Travis W. Inman's Blog

Seniors 2020, I Feel Your Pain. My Graduation Was ... Unique, Too.

The 2020 school year is in various stages of wrapping up, and COVID has taken the stage instead of the graduates. Seeing the graduate's disappointment reminds me of my high school days and how much I hated school, and just how fitting my final day in high school was. That day will always be one of the funniest incidences of my youth. I should preface by saying that I now have a GED.
So, I was valedictorian of my graduating class, which might sound impressive until you discover that I was also the very first graduate of my school, Christian Fellowship Academy. Yes, I attended a small, private school, which was basically, a one-room schoolhouse attached to a church, which was out in the middle of a cotton field, which was out in the middle of no where. I would love to tell you that I was outstanding in my field, but I would have to clarify that I was actually out, standing in my field.
Being a homeschool graduate in the 80s was being a pioneer in many ways, and it was certainly unprecedented. As the first graduate of a school, I was allowed some creativity, and the principal commissioned me to choose the school colors!  Not many people can boast that claim, (if it’s a claim worth boasting.)  I chose blue and white, the colors of Westbrook ISD, my former school before leaving the public school system. 
Being the first also presented some challenges that were unique. In order to graduate, I would have to acquire my own graduation gown. (In those days, you didn't simply order one on Amazon.)  I went down to Westbrook and asked if I could order an additional gown when they ordered their blue robes.  They agreed to help me and we arranged to have the gown shipped directly to my school.  The gowns were scheduled to arrive a week before graduation, but they were shipped late.  In fact, the shipment came only two days before graduation, and I was highly stressed over my predicament.  However, the real stress began when I opened the box.  Somehow, the order got mixed up and they sent me nine red gowns, instead of one blue gown.  It was too late to fix the mix-up, so I changed the school colors to red and white.  Not many people can claim to have enough influence to change their school’s colors on a moment’s notice! But, it makes for a fun story, so let’s roll with it.
My family and I practiced my march down the isle of our small church, but realized that “Pomp and Circumstance” wouldn’t play one full round due to the short isle.  So, we decided that Vicky, our pianist, would play the song all the way through, and then I would step out, and walk as painfully slow as I could manage. (I must have looked like a bride’s maid slowly gliding to the altar.)  We practiced until everything went smoothly. 
An hour before graduation, Vicky called to tell us that she was not going to make it that night, but she had given the music to an alternate pianist.  Barbara had never played “Pomp and Circumstance” but felt reasonably certain that she could handle the piece. 
When time came for the march, I stood in the back with my red gown and listened as Barbara started playing.  In all the confusion, no one told her that she was supposed to play the entire song once through before I would start my painfully slow march.  When Barbara started playing and realized that I wasn’t marching, she assumed that something was wrong and stopped playing. I didn’t know what to do, but someone told Barbara to start playing again.  She did, but stopped again when she didn’t see me marching.  
The only other photo I have of graduation.In the back of the church, we huddled up and decided that when the music started again I would march without waiting for a full round.  Unfortunately, Barbara was becoming rattled from all the confusion.  While we were reorganizing my march, someone whispered the original plan to her, but we didn’t realize that she was up to speed.  She decided to set a faster tempo for the first round, and slow down for the actual march.  
Alas, we didn’t know that she would play one full round.  So, when the music started at that fast tempo, I stepped out.  I was making good time until Barbara saw that I was marching to her rhythm. Surprised, she slowed down in the middle of my progression.  I had to alter my speed and almost fell down.  Fortunately, it was a short isle and I was at the stage in a flash.  I called it my “Prompt Circumstance.”  The rest of the ceremony went fine, except that I was redder than my gown, and I dropped my graduation trophy and bent it in half.  Oh—and I should mention that there is no evidence of this event, as the only known recording was accidentally recorded over a few weeks later while hastily attempting to catch an episode of MacGyver.
And the reason I have a GED—no college would accept my high school transcript and I had to get one before I could enroll. Not every valedictorian proudly displays a GED alongside his diploma! 
My life is always eventful. 
Here's another fun high school story about the very last track meet I ran. It was a record-breaking event, and I was formally asked to leave the track by a man holding a gun … 

Will’s Guide to Surviving the Apocalypse Trail Run …

You can’t just settle in on the couch and endlessly watch Netflix for more than a couple of days. You have to stay active and create a purpose for yourself.
First: Get out of bed. Sure, enjoy these lazy days, and get your full 8 hours. But don’t lay around in bed all day. Get up! Set yourself a schedule and stick to it. I make myself wake up around 06:00 and begin my day. I also set my target bed time between 10 and 11 in the evening.
 2: I limit myself to two cups of coffee. No need to embrace the jitters on top of the isolation.
Third: Don’t watch the news longer than needed to grasp the state of affairs. There’s nothing on except updates on how bad things are. Just don’t go there!
4: Plan your big meal of the day early in the morning. Make it something special and enjoyable. Don’t resign yourself to bread and baloney. Make it a meal you’ll look forward to and begin the prep work early, so you’re really looking forward to it. Try something new. Something that will take some time to cook. What else do you have to do, anyway? Now is the time to experiment!
Fifth: Don’t eat the same leftovers for more than two meals in a row. Don’t throw them out! Just keep some variety in motion. Avoid boredom as much as possible.
6: Don’t touch anything alcoholic until 6 PM. Nothing good will come from drinking away your entire quarantine from morning to night.  Trust me on this! Plus, it gives you something to look forward to in the evening.
Seventh: Make yourself exercise! YOU MUST DO THIS! You will fight off depression and anxiety by burning calories, plus your mind will be clear and alert if you keep active. Find a way to make it happen. Climb up and down your stair case for 30 minutes. Find a workout you can do at home. Take that long walk! Just do something!
8: Be patient with each other. This is hard on everyone. A lot of grace and forgiveness goes a long way. 
Ninth: Enjoy your kids. I KNOW! Right? But seriously, enjoy them. Maybe this is the trial run you’ve been searching for to see if homeschooling is the right choice for you. Find new ways to keep them busy. Research home science projects. Sit down with them and read The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, or dig up your old Harry Potter books. They’ll love reading those books with you! Teach them how to play card games. Avoid Monopoly at all costs. Teach them how to win and how to lose. Teach them how to survive this “crisis” with dignity. You won’t regret it.
10: Plan something you’ll do after this “crisis” ends. Plan a nice family vacation. Plan a weekend road trip. Plan something that will be fun and refreshing, and make is something out of the ordinary. Trust me on this! If you start planning an amazing vacation now, you’ll have something great to look forward to, and it will be a great diversion. It doesn’t have to be the day you’re released. It can even be a year out. Cruises are selling for pocket change right now! Airline tickets are cheap! Seize the day!
Eleventh: Don’t take yourself too seriously. You see what I did with my numbering system on this post? I find little things to keep my mind fresh and active.
12: You can always take solace in the fact you have enough toilet paper to last into your nursing home days. Spend time counting the rolls and enjoy your wealth.
Thirteenth: Do something nice and thoughtful for someone else. Make it a surprise. Make it meaningful. If you’re focused on doing something nice for others, you won’t be focused on how miserable or bored you are. You can make the difference in someone’s life. Just do it. Do it now!

