This post is dedicated to the memory of Billie Gail Dowdy Griffey who left us June 13th, 2020
“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him. And the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his servants, ‘Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet. And bring the fattened calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate. For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’ ” Luke 15:20b-24a ESV
First let me start by saying that by the grace of God I don’t have any prodigal children and never have. At the same time, I doubt that any truly caring parent who has even a passing acquaintance with the Parable of the Prodigal Son that Jesus taught as their children passed through their turbulent teens into their tumultuous twenties did not at least experience some measure of anxiety at their passage.
Before the main content of this post, a word about the story Christmas at Shadowlands’ Edge
The story is now completely done. I am still working through it looking for typos, missing words–which is a biggie for me–and rephrasing things here and there but there is nothing left to add to it. At the moment it is 64,475 words long which translate to about 225 printed pages. While I laid out my expectations for this story in my previous post, I feel an obligation of sorts to at least submit it to a literary agent. I will speak to what actually has to take place to get a book published by a traditional publishing house in a future post but one of the things required to get published is a platform. This consists of many things but for now that means a social media presence. That is in part why this blog was created.
I could use two things right now as I begin the process of preparing the documents required by the literary agent. If possible, I need folks who read these posts to comment on them here at this site. Also, if possible, I would ask that you tell other folks about this site if you feel it is worthy of their time. The literary agent will be looking here for both numbers and comments. Second, I frankly need a couple of folks to read this book. I can make it available in PDF format for downloading to anyone who would like to do so. If you read the book and feel it is worthy of your time and respect, I would appreciate it if you could tell others on social media about it. This is a major part of building a platform and any help would be appreciated
Now, back to today’s post.
I will be quoting again from Christmas at Shadowland’s Edge here. I might as well use material that is already written that says what I feel I want to say on a given matter. I hope you find this an adequate treatment of the subject. The quote is a little long but comprises the remainder of the post. To set the context, this is a letter written from an aging father to his–unbeknownst to him dying–prodigal daughter. His wife (Emily) and son (Russell Jr.) have preceded him in death. The letter is strategically placed somewhere that he hopes she will someday stumble across it. Most of the content is applicable to either a son or daughter. And for any prodigals who might read it, the way to or back to our heavenly Father is mapped out for you.
My Dearest and Most Beloved Pamela, it began:
Nature and habit did not fit me to say the things that your mama or you needed to hear. The feelings were there but the words would not come often as I tried to say them. Emily understood that and deduced the words from look or touch or deed. After her death my tongue was loosed to say them but at our last meeting words were futile. Yet the words remained unsaid, and the burden of their being unsaid never left me night or day.
After I came to Christ it occurred to me that though I could not ask for your forgiveness in person I could at least do so this way so that if in the will of God you came to this letter and I had gone on to mama and Rusty you would still know that though there is nothing that I need to forgive you for, you are forgiven and to ask you to forgive me for all the things that I know I need your forgiveness for. Even if you know I’m dead forgiving me can bring peace to your heart as it has mine.
I fear where life will have led you when you read this. You are bright and ambitious so I believe you will have made your way through alright, but you had the disadvantage of being reared in a loving home where at least your mother and brother were Christians. You will have found out by now that many with whom you associate did not have that disadvantage. I say disadvantage in your case because familiarity breeds contempt and there were so many voices clamoring for your allegiance that you despised your upbringing and longed for that which could only harm you in the end.
Perhaps you are acquainted with the parable of the Prodigal Son. While that parable pertains primarily to Israel’s rejection of its Messiah, Jesus chose it, I believe, because it resonates so with the human experience. When that son asked his father for his share of his father’s inheritance he was essentially saying’ drop dead dad, I’m out of here’. That is not altogether different from the defiance you hurled at me when you stood up and cursed me openly at your mother’s funeral. Such an attitude was a likely predictor of serious consequences ahead. For the Prodigal Son it meant being forsaken by friends and desiring to eat pig’s food before he came to his senses.
Having abandoned your upbringing, the Christian teaching of your mother and the profession of faith you made when you were eight (not to mention the Lord you have professed to know), you will likely have plunged headlong into sin. The Lord may have intervened to stop the plunge, but He was not obligated to do so. And if He does not intervene, you will be destroyed by sin. But assuming He has been gracious to you, you will still have to live with the certain consequences. First you may develop habits or dependencies that will haunt your steps all the rest of your life. Secondly, you will regret your wanderings all the rest of your life. Yes, you will be forgiven, but the wounds will always be there to be inflamed by the enemy when you get too close to Christ.
