THE VOICE I HEAR
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1999, by P. WellsIS THE VOICE OF THE LORD
PART VII
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
FAMILY STATISTICS
Vital Statistics concerning my life include the most important fact--that I have been a very grateful saved Christian for as long as I can remember--at least, since the age of twenty months old, when I first believed and sang the words of "Jesus Loves Me."
I had an experience, when I was in the fourth or fifth grade, which convinced me that I had a soul that departed from my body while I was just falling asleep. I received sustenance from standing under a fountain of light, that was perfect love and peace, and it flooded my whole being.
I have not stopped caring about everyone ever since. For that reason, I have been called a patsy, a fool, and in my old age, senile. No one understands my sudden attacks of compassion for less fortunate souls, and many think that I am a bit eccentric or even "crazy."
I was not baptized in the Holy Spirit, until I was in my forties. I spoke in tongues, supernaturally, that one time. I tried to pray in tongues again, but I could not. The Lord told me not long after, that He would be speaking to me in plain English--as I spoke it--and not King’s James English, because He wanted me to understand exactly what He had to say to me.
He began teaching me, and I have never spoken in tongues since. I was relieved, because I was very uncomfortable saying things without knowing what I was saying. I have always said exactly what I meant, and meant exactly what I said. If I learned later that I said the wrong thing or was mistaken, I turned heaven and earth to straighten it out
--It did not matter how trivial others thought the matter was. Praying in tongues confused me, even though Paul thanked God for the gift of tongues.
The truth and understanding the truth, are important priorities with me. I learned the hard way that most people could not care less--and find some of my explanations much too detailed and boring. "Getting to the point" has always been difficult for me, because those who have been conditioned to believe lies from babyhood need detailed explanations to understand. For that reason, many would reject "the point" without the explanation, saying, that they heard it all before. They had heard "the point" but not the reasons for reaching that conclusion, and they did not want to hear them.
I have spent my life, trying to find ways to explain what I know and have experienced to friends who are spiritually dead, but would be so much happier, if they could be awakened. I often wondered why so many seemed to enjoy being miserable and making others feel just as bad, so that the maxim, "Misery loves company," really does fit so many. So much for my philosophies, and now I will answer the questions about my family that most people ask.
I am a qualified English teacher, having received my degree from the University of Illinois in Urbana, Illinois. I completed my degree in May of 1966 at the time our oldest son was a senior in high school and our youngest son was five years old.
However, I attended college for two years (1944-1946) and taught in rural schools for two years during World War II, because of a shortage of teachers in these schools, disrupting my own formal education.
I met and married my husband, who was the older brother of three of my students, whom I was teaching during the second year that I taught. We were married on Christmas Eve of that year, approximately seven weeks after our first date. But it was not a "date," and we did not go on any dates. He just offered to help me with my teaching duties, and I accepted his help gratefully, because I took those duties so seriously, that fulfilling my responsibilities--as I saw them--was a full time job for both of us. I also spent most of my salary to accomplish my goals for those kids, whom I loved dearly.
What impressed me was that my husband-to-be seemed to enjoy the kids as much as I did. None of the old record books had ever been discarded, and I was also able to read all the comments that his teachers had made about him. He was described as being cooperative, helpful, cheerful, and well liked by the other kids. He proposed to me on our first date, and I did not think that I was making a mistake accepting his proposal seven weeks later, because I felt I knew more about him from his school records than most of us learn about new acquaintances in years.
I have never really made an impulsive decision in my life, and no one should have been surprised that our marriage lasted forty-six years--until he died in July of l993. But almost everyone thought we were making a mistake at the time. Fortunately, I have never been easily influenced by those who do not think as I do.
Did I mention that I am left-handed? Yes, left-handed people do think logically; they just approach problem solving from different perspectives. We tend to reach conclusions more slowly, are not rapid readers, are more critical in our judgments, and have to know why and how, instead of who, what, where, and when, because we wish to use what we learn to correct mistakes or duplicate achievements. As children, we have the reputation for asking too many questions and sometimes we deserve it.
So much for another of my long-winded explanations that bore others, but I could not let it go. I hate half-truths, and hasty conclusions reached by pseudo-scientists who collect facts to support their preconceived notions. They are not concerned about solving real problems, but they do create a few!
Now back to what I think is boring--who, what, when and where. Who said it, and when or where it was said, is the least important piece of information anyone is ever forced to memorize in school. Who cares who gets the credit? Past achievers are all dead and most of them have been proved wrong! I sincerely hope that no one ever repeats what I said, just because I am the one who said it. Repeat it, because it makes sense in the name of Jesus, or do not repeat it at all.
Our oldest son, Chris, is also a graduate from the University of Illinois (henceforth known as the U. of I.) and is a Quality Engineer at Guidant Corporation (manufacturer of implantable heart pacemakers and defibrillators) in St. Paul, Minnesota. His wife, Pam, has a degree from the U. of I. in pre-school education, which she has never used professionally. She is a competent typist, and has worked as a cashier in a large super-market chain (Cub Foods), for years, but recently to the bulk foods, which she enjoys.
They have three children: Tom, the eldest, won the Drake Award, competing with over 1700 top scholars in the country. The winner was determined by his achieving the highest score on a mathematics and physics examination. The award was a four-year scholarship at Drake University in Iowa. He was graduated last year with honors, and is now in full time ministry with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship on the campus of Drake University. He loves the truth, also, and recently married another dedicated Christian, Laura. They were both committed to celibacy before marriage, and believe their match was made in heaven. He thinks many alleged scientific facts are myths, and he claims that he can prove it. Unfortunately, the Hollywood crowd has invested millions in these myths, and the love of money is indeed the root of all evil.
Chris and Pam’s second child, Tricia, a beautiful daughter, also recently married another dedicated Christian, Kyle, and they must be the most romantic couple of all. They were also committed to celibacy until marriage, and served the Lord in the state of Washington for two summers as Christian camp counselors. They plan to complete their college degrees this year—Tricia in communications and Kyle in finance.
Becky, their beautiful second daughter is a recent graduate from high school, and shares the family values. She is also an excellent student, and is attending the same Christian University that her sister and Kyle are attending near Chicago, North Park University.
Where did so many get the idea that Christians are not bright, do not think for themselves, are bigots, prejudiced, and just parrot back what they heard from their narrow-minded parents? That is exactly the opposite of what I have observed, but Satan loves to destroy the innocent with that lie. What about those who parrot the lies of grant-grubbing educators, who have no scruples, and too much pride to admit they are wrong in spite of data to the contrary--who are totally incapable of intellectual integrity.
Catheryn, our second child, graduated from the U. of I. in elementary education, and married another graduate, Craig, who was the top student in his civil engineering class and earned a full scholarship toward his master’s degree at that same institution.
Cathy has taught school part time for years, tutoring students in their homes (unwed mothers and the homebound), and became a full time teacher in the headstart program in Mt. Vernon, IL. She more recently earned her Masters degree. Craig’s first love has always been engineering, but he did serve as City Manager in Mt. Vernon for several years. He finally decided that politics was not for him, even though he did play a significant role in attracting industry to Mt. Vernon. He is now civil engineering full time, and tells everyone he is in "plumbing and sewage." He "ain’t" proud!
They also have three children, the oldest, a lovely daughter, Karen, is now attending the U. of I., served as president of her residence hall, and is now a senior having majored in psychology with a minor in gerontology, which she probably practices on me! Her parents say she studied them.
Her brother, Jeff, is a genius, I suppose, and was reading the classics and solving calculus problems in grade school. He is interested in drama, is a natural comedian, and writes fiction, although as a freshman at the U. of I., he has not yet decided on his major, although his parents expect to his books on the best seller list. I hope he promotes the Kingdom of God, as his brilliant ancestors have done unto martyrdom.
Their youngest daughter is also a gifted student, but one of her first interests was dancing. Her dad jests that she has played so many different roles in the Nutcracker Suite that she could put on a one-man show. Oops! "One-woman show, Dad!" Speech and acting (She is also a natural "Ham" and Comedienne like her mother and brother) now dominate her life, and many mistake this poised high school sophomore to be a college student.
Incidentally, I have a lot to say to the feminists ("one-woman" show?), who like to play silly games with the clear and concise king’s English. I prefer to be called "he" or "him" if it means "mankind" and includes me as an equal. What is more equal than that? Simpletons! All that "she/her" nonsense reduces women to second-class citizens, and greatly complicates writing sensibly sometimes. When God speaks of men, he means both men and women and demands the same obedience from both.
Bradley, our third offspring, also graduated from the U. of I., having earned his degree from the College of Education to teach respiratory therapy. Instead, he decided to start two corporations, because most of the local hospitals did not have respiratory departments. He contracted to start them in three hospitals and received l00% scores from the state health inspections on all three. He also had a home service business, in which he supplied homebound patients with respiratory equipment. He finally decided to take a permanent position as head of a respiratory department, because his family was tired of moving around--even though it meant a substantial cut in his income.
Brad met his wife in a hospital before his graduation, and they married shortly after. She was a nurse at a hospital where Brad worked to pay for his college expenses. She graduated from Manila University in the Philippines (B. S. degree in nursing), and had just come to this country, where she planned to stay as a naturalized citizen. She is part Chinese, part Filipino, and part Spanish and 100% beautiful.
They have two beautiful children, a boy and a girl. So much for the lie that Christians are racists. While I am on the subject, four of our children’s spouses were Catholics, when they married, and we are Protestants. Although, our daughter, Cathy, married a Lutheran, they saw fit to send one of their children to a Catholic school, instead of the one where our daughter taught. Intelligent, thinking people, are not bigots and do not base their decisions on prejudices, but on good sound judgment dependent on what leads to a constructive way of life, which public schools do not encourage.
Nathan, Brad’s oldest son, is a very talented violinist, and played the title role in Fiddler on the Roof with a professional actor’s troop who came to the area regularly to perform. He was only fourteen at the time, and he has played with other talented students at the Krannert Center for the Arts (U. of I.) several times since then. His younger sister is also a gifted violinist and they have entertained us with solos and duets at family reunions. They like to play popular tunes as well as the classics "just for fun" and "by ear." They are also excellent students.
Please do not throw this book in the wastebasket, because you are bored. I am making some important points, if you can just pay attention. What our family members achieved is not important, but the "Why" and "How" they achieved it is. Think "Why" and "How" and then go and do likewise, because anyone can do as much or more.
All of our children and grandchildren are Christians--members of the body of Christ--regardless of what denomination they happen to be affiliated with at birth. I am describing a family who believes in Jesus Christ and thinks that winners try to please Him. Oops! Those who please Him become winners! That is the "Big How!"
Those who claim that descendants of Cain have the "mark of Cain," such as a brown skin or slanted eyes, are liars--they are not Christians. None of Cain’s descendants survived the Flood ergo no one on this earth has the mark of Cain--not blacks and not Orientals. That is just an example of bigotry among hate groups, who give us honest Christians a bad name. The only survivors of the flood were descendants of Seth.
Most Christians on earth are black and Oriental as are most (at least 75%) all human beings, and they are the most dedicated and committed of all, while the white supremacist hate groups are not Christians at all. K K K means Klutz! Klutz! Klutz! Jesus said that many would come in His name, but He would not recognize them. His only "new" Commandment was to love one another, and "hate" is not synonymous with "love" in my dictionary or in my Bible. I do know you want to get back to dull statistics, but I cannot let an opportunity to make at least one more statement slip by. Where was I!
Marilyn, our fourth child and second daughter, did not quite graduate from the U. of I. in her field, and had to drop out in her last semester, because she developed a severe allergy to small animals (Her fingernails fell off!). She planned to teach animal technology in a local college and had more than enough credits to graduate, but was required to work in a veterinary clinic to obtain her degree from the College of Education in that field, when the allergies became very evident.
