"Trolls or No?"

I have no idea how you feel about trolls. Or especially how you feel about talking of them to young children. I mean, you could get them too scared to sleep in their own beds at night.

Well, a month or so ago Mary read grandson Caleb Merle "The Three Billy Goats Gruff". At the tender age of two and a half, it made quite an impression on him; especially the troll.

And it just so happens that Myron and Heidi's house sets on a little piece of higher group between two small streams. And crossing both of these streams are little bridges.

Doesn't this look a little "trollish" to you? You can almost see one peeping out. The sawmill is just on the other side of this creek and patch of woods.

This one looks like it could come right out of "The Three Billy Goats Gruff". See all that green grass on the one side?

Anyway, I just couldn't resist.(I'm a firm believer in children developing a little imagination) I told Caleb one day, "Look, I see a troll bridge!"

He ate it up hook, line and sinker. And ever after that they've been the "Troll Bridges".  Caleb uses a "w" for most of his "r" sounds, but in "bridge" he leaves out the "r" altogether. So it comes out "twoll bidge".

Now, Caleb and me are great buddies and almost every morning when I stop in to pick up Myron on the way to work, Caleb comes running out on the porch in his jammies to talk with me a little.

Nothing like a visit from Caleb to start your day off right!

 We talk about whether a bear came to see him during the night. Or about the "twoll bidges". (You can see both of them from the porch.) We talk about the things we hear running across the creek at the sawmill. He could tell you if it was "Jr's loader" running, the skid-loader,  a forklift, or the chipper making a big gnawing racket as it eats up a big slab from the sawmill.

One morning awhile back we were visiting (and I hadn't said a word that morning about trolls) and I heard a chain saw start up across the creek at the mill. I said, "Hey, I hear somethin' over at the sawmill!"

He got a great big grin on his face and his eyes were shining. "The twoll is cuddin' wood!" he said.

"My Sunday Afternoon Walk"

The Sunday afternoon walk was sort of a tradition in our family. That is for my dad, my brothers and my sister.We always left Mama at home and we'd always come back with a bouquet of some kind, of which Mama was always appreciative. Looking back now I'm pretty sure it was Papa's way of giving her a precious hour or two a week of peace and quiet. And we enjoyed the walk as well.

Still do. I enjoy going by myself and taking my peace and quiet along. The woods was made for peace and quiet. Now I know many people enjoy roaring thru the woods on 4-wheelers. While I know it's not a sin, to me it just borders on being sacrilegious. 

So, I went on a walk yesterday. Nothing earth shattering. Sure, I'd rather been in Glacier National Park, but that wasn't feasible for Sunday afternoon.

So instead I just eased to the backside of Airy Mont Farm to my favorite spot on Seneca Creek below Sheep Rock. How did it get it's name? The woods slopes down towards the creek here until it abruptly ends with a straight rock drop off of probably 35 feet down to the creek level. Legend has it that back in plantation days a pack of dogs was chasing sheep in this area and they went off the cliff and died.

Now I mentioned earlier about the peace and quiet. This year they are both in short supply around here. You see it's the year for the "17 year locusts". And from all appearances you would think it was a plague of Biblical proportions happening right in front of your eyes.

But actually, they're not locusts, but rather "Periodical Cicadas". The ones we are seeing now were born in 1996 and have spent the last 16 years as larvae in the ground. Now this is the year for them to come out, mate, and lay the eggs that will hatch out for the next cycle.

A cicada came out of each one of these holes!

When the larvae come out of the ground, the first thing they do is shed their old skin. The ground is littered with these empty skins.

Right handsome actually; red eyes and yellow tipped wings. Supposed to be good eating when they first come out.

For as many of them as you see, you would think they would eat everything green in sight. But they don't seem to eat anything. The only damage at all is to some of the smaller diameter tree branches which the females sort of spear to lay their eggs.

