The Return of the Silver Bullet!

The Silver Bullet is BACK!!

Yes, already, my now-favorite automobile mechanics have put the old Silver Bullet back on the road! My raging 1.8 liters of raw power has again been unleashed!

And not only that, but my mechanics will take time payments, which is the only thing that makes it possible for me to fix my car at all! Otherwise, I'd just have to drive until it stops and leave it in a ditch and walk until I buy a four-year old moped for transportation.

Someone once wondered if I had named the Silver Bullet after the famous Coors beer can. Of course, as a pastor, I could never name my car after a beer can! One does have to learn the unwritten rules of church (which Jesus himself would have ignored) if one wants to succeed as a pastor.

Actually, I named it the Silver Bullet partly because it's nowhere near a fast car, so it's kind of a parody of it's actual acceleration (or lack thereof). But also because this is a small, low car, so if anything bigger than a buzzard hit it, it would actually look like a beer can.

That someone had run over.

 And backed over again to see what he had hit.

I mean, this car is low! It's so low that getting into it is a controlled fall. And to get out, I must (first step) put my left hand on the bottom door frame to (second step) lever my feet out, and (third step) bend double and stand like homo erectus.

Believe me, those huge SUVs look really huge when I look at them from the seat of the Silver Bullet! And when I saw a semi truck is coming toward me in my lane (as happened a few months ago) I got to see my entire life pass before my eyes (it was so boring I almost fell asleep).

So why do I drive something that small? And old?

Two reasons: First, I hate spending money on gas. I like to spend my money on exciting things like new undershirts. Also I get this little thrill of victory when I fill my tank and notice that the previous driver at that pump has put half my yearly income into their gas tank.

I once told a group of guys who were whining over the price of gas, "Get a four banger!"

You could almost see my popularity bottom out.

Second, it's my personal victory over Detroit. I like to drive cars until they expend their last breath. Then I turn toward Detroit, shake my puny fist and shout, "I WIN!!"

So many people are paying so much for cars. They shine and gleam and have the "new car smell," and we are captivated and buy and then have one (or even two) huge car payments. And then we are bound and have no money left for more important things--like helping people out and giving to the Lord and to the poor who have nothing, as Jesus commanded us to do.

I find that as I get older, Jesus is continually freeing me from the need to have stuff. You know, the stuff we buy and didn't need but must pay for and keep clean and maintain and find a place for and then rent space in a storage building because our basement is already full of stuff that we used to think was so important but now we hardly ever even look at.

Stuff is one of the best weapons the enemy of our souls uses to distract us from seeking and loving Jesus.

May the Lord continually set you--and me, free!

"The poor are always ruled over by the rich, so don't borrow and put yourself under their power." Proverbs 22:7 in "The Message" version.

"A generous man will himself be blessed, for he shares his food with the poor." Proverbs 22:9, New International Version.

"Come, you who are blessed by my Father...for I was hungry and you gave me something to eat..." Jesus in Matthew 25.

Laugh Out Loud Section

Church sign in Warsaw this morning: "Be sure to come early for a great back seat!"

The Peace-full Car Breakdown

My car is broke.

This is a sad thing.

The ol' Silver Bullet (that's what I named my car because a car has to have a name) began to make noise about a week ago.

Front end noise. Serious noise. The kind of noise that says, "Pay attention, buddy, because you don't want to get stuck somewhere in upper Fort Wayne with your front wheels pointing in opposite directions."

You know what it feels like when your car begins to go down. It's like, "Oh, NO! What's this gonna cost and how am I gonna pay for this and how am I gonna get to work and back and everywhere-bloomin'-else I have to get to every 24 hours of this week!"

I'm used to having the Silver Bullet ready and waiting. It's kind of an addiction. Keys in my pocket and the Silver Bullet waiting. Like a stallion ready for battle.

And now...not.

Also my poor son, who works full time in Warsaw but is officially a "temp" (the recognized employer's term for, "It's possible you may have a future, but probably not") has to give up his wheels. That's because they are officially my wheels because he's still a temp and could be for eternity. So in this space-time continuum of not-reliable employment, he can't commit to car payments. He's stuck.

Therefore I have to take him to work at Warsaw and pick him up until the Silver Bullet is fixed, so I can use "his" car.  

But in spite of all the coming frustration, nail biting and mind-numbing miles, I've noticed a change.

I'm not all stressed!

In my past, when a car broke down, there would be the stressing. I try to hide it, but I'm a big stress junkie. I worry. But this time I didn't.

Because I know God will work it out.

He always has. He always does. He always will.

Lack of stress...this feels nice!

Thank you Jesus, for changing me inside! Please keep it up!

"And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work" (Paul to the Corinthian Christians in 2 Cor. 9:10, emphasis mine).

