On the night before his sister’s wedding, Scottish minister George Matheson was also reminded of love lost. He had been engaged to be married, but his fiance, unable to cope with the blindness that had afflicted Matheson from his youth, broke off the engagement and left him heartbroken. For years, he had lived with his sister, who took care of him, helping him with his studies, meeting his daily needs. Now she was leaving him to be married, and despite his joy for her, he could not help but feel sorry for himself (Asiado).

That night, all the old pain, all the old sense of loss and abandonment came back to him. But in the midst of his depression, Matheson remembered that God loved him with an everlasting love (Jer. 31:3).  In a few moments, he penned the words to this, now famous, hymn (Asiado):

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be. (“O Love”)

Works Cited

Asiado, Tel. “O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go.” Suite101.com. 14 Mar. 2007. Web. 12 Feb. 2010.
“O Love That Will Not Let Me Go.” RUF Hymnbook Online Hymn Resource. Reformed University Fellowship. Web. 27 Jan. 2010.

Fall semester 2009 saw Chattanooga State involved in a building project that has extended beyond the expected completion date. As a consequence, faculty and staff found themselves shuttling across Amnicola Highway from the old Sears service center parking lot. Despite the obvious inconvenience, over time a sense of camaraderie developed as we spent more time with colleagues we seldom saw in our normal routines. One of my favorite TV shows is the ABC show Whose Line Is It Anyway? with Drew Carey. The following is a parody of one of their musical routines in honor of our recent campus “adventure.”

Songs of the Parking Lot

Ryan: We’re here today to present this compilation album Songs of the Parking Lot. This 16 long play vinyl set contains great songs like the Creedence Clearwater Revival hit “Whining on the River” (“Rollin’ on the River”)

Whining, whining, whining on the river

Whining, whining, whining on the river . . .

Cullen: And that’s not all. This collection features every musical genre. Take this old folk song “Cross the Amnicola” (“Oh, Shenandoah”)

Oh Parking Lot, I long to see you

Away, cross Amnicola

Oh, Parking Lot, I long to see you

Away, I’m Bound Away

Cross the Amnicola

It’s been five long months since last I saw you

Oh Faculty Parking Lot

It’s been so long, oh how I’ve missed you
Away, I’m bound away

Cross Amnicola

Cullen: That brings tears to my eyes.

Ryan: Well, then you’re going to love this old song, too, “Home to the Lot” (“Home on the Range”)

“Oh, give me a lot where no bulldozers roam

And the staff and the faculty park . . . “

and this classic folk song “Poor Bus Riding Teacher” (“Poor Wayfaring Stranger”)

I am a poor bus riding teacher

I have a hard road I must hoe

But there’s no parking for this creature

On that campus to which I go

I’m going there

To give an exam

So turn off your cell phone

I’m going over Amnicola

I’m only going over home

I know dirt piles

Will gather round me

I know the ride will be cramped and hot

But the asphalt they are a-pouring

Where one day will be a parking lot

Well I’m going there

To share some knowledge

Once I get through this construction zone

I’m going over Amnicola

I’m only going over home.

The fall semester will soon be over

It will disappear without a trace

Can’t believe I paid for a decal

And didn’t get a parking space

I’m going there

To meet with my Dean

Tell him I’m going to roam

I’m leaving this sweet Amnicola

I’m only going over home.

Ryan: Cullen, what would you pay for a once-in-a-lifetime collection like this?

Cullen: I’d pay a million dollars . . . ok . . . probably not that much.

Ryan: Boy, are you in luck. This 16 vinyl set can be yours for the low, low price of $500, and you will have the satisfaction of knowing that every cent of that money will go into hauling off the mountains of bad dirt, the old broken pieces of pavement, and the worn out tires from the vans and shuttle bus.

Cullen: Speaking of bad dirt, you don’t want to miss that Lynrd Skynrd hit “Bad Dirt Blues” or this blues number “That Old Blacktop Magic” (“That Old Black Magic”)

That Old Blacktop magic’s got me in its spell

That Old Blacktop magic that I loved so well

I’d drive in slowly and I’d find my place

I’d park all day and then I’d leave my space . . .