And they are LOUD! I read that the sound level from their "singing" can be as high as 100 decibels. Now this singing may not be as melodic as you might imagine. The nearest thing I would compare it to would be some of that Russian men's choral music where they stay on the same pitch for a very long time. Some folks say the noise drives them crazy. But personally, I think they were probably crazy to start with. To me, while the sound itself maybe isn't exactly beautiful, the amazing life cycle makes it a lovely sound to my ears. It sounds like they are just shouting about a Designer.

While I enjoyed the cicadas for awhile, I spent most of my time down in the creek.  Down in that creek canyon you feel like you've left the cares of civilization behind. I would say why don't you join me, but two's a crowd at this spot!

A little civilization going by high overhead. (Now that's BLUE sky and GREEN trees)

Look closely for Mama Duck and little ones.

"Till Death Do Us Part"

Sorry to disappoint you. I know when you read the title you were thinking that most likely the first "Eliezer Connected" couple was on their way up the aisle.

But to be honest, my phone hasn't exactly been ringing of the hook just yet. But on the flip side, the good news is that I haven't been run out of town on a rail yet either.

There was some good discussion going on lately and one of my favorite comments was someone who commented on Dorcas Smucker's "Thoughts on Marriage" post. (http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/)

This person said  it is so interesting "how people I've encountered from various cultures ended up in a pretty similar proportion of happy and unhappy marriages by vastly different means."

Well said. Which goes to show that the focus should be something other than finding the "perfect means" in getting the job done. (it also means that the "Eliezer Connection" could work, given the right focus otherwise)

One person said that she would very much enjoy being a part of an Eliezer connection for others, but couldn't imagine allowing some "disinterested third party" to play the same sort of role in her life.

I know what she means, but I was imagining everybody being very interested all the way around.

Take Abraham's servant, for instance. He stopped by the bosses tent that morning expecting to discuss where to graze the flocks and herds for the week and whether to make the tents out of goat or camel and were they going to kill the fatted calf for lunch or dinner, but instead Abraham blows him away with "Go get a wife for my son Isaac!"

I'm not sure how long the journey took, but you can be sure he had plenty of time to think. This whole story is high drama. ( I always get a little amused how drama is discouraged in our conservative Mennonite culture, but there sure is plenty of it in The Book!)

I can imagine him thinking about all the great and grave responsibilities he had as the steward of Abraham's vast portfolio of wealth. All that he was good with. This latest mission has him shaking in his sandals.

He was probably a lot of things, but I'll bet you "disinterested" wasn't one of them. What if he couldn't find a girl? What if he found her and she wouldn't come back with him? What if he found her and she came back but she ended up being a jerk? (can girls be jerks, or is that strictly a guy thing?)

 Read the story again in Genesis 24. If it doesn't give you goose bumps you're lacking in the feelings and emotions department.

Speaking of which, I do have a love story to tell you. I wasn't involved with getting them "connected", but a good love story nevertheless.

Now back when I was a kid we never, hardly ever saw Canadian Geese. We were too far from the coast and the migration routes. But gradually we began to get a few here and there and now we have a healthy population that stays here in south central Virginia and doesn't migrate at all.

In fact, some of the city parks are starting to look at them as a nuisance, they hang out there in large numbers, especially in the winter, and generally foul up the place. But out here in the country we still love having them around; to see and hear them fly overhead gives you that "call of the wild" sort of feeling.

On my way to work each morning, (3 mile drive) I go past four ponds that I can see from the road. And each one has a nesting pair of Canadians on them.

About two weeks ago I went down to Yeatts pond to check on the pair there and maybe get a few photos. When I got there the male wasn't at home. The female was on the nest and stayed there all hunkered down until I got quite close.

But finally I got "too close" and she erupted in a royal hissy fit. I thought maybe she would come after me, but she stayed at the nest while giving me a tremendous honking out.

The male must have been off feeding but after hearing his mate's frantic honking, he comes sailing in to the aid of his bride.

He gave me a piece of his mind as well.

You are remembering that Canadian Geese mate for life. Sit up and take notice, human race. We could learn something here about dedication and faithfulness.

When the geese are doing a better job than we are, shame on us.