Christian comedians often joke about the days we 'sow our wild oats' being the ones where we get our testimony. Pamela, you didn’t need that kind of testimony. The cost is just too high. If I could have pushed a button or flipped a switch to prevent you from going into the far country I would have. But, since the Lord Almighty Himself will not do that, I certainly could not. The decisions and the choices you have made have either helped you to have a good life or they have scarred you for life.
Someone has wisely written, “Sin will take you farther than you ever wanted to go, it will keep you longer than you ever wanted to stay, and it will cost you more than you ever wanted to pay.”
Maybe as you read this sin has extracted its exorbitant price. You will have certainly lost your innocence and perhaps even your health. You may even be dying as you read it and though we are all traversing this mortal coil to the grave I mean that you may have a specific illness or condition and death is imminent.
But know this dearest Pamela; that the Lord Jesus Christ stands ready to forgive you right now. No matter what you have done if you are willing to confess your sin to Him and forsake it and believe that He died on the cross for your sins, that He was buried and that He rose again on third day—not spiritually but bodily— and that at this very moment He is standing at the right hand of God the Father making intercession for His own—He will save you. Believe this with all your heart and you will pass from death unto life and no matter what consequences your sins have produced you will know that someday you will be reunited with Emily, Rusty and me—but more importantly we will all be rejoicing at the feet of Jesus.
Wherever you have gone and whatever choices you have made you still have my love until I draw earth’s final breath. In the meantime, I commend you to Him who loves you so much more than I ever could even if I could spend every moment of life and every effort doing so.
With Love Forever and Always,
Daddy
Already you have all you want! Already you have become rich! Without us you have become kings! And would that you did reign, so that we might share the rule with you! For I think that God has exhibited us apostles as last of all, like men sentenced to death, because we have become a spectacle to the world, to angels, and to men. We are fools for Christ’s sake, but you are wise in Christ. We are weak, but you are strong. You are held in honor, but we in disrepute. 1 Corinthians 4:8-10 ESV
I will let the father from the story Christmas at Shadowlands’ Edge explain his take on why he does what he does and then I will explain mine. Without giving away too much of the story, the verse at the outset of this blog and the recounting of the time David feigned insanity when he fled to King Achish of Gath in Philistia form the backdrop for this short citation:
“Then the Lord brought that story about David back to my mind and he mixed it with these verses and an idea popped into my mind. If David could feign madness and still have God’s blessing and Paul could be content to be considered a fool by the Jews and their Roman conquerors and even his fellow believers, why couldn’t I do the same thing amongst these Muslims and Chinese? I prayed about it and prayed about it, but I finally talked myself out of it. The problem was that then I had no peace. I would argue with God saying I must be crazy to think I could feign being crazy and then I would think ‘what is faith about?’ if it is not doing something out of the ordinary if one thought that was what God really wanted you to do. But He was real patient with me and over time it occurred to me that when I would entertain the idea of being crazy for His sake, I would feel closer to Him and when I rejected it, He felt further away. Finally, I decided I’d rather be close to Him and be thought crazy than be estranged from Him and thought sane.”
Pamela laughed at this juxtaposition of sanity and insanity.
That is why I write nonsense. Not because I think I am author material because I don’t. Not because I think anybody really wants to read what I write because I don’t. Not because I like dystopian fiction because I don’t. I will not even read someone else’ dystopian fiction.
There is a Matlock episode where a small town spinstress allegedly writes a steamy, thinly disguised novel about her neighbors When asked by Ben Matlock if it ever occurred her that people would get upset, she replied, “it never occurred to me that it would ever get published.”
So no, I don’t write nonsense because I expect to be published.
I write nonsense because in the writing of it, it makes me think about The Father, The Son and especially the Holy Spirit in ways I would not otherwise think about them. My writing is informed to a certain degree by the writings of the Early Church Fathers and from historical works like Foxe’s book of Martyr’s and Sweet Believing (a book about the persecutions of the Scottish Covenanters).
When Voice of the Martyrs had their traveling Wall of Martyrs at the National Religious Broadcasters one year, I spent more than a few passing moments looking at the names on that monument. Blandina, Mathias, Polycarp and many others were names known to me, their stories were known to me, and they lived again in stories I wrote back then. And for some reason reading about them and bringing them to life in the stories I wrote and the one I am rewriting now bring me closer to God. And I can no more explain why that is than Russell can explain why his own feigned insanity does.
