ARRIVAL IN SOUTH FLORIDA

Looking for Waylan.

As I stepped onto the jet bridge, I could feel the lovely heat already. Generally, I like heat.

Not only had I never met Waylan Dabbs, I did not even know what he looked like. Waylan told me to give him a call once outside, and look for a red Lexus. 

There it was!

And here he is!

(Click photos to enlarge.)

You folks would like Waylan. He is a “good old boy” from North Carolina who came to south Florida in ’07, but hasn’t let the “good old boy” get away. His path to truth brought him in and out of the North Carolina Bible Belt—into condemnation and death; out into the blinding sun of grace and life. When God’s hand is on you and His intention is to call you, He can bring you out of anything, even the Bible Belt. (Being chosen before the disruption of the world for the place of a son, certainly helps.)

But God doesn’t go as the crow flies. (United Airlines has become imitators of Him (Ephesians 5:1; see yesterday's post.).

I experienced the same marvel—conversing with Waylan en rout to his house—that I’ve always experienced with like-minded folks: instant camaraderie, and the sense you’ve somehow known these people forever.   

Waylan has done well for himself here in Coral Springs, to which these photos attest. He is branch manager for Crown Lift Truck. He has scored mightily in the dog department, too, to which Zack will attest. (Zack is wearing a sweater in these photos because, though it is in the high 70’s right now, Zack thinks he is cold. Well, Zack just went to the barber and got a Marine-like buzz-cut all over his body, so the poor pooch would be shivering without his handsome sweater. What a cute little pooch!

                                                            

Poor chilly pooch.

Zack strikes a pose, poolside.

                                                                          

                                                              *  *  *

Did you know that Waylan’s wife, Regena, did not always believe as Waylan does? Well, at one time, not even Waylan believed as Waylan does. Back in 2006, Waylan promised a not-very-happy Regena that he would “stop all this truth stuff,”—although Regena did not exactly call it “truth.” Waylan loves his wife, so he stashed his stuff away like so much God-porn. But then, only a few days later, a book came in the mail that might only be described as “God-porn on steroids”: Martin Zender Goes To Hell.

As Waylan tells it, “Regina said, ‘I thought you said you were going to quit this stuff!’ She was not happy about it, to say the least. In fact, she marched over to the waste can and threw the book in the trash.” 

“I chucked it in the trash,” said Regena. “I hated it.”

Waylan was grateful to have an errand to run, while God stayed home. 

Regena with the book she pulled from the trash--after throwing it in.

“For some reason—I didn’t know why at the time—I could not stop thinking about that darned book,” said Regena. “I was having a wrestling match with myself about whether to go and get it. I wanted to, then I didn’t. I kept see-sawing back and forth. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I told myself maybe I’d just take a little peek at a couple pages. Well, that’s all it took.”

When Waylan returned home, he was surprised as could be to hear Regina say, “Way (that’s her nickname for him), I think you’re right about these things. I think I’m seeing it.”

The date was July 15, 2006. The date is certain, because Regena dated the inside front cover and wrote: “Way—I love you with all my heart. Love, Regena.”

              *  *  *

Waylan and Regena’s son Josh and his wife, Ashley, came over Monday night. They were stoked to meet and greet the guy recently arrived from the great white Pennsylvania north, with whom they’d fellowshipped so much but had never seen in flesh. It was one of the warmest, most fun welcomes ever. Ashley literally poked me in the shoulder several times and said, “You’re real. Sorry. I just wanted to see if you were real. You are real.”

Josh and Ashley

We sat outside until midnight talking about God, and about all the new books coming out about God, and the many facets of God’s creation. Josh and Ashley are so in love; what a soothing sight. God joined them seven years ago. Centering them is the faith of Jesus Christ, met with a faith given them by God to believe Christ’s message. Josh spoke eloquently of a Savior who could not possibly have failed at Calvary. Hearing this soothed my spirit.

Everything was soothed this night but my throat, which seems to be getting more raw by the day.

What could cure it? Hm. Possibly a trip to the beach.

