tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13952478801516625032024-03-14T01:30:35.915-04:00Heaven is a Real PlaceThe Bible is very clear -
"These things have I written unto YOU that believe on the name of the Son of God; that you may KNOW that you have eternal life and that you may believe on the name of the Son of God...
This is the record that God hath given to us eternal life, and this life is in his Son."George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-23997889841162519602021-12-09T09:10:00.003-05:002022-10-10T09:25:18.426-04:00<p><span style="color: #274e13;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><i><b>As
I look back</b></i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>,</b></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></span></p><p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I marvel at all the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done, the
people I’ve worked with, and am thankful that I lived through it.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJcj78IbaAD23j-9BYv-YRGAQfODGlUQd-c89AZaP3uHQaYBg2Ims9tm1Xpf5nhILo3QiDeWe5NSn_NtYE-V6nYhCTbm61ronwRGqjmg2OmHL5ikQBk8qZYUOb-jK3mD5CEQVrmFYJ_bpO6mJWTtxaHOs-muO2fxQ7xhyijpNfKwl-HjYG_9YVLIeLJg=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJcj78IbaAD23j-9BYv-YRGAQfODGlUQd-c89AZaP3uHQaYBg2Ims9tm1Xpf5nhILo3QiDeWe5NSn_NtYE-V6nYhCTbm61ronwRGqjmg2OmHL5ikQBk8qZYUOb-jK3mD5CEQVrmFYJ_bpO6mJWTtxaHOs-muO2fxQ7xhyijpNfKwl-HjYG_9YVLIeLJg=w112-h168" width="112" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">In
1949, I was two years old and my mother was dreaming that I had
contracted polio. Over 20,000<br /> children a year were infected with the
virus and no vaccine was available. We lived in Navy housing in
Norfolk, Virginia with lots of other children my age.</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">My
Aunt Ethel was sitting in the kitchen getting ready for high school
about 6:30 in the morning. I was standing on the couch and trying to
light one of my mother’s cigarettes. The match fell out of my hand
and landed on my pajama top. It immediately caught on fire. My aunt
heard my attempts to pat out the fire, turned and screamed.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">My
mother awoke and immediately thought, “Oh my God, George has
polio!”</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">She
ran into the living room; saw me on fire and thought, “Thank God!”</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">Six
corpsmen at the base infirmary held me down while the doctor peeled
the charred skin away, swabbed me with Vaseline and wrapped me in
gauze. I don’t remember getting anything for the pain.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
returned to the infirmary when I walked into a swing my sister was
riding high. She was standing up in one of those wooden swings that
you could set an infant in and pumping it for all it was worth. It
split my face open. Another of my mom’s sisters, Aunt Betty, who
was nine month’s pregnant, took me to the Navy base. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I’m
not real sure, but the scars probably helped as I started my first
business. The Korean conflict had begun and the Navy sent our fathers
back to sea. For candy money, my buddies and I would pick Butter
Cups, make bouquets of them, pull them around in a red wagon and sell
them for five cents each. I remember telling a lady that “this is
my last one.” She gave me a quarter and told me to keep it. When we
were older, we caught dozens of blue crabs and took them around in
the wagon and sold them for .05¢ to .14¢ apiece (the bigger the
better). The scar on my left thumb is where the three stitches were
put after I reached in the basket to show my mom the biggest blue
crab I had ever caught.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><b><i>We
moved to Sanford</i> </b>when I was nine and I started selling the Grit
newspaper. I didn’t make much so I</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdCvi-y1U-Xdg6sbR44BgnIMkZaGmbjOPdwWVtWiqFogHsP6FD2EHs2wZ6xG_oHsO01tUbX4jFmsrchMRVd9NhBMy7vpGeHYd_LR_4rTG1tT4LJjK2GcoV5nOz_7T0QRzz7YeBzNqrzeuMpSlfhKHGhOOYbur2QI3SQAleff-M7Gkue1pnzSn9Vltlnw=s960" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="660" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdCvi-y1U-Xdg6sbR44BgnIMkZaGmbjOPdwWVtWiqFogHsP6FD2EHs2wZ6xG_oHsO01tUbX4jFmsrchMRVd9NhBMy7vpGeHYd_LR_4rTG1tT4LJjK2GcoV5nOz_7T0QRzz7YeBzNqrzeuMpSlfhKHGhOOYbur2QI3SQAleff-M7Gkue1pnzSn9Vltlnw=w121-h176" width="121" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">added greeting cards and cans of
salve to my inventory. Mowing yards for $3 was too hard because of
the junkie mowers my dad would buy. They were too hard to start. It
turns out that picking up coke and milk bottles for the deposit was a
better way to make money.</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">In
the ninth grade I started delivering the Orlando Sentinel to homes in
downtown Sanford. I had to get up at 4:30 a.m. and ride three and
half miles to pick up my papers – rain or shine. The Sentinel would
put the number of pages in each addition in the upper right hand
corner of the front page. We would fold the small ones, but had to
use huge rubber bands on the bigger ones. It was always a thrill to
see how many pages they could stuff in the Thanksgiving Day paper. I
quit my route after my Science teacher threatened me if I fell asleep
in his class again.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">A
& P Groceries opened a new store a few blocks from my house. They
hired half the boys in town to help stock and bag groceries when it
opened. Tipping the bagboy was an accepted practice then, especially
if you wanted your eggs unbroken. Payday was real cool because they
gave you the money in small brown envelopes. Unfortunately, three
months later they fired 75% of the workforce.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2AYSLnZrWicyFXroMhGEMYbCtUUFkYrqhnsDg3pnVpFk9QIESbC4GQFmgIm5Zr4JHWBgYFfdomamLDZ-R2Qks0UtyKkxa0PFxyEwbkZHbbb3O4gS6BxPnIFmfIY4tcmabmOxjQgR01niGPpGfP6Ao9whN8vJvTzldq5LdfutG2Srw3xAjYQljNsX0_Q=s130" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="130" data-original-width="97" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2AYSLnZrWicyFXroMhGEMYbCtUUFkYrqhnsDg3pnVpFk9QIESbC4GQFmgIm5Zr4JHWBgYFfdomamLDZ-R2Qks0UtyKkxa0PFxyEwbkZHbbb3O4gS6BxPnIFmfIY4tcmabmOxjQgR01niGPpGfP6Ao9whN8vJvTzldq5LdfutG2Srw3xAjYQljNsX0_Q" width="97" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">That
worked out well for me though because I made the track team at
Seminole High School and had to practice after school. I was also on
the tumbling team the rest of the year. I took a job as the janitor
for Ebenezer Methodist Church in Sunland Estates. I went there with
my girlfriend and her family when I wasn’t at Grace Methodist with
my family. I went to State both years I was on the track team and set
the school record for high hurdles. I just wanted the letter jacket.</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><a name="_GoBack"></a>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
was paid $5 a week to clean the two church buildings. I swept, mopped
and put the metal chairs pack in neat rows. I usually spent two more
hours on the piano and organ. I made up my own system for the notes.
I numbered them. The five bucks bought my tickets to the football
games, got me in the victory dance afterwards, and paid for my lunch
at school if I didn’t bring a sack from home. I’m still waiting
for a tip from the couple that got married and destroyed the
building.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><b><i>When
I graduated from SHS</i></b>, I worked for J.D. Construction on the Navy base
with my brother Sonny</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5R1O5rz3Cd6gnQKEUSxlOBm4o_WOP5e3r8AkuYiFmqnnEXaKj3jcKV8W_pwdwZl-5xxp6gUl097dl3asbAvO07xpuRbt-ehJYZkvo7HnbgUqJjZajFumsZ8LLpheTNcP6nKNphm-5CTPJaq5pxIN0G7AMYwh41K6vYR3gsEs4mxW4u5S69lSQXEpVtA=s182" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="137" data-original-width="182" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5R1O5rz3Cd6gnQKEUSxlOBm4o_WOP5e3r8AkuYiFmqnnEXaKj3jcKV8W_pwdwZl-5xxp6gUl097dl3asbAvO07xpuRbt-ehJYZkvo7HnbgUqJjZajFumsZ8LLpheTNcP6nKNphm-5CTPJaq5pxIN0G7AMYwh41K6vYR3gsEs4mxW4u5S69lSQXEpVtA=w137-h103" width="137" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">and Billy Kuykendall. We laid the drainage
pipes for the runways and poured the concrete for the tunnel that
went under Golden Lake Road and into Golden Lake (it’s still
there). I had to lie about my age to get the job. I got in trouble
when I told the foreman that I had to have time off to go register
for the draft. He shouted, “What, you said that you were eighteen.”
He rambled on about this being a federal worksite and I could go to
jail. It was true; he had to pay us $1.25 an hour instead of $1
because it was on the Navy base.</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In
September of 1965 my dad signed a $1,000 loan (that I had to pay off)
to get me into Massey Business College in Jacksonville. I took what
little I had saved and moved into a boarding house run by Mrs.
Rickerson. We called ourselves the Rickerson Rats. For $70 a month we
got a bed and three square meals (Sunday was breakfast only). I was
studying for a diploma in IBM Accounting. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jobs
were hard to find. Everyone turned me down. I walked into the Western
Auto Store at 8</span></span><sup><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">th</span></span></sup><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
and Main and told the manager the college’s career counselor sent
me over for the sales job they had open. He didn’t know what I was
talking about (no surprise, I made it up) but hired me anyway. It
paid $1.25 an hour plus commission for sales over $100 a week. I was
confined to the nuts and bolts section, so the commission was only a
dream for me. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I
took the Western Auto Salesmen course at night and learned how to
jump customers that needed a new set of tires or one of them
newfangled color TVs. Appliances was still off limits so I rarely saw
a commission working part-time.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I
went to college in the morning, worked at Western Auto in the
evenings and a buddy got me a job at REA unloading boxcars on the
midnight shift for $4.82 an hour. The pay was good, but oranges were
ripe and there were a million boxcars filled with cases of oranges
headed up north. We literally threw boxes off of the train for eight
hours straight. To take a smoke break, we would open a side door and
one of us would jump off and smoke. The other one would throw twice
as many boxes until it was his turn to smoke. The foreman had a man
on each dock counting the boxes as they rolled into the building.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">After
a week of no sleep I stopped answering the phone when REA called me
to work a shift. I moved into a room that cost $6 a week, that had no
kitchen and a bathroom down the hall that we all shared. I put a
hotplate in my suitcase and ate canned spaghetti, and French bread
jelly sandwiches. I was down to about 150 lbs. and white as a sheep.