Cullen: And if you charge it to your credit card in the next ten minutes, we will also throw in this special bonus album, Christmas Songs of the Shuttle Bus with such perennial favorites as

I’ll Have a Blue Permit by Christmas

We Three Shuttle Bus Drivers

I’ll Be Parking by Christmas

O Parking Lot, O Parking Lot

Grandma Got Run Over by the Shuttle

Ryan: And that’s not all. With your prepaid order, you will also get this genuine free blue parking permit. “If you walked into any store and asked for an album like this, they would say you were crazy” [Billy Mays pitchline]. And don’t overlook the great rock hits on this album like “Imagine” (“Imagine” by John Lennon)

Imagine there’s no changes…

It’s easy if you try

A parking lot out front

Out back more, I could cry

Imagine all the students

Parking in their lot

You may say we’re dreamers

But we’re not just singing this tune

I hope someday we’ll park here again

But I wouldn’t count on it soon.

Or this hit by the Monkees, “Last Van to Sears” (“Last Train to Clarksville” by the Monkees)

Take the last van to Sears

And I’ll meet you at the bus cone

You have to be there by four thirty

Cause the bus driver’s going home

Don’t be slow, oh no, no, no

Oh no, no, no

Cullen: Ryan, you know I love Sheena Easton.

Ryan: Oh, yes, she is a beautiful woman with a beautiful voice.

Cullen: Well, do you know my favorite Sheena Easton song?

Ryan: No, what is it?

Cullen: It’s “My Teacher Takes the Morning Van” (“My Baby Takes the Morning Train”)

My teacher takes the morning van

He works from nine till five and then

He takes another van again

To find me waitin’ for him

Ryan: Cullen, that was beautiful, but I have to say, I like a little sauce in a woman’s voice, and no one is sweeter than Tammy Wynette singing “Stand By Your Van.” (“Stand By Your Man”)

Sometimes it’s hard to be a Chatt Stater

Trying real hard not to be a hater

You’ll have bad times

And you’ll have good times

They’ll be things you don’t understand

But you love it so you’ll forgive it

Even though you can’t understand

And if you love it

Oh be proud of it

‘Cause after all it’s just a van

Stand by your van

Give it two cheeks to rest on

And something warm to come to

When days are cold and lonely

Stand by your van

And tell the world you love it

Keep giving all that you can

Stand by your van

Stand by your van

And show the world you love it

Keep giving all that you can

Stand by your van

Cullen: Well, you know, I grew up in Canada, but my favorite state in the U.S. is Tennessee, and I love their state song, “Parking Lot, Tennessee” (“Rocky Top, Tennessee”)

Wish I was in that parking lot

Down off Amnicola Lane

Ain’t no asphalt on that parking lot

Ain’t it a big ole pain

Once we could park in that parking lot

Half faculty the other half staff

Wide as a Ford, long as a Cadillac

We still dream about that

Parking lot, you’ll always be

Home sweet home to me

Good ole parking lot

Parking lot Tennessee, parking lot Tennessee

Once some dozers tore up parking lot

And left a big hole to fill

Dozers still sit in that parking lot

Wonder if they always will.

Cars can’t park at all on parking lot

Dirt’s too soggy by far

That’s why all the folks at Chatt State

Go to Sears to park their cars

Parking lot, you’ll always be

Home sweet home to me

Good ole parking lot

Parking lot Tennessee, parking lot Tennessee

We’ve had months of cramped up parking life

Trapped like chicks in a pen

We all know it’s a pity life

Wish it were simple again

Parking lot, you’ll always be

Home sweet home to me

Good ole parking lot

Parking lot Tennessee, parking lot Tennessee

Parking lot Tennessee, parking lot Tennesee

Parking lot Tennesseee eee eee eee

Ryan: Now I know, some of you are still saying $500 is a lot of money, but when you break it down, it comes out to a little more than $2 a song, and that practically amounts to the money you saved in gas and road wear by not driving onto the campus parking lot all semester.