Tractor Tales and Pickup Panic

As a boy growing up on a ranch, I learned to drive at the tender age of five. I remember helping my dad feed the cows. He would stack hay in the bed of the truck, put the pickup in granny gear, and I would stand on the seat and steer while he dumped hay over the tailgate. As I grew older, my skill set improved to the point that, by the age of ten, I was driving the old Farmall—a tractor with no power steering, sun shade, or shocks. But, I didn’t care. I latched on to the grain drill and followed my dad, who was turning fresh soil a few rows ahead of me. There were a few times I ran my tractor through the fence and got barbed wire wrapped around the axles. (I could do a whole series of stories about my tractor accidents.) Thankfully, my dad was a kind and patient father, who simply unwound and rewired the fences, and let that be the end of the matter. I learned to respect the fence and stay on my side.

Once, when I was about twelve, my grandmother put me in her old Pontiac and sent me to the store to pick up a few groceries. I drove a few blocks down and back without incident. I have no idea why she did that, but it was a huge event for me! I know,Sweetwater, Texas, is not a huge town, but still! 

As I got nearly old enough to take Driver’s Ed, I felt pretty confident with my driving skills. And then it happened … I’d been watching a Charlie Chaplain movie where he would drive his Model T to a gate and, without stopping, jump out of the car, run ahead of it, open the gate, and then close the gate for the driverless car. He would then run and catch up with the Model T and keep going. Lickity split. 

Several things went wrong when I tried it. First, I should have put the pickup in low gear. Second, I should have remembered the iron gate was chained and pad locked. Third, I should have jumped out sooner and given myself more room to work. Fourth, I shouldn’t have tried it at all. I lined the pickup on the road, and then jumped out and started running to the gate. The driverless pickup passed me before I got to said gate, which was still secure with a chain and a pad lock. I remember the sound the pickup made as it slammed into the gate, and the reverberating sound the gate made as it rang like a bell while the pickup continued down the road and was about to cross the highway. I managed to get back in and stop the truck before it hit the cattle guard across the highway. In retrospect, I should have let the pickup run over me rather than have to conduct the drive-of-shame to the house to tell my dad what I’d done. (I even tried to bend the gate back in place with the pickup before I concluded the entire situation was irredeemable.)Imagine trying to explain how this happened.
Gates and fences are important. They provide boundaries and protection. And they make for good neighbors! If you respect the fence and properly use the gate, it will help you keep your act together.
Writing is like this sometimes. Authors envision grand plans, but sometimes the characters refuse to cooperate and the plot laughs at you as the story takes a different turn than you anticipated. The gate that was designed to keep you safe within the boundary is busted open, and can’t be repaired without help. It happens. Fortunately, it’s only words on paper, and no one actually gets hurt. Well, not until the editor sees what you’ve done. But, that’s a different post! Writers know they have boundaries and they usually respect them. When a gate is locked, there’s a protocol to open it. Just pushing against the boundary or gate is not something we should do without good reason. Busting through the barrier is something you should only do in an extreme response to something else. Sometimes, once the gate is busted, it can’t simply be put back in place without help.
My promise to you: I won’t deliberately push the boundaries for the shock effect. That’s not who I am.

The Border Patrol--A Snap Shot

Ah, the old checkpoint.“Are you a US citizen?”“Yes.”“Have a good day!”While not usually more than a minute or two delay in your journey home from either El Paso or Las Cruces, it is an annoyance at best and an inconvenience at worst. But, what’s the point and why are they there? And what exactly does the Border Patrol do anyway? Who are these men and women who make up one of the largest police forces in the world?
I’ll get the boring part of this journey over with quickly. The checkpoints exist due to a congressional mandate found in the Immigration and Naturalization Act Section 287 and 8 USC 1357. The authority of the checkpoint operations have also been reinforced by the Supreme Court in the Martinez-Fuerte case. But few people are worried about those kinds of details—which are too tedious to discuss here. 

