….a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion:
for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him?

–Ecclesiastes 3:22
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All right. Time for a little break. And a brief update.

It’s been an intense five weeks or so, since the last post. Yeah, yeah, I know. I intended to post here at least once a month, but it just didn’t happen. It’s not that I want to ignore the blog. But for the first time in three-plus years, there’s something vastly more important, writing-wise, that demands pretty much all my attention.

And you few (you know who you are) who kept harassing me with whiny emails, well, here’s a new post. Peace, I say, peace.

The week after returning from the Tyndale trip, I left again for a few days. This time to Mays Lick, KY, for my niece Laura May Wagler’s wedding to Joshua Mast on Friday, April 16th. Big Blue and I headed out late Wednesday afternoon, on leisurely road trip. Stopped at the Holiday Inn in Cumberland, MD for the night. Cumberland is a fascinating old town nestled among the steep hills. Very unique architecture, tall steeples on old churches. And the trains hiss and clack and run all night, right past the Holiday Inn.

I pulled into Mays Lick late Thursday afternoon, to all the bustle and stir associated with an Amish wedding. Guests arriving from all over. Including my parents, who technically live in Mays Lick, but had been staying in Aylmer with my oldest sister Rosemary for a few months. They arrived about the same time I did, around 3:30. Dad was all in a dither because he still had to finish his tax forms and get them mailed off before 5 PM that day, April 15th. Somehow, don’t ask me how, he got it done.

Mom looked thin and impossibly frail. My sisters led her around like a child. She smiled and smiled and claimed to know me. But she did not speak my name. And I didn’t push it. She seems to be in a peaceful place, perhaps the most peaceful since her childhood.

Then hanging around all evening with a lot of people from a lot of places. A great crowd of Waglers had assembled from various points. The Amish and the non-Amish. It was all good. A loud time was had by all.

On the day of the wedding, I heard my brother Joseph preach again. And my Dad led a song in church. One of these times will be the last for Dad. The local Bishop performed the marriage ceremony, after a rather detailed journey through the Apocryphal story of Blind Tobit and the hair-raising adventures of his son, Tobit, Jr. Who traveled through dangerous territory to court and marry an even more dangerous woman whose seven previous husbands had all been murdered on their wedding night by evil demons. I had not heard the story for many years.

In some Amish communities, they honor Tobit by painstakingly expounding on the minutest details; in some they briefly skim through the tale. And in others, they pretty much ignore it altogether. It was interesting to hear again, but in my opinion the good Bishop perhaps over expounded just a smidgen. At least for my taste. But then, no one asked for my opinion.

After all these years, I’ve finally analyzed why I have so little patience with the Tobit story at Amish weddings. It’s because that story winds up the sermon. Once it’s told, the couple is promptly married and the service is soon over. So by the time the Bishop gets around to starting it, everyone’s already been sitting for quite some time, usually two-plus hours. When the Tobit story starts, the end is in sight, and everyone stirs restlessly.

Don’t know why I’m grumbling about Tobit. The wedding was very enjoyable, from start to finish. Lots of people. Great food. Great weather.

On the day after the wedding, Saturday, a group of us drove up to the Cincinnati area and toured the Creation Museum. It was interesting, very detailed. Overall, though, mildly disappointing. Really nothing new that I hadn’t seen or heard before. It was OK once, but I wouldn’t spend the money to go through again.

And since returning from that little trip, I haven’t relaxed much. Working ten-hour days at my job, then two to three more hours every night on the computer. And emailing my editor now and then. The book’s first three chapters are in the final stages of rewriting. They are due next week. I’ll be at the computer all weekend.

Other than that, there’s not a whole lot to say about the book. Other than it’s stressful. More so than any term paper I’ve ever done in college and more than any brief ever submitted in law school. Or oral argument, for that matter. All kinds of thoughts jumble through my head. What if it’s not what they want? What if…..? Aaarrgggh..

But that’s the reason I’m turning in short segments, especially at the beginning. If I’m on the wrong track, there’s time for corrections.

A few thoughts on the passing scenes.

The little group of “dangerous” militia guys I mentioned in my last post still languish in prison. Last week a federal judge, to her credit, ordered them immediately released on bail. The thuggish Feds appealed that order to a three judge panel. So they sit, the eight misfits, rotting away, all because of words they spoke. I’ll be surprised if they ever again see any sort of freedom.

