Okay, gang. I goofed.
The real interview time at 88.9 Joy FM is tomorrow (Thursday, March 8) from 7:00AM until 8:00AM, if you want to listen. You can also get it streaming, live, here. Naomi Cantrell will be interviewing me about Outlander Chronicles: Phoenix.
Another author-event is coming up on Saturday, March 24. I will be signing copies of Outlander Chronicles: Phoenix at the Bread of Life Bookstore in Greenville, from 10:30 AM until 12:30 PM.
I've never done this sort of thing before, and haven't a clue. Come on out and say, 'hi!'
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Saturday, February 25, 2012
The Washing Machine and I, Part 2
When we last visited our little mechanical hero, it was spilling its guts all over the laundry room floor. You can read about that little adventure here. A little plumbing work, and we were back in action.
Alas, it's time for a new adventure. One wonders why adventures can't be in, like, Colorado, instead of in my basement. 'Tis a fallen world. . . .
Anyway, a couple of months ago Doris began complaining that the clothes in the washer were sometimes still wringing wet at the end of the wash cycle. Apparently, the washer was not spinning. It was agitating (quite agitating, in fact), pumping, but not always spinning. Sometimes it would, sometimes it wouldn't.
I figured it must be a cycle of the moon, or maybe just high tide. Surely it would correct itself soon. You remember from the last article my chief maintenance tactic: ignore it and maybe it will go away.
It didn't. In fact, eventually it stopped spinning at all, which precipitated a minor crisis. The crisis was not the washer, it was the laundry; we were both running out of clean-- never mind, you really don't want to know.
Here is the evidence, artfully arranged so as to hide any, ah, indelicate items.
Oh, look, there's a Bronco's sweatshirt on top! How on earth did that get there?
[Doris tells me that we're the only family in Greenville that puts their dirty laundry on the Internet.]
Alas, it's time for a new adventure. One wonders why adventures can't be in, like, Colorado, instead of in my basement. 'Tis a fallen world. . . .
Anyway, a couple of months ago Doris began complaining that the clothes in the washer were sometimes still wringing wet at the end of the wash cycle. Apparently, the washer was not spinning. It was agitating (quite agitating, in fact), pumping, but not always spinning. Sometimes it would, sometimes it wouldn't.
It didn't. In fact, eventually it stopped spinning at all, which precipitated a minor crisis. The crisis was not the washer, it was the laundry; we were both running out of clean-- never mind, you really don't want to know.
Here is the evidence, artfully arranged so as to hide any, ah, indelicate items.
Oh, look, there's a Bronco's sweatshirt on top! How on earth did that get there?
[Doris tells me that we're the only family in Greenville that puts their dirty laundry on the Internet.]
Okay, so last week I began to think about fixing the problem as obviously the tidal calendar had not helped. You can find anything on the Internet, and I found a very helpful site that was able to identify the problem. It was the clutch. Did you know that your washing machine has a clutch? And a transmission? Everything but a driver, in fact.
I ordered the clutch, and yesterday it came in. Just in time, too, as we had also run out of clean. . . oh, never mind.
Did you notice the very helpful instructions? Can anyone translate, what, French? What happened to good old Spanish? Why French? Of course, I can't read Spanish either, but at least I would feel more at home. This is America, after all. Right?
Thankfully, there was a video on the web site, and soon I was delving into the bowels of my washer.
This thingamabob has to come out first. . .
followed by the whatsit. . .
Next up was fifteen minutes of very spiritual meditation. . .
My thoughts included such epistemological twisters as:
- How did I get myself into this?
- How will I ever get this back together?
- Maybe it's time for a new washer?
- I need to teach Doris everything I know so she can do this. Let's see, that would be righty-tighty, lefty-loosey.
- Is it too late to repent?
- Wonder if Larry Addis knows how to fix washers?
- Dirty clothes really aren't that bad.
Thankfully, I finally remembered the video on the web, and took a refresher course. I pulled the bad clutch. . .
and then installed the new one, and viola! The washer works again. Dor's already done several loads of laundry, and that thing spins like a politician in an election cycle. Not bad, not bad at all.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Help Indie Authors!
Indie
authors do not have someone managing their book’s publicity plan or
marketing. We don’t have the support of an organization getting our
novels in front of retailers who will carry them in their store. Other
than what marketing efforts we can cobble together on our own, we
have only one source of publicity that can encourage others to buy
our books, and that’s you, our readers.
Your word-of-mouth recommendation, your Facebook comment, your tweet, your Amazon or Goodreads review is likely the only way an unknown author will get the word out about his or her book.
Let me hasten to admit that the reader is certainly under no obligation here. If you don’t like the tale, or if the editing was sloppy, the cover or packaging amateurish, then by all means, don’t encourage someone else to read it. The last thing the independent publishing movement needs are products that fall short of genuine quality.
