My Early Story (17)

 

New York: Fruit Cocktail and Prayer

 

Here are some NYC vignettes:

 

A couple of months after my first visit I was back in NY for a few weeks. The night I was to return to Maryland by bus, George and I preached at a church, after which the pastor invited us to his apartment for coffee. The apartment was in one of the many “projects”.

 

After a time of coffee and fellowship it was time for George to drive me to the Port Authority bus station. The pastor and his wife asked us to wait just a minute. They went into the kitchen and returned with a small paper bag – within which was a can of Del Monte Fruit Cocktail. “This is a gift for your mother,” they said.

 

That can of fruit cocktail remains one of the most precious gifts I’ve ever received. It reminds me of the “widow's mite” of the Gospel – others were giving to the Temple treasury out of their surplus and abundance, but the widow was giving out of her poverty.

 

On another visit I went to visit a pastor and his wife early in the morning. After they welcomed me into their apartment and gave me coffee the pastor said, “Brother Withers, would you please excuse us for a while? My wife and I have not yet had our morning prayer together and we need to do that before we do anything else.”

 

"Of course,” I replied. As they went into their bedroom for prayer I enjoyed my coffee and read. To see people putting spiritual values above social convention is encouraging to me and something I need to practice in my own life – I still haven’t caught up with those folks.

 

On yet another visit, my mission was to visit my friend Carlos Ramirez and encourage him to return to actively following Christ. Carlos and I had met in Maryland and after he returned to NY we kept in touch. When I became aware that he was moving away from the Gospel I knew that I had to see him and encourage him.

 

After a few visits to Carlos, and getting connected to some of Carlos’s Christian friends (I recall one night we all went to a Billy Graham Crusade at Shea Stadium), Carlos recommitted himself to a life of discipleship – the last thing I knew was that he was attending Nyack College in preparation for vocational ministry.

 

Prior to Carlos’s recommitment he had been involved with a girl who had no use for the Gospel and she was pretty distressed that Carlos was getting serious about Jesus again. During one of my visits to Carlos’s neighborhood one of his Christian friends said, “You know brother, Carlos’s old girlfriend is pretty angry with you and said that she is going to kill you.” So far she hasn’t tracked me down.

My Early Story (16)

 

George Will and New York, Part Three

 

After the church service an older lady and a young couple approached us, introduced themselves as Flora Gonzalez, her son Jose, and his wife, Maria. They asked us where we were staying. When we told them about our automobile accommodations, they invited us to stay with them – they lived a couple of blocks from the church. This family became precious to us, and exceptional friends to George as he continued his ministry in NYC and abroad.

 

Eufemio Alvarez lived in the “projects” just off Houston Street. The following day we visited him and his family, who also became wonderful friends to George and me. Eufemio’s wife, Carman, was a gentle lady, soft-spoken, and always hospitable. They had three sons and three daughters. The two oldest boys, Abraham and David, were around 11 and 13. On that first visit the parents had all of their children line up and greet us, shaking our hands and welcoming us. It was a sign of welcome and respect that I’d witness many times in the homes of my Latino brothers and sisters throughout the metro NY area.

 

After a few weeks in NY I returned to my mom’s in Maryland. While I would visit NY periodically over the next few years, George remained there for a number of months until he began traveling and teaching in Europe and the Caribbean – though most of his time in the intervening years has been in Europe, particularly Italy.

 

I learned so much from my Spanish-speaking brothers and sisters. They were giving – if someone was in need others would help however they could, helping was a way of life. They were not ashamed of the Gospel – they were always sharing the Good News of Jesus with others without shame or apology. They were not materialistic – they made do with what they had and didn’t worry about what they didn’t have. They gave sacrificially to missions – I have never seen a people give as they gave and do so with such reverence and joy.  The idea of fund-raising auctions and similar things would have never crossed their minds, they didn’t need a motive to give other than Christ and a concern for others.

 

They had exceptional respect for pastors and especially missionaries and they encouraged their children to enter vocational ministry. They were committed to their local churches. They valued prayer – and they didn’t just talk about prayer…prayer was a way of life. You didn’t visit a home without serious prayer before you left.

 

I have walked into many a Latino church in NYC not knowing anyone and been made welcome and invited to speak. They had a Kingdom perspective.

 

Think about it. Here’s a 16-year-old kid, who really doesn’t know what he is doing…not really…in a strange city, in a different culture…and not once does he feel out-of-place among these wonderful people – I think that’s pretty amazing – they were really great people.

 

My Early Story (15)

 

George Will and New York, Part Two

 

George rolled the window down to hear the words:

 

“My name is Eufemio Alvarez and I am a minister of the Lord Jesus Christ. I just heard one of you singing about Jesus and the Holy Spirit told me to come over here and find out who you are.”

 

Well now, when someone knocks on your door and says something like that, you invite him to come in.

 

Eufemio Alvarez was about 5’6”, medium build, and was in his mid to late 30’s. He talked fast, had darting dark eyes, and on this particular day wore a black trench coat. His face bore scars from what was possibly severe acne. He smiled a lot. I think his smile was animated by observation – hence the darting eyes – and the rapid tempo of his life – he was usually on the move.

 

As Brother Alvarez, for this is how we would call him, sat in the back seat we introduced ourselves and told our story. When we finished he said:

 

“I’m out of town tonight, speaking in New Jersey. Here’s my card. On the back of the card I’m going to write down the name and address of a church that has service tonight, and also the pastor’s name. You go there and tell him that I sent you. The church is only a few blocks away on Delancey Street.”

 

After a little more conversation our guest departed.

 

That night we arrived at the church and waited for the pastor’s arrival. The entrance to the church had a steel storefront folding gate that was locked for security. Soon a man in his 50’s arrived, wearing a dark trench coat (remember it’s winter in NY) and unlocked the gate, pushed it back, and then unlocked the door to the church. It wasn’t a “church building” but it was hardly a storefront church either. It was attached to other buildings in the block and it could easily seat 300 people, possibly more, and had a high ceiling such as you’d find in a free-standing church building. That little section of Delancey Street had, at the time, nondescript stores and walk-up apartments.

 

We followed the man inside and introduced ourselves, showing him Brother Alvarez’s card. The man, who was the pastor, gave us a warm invitation to stay for the service. It was, to my thinking at the time, an unusual night for a church service, either a Tuesday or Thursday. What I didn’t know at the time was that the Spanish-speaking Pentecostal churches of NYC had services 4 – 6 nights a week, depending on the particular church – they took church-life seriously.