I started stealing scratch offs at the grocery store to help pay the
rent.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My
cousin Wanda was dating Richard Hittell who was also attending
Massey. I moved in with them when they got married to help pay the
rent. My bed was a Murphy bed that folded up into the wall in the
living room. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>In
March of 1966</b></i> I decided to get married so I looked for a day job and
decided to finish school at</span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjo5wZfdiLjUU-bvv4g55H-h93TfJ_qIGQlvEuXZKIYOQMVTRweKSEPgpH6fzIP2YJnA9FgDZ8EhdO8JKTxfbqMo4vccEimIvYfmuNotpdFrj_h83FqODU_HZSqXz9m9ezdisnWHUqhHt-1lA3YEX0IZsBTCxvi8GhGyRbrYjy1bPoGO3hpwBFudWbLhQ=s400" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjo5wZfdiLjUU-bvv4g55H-h93TfJ_qIGQlvEuXZKIYOQMVTRweKSEPgpH6fzIP2YJnA9FgDZ8EhdO8JKTxfbqMo4vccEimIvYfmuNotpdFrj_h83FqODU_HZSqXz9m9ezdisnWHUqhHt-1lA3YEX0IZsBTCxvi8GhGyRbrYjy1bPoGO3hpwBFudWbLhQ=w164-h164" width="164" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">night. I got a job working in the mail
room of the Federal Reserve Bank. I rented an apartment near school
three days before I went home to get married. The first night I had
to sleep between the mattress and box springs with my letter jacket
and two pairs of jeans on because I hadn’t put a deposit down on
the gas, yet. All I could think was how stupid it would look when
they found my frozen bones under the mattress. </span></span>
</span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">My
starting salary at the bank was $3,000 a year. I didn’t have a car
so I paid a taxi fifty cents to get to work at 6:00 in the morning
and then I walked the three miles home. After a while, I figured out
how the buses ran and rode both ways for the same fifty cents. One
day I walked home and took that quarter to buy Kool-Aid (6 for a
quarter). I was in high cotton!</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">My
first wife and I moved across town and shared a duplex with Richard
and Wanda. I could ride to work with Richard and we could split
living expenses. We ate lots of chicken, potatoes and French bread
sandwiches. We usually stayed up all Friday night playing games and
drinking Pepsi with Sloe Gin.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><i><b>On
November 10, 1966</b></i> a lady knocked on the door the same time that my
favorite show, Star Trek, came on. I knew she was from the Baptist
church down the road. I was rude and closed the door. Later that
night I trusted Jesus Christ as my personal Savior in my bed.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi54t0aR8PW_Si_nbAYu-KsG67iRfdzuk-vzO5_zjDS1LuD4GwPsNYf-YJPuiQ1IGTp0i5AaqRqPWKH7_tFuuHN5KUbuHled9jjhd4R21prqJgm6bPWIuWvleWncdI_IwJlhOPi8M4BzPAARbpWEd4vJicXJUTt9xN_NSkDvgsmUxizdxXwQ95Bp-LB5w=s864" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="654" data-original-width="864" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi54t0aR8PW_Si_nbAYu-KsG67iRfdzuk-vzO5_zjDS1LuD4GwPsNYf-YJPuiQ1IGTp0i5AaqRqPWKH7_tFuuHN5KUbuHled9jjhd4R21prqJgm6bPWIuWvleWncdI_IwJlhOPi8M4BzPAARbpWEd4vJicXJUTt9xN_NSkDvgsmUxizdxXwQ95Bp-LB5w=w168-h127" width="168" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
moved to another duplex just before </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">our
first son </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Charlie
was born on February 17, 1967. I was promoted to the coin vault at
the bank and was making about $4,200 a year. However, I dropped out
of school and quit the bank when my dad got me a job reading meters
with Florida Power & Light back home in Sanford. I started out
making just under $8,000 a year. This was a no-brainer. Jim Warner
not only trained me for the job, he taught me how to kill a hog and
make sausage.</span></span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">In
five years at FP&L I moved from meter reader to collector. I was
active with the youth department at Elder Springs Baptist Church. I
realized that even though life was good, eternal life was even
better. I decided that I would rather do things that would count for
eternity instead of for the short time that I had to live here on
earth. I also lost two sons to premature birth this year and knew
that the first time that I will see them is in heaven.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><i><b>So,
in January of 1972</b></i> we moved to Jersey Shore, Pennsylvania to study
for missionary work with</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjaL3YbDhVMROxQzuBerlbz_xwAHGT3C8PSFAj0JtaLuXT2_DyknBePOrt02UaYsmF3Rxf0Vq7YcbCFc9EqU2XqwDSUVyEUl23SJcT0vlDxPvfDUKTI0QQpTobDxvkjdyXCE68Xh6MLWk5HzVwaLn6v-yVHitkTE9Go2lQnQrw45VJiGtKV2sQX_v95A=s477" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="287" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjaL3YbDhVMROxQzuBerlbz_xwAHGT3C8PSFAj0JtaLuXT2_DyknBePOrt02UaYsmF3Rxf0Vq7YcbCFc9EqU2XqwDSUVyEUl23SJcT0vlDxPvfDUKTI0QQpTobDxvkjdyXCE68Xh6MLWk5HzVwaLn6v-yVHitkTE9Go2lQnQrw45VJiGtKV2sQX_v95A=w100-h165" width="100" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">New Tribes Mission. My goal was to be in a
support role and hopefully a pilot one day. We had lunch the first
day with the director and his family. They served ice water, soup and
sandwiches. I leaned over and whispered to my ex-wife, “We ain’t
going to like it here.” “Why?” she asked, ”Because they’re
poor,” I said, “they don’t even have iced tea!”</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrZwcWuhaiF1PrOhUPtlsv7u3nxUg12I0LbBoLlurO_GjjWp-utAM60PwYv5RkEJZ_T0BflpeHF3t714foUpiHsdRsK5vguqVPfNuzZd81Dj0sijcw-J8u71ivtvjGeiDUDsnfTZebLaytEE_l5ebUIQPBf9A18OFMI3vv7yL07kAkAeawko1hBozptw=s960" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrZwcWuhaiF1PrOhUPtlsv7u3nxUg12I0LbBoLlurO_GjjWp-utAM60PwYv5RkEJZ_T0BflpeHF3t714foUpiHsdRsK5vguqVPfNuzZd81Dj0sijcw-J8u71ivtvjGeiDUDsnfTZebLaytEE_l5ebUIQPBf9A18OFMI3vv7yL07kAkAeawko1hBozptw=w136-h181" width="136" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">Then
I found out they had pigs. I was not only the official painter on
work detail; I was the one the Game Warden woke up at night when
someone hit a deer with their car. I’d skin it out and kill one of
the pigs the next day to mix with the venison. We had about 150
people to divvy it up with.</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">We
survived the Susquehanna River flood of 1972, built and lived in a
Jungle Camp and witnessed the death one of our pilots and dear
friends, Dave Ream when he and his brother were caught in a cross
wind during take-off. I was reminded yesterday of how God provided
for us when the car broke down in Ashland, Ohio. Big lesson learned
that day!</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><i><b>We
left New Tribes Mission </b></i>in Jersey Shore on May 4, 1973 and stopped on
the road in Louisville, Kentucky to listen on the radio as
Secretariat won the Kentucky Derby. We had a flat tire in Nashville,
Tennessee and spent the night at the Grand Ole Opry. (Opening act...
Jim Ed Brown.)</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">A
thousand miles later we were in Beeville, Texas. My father-in-law was
a Chief in the Navy there. I worked mixing cement for five Mexican
brick layers at Bee County Community College to make enough money to
return to Florida. When I got back to Sanford, my Aunt Helen’s
brother Bill Lee gave me a job nailing on roof shingles. I tried so
hard to keep up with him and the preacher’s son Dale that I let a
nail turn sideways and cut the tip of my finger – real bad. I tied
a rag around the wound and tried to keep up. Every other nail I was
nailing the rag to the roof. Bill told me to take it easy; he didn’t
expect me to be as good as them until I learned what I was doing. It
didn’t help that his seventy year old dad was sitting down and
nailing as fast as me.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">My
father-in-law’s appendix ruptured, so I ended up back in Texas. It
was serious there for a while. I got a job laying pipe across Bee
County that would send oil from the well field to the storage tanks.
I walked behind a big flatbed trailer and pulled the pipe off as the
driver pulled slowly down the side of the road. On the way back to
the shop the other workers pulled pornography material out from under
the seat and shared things that I didn’t know was possible.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I
told my father-in-law that I couldn’t work with that crew. First of
all, my arms were still frozen in the flexed position from pulling
pipe all day and secondly, because I didn’t want to become like
them. He had a friend that was the lead singer in a country band that
was trying to get him to be their fiddle player. My father-in-law
said, “If you’ll give this boy a job, I’ll play in your band
the nights I’m not playing with Kathy Dell and the Country Kings.”</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">The
next day I met Roy Maxell and went to work for Gulf Coast Services as
their operator trainee. The</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEhCVp5F83AgRy-Iw7Kskwzg3Qfe6E5MojBgpJX82vre1zJg9-ouIbnLOF5aAsycnhH8Dy0kQv1EWU5joc1pLfi9T0Rdi3N0WB2r4gqxbbYrTfYqaSP9Wq9otW2t7uupthHD70T8ZQa0nyrrqG09lOcVLpw7LhkqpdNAhg3nPzetYbfIZl_1pshqqQLA=s576" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="439" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEhCVp5F83AgRy-Iw7Kskwzg3Qfe6E5MojBgpJX82vre1zJg9-ouIbnLOF5aAsycnhH8Dy0kQv1EWU5joc1pLfi9T0Rdi3N0WB2r4gqxbbYrTfYqaSP9Wq9otW2t7uupthHD70T8ZQa0nyrrqG09lOcVLpw7LhkqpdNAhg3nPzetYbfIZl_1pshqqQLA=w140-h184" width="140" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">company had just started and provided the
logging and perforating for the oil industry in south Texas. The
logging was done by lowering a radio-active source to produce a chart
of the oil and gas reserves between ten and twelve thousand feet
down. Then we lowered shaped explosives to blow holes or “perforate”
the casing of the oil well. Sometimes this produced a gusher and the
cable had to be retrieved out of the well before the pressure blew it
up and around the derrick. It was impressive to see and tricky to
keep two miles of cable from becoming entangled.</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">The
owner of the company also owned most of the land around Refugio,
Texas. They made their fortune with cattle. When we didn’t have
jobs with the rig, I got to help round up some of the cattle. Once,
the Mission River flooded and a small herd was trapped on a small
piece of land that may also go under. We rode and swam our horses out
there to drive them off, but they wouldn’t budge. Where’s a Colt
45 when you need one. The next thing we knew, the boss’s helicopter
buzzed down over us and the herd took to the water like ducks. We
just had to guide them in the right direction.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhS1iT1ykVlOXuHKeVxzdBSPYndXovLl2WrKBTfmTYC9-omnuvgWCnS8StKMrx-4_KCQpoiNLXjKMtDPZwtu_KYNaiypN4yf9k2_jhFfF3Awz90UmboyfRBq8X_Q2aay1FdNjSEbahcq7LKRWiQaFZIcvzkfqZwFvyewDrFxHX3pcJfgoSOC4EJWlqu0g=s1272" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="990" data-original-width="1272" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhS1iT1ykVlOXuHKeVxzdBSPYndXovLl2WrKBTfmTYC9-omnuvgWCnS8StKMrx-4_KCQpoiNLXjKMtDPZwtu_KYNaiypN4yf9k2_jhFfF3Awz90UmboyfRBq8X_Q2aay1FdNjSEbahcq7LKRWiQaFZIcvzkfqZwFvyewDrFxHX3pcJfgoSOC4EJWlqu0g=w162-h126" width="162" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">A
year later I was logging and perforating by myself and got a raise -
$1.95 plus commission! My father-in-law retired from the Navy and
moved to Colorado. My second son Casey was born that year and I
decided to move back to Sanford. There sure wasn’t anything left in
south Texas to keep me there.</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I
got a job as night shift supervisor at Winn Dixie. We had to unload,
price and stock the shelves with the stuff that came in by truck each
night. Hey, $3.50 an hour was looking good. I trained at the DeLand
store then moved to the Sanford store on First Street two weeks
later.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><b><i></i></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4saQq3IExfKFN-DL3Xq-scENDumBRXKD0Z0hVAiir3TdXuYqLrxITbxp_EcEXSMXyMaoFWMCVq2Fmrj-YWGVHT2grEn_95Qe9nmcAJP6FpGGc_lBbjqjjB_HEqxWZrhi-SNMS_XVntGvV4GscHjh4hofyjX_RGllo2t2GOax_6DA8a21lFoOkFlFWWA=s1507" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1507" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4saQq3IExfKFN-DL3Xq-scENDumBRXKD0Z0hVAiir3TdXuYqLrxITbxp_EcEXSMXyMaoFWMCVq2Fmrj-YWGVHT2grEn_95Qe9nmcAJP6FpGGc_lBbjqjjB_HEqxWZrhi-SNMS_XVntGvV4GscHjh4hofyjX_RGllo2t2GOax_6DA8a21lFoOkFlFWWA=w179-h142" width="179" /></a></i></b></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><b><i>Three
months later, </i></b>in October of 1974, the guys at the Sanford Fire
Department talked me into applying for one of the three new positions
there. The pay was a little higher and I could go back to roofing
with Bill Lee. Bill was a lieutenant on B shift and I worked on A
shift. That way someone was always working on the roof. And, he paid
five dollars an hour. Later, I went on and started painting on my own
and building additions.</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
was still a probie on June 10, 1975 when the jail fire happened. It
was one of the worst detention fires in history. The jailer and 10
inmates died due to the toxic smoke. Nine inmates were on the
opposite of the building and in the last cell block to be opened.
They were already dead and stacked up by the door. The jailer, Robert
Moore was in his office, across from the exit, trying to get some
fresh air from the window A/C that just circulated room air. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">On
August 15, 1975, my son Corey was born at 23 weeks; four and half
months early. He weighed 1 ½</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiytiIJSg13r6NQ3GG41ceYs4lBQ9z2pjQfUwwhTW3NukVxQ6HdORiMFRqejuJIwvlgQivFLEHf3Rsazytn8PgkWMjp6FJl9Rs1UppIFXb0MiRXJQkXjiwn7aEIG7JX3p7u33Yq8z6bGCXa9whcpcJPbFX3mZEul3nv4FLHgOicjXGgRkpQ99YNNbVuhQ=s1272" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="1272" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiytiIJSg13r6NQ3GG41ceYs4lBQ9z2pjQfUwwhTW3NukVxQ6HdORiMFRqejuJIwvlgQivFLEHf3Rsazytn8PgkWMjp6FJl9Rs1UppIFXb0MiRXJQkXjiwn7aEIG7JX3p7u33Yq8z6bGCXa9whcpcJPbFX3mZEul3nv4FLHgOicjXGgRkpQ99YNNbVuhQ=w163-h128" width="163" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">pounds and was twelve inches long. He
was flown by military life-flight out of Tampa to the Neonatal Unit
at Shands Teaching Hospital in Gainesville. He came home four months
later and two days before Christmas as the Miracle Baby.</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">In
1981 I was sitting outside of the fire station waiting for the sun to
go down so that I could take down the flag. I thought about my family
at home and how I wouldn’t see them until I left my construction
work the next night. I decided that the next five years will go by
anyway, so I could be sitting here waiting to take down the flag, or
I could have a college degree.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><b><i>In
June of 1981,</i></b> at the age of 34, I moved to Chattanooga and enrolled
in Tennessee Temple University. I would pursue a Bachelor’s Degree
in Religious Education. I had a “promise” of a job making chicken
feeders at Cumberland Farms, but they were furloughing workers when I
arrived.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">Eventually,
someone told me they needed an EMT at the hospital in Fort
Oglethorpe, Georgia. I could study when I wasn’t on calls, so I
took the job. Hutcheson Medical Center was a trauma center and had a
great ER. We grew from two stations in one county to five stations in
two counties. I started on the Advanced Life Support Unit in
Chickamauga, Georgia.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></p><br /><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Casey
and I had a lawn mowing business for two summers. We finally decided
our time off was worth more than we were charging to mow. So, we went
fishing. </span></span>
</span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKKRWhyhHdbMfc0O0BjXkN4mZT5NlQyhR2h_ErlFrURctwpEBkOG07Muwy1MBMWQ2PndGb3O4Klh_D86g_fXdQ5v5mOWOpEYBhQJxr7lyn1RQBZcJtvSXMc30jDySYqNMG9JveEI9Bi4jFTwgFXrCYmLNDjihwMJD-RBHhxT-Q6B3OV9Yd6z3kL20nMA=s1337" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1055" data-original-width="1337" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKKRWhyhHdbMfc0O0BjXkN4mZT5NlQyhR2h_ErlFrURctwpEBkOG07Muwy1MBMWQ2PndGb3O4Klh_D86g_fXdQ5v5mOWOpEYBhQJxr7lyn1RQBZcJtvSXMc30jDySYqNMG9JveEI9Bi4jFTwgFXrCYmLNDjihwMJD-RBHhxT-Q6B3OV9Yd6z3kL20nMA=w169-h134" width="169" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><br /><b><i>October
of 1983</i></b> we were also blessed to adopt our fourth son Chris, our
second </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">year at Temple. Things really got exciting then!</span></span><p></p><p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>June
of 1986 I graduated</i></b>, Magna Cum Laude and 29<sup>th</sup> in my class.
