Purgatory Penman

Are We Still Here?

2009-04-07T18:20:00.000-07:00

Is there anyone out there who would still like to read this blog? Due to circumstances and life's tragedies, we have not been able to contribute to this site for some time. Now, however, I would like to share viewpoints and opinions with others. Do let me know if you have read my posts and comment on them.

Thanks.
Penman's Mom

JOHN 14:6

2007-07-30T10:49:00.000-07:00

Jesus is literally the Word I need and the air I breathe. His Holy Spirit and Mr. Borland's ministry inspired me to render artistically the meaning of John 14:6, "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No man cometh to the Father, but by Me."

I prayed and studied for weeks for the inspiration to create this image. Once the Holy Spirit placed it into my mind and heart, I could not get it drawn fast enough nor rest 'til it was complete.

Jesus' hands are raised in victory over death, the permanent nail scars displayed as a sign He fulfilled His duty. Heaven, the New Jerusalem, the Throne of God, awaits behind the Lord. You must pass through Jesus, His glorified form shining in the sky, to reach the Father in His celestial city, the place of eternal glory, worship, and rest.

Through Jesus only the gates are always open, our only Savior.

May all repent and join us there with Jesus one day.

Jeffrey Wallace

THREADS OF HUMANITY

2007-07-26T19:08:00.000-07:00

"God has made all that we see...He has made us also--poor atoms mixed up with this great universe. We shine like these fires and those stars; we sigh like those waves; we suffer like those great ships, which are worn out in ploughing the waves, in obeying the wind which urges them towards an end, as the breath of God blows us towards a port. Everything likes to live...and everything is beautiful in living things." Alexander Dumas

Cause and effect appears to be the prevailing rhyme of reason in the universe--a great fabric of interconnectedness that propels us forward. Each individual soul is essential in this woven commonality of experience. Every thought, when voiced or acted upon, has far reaching consequences. Events and ideas are related to each other in so many ways; the instantaneously formed relationships are not always obvious, but are all, nevertheless, important. Improved communication technologies like the Internet and the developing world economy have enhanced the effects of each person's participation and tightened the fabric's weave to a point where it is stretched taut and ringing: sensations or disturbances on one side of the globe can be known almost immediately on the other. One country's conflict is another's financial crisis. One's passing fad is another's cultural phenomenon.

As a result, the current fraying and disassembling of America's traditional Judeo-Christian moral and ethical fiber will soon be replicated in developing countries. Our nation has always been the original "American Idol" to the rest of the world, a bright, shining city on a hill to their eyes. Our accamplishments inspired them to greatness, and our prodigal backslide into depravity will in time lead them to destruction. Only a remenant will be saved. They will be saved by the influence of the Holy Spirit and Born-again Christians who are willing to take a stand for their faith regardless of the consequences, those willing to truly live like Jesus in all aspects of their lives.

What does it mean to live like Jesus in our modern world? I personally do not believe that Jesus would be interested in political parties, special interest groups, or positions of worldly power. He could have just concentrated on preaching to the multitudes but instead chose to spend most of His precious time with a few select individuals--His personal friends and people He touched and ministered to on an individual basis. He understood what we are just beginning to perceive well--what a truly small world it is. Everything we think and feel and our corresponding words and actions influence others--our children and families, our friends and neighbors, their friends and neighbors and their families developing into entire communities, communities into cities, cities into nations. Every individual interaction can be the starting point for a chain of events and reactions permeating and evolving exponentially on their own into persuasive ideological movements. Laws cannot change belligerant and resistant minds, but kind words and compassionate people can.
"A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pitchers of silver"(Prov. 23:11).
"Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy" (Matt. 5:7).

Jesus was not impressed by people who professed their own rightousness, or wore it like a robe or office for the world to see. Neither should we take it for granted that someone who claims to be a Christian knows what he is talking about regarding such a claim, especially our chosen leaders. Jesus said you would know someone not by what they claim, but by their actions. Everyone wants to live, and you should know a Christian by his passion concerning the sanctity of life--all life and all people. Every step should be taken to preserve and protect life in all circumstances. It is a sign of a person's inner convictions. A Christian is convicted and inspired in his thoughts and actions by the Holy Spirit, an important part of the Holy Trinity which is in totality the maker and sustainer of all life. This inner inspiration is reflected in what a Christian does and says.