 

As time for the service to commence got nearer and nearer I wondered where the people were, as the actual time arrived I wondered why we didn’t begin. The people were very friendly to George and me – introducing themselves and their families, many of them spoke English, but many of the older people didn’t. As the minutes ticked away the service still didn’t begin and people were still arriving. After 20 or 30 minutes music began, people started singing, and still folks kept coming. I guess the pastor didn’t get down to business until a good 45 minutes after the scheduled start time – that was my introduction into life in a fast city in the slow lane.

 

Everything that transpired was in Spanish – and I was intrigued. People were excited about being there, the music was vibrant, the children were respectful, the singers and musicians were involved in heartfelt worship and ministry – people were glad to see each other, they were glad to be there.

 

Deep into the service George and I were invited onto the platform, were introduced, and were then asked to speak. I went first and really didn’t have much to say. Basically what I said was that two years ago I had been in NYC as a runaway boy, now I was back to preach the Gospel.

 

George had more to say because he really did have something to say. I never heard George speak for the sake of hearing himself speak. He talked about Jesus being our source of life and about Jesus being our Good Pastor, our Good Shepherd. George has been preaching and teaching that ever since I’ve known him – right up until this very day, and I suspect his last words will be about Jesus being our source of life.

 

The service lasted for at least a couple of hours and as it drew to a close I didn’t have sense enough to wonder where we’d sleep that night. I mean, why not live in the moment. As Reepicheep says, “Let’s take the adventure that Aslan gives us.”

 

My Early Story (14)

 

George Will and New York – Part One

 

The next morning I said to George, “Let’s go to Greenwich Village and preach on the street.” So off we went from Brooklyn to Manhattan. We didn’t make it to the Village, at least not that day. Entering Manhattan we found ourselves on Houston Street, a fairly broad street around, if memory serves me correctly, the Williamsburg Bridge.

 

We noticed a library and decided to go inside and look in the newspapers for a place to stay. Naturally we had no frame of reference for anything we read, we didn’t know the city; I guess we were like the guy calling for directions and when asked his location replied, “I’m at the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk.”

 

Leaving the library with not a clue to what we were doing – at least I didn’t have a clue – we saw a laundry mat across the street. Since laundry mats often have bulletin boards in which people post advertisements, George said that he’d go over and see whether there might be advertisements for apartments posted.

 

In my first post about George I mentioned that he was from south Florida and that he had quite the drawl; and that said drawl was especially pronounced when he sang. As a matter of fact, it’s been 43 years [this was written in 2010] since that day in January and I can still catch the words George was singing re-crossing Houston Street from the laundry mat to the Ford station wagon where I was waiting. I imagine that 100 years from now sensitive microphones will be able to pick up George’s drawn-out drawl of songs sung in the 20th century, those words just seem to hang in the air.

 

 One of George’s favorite songs back then was, “I get so thrilled with Jesus, every hour of the day. I get so thrilled with Jesus, He’s the Truth, the Life, the Way…” George would take that word “thrilled” and string it out from here to El Paso. On his way back across Houston Street he no doubt hit the “t” in “thrilled” when his foot stepped off the curb and didn’t find the “h” until he was at the car.

 

George got in the car to report that there were no apartment postings in the laundry mat. What to do?

 

We bowed our heads to pray…and just as our prayer commenced there was a knock on driver’s window where George was sitting.

My Early Story (13)

 

George Will – From Bible College To Brooklyn

 

George had a Ford station wagon that we loaded up. We stopped by the home of a married student, who lived off-campus, for dinner and then headed north to Maryland. We may have spent the night at the married student’s home, I can’t remember. (Just image how often I’d use the term, “I can’t remember,” if I waited another ten years to write this!)

 

I’m not certain when we decided to head to New York, but I think it was before we got to my mom’s in Maryland. I had read The Cross and the Switchblade by David Wilkerson the previous year (later made into a movie with Pat Boone) and I thought it would be great to preach the Gospel in NYC. Since George had a friend working at Teen Challenge in Brooklyn, which was Wilkerson’s ministry to gangs and people on drugs, we thought we’d just head on up I-95 to see what God had in store for us.

 

We spent a few days at Mom’s, and I remember George fixing things around the house for her. We also went to visit Pastor Don Wilkes and filled him in on the expulsion. Pastor Don called the school and then told me that they’d take me back but that they wouldn’t take George. He didn’t explain why. Well, the fact that they wouldn’t take George back meant that I really didn’t have anything to think about, I couldn’t even explore the possibility of a return under those conditions. Of course, considering why I was expelled, returning wouldn’t have been workable – the school wasn’t going to change anytime soon and I wasn’t about to change my thinking.

 

After a few days at Mom’s we headed to Brooklyn, NY. Upon our arrival at Teen Challenge we met George’s friend, Liza, and got a tour of the place from Don Wilkerson, David’s brother. However, there was nothing at the ministry for us to do and that night we slept in the car on the streets of Brooklyn. It was January, it was cold, and we had around $80.00 between us.

 

My Early Story (12)

 

Bible College – Some Reflections

 

Before I share a bit more about the Exodus, I want to reflect on my overall experience at the Bible College.

 

You’ve probably noticed that I haven’t used the school’s name or location; here’s why:

 

I hold no ill-will over what happened, I didn’t then, and I don’t now. I’ve made so many mistakes in my life, done so many stupid things, done so many sinful things; who am I to  uncover the sins and stupidity of others? Christ calls us to cover not to uncover.

 

The school has since repented of its stance on segregation – so why would I want to bring up the past? I’m sharing this part of my life because I want to share about George Will and because this was an early formative experience for me.

 

I had some great times at the school. I recall nights of prayer in the church located on campus. I had intensive Bible study, both in classes and on my own. And of course, I met George and was introduced to writers who would help mold my life.

 

It never occurred to me that the school would be segregated – segregation was outside my life experience. I had seen racial prejudice a few times growing up, but I attended integrated schools, I went to a high school with students from all over the world, I lived in a cosmopolitan area, I visited friends in predominately African-American neighborhoods, the church I attended in the Silver Spring – Wheaton area was integrated. A fellow high school student, who was black, was an early influence on my Christian life; I visited his home and his church.

 

I, as many other students, simply ignored the racist policy of the school in that when we went into the city we mingled with African-Americans. I’d like to think that had I been older and more aware of the civil rights climate of the time that I would have gotten back on the bus when I figured out what was going on and returned home – but I didn’t. I’m not even sure when I realized what was going on – like I said, the whole thing never crossed my mind. I was naive about the race problem in our country – I was also only just 16 years old.

 

I’d like to say that I intentionally challenged the school’s policy in my devotional, but I can’t say that with certainty. I did mean what I said in terms of loving people of all races – no question about that – but that was natural to me, it was natural to my understanding of the Gospel and of Jesus Christ – I wasn’t out to be a crusader, I was just calling the balls and strikes as I saw them.