Speaking or writing nonsense…
I finished writing the framework for Christmas at Shadowlands’ Edge recently. To explain that that means let me illustrate it this way.
You are making a coloring book for your children to color pictures in. This may be to keep them quiet at church or for home school for example. You put the pages in a three-ring binder. You put the pictures in you want. Later you may want to add more–possibly in a certain order.
That is how my framework works. I have a Prologue picture, 21 chapter pictures and an Epilogue picture. In my case all of the pictures have been colored in some. Some are nearly fully colored in and the remaining ones are in various stages of completion. The story starts where I wanted it to, ends where and how I wanted it to and gets between those two points the way I wanted it to. But what I see in my mind hasn’t found its way to some of the pictures yet so that others can see it. Where somebody looking at my coloring book page would just see black lines with white space in the middle I may see red or green. That is where I am now in the process.
For example, last night (as I am working on the first draft of this post) I woke up in the middle of the night with one of my characters demanding to know from another character why she sent her on a wild goose chase. That part of the picture wasn’t colored in. Actually, I didn’t even know until the character complained about it in my mind that there was even an issue–that there was a space that needed to be colored in. So, I had to wait until the other character told me why the goose chase was necessary so I could color that space in which I have done–mostly.
Character interactions in my mind are nonsense for a different blog.
So, to wrap up this one…
Why do I write nonsense?
“... He was real patient with me and over time it occurred to me that when I would entertain the idea of being crazy for His sake, I would feel closer to Him and when I rejected it, He felt further away. Finally, I decided I’d rather be close to Him and be thought crazy than be estranged from Him and thought sane.”
GrumpyOldIntrovert: Grumpy? Just ask any of my four grandchildren who live here in my home with their parents. ‘Nuff said…
GrumpyOldIntrovert: Lord willing, I will hit my three score and ten this June. With today’s extended life expectancies, I guess I could say “older” but that does not have that nice crisp sound to it that Old does.
GrumpyOldIntrovert: I have a lifetime membership in this club. However, until recently I would have said I was anti-social. When I attended social gatherings with Gail, she was what I would call my saving grace. I could go anywhere with her and be accepted because everybody loved her. But now with her gone I realize that I am not anti-social, I just don’t mingle well. So, yeah, Introvert is a better description.
So where did the name come from?
Well, I didn’t go to someone’s website and put in a bunch of information that wasn’t any of their business so their site could generate an internet domain name suggestion for me. I still refuse to tell Facebook or Google my birthdate (though anybody could likely find it on the internet) and I have misinformed certain medical sites of that as well.
The idea for the name came to me organically when the idea for doing a blog did and is related to something that happened over and over again–the idea for the blog, not the name– when I was running the sound board at church before first Gail’s and now my health issues put a stop to it.
For all the years I was there running sound I had young parents walk in front of me carrying or walking their children out of the sanctuary. Sometimes they just needed to make the euphemistic pitstop but most of the time it was because as “Sons of Adam and daughters of Eve” those little souls needed a bit of redirection as their Adamic nature’s kept rising seemingly at the most inappropriate times.
As these caring but frustrated young parents would come past my little desk at the back of the sanctuary, they would often scurry past and sometimes the mothers would blush as they did so. I can’t say what was going through their minds at the time but remembering those days myself I am sure they were thinking that everybody was annoyed by the disruptions these little ones were causing and that this guy in the sound booth was having his view of the pulpit blocked as they went by.
I have no doubt that some in the congregation might have been annoyed by the actions of these children, but I am also confident that most of those good people who had children of their own were sympathetic rather than annoyed. I know I was. And I wanted to just stop them in their tracks and tell them so.
So, for a couple of you who may read this who passed my little introvert’s haven over those years, I want to you to know that I felt your pain. I also waved at your little ones as you flew by if they looked at me. Also know that I applauded you for wanting to raise your children in the congregation instead of handing them off to strangers doing “Children’s Church” (whatever that is) no matter how well-intentioned those good folks were. For the record our church did not make Children’s Church available though there was a nursery/play area set aside for those who needed it.
Anyway, it was this scenario that prompted me to start a blog and GrumpyOldIntrovert was the name that came to me as the idea for the blog took shape.