Our Blissful Anniversary Day

Below is a photo of my sweet wife Julie, taken on the Nickel Plate Trail that we walked this morning to celebrate our anniversary. What a great way to celebrate 35 years together!

What a lovely lady!

It was a great morning...even though, unfortunately, our water heater quit this morning.

And--this afternoon after our blissful walk,  the plumber told us it was irreparable.

Surprise!

So, the water heater we bought with a six year warranty lasted about...wait for it...six years!

THANKS, water heater people!

So now my long-suffering wife is feverishly negotiating to have a new water heater installed.

Happy Anniversary!

But we WILL have a good evening, for these reasons:

We still have love.

It's only money.

We'll watch the Amazing Race on computer tonight.

"He who finds a wife finds what is good and receives favor from the Lord." Proverbs 18:22

Feeling Odd in Colorado

I was a real oddball in Colorado, let me tell you.

It happened on the Herman Gulch hiking trail.

I always try to witness for Christ on hiking trails. This is because I feel closer to God in his beautiful creation, and because people actually talk to each other on hiking trails!

It's true!

Say hello on the street, and people react as if you carry airborne Ebola.

Say hello on the trail, and people smile as I say, "How far is it to the top? This is so nice! I love your dogs!!"

So, I tried to witness on the hiking trail.

I said to two young women, "Praise God for his beautiful creation!"

They blinked at each other.

I know what they were thinking: "Oh, NO! We've connected with a God nut! He's gonna try to make us kneel and pray on the trail and the rocks will make our knees hurt! And he'll probably try to sell us special Bibles and crosses and DVDs and retirement plans at Christian resorts!"

I walked on, mildly deflated.

Another group of five young people met me at the very top of Herman Gulch trail.  (You can see a photograph of me in the blog below, taken after these kind people gave me oxygen and CPR and called a chopper to airlift me out).

I said to them, "I love these mountains! You  know, I first really believed in God when I first saw the Rocky Mountains. I thought, 'Man didn't make those mountains and man ain't movin' em.'"

Silence.

One girl, sitting on a nearby rock, looked at her friends and they looked back.

The girl was thinking, "What planet did this guy fall off of--and how can we transport him back? I hope he doesn't keep talking or I'll have to drown myself in this icy mountain lake!"

I walked away, really deflated.

Thank God for gatherings of believers!

In Breckenridge (which is a ski town somewhere at stratospheric level in the mountains) there was this little white storefront church.

It didn't look like a church.

I almost missed it.

But I noticed a sign that said, "The Bridge."

That sounds like the title for a church, I thought.

So I looked at the bulletin board. And it was!

So, that Sunday morning, I walked down from the condo my sister and her husband had rented, found a Starbucks (eureka!!) then went to church.

The group of about 25 believers had a praise team (including an electric violin!), a social time with donuts and coffee and a very young, curly-haired pastor named "Pastor Jimmy" (I never did hear his last name). They were mostly young people (everybody's young in Colorado!) in their suitably scruffy attire.

It was such a great thing to sing praises, hear "Pastor Jimmy" preach from the book of Revelation, and mingle with these believers!

It took the label "Oddball" off my chest.

I felt OK again!

Here is a photo I took inside the little church on my cell phone:

Don't ya just love it?

It's been a long time since I was actually hungry for the Word of God.

Here I was filled.

Thanks, Pastor Jimmy!

On to Colorado!

Somehow I managed to put two trips into one vacation.

Call it "creating a diverse adventure."

But, more accurately, you would call it "lack of planning."

The first trip was to the Knobstone Trail in Southern Indiana. You can read that tragic story in my last entry below. The second was to see my sister Susie in Denver, Colorado.

Susie had graciously given me airline tickets to fly to Denver to see her for six days. She understands that when I accept a trip to Colorado it includes some serious day hiking also.

A new adventure!

So, full of hope and anticipation of a better experience, I begged a ride from a good friend down to Indianapolis International Airport early Thursday morning. I was to hop on a plane at 6 am. I needed a ride because one of our cars was down and both my kids work.

Full of joy, I rode with my friend to Indy and waved him off--sure this was going to be the good part of vacation. As my friend drove away, I walked with fresh, innocent eyes to the Frontier Airlines desk and presented my e-ticket.

The woman looked at my ticket and said, "This ticket is for Friday."

I looked at my ticket.

I looked at the woman.

I looked at my ticket.

This could not be denied. Somehow, in my anticipation, in my eagerness, I had convinced myself that I was leaving Thursday.

But I wasn't leaving until Friday.

How was it possible for me to have done this?

And my friend had driven off.

And I had no car.

And I was 24 hours early for my flight! That's 24 hours!

The woman, now looking at me with pitying eyes, said, "We'll get you on a flight for today. But it might cost you an extra $50."

