Kids are like bulls in a china shop and struggle to grasp the world of physics. “Don’t slam the door!” we’d get yelled at… but it takes time to learn to be gentle.

It gets a whole lot easier to learn to be gentle and the effects of physics when you have to start paying out of your own anorexic wallet.

“You gotta let it out slow… real gentle like,” my oldest brother said. He was trying to teach me that some things in life required finesse, a degree of gentleness.

A ten-year-old mind trying to coordinate gentle between a gas pedal and a clutch is kinda like trying to teach a coyote to play nice with bunny rabbits.

After stalling our dad’s old orange Chevy work truck, it lurching like a bull from a chute several times, I did my own figuring; less gentleness, more ruthless action.

To be gentle

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The next time I dumped that clutch, I made sure I pinned that ol’ gas pedal to the mat like an Olympic wrestler. That was the second time my lack of gentleness darn near killed my middle brother Bobby. That time it was accidental.

The time I shot Bobby with my oldest brother Dean’s slingshot wasn’t. That rock dropped him like Goliath… then again, he’d never gone out of his way to be gentle…

I tried to communicate a little better than the generation before us. I’d give details about the consequences of not being gentle with things. “Don’t slam the doors, it’s hard on the jamb, causes drywall cracks, wears out the hardware, breaks the bond of the glue on the applied moldings,” I explained. They just looked at me like I was speaking French…

They got older and drove their vehicles up the rolled curb of our driveway, kinda like they did speed bumps in parking lots; like they weren’t even there.

“You gotta slow down, crawl over them, eventually, if you don’t, you’ll trash your front end and I’ll have to get it fixed,” I warned. All three of them, make that four, including their mom, still hit the rolled curbs like Big Foot does the monster truck ramps.

It’s easy to tell others how to be gentle, the advantages of it, and the disadvantages of being harsh.

Back then I never stopped to consider their perspective… or mine for that matter. I wasn’t gentle. I never learned how to be gentle. I only figured out how to save myself grief physically from the laws of physics.

It never dawned on me that gentleness starts on the inside and when it’s just about not breaking things physically on the outside, it’s legalism…

My girls saw a hypocrite. I could tell them how to be gentle physically, but all I showed them was how to be harsh spiritually.

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith…” (Gal. 5:22 KJV).

Many of us know too well the love, grace, mercy and gentleness, extended to us daily by our Father… and yet we struggle to pass those free gifts on to others.

I’m reminded that it’s only in Him that we can truly learn to be gentle.


I’ve heard it called “poetic justice”, even turned the phrase myself on occasion, but it’s hard to find the poetic when it feels like the unwritten laws of nature are getting even with you for past trespasses.

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image courtesy of

Some folks refer to it as “karma”. Others throw out the old “what comes around goes around” adage, like it was scientific fact. Billy Shakespeare called it “a pound of flesh”, which is exactly what it felt like I was givin’ the searing concrete gas station parking lot… on bended knees.

Back in ’79’ or ’80’, my buddy Kelly’s dad had a Plymouth Duster with a “340 V-8”; it was even painted onto the back of both rear fenders. The car was fast, really fast, but it didn’t have wings.

image courtesy of

image courtesy of

The once sleepy little town of Lake Havasu City, born by the damming up of the Colorado River, is nestled into the foothills where the steep run off created deep washes and ravines. So many that it would be impossible to build bridges over all of them.

They just smoothed the dirt a bit, slapped some asphalt down and called it a road. They did, however, pop for some bright yellow triangle shaped signs and stuck them along side the road on each side of the dip to warn travelers of the “dip ahead”.

On occasion, Kelly would earn the right to “take the ol’ man’s car out”, and he took it out alright… and up.

I rode with Kelly and a carload of other teenagers that know how to make a small town less boring and everything innocent life threatening.

Kelly called it “dip jumpin'”, and we flew through the air in his dad’s Duster just like Bo and Luke did in the General Lee on Dukes of Hazard.

