Wednesday, May 27, 2020

A Pain-filled Life

                                                    The Road to Maturity

                                                           N. A. Vincent

     I woke up this morning as I have for a little over two decades --or more--of my life: in pain. It was as when I went to bed, wanting a blessed, pain-free sleep, hoping that when I awoke in the morning I would be free of pain. Thinking, maybe I'll wake up in Heaven, being a Christian, where there is no pain: But, instead....another day in pain: I resolved, as always: Do what you have to do--live with it.
    Looking through another window,  a  small frame of black and white,  Back in Time in the 1940's, to a housing project in Tacoma, Washington . A small girl doesn't know much --except about the neighborhood: what happened in it, who comes to it, and her life while she was in it. Pain as an acknowledgeable part of young life was not in the picture. Not even the pain of the fist fight with a neighbor girl named Sandra.
      I don't even remember who won. Just the little crowd of little neighborhood kids excitedly standing around watching.
     Remembering around age four, growing up with a brother I adored . A father who was not there, someone not remembered because he did not come around. Ignorant of war and what it did or who caused it, but seeing in this window frame Mom and parties and uniforms of soldiers coming to the house to having fun. The old wind-up Victrola, the records, the heavy arm you lifted to reset the needle; laughing, and fun for the adults.
    Remembering being led by the hand up the stairs by a soldier who, to this day, remains headless and faceless. There is a bed, and I am lying on it. He is doing something to himself, but I have no idea what, anymore than I know if he did anything to me or not. I'm only 4 or 5, after all. I do not even remember the trip back down the stairs, just the vivid black and white memory, a clear Kodak shot of a headless soldier in khakis holding the hand of a little girl going up the stairs.
    No feeling is in this shot, no knowledge that a war was heavily being fought, that soldiers were having a last fling by a kind-hearted but party-loving gal before they left for duty and country, maybe to die in a foreign land or on a ruthless sea.
     No feeling much, until one morning my brother and I were taken to a busy place, all kinds of people, and they took my brother away and would not let me be with him because he was in "the boys' section" and I in the "girls section". But later Mom came for us and we went home.
      My recollections of feeling anything were not deep in those days: little things, my first boy friend Dale Faulk, who rang the bell, dropped the bouquet of wild flowers, and ran for home before I had a chance to open the door. The little blonde-haired girl named Karen who was kidnapped on her way to school, and we had been walking behind her a short distance away, but luckily, they got him before any damage was done.
       I don't remember pain in those days, but as I was growing older, just the adventures I had in that housing project in Salishan, then, moving out in the country and a new school near the State's madhouse, being kissed on the school swing by a little Negro boy, Sammy, but to my bewilderment, being chastised by the teacher, that a little white girl did not let a little Negro boy kiss her: I was 5! I had no idea such a thing caused pain in anyone. Indeed, I didn't know much about pain at all--just the mixed-up emotions of dislike and confusion in some areas of my life.
     It was just starting. 

     Eventually, we moved to Shelton, Washington, to a grand old house out on the bay in Agate. It was called the old O'Neil place, and was wonderfully enchanting, a roomy old house with lots of rooms and plenty of woods and beach to explore.  I think it was then that pain began making inroads into my life and my body, though I can't say exactly what age I began to hurt physically.  As a preteen, it was then called "rheumatism', but whenever it started in, as a child, it was  a vague nuisance. It didn't deter my adventurous life any. These years I'm skipping, to be told later in "Little Ones", the story of my life.
     I think my first emotional pain was when the old collie dog died.  I got off the schoolbus at Agate, picked up the old collie I had been given, and walked him home. I loved collies, and he was my first. My second traumatic pain in life came later, after my Mom had married again, and my brother was murdered, but deemed "a suicide". It was made to look like a suicide, but most of us knew it wasn't. The trauma in the years between these events is for telling at a later time.
      This was pain, losing a brother I loved, in spite of all that happened. In my teen years, I began to get violent headaches as well as the rheumatism. What we called "sick headaches"----the migraines that ruin people's lives.
     There were times I had to baby myself, but I'd get through it: I wasn't one to cry over spilt milk. My life had become one emotional and physical roller-coaster which never seemed to end as I slowly matured in all ways. We weren't a family who took pills as a cure-all for everything. 
     If you hurt, you lived with it.
     But Migraines required medicine, which didn't always help. I learned, much later in life, how to combat them before they erupted full-fury. You would find one coming on. You would grab a bowl of cold water, a wash cloth, go lie down in a dark room with the bowl of water on the floor: reach down, dip the cloth, wring it out, place on the heat of the migraine. When the cloth got warm, you turned it over, then dipped into the cold again, placing the cold over the eye or the temple, and gradually, that rush of blood and nerves would subside, and you'd be woozy but not helpless for 3 days.     
     Plus I got to thinking, I think it's stress or worry plus the bright lights, not just the lights, so I tried to begin the 'Don't Worry' thinking part of my life that Mom had been trying to teach me. I had learned, from the early life, that the Lord was able to handle everything, and I was always grabbing my daily life away from him and trying to do it all on my own.
     It doesn't work. 