Cullen: Speaking of which, you don’t want to miss this great Josh Turner country hit

“Chatt State Bus” (“Long Black Train”)

There’s a Chatt State Shuttle,

Comin’ down the line,

Feedin’ off the teachers that are lost and cryin’,

Wheels of sin, only evil remains

Watch out brother for that Chatt State Bus

Look to the heavens

You can look to the skies

You won’t find redemption

Staring back into your eyes

There’s no protection and no

Peace the same, burnin’ your ticket for that

Chatt State Bus

Oh, there’s cryin’ at the school today

Cryin’ at the school

Hang on brother, don’t you feel no shame

Just forget your riding on

that Chatt State Bus

There’s some old driver on that Chatt State Bus,

Makin’ you wonder if the ride is worth the pain,

He’s just a hoping that your heart will say

Let me ride on that Chatt State Bus,

Oh, there’s cryin’ at the school today

Cryin’ at the school

Hang on sister, don’t you feel no shame

Just forget your riding on

that Chatt State Bus

(This here’s the musical interlude)

Well, I can see him comin’ from a mile away,

It looks so frightful

But I can’t get away

That bus is a terror, makin’ everybody stare

But its only destination is the Sears parking lot,

But, there’s victory at the school today,

Victory at the school

The pavin’s over and the lot is done

Oh, I won’t be riding on that Chatt State Bus

I said hang on tight, cause the pavin’s done

And don’t go ridin’ on that Chatt State Bus

Yeah, watch out sister for that Chatt State Bus

Tammy Swenson’s drivin’ that Chatt State Bus

Thanks to Tim Dills for the lyrics to “Poor Bus Riding Teacher,” “Imagine,” “Last Van to Sears,” “My Teacher Takes the Morning Van,” “Stand By Your Van,” and “Parking Lot, Tennessee.” Thanks to Denis Kiely for the suggestion of the Billy Mays pitchline, and to Bill Teem, who suggested several Christmas album titles. Thanks also to Drew Carey and the Whose Line cast for their inspiration.

P.S. To further our parking woes, a sinkhole has appeared in the faculty parking in front of the Industrial Tech building. We may actually become the College on the River if we get more rain.

© Bill Stifler, 2009

Like the speaker in Simon J. Ortiz’s poem “My Father’s Song,” I miss my father’s voice. In recent years, the clearest indication of his declining health has been his long silences. A few weeks ago, I called him for his birthday, the only sound, his labored breathing and my fumbling attempts to fill the silence between us.

Years ago, after a long night driving home from college, arriving at 3 a.m., I would be met at the door by my father, who sat up talking to me until it was time for him to leave for work the following morning. I seldom said anything. He filled my silence with the sounds of his life, the things he had been working on around the house, his life at work, complaints about family members, stories about his homing pigeons, reminiscences about his past–the litany was never ending, and I was its helpless audience, tired from twelve to fourteen hours on the road, and wanting sleep. But I never said anything, and he never noticed, just sat at the kitchen table talking, drinking cup after cup of coffee, smoking one cigarette after another, filling me with his life.

Those first years of college and marriage, I didn’t have a phone, but once I did, calls home lasted hours, with brief breaks as my mom took the phone, before handing it back to dad. He told me about Sears repairmen coming to fix the then fifteen year old freezer, complaining about how they kept insisting he replace the antique chest freezer, only to have him show them how to replace the irreplaceable thermostat or fuss at them for damaging the seal. The freezer still sits in the utility room, fifty years old, hoary with frost, humming to itself.

Far too often his voice was filled with lament–at real and imagined wrongs–grumblings about supervisors, criticisms of his pigeon racing buddies, complaints about my brothers and sisters. Sometimes, that constant harangue turned angry and bitter, and the paranoia and mood swings his mental illness infected him with carried him along in a wave toward disaster. One year I stopped him.

“You’re doing it again,” I said. “You’re working yourself into a fever pitch. If you keep this up, you’ll be back in the hospital.”

–And he stopped, pulled himself back from the brink of insanity for the week I was home and a few weeks after before falling into the maelstrom again.

He refused to call them “mental breakdowns.” “I needed a vacation,” he’d say. “I just needed to get away from your-mother-your-sisters-your-brothers-the-pigeon-guys-work-the-farm, the list was endless, a riff of interwoven melodies of disappointment and self-righteous indignation.