Dr. </span></span></span><span style="color: #274e13; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Robertson </span></span></span><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">handed me my diploma. It was a great honor to achieve
that much. Now that I had a degree I couldn’t wait to get out of
the EMT business and 24 hour shifts.</span></p><p></p><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><i><b>Just
then, the Tennessee Valley Authority</b></i> advertised that they were going
to hire and train emergency</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcwvq7Lw0GuUGsorPyz1p8XgxkuX-snZFo4Yy5OexQdxwXZp3CD9ZeYJbdaHoj1oAuatQLpiD31DdQCVq1M5UnJ0fU5X_TrgcOu6QPvN9ABLPl56NicxXvC_uMH8cdc1LAiXpw_0HkBKWtpR7bg3KVJ3FYkILQQW0y8eskjvZxy11jfEfdQA-QWtu53w=s385" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="385" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcwvq7Lw0GuUGsorPyz1p8XgxkuX-snZFo4Yy5OexQdxwXZp3CD9ZeYJbdaHoj1oAuatQLpiD31DdQCVq1M5UnJ0fU5X_TrgcOu6QPvN9ABLPl56NicxXvC_uMH8cdc1LAiXpw_0HkBKWtpR7bg3KVJ3FYkILQQW0y8eskjvZxy11jfEfdQA-QWtu53w=w157-h112" width="157" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">response teams for all four of their
nuclear power plants. You needed to be Firefighter, EMT and have a
four year degree… oh, and pass a physical agility test. The team
would have three experienced EMT/Firefighters, an Assistant Unit
Operator, an Electrician and a Pipe Fitter. We would all be crossed
trained in the other’s skills. Got a job at TVA!</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
trained with the Watts Bar Nuclear Plant team and then eventually
transferred to Browns Ferry Nuclear Plant. I was a dual-rate shift
captain and </span></span></span><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">when the opportunity arose, I volunteered to be Captain
for Group 5. The blue glow of the uranium in the fuel cells was
awesome at first, but you soon realized that a power plant is hot,
noisy and hard work. It was an honor to work there and very rewarding
to be a part of the Unit 2 re-start before I left.</span></p><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><i style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><b></b></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVogjoLYooR2IT9nFwRDBMpmgHrw7T7APCZjiFX3eXcsYQJAARunhb9jhLbfb6nd63jSj5LpAGHZghTLgWpX3UkbXc5DwLz_eCpyE6oT35o4B0U5Xp1Eh4iIspZvqfUY50MZbJEOm1H8LvvVhnsHR5mjIVSG5i0kk39StFgKppsPvQJaJG-e_tRp4A6w=s1722" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1722" data-original-width="1194" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVogjoLYooR2IT9nFwRDBMpmgHrw7T7APCZjiFX3eXcsYQJAARunhb9jhLbfb6nd63jSj5LpAGHZghTLgWpX3UkbXc5DwLz_eCpyE6oT35o4B0U5Xp1Eh4iIspZvqfUY50MZbJEOm1H8LvvVhnsHR5mjIVSG5i0kk39StFgKppsPvQJaJG-e_tRp4A6w=w133-h192" width="133" /></a></b></i></div><i style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><b>In
December 1992,</b></i><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"> I moved back to Sanford and married my sister’s best friend, </span><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">Cheryl. Now they are sisters and we are best friends. I took
advantage of my degree, years of emergency service and became the
Safety/Risk Manager at Act Corporation in Daytona Beach. I earned my
safety certification and state license as a Health Care Risk Manager
while working there. Tragically, my “miracle” son Corey was
killed in an accident in March. He was seventeen. Act Corporation is
a mental health agency and working there was beneficial for me during
this time.</span><p></p><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">With
five years of experience on the prevention side of safety and risk, I
moved to Daytona Beach Community College, now Daytona State College.
I worked for DSC for eight years and watched the campuses grow and
the safety program bloom. I assumed the Risk Manager’s position
when Tom Homan left the college, but they didn’t offer me his
salary. I held to the verse in Psalm 75:6 that promotion comes from
God. It would be worth the wait to see God move the hearts of those
in charge at the college. As long as I was where God wanted me, the
salary didn’t matter. I’m still more concerned with doing things
that count for eternity.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><i><b>While
preparing to travel </b></i>to a conference for college risk managers in San
Antonio, Texas, I saw the ad</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieOOVSbgN_w-kv5TztTs-FXTh-S7G-jYsc1e0QSLbPk0EXZmaGUbKNbFFUgOxZhzf_Z4wmBjoWEyLMCzLonMpOS4bAZ5yxXB2DnTT_03Qb2JQAh4fsmzXG0zfPYAZl31mVc65UKv4fZfI2BZ-IayF4XCu5xkwGAlRm4LAI2h8WvrLLcdjYOxVHophwSg=s268" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="249" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieOOVSbgN_w-kv5TztTs-FXTh-S7G-jYsc1e0QSLbPk0EXZmaGUbKNbFFUgOxZhzf_Z4wmBjoWEyLMCzLonMpOS4bAZ5yxXB2DnTT_03Qb2JQAh4fsmzXG0zfPYAZl31mVc65UKv4fZfI2BZ-IayF4XCu5xkwGAlRm4LAI2h8WvrLLcdjYOxVHophwSg=w126-h136" width="126" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">for a Risk Manager/Safety Officer’s
position at the Utilities Commission in New Smyrna Beach. While
serving on the Board of Directors for the Safety Council, I was
familiar with the employee that previously held the position and knew
that there would be a lot of work to do. Still, I felt that it was in
my best interest to apply.</span></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
HR Director called when I returned from Texas and asked me to
interview for the job. The day after the interview she offered me the
job. Wow, what a decision. Not really. When I handed my resignation
to my supervisor I told him that employees do not leave good
institutions, they leave bad managers. Within months, the other two
managers in my department also resigned. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I
had ten years of previous experience in the utilities industry and
saw a lot of unnecessary carnage in this world as an EMT/Firefighter.
I believe that there is no such thing as an accident, everything is
predictable and preventable. I had real peace about taking this job,
but I asked God for a favor. I asked him to bless the Utilities
Commission and its employees like he did for Joseph when he went to
Egypt. Bless everything we do and keep us safe.</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Of
course, I know that I am not Joseph (not even close). But God is the
same God! And God is still in the people business. He truly blessed
the Utilities Commission the six years I was there. He delights in
doing anything that brings glory and honor to himself and to his Son,
Christ Jesus. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><i><b>So,
I don’t care </b></i>if I’m shoveling coal or pig slop in Pennsylvania or
attending a conference in a fine hotel. I want to be exactly where
God wants me to be! Cheryl reminds me often, “You’re a lucky
man.” Absolutely!</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Philippians
4:12 reads… </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I
have learned the secret of being content</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>
in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether
living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who
gives me strength.</i></span></span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My
friend Chuck Kent says, “If you see anything good in me, you’re
looking at Jesus. If you see anything else, you’re looking at me.”
I’m sure you’ve seen more of me than you’ve needed to see. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Wherefore
seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of
witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so
easily beset </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>us</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>,
and let us run with patience the race that is set before us, Looking
unto Jesus the author and finisher of </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>our</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>
faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross,
despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne
of God.</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
Hebrews 12: 1 – 2</span></span></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><i>George
C. Markos, Retired</i></span></span></p><p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">Executive Director for Fishmore & Dolittle</i></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><i>DeBary,
Florida</i></span></span></p><p align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj13BIHwIyiGQhiQjjy5NGwxk3ndOYo7y8Ecn8Q3oiXu0RVPtqDXTScFSK1-WxP8_QJmP_T7dklqZmwNA_Xok26aL62iyKeM82mWhxbGF0YRq6nhwp-R4hVnY0TLygVGbxna5HdZRsqLH2VVgnZnTtqRTZ-V2JBEl-o20Dzdpv2QWnwyioysC-AV8BRKQ=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj13BIHwIyiGQhiQjjy5NGwxk3ndOYo7y8Ecn8Q3oiXu0RVPtqDXTScFSK1-WxP8_QJmP_T7dklqZmwNA_Xok26aL62iyKeM82mWhxbGF0YRq6nhwp-R4hVnY0TLygVGbxna5HdZRsqLH2VVgnZnTtqRTZ-V2JBEl-o20Dzdpv2QWnwyioysC-AV8BRKQ=w148-h197" width="148" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><br /><i><br /></i></span></span><p></p>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-42081241325680331122021-07-26T10:50:00.001-04:002021-07-28T08:26:37.337-04:00<p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Near a Wedding in Cana</b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4OXm7IRf2YHumjD5rqmicikef5BubiRsQ_mZ7wEyfAzdV0n05EYmx-N9ZVOK3p2BlO3-nxPLn9_z9ZSpw2c0fRW-ugZeIFuFoGoyBWT3a3pdvyZA2KoJ2FPGETBvAMsnDGVSzmaNnMFz/s640/240+Arab+Stone+Worker.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4OXm7IRf2YHumjD5rqmicikef5BubiRsQ_mZ7wEyfAzdV0n05EYmx-N9ZVOK3p2BlO3-nxPLn9_z9ZSpw2c0fRW-ugZeIFuFoGoyBWT3a3pdvyZA2KoJ2FPGETBvAMsnDGVSzmaNnMFz/s320/240+Arab+Stone+Worker.jpg" /></a></div><span style="color: #38761d;">I met this Arab mason after leaving the place in Cana where a wedding may have occurred. Six clay pots were on display to indicate that Jesus turned the water in to wine.</span><p></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;">It was one of our first days in Israel and I was still feeling the effects of the time change... the look on my face couldn't hide it.</span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;">He was on a break with his fellow mason. I struck up a conversation with him and it was more like sign language as he showed me his hot plate and kettle. He offered me a very small cup of his "coffee" and a little wafer.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNq-eP28NakCqvL4VDevZLIxArpQObE-sJwqlckKQnmcv1dymRMPyA_KeP9h2DHWzXZLBncVXA2NSNnv8vFmNb3b7OchM68xDXulHVaxkL6Amjpv3Tr_3IVdAR7fPSAu-vnM7U4ok4qSv/s640/239+Arab+Stone+Worker.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNq-eP28NakCqvL4VDevZLIxArpQObE-sJwqlckKQnmcv1dymRMPyA_KeP9h2DHWzXZLBncVXA2NSNnv8vFmNb3b7OchM68xDXulHVaxkL6Amjpv3Tr_3IVdAR7fPSAu-vnM7U4ok4qSv/s320/239+Arab+Stone+Worker.jpg" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;">I looked at our tour guide, he grinned and encouraged me to take it. I did. I grin a lot too, so I know it's not always a good thing.</span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;">Now, I've had espresso before, but this one had a nice kick. I was the only one on the bus bouncing around like a first grader with ADHD!</span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;">I liked to get away from the crowd so I could take pictures in Israel with no pilgrims in them. It was easier to imagine what Israel looked like 2,000 years go without someone in cargo shorts and Nike shoes. </span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblGGGsS2a2Gh9tcDi8SATh00kIvK5u-BxLjMvOhjeO1ApypkRK-Eh_kCoczRShHrKkC2V6dX9agJhZz5K5xT7IN_D3QwLNpsJcUPijRzGd5pi-6jB1xMktW2j4zKlfzF6KOOB2SX8ptGT/s640/232+Cana+Pots.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblGGGsS2a2Gh9tcDi8SATh00kIvK5u-BxLjMvOhjeO1ApypkRK-Eh_kCoczRShHrKkC2V6dX9agJhZz5K5xT7IN_D3QwLNpsJcUPijRzGd5pi-6jB1xMktW2j4zKlfzF6KOOB2SX8ptGT/s320/232+Cana+Pots.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #38761d;">Meeting people like these two masons was an added bonus. They were very nice to me and I was glad I accepted their gifts of friendship. I'm sure we could have been good friends.</span><p></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;">Who knows, I might have even got an invite to his wedding. </span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></p><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">Cana</span></i></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-23214416124466934392021-02-17T18:16:00.000-05:002021-02-17T18:18:10.580-05:00A Father's Legacy - Your Life Story in Your Own Words<p> <i>In What Ways are You Like Your Father, P39</i></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76HEkHYCARZYrjR_MoKzekZaGlPuk48RGOZAQIOZAGwtPhTzP6n-alneRiypsI0IVkDytR9ulV3g51N1Pb4sxr8rKSq8-4T3H86fGFx43X2z0ARuPZJ_xDVhU-dfHJIaBWufyVDKdGGYA/s407/970640_10200679134493626_1721291730_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: 14pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="362" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76HEkHYCARZYrjR_MoKzekZaGlPuk48RGOZAQIOZAGwtPhTzP6n-alneRiypsI0IVkDytR9ulV3g51N1Pb4sxr8rKSq8-4T3H86fGFx43X2z0ARuPZJ_xDVhU-dfHJIaBWufyVDKdGGYA/w120-h141/970640_10200679134493626_1721291730_n.jpg" width="120" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Besides good looking?</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Like any boy I did every thing my dad did. He was a sailor, so I got my
mouth washed out with a bar of soap many times. The last time my mom said, “I
should be using this on your father.” I said, “I wish you would.”</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Dad had a temper and didn’t
have a clue what patience was. My first father-in-law was the opposite. I tried
to be around him more and prayed my boys would grow up to be just like him.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN9k8C-slc7R6Nt4e-dN91X0MPvFdaw4rJjjmh5ftB7_mZSTaNXZU7o1JktQqQHxbAYPZ10r4byl6fetLHSdauikxF2Xl8RTDUPbL3nlEtZA9ShGhIIM2Zy6MgoZLtBa9r0t-7fvIgLeNb/s785/Charlie+Newborn+BW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="785" height="108" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN9k8C-slc7R6Nt4e-dN91X0MPvFdaw4rJjjmh5ftB7_mZSTaNXZU7o1JktQqQHxbAYPZ10r4byl6fetLHSdauikxF2Xl8RTDUPbL3nlEtZA9ShGhIIM2Zy6MgoZLtBa9r0t-7fvIgLeNb/w134-h108/Charlie+Newborn+BW.jpg" width="134" /></a></div>Turns out we’re all different, but a little of everyone else shows up
now and then. When my first son, Charlie, was born there was a father with a
