Life - Line Devotionals

MIRIAM AND RICHARD

Canada and the United States are lands of freedom, or so we’re told.

Copyright January 7, 2007 / Leslie A Turvey laturvey@becon.org

Canada’s gold medal Olympian, Miriam Bedard, and an Ohio man, Richard Markland, share a common life experience. They both spent the winter holidays in jail.

Miss Bedard was thrown into a Maryland slammer for having taken her twelve-year-old daughter from their home in Quebec to the United States, ostensibly in violation of a child custody order. After considerable international communication, the American penal authorities said she could return to Canada but would remain in custody until the Canadian authorities arrived to pick her up.

Recent news reports have said Canada didn’t seem too anxious to retrieve her. She was, however, finally picked up by the R.C.M.P. and moved to a Canadian jail.

It is believed her incarceration, and Canada’s reluctance to have her back, was not due to the child custody order, but because Miss Bedard had been extremely vocal about the Canadian government’s involvement in a multimillion dollar scheme known as The Sponsorship Scandal.

There’s a lot more to the Bedard case, but the more one digs, the more one becomes convinced she was framed for being a whistle blower.

So what about Richard Markland? Is his imprisonment truly the result of ra~pe of an eight-year-old child, as the charges against him stated, or was he also framed to silence him?

Richard is well known in many countries for his criticism of man’s governmental, judicial, and religious systems. But those in positions of authority don’t take kindly to people who expose the truth. Yet, in the free world they can’t say this person is making my life uncomfortable, so I’ll have him canned.

On the other hand, it’s easy to trump up charges based on a person’s weird religious beliefs – weird, that is, in the estimation of those bringing the charges. A little help from a child who doesn’t understand the impact her stories can have, can easily put a whistle blower behind bars for years.

Such may be the case with Richard Markland. Richard and his wife Linda had been long-time seventh-day sabbath keepers, and followed the laws of God as they were able. Some time before the charges were laid against him, Richard made it known certain of his in-laws blamed him for Linda’s death by cancer. But that accusation would never hold up in court. So did they, perhaps, entice a young girl to say Richard had ra~ped her several times over several months?

What jury would believe a child would go back time after time to be alone with a man who had hurt her? Still it seems an Ohio Common Pleas Court jury believed she did. And who’s to say some palms weren’t greased to obtain a declaration of guilt? Neither those who bribe, nor those who accept bribes, willingly admit to their wrongdoing.

It’s a fact that Miss Bedard took her daughter stateside. But did Richard Markland, in fact, ra~pe an eight-year-old girl? Only three people know for sure: Richard, the little girl, and God. The rest of us can believe what we want: our thinking makes no difference.

“But,” you say, “if Richard is innocent” – and I believe he is – “wouldn’t God have convinced the jury to acquit him?” Not necessarily. God tells us we cannot understand his thoughts and ways (Isaiah 55:8-9). Why not? Because we think in human terms – It’s not fair; God wouldn’t do that; Why did God let my child die? – but God has a plan for all mankind, and it’s far beyond our comprehension.

There’s a wonderful story in Genesis 39:1 - 41:57. Joseph’s employer, Potiphar, incarcerated Joseph on trumped up charges. In our human way of thinking we might wonder why God didn’t reveal the truth to Potiphar. But all’s well that ends well. Through Joseph’s lengthy imprisonment and eventual release, he was used to save Egypt from starvation during a seven-year drought.

Will Richard save the United States from starvation by being locked up in a state prison for the next ten years? Not likely. But God can use him inside the prison walls to bring God’s message of hope and salvation to his fellow inmates. Let that be our prayer.

GOD’S NAME IS BUD

The Holy Names people try to convince Christians we must use the Hebrew and Greek names when speaking about God. But I believe God has other names as well.

Copyright April 8, 2007 / Leslie A Turvey, laturvey@becon.org

A simple backwoods fellow was asked if he knew God’s name. “Sure,” came the reply. “It’s Andy.”