     Over the years, as the migraines lessened, Arthur moved in. The high energy, misadventurous life I lived took its toll: being knocked about in sibling fights, thrown from automobiles, thrown and dragged by horses, falling down from higher places, twisting about in wrong pretzel-like gyroscopic moves to rock music, wrenching a knee already damaged, plus a zillion other things resulted in pain, operations, free for awhile, then attacked again in some other spot.
      Meanwhile, the emotional side of me took a beating as Good against Evil started all the fights in my mind. I made a lot of wrong choices, hurt a lot of people along my road to life: My conscience wouldn't let me rest. Sometimes I don't know which hurts most, the physical pain or the emotional pain, the trauma of not forgiving yourself for what you have done to others, for something that could have been different had you been wiser, made better choices, not did what you did, not hurt who you hurt.  I 'forgave and was forgiven' so many times, only to have the memory of it come crawling back when I least expected. God forgave me much. How can I then keep tossing coals on old ashes?
     Because Memory has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it.
     When you're young and learning these things, and have the energy to overcome the nuisance physical pain causes, you cope, shrug it off, and keep on keepin' on.
    Sometimes, though, the emotional pain is much more difficult to live with,     because the stuff that caused your emotion to run wild in the first place
keeps on keepin' on, as well. 
     Again, you leave God out and try to go it alone. So you are constantly in both physical and emotional pain----the one, you can't do much about: the other, you can, but don't: stubborn refusal to take it to the Master, the only One who can relieve any pain, both physical and emotional.
     Even when you know better.
     Then, before you know it, you are old and crippled and damaged, both in body, soul, and spirit. Every day you wake up hoping you have awoken in Heaven by the Lord's grace, if you are saved. (If you are not, I don't know what you hope for, because you have nothing to look forward to).
     But 'no such luck'.
     You are still alive, functioning to go on another day, and knowing you will have pain all day long, old, crippled, but still able to see, to feel, to hear, to do. Still able to move, to walk, even though it's a shuffle and you have to wear a boot brace to lesson the pain. Thank God for physicians and scientists who make gadgets to help us live with less pain, at least.
      That is grace.
       That is blessing.
      Whatever else pain is, it is a Teacher of life, to learn how to do with less than you had, and live how you are, to do the best you can with what you've now got.
       And count your blessings.


Monday, May 25, 2020


                            MILLIONS DISAPPEAR

                    Sam James
       "A day that will live in infamy"  Decades ago, President Roosevelt spoke these words on December 7th, 1941, when the Japanese declared war on the United States of America by bombing Pearl Harbor, even as the horror of the destruction of millions of Jews was being carried out by Nazi Germany.
       Since then, wars have come and gone, and America has become complacent, fat and sassy on Her fame and fortune as History and Time march on. Forgetting that this country was founded upon belief in the Lord God, and the freedom to worship God the Creator, the Powers that Be--the grinding machine of liberalism and dishonest politics--have slowly eroded these truths which were so dearly held to be unalienable rights, sacred, in our Constitution and by our forefathers.
      Thus it is that in May of 2020, all seems forgotten and lost. In the early days, parents taught their children from the Holy Bible, the Living Word of God, which not only was authored by God the Son (Jesus Christ) the Creator, but was revered and honored in every household.  People believed in following the precepts set down by the Lord for honor and integrity not only in daily and personal life, but in National life as well.
       Eras and decades have come and gone, but gradually, honor and integrity, all the values of truth, have been shoved aside. From being a client Nation of God, America has become as ungodly as have socialistic, communistic nations which not only renounce God, but hate Him.
        All our lives, devout Christians have learned the history of the Word of God, the Holy Bible, the means of living life, the Who, What, Where, How and Why  (and sometimes, in order, When) God cares about mankind and His solution to sinful living. He has provided a Way, and the Way has been rejected by many.
         He has foretold the events of the world long before they happened.  All that has been foretold to this point, May, 2020, has been fulfilled, and now a catastrophic event has fallen upon an ungodly world: a plague virus, causing panic and random, reasonless thinking, destroying thousands in fear.
       Yet, for Christians, we have been told, Fear not, for I, the Lord your God , am with you.
        Christians are now in  awe as a frightening but fascinating possibility that our most-hoped-for prophecy might be nearer at hand than we could have ever imagined: THE TRUMPET CALL, in which The Lord Himself shall descend from His throne in Heaven to the clouds above, awaiting us, as He blows the trumpet: ALL Christians, those truly born'again, will DISAPPEAR suddenly from the face of the earth, all babies and small children and those who have not reached the age of accountability (being able to choose) will vanish.  
       MILLIONS WILL disappear from this earth. Those left behind are family, friends, acquaintances, strangers , who have rejected Christ the Lord, as Savior of all mankind. These will be left to face seven years of what the Bible has foretold is "The most terrible time this earth has ever known"
         The sorrow for mothers and fathers and grandparents  who have raised their children "in the Lord" as commanded by Him in the Word, is that many children brought up in the Lord opt to reject Him. While we as parents cling to the promise, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it."---sadly, we see the years slipping by, the children---the sons, the daughters, the grandchildren--nephews and nieces grow to age entering a world of arrogance, scoffing, rejection of God's Holy Word, rejection of the command to "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ", and thus choosing to be left behind when the glorious trumpet sounds.
        I do not know how the Lord's plan engages this matter, but since His plan is perfect, it is certain that our happiness at being with Him cannot be marred by sorrow of those of our loved ones left behind.
        We do know that during this blackest of times in the last three and a half years of the Tribulation, God sends witnesses to the unrepentant Jews and thus Gentiles also who have REFUSED the "chip" of the World Ruler, either on their foreheads, or on their hands.  Their only hope during that dispensation is REFUSAL to have the chip, thus another chance to believe that what Mom and Dad and Gramma and Grampa  and Aunt and Uncle, cousins, said was true: Christ is Real! He is alive! We are too late! We have been LEFT BEHIND.
        This has been written for my loved ones and for the loved ones of all Christians everywhere--who as of this moment have rejected the call of the Holy Spirit to believe on the Savior.
        I urge you to--and hope--that you  'change your mind' about our King of Kings, whose judgment will fall upon the ungodly when He returns after the seven years of Tribulation: Words of everlasting consequences, regret for the  rejecters, joy for the believers, "Believe on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved."  "Those who have not believed are condemned already, because they have not believed on the only uniquely born Son of God."
       And when He returns, those who stand before Him condemned, will see the pit opened, the abyss of burning fire, and as the angel of the Lord approaches them and takes hold, they shall be thrown into torment forever and ever.
      May God have mercy on your souls if, after knowing, and still not believing, you are one of these.

