for two weeks so we could kill him and eat him.” What a relief! We were praising the Lord under our breaths. The old lady went on to say, “We have prepared the dog and we want to share the meal with you and your friends. Please come join us.”

We joined them for a long meal with lots of stories. That dog provided the opportunity for us to build relationships with the villagers of Largho, and they gained permission from the chief for us to start having Bible studies in their village.

Today there is a church in Largho—thanks to that dog.

Dog Gone

Building relationships and earning trust. That was how we began our work in Upper Volta when we first arrived at our mission post. We knew that trying to dress like the villagers or eating the same food as them or just trying to live like them was not going to help us earn their trust. They were smart and very savvy people who had survived in that desolate place for generations, and they knew that we had so many more resources than they did.  Trying to “be like them” was not going to earn their affection. After all, we arrived in a vehicle—the only one in the area as the villagers either walked or rode a donkey or bicycle to get around between villages. No one anywhere near us even had a moped or other motorized vehicle.

Helping the villagers with their expressed needs was an effective means of building strong relationships with our new friends. According to their means, villagers had livestock. The most prosperous had a few cows, and the less prosperous had sheep and goats. Most villagers at least had a few chickens and guineas. We introduced rabbit production to add a little more protein to their diets. We also helped with teaching how to raise pigeons and ducks.

Villagers had no one to help them with animal health and vaccinations, so we provided that service at a small cost (we learned that something provided for no cost to the villagers was worth nothing to them, so we always charged a nominal fee for any animal service, seeds or equipment).

One day in the village of Lantaago we were vaccinating sheep and goats at the new church building (mud bricks with a tin roof and dirt floor was our typical church building). One of the church leaders came up to me and asked me to “fix” his male dog. I had learned to do this from one of the volunteer veterinarians who had served with us, but I did not like to do dogs because it was an open wound surgery, and the dog had to be anesthetized. Plus, the chance of infection was high especially since villagers did not give any care to the dog after the surgery. However, I wanted to strengthen my relationship with this new church leader, so I agreed.

I finished the procedure and laid the dog in the shade in the sorghum patch next to the church. After about 30 minutes, the church leader came to me and said, “Larry, my dog is dead.” I ran to the sorghum field only to find the dog sleeping and assured my friend that his dog was not dead.

We continued vaccinating sheep and goats, and the church leader came to me again to inform me that his dog was dead. Once again I checked and assured him that the dog was still sleeping because of the drug that I had given him for the surgery. I told him that the dog was arousing and in a few minutes he would be up and running around.

As we were wrapping up the vaccinations, Jeremy came to me and said that some women had prepared a meal for us. We gathered our supplies and walked to where the ladies had been cooking. As we sat down to eat the church leader prayed and thanked God for providing meat for the meal. I asked after the prayer what meat the Lord had provided, and the church leader said they had cooked his dog!

I asked why he did not let him wake up from the surgery, and he said that he was afraid that he was going to die, and that if he died they could not eat him. The common practice was that no one would eat an animal that had died because it had to be killed in a proper fashion before they would consume it.

I spent 45 minutes castrating that dog only to have to eat it for lunch!

Note: A guest never refused to eat in a village. Not to eat whatever they prepared was an insult to them and was certainly not a way to build relationships with them. Our prayer was often this: “Lord, my job is to get this food down. Your job is to keep it down!”

Latrines and Hot Showers

Hosting 550 volunteers over a four-and-a-half-year period at the edge of the Sahara Desert presented many challenges for us. These were wonderful people who were volunteering for a minimum of 30 days to serve the Lord in a barren place. Many of them would make comments like this: “I don’t know where Hell is, but this is as close to it as I want to be.”

So many of them gave up so much to come and help us with the community development projects. Some actually quit their jobs to come and serve. Few people were fortunate enough to have four weeks of vacation, so they would quit their livelihood to come to serve the Lord in West Africa.

It was such a joy to help these volunteers to have life-enriching experiences. Many of them had life-changing experiences. Dozens returned another year to help us. Over fifty of those volunteers later served as long-term missionaries around the world.

One might assume that pastors would be numerous among these volunteers, but I only remember about a dozen among the 550 people. They were factory workers, farmers, funeral home staff, car salesmen, bankers, truck drivers, teachers, college students, welders and store clerks. These were the “salt of the earth” type people who either used their savings or raised money to purchase a very expensive air ticket to come to serve alongside us.