But, there’s so much more to the Patrol beyond a checkpoint in the middle of the desert. The history of the Border Patrol is long and rich, and some of the stories I’ll share will surprise you beyond measure! 
The Border Patrol began its illustrious journey back in 1924 when the Labor Appropriation Act birthed the organization that would eventually become the US Border Patrol, which is responsible for patrolling the 6,000 miles of Mexican and Canadian international borders and 2,000 miles of coastal waters surrounding the Florida Peninsula and the island of Puerto Rico.
In the early 1900’s, the US government supported the Mexican government headed by President Carranza, a political rival of Pancho Villa. Angered by American support, Villa and his army of 400, rode into Columbus, New Mexico and attacked the garrison, killing 17 Americans. President Wilson then sent General Pershing with 5,000 soldiers to the border to protect the nation. Within a year, the military presence grew to several hundred thousand.
In 1916, the Mounted Guard was formed in response to increased alien smuggling and bootlegging on the Southern border. Originally a force of about 50 men, they found themselves overwhelmed with the work and begged congress for more help. Congress responded by changing their names to Border Patrol Inspectors and granted them more authority to board and search, arrest, interrogate suspects, administer oaths, and execute warrants.  As smuggling grew, so did the crime associated with this action.  Smugglers protected their cargo at the tremendous cost in the lives of law enforcement officers.
Let’s skip through some of the tedious history and focus on a few amazing highlights. When WWII began, the Border Patrol was assigned security duty at internment camps during the early part of the war. 
Fast forward to 1961 and the racial disturbances in the South. Patrol Inspectors were used to prevent violence and ensure the demonstrations remained peaceful, and help with riot control. In 1962, a Border Patrol plane transported James Meredith to the University of Mississippi for the purpose of enrolling in that institution. 
Despite a crowd of more than 10,000 protestors, and the violence that ensued, the Border Patrol protected Meredith and secured the Registration Building so he could become the first African-American enrolled at Ole Miss.
 The Border Patrol was also instrumental in preventing the first domestic hijacking in El Paso, Texas, on August 3, 1961. Assistant Chief Patrol Agent Leonard Gilman was a passenger on the plane and subdued the hijackers, securing the aircraft.
The Patrol of today leaped forward and became a high tech organization following the events of 9/11 and the terrorist wars that followed.
And that brings us to today. We are all keenly aware of the border and the border issues simply by watching the evening news. While trying to catch nothing more than the weather, you’ll see images of Border Patrol agents working on the international boundary. And depending on the news source, the stories will be either positive or negative. And, as life is neither good nor bad, there will be truth to what you are watching. The political powers in Washington seem not to care about the people who are the agents of the Patrol.  It seems the buzzword, CARAVAN is a favorite word on the news. What’s up with that? The answer might surprise you…
Remember when the Border Patrol was under fire for separating parents from their children, and sending the parents to jail to await their immigration hearing while the kids are kept in a separate facility until being reunited with their parents and sent home? Well, that was a huge deal, and a very effective enforcement strategy. Attempted illegal entries nose-dived while this practice was in place. And try to bear in mind that anytime an adult who has children is arrested for a crime, they are separated from their families and sent to jail to await their day in court. This has been the practice for centuries. But, the 9thCircuit Court of Appeals ruled that practice unconstitutional and effectively removed the Border Patrol’s ability to enforce immigration law on the border. 
And it was a game changer! What resulted was something commonly referred to as “catch and release.” Catch and release is when an illegal alien crosses the border with a child in tow, and as long as they are a “family unit” the agents arrest them, issue them court documents for a future court date, and release them to further their entry into the United States. As remarkable as this practice is, the reality of it is quite startling. This began the surge of caravans to make the journey from third world nations to the utopia of the United States—and they are coming by the thousands. Clever smugglers figured out they could assign a child to an adult, and as long as they claimed to be father and child, or mother and child, the agents were forced to issue them court documents and release them into the United States. While this is certainly child trafficking, and highly illegal, it is almost impossible for the agents to combat. When thousands of illegal aliens make entry every day, each carrying a child, the agents don’t have enough resources to properly investigate to whom the child actually belongs. Reports are now emerging that the same children are being “recycled” by smugglers who use them over and again—for a fee—to the illegals who are willing to use the child to make an entry. 
As horrifying as this is to think about, the agents are dealing with this daily, and they are suffering the effects of this new reality. To date, four Guatemalan children have died as a result of this practice, and they were deaths that will long haunt the agents who are giving everything they had to properly care for the aliens. And when they come by the thousands, the task is insurmountable.  
To be fair, not all aliens buy or borrow a child. Many of them are actually related to the child in their care. 
And this topic is rapidly becoming unpleasant. So, let’s talk a little about the agents and try to figure out who they are—beyond the person leaning into your window and asking you personal questions. Yes, they seem robotic and indifferent when you see them at the checkpoint. You’re in a hurry and simply want to get back on the road, and you won’t want to roll down your window to answer a silly question. I get it! I hate the annoyance of it as well. 
And I can only imagine what it must be like to stand there in the summer’s blistering heat or winter’s biting edge to carry out a congressional mandate. Yet, most of the agents are polite and courteous, despite the robotic repetition of the job. And a question comes to mind. Are they making a difference?
According to statistics released by Customs and Border Protection, the US Border Patrol has apprehended the following:·     2016—415,816·     2017—310,531·     2018—566,281·     Total:  1,292,628 aliens caught in three years.What about narcotic arrests? (Only using 2018 statistics to save space)·     Cocaine—6423·     Heroin—532·     Marijuana—439,531·     Methamphetamine—10,382·     Fentanyl—332 What about gang members? (A three year total)·     1,966 arrested gang members who are illegal aliens·     Of those arrested, 858 were members of the dreaded MS-13What about criminal aliens arrested? (A three year total)·     27,632 criminal aliens encountered·     7,919 criminal aliens with outstanding warrants of arrest (https://www.cbp.gov/newsroom/stats/cbp-enforcement-statistics)
Their job is dangerous. Most agents don’t work at a checkpoint. There are roughly 20,000 agents across the northern and southern borders, and the largest bulk of them actually work on the international boundary. The agents from Alamogordo are too far from the Rio Grande to work the river, so they are permanently assigned to the check points. The agents on the River and the Line are subject to gunfire from Mexico, rocks thrown (and if you snicker at that, remember how David killed Goliath. Rocks kill, especially when they are the size of softballs), physical attacks from aliens who don’t want to be apprehended, and disease exposure.
To date, the Border Patrol has experienced 128 line of duty deaths, four of whom were women.
I’ve given you an overview, a snap-shot, if you will, of an organization that is too complicated to be properly covered with one article. And I thought I’d share some information with you that you probably didn’t know, or even stop to consider:
·     Agents work a minimum of 50 hours a week, and regularly work an additional 2-3 hours each week trying to keep up with the volume of alien traffic.
·     400 rescued aliens have been saved in the last few months. 46 saved from being locked and transported in tractor-trailers. 
·     In certain locations, one or two agents apprehend as many as 50-250 aliens by themselves until transportation arrives to take the aliens to a processing station. It’s more and more common for the agents to apprehend as many as 300 at one time. 
·     On average, it takes about 1 hour to process the court documents and issue the paperwork for an alien’s case for removal, or to send the alien to immigration court. Many areas catch as many as 1200 aliens a day. El Paso Sector generally apprehends between 800-1,200 aliens daily. These are “family units” of one parent and one child.  ·     Almost always, line agents work by themselves, and their backup is multiple miles away from them.  ·     Agents regularly conduct K9 demonstrations, citizens academies, stakeholder meetings, and other community events designed to help educate their communities about their operations, and give the citizens an opportunity to them feedback on the job they’re doing. 
·     Although agents have to work most weekends and holidays, a majority of them are men and women of faith, and sincerely observe their faith as a daily practice. 
·     Most agents sympathize with the aliens they detain, and are compassionate for their circumstances, but are duty bound to honor the law as it’s written.
·     Many times, agents give their lunch away to hungry aliens they apprehend. Some even keep extra food in their vehicles to help sustain those who are starving. 
·     Most agents keep up to five gallons of water in their vehicles to give to aliens when they catch them.   Sometimes, agents carry the weaker aliens on their backs until a vehicle can get to them. 