The questioner asked where he got that idea. “Well,” came the answer, “We sing in church. ‘Andy walks with me; Andy talks with me; Andy tells me I am his own.’”

Sometimes I think too much emphasis is devoted to Yaweh or El Shaddai or Jehovah, or whatever else the Holy Names people decide to use, and fail to see the child-like quality in our backwoods friend’s idea that God’s name is Andy. After all, it was Jesus who said, “Unless you are converted and become like little children, you shall not enter into God’s kingdom (Matthew 18:3).”

Tuesday provided a beautiful morning for a walk, and as Betty and I stepped into the fresh air we saw a couple robins hopping along, looking for a meal. Later a black squirrel ran in front of us and climbed a tree where it was safe to peek out and watch us. Ever notice that squirrels are generally on the other side of the tree? Yet they’re always curious enough to let their nose and eyes and ears, and sometimes their bushy tail, tell us where they are.

A neighbour’s garden was green with the shoots of daffodils poking above the earth. And another’s was alive with the colours of the first crocuses of spring.

A mourning dove cooed gently from his perch above us, and the buds on the maple trees gave us hope of summer ahead.

In a small forested area we heard the hammering of a woodpecker, and watched a couple killdeer as they scooted through a clearing. The call of a lone goose attracted our attention in another direction, and Betty stopped to chat with a chorus of sparrows. She’s a feminine Dr Doolittle who talks to all the birds and animals, and sometimes it seems like they even talk back to her.

And I must confess I often “Caw, caw, caw” to the noisy black crows who tell us we’re invading their territory. I’ve also been known to whistle back to a beautiful red cardinal calling to his mate.

Of course, at this time of year there’s puppies and kittens, and little kid goats and spring lambs prancing in the fields. Soon the garter snakes will emerge from their winter burrows to sun themselves on nearby branches, while bees ‘n butterflies ‘n all sorts of bugs will add their special beauty to our walks. I’ll especially be on the lookout for a glorious yellow and black garden spider. Don’t see them often, but my camera will be handy when one appears.

I could continue with an inventory of many other creations of God, but why should I take away your fun? Wherever you live you’ll see birds and animals and flowers indigenous to your area. If you’re a farmer you’ll see your fields carpeted with the green shoots of spring wheat. And if you enjoy walks in the woods you’ll soon see pussywillows and ferns and a multitude of colourful plants around you.

So what does all this have to do with God’s name? Perhaps we all need to become as the child-like backwoods fellow who believed God’s name is Andy. Thinking like he did, I venture to say God’s name is Robin and Bumblebee and Pussywillow, or maybe even Bud.

A BETTER GUARANTEE

Guarantees often are not worth the paper they’re written on, but there’s one guarantee that is.

Copyright Leslie A Turvey, May 13, 2007 laturvey@becon.org

Years ago an old codger came into the camera store where I worked, wanting a camera to take pictures of his first great-grandchild. He wanted something simple to use, and not too expensive.

A used camera on our shelves hadn’t sold for months. Most people wanted new equipment.

The store manager, seeing an opportunity, told me I was needed somewhere else in the store, and took over my customer. Away went the camera I had been showing, and down came the used one from an upper shelf.

He extolled the merits of old camera, made some settings on it for the customer, and gave him a good price. Realizing the old fellow wouldn’t likely live until the newborn’s first birthday, our manager offered him a life-time guarantee on the camera.

Result: one satisfied, but unsuspecting customer; one rather unscrupulous but happy store manager.

We all want guarantees, don’t we? When we buy a used car we want to know if there’s any warranty left on it. If we buy a new car we want one with a million-mile, sixty-year warranty. Well, not quite, but you know what I mean.

Nearly everything we buy comes with a warranty of some sort. The small print often refers to a limited warranty, which generally means the warranty is worthless. It’s akin to an insurance policy that promises if you lose your left arm in a skiing accident in the Andes, the insurance company will help you find your arm.