"If I Ran the Zoo"

With all due apologies to Dr. Suess and the seriousness of the subject at hand, I just couldn't resist using that title.

Let me explain. A little over a month ago Shari Zook wrote a very short post entitled "PS". (look it up at shari.zooks.us/ps/  She stated that very few single ladies are single by choice and just wanted the men who happened to be reading to pass this on to their "compadres".

This prompted quite a few comments (mine included). I commented that I have some single guy friends who aren't necessarily single by choice either.  At the end of my comments I mentioned that I was having a brainstorm. How many single lady friends does she have, I asked. I've got three guys on my end, I said. Maybe we would be of some use in an "Abraham's servant" role here somewhere.

She commented back that I had a great idea. She has twenty-six, she said. She said she sees I will have to find some more men. She said she would supply the camels.

Which I have to admit was a very funny comeback. I laughed sitting at my computer for a long time. But really, I wasn't just joking. (read also her next post entitled "I Speak For the Trees", in which she spoke to the ladies; this generated lots of comments as well)

I have a few opinions of my own on the subject and since there is no one here to stop me I might just feel free to give them!

Let's get a few fundamentals down first:
1. Marriage is an exceedingly serious thing, so the contemplating thereof should not be taken lightly.
2. Marriage is not for everyone. A single person should NEVER be made to feel second-rate.
3. The falling-head-over-heels-in-love-with-your-soul-mate is overly hyped and over rated.

If you are a single person you may have a grandma or a biddy-hen aunt that feels its one of her highest duties to pester you about this subject. I think we would all agree that this usually isn't all that  helpful.

What about teasing? If done, it should be done VERY carefully. Looking back on my experience, (as a frightfully shy and slow to grow up skinny kid) if I was teased by my close friends who I knew loved and cared for me, it actually made me feel better about myself. That maybe I was worth teasing; like there was some room for possibilities in this area for me. But any teasing that comes from outside this close circle of friends is liable to be hurtful and crushing.

Know this couple? They met in a nursing home in 1976

And I've heard disparaging comments on how some couples meet. It seems like the "ideal" scenario is if you fall in love straight out of high school or the youth group. If that doesn't happen then maybe you should consider going to one of the Bible Schools. And if that doesn't work and you are getting older and desperate, you may want to consider going to SMBI, otherwise know as the "Shoe Factory". As in bringing the young people in, mending their souls first and then sending them out in pairs. And further down the line would be voluntary service, etc. etc.

That whole mentality really stinks in my book. I'd be willing to venture the relationships that begin at SMBI on the whole are quite a bit more stable than the "falling in love in high school"ones.

Do you need to wait until some romantic bombshell explodes in your consiousness before you move ahead in this area?? I say you better give it some thought beforehand, while you are still in your right mind.

What would be  wrong with a young single person (or not so young) making a simple, rational decision. That they would like to find a life's companion. (Ok Shari, I'll have to admit that in our culture the guys have the advantage here)

Now let's take it a step further. What would be wrong with second parties being a help in introducing singles who may not know each other at all? I know this does happen on occasion. But what if something was actually formally organized with this intent?

It could be called "The Eliezer Connection". It would work this way. Say I have a single friend that would like to be married. I also have connections with someone else who has some single friends of the opposite gender.

For example, I would say to my "connection friend" that I have a sincere, quiet, hard working young man and go on to give his character strengths (and maybe if there are any weaknesses, hey, we've all got them) and his interests. My "connection friend" would look over the possibilities among his aquiantances and we would get our heads together to see if we have a potential match. Up to this point the singles themselves would have zero involvement except to agree to allow "The Eliezer Connection" to do some homework.

At this point the Eliezer volunteers would go to the singles with a suggestion that they learn to know
 each other. And from this point they are on their own, realizing that the Eliezer people don't necessarily know the mind of God and that they are responsible to find this out for themselves.

Not romantic enough?? I have no idea what the ladies will say about this. I have this nagging vision of them tarring and feathering me and running me out to the edge of cyberspace somewhere.