·     Most agents have children of their own, and are careful to treat alien children with the same respect as they treat their own. They often give them toys and coloring books, which they donate from their own homes.
 ·     Agents have apprehended more than 700 gang members in 2018, about half of them were MS-13.·     Most agents don’t broadcast their job on social media for fear of hostile and hateful attacks against them and their families. 
·     While most of the aliens they encounter are generally good people, agents still regularly capture aliens who have open bench warrants for violent crimes, sexual offenses, and domestic violence. About one in three woman are sexually assaulted in their journey. Most young women are on contraceptives to prevent pregnancy during this journey.

·     Every single alien is fingerprinted and identified by the FBI database before determining what to do with them. 
·     Many silver alerts and amber alerts are apprehended at Border Patrol checkpoints. 
·     The agents provide a warm meal to the detained aliens as often as every 3-4 hours until their case is closed. 
·     The Border Patrol apprehends more dangerous narcotics than any other agency. 
·     Travelers through the checkpoints daily try to catch agents having a bad day and/or try to provoke them into losing their cool so they can post videos about them on social media. 
·     A large percentage of the agents are registered with the Democratic Party and vote as such. 
·     Agents are required to take refresher courses every year on topics such as proper care of aliens in detention, preventing assaults and reporting violent crimes, ethics, etc. 
·     The Border Patrol Academy is almost 6 months long, and the agents are required to pass all subjects, including Spanish, before graduating. 
·     Agents are trained annually on how to treat their wounds in event they are shot or injured, apply their own tourniquets, and bandage their own wounds, just in case. 
So, you’ve seen a snap shot of who they are and what they do. I’ll leave you with these parting words…
I’m proud to be friends with many agents of the Border Patrol. I know them to be honorable men and women who’s priorities lie with their faiths and families, and, despite being used as political pawns by politicians, they are stubbornly determined to carry out their sworn duty: to protect America and the American way of life. They are from all races, colors and creeds. There are Muslims, Christians, Jews, and Buddhists. They are black and white and red and brown. They come from Europe, Asia, Africa, Mexico, and South America. They are mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. They live and work in isolated areas along both borders and endure harsh summers and cold winters. They risk their lives each and every day to do a job with little to no thanks. And they all—each and every one—love this country. I’m proud to say that I, as a patriot, stand along side these great Americans!

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A Walk to Remember

In October 1995, more than 20 years ago, I journeyed on the Walk to Emmaus, a Christian retreat that is power-packed with 72 hours of food, fun, reflection, food, “true stories”, skits, glue, food, laughter, crying, food, and great friends. Did I mention the food?
This post isn’t about the Walk. Well, not really. It’s about me. No, seriously! It’s about me. More so, about who I used to be. And I’m really surprised I am able to expose this part of my soul to you…
All through my early years and into my teens, I hated who I was. I had zero respect for myself, and I could find almost no redeeming qualities. All I knew was—I was a big nobody, and no one truly cared about me, save my parents, who were supposed to care. I had no confidence in myself, and I had no expectations that I would ever amount to anything. I felt like an ugly person who was not likable. And I also felt like the friends I had only let me hang out with them because of pity. In my head and heart, I was rejected. So, I ignored the pain and accepted it as my “normal”, and lived my miserable life. In order to cope with the pain, I became very plastic and surface level. I hid behind my religion, and behind my façade, and refused to come out from behind my fortress.
Thinking about it all these years later, I don’t know why I was so hard on myself. I have never been able to find a genesis of my self-loathing. All I know is that I had absolutely no self-esteem, and I carried it with me into my adult years. Like a first-year acting student, I walked through life trying to say all the right things, and not bump into the furniture. I hid my true feelings in my sarcastic sense of humor, and prayed that no one would try to discover the real me. Because if they did, they would reject me, and it would be too painful. Sadly, this was what I carried into my marriage, and my dear wife suffered for many years from my plastic, surface level relationship.
Why am I telling you this? I’m not entirely sure, but there must be a reason. It took me decades to appreciate who I was, and decades for me to fall in love with myself. It wasn’t an “ah ha!” moment. It was a long, slow process for me to recover from my feelings of rejection and self-hatred. And the beginning of my healing occurred at Camp Butman, on the Walk to Emmaus.
One of the really cool parts of the Walk involves letters. Friends and family are asked to send a personal note letting the individual on the Walk know how much they appreciate them.