Even if you think the product is the best work since Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress or Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, you still aren’t obligated. Art doesn’t create a debt or obligation on the part of the viewer. You’re free to enjoy it and walk away.
But if you find a tale you like, and you’d like to read more by that author, give him or her a hand by letting your friends and loved ones know where they can get a good story. Post a review, send a few emails, tell a few friends. Once the word gets out, a good story will sell itself; but getting the word out is the challenge.
Your word-of-mouth recommendation, your Facebook comment, your tweet, your Amazon or Goodreads review is likely the only way an unknown author will get the word out about his or her book.
Let me hasten to admit that the reader is certainly under no obligation here. If you don’t like the tale, or if the editing was sloppy, the cover or packaging amateurish, then by all means, don’t encourage someone else to read it. The last thing the independent publishing movement needs are products that fall short of genuine quality.
Even if you think the product is the best work since Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress or Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, you still aren’t obligated. Art doesn’t create a debt or obligation on the part of the viewer. You’re free to enjoy it and walk away.
But if you find a tale you like, and you’d like to read more by that author, give him or her a hand by letting your friends and loved ones know where they can get a good story. Post a review, send a few emails, tell a few friends. Once the word gets out, a good story will sell itself; but getting the word out is the challenge.
Monday, February 20, 2012
An excerpt of Falcon Down is available!
A brief excerpt of my current novel-in-progress is available. You can find it on my website, or simply by going here.
This tale is very different from Outlander Chronicles: Phoenix. The Falcon books are a series of military/espionage thrillers set in the Cold War around 1986. Most of the action in Falcon Down takes place in Siberia. The preliminary "hook" for the series is this:
An unusual piece of trivia about the Falcon series is that the first book is the last one to be written. The latter portion is already complete (though in need of some re-writing before release). If, as I am considering at the moment, I divide the already-written second novel into three pieces (it is a rather long, three-part story), then the final three books of the series are finished (except for the final re-write, as mentioned earlier).
Falcon Rising, the second book in the series, takes place largely in Alaska, though the action moves around from Washington D.C., to southern California, and Seattle.
Preliminary titles for the final two books are Falcon Caged and Falcon's Revenge.
BFC folks: If you are curious about this series, talk to Carol Williams; she has actually read the completed [second] novel, only under a different title.
Now you BFCers know what I do with my Mondays. . . .
This tale is very different from Outlander Chronicles: Phoenix. The Falcon books are a series of military/espionage thrillers set in the Cold War around 1986. Most of the action in Falcon Down takes place in Siberia. The preliminary "hook" for the series is this:
After USAF Major Jacob Kelly disappears over the Bering Sea in an F-16 during a test flight, the Accident Investigation Board concludes it was a case of pilot error. Kelly’s service record receives its final update: “missing and presumed dead.” There are some, however, who know differently, including the Soviet intelligence officer assigned to interrogate Kelly. . . .
An unusual piece of trivia about the Falcon series is that the first book is the last one to be written. The latter portion is already complete (though in need of some re-writing before release). If, as I am considering at the moment, I divide the already-written second novel into three pieces (it is a rather long, three-part story), then the final three books of the series are finished (except for the final re-write, as mentioned earlier).
Falcon Rising, the second book in the series, takes place largely in Alaska, though the action moves around from Washington D.C., to southern California, and Seattle.
Preliminary titles for the final two books are Falcon Caged and Falcon's Revenge.
BFC folks: If you are curious about this series, talk to Carol Williams; she has actually read the completed [second] novel, only under a different title.
Now you BFCers know what I do with my Mondays. . . .
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Any of your antagonists named, 'Sennacherib?'
Ran across something interesting the other day while reading my Bible. You can find it in 2 Chronicles 31:20-32:1. See if you see the same thing I did:
Hezekiah accumulated a long list of faithful works for the name of his God. And God repays him by sending Sennacherib, his antagonist, the enemy of Israel. It seems so wrong, doesn't it? By our notion of justice, God should be sending boatloads of blessing on Hezekiah. Instead He sends boatloads of Assyrians. Definitely not the same thing.
But why? We aren't told why. Do you need to know why? Does God need to explain to you and I why He does what He does? Or does He get to be the sovereign of the Universe in our little lives, and do what He deems best for His own purposes?
Is God still good when I (or you) suffer for humanly inexplicable purposes? That's a question only faith can answer properly.
My faith is challenged when after a long period of obedience and submission to His will, God sends Sennacherib. Greatly challenged. But maybe that's the point. Maybe it's a new invitation to faith in God's faithfulness, His goodness, and His ultimate good purposes.
Maybe it is an invitation to faith in His Son Jesus, who after a lifetime of obedience to God was hung on the cross in a bloody, awful death.
