What I Think...and the "like" Button

We live in a strange and tumultuous time.  It is a time when we can instantaneously see the opinions of others.  Our opinions are charged with an immediate jump to support or argue others’ opinions – driven by hot un-thought out conclusions and mindless Stepford-wife-like responses stemming from modern day clichés or the traditional American values, which have molded our thoughts. 

Our defense of our rights and the fear that they may be taken away is driving our senses and compelling our fingers to type what our lips have refused to say.  We are celebrating with complete abandon that which we can lose with a stroke of a pen.  We are calling names, pointing accusing fingers, and compromising our firm foundational beliefs – all in support of a media-driven frenzy... allowing it to control us.

I have read more explanations and reasons and responses to others’ opinions in the past two days, than ever in my life – in an effort to understand subjects that are almost as old as mankind and have never been resolved.  In more recent times past they have been hidden and swept under the rug – the butt of jokes, the shame of peoples and nations, and everyone’s worst nightmare.  Yet, here we are with them unresolved.  There have been Supreme Court rulings on them, but they are still not resolved.

I read articles that support the Supreme Court rulings and I think, “Yes, that is right.”  I start to click the “like” button, but something stops me.  I read articles that take a hard nosed view of “our Christian heritage,” and I think, “Yes, this is right.” I start to comment in agreement, but my finger freezes over the button. I don’t know if it is the fear of retribution, or the fear of being wrong – but I just can’t click that button or comment to anything anyone is saying.  I want to be reasonable and understand where my friends and Christian brothers are coming from, but I also want to make sure that I don’t regret any firm decision that I have shared with the world. 

I know my own true position – that which I think is a Biblical position and a personal position.  I just don’t know, in the long run of things, how important my position and opinion are to the listening and reading world.  Sometimes I just want to post something because I want others’ to know where I stand.  But honestly, would that be helpful or profitable for the cause of Christ, whom I represent? 

Perhaps these issues will cause more people to look to God’s Word and read more about Him.  Could it be?  He states His love better than anyone I know, if people will only take the time to read what He has said.  The Bible is its own defense.  I recently heard a woman on a panel say that as she prepared to write about the futility of the Christian faith, she was compelled to read the Bible seven times in two years and what she found was Jesus.  She claimed that she wasn’t saved from her former life - she was saved from unbelief.  Now – I can hit the “like” button for that statement!

Brokenness - Uselessness?

My children have endured the unspeakable – a 7.8 earthquake in a third world country.  Their apartment and their business fared much better than most.  The team with whom they served came to an end with a literal “bang”, their employees have lost livelihood for the time being, and many of their neighbors and friends have suffered more personal loss.  Their city is in chaos with people living in tents outside and afraid to go back into their compromised homes and businesses.  Many of the buildings in the city will most likely have to be torn down.  Historic sites have crumbled.  Tourism has bottomed out with the avalanches experienced on Mt. Everest due to the recent quakes.  Home for them may never again be the same.

My grandson, Ajay is four years old.  When he got off the plane after evacuation, he was clutching the body of a yellow toy passenger jet with no wings.  The tail fins and also the main wings had been broken off.  Lest you think differently, it had not lost its wings due to the massive destruction of a natural disaster, but due to the natural disaster of a four-year-old boy’s play.  I pondered it.  He had a firm grasp upon this fuselage and one knew it must be precious – for he had not thrown it aside nor left it behind as they began their long journey to the United States. (I dare not say “home”, for he has already corrected my erroneously alluding to the US as his family’s home.  There is no doubt – Nepal is home).

Why would he have kept it?  Surely, knowing that he has crossed the ocean on such a plane not less than 8 times in his four and a half years, he is aware that the main component, which would enable this plane to fly, was missing.  It was a broken toy.

He had a couple of other nice planes that were whole and complete, yet, he carried this small crayon-shaped piece of tin, across the ocean as one of his choice toys with which to play. 