Recently, we moved from Texas to New Mexico, and my wife has been going through old boxes and trying to get everything unpacked. She opened one very old box and discovered my stash of Emmaus letters and handed them to me, asking if I wanted to keep them. Curious about them, I placed them on my desk and planned to glance at them when I got a chance. They sat there for several days. In truth, I was ignoring them. They brought back memories of how much I hated myself when I was much younger.
I very clearly remember the day I sat down with my letters. They gave us about an hour to read them. And they warned us that we might shed a tear or two. I was not prepared for what happened to me. I looked at my stack of letters and notes, and counted more than 30 of them. I carefully opened one and read it. It was from someone I didn’t even know, but someone who knew who I was. They mentioned how they admired my sense of humor, and my casual demeanor, and my smile, and always thought I’d be fun to hang out with.
My hands began to tremble, and my heart faltered. I set that letter aside, because it must be a joke. No one wanted to hang out with me. They never did, and never would. I was a nobody. I read the next letter. It said pretty much the same thing. My breaths were cut short, and my mind was on fire. Then I read one from a friend, who I’d known my whole life, and he expressed his appreciation for me and said he always valued me as a person, and kindly thought of me as a son. That did it…the crack in the dam broke, and my mind and emotions were out of control. I began to weep. Not simply wet-eyed tears, but full-blown lamentation, all of my brokenness pouring out of me. I managed to open another letter and saw the same thing. Some kind soul sent me a note that they always enjoyed being around me, and they hoped I was having a great day. And then I completely lost it.
Our group leader was watching me, and he was very concerned. He softly approached me, “hey, are you okay?” But, I couldn’t respond. I was crying with such vitality that I couldn’t even nod. I simply buried my head into his shoulder and let the poison in my soul flush out. For more than an hour I sat and cried, and the group even went to lunch and left me sitting there (at my insistence). I simply couldn’t function. I was truly broken, and I couldn’t get control. Never before had I experienced so much love and appreciation, and when it came to me, I was simply overwhelmed. I had no idea that people liked me. And I had no idea why.
It took me weeks to read through all of my letters. Not because there were so many, but because I didn’t have the strength to continually pour myself out like that. Eventually, I read through them all, and placed them in a paper bag, and put them in a box. They have been untouched until today.
It was quite a memory for me to read through the letters. Sadly, many of the people who wrote them are no longer with us. Some of the letters were funny. Joe Kelley wrote one, in which he claimed he was driving down the road in a moving van and had to cut it short. He sent a couple of letters, in fact. Most were very short. But all of them were written with love. Heck, some of them are not signed, and I have no idea who they are. Some of them are from people I’ve never met. And they changed my life. That was the day my healing began. It was a very long road for me, too.
Today, I can say—I really like who I am, and I don’t mind looking at myself in the mirror and seeing that middle-aged man looking back at me. I’m at peace with who I am, and I’m proud of the things I’ve accomplished. As Indiana Jones once said, “It ain’t the years, it’s the mileage.”
So, if you were one of those who sent a letter to me at the Walk to Emmaus, I want to thank you. You had a hand in my healing, and I’m truly grateful.

So, let me make some use of this vulnerability. Take time to let someone know that you appreciate them, and you like them. Such actions can really change a person, and it might make all the difference to them. Let people know you care. Because it truly matters.
De Colores!

Oy...I Missed the Rapture. Again.

Over a very long September weekend in 1988, I anxiously awaited the highly probable return of Christ, based on 88 very solid reasons He would return. The Christian evangelical community waited with eager anticipation as Edgar C. Whisenant's predicted dates (somewhere along the weekend of September 11-13) drew close. We were so convinced Christ would return that TBN even began to interrupt regular broadcasting to provide special instructions on preparing for the rapture. 

On September 11, we all awoke and waited. Several people I knew quit their jobs. Many gave their pets away to people who would not be joining them (at least until 7 years later). One man sold his business for dirt cheap and gave the money away to charities. We went to sleep slightly disappointed, but knew we still had the 12th and 13th, so no big deal. 

When the 12th came, people were calling home to say goodbye to their families (who would likely join them 7 years later). I admit, it was hard to sleep on the night of the 12th. But, we awoke to the 13th with great vigor! Today was the day! 

And that was 29 years ago. 

And those of us who didn't reject our faith learned a very valuable lesson. "No man knows the time." Eventually, I researched the topic of the rapture on my own and discovered that, although incredibly popular, it was not even sound theology. 

So, what happened to the self-acclaimed prophet, Whisenant? He revised his prediction, realizing he made a small, but critical error, and made a second prediction in '89, and then '93, and then '94, and so forth until people finally quit following him when his '97 prediction went belly up. Since then, myriads of predictions have occurred. 

Remeber Y2K? 
Remeber the Mayan calendar debacle? 
Remeber this last weekend. 

And my heart really hurts for those who pinned so much hope on the prediction from the stars, the "birth", and the eclipses. I would say to you, please don't become disillusioned. And believe me when I say, "I've been there." It's really hard to go back to work when you made such an effort to cry out to people to repent, for the time is nigh. As hard as it was, brush it off, learn from the mistake, and drive on. Refocus living your life on a day to day basis with Christ, and trust that HE knows what's really going on.