The writer of Hebrews says that we should fix our eyes on Jesus, "the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross. . . " (Heb 12:2, NASB)
The difference between faith and stoic suffering is found in one word: hope. In the former, you know you're in the hands of a God who loves you, and is doing what is best.You know the story does not end on the cross, but continues through the door of the empty tomb. In the latter, in stoic suffering, you're trapped in the gears of the unfeeling, impersonal cosmic machine, grinding out an inexorable, and quite meaningless, end.
I'll take hope, thank you. And I can, because Jesus endured the cross for me.
Know anybody named Sennacherib?
Thus Hezekiah did throughout all Judah; and he did what was good, right and true before the Lord his God.
Every work which he began in the service of the house of God in law and in commandment, seeking his God, he did with all his heart and prospered.
After all these acts of faithfulness Sennacherib king of Assyria came and invaded Judah and beseiged the fortified cities, and thought to break into them for himself. [NASB]Do you see it? It's right there in front of you. If you've missed it, read the text again. "After all these acts of faithfulness Sennacherib. . . " There it is.
Hezekiah accumulated a long list of faithful works for the name of his God. And God repays him by sending Sennacherib, his antagonist, the enemy of Israel. It seems so wrong, doesn't it? By our notion of justice, God should be sending boatloads of blessing on Hezekiah. Instead He sends boatloads of Assyrians. Definitely not the same thing.
But why? We aren't told why. Do you need to know why? Does God need to explain to you and I why He does what He does? Or does He get to be the sovereign of the Universe in our little lives, and do what He deems best for His own purposes?
Is God still good when I (or you) suffer for humanly inexplicable purposes? That's a question only faith can answer properly.
My faith is challenged when after a long period of obedience and submission to His will, God sends Sennacherib. Greatly challenged. But maybe that's the point. Maybe it's a new invitation to faith in God's faithfulness, His goodness, and His ultimate good purposes.
Maybe it is an invitation to faith in His Son Jesus, who after a lifetime of obedience to God was hung on the cross in a bloody, awful death.
The writer of Hebrews says that we should fix our eyes on Jesus, "the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross. . . " (Heb 12:2, NASB)
The difference between faith and stoic suffering is found in one word: hope. In the former, you know you're in the hands of a God who loves you, and is doing what is best.You know the story does not end on the cross, but continues through the door of the empty tomb. In the latter, in stoic suffering, you're trapped in the gears of the unfeeling, impersonal cosmic machine, grinding out an inexorable, and quite meaningless, end.
I'll take hope, thank you. And I can, because Jesus endured the cross for me.
Know anybody named Sennacherib?
Monday, February 6, 2012
My website is moving...
Within 24 hours, www.chcobb.com will no longer bring you here.
My blog will continue to be available here at chcobb.blogspot.com, including new posts.
However, I am creating a website at www.chcobb.com, and www.doorwaypress.com to support my writing efforts. You will always be able to access this blog through the Bible Fellowship Church website.
Hope this does not cause too many problems!
My blog will continue to be available here at chcobb.blogspot.com, including new posts.
However, I am creating a website at www.chcobb.com, and www.doorwaypress.com to support my writing efforts. You will always be able to access this blog through the Bible Fellowship Church website.
Hope this does not cause too many problems!
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Science, and the appearance of age
Okay, I am giving up on the promised
spirit of inquiry/rebellion series. It’s created a writer’s
block, and it’s clogging up the pipes. I’m leaving it and moving
on.
[If you know me, you know that what
really happened is
that I forgot what I was going to say and simply can’t
remember it. But I have to save face, somehow, so the writer’s-block
dodge. Thankfully, most of you probably don’t know me, so you won’t
know what really
happened to my promised-but-non-existent short series on the spirit
of inquiry/rebellion.]
What is the primary argument
of those who do not believe the Creation and fall account of Genesis
1-3, but who do claim to be believers? It is not the so-called
“figurative language” of Genesis 1-3. Believe me, the “figurative
language” does not miraculously appear until science backs you into
a corner. There’s not much more straight-forward narrative in
Scripture than that of the first three chapters of Genesis. So what
is the primary argument of believing unbelievers?
The science does not support the
Genesis account of creation.
Please forgive me if I am unimpressed
with this argument. It is the ultimate ‘well, duh!’ of the
creation debate. Of course science doesn’t support the Genesis account, and what’s more, it
never will! Science is not competent to pass
judgment on the supernatural intervention of God, and whatever else
the creation event might be, it is certainly that. One can not go
from nothing—no matter, no
space, no time, no dimensions—to something (space, matter, time)
without a little divine assistance. And science by definition does
not do divine
assistance.
God’s
intervention in space and time is not predictable, not repeatable,
and not falsifiable. Never was, never will be. You can not use
science to determine the age of the universe, because you are off the
rails of science when you go there. A creation event stands in the way, one that science is incapable of detecting.
Unless, of course, matter is
eternal and God is not. But if you believe that
you can no longer truly claim a belief in the God of the Bible.
