A Politically Correct 2016

I must refrain from wishing you a Happy New Year. Although we are friends, I don’t really know most of you well enough to be confident that I am not offending you by wishing you a Happy New Year. In this new world of political correctness it is difficult to determine what may offend somebody in the potpourri of personalities that walk among us.

Why just today at least a half of dozen people have wished me a Happy New Year. These were people that I don’t even know…and they certainly do not know me. How do they know their heartfelt (maybe) wishes would not offend me?

How do they know that I, or anyone else for that matter, want to be Happy? Perhaps I would rather be sad, somber and low spirited. Maybe I wish for a melancholic future as the calendar changes; while the Red Hot Chili Peppers sing “Under the Bridge” to me over and over again.

New? They may not know the recipient of their well wishes is neophobic. The thought of anything new  will send shivers up the spine of the neophobe and causes beads of sweat to form on the forehead. And the thought of something as colossal as a year being new may very well send the neophobe into a spin that here-to-fore could only have been caused by global warming.

And maybe, just maybe the person you just sent your well wishes to is a monther. What is a monther you ask? Well in our new politically correct world where everyone is free to create their own moniker, syndrome or disorder—a monther is someone who does not recognize years. That is right (or politically correct anyway). Without regard to thousands of years of history, without care for what millions…no billions of others know to be true, and without a glance at one of the millions of calendars that will be printed with 2016 emblazoned across the front, the monther denies that the year ever existed. Why if I was a monther then I would be enlightened enough to recognize that in my life tomorrow just marks the beginning of January No. 58!

So we must be careful, my friends, when sending wishes to friends, family and even strangers on this eve of celebration. Without our caution, the Supreme Court may declare the perennial epigram—Happy New Year—as offensive and degrading to the few monthers that bide among the compos mentis.

An Old Christmas Story

Do you want to hear a good Christmas story? See that house over there, the red brick one with the large oak tree in the front yard? Inside that house is a young girl that has lost hope this Christmas season. Her grandmother also lives there; it is her story, her Christmas story that you should hear. See that window just to the right of the oak tree? That is the kitchen window. The girl and her grandmother are in there now. If you go stand by the tree, you will be able to hear her story. The grandmother left the window open just enough to cool the Christmas pies. You will be able to smell those also. You would think that you entered Heaven’s bakery! But you mustn’t touch. Just listen.

∞

“What do you want most for Christmas this year?” Her grandmother asked.

Carmen thought for a moment. She didn’t want to hurt her grandmother’s feelings, but Carmen already knew that this Christmas would not be like the ones of the past. Grandpa had died in the spring of the year and her grandmother had moved in with her family. Grandma living with them really wasn’t so bad—Carmen had to share a room with her little sister so that Grandma could have her own room—but her kid sister looked up to her and she kind of liked that.

In August, her father had lost his job. That was the real problem. He was working now, but not making as much money. Mom said they had fallen behind on so many bills that it would be well into the new year before they caught up. Carmen knew that having a nice Christmas was more important for her little sister, Beth. Beth was only seven years old and not old enough yet to understand things like past due bills.

Her parents had never discussed things like finances with her. They were always very careful to speak about such things only if the children were not in the room, even when things had still been good. Her dad was always saying, “Let kids be kids. No reason to make them grow up too fast.” Mom thought he was being over-protective. Dad said that was his job.

 Carmen had turned thirteen this year. She was a teenager! So when her mother had sat down to talk about this year’s Christmas, telling her how difficult it would be to surround the tree with gifts, she felt very mature. Very grown up. (And maybe just a little sad.)

Carmen thought about her grandmother’s question. The truth was—she really wasn’t looking forward to Christmas at all. If she could have anything she wanted for Christmas she would want things back the way they were. The life she had before grandpa died, before her dad lost his job. She wanted her parents to be able to answer the phone without fear that it was another bill collector calling. 
She wanted her own room back.

She didn’t say any of this to her grandmother.

“I don’t know Grandma; I haven’t really thought a lot about it.”

Her grandmother smiled, looking at her first grandchild. She admired Carmen’s long dark hair that flowed effortlessly over her shoulders. Her own hair had been like that so many years ago. Now it was short and silver, very grandmotherly-like.

“Well how about a real nice brush? Your hair is so beautiful and should be cared for with the finest of brushes.”

“That would be nice Grandma. But I have a good brush. Besides you shouldn’t be spending money on such things. Dad said we should all be saving in case the unexpected comes again.”

“Your father is just like his father. Pennywise to the core.” She said smiling. “But it is Christmas! A time for joy and putting smiles on the face of children.”

“That’s right Grandma…children. I’m not a child anymore, you know? I am thirteen, remember? Besides, I just can’t get excited about Christmas this year.”

“No! Don’t say that Carmen! Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year. Not just for the presents and Christmas music. Not even because of the decorated trees or family reunions or the wonder it brings. Every year Christmas marks a new beginning. It brings us hope for the future.” Her grandmother had walked over to the kitchen table and sat down across from her granddaughter.

“Christmas is for children. But children come in all shapes and sizes…and ages.” Her grandmother added.

“Mom said that there won’t be a lot of hope in the New Year. She said it is going to be a while before we get caught up on things. It really hasn’t been a very good year Grandma.” Carmen sighed, playing with the waffles on her plate. She didn’t feel much like eating either.

 “Your mom may be right, only time will tell. But that is not the kind of hope that I am speaking of.”

A puzzled look came over Carmen’s face.

“The hope, the true hope that I speak of, is the hope that came with the very first Christmas.” Her grandmother picked up a fork and stabbed a piece of waffle from Carmen’s plate, “Someone has to eat it.” She said smiling and plopping the morsel in her mouth.

