Checkpoints

03/06/2024

21/05/2024

Gail Austin
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Thank you Shelah for believing Austin has a story worth writing about.
May 22nd will be 25 years since Austins accident. I can still feel every emotion of that day.
Sometimes things happen that change your life in an instant. I’m thankful for all the things Austin has taught me in these 25 years. To be faithful, to trust in Gods plan, to always look for the bright side of things, appreciate the little things, and to laugh.
I’m so very proud of my baby. I’m thankful he doesn’t see himself as disabled but able.
He has went to work everyday for the past 8 years. Always ready to work as many hours as they give him. Gets up at 5:30 am to go to work. Never complains.
If you know someone who is different I hope that you will be the friend that Riley was to Austin. He will forever be a part of Austin’s life story. And I know Austin misses him every day as do we.

Thankful for the friends who have stepped in to help keep him entertained cause Lord knows I can’t go as much as I used to 😂

17/04/2024

This Checkpoints encourages readers that when they may be tempted to worry, to instead—look at wildflowers.

“I’m worried about…”
Reviewing texts sent to me within the last year, I repeatedly read messages that included, “I’m worried about…” For years, Mother, now in Heaven, often said that… If there had been a worrier of the century award, at one point in her life, Mother would likely have won. In time, however, after recovering from a mental breakdown, she began again reading her Bible, praying, and trusting Jesus to live by faith instead of fear and worry. At times, I could have likewise competed in a contest for the best, world’s worst worrier. In time, after wasting too many precious moments worrying, like Mother, I have found the more I read my Bible, pray, and trust Jesus, the less I worry… the more I live by faith. I have also found that, as a friend reminded me yesterday, that making a point to, and investing time to look at wildflowers proves much more profitable than “taking thought to” troubling things.
When I shared several pictures of wildflowers I saw yesterday, Jeanette, a dear friend, replied, “I like the one little flower all by itself, the lone little lavender one, trying to exist in this old, troubled world.”



“I was talking about the one little lavender one before I saw the green trumpet [looking] one…,” Jeanette added.



Some people compare the Jack-in-the-Pulpit, which I think is the above which Jeanette noted, to a Pitcher Plant. Although the two plants appear similar, their function differently. Carnivorous Pitcher Plants, with a pitcher-like shape, capture and consume small insects. Non-carnivorous Jack-in-the-Pulpits use their spathe to funnel gnats, flies, and other small insects into themselves to pollinate flowers.
When Maria saw the pictures of the following flowers, she wrote, “Oh my. How Beautiful… God's magnificent creation in full bloom. What a blessing…





Bill, another friend and brother in the faith of Jesus Christ, confirmed Maria’s perception as he shared Psalm 19:1 “The heavens declare the glory of God; And the firmament sheweth His handywork. Day unto day uttereth speech, And night unto night sheweth knowledge” Bill pointed out several spectacular samples of God’s handiwork, displayed in wildflowers, including what he called the wax flower.



Last night, after basking in the beauty of wildflowers, I sent a message to Travis,* a younger friend, who has spent much time in and out of jails and prisons:

When I talked with Bill About you, he said Just tell him that the God who made the beautiful flowers, creek etc. is the one that can help him make a truly new start. I agree with Bill, Travis. Do you realize how much God Loves you?

I had a hard time with that one for a long time but now thankful to know that He loves you and me and others and wants us to love Him...

Praying for you that you will follow through with doing what you said to begin again to read your Bible to look to Jesus to get into a church where you can know the family of faith and your faith can grow…

I don’t remember Travis telling me, “I’m worried about…,” but from our conversations in the past, I know that the thought of going back to prison concerns him. Sometimes, thoughts of “What if…?” and things that could happen concern me to the point of being tempted to obsess or to worry about things that may or may not be out of my control.
Sometimes, however, I remember that Philippians 4:6 directs:
Be careful (i.e., “anxious”) for nothing (lit., “not one thing”). Here Paul was speaking of self-centered, counterproductive worry, not legitimate cares and concerns for the spread of the gospel… …Paul’s alternative: in every thing by prayer. Anxiety and prayer are two great opposing forces in Christian experience. With thanksgiving is the antidote to worry (along with prayer and petition). To give thanks with prayer and supplication—at the outset, not just at the outcome—honors God’s perspective and recognizes that His attentive provision is far above one’s ability to care for oneself.**
Charles Stanley wrote:
It is no wonder that we feel apprehensive when we measure our troubles against our ability to handle them. Anxiety, however, disappears when we learn to take our concerns to God. He is the only One Who has the power and wisdom to deal with every issue perfectly. This is why we stand tallest and strongest on our knees. When we are submitted to the One Who always works in our best interest, we know we have absolutely nothing to fear.
Sometimes I forget to worry when I remember that Jesus said, “Take no thought for… The Greek meaning for this term translates to “anxious” or “worried. In the sense, being worried or anxious contributes to a divided mind—having many thoughts. Instead of being besieged by worry and anxiety, we can best face the world with an undivided mind, and peace when we follow Jesus’ logic; to seek first the kingdom of God. Instead of taking thought to troubles, and things that we and others worry about, we can better invest moments in looking at wildflowers.