Until then "The Eliezer Connection" is open for business!

"Jersey and the Man-Shed"

Now, I'd heard of man-caves and man-sheds before but had never been in one. I guess I'd never felt the need. I do realize men need a place of solitude and quietness to connect with themselves and regroup and recharge to go out and face life for another day.

But hey, I can sit at home on the couch in plain view of my good wife and be in a cave all my own. Don't believe me? Just ask Mary, she'll tell you the truth. She's told me that she wishes I would at least grunt now and then, that way she would know that there's a slight chance that I possibly might have heard what she was just saying.

Of course, you would think that grunting would be a strong point of mine, you know, sort of natural-like. Especially since in years past she always said that I looked exactly like a Cro-Magnon man.Now, just so I don't put myself down too much, I will say that I've improved some over the years (although not in looks) and have actually learned a few words which add a nice touch along with the grunts.

I know, I know, I'm always getting sidetracked from getting on with my story, so here goes........

 Some years back when I was still logging I needed to cut a tract of timber where the only access was to come thru a neighboring property.

I had never met this man before, (we'll call him Jersey) so I went and talked with him and got permission to come up his driveway and go thru his cow pasture to get to the timber. I told him we would leave his driveway in good condition when we were finished. We did get along well the whole time considering the tract was 100 acres and it took a long time to get it cut. The only time he got a little bit aggravated at me was when I kept leaving the gate open when hauling loads and his cows kept getting out. After that I made a deal with him where I could shut a wire penning them out in the pasture for the day.

When Jersey got home from work he would often ride his four-wheeler down to see what we were doing. It was summer time when we started and he would come riding up shirtless, always with his Bud-Light in hand.

I wonder if the water was bad at his house and maybe all he ever drank was Bud-Light. Anyway, he had the most impressive beer belly I've ever seen. I had to wonder what it would have looked like if he had drank Bud-Heavy instead. I can tell you, it definitely gave me a new appreciation on shirts for men.

And also, Jersey was sort of a big talker, to put it kindly. Whenever he made an especially bold statement he would  heist himself up a little on his four wheeler, then secondly heist up his beer belly and proclaim his proclamation. It was fascinating to watch, although you didn't want to stare.

He told me how there was spotlighting going on in the neighbor's field just below his cowpasture, with people shooting deer there at night. He suspicioned that some of the local hunt club rednecks were guilty. He said he went to the hunt club meeting and fussed about it. He said he told them he was going to be down there with his gun and when HE shot, he was going to be aiming for the light.

One day I was looking for Jersey to ask him a question about something and I couldn't find him. I ran into Terry, who was a boyfriend of Jersey's daughter and he said that Jersey was out at "The Man-Shed."

Well, as I said before, I'd never been to one, so my interest perked up right away.

The Man-Shed was an old tobacco barn alongside the driveway that led up to the house. I had seen it plenty of times before without realizing it's significance. From the outside it looked very much still like the old tobacco barn that it was. But there were a few added features on the inside.

One was a fridge. Full of (what else?) Bud-Light. And a radio with which to play music. And a few  chairs for sitting. And that's about it. A picture of simplicity, really. (I mean, if this would have been "The Woman-Shed" you would have had to have curtains, rugs on the floor, tablecloths, candles and who knows what else)

But to be honest, I didn't really see much of anything about it that tempted me to get a man-shed of my own. I'd just as soon sit in my house.

To make a long story shorter, when we were just about to finish up the tract of timber, Jersey came riding down to see me. He thought he might want to select-cut a few of the trees on his side of the property line.

I wasn't really that interested in doing it, but I said I would go along and look at what he had in mind.

We walked  thru his woods and made our way back to his house.

 When we got back his wife met us in the back yard. She glared at Jersey with a gaze that would have withered an Arizona cactus. I looked at Jersey. I felt more than a little sorry for him. Always the big boastful talker, now all of a sudden he turned into the meekest of church mice. He looked embarrassed and had nothing more to say.

She did.