So, yeah, if your children are being disruptive go ahead and take them out of the Sancturary to properly address the issue. Sure, some may scowl but ignore them, they have other issues anyway. But I believe most of the older folks in the congregation who have raised their own children in the church as you are doing will be fine with what’s going on. They may even be praying for you–not that you would leave of course, the scowlers may be doing that–but that you would have patience and peace in this all too brief time in your lives.
And if you have to pass the sound booth on your way and it has a GrumpyOldIntrovert in it don’t worry about him. He has long ago learned how to listen attentively to the message while doing a number of other things at the same time so your trip past his outpost will not bother him. However, if as you pass by, you notice that he is dozing off please give him a gentle nudge and wake him because that means that a loud snore is imminent and that WOULD be disruptive.
“Who shut up the sea behind doors when it burst forth from the womb, when I made the clouds its garment and wrapped it in thick darkness, when I fixed limits for it and set its doors and bars in place, when I said, ‘This far you may come and no farther; here is where your proud waves halt’? ” Job 38:8-11 NIV
It has been nearly four years since the first blog post on this site. I will explain why it came into existence in a bit. However, I am going to post a small excerpt from a story I wrote over 10 years ago to provide the context for those comments. This excerpt will be a little long, but I trust not uninteresting. Only a small amount of editing has been done since it was first written including a little bit last night and just now.
…They had all been happy once.
He remembered the happiest time they ever had. They had had a particularly hard year that year and Emily suggested they go to see the ocean. This came as a complete shock to Russell who had never dreamed of doing anything like this in his whole life. So, mister nose-to-the-grindstone objected by explaining all of the reasons they couldn’t just drop everything and go. Emily gently reminded him that he had plenty of leave time stored up and whatever couldn’t wait until they got back would just not get done. So, with a shrug of his shoulders Russell gave in, put in a request for and got the requisite time off.
Their family had never been more than a hundred miles from home and this 700-mile trip scared Russell to death. With fear and trepidation, he eased out of their driveway and headed for I-40 all the while thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong over and over. Meanwhile, Emily and the children oohed and “ahhed” their way through the “tater hills” and continued to do so as they mounted the Cumberland Plateau. This unseemly behavior continued as they cruised through the foothills and finally into the Great Smokey Mountains. After a breathtaking ride through the Smokies and other mountain ranges, they found their way back to the flatlands of central North Carolina finally arriving at their lodging in Fayetteville around ten-thirty that evening–without incident.
The next day as they made the pilgrimage to the coast the weather was less than conducive to their plans. Driving through the woods on the way to the beach, lightning ripped across the sky with rain alternating between torrential downpours and drizzle. Emily insisted that they listen to a Christian radio station as they drove, but it too was being buffeted by the storm as it kept going off and on all the way there. Their spirits were dampened by the storm as well and even Emily was beginning to believe that their trip was going to be a washout.
Emerging from the woods after what seemed an interminable amount of time, they felt a little like Dorothy and friends must have felt emerging from their woods on the yellow brick road. However, it wasn’t an Emerald City that buoyed these intrepid travelers up but the Golden Arches. All were hungry and discouraged as they descended on the fast-food establishment. It is amazing though how a good dose of unhealthy food has a way of reviving the famished, the discouraged and the downtrodden and as they had not heard any thunder since they arrived, they opined that at least they could make their way to the beach without fear of being zapped by lightning.
Map in hand, they headed toward the shore. Russell Jr. who was fourteen, had a strong desire to see a lighthouse but Pamela who was twelve just wanted to get to the beach. Emily studied the map as Russell drove and found a lighthouse very near the particular portion of the beach they were going to. She skillfully guided him to the road it was on. Then at the moment they rounded a certain curve they all let out a collective gasp. There to their right was the ocean and it was so high up that all but Emily (whose gasp was the most exuberant of them all) thought they were going to be swept away by a tidal wave.
Emily laughed at them for, though she had never seen the ocean, she was a student of the Word of God and quoted from the book of Job, “who shut up the sea behind doors when it burst forth from the womb, when I made the clouds its garment and wrapped it in thick darkness, when I fixed limits for it and set its doors and bars in place, when I said, ‘This far you may come and no farther; here is where your proud waves halt’? “
They continued to gaze at the sea until the tall sandstone shape of the lighthouse usurped their attention. They pulled into the small parking area next to it and emerged from their automobile. For the first time they noticed the salty tang of the air and weren’t sure whether the warm wind-driven spray that was stinging their faces was from that huge ocean just across the way on the other side of the fence or drizzle left over from the storm. A glance across to the Coast Guard station adjoining the lighthouse revealed a roused group of sailors wondering about their intent so after one last walk around the edifice and a wave to the sailors they took to their car again and turned their attention toward the beach.
