Oh, oh people of the earth
Listen to the warning.
The Seer he said
Beware the storm that gathers here.
Listen to the wise man.

Queen, lyrics: The Prophet’s Song
____________________________

I saw him coming, as he yanked open the door and strode toward the counter at me. A tall imposing figure. Dressed in raggedy jeans and checkered red flannel shirt, his long hair flowing around his face and down his back. Full length stringy graying beard. He wasn’t dirty. Just ragged. I furtively glanced around to see if someone else could take care of him. Nope. I was on the front line, in his sights, the guy who would have to deal with him.

He approached the counter and greeted me, peering at me through bushy eyebrows. He needed a couple of items to finish up a project at his shop. I wrote up the invoice. Took his money. Returned his change. Now if I could only shuffle him on out to the warehouse for his stuff. But no.

“What do those graphics on your hoodie represent?” he asked conversationally.

I groaned inside. Oh, boy. Here we go. Nothing I could do to stop it.

“Have no idea. Some Coat of Arms, I guess.” I mumbled. “I just picked it up off the clearance rack. Got it for next to nothing.”

“Hmmm.” Conspiratorially, now. “Maybe you should check it out.”

“Yes, yes,” I was desperate. “Now if you head out that door to the warehouse, the guys will get your stuff.”

But it was no use. He had me trapped and was not about to be denied. Just getting warmed up, in fact. He leaned up against the counter and settled in. The words erupted from him like a torrent of wind. A lead-in question or two first. Without waiting for the answer, which wasn’t forthcoming anyway, he launched. A mishmash of scripture and interpretation. Whore of Babylon. Revelations. Book of Daniel. Obama. Sarah Palin. The numerological equivalents of their names. Abraham’s second wife, Katurah. A jumble of numbers, facts, all tied together. End times. Coming soon. America. Cursed. America will fall. The world will end in blood and fire.

I bit my tongue until I just couldn’t take it anymore. Bristled a little.

“Seems to me,” I finally interrupted the flowing torrent of words, “that it’s a little arrogant to assume that biblical prophecies apply specifically to our time and our country. That stuff was written thousands of years ago. The world could be here for thousands more. Civilizations rise and fall, always have. If this one falls, as it surely will some day, why is that the end of the world?”

My words whooshed over his head, it was like I’d never spoken. He blinked his bushy brows, mildly startled at my blatant blasphemy, then decided to ignore it. On and on he rambled, spewing ever more esoteric and obscure facts and connections. Until I finally stepped from behind the counter, opened the warehouse door, firmly escorted him in the general direction he needed to go, and shooshed him out. Last I saw, he was assaulting one of my poor warehouse guys, waving his arms, the great stream of words flowing uninterrupted.

And I never did get to hear his interpretation of the graphics on my hoodie. Just as well, I suppose. No doubt it would have been something sinister pertaining to these deceiving times.

I don’t know his name. He’s the local prophet. Or wacko. Take your pick. A kindly enough man. A sincere Christian, I have no doubt. But boy, does he ever wear out his welcome. Wherever he goes. Because that’s all he can talk about, his vast and complex interpretations of biblical prophecies. Everything else is just a prelude. He exists in another dimension. It’s weird. And gets old fast.

Some guys, when you talk to them, exude energy. Not him. He drains it from you. You get exhausted just listening to him.

“Prophets” like him exist in about every local community. And they all sing the same old song. Different verses, same tune. Not quite hermits, they periodically emerge to spout their wild-eyed declarations of gloom and destruction. All of it just ahead, just around the next bend, coming in the next year. For sure in the next five.

Overall, I have no problem with such prophets, except when they assault and entrap me and won’t leave me alone. They’re free to believe what they want. And it doesn’t hurt us to hear the stuff they say. Might make us think a little more somberly, instead of blithely going about our business as usual.

But I’m extremely suspicious of all modern day prophets, from the local loon to “prophecy scholars,” who crank out another volume about end time events with each new Middle Eastern crisis. Somehow they all think they’ve got a handle on future events. They don’t. And never have. Same goes for end time preachers. Some are decent guys, just misled. The worst are knaves. Charlatans. And in their blind determination to connect biblical prophecy to the importance of their own times, they’ve done a tremendous amount of damage over the years.

Since the first century, soon after Christ imparted His final words to the apostles, people have fervently longed for His return. Every century since then, groups have emerged, their leaders proclaiming the imminent end. They’ve banded together, assembled on mountain tops, sold or given away all their goods in a frenzy of faith and anticipation.

All were wrong. Fools, really. Led by false shepherds, they were desperate flocks, living in hard desperate times, hungry for a better afterlife. They reached the afterlife soon enough, just not as they’d planned. The world still stands. In my opinion, it will stand for many, many more centuries. Millennia, even. One day I will die. And that will be the “end of the world” for me. As it was for them when they died.