One day, when all was quiet and he was having “down time”, I observed his intense personal playtime.  He had all of his cars lined up as always and had created a masterful airport out of blocks.  The planes were docked at their gates.  The cars and planes moved at his will.  As I glance over my computer, I could see the broken plane lying on the ottoman airport in front of me.  A finger driven truck rolled over to the plane under Ajay’s keen supervision.  In a soft voice, not meant for by-stander’s ears, he said in his best ‘truck” voice, “OK, now we have to move this broken plane over here to get fixed.” Ah-ha! I had a great revelation and a great application!  The broken plane was not only cherished, but could still fulfill the purpose for which it was intended!  It was made for the purpose of play and even in its broken state, it could still be played with.

I began to think of what I had previously pondered in broader terms.  What if we treated people like Ajay had treated his plane?  He could have thrown it away when it became quadriplegic, in its own way.  When the first wing broke off, really even then, it was useless as a toy plane.  As it became more and more damaged, he could have thrown it into the bottom of the pit of broken toys and never played with it again.  When scurrying around gathering the most precious items to evacuate a devastated country in a possibly compromised apartment with the ground still shaking violently moment by moment, he surely could have overlooked this already shattered toy.  Side by side with the complete and whole airplanes and other precious treasures, the fuselage went into the backpack.  And now, he was using the airport crew of his own making to support and fix the yellow passenger plane, which was broken.  There was no doubt of its beauty and usefulness!

Later, I took that little yellow body, got out my scissors and some black foam board, drew my best idea of what an airplane wing might look like and resorted to assembly with my trusty hot-glue gun.  It wasn’t perfect and we had several repairs that had to be done over the course of a couple of weeks, but that airplane was now fit to fly in any little boys imagination!  

A Car Ride and The River

I am rarely completely alone, but yesterday I went to pick up pizza and found myself alone in the car.  I found myself talking to God – out loud with no inhibition.  I suddenly realized how often I do that.  The car is one place in my life that affords complete isolation – one place where I can sing as loudly as I choose, say out loud what is on my mind, and be completely transparent.  And so, I do.

It is winter just as we all knew, but with a couple of weeks of glorious misplaced spring-like temperatures and gorgeous sunshine we had forgotten it was only February.  It is bleak and very cold.  This week we had rain, sleet, ice and snow.  The trees are still bare and there are no crocus spouting up through the half thawed layers of icy snow left in the yard.  But hope springs eternal is what they say!  And I began to look around.

The first was the river that winds through our little town dividing north and south.  It rolls merrily along and most of us don’t give it much thought.  We daily come and go across the bridge and vi-dock never looking left or right.  Today, I did…I looked left upstream from where the river flows and watched as the meandering sticks and gentle current poured without anxiety toward the lock below.  I asked out loud – “Where have you been and what have you seen, lazy river?” I looked right and said, “Oh, there you go!  Headed downstream for more adventures and barely tipping your hat as you pass by!”

That sent my eyes on a discovery adventure.  I began to look all around and be reminded of the wintery beauty that exists on a cold and blustery day.  The naked trees usually look lonely and haunting, but on this day they were more like a work of art.  The twists and turns of their gnarly branches created interest against the plain gray sky.  Although they are bare of their spring and summer glory, the squirrels still call them “home” and the birds still find a perch.  I am so glad that God’s plan for them included a rest from their foliage burden and allows them to be free for a season.

Everything is brown and gray.  But what a great reminder that life is not always sunshine and flowers and that it is ok.  Even nature has moments that don’t appear so lovely and appealing, yet it’s plight has purpose.  It also is a reminder of hope.  Tomorrow will probably be brown and gray, too – but there is another day coming and another season on the way.  The world will burst forth in greens and blues and yellows soon enough – when it is time.

I have crossed the river and trekked past the open fields where young calves (four of them) are staying close to their mothers and waiting on warmer days when they can frolic and graze in the sunshine.  The watering system in the crusty field across the way gives a cold industrial look to the rows of empty mounds of dirt where a corn crop or soy beans will cover the ground in a few short months. 