*Travis: name changed
** Zondervan, 2010

28/02/2024

This part 2 of last week’s Checkpoints, remembering childhood experiences with Daddy, despite a friend warning me, “I would not even go there…”

# # #
As I examined my tiny, silver metal cash register replica, I turned it over and over and over in my too-thin hands. How could he? I thought when I realized that the bottom of my dime bank had plainly been pried open. Daddy had taken the $3.60 I had earned from raking leaves and selling potholders during the past few months to buy moonshine.
My hurt and anger churned inside me. How could Daddy have taken the little bit of money I had worked so hard to earn? That night, as too many before, I cried myself to sleep. I did not understand the logistics, yet in my heart of hearts, I knew. Daddy could not afford to pay the rent on our project unit in Mobile, Alabama, yet somehow, he always found the money he needed to buy whiskey.
# # #
My fingers flinched as we gathered the slimly, clawed creatures into the buckets. Often when unemployed, Daddy would drag his homemade metal crayfish net through muddy ditches along roads outside Many, Louisiana. Sometimes, he smiled a seldom seen, sober smile while I calculated out loud. “Two… four… six… eight… 10… 100…” and more. The baby crayfish netted two cents apiece. Wayne, one of my two younger brothers, and I would peddle [sell] a few of the larger crayfish at school for 25¢ each.
Daddy’s eyes locked into mine as he gave me an unexpected hug. That day, as I wiped my muddy hands on the sides of my pedal pushers (capris), I felt an unexpected warmth and surge of pride.

# # #
As I swept the squirming maggots mixed with the putrid, pile of purple hull pea shells strewn across the worn linoleum covered kitchen floor, I tried not to vomit. Not yet 11 years old, I hated my life. No matter the name of the town, whether Wewahitchka Florida, Shreveport, Louisiana or one like Mobile or Chickasaw in Alabama—I lived the life of “the town drunk's daughter.”
# # #
Walking down the back street on the wrong side of town in Many, Louisiana, I shivered as flurries of brown leaves flew by. Trying to shield myself from that November's chilly bite, I hugged my arms together.
“We don't have money to buy you a coat,” Mother had told me. “Your dad lost his job again.” Inside, my heart felt as frigid as the early winter's wind. In the past, I had tried to understand. This time, I did not even care to try. This time I did not even cry.
# # #
“Don't leave, Daddy. Please, don’t leave,” I cried as his battered green pickup truck faded into the humid, Louisiana night. “Don't go. Daddy, please don't…” At that time, I had not yet turned 12.
# # #
Ten years later, God provided the unexpected opportunity for me to reunite with Daddy. During the last months before he died, I began to understand more about why Daddy drank so much during his life. Mother told me, “Your dad was only four when his mother, your grandmother, passed away. Right after that, two of his older brothers regularly gave him whiskey just to see him stagger and fall down.
Much of what happened later in Dad’s life, however, cannot be blamed on his brothers. I remembered that during my childhood times living with Daddy, Mother took us to church. One night, in an old-time church, as the preacher explained that Jesus died on the cross to pay the penalty for our sins, the Holy Spirit drew me to believe in and trust Jesus. I don’t understand why, but I’m thankful I chose to trust Jesus and that He saved me.
During my childhood years with Daddy, I don’t remember that he ever chose to go to church with us. He never talked about Jesus.
Before Daddy (at 72) died in a nursing home in Florida, I told him that Jesus loved Him. By this time, he usually only communicated two things he thought about: cigettes [sic] and candy.
During one of the last times I prayed with Daddy, I asked if he knew that God loved him. I asked him if he believed that Jesus died on the cross for his sins. I asked him if he would trust Jesus to save him.
Daddy mumbled something that sounded like a yes.
Although I don’t know if Daddy even understood what I said, I’m thankful I got to share the “good news” John 3:16-17 recounts with him.
I’m thankful I got to get to know Daddy on the other side of my memories.

Note:
Our Heavenly Father gives each of us the opportunity to choose what we will “seek” each day. For whatever reasons, Daddy chose to seek and give his life to “the devil in the bottle." Results from the choices he made not only shaped him, they also became a vital part of my memories.
Revisiting hard memories relating to my dad reminds me that each of us makes deposits in the memory banks of others, particularly into those of our children. Mother taught me that even though we, as God’s children, sometimes have to live through hard times, with our Heavenly Father's help, we will make it through them. Even though I hesitated to revisit some of my hard childhood memories when a friend encouraged me not to go there—I had to…
Today, I’m thankful God took me through those tough childhood times as well as let me recall some of the memories. Even though we might not think so at times, our Heavenly Father put each of us in the family that would contribute to us becoming who we ultimately get to be…
Sometimes, when adults, we “get to go there” again to better understand…

21/02/2024

This part 1 of 2 parts Checkpoints shares several
personal memories of times relating to Daddy.