Carmen knew what was coming next. Grandma could find a reason to talk about the Bible in just about any conversation. Every Sunday since she had moved into their house, Grandma invited the girls to come to church with her. Carmen’s Mom and Dad didn’t attend church very often, usually just at Easter and Christmas. They didn’t mind Grandma extending her invitation, but Carmen’s mother did tell Grandma it was up to the children to decide to go or not. Beth went with her grandmother every Sunday and sometimes on Wednesdays too, if she didn’t have homework. Carmen had only gone a handful of times and she had attended the Vacation Bible School over the summer…that had been lots of fun. But she didn’t really like getting up early on Sundays to go and listen to someone talk about things she didn’t really understand.

 Just as she knew she would, her grandmother began to speak—

“Do you know the story of the first Christmas, Carmen?’ She asked.

“Yes. I have heard it many times. You tell it every Christmas Grandma.” Carmen said matter-of-factly.

The tea kettle on top of the stove began to whistle its tune.

“Ah, the water is ready,” Grandma said, “Would you like some hot chocolate? It is a perfect morning for a nice warm treat.”

She didn’t wait for her granddaughter to answer; walking to the cupboard she removed two Santa mugs from the shelf and made the chocolate drink. Carmen could see the steam rising above the ceramic Santa cap.

“Marshmallows?” She asked.

“No thank you.”

The little round lady with the silver hair returned to the table and sat one hot mug in front of Carmen.

“Now tell me, what do you remember about the Christmas story?”

Carmen felt irritation trying to surface. She didn’t want to be rude or irritated towards her grandmother. All she wanted to do was to finish her breakfast and then go find her friends outside. It had snowed enough to have an epic snowball fight—boys verse girls!

“Grandma I have heard that old story so many times. It’s about a baby, his parents, no room at the inn, and about three old men bringing gifts. Blah, blah blah…”

As soon as the third “blah” left her lips Carmen regretted it.

“I’m sorry Grandma,” she said, “it’s just that the stories from the Bible are hard to understand, with all the “thee’s” and “thou’s”. I guess maybe when I am grown up I will understand them more.”

“That may be true Carmen. But did you know that old story is about children?”

Carmen’s brow crinkled with wrinkles, looking amazingly like her father deep in thought.

“I know there is a baby…”

“Actually there are two babies. Mary, the mother of Jesus had cousin named Elizabeth…”

“Just like my sister!” Carmen exclaimed.

“Yes, just like your sister. Well anyway, the angel named Gabriel appeared before Elizabeth’s husband, a man named Zacharias. Gabriel told him that his wife, Elizabeth, was going to have a baby, a baby boy. That baby would be called John.”

“I don’t remember there being a baby called John.” Carmen said.

“Well there was. But the Bible tells us his story after he is all grown up. Gabriel told Zacharias, “And many of the children of Israel shall he turn to the Lord their God.” And he did! He was called John the Baptist.”

“I do remember reading about him.” Carmen chimed. “Were there any other children in the Christmas story?”

“Oh yes!” Grandma said snatching another piece of waffle from her plate. “There was Mary.”

“Mary? Jesus’ mother, Mary?” Carmen asked.

“The very one.” Answered her grandmother.

“She wasn’t a child.”

“Oh she probably was. Historians believe she was probably just fourteen or fifteen years old. Mary was just a little older than you Carmen.”

“That is very young to be a mother, isn’t it Grandma?”

“Well things were much different then, Carmen. I do know this; God chose Mary to be the mother of Jesus, and that is all I need to know.”

“So two babies and Mary. Were there any other children, Grandma?”

“Yes indeed. But let’s not get there too fast.” She stood to get another cup of hot chocolate. From the counter she spoke—

“You remember, Carmen, Joseph and Mary had traveled to a city called Bethlehem in order to pay to Caesar his taxes. Many families had also come to the city to be counted in the census. Joseph and Mary were unable to find a room in which they could spend the night.”

“So they had to stay in a barn!” Carmen called out.”

“Yes, a barn or a stable.” Grandma replied, returning to the table with a fresh mug of hot chocolate.

“That must have been awful for them Grandma.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But it was that night, in that dirty old stable, that God chose to bring into the world a baby. A baby who would change this world forever. So in that old stable, with the animals as witnesses, Mary gave birth to a baby boy. And gently she laid him in the manger to keep him warm. And she would name him Jesus.”

“We have a nativity under the Christmas tree Grandma. It is really pretty.”

“I know, I saw it, and it is very beautiful. It reminds us of the reason we celebrate Christmas.”

“You said there were more children in the story.”

“And there were. In a field, not too far away from Bethlehem, there were shepherds watching over their sheep. They would keep watch the whole night through to make sure no uninvited beasts would harm the flock.”

“Were there children there too?” Carmen asked.

“Most of the shepherds were just young boys. From an early age they were taught by their fathers to protect the family’s flock. And on that night, more than two thousand years ago. The Angel of the Lord appeared before them. Oh, those young boys were so afraid. They had never seen such a sight.”

Carmen’s grandmother paused, sipping her chocolate, she looked out the kitchen window at the snow falling from the gray skies, each flake dancing for just a moment on the cold air before descending to the snow-covered ground.

“What did they do Grandma?”

“They listened. The angel spoke to them saying, “Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.”

“Oh my dearest granddaughter, can you imagine what a sight this must have been for those young boys. In the dark of night, an angel appears and tells them that the Christ has been born!”

“What happened next Grandma?” Carmen asked.

“Well suddenly the sky was filled with angels, heavenly hosts, singing praise to God—peace on earth and goodwill toward men.