Sadly, the frenzied proclamations of Christ’s imminent return have not diminished much over the years. Such preaching is quite prevalent in Christian circles, especially conservatives. At Bob Jones University, where I attended for two years in the early 1990s, it was quite common to hear bombastic sermons on how Christ would return soon, perhaps that very day yet. The last great hyped expectation that failed was “Eighty-Eight Reasons Christ will Return in 1988.” Twenty-one years ago. Some sold or gave away all they owned. Eagerly waited. Of course, 1988 came and went. And we all know what happened. Nothing. Not much has changed from centuries ago, when crowds assembled on the mountain tops.

You’d think we’d learn. Not to be so gullible. But we don’t. We run hither and yon like children, itching to have our ears tickled with the latest fashionable end-time dooms-day scenarios. And with the meteoric rise of every new charismatic leader, we hear whispers, “Could he be the Anti-Christ? Will this trigger the Rapture?” Those whispers are rampant about Obama right now.

It’s silliness, is what it is. And it hurts the true cause of Christ.

To those who consider my viewpoint blasphemous, one basic scriptural foundation. Among many. Not that it will make much difference. Or change many minds. I don’t want to get entangled in theological mud slinging. But in His Word, God promised to those who kept His commandments a blessing to a thousand generations. That’s forty thousand years. Was God joking? Didn’t He mean what He said, what He promised?

But that’s just my opinion. I won’t pour any concrete around it. In the meantime, I don’t plan to fret excessively about it. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong.

I’m not saying we can’t know many things by seeing. And making rational deductions. I believe that in the next few years, this country and the world will endure social and economic upheaval unlike anything ever seen by anyone alive. Including those who lived through the Great Depression and WWII. I don’t know this will happen, but I believe it to be true, from my own analysis of current events. But if it does come to pass, that doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world.

And I know that a country that murders four million unborn children each year will be judged. And eventually come to destruction. The blood of innocents cries from the earth as piercingly today as it did in Cain’s time. The Lord will hold us collectively to account. I don’t know how. And I don’t know when. But it will happen. And it doesn’t take a prophet to know that.

But when inevitable judgment comes, that doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world.

Seems to me that we should stop being so freaked out about “end times” and concentrate instead on the long-term advancement of Christ’s kingdom.

So the next time you hear someone expound on the end times and the ascent of some fresh new Anti-Christ, whether it’s the local loony “prophet” or some respected end times preacher, receive their words through a filter of healthy skepticism. Don’t believe what they say, just because they’re saying it. If we judged them all as the biblical prophets were judged, they would need to be one hundred percent accurate. One hundred percent. Anything less would expose them for what they really may be.

False prophets.
______________________________________________________

I’d gained a few pounds over the holidays. That much I knew. But I was shocked when I finally got my nerve up and stepped on the scales last Saturday at the gym. Two hundred eleven pounds. Shocking. Haven’t weighed 211 since, well since I weighed that much back when I was shedding the pounds three years ago.

So this week, it’s crunch time. I got serious. No more “holiday” excuses. No more jolly times. Hit the gym as often as possible. Grimly. Only one cookie for breakfast, not two. Small salad for lunch. Sensible supper and NO dessert. And no more ice cream.

The New Yorker, which I mentioned a few weeks back, hasn’t given up on me yet. The Urgent mailed reminders diminished to a trickle. Ah, I figured, finally got rid of them. But then one night last week, a desperate phone call from an 800 number. I usually don’t answer, but irritated, I decided to see who it was so I could tell them off. The young gentleman never got to spin his spiel, because as soon as I heard “New Yorker,” I firmly told him I’m not interested and to stop calling me immediately. Hopefully that does it. We’ll see.

In politics, Minnesota has now joined the ranks of the third world Banana Republics. The despicable Al Franken has stolen the Senate seat. They kept recounting until he had the votes, then immediately certified the results. Like I called it back in November after the election. It wasn’t a prophecy. Just a keen knowledge of the corrupt nature of the Democratic Party. Win at all costs, voters be (bleeped). And so it was written, and so it is.

That such a reprehensible shred of human debris could actually steal a Senate seat and get away with it is deeply troubling. Nothing good will ever come of it. If you live in Minnesota, get out.

In football, the Iowa Hawkeyes remain the only Big Ten team to have won their Bowl game. Ohio State put up a pretty valiant effort against Texas on Monday night, but allowed a touchdown in the last 16 seconds, to lose again. At least they can hold their heads high. It wasn’t a blowout like it’s been the last two years. And yes, I was rooting for them. Like I never would for Penn State.