Yes, there is beauty where there is hope that is why we can still smile and enjoy life when there is no sunshine.  So I will choose to look differently today, at the world covered with what I began thinking as “wintry hopelessness” – and find not only hope, but also beauty.

Happy Birthday, Curtis C. Martin!

                

60 years ago, a man was born into this world.  He has known me, loved me, and cared for me longer than any other man living.  He is the closest biological relative that I have.  We shared a room for the first years of our lives.  He taught me many things – how to defend myself, how to skin a squirrel and clean a fish, that green garden snakes won’t bite – hard, and that The Man From Uncle was the coolest show ever produced.  He let me know if he thought I was being too cliquey, was wearing too much make-up, or had stayed out too late the night before.   He has been my champion, double dated with me, and taken care of my car breakdowns.  There is so much more, but I should tell you, if you haven’t guessed – he is my brother, Curtis C. Martin.

All of my greatest memories include him.  Though I don’t remember it, he has been my protector from the beginning.  Mom tells of a time when she was outside taking the laundry off of the clothesline and she had left me asleep in the middle of the big high bed.  Apparently I awakened and began to cry.  Two year old Curt didn’t like that one bit.  His plan to take me to Mom by pulling me off the bed by my legs was foiled at the last moment when Mom entered the room.  He was a great adventurer.  There was no lack of excitement in our little house as children.  One of my earliest memories was that of the great tadpole debacle.  Our mother has always kept a ship-shape house.  We lived in a small home with hardwood floors throughout.  She polished those floors until you could see your reflection in them.  Curt loved anything and everything that creepeths upon the earth.  He had gone down to the local ditch and caught himself the most delightful gallon jar full of little tadpoles.  The jar was literally black with them.  Being a little guy and not quite as strong as perhaps he believed himself to be, he had brought them in to his room, perhaps to keep them as pets, and thus – the debacle.  That jar slipped right out of his hands and hit those beautiful hardwood floors, bursting into little glass pieces with black tadpoles dancing around as though they were in a ballroom.  Mom ran to see the commotion and found little Curt in the middle of all that water and glass, crying and picking up his precious tadpoles.  She couldn’t be mad.

Curt is two years my senior and I missed all of the first year fun that was had by his coming.  He was the third child and the only boy.  He was pretty important, I imagine.  He was considered pure perfection by everyone who was waiting on the only hope for saving Benjamin Franklin Martin’s name and passing it along to another generation.  Mom saved the day by insisting he be named for his dad, and Curtis Clifton Martin stuck.  He was born with a hemangioma, over his eye.  At that time, doctors insisted upon draining them and so a series of shots into the mass of blood vessels was undertaken.  It wasn’t long until another problem was discovered.  Curt had a tumor entangled with his salivary gland that was growing and had to be removed.  This was a trickier problem.  There was no micro or laser surgery in those days and there were many nerves involved that would be in danger of being nicked or cut.  The risky surgery did, indeed, produce a difficult outcome.  A nerve had been clipped which would leave half of this little boy’s face paralyzed for life.  It was most noticeable by the slack of his mouth when he cried or smiled, leaving it crooked.  He also was unable to completely close the eyelid on that side of his face.  Now let’s get back to me.  Because I came two years after, I never did really know anything else.  His face was very normal to me.  It wasn’t until a neighbor boy mocked him that I even knew there was something different.  These traits are some of the things that make him a local town “character”, as he likes to call himself today.

Curt went to school – without me!  He was in our Aunt Bessie’s first grade class.  His room was in a very old school house building (I think in the basement).  Mom and I would drive to school and pick him up every day.  I loved his school friends.  One day some of them came over to our house.  I must have been a little older then, because Mom wasn’t home for a little while.  I had a sugar egg with a scene inside that Aunt Bessie had given me after Easter (probably a gift from one of her students).  I was showing the boys my egg and I don’t know exactly what happened, but I think a big boy sat on it somehow.  Suddenly it became so funny and we began to stomp it.  We ground that sugar egg to a pulp – yes, right on the same masterfully waxed hardwood floors that the tadpoles had been upon – until there was nothing left.  It was for some reason, hilarious fun and I’m sure Mom was mad. 