young son in the waiting room. The boy was crawling all over him and his dad
was hugging and kissing him. I thought, “You can do that?”<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Still I honored my father and
loved him for who he was. I’m thankful that God taught me how to forgive, like
He forgave me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><i></i><p></p>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-57961722627680735812020-11-06T13:21:00.000-05:002020-11-06T13:21:48.911-05:00The Peach Tree Flag<h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">The Peach Tree Flag</span></h1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZkVtRGFfjCt1Ye-BcQZXpyk_7x06wwxK03C96LfcDG94i9CeTXM6KuS1I4FQM6FKrtaOA3UfjlkrOXC6mYXmOENk5yQOIRYq8i-cKUc2uoKzJAuuWx3VMVz_1auYDO95472E8fgtyzFO/s1472/Peach+Tree+Flag.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="1472" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZkVtRGFfjCt1Ye-BcQZXpyk_7x06wwxK03C96LfcDG94i9CeTXM6KuS1I4FQM6FKrtaOA3UfjlkrOXC6mYXmOENk5yQOIRYq8i-cKUc2uoKzJAuuWx3VMVz_1auYDO95472E8fgtyzFO/w272-h204/Peach+Tree+Flag.jpg" width="272" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">One of our
Safety Officers sent me a flag that needed replacing. It had a small tear on the bottom corner. A seam had come loose.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">The officer there was a Marine. He didn't wait for it to tatter to pieces. I brought it home, it wasn't finished.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">It was Memorial Day weekend. I always fly the flag. I remember once telling my son I had to get my flag up. It was June 14th and I said, 'It's Flag Day." The steely artillery officer said, "Dad, every day is Flag Day."<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">I felt like Betsy Ross stitching the seams back together. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I wondered what she must have been thinking. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Did she miss a stitch too as tears swelled with pride for that first flag? </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Why, it looks good as new. And, big!</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">It was as wide as the pole my old flag flew from. And, unfurled, it was too long to fly from my front porch. The poles in the attic were too flimsy to support it. What possible perch could I find to display it with pride?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">The old peach tree only had two green branches left. It bravely gave up about a dozen delicious peaches this year. "Better cut it down soon," my arborist wife lamented. I sighed, but agreed it should be done.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">It wasn't like </span><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Iwo Jima</span></st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">, nothing like that. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">But as I stood under that barren tree and stared at its splendor, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">I envisioned how glorious it would be, if just for this weekend. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">For that grand old flag to wave, in all its glory, from its strongest branch!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">
I don't know about you, but I still get tears in my eyes when I see it wave. I love </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">, and thank God that I, an
immigrant's grand son, was born here. God bless </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">, and God bless that grand old flag. Long may it stand for Freedom, and long may it wave.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">George Markos, Retired Consultant for
Fishmore & Dolittle</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><i>(My son Chuck retired as a Lieutenant Colonel, U. S. Army)</i></span></span></p><h3 style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #8b1d18; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 24px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 1.1; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 0.25em;"><br /></h3><p></p>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-71318118312854623812020-10-29T07:35:00.001-04:002020-10-29T07:40:50.568-04:00The Hand Bell Choir<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4yUswPJiCKQEWOcZ5ajvk4S1_9scLZ4zYQUZz7Ic5-fMuja14-0jOVn7SHx-v86gi0vPAJ54vQ1659v3iGcOgQFGeN3OLakhZSjCilecm-EQKlo3DtmZwCSECzYt9QAh6avLEGctaLbE6/s2048/Handbell+Choir.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4yUswPJiCKQEWOcZ5ajvk4S1_9scLZ4zYQUZz7Ic5-fMuja14-0jOVn7SHx-v86gi0vPAJ54vQ1659v3iGcOgQFGeN3OLakhZSjCilecm-EQKlo3DtmZwCSECzYt9QAh6avLEGctaLbE6/s320/Handbell+Choir.jpg" width="320" /></a>
</div>
When I went to college in Jacksonville in 1965 I worked part time at Western
Auto. My “room” cost $6 a week with a shared bathroom and no kitchen. I had a
hot plate for a can of Ravioli and French bread with grape jam in a suitcase. <div><br /></div><div>Sunday morning I went to my Methodist church service. Sunday night I went to the
Baptist Youth meeting directly across the street because they had hot dogs and
potato chips. But on Wednesday night I attended the Presbyterian Church because
they had a covered dish supper. I ate a lot, so to avoid being that obvious I
joined the Hand Bell Choir. </div><div><br /></div><div>The only musical training I had was singing in the choir at Grace Methodist and in Ollie Whittles’ Glee Club in the 11th grade. The pastor invited me over to his house after one service and left me sitting in the living room with his lovely daughter as he and his wife went to bed. I had a girl friend in Sanford and asked her to marry me that Christmas Eve.
So, I had to stop going for the covered dish supper. </div><div><br /></div><div>I dropped 10 lbs. from what I weighed at graduation. I often wondered how good a ding-a-linger I really could have <b><b></b></b>been.
</div>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-4230474555640362862015-03-26T19:10:00.000-04:002015-03-26T19:26:40.075-04:00I'm not perfect....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1q3Su5jHcumDMtN5VZwTknwkNBnIrCN_zO0eDRP153dC8FsGOXY6qZQHiRnshbbJfAKEPEl2vVM5f5QtJFhAvETDptWn_eTmu3KeyYsmZgSDEMa3tSPYYxePgaUcLmPfpS5pUzB_Cl1HQ/s1600/Not+Perfect.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1q3Su5jHcumDMtN5VZwTknwkNBnIrCN_zO0eDRP153dC8FsGOXY6qZQHiRnshbbJfAKEPEl2vVM5f5QtJFhAvETDptWn_eTmu3KeyYsmZgSDEMa3tSPYYxePgaUcLmPfpS5pUzB_Cl1HQ/s1600/Not+Perfect.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-16570085680669925622014-10-25T09:32:00.000-04:002014-10-25T09:32:49.878-04:00Do Not Fear... You Are Mine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCCq2Amkus2tUIzkLfIsxj7p4Uk4X9p0w3HvwfIZiW4ZWUpAtaDqcJGJqIbcm2oE57uuxIcSoC4m5vIxlM8yKrm_83S_GIxFFMViCq8Jszcnd77_GK8IO7D8_lxxDqUx36qDz2gToZMcKU/s1600/Kayak+Isaiah+43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCCq2Amkus2tUIzkLfIsxj7p4Uk4X9p0w3HvwfIZiW4ZWUpAtaDqcJGJqIbcm2oE57uuxIcSoC4m5vIxlM8yKrm_83S_GIxFFMViCq8Jszcnd77_GK8IO7D8_lxxDqUx36qDz2gToZMcKU/s1600/Kayak+Isaiah+43.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-53446287705696669462014-06-08T15:31:00.001-04:002014-06-08T15:31:14.456-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjslMa6X7kNfEIWrwVDUsRqhUNhI7k8dKifgglVLEKyJXaIkLDBTzJS5FBJqSK6eOyHNKKFikrY2p_hPV-ftGZifn8W-10B8Fv15R9qQ159V5JTt0hsPtLihqN8c3QDYm9sfzWw5QiX4j6q/s1600/10151393_851255351557363_392542831_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjslMa6X7kNfEIWrwVDUsRqhUNhI7k8dKifgglVLEKyJXaIkLDBTzJS5FBJqSK6eOyHNKKFikrY2p_hPV-ftGZifn8W-10B8Fv15R9qQ159V5JTt0hsPtLihqN8c3QDYm9sfzWw5QiX4j6q/s1600/10151393_851255351557363_392542831_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-17160132323617031362014-01-09T09:39:00.000-05:002014-06-08T15:34:11.627-04:00The Shack... My Response to a Review<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy_P1PT5G1ymChCH4KNqFCvUvf1XYMdbfgN2m_MxVWjJf82lO5v-qrfLzaIYwgkc49bxOllYuz4ayDiEF0daMHO23j-axKGWkKfxT5jXIUyaiErT9Muy9HPlIin44kc6zBSGxMMigf8j5k/s1600/The+Shack+r.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy_P1PT5G1ymChCH4KNqFCvUvf1XYMdbfgN2m_MxVWjJf82lO5v-qrfLzaIYwgkc49bxOllYuz4ayDiEF0daMHO23j-axKGWkKfxT5jXIUyaiErT9Muy9HPlIin44kc6zBSGxMMigf8j5k/s1600/The+Shack+r.jpg" height="200" width="126" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Shack</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">One of the reasons I quit my job and went to a Christian college when I was
34 years old was to not have to depend on anyone, including my pastor, to tell
me what the Bible says and how to interpret it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">
</span><span style="color: #0c343d;">The best thing that happened was that I am not challenged by any other
religion and can witness to anyone regardless of their background. I usually
state, “Great, so you believe in God…” and then share how Jesus Christ paid
their sin debt.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">
</span><span style="color: #0c343d;">My father didn’t get saved until he was 58 and I lost a son in a tragic
accident when he was 17. The Shack challenged me to separate my understanding
of the attributes of God that I derived from my father, and it helped me to
finally grieve the loss of my son Corey.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">
</span><span style="color: #0c343d;">I literally would be laughing my head off and then sobbing out loud from one
page to the other. I understand that the book is a fictional story and not the
Bible.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">
</span><span style="color: #0c343d;">Calvin Miller’s Trilogy – <i>The Singer, The Song and The Finale</i> also allowed
me to see God from a different perspective. He wrote: Institutions have a poor
safety record. The guillotines of orthodoxy keep a clean blade that is always
honed for heresy. And somewhere near the place where witches die an unseen sign
is posted whose invisible letters clearly read:</span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">
</span><span style="color: #0c343d;"><br />
WE ARE PROUD TO REPORT 0 WORKING DAYS LOST
TO INJURY OR ACCIDENT – THE MANAGEMENT. Let us pray.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #0c343d;">(<i>See Note in Comment below.</i>) </span></div>
George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-48705073931718775972013-12-20T10:44:00.000-05:002013-12-20T11:50:08.401-05:00Eternal Life is a Free Gift<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaDU43Od8_b_LA8sOVjjF24xBg8opfuO2521BRxJu1nTjfDVP3CeYY3LQ-lwQXtHyCbccWHsyJSuhGH0j-m8fxTqQcPCEkMRgH4kLBKKdddXMB1C1hhl9J8dfJO72XujsFW6ZWEGey30Y/s1600/Gods+Son.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaDU43Od8_b_LA8sOVjjF24xBg8opfuO2521BRxJu1nTjfDVP3CeYY3LQ-lwQXtHyCbccWHsyJSuhGH0j-m8fxTqQcPCEkMRgH4kLBKKdddXMB1C1hhl9J8dfJO72XujsFW6ZWEGey30Y/s400/Gods+Son.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"><i>God sent his Son that we might have life.</i></span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="usercontent"><i>ROMANS 6:23</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b><span class="usercontent">For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God
is eternal life through Christ Jesus our Lord.</span></b><br />
<br />
<span class="usercontent"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Salvation is a
word we use for being set free from the effects</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
<span class="usercontent">and the penalty of sin. It includes being delivered
from the </span><span class="usercontent">dominion of the devil. It was purchased for us by Jesus
Christ </span><span class="usercontent">through giving His own life at </span></i><span class="usercontent"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Calvary</i></span><span class="usercontent"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, as our substitute.</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
<br />
<span class="textexposedshow">Salvation is not something you earn, but a free
gift from God </span><span class="textexposedshow">totally by His grace.</span></i><br />
<br />
<span class="textexposedshow"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Humans have
invented many religions with all kinds of rules,</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
<span class="textexposedshow">trying to make themselves acceptable to God. But
being right </span><span class="textexposedshow">with God is not something we can achieve by our own
efforts.</span> <span class="textexposedshow">God loved us so much that He accomplished it for
us, and </span><span class="textexposedshow">provides it as a free gift available to all who receive
Jesus.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="textexposedshow">The Bible tells us we will be rewarded for the good
we do. But</span>
<span class="textexposedshow">it is not by doing good deeds, performing certain
rituals, or </span><span class="textexposedshow">by keeping a list of rules, that we are saved from
sin and its</span>
<span class="textexposedshow">effects. Salvation and having a home in Heaven are
not rewards</span><span class="textexposedshow">-- they are gifts.</span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="textexposedshow"> </span><br />
</i><br />
<i><span class="textexposedshow">ROMANS 3:21-23 </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b><span class="textexposedshow">But now God has shown us a way to be made right
with him without keeping the requirements of the law, as was
promised in the writings of Moses and the prophets long ago.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b>
<b><span class="textexposedshow">We are made right with God by placing our faith in
Jesus Christ. And this is true for everyone who believes,
no matter who we are.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b>
<b><span class="textexposedshow">For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God's
glorious standard.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span class="textexposedshow"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yet God, with
undeserved kindness, declares that we are</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
<span class="textexposedshow">righteous. He did this through Christ Jesus when he
freed us </span><span class="textexposedshow">from the penalty for our sins.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="textexposedshow">You cannot earn salvation and being right with God.