And then of course, there’s the BP oil rig that “accidentally” exploded three weeks ago. Oil has been spewing into the ocean ever since. An environmental nightmare. Right on cue for the wacko extremists to scream for a permanent ban on all offshore drilling forever. Meanwhile, a lot of other two-bit countries keep sinking wells and extracting oil at a feverish pace.

It’s all a bit too convenient, if you ask me. The accident. Better chance than not, the BP rig was sabotaged. Few things are as they seem, or as authorities claim. Neither is this, in my opinion.

Who was it? It’s anyone’s guess. Could have been “black ops” forces. Or wacko environmentalists. Maybe North Korea sent over its entire fleet, consisting of one outdated, clanking sub, and blew it up. I don’t know. But the results sure fit the political agenda of a lot of powerful people. Maybe I’m paranoid, but it just seems way too convenient. Way too convenient.

The Feds have done at least one thing right lately. They’ve honored the Simpsons with their own stamps. Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie all on one sheet. Couldn’t believe it the other day when I saw them at the Post Office. I immediately bought a sheet. Won’t use them, though. I’ll store them away in my desk. Some day they’ll be worth something.

I’ve got one major break planned this summer. On the first weekend in June, I will join last year’s group and camp inside the oval at the Pocono 500 for three days. Hopefully we’re a bit more seasoned this year, and won’t have any fires inside or outside the motor home. And hopefully our neighbors will rest easier this year. I’m sure looking forward to the trip. Slurp, slurp. I will be taking my laptop, however, and try to get some writing and editing done.

Congratulations to Mervin (my nephew) and Marlene Wagler, of Worthington, IN, on the birth of their first child. A daughter, Hosanna, born on May 4th.

All you zombies hide your faces.
All you people in the street,
All you sittin’ in high places.
The rain’s gonna’ fall on you.

Hooters, lyrics: “All you Zombies…”
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They do it every year, like clockwork. Always just before Easter. Always so utterly predictable, always in the most serious scholarly manner, and always, despite a great charade of earnestly searching for objective truth, always the same tired preordained conclusions. I don’t know why they even bother anymore.

Always, in some major magazine, the cover story. “Was Jesus real?” or some such mindless question. Or “Did Jesus really exist?” The long vacuous interviews with Rev. Dr. So-and-So, who of course graduated with honors from the Princeton Divinity School, or some similar high falutin’ place. And the good Rev. Doctor always spouts the same muddled psychobabble that passes for knowledge these days in the esteemed institutions of higher learning. The bemused expression, the ever so slightly lifted eyebrow, that one could be so obtuse as to believe that anyone, ever, had risen from the dead. Of course, he generously concedes, one can always admire the life of Jesus (while not admitting that he for sure existed) and the beautiful lessons He taught. One can glean some comfort from that. And, of course, the untaught, the unwashed, must always cling to their old outdated fables.

But what with science and all, we can now measure the age of skeletal remains right down to within half a million years. Anyone, even a pea-brain, can rest assured that no one has ever risen from the dead.

They’ve got it down to a formula. That they can harvest again and again, every year. But this year, it was different. This year, they didn’t serve up the mindless Rev. Doctors, at least, not so one would notice. This year, they went right for the jugular. Right for the perceived evil, at its source. But they weren’t concerned about the real evil. They were only concerned about tearing down an ancient enemy, an enemy that has been badly bloodied of late.

This year, they went after the Pope. In one of the most vicious coordinated secular attacks against established religion that I have ever witnessed. Day after day, for more than a week, leading up to Easter. Calls for the Pope to resign. Accusations that he had known of and covered up the terrible priest/child sex abuse scandals for decades.

The New York Times led the attack. Joined by many malcontents, including some ex-Catholics. And the entire world, it seemed, hammered savagely and relentlessly at the foundation of a venerable institution almost two thousand years old.

I’m not Catholic. Not particularly a fan of the current Pope, either. The Church has endured its scandals over the decades, centuries, and millennia. And I have issues with some of its foundational doctrines.

But I respect the institution (If any of my Bob Jones professors are reading this, just pick yourselves up off the floor). I respect the Catholic Church because it has stood like a bulwark against the shifting tides of political correctness. It has stridently called abortion what it is, murder. It has insisted on the traditional concept of marriage. And it has respect for all human life, even the lives of murderers. Although misguided in its economic philosophy, it has spoken out for the poor and the oppressed world wide.

On these issues, and others, the Church has not budged. And has made itself the target and bitter enemy of modern utopians. Secularists who are succeeding in forging the world to conform to their bleak visions. Forces that hate and despise the Church and all it for which it stands.