The Sunday he returned home after his first mental breakdown, after he had taken his rifle to the hill above Windsor, where the gospel radio station’s tower pointed up toward the stars, and told the police he was protecting us from the aliens, on the Sunday after he came home from a two week stay in the mental ward of York Hospital, I came into the kitchen to hear him say to my mother across the room as she washed dishes, “I know now it wasn’t you. It was those damn kids.” And then he saw me, and all I could think was, “They let him out, and he is still crazy.”

But it wasn’t always like that. Most of his stories were about his work, first as a machine operator and then as inspector at Allis Chalmers and then Precision Engineering, where he worked until he retired. He worked on turbines for nuclear power plants and submarines, and his stories were full of his pride in his work, his pride in a job done right, even when everyone else was willing to settle for second best in the service of expediency.

Other times, he spent long hours talking about his racing pigeons, which of his birds won which race, and who he beat, and by how much, tracing the pedigree of the winners through his breeding stock named for the men who had founded the breeding lines–Sion, Bastian, Gruder-Moss, and others whose names I have forgotten. He talked about eye sign, and what made a good homer, and what he was feeding them. He described blue bars and red checks, silvers and chocolates, tail feathers and flight feathers, famous flyers like Federal Girl, who got her name because she always flew over the Federal Bank building when coming home from a race. Several years ago, I realized that his wealth of stories and information about homing pigeons would soon be lost, and I tried to encourage him to talk about the birds while I took notes, but paranoia set in. “No one’s getting my secrets,” he said. “I’m taking them to the grave.”

For years, the week after Thanksgiving, my dad took a week of vacation from work for the first week of buck season. In those early years coming home, he talked about shots made and missed, fourteen point bucks with perfect racks and button bucks. Later, when he no longer hunted, he talked about feeding the deer corn, walking up to them, and talking to them, soothing. “Come on, three-legger,” he’d say to one doe, whose fourth leg had been damaged by a hunter. “Come on, girl. You know me.”

My dad charmed animals, a deer whisperer, dog whisperer, bird whisperer, long before anyone else. For a time, he raised hunting dogs, going small game hunting each fall. Evenings he’d sit on his back porch talking to squirrels, cardinals, and chipmunks, to the gaggle of ducks he kept, who followed him around the yard, to the deer who munched his gift of corn, watching him with their dark brown eyes. If there’s a forest in heaven, he’s sitting in a battered chair near its edge, smoking, drinking coffee, talking in the gathering dusk.

© Bill Stifler, 2009

1.  Accepting Charity 

My dad felt very strongly about accepting charity.  In his mind, it called in question his manhood and his ability to provide for his family.  It was near Christmas; I must have been about 12 years old, and my dad, my brothers and sisters, and I were sitting in the car along a street in York, PA, while my mom was in the store shopping. I was sitting directly behind my dad when a man came up to the car. It was obvious that he had been drinking although I seem to remember that he was not badly dressed. He kept trying to give my father a $20 dollar bill, but my dad refused. Finally, the man gestured toward all of us kids in the car, and looking directly at my dad, he said, “Please, take this money and buy your kids some Christmas presents. If you don’t, I’m just going to end up drinking it.” My dad took the money, thanked the man, and the man left.

The next day my dad kept talking about what had happened. My dad had always refused what he considered ‘charity’ from other people. But this time, in accepting charity from this stranger, it seemed to my dad that it wasn’t charity because my dad had taken the money to help the man keep from drinking. I remember sensing how important this event was to my father and how it made him look at things in a different way.

2.   Dad and Uncle Ben

My dad’s uncle Ben was only a couple of years older than he. Apparently Ben was very mischievous. Once he lured my dad into a field where my dad was attacked by a goat. Another time Uncle Ben told my dad that he had jumped off a local railroad bridge about 30 feet into the Muddy River (in Maryland), which is only a few feet deep. My dad, to prove he was as clever and brave, dove off the bridge into 4 or 5 feet of water.  Dad said he had to pull up sharply, but his chest still scraped the rocky bottom.  When he told Uncle Ben that he dove off the bridge, Ben laughed, and said he had jumped feet first and that he didn’t believe my dad. So dad dove in again, just to prove it.