You can</span>
<span class="textexposedshow">only receive it as a gift of love from God. It
comes in the </span><span class="textexposedshow">form of a Divine Person, the Lord Jesus Christ.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="textexposedshow">Outside of union with Jesus Christ, there is no
salvation.</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span class="textexposedshow">ACTS </span><span class="textexposedshow">4:12</span></i><span class="textexposedshow"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b><span class="textexposedshow">There is salvation in no one else! God has given no
other name under heaven by which we must be saved.</span></b><br />
<br />
<span class="textexposedshow"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If you
believe this, then tell God:</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="textexposedshow">“Right here, and right now, I
receive Jesus Christ as my free gift, thank you for giving me eternal life. </span><span class="textexposedshow">Amen</span><span class="textexposedshow">!”</span></div>
George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-51044542201423485082012-12-12T08:33:00.000-05:002013-01-04T12:16:56.878-05:00A Trail to Osteen and the Ethiopian Eunuch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqc7o4Fay0G9iO42w_6FARuSJZZi6FDegDC3P55QgDoYvDh3aGovr3oLqI7LTdSqjEir2agiHiLh8fMFP57fxt_i0xHsLyjmjOGHJBf142-zm4RS7yFy7ZwTYUYyZQjhotljdIvm2UnfvW/s1600/DSCF1413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqc7o4Fay0G9iO42w_6FARuSJZZi6FDegDC3P55QgDoYvDh3aGovr3oLqI7LTdSqjEir2agiHiLh8fMFP57fxt_i0xHsLyjmjOGHJBf142-zm4RS7yFy7ZwTYUYyZQjhotljdIvm2UnfvW/s200/DSCF1413.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
It was a foggy start on the East Central Rail Trail that began at Green Springs in Volusia County and ended in Osteen.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI6yC47jtf3XN3ijv96_YlhCHDklozrH6uqKRPXtAYG2pxzmzg0kJptsLkfKEbwWpPjA8V_Ac3xECvXvANoFIrkvXusOsL5bsRDSQlB8-KJ-sf88wf1PqnwXskH3x1ich2DcyNjo1wQ6iN/s1600/DSCF1403.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI6yC47jtf3XN3ijv96_YlhCHDklozrH6uqKRPXtAYG2pxzmzg0kJptsLkfKEbwWpPjA8V_Ac3xECvXvANoFIrkvXusOsL5bsRDSQlB8-KJ-sf88wf1PqnwXskH3x1ich2DcyNjo1wQ6iN/s200/DSCF1403.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green Springs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I thought I was out for a day of exercise and site seeing, but it soon appeared I had an appointment with a man in Osteen. I keep a pocket full of pennies stamped with the Ten Commandments, just in case.<br />
<br />
The trail from Green Springs to Osteen is just 5.7 miles, but that is just one way. I packed some trail mix, cashews and Gatorade for fuel. The trail ends at a roadside store, so I wasn't worried if I gobbled up everything just getting there.<br />
<br />
My mother was born east of Osteen at her family's home off Maytown Road in Farmton. Dad would take us to Cow Creek to fish while Mom fried chicken on the bank. On afternoon trips to fish we always stopped at that store in Osteen. The sugar coated Ginger Bread Man was always my favorite. It's only a shell of the store it was then and as I reminisced with the new store owner, it was obvious he didn't speak English. He was staring at me like a calf looking at a new gate. "No speak English," he finally admitted.<br />
<br />
Robert was gassing up his old pickup truck. He's done construction, a pool business and now clears land for a living. He said he was taking his equipment back to Charlotte because there just isn't enough work here now. He said he used to work at the Charlotte Motor Speedway, but it was also obvious he was originally from Syracuse, and not the South. <br />
<br />
Finally, after a good conversation, I realized I would never see Robert again, so, I gave him one of my "pennies." He let me share with him the purpose of the penny with the Ten Commandments stamped on it and acknowledged that he understood what I was saying. He had to leave, so I reminded him that there are lots of folks like me in Charlotte. He agreed as he laughed and walked in to pay his bill.<br />
<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj117PVxwjr7Ke-ssZsoAOjolcW8HmKdDzWAU6Xd6I-R_1zGxhob1wzzXAAxBx_fVZcTSbw5QzOl-ndy2b9dqQ1yrB7S_k0bEpV3ZuGhzmuaoUSQORFj3CcelHrLwqMlRKd9dSO_DuUcS4I/s1600/DSCF1421.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj117PVxwjr7Ke-ssZsoAOjolcW8HmKdDzWAU6Xd6I-R_1zGxhob1wzzXAAxBx_fVZcTSbw5QzOl-ndy2b9dqQ1yrB7S_k0bEpV3ZuGhzmuaoUSQORFj3CcelHrLwqMlRKd9dSO_DuUcS4I/s320/DSCF1421.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post Office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuyMxp-w_0LXEIMMqoWCJhyphenhyphenyLF8pmziA7pHyqZ_WnVbRzK-Fn2OPEYx1Yo_aZo0MpGreuzcPhZ4WhcXnh0mLendSYuyGaiHJpNp5bq25lyBpTFyKvuyVlAYmQFOaahG_cq1VTllZodmJhR/s1600/DSCF1425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuyMxp-w_0LXEIMMqoWCJhyphenhyphenyLF8pmziA7pHyqZ_WnVbRzK-Fn2OPEYx1Yo_aZo0MpGreuzcPhZ4WhcXnh0mLendSYuyGaiHJpNp5bq25lyBpTFyKvuyVlAYmQFOaahG_cq1VTllZodmJhR/s200/DSCF1425.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside Post Office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I decided I would take some pictures before heading back. I like to show people a picture of the old post office and tell them that this is downtown Osteen. There is a hole in the back door and you can see a box with cubby holes where they sorted the mail. There's an old organ, too. Not sure if this was also used for a church.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZBtbBOVSRVeggSjBPSrYDgiUS7PypiYoWHEo6h0Wn3PDzessb6kXrlhoVzP25ObvzjKk5hqDCI2RsPXER2ooSl_dZOC7BFZYS5vH4_luetwatcauzj1oHdEPtn40Uo4uWe9DWnFF6cTy/s1600/DSCF1428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZBtbBOVSRVeggSjBPSrYDgiUS7PypiYoWHEo6h0Wn3PDzessb6kXrlhoVzP25ObvzjKk5hqDCI2RsPXER2ooSl_dZOC7BFZYS5vH4_luetwatcauzj1oHdEPtn40Uo4uWe9DWnFF6cTy/s200/DSCF1428.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Osteen Feed & Hay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As I was walking back to my bike, I smelled some sweet feed. One of the pleasures of owning a horse is opening up a new bag of sweet feed. It smells better than most of the honey-bunches-of-oats we get for breakfast. I walked into the Osteen Feed and Hay store to just to get a big whiff. <br />
<br />
It reminded me of the day I was with the preacher in Knoxville, Tennessee. We parked in front of a warehouse and the sweet smell was so inviting. I went inside and saw bales of tobacco stacked every where. I put my nose on one and sucked in a room full of air. "Man, if they tasted as good as they smelled......" oh, yeah, I was with the preacher.<br />
<br />
<br />
After looking at all the new tack and feeders I met Bryant Lee. Bryant was the only one working there that day and a real pleasure to talk to. He lived in Deltona and loved working at the feed store. We had a lot in common. Bryant said he grew up in church, his Uncle was a Bishop at a church. Sorry, the church's name was too long to remember. I said, "So, you guys are tambourine whackers!" He laughed, "Yep, we do that to." <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidL5GOfAf2HJK063BstqCA41cDYuPRZzH3f8a-IY4tEa2m8Ry-0_uY7xGoXfrsk9MBDSWxNpQ03XaxxbtKbr9SQYCoh_dfgJ_lwsAzDz57WBU2SJbZvdFtHfkONi36-uk5r-TUs5redqW_/s1600/DSCF1429.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidL5GOfAf2HJK063BstqCA41cDYuPRZzH3f8a-IY4tEa2m8Ry-0_uY7xGoXfrsk9MBDSWxNpQ03XaxxbtKbr9SQYCoh_dfgJ_lwsAzDz57WBU2SJbZvdFtHfkONi36-uk5r-TUs5redqW_/s200/DSCF1429.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
Bryant spoke fondly of church, so I asked him, "Sounds like you know you're going to heaven?" He said, "I sure hope to walk through those doors some day."<br />
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I asked him what he was basing his "hope" on. He told me how good he was and involved with the church growing up. Sounded a lot like my childhood, except for the "good" part.<br />
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I handed Bryant a Ten Commandment penny. Even as young as he was, it was difficult to figure out that the commandments were actually stamped on it. I told him that some people thank me, as if the penny was a good luck charm. But, it's actually written to show us we aren't good. We're all guilty of breaking God's law.<br />
<br />
I asked Bryant if he ever "bore false witness," or told a lie. "Sure," he quickly admitted. "What does that make you," I said. "A liar," he agreed.<br />
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"Have you ever taken anything that didn't belong to you." "Hmmmmmm," he thought. "Come on now, you already told me you're a liar. Surely you've taken something, no matter how little, sometime in your life." "Yes," he said, "I'm a thief, too."<br />
<br />
I told him that Jesus said if I look at someone with lust in my heart that I've committed adultery and if I hate my brother I'm the same as a murderer. That means that we are lying, thieving, adulterers and murderers. Besides, the Bible says if I broken one law, I'm guilty of them all.<br />
<br />
So, I asked Bryant if he "stood before God right now, would you be guilty or innocent?" "Guilty," he said. "Would you go to Heaven or Hell." "Hmmm......?"<br />
<br />
"You see, Bryant, if I could ever be good enough, then why did Jesus suffer and die for my sins? The Bible says that the 'wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ.' Jesus already paid for my sins by His death when he said on the cross, 'It is finished.' All that needed to be done was done. Hell is for those who haven't put their trust in Christ and will pay with their death for eternity."<br />
<br />
In 1 John it says that 'This is the record that God has given to us eternal life, and this life is in his Son." And, "I have written this to you who believe in the name of the Son of God, so that you may KNOW you have eternal life." (Not hope, so).<br />
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I said, "John 3:16 says..." and Bryant finished, "For God so love the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life."<br />
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That's right.... do you see it? The only thing you need to do to get to Heaven is "believe." Believe that you are guilty of sin, that Jesus, the Son of God, paid your sin debt, and receive it as a free gift. How do you do that? You tell God, "I believe that, I accept what Jesus has done for me."<br />
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I told Bryant, "Do you realize that I rode my bike more than ten miles to tell you this today?"<br />
<br />
In the book of Acts a man named Philip ran into the desert outside of Jerusalem to tell a man on his way back to Ethiopia the same message. The Eunuch from Ethiopia was in charge of the treasury for the Queen. He was a convert to Judaism and returning home after observing all that had just happened in Jerusalem. Perhaps, even the crucifixion of Jesus.<br />
<br />
He was riding in his chariot and reading from the book of Isaiah:<br />
<br />
<em>He was oppressed and He was afflicted,<br /><span class="text Isa-53-7">Yet He opened not His mouth;</span><br /><span class="text Isa-53-7">He was led as a lamb to the slaughter,</span><br /><span class="text Isa-53-7">And as a sheep before its shearers is silent,</span><br /><span class="text Isa-53-7">So He opened not His mouth</span></em><br />
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Philip asked, "Do you understand what your are reading?" The Eunuch replied, "How can I unless someone guide me?" And Philip explained to him that Isaiah was talking about Jesus, the Christ who has taken away the sins of the world.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMxwZVZkHbEm1CtY_vtZpZzuvSjtfBxmYXqoNp8ZEKA_ihPOhWYvTmu_snkH_9trVVuTN6gfw7IRxslrDhACjZJpRZdpbFQ5ruqF0RXIfkqahE6yglmfM5gaY4mtQTVmAlUgOs7oAULURN/s1600/Bryant+Lee.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMxwZVZkHbEm1CtY_vtZpZzuvSjtfBxmYXqoNp8ZEKA_ihPOhWYvTmu_snkH_9trVVuTN6gfw7IRxslrDhACjZJpRZdpbFQ5ruqF0RXIfkqahE6yglmfM5gaY4mtQTVmAlUgOs7oAULURN/s200/Bryant+Lee.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bryant Lee</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When they came to some water the Eunuch asked Philip, "What hinders me from being baptized," and Philip answered, "If you believe... you may."<br />
<br />
"You see Bryant, we don't get to Heaven by being good, we get to Heaven by believing. Do you believe?"<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZBtbBOVSRVeggSjBPSrYDgiUS7PypiYoWHEo6h0Wn3PDzessb6kXrlhoVzP25ObvzjKk5hqDCI2RsPXER2ooSl_dZOC7BFZYS5vH4_luetwatcauzj1oHdEPtn40Uo4uWe9DWnFF6cTy/s1600/DSCF1428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZBtbBOVSRVeggSjBPSrYDgiUS7PypiYoWHEo6h0Wn3PDzessb6kXrlhoVzP25ObvzjKk5hqDCI2RsPXER2ooSl_dZOC7BFZYS5vH4_luetwatcauzj1oHdEPtn40Uo4uWe9DWnFF6cTy/s200/DSCF1428.JPG" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 130px; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 933px;" width="96" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Yes, I do," he said.<br />
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"Then what hinders you... 'Nothing,' he said."<br />
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I asked him to tell God this, "Dear God, I admit that I am a sinner. I believe Jesus died for me. Right here and right now, I put my trust in Him. Come into my heart, give me eternal life. Thank you in Jesus name, Amen."<br />
<br />
I like it when folks get excited when they understand that they have eternal life. When they finally "know" that "God has given us his Spirit as proof that we live in him and he in us.... All who confess that Jesus is the Son of God have God living in them." Bryant said, "This has been a crazy day!"<br />
<br />
Tell me about it. I have to ride all the way back. Philip just "appeared" back and preached his way to Caesarea!George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-5596394843720533402012-01-07T05:58:00.000-05:002012-01-07T05:58:08.111-05:00Follow Me and I Will Make You Fishers of Men<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTRlQU7RyrqEYx3KQmiKUyIVSf3wCkKrIsrJxEi5ZpbBcdOnZdxr2EbAIX7lIO1SDZlFKLG1IDByvjD0X7Wc5LHTPbP8fxnWjIS6tmztXHW9Z4EY2NPSOc_SL8Y2HMWrt54WuqrUJhXGZX/s1600/DSC06909.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTRlQU7RyrqEYx3KQmiKUyIVSf3wCkKrIsrJxEi5ZpbBcdOnZdxr2EbAIX7lIO1SDZlFKLG1IDByvjD0X7Wc5LHTPbP8fxnWjIS6tmztXHW9Z4EY2NPSOc_SL8Y2HMWrt54WuqrUJhXGZX/s320/DSC06909.JPG" style="cursor: move;" unselectable="on" width="240" /></a><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">The 10 - C Spoon</span></div><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><img height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTRlQU7RyrqEYx3KQmiKUyIVSf3wCkKrIsrJxEi5ZpbBcdOnZdxr2EbAIX7lIO1SDZlFKLG1IDByvjD0X7Wc5LHTPbP8fxnWjIS6tmztXHW9Z4EY2NPSOc_SL8Y2HMWrt54WuqrUJhXGZX/s320/DSC06909.JPG" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 168px; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 121px;" width="72" />No, it isn't the "Tennessee" spoon or even the Alabama (RollTide) spoon. It is the 10 - C Spoon because I make it from a penny that has been stamped with the Ten Commandments.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">And, it catches fish!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">I order the pennies from the Living Waters Ministry (Ray Comfort). I like to use them to engage people in a conversation about the Law and then share good news of the Gospel.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">Since I love fishing, I made one into a fishing lure. Now. I give them to others who want to join my Fishers of Men Club. Jesus said in Matthew 4:19, <em>Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.</em></span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>Join the club, there is no limit on the number or size that you catch!</strong></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #0c343d;">.</span></em>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-72098087862434759192011-10-28T06:17:00.002-04:002021-02-06T20:05:38.371-05:00Justification by Faith<em><strong><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"> <span style="color: #0c343d;">by Oswald Chambers, </span></span><st1:date day="28" month="10" year="2011"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">October 28</span></span></st1:date></strong></em><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">For if, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of His Son, much more, being reconciled, we shall be saved by His life. —Roman </span></i><st1:time hour="17" minute="10"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">5:10</span></i></st1:time><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div><span style="color: #0c343d;"> </span><br />