That feeling of anxiety and expectation in your guts and bowels right before takeoff is unforgettable. So are the relief and gratification of not dying after the Duster finally quit bouncing off the earth.

No one was the wiser of our reckless “dip jumpin'”, until Kelly’s dad, out of town on business, put two and two together, but couldn’t put the pieces of his front end together that were scattered like Humpty Dumpty.

Now, “dip jumpin'” Kelly’s dad’s car wasn’t my idea, but in hindsight, it could be that the universe holds me guilty as an accessory.

Our youngest daughter used to hit curbs in my car like Chicken Little does the panic button. I’ve had the fiberglass front spoiler fixed time and again.

I never gave much thought to the air dam behind it that it was attached to. I hadn’t given much thought to Kelly’s dad’s Duster in decades either. Not until after I’d limped my car into Yuma, halfway between Phoenix and San Diego.

I’m fairly certain God didn’t punish us for trying to fly like Evil Knievel and angels. It could be that it’s just a fallen world and folks lack wisdom, especially teenagers.

I do believe that God takes bad things and makes them beautiful. He calls it redemption.

Since wisdom has great value… maybe so does poetic justice.


There was a song that bounced it’s way up the charts back in the eighties by a group called The Gap Band. They had a few big hits, but I think their biggest, and my favorite, was titled, “You Dropped A Bomb On Me”.(click here for a trip back in time)

you dropped a bomb on me

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I don’t go out of my way to listen to that song these days, although I should, but I’m still astounded how our brains work and amazed at how an old song from decades back can be prompted by something not remotely related, like say… a little birdy.

It’s a rare occasion when I expose my skin to the vicious rays of the sun. And when I do, it’s not for long. Some of us have to learn the art of moderation the hard way. That’s what makes the unfolding events what the bookies call, “A long shot.”

I was taking in some sun, watching the birds, and the time, pondering the possibility of hummingbirds having bird ADD. They were eating, but seemed to be constantly distracted and couldn’t resist a little horseplay… or whatever birds call it. Maybe bird foolery.

The world of the sky in nature looks like orchestrated chaos. The crows, the blackbirds, the birds of brilliant color, and the wrens, they all dance across the sky like shooting stars.

There’s just something about looking up… I think it’s designed by God. The simple physiological act of raising our chins from slumping, it somehow lifts our spirits as well.

But even on a good day, things can go south… and not just for the winter. We’ve all had those days, the ones where things seem to be cruising along just fine, and then calamity, of varying degrees, gets dropped on us.

The bombs come, but how we deal with them, I think, has everything to do with how long the shelling continues, at least the way we perceive it spiritually.

All of us, at one time or another, have scanned the sky, pondering our difficulties, and have, maybe not verbally, but at least in thought, told God, “You dropped a bomb on me”. I’d also bet that it’s not a few of us that have even shook our fist at the Almighty.

There are big bombs and miniature bombs, but all of them can have an effect on us when we feel like we’re the target. It’s about perspective.

The older I get the more my perspective parallels The Serenity Prayer; “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

I’ve had bombs dropped on me my entire life, just like all of us, and I used to seethe with anger and hatred.

The bird reminded me with a ghastly test… he dropped his bomb from his rear cargo door about ten feet up. I nodded, giving him kudos for his pinpoint accuracy.

I also sang him a song as I was heading to clean his bomb off of my shoulder, “You dropped a bomb on, (Duh-duh-duh-duh, baby) You dropped a bomb on me.”


It was sorta like the perfect storm, without the perfect part… the storm either. You might say the stars were perfectly aligned, but there was only one star; the one closest to our planet, daring me to live a little.

What the day was missing was the easy-to-loathe antagonist, except he didn’t exist, but have no fear, there was a problem… there’s always a problem.

For as much as technology solves, there’s a small percentage of problems it creates, and that’s where our story began.