She was a James scholar, but she would have to take at least another two years of course work to teach in another field. Naturally, she was disappointed, as she was told by doctors that she could not be desensitized to the dander of dogs and cats, since each animal has a different dander--an impossible situation. So, she decided to use what education she had--a knowledge of drugs and medications, which are not so different from ones used by human beings as one would think--to work as an assistant pharmacist in a national super-market.
She had always been very popular and considered to be a lot of fun, but she had the family standards where celibacy before marriage was concerned. I recall her lament, that she was never going to meet "Mr. Right" who shared her values, but she finally did at the age of twenty-seven. She would be the first to declare adamantly that she is glad she waited.
They had the romance of the century, and she walked down the aisle of a Catholic Church, a Protestant virgin. Like most men, her husband, Philip, concluded that he knows she can be trusted. If she did not give in to him, she certainly could not be seduced by anyone else! Men are such vain creatures, but he did have a point! Virginity before marriage and trust afterwards go hand in hand, and both go a long way toward having a happy relationship with one’s spouse.
They have three children, who are my youngest grandchildren, Andy, Molly, and David--all active, well adjusted, and doing well in school. They are also quite skilled in athletic activities, which both parents have always enjoyed, and they have ribbons and other awards to prove it. Andy and Molly qualified to sing in Brother Dutton’s select choir, which regularly performs in public. I have a tape of their heavenly singing, which would melt any heart of granite. All of their children are attending Catholic schools (David is in pre-school.). Marilyn goes to church with her family, but remains a charismatic Protestant. She and her husband have the same fundamental Christian values and beliefs. No one in our family believes in arguing about the traditions of men.
Marilyn’s husband is a graduate from the University of Wisconsin in business administration. After working as a highly successful salesman of building materials and even as a beer distributor, he finally decided to go in with his dad in the fire extinguisher business, in which he helps his clients meet the stringent standards for safety set down by the government. His decision to leave his job selling beer to dealers was influenced by his concern for the effect his job might have on his children, when alcohol is the number one cause of accidental death of young people.
Phil is a tireless worker, and his business never stops growing. However, my daughter decided to take a real estate course with Century Twenty One, when they were struggling to build his business. She really enjoys her work, but most of all, she likes the idea of being able to plan her schedule around the activities of her family, which real estate agents are more free to do. The fact that she is now quite successful is also a plus. Matthew, our fifth child, has been single, a celibate, and is a dedicated Christian. He is handsome at the age of forty and could easily pass for a young, slim, athletic twenty-five-year old. He has a calm demeanor, and possibly has always been the most contented of all our children. Until recently, if you asked him about his plans to have a family, he would say, "I am waiting on the Lord," and it paid him to do so!
News flash! He recently met and married the love of his life, a beautiful daughter of Filipino immigrants with Spanish eyes, who is just as dedicated to celibacy before marriage and to Christian values as he is. Theirs has to be the love match of the century, following a long distance whirlwind courtship from Illinois to California and ending with a honeymoon in the tropical paradise, Cancun, Mexico. Incidentally, Matt has a Master’s degree in chemistry, physics, and math education, all of which he teaches at one time or another at the high school level. They vacation as missionaries supported by their church.
I do not advise my children. I have warned them on occasion, if I thought that they might not have "prayed enough" before making a decision. My husband and I always supported their decisions, however, as long as they did not appear to us as being self-destructive or destructive to others. Our kids made mistakes, and some of them were serious, but we did not even consider abandoning them. Instead, we prayed them through. We really care about our kids and do not trust the agnostic or atheistic professional counselors, attorneys, social workers, and humanistic instructors who have robbed us all of our rights with their untested theories.
Matt and Annie, who is a college graduate with a major in Business Administration, spend their spare time in Christian service as lay volunteers. Before Matt met "Miss Right," he stated that he regarded all women as "sisters," not prey. I remember when I heard his dad say the same thing. They discussed children before marriage and, considering their ages (right at forty), they hoped to start their family at once. (Time flies. Since their wedding in February, they had their first child, a boy, named Israel David on December 3, l998.) A Protestant named "Israel?" They must have really wanted to please the Lord Jesus Christ! They won’t even have to have faith to get their prayers answered, which is the promise God made to those who love Israel.
Take notice! Another "How" as in How to get your prayers answered.
Our youngest son, Rick, has not always been as fortunate as the rest. He is divorced and has custody of his only daughter. His ex-wife had problems in pregnancy, but insisted on getting pregnant to have a "son," because she believed that our son would reject her if she couldn’t--not true! She hemorrhaged soon after she became pregnant with four sons, and was forced to be hospitalized or bedfast so often, that they had to move in with us so that I could care for her and their baby daughter.
They lost three sons, born prematurely, although one lived several hours after birth. Finally, my daughter-in-law’s pro-life doctor told her that she should have a tubaligation, because she nearly lost her life from bleeding to death on several occasions. She had the surgery, but learned that she was already pregnant. She considered the undetected pregnancy a miracle from God and was determined to carry the child to term, until she began hemorrhaging again.
Her pro-life Catholic doctor urged her to seek an abortion to save her life. She agonized over the decision, but my son did not want his beloved wife to die. She finally agreed to the abortion. When she asked for my pro-life opinion, I could not take the hard line. So, I told her that no one in the family would blame her--no matter what she decided--because none of us could answer the question as to why the other babies were allowed to die, if God really wanted her to have a son.
We both agonized over the decision but the hemorrhaging did not stop. She had the abortion, and still the hemorrhaging continued. Ultimately she lost her uterus. She had a very traumatic childhood, which is her story to tell--not mine. But all her experiences made her feel unloved and worthless, which led to extreme emotional instability, and the fantasy that she had to risk her life to please our family. I managed at times to convince her that God loved her as did we all, but she continually slipped into her old habits of distrust and fear of rejection that made her want to flee.
Medical bills, and so many interruptions in their attempts to complete their education and establish their careers, affected their finances very detrimentally. They decided to join the army, and while they were stationed in Germany, Desert Storm broke out. My son, a skilled mechanic on the Apache helicopter, was not sent to the Middle East until after the fighting was over. He was sent to protect the Kurds in Operation Comfort. The separation was too much for my daughter-in-law, and she imagined all kinds of rejection by others, but especially by my son. She asked for a divorce.
This beautiful girl with so tragic a background jumped from one disaster into another after that, dragging my grandchild with her. We are still praying about her situation, because we love her, but she apparently cannot accept our love. She disappeared, abandoning our grandchild, so that our son finally obtained full custody. A long distance phone call that I received from a stranger miraculously provided information enough to place her in Phoenix, AZ less than two years ago, but she reputedly was in poor health, weighed only 80 pounds, and was virtually homeless. Recently, I received a phone call requesting bail money, but she was released without bail.
Because she had been arrested for possession of dangerous drugs and paraphernalia to use them, she did not appear for her court hearing. My heartbroken granddaughter and I have followed up on this matter, and are praying for her to be found. We were assured that if she is found and guilty, she will be placed in a detoxification unit with round the clock nurses and a medical doctor on call before serving her sentence that would probably be at least two years. My granddaughter and I hope to write her mommy loving and encouraging letters while she is in prison, so that she will have a reason to stay off drugs. Naturally, we will have a home waiting for her, when she is released.
In the meantime, my son is working very hard to provide for himself and his daughter, who is an amazingly stable child under the circumstances. She loves her Mommy, and prays for her all the time. She mourns the fact that her Mommy deserted her, but she does not blame her. She excuses her Mommy on the grounds that Mommy had so many problems that she just cannot help being the way she is. Both my granddaughter and I believe that someway--somehow--the Lord Jesus Christ will bring Mommy home and heal their mother-daughter relationship, but she may have to spend time in jail first.
Rick, Natalie’s daddy, completed two years of college, before he decided to quit school to assist his brother in his respiratory therapy business, supplying oxygen equipment to their clients. His wife, Justine, also helped, when her health permitted. Later, our son decided to work in construction, which he enjoyed, until their financial circumstances became so grave that he thought the army was the only way out.
I thank the Lord every night that no one ever told us that we had to have $10,000.00 or more to send each of our children to college. That may be true, if the kids live on campus, but they can live at home, commute to local institutions of learning, and even win scholarships for their tuition, if they want to make the necessary sacrifices to do so.
I am not convinced that the Ivy League Universities turn out better-educated citizens than local colleges, but I am convinced that all kids need training beyond high school in their chosen profession or occupation--whether it is welding, mechanics, or rock music. Actually, graduates from junior colleges with such skills can earn more than many four-year graduates, and enjoy their jobs and families more than those who choose white-collar professions.
Unfortunately, most large institutions have nothing to offer toward spiritual growth and understanding which is the reason for a lack in academic ethics and/or integrity--the major cause of total distrust of most of our leaders.
In fact, smaller schools give students a better opportunity to have more diverse experiences in leadership, campus politics, sport participation, opportunities to perform in the arts, music, and drama departments, and to engage in a one-to-one relationship with faculty members. A little fish in a big pond is just that, but most kids would be better off as big fish in little ponds. The talents of many kids are lost, because the fierce competition on large university campuses does not allow enough opportunities for the majority to obtain leadership roles.
Another factor in educating our six children is that I did not work outside our home. Women who abandon their responsibilities at home to work elsewhere do not even come close to understanding the cost in dollars and "sense" as well as the cost to the health and stability of their families. I know and can prove in black and white that a mother who stays home can save more money and help her family to be infinitely more successful than one who chooses the kind of "career" that the average "mom graduate" has.
I am not even considering the cost to the federal, state, and local governments that leaving kids to rear themselves amounts to. No one can estimate that cost, but we can compare our taxes now, that do not even begin to meet the above costs, to our taxes before divorces, single moms, babies born out of wedlock, and women working outside the home had become a way of life in most homes. That should be a clue.
No one had a better excuse for taking the easy way out, than I did (getting a job). My husband was a disabled veteran who was nowhere near being compensated for the extent of his disability. Officially, our income was below the poverty level. Unofficially, we were better off than parents who had twice our income.
I was free to take advantage of garage sales, rummage sales, estate sales, and I was talented at restoring alleged junk with possibilities. I also made deals with businessmen, and learned to be an expert bidder at auctions. We literally and completely furnished our home for pennies on every dollar.
I could write volumes on how to be a prosperous housewife without money, but that is another story. Anyway, no one can work for a demanding boss who expects more than mothers with young children have to give him. You cannot serve two masters, and I did not make that up. If jumping from one bed into another (figuratively or literally) makes a woman happy, it is her choice to make, but I chose not to be "happy" at my family’s expense. Unfortunately, my generation started a trend that robbed many women of the opportunity to make a choice. May the Lord help us all!
Before marriage, "my achievements" included high school news staff l, 2, 3, 4; cheerleader, 4; class president l; class plays 3, 4; choir l, 2, 3, 4; drum majorette 4; and participation is 4-H, Pep Club, and regular participation in church activities.
I was president of the first ecumenical youth group in the country, I believe, during all four years I attended high school, because one of the three churches was without any leadership. We organized the youth group for all three churches and kids from the country churches, so that no one would be left out. As president, I arranged for different volunteers to conduct the discussions we had, and we did have good discussions.
Most kids are not concerned about dogma, doctrinal differences, and theological discussions about how many angels can dance on the point of a needle, or whether some men are pre-ordained to be saved or not. I was interested in all that, but only because
I loved to solve mysteries and believed that I was qualified to do so, but not as president of the youth group.
We talked about everything that farm kids, who have assisted in all kinds of experiments to produce superior livestock would. After all, reproduction is no mystery to those who have assisted in the delivery of calves, piglets, lambs, kittens, and pups, cross pollination to improve crops, and any and all experiences that made it natural for us to discuss human experiences and relationships with dignity.
I could not believe the attitude city kids had when I first attended the U. of I., especially that of a classmate of mine, Hugh Hefner. He had his head in the sand, or so I thought. His attitude about sex, I thought, was dangerous and naive! And I was right!