<div class="NormalWeb4" style="background: white; margin: 1em 0in; vertical-align: top;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>I am not saved by believing</strong>; I realize I am saved by believing. It is not repentance that saves me; repentance is the sign that I realize what God has done in Christ Jesus. The danger is to put the emphasis on the effect instead of on the cause. Is it my obedience that puts me right with God, my consecration. </span></span></div><div class="NormalWeb4" style="background: white; margin: 1em 0in; vertical-align: top;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>Never!</strong> I am put right with God because prior to all, <em>Christ died</em>. </span></span></div><div class="NormalWeb4" style="background: white; margin: 1em 0in; vertical-align: top;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">When I turn to God and by belief accept what God reveals I can accept, instantly the stupendous Atonement of Jesus Christ rushes me into a right relationship with God; and by the supernatural miracle of God’s grace I stand justified, not because I am sorry for my sin, not because I have repented, but because of what Jesus has done. The Spirit of God brings it with a breaking, all-over light, and I know, though I do not know how, that I am saved.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #0c343d;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">The salvation of God does not stand on human logic; it stands on the sacrificial Death of Jesus. We can be born again because of the Atonement of Our Lord. Sinful men and women can be changed into new creatures, not by their repentance or their belief, but by the marvelous work of God in Christ Jesus which is prior to all experience. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">The impregnable safety of justification and sanctification is God Himself. We have not to work out these things ourselves; they have been worked out by the Atonement. The supernatural becomes natural by the miracle of God; there is the realization of what Jesus Christ has already done – </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><em><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><strong>“It is finished.”</strong></span></em><o:p></o:p></span></span>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-81138776275124980872011-09-04T07:28:00.000-04:002011-09-04T07:28:53.187-04:00His! by Oswald Chambers<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>His!<o:p></o:p></strong></span></span><span style="color: #0c343d;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><st1:date day="4" month="9" year="2011"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9pt;"><em>September 04, 2011</em></span></st1:date><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #0c343d;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>They were Yours, You gave them to Me . . . —John 17:6</strong></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;"></span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9pt;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>A missionary is someone in whom the Holy Spirit</strong> has brought about this realization: “You are not your own” (</span><a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+Corinthians+6:19"><span style="color: #0c343d;">1 Corinthians 6:19</span></a><span style="color: #0c343d;">). To say, “I am not my own,” is to have reached a high point in my spiritual stature. The true nature of that life in actual everyday confusion is evidenced by the deliberate giving up of myself to another Person through a sovereign decision, and that Person is Jesus Christ. The Holy Spirit interprets and explains the nature of Jesus to me to make me one with my Lord, not that I might simply become a trophy for His showcase. Our Lord never sent any of His disciples out on the basis of what He had done for them. It was not until after the resurrection, when the disciples had perceived through the power of the Holy Spirit who Jesus really was, that He said, “Go” (Matthew 28:19; also see </span><a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+24:49"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Luke 24:49</span></a><span style="color: #0c343d;"> and </span><a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Acts+1:8"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Acts 1:8</span></a><span style="color: #0c343d;">).</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9pt;"></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9pt;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>“If anyone comes to Me</strong> and does not hate his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and his own life also, he cannot be My disciple” (</span><a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+14:26"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Luke 14:26</span></a><span style="color: #0c343d;">). He was not saying that this person cannot be good and upright, but that he cannot be someone over whom Jesus can write the word <em><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Mine</span></em>. Any one of the relationships our Lord mentions in this verse can compete with our relationship with Him. I may prefer to belong to my mother, or to my wife, or to myself, but if that is the case, then, Jesus said, “[You] cannot be My disciple.” This does not mean that I will not be saved, but it does mean that I cannot be entirely <em><span style="font-family: Verdana;">His</span></em>.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9pt;"></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9pt;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>Our Lord makes His disciple His very own possession</strong>, becoming responsible for him. “. . . you shall be witnesses to Me . . .” (</span><a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Acts+1:8"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Acts 1:8</span></a><span style="color: #0c343d;">). The desire that comes into a disciple is not one of <em><span style="font-family: Verdana;">doing</span></em> anything for Jesus, but of <em><span style="font-family: Verdana;">being</span></em> a perfect delight to Him. The missionary’s secret is truly being able to say, “I am His, and He is accomplishing His work and His purposes through me.”</span></span></div><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9pt;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>Be entirely His!<o:p></o:p></strong></span></span>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-57202869103999401082011-05-13T20:58:00.001-04:002014-06-08T15:51:05.935-04:00I Don't Know Where the Door Is<h4>
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: small;"><b>"I believe, but I'm working on the "really" believing part." </b></span></span></h4>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 8.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">That's what one of my dearest friends said when I told her how I had finally asked Jesus Christ to come into my heart and save me. What does it mean to "really believe" or have enough "faith" and to know, "really" know that I will go to heaven.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 8.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>I used to think that "faith" was one step into the dark</b>... and then one more. Sounds more like stepping into an elevator shaft, doesn’t it?<br />
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I learned that faith was not blind trust, but believing in a person and what he did for me. When I understood that Jesus died for me, my sins, then I simply had to admit, "Yeap, I did that! Forgive me."<br />
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And, he already did, 2,000 years ago. I just had to accept his free gift of salvation and then I went from having religion, to having a relationship. <br />
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<b>He says that he stands at the door of our heart</b> waiting for us to simply open it and let him in. It is amazing how simple it is for us to realize that and do it. <br />
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There was a young girl in my class at church who said she did that when she was four years old. She went sobbing to her mother and said, "Mommy, I want Jesus to come into my heart, but I don't know where the door is!"<br />
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<b>How sweet is that.</b> You don't have to know how to fly a plane, the pilot does. You don't have to know how to do brain surgery, the doctor does. And you trust them without hesitation.<br />
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You don't have to know where the door is, He does... you just have to ask him to "come on in!" That's really believing.<br />
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I tell others, "Lord help me to pray (he taught his disciples), the best I know how, I put my trust in you. Forgive me of my sin, come into my heart and save me."<br />
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<b>He never fails, never.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-65448866085444305232011-03-27T15:20:00.000-04:002011-03-27T15:20:43.854-04:00Puraquequara - PQQ<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Puraquequara</span></em></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">M</span>y wife and I</strong> <strong>were eating at La Hacienda,</strong> a Mexican restaurant in Orange City, Florida when she asked me how to pronounce an entrée that had too many L's and R's for my fat tongue to roll through. She was disappointed that the smartest man in the world couldn't say it. (I’m affectionately known as the smartest man in the world at home, but that’s another story.)<br />
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I said, <em>"Oh yeah, pronounce this,"</em> as I wrote on my napkin, "PURAQUEQUARA." <br />
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<em>"Purr - a - key..... I don't know."</em> She stuttered<em>.</em><br />
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I said, <em>"In Brazil the R's are like D's in this word and it's pronounced, Puda - Kay - Qua - Da.”</em><br />
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I repeated it and she was amused… for a moment.<br />
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<strong>When the waiter</strong> asked for our orders I said, <em>“She would like Number 7, please.”</em> (Smartest man in the world strikes again!)<br />
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After we finished eating, one of the four people across from us got up and asked me, <em>"Excuse me, did you say 'Puraquequara'?"</em><br />
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<strong><em>"WOW!"</em> I said,</strong> <em>"You must be with New Tribes Mission." </em><br />
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He was, but now he is a pilot for Wycliffe Associates.<br />
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He said, <em>“The man sitting next to me is Dave Sharp. His dad built and named Puraquequara; it's the only place in the world with that name." </em>PQQ, as the students call it, is a New Tribes Mission’s boarding school for missionary kids. It’s about a thousand miles up the Amazon River, near Manaus.<br />
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I said, <em>“Yes, I heard his name when I was in training with New Tribes in Pennsylvania.”</em><br />
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<strong>The pilot, Dave Byron said,</strong> <em>“My wife grew up at New Tribes in Pennsylvania.” </em><br />
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She was Becky Sanford, daughter of Dick and Lucille Sanford. Her Dad was the northeast representative for New Tribes. Becky was in high school when I was in training there.<br />
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Dave Byron said that although he is a pilot, he's been tasked with writing the Crisis Response Plan for the missionaries in Peru.... and he doesn't have a clue where to begin.<br />
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<strong>Amazing how God</strong> used the word <em>‘Puraquequara’</em> to bring us together, isn’t it.<br />
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I told him that I might know something about that, I'm been a Risk Manager for 17 years and write disaster and crises response plans. I also know an organization of risk managers that are responsible for their faculty and students traveling abroad. I was a member of the University Risk Management and Insurance Association for eight years.<br />
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<strong>A few weeks later,</strong> I met Dave for breakfast in Sanford. We went over a lot of plans I wrote or stole from the Internet and then I hooked him up with Vincent Morris, Risk Manager of Wheaton College. And wouldn’t you know it, Vince was at the annual URMIA conference when I called and was being honored as Risk Manager of the Year. God always sends His best, doesn’t he!<br />
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Dave’s experience on the field was the greatest starting point. He just needed help in getting the creative juices flowing. I was just thrilled to see God take the smartest man in the world and allow him to be a servant again for a cause so dear to his heart.<br />
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God sure has a great sense of humor, doesn't he!<br />
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<em><span style="font-size: large;">Puraquequara indeed!</span></em>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-27159575600291925192011-03-26T07:37:00.004-04:002014-01-29T06:12:53.983-05:00My Dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-YOiczNZ5RfOQeVWa1aPE-tPvBrO_j_HpPm2Db703fl8XPbHtEAI4552EliFS6I33HEoiMftcIKTVKxEJ_F6Yf48nDv_Y_Tl-WyMqeYwX6EglsSSholSti_BQ1wNm2bjmdyFetjAmkJ-g/s1600/DadFish1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-YOiczNZ5RfOQeVWa1aPE-tPvBrO_j_HpPm2Db703fl8XPbHtEAI4552EliFS6I33HEoiMftcIKTVKxEJ_F6Yf48nDv_Y_Tl-WyMqeYwX6EglsSSholSti_BQ1wNm2bjmdyFetjAmkJ-g/s1600/DadFish1.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
<b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">My Dad</span></b><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">I</span> was married, in college and a soon to be Dad the night I got saved. I couldn’t wait for the weekend to come to drive back home to Sanford to see my family. Mainly, because we stayed with one of our parents, they fed us and always sent us home with a care package of canned food and more utensils.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">As soon as I walked in the house I told my mother, <i>“Mom, I got saved.”</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">She was very happy for me, but it wasn’t a minute before my Dad came into to the room. He walked up to me, got in my face and said, <i>“Boy, I’ve got to put up with that from your Uncle Bill, but this is my house and you can either shut up or leave.”</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>I just stood there.</b> I couldn’t get over the people that weren’t as excited about me getting saved as I was. I honored my father and shut up. Dad and I continued to do a lot together; he was a jack-of-all-trades, my fishing buddy, but most of all, my Dad.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">I moved back to Sanford about a year later and not much had changed in my life. I had a lot of friends, but one couple was special. (With two kids named Punky and Beaver, they had to be.) When I talked to Tom about the Bible, something was different. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">It was like when Cleopas and the other disciple that walked with Jesus along the Emmaus Road. They said, <i>“Did not our hearts burn within us as He talked with us by the way, and while He opened up the scriptures?”</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmaZNBfOim7lLxi3KseYbVZknOCYLt2ydNoHBdrKzsK1ogLTBTPnMJRoQ5XivAVGtdiZ9-RkBVBgsCVLs9qvjnbR-dwRHDSvG6bq_vabhdRUTAe8ra9CVMvjY-7LoI1fNAxozfY2XNKZIL/s1600/Elder+Springs+Baptist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmaZNBfOim7lLxi3KseYbVZknOCYLt2ydNoHBdrKzsK1ogLTBTPnMJRoQ5XivAVGtdiZ9-RkBVBgsCVLs9qvjnbR-dwRHDSvG6bq_vabhdRUTAe8ra9CVMvjY-7LoI1fNAxozfY2XNKZIL/s1600/Elder+Springs+Baptist.jpg" height="125" width="200" /></a><span style="color: #0c343d;"><i><b>My heart began to burn within me</b></i>. I knew something was wrong, but not why. So, I decided that I wanted to change some of the things I was doing and that I was going to go to church. I was going to say no to “sin” in my life. It was a Wednesday night, and they had a service, so I went, and I went by myself.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">Everyone was on one side of the building and the preacher wasn’t on the stage, he was in front with a little pedestal. I sat in back. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">After a prayer, a guy raised his hand and said that he needed money to buy a new spark plug for the church lawn mower, <i>“All approve say aye.” </i></span><br />
