BLUE LIGHTS, or, “maybe it will just go away?”

BLUE LIGHTS 

or,  

“maybe it will just go away?”

                “Oh, crap!” were the words that I murmured when the blue lights came on, flashing out, for all to see, my transgression highlighting – 74 in a 55.  As the cop went by in the opposite direction, I hoped, in vain, that he was just scolding me.  I fruitlessly imagined, “maybe it will just go away…”

                You see, I was passing a log truck which was hauling tree length logs.  I was north-bound and had just merged behind him, east-bound at the four-way stop.  Headed to work, I looked at my watch, and grew impatient with his slow acceleration – 20 – 30 – 40 – 50 – finally a passing zone!  So, I peeked out; saw it was clear, and began to accelerate around – 50 – 55 – 60 – oops – over the hill ahead, an approaching car popped into view.

                Quickly, I calculated the closing gap’s distance, my speed, and the log truck’s length (including protruding logs).  But, the problem was that he was still accelerating!!  Options?  1) brake onto the left shoulder, 2) brake back into line behind the log truck (and trailing traffic), 3) stomp it.  One other unforeseen factor (?!) -- the rapidly approaching, oncoming car, in my lane, is a police car!  Forgot to factor in that one!  “but, officer, I was passing a log truck…” seemed to fall on deaf ears.

                Two days later, after a couple of phone calls, pleading for a chance to tell my version, I was presented with my options:  1) pay the ticket (worth a week’s wages at minimum wage) and go to driving school (at my expense), 2) go to court and plead my case to a judge who “only looks at the radar numbers,” or, 3) beg for mercy!  My stomach cramps were coming  back in full force.  With humility, and with meekness, I imploringly looked into the eyes of the police chief … (his eyes were as blue as those blue lights that caught my breath and made my heart skip a beat).

                In another setting, years before, the HR manager demanded, “… you have to tell me the truth…”  as I stonewalled his inquiries.  He already knew.  The “Unauthorized Access” warning  on my computer screen was recorded with time-stamp and id-stamp at corporate.  The sick feeling of capture with no hope of escape overwhelmed me.  No, one cannot really hide his transgressions nor tracks.  He wanted to hear me say it, for my own good (whether he recognized this or not).  I was stubborn, prideful, angry …

                Actually, neither of these incidents compare with another alarm, flashing light, arrest, confrontation.  It won’t be blue lights, nor a jpeg stop-sign on your monitor.  It will be a trumpet blast!  The skies will fold open, the trumpet will blare, the graves will split open, we will arise to meet Him in the air!  At that time, will you be dancing in ecstasy, or cringing in fear looking for a hole in which to hide?!  “…maybe it will just go away?”  NOT.  God have mercy on us, for we are sinners; but, you are love and mercy.

 
Matthew 24  ³⁰ And then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in heaven: and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory.  ³¹ And he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other. (KJV)

1 Corinthians 15 ⁵² In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. (KJV)

PINE CONES vs. MUSHROOMS

PINE CONES vs. MUSHROOMS

                I have learned to survive (and even thrive!) on pine cones.  Plenty of them out there!  Most of the year I can find them fairly easily.  The early, green ones are sorta crunchy and chewy, even if somewhat bitter.  The later ones I find rotting on the ground are very different – soft, and full of little surprises!

                What I really do not understand is those weirdos who wander through the woods searching and looking for mushrooms.  Those weirdos have to search and dig for hours.  Don’t they know those things are poisonous?  That might explain what’s wrong with so many of them?!  Besides, it is just so much easier to pick up pine cones.

                I have talked to a few of them.  Tried to understand them; but, they are just so different.  I’ve heard them whisper about the “delicate flavor” of this shroom and the “woody bouquet” of that one.  On and on they go about ‘em.  They sit around and talk about books they read about the things.  They are always trying to get us cone-heads to try one.  Ugh!  (Frankly, I think they are smoking some of them.)  Fungus!  They are eating fungus.  I think there’s a fungal infection between their ears.