Another time, dad was driving to Uncle Ben’s. The road twists along through woods along the Muddy River and has numerous blind spots. Dad was driving about 60 miles an hour along this road which was posted for 35. He rounded a particularly dangerous curve on the wrong side of the road. As he did, Uncle Ben passed him going the other way, also on the wrong side of the road. Dad slewed to a stop, turned around, and came racing back down the road to catch Ben. As he again rounded this dangerous curve on the wrong side, Ben passed him going back the way he had come, also on the wrong side. Again, dad found a place to stop and turned around. This time, however, he rounded that dangerous curve carefully, and on the right side of the road. Just past the curve, he found Ben waiting for him. Ben said he hadn’t wanted to try rounding that curve again.

3.  Tobacco Stems

I also have my own trickster story involving my dad. Dad raises homing pigeons, and my brother Joe was stuck with the task of carrying buckets of water up to the second floor of the barn to the breeding pens there and down in the yard to the loft where Dad kept his racing pigeons. My dad bought some tobacco stems for nest bowls. Tobacco is very itchy to handle. Dad came home and at lunch told me that I had a choice between carrying the tobacco stems from where he had left them in the barn down to the loft or letting Joe do that while I watered the birds. Physically, watering the birds was more demanding, but given how itchy the tobacco stems were, handling the tobacco stems was the worse job. My dad had orchestrated all this to teach me a lesson about hard work. Joe was certain I would leave him to move the tobacco stems, and he was not happy. Dad had placed the stems on a large sheet of plastic to protect them from moisture. I asked him if he wanted me to put the stems back on the plastic when I got them down to the loft. When he said yes, I said I’d move the tobacco stems–much to the surprise of both my dad and my brother.  In fact, dad was thrilled.  He had me where he wanted me.

After lunch, I went out to the barn. Lifting the edges of the large plastic sheet, I flipped all the tobacco stems to the center, then grabbed all four corners of the sheet of plastic and dragged it down to the loft, never handling the tobacco stems. In effect, I had outfoxed the fox. Dad was in two minds–unhappy his “lesson” had failed and impressed at my cleverness in evading his trap. Joe, on the other hand, felt cheated.

4.  Pork Brains 

I was a very picky eater as a child (Actually, I still am, although I have gotten somewhat better). One of the foods I particularly hated was liver. One year when I was in senior high, I was shopping with my mother and grandmother. My mother decided we were having liver for supper. Then my grandmother saw some pork brains on sale.

“I haven’t had pork brains in a long time,” she said. “But I can’t eat all those.”

My mother looked at me and said, “If you don’t want liver, you can eat pork brains.”

Well, I knew I didn’t like liver, so I decided to take a chance on the pork brains.  I mean, they couldn’t be worse?

That night at supper, my grandmother and I were eating pork brains while my mother and five siblings were eating liver. While I didn’t like the pork brains, they were better than liver. Then my father came in to join us for supper.

What’s this?” he said, pointing to the pork brains.

My mother said, “If you want some, just eat them.” My father looked at the rest of us. No one said anything.

I shoved a fork full of brains in my mouth. “Go ahead,” I said, trying hard not to smile.

He tried some. “Taste like smelts,” he said. Smelts are fried fish eggs, which my father loves. He helped himself to some more brains. “What are these?” he asked again.

“Just eat them. They’re good,” my grandmother said. Perhaps I should mention this was my maternal grandmother, his mother-in-law. She laughed. At the stove, I heard my mother snicker.

My father grabbed another generous helping. I watched with interest. If this continued, I wasn’t going to have to eat any more brains or liver. I smiled.

My father proceeded to wolf down brains. Soon all the brains were gone. “What were those?” he asked again.

Now that the brains were all gone, I looked my father square in the face. “Pork brains,” I said.

My father leapt from the table, sprang to the door, and ran into the front yard, retching while my mother and grandmother cackled.

© Bill Stifler, 2009

I was in fourth grade when John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Evenings and weekends I watched the news with my parents. Listened as Huntley and Brinkley and Walter Cronkite narrated the events of those days, the assassination, the funeral, the transfer of power. Listened as my parents talked about this president that they had not voted for. This was my introduction into what it meant to be an American.

Late weekend afternoons I watched as Walter Cronkite narrated The Twentieth Century, a TV news program covering the significant events of the century. It was Walter Cronkite who taught me about World War II, the atrocities of war, and the sacrifices of soldiers so that we could live in a better world.