Back to the challenges… Every volunteer had to participate in some orientation before their trip. No matter how much you talk to folks about some guidelines, there are people who do not pay attention to what has been presented. For example, we had a couple of volunteers who refused to give up smoking before they came. We had a strict no smoking policy while serving with this project. One of the guys not only sneaked around and smoked, but he shared cigarettes with villagers—who had no access to cigarettes. After a “come-to-Jesus” meeting, this particular volunteer decided that he did not want to be driven into Ouagadougou to board a plane that night, so he stopped his malfeasance.

Orientation leaders stressed the scarcity of amenities at our volunteer camp, but we still had some folks who asked us, “Where is the nearest laundromat?” Response: there is not one in this whole country and the nearest washing machine is four hours away in Ouagadougou. We hired villagers to do the washing by hand. “Where is the mattress for my cot?” Response: Sorry, but there are no mattresses—just the nylon stretched on aluminum frame cot. “Why can’t I go swimming in the water catchments that we built?” Response: You might upset the crocodiles. Not to mention the infestation of bilharzia. “Where do I hang my panty hose?” Response: Throw them away.

The volunteers were very generous. Many of them went home with only the clothes on their back as they had given their clothes to some villagers. Their generosity wasn’t always for the good of the villagers. For example, they would leave their multi-vitamins and supplements with the villagers when the villagers had no opportunity to buy any more, so they would use them for a short period of time.

Despite the fact that we had numerous venomous snakes where we lived, we only had one snake bite during the 4 ½ year project. By the grace of God, we happened to have an injection of anti-venom serum in our kerosene refrigerator, and that serum saved a life.

As mentioned earlier, only the bare essentials were provided for the volunteers. We had men and women’s latrines that sported plastic toilet seats. Ladies had private showers, but the best thing about the showers was the hot water. A couple of the volunteers helped me to construct a solar hot water system. Now, there were no solar panels available in the country at that time, and if they were, the cost was prohibitive, so we used materials that we could buy in the capitol. We built a huge shallow box on an incline to catch the most sunshine, and then we built a series of galvanized pipes in the box where the water would flow up through the pipes and into the welded-together barrels. We covered the big shallow box with black plastic and then laid chicken wire over the black plastic to protect it from tearing. The barrels were also painted black. In 115-degree sun it does not take long to heat up the water. As the water temperature increased it rose through the labyrinth of pipes which fed into the bottom of the barrels.

Volunteers were not hard to please, but having a hot shower after a long, hard, and hot day put all of them in a good mood and prepared them for a good night’s rest on their cots.

The latrine situation provided many good stories, especially from the ladies. One night as the volunteers gathered for devotional, one of the ladies was upset because she was shining her flashlight into the latrine and dropped it. One of the guys asked her, “Why were you shining your flashlight into the latrine?” No response was given, but everyone had a good laugh.

During the devotional time, one of the songs that we sang that night was “Let the Lower Lights Be Burning!!”

Pet Peeves

Do you have a pet peeve? I do. Matter of fact I have a lot of them. Some of them make me sound so paranoid that I would not post them on this site. My kids say that I am CDO—that’s OCD in its proper alphabetical order. I think they say that because in StrengthFinders I am a top five Arranger. I am regularly doing things like straightening pictures on the wall, making sure that things are symmetrical and adjusting lamp shades. Other things that bother me: breadcrumbs or lint on the front of shirts or blouses, dirty windshields, people who tell me they have a good idea when it is not a good idea until it works, not using an apostrophe properly (particularly in the plural of a last name—i.e., I saw the Smith’s today), shirt collars not straight on the back of the neck, people who use I, my, me and mine instead of we, us, and our, and on and on.

I feel like I am baring my soul here by sharing some of my pet peeves. I am basically a transparent person who also has a top-five Self Confidence in StrengthFinders, so I can handle sharing some soul secrets. So here is another pet peeve: a church bulletin or a printed program (wedding, funeral, graduation, etc) that lists people on program something like this: Winthrop Luper, Elmira Dothan, Dr.  Bartholomew Pierce, and Samuel Hogan. Notice anything wrong? One person has a title while the others do not. Now that probably does not bother many people, but it really bothers me.

Everyone is equally important, so everyone should be treated in the same manner. If you are going to give one person in the program a title, then you must give titles to all of them. Makes sense to me!

I think the worst offenders of this are churches, and I will go so far to say that too many pastors are very proud to boast of their “doctorate” before or after their names. Our pastor, who has a PhD, asks to be called “Pastor David,” not Dr. Howard. I like that.

Everybody doesn’t have a bold title like “Doctor” or “Professor,” but everyone has the distinction of being a creation of God. Every person’s face into which we have ever gazed is one made in the image of God. As I have traveled internationally for the past 40+ years I have looked into many interesting faces,  thinking, Wow! God made that face! It is absolutely amazing that apart from identical twins, no two faces are exactly the same. Even those people who do very nasty things in our world are ones who the Heavenly Father loves just like you and me. God doesn’t show partiality.