Curt’s ace in the hole was letting me sleep on his shoulder during church.  We would sit close to the front with all of the old ladies while Dad sang in the choir and Mom worked in the nursery.  I’m pretty sure that is where he gained angel status from those little old ladies.  One even gave him a quarter once in a while.  Well played, brother – well played.

We spent hours outside every day.  There was quite a North End gang of neighborhood kids who fought, laughed and tattled on one another.  Curt and his buddies were always bringing in a fish, snake, or toad of some kind.  Once we had a spreading adder in a box cage in our back yard.  Dad made a back yard “goldfish pond” when the aquarium became tiresome in the house. 

There are a couple of “incidents” that involve my brother’s lack of good judgment.  At six years old, he was supposed to mow the grass.  Mom went outside to find him and his bicycle gone.  She grabbed me and threw me into the car and off we went.  I’m not sure how she knew where to look, but we went to the Highway Department to get Dad.  Curt was found riding his bicycle toward Crowley’s Ridge just passed Johnny’s Drive Inn.  His bicycle was put in the car and he lamely explained that he was “…going to Uncle Roy’s to get himself a dog.” (Uncle Roy lived at Highland, AR).  He got a whooping for that – and it was talked about for years.  However, he did get a dog – a beagle named Bennett.  We weren’t very good dog owners and so poor Bennett was stuck in the back yard trotting around the outside path that he had made day in and day out. 

Curt was there begging me to not do it when I shot myself in the nose with a dart gun at close range and had my first in a long line of bloody noses.  He was there when I went low for a basketball and split my head open on the car license plate and had to get stitches.  And he was there when I danced upon the slick soapy car we were washing begging me to stop before I fell, hitting my head and breaking the stiches open.  We played in the ditch when it rained and shared the front sidewalk with skateboards, skates, bicycles and hopscotch.  We played kick ball in the front yard and spot light with the neighborhood kids (until he got too big for us and went up the street to play with bigger boys and stay out later).  We jumped the Sycamore tree when it was a sapling until it bent over and then climbed it to the sky when it grew taller than any around.  We watched clouds and stars from a quilt in the yard when it was too hot to stay in our un-air-conditioned house.  We played marbles in our long hallway and fought over the best spot in front of the wall heater as we watched Popeye, Fog Horn-Leg Horn, and Johnny Quest when it was cold outside.  We stayed up late together and he loved nothing better than scaring me to death by watching Savod and the vampire shows that followed.

The second incident, of which I previously spoke, happened when I was about 12.  Curt didn’t show up for school.  That was unheard of.  He had ditched school and it almost went viral (would have if that was even a thing then).  The police were called, his best fiend got out of school to go down on the creek and look for him, and Wednesday Night services at the First Baptist Church were called off.  Dad was out of town and he was called home.  Our older sister, Jo, was away at college and she came with him.  My friends and I got on our bicycles and went into the “woods” to look for him  - but we got scared because we thought we found a hobo’s campsite, so we left.  The whole small town was in an uproar.  At about 9:00 pm, he came home.  Then…Dad talked to him, Jo talked to him, and his best friend talked to him and Mom cried.  THEN…he got a whooping.  He had neglected to do some “important” schoolwork and that was that.  The teacher let him make it up, the sister helped since she was home.  And things went back to normal.  Mom always said that he was the easiest child to raise, being the only boy.  He was a good boy.  Really.

Curt has always had an artistic eye.  He has a talent with paint and with clay.  He would make these little critters out of clay and put them on a shelf in his room.  They were so life-like.  One day Mom was dusting said shelf, when she picked up one of them to dust under.  She was quite surprised and rattled to discover it was real!  It was dead and dried up, but a real lizard.  You never knew what you might find in his room.