My Early Story (11)

 

Bible College – The Exodus, Part Three

 

The next 10 days or so were, and were, a blur. The administration took my words as a challenge to its policy of segregation, and it also apparently took issue with my theology of the indwelling Christ. I was approached by older students in the dorm with questions about my beliefs. I particularly recall that the issue of capital punishment was raised – why I don’t know, but it was. At the time I was reading Bonhoeffer’s The Cost of Discipleship, and I had questions about capital punishment – so when asked about the subject all I could say was that I didn’t know.

 

It strikes me that during this time not one adult talked to me about what I had said in my devotional. Not one adult talked to me about my beliefs. Not one. Not a professor, not someone in administration, not the dorm parents (there was an adult couple living in the dorm). This is nuts, isn’t it? One of the school officials had a son attending the Bible College, and I recall questions from him – but of course he was another student.

 

On Tuesday, January 10, 1967, I was summoned to the president’s office. The president said to me, “Brother Withers, I understand that you’ve been teaching false doctrine. You either conform to the teachings of this institution or you will be forced to leave.” Those were pretty much his exact words – I’ve never forgotten them.

 

“How soon do you want me to go?” I replied.

 

“Immediately.”

 

I didn’t have the presence of mind to inquire as to the false doctrines I was allegedly teaching, and I don’t suppose it would have done any good – but it would have been nice to know, if for no other reason than I could share them with you.

 

George Will was also expelled. I don’t recall if he went first or if I did, it happened so fast. George was expelled because he had been a bad influence on me – see, I told you in an earlier post that George had ruined my life. Bad George, bad bad George.

 

I just noticed that January 10, 1967 was the day Lester Maddox was sworn in as Georgia’s segregationist governor, kind of ironic isn’t it?

My Early Story (10)

 

Bible College – The Exodus, Part Two

 

It was as if someone had applied glue to my chair. I was afraid to stand and afraid not to stand. What was I going to say to all those people? What was I going to say to the administration and faculty?

 

The two seniors who had approached me in the dorm were in the front row; I was a number of rows back of them. One of them turned to look at me, then he began to stand, I assumed to cover for the scared kid who didn’t know what to do.

 

Without a conscious decision on my part I found myself on my feet, Bible open to John 13:34 – 35, asking those assembled to read along with me.

 

I didn’t speak long, for less than 5 minutes. It went like this:

 

The fact that Jesus gave us this commandment, to love one another as He loves us, means that He expects us to keep it. But we can’t keep it, not in and of ourselves. Only Christ living in us and through us can keep this commandment. Why we have trouble enough loving people of our own race, but Christ expects us to love pink people, and purple people, and green people, and red, black, and yellow people – He has called us to love all people. But we can’t do it – only Christ can do it living within us and through us.

 

When I sat down, the student who sat to my left, who was from South Africa, looked at me with a stunned expression and said, “Oh, wow.”

 

I didn’t understand the import of the “Oh, wow.” He was older than me and he was always congenial to me, and I don’t think his “Oh, wow” was a criticism but rather a realization that the kid sitting next to him had perhaps just gotten himself into trouble. The kid was too naive to know what he had just done.

 

The kid thought that he had just given a faithful representation of an element of John 13:34-35, a faithful representation of why we need Christ living in us and through us. The kid was only passing on to others what he was learning from the writings of Chambers, Murray, Tozer, Nee, and Bonhoeffer.  The kid was locked into Galatians 2:20. The kid didn’t realize that he was on his way out.

My Early Story (9)

 

Bible College - The Exodus, Part One

 

Each day at Bible College began with chapel, which was held in a large lecture room and consisted of prayer, a hymn, and a short devotional. The devotional was led by a student and students were assigned this task in alphabetical order. This being the case I was not scheduled to share a devotional until late in the academic year - I guess God had other plans.

 

A phone call, a conversation over coffee, a "chance" meeting at a conference or in Wal-Mart, following up on an impulse to contact someone; for every seemingly insignificant interaction or encounter we have in our lives that leads us to something significant, I wonder how many we miss?

 

On the first academic day in January 1967 the student who was scheduled to give the chapel devotion was sick. I don't recall who the student was. I don't know if he had a bad cold, or chickenpox, or measles, the flu, or leprosy. I don't know if he was relieved he was sick so he wouldn't have to give the devotion; though I doubt it, one reason most of us were at the school was to preach - so who would want to pass up even 5 minutes before the student body and faculty?

 

That morning began like all other mornings for me, and as I sat in my dorm room preparing to head for breakfast and chapel there was a knock at the door. When I opened the door there stood two seniors, they were leaders in the dorm - they carried that "all-knowing" look about them, they'd been there and done that, and while people weren't wearing T-shirts in those days that proclaimed accomplishments, had T-shirts been available they would have been the first to receive them. I suppose their T-shirts would have carried the words, "We have been to the heights and depths of theology, and explored the hidden wisdom of preaching, and know the deep secrets of the faculty - follow us."

 

I'm not sure these guys ever smiled or laughed, but hey, they were kids too - which is to say in the season of life in which I write this most all the students then were kids. They were doing the best they could with the models they had.

 

You know, or maybe you don't know, that every time I've taken myself seriously I've messed up. I don't know about you, but I know about me, at least a little about me. And when I take myself seriously I tend to not take God seriously and I tend to not take others seriously - this is by way of comparison with myself. For when I take myself seriously then I put myself at the center of the universe and that's never a good thing. I end up thinking less of God then and less of others - whether I intend to or not. Now I want to take what I do seriously because I want to be a good steward of life, a good friend, a good employer, a good pastor; whatever the relational case may be.

 

I think maybe Bible College and seminary students should have T-shirts that read; "Take God seriously and forget about yourself." What do you think?

 

One of these guys was tall and slender, the other of middle height and a bit portly. I'm not sure that prior to this particular morning I'd had a conversation with either of them.

 

"Brother Withers," one of them began, "Brother Clovisfundruckerstein (that's as good as any name when you can't remember the real name) is supposed to give the devotion today and he's sick, would you do it?"

 

"Sure," I replied.

 

Have you ever said "sure" when you didn't know what you were getting into? Come on now...have you? Do you have any examples you could contribute to an anthology titled, "When Saying 'Sure' Was Not the Smartest Thing to Do"? Or what about one titled, "When Saying 'Sure' Led To Surely Unintended Consequences"?

 

When the senior brothers left the room, I sat at my desk and opened my Bible looking for Divine inspiration, for it wouldn't be long before chapel and I needed something to say, something that mattered. It was a Schofield Reference Bible that had been given to me, used - as in previously read, by pastor Donald Wilkes.

