Trilogy, Part II

Once upon a time there was a man. He was a rational man with a good heart- he could have been a scientist working on a cure to a disease, or perhaps a professor in a university somewhere.  As such, he had a firm belief in science and what man could prove. We had come a long way in the last 200 to 300 years, discovering cells and biological chemistry, making new metals and fuels and even going to the moon. All that had been accomplished had been done through rigorous science. 

This was the type of man that most modern folks admire. He was green, meaning he wanted to do his little part to save the world from global warming. His neighbors were pests, though. They were Christian and they wanted to engage him in talks about their faith. He knew, he could tell it. The one time he relented, he was assailed by a highly improbable posit. 

“No, no, no,” he replied, smiling. The very idea of God to start with, then becoming a man of all things was for him, simply preposterous. “I’m sorry, but I simply cannot bring myself to believe something like that,” he told them. 

The man lived in Florida, in peace with the sun, the beautiful weather and the birds which would nest in the trees.  How he loved those birds! They would sing and wake him in the morning. They would soar through the air with grace and flit about hopping on the tree branches chirping and frolicking.

Now it just so happened that a storm in the ocean started heading to the coast where he lived. It was a big hurricane and it was headed for his town. But the man had been cautious and prepared. He had a special storm barn built in his back yard.

Now the storm was approaching and the man noticed that the birds did not seem to know. They were still in the trees with only hours until the storm hit. Desperately, he tried to shoo the birds into the barn with no success. He wanted the birds to live and he knew they had no chance with the hurricane winds that were sure to hit hard. 

“Go in! Go in!” he told them in frustration.  But the little birds paid no heed as they saw the man jumping and shouting. Rather, they stayed away from him as they were involved with their own lives. Finally the man paused for a moment and shook his head. “How could I ever help save them unless I became a b….” 

Then, the man realized what God had done. With tears, he looked up to the racing clouds in the sky and thanked God for His love.

Trilogy, part III

Trilogy Part III

This is the third of three stories that I remember from high school, as told in church or Christian functions. I don’t know why they have stuck with me- perhaps it is because they resonate with my soul in a certain way. One can tell that they are old-time church stories, but they each have validity for their place in illustrating important truths. Thus, let us examine them, and whoever has ears to hear, let them discern with understanding. 

The Boy and the Boat

Once upon a time there was a young boy. He would go to the park each weekend to play and watch the birds at the lake, and hang out doing young boy things. One weekend he saw a toy boat on the lake. How its sails billowed in the wind as it sailed along the shoreline, canting off to one side as it was propelled along! Strings kept the sails in place, and it worked exactly as a large scale boat would. 

The little boy got excited and decided he wanted a toy boat. So he went to the library to learn how to make them. He studied hard and learned about the resins needed to make the boats waterproof. He learned about pulleys, rudders and how to weight the boat properly so it would stay upright. He learned about how to use steam to curve the wood so it would make a smooth side.

Finally, equipped with this knowledge, he went to a craft store and bought balsa wood meant to construct doll houses. Flat planks, square beams, string, pulleys, resin, paint and a pillowcase soon were in his bag. You see, he was an industrious boy and saved the quarters he made each week from completing household chores and cutting the neighbors lawn. Each day he would run home from school to work on his project. 

After a lot of care, effort, and work, he finally finished his little boat, and took it to the park to sail it in the lake. He got a long stick to maneuver the boat, for you see this was back in the days before powered boats with remote control were available. He placed the boat in the water on the shoreline as the breeze caused the sails to billow. Off it went down the shore with a small wake of foam streaming along its bow! How merrily the boy chased after it, skipping and laughing. But then, something unexpected occurred. 

The wind shifted, and as it did, the boat turned out away from shore. He reached out with the stick, but it was too late. The little boy watched, crestfallen, almost in disbelief, as his boat was taken out to the middle of the lake. He waited, but the sky began to darken, and he would be late for dinner. So, sadly, he trudged home. He thought about his little boat and determined to look for it at the lake on the way to school the next day. 

He passed by the lake early the next morning, looking to and fro, but with no sign of the little boat either on the lake or the shoreline. With a broken heart, he went to school that day, the air sucked out of him. He visited the lake in the park every chance he got whenever he had some free time, but it never did reappear.

Several months went by, and the little boy eventually passed by the crafts shop where he had bought the materials he used to make the boat. And there in the front window was his boat! His boat! He ran into the store and up to the gray-haired bespectacled man behind the register.

“I’m sorry young man, but that boat was sold to us and we are now the rightful owners,” the shop owner explained. ”If you want it, you will have to purchase it.”

“How much is it?” he asked.

“Twenty five dollars,” the shop owner replied. It was for the young boy, a princely sum. His little brows drew together and he knew what he must do. He ran all the way home and went to get his piggy bank, bursting it open on the back steps of his house. Gathering all he had, he ran, pockets sagging and pants jingling all the way back. 

