The Greek word for "breath" is "pneumatos". Hence pneumonia refers to the sickness that reduces--or removes--breath. Actually the root word means "lung". The Greek word is most interesting because the same word is translated "wind" or "spirit" depending on the context.
It is not idle curiosity that finds me toying with the word. Three years ago I almost died of pneumonia, and just the other day I discovered I have it again. I figured I had better write this blog post quickly before my demise. Heh, heh,...a little dark humor there.
Once one has contracted pneumonia, the body retains a weakness that makes it susceptible to repeat the infection. A week following my flu shot, I seemed to display symptoms of the common cold, but only some. I preached and taught Sunday School last Sunday with my voice noticeably fading the whole time. By Thursday I was croaking like a frog and coughing like a chain smoker. So my attentive lady coaxed me into visiting Kaiser's Urgent Care unit. A doctor listened intently with the stethoscope, then sent me to xray. He said I had just the tip of one lung beginning pneumonia. So I got an antibiotic, a codeine cough syrup and an asthmatic inhaler. Of course this is in addition to the 12 pills I take every day to save me from diabetes, hypertension, cholesterol, and expanding prostate.
I remember the last time around, my infection was classified as some type of bacteria. I think this is good news because I can take medicine (antibiotic) to kill those little beasties. I took my third dose tonight, so I think I am on the way to repair. The albuterol inhaler helps me expand my lungs and cough up some nasty lugies. The codeine syrup, whatever else it does, seems to help me zone out into lengthy sleep time.
I have learned, however, that the most intelligent of doctors cannot heal. Only God can do that. The same medicine that cures one, cripples another. Side effects of strong medication are legion--and terrifying. Pneumonia is able to kill me, I know. But reaction to medication is equally able to kill. I am so glad to be in the hands of the Great Physician. In the mean time I walk around in a sort of dream world, feeling I am only two steps from passing out. Am I only a butterfly dreaming all this?
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Dangerous Dog
Before I leave off telling stories about my dog, Talitha, I need to relay a few other special memories. Though I am nobody's idea of a carpenter, there are a few projects of which I maintain a modicum of pride. One of which is the dog house I built for my dog. There were a couple of large toy boxes which I also built that lasted a long time. In fact one of them is in our garage as I type this stuff. Anyway, we wanted to house our little girl dogie in something warm and comfortable whenever she was outside. I made a standard shaped house for her with a shingled roof. Nothing imaginative. With an old towel or cast off blanket or something to insulate the wooden floor, it was quite canine comfortable, if I do say so myself.
She was quite a people person, er rather a people pup. It's hard not to think of her as a person, since she was such an important member of the family. So she spent a great deal of her time in the house with us. She was a great companion for the kids. We had Talitha for 16 and a half years, so all our kids grew up with her. I have already confessed that she had thoroughly endeared herself to me, her master.
One evening, as my eldest son sat in front of the TV aside a curled up Talitha, he was stroking her fur when he alarmingly called out to me, "Hey Dad, Talitha has a spider in her fur. I think it's a black widow." Without touching the shiny round intruder, we got it to the floor where someone promptly stomped the guts out of her. My son cautiously investigated her fur to make sure there were no other offending arachnids. I took flashlight in hand to inspect the dog house, and there found the formidable fortress of another shiny black spider complete with cotton-ball egg sac. Extermination ensued enthusiastically. Black widow spray (yes, they really make such stuff) was sprayed all over the freshly cleaned out dog house. Then I had the leisure to imagine some more frightening scenarios that might have been. That sent a shiver down my spine.
Of course Talitha was oblivious of the potential danger she--and we--had just escaped. She just loved us, and trusted us to take care of her. She was anything but a dangerous dog. I just put up that title as a hook to gain your attention and make you want to read my blog.
Oh how she loved to ride in the car, with the window down just far enough for her to sniff all the scenery that passed by. On long trips she was content to lie on the floor of the back seat between the feet of children.
When we had to take Talitha to the vet for burrs in her fuzzy ears, I had to wait for our turn to see the doctor. I had already registered on a card, included in the information requested, of course, was my dog's name. When it was our turn, the receptionist came over to me, holding the information card, and tried to pronounce the name on the card. She pronounced it correctly, "Talitha", and immediately she jumped to her feet and wagged her tail in anticipation of something fun. "Well, she certainly knows her name, doesn't she?" the girl observed. I don't think we ever spent much money on vet service for Talitha. In fact that became an unfortunate factor in later life.