Thirteen Reasons You Should Read This

“Are you okay?”“No.”
How often do you hear those words? Have you ever heard someone say, “No. You know what? I’m not okay.” Our standard response when someone asks, regardless of whether or not it’s true, is, “I’m okay.”
Jay Asher wrote a book. It was later turned into a Netflix series, Thirteen Reasons Why. I just finished watching the story, and I have to say I’m unsettled. I’ve heard so many people talk about both the show and the book, and they usually say things like, “I refuse to watch it because it glamorizes suicide,” or, “I refuse to watch another teenage drama that glorifies high school crap.” And then I hear people talk about it who watched it all the way to the very last scene, and they usually have a different take on it. For me, my reaction was nausea, and—no, that was my reaction. Nausea. I literally felt sick at my stomach.
Why? Because I watched this very uncomfortable show and managed to fight the tempting urge to dismiss it and gritted my teeth long enough to get through it. It’s a story about a teenage girl who experienced bullying at school, the subsequent embarrassment and feelings of isolation, and eventually despair. Her pain spiked when she was assaulted by a fellow classmate, but finalized when the people she turned to for help didn’t hear what she was trying to tell them. She came from an ordinary home, with ordinary parents who loved her and supported her. Sure, they had their life struggles, but their daughter was a priority for them. Hannah made good decisions about boys and drugs. She didn’t sleep around. Only once did I notice her consuming alcohol, and that was in response to the pain of not fitting in and the desire to do so. She didn’t sneak around and get into trouble. She was a good kid. But, once she became the target of some boys at school (and their girlfriends), she fell into despair and ended her life.
Sure, there are elements in the TV show that are overly dramatized and likely exaggerated, but I think this story accurately reflects what our teens face in school. Every day. Without end. Within the social structure of an average school, you will find just about every type of kid represented in this story. The “cool kids” are desperate to remain cool, so they have their own form of bullying. The nerds are relentlessly harassed, both physically and emotionally. And everything in between. Girls face judgement from girls. Boys face judgment from boys. And they all judge each other. There are few, if any, safe places where teens can go for help or safety.
Recently, I attended a service for a fifteen-year-old boy who shot himself in the head after watching Thirteen Reasons Why. I seriously doubt the show caused him to commit suicide. No, pain caused him to commit suicide. In his life, whatever pain he was experiencing was so overwhelming that he felt he had no other options. When someone is depressed, his or her brain becomes unhealthy, and doesn’t process serotonin properly, which alters how a person reacts to crisis and pain. It’s as if that person has tunnel vision. No! It’s more like that person is looking through a straw. They can only see one solution, and they truly believe they are making the only choice possible. Killing themselves will end the pain. And everyone will be better off without them.
I know. I know! This doesn’t make sense to you, whose brain is processing serotonin properly. But to many people in pain, suicide is like a bell that rings with perfect clarity.
Let me make this a little more personal. I have a fourteen year old at home. You think I haven’t had this on my mind all week? I’ve had little else. I don’t know the circumstances in the other boy’s life which caused him to see suicide as his only option. And I wish I did. He sent a text message to his sister saying goodbye in the last seconds before his killed himself. She found him at home just a few minutes later. They don’t know why. They never saw it coming.
Hannah was a smart, fun, and pretty girl who smiled and laughed, and rarely allowed her pain to show. In fact, no one saw it coming. NO ONE! Only after Hannah revealed her reasons, the thirteen reasons, did the pieces come together. And in hindsight, it was painfully obvious. But only if you have all the pieces laid out before you. Each smaller piece didn’t tell enough of the story to see what was happening in her head.
Parents, your children are watching this show. I don’t mean to alarm you but—wait! Yes, I do mean to alarm you. WAKE UP! Your kids are watching this show. And we all know that the young are incredible at recording information, and the absolute worst at interpreting it. They very well may watch this show and relate to the pain Hannah was experiencing, and feel somewhat empowered by her courage to kill herself. Because they are looking through a straw and can’t see the big picture.Okay, you’ve heard me. Now what? Well, I recommend you watch the show. All the episodes. Watch them by yourself first. And then invite your teen to watch it with you. And then talk to them about it. Have the suicide talk. You can do this!
Don’t accept the “I’m fine,” robot response. Hannah mentions how she stormed out of the school counselor’s office and paused just out of sight, praying that he would come after her, but he didn’t. And with that final element of disappointment, she followed through with slitting her wrists.Seriously. You can do this. You can talk to your kids about suicide. They won’t enjoy it. Neither will you. But you might be surprised by what you talk about once you get the ball rolling.

One final thought about Thirteen Reasons Why, the Netflix series: I was praying the show would end, and the entire staff would come back on and do an anti-suicide talk, and recommend seeking help, but it didn’t happen. The show ended and went straight to the credits. This is a hard fail, Netflix. And it’s unacceptable.