But what about the many features of
the cosmos that demand eons of time, such as radiometric dating,
light from distant stars, and the geologic column?
What
about them? As believers, we clearly have two options: scientists are
making assumptions about natural processes that are inaccurate, or at least, incomplete,
and/or God created with the appearance of age.
God creating with the appearance of
age? That’s silly! That’s special pleading!
Oh,
really? Silly, is it? Let's see how this works. If you were creating Adam, would you create him
as a newly fertilized embryo, or as a fully functioning adult? Oh,
wait, if you made him as an embryo he would need a womb in which to
develop. Oh, wait, if you need a womb, you need to create a sexually
mature woman. So even if you don’t create Adam with the appearance
of age (Adam is an embryo), you must create something else which will
necessitate the appearance of age (an adult female—his momma). So
you either create Adam with the appearance of age, or you have to
create his momma with the appearance of age, or you have to drop the
entire notion of creation and just admit that matter is eternal and
God is not.
If you
try to say that, well, God specially guided evolutionary
events, including the development of the cell, all you have done is
remand the problem to an earlier point in time, but you still ultimately wind
up with precisely the same problem (especially regarding the
mysterious bridge from the inanimate to the animate). You are still going to wind up with an appearance of age issue.
The
point is that any special creation whatsoever, at the
origin of life, will necessarily involve the appearance of age, even
if it is on a simple cellular level.
No freshly created matter, organic or inorganic, at the point of
creation is going to look like
freshly created matter. Rather, it is always going
to appear as though it has a past, so unless you want to make the
claim that God created nothing in order to get the current something,
you are going to bump into the appearance of age
problem.
This is even true in inorganics. For
instance, suppose God creates any particle that has motion. We’ll
call the time of creation n.
Let’s suppose you were an observer who came on the scene an instant
after creation, maybe at time n + 1.
You could measure that particle’s motion and then predict with
certainty its location at time n + 2.
You could likewise predict with certainty that particle’s location
at time n – 5. You’d
be wrong, of course, and never know it. You would not know that the
particle did not exist
at time n – 5. Why?
Because the very regularity of its motion gives it the appearance of
age and erases any evidence of a beginning point.
Move
with me from a philosophical argument to a historical one. Did Jesus
feed multitudes from five loaves of bread? He did, in Luke 9. What
was required to feed five thousand people bread and fish? Answer?
Lots and lots of bread and fish. But He had only five loaves and two
fish. So what did he do? He obviously was creating bread and fish as
He handed it out. But wait! Bread has a history!
Well, so do fish, for that matter, but we’ll ignore them and
concentrate on the bread.
Where
does bread come from? Krogers, right? A bakery, right? So you have to
bake bread. It takes—wait for it—time
to bake bread. And the bread has to be made from dough. Where do you
get dough? Flour, yeast, and mysterious things only my wife
understands (I don’t cook, sorry). Where do you get flour from?
It’s ground-up wheat. It takes—wait for it—time
to grind up wheat. And where do you get wheat from? Well, you have to
plant a crop, and—wait for it—wait
for that crop to grow over an entire growing season. More time.
Do you see the point? We
already know that many of Jesus’ miracles in the Gospels have
the appearance of elapsed time, or age.
So
unless you plan on throwing out Jesus’ miracles in the Gospels
while you are trashing Genesis 1-3, you are going to have to admit
that God has a clearly seen track record of making things
with the appearance of age.
And
once you admit that, the only problem with the Genesis account is
your refusal to believe it.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Cat tales
Had an encounter today with a cat.
Wait, before I tell you about the cat, let me get a guilty thought off my chest. Some of you may be wondering, "where are the posts on the 'spirit of rebellion/spirit of inquiry' you were babbling about?"
Well, one of them is in my drafts folder, waiting to get refined. Probably happen in the next couple of days, then posted. I write better when riled. Actually, that's not quite accurate. I am more motivated to write when riled. And I'm not riled at the moment. Probably ought to pick up a copy of Christianity Today, or some such, and get good and steamed, then sit down at my computer. Whatever.
Back to the cat. There is [was] a cat hanging around that's a dead ringer for Ivy (Lauri's cat). Beautiful green eyes. Beautiful two-tone grey and white fur. She's a momma cat, or at least about to be a momma cat, very, very soon [news flash: Ivy herself is not about to be a momma cat nor will she ever be, so the similarity ends there].
This cat's been hanging around our yard. We discovered that she has discovered our uncovered window-well, where the dryer vents. It's under our eaves, never gets wet, sometimes gets warm (when the dryer is running).
Our temperatures have been frigid lately, and we've been worried about momma cat. She curls into a tight little ball in that window-well, and shivers and crys, and well, it just gets to you. We can see her from inside the laundry room, through the window in the window-well.