One day I had been at a friend’s house and came home to a slightly misplaced poster on my wall.  It didn’t take long to discover the hole in my Bulldog red wall that he had put there the night before.  Mom always explained that he just had a lot of pent up energy.  I don’t know.  All I know is that he pounded my wall when he wasn’t even mad at anyone or anything and I had to live with a poster off-center to cover the evidence.  And really, Mom wasn’t mad.

As teenagers, we became friends.  We were a part of the first Youth Group at our church.  Curt could drive and he was good to me.  I don’t know if that was because he liked me – or if it was because he liked my cute friends.  Our first Youth Minister and Curt had a special bond.  Curt allowed me to go over to their house with him and we would play games and listen to music into the wee hours of the night.  We would stay out past our local 11:00 pm “curfew” but we were never caught.  It was all in good fun and no harm done. 

We received tickets to the Cotton Bowl for Christmas one year.  Curt had a red Volkswagen Bug by then.  We went to Dallas, where our sister lived, and stayed with her.  We made the whole trip on about $13.00.  Gas wasn’t very expensive and we ate gas station food the whole way.  We didn’t stop very much and we had a blast.  Unfortunately, in Dallas we had to pick up one of Curt’s married friends who had a kid, and I got shifted to the back seat with the kid for the ride home.  But the trip and our frugal ways live in infamy.

Curt was a hard worker – and did so from early teen years on.  He worked at Chester’s Chops and Chicken to make a little extra money.  He also worked at the Daily Press, changing paper rolls at night, I think.  He took my friends and me a lot of places.  We would drive all over the county on gravel roads.  Just when I thought we were completely lost, he would know how to get home.  He always said that Dad told him every county gravel road leads somewhere – just keep driving.  When I turned 16 we only had one car – the family car – and he was generous with me, often letting me have his turn because he would be working or would hang out with his girlfriend. 

Many nights we would wind up at our house with our friends - both his and mine.  We would play Spades, drink cokes, watch Roller Derby and hang out with Mom and Dad.  We also liked the Midnight Special and Soul Train back in the day before music videos.  I have very good memories as a teenager with him.

He played football and so he was a friend with my friends who also played football.  He took every opportunity to gig me about it that he had.  He would tell me about locker room talk, as if he had really embarrassed me.  I would be mortified and he would just laugh.  He knew how to push my buttons, for sure.

One summer, our Youth Group played softball together all summer long.  We would go to the little pick up lot behind the cemetery and play and hang out.  As everyone did, we would get into our cars and drive the loop, looking for other people.  We had a little game we played called, “Rat Racing”.  Rat Racing involved two vehicles that had spied one another and engaged in “racing” and “chasing” one another around town.  The car I was in was the car behind and we were pursuing Curt and his friend. Sometimes Rat Racing involved some dangerous scenarios – like running a red light at the last minute or driving too fast for a curve.  We had played and tired of it.  Curt and his friend were out of sight and we had given up.  We were quite panicked when we rounded the corner and Curt’s car (our family car) was in the ditch and an eighteen-wheeler was sideways.  Curt had been making a turn into a sub-division and the big truck clipped him.  It was very scary.  The car was badly damaged and the boys had been thrown around be no one was hurt. 

My sophomore year and his senior year in High School, we had a flash flood that overtook our school.  I had a visiting friend (odd, but true) and we were dismissed due to rising waters.  It was crazy.  They just let us go.  By that time, they were bringing in Army trucks and fishing boats and anything they could to get us out, but with no real order.  Quickly, Curt found my friend and me.  He took charge and I knew we would be ok.  He found a boat for us to get into and some local men gathered around it to hold it steady.  We sunk.  The dangerous waters were rushing and full of undercurrents and sticks and even snakes.  Curt told us to lock arms and hold tight seeing that we were going to have to walk through the chest high muddy water to safety.  Sometimes a big brother can be valuable – and he certainly was that day.