Look around you each day and pay attention to faces. God created them all. Our responsibility is clear: to love the Lord my God with all my heart and to love my neighbor (ALL those faces) as I love myself.

Round Trip Ticket

Over a five year period along with our colleagues, we hosted  550 volunteers who came to work with us  for a minimum of 30 days. Living in the Sahel of West Africa where the temperatures can soar up to 120℉ can present challenges enough for a family but dealing with the needs of dozens of volunteers in those conditions multiplies the difficulties.

Those volunteers slept on an aluminum cot covered by a thin piece of nylon. Their lodging was an 8’ by 8’ space covered by a metal roof with walls made of woven elephant grass. They had a crude nightstand to keep their items off the cement pad because the most poisonous snakes came out at night, and it was dangerous to reach your hand on the ground to pick up something.

The volunteers used latrines made by the early volunteers and local villagers. The luxury was running water for the showers with hot water that was heated by a crude solar system that we made from local materials.

These men and women worked hard, and for the most part they did not complain. But when you get that many humans you can count on getting a few who are partial to complaining and griping about this or that. There were those guys who thought they knew so much more than those of us who lived there all the time.

During their 30 days of service, either Cheryl or I or one of the long-term volunteers (we had a few dozen to stay for 1-2 years) would take the volunteers in small groups for a break in Ouagadougou. This trip would usually include eating out at one of a couple of restaurants in the capital city that were good enough to take visitors from the states.

When I hosted a group, like the other hosts, I would offer to translate the menu items for them. There was usually one of the guys who was a “know-it-all” and would say that they did not need any help. I loved it when they ordered a dish just because it sounded like English and were surprised at what they were served. My favorite was when they ordered “steak tartare” thinking it was a steak served with tartar sauce. For those who don’t know, steak tartare is a popular French dish made of raw ground beef or horse meat mixed with several spices and served with a raw egg yolk on top of the patty.

There was one guy who was actually obnoxious about everything, and he not only irritated me, but no one wanted to work with him. One day he started in on me about something relatively insignificant but important for him. I listened and when he was finished, I responded, but he disagreed with my response. Trying to get the final word he said, “What makes you so smart about how to do things here in West Africa?” I know that I could have responded in a more gentle, kinder manner, but here is what I replied, “Ron, you came out here with a round-trip air ticket, and I came out here with a one-way ticket. I was here before you arrived, and I will be here long after you have returned to the USA.”

There are thousands of retired missionaries all over the world who dedicated their entire careers to serving in a foreign culture and sacrificing so many comforts of life and relationships with their families to tell people about Jesus in a language other than their native tongue. So many people who live around them each day do not even know of the challenges that these spiritual giants faced over decades of service. All of them traveled from their homeland to their country of service many times, but never did they possess a round-trip boat or air ticket.

I just wish that we could place a sign in the front yards of all these emeritus missionaries saying, “Heroes live here.”

Here’s to you Emeritus Missionaries! Thank you for your faithful service to the Lord.

Risk and Gain

I have been watching the NCAA Baseball playoffs and thinking about baseball a lot. Interestingly, I don’t watch much Major League Baseball. I am just not a big pro athletics fan. Those guys get paid obscene amounts of money to perform for audiences that either pay to watch them in person or sit through endless advertisements to watch their team on television.

I love college sports, and I actively follow Mississippi State and Ole Miss. As I write this both of my teams are playing in the NCAA baseball super regionals.

Baseball was a passion during my childhood. My dad was my first coach as a nine-year old on a minor league team in the Little League program. After a year in the minors I moved up. He stayed with the minor league teams for a few more years and then moved up to Little League after I was playing in the Pony League (for 13 and 14 year-olds).

My dad was a passionate, but caring coach. He coached youth league baseball for many years, and he endeared himself to many boys. When he passed away, many of his former baseball players (now in their 60s and 70s) were at the visitation at the funeral home. I stepped into one of their small groupings, and they were talking about how much they loved my dad, Pete, and how much he had influenced their lives. What a powerful legacy Pete left behind with his baseball boys!

Since we are caring for my mother in her home during this season, I have run into some of his baseball boys in businesses around my hometown. Two of them own the farmers market and nursery in town, and I stopped to visit with one of them recently. We were sharing the story of Pete having a dilemma. Two of his pitchers lived in a nearby town, and neither had transportation to come to practice twice a week. Pete ran a route for Wonder Bread at that time, and he worked it out so that his last stop was in that small town where the two pitchers lived. He would pick them up in his bread truck at that last stop and take them to practice, and one of the parents of other players would take the boys home.