Congratulations to the Florida Gators for defeating Oklahoma for the national championship last night.

Post season continues in the Pros. The thug Eagles demolished Minnesota like I figured. But Arizona pulled off a win, surprisingly. It’ll be an interesting weekend. My predictions to win, and no these are not prophecies: The Giants over the Eagles, Baltimore over Tennessee, the Steelers over the Chargers and Carolina over Arizona.

If the Eagles beat the Giants, and they have a very good shot, they will be serious contenders for the Super Bowl. Five years ago, I bet a co-worker a fairly tidy little sum that Donavan McNabb would NEVER win a Super Bowl. Another Eagles win, and it’s going to be nail-biting time for me.

You can never go home again, but the truth is
you can never leave home, so it’s all right.

—Maya Angelou
_____________________________________

It seems a little strange, to call a place home. When you’ve never lived there. Guess it stems from societal norms. Home is where your parents live. Regardless of their age, or yours. My parents moved to the remote little community of Mays Lick, Kentucky about a year ago. A distant unfamiliar place.

We headed out for “home” with Big Blue Friday morning. My brother Nate and me. I had never taken my truck on any kind of road trip before. Planned on it, last summer. But the $4 per gallon gasoline put a stop to that.

Not this time. Gas is cheap. So Big Blue it was. We loaded up and hit the road by 6 AM. After hitting Rt. 283 in Lancaster, it was four lane all the way to Kentucky. Traffic was generally light. Not much going on the day after Christmas. Only a few big trucks, not enough to clog the roads. I sipped my coffee and set Big Blue’s cruise control for almost the first time ever.

The truck rocketed along smoothly. Nate sat reclined in the passenger’s seat and slept. 81 South to Hagerstown. 68 West through Cumberland. On to 79 South in Morgantown. I stopped for gas. Checked Big Blue’s mileage. Right at 17 mpg. Not bad, considering all the hills and mountains we’d crossed.

Nate took the wheel for a spell. It was good to spend some time “catching up” with him. My youngest brother. We had not seen each other since some quite unfortunate events unfolded in Florida, back in early 2007. Almost two years. We’d talked and texted. But not seen each other. That’s a long time.

After a leisurely late lunch at the Cracker Barrel, Nate’s favorite, in Charleston, we arrived in Maysville, ten miles north of Mays Lick, around late afternoon. Checked in at the very nice Hampton Inn and settled in for a few days. Since my parents and brother Josephs had company that day from another settlement, we decided to wait until the next morning to head out.

The next morning around 9, we drove in to my brother Joseph’s farm. Dads live in a nice double wide, attached by deck to Joseph’s new house. Nice little setup. One thing about the Amish, they know how to take care of the elderly. Without stuffing them into nursing homes. Joseph’s wife Iva has lupus, so their new house was designed with her in mind. Mostly one level, hardwood floors, very nicely laid out. After looking around, Nate and I headed over to my parents’ house, across the deck.

Dad sat at his desk, Mom on her recliner, reading a Pathway magazine. They welcomed us in. Dad of course recognized us. I wasn’t sure Mom would, but she did, immediately saying our names. To date, she has always recognized all her children.

We sat on the couch and visited. Yes, our trip was fine. Yes, we were staying at a motel in town. Somehow, Mom couldn’t grasp that fact and kept telling us we could stay in the spare bedroom.

They both looked well physically. The ravages of Alzheimer’s have taken their toll on Mom, though. In the course of a single day, she resides in many places, mostly from her childhood.

I asked her if she remembers the “Juniata” song from her childhood, and hummed the tune for her. She remembered a line or two, but couldn’t get a full verse. Dad then told us that Mom had started singing an old childhood song about the sinking of the Titanic. It just came back to her. She hadn’t sung it in decades, and never when we were children. At first, she could remember only one verse and the chorus. Then one morning the second verse emerged. Dad hastily wrote it down and made copies. Now they sang it together sometimes.

Nate and I immediately requested that they sing it for us. Dad shuffled around at his desk and extracted some blue papers, on which he had printed the song. He limped over and sat down on the rocker recliner beside her chair and gave her a copy and told her to lead. Nate and I sat there quietly, ready to go where we’d never been.

And without any fuss, Mom began to sing. Dad joined her. Her clear soprano shook just a little, and his rich baritone cracked and trembled. But it was beautiful to hear, and a breathtaking sight. Silhouetted in the glint of the mid morning light, they sang:

It was a Monday morning, just one o’clock
When the great Titanic began to reel and rock
And the people began to cry
Saying, Lord we are going to die.

Chorus:
It was sad when the great ship went down
It was sad when the great ship went down
There were husbands and wives, little children lost their lives
It was sad when the great ship went down.