Once, one of my middle sons got the idea of dressing the dog in people clothes. She had shorts, shirt and little socks on her feet. She endured all these indignities as more than worth the attention she gained from being a comic model.
At the end of her life Talitha's eyes were glazed with grey cataracts and her hind quarters were slow in rising from the floor. She would whimper with pain, and her teats seemed to be deformed with what we thought might be cancer. One day, after being prompted many times, I took her to be euthanized. When I carried her to the car, she still expressed excitement for the prospect of going for a ride. We didn't have much money, so instead of heading for the vet, I just drove to the pound. They would not let me stay with her. I reluctantly handed my sweet dog to the man, crying like a baby, and drove home. To this day I feel bad that I left her like that.
A week later, while pulling weeds near the roses, I saw paw prints Talitha had left in the mud, and I lost it. I had to throw down my shovel and walk back into the house. To this day my eyes get misty as I write these words. Yes, you could safely say I loved my dog.
She was quite a people person, er rather a people pup. It's hard not to think of her as a person, since she was such an important member of the family. So she spent a great deal of her time in the house with us. She was a great companion for the kids. We had Talitha for 16 and a half years, so all our kids grew up with her. I have already confessed that she had thoroughly endeared herself to me, her master.
One evening, as my eldest son sat in front of the TV aside a curled up Talitha, he was stroking her fur when he alarmingly called out to me, "Hey Dad, Talitha has a spider in her fur. I think it's a black widow." Without touching the shiny round intruder, we got it to the floor where someone promptly stomped the guts out of her. My son cautiously investigated her fur to make sure there were no other offending arachnids. I took flashlight in hand to inspect the dog house, and there found the formidable fortress of another shiny black spider complete with cotton-ball egg sac. Extermination ensued enthusiastically. Black widow spray (yes, they really make such stuff) was sprayed all over the freshly cleaned out dog house. Then I had the leisure to imagine some more frightening scenarios that might have been. That sent a shiver down my spine.
Of course Talitha was oblivious of the potential danger she--and we--had just escaped. She just loved us, and trusted us to take care of her. She was anything but a dangerous dog. I just put up that title as a hook to gain your attention and make you want to read my blog.
Oh how she loved to ride in the car, with the window down just far enough for her to sniff all the scenery that passed by. On long trips she was content to lie on the floor of the back seat between the feet of children.
When we had to take Talitha to the vet for burrs in her fuzzy ears, I had to wait for our turn to see the doctor. I had already registered on a card, included in the information requested, of course, was my dog's name. When it was our turn, the receptionist came over to me, holding the information card, and tried to pronounce the name on the card. She pronounced it correctly, "Talitha", and immediately she jumped to her feet and wagged her tail in anticipation of something fun. "Well, she certainly knows her name, doesn't she?" the girl observed. I don't think we ever spent much money on vet service for Talitha. In fact that became an unfortunate factor in later life.
Once, one of my middle sons got the idea of dressing the dog in people clothes. She had shorts, shirt and little socks on her feet. She endured all these indignities as more than worth the attention she gained from being a comic model.
At the end of her life Talitha's eyes were glazed with grey cataracts and her hind quarters were slow in rising from the floor. She would whimper with pain, and her teats seemed to be deformed with what we thought might be cancer. One day, after being prompted many times, I took her to be euthanized. When I carried her to the car, she still expressed excitement for the prospect of going for a ride. We didn't have much money, so instead of heading for the vet, I just drove to the pound. They would not let me stay with her. I reluctantly handed my sweet dog to the man, crying like a baby, and drove home. To this day I feel bad that I left her like that.
A week later, while pulling weeds near the roses, I saw paw prints Talitha had left in the mud, and I lost it. I had to throw down my shovel and walk back into the house. To this day my eyes get misty as I write these words. Yes, you could safely say I loved my dog.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Talitha games
Our house was a ranch style layout. I think we actually had shag carpet in the living room. On the other side of the wall was the family room, and these two rooms constituted the straightaways for Talitha's race track. The south turn was the entryway, and the north turn was through the kitchen. So a complete oval included all these rooms and their various flooring. There was a throw rug in the entry, a carpet in the family room and linoleum tile in the kitchen.