July 20, 1969, my mother’s birthday, my family sat in a dark living room late at night to watch Neil Armstrong in his bulky spacesuit take that last step from a flimsy spacecraft to the surface of the moon. Walter Cronkite was there with us, his voice choked with emotion, “The Eagle has landed.”

A few days after 9/11, Walter Cronkite appeared on David Letterman. He told how so many of the local German families were appalled when they entered the death camps like Auschwitz. Cronkite said he didn’t blame the German people for what happened in those camps. He blamed them for not knowing, and he warned all of us of the dangers of going too far in the coming days, the danger of overstepping ourselves, of hubris as we responded to the national tragedy facing us. We should have listened better.

Friday, July 17, 2009, Walter Cronkite passed on. His voice is silent now.

© Bill Stifler, 2009

That is not faith. But we are so afraid of questions that we will deny any evidence placed before us before we will admit doubts. We are so afraid of doubt that we will stand firm long after it is clear we are wrong because it is better to be certain and wrong than admit uncertainty.

And yet, over and over in the lives of the saints in the Bible, we read of their moments of doubt. Read the lives of the great Christians of the past, and every one of them faced doubt and often more than once in their Christian lives. To doubt is to be human, to recognize human frailty and the limits of human knowledge and experience. Paul tells us that now “we see through a glass darkly,” now “we know in part” (KJV, I Corinthians 13.12). In this life, we will never know the answers to all the questions that face us, and it is only hubris, the worst kind of arrogance to suggest we can.

Faith is no more the absence of doubt than courage is the absence of fear. In Mark chapter 9, a man brought his son to the disciples, a child tormented by seizures, but they were unable to heal him. And when the man brought his son to Christ, the child fell into a fit, and his father said to Christ, “if you can do anything, please have compassion on my son.”

Christ looked at the man and said, “If you can believe, all things are possible to those who believe.”

And that father, torn by doubt, cried out, tears streaming down his face, “I believe, oh, help me believe” (KJV, Mark 9.17-27).

Jesus didn’t condemn him for his doubt. Jesus didn’t berate him. Jesus didn’t say, “I’m sorry. Your faith just isn’t strong enough.” Jesus healed his son. Jesus healed his son because, in the midst of doubt, the man believed. Hebrews 11: 1 tells us that “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (KJV, Heb. 11.1). Faith is not dead certainty. Faith is not blind belief. Faith comes with humility and a contrite heart.

Hours before his crucifixion, Jesus told his disciples he would be taken and they would abandon him. When Peter heard Christ’s words, he said, “Oh. no, Jesus. Not me. All these may doubt, but not me. I will be faithful. I will be true.” And Jesus looked him in the eye and said, “Peter, before the cock crows twice, you will deny me thrice.”

And, Peter said, “I will die before I deny you” (KJV, Matthew 26. 31-35). Peter was so angry. How could Jesus doubt his faith? And moments later, when Judas came with the betrayer’s kiss, and the high priest’s servant stepped forward to take Jesus into custody, Peter leapt forward, swinging his blade, and if the servant hadn’t ducked, Peter would have taken off his head instead of his ear (KJV, John 18:10-11). And then, does Jesus reward him for his faith? No, Jesus turns to Peter and tells him to put down his sword, that those who live by the sword, die by the sword, then heals the servant’s wound before meekly going to his doom. And before the cock crowed morning, Peter, cursing and angry, had denied Christ (KJV, Luke 22.51-62).

And then, in his humiliation, then, his pride broken, then, his arrogance drowned in tears, heartbroken, then, Peter was open to faith. On Sunday morning, when Christ arose from the dead, and the women coming to bind his body found an angel waiting for them, the angel told them “tell his disciples and Peter that he will see them in Galilee just as he promised (KJV, Mark 16.1-7). Tradition says that some short time later, Christ spoke to Peter, privately, and we don’t know what was said, but Peter, his arrogance obliterated, found faith, and with faith, forgiveness.

The true response to doubt is not blind faith. The true response to doubt is humility and prayer, patience and fervent study, waiting on God, who in his own good time, will come to us.

God, grant us the humility to endure doubt
Teach us to pray, in faith believing,
and when all hope is gone,
help us turn to your word,
help us turn to you in prayer,
broken and humble,
to find faith.