When they built the great Titanic they said, what can we do?
They said they’d build a ship the water can’t go through
But God with His mighty hand
Showed the world it cannot stand.

And then it was over. The last echoes of their cracked, quivering voices faded. Nate and I sat mesmerized. It was a rare sight, a golden moment. For both of us. We had never seen our parents sitting together, just the two of them, singing a song. Ever.

Spontaneously, we clapped and cheered. Mom beamed.

Mom no longer cooks, so at lunch time Nate and I left and returned with broasted chicken and biscuits. Dad, Mom and Nate sat at their small table. I ate on the kitchen island.

We left so Mom could take her nap, returning later in the afternoon. That night, we provided pizza for everyone, including Joseph’s family, eating at their new house. Later I walked my parents across the deck to their home and sat and visited with Dad awhile. He asked about my writing and commented positively on some of the blogs he had read. He doesn’t read them all. He usually gets hard copies of certain blogs a few weeks after post dates.

He allowed that “Levi and Noah” was among the best he had read and I had written. Probably because it was pretty bland and noncontroversial. But I appreciated it. He’s my Dad and his opinion counts.

I said good-bye and took my leave. Nate and I headed back to the motel, where we talked late into the night. The next day, around mid-morning, I left for home in Big Blue by myself. Nate stayed for a few more days, then traveled back to Canada from there.

It was a good trip. I mused over events as I drove. We had been genuinely welcomed home. Our parents were glad to see us. We talked and visited without rancor. They ate the food we provided. They sang for us.

And I reflected on those moments. And the pitifully few similar moments I have ever experienced. How hard I’d tried, years ago, to break the barriers to my father’s heart. How I’d craved his recognition and blessing. And Nate too, had tried so hard, for so long. In anguish. All to no avail.

Until we just gave up. Told ourselves it didn’t matter.

But it did. And always will.

So much was wasted, so much lost.

The moments we had just shared could have been the norm for all those years, not the exception. But only now were they possible, in the final years, after the ravages of age had quietly removed the impenetrable barriers imposed by centuries of mindless traditions of harsh cold shunning.

It’s sad. And tragic, really. But it is what it is. And even at this late stage, those mom-ents are something. Something tangible. That we can take and turn in our minds and examine. And treasure for what they were. Things that will likely not survive for long in their memories. Especially Mom’s. But they will live on in ours. Because in the end, they happened. Against seemingly insurmountable odds only a few short years ago.

In the final analysis, that’s all that matters. And it’s enough. It has to be.

Because all else is vanity, a chasing after the wind, a deep hopeless yearning to change the past that is set in stone and can never be undone.
__________________________________________________

In football, things shook out last weekend. The post season is set. Slurp, slurp. Three of the most dangerous teams to watch: San Diego, Indy, and yes, the thug Eagles. All are peaking, two are coming off very mediocre seasons. They have nothing to lose, no expectations. Which makes them all the more dangerous. Minnesota and Arizona are insipid sacrificial lambs, and will be promptly slaughtered this weekend.

My buddy Favre pulled his usual stunts for the Jets last Sunday. Three interceptions. So the very next day the Jets fired not Favre as they should have, but his coach. I’m scratching my head in disbelief. Idiots. Eric Mangini is a genius, a prodigy of the evil Bellichek. Whose vile Patriots were denied the playoffs, thankfully. The only good thing that resulted from the Jets’ loss.

Well, it’s 2009. Seems strange, to write it. 2009. Next year the double digit rolls in. On New Years Eve, I stopped by Paul and Anne Marie’s for supper and hung out for awhile. Anne Marie met with her doctor earlier this week. Not surprisingly, the tumor diagnosis is the same as last time. Malignant. They are discussing treatment options and will make some decisions in the coming weeks.

I returned home early and spent the evening watching football. Midnight came, and the ball drop. Dick Clark has got to go. Since his stroke a few years back, the man’s face is frozen and he slurs his words. You can’t understand him. Yes, I know he’s been doing the countdown since prehistoric times. And it’s tragic, his stroke. But they need an anchor who can talk.

Happy New Years texting was fast and furious for awhile before I went to bed.

New Years Day, I slept in. Went to Sheetz for my free coffee, then to the Leola Fire Hall to pick up the traditional New Years meal of pork and sauerkraut. For eleven bucks. Fundraiser, and all. I’m not a big fan of sauerkraut, but it’s edible at least once a year.

New Years Day is college football. All the bowl games. The Big Ten has not been doing well, but Iowa crushed South Carolina 31-10. Some Midwestern pride there. Penn State was soundly thrashed by USC in the Rose Bowl, 38-24.