Hell – And The Synapses That Done It

He applies his human reason

To facts not at all related –

And to say his false conclusions

Are erroneous is understated.

Fighting a losing war within,

He struggles for an appearance of normalcy.

But, there are so many cracks and flaws

All crumbles in sad absurdity.

His soul is trapped inside his body,

With expressions frustratingly checked –

Synapses deteriorating, scrambled understanding,

And relationships effectively wrecked.

He lives within this fleshly shell,

And struggles for recognition.

Loosing connection with reality,

He desperately seeks affirmation.

Oh – The horror of this slippery slope,

This living analogy of Hell.

Able to feel on the inside,

But unable others to tell.

To know the truth, but not to know it;

To want to interact with the world –

Yet not to be sure that he can or he does,

Leaves his mind in a horrible swirl.

What's happening in him is baffling;

To hope, to question, to doubt, to pursue –

Thoughts that leave him greatly perplexed

About how this Gordian knot to undo.

To have the truth before his eyes

Yet not be able to grasp it well –

To feel it there, yet beyond his reach,

Is a living picture of hell.

"But", says he, "it's not my choice and not my will,

This body where my soul does sit –

Have patience and take care of me.

It's the synapses in my brain that done it."

J. Alton Davis  © 2012

(re Alzheimer's disease)

God Answers Prayer - Sometimes Before You Pray

It was early in the summer of 1974 - A Sunday.  Mark and Sharon had just left for their first summer camp, and Judy, Barbara and I were still standing outside the church in Oak Park, Illinois.  One of the pastors came over to us and asked if we knew of anybody who could deliver a pallet of Spanish Bibles to the Spanish World Gospel Mission in Winona Lake, Indiana.  It would be an overnight trip, and it would be best if whoever went could leave that afternoon to return the next day.  The pallet of Bibles would easily fit in the church minibus.

We agreed that we could do it if my boss could let me off from work on Monday.  I was a student at the Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, and was working part-time for Buildings and Grounds. We went home, and I called my supervisor.  He gave his OK, so, we called a fellow married student in Winona Lake to arrange to spend the night with them, and packed a few items for an overnight road trip.

Then we went back to the church, loaded the Bibles in the minibus, and the three of us started off.  We arrived at the Spanish World Gospel Mission headquarters at about 10:00 that Sunday night.  One of the men there came out and helped us to unload the Bibles and stack them on the floor in the mission headquarters.

After we had unloaded all of the Bibles, this gentleman invited us to have breakfast with them in the morning.  He told us that the head and founder of the mission, Reverend Florent Toirac, was in Wisconsin speaking at some Churches, and would be back late that night.  He said that Reverend Toirac would want to meet us and visit over breakfast.  So we agreed, and left for our friend's home to get some sleep.

The next morning, we returned to the headquarters and met Reverend Toirac.  During breakfast, he told us an amazing story – a story in which we had unknowingly played a part in God answering a prayer - even before it was prayed.

Reverend Toirac told us that the previous evening, he had been speaking at a church in Racine, Wisconsin.  When he was finished, the pastor of that church had given him an envelope, which he said contained a special offering that the church had taken to help support the work of the Spanish World Gospel Mission.  Reverend Toirac put the envelope in his pocket, eventually said his goodbyes, and got in his car.  Before driving away, he was prompted to open the envelope.  Inside there was a check.  As Reverend Toirac looked at the check, he recognized that the amount of the check was exactly what he needed to pay for some Bibles that he had ordered.

Reverend Toirac was so excited about God's provision that he was praising God all the way from Racine, down through Chicago, and across to Winona lake.  As I recall, Reverend Toirac told us that he needed those Bibles in time to be able to mail them in response to requests from listeners to a radio broadcast that had already been scheduled.  And God had miraculously provided the funds to pay for those Bibles - what a wonderful God.

Now, as he drove back to Winona Lake, he prayed to God, asking Him to provide a way to have these Bibles delivered to his office.

A little after midnight, that Sunday night, as Reverend Toirac related to us over breakfast the next morning, he arrived back at the Spanish World Gospel Mission headquarters, parked his car, got out, walked into the building, and turned on the light – what did he see?  – – The pallet full of Bibles about which he had been praying to God!