We double dated, made fun of one another, got stuck on a sandy beach and rescued by a drunken man.  We rarely said “I love you, “ but I know at least once I said, “I hate you, “ but I didn’t mean it. 

When Curt was a freshman at ASU – his first attempt at college – he was approached by a State Representative to help the ABC (Alcohol Beverage Control) with a sting operation.  Minors were buying liquor easily and it seemed to be readily accessible to any who wanted it.  Curt knew this to be true because some young people, with whom he was close, were doing so.  He was known to have a pretty squeaky clean reputation and they thought he would be the perfect plant.  He did as he was asked and the ABC taped his buy.  The liquor store was fined and in trouble.  The whole thing went to court.  Many of my classmates were so mad at their source being cut off and mad at him for being the reason.  I’m sure my brother was called names and maybe even threatened.  I do know he had to go to court and those who had engaged him threw him under the bus.  Yet, this is another reason, I find him to be superior to other brothers.  He was sure and steady and unwavering in his convictions – and is yet today.

Sometime around that time Curt began to preach.  He was called upon to deliver the message at several little local churches and I would be invited to go, too.  He felt a strong call into the ministry, but didn’t really know at that time what that would look like. 

He was 19 and I was 17 when we made our move to Batesville.  He was working at Banquet Foods and preparing to go to Ouachita in the fall and I was going into my senior year in High School.  We both had someone special that we would be moving away from.  I was quite devastated.  He and I drove together to our new home, with Mom and Dad going before us.  We pulled into our new driveway and I looked at him and said, “It sucks”.  He laughed and at that moment I was so glad to have him there with me.

As summer turned to fall that year, I was starting a new school my last year.  Curt was also starting a new school – his first year.  He did the most amazing thing that I still can’t get over.  He gave me his car to drive!  He went to college with no car and gave me his car to drive.  He thought that I needed it more than he did and truth is – he just loved me that much.  He wanted me to be able to go to lunch with other people and not have to stay on campus.  He wanted me to be able to get around my new town and knew he wouldn’t be there with me.  It was the most selfless act that a 19-year-old brother could do.  I will never forget that he did that for me.  AND I wrecked it…but later he wrecked it (and another and another and another – whew boy!)

We both wound up at Ouachita one year together.  He was dating someone new and so was I.  It was a lonely year for me and he didn’t have a strong love for campus politics.  He didn’t appreciate the campus social clubs and was known somewhat of a rebel.  Once again, he worked hard.  He had a job in the cafeteria to make extra money and to pay for school.  I found myself eating alone many times at dinner after a hard day in the music lab.  It was Halloween, no doubt.  As I entered the cafeteria, a green humped back man dragging a chain growled and grabbed me, throwing me over his shoulder and twirling me around.  The wide-eyed students who were waiting in line scattered and screamed.  He shook his chains and rattled them at the others as he put me down.  I guess I didn’t say anything and didn’t look shocked.  I remember a guy asking me why I wasn’t scared.  I don’t know if I answered but in my head I rolled my eyes and said,  “That is my brother.”

We made it to adulthood together and were both in relationships with intention of marriage.  The next year he stood in front of Mickey and me and married us to one another.  We have raised children together, spent almost every holiday together, mourned together, and now we live next door to one another.  As adults he has kept my children, helped me with broken-down vehicles, been my champion when people have wronged me, shared life with me, helped my adult children when they needed help, gifted my grandchildren with toys and fun, taken care of not only Mom’s yard and her needs but also mine and Mickey’s.  I do love him.  I love that a few years ago he began saying that every time he hung up the phone – not just to me, but also to anyone he loves.  There is no doubt – he loves me.  I thank God for sparing his life and bringing him through a rough year a few ago.  He broke his leg and it was a long hard healing process and then he battled cancer.  I know no better husband, dad or grandfather.  And I certainly know no better brother!

Happy Birthday…and many more!