© Bill Stifler, 2009

Dabbleboard is a free online whiteboard that is incredibly easy to use. I created a simple diagram illustrating the difference between sacred and profane space for my mythology class in just a few seconds. I downloaded the file as a .png file which allows me to post it on the web. I can also link directly to the image.

The best features of Dabbleboard are the ease in creating line objects, line connections, and text. Images can also be incorporated into the drawing. Drawings can be saved online, downloaded, or linked. A Share+Chat button provides a dedicated link to the image and a chat window. One awkward feature is that, in order to save a complex object, each individual element must be selected and added to the whole. However, the key here is to double check before saving.

One caveat: The Terms of Service say that Dabbleboard owns any images created and the concepts contained in the image. If that is an issue, another service might be used.

There is also a Pro version which offers further functionality and more storage.

The best way to learn about Dabbleboard is to see it in action by viewing the online tutorial. Online instructors and those teaching in smart classrooms may wish to consider adding Dabbleboard to their arsenal of resources.

I have been associated with the Meacham Writers’ Workshop since its inception in the mid ‘80s, first as a graduate student in the English department at UTC and later as a faculty member at Chattanooga State. Over the years, the series has grown, especially on the Chattanooga State campus, where attendance has increased nearly 400% over the last ten years.

Over the years, the Meacham has been an inspiration and motivation to me as a writer, and I have tried to pass that on to my students, and have taken on the responsibility of the Meacham Writers’ Workshop’s web site, which is hosted by Chattanooga State (http://www.chattanoogastate.edu/Meacham/). My goal for the web site, which I began around 2000, has been to both promote the Meacham and to create a repository of information on the many writers who have participated. For the future, I am hoping the site can also serve as a resource for those interested in creative writing and for those who teach creative writing and literature.

Since Bill Teem joined the faculty at Chattanooga State, we have expanded the website to include podcasts of the readings. This year marked a new technological adventure as we audio simulcast the readings in our virtual campus in Second Life (through the efforts and resources of the Chattanooga State Augusta R. Kolwyck library and staff). Eventually, we hope to do even more to make the Meacham accessible and useful, both for those who participate and those around the world with an interest in creative writing and literature.

Not only has the Meacham been important to me professionally, but I have made many friends over the years among the writers who have come. I could not begin to name them all. With that joy has come sadness for those we have lost, including Bill Matthews, Lynda Hull, and recently, Ken Smith.

I only met Bill Matthews once, during my years as a student at UTC. He came to our creative writing class, taught by Rick Jackson, and he and Rick proceeded to engage in the literary equivalent of dueling banjoes.

Ken Smith was my teacher, my colleague, and my friend. Both of us bearded, I often jokingly called him Dad, even though he was only a few years older. I can still hear his voice with its soft undertones and easy grace. Somehow, despite how much I love the Meacham, it always feels a little emptier with him gone, especially on Saturday evenings, which was when he and his wife, Maddie, would fix pasta. One of my fondest memories of Ken took place at the old Cameron Hills clubhouse above downtown Chattanooga, when Ken and his friend and teacher Bob Houston worked behind the kitchen counter crooning old cowboy songs. The Cameron Hills apartments are gone, and Ken is gone, but he still lives on in our memories and in our hearts. Kenny, we miss you.

Those of us who have had the privilege of being part of the Meacham Writers’ Workshop over the years, “we few, we happy few, we band of brothers” and sisters, share a rich heritage and tradition. After all the hard work and preparation, each of us, as the conference ends for the season, looks forward to the next. May we always do so.

© Bill Stifler, 2009

“No,” I said.

“Well, what are you, then?” she said.

“Pennsylvanian,” I said.

I’ve lived in the Chattanooga area most of my life, thirty-seven years now, but I still think of home as Pennsylvania. For a long time, I thought I had lost my Dutch accent. Then about ten years ago, a motorist with a flat tire pulled into my driveway in Ooltewah. I talked to him for awhile, and he said, “You’re from Pennsylvania, aren’t you?” The accent was still there. Sometimes, I’ll hear a recording of myself on the phone, and the voice reminds me of my father’s or one of my brothers’.