"Wherefdore by their fruits ye shall know them..." (Matt. 7:20).

According to the Bible, to become a Born-again Christian, you must repent of all of your sins; plead Jesus' shed blood on the cross for the forgiveness of your sins to cleanse you from all unrightousness; accept Jesus the Son of God as your Lord (which means "Master") and Savior; and ask His Holy Spirit to enter your heart and direct your life according to your master's will completely. Nothing less will do. Once saved from the penalty for your past sinful life (which is Hell), you naturally desire to live a life that honors and glorifies God for all that He has done for you--for His mercy and grace that sent His Son to suffer and die in your place. You want to live as Jesus did and to see the world as He sees it--as a work to be brought to completion.

Jesus pulls all the loose threads together for us. He is the original Dream Weaver who makes sure our youthful hopes of changing the world do not fade away with the dawn of maturity, but continue on as effectual life-long missions of influence. For the moment one cannot fully grasp the total effects our single, solitary lives have had on humanity--how important dynamic Christian examples really are in the scheme of things. This we can know now: in the end, Jesus will make His Tapestry of Life completely beautiful again, once and forever, and His "Born-again Artisans" will have helped.

J. Wallace

MASTER JESUS

2007-05-21T19:24:00.001-07:00

"That if thou shalt confess with the mouth Lord (*which means master) Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved"(Rom. 10:9).

*The literal translation from the original Hebrew and Greek of the Bible for the word "Lord" is "Master," as in a master/servant relationship. The word Lord is so often used in association with or in place of Jesus's name by Christians that it has almost become part of His name in usage, a way of addressing Him in speech or prayer often without the conscious realization that it is not His name, but is in reality His title--"Master Jesus" to His servant Christians. This is not a confortable connotation for fiercely independent Americans, but it is nevertheless our actual position in relation to Jesus as Savior--as servants to our Master's will.

What changes would the realization and deliberate acknowledgement of our true relationship to our Master Jesus as Christians bring to our church services, witnessing, and prayer life? Would a minister or layperson be so bold as to demand the attention of our Savior in Heaven if instead of crying out "Lord!," they addressed Him as "Master"? What kind of adament requests would a servant whose daily needs have already been well taken care of make of his master? A grateful servant would presume to make very few. Substitute Master for the word Lord in your scripture reading and experience the difference in perspective.

The word "master" is defined as one having authority or control over others. Some who profess to be Born-again Christians state that as part of their "sanctification process". They strive to daily submit more and more of their mind and will over to the authority and control of their Savior Jesus. According to Romans 10:9, the feat of becoming a servant given over completely to the Savior's will, the will of our "Master Jesus," is realized and accepted completely as an act of our will and confessed with our mouth at the exact moment of our conversion. It is a miracle originated and orchestrated by the Holy Spirit and is absolutely necessary if our salvation is to be genuine. Jesus is to be our complete Master Savior from the beginning, if we have been predestined to become His servants before creation, truly children of God and His emmissaries on earth from the start.

I have been reading Iagain The Man in the Iron Mask , the last book in The Three Musketeers Series by Alexander Dumas. Not that long ago in human history, it was considered to be a privilege and honor to serve someone important, to pledge one's life in service to them with loyalty and courage, self-sacrifice if necessary. As Christians, if we perform and complete our missions well, one day we will be greeted by our Master King on His palace grounds with the additional reward of the words, "Well done, good and faithful servant."

P.S. Melinda Doolittle, one of the last three contestants on the American Idol program, good Christian girl that she is, when the show's camera crew this week visited her hometown of Brentwood, Tennessee (just outside Nashville), she led them to her home church. During last night's live broadcast, Melinda wore a dress which bore the words, "Death Cheater" and a cross. Though she possessed by far, and consistently, the absolute best singing voice and professional delivery of the season, this week, of course, she was voted off. God bless this courageous Christian willing to take a stand for her faith, one of Jesus's good and faithful servants.