When they found their destination, they found not only a bit of beach but also an ocean side gift store. The store with its faded gray clapboard siding looked perfect in this setting. It also had a large deck in the back that ran out to a pier over the ocean off of which men with deep sea tackle were fishing. The rain and drizzle had miraculously stopped leaving in their wake a kaleidoscope of clouds driven along by a fierce wind. The sea reflected the kaleidoscope–sympathetically giving it a dark moody cast.
Pamela, who knew no stranger (and had to be watched closely because of it), befriended an older gentleman with a grizzled beard, leathery complexion and a seaman’s cap who might have been a ship’s captain for all she knew. But she was delighted when after landing a baby shark, he let her hold it, see its teeth and finally let her throw it back into the ocean. While this was going on Russell and his namesake hiked up the beach aways and back.
Emily meanwhile had separated herself a bit from the rest of the activity though she did keep an eye on Pamela who was busy entertaining the “old salts” on the pier. She had found a seat on the opposite side of the deck. While the family had hoped for and talked about a sunny day when they planned their excursion, this day of bluster and beautiful black and purple clouds punctuated now and then by shafts of golden light satisfied some deep-down desire in her soul. She watched with a quiet joy as sea gulls dive bombed the brooding ocean surface in search of food. The breeze with its salty tang invigorated her and she stared at it so long and so quietly that Russell, who had arrived back from his adventure and sat down next to her, began to be a little concerned.
“Are you alright Emily?” he asked, touching her shoulder gently and speaking softly.
“Oh, this is so wonderful, “she answered him reluctantly withdrawing from her reverie, “yes, I’m fine but you know I don’t think this visit would have been nearly as inspiring as it is had it just been a sunny day. There is a turbulent peace here if you can imagine such a thing. There is a kind of poetry in this scene, ” she said pointing out to sea, “that would be crude and jerky if it were reduced to mere words. God is here too.”
“What makes you say that?” he asked.
“I don’t mean it in the sense of His omnipresence of course because He is always here in that way, I mean that He himself is here, now, at this moment personally speaking to my soul in words I can’t hear or comprehend but whose meanings are clear and comforting. Maybe by making this trip He is preparing us for some great blessing… or for some great trial. Maybe both. I don’t know but I hear Him speaking peace to me in the fierceness of the wind and the crash of the sea against the shore,” she answered as she lapsed again into her reverie to listen to see if the Lord she loved might yet gently speak more peace to her heart. She was not disappointed.
Russell roused from his trip into the past. Tears were in his eyes as he remembered vividly those prophetic words. It wasn’t long after that before the storm with its tidal wave crashed into their lives. Russell Jr. was their compliant child and was never a problem to them. He even earnestly sought their counsel as to whether or not to join the Army. His plan was to serve his country and earn a hands-on education before settling down to find a wife and raise a family. Pamela on the other hand was their strong-willed child and was champing at the bit to leave home by the time she was thirteen. And so, it was she upon whom the storm crashed with the most violence, who made life very difficult for them from then on until Emily’s death.
By this time in the story, Russell’s wife Emily has died of a lingering illness, Russell Jr has moved to a lonelier home in a colder, narrower place having been killed in military action and Pamela has rebelled out of fierce, irrational hatred of her father and who, though she had been beautiful and is an eminently successful career woman, is now dealing with the consequences of acting out her hatred through moral debauchery.
While all of these characters are fiction and do not refer to anyone I know, and this story was, as I mentioned at the outset, written over 10 years ago, the trip to the beach itself is somewhat autobiographical and does actually represent in part our first trip to the beach on our first visit to Cindy and Andrew’s home in Fayetteville when they were stationed there with the Navigators and an earlier trip we took to the Smokie Mountains. The scene at the beach is described exactly as it was when we were there the first time.
Note: All of this was written before Gary died. (Our oldest son.) All of this was written before Gail’s lingering illness began. (My “Emily”) All of this was written before Gail died.
The story goes on to tell of Russell losing his job when the economy collapses.