The Amish Firefighter and Laura Hilton

What a great idea for a story!Check out Laura Hilton's novel, The Amish Firefighter...
Can they overcome their past?
Abigail Stutzman’s life is about to change – whether she wants it to or not. Her mamm is getting remarried to a widower with a large family. Abigail is sent to live with her aenti and onkle in Jamesport because she and her new step-brother had dated and their parents anticipate problems. (Her step-brother is needed on the farm.) Abigail launches a full-scale plan to return home to her family—and Mark—when she finds herself in over her head…and heart. When Abigail and her new “wrong crowd” get into significant trouble, her punishment includes helping a collection of crazy old maids with housekeeping. In the midst of her atonement, Abigail uncovers family secrets that run deep, and realizes she’s not the only one with a pain-filled past. Abigail must decide if she’ll continue her messed-up legacy or embrace a new beginning with the man who’s stolen her heart.
Sam Miller has trouble of his own. When Sam and his close friend Ezra Weiss are in a drug/alcohol-related car accident in Pennsylvania, Ezra is killed. Though Sam survives, he is deeply affected by the tragedy and vows to help other victims. Now a new Christian, Sam is a volunteer firefighter and a college student working to earn his EMT and paramedic license. But Sam has a past. When it comes time to confess his crimes, he finds that the truth may set him free—but it might also land him in some uncomfortably hot water. Will Sam and Abigail be able to find a future together?
But wait! There's so much more to this story! Here's another glimpse...
But now, just a week after her arrival in Jamesport, Missouri, Abigail finds herself at the scene of a barn fire. An intentional barn fire. And all fingers are pointed at her. She's desperate to prove her innocence and protect her reputation, but nobody's making that easy to do. And God certainly doesn't seem willing to help.
Sam Miller is in the process of turning over a new leaf. When local barn fires escalate, everyone suspects arson. And since the Miller family are among the victims, no one is more determined to see the perpetrators brought to justice than Sam.A Kindled Flame Neither One Could Have Anticipated....When their paths first cross, at the site of a barn burning, the emotional intensity rivals the warmth of the flames. Soon, they must decide whether this fire is one they should feed or extinguish. And they'll discover that the truth can prove more dangerous than a blazing inferno.
Right? You've got to read this one!
Not only is she an amazing author, she is also an amazing woman. Check out this tiny glimpse of her life...
Q. If you could have dinner with one person from today or history (except Jesus) who would it be? Why?  A. My mom. I’d like to ask her questions about things I don’t remember and ask her advice about things. I really miss her.(This answer gave me a lump in my throat. So many people will identify with it.)
Q. What is your favorite Bible verse? A. I have so many favorite Bible verses, it is hard to pick just one. But for today, the one that is coming to my mind is “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” Psalm 46:10 (NIV)
Q. What do you enjoy most about writing?   A. Almost everything. I love the creating process, getting to know new friends (in my mind) and learning their story.
Q. What can your readers expect from you next?  A. The Amish Firefighter is releasing in May and it will be followed by three more Amish books.(Talk about good news! Laura has some amazing things on the horizon!)
Q. What can readers who enjoy your book do to help make it successful?  A. Review on your favorite online retail sites, tell your friends, libraries, and book clubs, and others about it. Word of mouth is the best way to support an author.
Just reading her bio should make you want to read her books...
Award winning author, Laura Hilton, her husband, Steve, and their five children make their home in Arkansas. She is a pastor’s wife, a stay-at-home mom and home-schools. Laura is also a breast cancer survivor.
Her publishing credits include three books in the Amish of Seymour series from Whitaker House: Patchwork Dreams, A Harvest of Hearts (winner of the 2012 Clash of the Titles Award in two categories), and Promised to Another. The Amish of Webster County series, Healing Love (finalist for the 2013 Christian Retail Awards). Surrendered Love and Awakened Love followed by her first Christmas novel, A White Christmas in Webster County, as well as the Amish of Jamesport series, The Snow Globe, The Postcard,  and The Birdhouse. Other credits include Swept Away from Abingdon Press’ Quilts of Love series. Laura is contracted for another three book Amish series set in the Jamesport area, with the first book, The Amish Firefighter releasing in May 2016, followed by two more Amish books and a Christmas story releasing in Fall 2016, Spring 2017 and Fall 2017 respectively.
She has self-published a Christmas novella, Christmas Mittens.
Laura is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers and a professional book reviewer and blogs for Putting on the New and Seriously Write.
Visit her blogs: http://lighthouse-academy.blogspot.com/  & http://lauravhilton.blogspot.com/ Twitter: @Laura_V_HiltonFacebook:  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Laura-V-Hilton/161478847242512Pinterest:  http://www.pinterest.com/vernetlh/
Purchase her books:
Amazon  Barnes and Noble Deeper Shopping 

German, or Something Similar

This was written by my daughter, Kaitie Elizabeth....It's very clever and I thought you might enjoy it. It's also a true story. Kaitie, surrounded by a group of German tourists
German, or Something Similar

Once upon a time, there was a girl who was so socially awkward that she got herself stuck on a donkey. That girl was me. And that was the day that learned to speak German—at least, I think it was German.
 It all started on a European cruise that my family and I took. On this cruise, we stopped at Santorini, Greece. Santorini is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. With beautiful black beaches, spectacular scenery, ancient cities, and an active volcano, who wouldn’t have fun? But in order to see all these amazing things, you have to get to the top of the mountain village, and to get up there you can choose between cable cars or donkeys. My mom and brother wanted to take the cable cars, but my father and I wanted to have the traditional Greek experience. So, we opted for the donkeys. My mom was a little skeptical, being that she read every single horror story of people being tragically thrown off their donkeys down the mountainside and never seen again. But we assured her that we would be fine. I really should have seen this coming. This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten myself into an awkward situation, you know.
 Anyway, we stepped off the tender and the moment our feet touched the ground my mom says, “Oh look! There’s the donkey guy.” Thinking we were all on the same page, my dad and I rush through the sea of tourists and into the back alley where they were loading people onto the donkeys. 
Meanwhile, my mom has no idea that we'd left. She turned around, and in that split second we were gone! Vanished into thin air. My brother kept saying, “There’s no way that they would go get on the donkey without telling us first.” But we did. And after a while of searching, mother decided that we had gotten on the donkeys without telling her; she rushed to get on the cable cars.
 Back to my side of the story. We had already done our waiting in line, and a big Greek man picked me up and sat me on my donkey and off I went. These donkeys were trained. They knew exactly where to go. And there was no way to control them. They walked along a wide path all the way up the mountain. It was like a Disney ride. You could simply sit there and relax and take in the scenery. It was great. Except for about one minute into the ride, my donkey stopped walking. I sat there nervously trying to think of a solution. Nothing was coming to mind. So I just sat there awkwardly, rocking back and forth, sort of nudging my donkey with my feet, whispering threatening things into its ears, and petting it. Nothing. That stubborn donkey was not moving. Meanwhile, tons of other donkey riders passed by. Including my dad. They couldn’t help it. Like I said, the donkeys knew where to go. And they couldn’t be controlled. So, my dad was now way ahead of me, with no hope for return.
I’ve been sitting there for about five minutes now, and none of the workers noticed me. They were too busy lifting people up onto their donkeys. I continued to sit there mentally kicking myself. Then a group of about fifteen German tourists came along, and they were screaming something in German at the very top of their lungs, and their donkeys were moving. And I mean moving. Fast! So, I leaned down and quietly repeated whatever they were saying to my donkey. Nothing happened. I then nervously repeated it again, this time, a little louder. Still nothing. I was beginning to lose my patience. I then sat up, held on tight, and yelled that unknown German phrase as loud as I possibly could. And ZOOM!
My donkey started moving like it never had before, and it smashed into every single wall that stood next to us. And every pair of eyes in that area turned and stared at us, zipping up the mountain like mad men. Soon we ended up with the group of fifteen Germans, a woman wailing hysterically, and some person in the back who kept yelling, “HAW!” (and every time he would do that my donkey would ram as hard as he could straight into the wall that stood between me and a plunge down the mountainside). So, whenever my donkey got to close to the edge, I would have to scream in German again to get him to go the right direction. We were quite a sight, and this continued all the way up.