We have a wonderful and faithful God.  He gave our family the privilege of seeing first-hand that He is a God who can answer prayer even before we ask.

Blessed are You, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, Creator and Savior.  For you alone are worthy to receive all glory and honor and praise.

Airport Security (??) - Pre 9-11

In the late 1980s, I had flown from San Francisco to Eureka to spend a week auditing PG&E's Humboldt Bay Nuclear Power Plant, which was in the process of being decommissioned.  The audit was over, and it was time to fly back home.

At the airport, I was standing in a short line waiting for my turn to go through the metal detector and into the waiting room.  The airport for the Eureka area was quite small (I think there were probably only two, maybe three, boarding gates), and back then we waited at the gate on ground level and boarded our plane by simply walking out across the apron to the waiting plane and up some portable steps - The plane itself was like a flying shoebox.

Anyway - – I was in line behind this long-haired hippy-kind-of-guy who was wearing a camouflaged military field jacket.

Apparently the goal for the security people that day was to only let people through the metal detector and into the waiting area IF they could pass through the system WITHOUT setting of the alarm.  (I don't recall that there was any x-ray machine at that time - just a couple of security people and a metal detector next to a conveyor belt that you were supposed to put your luggage on.)

So, this guy in front of me starts through the detector – – and the alarm goes off(?).  "Whoa there!  It must have been your belt buckle."  So he pulls his belt out of his trousers and puts it on the conveyor belt. 

He steps into the metal detector again and the alarm goes off a second time (??).  "Hmm - must be your wrist watch.  Put it on the conveyor with your belt please."

Attempt #3 - Yet another alarm (???).  "Well - - ?? – - Maybe it's something in your jacket.  Please put your jacket on the conveyor belt."

4th attempt – while we all (actually its only a 24 passenger plane at the most that we're trying to get on) wait patiently for the security people to do their job – I naively thought they were protecting us by keeping anyone from taking a gun (I guess) on the airplane.

Hey - Three cheers - No alarm!  The guy in front of me has now successfully passed through the metal detector – and without setting off an alarm, which, as I said, was apparently the goal.  Because, the next thing the security guard does is hand this guy his belt, his watch and . . . his jacket.  Then he says, "Hmmm . . . must have been something in your jacket."  –  "Next please!" - – – My turn.

Safe and secure  –  Have a nice flight!  Well, I did make it back to San Francisco.

1968 - L. A. International Airport

In the spring of 1968, I had just been promoted to First Class Petty Officer.  I was an Electronic Technician in the U.S. Navy, and I was being transferred from sea duty on my first ship, the USS Markab (AR 23), to a tour of shore duty.  The Markab was in Long Beach at that time, and I was at the L.A. International Airport waiting to catch a plane to Oakland.

We lived in Castro Valley, and my ship's home port was in Alameda – at the Alameda Naval Air Station.  I was taking 30 days leave before flying with Judy and our son Mark to Hawaii where we would live for the next almost 3 years.

After I had checked in for my flight, I had several hours to kill before my plane took off.  I was wandering around the airport, and thought it would be really interesting if I could get a tour of the control tower.  If I asked, the worst that could happen was that they would say "no".  But they might say "yes".

It wasn't hard to find the tower.  After all, it's the tallest building at the airport.  I went into the receptionist's area at the foot of the tower, and asked if it might be possible to go up to the "cab" and see what it is like.  I was in uniform, and told the lady that I worked in electronics and was waiting for my flight.  She said she would call up and ask the supervisor if it was possible for me to go up.  To my surprise, he said yes, and I took an elevator to the very top of the tower.

The air traffic control tower when I was there in 1968 was tall and impressive, but I could not find a picture of it.  This is the newer control tower.

When I stepped out of the elevator, I could see all around the airport.  What a view!  Several people were manning stations where they were talking with pilots who were either taking off, taxying on the ground, or coming in for a landing.  I got to spend about 30 or 40 minutes up there.  It was absolutely fascinating to watch the inner workings of a major airport.

After I had been up in this part of the control tower for a while, the supervisor asked if I would like to go down to Area Control Center on the floor below.  No windows here - This is where air traffic controllers track, coordinate, and communicate with all of the planes flying in the air space all around southern California.  