© 2013 by Martin Zender 

TRAVELING WITH PAUL

I’m writing at Cleveland Hopkins International airport—a strange place to be when one is heading to Ft. Lauderdale, FL, having arrived here from Washington Dulles International, having begun the day at the Johnstown, PA Regional Airport, with its five bleary-eyed employees. They are zig-zagging me across the country a few times before depositing me in the sun. It’s all fine. I’ll go anywhere. I like getting places, but the transit may be even better, attributable to anticipation.

I like everything about flying. It suits a guy whose realm is inherent anywhere but on the earth. Travel hubs slay my goose. (That’s a good thing, in case you didn't know.) I like airline wine and coffee, but I bring my own meat and cheese. Rebecca taught me about the meat and cheese.

I got a taste of celestial/terrestrial contrast a few hundred feet above the wastes of Northeast Ohio. Unfortunately, it was the snatching-away in reverse.

I forget that the sun is always shining. The amazing celestial ball never goes out. It only seems to when six or seven cloud layers protect us from its multi-faceted blessings, which some crazy people repel with sunscreen.

Descending into Cleveland from Washington was, as just suggested, the snatching away run backwards. We zipped along at 300 miles per hour for several miles just above a magnificent cloudbank resembling a white cotton candy wonderland, soon to disappear.   

“We have begun our descent into Cleveland.” Yeah, I’ll say. Closer and closer to the cloud carpet we descended, until finally we pierced it. I wondered how long until the gloom would overtake us. Well, gloom never takes too long. The light disappeared in gradients as the first turbulence struck. In about ten seconds, we had gone from heavenly glory to the gray industrial tundra of East Cleveland. Now I know how Lucifer must have felt.

My brother Paul

I do have a brother named Paul—the apostle Paul. Allow me to regress a bit. I spoke to Paul on the ascent out of D.C., once we’d gotten above the cloud ceiling there. (I know Paul is dead, but I pretended he wasn’t. I communed with his spirit, if you know what I mean.) I knew Paul would be happy with me. I was taking the same evangel he taught in Asia, Europe and Greece, to yet another American city. I said to myself, Here I go, Paul. Off again to herald the same message you heralded. You struggled to preserve it and pass it on, and see how you’ve succeeded! Two thousand years after unceremoniously leaving this poor planet, your words continue through the mouth and pen of a man on a ship of another kind, this one hurtling through the sky. I wish you could see how we travel now. The Internet would excite you as well; I’m sure you’d have a nifty website, although, like me, I bet you would have bailed from Facebook a while ago. Anyway, you’d be happy to know I desire to imitate you—your spirit, your purpose, your love for the saints—as you imitated Christ. Occasionally, I even succeed.

Ships of sea or air—what does it matter? Feet on the ground? Same deal. Either way, you go where the need is. From whence come invitations, toward there you go. Those who, on the other hand, shun you, just figure to yourself you’ll come back for them later—maybe way later. If any middle ground exists, you haven't written or spoken clearly enough. Called a deceiver, though true (2 Corinthians 6:8), the evangelist of the pure message of grace (the one that demolishes religion and human pride) seeks receptive ears, though he is not averse to brief incursions into the land of the deaf. Depending on where one seeks “Martin Zender” on the web, I am either God’s gift to humanity, or the devil incarnate. Here at the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport, I am a passenger awaiting a flight to Ft. Lauderdale, Gate C-5.

"These are a few of my favorite things."

I love to whiz on jets. Some people avoid the lavatory at all costs, but to me it is spectacular—even special—to empty my bladder at 30,000 feet, while hurtling through the atmosphere at 500 miles per hour. My theory is, one may as well take advantage of some of the marvels of this life, before it’s too late.

Did Paul take arcing leaks off the bows of ships? I can’t see it any other way.   

© 2013 by Martin Zender  

TRIP TO OHIO, AND NEW YEAR’S EVE

As I write, there are about 17 people sleeping here. I am not one of them. It is 7:30 a.m., New Year’s Day, and so far I am the only one up. I went to bed at 12:30, woke up at 4:30, and got down here at 5 to answer some e-mails, write this blog, and work on a book.