Talitha was always up for a time to play with her family. If one of us would get down on the floor and feign a bark and attack on her, she would turn and retreat a few steps, only to turn back and be on the attack. When she did this we would be prepared to get up and run away from her. She loved to chase. We would run the oval race track as quickly as possible, and Talitha would follow in hot pursuit.
Now the desired goal was to get her to race through the north turn in the kitchen. When in full chase, Talitha's claws gripped the shag carpet and even did quite well on the other carpet. But when she arrived at the north turn, we invariably heard her claws scratching through the loss of traction, and like a racing machine at full throttle slides through the turn, she would skid across the kitchen floor only to bang against the cabinets.
A race driver may be injured or his car may be immobilized, but a dog is not so vulnerable. Talitha was somewhat slowed in her pursuit, but she soon gained the traction of the shag and off she went again. This was a great source of family entertainment, and I think Talitha enjoyed providing that entertainment as well.
Talitha was always up for a time to play with her family. If one of us would get down on the floor and feign a bark and attack on her, she would turn and retreat a few steps, only to turn back and be on the attack. When she did this we would be prepared to get up and run away from her. She loved to chase. We would run the oval race track as quickly as possible, and Talitha would follow in hot pursuit.
Now the desired goal was to get her to race through the north turn in the kitchen. When in full chase, Talitha's claws gripped the shag carpet and even did quite well on the other carpet. But when she arrived at the north turn, we invariably heard her claws scratching through the loss of traction, and like a racing machine at full throttle slides through the turn, she would skid across the kitchen floor only to bang against the cabinets.
A race driver may be injured or his car may be immobilized, but a dog is not so vulnerable. Talitha was somewhat slowed in her pursuit, but she soon gained the traction of the shag and off she went again. This was a great source of family entertainment, and I think Talitha enjoyed providing that entertainment as well.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Carrots and Cats
Our dog liked carrots and cats. She ate the one and played with the other. When we lived in Modesto, one of the men in the church advised us, "Plant food!" The soil was rich and yet sandy. The result was that we had lush gardens that were easy to til. We had frequent salads of home grown leaf lettuce. One year we planted butter lettuce, and it was wonderful. Jonathan claimed his salad had an aphid, but I had washed the lettuce well, so I told him it must be some spices. He won the argument by pointing out that this particular bit of "spice" was walking (as he dramatically mimicked the motion with his arms). One year I noticed that the kids were pulling up carrots and only eating a few bites and then leaving them in the yard. After demanding that they stop leaving half eaten carrots around the yard, I caught the culprit in action. It was Talitha! She turned her head sideways to the ground, grasping a carrot and then pulled it right out of the ground. She loved to chew carrots.
Talitha also loved to get a cat head in her mouth. This was not for eating, but Phil had taught her to play the game. He gave her the order, "Talitha, go get that cat." And off she would go after the cat. With its head in her mouth she would shake her head a couple of times, but not so hard as to harm the cat. Meanwhile the cat would grab Talitha's beard and kick with her hind feet. It was quite a tussle to observe, and yet neither animal sustained any injuries from all this. It was quite a different story when Phil would take her for a walk. When he saw a neighborhood cat he could not resist the temptation. He would give the familiar order, "Get that cat!" The problem was that even though Phil knew the game and Talitha knew the game, the cat definitely did not know the game. Usually that cat would end up in a tree. The most unusual feature to this routine was what happened when the cat died. Somehow we went through many a cat during Talitha's 16 years.
We deprived Talitha of the joys of motherhood, surgically. But motherhood is not to be easily denied by many a female. We discovered that Talitha would mope around the house without a cat to play with. Even though the family was quite satisfied with this dog for a pet, she pined for progeny to nurture. We needed to get a cat for her to mother and to amuse her. As soon as we adopted a new cat, Talitha was her bouncy, happy self again. And the new cat had to learn the game quickly. Since Talitha had been spayed she never had a litter. But she would curl up and sleep with her pet cat. She even enjoyed the cat nursing on her unused teats.
I mentioned in an earlier log that Talitha decided that she was my dog. She would never let me forget that. In Modesto our home was several blocks from the church where I had my study. But when Talitha discovered one of the kids left the gate ajar off she would go. She had to round the corner, run two blocks to the alley, go down the alley several hundred feet and come to the door of my study. More than once I answered the phone to find it was Barbara, asking if Talitha was there. I was unaware of it, so I put down the phone and went to the door, and there she was with her enthusiastic pant, asking to come in.