I found out years later that if the company had known that Pete was picking up those boys, or any passenger for that matter, he would have been fired. Pete took a big risk to get those boys to practice. Pete admitted to me that those boys were key to him having a successful season, so he needed them. He also told me that they needed him. Both boys came from unstable homes with challenging conditions and relationships. The highlight of the week for those two boys and my dad was the baseball practices.

I asked Pete about the risk of losing his job by picking up these boys. He responded to me, “What I gained and what those boys gained was worth the risk.”

Throughout my career I have not intentionally been careless, but I also have not shied away from risks. The one area where I have not been successful is in financial risks. I have flopped with several investments and a business venture, but I have found that some of the greatest rewards have come from taking a chance on someone or some idea or some wild strategic plan. The biggest risk is not taking any risks.

I love the anonymous proverb: “The person who does nothing does nothing.”

I like working with people who are not afraid of failure. As an old man now, people still call me for counsel, consultation and advice. Why? Definitely not because I am intelligent, but because I have made so many mistakes in my life that I have had more than a lifetime of opportunities to correct those mistakes thereby gaining experience and expertise.

How many failures have you experienced in the last year? If you are not experiencing failures of some sort, then you are probably not taking enough risks in your life.

God took the ultimate risk in sending Jesus to live on the earth. My faith in God cannot and will not exist without a little bit of risk. Go ahead. Take a risk on something or someone.

Best or Right?

Five hundred and fifty volunteers accepted our invitation. They all came for a minimum of 30 days of service to a land where none of the 550 had ever set foot, and, for the most part they had never heard about until they were challenged to go and serve there. 

Long before any of them ever arrived in Upper Volta, West Africa, our family had been preparing to lead these folks to have life-changing experiences. 

While we were serving in Côte d’Ivoire (Ivory Coast), we were burdened to use my agricultural experience in helping thirsty and hungry people in the Sahel (the transitional area between the Sahara to the north and the savanna area to the south). However, our leadership at that time did not allow me to serve as an agriculturist because I did not have a degree in agriculture. 

After much prayer, we decided that during our furlough period in the states, I would pursue a degree in agriculture. We had to take a leave of absence to complete the master’s degree, and in the middle of my studies, our leader called me on the phone and said that he was ready for us to return immediately to the field because the Tennessee Baptist Convention would be approving a large scale development project and sending hundreds of volunteers to Upper Volta.  They wanted us back on the field right away to lead this project. 

I respectfully declined this request and told my leader that he was the one who had said that I could not be an agricultural evangelist because I did not have a degree, and that I intended to get that degree before returning to the field. I went on to say to him that someone in the future might say to me that I could not continue serving as an agriculturist because I did not have a degree. I knew that I was taking a risk by not agreeing to my leader’s request, so we did not know what was going to happen.

A couple of weeks later our leader called and said that Tennessee Baptists had agreed to postpone launching the project for one year and that we would still be able to lead the work when I completed my studies. I received my degree in mid December 1980, we were In Ouagadougou by the end of the month, and the first group of volunteers arrived the first week of January 1981. 

Refusing to accept my leader’s request to return to the field was a most unusual thing for me. Throughout my career I have prided myself in my loyalty to the brand. For most of my career I have only worked for three organizations, and I have been loyal to these organizations even to this day. 

The first chapter of Joshua has long been one of my favorite chapters in the Bible. During my recent second bout with cancer I often was reminded of this chapter’s admonition to be strong and courageous and not be afraid. 

Joshua 1:16-18 states: “All that you have commanded us we will do, and wherever you send us we will go. Just as we obeyed Moses in all things, so we will obey you. Only may the Lord your God be with you, as he was with Moses! Whoever rebels against your commandment and disobeys your words, whatever you command him, shall be put to death. Only be strong and courageous.” 

It was difficult to say no to my leader in that telephone call in the fall of 1979, but I felt that it was the right thing. I felt that his request was for the expediency of launching the project rather than what was best for our family. Through the seasons of our adult lives, Cheryl and I have learned that many times there are numerous “good things” that you can choose when facing decisions, but usually there is only one right thing to do when you want to honor the Lord.

Often I hear of someone making a tough decision, and they say I made the best decision I could make. Maybe the “best decision” is not always the “right” decision. I am going with the right decision every opportunity I get because the best one may not be the one the Lord wants me to do, but the right one should always be the one that will honor the Lord. 