He gave all he had to the shopkeeper. After some counting, he turned back to the little boy. “This is enough,” he told the boy as he handed over the boat and a receipt. 

The little boy cradled his boat with tears of joy, as he said to it, “I made you, then I bought you. I made you, then I bought you.”

A Tribute to Mr. Thomas Barry

A Tribute to Mr. Thomas Barry

Many years ago, I had the privilege of attending a physical science class under a man who greatly inspired me. It was 1976, and I was a freshman at Ridgeview High. That man was Thomas Barry.

Mr. Barry was not cut from the same mold as other teachers. He called our hands "meathooks" and had a sly, dry sense of humor. He also had a voice very similar to the star of the Get Smart series, Don Adams. "Now children," he would chide us, knowing that it rubbed against our sense of teenage grown-upness, "get out your number TYEW pencils and get ready to take a pop quiz." This mispronunciation of the number two with the voice cracking is one of many things I have adapted into my own classes from my teachers at Ridgeview.

During those days, I was, let’s face it, at times... a mildly annoying student. I would challenge poor Mr. Barry in class, questioning his authority with my witty repartee.

"Your homework tonight is to complete page 93 in your workbook."

"Is it due tomorrow?" He would stop class and just look at me.

"Yes."

"The Physical Science Workbook?"

"Houtchens!!!!" He would just roll his eyes and shake his head, calling me by my last name. Unfortunately for me, I am now having to deal with a student this year who is *exactly* like I was back then, but that's another story, hehe. =)

Another time Mr. Barry was running a static experiment with a Van deGraff generator. These were the days when long hair was in for guys, and I sported stylish over the collar straight hair. Mr. Barry said he needed a guinea pig for the experiment and I was chosen to be the "expendable one." I was asked to stand on "the platform" and place my hand on the machine as it revved up. As he was discussing the actions of the electrons running through my body, my hair stood up in a silly way and I reached out with a pointed finger.

"Houtchens, don't do that." He shifted slightly away from me. Suddenly I found myself in an unusual position. Like a mad comic book villain on a teenage ego trip, I discovered that I HAD THE POWER. Magneto would have loved me. I persisted for just a moment, when to my shock, (sorry) a giant spark jumped out from my extended index finger and hit Mr. Barry on the ear. "OWW! HOUTCHENS!!!!"

These incidents are relevant in that at the time I was walking home from school each day, along Trimble Road until it cuts through a path in the woods. Mr. Barry would tear out of work in his sky blue Volkswagen Beetle around that time and often he passed me along the road, waving as he passed. One day, it was raining heavily and I walked home knowing I would be soaked by the time I arrived. Mr. Barry must have spotted me and seen an opportunity for sweet, sweet revenge. You see, the sides of the road were bordered at the time by long pieces of concrete, or perhaps it was granite. In any event, it caused the water to build up along the sides. He passed me by getting a little too close to the curb, sending a massive splash of cold water and mud all over me. I truly deserved it, but I did not mind. To his credit, he must have felt sorry for me because he pulled over down the street and offered me a ride home.

Mr. Barry ran the Science Club and took us teens on a night trip to Fernbank for a chance to look through their actual observatory at the planet Saturn. It was amazing- from Earth it resembled any other star, but through the telescope it looked like a painting, the rings and clouds on the planet clearly visible and awe-inspiring. He even invited our little club to his house for a little year end party one afternoon with snacks and soda.

Mr. Barry only taught at Ridgeview for 2 years, and yet- his presence there at least for me- was profound. As I learned later, it can be difficult to be a teacher. The behind the scenes work as well as the difficulty of dealing with classroom management issues is *extremely* stressful.

I have been unable to reach him, but in his retirement, I wish him peace, relaxation, and contentment. Wherever you are, Mr. Barry, God bless you richly. Thank you for putting up with me and thank you for your contribution to my life.

G.Houtchens

armchair coach

amateur historian

Through a Glass Darkly

Through a Glass Darkly

Inset: Dodge Dart on a hill in winter (sorry, my shop skills are not leet)

The week before last I was on my way to work in the early morning hours and I got caught in a brutal downpour. I could not see much through my windshield wipers and traffic was crawling on the two lane road, which was fine with me. I was still concerned that someone else would not be playing it safe (River Ridge High is on that road) and was driving cautiously. It was then that a verse came to me. Now, we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face.

We humans tend to be pretty independent thinkers. We like to be self-reliant. It would disturb us if we seriously considered the idea that our vision, our hearing, our senses (of which a vehicles’ controls are an extension) are extremely limited. We don’t know the distractions that other drivers are dealing with as they hurtle past us in their 2+ ton vehicles at great speeds. In a similar vein, we don’t see the spiritual battles that are going on around us on nearly a daily basis. We remain clueless. Unaware. Ignorant. Dare I say blind? But that is the way we act- out of sight, out of mind. The blessings of God surround us. Which reminds me of a story; two of them in fact.