In college, I participated in similar activities to those that interested me in high school: journalism, drama, achieving scholastic honors, and being elected to Orchesis (honorary dance at U. of I.), and Burrell Choir (honorary choir group at Stephens College), and did volunteer work on the side.
I majored in English education, but my minor reflected my first love--the biological sciences. I love plants and animals, and landscaping our grounds was my pleasure and recreation. Our six acres with five acres of woods on the Sangamon River was a show place.
Our home, which we built ourselves (made our own bricks and patio blocks, dug the footings by hand, and mixed the concrete in a small mixer) was a fortress. We installed the baseboard hot water heating, did the wiring and all the copper and brass plumbing and laid the cast iron drain tiles in the ditches we dug ourselves--with hand shovels. Our home was a beautiful estate, having colored concrete brick walls (eight inches thick), concrete floors, and steel I-beams supporting the roofs three levels.
We could not get a mortgage for years, until our home was finished enough to have resale value. Therefore, we continued to build as we could afford materials. We could not have done any of the above, if I had been "employed" instead. Anything a woman does around the house saves a man’s wages, and the labor is tax-free.
Such a lifestyle is a challenge, but the government offers free pamphlets on every subject one needs to study to do any project around the house. Anyone who can perform the ordinary tasks of running a household can build a house from scratch by following the directions from a government pamphlet for each project, especially since everything is now done with power tools that can be rented.
Government pamphlets are one of the very few services that the federal government provides that I think are worth our tax dollars. Man was born to be free, independent, and to rule his own household. This country was founded on those principles, and became great as long as we respected them. We do not have to be like sheep led to the slaughter. Rugged individualism today is not nearly as rugged as our forefathers endured, and beats jogging and fruitless weight-lifting for keeping in shape by a country mile. I rest my case.
WHAT ELSE CAN I SAY?
I would like to tell you something about my husband and me. My husband is a reticent man. He has never been one to pay compliments or even waste any spare "I-love-you’s on me. Since I am capable of reading between his silences, am sensitive to the twinkle in his eye, and/or the movement of his Adam’s apple up and down, I have never really missed the "sweet nothing’s" that most wives take for granted. That is to say, after they insist, they take them for granted!
Nevertheless, I did on occasion try to evoke verbal approval and/or acceptance. It was like trying to extract chewing gum from a child’s matted hair, but occasionally I gave it a tug. For example, shortly after we were married I asked him, "Why did you marry me, anyway?"
Without hesitation, he answered, "I like the way you talk." You cannot imagine how that made me feel! He actually appreciated the one quality in me that everyone else considered my most obvious fault! I was in euphoric heaven!
How innocent I was! How blind, deaf, and dumb I was to the significance of that one little remark! Flattery--and I fell for it--is the path to eternal bondage to the flatterer. The implications of that compliment flew right over the top of my logic, in one ear of my capacity to think straight, and right out the other ear of my ability to reason. My understanding was knocked down with one blow and lying flat on the bottom of my mindlessness. I will explain.
Not long after my husband divulged his secret as to why he really married me, he advised me that it was my job to explain to the banker why we needed a loan. Later, I learned that my job was also to sell our worthless used car. Sooner than you would think, I learned that my job was to explain to his customers why he was unable to keep his promises, because something--whatever--had come up.
If we happened to make a purchase that turned out to be inappropriate or of inferior quality, it was my job to return it. It did not matter if I was in the shower or up to my elbows in soapsuds and dishwater, my responsibility was always to answer the phone or the doorbell even if I had to push him out of the way to do so. If our kids had problems at school--I think you are beginning to finish my sentences--my job was to talk to the teacher. When he needed the services of a doctor, I was to explain where it hurt, how much it hurt, and for how long, and what my husband expected the doctor to do about it.
If the Veteran’s Administration officers gave my husband the shaft, I was responsible for setting them straight along with judges who handled our kids’ traffic cases when they were learning to drive. I was also expected to explain to bill collectors how and when we would be able to make delinquent payments, persuade finance companies to postpone ruining our credit, and convince police officers that my husband was not speeding. The bottom-line was that my responsibility was to clear up anyone else’s muddled thinking, if they made the mistake of misunderstanding my husband’s good intentions and basic integrity.
Oddly enough, all of these so-called oppressors sympathized so much with my poor dear "humble-bumble" who was married to the worst shrew they had ever met in their lives, that they made sure that he got everything he deserved. He never got a ticket in his life; our credit remained intact; and the "enemy" usually ended up offering, "If there is anything we can do for you Sir, please let us know." The side-glances that I got from attorneys who made such remarks to "friend husband" were particularly significant!
You would think that a psychiatrist would understand the position I was in, but that was not the case. One time, one of these sages of human nature whose house my husband was painting interrupted his work to ask him why he thought so many women like me suffered from depression. My husband shrugged, indicating that he couldn’t imagine!
By this time, I understood perfectly why my very taciturn husband married a woman who "liked to talk." What I did not understand was the attitude of even our closest friends, who intimated that he did not have much to say, because he couldn’t "get a word in edgewise."
On occasion, a doctor, or a banker, or particularly someone connected with the Veteran’s Administration would deliberately address a question to my husband and wave a menacing hand at me to "shut up." Of course, I "shut up"---until the silence became so embarrassing that all those present including the doctor and/or banker, and particularly the one connected with the VA, turned their faces as red as my husband’s toward me to break the silence. Naturally, I took pity on them and complied.
Then, there were all those times that people implied that my husband was hen-pecked, because I did all the talking! No one seemed to notice how my husband chuckled to himself every time anyone suggested something like that. For some reason, other than his reluctance to explain anything to anyone, he absolutely refused to set anyone straight about who was really the one being--may I say--"rooster-pecked"?
Regardless of what Webster had to say on the subject, ever keep in mind, that "taciturn" and "reticent" are not even remotely synonymous with the word, "dumb." More like "smart’ or "shrewd," I would say. Have you ever tried to argue with a reticent man?
My husband makes a decision and states his case as follows: "The car is in my name. You are too spacy to drive. If you want to go anywhere, I will take you." He may have made a vague point, when he suggested that I was a little too easily distracted by my own thoughts to drive as safely as he did, but--NEVER?
I screamed. I yelled. I argued and presented my case in every imaginable way and for hours on end. I even made a few ineffectual, innocuous, and irresponsible threats like, "Either I drive, or I walk!" He just chuckled and nodded in agreement! I should have known he wouldn’t believe I was threatening to walk out on him!
In any argument, he refused to do his part. He would never retaliate, criticize, blame me, get angry, find fault with me, or answer any of my accusations (like calling him a tyrant) in any way. As a matter of fact, he did not say anything at all, and did not respond at all--just listened with that silly grin on his face. But he DID hear every word I said. I mean, how could he help but hear! He was not dumb, and he was not deaf, either.
Finally, after I had totally exhausted all my arguments, my physical strength, and my vocal cords about my not driving his car, I conceded, "Well, if you really will take me anywhere I want to go; maybe you do have my best interests at heart."
You cannot imagine the beautiful smile that crossed that angel’s face, when he nodded approval of my wise decision. However, he did keep his word to the letter--almost! He did drop everything to take me everywhere I needed--or had time with six kids--to go. The bottom-line is this: That poor old browbeaten man who married me for my persuasive powers has won every one-sided argument we ever had without saying one single word! Maybe, it was because he really did have my best interests at heart!
I am not sure how this "wordless wonder" convinced our kids that I am the one who spent all our money so that we had nothing left for luxuries--like gas for the car, a telephone, or enough heat in the house, at times. Perhaps, it was the way he said, "No," when I suggested that we buy school clothes that I thought the kids desperately needed. Maybe, it was the way he said, "No," when I suggested we attend an auction to buy a dining room table to replace the only table we owned. I am speaking of the one that split right in the middle under a load of laundry, kid’s homework, and the baby’s bathtub filled with water on the night before Thanksgiving Day.
In any event, the whole family knows without any doubt that I am the one who is to blame for all our financial problems, because Dad worked hard--and that statement is true! He worked sacrificially hard despite the pain he often suffered from an old war injury.
Hey! Do not get the wrong idea. I really love this man who loves the way I talk. How could I possibly stay frustrated and angry with a man who never complains, accuses, blames, criticizes, or condemns, no matter what I do--or how much he is hurting. Actually, I didn’t dare get upset with his decisions, or every one of our six kids would have taken poor old dad’s side against mean old mom’s side. Furthermore, they never noticed the impish grin on dad’s face hidden behind the newspaper as they consistently and continually took up dear old dad’s causes. Old adage that I just made up, "Everyone stands up for the reticent man who never stands up for himself."
And I never learn! I still talk my way into--but never out of--trouble. Why? I don’t know! With the sterling example that I had for forty-six years, you would think that I would have learned something about the value of silence. What a waste! Actually, silence never worked for me, as it did for him. Either way, I got fleeced.
My husband and I were married for forty-six years, and he ended up with a double hernia, because of his extraordinary talent for hard work and craftsmanship, and I ended up with chronic laryngitis on a number of occasions. I gave my husband a talking doll on Christmas Eve in l947, the day we were married. He tells me that it was the best present he ever got and--I believed him. Nothing has changed. I am still flattered and blinded by the brilliance of the best compliment that I have ever received. ALL OF US WANT TO BE APPRECIATED--ESPECIALLY FOR OUR WORST FAULTS!
Since I wrote the above account of my relationship to my husband, I thought about how it is almost like a parable of my relationship with the Lord.
Do my experiences remind you of unanswered prayers,
When your pleas are denied, but you learn that He cares?
After careful consideration, I concluded: The Lord never breaks His own laws, and never goes to sleep at the wheel as we are prone to do. Also, He will take us anywhere we want to go as long as we let Him drive. FOR MY SAKE, I DECIDED TO LET THE LORD DRIVE.
YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!
My husband of forty-odd years and I had just been told that he had a neoplasm on the lower lobe of his right lung that was "probably malignant." I was shocked and totally unprepared for all the possible ramifications of such a pronouncement. I reacted in typical fashion for me with mixed and violent emotions.
For one thing, I was outraged at the injustice of having sacrificed for a lifetime to reap a bountiful and fruitful harvest of blessings in the autumn of our years together--only to discover that the harvest was blighted. For another, I was plunged into grief and despair over the potential loss of my beloved companion--especially since I really had no others. Finally, I could not help but be anxious--even terrified--at my own prospects of facing a future of poverty. I had a personal income, but I knew that I would have to give it up without my husband’s help, and we had debts.
However, like many, initially big reactors, I typically turned to God for strength and my instructions. These words came to me an became my motto, "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and know that I am with you always." Fortunately, the Lord had already led us to purchase two excellent supplementary health insurance policies for my husband the day he became eligible for Medicare--we were already prepared for the worst from a financial point-of-view.
The most amazing factor in this traumatic drama was the reaction of my friend and ever-loving constant companion who obviously considered the earth-shaking tragedy as being a mirth-quaking comedy. The so-called victim of potential disaster was taking the whole matter as if it were a joke, and I could not remember seeing him in such good humor, punctuated by his not-at-all undercover chortling.
My husband may be reticent, but he could see a joke in all kinds of situations, which could make him double up in the merriest fit of chuckling that would infect a whole room full of people who didn’t have a clue as to why he was laughing.
However, his jovial reaction without any explanation whatsoever in this case, only aroused my feelings of frustration all the more.
I demanded to know, "Why are you chortling to yourself, you old fool? Didn’t you hear what the doctor said? I don’t think you had a brain-cell working when he gave us the word--or is this another one of your practical jokes? What diabolical scheme are you cooking up this time to make a fool out of me? I know you won’t answer, but I’ll tell you one thing. This is one time you won’t get away with whatever you think you are going to put over on me. I promise!