Jabal Mousa

Christians, Jews and Muslims all believe that God delivered His Ten Commandments to Moses at the summit of Mount Sinai. Mount Sinai is also known as Mount Moses or Jabal Mousa in Arabic. Mt. Sinai is called Mt. Horeb in the Book of Deuteronomy. "Sinai" and "Horeb" are generally considered by biblical scholars to refer to the same place.

Mt. Sinai rises behind the storied, 4th century St. Catherine's Monastery, the oldest continuously operating Christian monastery in existence. As most of the Sinai Peninsula, it is a desolate place with lots of brown tones and sparse vegetation.

Although there is debate as to whether the summit of Moses’ Mountain is the actual historical site where Moses received the Ten Commandments, this is certainly the traditional, recognized location. The fact is that many people (including me) have had a spiritual experience while ascending the mountain or when reaching the summit.

Nearly all hikers take one of the two well-defined routes up to the summit: the Camel Trail or the Steps of Repentance Trail. Both trails meet about 300 meters below the summit at a plateau known as Elijah’s Basin. To continue to the summit, you must take a steep series of 750 rocky and uneven steps. There is a small chapel and a mosque at the top.

The Steps of Repentance trail consists of 3000 roughly hewn rock steps that are steep and crudely formed. The steps were laid by a monk and others as a form of penance.

Cheryl and I had the opportunity to climb Mt. Sinai when we lived in Cairo. Our colleagues, Madelyn and Mike Edens had lived in Cairo for over 20 years, so they were experienced Mt. Sinai climbers. The Edens took us on our Mt. Sinai adventure, and they advised us to take both trails—the Camel Trail on the way up and the Steps of Repentance Trail on the way down. There was good rationale for that order—the Camel Trail is more gradual than the steep repentance steps. However, the descent on the uneven stones was grueling on the knees.

There were little coffee and tea stands on the Camel Trail where the weary pilgrim could sit on a rock and sip a hot beverage. Mike and I left Madelyn and Cheryl at one of these respites, and the girls said that they would come along in a bit.

Well, we waited at the top for a while, but our wives did not show up. We descended the mountain and went to the car for some refreshments, and we were surprised to find Cheryl and Madelyn at the car. We asked how we missed them at the summit, and they said that they turned around at the coffee stand and walked back down. I told Cheryl that she missed the full experience by not going to the top. Her reply: “Who says that Moses went all the way to the top of the mountain?”

That was funny at the time, but later we read this passage of scripture: “Then the LORD came down on Mount Sinai, to the top of the mountain; and the LORD called Moses to the top of the mountain, and Moses went up.” Exodus 19:20

How many times do we settle for a mountain-side experience when with more effort we can have a mountain-top experience? Colossians 3:23-24 states: “Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward. You are serving the Lord Christ.

Stamps on the Street

During the late 80s and early 90s when I was traveling frequently and working in Central Asia, all flights in and out of Central Asia had to go through Moscow. Over the six years of traveling in the USSR, I watched the Soviet empire crumble as communism fell and free enterprise began developing. I remember the first time I saw bananas for sale by a street vendor—something that was not allowed during the Communist days. I saw a line of people two blocks long that started on an empty street corner for apparently no reason—only later to see a truck from a collective farm arrive with milk and ice cream.

Once while walking down a Moscow street, I watched as a long line of people formed at a small shop about 20 feet wide. Being a curious farmer, I had to know what they were lined up for. I asked my interpreter to find out for me. He said that many people in the line did not know what was in the store, but since a line was forming, they figured it was for something that was difficult to find, so they just joined the line. He discovered that the small shop sold wedding veils!

There was not much to buy before communism fell, but I have been a lifelong stamp collector, and even in desolate places like North Korea, one can buy stamps when no other souvenirs are available. During “glasnost”, people started selling or swapping wares on the sidewalks in Russia and Central Asia. One of the things that I enjoyed buying was small stamp collections. One might say that I was taking advantage of these poor people who had to sell their stamp collections to get money to feed their families. But I would counter with the fact that since they were offering them for sale, then at least I could give them a decent price. Plus, I would give them US dollars for which they were extremely grateful since the value of the Russian Ruble was tumbling daily.

Once I stopped traveling regularly in the former Commonwealth of Independent States, Jim Tilton started sending me from time-to-time other small stamp collection books that he purchased from street peddlers or local markets.

I am presently working through some of those small books of stamps that Jim and I collected over the years. Some of the stamps are crimped and torn, but most of them are in good condition. Some of them are really old stamps. Each one represents someone’s tender care to preserve a snippet of paper for future generations to enjoy.