 She told Jersey in no uncertain terms that their woods was not getting cut in any way, shape, or form. She told me crisply that Jersey would be getting back with me. I took it that meant  I was dismissed, so I lost no time in easing on out of the circumstances.

Now I understood. Why some men have a real need for a man-shed. A place where they can be Man Over the Radio and the Chair and the Bud-Light. I'm not a drinking man, and don't recommend it whatsoever, but to be honest, I wouldn't hold it against him too hard if he stocked a little Jack Daniels on The Man-Shed shelf for special occasions. For the times when a six-pack of Bud-Light doesn't quite get you up to Man Level.

Man, when I left from there that day I couldn't WAIT to go home and sit in my man-house with that wife of mine.

Even if she insists that I must grunt every now and again.    

"Those Stubborn Yoders"

Now I'm a Yoder. I can't help it and had nothing to do with being one. I weren't around to get my opinion asked of when I was getting hatched. Having said that, I'm also not ashamed of being one but certainly not proud of the fact either. It's just the way it is; "ain't complicated", like Mark Roth would say.

Well, here is where I have to disagree with him. In my case it is complicated. Sort of.

You see, I'm a Yoder  in more than one way and there are several other confusing things that go along with the whole scenario.

My dad's name is Eli Yoder. So was my grandfather's. Father and son? Senior and Junior perhaps? Nope. Grandfather Eli was my mom's father. Which means my mom's maiden name was Yoder as well.

It gets more interesting. My dad and his two sisters married my mom and her two brothers. Not all at once, of course. Actually my mom and dad, being younger, were the last of the three couples to get married. He says he wasn't being a copycat. Of course I can't verify that as I weren't around then neither. (He says he married for love and I have to believe him as they've been in love now for almost sixty years.)

So there are three families of Yoders with all of us twenty children being what's called "double first" cousins. I've tried to explain it to people on occasion. Most of the time they give you this big blank glazed over look and you can tell they haven't understood it at all. Someone told me once, "Just tell them you're from West Virginia!"

The trouble is, we were never from West Virginia. And I'm beginning to realize that West Virginians have feelings too, and they don't necessarily enjoy being the subject matter of all those less-than-intelligent jokes.

I always felt it a special thing to grow up amongst all my aunts and uncles and cousins. It gave you a sense of belonging. This gang almost felt more like brothers and sisters as opposed to cousins. It wasn't until just several years ago that I really thought about it and realized that I wasn't the same brand of Yoder that all the rest of my double first cousins were. I had a small identity crisis at the time but have recovered nicely.

So what kind of people are these Yoders? (I have to be careful here as some of them may read this stuff)

Basically they are nice people. Lean more towards being introverts. (I was majorly one) Friendly, kind and loyal. Steady and solid, not quick to make rash decisions. (Although in some ways slow rash decisions are worse)

There is one trait that I think runs deep among a lot of our brand of Yoder. We're stubborn as the day is long! We will listen to you, smile all the while, try to understand what you're saying, but if we don't want to be persuaded or believe it, we won't.

I had to give a talk once at an Easter Sunrise service on the perspective of Thomas the disciple. I gave the talk in first person and at the end I said that I hadn't revealed my last name yet. You guessed it; I proposed that Thomas' last name was probably Yoder. I said if we don't want to believe something, we won't. I said that we would even so much as die for something we didn't believe in.

Now that can be good at times. Like when you hear a rumor of bad news. We will refuse to believe bad news about someone until it smacks us in the face and we can no longer ignore it. Which is good in a way, but maybe if we would recognize something sooner, some help could be had earlier in the situation.

I'm thinking just now of something that happened many years ago that illustrates this family trait quite well.

It so happened that one day Sonny , David and I  were over at Uncle Buds to weed a potato patch that the young people were raising that year. Now Sonny is one of those double first cousins that I've been telling you about. David is a Yoder also, but of a little different strain. David's grandfather and mine and Sonny's grandfather were half brothers. Some years later David ends up marrying my sister Judy. (The plot thickens)

But back to my story. We were heading over the hill from the house and needed to go thru the cow pasture on our way to the potato patch. Which of course meant we needed go thru the gate, which was a simple one strand electric wire. Which, of course, someone needed to open.