He laughed even harder, and I became even angrier. "You have lost it! This time you have really lost it! If you suddenly acquired a brain, it would rattle around all alone in that dim-witted skull of yours. What is so funny, you numbskull? Everyone else in the family can hardly hold back their tears, and you have a big toothless grin on your face! (My husband refused to go to the dentist, too. He said it hurt him more than he could bear--twice. His mouth and his billfold.)
I continued to try to rip some kind of explanation out of him, even though experience should have taught me that it was a a lost cause. I accused, "If you were planning to behave like this, the least you could have done was to have that tooth you broke off eating corn-on-the-cob fixed. You cannot imagine how silly you look--an elderly type with a six-year-old grin! Anyone, who is too cowardly to go to a dentist, but can’t hold back his idiotic laughter over a lump on his lung has to be the clown of all imbeciles."
He rocked in his mirth, and gestured at me, as though he thought I was the source of his humor. I knew he thought I was funny, when I was mad, but this was ridiculous! And that is what I said. "This is ridiculous." He laughed even harder, and nodded in agreement. I accused, "There you go again!" At this point, I pleaded, "Will you please stop giggling long enough to answer me? The doctor said ‘tumor’--not ‘humor’--on the lung, you moron." For a while, I gave up, trying to think of another angle. Insults obviously were not working.
I started in again, "I just figured out why you are laughing. I knew you were thinking something hateful. You think I am jealous, because you are getting all the attention--you rat-fink! Why would I be jealous, Pea-brain? I could have had a lump on my lung, if I wanted one, but I quit smoking fifteen years ago, remember? If you weren’t so stubborn and determined to do exactly opposite of what I nagged at you to do, you wouldn’t have a lump on your lung either--but apparently you didn’t think of that!
"I give up!" (He knew I wouldn’t. I never gave up in my life, even when it would have been to my advantage.) "How can you keep laughing so hard? You had better be careful or that lump is going to choke you.
" Now--finally--I get it! You think you will be in the happy haunting grounds, and you are planning to pester me from beyond, while I am down here--a helpless widow. You think it is hilarious that I will be at the mercy of our six spoiled kids who think I am their personal slave, valet, cleaning lady, baby-sitter, nurse, lady bountiful when they want money, or whatever else their needs might demand.
"But there is one thing you forgot--or maybe you didn’t. You forgot your promise to die of your service-connected disabilities so that I would at least get some compensation for all the pain we suffered through together. What are you thinking of doing now? Die of lung cancer? You promise-breaker! If you die of a lump on your lung, I not only will be a widow, but I will be a penniless widow!
"Isn’t it bad enough that you are planning to desert me, but you aren’t even planning to leave me enough to pay off our darling slave-masters so that they will treat me half-way civil, you bird-brain? Do you know what it will be like, if I don’t have five, when those kids say, ‘Give me--’? Stop it! Stop it, right now! It’s not one bit funny, you nitwit. I should say, no-wit!"
I am convinced that no one on this planet can relate to my frustration over being married to a man who never says anything, and who thinks everything is hilarious. He used to say that I took things too seriously! But really, doesn’t everyone take "possible malignancies" seriously?
I heaved a sigh, and almost cried, "I cannot believe you could have done this to me, after I gave you the best years of my life. Why didn’t you quit smoking, when I did? I begged, pleaded, cut out articles for you to read, pointed out all the negative effects of smoking as well as cancer, and I even nagged, screamed, and yes, I prayed without ceasing for you to quit."
My husband must have felt pity for me for a moment, because he actually spoke, "And your prayers were answered. I did quit--several times!" That really made me mad. He did quit several times--one time for almost three months--and started again!
"O. K." I snapped. "That did it, and I have had it! Go ahead, enjoy yourself while you can, but it won’t last. You might as well make up your mind that your life is not going to go up in smoke, because I am going to see to it that you are going to die honorably at a much, much later date. You are going to give your life for your country, as if you had good sense. You are not going to give it for a weed!
"You have had your fun. Now, hear this! I know you are flattered because of my concern--like the pinhead that your are--but I am going to set that big lump on your shoulders straight, because the lump on your lung is not going to kill you. You are going to Mayo’s. Do you hear me? And I cannot wait until those smart doctors tell you, ‘I’m sorry, Sir, but your lump is benign.’ Or, ‘Your lump is malignant, Sir, but no problem. We’ll have you all fixed up as good as new in no time at all.’ Do you hear me?
"So, forget all this ‘ignorance is bliss’ attitude. I am not going to let you be a blister. Furthermore, you are going back to being your sweet old everyday depressed self, because I am definitely not going to suffer on this chaotic planet of confusion alone. I have spoken!" I started to walk out of the room, but as usual I had an afterthought--I usually have one afterthought after another, but this time I just had one.
"And--even if you do manage to get away from me--hear this: I will be so mad that I will have a fatal heart attack. And--I will track you down from one end of heaven to the other throughout all eternity, if I have to. So, you might as well forget eternal bliss without me, because you are never going to get rid of me. Never! I am the one who will be laughing, and you are going to be the victim, taking orders from our spoiled-rotten brood right along-side me in heaven--which is justice."
My; husband--still chuckling--murmured, "The joke is not on you, Mom. The joke is on Satan. Either way, he can’t win."
When you don’t understand, the hand you’ve been dealt,
Does this parable remind you of just how you felt?
WHAT I NOAH, JONAH TAUGHT ME!
I wrote this letter to my grown children.
To my kids,
I NOAH how NOAH felt when NOAH one believed him. NOAH one believes me, either. At least NOAH’S kids believed him! You do not NOAH how lonely I feel. Your dad NOAHS (knows) and has seen any number of signs (evidence) that God really speaks to me. God has delivered us out of the courtrooms on three occasions--against all odds. God helped me get needed financing against all odds.
Even the DAV publication said that it was almost impossible to get an increase in a veteran’s compensation, no matter what grounds anyone may have, but your dad and I finally proved to them that he had been under-compensated for over forty years. Naturally, the VA could not legally pay the sixty thousand dollars that the VA failed to pay him all those years, but the VA did agree to compensate him for the rest of his life. That fact had to be a miracle of God, because the Lord told me exactly what I needed to do--step by step-- for almost two years.
The stress of doing battle with Satan alone, without any support is almost more than I can bear. And when you kids question me, oppose me, when I NOAH that I am right in the center of God’s will, and tempt me to doubt what I NOAH to be right, I am filled with grief and loneliness. And Satan laughs, because he thinks he has succeeded one more time in putting a stumbling block in my path. He has used my weakness (love for you kids), to divert me from doing God’s will.
NOAH’S kids helped NOAH build the ark. But it seems that you guys want to tear my "ark" (what God has called me to do) down. The sweat of Jesus "was as it were great drops of blood" when Satan attacked Him, so the battle, if fought alone, is indeed stressful.
The Lord promised me protection, and promised that He would not permit Satan to deceive me again. I NOAH I am not deceived, but I am still devastated with grief that my own children do not trust my judgment. Especially, since winning you kids over is the first and foremost task that the Lord assigned to me before you were born, and I do not believe that I am succeeding too well.
However, the Lord gave me a dream last night, which I want to share with all of you, because the dream gave me hope, especially if you are capable of understanding its significance. All four of our sons are in the dream, but not our two daughters.
The Lord showed me four horses in the dream, which were pasturing peacefully in our yard without a fence. I asked, "What are these horses?" Several of my high school classmates (symbolic of my generation), whom I had not seen since our graduation, suddenly appeared in the dream and said, "We know."
At that point, I realized that they were the four horses mentioned in Revelations, and I could not believe what I saw! They were grazing peacefully in my yard! I asked, "What is the meaning of this?" And the Lord answered by explaining their symbolic significance in my dream--for my sake. Please do not take what I dreamed as an explanation of what the horses mean in the book of Revelations.
"The first horse is Chris’s, and is symbolic of the Law of Moses," the Lord stated. I thought the analogy was fitting, because Chris, our oldest son, had always respected God’s Laws. The Lord continued, "It also stands for kings, rulers, and big government. The first horse is the Law. None can be saved by the Law."
"The second horse is Brad’s. Brad’s horse is symbolic of big business, commerce, science, invention and worldly knowledge." the Lord continued. (I also thought that was fitting, because Brad had owned two corporations, and was in the medical field.) The Lord reminded me, "None of these areas of worldly disciplines can be used to save the world from Satanic forces."
"The third horse is Matthew’s. Matthew’s horse is symbolic of false religion. Even now, Satanic religions are being raised up that teach all that Jesus taught--except they deny the Deity of Jesus Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit (nine Spiritual gifts of the Holy Spirit). None can be saved without believing in both and accepting the Son of God as one’s Lord and Savior." I also thought that this metaphor was fitting, because Matt was in a religious cult whose leader had denied the power of the Holy Spirit, but not the Deity of Christ. (He insisted that the gifts of the Holy Spirit were not for today.)
"The fourth horse is Rick’s which is symbolic of war." The Lord was still explaining, "Many believe that war, defense, and large armies, will save the world. But there is only one war to end all wars, and that is "Armageddon," the war to destroy all Satanic forces on earth. In all other wars, both sides lose no matter how righteous each side believes their cause may be."
"This horse is also symbolic of law enforcement. Since the law cannot save the world, all efforts to enforce the law are totally ineffective, and create fear and distrust in authority which only increases the problems." This horse was fitting, because Rick joined the army to solve his financial and other problems, and the venture ended in more debts and a divorce.
I was appalled and amazed. The four horses of Revelation represented all kinds of evil, yet they were peacefully grazing in our yard without a fence! I asked again, "Lord, what does this mean?" The Lord answered, "Read Jonah."
The fact that the horses were grazing peacefully in our yard (which I assumed must represent our family) gave me hope. I thought, the next morning, that I would have peace eventually--at least, where you kids were concerned. The Lord did not say that, but that was my hope.
However, that was not the end of the dream. The whole scene changed, and I saw many children in our home: black, white, yellow and red--symbolic of peoples all over the world, I presumed. They were smiling, with peaceful shining looks on their faces-- all looking toward me expectantly--I did not know why--but the expressions on their faces were reassuring.
In the dream, I rejoiced in my heart and with wonder at the beautiful expressions on their faces. The Lord told me that if the whole world repented, the whole world could be saved. I was stunned, and I asked, "What can I do?" In the dream, I knew what I wanted to happen —THAT ALL THE PEOPLES OF THE WORLD WOULD BE SAVED. The Lord repeated, "Read Jonah." I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep until morning.
As soon as I awakened, I could not wait to read Jonah while your dad slept. I read the account, and realized that the original version was pretty much the same as most of us had heard and believed since childhood, until near the end of the story.
Jonah was called to be a prophet to the Ninevites, a Gentile city, all of whose inhabitants were practicing every wicked deed known to man, from idol worship and human sacrifice, to sex orgies in their religious rites and drug-induced spiritual experiences (called sorcery).
Without any qualification whatsoever, God told Jonah to go to the city, and advise the king that He was going to destroy the city and all its inhabitants, because of their wicked practices. Jonah did not like the assignment and fled, by boarding a ship bound for foreign shores. A storm came up, Jonah admitted that he had not obeyed God, which the crew of the ship decided was the cause of their predicament. They threw Jonah overboard, the sea became calm, and poor Jonah was swallowed by a big fish, or whale, or some other monstrous sea creature.
In any event, Jonah remained in the belly of the creature (exact nature of which has been a matter of disagreement) three days and three nights before the creature was beached and Jonah was rescued. He decided to change his mind about obeying God.
I am not at all surprised!
I have heard many preachers, and Bible teachers tell this story. Whether they believed it to be a parable or believed it had actually happened, they all seemed to agree that it was a metaphorical prophecy concerning Jesus Christ himself--that he spent three days in the grave, and then arose from the dead.
They usually had a problem comparing Jonah’s disobedience to the perfect obedience of Christ, but that did not bother them, apparently. It did bother me!