Maybe if all the people who are concerned with preserving the planet would leave that task to the stamp collectors, then we would not have to worry about the wellbeing of planet earth.

God has given us the task of stewarding His earth. “For the earth is the Lord’s and everything in it.” I Corinthians 10:26.

Ashamed

When we are traveling by car, Cheryl and I enjoy one station on Sirius XM more than all the others. It is called Radio Classics. Programming includes comedies, variety shows, detective shows and other dramatic shows from the 1930s-1960s. Television decreased the popularity of radio programming beginning in the late 1950s, and I am sure the only people interested in Radio Classics today are people who are as old as we are.

My favorites are the police detective shows like Johnny Dollar, Richard Diamond, Broadway Is My Beat, Sam Spade and many others. We also enjoy comedies like Fibber Magee, Life of Riley, Great Gildersleeve, and Burns and Allen. Then, there are the westerns—Hopalong Cassidy, The Cisco Kid, Fort Laramie, Texas Rangers, and the all-time favorite, Gunsmoke.

While traveling to Mississippi this past week, we were listening to Dragnet while my mother snoozed in the backseat. The story was about a scam to collect money from donors who thought they were giving to a crippled children’s home. The scammers were able to get a list of donors from the home, and they would appear unannounced on the doorstep of regular donors. They were fast talkers and convinced the donors to give them cash or checks intended for the crippled children.

Joe Friday and his associate interviewed the lady who ran the home. During the conversation, the lady said that she was ashamed to live in the same city with these crooks. She went on to say why would God allow these crooks to do such a thing to the poor crippled children. Finally, she added this statement: “God should come and punish them. Why doesn’t God do that?” Joe Friday responded: “Maybe God is ashamed also!”

That statement made me do some cogitating. I began to wonder how many times God has been ashamed of something that I have done. This brought me to a time of commitment asking the Lord to help me in my efforts to not make Him ashamed of my actions. That is a big God-sized order considering the sinful nature of man and my own sinful temperament.

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” Philippians 4:8 ESV

Stumps

Social status has long been an institution in Mississippi. When I tell people that I was born on a farm in Mississippi some think that my family owned a cotton plantation. When I was growing up, social status was assigned to farmers according to the number of acres that they owned.

Both sides of family were very small farmers meaning they owned less than a hundred acres, and they worked the land themselves to earn a living. My mother’s family did not even own a tractor to plow the land. My dad’s father owned an International Cub tractor. In post-World War II this small tractor was billed as the replacement for the mule on the American farm.

Both of these families lived in Carroll County, Mississippi, which was (and still is) one of the poorest counties in the state, and the state was the poorest in the nation, so that tells you a lot about my roots!

While growing up in rural Mississippi I spent a lot of time on my grandmother’s farm. Two of my uncles lived with her and took care of the farm.

My mother’s family used mules to plow the fields, and my uncles taught me to use the mules to pull a wooden sled. I wasn’t big enough to handle the plow with two big mules, but I spent a lot of time in the fields watching my uncles work so I could learn more about how to handle the mule-driven sled. I learned the “gee haw” language of commands for the mules.

There were many tree stumps in fields where my family planted corn and cotton, and with no machinery to get them out of the ground, these stumps were left to rot in the fields. In a newly planted field these stumps stood out as they towered above the plowed ground. One would think that they received no attention.

However, I watched my uncles as they plowed the rows between the tender young plants. As they passed a stump with the mule-driven plow, they would barely nick the edge of the stump with the tip of the plow. The harnesses on the mules would snap on the sweat-laden shoulders of the mules as the sharp tip of the iron struck the stump. A small portion of the stump would be chipped away. Every time they passed a stump, they did the same thing.

Although these stumps held on to the earth around them long after their productive life had ended, they were not serving any purpose for producing corn. They stood out in the field—literally and figuratively—and I knew that my uncles were plotting all year long on how to get rid of those stumps.

In my leadership experience I have often dealt with “stumps.” These stumps were people who were opposed to change.

Statistics have shown that whenever change in the workplace culture is initiated, 20% of the people affected are eager to accept the expected changes. Those who are resistant to the changes comprise about 30% of the workers, and the remaining 50% are astride the fence—neither eager for the changes or adamantly opposed to the changes. If you were the leader, with whom would you work the hardest? Certainly not the 20% because they are ready to follow you in implementing the changes. So, would invest the most time in the 50% or the 30%?

Hands down, I would always work the hardest with the 50% attempting to get them on board with the proposed transformations. Many leaders would choose to spend a lot of time working with the naysayers, but my philosophy is different. The lower hanging fruits are those in the middle, so I would invest more time in them to get them on board.