When I got to the top, a similar-looking Greek man picked me up off my donkey and sat me back down on the ground. I was relieved to be done. I said goodbye to my strange little group of fellow donkey riders and walked away to find my dad, who got dropped off at a completely different spot than me. Even after I found him, my troubles weren’t over. My father and I then spent an hour and a half searching all of Santorini for the cable cars. And my mom and brother did the same, only they were searching for the donkeys. After what seemed like ages, we all found each other and laughed about the whole ordeal.
So, next time that your mother says, “Hey, there’s the donkey man.” Maybe just take the cable cars instead.

The End

16 Hours

I wrote a play and submitted it to American Lab Theatre and they were excited and immediately wanted to produce it.

And then a funny thing happened while I was at work….
Let me start from the beginning; what a proper place to start. In 1991, I was out adventuring with a handful of my fellow seminary students in South America. We stumbled across a Jewish settlement in the mountains near Cordoba, Argentina. The little town looked like a series of gingerbread houses and coo coo clocks. I learned that the community was full of Jewish refugees who fled Europe during the War and resettled in Argentina, which is why the settlement so strongly resembled Germany.
One particular thing deeply impacted me while I was touring the town square. There was a large tree with a rope hanging from its limbs. I asked them when they were going to repair the tire swing so the kids could have a place to play. The man shook his finger and said, “Not a toy. This was where they hung the Nazi who was hiding amongst us.” Several years before we got there, the villagers discovered that a former Nazi was hiding in their town, and they collected him and summarily hung him from that very tree. They left the rope as a reminder. And boy, do I remember.
Many years later, I wrote a play about a Holocaust survivor who lost his wife and children to the Nazis; a man who was determined to find the men responsible for their deaths and kill them. He tracks them down at a bank and takes the entire group hostage, fully intending on publically executing these murderers as an act of justice. Only, nothing goes according to plan. Rose and Mr. Cato, along with the bank president, Miss Kincaid, don’t cooperate with him.
The catalyst for change is Rose. Her presence and her story so profoundly impact the gunman, that he is conflicted to the point of hesitation.
And now I must introduce Jesus Quintero, the Director.
Jesus is a man of vision, and his mind works like a van Gogh painting. When I presented him the script, he saw an opportunity to do something significant. He stuffed the entire story into a cocoon and allowed the chrysalis process to transform that sleepy caterpillar into a work of art. What emerged was an incredible interpretation of my story, but with amazing theatrical elements that are almost impossible to describe.
For many months, I attended every rehearsal and offered rewrites and updates to the script, and then it happened. My work got in the way, and I was no longer able to attend the sessions. I could sense that something was going on with the play. Jesus was slyly leaving me hints that he was now interpreting the story. Now, I must say, he asked me for permission to take liberties with the script. I’m not fragile, and I immediately granted him discretion to take the story in any direction he chose.  And in the few weeks where I missed rehearsals, he took my script and “van Goghed” it. While I was disappointed that I was not able to participate, I think my absence was necessary for his creativity to be unfettered.
Keely Gray is DeathThe first thing I noticed, he added a new character to the script: Death.
I know, right? DEATH! But it was brilliant! And his new character was smug and manipulative. And enchanting. And tempting. And I loved it.
Another thing to note is that Jesus chose to be quite unconventional in another regard: he wanted to direct the play from the stage while it was happening. It sounds like chaos, and in a way it is, but it’s controlled chaos. And it works.
So, Jesus chose to make the play a very intimate experience, and deliberately selected a venue where they could interact with the audience and actually make them unwitting participants (I’ll explain that in a few minutes…). Rather than working from an elevated stage, he found Monarch Mountain Coffee and transformed that small café into an interactive theatre. The audience sits at their tables, and the play is performed all around them, from one end of the room to the other, and it goes back and forth for the entire performance. There is no perfect place to sit. At some point, your chair will be right in the middle of the action, and it happens without warning.
So, having Death as a character creates an unusual macabre atmosphere. But it’s not depressing. Rather, it’s quite intriguing. And I really wish I’d thought of it myself. How can you tell a story about the Holocaust without death? And once the audience figures out that the characters are dancing with Death, then the play begins to make sense. And the flashback sequences bring order from chaos. And the soliloquies from the characters are so powerful that you will be thinking about them long after the play ends. Perhaps for the rest of your life.
Okay, remember the audience participation? Well… Jesus and I worked out an idea where the play would have two possible endings: mercy or justice. Should the gunman execute the murderous Nazi, or should he grant mercy and allow him to live? Well, you, Mr. Audience Member, get to decide just that. You get to cast a vote and see whatever ending receives the popular vote. I know, right? And as soon as you see the ending you voted for, you want to see the alternate, but that won’t happen. You’ll be left wondering.
So, after I saw the performance and experienced the transformation of my story for the first time, many, many people approached me and asked if this was my original vision. Of course, I have to say, “no”. It’s not at all what I envisioned when I wrote it. But, it’s exactly the same story. And it’s told through dance, song, dialog, and acting. And it’s uncomfortable. There are some very painful moments that I won’t discuss. You have to experience it. Having said that, this story is a celebration of life, and is about the sanctity of life. And I’m so proud to be part of it. I wish I could take full credit, but I wouldn’t dare. Jesus and I worked together to make something that neither of us could do on our own. And from chaos comes art.

Find out more about American Lab Theatre at: http://www.americanlabtheatre.com Keely Gray, Cory Repass, Jeremiah Guidos, Haley Nicholson, and Mason Jones are our cast of characters.
Alex Cope and Savannah Stierle work behind the scenes