I breathed with relief. After all, this is a vacation, I thought. I have some extra cash. I'll just think of this as a vacation expense.

So the kindly Frontier woman made a phone call. She talked to the unseen person on the other end. She waited, then talked some more. She talked and talked on my behalf.

Then she looked at me and said, "I'm sorry, but to get you on a flight today will cost $295."

I sank into despair. I was too proud to call my friend back to Indianapolis--he had just pulled a trailer halfway across the nation, for crying out loud! I couldn't call my family because one of our cars was down.

What was I gonna do?

Suddenly the kindly Frontier woman handed me coupons.

"These are for 'distressed passengers,'" she said. "The hotel shuttle can pick you up at the airport."

Well, I certainly am a "distressed passenger," I thought. These prices aren't too bad. I can catch up on my sleep, read a little, then it will be time to go.

Wrong.

I slept as long as I could. I had not brought a good book, I found. I sat around. Walked around. Watched senseless cable television.

Staying at a hotel is fun when you have a purpose there. But when you're there because you're stupid and are waiting 24 hours for a flight--not so much.

I called my wife a lot!

"Hey, how ya DOIN'!" I asked my wife. "What's going ON?"

"You should call your friend at Indianapolis," my long-suffering wife said. "He'd love to see you."

So I did. Several times. No return call.

"He's busy," I moaned to my wife. "He's away somewhere. So....whatcha doin now?"

It's not like I could walk and visit some shops or a bookstore. This hotel was almost in the airport. All I could see from my window was car rental garages and airplane hangars.

Then, the final blow.

That afternoon, they kicked me out of the hotel.

Not because of my behavior. Because the room rate is from 3 pm to 3 pm, check out time.

I engaged in a few moments of hatred toward the hotel.

Then, at about 4:30, I went back to the airport. To wait 12 more hours.

In the airport. All night.

I gave myself up to despair. One of the airport guys showed me a good bench to sleep on. I  bought a really good book (because I would be reading for a really long time).

I can do this, I thought with sinking heart. I can make this work.

Unhappily, I sat down.

Then my Indianapolis friend called.

"NORM!!" I said! "It's so good to HEAR from you! HEY, how ya been DOIN'?"

You can guess the rest. My good pal Norm would not allow me to stay at the airport--he picked me up and gave me a good, soft bed for the night, then took me back in the morning.

I can't really think of a moral to this story except:

1.. Don't be stupid with your airline ticket dates.

2. Treat all your friends REALLY well, because you might need them later!

3. God loves me because he made this work out. 

4. He loves you too.

End note:

This is a photo of me at the top of Herman Gulch Trail in Colorado at 12,000 feet:

 

 

 



Braving the Knobstone Trail

Well,  my hike is over. And I wanted to reassure my tens of readers that I'm alive.

As I sit here by the computer while my wife paints a British-style subway sign for our wall, I'll try to recount the details.

My friend and I planned to go backpacking for about 26 miles on the Knobstone Trail in Southern Indiana. We had two and a half days...how hard can that be?

So, Sunday night we rushed down to the trail in two vehicles, leaving clean water at two trail heads (because of the recent drought) and a car at the beginning and end of our hike. By the time we returned to our beginning point darkness was falling. And in the darkness I managed to assemble my little nylon pup tent wrong.

So it collapsed.

Not a good beginning.

But, forever optimistic, I tried again and got it almost right. Night fell with a cool fog, the chirping of innocent crickets, and the urge to sleep.

Good luck.

The thing about sleeping on the ground is that ground is HARD! I had a foam sleeping pad that backpackers carry, but it was a thin, cheap one, not the quality, self-inflating one my partner had. So as he snored softly and peacefully in his tent, I did the kind of thing you do with hot dogs on a barbecue. You know, turn and turn and turn them so they cook nicely on all sides.

I turned and turned and turned on my foam pad. When I found comfort, I drifted off. Until the pressure on my hip bone and shoulder got bad. Then I woke up and turned over. Often. All through the night.

I think I got about two and a half hours of actual sleep. But in the morning, I felt energized after a delicious instant oatmeal breakfast cooked on my new MSR Pocket Rocket Stove. I felt ready to hike. The deep woods was calling us! Adventure!

It felt so good to be walking in the deep woods. Nothing but trees in every direction, and not even the sound of traffic. The birds were singing, the daylight brightly shining.

There was one problem.

My backpack.

How could I have possibly checked every single item in this pack for weight, and still come up with this kind of load?

My completed pack weighed about 30-35 pounds, but after the first ten hills it felt like 900 pounds dragging me toward the earth. Does moisture in the air collect in backpacks and make them heavier?

And my partner...he was a man of steel! He just walked and walked and walked at this amazing rate of speed, never seeming to actually have to breathe. His backpack didn't bother him! I think he could have carried a mule without noticing.

