my Dad's Bug

It must have been a big step for my Dad, a Rambler man, to buy a second car.  A succession of a 1962 Rambler American station wagon, that non-descript green, a 1964 American sedan, the same green, and finally a Classic 770, a pretty neat car by Rambler standards filled the garage.  Raising a family on a teacher’s salary, he was always conservative in his spending, so it amazed us when he came home with a second car one day, a used 1963 VW Beetle.  It was blue, surprise, and had a sunroof, so it was not the base models he was used to buying.  That was high end for VW.  It was in very good shape, with the tires and floor mats painted with the rubber covering used cars were detailed with before Armor all.  His commute was three miles each way, and it sometimes would take longer to warm up on cold New Jersey mornings than the ride to school.  Today’s climate control systems, aka heaters and a/c are a far cry from the engine heater run through pipes under the floor.  A knob on the floor opened them up, and to defrost the windshield you closed the floor vents.  No fans, it took forever to heat or defrost, fortunately he had a short commute.  At the time he played golf, and since it had no trunk to speak of, he removed the rear seat back so his clubs would fit.  Which made it interesting when he would pick my friends and I up at the movies.  Kids today would have a fit with no seat belts, or seat back, to my Dad it was just part of a basic car being used as necessary. 

But a big day was when he would actually open the sunroof.  Fresh air, old VW’s smelled like old VW’s even when new, the jute padding used in the seats was a German trademark, sit in any Mercedes Benz from the seventies?  That’s the smell.  Lovely after years of humidity.  Smelled like a wet dog.  And with the radio permanently set at 910 AM, WOR, talk radio before talk radio became an epidemic, I had hours of listening to John Gambling in 10 minute bursts.  And when picked up after 10 PM from parties, could get enough Jean Shepherd to want more.  He of “A Christmas Story” fame, we all had heard him long before the movie became a Christmas staple.  But the high light, or low light, came one day as we were riding to school.  A typical Jersey winter day with more snow than road, which made people speed up rather than slow down.  We were creeping along, slow even for my Dad, when we got hit from behind by a young girl.  The VW damaged, the bumper really did bump and did little body damage, and all was well.  Information exchanged, no police called, long before cellphones dotted the highways, and we went to school.  With a story to tell of why I was late, and what had happened.  Which later would be contradicted by the girl who hit us.  She claimed I was driving, and that was why she hit us.  One it is hard tor drive from the passenger seat, even harder when you are 13 and cannot drive a clutch.  Our insurance company finally settled it, she was at blame, the car was fixed, and its life of never going over 40 mph continued.  All repairs under $100 I was told, and fixed in a day.  Simple and quick, just like my Dad wanted.

Like I had mentioned, my Dad was a fiscal conservative, as kids we called him cheap.  Sunoco at the time had come out with a 190 grade, a step below its 200 regular, and a far cry from Sunoco 260, racing gas at the pump.  The VW was a regular customer, no pun intended, and for $1.50 the tank was filled, the attendant lifting the hood, or was it trunk, anyway it was in front of the car, and filing it.  One day when I was with him, across from us was a new 1968 Corvette, the new Mako Shark  looking ones.  And I couldn’t help myself, but to get out and look at it.  It was beautiful, and it was getting filled with Sunoco 260 at 32 cents a gallon!  Which my Father saw rather than the car it was filling, and telling me “how can anyone afford to fill their car at 32 cents a gallon?”  Sunoco 190 was 23.9 at the time.  One ride would have convinced me it was worth it, a value, or lack of value my father would never see.  Cars were a tool, and later he would trade his VW against a new 1969 BMW 1600, the car that put BMW on the map in the US of A.  A great sports sedan, that he never would use as adviced, a friend had shown him an article in Road & Track,it was one of the 10 Best Cars in the World, and he thought it would last him forever.  Which is another story....