However, most of us do not hear the anti-climax of the story or even read it in paraphrased accounts, unless we read it in Scripture itself. I had read the book of Jonah only once or twice in the Word of God, thinking that I already understood it, and had not really regarded the final remarks as being significant, until the Lord told me to read the story in relation to my dream. I realized that I must have missed something, and was prepared to pay closer attention.
Most people also know that the Ninevites (Gentiles) believed the prophecy, and repented, dressed in sackcloth and poured ashes of remorse on their heads, while pleading with the Lord to spare them. They also know that our merciful Lord did spare them. Preachers and teachers interpret that part of the story very well, comparing the prophecy that Jonah gave to the Ninevites to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and that Jesus intended for all Gentiles as well as Jews to have the opportunity to be adopted into the Kingdom of God.
So, what’s new? Maybe nothing will be new to you, but what Lord said to me after I finished reading the WHOLE story, nearly blew me away. Jonah was really upset, because he thought that God had betrayed him. God had told Jonah to give a prophecy to the Ninevites at some risk to his life. (Prophets were often killed in those days, if the king was offended by their prophecies.) Jonah may have thought of that, but as it turned out, Jonah learned that his life was at stake either way; so he reluctantly delivered the message. He also suspected that God might not destroy Ninevah, or so he told God, when he complained.
God did not tell Jonah to say that He would spare Ninevah, if the Ninevites repented. The prophecy was that God was going to destroy the city and why he was going to destroy it--period. So, Jonah believed that God made a false prophet out of him by changing His mind. Again, poor Jonah felt threatened, because the Law of Moses stated that anyone giving a false prophecy was to die by being stoned to death. Poor Jonah! My husband would say, "He couldn’t win for losing!"
So, Jonah went up on the top of a mountain and pouted. He also demanded to know, "Why, me, Lord?" or words to that effect. The sun was hot, and beating down on Jonah’s head, and the Lord raised up a gourd (tree-like plant) to shade Jonah from the heat. Then the Lord sent a cankerworm to eat the root of the gourd and cause it to wither and fall down. As I read this account with renewed interest, I was beginning to relate to Jonah. I wondered," What had he done to deserve all these problems?"
Naturally, Jonah complained again, asking the Lord to just let him die. The Lord responded to Jonah’s request with patience and understanding, I thought. He asked Jonah why he mourned the death of a gourd that Jonah had not even planted, but felt no mercy at all for the 120,000 Ninevites that God chose to spare, because they had no knowledge of the Law of Moses, in the first place. (God said that their ignorance was such that they did not know "their right hand from their left hand," yet they believed the prophecy.) I believe that Jonah understood that he was wrong to want Ninevah destroyed, but the Word of God does not say that.
As I sat thinking about Jonah’s possible response, the Lord spoke to me, concerning the story. He said, "Jonah without compassion, is John, the Beloved, who had compassion. Jonah’s prophecy under the Old Covenant to Ninevah is the prototype of the prophecy I gave to John in the book of Revelations. Both prophecies were given without qualifications, indicating that they must come to pass. Everything mentioned in Revelations shall come to pass unless the Father decides to intervene, however, Ninevah is the prototype of the whole world." Suddenly, the Lord had my riveted attention!
The Lord continued, "My Word states (Matthew 24: 22), "And except these days should be shortened, there should no flesh be saved: but for the elect’s sake those days shall be shortened." This is the same prophecy that was given to Ninevah, but the "elect," which is all of us dedicated and committed Christians, obviously can make a difference--MAYBE A BIG, BIG DIFFERENCE--I was beginning to believe!
I could not help but believe that those who would be spared, were those who preached the Gospel, and those who heard and believed it as the Ninevites did. But I wanted to hear more about Ninevah being a prototype of the world. The Lord continued.
"My Word states that prophecies fail (I Corinthians 13: 8), but my love never fails, and those who receive my love and preach my forgiveness, so that the whole world repents as the Ninevites did, then the Father in Heaven could be persuaded to have mercy on the whole world." But it really is up to the "elect." "What a challenge," I thought.
The Lord said that he had given me six children who would be difficult to persuade. If I were faithful in a little (rearing my children to believe), He would give me much to do. The fact is that all of you kids are professing Christians, but you refuse to believe that the Lord does communicate with me and will communicate with you, giving the guidance that we all need. Would you all please seek a closer relationship with the Lord?
I read the thirteenth chapter of I Corinthians almost daily to remind me to rear you kids, according to God’s Love, instead of according to the Old Law, which is by threats of punishment and fear. You must know that your dad and I did not deal harshly with any of you, and encouraged you to follow the destiny that the Lord created you to follow. I know that we reared all of you as the Lord intended. I hope you won’t let me down by refusing to give me the same support in Jesus Christ that we always gave you.
Love is an action. We can act according to His will and obey His Commandment to be concerned about the welfare of everyone, just as all men have always been concerned about their own welfare. That is right. The Word of God says that no man hateth his own flesh. (Ephesians 5: 29) The idea that we must "love ourselves" before we can "love others," is just another lie perpetrated by Satan to promote self-love, which Jesus condemned.
I think that we should trust the Lord to be concerned about us, and devote our lives to being concerned about others--and our goal should be to save ALL, because Jesus said that he came to do just that, didn’t he?
Please, guys, if you cannot help me, please do not give me advice, that I cannot follow. I love you all, and I know you are concerned about my welfare, but you need to understand that my happiness depends on how much I can do to serve the Lord. Otherwise, I have no reason to live.
The last thing I want is to be a burden to you kids, or dependent on anyone. Your dad felt the same way, and I believe He decided it was time to go home to be with the Lord, because he no longer could take care of himself. If we cannot be of service, we certainly do not need to be a burden to those who are willing and able to serve. Remember that I said that, and let me be independent until my body gives out.
I have called myself, "Mother of sorrows, Mother of sin, NAI-IVE" in this work, but to you guys, I am just plain, "Mom." I pray that the Lord guides and directs all of you in all that you do and protects all of you from evil. I love you too much to ignore your wishes, so wish for me the same things that I wish for you. May God bless you all!
Love,
Just plain Mom
THE FOLLOWING IS A LETTER
ANNOUNCING MY HUSBAND’S RETIREMENT
My husband, Nathan W----, was a Private First Class in the army during World War II. He landed in France three days after D-Day during one of the most dramatic events of this country’s history. Thousands of planes, tanks, guns and soldiers were all headed non-stop straight for Hitler’s headquarters in Germany.
I asked him once what he did. He said that mostly he was a first scout. I asked,
"What does a first scout do?" He said that a first scout goes out ahead to draw the fire of the enemy away from the rest of the men. I protested, "They made you do that?"
He said, "No, the sergeant was required to ask for volunteers, but he always looked at me. When I looked around to see if anyone else was going to volunteer, they were all looking at me, too! I didn’t want to volunteer, but I didn’t think I had any choice."
Nathan was recommended to receive a citation for meritorious service from the state of Illinois. He also received the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart. He doesn’t really think he deserved the Good Conduct Medal that he received, because he did a few minor things to keep from getting promoted. He said he did not want that much responsibility for the lives of other men.
The Bible says, "Greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for his friends," which he did many times before he was struck down. Nate once told me that he thanked God every night, because he never had to kill anyone. He took over a machine gun, when the first gunner was killed, and that was when he was hit.
Nathan retired recently, because he just couldn’t climb ladders anymore as a painter and a paperhanger. Most of our married life, he has suffered from pain, swelling, and a continually draining open wound to the bone in his right leg as a result of his war injuries. He has never complained.
He loves his country and has said on a number of occasions that, if he had it to do over, he would do it again. But now he has reached the point that he must take things just a little easier.
Nathan wanted me to write to all of you, his past customers, to explain why he must retire and express his regrets. We both appreciate all the business you have given us over the years. You have really been good to us.
Pat and Nate
YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW
I learned that my husband had chronic osteomyelitis in his right femur on the same day that our third child was born. He believed the disease, which he had contracted from shrapnel wounds on the battlefield in France during World War II, had been arrested.
Therefore, he was disconcerted by the inflammation, pain, and a very large blister that had formed overnight in the center of a deep scar on his right femur (thigh bone). He hated to break the news to me that afternoon, within an hour after I had given birth to our beautiful second son, but he had no choice.
The disease, if chronic, is incurable, but can sometimes be arrested with prompt treatment involving surgery to remove dead and dying bone tissue that harbors the entrapped bacteria--Staphylococcus aureus, in this case. Hospitalization was often for a period of weeks or months with complete bed rest. Hot steam packs were applied to the area and antibiotics were also prescribed in an effort to prevent a reoccurrence of the more dangerous active phase of the disease.
My husband prepared to head for Hines Veteran’s Hospital near Chicago, leaving me behind to run our Variety Store and care for our three young children, including our newborn. Hines was located more than two hundred miles away.
Our store was open six days a week, and until 10 p.m. on Saturday night, but I was determined to visit my husband during the only visiting hours permitted—Sunday afternoon, between the hours 2 p.m. and 4 p.m. We would leave at about 11 p.m., Saturday night, after clearing the register, locking the doors, and loading the car with what we needed.
We would spend the night at the home of my husband’s parents--about halfway to our destination--and planned to arrive very early Sunday morning to find a decent parking place. After arriving, we would spend several hours roaming the grounds and eating lunch until visiting hours began. My husband was allowed to be in a wheel chair, and the kids loved riding up and down the mile-long hallway sitting by his side.
I hated the long drive--especially with three small children--and even more--I dreaded the heavy traffic in the Chicago area. I had learned to travel light, however, taking only a checkbook to buy food and gas, and a milkshake bottle with water and a wash cloth, diapers, and two changes of clothing for the baby. Since I breast fed all my children, I did not need to bother with bottles, boiled water, or formula that most other mothers took for granted at the time.
Nevertheless, you cannot imagine my relief, when my husband, after eight weeks, called and told us that this particular trip was to be our last, because he was to be discharged and would be driving home. The doctors were not optimistic about the success of the surgery or his recovery, and we knew that he might have to return to the hospital at a later date. But for the moment, we were overjoyed at the prospect of "Daddy was coming home!"
Our oldest son, age five, was an excellent navigator by this time. He had memorized every twist and turn of the journey by the second time we covered the route, and he loved the responsibility of guiding me through the maze. He made a point to tell me way ahead of time when the next turn was coming up, so that I would be in the correct lane to make a left turn on a yellow light, if necessary.
Since my sense of direction is a joke, and watching the road, the children, and the signs all at once was impossible, I was very dependent on my young navigator to make sure we arrived safely and on time. But about halfway between my husband’s old home and Hines, I had an extremely uneasy feeling that we were on the wrong road. Could a five-year-old always be right? He assured me several times with details of his observations that he was, but I was not at all convinced.
I had a strange compulsion to turn down the next available side road and check our map, or perhaps, inquire at the nearest farmhouse. As soon as we turned down the road, we saw a young couple with two babies standing alongside their car that was obviously giving them trouble. The young man had the hood up, and his wife was peering over his shoulder while miserably rocking back and forth trying to console her whimpering baby.
I parked behind their car, and asked if I could help. The young man sighed, "Thank God you came along. We’ve been stranded here for over two hours. We need gas and I do have a gas can, but my wife did not want me to walk over two miles to the nearest gas station and leave her alone. Would you mind taking my can and getting me enough gas to go there to fill up? The station is that way," he said, pointing. "I’ll gladly pay for your trouble," he added.
I vaguely remembered passing a gas station, but I was afraid that I’d really get turned around if I went for the gas. I laughed and tossed him my keys, saying, "I’ll get my three kids, and hold your wife and kids as hostages. You take my car and you get the gas."
He was stunned that I would trust him with my car, but I reminded him that I had his wife and kids, and he laughed and headed for my car. His wife also managed a smile.
She apologized for her fussy children, and explained that they were both very hungry and thirsty. I assured her that I fully understood the problem.