Talitha also loved to get a cat head in her mouth. This was not for eating, but Phil had taught her to play the game. He gave her the order, "Talitha, go get that cat." And off she would go after the cat. With its head in her mouth she would shake her head a couple of times, but not so hard as to harm the cat. Meanwhile the cat would grab Talitha's beard and kick with her hind feet. It was quite a tussle to observe, and yet neither animal sustained any injuries from all this. It was quite a different story when Phil would take her for a walk. When he saw a neighborhood cat he could not resist the temptation. He would give the familiar order, "Get that cat!" The problem was that even though Phil knew the game and Talitha knew the game, the cat definitely did not know the game. Usually that cat would end up in a tree. The most unusual feature to this routine was what happened when the cat died. Somehow we went through many a cat during Talitha's 16 years.
We deprived Talitha of the joys of motherhood, surgically. But motherhood is not to be easily denied by many a female. We discovered that Talitha would mope around the house without a cat to play with. Even though the family was quite satisfied with this dog for a pet, she pined for progeny to nurture. We needed to get a cat for her to mother and to amuse her. As soon as we adopted a new cat, Talitha was her bouncy, happy self again. And the new cat had to learn the game quickly. Since Talitha had been spayed she never had a litter. But she would curl up and sleep with her pet cat. She even enjoyed the cat nursing on her unused teats.
I mentioned in an earlier log that Talitha decided that she was my dog. She would never let me forget that. In Modesto our home was several blocks from the church where I had my study. But when Talitha discovered one of the kids left the gate ajar off she would go. She had to round the corner, run two blocks to the alley, go down the alley several hundred feet and come to the door of my study. More than once I answered the phone to find it was Barbara, asking if Talitha was there. I was unaware of it, so I put down the phone and went to the door, and there she was with her enthusiastic pant, asking to come in.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Talitha
Talitha was not a dog--at least not just a dog. She was a member of the family. Since I was raised with cats, I wanted a cat, but my wife's experience was dogs. So when it came to a pet for the children we couldn't agree. I guess I got tired of gerbils and hamsters and goldfish, so when Barbara proposed we adopt a poodle she caught me at a weak moment. She said the bulletin board at the supermarket advertised pups of a pedigreed poodle. Since they were offered free, we were very skeptical, and discovered that even though mom was a poodle, the dad was a "traveling man" as the vet put it. Anyway she brought home this little bundle of curly black fur that was so wriggly at both ends that it was difficult to discern head from tail. Of course the kids loved her immediately, and learned to kiss the appropriate end. Barbara and I agreed that it would be her dog, and life continued.
We wanted to give her a name from the Bible, but we didn't want her to have too common a name. "Talitha" is the Aramaic word that is given us in the gospels as what Jesus said to Jairus' daughter. It is translated "little girl". So Talitha was our little girl--the bitch. (I just thought it would be fun to say that word legitimately.)
Well I guess Talitha had ideas of her own about relationships. When she entered a room, she came straight to me. When family members took turns barking orders at her, she invariably obeyed me best. It became evident in due time that by her own choice she was my dog. It was her own fault that we had a theme song between us. I did sing it to her several times. "You made me love you. I didn't wanna do it. I didn't wanna do it."
Talitha grew up with our kids. We had her in the family for 16 years. Yes, there are many tales (tails?) about Talitha, but I'll make you wait for more.
We wanted to give her a name from the Bible, but we didn't want her to have too common a name. "Talitha" is the Aramaic word that is given us in the gospels as what Jesus said to Jairus' daughter. It is translated "little girl". So Talitha was our little girl--the bitch. (I just thought it would be fun to say that word legitimately.)
Well I guess Talitha had ideas of her own about relationships. When she entered a room, she came straight to me. When family members took turns barking orders at her, she invariably obeyed me best. It became evident in due time that by her own choice she was my dog. It was her own fault that we had a theme song between us. I did sing it to her several times. "You made me love you. I didn't wanna do it. I didn't wanna do it."
Talitha grew up with our kids. We had her in the family for 16 years. Yes, there are many tales (tails?) about Talitha, but I'll make you wait for more.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Taking Bribes
It all began so innocently. We were with the group from our church at an Angels' baseball game when we were approached by this fast talking young man who wanted to show us how we could get a trip to Catalina Island with an overnight stay. We've been there before, but we both thought we might like to do that again. So we listened.