And this latest coordinated attack was preplanned. Long ago. To unfold during Christianity’s holiest week. To embarrass and hound, to accuse the Pope of the vilest of acts, that of covering up the abuse of innocent children.

From what I’ve read, and I have no reason to disbelieve it, the Pope, back when he was a Cardinal, worked tirelessly to bring to justice the abusive priests. And to cleanse the Church of this evil. The accusers knew this. Deliberately ignored it. And bayed for his blood.

The Church is damaged. Peggy Noonan (a practicing Catholic), in her chatty, oh so reasoned and sweet Washington Beltway narrative, thinks it will take a least a generation for the damage to be healed. I was quite irritated at Ms. Noonan a year or so ago, when she lauded Mr. Obama and criticized Sarah Palin. Quit reading her stuff for awhile. How obtuse can she get? But on this point, I think she’s right.

But the Church will endure. It has survived political intrigue and scandals off and on for almost its entire existence. We always think our current times are worse than any others, ever before. But they usually aren’t.

The Pope has not stepped down. He won’t. Viva Pope!

About the same time the Pope was viscously attacked from all sides, a poor little ragtag militia group in Michigan was surrounded and arrested by federal thugs. Eight befuddled hillbillies, staring in bewilderment at the camera.

They are being charged with seditious acts. Whatever that means. Planning to kill cops, or some such thing. Words, mostly. Which ain’t a whole lot.

It’s a farce. And it’s a sham. The little group was infiltrated by some nutcase lowlife criminal informant who was pressed into service. An agent provocateur who rabble- roused them to say and do things they would not have otherwise said or done. It was entrapment. The Feds sent in dozens of agents and spent probably a million bucks to nab them. The idea that this bedraggled little “militia” was even a remote threat to the federal government is not only ludicrous; it’s sad. And scary for all of us.

Now a federal judge has denied bail. These poor hicks are in serious trouble. They will be railroaded into plea bargains and will likely spend decades, if not the rest of their lives, in prison.

I’ve thought about it. Who would make the best next door neighbors? The “dangerous” militia guys? Or the jack booted federal thugs who arrested them? It’s not even close.

Welcome to Amerika. This is not justice. This is tyranny. It’s intimidation. A warning for all the rest of us out there. We’d better cower and keep our mouths shut. Not complain too much about government. Or they’ll come after us.

It just ain’t right. But it’s the world we live in. An increasingly dark and frightening world.

And that, my friends, is probably the last rant you’ll see from me for awhile. It was on my mind this week, during the tension of the approaching Tyndale trip. I had to write something.

On Thursday morning, after an extremely restless night, I got up at around three o’clock. Showered, dressed, threw a duffle bag and my briefcase into Big Blue and headed for the PHI airport. I hate cities and I hate airports. But for this trip, and at that hour, it was no problem.

I passed through the gauntlet of TSA thugs, er, workers, with minimal hassles. What a colossal waste of resources, our airport security apparatus. My flight took off on time, and by shortly after nine, we touched down in Chicago.

There, I was met by Susan Taylor, the editor assigned to my book. Less than forty minutes later, we arrived at Tyndale House in Carol Stream. A huge office complex, with an attached warehouse.

Susan led me to the third floor office of Carol Traver, Tyndale’s senior non fiction acquisition editor. And there she was. The lady who had made it all possible for me. It seemed like we already knew each other, having chatted on the phone numerous times. Carol then gave me an extensive tour of the Tyndale complex.

I don’t remember all their names, but I met a lot of very friendly people. All were most gracious and seemed genuinely pleased to meet me. Some few even mentioned that they read my blog. I absorbed it all. Not many get a guided tour like I was getting.

And then it was time to get to work. Carol, Susan and I set up in a conference room. For the next five hours, we worked our way through my life. From birth. They were experts at extracting memories, incidents, scenes. Carol mapped it all out on large easel paper. Picture boarding.

Outside Tyndale’s main entrance.

With Carol Traver. Whether I succeed or fail, this is the lady
who made it all possible.

With Susan Taylor, the editor who will be working with me.

It was intense. Draining. And a lot of fun. By 4:30 or so, we wrapped it up. The all important easel paper picture board was carefully folded and placed in my briefcase.

Later, they took me out to eat at a lovely little Irish pub. And then to my room at the Hampton. This morning a stretch limo, driven by a Ukrainian with a heavy accent, took me back to O’Hare and my flight out. Only the second limo ride of my life.

My flight back went right on time. Three hours ago, I walked into my home. Back again. After a whirlwind trip.

I’m exhausted. It seems surreal, everything that just came down. But it was good. I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.