The young man wasn’t gone fifteen minutes, and I refused to take any pay. I laughed again, saying, "I thought I had lost my way, and turned down this road to ask directions. But as soon as I saw your predicament, I knew the Lord was sending me to the rescue. I am so grateful that I was not lost, and that I could be of help. Believe me, it has been a blessing."
They stared at me in disbelief, and then the young man spoke reverently--in awe, "It really was answered prayer that you stopped by, wasn’t it?"
I agreed, "It was a miracle of God, because I had no reason to believe I was lost."
However, that is not the end of the story. We picked up my husband and a few miles outside of Chicago, he discovered that we were almost out of gas. He pulled into a gas station, and asked the attendant to "Fill her up."
In central Illinois, I was able to cash a check anywhere without identification at any time. But we soon learned that the owner of this gas station in the Chicago area absolutely refused to take any checks under any circumstances, and he pointed to his sign that said so to prove it. He was furious, and I thought for a minute that he was going to siphon all the gas out of our tank and we would be stranded.
I apologized profusely, explained our predicament, and the fact that our checks were always accepted in our area. He remained adamant, insisting that he had never taken a check and couldn’t afford to go to court to collect for bad checks, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now.
I was pleading, and continued to explain our situation, that we had come to pick up my husband, a disabled veteran, who had spent weeks in Hines hospital and pointed out the fact that we had no luggage and needed to return home as soon as possible. I added that I was afraid to travel alone with kids carrying cash in my billfold.
He began to relent, because he knew that Hines Hospital was nearby and anyone could see that my husband had been ill and was still recovering. Finally, he said, "O. K.
This one time, I’ll take a check." I thanked him repeatedly, made out the check, and we were on our way.
I had not yet had time to tell my husband about how I had "played angel" to a young couple who were also out of gas, while we were on the way to pick him up. Somehow, I saw a connection between the two events. I told the story and asked for his opinion, "Do you think that if I had not offered to help the young couple, that the gas station owner would have refused to help us?"
My husband agreed with my thinking, saying, "We reap what we sow. That’s what I believe."
I cannot think of any incident that I ever experienced or heard anyone else mention which demonstrated that infallible law of God more precisely and promptly than the story I just related. Like the young man I helped, I thought it was awesome.
THE PSYCHIATRIST CONSULTS A LABORING MAN
This story is not primarily an account of one of the major tragedies in my life, although I did suffer from a condition that the psychiatrist called "nervous exhaustion." He explained it by comparing it to "battle fatigue," suffered by some servicemen who collapsed because they could not cope with the stress and horrors of war.
Trauma-induced breakdowns are not the same as classical mental illnesses such as paranoia, schizophrenia, or manic-depression, which psychiatrists believe to be caused by an indigent hormonal imbalance.
The second reason that I called my breakdown a major tragedy is the effect it had on my reputation in our small town. My hospitalization for three weeks in a psychiatric ward engendered gossip and slander in which I was reputed to be hopelessly insane and possibly dangerous. No matter what I did or said after that had to be "because I was crazy," and that idea resulted in ostracism and suspicion even to this day on the part of some.
The psychiatrist explained to my husband that he was qualified to administer a new treatment--a series of insulin-induced shock treatments. He said that the treatment had been effective in cases like mine. He told my husband that the stress I had been under caused so much loss of sleep, that I had become mentally confused and withdrawn.
The terms he used to describe my condition was "unconscious withdrawal from an environment that had become intolerable."
Almost everyone has experienced a sudden burst of adrenaline (the hormone, epinephrine) in which the blood sugar rises sharply, when one is confronted by unexpected danger. Even the sight of a creepy-crawly or someone saying, "Boo," can trigger the chain reaction of jumping out of one’s skin, followed instantly by either a "flight or fight" reaction, or the ability to perform some heroic or miraculous physical feat.
Normally, after the danger passes, the depleted blood sugar level drops sharply, and the subject is overcome with total exhaustion--sometimes so severe--that he/she collapses, hoping to land on something soft!
If the psychiatrist believed insulin-shock treatments would be effective in my case, he might have thought that stress was continually causing little bursts of adrenaline, resulting in a constantly higher blood sugar level, so that I was so wired all the time that I could not rest, causing mental confusion. The large doses of insulin would lower the blood sugar level, putting me in an enforced state of rest--the deep sleep that I so badly needed.
The above reasoning is just a well-calculated guess, but the psychiatrist also told my husband that he had observed my struggle to make contact with reality from the state of withdrawal where I had slipped. He said that I probably would not succeed without the treatment he was recommending, which could mean that I would be institutionalized for the rest of my life. I did not hear that discussion, or I might have had enough adrenaline secreted to accelerate the condition he had described to effect the flight of the century!
This psychiatrist, who evaluated me at the time I checked myself into the emergency room, persuaded my husband that my condition was grave. He added that because of my extraordinary intelligence, I would probably respond favorably to his recommended treatment, but it would be expensive.
I haven’t a clue as to how he reached the conclusion that I was "intelligent," because my mind was almost a total blank when I arrived. I did not know my name, my address, the date, or even the season of the year. I remember frantically searching for a window so that I could see what season it was, or guess the date. Actually, I cannot recall one other detail of that interview--except I was terrified by my symptoms--a total inability to respond to his questions or anything in my environment.
My husband reminded me, when we were discussing these events later, that I was wearing a very heavy winter coat at the time as a defense against the January in Illinois winter. He suggested that my coat should have been a clue as to the season. But I was definitely clueless.
I had studied classical symptoms of mental illness in a post-graduate psychology course that I had taken, designed for those in the teaching profession or those considering counseling as a career. This course was to aid in identifying exceptional behavior for possible referral to experts qualified to deal with it.
The study dealt with the symptoms of the exceptionally bright who were underachieving, and those who might be below average in intelligence, as well as those who might be handicapped mentally, emotionally, physically, or socially (psychopathic or anti-social personality disorders). I had already determined in my own withdrawn mind that none of the classical symptoms that I had studied applied to me, but then that is what all "crazies" decide, because "they are the last to know!" Not knowing is what scared me the most.
In any event, that is the conclusion I reached that triggered my decision to check myself in for evaluation. I was really apprehensive at the thought that "Crazies are the last to know." Yet, the thought also struck me funny! I laughed and hoped that a sense of humor was a "good sign."
Then I recalled two other old wives tales, which are sometimes "old wise tales,"
"Ignorance is bliss," and "Dumb but happy." I was getting the giggles, but I was afraid to laugh. I thought giggling to myself would be a dead giveaway that I really was nuttier than a fruitcake! That thought made me too scared to laugh, and that is really scared!
My husband, I had always believed, was shockproof--like a rock. No one I had ever met was more stable, calmer in any emergency, yet always in good humor, warm, compassionate, and willing to give everyone the benefit of any doubt--my counterpart in many of those respects. We agreed on the important things, of course.
He was also pragmatic, and when the psychiatrist said "expensive," my husband did not flinch. He asked, "How much?"
The doctor said that he thought the treatments in my case would be $2000.00, which we did not have. My husband, a reticent man, who engages in only the barest verbal exchanges necessary to get the job done, asked, "Do you own property? I am a painter and a paperhanger."
It is amazing how quickly the psychiatrist grasped the significance of my husband’s proposal and all its implications. Immediately, he reached for his phone and dialed. Then he handed the phone to my husband, saying, "Here, I’ll let you talk to my wife, and I will begin your wife’s treatments in the morning."
My husband was told to simply do what the doctor’s wife instructed until the $2000.00 bill was paid. My husband reported for work as soon as he obtained the necessary materials that he and the doctor’s wife decided were needed to do the best job possible to please his new client. He knew that this job would, no doubt, earn him valuable referrals in the future.
So much for background information before the primary subject of this story begins as the title suggests, "The Psychiatrist consults the Laboring Man." The second day my husband was on the job, the psychiatrist came home early and approached my husband as he was ascending his ladder. The doctor asked, "Do you have a moment?"
My husband nodded and descended to ground level. The doctor began, "You know, of course, that I am a psychiatrist, but many of my colleagues and I are puzzled at the large number of men in your line of work who are alcoholics. Do you drink, Mr. W----?" My husband simply said, "No."
The doctor pursued, "I didn’t think so, but I am even more curious about that. Can you think of any reason why so many men who paint houses for a living do?" The doctor explained that alcoholism is one of the most difficult problems men in his profession were expected to treat. Furthermore, it was an increasing problem of epidemic proportions. The doctor apologized, "I just hoped you might have some insight as to the cause."
My husband’s first reaction was to say, "Sorry, I don’t know," but instead he tried to think of some reason--considering the seriousness of the problem. He carefully began with, "I don’t really think men who are painters by choice are alcoholics--I mean most men who pick up a paint brush are unemployed but need a paycheck, desperately, so they
do what they hate, until something better comes along." My husband chuckled, "That’s enough to drive any man to drink!"
The doctor was taking notes as he muttered under his breath, "I’d hate that myself!" Then he continued, "So, you think most house painters are just trying to get by, temporarily. What if nothing better comes along?"
My husband laughed again, "That’s what I was saying, isn’t it?"
The Doctor did a double take, "Oh--Oh, Yes, I see! They are stuck, get depressed, and turn to alcohol as an escape. That is an interesting theory that may apply to those in other dead-end occupations. What a man is forced to do to earn a living may be a very important contributing factor. Maybe even more important than sexual frustration!"
My husband demurred, "I wouldn’t know about that." Later, when my husband was discussing this conversation with me, I remembered that I once overheard my husband teasing his sister, "Pat didn’t swallow watermelon seeds to get our six kids, did you?" His sister, who had seven children, looked shocked, "Why, I thought everybody did, or I wouldn’t have stopped eating watermelon!"
The doctor must have been very impressed by my husband’s observations, because he seemed compelled to bring up another subject. "Also, your wife tells me she is qualified to teach English. Can you explain why so many English teachers--such as your wife--suffer from nervous exhaustion?"
My husband denied, "She’s not a teacher, yet. She just finished her degree."
Still taking notes, the doctor inferred, "Then you do not think teaching is the cause of your wife’s breakdown!"
My husband was surprised at the doctor’s assumption. He objected, "Is that what I said? Because I don’t know what happened. She couldn’t sleep but she seemed O. K., then the next day she wasn’t O.K. For what it’s worth, I’d say that my wife thinks it is her job to solve all the problems in the world. She probably feels like a failure!" he added with a chuckle.
Still writing, the doctor nodded approvingly without looking up. My husband remarked later that he could not believe how this otherwise intelligent doctor was hanging on to his every word! The whole scenario was nothing less than a source of humor as far as he was concerned--but then everything was a source of humor to him!
"Really? You think that your wife may have had a breakdown, because her expectations are higher than she can achieve?" the doctor persisted.
"If that would do it, I am sure that could have caused it!" My husband readily agreed with more insight than I would care to admit. In all my life there were never enough hours in any single day to do what I expected to achieve.
"I hope you are not offended by these somewhat personal questions, Mr. W----, but I find your insight remarkable. But why are you so reluctant to express your opinions without being a bit facetious? You aren’t intimidated by those who are better educated, are you? Like me--or your wife?"
My husband’s eyebrows must have gone sky high in surprise. He was always careful never to say anything that might be taken the wrong way! He would certainly never imply that someone might feel inferior to another human being for any reason. He was genuinely amazed that this educated man--a psychiatrist--would even consider suggesting such a thing. He tried very hard not to laugh, but it wasn’t easy!
Instead--and I know my husband’s eyes were twinkling and that he wore that wonderful smile he could never hide when he was amused--he asked, "Do you think I should be?"
The doctor, responding to my husband’s utterly charming manner stammered, "Wh--What?" My husband, repeated, "Should I be intimidated--or whatever you said?"
"Nooooo!" the doctor denied. "Of, course not!" The poor man was a bit frustrated as he protested, "In fact, I was almost certain you were not intimidated--but again--most unedu- or less educated men do seem to feel uncomfortable around the better-educated and tend to avoid contact with them. In your case, you married one!