So my wife, my animal-disliking wife, my I-don't-like-cats wife, came to me a few days ago with the old bathroom rug in her hands, and instructs me to put it at the bottom of the window-well for momma cat (I'm gonna name her Holly. Get it? The Holly and the Ivy? Get it? Never mind.) (Oh, by the way, it's the cat I am referring to. My wife is Doris.)
My wife comes and says, 'Put this in the window-well so she won't be so cold.'
I says, 'You feeling okay, babe? Are you all right?'
So I put it at the bottom of the window-well, made it a little more cozy for Holly (it's hard to consider 12 degrees cozy, but at least it's 12 degrees while on a bathroom rug).
Last night it was snowing hard, and Dor and I stood down in the laundry room in the basement watching the cat through the window. Dor says, 'Isn't there anything else we can do for her?'
I says, 'Maybe we can put an old blanket out there for her,' fully expecting that Dor would not want to go to that extent. Once that blanket goes in the window-well, it's never coming back in the house.
She says, 'Okay. How about that old pink and white one?'
Knock me down with a feather. Are my ears deceiving me?
So I clump outside into the snow, arrange that blanket a bit. Holly darted out of the window-well when I approached, but I knew she'd be back soon. We turned the dryer on with no clothes in it, set it for about 45 minutes. Holly came back and was soon snuggled into the blanket.
This morning Dor and I decided the cat had to go to the shelter, lest it and all its soon-to-come kittens die in this weather. We both clumped out in the snow, big cardboard box in hand. The plan was that I would get Holly and Dor would close the box and hold it shut. We had not consulted the cat, and I was betting she would be voting against this plan.
So I was wearing an old coat that I did not mind if it got shred to ribbons. I was wearing two pairs of gloves. If I'd had a football helmet, I'd have been wearing that, too. I was expecting a significant disagreement from the cat. We did not think the box would attack Doris, so she was not wearing any sort of body armor.
Being somewhat of a cat-whisperer myself, I sweet-talked the cat as we approached. Never have figured out why cats, momma cats in particular, talk baby-talk, but there you have it. Anyway, my golden tongue was sufficient to let me get my heavily gloved hands around that cat, but quite insufficient to get her into the box. She immediately panicked, made more moves than I thought possible for a pregnant feline, and went dashing through the snow.
But she did not go over the fence. Could have had something to do with the fact that she was too heavily loaded down for take-off, I don't know. But after a moment, believe it or not, I managed to sweet-talk her right over to our back door. Told you I was a cat-whisperer. Of course, the bowl of food I had put down in the snow might have helped as well. She ate greedily, as though starved. Poor thing.
As she was eating, I'd reach out and slide the bowl a little closer to the back door. She was a little shy, but within five minutes she was in our sunroom, and we shut the door. Each action resulted in a bad case of nerves for the cat, but she kept coming back to the food.
Time for the box. I got hold of her and got her into the box. Doris got the lid shut, but Holly made such a commotion she managed to destroy the box and get away from us.
Dor and I just looked at each other. Now that dumb cat was terrified of us, our box was destroyed, and we were going to have to chase her around the house just to maneuver her to where we could try again.
Not really. More sweet-talk, more food, and soon she was purring and letting me pet her, walking back and forth and rubbing against my leg. I was beginning to wonder who was sweet-talking whom.
It took, I think, two more tries and we finally got her into a plastic tub and put a child-safety fence piece over the top of it. Bungeed it down good and tight.
Animal Shelter charged us five dollars to take her. Glad they did not notice she's pregnant. Wonder if they would have charged me for the whole lot, mom and kitties, too.
Now if you go to the Darke County Animal Shelter, there is a beautiful grey and white cat, with lovely green eyes, and a meow that just melts your heart. She's going to be having kittens soon. If you like her, take her home with you. If she's still there after she's had her babies, well. . . , I think she may have sweet-talked my wife. Not me, of course. I'm immune to that sort of thing.
Here kitty, kitty, kitty. . .
Wait, before I tell you about the cat, let me get a guilty thought off my chest. Some of you may be wondering, "where are the posts on the 'spirit of rebellion/spirit of inquiry' you were babbling about?"
Well, one of them is in my drafts folder, waiting to get refined. Probably happen in the next couple of days, then posted. I write better when riled. Actually, that's not quite accurate. I am more motivated to write when riled. And I'm not riled at the moment. Probably ought to pick up a copy of Christianity Today, or some such, and get good and steamed, then sit down at my computer. Whatever.
Back to the cat. There is [was] a cat hanging around that's a dead ringer for Ivy (Lauri's cat). Beautiful green eyes. Beautiful two-tone grey and white fur. She's a momma cat, or at least about to be a momma cat, very, very soon [news flash: Ivy herself is not about to be a momma cat nor will she ever be, so the similarity ends there].
This cat's been hanging around our yard. We discovered that she has discovered our uncovered window-well, where the dryer vents. It's under our eaves, never gets wet, sometimes gets warm (when the dryer is running).