There was a time I toiled in the elements; rare frigid days and dreaded heart-stopping heat. Since the golden days, construction has changed a bit. It’s become more automated and with a whole lot more pre-manufactured components being used. Computers do the calculating, so the installation methods require a less qualified person, generally speaking.

Sometimes when you’re giving folks instructions on how to accomplish a task, the look on their faces say a whole lot more than their lips can muster. That particular scenario has been dubbed “A deer in the headlights” look. It’s kind of a blank stare, like the person operating their soul cage stepped out for a lunch break.

That’s the look I got from both guys I was trying to explain how to accomplish the not so monumental task. I slowed down and gave it another shot, but they’re eyes told me that their minds were still out to lunch.

That’s when the not so heroic, not to mention frustrated, hero reared his not so pretty head. I was transported back to a time and place I loved… I’d forgotten how just how much.

As youngsters we stripped down to shorts and built a tiny piece of America, daring the ol’ sun to do it’s best, or worst. It took a couple of decades to figure out that we’d actually lost that battle.

The gratification from using your hands and mind to change a community and silhouette of a sunset is unparalleled, even when stacked up against writing.

live a little

The roof I did my time on… again…

I stood on the roof rafters, still only and inch and a half wide, one under each arch of my tennis shoes, mocking gravity like I did as a young man.

I cut pieces of lumber on angles coupled with specific degrees to meet them together with precision that looked like art work. I recall as a kid thinking what a shame it was to cover up a meticulously framed house with roofing materials, stucco, siding, drywall, and paint.

When I climbed down off that roof I was dirty, sweaty, like I’d literally stepped out of the shower with my clothes on. I was also, what my uncle Buck used to call, plum tuckered… but I felt good.

I guess it’s like riding a bike or swinging on a swing. We get so old and distinguished that we forget the basic gifts from God, and that some of the most gratifying things in life require we take a step out of our comfort zone… and really live a little.


Seeing all the bums and beggars sprinkled at every other major intersection in the city has had the same effect as working or working out; with enough time and reps, the skin gets strong, hard, calloused. Kinda like almost every single person sitting behind the wheel of their car, stopped against their will, reading the signs of the beggars with a calloused heart. Me too.

There was a time when someone begging on the corner was a rarity. If they were there, times were tough indeed. They looked more like beggars back in the day.

a calloused heart

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Back when begging was about as rare as a solar eclipse, compassion came easy, immediately, and with a willing hand. A person’s gotta have big heart and desire to wrestle a wallet outta your pants or shorts or purse, that while fighting with the seatbelt strap that’s pleased as punch to slow you down when you’re trying to move quickly.

Funny how long it takes for the traffic lights to change… until you need a few more seconds.

I don’t dive for my wallet much these days. The beggars, in majority, have changed like the lives of Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind. Not to mention the lives on the giving side that seem to have adopted the attitude of Rhett. We might not say, “Frankly, my dear… I don’t give a damn”, but our actions do it for us.

In fairness, it’s hard to give a hoot about folks that don’t fit the mold of the stereotypical beggar. It’s not uncommon for the person holding the sign to have better tennis shoes than the ones wrapped around my feet.

Not only that, but it’s becoming common place for the folks looking for a handout to be young, fit, and sportin’, not just cell phones, but smart ones.

She was different. She didn’t look so different at a glance, but something inside told me she was. The middle-aged woman wasn’t standing strategically in the shade to shelter her from the record-setting Arizona heat.

I don’t avoid eye contact, even if I’m not going to give anything to folks waiting for a handout, especially the ones that are young, strong, and with knees that are light years better than mine.

The woman’s eyes were desperate, scared… and for good reason; she was caught in the crosshairs of an angry Arizona summer day.

Without thought, I snatched my wallet out, knowing I had only the big bill I keep folded and tucked away that I keep for emergencies… preferably mine.

My hand touched hers when she reached through the passenger side window to grab the cash. Her hands were hard, dry, calloused… like my calloused heart… just moments before God reminded me of His willing hand and compassion on me.