But suffice it to say, my Dad was never a car guy.  And his buying habits were proof of it.  He would joke that “his cars weren’t cars, they were Ramblers,” and I would wince.  But that was my Dad, and he took very good care of us, despite his poor taste in cars.  Basic and to the point, he was like my relationship with God.  The gospel of Jesus Christ is good news.  We have forgiveness in him, and he is the way to his Father in heaven.  Our Father.  The beauty of the gospel is that it is truth, and simple.  So guys like me can get it.  We study to be approved, not saved.  And it is available to anyone and everybody, no matter which Sunoco you put into your car.  For it is free, so we all can afford it, a gift that you cannot earn, lest you should boast.  It is all about Jesus, and without Jesus, Christianity is insanity.  Every promise of God is fulfilled in him, and all are welcomed.  No other religion offers forgiveness, and for free.  Only Jesus does.  He paid the price, so we don’t, because we never could.  Mosaic law only showed our weaknesses, and our half hearted sacrifices showed our true hearts.  Only in Jesus will you find all you ever need.  Sort of like my Dad’s VW.  Everything you need, nothing you don’t.  Unobtrusive, not demanding its own way, and easy to own.  Yet many try to customize their God, making him appear better,when really trying to make themselves look better.  “Look what I did for God,” they rant and rave.  Jesus addressing the church once told them “do not rejoice because you have dominion over devils, rejoice because your name is written in the Book of Life.”  And he tells them “I never knew you.”  WOW!  It really is all about Jesus!  And if you still want to argue, let’s find a cross, and nail you too it.  Three nine inch nails, through your hands and feet.  Your beard pulled out, a crown of thorns pushed into your head.  After being beat 39 times, and hanging there for 6 hours.  While the world passes you by, mocking you, naked and ashamed.  Suddenly simple is the best way, and Jesus is the way....

So maybe my Dad’s VW told us a lot about him.  The bikes we ride and cars we drive tell those around us a lot about us.  But how we live will also tell them a lot  about Jesus in our lives.  Whether at the gas pump, on the way to school, or going about our business, someone is noticing, like the Corvette was being watched that day.  And someone will comment on our actions, and wonder “how can he afford to be a Christian?”  How can you afford to not be?  The truth will set you free, just like it did when the girl tried to lie about the accident.  The fact of Jesus will win out.  And why buy a used God, when you can have a fresh and exciting one?  Who meets all your needs, at the pump and everywhere else?  Or an economy God, who doesn’t have the octane of our God?  Only Jesus saves, and it has been said that at today’s prices, that’s a bargain.  And who can pass up a bargain?  My Dad never could, and he finally was saved later in life.  He asked me once “why did I wait so long?”  Why are you? 

My Father operated on a limited budget.  No budgets in heaven, get from God all the blessings he wants to give, become a child of God today.  Every time I hear the Allman Brothers sing “Lord I was born a Ramblin’ man,” I think of my Dad, a Rambler man.  And the VW that rescued him.  And of a loving God who rescues us. “When it comes to leavin’, I hope you’ll understand....”  I do. Do you?

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com 

being there when small bikes meant big fun

When Honda first introduced its tiny motorcycles to the Americans in 1959, the ads never mentioned them as motorcycles.  Thanks to The Wild One, all motorcyclists were seen as leather jacket wearing hoodlums, so they just called them Hondas.  Creating not only a brand, but a market standard for years to come.  You never met the nicest people on Harleys, Triumphs, or Nortons, but you did on Hondas.  And thanks to Honda’s success, soon we had Yamahas, Suzukis, and Kawasakis-all from Japan.    All motorcycles, but not wanting to identify with the old standards.  They emphasized fun, good times, and getting out in the wind without the benefit of leather, denim, grease and oil.  Big sisters rode Hondas on campus, kids rode them to school, and America was taken over by them.  Funny looking machines with funny sounding names, that soon matched or exceeded the performance of their bigger cousins, for half the price, and twice the reputation.  Bikes and bikers, motorcycles and motorcyclists were changing, and it was a good time to be a rider.  A time when freedom cost less than $50 for a used 50cc machine, and you were riding.  When 250cc was a big bike, and Triumph’s mighty 650cc was considered real big.  And Harley’s so big they expressed their size in cubic inches, how many knew what you were talking about when you mentioned a “74,”  or riding a “61” down Highway 61?  But we were soon to learn there is no substitute for horsepower, no replacement for displacement.  Today entry level 250cc bikes are making a comeback, yet 500cc is still considered for girls, and 750cc is small.  Bikes we once thought were big and unobtainable are now the standard, with Harleys up to 111 cubic inches, Triumphs up to 2300cc’s, and sport bikes with over 200 horsepower.  Where once a Sportster was defined as “able to grow hair on your chest, and so fast if you already do, it will part it,” today most 500cc bikes will be faster, quicker, handle better,and cost half as much.  Today we start big, and get smaller....presided only over our pocket books and FICO scores. 