We had not only been to Catalina before, but we had been hustled with bribes to sit through a sales pitch for a time share resort before also. As he piled on the bribes to strengthen our incentive, he listed two tickets to Knotts, two more tickets to later Angels games, a $25 coupon for a meal at the resort, which turned out to be the Lawrence Welk resort in Temecula.
The deja vu syndrome was still at work. Back in '04 we had been there and done that at the Welk Resort too. But this pile of desirable incentives (bribes) seemed to strike us just right. Then when he threw in two extra tickets to Knotts, Barbara was hooked. She did all the arranging, but if I had objected I'm sure she would have put on the brakes, but I didn't. Before we could say "Play ball!" we were signed up for an appointment. If you have never done this, you need to know that they take a $40 deposit just to make sure you show up for the pitch.
We also arranged with the Welk Resort to have overnight accommodations at half price. We put in our time for the sales pitch. We managed to say "No" once again, and enjoyed our resort room and half priced dinners at the elegant restaurant. Barbara has a hard time bypassing prime rib, and I enjoyed a new culinary delight of stuffed chicken breast with asparagus, capers and brie with a sauce that was the most delicious I've ever had on a chicken breast. No, we didn't order any wine--mostly because we both take some prescriptions that warn us not to drink alcoholic drinks. Oh, the hardships of getting old and decrepit!
Now we need to redeem our coupons for these other trips (Angel game, Knotts Berry Farm and Catalina) before they expire. I'm ashamed to admit that I have let incentives (bribes) expire before. I ought to quit this blog post so I can take care of that right now.
We had not only been to Catalina before, but we had been hustled with bribes to sit through a sales pitch for a time share resort before also. As he piled on the bribes to strengthen our incentive, he listed two tickets to Knotts, two more tickets to later Angels games, a $25 coupon for a meal at the resort, which turned out to be the Lawrence Welk resort in Temecula.
The deja vu syndrome was still at work. Back in '04 we had been there and done that at the Welk Resort too. But this pile of desirable incentives (bribes) seemed to strike us just right. Then when he threw in two extra tickets to Knotts, Barbara was hooked. She did all the arranging, but if I had objected I'm sure she would have put on the brakes, but I didn't. Before we could say "Play ball!" we were signed up for an appointment. If you have never done this, you need to know that they take a $40 deposit just to make sure you show up for the pitch.
We also arranged with the Welk Resort to have overnight accommodations at half price. We put in our time for the sales pitch. We managed to say "No" once again, and enjoyed our resort room and half priced dinners at the elegant restaurant. Barbara has a hard time bypassing prime rib, and I enjoyed a new culinary delight of stuffed chicken breast with asparagus, capers and brie with a sauce that was the most delicious I've ever had on a chicken breast. No, we didn't order any wine--mostly because we both take some prescriptions that warn us not to drink alcoholic drinks. Oh, the hardships of getting old and decrepit!
Now we need to redeem our coupons for these other trips (Angel game, Knotts Berry Farm and Catalina) before they expire. I'm ashamed to admit that I have let incentives (bribes) expire before. I ought to quit this blog post so I can take care of that right now.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Boardwalk Chapel
The Rev. Leslie Dunn had a vision of reaching out to vacationers in Wildwood, NJ by erecting a chapel building right on the boardwalk. Somehow he persuaded the Presbytery of New Jersey to purchase a parcel along the boardwalk many years ago, when it was only remotely related to the amusement locations. Today businesses, sandwich shops and tourist trap shops line the boardwalk on either side of the chapel.
Activities attract crowds every night. It may be a young violinist or a special choir or a gospel magician or other entertainer to catch the interest of passers by. Christian supporters come and sit in the chapel to encourage others to linger also. A good musician will stop a large crowd around the open doorways of the chapel. Then when the speaker of the evening takes the stage to talk about God, they usually scatter like roaches when the light goes on. At least that was my experience.
As a poverty level preacher with four kids, it was difficult to plan fun vacations for my family unless it was tent camping (which we did a lot). This was a free week at the beach, and my kids loved it. There was a large house associated with the chapel that was available for the preacher of the week and his family. My only responsibility was to speak each night. I tried to create two or three short zingers for each night. For this kind of preaching it was important to get their attention in my first sentence. Perhaps some of the methods we used there ought to be employed in church--at least once in a while.