I was just trying to discover why?"
The psychiatrist was beginning to recover his poise, and he began again, "Mr.
W----, "I am extremely curious as to how you manage to maintain such dignity, emotional equilibrium, and such good humor. What I really want to know is: How do you do it?"
At these words, the compassionate nature of my husband was aroused and his whole manner altered from amusement to kindness, and he explained as one might explain to a wounded child, "It’s this way. I have all the education that I need to do the job I most like to do, and so do you. I am in charge of my life, and so are you. It is the same, isn’t it?"
The doctor laughed, "You are right, absolutely right! I never thought of it exactly that way! That is very good. Very good, indeed, but if you don’t mind, I have one more question. Do you think you are as intelligent--basically--as everyone else? Native intelligence has little to do with education, you know. Do you understand what I mean by that question?"
My husband really chuckled this time, because he knew exactly what to say to that remark, "I wouldn’t say that, but I do know better than to keep a man from his work, if I were paying him by the hour!"
The doctor jumped, visibly startled, "My god, you are right, again. I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time." And he hurried into the house.
For a long time after this interview, I would catch my husband smiling at his own thoughts. If I asked, he would just shake his head and explain, "I still can’t get over how your psychiatrist apologized to me for wasting his own time and money."
If there is such a thing as E. Q., my husband was blessed with more than anyone else I know. Nathan died after forty-six of marriage--the very best years of my life!
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS--JURY DUTY
Everyone should welcome the opportunity to serve on a jury at least once--the most edifying experience of a lifetime. The first thing one is likely to learn is that very few jurors have a clue as to what the law says or what it means, yet their job is to determine whether any particular law has been broken or not.
The second thing that a member of a jury of one’s peers might observe is that fellow members do not like the law that has allegedly been broken. They may even harbor resentment for those who pass laws, argue the points of the law, interpret the law, and are especially contemptuous of those who gather evidence against the accused and ultimately enforce the law. We are speaking of all politicians, attorneys, judges and the police.
If a juror happens to be a happy innocent like me, whose only experience with the system has been dropping a fine in a box for over parking, and/or watching Perry Mason on T V, then serving on a jury can be a traumatic experience.
A juror who endures the trial by error is likely to conclude that verdicts have little to do with T V fiction, evidence, testimony, or the law itself and has nothing to do with "reasonable doubt."
Paradoxically, I was so impressed by what I learned, that I reached another--somewhat comforting conclusion! Our Bill of Rights which guarantees the right of all men to a trial by a jury of their PEERS may be the last bastion of defense against a system which has come to favor the law itself, which takes precedence over the purpose of all law--that of ensuring justice.
Legalists in power have nullified almost all the checks and balances our forefathers included in our Constitution to protect citizens from the bondage of a corrupt, oppressive, and tyrannical form of government, after they sacrificed so much to establish freedom in the New World. The president picks the judges, who have usurped the power from Congress of making the laws by setting precedents, and the president has the ultimate power to enforce the law. The president has entirely too much power for justice to be served.
The enigma is that if twelve jurors reach a consensus of opinion, then justice and even mercy will more likely be served, even if they choose to ignore the law, and they should not be handicapped by too many instructions by the legalists. After all, if the judge and attorneys, who best know the law, were qualified to administer justice, then our forefathers would not have felt compelled to guarantee a "trial by jury of one’s peers" in the first place. Too much power in high places is no guarantee that justice will be served. Even a scant perusal of man’s past history supports that statement.
The particular law that was allegedly broken in this case, for which I had the privilege to serve as a juror, was against driving while under the influence of alcohol and had just been passed by our state legislature in Illinois. The law was extremely unpopular at the time. But I was totally unprepared for the undercurrent of hostility expressed by some of the jurors toward that law before we were even seated in the jury room.
However, the beginning of the play-by-play account of my ordeal as a juror does not by any means begin behind those closed doors. It began when I received a notice in the mail to appear in court on a certain date to be questioned for possible jury duty. My reaction was probably typical. "Who, me?" or more to the point, "Why, me!"
The notice tersely listed the few excuses one could legally give for not serving, and stated that "every good citizen should consider it a privilege to serve," if at all possible. I had no choice but to appear, since being the harried mother of six young children was not on the list of "acceptable excuses," and I would be held in contempt of a court order, subject to fine or worse, if I failed to appear.
I admit to being secretly pleased, when I learned that being a member of the Illinois Congress was not on that very exclusive list of "acceptable excuses," either. It had to be a life or death matter such as being a heart surgeon scheduled to perform surgery on the day we were ordered to appear, for example. Any other legitimate excuse might be accepted, if presented before that fateful date we had to appear, but it had to be submitted in writing, and I imagined it would be helpful, if it were signed in blood.
I managed to appear at the right time and in the right courtroom, which was already very crowded with potential jurors. The bailiff asked me to be seated outside, until he located a seat with other potential jurors to be selected for the same trial for which I would be considered. He explained that all persons who showed up that day would be questioned individually for five different trials, and expressed the hope that I was prepared to stay until the whole tedious process was completed. He suggested that "now" would be a good time for making any phone calls, if the circumstances warranted it! It was not a good time for me!
My family members were already scattered, so I was destined to wait until I saw the whites of their eyes, before I could explain why I was so late getting home. "Why didn’t they mention those little details on the original notice, along with all the other dire threats?" I wondered. I should have guessed that this unexpected turn of events was just an omen of things to come!
When our turn finally came to be questioned--about three o’clock in the afternoon--the judge was repeating like a broken record what we had already heard three times before--the first time at 8:00 p.m. that morning. "You must answer all questions truthfully to the best of your knowledge. If for any reason either attorney or I determine that you might be biased in any way or for any reason, you shall be promptly disqualified to serve on this jury and will be asked to leave the courtroom as quietly and promptly as possible. Any questions before we proceed?" I think we were all prepared to clobber anyone who even peeped at that point! The judge banged his gavel to begin.
We were informed at this time that the defendant was charged with breaking the
D U I law, and, if convicted, the maximum penalty could be one year in prison, a very stiff fine and/or both. This information was to be considered by us before questioning to determine whether we could accept these terms, if the evidence convinced us that the defendant was guilty beyond any reasonable doubt. If these terms were unacceptable to any of us, then we would be excused at once on those grounds. No one left, and I presumed that we all must have thought the terms were fair.
I believe that the prosecuting attorney asked the first question, but it did not always matter. The attorneys stood to be recognized by the judge, before they were permitted to question anyone, and both attorneys were keenly interested in our answers to all questions, but for diametrically opposite reasons. If either attorney thought an answer indicated bias that would hurt his case, then he immediately bobbed up to ask for dismissal. In all cases but one the judge complied with each attorney’s request.
Naturally, each attorney chose carefully worded questions to ferret out any possible prejudice that might result in his opponent’s favor. Two questions that were asked of all of us were: "Have you ever sat on a jury in which a DUI case was tried before?" and "Have you or any close relative or friend been involved in an accident in which alcohol abuse was determined to be factor?" A "Yes," answer to either question meant automatic dismissal.
On the other hand, almost all of us were asked if we ever attended any social gathering or ate in public places where alcoholic beverages were served. Anyone who said, "No," to that question indicating that they never had, might be biased against the defendant, because he might be deliberately avoiding any association with those who occasionally imbibed--as one might avoid a leper. Since such a one would not be considered a "peer" of the defendant, he also was automatically dismissed.
None of us were asked if we occasionally partook of the "Joy Juice," therefore I can only assume that it was not an acceptable reason for dismissal, whether we answered "Yes," or "No." But one point came through loud and clear, one must be able to identify with the accused in some respects, if not all, or he did not qualify as a "peer," as guaranteed by our Constitution, "trial by jury of one’s ‘PEERS." So far, I was impressed.
Before the questioning ended, I was beginning to believe that this particular ritual could determine the outcome of a trial even before it began, if conducted skillfully by one or both attorneys. The "right jury" would definitely come up with the "right verdict," but an alert judge could maintain "right choices," unless he himself had a bias. I could definitely see possible ways for the system not to work in favor of justice, but so far it seemed to be working on the side of ultimate justice for all.
I answered, "Yes," to the social-gathering question, because I had been to a number of social events where alcohol had been served. However, I was the only possible peer who was asked if I had ever been a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, an organization that was a staunch advocate of temperance in Illinois. The WCTU was largely made up of Christian women of many different denominations who lobbied against legalizing the sale of any alcoholic beverage. Many Protestant churches sponsored branches of the WCTU and even had organized groups within their congregations.
I had grown up in the Methodist Episcopal Church, which sponsored a WCTU group, and had been exposed to certain statistics about the number of deaths on the highways caused by drivers who had too much to drink to drive safely--however I had to say, "No," to the membership question. This was not my lucky day! I could have been dubbed a teetotaler (non-drinker), if I had said, "Yes."
At this point, the Judge surprised me by asking me if I thought I could be objective in this case. Why, me? He did not ask anyone else that question or any other direct questions that I could recall. Furthermore, both attorneys were earnestly scrutinizing my face, awaiting my reaction. Did I have a "kick me," sign on my back or something?
Opportunity knocks only once, I thought. Unfortunately, my conscience would not permit me to say, "No," because I had taken a very sophisticated personality test once on which I had made a perfect score on capacity to be "objective." I did not falter, and bit the bullet, saying, "I cannot think of any reason why I could not be objective!"
So far, so good, and then for no reason at all, I impulsively added, "But I know I could tell if anyone were lying or not!" My God! Where did that come from, but it caused an immediate stir!
The defense attorney jumped up to ask for immediate dismissal, but before he could ask, the judge smiled approvingly and asserted, "I believe you could!" and at the same time banged down his gavel saying, "Accepted." As I said, the judge refused to acknowledge either attorney’s requests for "dismissal" only once, and I was the one. Since I was the last juror to be questioned for this particular trial, the motion was made with finality, and we were ready to be dismissed.
The defense attorney sank into his pew next to his client and they engaged in a short but quite serious exchange of words in low tones, but the prosecuting attorney looked pleased. I was relieved to learn that everybody didn’t hate me--yet!
I fully determined to listen very carefully to all testimony presented on both sides, before I permitted myself to reach any conclusions, in order to live up to the confidence in me that the judge had expressed. We were free to go, after the judge advised us that we would be notified as to the time and date of the trial and had admonished us to arrive as early as possible.
Since my husband and six children were dependent on me, I knew I would have to plan ahead, and make lists of instructions, even though the judge had assured us that we would be permitted to go home each day of the trial by 5:00 p.m. Still, I was concerned.
The big day arrived, and I appeared on time with a prayer in my heart that I would serve faithfully, that my family would survive, and that the trial would be over soon--very soon. We jurors were told that we must not discuss the details of the trial outside the confinement of the jury room, that we would be given an hour to eat lunch altogether in the specified cafeteria. We were sternly admonished again not to discuss the trial outside the jury room.
Actually, that is one instruction that we had no problem respecting. As it turned out, the opinions expressed in the jury room were so heated and hostile at times, that we welcomed the reprieve from the stress. Sometimes, I thought that it was we jurors who were on trial instead of the defendant.
The first thing we did when comfortably seated along a very large rectangular table was to elect a foreman. That was easy, because one very popular and well-known senator of the Illinois State Congress was recognized by all of us as being the natural choice.
The foreman, an amiable man with snow-white hair and a fatherly demeanor, suggested that we take a vote before we continued "just to determine where we all stood."
Each of us had been provided with pencils and several slips of paper for the purpose of casting secret ballots to be collected and counted by the foreman. The foreman advised us that we need only to write, "Guilty," or "Not Guilty." The results were: eight, "Guilty," and four, "Not Guilty."