The year was 1984. I was in my junior year of a five year program now that I was at Liberty, taking Old and New Testament Survey, both year-long courses. I was dating a girl at the time named Dorrie, a cute greek thing that was out of my league. It was winter and we decided on a Saturday to go on a road trip to get away from the (it seemed at the time) oppressive campus atmosphere. So we filled out a dating permission slip from the office of student affairs (snicker) and headed out to the Blue Ridge Mountains in my trusty brown two tone Dodge Dart with the slant 6 engine.

Bessie was the name I had given to her. It was a good car for college, but had a brake problem that required one to pump the pedal once before the brake shoes engaged. No problem, right? So we enjoyed each others’ company and conversation on the trip out. We took a scenic route up some winding roads and I parked just on the opposite side of an isolated wood shrouded hill, turning the car around so it faced uphill on the white road.

We went for a nice walk in the winter wonderland of serenity, carefree and without the worries of courses, preacher boy RA’s and drama. After about an hour of walking, we came back to the car and prepared to go get dinner. There was a problem though. The white road on which I had parked was not snow. It was ice. The wheels were turning, but nothing was happening. I tried backing up a little, but there was no way that car was going anywhere. I was concerned because the road behind the car turned to the right, with a steep lightly wooded bank on the left side.

Dorrie asked to give it a try, and I said ok, reminding her that the brakes needed to be pumped. I was standing outside the car by the rear bumper on the drivers’ side. She put that thing in reverse and it started going down the hill faster than I anticipated. I don’t know how I did it, but as the car was passing me, I opened the driver side door, slung myself into the drivers’ seat shoving Dorrie off to the side,(it had a long seat across the front, not bucket seats) and yanked hard on the steering wheel to the left while pumping the brakes as we careened into the small ditch on the side of the road opposite the steep hill.

My left side mirror was ripped off by a passing tree, but aside from that, disaster was averted. The car was still stuck on the ice on the road, but we were many, many miles away from any form of assistance. I had to get traction to get up the hill, so I went to the trunk. An old tire iron was there. I used it to hack at the ice and it worked, chipping the half inch or so of slippery stuff away, revealing the road underneath. Two hours later I had two long tracks in front of my wheels heading up the hill. Vroom, vroom. We managed to make it back safely.

As I think back to that time, I shake my head in disbelief. How could we have managed to escape that situation? Easy. It was not blind luck. Not the laws of chance nor the splurge of adrenaline. I believe a guardian angel was with us that day. Thank you, Lord, for Your mercies towards us.

More recently, a few years ago, I was at the Kroger. I was stocking up on my favorite beverage, Diet Cherry Cola. A lean balding guy dressed in blue jeans and a jean jacket pointed at my cart, smiling, and said with enthusiasm, “Cherry Coke!”

“Yes, I suppose so.” I answered, mildly amused, wondering why such a thing would be of interest. I started to go but turned back around to say something… and he was just… gone. Nowhere. It was unreal.

Here’s the deal. The interventions of heaven are seldom recognized, but they are numerous. The miraculous surrounds us. God’s great love for us rains down on a daily basis, in a deluge of mercy and grace. For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face.

G.Houtchens

My Favorite Essay

My Favorite Essay

Back in the days of my early teaching career, there was a certain 8^th grader whom I shall call “Jerry.” Jerry was an incredibly gifted young man, with a quick wit and keen intelligence. He was also bored easily and as such, often times got into trouble in class. On this occasion, he was bad for a substitute teacher along with two other boys. Their punishment was to write an essay on why they should be good for a sub. Being the pack rat that I am, I saved this essay and now have the pleasure of presenting it to you, 18 years later. Note the return to the assembled themes at the end. Enjoy.

“Why I Should Be Good for a Substitute”

Students should always respect a substitute because they are fragile and inexperienced. As a whole, I am sure we seem rather intimidating to a substitute teacher. He or she is merely trying to do his or her job the best he or she can to the best of his or her ability.

We, however, act as the classroom vampires, preying on the substitute’s inexperience and thriving on his or her insecurities. It is no surprise to me that substitutes have the hardest job in the scholastic range. We attack substitutes and literally mentally devour them. I pray to God that I will never be a sub and have to face my own 8^th grade descendents of classroom evil. We must always try to be kind to subs, no matter how dysfunctional and poorly assembled they are.

I suppose as students, when we saw the sub our primal instincts let out and we became cavemen; thoughtless, careless cavemen. We must consider the fear the sub must have experienced when she saw our faces, deformed by malice and eager to humiliate her in front of the class.

I am sure God will punish us for our primitive actions. We must always remember that a sub is a human and is likely to display the human emotions which we, the caveman student vampires, do not have. At times we must learn to accept these emotions and be kind to the human substitute teacher.