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Name: Steve Brown
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The Darndest Thing

 Last Sunday I attended the yearly Christmas party for a non-profit I help support. Nice party, good food, lots of people. I talked for a while with the husband of one of the volunteers and found out we had some mutual acquaintances. He had gone to his junior prom with Carolyn Flournoy. His Sunday school teacher had been Mr. Flournoy..."The Admiral". One of the Triumvirate of Burford St. Admiral Flournoy, Father Stevely, and Mayor Shirley represented the three branches of neighborhood government; the military, the church, and the politburo. Coincidentally, they each had very attractive daughters.
Fr. Stevely and the Mrs. (unusual for a priest even these days) seemed to have warned their five blonde daughters that boys were the devil incarnate. Each girl waged her own brave spiritual warfare against fraternization up to about the age fifteen when the warnings actually began to seem like the truth. By then the local boys had acquired a WMD... Lee Gangloff. Up to that point the biggest gun in our arsenal had been the naughty Sea Shanty record Eric's dad had brought home from Hong Kong (Aboard the good ship Venus, you really should've seen us...Etc.)
Mayor Shirley's greatest concern was his Hi-Fi system. It was tragically condemned to a lifetime of playing bagpipe records WAY TOO LOUD (to show off all the dazzling highs and dramatic lows that one would hear if they were wearing a live cat-fight as a hat). His son Scott was the keeper of the pool and had each guest sign a written vow not to spit in the water and submit to a DNA test whenever a random bubble was found floating on the surface.
Admiral Flournoy was a veteran of The Great Snow Battle of 1975 Or So. His landing craft (a white station wagon) took a direct hit amidships, but with no thought to his own personal safety, he left the vehicle in mid street to pursue the insurgent who had attacked his vessel. The local populace wouldn't point out the guilty party (me) and I managed to blend into the local surroundings.
The tech sector lived next door to the Admiral. The name escapes me (something Russian I think) but I fondly remember their donation of approximately ten cubic yards of fan-fold computer paper at our first fictional paper drive (usually used to supply paper to cover local cars). No one had that quantity of fan-fold just lying around in those days (or today either I guess). Quickly realizing it was a smoking gun, we elected to get the stuff out of sight by moving it directly from Tommy's wagon to the nearest storm drain.
Months later came the storm...
Then came the flood...
Then came the scuba divers.
Today it would probably be called enviro-terror and get referred to Homeland Security, back then the term used was "the darndest thing"
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You will know them by their work ethic

 

If you've ever hired someone to work on your car, paint a room (or a whole house), do yard work, - any number of jobs- you have probably worried at least a little if the work would be done well and on time. Likewise, if you’re self-employed and you’ve been hired to do such work, you have probably worried at least a little if you would get paid the amount agreed to, or if there would be a lot of quibbling, or even acrimony about whether your work met the customer’s standards. In the “real world” people do shoddy work sometimes, just like some people write bad checks, promise to pay “later”, or suddenly discover their checkbook is smaller than their eyes when the work is complete.

That’s life in the big city. What’s sad is that sometimes it’s life in the church as well. I know Christians who do good work and make those that hire them (Christian or not) glad they did. Unfortunately, most if not all of them have, at least once, finished a job only to be told that money’s tight so they need to wait for payment or maybe settle for less than their customer said they would pay for the work. Lots of these customers simply never call back so the guy (or gal) who held up their side of the deal has to either 1) act like a collection agency and harass their brother or sister; or 2) write it off and hope the work they got paid for will cover their bills.

On the other hand, lots of Christians I know are very leery of hiring other Christians after getting poor quality work done and being told “hey, it’s my ministry” when they tell the person they hired that frankly, they expected more for their money. When the recently blind man saw men moving about like trees, Jesus didn't say “It’s not like I’m getting paid for this”.

In my opinion, no one who does secular work for money should call that their ministry. If they give up a Saturday to help someone in need by doing the same work for free, that’s ministry. Your conduct on your secular job can and should be a ministry. The title “ministry” however, is not a coat of paint you can slop onto anything you do for a living.

I wish I had the impression that most self-employed Christians are better than average in their chosen field. Many though give me the impression of being unable to hold down a regular job. By the same token, since none of us would have the nerve to tell the bank they’ll receive a heavenly reward instead of the mortgage this month, we shouldn't’t even consider treating each other that way.

Let our yes be yes, our no be no. let’s do our work as unto the LORD (where have I heard that before?). As for myself, I’m certain that if I were self-employed I would starve; I’m far too disorganized to succeed at that, but I’m very happy that I know it and accept that limitation.

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The Secret Garden of Alcazar

 

Maybe every neighborhood has one; a house cloaked in mystery, whether benign or sinister, that only the nearby residents are aware of. The gangster, haunted, wealthy, nudist, hippie rock band, dead kid, or maybe even space alien house. Ours wasn't sinister, it just didn't look like it belonged on our street. Instead of the usual Clairemont ranch style tan box, this house looked like a Zen meditation clinic. It seemed lower and longer than usual and was a dusty rose color with a wider entryway than it's neighbors. Flanking the door (with it's knob in the center -not at the edge like an American door) was that wavy glass you can't really see through. The whole place looked peacefully Chinese and I'm sure it would have made a perfect home for a wind chime collector. Seeing a car in the driveway was the rarest of events and usually sparked a week of whispering and speculation.
Being a pack of eleven-year-olds, some of whom had read Tom Sawyer, we were certain to try to learn more about this strange house and it's occupants. We had already discovered the wonderful secret of the run-down house on the corner; they had a marvelous array of owls, ravens and other birds of prey in the backyard which we were told not to even look at. It turns out that if you look directly at a B-O-P, they take it to mean you want to make them lunch and get very offended.
We decided to look at the mysterious back yard for clues as to our unseen neighbors. A swing set, swimming pool, putting green, anything that would shed some light. What we found was a garden with three key ingredients. 1) a tangelo tree with juicy sweet ripe fruit in ample supply; 2) a small bamboo patch with stalks flexible enough to catapult surplus Tangelos into the sky; and 3) an avocado tree. We didn't care much for avocados, but Ricky's mom liked them enough to give us her proxy permission to enter the back yard on the condition that we brought her back the goods. For some reason, the Tangelos were treasure to us, but the undesired avocados were dirty things the birds had probably contaminated. Ricky's mom could have them.
We never got caught. I've never had a store bought tangelo as good. Maybe I should buy a tree, put up some barbed wire and wait for summer. In the mean time I can only envy the Zen nudist rock stars as they await their mothership.
Steve

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