One toothpaste commercial is a joke. It guarantees to clean your teeth three shades whiter with just one tube, or your money will be refunded. But what is a shade? I might say there are three shades of red: maroon, red, and pink. A scientist will say there are three thousand shades of red. So what criteria for three shades does the toothpaste manufacturer use: mine or the scientist’s? Dumb question.

Of course guarantees on most mechanical devices warn that you dare not remove a screw or the warranty is void. And that reminds me of a refrigerator we bought several years ago. New fridge, but it came with an unusual rattle. A service man found the source of the noise, and corrected it. How? He removed a screw from another part of the fridge, and used it to tighten the panel that was rattling. I’m not sure that’s what the guarantee covered.

Is there any guarantee that’s worth the paper it’s written on? Not when man is writing the paper, it seems. But when God writes the guarantee, you can count on it with no limitations.

Most Christians can quote the most famous guarantee in the bible: John 3:16. But to the down-and-out whose home is some cardboard boxes beneath a railway overpass, it really means nothing. And even the Christian do-gooder, who quotes it to the derelict, generally doesn’t understand it’s full impact.

Every one of us has sinned and fallen short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23; 5:12; 6:23). That means we have no hope of joining God and Jesus Christ in their eternal kingdom of peace and abundance. In fact, we are all destined to be burned to ashes in a lake of fire God will prepare for sinners (Revelation 20:14-15; 21:8; Malachi 4:1-3).

But God created us to be like him (Genesis 1:26-27), perfect and blameless in every way. So how can we get rid of our sinful nature, and be made fit for a marvellous life that never ends?

In ancient times the Israelites were commanded to sacrifice their livestock, not to appease God but, as a reminder that sin is costly. But those sacrifices couldn’t save them from the lake of fire (Hebrews 10:1-4).

OK. Then maybe if we give our money to charities, and help little old ladies carry their groceries, God will take note, and preserve our hides. Nope! (Ephesians 2:8-9).

So where does John 3:16 come in? Since we can’t buy our way into the kingdom of God through sacrificing animals, or through doing good works, there has to be another way, and that’s through God’s love for us. (vs 8). The bible refers to his love as grace.

But we can’t just stand around waiting for his grace. Instead, we must believe on God’s only son, Jesus Christ, who was sacrificed so we could be made right with God (Romans 5:8-10). To believe on Jesus is to trust him with our spiritual life, to faithfully believe that he will – if we repent of our sins – ensure us eternal life in his glorious kingdom (Acts 2:38). To repent means to consider our wrong ways, and make the necessary changes in our life by turning our lives over to God.

Man has his warranties and guarantees, but there is a better guarantee. It’s this: "God so loves every man, woman, and child on earth, including the Hindus and Muslims and Buddhists, coloured and white, alcoholics and gamblers, homosexuals and prostitutes and, oh yes, Christians too, that he willingly gave his only begotten son to be sacrificed in a most horrendous way for us, that whoever repents of their sinful ways, and trusts their eternal life to him, no matter how much of a low life they have been, and even (insert your name), need not die the second death in the lake of fire for the sins we have all committed, but that we may have everlasting life in the glorious kingdom of God (John 3:16).”

PRINTER’S INK FLOWS THROUGH MY VEINS

When my father's brother from England asked my about my journalistic career I started writing -- and writing -- and writing. At risk of you saying, "Ho hum. Who cares?" I offer my life story to you so you'll know what kind of guy I really am.

Copyright 2007 / Leslie A Turvey laturvey@becon.org

If there’s such a thing as a writing gene, Mom has one. For years she has written prose and poetry, and made sure I wrote all the essays assigned in school. That really wasn’t hard for me because I seem to have inherited the gene from her.

Dad had some great photographic skills which he taught to me. He also encouraged me to take a correspondence course in photography.

At high school I combined both skills as part of our year book production, and earned extra spending money by photographing couples at school dances and other events.