But it takes a trip to a vintage bike night, or meet to see how much we have really changed.  Or how much we really haven’t.  The thrill of the open road still exists as ever, never mind the engine size.  And looking at row after row of old bikes, we look at those 250cc and under, and wonder how did we ever ride them?  They were so big then, but seem so small now.  Maybe we were much smaller then also, and the price of our thrills smaller.  But you needed to be there, to  live the times to fully get it, no one who wasn’t will not remember 75 cent fill ups.  The smell of racing caster, or the ring a ding ding of two strokes, and their smoky get away.  Where bike shops were in bicycle stores, sporting goods stores, or just out of town.  When tune ups were monthly, oil changes to most were just adding it to replace what leaked out or was burning, and master links were a part of every rider’s pocket contents.  They had tool kits because they were needed, we changed tires or patched them by the side of the road, and we all had at least one friend with a pick up or van, who we stayed friends with for that occasional ride home we would need.  We knew how much to save for the new sissy bar, or carb rebuild kit.  We took off our pipes to sound fast, added chrome to look like the big guys, and a metal flake helmet was worth the $9.95 it cost in 1972 dollars.  History will eventually rewrite how it was, but there is nothing like being there, living it, and remembering it how it was.  It took all the oil leaks, push starts, and spark plug cleaning to get intimate with our old rides, the push home to be glad we didn’t own such a big bike, and the endless wait until Tuesday when the shops opened up after being closed Sunday and Monday.  It took endless afternoons in class doodling about our rides, afterschool jobs that paid little, and having parents who didn’t get what our problems were when we wanted to ride.  We were rebels to them, and where once it was blamed it on motorcycles, now they blamed Honda.  And Honda cried all the way back to the bank in Japan.

I wonder how many of us even got it back then, or even do now in our memories of the times?  I read articles that are inaccurate, TV shows with clothing from another generation supposed to be real, and cars and bikes that never would be seen together.  How many have caught the 1974 Chevy in American Graffiti, cruising, the theme was “where were you in ‘62?”  Was Chevy really that far ahead of its time?  Yet history, books, movies, and even stories told at bike shows have rewritten history of how it was.  Without being there you never will truly know.  And so it is with God, so many telling us how a Christian should live, or act or behave, or what standards we need to live up to.  It is bad enough out on the street, but when it happens within churches, or is shared at Bible studies, we need to step up and say “enough!”  We need to share our testimonies of how Jesus changed our lives, to show the difference, and love on them.  You can learn theology from a book, but until you study it and get it from a clear mind, until you have personally experienced Jesus, you never truly know who he is.  It takes the hard times, the agonies of life to see the depth in which he loves us, how he never leaves us, and it takes his forgiveness to prove it.  It takes trials and tribulations to see and experience the depth of God, something we all wish to avoid, but find the best testimonies come from the hardest trials.  We see God’s strength made perfect in our weakness, when we finally give up and give it over to him, we see his majesty, grace, and mercy.  Things you can read about and study about, things you can see  in films, but until you experience it personally it isn’t the same.  But yet many try to deter us from God, to keep it impersonal, when God desires just the opposite.  His spirit is always calling out to us, pointing us to Jesus, who points us to God the father.  Some have degrees in theology and have studied about him, I know the author. 