Our temperatures have been frigid lately, and we've been worried about momma cat. She curls into a tight little ball in that window-well, and shivers and crys, and well, it just gets to you. We can see her from inside the laundry room, through the window in the window-well.
So my wife, my animal-disliking wife, my I-don't-like-cats wife, came to me a few days ago with the old bathroom rug in her hands, and instructs me to put it at the bottom of the window-well for momma cat (I'm gonna name her Holly. Get it? The Holly and the Ivy? Get it? Never mind.) (Oh, by the way, it's the cat I am referring to. My wife is Doris.)
My wife comes and says, 'Put this in the window-well so she won't be so cold.'
I says, 'You feeling okay, babe? Are you all right?'
So I put it at the bottom of the window-well, made it a little more cozy for Holly (it's hard to consider 12 degrees cozy, but at least it's 12 degrees while on a bathroom rug).
Last night it was snowing hard, and Dor and I stood down in the laundry room in the basement watching the cat through the window. Dor says, 'Isn't there anything else we can do for her?'
I says, 'Maybe we can put an old blanket out there for her,' fully expecting that Dor would not want to go to that extent. Once that blanket goes in the window-well, it's never coming back in the house.
She says, 'Okay. How about that old pink and white one?'
Knock me down with a feather. Are my ears deceiving me?
So I clump outside into the snow, arrange that blanket a bit. Holly darted out of the window-well when I approached, but I knew she'd be back soon. We turned the dryer on with no clothes in it, set it for about 45 minutes. Holly came back and was soon snuggled into the blanket.
This morning Dor and I decided the cat had to go to the shelter, lest it and all its soon-to-come kittens die in this weather. We both clumped out in the snow, big cardboard box in hand. The plan was that I would get Holly and Dor would close the box and hold it shut. We had not consulted the cat, and I was betting she would be voting against this plan.
So I was wearing an old coat that I did not mind if it got shred to ribbons. I was wearing two pairs of gloves. If I'd had a football helmet, I'd have been wearing that, too. I was expecting a significant disagreement from the cat. We did not think the box would attack Doris, so she was not wearing any sort of body armor.
Being somewhat of a cat-whisperer myself, I sweet-talked the cat as we approached. Never have figured out why cats, momma cats in particular, talk baby-talk, but there you have it. Anyway, my golden tongue was sufficient to let me get my heavily gloved hands around that cat, but quite insufficient to get her into the box. She immediately panicked, made more moves than I thought possible for a pregnant feline, and went dashing through the snow.
But she did not go over the fence. Could have had something to do with the fact that she was too heavily loaded down for take-off, I don't know. But after a moment, believe it or not, I managed to sweet-talk her right over to our back door. Told you I was a cat-whisperer. Of course, the bowl of food I had put down in the snow might have helped as well. She ate greedily, as though starved. Poor thing.
As she was eating, I'd reach out and slide the bowl a little closer to the back door. She was a little shy, but within five minutes she was in our sunroom, and we shut the door. Each action resulted in a bad case of nerves for the cat, but she kept coming back to the food.
Time for the box. I got hold of her and got her into the box. Doris got the lid shut, but Holly made such a commotion she managed to destroy the box and get away from us.
Dor and I just looked at each other. Now that dumb cat was terrified of us, our box was destroyed, and we were going to have to chase her around the house just to maneuver her to where we could try again.
Not really. More sweet-talk, more food, and soon she was purring and letting me pet her, walking back and forth and rubbing against my leg. I was beginning to wonder who was sweet-talking whom.
It took, I think, two more tries and we finally got her into a plastic tub and put a child-safety fence piece over the top of it. Bungeed it down good and tight.
Animal Shelter charged us five dollars to take her. Glad they did not notice she's pregnant. Wonder if they would have charged me for the whole lot, mom and kitties, too.
Now if you go to the Darke County Animal Shelter, there is a beautiful grey and white cat, with lovely green eyes, and a meow that just melts your heart. She's going to be having kittens soon. If you like her, take her home with you. If she's still there after she's had her babies, well. . . , I think she may have sweet-talked my wife. Not me, of course. I'm immune to that sort of thing.
Here kitty, kitty, kitty. . .
Monday, January 9, 2012
An amazing day
Sunday's Worship service this week was one of those that you file away in your storehouse of special memories. God was at work in an unusual way.
We (BFC) had the joy and priviledge of baptizing five individuals, whose stories varied from a young woman coming out of a sinful lifestyle, to a couple whose marriage is being restored and who are now finding their identity in Christ, to a teen with Downs Syndrome who now grasps the Gospel of Christ, to a child from a solid, Christ-loving home. Pastor Robb read each of their testimonies to the congregation. Unforgettable!