Our high school principal, Duncan Pearce, recognized my talents, and encouraged me to use them as a career. During my high school years I met a beautiful British girl who attended school about half an hour from home. Considering Mr Pearce’s hopes for me, Pauline Austin and I discussed our plans for the future, which included attending Ryerson University in Toronto, and marriage after graduation.

Our plans began to unravel even before we met. At age fifteen I had an accident which left me blind in my left eye. Back then hospital stays were lengthy, and were generally followed by even longer periods of recuperation at home.

Two operations were required, one immediately after the accident, and another somewhat later. After losing a month of school I fell so far behind in my courses that I failed the year. The next year I went back and passed with excellent grades. Hey, I had a head start on the rest of the class!

After the second operation, and loss of another month of schooling, I became rather hopeless about my plan to attend Ryerson, and failed another year. I wanted to quit school, but Dad wisely urged me to go back, advising it would be better to quit on a winning year than a failing one. His idea, of course, was I might continue on to university.

I took Dad’s advice, but at the end of my passing year a community newspaper opened up in Port Colborne, and I was hired on. The call of a weekly pay cheque prevailed over Dad’s hopes of furthering my education. It also put the kibosh on my hopes of marriage. Pauline went on to pursue her education at Ryerson, and wrote to say she met a fellow whom she would marry after graduation.

In my three years with the Port Colborne News one of my stories was picked up and republished by the Vancouver Sun. The first feather in my journalistic cap.

As part of my work for the News I went underground, on the ground, and even above ground. Ontario Hydro Corporation was building a new electric generation plant in Niagara Falls, and I managed to get into one of the immense tunnels that would eventually carry water from the upper Niagara River to the massive generators down river.

The most exciting – and most ridiculous – ground-level assignment came when the Maple Leaf Flour Mill burned down. The heat was so intense the concrete walls became dust, and a fire fighter burned his hand when he touched the wall of the grain storage building more than two hundred feet away.

What made this all-night assignment so ridiculous was about twenty journalists were hunkered down near the action, waiting for the grain storage to explode. We would have all been killed, of course, but hopefully one of us would get a good action photo for our newspapers to publish. The explosion never occurred, but we all got some great photo stories of the fire.

After Pauline wrote her goodbye letter, a short little gal from our church, Jeannette Hoyle, emerged to sweep me off my feet. She accompanied me on some of my Port Colborne News assignments, then began nurses training in nearby St Catharines.

About the same time a new radio station, C-HOW (pronounced See How) broke ground just north of Port Colborne. I grabbed some photos of the early construction, and before the cement foundation had dried I was hired as a reporter and public relations photographer.

Prior to our first broadcast date the owners decided I should become a multi-tasking employee. They taught me how to operate the control room, and when an announcer spoke into the airwaves, “C-HOW Radio is on the air,” I had the honour of spinning the first record, the theme from the movie Around The World In Eighty Days.

While at C-HOW I met several celebrities from the entertainment world, did a bit of on-air announcing, and forgot my name. Say what?

The Fort Erie thoroughbred race track was not far away, so it was decided we should announce the race results. The job fell to me, and when the results of each race came over the teletype, I would pick up a telephone in the studio, and after playing some appropriate race track music and background noise I’d announce the results to our listeners.

At then end of each broadcast I would sign off by saying, “And this is Les Turvey returning you to C-HOW Radio, and music.” But one day I forgot my name. The announcement became, “And this is ----- the timer, returning you to C-HOW Radio.” You can imagine the hilarity that swept through the studio.

I normally didn’t carry my camera equipment to work unless I knew it would be needed. One day I was told to head home and get it. Our chief announcer, Ron Grimster, and I had a special assignment out in the boondocks. At home I burst through the back door, hustled through the dining and living rooms, and upstairs to get my equipment. As I returned through the living room I realized Dad was sitting in his favourite chair, chatting with someone across the room. As I dashed through the dining room Dad asked where I was going. “To the nudist colony,” I called back. Then I heard it: “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!.” The only person in Port Colborne who said that was our aging Baptist minister.