And just like it is in the times of breaking down where we get personal and intimate with our rides, when we lift off the seat, look under the tank, or change our own plugs, it is when the tough times come and we turn to Christ we see a part of him we never would if we hadn’t had the struggle.  Very few pray during good times, we all rush to him when the times are tough.  With only a few remaining after the trial is ended.  And there is never a time when we don’t need a mediator, one to intervene for us in our troubles.  And maybe the greatest lesson we can learn from Job is that we need one, and his name is Jesus.  A true arbitrator tries to make a fair arrangement for both parties, Jesus as our advocate gets us the best deal for us.  Our sin for his love and forgiveness.  Words or theory until you experience it first hand.  Not through husbands or wives, friends or neighbors, or even classmates or the guy sitting next to you in church.  It is that personal.....which is where God separates us from those filling a pew once a week.  Jesus is an everyday, all the time person in our lives.  He promises us good times, blessings, miracles, and eternal life in heaven, that we can have now on earth.  We can ride any size bike, and never feel cheated.  Size doesn’t matter, the fact we ride does, and the fact we know Jesus is what it is all about.  Stop dreaming, start experiencing him now.  For yourself.  It is time to get behind the handlebars and find out what he is all about.

There is nothing like being there.  I rather be in the picture than taking it, I rather be in the story than reading about it.  I want all I can get from God, and Jesus is the way.  Simple and effective.  And available.  So here’s to all the rebels among the rebels, who serve Jesus daily.  Who know the truth and have been set free.  The holy spirit is the ad that entices us, it is Jesus who introduces us to his father, and God who loves us so much he sent him.  Find out for sure, the real thing today.  Seek Jesus, and live life.  Through your own eyes rather than someone else’s.  Know the real truth.  Hondas were and still are motorcycles.  Always have been.  Jesus is God.  Always has been. And we need Jesus.  Honda riders were motorcyclists, and you did meet the nicest people.  Meet the nicest person ever today.  First name basis.  There is nothing like being there, and no one else like Jesus.  You just have to see for your self.....

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

you can come in but you cannot use the bathroom

My friend Stu and his Gold Wing, aka The Buick are back from New Hampshire for the winter.  While there he hooked up with a friend who sells the new Motus motorcycle, made in Birmingham, Alabama.  Which he stopped to visit on his way west, typical rider, take the long way not the shortest.  He advised me that the San Diego BMW dealer was having demo rides, so we rode down Saturday morning intending to ride.  A beautiful day that would eventually hit 85, the dealership was crowded, and we were greeted and shown around by a manager.  Very friendly, but when I saw the putting green inside the showroom, and BMW faithful in full riding gear lining up to putt, no pun intended, my antenna went up.  No Prius in sight, but I hadn’t been there very long to check.  We talked BMW, and they had an R90S, and since I had one once seemed OK.  But when inquiring about the ride, was told you had to make a reservation, but he could get me on one about 2 hours later.  Until he asked “do you plan to buy one?”  And when I answered “no,” was told rides were for customers only.  Wasn’t that the purpose of the ride, to make you want one after riding it?  The ads got us in, then it is up to the salesman to get you to buy.  And he refused to give us a ride, and I left thinking I would never buy anything from him, or refer anyone there.  Is BMW, or rather Motus business so good they can blow off customers?  How did he know I wasn’t thinking of one for my son?  Or another friend?  Or was with a magazine?  I am, Wheels of Grace.  One rude slip of the tongue made my accessment of the dealership with the putting green accurate.  And how the local BMW store always likes to see  my press bikes, and we talk motorcycling.  Same with Jerry and Spud at Harley, and the guys at the new Indian store.  Mike and Herm at ECC.  They know what I ride, yet all offer me demo rides anyway.  Knowing I won’t buy, but maybe tell a friend.  All without the putting green.  Or a Prius.  Maybe another time at another dealer Motus.

Over the years I have taken communion many times, in many churches and many denominations.  It is all about Jesus, his command to “do this in remembrance of me,” and I have been welcomed every time.  One pastor, well known and who loves the Lord, approaches it a different way, and I called him on it one day.  He would share the gospel, then have communion, but only if you were saved.  To all the others, he extended a thanks for being courteous.  My question was simple, “do you need to be saved to take it?”  Judas took it and wasn’t.  A bit off, but still questionable was Jesus feeding the 5000, were they all saved?  Do you need to be saved to eat with Jesus?  And he told me he used it as an evangelism tool.  I told him I felt like you had someone over,  told them all about how great your wife could cook, them wouldn’t let them eat with you.  Like the “you can come in, but you cannot use the bathroom.”  He considered my words, even tried it differently for awhile.  Then went back to his old ways.  I wasn’t telling him what to do, just expressing concern for guests.  Whether offering demo rides to heaven or on motorcycles, don’t brag what a great product you have, show me. 