 

It was important to say something that mattered, that is different than taking yourself seriously, that is taking what you do seriously. The Apostle Peter says in his first letter (1Peter 4:11) that "Whoever speaks, is to do so as one who is speaking the utterance of God..." My old preaching professor at Gordon-Conwell (not the Bible College), Scott Gibson, says that "If there is a mist in the pulpit there is a fog in the pew." What he means is that if the preacher isn't sure about what he is saying that that uncertainty will be exponentially communicated to the congregation. I think that's true of leadership in general - what do you think?

 

I turned the pages of that old red Schofield Bible, with its well-worn binding and frayed edges, looking for a beam of light to shine from the heavens down on just the right passage. No beam of light. No voice from heaven. No goose bumps. Not even an image of a goose. Not a candle flicker of light. Not a twinge of excitement. What to do? I couldn't hide in the dorm. I could pray for an alien abduction - but that prayer probably wouldn't be answered.

 

My attention was drawn to John 13:34 - 35 in which Jesus says, "A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another, even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another." However, no beam of light, just a couple of verses spoken by Christ in the Upper Room shortly before His arrest, trial, and execution.

 

I took my seat in the lecture hall not knowing what I would do. The protocol was that after the hymn that the student giving the devotional stood at his chair and spoke from there, rather than walking up to the front. No one but the two senior brothers knew I was the substitute speaker.

 

The hymn was sung; it was time for me to stand and speak...and I froze.

 

My Early Story (8)

 

Bible College and George Will

 

As I write this [in 2010] George Will is likely in Italy, at least he was a few weeks ago when I answered my phone. George doesn't call me usually unless he's in the States, usually when he's back home in Florida, but I was especially glad to hear his voice most recently because I had been wondering if perhaps he hadn't gone home to be with Jesus. It had been a while since I'd heard from him, and after all he is pushing 73 or 74, somewhere around there. When he does leave this life I won't know it because no one will telephone me or send me a note; maybe I'll have a "sense" that he's gone, maybe not. I'll probably just wonder why I haven't heard from him.

 

Whether or not I hear from him again I'll keep praying for Debbie and Art, they are his children. I've been praying for them for around 44 years, ever since I first met George at Bible College. I guess they both have children now and they probably aren't far behind me in terms of age. They don't know who I am, they don't know I've been praying for them for almost 44 years, and they don't know that their dad has played a significant part in my life. Heck, if it hadn't been for George I wouldn't have been expelled from Bible College, but I'm getting just a little ahead of myself.

 

I met George in the fall of 1966 at Bible College, he was 13 years older than I was then and he still is 13 years older than I am, I haven't been able to gain any ground on him. George was also a first-year student. He had been in business and had had a miraculous conversion, pulled off the side of the road, tears streaming down his cheeks, and gave his heart to Jesus. Actually, he gave his life to Jesus.

 

George is from south Florida, around Homestead, is around 6' 5", and had a southern drawl 44 years ago, as in a real southern d---r---a---w---l. I don't pick up the drawl from him anymore, but back then waiting for George to finish a word was like waiting for a train with 200 coal cars to pass a railroad crossing; you might as well turn your engine off and settle back 'cause you ain't going anywhere anytime soon. George's drawl was especially evident when he sang - an item I'll touch on in another reflection. I mean that man could start singing a song in January and tease those lyrics out at least until Independence Day.

 

I often credit George with ruining my life. There I was, a bare 16 years old and what does George expose me to? Dietrich Bonhoeffer, A.W. Tozer, Andrew Murray, Watchman Nee, Oswald Chambers - talk about an irresponsible older brother in Christ! When I read Bonhoeffer's words, "When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die," I believed them. When I read Nee and Murray on the indwelling Christ, I believed them - Galatians 2:20 became etched in my mind. When Tozer wrote about a passionate pursuit of God that would not take "no" for an answer, that became my ideal. And when Chambers cast the vision of "my utmost for his highest" I wanted to climb that mountain.

 

George talked about Jesus - whether we were working on a crew tearing down a house, or eating a meal, or walking across campus, the man was, and is, all about Jesus. He talked about Jesus, sang about Jesus, and wasn't afraid to ask hard questions or to be asked hard questions. He prayed the way I eat ice cream and pizza, with pure enjoyment. And George was always praying and looking for revival.

 

Once when George had been injured on the work crew and was confined to his dorm room he said to me, "Now tonight at dinner, during prayer time, they are going to pray for me. Ask them not to pray for me but to pray for revival." And that's just what I did. When the folks at the head table said that we should pray for George, this 16-year-old spoke up and said, "Brother Will has asked that instead of praying for him that we please pray for revival." It never dawned on me that offense might be taken at that request, maybe it was and maybe it wasn't, I was just passing on my friend's request.

 

Since 1967 George has traveled the United States and Europe sharing the Good News of Jesus Christ. Maybe this wouldn't have happened had he not been expelled from Bible College; and come to think of it, I guess just like I can thank him for getting me expelled that he can thank me for getting him expelled, but I'm getting ahead of myself again.

 

The last time I saw George was around 1977 in Gainesville, FL. I was in Gainesville for the day on business and I called his parents' home just in case he was back in the States and low and behold he was not only in the States but he was right there in their home. At that point it had been 10 years since we'd seen each other. I've never stopped praying for George or for Debbie or for Art - after all, the man ruined my life, the least I can do is to pray for him and his family.

 

[NOTE: It’s been 60 years now and I still pray for Debbie and Art Will and their families. I think George went to be with Jesus about 10 years ago since I haven’t heard from him since then.]

 

My Early Story (7)

 

Bible College

 

In September of 1966 I traveled south to enter seminary. It was the seminary that both Walter Veasel and Donald Wilkes attended. I really had no business heading down there, and I can't believe my parents let me go - but it's likely that they didn't know what to make of my conversion and the fact is that even if I was a bit crazy about Jesus that it sure beat the alternative - for you see in the summer of 1965 I had run away from home in Maryland to New York City.

 

When I went to register the registrar told me that I couldn't take seminary classes because I hadn't graduated from high school (this was really more like a Bible College, but it called itself a seminary at the time; I think it has since dropped the word seminary and now uses Bible College). I told the registrar that if they'd let me in that I'd have my GED before I graduated from seminary. Guess what? Yep. They let me in.

 

Life was pretty austere at school, but I didn't mind, meals were simple, the dorm Spartan. As one upperclassman told a newcomer, as a fly buzzed around our dinner table, “There is your protein for tonight, you’d better catch it.”  Most afternoons after class I worked on a crew that the school contracted out in order to pay my tuition. We did demolition work and cleared land; those are the two jobs I remember. My hands got so blistered at one point that I couldn't depress the top of my shaving cream dispenser. We worked half-days on Saturdays too, and after our return to campus and lunch I took long naps on Saturdays to recover from the week.