This was written long before the parting of the ways that took place nearly a year ago when I left WNKJ Christian Radio after nearly 40 years of full-time employment. Though the impact of my departure was not as dire as what Russell experiences in the story, the psychological implications of leaving were certainly as real as any he might have experienced.
Gail’s lingering decline lasted for about four years and was complicated near the end by our not being able to visit her until just over a week before she died because of Covid though she never contracted it. She entered the hospital the first time about the middle of March 2020 and died on June 13th– five- and one-half hours short of what would have been our 5oth wedding anniversary. Since this Covid isolation had never happened before, I could not imagine Russel having to face such a challenge at the time.
When this blog was started it was to encourage Gail who was taking on-line classes with Lysa TerKeurst (former wife of a Christian group vocalist) who was helping women in her new station of life find ways to make income while raising their children at home. (I featured Lysa in a delightful Faithful Reflection about adoption.) As we sat in Gail’s hospital room where she was being treated for a blood clot in her lung, I acquired the internet address she wanted to use–StillAGroovyGranny.com. (She had had GroovyGranny.com earlier on but let it lapse and it had since been taken up by someone else.) I of course chose GrumpyOldIntrovert.
So that is the background information.
Not all postings on this blog (should I actually continue do them or do them more often than every four years) will be this serious in nature.
I might blog about the game Satisfactory which I have been playing almost non-stop since last May. That may sound excessive, but it has helped me through many hard days and in the process, I have learned some things other players of this game who refuse to look at the documentation like me might find useful. I prefer the serendipity of discovery myself.
I have revived my interest in playing some of the musical instruments I have played in the past as well as adding a couple of new ones and may share about that.
I still have technical interests that I hope to turn into projects and possibly market on a limited basis someday. That may show up here (the making of them not a sales pitch). Also, I still have a persistent interest in Amateur Radio which has run in parallel with my professional career. Some of that may wind up here.
I made a couple of trips to San Diego via Southwest Airlines in 2021 (not the least reason of which was to celebrate the birth of our first great-grandchild Norah Lynn Gail Phillips a few days before what would have been Gail’s and my 51st Anniversary) and so some of my thoughts about the flights and some of my impressions of southern California may find purchase in this venue. As may something of my interest in computer-based aircraft flight simulators.
And last but not least…
(Or should that read, “But wait, there’s more!”)
I have started rewriting the story referenced at the beginning of this blog. For those of you who read it 10 years ago it was called A Christmas Story in Three Parts. The story was actually novella length then so I suppose this one will be novel length as I am adding a more compelling story line and will be drawing from a much deeper pool of life experience.
The new version of the story is titled, Christmas at Shadowlands’ Edge.
The Shadowlands’ Edge world (though it did not have a name at the time) first came into my mind in the early ’90s and has lingered there for most of the time since then except for rare occasions when it spilled out onto paper in the form of stories. Since its inception the concept behind the title has been to bring what the early Christians experienced into the context of our modern world.
The tag line for Shadowlands’ Edge is, “Stories set in the not-distant-enough future…” and represents a dystopian world we seem to be careening towards.
Christmas at Shadowlands’ Edge represents a revival and new approach to the old stories written in the past. Whether any stories will be forthcoming after this one is written remains to be seen. But this story will distill the essential message that has been on my heart for all of these decades into a form that at least conveys the seriousness of the days that lie ahead. In fact, it depicts briefly the very beginning of the Shadowlands’ Edge era. Though not as focused on those details as earlier stories, it does provide the vehicle for the rewrite.
Christmas at Shadowlands’ Edge is primarily a story about a broken-hearted father and his prodigal daughter.
The original story also includes an element that, for lack of a better term, has haunted me since I was a small boy, 12 years of age, selling papers on street corners in downtown Clarksville, TN wearing inadequate if not quite thread bare clothes at Christmas time to make money to pay for school lunches for myself and three of my four brothers and to have a little something to put under the tree of our family of seven. This was because poor health had forced my father out of the workforce and forced him to stay home so he could not earn any income to speak of that particular Christmas season. That I was doing this is not the issue and I was glad to do it at the time, but something related to this time lies at the very heart of the reason for writing it. That element is the main reason for the writing of the original story and will remain.
The main reason I want to rewrite the story now is that Gail would want me to. It is one of my greatest regrets that I did not do so with the energy and focus I am planning to now because she was constantly encouraging me to do so. On the other hand, work and her situation at the very least kept me so distracted that I am not sure I could have done so anyway. Now that I am mostly retired (having reunited with WNKJ Christian Radio as a consultant where I now work exclusively from home) I have more time to do with the story what I feel needs to be done to make it right.