Well, it wasn't going to be me. You see, I was driving. I wasn't old enough to have my drivers license yet (Sonny and David were) so I found every opportunity to drive off road that I could. And I was afraid if I got out to open the gate one of them would get in the drivers seat.

So we get to the gate. We stop. No one gets out. I tell them that I am not going to open the gate. Sonny says he isn't going to open the gate. David says he isn't going to open the gate either.

You can see the pickle we were in. We had made our statements. That stubborn Yoder blood was running strong in our veins. Sort of like the early Anabaptists, we were  in no mood for compromise.

Were we mad at each other? Absolutely not. Everyone was calm and civil. Just nobody was willing to move. Personally, I was ready to sit there all day. (Well, at least till lunch)  I didn't know what was going to happen.

I wish I knew for sure how long we sat there. I'm pretty sure it was ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. (You gotta remember, this was over forty years ago and I didn't write it down) I don't remember either if we chatted about other subjects while we waited. But I know we weren't arguing and fussing about the matter at hand.

Finally Sonny gave in and hopped out and opened the gate. We worked in the patch and it was time to come back. I was dreading the gate thing again. I was fully expecting a long wait the second time around also. I was driving again so it wasn't going to be me.

When we got to the gate Sonny and I were very surprised when David jumped right out and got the gate. (Maybe the different strain was kicking in there)

As I mentioned earlier, David went on to marry my sister and had another batch of Yoders. Now all but one of their children have married. (And the youngest, Robin, is probably contemplating it) I was thinking about it just this morning. Take my nephew Gary's little guy Dustin. (Cute as all get out, he is) If you follow his grandmother Judy's side of the family, he has got to go all the way back to his great-great grandmothers to pick up a name other than Yoder.

Scary, I know. Gary and Susanna, are you watching him closely?  Genetically speaking, my guess is that he may have a slightly stubborn streak somewhere!

"The Sounds of Silence"

He was a lean man, maybe you could even describe him as gaunt. Reminded me a little of one of the local Red Dog Hunt Club's Walker hounds after a long deer season. Like he had gone for too long on too little. His eyes were large and had a haunted look about them. (the eyes always seem bigger on a gaunt person) But his hands were what you couldn't help noticing.

His name was Dennis Tischendorf.

Don't know any Tischendorfs in south central VA? Well, me neither. The thing was, we weren't in south central VA at the time.It was 1989 or so and we were living in central Wisconsin. There were all sorts of names in Wisconsin that you could barely get your tongue around. Tischendorf sounds Scandinavian to me, but there were also the Polish ones (most of which ended in "inski" or "owski") and German ones. Where here people tell redneck jokes, out there it was Norwegian and Swedish jokes.

And the people out there thought I had quite an accent. Of course they didn't realize that they were the ones with the accent. Once I was in a store trying to find car washing soap and the clerk led me down the aisle to the udder wash. Thought I wanted to wash cows instead of cars.

How in the world did we land out there, you ask? I wonder sometimes myself. (it seems like a very long ago dream now) We had moved out there and were working for a dairy farmer; we lived in the farm house and I was basically the herdsman. Dennis would stop in every so often and just hang around.

He drove an old brown and white Ford pickup piled high in the back with assorted junk and old tires. I was never sure if he was homeless, but he definitely had the look. Sort of rumpled and stubbly, like maybe he had slept in his truck the night before.

He was a quiet man; like I said, he just sort of hung around and watched for his chance to talk to you. Sometimes he would very apologetically hang his head and ask if he could possibly have a sandwich. I would go to the house and get Mary to make one and take it out to him.

Now it's never nice to  watch someone eat, especially if it's a handout, so I would sort of glance away and give him a little space. But you didn't have to glance away long; give him a few seconds and the sandwich would be gone. I mean gone. And he'd look at you with a look that said he sure could use several more of those. But he never asked.