What took place at the nudist colony is too long a story to tell here, but it’s one assignment I shall never forget. Nor will I ever forget the gorgeous eighteen year old who stripped naked less than five feet from where I was operating the on-site controls. Man, my hormones were popping out of my eyeballs!

‘Nuf of that. Back at the studio the excitement continued, until I received word that Jeannette would have to leave school. Her kidneys were failing, and she would not live many more years. Dr Mustard advised that we should be married so she could have a bit of hope for the future. I left the radio station to work as a wedding photographer which allowed for steady daytime hours, with Sundays off, so I could spend regular time with my bride. Our life together was short. Jeannette died two days after our third anniversary.

I wanted to get away, and left home to sell photographic equipment in a Brantford department store. When the store manager told me I was being transferred to the Windsor branch, I packed my suitcase and put in a full evening shift on Friday. About ten-thirty that night I left for places I’ had only heard about. In Chatham I took a coffee break, then continued toward Windsor. I don’t remember anything about those last fifty miles, until a flashing neon sign woke me up. I’d somehow safely reached my destination. There had to be angels caring for me all the way.

Just days after arriving I was invited to a birthday party, and there met the tall, slim, beautiful birthday girl just turning nineteen. We dated briefly, then one night I told her we were going to be married. That may sound presumptuous, but I honestly believed God had brought us together. On Xmas eve we made it official: Betty Anne Miller would become Betty Anne Turvey. The wedding took place on July 29, 1964, and after 42 years she still cooks my meals, does my laundry, and worries about our four sons.

The call of the printer’s ink beckoned once again, and I became a reporter for the Sandwich Herald, later renamed the Windsor Herald. When the chief news editor for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s Windsor station took a month’s vacation, he asked me to fill in for him. Wow! Coast-to-coast coverage! It was gruelling, working for the Herald and the CBC at the same time. Insane, but fun!

Windsor is a college town, and it was there that I honed my editing skills. Professors from Windsor University would write letters to the Windsor Star, and I would spend an evening correcting their English, their punctuation, and their sentence structure. I would then mail the revised article to them. For some reason I didn’t make any friends among the faculty. Wonder why?

One day the big money called. Chrysler Canada was hiring, and for the next thirteen years I built cars and did various other labours in the Windsor plant. Finally, due to severe health issues, I left factory life, and took on a few other one-year, two-year, and even a seven-year job. Then, when Dad fell ill, and Mom needed help caring for him, Betty suggested we go to Port Colborne to help out. We left our friends of thirty years behind, and hauled our stuff to my home town.

The Port Colborne News had changed hands three or four times while I was away, but as circumstances presented themselves I found myself on staff once again. Life had gone full circle for me.

During a lively news-room discussion someone asked for a definition of a journalist. We decided it was a humble reporter whose only desire is to become famous. Then when we searched for the definition of an editor we said it was someone whose goal is to keep it from happening!

The News didn’t last long after I returned. Poor management practices had taken it down the road to oblivion. The owner never even gave us enough time to publish our goodbyes. Instead, the city the News had served faithfully for more than forty years, learned of our demise in the competing Welland Tribune.

A few years earlier the News began publishing short articles with the title I’ve Been Thinking, written by members of the local clergy. I was the only local representative of a sabbath-keeping congregation, and worked my way into the writing rotation. After the close of the News, the Tribune picked up the column, but the ministerial association decided since I was not an ordained minister I should not be allowed to continue writing with them. So much for Christian brotherhood.

No problem, though. God led me in another direction, and for the past ten years I have published Life Lines to two thousand readers via email. Life Lines is a thought-provoking, sometimes humorous look at life, written from the viewpoint of the bible. With God’s blessing I will write Life Lines for the rest of my life, or until my change to spirit composition, whichever comes first.