We had the joy of celebrating the Lord's supper with a congregation moved by the redemption and grace of Christ, all of us having backgrounds steeped in multiple sorts of sins. As I have often said, if you were to describe our church with some sort of metaphor, it would be that BFC is not a museum of polished pieces, but an emergency room with blood all over the floor. We understand what it means to be forgiven, and we delight in that forgiveness!
We had the inexpressible honor of hearing a young mother describe her surgery for a brain tumor that appeared without warning, the surgery leaving her partially paralyzed on her left side. She sat in a wheelchair, this mom of a seven-year old, and described how God was transforming her and her husband's lives through tragedy and suffering, and how, through Christ, God was giving them joy inexpressible and peace unexplainable.
God was at work in unusual ways. A young man, twentysomething, could plainly see that Christ brings grace and peace to those who are broken, no matter how difficult the circumstances, and has decided to study the Gospel with me for the next six weeks or so, wondering if God can do the same for him. A woman who does not attend our church, awoke yesterday morning with a strange urge to come to BFC. After the service she, in tears, related to one of our deacon's wives her grief at the loss of her husband a year ago. She said, "this was exactly what I needed to hear this morning."
Amazing. God is so good.
We (BFC) had the joy and priviledge of baptizing five individuals, whose stories varied from a young woman coming out of a sinful lifestyle, to a couple whose marriage is being restored and who are now finding their identity in Christ, to a teen with Downs Syndrome who now grasps the Gospel of Christ, to a child from a solid, Christ-loving home. Pastor Robb read each of their testimonies to the congregation. Unforgettable!
We had the joy of celebrating the Lord's supper with a congregation moved by the redemption and grace of Christ, all of us having backgrounds steeped in multiple sorts of sins. As I have often said, if you were to describe our church with some sort of metaphor, it would be that BFC is not a museum of polished pieces, but an emergency room with blood all over the floor. We understand what it means to be forgiven, and we delight in that forgiveness!
We had the inexpressible honor of hearing a young mother describe her surgery for a brain tumor that appeared without warning, the surgery leaving her partially paralyzed on her left side. She sat in a wheelchair, this mom of a seven-year old, and described how God was transforming her and her husband's lives through tragedy and suffering, and how, through Christ, God was giving them joy inexpressible and peace unexplainable.
God was at work in unusual ways. A young man, twentysomething, could plainly see that Christ brings grace and peace to those who are broken, no matter how difficult the circumstances, and has decided to study the Gospel with me for the next six weeks or so, wondering if God can do the same for him. A woman who does not attend our church, awoke yesterday morning with a strange urge to come to BFC. After the service she, in tears, related to one of our deacon's wives her grief at the loss of her husband a year ago. She said, "this was exactly what I needed to hear this morning."
Amazing. God is so good.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Ever heard this lie?
Installs in minutes! This is what was printed on the outside of the package. Like a fool, I believed it. The first indication of trouble should have been when I picked up the box, which weighed about forty pounds. Nothing that weighs forty pounds installs in minutes.
With the satisfaction of the clueless, I dragged my purchase over to the checkout register. The second indication of trouble was the price. Nothing weighing forty pounds and costing 200 bucks installs in minutes.
The third indication of trouble, which, actually, was the first if you're doing this chronologically, was philosophical. This was my last day off of the holiday break: I had all sorts of irresponsible, worthless, unproductive sheer fun planned. Count on it: whenever you've got a day like that planned, some widget in your house is going to break, and the replacement will not install in minutes.
I briefly considered the Lowes installation offer: for another 97 bucks, they will install it for me. Naah! It's just a garage door opener! What can possibly go wrong?
I can sort of imagine one German general saying to another German general, "We're just invading Russia: what can possibly go wrong?"
Never, never ask that question. Not unless you are prepared for an answer that does not install in minutes.
Got my box home, and staggered into the garage with it (okay, it's only 40 pounds, but I have not done my P90X since this summer; give me a break). Set it down, looked up, and there was my old (broken) garage door opener staring back at me, about eight feet above the floor. Umm. Looks heavy. How am I going to get that thing down without killing myself? You see, the front end of the track is bolted to the front end of the garage, and then ten feet away, connected to the other end of the track, is a heavy motor bolted to supports hanging from the ceiling. All one piece. If I unbolt one end, it tears up the wall or the ceiling mount on the other end.
Okay, I see. Somehow I have to unbolt both sides simultaneously, whilst holding the entire assembly in the air. I only need a wingspan of, maybe, ten feet, and four extra arms. No problemo.
Ninety minutes later the old, broken track is laying safely on the garage floor, but I was beginning to understand that "Installs in minutes" might have been referring to more minutes than I had counted on. The old one definitely did not UN-install in minutes.
Did I mention that it was freezing in my garage? It felt below zero, but that was probably my imagination.
The next problem was deciphering the directions to install the new opener. At least they were in English. And Mandarin. And Arabic. And French. And Spanish. And German. And Russian. And probably Old Testament Hebrew. Five of the forty pounds were taken up by the multi-lingual instructions.Two acres of rainforest were chopped down to satisfy mult-culti sensitivities.