 

Like I said, I didn't mind. I enjoyed classes, took them seriously, in fact I took the entire experience seriously.

 

The school was coed, but you couldn't talk to members of the opposite sex. I guess since most of the girls were older than me it wasn't an issue. In daily chapel, church on Sundays, and in classes the guys sat on one side of the room and the gals sat on the other.

 

I was reassigned from the work crew to helping an older man do repairs around the campus, including in the girls’ dormitory. I guess because he was old and I was young they figured we were safe, or maybe just safer.

 

I had two roommates, one of which left after a few weeks - the environment was a bit much for him, which I can understand. That left brother Joe and me. Our dorm room was adjacent to the restroom. One evening for dinner we had fish, something like salmon cakes as I recall. Late that night I heard terrible noise coming through the partition from the restroom - I mean terrible, moaning and groaning and the like.

 

"Brother Joe," I said, "do you hear that?"

 

"Yes, I do, brother Withers, perhaps we should see what's going on?"

 

I should mention that the restroom had a line of commodes which were not separated by partitions, much like the military - I mean, why spend money on something like partitions? You just have to clean them and otherwise maintain them; and people are going to do what they have to do, partitions or no partitions. So with this salient fact in mind...

 

Brother Joe and I opened the restroom door to behold a line of young men on the floor, moaning and groaning and holding onto commodes like a good prayer warrior holds onto an altar - except this was no prayer meeting, this was an assembly of those who got sick on fish from dinner. It was not a pretty sight, and yet it was not without its humor. Why some of us got sick and others didn't we'll never know. I can't put it down to righteous living because I know myself too well.

 

Now I guess brother Joe and I could have found some oil and anointed and prayed for the other brothers, but the thought never occurred to us. I suppose we could have remained with them to console, or even perhaps sing songs of praise; but again our thoughts were not how we might lighten the loads of our dear brethren. No, I have to admit that our thoughts were selfish in the extreme, though not without thanksgiving and resolution - we were thankful we weren't sick and we were resolved to do the best we could to get a good night's sleep in the midst of the moaning and the groaning.

 

 

My Early Story (6)

 

My Second Church

 

Either shortly before or immediately after attending camp meeting in Frostburg, MD in the summer of 1966 I moved in with my mom, two brothers, and an elderly great-great-aunt in Rockville, MD and began attending a church in the Wheaton - Silver Spring area that was in the same denomination as the Little Church in NW D.C.

 

This church had many more people compared to my first little church, and there were even a few younger folks, though not many. The pastor, Donald Wilkes, was urbane and cosmopolitan, a contrast from Walter Veasel's simplicity, and from all appearances he was likely doing well as a pastor. The church was in a nice section of the county, the members were middle-class and upper-middle class professionals. The music, traditional by today's standards, was terrific. The choir often reminded me of the camp meeting choir with its enthusiasm, energy, and joy. I still recall one morning when we sang, "Wonder Grace of Jesus," I thought I'd burst for joy.

 

I was the only kid from outside the denomination and there were no other boys my age, and only a couple of girls. Once again, the adults made me feel welcome and did the best they could. They were a more relaxed congregation than the Little Church and what women wore or how they did their hair didn't seem to be issues that concerned them.

 

I recall that Don Wilkes called for a day of prayer and fasting. I was all excited about the prospect and looked forward to the appointed day, which was a Saturday. As it turned out pastor Don and I were the only two people there until the evening, then others arrived, joined in prayer, and we concluded the day. To my young mind I couldn't understand why the church wasn't packed. I couldn't understand why it was only the pastor and me at the church. Things haven't changed in the professing church, but I still don't understand it.

 

I was befriended by a widower in the church, Bill Wood, with three children, two girls and a boy. His wife had died of cancer not long before my arrival. I spent time with his family and often went to church with them. That summer Bill hired me to work at a local newspaper where he was general manager; I helped lay out display advertising by operating a machine that produced graphic letters.

 

Bill was kind to me, and looking back I have to wonder why he would take the time to bother with a kid  like me when he had three children of his own who had recently lost their mother. Bill was soft spoken, thoughtful, and, I think, lonely. He once mentioned that people had started treating him differently after Mary died. People who used to invite his family over for dinner and activities stopped doing so - maybe he saw that I was lonely too?

 

A week or so before leaving for Bible school the church had a going away party for me at Bill's house. and the night before I left for Bible school in the fall of 1966 was spent at Bill's home. Early that morning he drove me to the bus station in Washington, D.C. and I boarded a bus for the South and school.

 

I returned to the church during my Christmas break and recall attending Christmas worship with my mom. Don Wilkes preached from Luke about Simeon and Anna and Mom remarked that she'd never heard a Christmas sermon like that - I guess she meant that it wasn't traditional...it didn't focus on the birth narrative.

 

I was kind of a poster boy for this church since I was from outside the denomination. I testified in front of the church once or twice but thank goodness I didn't preach! One bad sermon (see previous post) was enough.

 

The last time I visited the church was probably during that Christmas break in 1966. I did see Don Wilkes at least once a few weeks later - after I had been expelled from Bible College, but I don't recall attending church again. Oh - actually I saw Don one last time in June 1968 - it was very briefly at the hospital when Mom died - I called him and he came, there is a lot to be said for that.

 

The last time I saw Bill Wood was around 1971. I recall visiting him at his home, but I don't think I saw any of his children at that visit.

 

I regret not having an older man in my life who would be straight and direct with me, who would not hesitate to say things to me that I needed to hear, and who would challenge me with the Scriptures. Walter Veasel was nice to me, Don Wilkes was nice to me, and for sure Bill Wood was nice to me - now I needed nice, but I also needed straight talk - conversion does not equal maturity or even common sense.

My Early Story (5)

 

A Little Church in NW D.C.  - PART FOUR

 

In December of 1966 I returned to the Little Church while on Christmas break from Bible school and preached my first-ever sermon. Walter Veasel was no longer there. I don't know why he left, hopefully he left to take another church closer to home. As mentioned above, a few years later when I saw him again he was pastoring outside of Baltimore.

 

I don't recall the name of the new pastor. He was older than Walter and was welcoming to me. I really had no business preaching and I didn't do a good job. I preached from Leviticus 11, about clean and unclean animals and tried to extrapolate it into principles of holy living. It's kind of interesting that I'm writing this right now because last week a friend of mine remarked on the propensity of some preachers and traditions to excessively allegorize - of course I did it then because I'd seen others do it. [To be clear, I'm not opposed to allegory, the NT writers certainly use it, just look at Galatians 3:21ff. However, I do think it needs to be rooted in the Biblical fabric and not used as a stand-alone argument or teaching. Just because some folks misuse things is not an argument for their non-use; just consider the gifts of the Holy Spirit on that point.]