For those who remember Deena, Matt, Carla, Mike, Lydia and the other characters from earlier stories (and whose stories lie at the heart of the Shadowlands’ Edge era), I would like to rewrite those as well and bring these wonderful people back to life. (And yes, my characters are very real to me and are just as contrary to what I want them to do at times as you might have heard other writers talk about and which is wonderfully exaggerated in the movie “The Man Who Invented Christmas.”)
And just to put your minds at rest, most future blog posts will not be nearly as long as this one has been. This has been a reset of the blog and reflects a reset of life and because of that garners this excessive amount of verbiage.
Expect an eclectic mix and hopefully I’ll be able to deliver it.
So, goodbye for now (and 73s to my fellow amateur radio operators). Don Griffey, KE4JD And to quote Red Skelton who remained a Jew all of his life as far as I know but in what seemed to me to be unfeigned humility would end his program with the most eloquent and heartfelt two words I have ever heard spoken, “God Bless.”
Life’s evening sun is sinking low, a few more days and I must go to meet the deeds that I have done where there will be no sinking sun. — Wm. M. Golden
When I was young I listened to country music. The quote above is from the gospel song called A Beautiful Life and even as child not yet in my teens I could feel the pathos of it anytime I heard it. I have carried the refrain of that song with me for all of my life. I still love listening to the old gospel songs like this one, Precious Lord Take My Hand, Precious Memories, Angel Band and others. As a child they spoke deeply to me of days yet a long way off–as far as I knew–but of days I knew would come.
Now in my mid 60s and having a number of chronic illnesses–all determined to hasten my evening sun’s arrival–I find that I want to share some of the things I’ve learned and am still learning. Yet in doing so I find that I am in some ways like the giver of this oracle.
I like Agur son of Jakeh. He was a man who likely lived a long time but discovered that the longer he lived the less he really knew. I think he was man of profound faith but one who, when people saw him, came across as a Grumpy Old Introvert. People likely addressed him formally rather than with something like “hey Agur.” He listened more than he spoke but when he did speak people listened–and frequently reacted.
If they’d had pews back then he’d probably have sat on the back one. When his preacher was bringing the sermon he was probably staring out the window and the preacher probably thought he wasn’t paying any attention. However he could juggle the pressing matters in his life in the wide spaces between each word of the sermon and never lose track of the continuity of the message being brought.
Children probably shied away from him even when he smiled or waved. Adults generally ignored him because he wasn’t as interested in chariot races or whatever diversions were prevalent in his time as they. Rather, he was a man who simply observed life. He didn’t often offer his opinion outright but when asked for it he declared it passionately and with his whole being–probably sometimes offending the one who asked. Yet his answers were always given in gentleness with compassion for those who did seek him out.
He seemed also to be a man who still found that his God and his God’s creation held mysteries yet undiscovered. He asked rhetorical questions not for answers but just for the sake of the wonder of things. He also rambled a lot–switching thoughts midstream. Maybe that is a characteristic of Grumpy Old Introverts or one inherited from one’s ancestors. I think he would like to have meditated on that last point even.
In short, I like Agur son of Jakeh. Perhaps he carried a stern expression because of his disposition and his deep thoughts. I think he knew his God on a profound level and had something of an understanding of himself as well. The more one meditates on the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob–and in our age on the holy trinity of Father, Son and Holy Spirit and especially the majesty and splendor of the Son who, though dying on the cross to redeem man, was still able to keep the universe in check by the word of His mouth–the better the understanding one has of his own sinfulness and of the remarkable grace and mercy offered through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Oh! I think Agur son of Jakeh would have loved to live in our time just for the sake of pondering that last sentence. He would revel in the what was a mystery in his time that is revealed in ours. Maybe he would have embraced our technology or just have a passing interest in it but as one who knew his own evening sun would be sinking soon, it would be the mystery of the Word becoming flesh and dwelling among us and all of the other wonders of a redeeming Creator that would, in the end, be his comfort.
He may have been “stupid” (ESV) by his own estimation and he may not have learned wisdom but he knew in Whom he believed and that was enough for him.
Oh that I could be as “stupid” as Agur but attain to his stature as a man whose ramblings were so profound that they were recorded in God’s holy word.