While the directions always include helpful safety information, like, never plug in your garage door opener while standing in a bathtub full of water (not quite sure how you'd manage that), on the other hand, they frequently assume that you know stuff. They tell me to connect rail A to rail B to rail C. What they don't tell me is that you can not disconnect the rails once connected, and that, oh by the way, make sure all the holes are on top before connecting.
Two hundred and forty minutes later, the track is installed. By now I am getting pretty good at bolting on the two opposite ends of a ten foot long heavy track at the same time, while holding it eight feet in the air. I am also muttering under my breath, installs in minutes, like an angry epithet.
Now its time to string the control pad and safety sensor wires. Ever try to hammer a tiny insulated wire staple to a hard plaster ceiling while wearing gloves? Doesn't work. So off go the gloves. Ever try to hammer a tiny insulated wire staple to a hard plaster ceiling with numb hands? That does not work either. At least when your hands are numb, you can't feel it when you smash 'em with the hammer. Wonder if the garage door opener will feel it if I smash it with the hammer?
Last day of Christmas break. A few minutes past midnight I stumble into the house, frozen stiff. Miracle of miracles, the garage door actually works, but I am just too tired to clean the litter of tools, old door-opener parts, and construction materials off my garage floor. Doris' car will have to spend another night outside.
Installs in minutes? Don't you believe it!
With the satisfaction of the clueless, I dragged my purchase over to the checkout register. The second indication of trouble was the price. Nothing weighing forty pounds and costing 200 bucks installs in minutes.
The third indication of trouble, which, actually, was the first if you're doing this chronologically, was philosophical. This was my last day off of the holiday break: I had all sorts of irresponsible, worthless, unproductive sheer fun planned. Count on it: whenever you've got a day like that planned, some widget in your house is going to break, and the replacement will not install in minutes.
I briefly considered the Lowes installation offer: for another 97 bucks, they will install it for me. Naah! It's just a garage door opener! What can possibly go wrong?
I can sort of imagine one German general saying to another German general, "We're just invading Russia: what can possibly go wrong?"
Never, never ask that question. Not unless you are prepared for an answer that does not install in minutes.
Got my box home, and staggered into the garage with it (okay, it's only 40 pounds, but I have not done my P90X since this summer; give me a break). Set it down, looked up, and there was my old (broken) garage door opener staring back at me, about eight feet above the floor. Umm. Looks heavy. How am I going to get that thing down without killing myself? You see, the front end of the track is bolted to the front end of the garage, and then ten feet away, connected to the other end of the track, is a heavy motor bolted to supports hanging from the ceiling. All one piece. If I unbolt one end, it tears up the wall or the ceiling mount on the other end.
Okay, I see. Somehow I have to unbolt both sides simultaneously, whilst holding the entire assembly in the air. I only need a wingspan of, maybe, ten feet, and four extra arms. No problemo.
Ninety minutes later the old, broken track is laying safely on the garage floor, but I was beginning to understand that "Installs in minutes" might have been referring to more minutes than I had counted on. The old one definitely did not UN-install in minutes.
Did I mention that it was freezing in my garage? It felt below zero, but that was probably my imagination.
The next problem was deciphering the directions to install the new opener. At least they were in English. And Mandarin. And Arabic. And French. And Spanish. And German. And Russian. And probably Old Testament Hebrew. Five of the forty pounds were taken up by the multi-lingual instructions.Two acres of rainforest were chopped down to satisfy mult-culti sensitivities.
While the directions always include helpful safety information, like, never plug in your garage door opener while standing in a bathtub full of water (not quite sure how you'd manage that), on the other hand, they frequently assume that you know stuff. They tell me to connect rail A to rail B to rail C. What they don't tell me is that you can not disconnect the rails once connected, and that, oh by the way, make sure all the holes are on top before connecting.
Two hundred and forty minutes later, the track is installed. By now I am getting pretty good at bolting on the two opposite ends of a ten foot long heavy track at the same time, while holding it eight feet in the air. I am also muttering under my breath, installs in minutes, like an angry epithet.
Now its time to string the control pad and safety sensor wires. Ever try to hammer a tiny insulated wire staple to a hard plaster ceiling while wearing gloves? Doesn't work. So off go the gloves. Ever try to hammer a tiny insulated wire staple to a hard plaster ceiling with numb hands? That does not work either. At least when your hands are numb, you can't feel it when you smash 'em with the hammer. Wonder if the garage door opener will feel it if I smash it with the hammer?
Last day of Christmas break. A few minutes past midnight I stumble into the house, frozen stiff. Miracle of miracles, the garage door actually works, but I am just too tired to clean the litter of tools, old door-opener parts, and construction materials off my garage floor. Doris' car will have to spend another night outside.
Installs in minutes? Don't you believe it!
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