Religion is like that.  It binds, it puts laws and regulations on us.  Traditions are established,and the body of Christ suffers.  We need to be sensitive to the spirit, maybe it is important to note that the holy spirit had not fallen on the disciples yet that night.  Judas would deny Christ, selling him out.  Yet he took it.  Peter was yet to deny Jesus to some teenage girl in the garden, he was yet a ways from the day of Pentecost.  Where while in the spirit, 3000 came to know Jesus.  By the spirit.  We all have rules and ways of doing things, I am reminded of one Sunday at the Spirit of Love church, where Dal pastored.  A bunch of hippies, street people, and mountain types, my kind of church.  I was asked to share my testimony for 10 minutes.  I was only saved a few years, and spoke for over 50 minutes.  In the spirit, just not knowing it at the time.  Dal also in the spirit, rather than go onto his sermon, tied it all together in a few minutes, and had an altar call.  19 men were saved that morning!  Is is possible that the holy spirit knows what he is doing?  Dare we let him?

Maybe we need to be like Fr. Al, who became Bishop Al before he died.  Catholic to a fault, he loved Jesus more.  And offered communion to all who wanted it.  He didn’t ask where they went to church, were they Catholic or even saved.  He loved Jesus, and any chance to share him he took.  Many times at odds with his Bishop, he chose to follow God rather than tradition, church doctrine, or religion.  The man showed love...do you think maybe he was onto something?

After losing my last job, I came home and took communion with orange juice and crackers.  Seeking God and direction.  He had never let me down before, I was doing this in remembrance of him.  Of Jesus, doing just as he commanded.  With an open heart seeking his direction.  No religion, no service, no tradition.  Just Jesus.  Do this in remembrance of him.  Share his love by listening and ministering.  By feeding the hungry, giving water to the thirsty, clothing the naked, and visiting those in prison and the sick.  Welcome them as they are, just like Jesus welcomed us.  He loves us as we are, he just doesn’t want us to stay that way.  By his spirit we will be changed.  Years ago a man told me about Jesus, and the spirit changed my life.  A Yamaha dealer offered me a ride when riding a Honda.  A Triumph dealer didn’t care what I rode, he offered me a ride.  Moving where you go to church is not evangelism, we don’t need conquest sales, but new souls saved.  And so even though I didn’t get to ride a Motus, I learned something that day.  About me and God.  About communion and why we take it. 

You see life is all about Jesus.  And anything else is just a putting green.  Lots of ways to get you in and hooked, to pass time, only one is the real thing.  Only one ride is real.  Remember that when sharing Jesus.  Show love, his rule, not ours.  It is the job of the holy spirit to save, to point them to Jesus.  When you are saved you get all of Jesus, you are welcomed into the kingdom.  You can come in and eat, and use the bathroom, no more evangelizing needed.  Maybe that is why Jesus ate with sinners, tax collectors, hookers, and bikers.  A better class of people, who had no rules, but need love.  Live your life in remembrance of him, commune with him in the spirit.  No laws there.  And when you take communion, invite others.  Share Jesus, and welcome them in.  We are told to welcome strangers, some of us are as strange as you can come.  A lesson learned all because I wasn’t interested in buying a bike that day.  And you wonder why when invited to church many refuse.  Don’t brag to me about how great your God is, show me!  We all need more Jesus. 

So Stu and I did the right thing, and after a 200 mile ride decided we had made the right decisions about our rides, and about Jesus.  Some wait in line for a ride, I rather be riding.  In remembrance of him who set me free. 