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</i><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><i>“Aye,”</i> Motion approved.” </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">Then they sang and the preacher gave a Bible study.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>But he didn’t preach,</b> he talked, and others would raise their hand and talk back. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">Wow, this was different. After the lesson I raised my hand. <i>“Yes, George?” </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><i>“Do you do this every Wednesday night?”</i> I asked. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><i>“Pretty much,”</i> the preacher replied. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">I said, <i>“We’ll I like it.” </i></span><br />
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</i><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><i>“Come back next Wednesday, then,”</i> he said.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>As I pulled into my driveway,</b> there were two teenagers telling dirty jokes. It reminded me of another one, but I paused and said, <i>“Nope.”</i> Then I got out of the van with my Bible and said, <i>“Sounds like you boys should have been in church tonight.” </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">"<i>Tonight?</i> <i>We don’t have church on Wednesday,”</i> they said they attended All Souls Catholic around the corner from where I lived on Elm Street.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">I pulled a Gospel tract out of my Bible that I found at the church and read it to them. Then I asked, <i>"What do you think, do you want to do that?” </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">One said no and walked off, the other, named David, said, <i>“Yeah... I’d like to do that.”</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>Well, I didn’t have a clue what to say next</b> so I asked him to come inside. We sat on the couch and I read the tract to him again and asked, <i>“You still want to do that?”</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">His eyes were getting red and he almost whispered, “<i>Yeah, I do.”</i></span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">I still had no clue what to say or do next. I was laying in bed when I got saved so I said, <i>“Come on, let’s go in the bed room!”</i> We sat on the edge of the bed, David had his head down in his hands and I could hear his tears dropping on the carpet. I said, <i>“Just a minute.”</i></span><br />
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</i><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">I turned to the side and said, <i>“Lord, I don’t know what to do!”</i> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">I didn’t hear a voice or anything, but it was like, <i>“Thank you, let me do this.”</i> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">I felt a sweet peace and turned to David and said, <i>“Just say, ‘Lord help me to pray' and tell Him what you want to do.”</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>He did,</b> he prayed, and it was sweet, and just like when I got saved, he got real happy about it. I went into the kitchen and called the preacher. I said, <i>“This boy just got saved, tell him what he did,”</i> and handed the phone to David.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">While David was on the phone I looked down and saw a pack of cigarettes in my pocket. I was embarrassed. I snuck them out and hid them in the bottom of the trash can. I was ashamed that David might see them. The strange thing was I just sat through a church service with them in my pocket and lit one up in the parking lot as I was driving off. Didn’t bother me a bit.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>Even though I had been saved a few years</b>, I did not know that the Holy Spirit lived in me. And when I started saying <i>“No”</i> to what I wanted to do, His presence became real. He was there all the time, longing to have a relationship with me. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivKWaMNvLbZ1qcPU0A3NtS6ao1_wjq4Gk1NBqlNHRUGe2pmbymP5RWniIT18uWboqqTstp8GO8fN7ByICxIkLnOF8aZDxFbGJ82PnNyq_pOA3gFqwj3NDcU_EZ2u9oZNvWT5E11opz-UGv/s1600/Dads+Bible+Tract.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivKWaMNvLbZ1qcPU0A3NtS6ao1_wjq4Gk1NBqlNHRUGe2pmbymP5RWniIT18uWboqqTstp8GO8fN7ByICxIkLnOF8aZDxFbGJ82PnNyq_pOA3gFqwj3NDcU_EZ2u9oZNvWT5E11opz-UGv/s1600/Dads+Bible+Tract.jpg" height="200" width="158" /></a><span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>Almost thirteen years later,</b> I went over to pick my Dad up to go fishing. It was 5:30 in the morning and he always had breakfast ready when I got there. I walked into the kitchen, breakfast was ready, but Dad was back in his den.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;">He came into the room, slowly, and with his usual limp on his right side. He held up a little red booklet and said, <i><b>“Hey boy, I did that.”</b></i></span><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">As I walked over to see what it was, he reached out and handed it to me. It was only 2 by 2 ½ inches, but the title stood out like BOX CAR letters! It read: <i><b>Personal Bible, Verses of Comfort, Assurance and Salvation</b></i>. </span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">Dad reached over and flipped to the back pages where his name was signed at the bottom of a prayer that read, <i>“God be merciful to me a sinner! I believe Christ died for me and that His Precious blood will cleanse me from all my sin. By faith I now receive the Lord Jesus Christ into my heart as my Lord and Savior; trusting Him for the salvation of my soul. Help me Lord to do thy will each day. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen”</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>He wrote in the margin</b> around that prayer, <i>“3-11-79 Born-Again Praise the Lord.”</i> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RZY7YtyGeck1PuKzeCTTQAm4yEMiIspjkJAwbwxPOq_nmcZhLW4NjYCAwQzY_X5GvHu8o8kPiLC39Q8YvRTG0HqUGAYzL56bdGgIQdSd4Tm2sXMJ-wMiEsnZKVuyyV1kF_Yra__1N5JP/s1600/Dads+Bible+Tract+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RZY7YtyGeck1PuKzeCTTQAm4yEMiIspjkJAwbwxPOq_nmcZhLW4NjYCAwQzY_X5GvHu8o8kPiLC39Q8YvRTG0HqUGAYzL56bdGgIQdSd4Tm2sXMJ-wMiEsnZKVuyyV1kF_Yra__1N5JP/s1600/Dads+Bible+Tract+2.jpg" height="125" width="200" /></a><span style="color: #0c343d;">Dad was 58 years old when he was <i>“born again.”</i> A Methodist preacher from Tampa held a revival at my Dad’s church and Dad went and knelt at the altar the night before. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>My Dad died when he was 80.</b> Like you, I get excited when I read, <i>“Let not your heart be troubled, you believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions…I go to prepare a place for you… so that where I am there you may be also.”</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">Every time I see the sun gleaming through a huge cloud in the eastern sky, I think, “<i>Wow, now would be good time!”</i> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;">I want to be alive to hear the Shout and the sound of the trumpet as we meet our Lord in the air! But, as I walk by those Jasper walls and along the River of Life, the next sound I want to hear is, <i><b>“Hey, boy!”</b></i> And I will, because someone shared the Gospel story with my Dad and he was ready to listen.</span>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-28724511150656130422010-10-03T22:08:00.001-04:002010-10-03T22:11:01.223-04:00The Lord's Prayer<span style="color: #0c343d;"><em><strong>If you read My Story (an earlier post), you'd know why this is not only funny, but very special to me.</strong></em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>The story is told that the church got a new Youth Pastor.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>As the Senior Pastor was giving the announcements, he said, "Aaron, our new Youth Pastor, please come up to the podium and lead us in the Lord's Prayer when I get through with the announcements."</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>A deacon in the back nudged the Assosciate Pastor, Allen, and said, "I'll bet you twenty dollars that he doesn't know it."</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>Allen said, "Shhh! The pastor is talking... you'll get me in trouble."</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>The deacon wouldn't let up, "Twenty dollars."</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>"Okay, just be quiet," said Allen.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>After the announcements, Aaron came to the microphone, bowed his head and said, "Let's pray."</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>"Now I lay me down to sleep, </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>I pray the Lord my soul to keep. </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>If I should die before I wake, .</strong></span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>I pray the Lord my soul to take, Amen."</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>The deacon came to Allen after the service shaking his head. "Here's the twenty dollars."</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>Allen, looking puzzled said, "What's this for?"</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0c343d;"><strong>"I didn't think he knew it!" exclaimed the deacon.</strong></span>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-90382003384389282962010-04-30T08:02:00.000-04:002010-04-30T08:02:48.486-04:00Calvary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuwx1Aq83d2nNl2XoyROYCfNUzqU8oUGjX3ZFUzBvdg9lDu8MxPc1IBj8dDGAg2EfkEo7eKw15RE9HVrQYE8x_eRIEsqsmWtDfkTJpnK1qmsttuzNoxUIjAMQlhUxD9Ymlx8Jw8v577r9I/s1600/425+Calvary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuwx1Aq83d2nNl2XoyROYCfNUzqU8oUGjX3ZFUzBvdg9lDu8MxPc1IBj8dDGAg2EfkEo7eKw15RE9HVrQYE8x_eRIEsqsmWtDfkTJpnK1qmsttuzNoxUIjAMQlhUxD9Ymlx8Jw8v577r9I/s320/425+Calvary.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-37545963782823795502010-04-30T07:42:00.000-04:002010-04-30T07:48:22.554-04:00The Empty Tomb<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP1Wn8GmKjAOLrRdadwf2yJY03IRM4htfcH6S0M6QJhM4jlzePaMAWdmroJ6bWVXDBXruQzPL2dfAYaozHoHVDghVh4lW7zTxAX0I_57OKD_hioxSyIqmFPShF0Mqw4YAYc4e0W-SXim6c/s1600/438+Empty+Tomb.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465895786211180706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP1Wn8GmKjAOLrRdadwf2yJY03IRM4htfcH6S0M6QJhM4jlzePaMAWdmroJ6bWVXDBXruQzPL2dfAYaozHoHVDghVh4lW7zTxAX0I_57OKD_hioxSyIqmFPShF0Mqw4YAYc4e0W-SXim6c/s400/438+Empty+Tomb.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-57483127983857305032009-11-30T21:12:00.005-05:002014-06-08T15:38:13.905-04:00A Divine Appointment<span style="color: #003300;"><b>Several months ago</b> I was loading up on some fishing supplies at WalMart. The guy in line next to me was getting some, too. I'll call him Brian, because that's his name. He just moved here from Pennsylvania and didn't know much about bass fishing. That's okay, because when I was in training with New Tribes Mission in Pennsylvania, I didn't know much about trout fishing.</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;">We ended up walking to our cars together. He and his wife were a delight to talk to, so I gave him my phone number and told him to call me if he <i>really</i> wanted to catch some nice bass. I have access to a lake that is full of huge bass and it's not open to the public.</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3VJkufPIIfkdJWKqoeMCnKVPGE5b8OWe120dWa57uS6LDtT1PcVt169r7kYzl-lc0pN93a3qL4Kcr9pTziAQddZ386wTWZHX4ncu1gjHTtgQFs-EGB30Lxe2hHlND_P6uZ3mAI09a-tm0/s1600/DSC04292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3VJkufPIIfkdJWKqoeMCnKVPGE5b8OWe120dWa57uS6LDtT1PcVt169r7kYzl-lc0pN93a3qL4Kcr9pTziAQddZ386wTWZHX4ncu1gjHTtgQFs-EGB30Lxe2hHlND_P6uZ3mAI09a-tm0/s1600/DSC04292.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #003300;"><b>A couple of weeks later</b> he called and said he'd like to take me up on that offer. He met me after work and I took him fishing. I had four nice bass landed before he could set his tackle box down. He had a camera in one hand <i>and </i>was on the phone with his wife in Pennsylvania. He told her he couldn't believe how nice the bass were.</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;">I couldn't believe he was talking to his wife on the phone instead of fishing! He said she wanted to know if I would take her fishing when she got back. I told him to tell her, "No, she doesn't know the secret hand shake." Somehow, she thought that was funny.</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"><b>We fished until nine o'clock</b> and were totally wore out from fishing. I used to count about 50 or 60 bass caught each time I fished there. That night I didn't bother counting. It was at least that many. Only difference now is, I also have a digital scale. The biggest one was 4 1/2 lbs. (really, he has a picture)</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;">We'd still be fishing there if I hadn't driven my Jeep near the levee so that Brian could see the headlights and find his way back. He's a man after my own heart.</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"><b>On the way out,</b> I asked Brian if he'd found a church since he moved down. He said he hadn't (not surprising, since he wasn't looking). He said he was raised somewhere between Lutheran and Methodist. He's been confirmed and God knows the content of his heart, so he doesn't think he'd go to Hell.</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;">I explained the purpose of the law and ten commandments to him and then shared the Gospel with him. He couldn't get over how wrong his concept of salvation was and how dumb (his words, not mine) he felt. He started associating the truth of the Gospel with the situation in the world today, the Crusades and all sorts of stuff. He was pretty much on track.</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;">Brian trusted Jesus Christ as his personal Savior. I told Brian I like to fish, but I really like to be a fisher of men. I told him that it wasn't a chance encounter at WalMart. I trust God to direct my path and bring people into my life and then give me the boldness to share the Gospel with them. That's a divine appointment.</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;">It would have been easy to just keep talking about the great fishing and then go our separate ways. I thought to myself, "If that hillbilly pastor of mine can to it, so can I!" I knew the pastor wouldn't let him got out of the car without hearing the Gospel first! So I asked Brian a personal question and he was willing to listen.</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"><b>I don't know who was more excited, but I know who caught the biggest one, that night!</b></span>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-26206527155457374522009-11-04T19:02:00.005-05:002009-11-04T19:28:55.427-05:00Heaven is real. See, I told you so!<span style="color:#003300;"><strong>Jesus said</strong>: "Let not your heart be troubled, you believe in God, believe also in me.</span> <span style="color:#003300;">In my Father's house are many mansions, if it were not so, I would have told you."</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#003300;">"I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, </span><span style="color:#003300;">and receive you unto myself, that where I am, there ye may be also."