The trip to Ohio was great. I surprised my two sons, Gabe and Paul. My sister Kelly arranged to meet them, along with Paul’s new girlfriend Sarah, at the Cheddar’s in Mansfield, Ohio, the town I used to hang out in. The boys didn’t know I was driving in from PA. I left here at 9:30 Sunday morning, and got to Mansfield at around 2:15. The plan was for Kelly to text me when everyone was situated. That happened at around 2:50.

Were the boys ever surprised! I had not seen either of them since April, so it was a great reunion. I loved meeting Sarah, who is a very sweet person. I also got to see Kelly’s boyfriend Rick, whom I’d only met once. Here are some photos of the good times, as they rolled:

At the table.
(Click photos to enlarge.)

My youngest son Paul and his girlfriend Sarah.

My oldest son Gabe; a shifty one.

Checking for broccoli in the teeth of the president of Starke & Hartmann, Inc.,
publisher of the best book on the apostle Paul on the planet:
The First Idiot in Heaven.

Removing broccoli from the teeth of the president of Starke & Hartmann, Inc.

Me with the president of Starke & Hartmann, Inc., also known as my sister Kelly.

Paul and Pops at the mall in Mansfield, OH.

I drove the hour to Canton in the dark to spend the night at Kelly’s house, also known as Starke & Hartmann Headquarters. We had a relaxing evening, talking about old times, new times, good times, bad times. In the morning, we went to my favorite breakfast place: Bob Evans. Nothing can ever go bad at a Bob Evans restaurant.

My goal was to get back here by around 6 p.m. for the New Year’s Eve festivities. I did it, and it’s a good thing I hadn’t had much to eat. Wow. What a layout of food: chicken wings, two kinds of chili, corn bread, breaded chicken, a veggie plate, 49 bags of different kinds of chips, and various samplings of adult beverages.

Have you ever played “Apples to Apples” with 14 people? I have. Last night. For the first time. I did not win, but I had fun.

I have no idea who this is.
She was not here last night.

I am lousy at poker, so I was one of the first ones out on “Indian Poker,” which we played after, “Apples to Apples.” Indian Poker has you dealing out one card to each player, putting it face-out on your forehead without looking at it, and betting on it without seeing it. I am no good at bluffing. I’m not even good at not bluffing. I’m no good at any kind of poker, period. I am such a “face value” guy, that I don’t get the tricks of poker. Somehow, in poker, you are supposed to trick people several times a minute. I don’t know how to do it. Additionally, you are supposed to figure out other people’s tricks, and facial ticks, and eye movements. I’m no good at any of it. I’m too much of a literalist, I guess. I am too honest for such subterfuge. I am too slow to figure out 16 people at once. Therefore, last night, I bet stupidly and lost hugely. This did not bother me in the least. In fact, I was delighted. It was fun watching everyone else try to figure out everyone else.

I lost all my poker chips, but gained several Dorito chips.

Our Indian friend, Harsh Bhavsar, was driving up from Virginia, where he was visiting his parents. He threatened to arrive before midnight—and he did! He walked into the living room at 11:57. We all watched the ball drop on Time’s Square, and had a champagne toast. What a wonderful bunch of people to bring in the New Year with.

Martin Zender, Harsh Bhavsar

The whole gagne, with champagne.

Oh! A friend sent me a photo of Hobbes (of “Calvin and Hobbes” cartoon fame), reading my book, The First Idiot in Heaven, on New Year’s Eve. Hobbes is even smarter than I thought.

I don’t know what 2013 will bring, thank God. I can only walk one day at a time. Right now, that day is January 1, 2013.

I am glad to be walking it with all of you.

© 2013 by Martin Zender 

CHRISTMAS AND MORE VISITORS

The whole Pilkington clan picked me up at the airport in Pittsburgh at a quarter ‘til midnight, Christmas Eve. It was great to see them; they were all marvelously awake and happy to see me as well. It’s a good thing Clyde was awake, because he had to drive nearly three hours in fog, dark, and misting rain. Yummy. We encouraged him to keep up the good work, but of course did not volunteer to help him. Clyde kept us between the lines, and we made it home alive.