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

while riding along in my parent's car

Many a mile was spent in the back seat of my parent’s car going to visit relatives.  The trips were relatively short, mostly to Grandma’s, and they were a total of 60 miles one way.  Travelling old Route 22, at one time the only route between New York City and the Midwest states of Ohio and Indiana, it was stoplight after stoplight going west.  A curious road, for as you got closer to New York City, and the traffic increased, it went from three lanes to two, causing traffic jams, bigger than the ones already inspired by too many cars and not enough road.  But going west to Pennsylvania, our destination, it was wide open after 20 miles, opening up to a bucolic countryside, just the opposite of the urban sprawl that dominated the New York Metro area.  It was the days of 360 degree air, all windows opened, no stops for ice cream or a potty break, and no fuel stops required.  For the next 60 minutes, like the voice on The Outer Limit warned, my Dad had control of our set, and our viewing.  So from the back seat of their Ramblers, we got bored, and my sister and I fought like any bored siblings, many times crossing over the imaginary line, “he’s on my side,” until my mother started playing word games with us, which quickly expired.  Even at 10 and 7, your vocabulary is strained.  So she devised looking for out of state plates, who would see more.  Then the farthest one from New Jersey.  Then different color cars to match the associated plates, then onto trucks as we got bored.  Then onto landmarks, first one to see a giant man holding a muffler, first HoJo’s, first red barn, and then largest barn, different colored VW’s, referred to as Herbies, and the list went on.  A far cry from kids with their faces buried in a cell phone, or adults too, it provided conversation, attentiveness, and the time passed rather quickly.  But this idea of course was not original....

Back in the 1930’s, the Depression Era, a man came up with a company that made Bingo cards to do what we did verbally.  Sold by the thousands, and today, even with the advent of social media, the company still sells upwards of half a million a year.  And of course they now have an app, but can be found for purchase in Cracker Barrel restaurants.  Marketed under the name of Auto Bingo, they actually include four different games, and different colored cards.  Interstate orange, safety blue, and autos, green and pink.  It seems hands on is still the best way to play, and kids today with cool parents can play along with them.  Now from blue Ramblers to white VW’s to green Chevies, you can search the roads for a car and its color, keeping you alert and from complaining.  You can look for an Exxon, Shell, or Texaco to get your bingo card filled, prizes up to the parents, but still the thrill of victory.  Nothing beats winning.  And anyone can play.  From riding in the back seat, to riding shotgun, to the nut behind the wheel, all can play!  Maybe the most fun you can have as a kid from the back seat.  Pre teen that is.  But even then you can play, consider it the original safe sex. All from the safety of your back seat.  And if you must, you can always use the app.  But what fun would that be, remember the fun of filling your Bingo card?  Then dumping all the pieces?  Today you just hit delete...

And so life can be like the ride to Grandma’s or wherever.  Boring without point other than the spoiling you get when you get there.  But the trip you endure is what you remember most.  And the games played, whether you won or lost.  Job faced a similar situation, when first tested by God.  Not a travel game per se, but asking “why was I born?”  And finding in his misery, reasons he wished he hadn’t.  He cannot change the day, and cursed it, but doesn’t curse God.  It seems the situation is ruling over him, and it will get worse.  Like the awful sibling that hits your card causing your to spill it when you were about to win, he finds no joy in the trip of life.  He sees no value in his life, and wishes it to end.  To go home.  To have it stricken from history, as if he never existed.  He hadn’t planned on unexplained trouble, so he curses the day he was born, because that was where it all started.  All the winnings, the good times, and the blessings are forgotten, even if momentarily in his misery.  But life is not a game to be played, yet we are competitive people, and we hate losing.  Or worse, getting beaten.  And worse yet, no being under control.  All things Job faced, and we do, even if it is a silly game of finding the first red Ford, or the first motorcycle.  We want to win....

Last night the Packers were about lose, when a defensive penalty gave them one last play from 61 yards away.  Without the penalty, they would have lost, game over, but on a Hail Mary pass, they won.  No time on the clock, you cannot end the game on a defensive penalty, time had run out.  But the game went on, under the rules, the Lions losing.  All because of a penalty when the game would have been over otherwise.  We will face trials like Job did, and like the games we watch.  Jesus promised us there will be tribulation, if your faith wavers, and you have trials, they can be a great faith builder.  It is in tough times that we draw closer to him.  But it takes Jesus in your life to win.  Life is more than a game to pass time, to win one day and lose the next.  It is played like a marathon, to win.  And at the end, the finish is what counts.  Not what we accomplished or didn’t.  Not how many Bingo cards we filled, or blue Chevies seen, or Hondas passed.  It is who we say Jesus is, and when we let the spirit guide us, we will win.  God doesn’t promise to take us around our problems, he does promise to take us through them.  At one point Job even asked God to take him home, but he didn’t give up on him.  For even when life looked absolutely hopeless, he knew God well enough that God had everything under control.  And he still does today.  He calls it love, we forget that sometimes. 