“Do you hear the bells they’re ringing?” Carmen sang, “I know that song Grandma, we sang it in choir this year.”

“And it was wonderful.” She said.  “After the angels were gone these shepherd boys knew they must go to Bethlehem and see the baby who would be a King. So leaving their sheep, wasting not a moment, they ran to Bethlehem.”

“Did they get to see him? Did they see the baby Jesus?” Carmen was sitting on the edge of her seat.

“Well yes they did. So now Carmen, what have we seen so far in this old Christmas story?”

“What do you mean Grandma?” Carmen asked.

“Carmen, did you hear the hope?”

Carmen shook her head, “I don’t think so.”

“Well let’s see. Joseph and Mary had to leave their home…just like me. Only for different reasons, but leaving home is always difficult. You see when you leave home you leave behind those things that make memories come alive. Joseph and Mary didn’t even know where they would stay when they arrived in Bethlehem, but God made them a way. Just like he did for me.”

“Here, in our home!” Carmen said.

“And now I can make new memories! Joseph and Mary would never forget that night, I am quite sure of that.”

“Did Joseph lose his job like my Dad?”

“We don’t really know about that. Joseph and Mary had to travel all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem by foot. That’s almost eighty miles. Now during their journey, which probably took about seven or eight days, Joseph wouldn’t have been working. So that young couple would have depended on God to provide for them. Just as he did for you and your family!”

“Wow!” Carmen exclaimed.

“You see even when we go through hard times, God still provides us hope. If we believe in Him.”

“What about the shepherd boys, Grandma? What about their hope?”

“Well I didn’t finish the story now did I?” The shepherd boys traveled all the way to the City of David, Bethlehem. When the saw the baby Jesus they were so amazed.”

Her Grandma thought for a moment—looking at her grandchild.

“And when they had seen, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.”

Carmen asked, “What does that mean Grandma?”

“It means, my dear child, that they traveled everywhere telling everyone the good news—a child had been born in Bethlehem, a child which is Christ the Lord.”

Her grandmother paused again.

“It is only with hope…Christmas hope…that one could carry such a message. And it is only with belief that one can have such hope!”

Grandma stood up from the table and stretched her arms high above her head. With a little yawn and a quiet smile, she looked out the kitchen window, over the pies and to the old oak tree—

“Do you believe?”

The End

The Great Breakfast Taco Hunt

Excerpt from "The Great Breakfast Taco Hunt"

The caretaker slid a very large key into the door’s lock and turned it counter-clockwise. Joseph heard two “thumps” as the tumblers fell and watched the old man push the heavy door inward.

The room that held the library seemed to be even darker than the hallway where they stood. Joseph leaned slightly to his left to try to see around the caretaker and into the room. He thought he heard something scurry across the floor as caretaker pushed the door completely open. Joseph’s breath caught and he took a small step backwards when he heard the sound again.

Luke turned towards the boy, “Don’t be afraid, that is just little mice with big echoes.”

“It sounded pretty loud for mice.” Joseph replied.

Luke smiled, his eyes glittering under the candlelight. “This old room is like a big old cavern, it echoes all the sounds it keeps. And it keeps them all.”

Joseph looked pass the caretaker and into the library. Darkness was all his eyes could see. He waited to hear the sound again. When it did not come, the old man gestured for Joseph to wait and then turned and entered the dark room.

A full minute passed before a light came on, cutting through the darkness.

Luke was standing in the center of the large room, “Come on in Joseph. It is time for you to meet the Library.”

Joseph thought it was a strange to introduce a room as if it was a person, but it managed to get his thoughts away from the strange noises, so he slowly entered the room.

Luke was standing under the only light there was in the room. The fixture was mounted below a ceiling fan. The blades of the fan, spanning more than twelve feet, turned slowly, casting their shadows onto the high ceiling. Joseph looked up and saw the shadows dancing in a circle, turning the opposite way of the blades. Joseph knew this was impossible; it must be some kind of optical illusion.

Luke followed the boy’s gaze upward, “I never have figured that one out.” He said.

“That one? What do you mean?” Joseph asked.

“The Library has many enigmas…riddles. Some can be solved, if you scratch your head long enough. Others stubbornly wear the name mystery.” Luke paused, turning he made a complete circle, “I gave up on most of those, ‘Even the mystery that has been hid from ages and from generations.’ to quote one of my favorite authors.” He mused.

Four Hundred Nights

Four Hundred Nights

by J Hirtle

Four hundred nights have fallen since I first prayed to you

Each night with knowledge of the cancerous centaur

Growing within my core

Four hundred nights listening for your answer

Searching the worn and thinning pages of scripture

On a quest to find your promises

“Do not fear”, you said,

“For I am with you”

I searched the darkness for you

I stretched my hands

Grasping for your promises

I opened my heart

Aware of your faithfulness

Desperately setting aside fear

But Fear would not let go

Four hundred nights have carried my prayers

I tried to believe you were listening

Four hundred nights displayed the prayers of others

That you brought into my life

I wanted to believe you heard each one

I longed to know your faithfulness was present

Even when mine vanished into the blackness

You said you would “strengthen” me

Yet I am so weak

I wanted to hear you whisper in my ear

Yet I only hear the raspy cries of the centaur

With each new pain

Small or vast

He declares misgivings

Anger rises up like the phoenix

The villainous chorus sings

“Where is your God now?”

In the confines of the night

I did not know if it was my voice

Or theirs that sang these words

Night gives way to morning

The world awakens

"He is God!"