Wednesday, May 6, 2020

Dr. Anthony Fauci's ex-employee, was jailed, finally tells all.


                       by Sam James
                       (Norma A. Vincent)

     some time ago, when I lived in Utah, as well as cleaning and scrubbing and rubbing elbows with celebrities as a motel maid in Green River , Utah, I had another of my frequent misadventures, and today's Facebook posts brought back how Time ties our adventures and misadventures together.
       In the early 1990's, I was fortunate to clean Wes Studi's room in River Terrace, Best Western, while he was making the movie "Geronimo". At the time, I didn't know who he was because I never watched television, nor went to the movies. We maids would get autographs or save stuff from the rooms.
        I saved stuff. What I saved was the box of trash that was the only thing left in the room: Dually labeled, it became labeled "Wes Studi's stuff from his wastebasket."
        I have since learned very definitely who he is and what a fine actor he is. But this is about bees, so I will move on.
        Over the course of years, I ended up in Port Orchard, Washington. I stored Wes's stuff in a cardboard box out in the shed and it was kinda buried under a bunch of other stuff.
        How all this relates to a Facebook page in May, 2020, is, a man posted that the honeybees killed off the bumblebees and that's why there aren't any more bumble bees --which we all love-- and that when I lived in Port Orchard, I saw both bumblebees and honey bees around my fruit trees, flowers, and lilac bushes. 
        The bumblebees went on about their business, but the honeybees sorta messed in mine:  I was in the backyard and saw honey bees going into the shed, which door was partly opened, so I goes in to investigate, and here they had built a nest in my Wes Studi box of scripts and paperwork from the movie. Well, I had to rescue that box.  While thinking about it, I knew I had to back off before the little buggers got about the business of protecting their nest, which was MY property, my keepsake.   Whilst pondering, one small bee looked up at me. It stared at me with its large eyes. I talked to it. Quick as a wink, ZAP, it was up out of the nest and bit my lip.  I guess my talking to it didn't work. I exited pretty durn quick, kind of surprised how little a honeybee sting hurts, having been stung over a hundred times by bees when I was about four, and other times as a grown-up (debatable.....)
        As I shut the door, I plotted how I'd get my treasure back, and that night I fixed a box full of old papers, etc. , went out into the shed after the bees were asleep for the night, transferred their nest to the new box carefully but quickly and loosely shut the lid in the four corner old method and hurriedly gave it a toss over the fence to the wilderness area.   (in the blackberry bushes).
       The next day I went out and as I neared the fence, a couple of the bees made a bee-line for me so I hastily retreated. I don't know whether or not they relocated their nest, but all of this came to mind again because of a Facebook Post that the honeybees had killed off the bumblebees.
      Hence Bumblebees +honey bees + Wes Studi box + motel maid + movie making ='s a grand misadventure.