Jim Laughter         

    I had a life-changing experience recently, a moment of pause; an epiphany –  something that made me stop and think for a minute.
    I drove to the mall and had just parked in one of the many empty parking spots left vacant after the Black Friday shopping frenzy. There in the parking lot was a mall employee, a groundskeeper doing his job.  He had a gas-powered leaf-blower slung over his shoulder and he was walking along the parameter of the parking lot blowing dead leaves away from the curbs and out into the street and parking lot.
    I sat and watched the man for several minutes.  He would blow the leaves away but when he would walk away, the wind would blow the leaves right back against the curb.   His actions, although he was gainfully employed, did not seem to serve a purpose, and he didn’t seem to care one way or the other.  I’m sure he would be paid the same wages regardless where the leaves ended up.  Cars passed by, scattering leaves in all directions.  Some of the leaves would blow down the street only to end up against another curb, which the man would dutifully clear away with this blower.
    I tried to relate this man’s efforts to my own life.  Do I make a difference in the lives of other people or do I just aimlessly blow leaves from one place to another?  Do I live with a purpose in mind or do I just go through the motions?  Am I sowing seeds for a future harvest or am I just blowing leaves?     My life must count for something.  I must be better focused than the man with the leaf-blower.  I cannot be content with payday, just narrowly getting through life.  I need to know when all is said and done that I made a difference somewhere along the way and that I’ve not just left a lot of scattered leaves lying along the course of my life.
    In the end, I watched the groundskeeper walk carelessly up the street looking for more leaves to blow, his leaf-blower running in idle.  He would pause from time to time and clear away a section of curb, caring not where the leaves ended.  His expression never changed, his purpose was still unclear.  It was just another day on the job.  Tomorrow he will be back out to clear the same curbs again of the same dead leaves.
    It may not be any of my business, but now I’m asking people if they are making their life count or are they just blowing leaves?   It’s a question we should all ask ourselves from time to time.

    I was recently asked my solution preference when dealing with political correctness. Am I more likely to use the hammer or the velvet glove when people take very simple things and make them difficult, or when someone is so concerned with political correctness that they ignore common sense?  My answer – the hammer. Why?  Because I believe political correctness is a major bane on American society.  We’re so concerned about not offending the minority that we step on the majority.

    A good knock in the head with a hammer is just what this country needs.  We trample the rights of the very people that make this country great.  For example, if a child doesn’t want to pray or exercise any religious beliefs in school, let them read a book or just sit quietly. But don’t deny my child his right to pray and exercise his religious beliefs for fear of offending yours.  If an atheist athlete wants to give the glory of his touchdown to the coach, fine, let him.  But don’t deny the Christian athlete the right to kneel in the end zone and thank God for giving him the strength, skill, and ability to make the run.

    Another prime example for the need of  hammer versus the velvet glove is the argument of the legality of gay marriage.  The whole gay and legal community is up in arms arguing with each other, trying to legalize or condemn gay marriage.  A good knock in the head would allow both sides to clearly see that gay marriage is and has always been legal in all fifty states of this country.  Two gay people can legally marry any time they wish as long as they are of majority age or receive permission from their parents or guardian.  There is no standing law against gay marriage in any state in this union.

    The real question on the table is not the legality of gay marriage – it’s the definition of marriage.  If a gay man and a gay woman want to marry, they can, and it’s perfectly legal.  It’s the question of two people of the same sex marrying each other that is causing the argument. This country does not recognize the marriage union of two men or two women especially when sexual intercourse is the primary motive. So why are we bogged down in this meaningless argument?

    Personally, I like the hammer approach.  It’s just what we need in this country from time to time. But let’s discuss it in  terms of religion. The hammer may not really be a good approach when working with religious people. Christians, especially Pentecostals which is my personal religious background, are a hard-headed bunch, and often hard-hearted.  And let’s face it, your church or religion isn’t the only game in town.  People can go to church anywhere, not just your particular little patch of sacred ground.  It’s an atmosphere of love that will keep people coming back to your church instead of going across town.  If you offer a nurturing place to worship, eventually people will find the love and peace of God they desperately need in their lives.

    Hammer or velvet glove? They’re both viable tools if used in the proper context. Political correctness needs a good knock in the head, but religion needs ministries that care about the people in the pew, not just the size of the offering.  For this, only the velvet glove will work. 

June 10, 2010

Growing Up in Kellyville

　I had a wonderful childhood. I grew up in the 50's and 60's in Kellyville, Oklahoma, a little one-horse town eight miles west of Sapulpa on historic Route 66. I’m the eleventh of twelve children. I had seven brothers and four sisters. My mom and dad raised three separate batches of kids. My dad was 48-years old when I was born, and Mom was thirty-nine, so I was in the last batch when they were still young enough to care but too old to catch up to me if I ran.

    Kellyville offered a wonderful experience for a child to grow and expand. The school was good and the teachers were caring. The streets were safe, so kids could play outside after dark without fear or go swimming and fishing alone at Kellyville Lake. We rode our bicycles all over town, and we hunted birds with our Daisy BB guns.

     Just as in all hierarchal societies, there were the rich, middle-class, and the poor. Stuck in there somewhere were those of us who were poor but didn’t know it. My dad used to tell me that we were too poor to paint but too proud to whitewash. My dad worked every day, and was never one to complain about our lot in life. I never saw him give up or quit. When he started a job, he finished it, and although he wasn’t the greatest carpenter in the world, he took pride in whatever he built. The finished product was everything to him.

    I never wanted for food, clothing, or shelter when I was a child. I just didn’t know that not all food was supposed to be fried, all clothing second-hand, and all houses wood-framed with no

connecting hallways. My dad built our house, so every room connected to another, and mine connected directly to the bathroom, which he built last but not until I was in junior high school. Up until then we just used the little shack out back.

    One of my fondest childhood memories was working the truck farms. It was a truly growing experience. The farmers would hire scores of us kids and load us in trucks, then drive us out to these massive fields, the soil neatly plowed in rows for as far as the eye could see. We’d plant row after row of produce. I always got the onions. I remember using a sharp stick to poke a hole in the soil, then taking a starter onion and planting it, carefully tapping the soil in around the plant. I’d do this for hours every day for a week. The sun was hot, the work was hard, and there was no such thing as bottled water. I don’t remember how much we were paid, but it was enough.

    When harvest time came, the farmer would load us back up in the truck and away we’d go back out to the field. But this time the fields were heavy-laden and it was time to harvest. Again, I would get onions or squash, sometimes cauliflower. We’d pick produce from dawn to dusk and fill the trucks with vegetables fresh from the field. When the farmer would take us home, he always paid our wages directly to us in cash, then give a basket of fresh vegetables to our parents. It was a good day.

    This experience helped mark my adulthood by teaching me that a project started must be completed, and that the rewards of completion are worth the effort. They helped me build a trust in people because the old farmer never tried to short-change me. He paid an honest days wages for an honest days work. This is why I believe in giving a full days effort for a full days pay. Anything less would disappoint my dad.

    Well, that's my musing for this week. If you have an alternate opinion and would like to voice it, buy your own website and have at it.  You thought I was going to say send it to me and I'd post it here, didn't you?  I only have so much time during the week.  Some of us work for a living...!

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