The mountains cry

  

Four hundred nights have carried your words

From the twilight they called to me

“Do not be anxious,”

“For I am your God”

With each passing moment

Your words remained true

You guided the hands of the surgeon

As they violated the centaur

You guided the care givers that administered the elixir

Along the crimson highways

Attacking that which remained of the sprawling monster

Lulling it to sleep

Until the day you call me home

And yet you knew the “We Care People”

Are measured by the gold they seek

And you made ways to satisfy their hunger

When I could not

The scriptures sing your words

“The Lord is the one that goes before you”

Make way my Lord, I cried

Let me know your faithfulness

Four hundred nights have passed

All of me exhausted

Yet through your promises

Tonight a roof remains over my head

My cupboards testify of your ministry

Four hundred nights

You remained with me

I pray now

But my words have changed

I pray now

That my faith will be as yours

Pure and true

Forever

Amen

My Bucket List

September 17 2016-
I have shared this story every year for about five years now. Each year I re-read it and maybe make an adjustment or two. This year I decided to let it remain as it was last year-I need those memories to remain fresh.

September 17, 2015
As many of you know, I was diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer last year. And although the cancer settled in a good distance from my think tank it was able to propagate haunting thoughts of a real Bucket List.

I have finished the bastardly chemo-therapy and my cancer is in remission. Evidently I am not allowed to say “cancer free”; the day I can sing those wonderful lyrics is still more than four years away. I look forward to it, but I also understand the physician’s prudence in announcing such a statement.

You see, for the cancer patient in remission there enters into our life a very mysterious companion. My companion is called Antog. This purple colored pixie resides in the imagination sector of my mind. Antog arrives during my most vulnerable moments…when I am in pain. Suffering a headache or sore muscles, maybe in the middle of the night when I suddenly awake, unable to breathe. Antog whispers quietly an unanswerable question-

“Do you think the cancer has come back?”

I don’t. Most the time I don’t. I don’t like Antog.

His whispered words have stirred up thoughts of a Bucket List. Below is the original “Bucket List”, I haven’t changed the prose and try to remember each year around this time to share it with you. If I did construct a new list, after this journey I have been on, the list would only include two new items.

The first has been achieved-to see my children become adults, to know they love Christ, to strive for success as defined by their own goals. My youngest, Joseph, is a sophomore in high school, so technically not an adult. But over the last year, standing at my side, holding me up… he has become a man.

The second item on the list? To write the great American novel. You see, I do believe in that imagination sector where Antog lives there is also a great story to be told. I will keep looking for it. In the meantime, I share with you “My Bucket List”.

My Bucket List

I turned 54 years old today. I had a thought early this morning, what if this is the last birthday I will ever have? What if 54 is all I have?

So throughout the day I pondered over my Bucket List. There wasn’t much pondering, you see I have never had a Bucket List. So the task last year on my 53rd birthday, was to create my own Bucket List.

I scratched my head and put teeth marks in the proverbial pencil as I mused over what would be number 1 on my list. Minutes then hours passed with nothing rising to the surface. So I changed strategies, I thought about the things that I have already accomplished or have been blessed with, things that may have been on a bucket list if I hadn’t already experienced them.   

Family always comes first to mind. I was born into the most incredible family 54 years ago. I still see them every week, we still talk and hug, and we laugh and cry together. We grow old together.

I have lived in the Great Northwest, the South Pacific, the east coast and the great state of Texas. I have fished for rainbows in the Russian River and went snorkeling along the Coral Reef.

I have served my country and been called a U.S. Marine.

I went to school with Mark Twain and Thomas Edison and tasted college for a short while. I have read Tolstoy, Dickens, Stephen King and the Bible.

I have eaten at the Ritz Carlton and Taco Bell, both on the same day.

I have had money in the bank and I have sold Coke bottles so I could buy a pack of smokes.

I have been high and I have been so low that all I could see was the bottom.

I have run marathons.  I have crawled across the cold floor on hands and knees, unable to stand because of pain.

I have gone from a 34 waist to a 38 waist and back to a 34 waist. (it is okay to applaud here)

My favorite teams have won the Super Bowl, and the Stanley Cup. I have watched a perfect game and caught a foul ball.

I have listened to Vivaldi, Miles Davis and ZZ Top, all in the same afternoon.

I have tasted Opus One in Napa Valley and drank a Lone Star beer with Willie Nelson while sitting in the Recovery Room.

I have seen every episode of Seinfeld at least three times.

I have fallen in love and out of love. I have made love on a beach and on a mountain top.

I have had two wives, two ex-wives and six children. (Maximized the limit on both of these!)

I was with four of my children when they took their first breath.

I was with my father when he took his last.

I have done everything I want to do... almost. At the end of the day my Bucket List only had one thing written on it… you.

I figure if you are reading these words then you and I have at least met somewhere along the way. And I don’t know if I have ever told you the story about Jesus. You see, He is the reason I made it to 54, I know without Him I never would have.

So, on my Bucket List I wrote just one thing,

      Tell someone about Jesus.

I think that someone is you, so here goes-

God loves you and me so much; He has since the very beginning of time. God can see everything from the beginning to the end; everything, every day and everybody and everything in between.

God knew that we would never love Him as He loved us, and He knew that would mean separation forever and ever.

So God sent His son down from the heavens, down to earth. We called Him Jesus, teacher, King and Messiah, and then we killed Him.

And when He died He took all of your sin and all of my sins and He paid the price for them. He paid the price of admission to an eternity with God. He did it for you and me, and He said all you have to do is believe, He would do the rest.

If you were the only one in the entire world, He still would have died for you.

Do you believe?

Thanks for listening. Thanks for helping me finish my Bucket List

One More Time

“One more time…please!”

It has been more than a decade since I heard these words from any of my children. The sun had left the sky and most of the lights in the house were turned down low. Their tiny heads rested in the arms of a pillow. The soft blankets pulled up their chins.