It is in the tough times we build the best testimonies.  Seeing the elusive green Plymouth sticking out from behind the drive in just may give you the victory.  Being given a final chance after the whistle blows can bring victory.  All planned by God, for your benefit.  But what about the ones you beat?  Well, it taught me to look for cars behind buildings, and in parking lots, not just what was in front of me.  It taught me to seek Jesus, and forego religion, playing life by God’s rules rather than man’s.  The Lions will never forget the penalty, and realize the game isn’t over until it’s over, eve after the final whistle has blown and time has run out. We all play the game of life to win, whether on a 100 yard field or from the back seat of a sedan.  And only in God will we win the final prize, heaven. 

God is always at work in our suffering.  He never fails.  Right now he is at work taking you through your trouble.  Are you listening?  He may be pointing out things you may have overlooked.  Or have forgotten.  Look to him, not the situation.  Where your eyes go, your body will follow.  So look to Jesus, and hang on for the ride of your life.  You will not always ride in the back seat, some day  you may find yourself behind the wheel or handlebars.  And the perspective of the ride will change, but don’t give up on the destination.  When we arrive it will all be worth it.  Home is where Job asked God to take him, and God answered, but with a different route than Job had planned.  Life it seems will interfere with our plans.  Job had along ride ahead, so do we.  The one who guides you will make all the difference. 

“Hey look, a green and white AMC behind the A&W...I win!”  And the next game begins....

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

back when the doctor gave gifts

Good old Mr. Wilson left after his physical with the family doctor.  He was miserable as he was fine, except he was told to go on a diet.  Even 60 years ago that was the standard advice given after a physical.  But upon leaving the office with Mrs. Wilson, Dennis goes back and reminds the doctor he forgot to give good old Mr. Wilson his toy.  And the doctor responds by reaching into the toy box and letting Dennis pick one out for him.  Such was the practice, no pun intended of going to see the doctor when I was a kid.  A much different scenario from today’s office building complex, with waiting rooms the size of a small auditorium.  Growing up it was common for the doctor to have his office in a wing of his home, his wife was a nurse and receptionist, and both knew us all by first name.  Consultations were like family discussions, as they listened to your complaints and comments, and a follow up phone call was not unusual-at no charge.  They actually cared about you, and the toy was often an incentive to lure us young kids in, with the reward of some small toy as the reward for getting a shot, or having your tonsils looked at, or being assured the latest case of zits was just normal for your growing up. 

Our dentist, Dr. Grill, became friends with my parents, as in the small town they lived in, they were both in some common social clubs.  They would see each other at the gas station, or their wives while shopping.  And even though they were friends, it was always Dr. Grill, and my parents addressed as Mr. and Mrs. Mohn.  A bit formal for today, but more courteous.  Personally I didn’t care for the dentist, or any other person who stuck their hands in my mouth.  But waiting for me after the hands in mouth episode was the treasure chest.  Always stocked with cheesy toys, like plastic soldiers, a doll for the girls, or some cheap 50 cent toy your mother would never buy for you, because one-you really never wanted one, and two-they broke or got lost immediately upon getting home, if they lasted that long.  But the draw of a free toy was too much to resist, and great time was spent making the decision.  Even then our negotiating skills were being honed for future adult car buying.  Toy soldiers, or a Yogi Bear squeeze toy?  How about a Barrel of Monkeys, many an afternoon spent playing with them in boredom.  Or a fake diamond ring to impress your friends?  But the one I longed for was the toy hypodermic needle, that gave way when pretending to give someone a shot.  “It’s my turn Doc, bend over and get ready...” but as always some one had always beat me to it.  And so when Dennis went back for Mr. Wilson’s toy, it was only natural, and another thing for today’s kids to question their parent’s about.  “You mean the doctor really gave you a toy for going to see him?”