 

I'd say the only good thing about my sermon was its brevity - it only lasted 10 or 15 minutes. I didn't know that I was practicing one of the great principles of preaching - "when you've said what you have to say - sit down". So while I violated a number of exegetical principles, I modeled a homiletical principal that a lot of preachers seem to have missed - when you're done just shut up and sit down - no need to repeat, "In closing,” ten times before you actually bring yourself to stop speaking.

 

My last time in the Little Church came a year or two later. I visited on a Sunday after living outside the D.C. area for a while. As I was leaving the church that Sunday, the couple who had driven me to camp in the summer of 1966 asked me to call them. I was excited at the prospect of reconnecting with them, they meant so much to me. Perhaps they'd ask me over to spend time with them? Wouldn't it be great to catch up!

 

The next day I telephoned them in anticipation of renewed friendship. The wife answered the phone and after some brief small talk said, "Bob, you really should shave your beard off."

 

You see I had grown a fledgling beard during my time away. Blown away was my anticipation of seeing this couple who meant so much to me - they didn't want to see me, they wanted me to shave my beard off. My heart, which had been high with excitement, plummeted like a roller coaster after teetering at the top of a drop - and in this case the cars of the roller coaster came off the track. That was the last time I visited the Little Church, it was the last time I talked to anyone, other than Walter Veasel, from the Little Church.  It wasn't that I was angry - just hurt; and I didn't know how to handle it.

 

That last phone call has never colored my affection for the Little Church. After all, the people welcomed me, cared about me as best they knew how, and did the best they could. I'm sure they'd never had an outside kid wander in, a kid with no clue about their tradition, about bobbed hair or beards or women in pants. Consider this, these folks did not allow the generation gap to stop them from reaching out to me; they didn't say, "We are old and he is young, we don't know how to relate to him." They did the best they could and I'll always be thankful for that - hey, suppose they hadn't welcomed me? Maybe I'd be a Moonie today or something like that - maybe I'd be writing a blog for the Hare Krishnas or the Loyal Order of Cat Daddy Distillers.

 

My biggest regret about that season of life, in both the Little Church and in the sister church in Silver Spring, MD, is that I didn't have a mentor, an older man to counsel me and help lay a foundation for the future.

My Early Story (4)

 

A Little Church in NW D.C. - PART THREE

 

In the summer of 1966, the denominational conference to which the little church belonged had a camp meeting outside Frostburg, MD. The first week was a youth camp and the second week was an all-church camp - I think I have the sequence right. Anyway, it was two weeks. An older couple from the church drove me to Frostburg. It was hot. Since the car didn't have air conditioning we rode with the windows down. The wife put her right arm through the sleeve of a shirt so that it wouldn't get sunburned while resting on the car door during the ride.

 

I don't recall discussing the camp with either of my parents, though I must of done so with my mom. In essence I decided I was going and that was it. On the other hand, thinking back, the folks at the little church must have done some behind the scenes work for me - otherwise how could I have gone? I didn't have any money to speak of. I didn't pay anything to go. I did agree to work at the soda fountain in the conference center during the two weeks, but that would hardly pay for two weeks of camp meeting.

 

(By this time I was either living at my mom’s, or I decided to live with her upon my return from camp. My return ride was via a widowed dad who had kids at the camp and who belonged to the sister church in Silver Spring. Since my mom lived in Rockville he gave me a ride to her house on his way back to Silver Spring from Frostburg.)

 

Camp was great. Being around other teenagers was neat. The services were exciting. During the regular camp meeting week I sang in the choir and loved it. Pastor Valentine from Baltimore led the choir and generated excitement in everything he did. I still recall some of the songs we sang: It Took A Miracle, The Song of the Soul Set Free, A New Name In Glory, Wonderful Grace of Jesus - oh how we sang those songs! I was in heaven.

 

Sometimes the other kids talked to me about things I didn't understand. Once I was asked my opinion about whether women should "bob" their hair. I didn't have a clue. Then one morning, following a night at which I'd been at the altar for quite some time with people praying around me, the other kids wanted to know if I'd been sanctified or baptized with the Holy Spirit. I didn't know what they were talking about. I did try to understand - but wasn't sure what was going on with me or what all these new terms meant (they probably didn’t either). I suppose I was the first teenager from outside the denomination to have attended the camp in a while.

 

If you are reading this with a critical attitude, give it a break. You see, the story here is that these kids accepted me, they invited me into their lives. These adults were kind to me - a kid who needed kindness. That camp meeting gave me something that I had never experienced - and it is only as I write this now, almost 60 years later, that I see it ever so clearly - that camp meeting introduced me to joy.

 

Singing in that choir, having wholesome fun with other teenagers, being around adults who were kind - I felt safe...and I experienced joy. This joy is more than emotion, it is the joy of which C.S. Lewis speaks, a joy found in beauty, a joy found in a window of time, a joy found in a vision, and a joy found in others. Joy penetrates our heavens in many ways - it first penetrated my heavens in a camp meeting in Frostburg, MD in 1966.

 

My Early Story (3)

 

A Little Church in NW D.C. - PART TWO

 

As I mentioned, the pastor of this little church was Walter Veasel. Walter and his wife had, I think, three children and lived on the other side of Baltimore. He was a schoolteacher. As an adult reflecting back on Walter, I wonder how he managed to be a husband, a father, a schoolteacher, and pastor a church that was easily over an hour from home - probably 1 1/2 hours. It's hard to imagine that Walter was in the ministry for himself. It must have been hard for Mrs. Veasel and the kids too - all that traveling, no other children in the church, long Sundays.

 

Years later I met Walter in Baltimore. He had since assumed the pastorate of a church in the Baltimore area whose meeting house had been destroyed by a hurricane - and thanks to insurance and Federal disaster aid a brand-new facility had been constructed - I was happy for Walter.

 

I wasn't at the little church in N.W. D.C. for very long, for after my conversion tension between my dad and I was such that I moved back to my mom's in Maryland and I attended a sister church in Silver Spring. But for the time I was at the little church the people did the best they could and I'll always be thankful for that and be thankful for those long trips Walter Veasel made every Wednesday night and every Sunday to serve a little congregation that could give him nothing material in return for his long hours of travel, ministry, and preparation.

 

I've seen others like Walter in my life. Men and women who do things that don't make material or temporal sense. Men and women who do things for which there is no apparent "return on their investment". I'm reminded of the woman who poured out precious ointment on the feet of Jesus, it didn't make sense to the disciples, they termed it a waste.

