“What kind of people steal from a church?” Last week, after someone took a pallet of shingles from the church parking lot, I heard that question at least a dozen times. “What kind of people steal from a church?” The question assumes there is a particular kind of person who specializes in ecclesiastic crime.

My dear wife and her mother are both big gospel music fans. My mother-in-law even subscribes to a gospel singing magazine. There is a gospel music singer that my wife, Terry, likes very much. His name is Mark Bishop. He was originally a member of a family group known as The Bishops. However, he now is evidently a solo act. I don’t care for his style of gospel. It is more the style of bluegrass. If I want to hear gospel, I much prefer the big choirs that do Southern rhythm and blues gospel. 

Well, thought Piney and She Who Must Be Obeyed, the sub-tropics are at it again!

I have a friend. His name is Ken Brigham and among other things, he is a Vietnam War veteran. He is a former rock-‘n’-roll band member who plays both rock and religious music now. He is a lover of antique and classic automobiles (including Studebakers). He is a biker. He is also far more religious than I am. He lives in Oregon. 

“Is he going to die?” The wide-eyed 6-year-old caught the mission teacher off guard. She and her mission’s class were visiting residents in a local nursing home. The other children had already rushed into the room, entertaining the delighted resident. However, this child remained in the doorway. I am sure it was the hospital bed and the medical paraphernalia in the room that prompted the question, “Is he going to die?”

“You know everything happens for a reason.”
I heard what the tire-store clerk said, but it did not register. My mind was on my flat tire, which turned out to also be a ruined tire. The blowout had occurred more than 150 miles from home and I was still almost 100 miles from my destination. I was going to be late.

Writing a column is not as easy as it may look, especially when you’ve been doing it weekly for several years. Sometimes there just isn’t much interesting going on about which you wish to have your opinion known. Sometimes you may feel like you’ve covered almost every single idea you’ve had for a column. But, the worst case scenario is the proverbial “writer’s block.” This is a genuinely real malady. Unfortunately, when I started this particular column, I was struck down by this very difficulty.

Last Sunday, I was “waxing eloquently” in a sermon when suddenly there was a small explosion from somewhere in the pews. The explosion occurred immediately following a comment I made about cannons firing. An unsupervised boy in the church had popped a balloon he had smuggled into the sanctuary.

Fuzzy Butt wore angel wings, but I have my doubts about them truly reflecting his personality. His name aside, Fuzzy Butt was a kitten, and kittens grow into cats, which possess many redeeming qualities. Few of them, however, could be classified as angelic.

My mother-in-law, Eunice Adele Mutter, and I get along well. We talk a lot, especially about the “old days.” I generally enjoy these conversations as I am something of a history buff and she, having been born in the mid-1920s, has lived to see a good bit of it. While her memory isn’t quite what it used to be (then neither is mine), it is still pretty sharp and she has done a lot of interesting things over the years.