Yes they did, and it was considered bedside manner.  A time when doctors didn’t see 8 patients an hour in an industrial looking, impersonal office.  When a lollypop was offered to help fight back the tears, and a hug provided free of charge.  A time when house calls were done, and you had the doctor’s home phone number, only using it when really needed, respecting his free time with his family.  You saw them in public and were polite, and Dr. Santoro, our family doctor, my parents gave him the ultimate honor by naming one of their cats Edgar after him, was even the team physician in high school, and did our sports physicals.  Who always greeted you by name, and told you to say hello to your parents for him, making you feel special after turning your head and coughing.  So yes medicine, and those who practice it has changed, but sadly common courtesy also has.  With an interesting duplicit situation today, show up early and wait, show up late and be billed for a missed appointment.  No longer greeted by “Hi Mike,” but now “insurance card and picture ID please,”  the please optional, not mandatory or expected. 

So the days when doctors gave gifts is long gone.  And maybe one last trip to the treasure chest is in order.  Maybe a way of them showing care and compassion, rather than just hearing “next,” and being identified by your patient number.  When Johnny Rivers sang Secret Agent Man years ago, he sung of “they’re giving you a number, and taking away your name...” I sure don’t feel like a secret agent.  But a few years back, I received a letter from a lady in prison, on death row.  She has come to the Lord, and sent me a loving letter, so touching I carry it with me in my Bible. 

to remind me of how Jesus Christ changes lives.  She wrote of reading one of my stories, as she calls them, and starting to cry.  Putting it down, reading more, and crying some more.  And how it was one thing to read the story, but another to be written about.  And for the first time in along time, she felt like a person, instead of just a number.  Today I must admit to her, that I never wrote about her.  This is the first time, and I do it out of love, and by the holy spirit.  You see, it was the spirit that opened her heart, and revealed himself through my story that day.  It was Jesus making himself personal to her, for she will always be a name and never a number.  That story was her trip to the treasure box for her, and God gave her a special toy that day.  And me too, for when God is involved, we both benefit.  And occasional letters are so encouraging to me, they always seem to come at the right time.  As do all the letters I get from inmates who I write too.  They are not forgotten by me, and never by Jesus either, who knows them by name, and has forgiven them.  Who wants them to share their testimony with others in jail, as his spokesman.  Prison walls may make them a prisoner, but no walls can keep his spirit from changing lives.  Even on death row, Jesus is saving and changing lives. A lesson precious to me. 

And so I must admit I was never going to admit to my lady in prison this story, but today I hope to encourage her with it.  I remember her.  To remind her how much Jesus loves her, and how much I appreciate her.  How she and others who go by number are still known to me and God by name.  Who have been forgiven, just not by the state.  But who upon death will be set free forever, along with the Apostles Paul, Peter, John, and all the others who claim Jesus.  Who died terrible deaths, who endured prison, beatings, and public ridicule for him.  The day is coming when the treasure chest in heaven will be opened to us all, and the prizes will be beyond description.  And we will never look back.  We will be face to face with a loving personal God who loves us, and cares for us.  And does even now, in spiritual ways we cannot define.  Only Jesus can take away your number, because he remembers your name.  And to all who read this, he knows yours too.

The days of the doctor giving gifts is long gone, God still gives gifts, blessings.  And he loves to give them, so let him.  Reach into his treasure box of love today, get to know him, and see him in a new way.  One who loves you, is compassionate, considerate, and a gentleman.  Who sent his son to die for you, so you can live in him.  Go back like Dennis did, and remind God of the present he gave you, and give it to others.  Doctors still practice medicine, Jesus got love right the first time.  No tricks, no games, and when you run into him out on the street, he knows your name.  And is always glad to see you. And please, pray for those behind jail, and remember that God hasn’t given up on them, or you either.  One letter from a lady in prison who has been set free in Jesus is a keeper for me.  It’s that personal. I hope Jesus is for you too.  No appointments necessary, and the treasure box is just waiting for you.   Where he knows your name.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker. blogpsot.com