I guess you could call Christmas Day “Christmas Day,” if you want to. I have many memories of Christmas Day, as I have told you, but this was December 25. It was what it was, and all one can do is walk through it. Clyde, Clyde Lynn, Nathan and I drove to Greensburg, PA to see “Lincoln.” I loved this movie. I liked going back to the happier times of the Civil War.

One of my favorite lines (there were many) was when Lincoln says to someone who is trying to get him votes for the passage of the 13^th amendment abolishing slavery: “It is such joy to be comprehended.” I almost jumped up like a Pentecostal and said, “Praise God and Jesus!” Instead, I turned to Clyde and whispered, “Ain’t that the truth.”

We had a wonderful meal that evening, and managed a few laughs. (I saw a few people laugh on-screen in the “Lincoln” movie—even Lincoln—so that proves people can laugh during wartime. I find that a little wine helps the miracle along.)

Jake and Richard Schnader, from Lancaster

On the 27^th, visitors arrived from Lancaster, PA, namely, Richard and Jake Schnader, whose last names are the same for a reason: they are father and son. They stayed into the evening—an hour longer than they intended—because we were all having such a great time of fellowship. Jake is the young man I was telling you about in my blog of December 9. Jake had such a great time he was ready to move here; his dad had to sort of bribe him into the car.

(Click to enlarge)

Richard and Jake are from Amish country—without being Amish themselves, lucky gents. As I am fascinated with how crazy the Amish are, I enjoyed the many Amish stories told by Jake and Richard during lunch. The Amish go to dreary lengths to be good boys and girls for God, and God gives them no truth; they get nothing; zero; nada; not a single damn fact from any book of the Bible. And then there are “party people” (that is, we who have rubber on our tires) and “sinners” (we who do not observe the wrong Sabbath day)—speaking of folks like Jake, his dad, the Pilkingtons and myself—and God unloads the whole wad of truth—everything He’s got—right into our laps. That’s fascinating to me. It just makes me love the Amish even more.

Two days ago, seven other visitors came, and they will be here until Tuesday. (I told you we should have revolving doors installed here; well, I did not actually tell you that, but I should have.) Arriving was Clyde’s daughter Susannah, her two kids, a friend, a dude, and the friend’s two kids. (I am not too keen on names yet, as you can tell. I’m working on it. I do know several of the names, but I don’t want to slight the people whose names I know not, therefore I will refrain from all names, except that of Susannah, whose name I know well because I have been hearing it so much. But wait! I have just discovered the 12 red plastic cups from dinner last night, with everyone’s names written on them. So I will attempt to match cup names with actual people.

Saved by the cups.

Jessie, Justin, and Susannah.
(In the background is a small sampling of the
Pilkington & Sons online bookstore stock.)

Jessie and her daughters Peyton and Ava
(at this point, not sure which is which).

Justin and Susannah and their daughters Emma and Isabelle.

It is fun having a houseful of people. It is helpful, emotionally. As I know I have told you, if I were by myself these days, I would be in bad shape. I would probably walk back to the Civil War, dress in gray, and look for Gettysburg.

Rumor has it that Harsh—the cool guy from India whose last name possibly cannot be spelled in English—is coming for New Year’s. We are all looking forward to that.

Today, I drive to Ohio for the first time since arriving here, to visit my two sons, Gabe and Paul, and my sister Kelly. I am looking forward to that.

I am trying to look forward, period.  

© 2012 by Martin Zender

GRACE UNDER PRESSURE-LOSS

United Airlines spares its attendants the drudgery of repeatedly demonstrating flight safety warnings and techniques. Instead, they engage a safety video that plays on a small screen attached to the seat back in front of you.

In this video, passengers in various states of emergency (water landing, pressure loss; “we are presently out of red wine”), very calmly and happily do horrible but necessary things to save their lives.

For instance, here is a mother and daughter chatting away happily. Suddenly, two oxygen masks drop from the ceiling in front of their faces. This means, of course, that all oxygen has been sucked from the plane. No matter. Why be alarmed? In fact, the mother and daughter are apparently quite delighted for the interruption.

(In my opinion, the unruffled demeanor of the air emergency victims in this video reflects poorly upon United Airlines. How is it that passengers could meet the sudden appearance of oxygen masks with such indifference—nay, outright felicity? Apparently, the advent of life-saving apparatuses such as oxygen masks on United Airlines flights is as common as the appearance of beverage carts.