“One more time, Daddy, please read the story just one more time.”

I could hear fatigue in their small voice. I could see the brightness in their eyes dimming. Hiding behind their plea was a yawn waiting to escape. And yet they longed to hear the story again.

The stories were of Jack and the magical beans, or a hooded girl and her adventure to grandma’s house. Sometimes the story was about the city under the sea or a girl with golden locks. And certainly Dr. Seuss was a constant bedtime companion. So many stories demanding to be told “one more time”.

To be read.

Once upon a time we read books. Today we read posts, blogs, comments…or nothing at all. Words have been replaced by emoticons or pictures. Pages of a book…oh how I loved the smell of a brand new book…have been replaced by electronic screens. We no longer experience the crispness of new pages being turned for the first time; we no longer mark our spot with a turned dog ear or a well-worn book marker.

In the not too distant past (about six months ago now), my grandson, Logan, brought back to me the joy of reading a book to a loved one. Less than two years old, the book shelf could barely contain all the books his mother had gifted to him. The end of many hard days was eased for me when Logan would toddle over to my chair, holding a book in his tiny hands, asking in baby talk to invade my space and read him a story. An invasion I welcomed with love and joy in my heart.

But that too has all but become a memory. Logan has discovered the electronic world we now live in. A tablet has replaced the books. Videos of Choo- Choo trains or dinosaurs are now the prize he cries for. He only needs me to push the right button…something he will no doubt soon learn to do himself.

His books remain still and silent, stacked one upon another, all but forgotten.

Once upon a time we read books. Real books. Books with hard or soft covers. Books with pages containing the words of the storyteller. When the last page had been read the book earned a special place on the shelf, waiting to be read again and again.  Other books I read demanded I share them with someone else because the story was so alive that it would be sinful to place it upon a shelf.

I don’t consider myself a storyteller…not yet. It is my life’s goal to reach this level of authorship. If you look to the right you will see links that will lead you to a place where you could purchase any of my books. I promote my books through social media. Between Facebook and Twitter I have a few hundred friends. And each of you have hundreds more. So exposure to my books, although not grand, should be sufficient to reach hundreds if not thousands of readers. And yet sales of my books, combined, remains sadly in double digits.

This bothered me for some time on a personal level.  But then I began to wonder if this lack of interest extended beyond my collection. Do people read books anymore?  The possibility that the answer to this simple question was “No” bothered me even more.

Ray Bradbury, one of the best storytellers ever, told the story of a society without books, Fahrenheit 451. In his story ownership of books was outlawed; possession of a book was met by “firemen”. And although we do not live in his dystopian society, if we are not careful the end results may be the same…a world without books.

I hope you will consider reading one of my stories. If not, that is okay. But I encourage you to take trip to your local book store (before they are gone too) and hold a book in your hands. Open the pages and hear their song, inhale and enjoy the aroma. Travel to a new world, even for just a short time.

Once upon a time…

Oh to read those words….One more time.

Raised Arms

There is a short and often forgotten story found in the 17th chapter of Exodus. The people of Israel had been released from captivity after 400 years. They had crossed the Red Sea and were now wandering in the wilderness. God was not only leading them to the land of milk and honey but he was providing for them...each time they grumbled.

In the 17th chapter we see the first true adversity faced by God's chosen when they are attacked by Amalekites. Now these were bad people, no other way to describe them. In fact throughout the Bible the name Amalek is associated with sins of the flesh, our old self that seems to never go away. As an army they were cowards in their strategies. They attacked the Israelites when they were famished and weary, which may same like a sound strategy, but they revealed their cowardice ways by attacking from behind, violating the elderly and the sick. The Amalekites were an army with no backbone!

Moses called a young man called Joshua, “Choose some of our men and go out to fight the Amalekites. Tomorrow I will stand on top of the hill with the staff of God in my hands.”

Now here is the really amazing part of this story-

As the battle raged below Moses stood on the hill with his arms raised, lifting his staff towards the heavens. In this position the makeshift Israelite army successfully raised their swords against this well trained army of milksops. But Moses was an old man, and as his tired limbs lost their strength. His arms would tremble under the great strain and slowly begin their decent. The opposing army would claim the lost strength of Moses and begin again their barbaric destruction of God's children until Moses could find the strength to once again raise his arms in victory.

And now we meet two incredible men. Two warriors. But no better description can be given than to call the two men...friends of Moses. For only true friends could offer such a sacrifice.

"When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up—one on one side, one on the other—so that his hands remained steady till sunset." Exodus 17:12

Until sunset! Can you imagine this incredible sight as the two stood next to Moses, transferring their own waning strength into the arms of their friend.

The battle was one by Joshua and his clan of wanderers through the help of three men on a hill and God.

Ten months ago I began my own battle against cancer. And although cancer can certainly be a scandalous and cowardly enemy it wasn't my Amalekite. As I mentioned earlier, in the Bible the Amalekites became representative of the flesh and the ongoing battle we all face against the desires of the flesh. Most often we think of this as sin, but I believe the battle can also be plagued by our own doubts. Doubt is not a sin, even when we are doubting God. Doubt is as much a part of who we are as any other emotion or flaw.

I have tried to stand like Moses with my arms lifted towards the heavens as I fought a long battle against doubt. There were days when I felt incredible inward strength and battling doubt came easily. Yet there were many other days (and late nights) when my arms began to tremble and I felt the strength depart from them like water over great fall. Doubt would line up like a battalion and begin their slaughter of my hope.