When a plane approaches Los Angeles to land, a controller in this room coordinates the plane's approach until it reaches a certain distance from the airport.  Then he "hands the pilot off" to a controller in the "cab" upstairs to coordinate the landing.  Or, when a plane takes off, the controller upstairs "hands off" the plane to a controller on this floor, who then coordinates the plane's flight until it is time to "hand off" the plane to the next Area Control Center.  The Los Angeles Center will "hand off" planes to (or receive planes from) either Oakland, Salt Lake City, Denver, or Albuquerque Center.

[It is my understanding that the Los Angeles Area Control Center (En Route Center) is not actually in the tower at the airport anymore, but is actually located in Palmdale, CA.]

I spent a very interesting half hour or so in this large windowless room, which was filled with radar screens manned by a team of air traffic controllers, whose job is to keep everything coordinated and safe in that very large and complex 3-dimensional world of air traffic.

Needless to say, this was an experience I really enjoyed.  As I was writing about this, I was amazed to realize how much things have changed since the 9-11 attack on our country.  Today, the average person like me, walking in off the street, would never be allowed up in a control tower - especially at a place like LA International.

                

A Proud and Honorable Duty

One morning a few years ago I was out for a short walk in our neighborhood when some movement across the lawn in the front of the elementary school to my right caught my eye.  I couldn’t help but to stop and watch.

A man was raising the American flag, with the California flag tethered just beneath it, smartly to the top of a tall flagpole.  It was a beautiful sight watching the flags climb up into the bright morning sunshine – with a slight breeze lifting the wriggling flags out from the pole.  The breeze seemed to be cooperating with the sun as the flags waved slowly in the air, and the sun, rising over the Sierra Nevada in the east, lit them up as if it were a big spotlight specially designed to show off the Red, White and Blue.

But what happened next was more inspiring.  With nobody around to impress, the man stepped back a pace or two from the flagpole, stopped, looked up, and then proudly saluted with a smart snap of his right arm.  He had completed the daily task, which he obviously considered both important and an honor.  Then the man turned away to empty the trash and attend to his other responsibilities as a custodian at Vencil Brown Elementary School in Roseville.

The Paradox of Freedom Through Bondage

I was born in and into heinous bondage – as are we all.  Blinded, I did not recognize my bondage.  Why? – My cage – indeed the prison cell, which contains us all  – is so large.  Our cell is this finite world in which we live.  My chains were my commitment to this world and everything in it – beautiful things; wonderful experiences; emotions and passions; desires, needs and wants.  All these otherwise good things had been distorted by sin and the prince of this world.  They blinded me to my wretched condition.

Paradoxically, my freedom came in the form of bondage – bondage to Christ.  He alone could and did rescue me from this prison, and from its chains.  He made me a citizen of His infinite and eternal kingdom.  He accomplished this marvelous act of love by revoking the claim that sin, this world, and the prince of this world had on me.  Paying the penalty of death – separation from God – (as only the infinite, all-powerful, and perfectly just God could), He threw the lifeline of His gospel (the promise and sure hope of eternal safety) to me.  He enabled me to jump to it, grab ahold of it, and to cling to it – the anchor of my soul.

Now, my chains are grace, and hope, and mercy.  Each link is forged in Christ's love on the anvil of God's eternal glory.  They carry the weight of His eternal purposes – the work of His passionate heart, the work in which He invites and allows me to participate – a burden that is designed to be both light to bear and a light to the world.

Shine, Jesus Shine!

Reflections – Late 40's - Early 50's

 I find it intriguing to think about the kinds of things, back when I was a young boy, which seem to have begun shaping my view of the world, and started to create the questions in my mind that I would begin to ask about the world in which I found myself living, and about my place in it.

A few incidents, which occurred generally around the end of the 1940's and beginning of the 1950's, have been drifting though my head.  I was somewhere between seven and eleven years old.

I discovered that my grandma Davis came from a German-speaking family, and I wanted to learn some German words from her.  I remember how she taught me to count: eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, seben, acht, neun, zehn, ... and phrases like Gutten Morgan, dankeschön.