 
                Worst of all, they think we are heathen and cretans.  They are the wooses.  Real men eat cones.  They gather in their little groups and talk about shrooms and how to spread the fungus.  They send some of their people to the far corners of civilization and spread their nonsense.  They want us all under their umbrella!  They say it is for our own good.  And they make that nauseating “cream of mushroom” concoction.

                I’d like to get into a contest with them – they can throw three to my one cone.  I will leave them so bruised and bleeding that they will be drinking mushroom tea.  I just hope they do not hit me in the face with a morel.  I’m scared already, just thinking about it.

                Pine cones for me.  Us normal folks just pick up the closest cone and chomp away.  Unless, of course, it’s got shrooms growing on it.  Really, those cappers have no flavor, anyway.  Besides, who wants to eat something a frog has been squatting on?!  And, they say we are the "squirrely" ones?!

WHAT'S THE USE?!

“What’s the use?!”

I began to understand how my older brothers might have felt.  Dad and mom are so busy with little Ben, that I seem to be invisible.  And, my brothers just laugh and make fun of me, telling me to grow up.  I obey them, am polite and respectful, try to help around the home; but, “what’s the use” I hear begging in my heart.  But, I decided to try even harder!

Dad noticed and grinned about my redoubled efforts.  I KNEW I was special, I thought.  He even gave me a special coat, that nobody else got, not even Ben.  But that just “pissed off” my brothers. (oops, did I say that?  Well – they all say such and nobody seems to care?)  I can’t prove it, but I know that  I, MYSELF, did not get donkey crap on my new coat.  And, they put in the armpits – NOT an accident.  My sense of fairness began to beg, “what’s the use?”

But, God is MY friend!  He game ME dreams about wheat shocks and stars bowing down to me.  My brothers, sure -- but, even dad did not get it.  They all got mad at me.  And, I began to arrogantly wonder, “what’s the use?”

All my crude, ignorant brothers were doing field work, and dad told me to leave the tent and check on them.  As always, I did as told, and off I went.  No telling where the ten were.  They saw me coming, but they seemed meaner than usual.  They weren’t laughing.  I woke up in a pit.  I could hear them arguing whether to kill me or sell me, as a slave!  As I rode away with the slave-traders, a little voice questioned, “what’s the use?!”

Well, you play the cards dealt.  A nice enough foreigner bought me and got the good out of me.  He noticed my hard work and success, and even promoted me.  You can imagine how the other slaves felt about me.  It never stops.  “What’s the use?” echoed in my head.

But, it gets worse – the other slaves were green-eyed, but the master’s wife was moon-eyed!  I avoided her, refused her, even preached to her.  Let me tell you, a spurned “cougar” is a mean animal!  All my boss’s respect and trust were lost – and I was taking the high road!  That little voice challenged heaven, “what’s the use?!”

Sitting in a foreign jail, repeatedly the question came, “what’s the use?”  But, I struggled on, and even there, success came.  I helped others, only to be forgotten by them!  “what’s the use” chimed out.

After a few years, I got the strangest demand – “clean up – Pharaoh wants to see your stinking …”  This couldn’t be good.  What’s next? Death?  “what’s the use?”  I could give myself a more merciful death than Pharaoh.  But, I did as told.

                God gave me the answer, the insight, the plan, the wisdom, the skill.  I told Pharaoh of the famine years looming ahead.  We put our emergency plan into action; for seven years we stockpiled.  About two years into the famine, I quietly wondered, “what’s the use?” – “I am just helping these foreigners, my captors,” I mused.

                Then they showed up, the ten.  I knew them; but, they did not recognize their brother.  Their lives were in my hands.  I toyed with them and teased with a taste of vengeance.  But a calm voice whispered, “what’s the use?”

                Like a bolt of lightning from out of the heavens it hit me!!  “what’s the use?” was answered.  I mouthed words sent from beyond me, “you meant evil; but God meant good.  HE sent me here to preserve life!”    . . .    I have had to reassure them of this more than once.  They cannot see beyond their own smallness and meanness.  But, of this, I am sure.  Never doubt it.  Believe it!