 

Who knows where I might be if not for Walter? Suppose he hadn't been there and there had been no church? Of course we don't know the answers to questions like that, but we do know that God put Walter there, and that Walter was there when I came, and that he drove me home that first Wednesday night. I don't recall a thing that Walter said - but I remember that Pastor Walter Veasel was there - and I think that says a lot.

My Early Story - (2)

 

A Little Church in NW D.C. - PART ONE

 

Howard Wall's church was in Seat Pleasant, MD, too far for me to travel. I did visit Howard one weekend and attended his church, which was Southern Baptist - some of my best friends are Southern Baptist, no kidding. They had a visiting preacher that Sunday and his message was from Matthew 23. I recall Howard commenting about the fact the preacher used the RVS, which meant nothing to me at the time.

 

I visited the local Presbyterian Church in Georgetown by going to speak to an associate pastor. He gave me a booklet which explained the church year, church symbols, vestments, and the like. I'd only been reading the Bible for a few weeks, but when I realized that he didn't know where the Lord's Prayer was, and I did, well that sealed the deal - I thought the Lord's Prayer was probably more important than vestments and symbols.

 

I visited a Baptist Church in Georgetown, it was a communion Sunday. The folks were gracious and invited me to take communion - I guess that was my first communion come to think of it. They were all elderly, which was neither here or there to me in terms of age, but it was all rather subdued.

 

There was a cashier at the Food Mart who invited me to her church. I first went on a Wednesday night. I must have taken the bus, or maybe I rode with her, I can't remember. After the prayer meeting the pastor, Walter Veasel, drove me to the apartment I shared with my Dad on Wisconsin Ave. I returned on Sunday.

 

It was a little church, and other than the pastor's children I was the only one under 30, and I'm not sure there were many under 40. I guess there weren't more than 40 people on a good Sunday. They were old time Pentecostal - of course I didn't know what being Pentecostal meant anymore than I would have known what being a Seventh Day Adventist meant. I knew about the Washington Senators and NY Yankees, and I knew who in my old neighborhood were Baptists, Presbyterians, Catholics, and Methodists, and I knew that my classmate Donny Rothenberg was Jewish, but beyond that Pentecostals were like a hockey team to me - I'd never seen ice hockey and didn't know the rules.

 

The excitement was great on Sundays, the exuberance intoxicating, and the praying...well I'd never heard praying like that - not that I'd ever heard much praying. The people were serious about religion. More importantly, they welcomed me as best they knew how.

 

I often think back to that little church when I read the latest and greatest ways to reach youth. That church didn't have a youth program. It didn't have good music. It didn't have anyone my age. But those people welcomed me as best they knew how and I came back. We make things too complicated.

My Early Story

Good morning,

I have hurt my hand and can't really type, so I am going to revisit my early story which I first shared over 15 years ago. I hope it will encourage you to reflect on your own story.

Love,

Bob

Howard Wall

 

You wouldn't be reading this if it were not for Howard Wall (speaking in the natural). Of course you would not be reading this if it were not for a number of other people as well, but I'm going to begin with Howard.

 

When I was in the 10th grade and attending Western High School in Washington, D.C. I worked at the Food Mart,  a grocery store at 31st & M streets in Georgetown. I worked after school and on Saturday, stocking shelves, bagging groceries, and carrying orders home for folks who lived in walking distance from the store.

 

It was early 1966 when Howard came on board as our new produce manager. He was around 5'8", thin, with coal black hair slicked back, and heavy rimed black glasses with thick lenses. Howard was a Native American.

 

I took my breaks in the area where Howard prepped his produce, for that was also the area in which our cases of dry goods were stored in preparation for stocking. I'd sit on a box, eat my snack, read the paper, and chat with Howard, who was probably around 50 years old.

 

(I recall the first time I tried yogurt during one of my breaks. I couldn't understand why anyone would eat the stuff - it was so bitter! Then I discovered that the fruit was on the bottom.)

 

I don't recall Howard and I talking about anything in particular during those early days of getting acquainted. He wasn't a sports fan, which I was, so that wasn't a common interest. I guess we just talked - maybe about heads of lettuce or radishes or maybe even kumquats. Have you ever had a conversation about kumquats?

 

What I do distinctly remember is finishing my break one day and getting ready to go through the stainless-steel double doors that separated the back of the store from the public area when Howard asked me a question: "Bob, are you a Christian?"

 

"Sure," I replied. After all I was an American, I had been christened in the Presbyterian Church, therefore I was a Christian. That makes sense to you, doesn't it?

 

Howard's question, however, led me to begin reading the Bible and asking Howard questions. He loaned me some books to read, among them Billy Graham's World Aflame, nothing like a little drama to get one's attention.

 

What strikes me as I reflect back to Howard is that he was never pushy - he was, as we say today, relational. And get this, he was significantly older than me and he was relational. I wonder where we get the thinking that older folks and younger folks can't relate? He was interested in me and so he could talk with me and listen to me - not rocket science is it?

 

I wonder what the timing of Howard's question looked like on his end? Why did he decide to pop the question at that particular time? Had he been thinking about it for a while? Had he started to ask the question at other times only to draw back at the last moment?

 

Howard and I both left the Food Mart later that year. Howard moved to Colorado and I lost track of him. I left because I didn't feel my initiative was appreciated. But during our remaining time together Howard and I talked about Jesus and during the weeks following Howard's question I came to know Jesus.

 

I don't know if the Food Mart is still at 31st and M streets, but I do know that one day I'll catch up with Howard and thank him for asking me the most important question anyone could ever ask, and I'll thank him for being my friend.

Indelicacies

 

Indelicacies

 

A friend has inquired about Lady Jane, and this has put me in an awkward position. I can hardly disclose the truth about Lady Jane without venturing into indelicacies. What to do?

 

I realize that indelicacies are a thing of the past for most people, but I have a sensitivity rooted in both classical Christianity and in my great-great Aunt Martha and I take no pleasure in parading the indelicate before the world…or the church. After all, the Law of Moses teaches us that we are to take certain things and conditions outside the camp.

 

Aunt Martha spoke to me of things such as enunciation and deportment, of dropping my chin when I speak; she also taught me to play two-hand solitaire, leading me down a path of dissipation (just kidding about the latter). When Aunt Martha taught school, they not only taught cursive, they really did teach deportment and enunciation, speaking properly was important – now we grunt and can’t put a sentence together, let alone a sustained thought. We make a joke at everything, and what we don’t laugh at we scoff at and ridicule – maybe the joke is on us?

 

I realize that some Bible passages are rather indelicate, Ezekiel has pretty raw passages, such as Chapter 23; when I preached on that I gave the adults a heads-up a week prior in case they wanted to have their kids in children’s church…just saying.