“Hello. Welcome aboard United Airlines. We are completely out of oxygen. Would you care for a Sprite?”

The mother smiles as she places the elastic band of the oxygen mask carefully around her head. The startling word here is, “carefully.” To my amazement, the woman tries hard to avoid displacing a single strand of her hair. How certain people be so self-aware in the face of such peril, is cause for wonder. I can picture myself remaining calm in such a situation, but I’m not sure I would dig out my lint-roller and de-fuzz my sports coat.

This woman’s young daughter is also delighted at the sudden pressure drop, the lack of oxygen, and the fact that her mother is obeying flight safety instructions to the letter, including putting her mask on first, before assisting her. The child is three shades of blue before the mother tends to her mask, but that’s okay. The three shades are a cute combination. These two debilitated yet happy passengers follow every airline rule, including that which prohibits tampering with or disabling lavatory smoke detectors.  

But now, the flight has a worse problem The plane has crash landed into the water! At least there is oxygen aboard, but that is small consolation when the airplane is floating somewhere between San Francisco and Honolulu.

The ever-present United Airlines camera now focuses on an extremely attractive young lady who has already located her life vest (she knows it is located beneath her seat, smart girl) and is now placing it around her neck and preparing to inflate it. Success! Like the victim before her, she has managed to accomplish this task without displacing a single strand of beautiful, shiny, voluminous, protein-rich, brunette hair. I am happy for her, and she is clearly happy for herself.

But now, a dilemma! There are two ways to inflate the life vest: either by pulling down on a red tab, or manually inflating it through a plastic blow-tube. This woman does not take chances; she has a “dual-inflator” personality, and will cover her bases. She pulls the red tag and purses her full, luscious lips, to blow additional air into her bright yellow vest.

Although it has been forty-five minutes since watching this terrifying yet entertaining video (I am still on the flight, a quarter of the way between Las Vegas and Houston), I can still see the voluptuous red kissing organs of this spectacularly good-looking air disaster victim, pursing and puckering around the plastic inflation tube. 

With two delicate, scented breaths (at least I am assuming they are scented; they are clearly delicate), she has inflated the rubber-duckie-colored life-saving device to full capacity.

Next stop: The Pacific Ocean!

I wish I could handle life’s little curve balls with the calm, graceful aplomb of these air disaster heroines. From whence comes such quiescence? Are they members of the body of Christ? Friends of the pilot? Angels in the guise of women? Professional swimmers? I can only guess. I can only pray for similar peace, in similar circumstance.

In the meantime, even though my flight is still in the air with all its oxygen, I believe I will head for the lavatory and disable the smoke detector there—just for the hell of it.

© 2012 by Martin Zender

THE ARMS OF GOD AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

I thank God for the arms of love awaiting me in Pennsylvania at the end of this amazing trip. I thank God for the loving arms here that will send me so lovingly upon my way. What I do not look forward to is the intervening hours of aloneness, especially today. 

This is a hard day. 

My parents have now both been dead for about eight years. I will not see my children today. It is not only Christmas eve—a day with no spiritual connection for me, but rather familial—it is Rebecca’s birthday, and the anniversary of the day I proposed marriage to her. I proposed marriage that day—and succeeded. She proposed divorce shortly thereafter—and succeeded.

To lay out for you two other ends of a similarly sad spectrum (I ought to avoid this for the sake of all, yet here I am; I cannot seem to help myself): I seek reconciliation, she seeks absolute and total separation for the eon. I fail in my quest, she succeeds in hers.

I would like to be cauterized against pain, but my heart operates differently. It does not follow any of my wonderful rules for it. I am just too open, too honest, too “there.” I do not travel through life with a shovel, to bury. If I carry a shovel at all through this life, it is to unearth. I live and try to walk across the cemetery—through it, out of it—and I will walk. But I refuse to cover my tracks, or pretend that I never walked across a cemetery. In life, I taste both the good and bad, to the dregs. I stop "drinking" only to a finality. (Where is the finality? When we are all consummated in Christ.) Whether this is a blessing or a curse, I don’t know. Often, if feels like a curse. But I would not be the person I am, without it. (Therefore, I have answered my own question.)