I began to wonder if I'd made a bit of a mistake.

After about five hours of hiking we hit our first major snag. At the Rutherford section of the trail, we crossed this dirt road and were met with a sign that said this part of the Knobstone Trail was being logged and we weren't allowed in and don't even try it because if you do you'll be met by a conservation officer who will order you to leave in a harsh, critical tone of voice.

My buddy and I looked at each other. We had no car. Someone probably traveled this road about every two weeks. Or three.

"We have to try it," we agreed. "We don't have a car."

So we tried it, climbing this huge hill (I think the hills were gaining altitude--possibly a seismic thrust from deep within the earth).

The former trail was a wreck. Bulldozer treads had removed every trace of the trail, chain saws had slaughtered trees--including the trees with white blazes that showed we were actually on the trail and not in Alabama. The ground itself was rutted and filled with roots that turned your ankle every third step. After fruitlessly looking for blazes for most of an hour, we surrendered and labored back to the road.

And stood there.

Suddenly, we heard a motor. And saw an older guy on a four-wheeler putting down the road toward us. He had all the time in the world. He didn't have to walk 26 miles in less than three days. With a cursed 900 pound pack.

Seeing him approach, I longed to offer him my wages for the next ten years if he would just sell me that four wheeler. My partner would be okay, right?

But grasping at my last shreds of inner strength, I refrained.

Then the guy offered us hope!

"There's a detour about 300 yards down the trail," he said. "It's the Knobstone Trail--they changed it because of the logging. There's a mailbox right across the road from it."

We found the detour, rejoicing.

But the joy was short-lived.

Through this was an actual detour for the Knobstone Trail, it was so little traveled that it was hard to detect any path. And the white blazes were few. Another enterprising soul--may he be blessed forever--made up for most of that by thing pink and black ribbons to trees.

This should have solved our problems, but there weren't enough white blazes or ribbons. Many times we would travel only about 20 steps before we had to stop, scan all the trees, backtrack a few steps,  and suddenly see a ribbon. Then do it again. And again.

Not only that, but the makers of this alternate trail apparently hadn't had time to construct switchbacks. A switchback, for those who don't know, is a zigzag trail that allows you to climb a hill at several 25 degree angles instead of one 95 degree almost-vertical angle. So I climbed.

With a cursed, life-sucking 900 pound pack.

Finally we broke back onto the original, much clearer trail. And hiked up more hills. And more. And more. 

And came to Highway 56.

We'd traveled an whole 7 miles. All day.

I told my friend, "I can't do much more of this."

Which left us with a problem. Again, no car. And we were at a section of highway that was so low we couldn't even pick up a cellphone signal. There was a white pickup by the side of the highway, but nobody was in it, so I guessed it was broken down.

Now, sometimes backpackers find themselves in a pickle like this, and what they do is flag down a car and catch a ride. I forget what the term for this is. Perhaps "will to survive" might be it.

But after some lame attempts at hitchhiking, at which nobody even appeared to consider stopping, we gave it up.

Suddenly I turned my head at just the right second and noticed a young man with a shotgun walking out of the trees to the pickup.

"HEY!" I yelled without even thinking. "Can you HELP US?"

And he did!

You may consider that this hunter, returning to his truck at just the right time, was a coincidence.

But I know he came because God loves me.

We climbed into the truck and he gave us an eight-mile lift to the Leota Trailhead.

Now before you say it, I know I didn't walk those eight miles.

My partner could have, munching on sassafras roots for sustenance. Carrying a mule.

But I will remind you that hitching a ride is a well-known, accepted, absolutely common backpacker practice, and also that we no longer had time to hike the remainder of the trail.

We pitched camp near the trail head that night.

With me turning like a hot dog.

And my partner softly snoring.

Finally the morning! Facing another countless series of hills with my cursed, life-sucking 900 pound pack.

Suddenly, another idea! My partner had told me about how people on the Appalachian Trail had done some "slack packing" --that is, leaving your pack behind, walking without it, and picking it up later.

Weren't we right here at a trail head? To finish the hike this very day?

So I announced that I was going to stuff energy bars in my pocket, carry a water bottle and "slack pack" that day.

I felt SO good!

I removed all my valuables from the pack--cellphone, car keys, Garmin hand-held GPS. Irish whistle and wallet. Then I stowed the life-sucking, cursed 900 pound abomination behind a tree.

Freedom!

I was no longer gravitationally challenged! I felt light as air.

And in this manner I managed to keep up with my partner's unbelievable pace (he was still carrying his pack) for the final five miles.

VICTORY!!

I am such an outdoorsman!

I felt that way too, until we drove back to the Leota trail head and found my pack gone. With the new MSR  Pocket Rocket stove I'd purchased for the trip. And my new Kelty sleeping bag.

Maybe next year I'll camp out in my back yard.