But so many of you became my Aaron and Hur. It was your prayers, your support and words of encouragement that lifted my weakened arms, restoring to them the strength called Hope. I needed to stop and thank you all for being at my side for so long now. Thank you.

But I also needed to ask you to remain at my side for a short while longer.

Last week I had a biopsy done of two growths inside my throat. That was Thursday, and today I still have not been provided with the results of the biopsy. And Amalek has returned with his soldiers of doubt.

I have no strength left to raise my arms. The battle has been long, I am tired.

God Bless you my friends.

Shadow of Faith (cont.)

Very excited about an interview I had today with the Herald Zeitung for a featured article about my latest book-"Shadow of Faith"

Below is another excerpt-I hope you enjoy it, share it and of course buy it!

“I woke up and could hear a firefight all around me, but it sounded like it was far away. I felt something on my chest. I tried to lift my head off the ground but when I did the white started to come back. I felt dizzy and sick to my belly. I think I may have passed out again. I opened my eyes and the white was gone, but not the firefight. It sounded like thousands of rounds being spent all at the same time. I heard another explosion, another grenade. It sounded far way too but I knew it wasn’t. I finally lifted my head trying to see what was sitting on my chest. I saw a combat boot. I yelled ‘Get off me!” But the boot didn’t move.  I yelled again…nothing. I pushed him off. That’s when I found out that no one was on me…it was my leg.”

Now it was tears rolling down his cheeks but he didn’t stop talking.

“I yelled for a medic. I didn’t think anyone could hear me. The firefight was so damn loud.”

He looked at Timmy apologetically.

“Then I heard footsteps and saw 1^st Sergeant Goode kneeling next to me. He was holding his helmet on with one hand and digging into my pack with the other. He grabbed a large bandage and placed it on my leg. Then he had two hands on me, holding back the blood. He looked at me and told me I was going to be okay. I didn’t believe him; I thought I was going to die right there on the ground. I told him I was afraid to die. He told me that I wasn’t going to die. The he asked me if I knew Jesus Christ. I told him yes. I’ve known Jesus for a long time. My mother told me about Him when I was just little boy. When I was fourteen I was baptized after accepting Him as my Savior. But I couldn’t think about that. I kept seeing the boot on my chest, knowing that it wasn’t supposed to be there. I saw the blood on your husband’s hands, too much blood, and knew it was mine. He told me to follow my faith, to know that God was going to protect me.”

He paused a long time, wiping the tears away with back of his hand....

Shadow of Faith to get your copy now.

The Day that Marriage Died

In the beginning God’s hand held the brush that painted upon His canvas a beautiful creation called marriage. Since the foundation of this place we call earth God’s design for marriage was that of one man and one woman. In the time that Jesus Christ walked upon this earth He said, “Have you not read that He who made them at the beginning , made them male and female, and said, “For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.”

Today the Supreme Court of our land threw their caustic paint, derived from their words, upon the canvas of God. The corrosion of their collective thoughts brought death to the Creator’s design. These men of justice pounded at this sacred union until all of her breath was exhausted. Death came upon marriage in a way that is cruel and unjustified. May she forever rest in peace.

Some may say that marriage was already corroding due to an embarrassing divorce rate. And to you I would agree to a degree. The Bible has much to say concerning divorce. Even our Savior, Jesus Christ spoke on this matter; “But I say to you that whoever divorces his wife for any reason except sexual immorality causes her to commit adultery; and whoever marries a woman who is divorced commits adultery.”  God made this provision for divorce because He knew that if sin (adultery) was to penetrate the bond of marriage that darkness would set in. And further sin would be born out of this first sin. Trust would be challenged. Retaliation would be considered. Hatred would be revealed in words that should never be spoken inside the circle of marriage.

“For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.” And from this union families would be born. Babies would come into this world with a mother and a father. Two women, united can never provide that which a father provides. Two men together can never provide that which a mother provides.

We look at the single parent families today and concern for the children is a natural response. We often witness the degradation of our children that are raised by one parent. Sadness prevails when we witness the efforts of one to try to accomplish a task that was designed for two. Two women together will always be absent of a fundamental need. Two men together will suffer likewise. Ultimately this suffering will be experienced unnecessarily by innocent children.

Those that today celebrate the high court’s decision may never understand the implications that will be born out of this travesty. Instead they will rush to stand in line to receive their own license to marry. And all the while they are still a small minority. Today the minority has ruled, and yet you are still a minority. A position made by your own choice. When you choice to go against the norm, to step away from what the majority considers moral, consequences will accompany your decision. Because you live in this once great nation you can make those choices. The needle of our moral compass should not be broken by a minority of citizens. Go the way you want to go but live with the consequence. The definition of marriage before today was that of one man and one woman, could you not honor our belief in the same way that we believed you have the right to choose?

Marriage died today. May she forever rest in peace.

God did not die today…nor will He ever.

I believe God looked down from the heavens today and saw the inhumanity of his creation in all its glory. There was a time when God would take vengeance on mankind for destroying His creation. But He doesn’t do that today.

No, today He looked down upon what was once a great nation, and through His tears He said,

“I love you still.”

I wonder who will wipe His tears?

Shadow of Faith

Below is an excerpt from "Shadow of Faith". I hope it raises your curiosity to a level where you will want more. I have included a link to the e-book at the bottom of this post. Please consider purchasing a copy and sharing this post with your friends. A review from you on Amazon will be icing on the cake! Thank you for reading my thoughts...