For sure I would not forget about the 30%, but, in reality, they are the “stumps.” I would “nick” (more appropriately “nudge”) them from time to time to give them some attention and try to point them to their colleagues who were accepting the changes as being positive for the mission of the organization. In time some of these stumps would actually become advocates for the restructuring and repositioning.

Over a period of time the stumps in the field would go away. The nicking of the plow would help, but in the end the stump was not going to go away quickly. My uncles resolved to work around the stumps—not ignoring them and not making them the center of their attention.

People are the same: eventually, the naysayers (the 30%) will fade away either because they don’t have any more life energy or no one pays any attention to them anymore or they finally come around to realizing that change is imminent.

If we never change, then we die. I saw something once that went like this: do not fight the old but build the new.

Preparing for Eternity

My mother had her 91st birthday recently. To attain her age is not a remarkable achievement in our present day but let me tell you some remarkable things about her.

She grew up with 10 siblings in a three room house with no insulation, no indoor plumbing and the only sources of heat were a fireplace, a pot-bellied stove and a wood-burning kitchen stove. They had their baths in a large metal tub. In the summertime they hauled the tub outside and drew water from a well for their bath. In the winter they had to heat water on the wood-burning stove for their bath water.

In the wintertime they would heat up a flat rock on the heath of the wood-burning fireplace. After the rock was warm, they would wrap it in a piece of cloth and take it to bed with them to warm their bed. An occasional radio program was their only  entertainment. The iceman would come once a week, and they would buy a couple blocks of ice for their ice box (that is not a colloquial term for an electric refrigerator!) When they ran out of ice, they would keep their milk cool in the earthen cistern where runoff rainwater from the metal roof was stored.

My dad was not only my mother’s soulmate for 72 years, but during the last five years before his passing he was also her eyes. Like her mother before her, my mother suffers from macular degeneration. For several years she has been legally blind. She can see very blurry images, but she manages to get around her home with the aid of a walker or a cane. She cannot read, and she shared with me that one of the things she misses the most is reading her Bible.

Each night since last year I have called my mother about 8 pm her time, and I read a devotional and pray with her. I usually read one of Rick Warren’s devotionals from the “Daily Hope” ap. My mother especially likes them because Allison has worked with Saddleback Church’s staff editing Rick’s sermons and presenting them in devotional form for nine years.

I have been cogitating a lot on one of the recent devos. It made the point that for eternity we will be serving the Lord, so all our life should be spent practicing being a servant so we will be good servants for the Lord for eternity.  I wish that years ago I had understood that fact like I do now. What a great lesson to teach our children and grandchildren—practice serving others on earth so we will better serve the Lord forever.

This is what God expects of us—to serve others in the name of our Lord and Savior. True service to others is not about what I can get out of my service to them, but it is all about what benefit I can render for the person I am serving.

Thank you, Lord, for providing a training ground during our lives on earth so that we can better serve you for eternity.

Pleonasm

When we came back to the states from West Africa, one of my early friends from our local church in Olive Branch, Mississippi was Jim, who was the President of a local bank. He had a pack of beagles that were trained to hunt rabbits. He was serious about his beagles, and he could have purchased a horse for what he paid for some of his beagles. He also knew everybody in the community, so he had a lot of good places to run the beagles. I accused him of asking people if he could hunt on their property before he would agree to give them a loan.

Jim invited me to go an many hunts during our time in Olive Branch. After they are flushed from the undergrowth, rabbits usually make a wide circle with the dogs hot on their trail, and they come back to where they were originally jumped. Some hunters like to wait for the rabbits at the jump site and then harvest the rabbits when they return. I am not big on shooting them, and I definitely don’t wait at the jump site. I love to follow the dogs through the briars and thickets. To me, the fun is in the chase. To listen to the dogs as they follow the trail with their noses to the ground to pick up the scent of the rabbit. I love the sound of beagles picking up a scent and then jerking their heads up and letting out a howl. Music to my ears.

Although rabbit hunting season is usually limited to a few months in the winter, serious rabbit hunters take their beagles out to run the rabbits year around—just without any guns. That’s the part of the sport that I enjoy the most—just running the dogs.

After we moved to Clinton, Mississippi, where I served as an administrator and teacher at Mississippi College, I started buying some beagles. Incidentally, these were not the first beagles we had owned. We bought our first beagle right after we started my first fulltime job after graduate school. Her name was Maggie, and she lived with us in our tiny apartment. Maggie was a still a house dog when we moved from Florida to Vicksburg, Mississippi. In Vicksburg she had a litter of puppies, and I raised two of her puppies to be hunting beagles. I would take Felix and Oscar to join some friends with other beagles on some awesome rabbit hunts along the Mississippi River.