But I mentioned earlier about his hands. His hands were what you couldn't help noticing and you tried not to keep looking at. You see, his hands were covered with scabs and sores.

I'm sure you're wondering why. Did he have leprosy? No, the reason his hands looked this way is because Dennis constantly wrung his hands and picked at them and they never quite healed.

When Dennis talked, you could tell he was a tortured man. He had done wrong things in the past, he said, and he didn't know what to do about them. He was a former dairy farmer and had once put up a line fence and didn't put it in the right place. He had ran the fence to give himself  the advantage over his neighbor. He had cheated the IRS out of taxes. He said he never kept good books and when it came tax time he would just make the figures look such that he wouldn't owe much of anything.

He also had a truck and did hauling on the side. He would fill his truck with fuel from his off-road farm diesel tank which of course was cheating the government out of taxes as well. There may have been other things, but those are the ones that I remember.

I would try to tell him to just go to the IRS and tell them what he did. I don't think he owned anything other than his old truck so my reasoning was that the IRS people could take one look and realize he wasn't worth going after.

I often wondered if  there was some really big thing that Dennis never told me about. (not that cheating the IRS isn't a big thing, it is to be sure) It just seemed like he was more tortured than most people would be about that sort of thing. I wondered if there was maybe a skeleton long hidden under his barn floor or something similar.

But here's the thing I will never forget about what Dennis told me; it made a lasting impression on me. He would say over and over, "You know, I never gave myself time to think! I would fall asleep in front of the TV at night. In the barn we always had the radio going. When I got in the truck, the first thing I would do is turn the radio on. Oh, if I just would have given myself time to think! I didn't want to think!"

We moved back to VA in 1990 and I often wondered what ever happened to Dennis. I googled his name the other evening and it showed a Dennis Tischendorf that died in 2007 at the age of 73. That would sound about the right age. It listed the towns of Dorchester, Stetsonville, and Abbotsford which all sound right as well. That was the area in which he made his rounds. I wonder if he ever found the peace he craved.

Whenever I think of Dennis, I think mostly about the question of people having time to think. If Dennis had trouble with that in his day, we have ten times the possibility in ours. Electronic devices of all kinds that you can take with you anywhere you go and can fill your every waking minute.

So am I anti-technology? No, there are a lot of good uses for technology. I just happen to think that we need some silence in our diet. Some quietness, so we have some time to think.

Cell phones are great things, but put them away somewhere between calls. It gets to me how some people sit holding their phones on their laps even when they're not using them; like the phone is part of their anatomy that they can't do without. I have this sneaking suspicion that some young people these days are born with their cell phones wired to their belly buttons or somewhere.

I don't get as much silence as I'd like but I do love it. That's one reason I love the middle of the night.
(that's when I started this, it's getting towards morning now) Another place I love is my tree stand.

The old tree stand,thirty-some feet up in an old Hemlock tree

Now I haven't hunted for probably fifteen years. But I still like to spend time there. Myron and I built it many years ago; we would haul boards back there on the canopy of the tractor and I would pull them up one at a time as Myron tied them onto a rope. The most interesting thing of all was in the beginning when I climbed up that far in the tree with the chain saw and cut off the thirty-some feet of tree that was above where the floor of the tree stand is now.

I haven't spent time back there for a year or two now. But I feel it calling my name. I need to take a pilgrimage there soon.

I like to go back there and spend twenty-four hours at a time. Take my sleeping bag and pillow. My Bible and a notebook. A jug of water and that's pretty much it. Well, my cell phone. Sigh. That's for Mary's sake though. So she knows I'm safe and didn't fall out of the tree on the way up and that no bear or mountain lion ate me during the night.

Now I don't know about you, but I'm guessing  that your life is way too busy, too connected to the things of this world, and hasn't had nearly enough silence in it. 

And I know I'm not the doctor, but I'm feeling pretty confident with my diagnosis and about giving you this advice.

Take half a dose of silence and call me in the morning. Just don't be surprised if I don't answer.