Part of me does not want to be writing. I would rather “leave it be.” But since I'm unable to do that, I may as well do it with verve, or whatever of that I can muster. Why hold back? You are my friends. Why make this blog anything but an honest communication? If I am not honest, nothing is learned, nothing is new, we’re none the wiser. So now I reach out to you. Why? I would rather die exposed, than live hiding. 

This, too, shall pass. Tomorrow will be another day. And then, so will the next day. Unrequited love hurts, and I shall not pretend it is anything different. The love of Christ trumps all. Agape love trumps all. The best thing about agape love is that it requires not an ounce of requital. It loves, even in the face of rejection. In fact, it requires rejection for its display. (Damn it.)

Thus, the shovel. 

If agape love is all one has at the moment, it is good enough. It has to be. After all, it is the love of God. 

SACRAMENTO; WHAT A MEETING

What a meeting. It is a matter of preparation, for all of us. Not only do I have to prepare a message and know what I’m talking about, but Anita has to prepare the house and the main dish, and the people coming have to prepare many side-dishes. In other words, there are so many “human” things we all have to do. But then, when it comes down to it, God takes over and makes everything work.

That is exactly what happened here yesterday afternoon. Wow. Over twenty attended. Five people who had never fellowshipped with the Sacramento group, came. Again, people filled with the spirit of God meshed in the spirit of God. I still can’t get over the marvel of that—of watching people who have never met, embrace each other. I admit to being thrilled that God uses me as a catalyst for this marvel. It is delightful to be used in this capacity. I just step back and watch people talk and hug and fellowship, like long-lost family members. It is so satisfying; how could I ever tire of it?

I gave an overview of the first five chapters of Romans. I said: “In Romans, the good news starts with three chapters of bad news.” Paul sets the stage of humanity’s hopelessness before he unleashes grace. He is following the pattern he recommends to Timothy (2 Timothy, 4:2), of “expose, rebuke, and entreat.” He first exposes and rebukes humanity (both Jews and Greeks), before he entreats. I compared it to a symphony. The symphony begins in Romans 3:21, but before it starts, Paul has to shut every mouth. He must silence the hall. This, he effectively does. He shuts us up to put us in a relaxing posture—a reclining mode—so that we can receive truth. Otherwise, we argue our worthiness, or we deny our inclusion in the condemnation of humanity, both religious and secular.

The message was so well-received; the gospel has power. All I have to do is articulate it, and it does its work. Again, I am delighted to be used of God in this capacity. Concerning the truth: I am convinced of it; I am passionate about it; God has graciously given me the ability to clear the clutter and let the message convey its own weight. Lastly, I know when to stop talking. At that point, everyone else jumps in, and there is nothing better to see and hear than people reveling in truth, and sharing their stories.  

(Click to enlarge photos.)

Gail Ettlin (Joe's sister-in-law), Linda Ramey

Robbie Hernandez, Eddie, Gerhard Rutsch

Erin and Robbie Hernandez

Dot Haworth, Darrin and Robin Haworth, Dolly

Charles Rutsch

John

Dolly and Eldred

Bill Cook, Linda Ramey

Gerhard Rutsch, Anita Butler

Joe and Charles

Ken Whittmore, Bill Cook

Linda and Charles Ramey

Robin Haworth

Dot and John Haworth

Anita Butler, Jenny Rutsch

Anita, Kevin, Linda L.

 As if we hadn’t had enough excitement and good times, at 8:30 p.m. Anita, Kevin, Linda, Joe, Eddie and myself  drove out to Pete’s Restaurant and Brewhouse in Sacramento to hear Anita and Kevin’s son’s band, Boom-Boom Ya-Ya, jam out the house. Man, was that ever a good time.

The Boom-Boom Ya-Yas

Lead singer Justin Newman

I am sleeping until 7 a.m. now, which translates to an absurd wake up time back east of 10 a.m. I’m living in the moment, so all is relatively well.

Our plane for Vegas takes off in five hours.

© 2012 by Martin Zender