A few years ago, I was in a laundromat in Cleveland, TN. Another patron was on his cell phone, and the longer he talked, the more I heard home in his voice. After he finished his phone call, I asked him if he was from PA. “No,” he said, “Michigan.”

“I thought I heard a bit of a Pennsylvania Dutch accent,” I said.

“I did live in Glen Rock, PA, for several years,” he said.

I explained that Glen Rock was just a few miles from where I had grown up.

In the South, people define themselves first and foremost as Southern. I suppose if asked to define ourselves regionally where I grew up, we’d say, Mid-Easterner or Mid-Atlantic, but the question would seem odd. Most of my neighbors were Pennsylvania Dutch, with names ending in -er. Stifler, Olewiler, Bortner, Frutinger, Dellinger, Stover, Kaltreider. And those whose names didn’t end in -er mostly sounded German. Rexroth, Leiphart, Ludwig, Dagenhart, Parr. There were a few generic names, Taylor, Miller, and Robinson, but not many.

When the VW bug appeared in the ‘60’s, the older people at church called it a “Wolksvagen,” falling naturally into the German pronunciation. Even as a child, their voices always had an accent to my ear. And when old fashioned Sunday was celebrated at Windsor Church of God, a member of a Winebrennerian denomination split from the old German Brethren, the song service was in German, my mother, a Methodist from just over the border in Maryland, stumbling over some of the words and surprised at the fluency of my father, who seldom attended church, but had learned the songs as a boy as an Evangelical United Brethren. A few years ago, when my mother was visiting, someone asked her what our background was, and she answered, “Mennonite,” which wasn’t strictly accurate but was a clearer answer than many to my friends in the South who were largely unaware of the rich religious tradition inherited from the German states.

While I seldom eat pork and sauerkraut on New Year’s, or feast on Lebanon bologna, or routinely use words like “nebby” or “doppy” or “fressen,” at heart, I’m still Pennsylvania Dutch. When I think of home, I think of the rolling hills of the piedmont along the Susquehanna River, of cornfields, tobacco fields, cow manure, and dairy farms, of apple orchards and well water, the cluck cluck of pheasant in fall and the foggy breath of deer on a cold November morning.

Much of that world has disappeared in the years I have lived in the South. The pheasant are gone along with the tobacco fields and many of the farms. Clusters of condominiums sit where once were open pastures. The old Dutch farmers have been replaced by commuters from Baltimore and others who like the benefits of open country coupled with easy access to the major cities of the Mid-Atlantic.

But there are still those of us who remember. You’ll find us scattered around these United States, not from around here, sounding like home.

© Bill Stifler, 2009

But the person most responsible for the emotional impact of the disaster is the one known at first simply as “the man in the water.” (Balding, probably in his 50s, an extravagant mustache.) He was seen clinging with five other survivors to the tail section of the airplane. This man was described by Usher and Windsor [the park police helicopter team] as appearing alert and in control. Every time they lowered a lifeline and flotation ring to him, he passed it on to another of the passengers. “In a mass casualty, you’ll find people like him,” said Windsor. “But I’ve never seen one with that commitment.” When the helicopter came back for him, the man had gone under.   (Rosenblatt, par. 4)

In John 5, Jesus tells us “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (KJV, John 5.13). “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you, that ye should go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain: that whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in my name, he may give it you. These things I command you, that ye love one another” (KJV, John 5.16-17).

God wants us to be “the man in the water.” All around us, people are drowning. Some are drowning in sin, some, in doubt. Some are drowning in heartache, some in sickness, some in pain. Some are drowning in debt. Some are drowning in loneliness. So many are drowning, believing they are all alone in the water, trapped in the swells, desperate for help.

God calls on us to hold them up. We hold them up in prayer. We hold them up when we give them a shoulder to cry on. We hold them up when we lend a helping hand. We hold them up when we listen. We hold them up when all we can do is hold them.

And when we are drowning, we have the promise that the God of all comfort comforts us in all our troubles, holding us up, so we may comfort those we will find in the water by that same comfort we receive from Him (II Cor. 1.3-4).

_______________

Rosenblatt, Roger. “The Man in the Water.” Time. 25 Jan. 1982. Time, Inc. 4 Feb. 2009 <http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,925257,00.html>.

 © Bill Stifler, 2009