“You know I thought I saw an angel once. I was so frickin high that the angel began to change. You know like a Transformer. And then I thought it was God’s face I was seeing. It scared me, man. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life. I thought God was going to kill me right there in the alley. He was going to kill me because I was stealing and getting annihilated all the time. I was ate up man, God’s face was right there. I could have reached out and touched it, but I thought my hand would frickin burn off or something. I knew I was bent bad, somewhere inside my head I heard my own voice telling me that it ain’t real man, you’re just screwed up. But I was scared, seeing God’s face was freaky, man. I started crying like a little baby. And then I started to scream. I squeezed my eyes shut, screaming for the face of God to go away. When I opened my eyes again the face was gone. But in its place was the face of Trapper Jack. He was so close I could feel his hot breath on my cheeks. It smelled like butterscotch. I looked into his eyes and knew that he was coked up. I also knew that he was pissed. I owed him a lot of jack for some of the crap I had bought from him. But I had been hiding from him because I blew the profits on buying more shit for me. Man, I couldn’t help it, I need to be high, I needed to go numb. Trapper Jack stood up and I saw his foot heading right for my man parts. He kicked me hard over and over. I thought I was going to die again right there in the alley. I was crying again. Suddenly the kicking stopped. I looked up and Trapper Jack was gone. From out of the darkness appeared three of his boys. They picked up where Trapper left off. I didn’t know I could sober up that fast. I started counting the hits. I was hoping that by counting I wouldn’t feel them. It didn’t work. I blacked out. When I woke up I was in the County Hospital emergency room. That was cool…I knew they had drugs.”

I sat there looking at Michael. I didn’t know what to say.

Chelsea was crying.

Shadow of Faith and other short stories

Whose Battle Is This?

Whose Battle Is This?

I sit here today in the waiting room of the Cancer Care Center of South Texas, waiting for them to call my name. Today will be treatment number 10 of 12. The room is filled with people who are sick. People who are facing the same enemy I face. It is already twenty minutes past my appointed time to see the doctor before beginning the 3 day long treatment. I don’t blame the delay on the doctors or the staff. There was a time that I would have, but not anymore. I blame it on the enemy. I blame it on cancer.

So many are here today. Some of their faces I have come to know. But every week there are new faces. I hear their names being called yet I do not know them. I don’t know their story or their cancer. I just know they are in the same prison camp that I am in.

On the small table beside my chair are magazines. Some of them want to tell me about which movie star is rising, or perhaps has fallen. Other magazines have pictures of healthy food on the cover. I didn't see any sports magazines after traveling to the bottom of this mountain of periodicals.

I placed them back neatly; the cover of one small digest caught my eye. There was a picture of an attractive woman. Next to her, printed in over-sized Arial font were the words “My Battle with Cancer”. In the cover picture she looked very healthy…good for her. In contrast to the faces sitting in this room she looked very, very healthy. I didn't read her story; her picture was enough to know the familiar tale.

But her portrait and the title, “My Battle with Cancer” slowly began to form a picture in my own mind. I added to this cerebral canvas the faces of all the people who occupied this waiting room with me. As the image formed, comprised of swirling dark grays, brilliant whites, the borders tinged in amber, I saw red begin to appear. The red pixels ran together like children on a playground, forming the words—

“Whose Battle is this?”

My inner voice, the other Jim (also known as The Pragmatic One”) whispered—

“It is not yours.”

He was correct.

This battle with colon cancer began more than nine months ago with a call from my doctor confirming tests results. The battle began with his phone call. At that moment, when the trumpets blasted the apocalyptic battle cry, I was cuffed and became a prisoner of this battle. The chains would prevent me from fighting a battle that was being waged against my very soul.

What could I do? What did I do?

I obediently followed the doctors’ instructions. Instructions that included submitting my body to the surgeon’s knife, lying quietly as test after test probed my body, sitting for hours upon hours as the chemotherapy drugs raced through the veins of my inflicted body. And I prayed.

All of these actions were done from a prostrated, sitting or kneeling potion. Not the fighting stance of a warrior.

“Whose Battle is this?”

I have come to realize that this battle has been fought by you.

I have sat patiently as a prisoner of my captor…you have fought valiantly.

The” you” is plural.

My team of warriors is led by my daughter, Sara Rose and my son, Joseph Tyler. They have been by my side from the beginning. They have helped and supported me. They have endured with me the pain and moods that are a direct result of the chemo treatments. They have adjusted their own lives to deal with my loss of appetite caused by drugs and constant mouth sores. They have waited when I had not the strength to move. They have rejected the thought of a future without their Dad.

Included in this first but small platoon is my almost two year old grandson, Logan James. He doesn't understand the battle. He doesn't even know that one is raging. Yet he always seems to know when Grandpa needs a hug. He has also learned not to pull on the tubes that extrude from my chest. A young unknowing warrior.

The second platoon (2^nd by numbers only) is the people that make up the “Hirtle Family”. My mother, my sisters, my brother, my son and his family, my daughters and their families, nieces, nephews, grandnieces and grandnephews, cousins…they have all stood by me, supported me, prayed with me, fought for me. They are mighty warriors.

A third platoon is comprised of many friends and fellow workers who, from even great distances, have offered support in every conceivable manner. Their words, written and verbally, have offered encouragement, sentiments, love and kindness. They have reached into their own pockets and helped financially for something they have no claim or stake in. They are magnificent champions.

And I cannot forget the medical staff. Although it seems at times that they are aiding the enemy in their efforts as they pump the cancer killing chemicals into my system, I know better. It is not only their professional efforts that fight this battle, but it is also the care and concern they show every week. It is their motivational words of encouragement that are seamlessly delivered each and every time I see them. They are on the front line, providing the weapons, spending hours upon hours by my side as I crumble away, putting the pieces back together. They are super soldiers.

“Whose Battle is this?”

It has been yours. And I can only say “Thank you. “

I wish it was over. I wish I could send the warriors home.