The four listeners laws for public speaking were very much on my mind in those days. The four laws? Oh yeah, they were: 1) Ho hum, 2) Why bring that up?, 3) For instance?, and 4) So what?
When I jumped on stage to preach, I had to imagine my audience as stifling yawns and thinking, "Boy am I bored. And this guy is going to make it worse." That was "Ho hum". You can guess the contents of the other three, I'm sure.
Well one night I jumped on stage and asked for a show of hands of people who believed they were perfect. People who had never sinned. From there I was going to teach that our perfect God requires perfection in order to get to heaven, and from there I would offer them the Savior that God prescribes. Clever? Well, I thought so. Only one rather aggressive man came down the aisle toward me with his hand raised, saying, "I am. I'm perfect." I really didn't know what I was going to do with him by the time he got to the stage, but my friend, Leonard Chanoux, the director of the chapel, intercepted this guy and ushered him aside for a chat. I learned later that the same guy had been disruptive with other speakers at the chapel. I was glad for a savvy director.
It was a good experience for any preacher to learn a little humility. Why don't they flock to hear my interesting message? Why don't more of them linger to hear where my clever introduction will lead? Why didn't dozens of people get saved when I preached my heart out?
During the day the chapel was open for discussion. A seminary student lingered near the door with interesting literature on display, and several people stopped to argue, listen or browse. One of the more outrageous lingerers stopped to tell the seminary student who god really was. Several off-the-wall assertions were laid on the discussion table before he ran out of gas. The student just patiently listened. I was within ear shot, and felt like jumping into a roaring argument with this dude. When he finished, the seminarian simply said, "That's all very interesting. Where did you get those ideas? Here's what the Bible says." And he proceeded, expecting social courtesy to require the young man to listen to the truth. That day I learned that I needed to argue less and listen more if I was going to be an effective witness.
Activities attract crowds every night. It may be a young violinist or a special choir or a gospel magician or other entertainer to catch the interest of passers by. Christian supporters come and sit in the chapel to encourage others to linger also. A good musician will stop a large crowd around the open doorways of the chapel. Then when the speaker of the evening takes the stage to talk about God, they usually scatter like roaches when the light goes on. At least that was my experience.
As a poverty level preacher with four kids, it was difficult to plan fun vacations for my family unless it was tent camping (which we did a lot). This was a free week at the beach, and my kids loved it. There was a large house associated with the chapel that was available for the preacher of the week and his family. My only responsibility was to speak each night. I tried to create two or three short zingers for each night. For this kind of preaching it was important to get their attention in my first sentence. Perhaps some of the methods we used there ought to be employed in church--at least once in a while.
The four listeners laws for public speaking were very much on my mind in those days. The four laws? Oh yeah, they were: 1) Ho hum, 2) Why bring that up?, 3) For instance?, and 4) So what?
When I jumped on stage to preach, I had to imagine my audience as stifling yawns and thinking, "Boy am I bored. And this guy is going to make it worse." That was "Ho hum". You can guess the contents of the other three, I'm sure.
Well one night I jumped on stage and asked for a show of hands of people who believed they were perfect. People who had never sinned. From there I was going to teach that our perfect God requires perfection in order to get to heaven, and from there I would offer them the Savior that God prescribes. Clever? Well, I thought so. Only one rather aggressive man came down the aisle toward me with his hand raised, saying, "I am. I'm perfect." I really didn't know what I was going to do with him by the time he got to the stage, but my friend, Leonard Chanoux, the director of the chapel, intercepted this guy and ushered him aside for a chat. I learned later that the same guy had been disruptive with other speakers at the chapel. I was glad for a savvy director.
It was a good experience for any preacher to learn a little humility. Why don't they flock to hear my interesting message? Why don't more of them linger to hear where my clever introduction will lead? Why didn't dozens of people get saved when I preached my heart out?
During the day the chapel was open for discussion. A seminary student lingered near the door with interesting literature on display, and several people stopped to argue, listen or browse. One of the more outrageous lingerers stopped to tell the seminary student who god really was. Several off-the-wall assertions were laid on the discussion table before he ran out of gas. The student just patiently listened. I was within ear shot, and felt like jumping into a roaring argument with this dude. When he finished, the seminarian simply said, "That's all very interesting. Where did you get those ideas? Here's what the Bible says." And he proceeded, expecting social courtesy to require the young man to listen to the truth. That day I learned that I needed to argue less and listen more if I was going to be an effective witness.
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