“I would not even go there….”

Recently, as others had done in the past, a well-intentioned friend advised me not to recall memories of my dad, an actively, abusive alcoholic much of his life. While Daddy lived, he appeared to throw away anything of value, including his family. For some, reliving particularly painful, past experiences should be avoided, or perhaps only explored with a prayerful counselor. Although I believe in the Biblical concept to think on positive things and agree that wallowing in self-pity or dwelling on negative thoughts begets nihilism, I had to mentally go back in time. I had to make peace with my past. I had to go back there…
# # #
“Please don't, Daddy, don't!” I screamed. “Please Daddy–don’t...”
“You gonna go!” Daddy said with a slur. He narrowed his dark brown eyes at me and then stared at his worn brown belt, aimed toward my blistered, bleeding legs.
“Please Daddy, don't make me go. Please...”
“I'm your daddy and I say you're goin'. Ain't nuthin' wrong with you!”
“J.R., you better put that belt down or I'm calling the police! Can't you see she's got fever from her sunburn?” Mother yelled from the doorway.
Daddy suddenly stopped his swing in mid-air and silently stared at Mother as if to say: “This time you two can have your way. Next time…”
Later that night, when Daddy returned home from his crabbing excursion off the coast in Mexico Beach, Florida, he passed out on the sofa. At the age of seven, I understood one thing. Weekends, when Daddy got drunk, we, his family, would likely go through hell.
# # #
“Yuck!” I said with a grimace. Somehow, even though shaking inside and out, I managed to stammer through clenched teeth: “Daddy—I can't put that nasty, slippery thing in my mouth.”
Daddy laughed as he pried the gray marbled oyster shell open on the faintly, moonlit Gulf Coast beach about 20 minutes from our rented house in Wewahitchka, Florida. He then shook dollops of red-hot sauce onto the exposed mass of gooey oyster flesh that he'd placed on a cracker and offered me a bite. “Aw, come on,” he mumbled, “You can do it.”
“No, Daddy, I can't. I can’t eat a raw oyster.”
Daddy insisted several more before he finally quit. He shook his head, mumbled something unintelligible and then stumbled to check his handmade oyster nets nestled beneath the salty, sassy surf. At the age of eight, I did not understand why Daddy did not understand me.
Nevertheless, relieved that he did not force the oyster into my mouth, I savored the silent beams of moonlight streaming down from above. My troubled mind breathed a prayer of thanks.
# # #
“What the hell is that noise?” Daddy asked.
Wayne, one of my younger brothers, and I sat silently in the front seat of our battered, black Studebaker as Daddy drove out from the local drive-in. The speaker system he had uprooted from the ground clanked on the road alongside us. Daddy had only driven a few miles when flashing red lights and a siren approached from the rear. Daddy drove over to the shoulder of the road and parked. The police officer, who approached, shinned his flashlight inside our car and ordered Daddy, “Step out of the car, Sir!”
“What for? I ain't done nuthin'!” Daddy insisted. He staggered out of the car, reached inside his pants’ pocket, and handed the officer his wallet.
“Place your hands on the roof of your car!” the officer directed. Even before the officer administered the field sobriety test, both he and Daddy knew the obvious result. The officer advised Daddy: “Sir—you are under arrest for DUI.” Wayne and I watched silently; the memory of that moment frozen in time.
Daddy mumbled as the officer cuffed his wrists. “I ain't done nuthin', I tell ya!”
While the arresting officer transported Daddy to jail, another officer drove Wayne and me to our apartment in the projects. At the age of nine, I cried when the officer took Daddy to jail. At the same time, I felt a sense of relief. At least, with Daddy locked in jail, we did not have to be afraid that while drunk, he might again hurt someone. When he came home the next day, I wondered: Why don't the police ever keep Daddy locked up longer than one night?
# # #
Maybe I could put something in his coffee to make Daddy stop drinking… In my mind, I often plotted things I might do to make Daddy stay sober; to end his too frequent violent drunken tirades. More than once, at the age of 10, I thought about how our family might be better without him. I did not understand that even if he had wanted to stop drinking—Daddy could not simply quit.

Note: Paul notes that even he, a believer and follower of Jesus Christ, did not simply do what he needed or wanted to do. “I do not understand what I am doing, because I do not practice what I want to do, but I do what I hate. …Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jeus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:15, 24b-25a)
Today, looking back to where I had to go with Daddy, I see that he did not know the hope that we, like Paul, have in Jesus.

20/02/2024

From Bubblegum Friends, about to be published...