Two more treatments. Two more skirmishes. I still need you.

I learned a new word today—thrombocytopenia. Learned it, can’t say it.

It means my blood platelets are decreasing. Last week my white blood cell count was also decreasing. 

What does all this mean? I don’t know.

 I don’t care.

I don’t care because I know that God and warriors are on my side. You are the warrior.

I love you and I thank you.

See you on V-day.

Time to set aside your fear...almost.

An open letter to all minorities.

It is time to end your paranoia and set aside your fears...almost.

With your indulgence I will begin with the "almost".

There is no doubt in my mind that there is today a splinter group of race-haters. These wretched bodies have been around for hundreds of years (sadly and with shame I acknowledge they were not always small in number), I am sadden to admit that they are still upright breathing today.

These race haters are nothing more than cowards. Individually they hide their distorted beliefs. Collectively they meet in small, smoked-filled, darkened rooms congratulating each other on their hatred towards you. They exchange lies and off-color jokes. They are cowards.

They do not gain strength to momentarily escape their cowardice until a happening like that which occurred this week in Baltimore. But even then they can only penetrate their weakling's overcoat under guise. They are their among you, pretending to be on your side by coaxing you into destroying your own neighborhood. They shout slurs at the "white man" will encouraging you to devastate the innocent victims that yesterday were a part of your community.

They are race haters. They are cowards. They are the true minority.

It is time to end your paranoia and to set aside your fears. You see my friend, the majority of the white race does not hold prejudices against you. We recognize our past and embrace our future because we have learned from men like Martin Luther King and Nelson Mandela. We listened when women like Harriet Tubman and Lena Horne spoke aloud. We watched as Rosa Parks showed the world what courage truly looks like.

We do not hold prejudices against any minority, because of a common bond that weaves it way through our own belief structure...a belief in God. A God who created all, white, black, brown, red or yellow. God did so with love, without separation and without prejudice. We follow God in our everyday life, striving each moment to be more like Him.

We see you as a people. We are not and never should be a color-blind society. Your skin color is a part of who you are, just as my own skin color is part of me. It is your heritage. It is mine. If we put blinders on to color then we will forget the past and will be doomed to repeat it. God forbid!

We do not hate, because we love. We love because God loves.

I will end this letter with the words of Martin Luther King. Words that should ring out in Baltimore and across our nation tonight-

"Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice, Justice at it best is correcting everything that stands against love."

Cowards have no power. Cowards stand against love.

 Set aside your fears, end your paranoia.

You are us. We are you.

Praise God.

LGBT-It is non that simple.

I am compelled to take a brief respite from working on my novel and even dealing with the effects of going through chemotherapy. Admittedly the former is much easier than the latter.

The aspiration behind this brief respite is the attention that the LGBT community is getting and my own concerns about what all this will mean one day.

Very soon the Supreme Court of this great land we call home will perhaps change the very design of God.

The design I refer to is of course the marriage between one man and one woman. This was and is the design of the Creator, God.

Those that know me also know that I am a Bible believing, evangelical Christian. In the past, I guess recent past would be more accurate, I have been mostly silent on the subject of rights or equality for those who wear the tee-shirt of LGBT. And there has been a reason for my uncharacteristic silence.

I didn't know what to say.

Well, you know that is not completely true. I knew what I should say, but refrained from doing so out of compassion and love for the people I know that wear that tee-shirt. What I should say is grounded in my faith and complete belief in what God has taught us all through Scripture.

As it turns out...it is not that simple.

It would be simple for me to take this platform and quote scriptures that hide no truth about the perfect designs of God. I could quote scripture that tells us that God declares the lifestyle of homosexuality as sin. If I were to do so, I could add that all have sinned and fell short of the glory of God, but to continue is sin, with the knowledge that it is sin, is grounds to reconsider our faith and our relationship with Jesus Christ.

I could also move out of scripture and into the beginnings of this great nation. A nation whose founders recognized that marriage is of one man and one woman. Their recognition of this truth comes from their own belief in a Creator. Today, intertwined within all the scuttlebutt is still the strong belief that marriage is a sacred commitment between man and woman. Now you may read statistics that say differently, after all it is extremely easy to spin numbers into any court you would like, but you will find that a majority, greater than 50%, still believe that to redefine the essence of marriage is wrong.

I will pause here to ask you a question-

"Why do a great majority believe that polygamy is wrong. Wrong to the degree that laws of the land prohibit it?"

The polygamist stands under the same banner of freedom that you and I stand under. They are equal in every way that we are. They love, they live, they bleed, all in the same way we do.

And yet the majority ruled...marriage to more than one is wrong.

For that matter, why do we have laws that govern the legal age one can marry?

You see, it is not that simple.

For a moment I must return to the teachings of God.

Jesus Christ, our Savior, did not encounter a homosexual during His ministry; at least the Bible doesn't record such an incident. Nor did Jesus speak about homosexuality outside of the context of all sexually immoral behavior. But neither did He speak about rape, incest, child molestation or domestic abuse. And yet we find these deplorable and would never consider the perpetrator of such behavior as an equal with the same freedoms of noble seeking citizens.

But you see, Jesus is God. The same God that declared in the Old Testament that homosexuality is unlawful...a sin. When I hear people say that Jesus didn't say anything about homosexuality, and that somehow negates this sin, they do not understand who Jesus was and is.

Not simple?

I don't know.

When I think of how Jesus would have behaved or reacted if He did cross paths with a homosexual, I can only imagine that He would have acted no differently than when He crossed paths with adulterers, thieves, betrayers...

It was always with love and truth.

Simple?

"Follow me." 

Simple words written in red.