Now the beagles I was buying were not the pedigreed ones that my friend Jim was buying, but they were nevertheless of good stock. The most expensive beagle that I ever owned was named Bila. His name was from the More’ language of the Mossi people in Burkina Faso. Bila was really adept at making the first jump on a rabbit, and he could stick with the best on the scent. There was only one problem with Bila—he also loved to run deer! That is one trait that is intolerable with a good rabbit dog. You don’t want to be on a rabbit hunt and have your jump dog get on the trail of a deer.

One Saturday in the off-season my dad was visiting us, and he and I went to run the beagles. We were on a friend’s farmland that adjoined thousands of acres of timberland—mostly pine trees. Deer love to hang out in pine thickets during the daytime and feed during the night. Bila jumped a deer and the rest of the dogs followed suit. Unlike rabbits, deer run in a straight line away from the dogs and the longer the dogs run them the farther the deer run before they stop. Bila did not give up easily, so my dad and I had a long wait ahead of us. After 45 minutes of waiting, all the dogs except Bila had returned to our pickup. I left my dad with the other dogs loaded up in the back of the pickup and went in search of Bila.

After an hour I found him walking slowly back towards the pickup, and his tongue was hanging out the side of his mouth. I was so angry at him. I hooked the leash to his collar and gave him a couple of strong jerks and headed towards the pickup. After a few minutes he stopped, raised his nose in the air and suddenly lunged away from me. Bila wound up on the other side of a dead tree about 12” in diameter. I turned my back and gave the leash a hard jerk. I was turned away from Bila trying to walk away, and as I snatched at the leash that action toppled the dead tree. The tree stuck the back of my head and instantly I was knocked out.

I don’t know how long I was lying on the ground, but I was awakened by Bila licking my face. I was bleeding from the wound, and I have no idea how long I had passed out, but I credit Bila for saving my life. After putting pressure on the wound with a bandana, Bila and I met up with my dad. He drove us to the ER in a nearby town where my gash was sewed up. The doctor told me that I was very fortunate because I had encountered what many people call a “widow-maker,” and I had survived thanks to my dog.

For most of my life we have owned at least one dog, and they have all been good friends. Dogs have been domesticated for thousands of years, and they have earned the notoriety of being “man’s best friend.” I love the two dogs that we have now. Cloud is a Great Pyrenees, and she is the lowest maintenance dog we have ever owned. She drinks water from the pond or stream, I have a self-feeder for her, and she lives in the pasture with the cows, goats, chickens and ducks. When we brought her home as a six-month-old, I had an extra-large igloo doghouse waiting for her in the pasture, but she never went inside. She sleeps on the open ground unless it is raining or there is deep snow on the ground, and then she sleeps in the goat barn.

Boss is a mixed breed neutered male who is 15 years old and sleeps on his Tempur-pedic dog bed on the front porch. He is such a faithful outdoor companion for me. Whenever I crank up the Kubota RTV he climbs into his regular place in the floorboard of the front passenger seat. Only problem is that he is so old now that some days he cannot climb into the Kubota, and if I try to help him it is uncomfortable for him. So, I have to pull up so that the passenger side is lowered to make it easier for him to get in. He goes everywhere I go on the farm, and he waits patiently for me when I am splitting firewood, working in the garden, hauling hay or whatever. I know he will soon be passing on, and I will deeply miss him.

Although dogs don’t verbally communicate with their masters, they certainly know how to express themselves and bond themselves with their masters. Sometimes we humans are guilty of using too many words to express ourselves. This week a friend introduced me to a new word for me—pleonasm. Cambridge Dictionary defines pleonasm: the use of more words than are needed to express a meaning, done either unintentionally or for emphasis. Some examples: “kick it with your feet,” “a careful caregiver,” “I myself,” “my own eyes,” or “burning fire.”

I think that the same train of thought is appropriate in dealing with our relationships with other people. I find that sometimes I struggle with talking too much when I should not be saying anything. Too many words can hurt rather than heal. When a friend or family member experiences the loss of a loved one, most times it is best not to say much because the greatest thing you can do for someone in this situation is just to be there with them. Love on them. Hug them. Hold their hand. Put your hand on their shoulder. Words can’t replace the human touch and presence.  

Practice using fewer words to express yourself. It does not come naturally for me, but I am working on it.

“When there are many words, transgression is unavoidable, but he who restrains his lips is wise.” Proverbs 10:19