Somehow, which I have never discovered, my grandpa Davis had learned how to count in Chinese.  I seriously doubt that he learned this in his little school house in Baker, Oregon, where he grew up.  At any rate, he taught me to count from "ip" to "sip" (1 - 10).

Grandpa Anderson had lived and worked in Siam (now Thailand) in the very early 1900's.  He had met my English grandmother there.  (She was there with her parents – her father was Captain Robinson, a sea captain sailing ships between the Malay Peninsular and Australia.)  My grandpa told me that there is one word in the English language that comes from the Malay language, "orangutan".  It comes from two Malay words that mean, "hunched over man".

Around this same time in my life, the Korean War broke out.  It was in the news a lot.  We only had a radio then, so all of our news was from the radio or newspapers.  (I don't think we even knew anybody who had a television until about 1953, when a couple of neighbors down the street bought TVs.)  Someone, I think it was my Uncle Larry (he was married to my dad's youngest sister, Catherine), gave me a map of Korea.  I hung it on a wall in my bedroom, and marked all of the places that were being mentioned in the news.  That was my first practical (self-imposed I suppose) geography lesson.  Uncle Larry gave me a surplus Navy short wave radio receiver (An RBO - it covered the broadcast band and up to 15Mhz).  I strung up a long copper wire antenna in the back yard, and listened to as many shortwave broadcasts as I could receive.

(Some 15 or so years later, when I was an electronic technician in the Navy, one of my assignments was to the USS Markab (AR-23).  She had been in service since WWWII, and still had RB series receivers in use in Radio Central, including the RBO.)

One other thing that I clearly remember was my Golden Encyclopedia.  I particularly remember the "map" of the universe in the center of the book.  When you opened the book out flat, this "map" extended all the way across both pages, from the left edge of the left page to the right edge of the right page, and from the top of the page to the bottom - with no margin.  It was black background with various sized white marks indicating the stars and constellations.  What really intrigued me was the question, "what's beyond the edge of the page?  What's beyond and what's behind all of this vast universe?  The way this "map" was printed clear to the edge of the pages implied that their was no known limit.

          A big world was opening up to me.  Bigger than I could have imagined – certainly bigger, grander, and more complex than I could understand, or explain.

Twelve, Five, Sixty

On December 5, 1960, I had driven across the old San Mateo Bridge in the morning, and then back home later as the sun was setting.  It looked so unusually beautiful that day, that I wanted to be able to capture it in my minds eye.  To create this memory, I decided to try to describe it in rhyme.

I stopped the car as soon as I got off the bridge that evening on the Hayward side, by the Leslie salt flats, and wrote my thoughts.

___________________

With hills of brownish green

And bay a calm as a peaceful stream,

The sight was like a beautiful dream

Of what is possible could ever seem.

Not a cloud was in the sky.

No smog got in your eye.

The day was quite unusual - like

Meeting a man who could never die.

Today's was a sight not often seen

Around our beautiful bay of green;

For the air is not often so clean

As 'twas from six am to eight this evening.

The bay looked as if 'twere lighted below

By lights caught in he undertow;

And only one who saw it would know

That it was a most marvelous show.

___________________

Yosemite Fire Falls - Sure, Sure!

Yes, there used to be a fantastic display of fire falls in the evenings at Yosemite Park.  I got to see the fire falls once – when I was in the Boy Scouts.  It was probably in the early or mid 1950's.  Our scout troop (#44 in Castro Valley) had gone to camp at Diamond-O, a Boy Scout camp  near Hetch-Hetchy reservoir – not too far from the north entrance to Yosemite.

Our Scout Master had seen the fire falls before, and decided that we should all drive over so that we would have the opportunity to see them.  We just barely had time to make the mountainous trip ("We have a whole hour before the falls start, and it should only take an hour to get there!") - Our Scout Master had been an ambulance driver!?  So off we went.

By the time we arrived, several of us, including yours truly, were quite carsick.  But we made it to the parking lot in the valley – and out of the cars – just in time to see the big fire at the top of the cliff pushed off and tumble down.  It was quite a spectacular show.  Unfortunately, they stopped this breath-taking show quite a long time ago. 

  

   Needless to say - I've never forgotten that unique trip.