At once, one very angry juror stomped to the end of the table opposite from the foreman’s end, shook his fist and snorted, "I know I can drive better falling down drunk than most road hogs can drive cold sober. I wouldn’t vote ‘guilty’ no matter what!" Having snarled his piece, he plopped down in his seat with conviction. He sat at the opposite end of the table on the same side that I was on, so I could not see him at all. I sat to the right of the foreman.
I could not help wondering how this maverick survived the "objective" test so easily, and why I was the one under suspicion, or so it seemed. The foreman responded to this outburst with all the poise of an experienced politician. He reminded us of the judge’s final instructions, that we must reach a unanimous verdict, and if we believed the defendant to be guilty beyond any reasonable doubt, we were obligated to uphold the law by voting, "guilty."
The judge did not tell us what we should do, if one or more jurors had no respect for that law. We sat stunned, speechless, and a little depressed. Th maverick’s words were like thorns in each of our sides. Obviously, we were going to be stuck in that jury room for hours, days, or even months before we could come up with a unanimous decision.
It did not take any of us long to determine that we had three choices:
(a) Argue the points forever, as if we might be able to persuade the maverick to change his mind; or (b) the eight of us who believed the man was guilty would have to change our votes to "Not Guilty"-- "reasonable doubt" be hanged! Or (c) the jury would be hanged--I mean, "hung." What I really mean is, that it felt like we were guilty and sentenced to be hanged!
The foreman was a pragmatist and did not hesitate to let his choice be known, and probably used his position to intimidate the rest of us a little. He said, "I believe the man is guilty, but I am going to vote, "Not guilty." He said, "Let’s take another vote." For lack of knowing what else to do, we agreed. This time, the votes were: eight, "Not guilty," and four, "Guilty."
Keep in mind that all this activity occurred before one single aspect of the case had been discussed, or even considered. No testimony had been weighed pro or con and certainly had not been pondered. Do not believe anything you see on T V, concerning the way trials are conducted or concerning the way jurors operate. The Perry Mason show is pure fiction as well as all the other shows that allegedly depict the way criminal cases are conducted in or out of court.
The foreman shrugged off the results and stated wearily, "I see no point in dragging this case out indefinitely. Any suggestions?"
I hated to be the only other maverick in the room but my conscience would not allow me to concur with his shameless attitude. I did suggest, "Shouldn’t we at least consider the testimony before we make our final decision?" I suddenly realized that I had gained at least ten enemies. An old man sitting across from the other maverick had never said one single word during the entire discussion. He caught my eye and barely nodded his approval, and the woman who sat directly across from me, nodded in agreement.
Reluctantly, the foreman agreed--possibly to protect his reputation as a senator, by acting the way a man in his position was expected to act--responsibly.
I did not realize it yet, but I know now that I had already made up my mind to hang the jury, if necessary. I had carefully listened to both sides, and thought I had reached a fair conclusion, but I sincerely wanted to hear the arguments of the three jurors who voted "Not guilty," in the first place. I could not rule out the fact that I might have overlooked some vital factor, therefore I wanted to be convinced by the others that I was not mistaken, or that I was! Nobody’s perfect! The other "maverick" certainly wasn’t perfect, and I resented the way he had intimidated us all.
The whole trial consisted of testimony by the defendant and three witnesses. No other evidence was presented. They were: (l) The arresting officer; (2) The taxicab driver who called the police after chasing down the defendant in his cab to an alley behind the defendant’s apartment, and (3) A character witness, whom I happened to be acquainted with personally. He was the owner of a paint and wallpaper store where my husband purchased most of his materials for his business. We knew him to be an honest and respectable businessman.
The accused was a World War II veteran and head of the local painters’ union. Since he had a background similar to my husband’s, who was also a World War II veteran and a painter and paperhanger, I was much more disposed to be empathetic than otherwise toward the defendant, despite all the testimony I heard in the courtroom.
As for the character witness, I decided that none of his testimony was conclusive either. For one thing, he had to know that any negative innuendo he expressed concerning the defendant’s character could get him black-balled by the union--particularly if it led to a conviction. Members of unions are noted for their blind loyalty to the union leaders they elect.
I also suspected from the questioning of this witness by the defense attorney that the whole episode had been carefully rehearsed, and that the character witness had been reassured that his business would not be in jeopardy. At the time, I thought the prosecutor might uncover something negative on cross-examination, but he surprised me by saying, "I have no questions for this witness."
Perhaps, he saw no reason to jeopardize a man’s business, especially if the man had too much to lose by telling the "truth," if he knew anything negative to say. Bottom-line, the witness might not be reliable at best, and at worst he said absolutely nothing to indicate that he even knew the defendant well enough to attest either way as to the man’s character or drinking habits. He was the last witness to testify, but I saw no reason to discuss his testimony in the jury room, unless someone else thought it significant.
The first witness to testify was the young rookie policeman, who was sent out to bring the accused in for questioning or so the young man testified. He was inexperienced--the defense attorney made a point of establishing that fact--and was sent to the scene alone with no witnesses, and without any backup planned in the event he might need assistance. It was a case of the policeman’s word against the accused man’s word concerning what happened at the time the arrest was made. Keep in mind, he was not sent to arrest the accused--just to bring him in for questioning because of a phone call by the taxicab driver.
Apparently, no one at the police station must have taken the complaint by the cab driver very seriously, or they would have at least sent a more experienced officer to the scene. At that time, perhaps, the general attitude of the police was that it was just another "drunk driver" report and they may not have had much respect for the DUI law either.
The young officer, like most young men, obviously wanted to impress the jury with his professional--even macho--image, and competence. The last impression he wanted to make was that he had been "scared out of his wits" when making the arrest. He was almost rigid in his attempt to maintain self-control as he recalled for the jury the events that led up to the arrest.
Despite his efforts to remain composed, he failed completely as far as I was able to observe. When the officer stated that the defendant was angry, abusive, used foul language, resisted arrest in a threatening manner, and was staggering all over the place, I believed every word that the officer said. Why did I believe him?
Because he looked straight into the eyes of the defense attorney and answered the questions directly with somewhat controlled righteous indignation at the disdainful manner in which he was being questioned. Finally, I could not help but notice his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down indicating repressed but very sincere emotion all through his testimony--which he was desperately trying to hide! I have never quite understood why young men are afraid to admit they are afraid. They would rather die first, and some of them do!
Sometimes, it is difficult to determine just which emotion is being repressed, but in this case, I was sure it was fear, the one emotion any young man most wants to hide with determination and the one emotion that he must have felt under the circumstances that he was describing. I believed he not only feared for his own safety at the time he was forced to make an arrest to take the accused in for questioning, but he was reliving it on the stand nine months after the event--a clear indication that the experience was indeed traumatic.
Other signs could be seen by occasional flickers of fear in his eyes and twitches at the corners of his mouth as he relived the details that were vividly imbedded in his mind. He reminded me of the young men I had dated following the end of World War II, when they would on rare occasions speak of their war experiences to a girl they wanted to impress. I was determined not to permit this young man’s sincere testimony to influence me into reaching a premature conclusion before hearing the defense, but I could not ignore his testimony, either.
When I described my impression of the young rookie’s testimony, several members of the jury nodded or murmured in agreement that the young man was probably telling the truth--as he remembered it. However, the maverick stood up and with contempt stated, "He’s a cop, so he lied to cover his butt!" Amazing to me was that most of the jurors also agreed with that declaration!
I had a problem with the obvious bias of the maverick, so I asked him, "How can you say that, when the young man said that he was sent out just to bring the accused in for questioning, but he had to arrest him to do so? He was just following orders, so why would he need to protect that what-you-may-call-it part of his anatomy? Also, if the accused were asked to come in for questioning, why did he refuse and finally resist arrest, if he were as innocent as you think he is?"
I could not believe that anyone would blame that young man for simply following orders. Nor could I believe a completely innocent and responsible union leader would refuse to accompany that young policeman to be questioned, unless his judgment were adversely affected by a little too much to drink, and I said so to the rest of the members of the jury. Then I challenged them all to set me straight, if I were wrong. No one said a word, and no one looked me in the eye either, as I searched all the faces in my viewing area for some kind of response.
The second witness was the taxicab driver who testified that he had never met the defendant, but he regularly parked his cab across the street from the same tavern that the defendant later called his headquarters or "office." The defendant always parked his car in his officially reserved parking place right in front of the tavern without a meter.
The cab driver said that some of his "best customers" would eventually stagger out and need a ride home. That was the reason he gave for stationing his cab across the street, and waiting for these fares. The cab driver apparently had no axes to grind where the defendant was concerned, and it had to be against his best interests to leave his post to chase the defendant all over town as he testified that he had done.
Perhaps, I should mention at this point, that the defendant later explained when the defense arguments were given, that he remained in the tavern every day of the week as part of his duties as the union leader. Painters who were temporarily out of work or between jobs would come to the tavern to see if the union leader could refer possible clients to them or knew of any jobs that might be available.
During this part of the questioning of the defendant, the prosecutor asked if he had any drinks while waiting to assist these would-be painters, and the defendant had shrugged and agreed, "Yes, probably."
The prosecutor pursued, "About how many drinks would you say you had--approximately during the whole day--one--two--or more? The defendant repeated, "Probably." The prosecutor waited. The accused finally admitted, "Maybe one or two. I was there most of the day. I don’t remember. I guess it could have been more."
The defendant was doing his job as a union leader in an unusual but rather ingenious "office" arrangement that cost him nothing to maintain. He held office hours where the painters could freely come and go in a convenient location to get necessary information without the hassle of more conventional methods in a more formal office environment.
No doubt, the tavern owner thought that his business was helped by this arrangement. In fact, the plan appeared to be so advantageous to all concerned, that I could not conclude without being presumptuous that the union leader was drinking more than he said he did, unless I had other reasons to believe that he was.
Furthermore, I had read somewhere that a man could have a few drinks with food over a period of hours without having the percentage of alcohol in his blood that the law had determined would affect his ability to drive safely. On the other hand, I could not ignore the fact that the accused had the opportunity to consume enough alcohol to float home in his automobile at the end of his office hours, if he were so inclined.
Not everyone agreed. One young college student on the jury admitted that he attended fraternity parties, drank and then drove home, and thought the DUI law was an infringement on his rights as an "adult" (He had just turned twenty-one). He said, "It’s a possibility that we are going to be stuck here forever, all things considered," and he was glaring straight at me from across the table. Some jurors laughed--but half-heartedly.
No doubt about it, the jurors had found themselves, "Guilty" of wanting to get it over with, but did not know how. All of them were unwilling to look at me when responding to my observations, and addressed one another to get a consensus of opinion contrary to anything I suggested. The bottom-line: They wanted me to fold, because they considered any alternative as being hopeless.
The above-mentioned college student, who was a clean-cut all-American decent sort, had usually been reasonable, open-minded, and well mannered when making his comments. For those reasons, he obviously regretted his somewhat snide remark about "possibilities," therefore admitted directly to me, "If the defendant had been given a sobriety test and had flunked it, I would vote "guilty" regardless of how the rest of you voted, but I have reasonable doubts. He then asked me, "Don’t you have any doubts at all?"
I took his sudden sincerity as a left-handed apology and explained, "Like our foreman, I believe the man is guilty based on all the testimony I heard, but I was willing to keep an open mind to anything I heard in here that might change my mind. So far, none of you have said one single word to indicate that the accused is not guilty, and you discount everything that I have to say that convinced me that he was guilty."
The college student retorted, "In case you didn’t know it, a man is innocent until proved guilty--not the other way around!"
I almost laughed at the ridiculous judgment he had just made, but he was blinded by his own prejudices--and very young. I said, "In case you did not notice, the trial is over and eight of us believed the accused was ‘guilty’ on the basis of all the testimony that we heard, and presumably we heard both sides. It is our sworn duty to consider that evidence and reach a verdict. You are ignoring the facts."
I then reminded the young man of one fact, concerning the testimony of the defendant. He had denied tha