 

One Sunday morning I noticed that the lead vocalist on our praise team had a problem with his attire of which he was obviously unaware (I was sitting with the congregation in a pew). What to do? I hastily scribbled a note, gave it to one of the boys, and asked him to take it to Mr. “Rufus.” Upon reading the note, brother Rufus retreated behind the drummer and when he reappeared his face was rather red. Indelicacies can be a challenge.

 

King David was most certainly sensitive to indelicacies and had compassion on those who suffered them. I am sure you recall the incident in 2 Samuel Chapter 10 when the foolish king of Ammon, Hanun, took David’s messengers and “shaved off half of their beards and cut off their garments in the middle as far as their buttocks.” The Scripture tells us that the men “were greatly ashamed”. David told them, “Stay at Jericho until your beards grow, and then come home.” Hanun would regret this indelicacy.

 

Sometimes we need to hear the indelicate. One morning before church I was chatting with the grandson of a parishioner when the little guy looked at me and said, “You have bad breath.” While the grandmother was apologetic, I was thankful, grabbing the breath mints and thanking the little guy!

 

At other times the indelicate can help with communication, such as when during a children’s sermon, with the kids gathered around me in the front of the church I asked, “When you think of old, what do you think of?” Kyle Mitchell quickly responded, “You.”

 

From that point on I had everyone’s attention.

 

The indelicate can also save lives, as we see in 2 Kings 4:38 – 41. Elisha and his home boys were cooking a big pot of stew, with everyone contributing something to the pot. One of the men harvested some wild gourds that were poisonous and threw them into the pot.

 

As the men were eating the stew they started crying out to Elisha, “O man of God, there is death in the pot!”

 

While it is indelicate to draw attention to a meal that ought not to be eaten, it can save lives.

 

If I am fixing a stew or chili or soup, and I realize that it needs Vickie's touch with herbs and spices, I’ll say to her, “Please come and heal this, there is death in the pot.”

 

We also use the term when we are at restaurants or elsewhere, if the term is warranted. However, please be assured, we have never used it in your home, never, never, never.

 

Sometimes I hear a sermon or a teaching, or read an article or book, and I’ll say, “There is death in the pot.” There is a lot of that happening right now – folks seem to have lost their taste buds.

 

This brings me, mercifully for you, back to Lady Jane.

 

When we made the decision to bring her inside and make her an indoor cat, we knew we had to take her to a vet for shots and a general health check. Also, we needed to get her cuts looked at because she had been attacked, likely by Socks the tomcat.

 

I made an appointment with a new practice in the area, borrowed a carrier from a neighbor, and off we went. The carrier had two towels for padding, and we placed a beach towel over the outside to give Lady Jane a sense of security during the ride.

 

The veterinary clinic is about 15 minutes from home and we hoped the ride would be uneventful, alas, it was not. No, Lady Jane did not escape from the carrier, roll down the window, and jump out of the car. What she did do was to encourage us to roll down all the windows by engaging in an indelicacy. All of the air freshener in the world could not have masked this indelicacy. She must have been frightened.

 

We arrived about 15 minutes before our appointment, and as we waited to be called to an examining room, we wondered what we would find in the carrier with Lady Jane, that is, we knew the nature of what we would find, but we didn’t know the extent of what we would find.

 

Finally, a tech called us back, asked questions, and wrote down answers. From this point on, you really had to be there, but I will do my best to describe what happened.

 

A woman entered the room who we assumed to be a vet. She did not introduce herself. She did not say, “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming to our new practice.” She did not say, “This is a holdup, give me your wallet and purse.” She did not ask, “Have you ever seen an UFO?”

 

After looking at the carrier, which only had a front door, she did say, “If you bring her back to me I won’t see her if she is in this carrier. This is the second rescue cat today that has been in a carrier like this. You must bring her in a carrier that opens at the top.”

 

Well, good afternoon to you too! Thank you very much! Ain’t this grand?

 

If it had not been for the fact that we were there for Lady Jane, we would have left.

 

But it gets better.

 

Not once did she discuss Lady Jane’s health with us.

 

Not once did she discuss our options for heartworm and flea and tick treatment, she gave us a tube of XWY and said, “Use this, and when you come back you can buy more.”

 

Not once did she engage in conversation, or even speak distinctly, she seemed to be talking to herself more than to her tech, and certainly more than to us.

 

She and the tech removed the top half of the carrier (they are made so that while there is no door on the top, the top half can be removed). Then the tech lifted Lady Jane out of the carrier. At that point Lady Jane’s indelicacy distinctly manifested itself.

 

Now you really had to have been there for what comes next, because it really does get better.

 

The vet (that is, the woman who we assumed was the vet), reached into the carrier and lifted the towels out. Within the towels lay Lady Jane’s indelicacy. Rather than place the towels on the floor, rather than put them in a trash receptacle, the vet hands them across the examining table to Vickie and says, “Take these.”

 

Ha! Did I say you had to have been there?

 

As Vickie reached for the towels Lady Jane’s indelicacy, which was substantial for such a small animal, rolled out of the towels, down Vickie’s arm, onto her hand, and was deposited on her leg (she was wearing shorts).

 

Then this person, who we supposed was a vet, had the tech go get a trash bag and give it to Vickie so she could put the soiled towels in it.

 

But it gets better, don’t leave me yet.

 

Rather than say to Vickie, “Why don’t you come over here to the sink and get washed up. Here is soap and water, here is sanitizer,” this vet person hands her a roll of paper towels to simply wipe the indelicacy off her skin and clothes.

 

Now I ask you, gentle reader, would you really want the residue of cat poop on you, even if you dearly loved the cat? I don’t mean to be indelicate, goodness no, I don’t intend that at all, but I think it is a legitimate question. I think there are times we must confront the unpleasant, no matter how indelicate.

 

Lady Jane received a rabies vaccination, and also another vaccination for a number of problems cats can develop. We were given meds for her wounds. Another towel for her carrier was thankfully provided by the tech, she was placed back in the carrier, the top half was secured, and we left the examining room.

 

I went to the car with Lady Jane while Vickie paid the bill – one with exorbitant pricing.

 

As Vickie approached the car, I saw her carrying the trash bag. Not thinking that we wanted such indelicacy as company on the way home, I asked her to leave the bag outside. Then I got out of the car and deposited it in the clinic’s dumpster.

 

The only really funny thing about all of this is that the supposed vet made an appointment for us to bring Lady Jane back for a booster shot. Ha! We canceled that appointment and are taking Lady Jane to another vet, the drive is longer, but we’ve been to this clinic before and know what to expect.  

 

In case you’re wondering, Vickie got cleaned up when we reached home…and Lady Jane took a nap.