</span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#003300;">"And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know."</span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"><strong>Thomas said unto him,</strong> "Lord, we know not whither thou goest; and how can we know the way?"</span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"><strong>Jesus saith unto him,</strong> "I am the way the truth, and the life, no man cometh unto the Father, but by me."</span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#003300;">"If ye had known me, ye should have known my Father also: and from henceforth ye know him, and have seen him."</span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"><strong>Philip saith unto him</strong>, "Lord, show us the Father, and it sufficeth us."</span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"><strong>Jesus said unto him</strong>, "Have I been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known me, Philip? he that hath seen me hath seen the Father; and how sayest thou then, Shew us the Father?"</span><br /><span style="color:#003300;"></span><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#003300;"><strong>Note: Jesus said,</strong> "I am THE WAY, ...no man comes unto the Father but by me." </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#003300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#003300;">Truth is always in some sense narrow. </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#003300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#003300;">It is error that is broad and accommodating. 2 x 2 = 4 --always<strong>!</strong></span></div>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-8735121789561244142009-10-21T20:16:00.002-04:002009-10-21T20:20:23.579-04:00Heaven<div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#003300;"><em>Heaven is not a reward for the righteous.</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#003300;"><em>It is a gift for the quilty.</em></span></div>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-90790066856375533912009-09-25T06:14:00.004-04:002021-04-14T20:13:41.463-04:00My Utmost for His Highest<div align="center"><span style="color: #003300; font-size: 130%;">My Utmost for His Highest - Oswald Chambers</span> </div><div align="center"> <span style="color: #003300; font-size: 130%;">Daily devotional reading.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color: #003300; font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color: #003300; font-size: 26px;">https://utmost.org/the-far-reaching-rivers-of-life/</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color: #003300; font-size: 26px;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color: #003300; font-size: 26px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #646b71; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 33px;">The Far-Reaching Rivers of Life</span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color: #003300; font-size: 26px;"><h4 style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 1.1; margin-bottom: 50px; margin-top: 5px;"><br /></h4><div><br /></div></span></div>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1395247880151662503.post-25259339483715089902009-08-29T09:19:00.018-04:002010-10-24T21:54:56.103-04:00My Story<span style="font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #003300;"><em>My Story</em></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"><em>I recently decided to write down how I got saved. I want to make sure my boys know that I will be heaven and it wouldn't be heaven without them. They all profess to have trusted Christ as their personal Savior. I was nineteen, and sharing an apartment in Jacksonville with my cousin Wanda and her husband Richard. Richard and I were students at Massey Business College.</em></span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"><em></em><br />
</span><em><span style="color: #003300; font-size: 180%;">I thought I was a Christian.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #003300;">Up to this point in my life I thought I was a Christian. I lived in a "Christian nation," I went to a Christian church and was raised by a Christian family. Isn't everyone in America a Christian or religious?<br />
<br />
But God started showing me that something was missing early in life. One summer, our church group went to the Methodist Youth Camp in Leesburg, Florida. I was in a cabin of 10 or 12 boys that I had never met. At the end of the day we held hands in a circle and each person was asked to pray. You know, "Thank you God for a wonderful day at camp, keeps us safe when we try to learn to swim tomorrow, etc."<br />
<br />
When it was my turn I didn't say a word. The only prayer I knew besides "God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for our food..." was "Now I lay me down to sleep." The camp counselor nudged me and said, "George, say Lord help me to pray."<br />
<br />
<strong>I did,</strong> five nights in a row I prayed, "Lord, help me to pray," and then nudged the guy next to me.<br />
<br />
I watched the faces of the kids that stood up in chapel and saw in them something that was missing in me. They had something that was real. A relationship with God. I had religion; they had a personal relationship with Him.<br />
<br />
I walked out to the lake where we had Vesper Services and sat on a log. I wanted to give myself to God and have that relationship, too. Nothing happened, so I took a walk through the garden path where campers could go for a quiet time with God and pray as they walked along with Him. It was getting darker and the shadows were scary. I wanted God to just grab me or something, just let me have that same relationship with Him as the other kids had.<br />
<br />
<strong>Nothing happened.</strong><br />
<br />
Later, in the ninth grade, I met a young lady that went to a Baptist church. I heard the word "Saved" for the first time. I started to think that the Baptist used the word "Saved" the same way Methodist used the word "Christian."<br />
<br />
My first year of college, I married that Baptist. The pastor of the Baptist church down the street came to visit. I made fun of him. He invited us to church and left.<br />
<br />
The next week an older woman knocked on the door. I knew she was from the same church. She was interrupting me as my favorite new program was starting, Star Trek. I told her "No thank you," and started to close the door in her face.<br />
<br />
<strong>She said, "Can I ask you a question before I go."</strong><br />
"What?" I blurted.<br />
<br />
"Are you Saved?" she said.<br />
<br />
"Yes, I'm Saaavveed!" I sneered while thinking, "These Baptist think they're the only ones going to heaven."<br />
<br />
My wife came to the door before I could close it, "What about you, young lady, are you Saved?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"Oh yes, I'm saved," she said with an angelic look on her face, "I was Saved when I was nine." It was the same look I saw at the camp in Leesburg when some of the other kids talked about God.<br />
<br />
The thought that went through my mind was, "I lied... she didn't."<br />
<br />
<strong>Later that night</strong> as we lay in bed I asked my wife, "You know your Saved, don't you."<br />
<br />
Then I explained to her John 3:16. I had memorized it when I was about five years old at a vacation Bible school in Norfolk, Virginia. A group of Baptist were using the community center where I lived to start a new church and my Mom took us there.<br />
<br />
God so loved the world, that whosoever believes.... not goes to church, not tithes, not do this or do that, but "believes" that Jesus Christ died for my sins, has eternal life.<br />
<br />
I told my wife, "That's too easy, what about all the things I've done?" (I was clinging to my hope of being good enough to get to heaven. And, it was hard to let go of what little I had.)<br />
<br />
She said, "I'm sorry, that's all you can do (is believe), complain to God, not me!"<br />
<br />
<strong>So I prayed,</strong> "Now I lay me down to sleep..." and when I realized that all I needed to do was trust in Him.... in my mind I was back at the lake in Leesburg and didn't know what to do or how to tell God that I wanted to trust his Son as my Savior and I thought of the words my camp counselor said, "George, say Lord help me to pray."<br />
<br />
So I did!<br />
<br />
I can see how God saw that mischievous little boy that, despite everything he did and was, wanted to have a personal relationship with Him. It took awhile. But God brought people into my life that had answers to the questions that I was asking and when the time came for me to decide that I would put my trust in Him, He was there and more than willing to have me as his son.<br />
<br />
I had always thought that faith was blind. It was like taking one step into the dark, and then taking one more step. Scary! But, faith is trust in a Person and what He has done. Faith is believing that Jesus Christ had paid the penalty for my sin and by believing in Him and what He did, I had eternal life.<br />
<br />
<strong>We trust in a lot of things</strong> and a lot of people everyday. We even say, "I have faith in him or her."<br />
Why not put my faith in the one who "so loved the world, he gave his only son..!"<br />
<br />
For me!</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #003300;"><em>What if your life were to end today</em>?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #003300;">Are you 100% sure that you would go to heaven?<br />
<br />
I was saved when I finally understood John 3:16, "For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him, should not perish, but have everlasting life."<br />
<br />
Do you see it?<br />
<br />
The only thing I could do to get my name written into the Lamb's book of life was to believe that He, and only He could pay my sin debt.<br />
<br />
The next verse reads, "For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God."<br />
<br />
I thought, surely, the good would outweigh the bad and God would let me in, but the Bible says, "condemned already!"<br />
<br />
<strong>The purpose of the law and ten commandments was to prove that I was not "good.”</strong><br />
<br />
"Told a lie, you bet!<br />
<br />
Took something that wasn't mine, done that!<br />
<br />
Looked at a woman with lust in my heart, guilty!<br />
<br />
Wow, I'm a lying, thieving, adulterer!<br />
<br />
I'm a sinner, the wages of sin is death, and according to the last book in the Bible, "And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire."<br />
<br />
So, it was either die and go to hell, or put my trust in Jesus Christ, the One who already died for me, in my place.<br />
<br />
I closed my eyes to pray (part of what I thought was "being good" to get into heaven). I was in my first year of college, married, and a father to be. My eloquent prayer was: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die..."<br />
<br />
Oh my, I realized I would go to hell. All I could say was, "Lord help me to pray."<br />
<br />
He did!<br />
<br />
I prayed something like, "God, I know I am a sinner, I believe Jesus died for me, come into my heart and save me."<br />
<br />
He did!<br />
<br />
I woke up everyone in the house. I asked my wife to show me in Bible what I did. I wanted to read John 3:16!<br />
<br />
All my life I was "doing" something to go to heaven. I had to let go of all the things I was trusting in (not easy to do) and put my faith where God put my sin - on His Son.<br />
<br />
<strong>On that November 10th, my name was written in the Lamb's Book of Life!</strong><br />
<br />
John 5:24 "Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life."</span><br />
<span style="color: #003300;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #333300;"><span style="color: #003300; font-size: 180%;"><em>Now you've heard. Believe!</em></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333300;"><em><span style="color: #003300;"></span></em><br />
</span><span style="color: #003300;">"Dear God, I know that I am a sinner. I know that Jesus died on the cross for me. Please forgive me of my sin, come into my heart and save me. In Jesus' name, Amen.”<br />
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"These things have I written unto you (me) that believe on the name of the Son of God, that ye may know (not hope so) that ye have eternal life..." I John 5:13<br />
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Notice that the word 'know' and 'saved' are past tense. This is something you do here and now, not while standing at the Pearly Gates.</span><br />
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</span><span style="color: #003300; font-size: 180%;"><em>What if?</em></span><br />
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<span style="color: #003300;">If you are not certain about the answer to that question, then please listen to what God says in His Word.<br />
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The Bible teaches that you need to understand and believe four things in order to have a home in heaven.<br />
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<strong>1.</strong> You have sinned against God. "For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God." Romans 3:23<br />
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<strong>2.</strong> There is a penalty for sin. "For the wages of sin is death." Romans 6:23<br />
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<strong>3.</strong> Jesus died on the cross, was buried and rose again, victorious over sin, Hell and the grave. "But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." Romans 5:8 4.<br />
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<strong>4.</strong> Jesus is able and willing to save you from your sin penalty. "For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved." Romans 10:13</span><br />
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<span style="color: #003300;"><strong><em>God wants you to believe His Word and receive Jesus Christ as your personal Saviour.</em></strong></span><br />
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<strong><em><span style="color: #003300;">If you will... </span></em></strong><strong><em><span style="color: #003300;">then right now, in simple faith, pray asking Him to forgive your sin and save you.</span></em></strong><br />
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<span style="color: #003300;"><strong><em>CONFESS</em></strong>: "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."</span><br />
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<em><span style="color: #003300;"><strong>CALL</strong>:</span></em> "<span style="color: #003300;">Dear God,</span><span style="color: #003300;"> </span> <span style="color: #003300;">I </span><span style="color: #003300;">know that I am a sinner. I know that Jesus died on the cross for me. Please forgive me of my sin, Come into my heart and save me.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #003300;">(Jesus said: "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.")</span><br />
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<span style="color: #003300;"><strong><em>OPEN THE DOOR</em></strong><span style="color: black;">: </span><span style="color: #003300;">Come into my heart and save me. In Jesus' name, Amen."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #003300;"><strong>It's not what you prayed that saves you</strong>... it is who you trusted to save you. It is by <em>believing</em> that Jesus, God's Son died for your sins... in your place... and to prove He is God and can give you eternal life... He rose again! The moment you <em>believe</em> that your sin is forgiven, you have eternal live and Heaven is your home.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #003300;"><strong>It says in I John 5:13</strong> I have written this to you who <em><strong>believe</strong></em> in the name of the Son of God, so that you may <em><strong>know</strong></em> you have eternal life.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #003300;">Have you done that? If you have, leave a comment. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #003300;">Or, if you have a question... let me know if I can help. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #003300;"><strong>Better yet, ask God. Read John, Chapter 3 and let God open your eyes like he did mine. </strong></span></span><br />
<strong><em></em></strong>George C. Markoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13670279663866777548noreply@blogger.com0