J. Wallace

DIVINE CORRECTION

2007-05-16T19:16:00.000-07:00

I recently asked the Lord to send His Holy Spirit to show me where I have been wrong. Sometimes I lend my support to people and ministries with a heart of compassion but a head disengaged. Jesus did exactly what I asked Him to do, using off-handed comments, educational texts, and even media sources to present me in short succession what I needed to know. It was a demonstration of the supernatural interceding into the physical plane in minor related events that only I would know were the answer to prayer (a concept related in the book entitled The Shy God).

I wrote sometime ago about lending my support through involvement to a local Saturday night Catholic Mass. I felt sorry for their ministry--it was so poorly attended--and assumed that these must be some genuine Born-again Catholic Christians. After all, they believe Jesus is the Son of God, that He died on the cross for our sins, and He rose from the dead on the 3rd day to prove His assertions. I didn't investigate the matter further, exactly what they taught and believed, but just assumed their gospel was similar.

I began attending their masses. The nun that organized their services complimented me on my public speaking, after I was once called upon to give a short testimony, and asked me to read the Responsorial Psalm segment of their mass every week. I have done so for months.

Events unfolded quickly after my recent prayer for Divine correction.

A few weeks ago after mass, their youngest priest, in a casual conversation with several attendees voiced his admiration for their latest pope, Pope Benedict XVI. The priest fervently supported the Pope's recent publicised comments concerning Islam and his call to "keep Catholicism pure--free from the influences and taint of modern culture and other faiths." The priest looked sternly right at me as he made this point.

I was perplexed by the attention. Who didn't admire someone who took a stand for his faith regardless of the consequences? Wasn't that just faith in practice, and weren't we all Christians in this present company? I assumed that we were Born-again Christians regardless of our affilliations, Protestant or Catholic. Being a news fanatic, I came across several news articles the next week that related and analyzed the Pope's recent comments and read them thoroughly. Something of the fundamental, strictly exclusive, and somewhat primitive nature of traditional Catholic theology began to come into focus.

The following Saturday night, our kindly nun had one booklet left over. She asked me to take it so she wouldn't have to "lug it home," and made me promise to read it. The booklet outlined simply the major doctrines of the Catholic Church. It was shocking!

I can't recall ever before reading the Protestant faith referred to as heresy in any modern literature. How could I be a heretic when sympathy led me to support their pitifully attended services in the first place, assuming that a Christian label meant Born-again Christianity. Saved by baptism as an infant; a blatant works equals salvation message; parrishioners deemed too ignorant to understand scripture properly; total allegiance and submission to a mortal and often fallible hierarchy of men; a strange and seemingly canibalistic, literal interpretation of communion called the Eucharist (which reminds me of John 6:52-66); the Catholic Church alone presented as the only true religion of Jesus Christ, etc.--what kind of faith had I been supporting?

After the Vatican II Conferance in the 1960's, the Catholic Church realized that their membership was diminishing. Outreach programs were initiated such as Cursillo and Kairos, which are presented as ecumenical, "spiritual awakening" seminars. In these sessions Bibles are banned, psychological techniques are utilized to dredge up old personal issues and create an atmosphere of emotional vulnerability, and no gospel is preached--just an allegiance to the group reinforced by regular meetings in the name of Christ's Love. Why would a strictly non-ecumental religion sponsor a supposed ecumenical ministry, one in which the major outcome is the creation of a list of names and semblance of religiousness through which no one is saved? Why does the Catholic Church need this list of names?

"It is not unlikely that, in the future we are now preparing, a question of politics and intrigues may still arise, but the springs by which they work will be so carefully concealed that no one will be able to see aught but flowers and paintings, just as at the theatre, where a Colossus appears upon the scene walking along moved by the small legs and slender arms of a child concealed within the framework"--Alexander Dumas.

The end result of this experience was humility. How often has compassion led Christians to lend their support to ministries without fully investigating the underlying doctrines foundational to these "Christian faiths?" What exactly had I been endorsing with my attendance and participation? What kind of harm had I unwittingly done by my example? Only the Lord knows.

P.S. My daughter and I have been praying for immediate salvation for Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Britney Spears. Imagine what a witness that would be for the world! I jokingly told my beautiful, Christian offspring that they would go from being the "Spice Girls" (not the original music group; I referred to their lifestyles), to the "Nice Girls!"

J. Wallace

The Young Wallace Family just before my father died and my young son at the age of two. These are portraits that I drew.

2007-04-19T20:08:00.000-07:00

MAKE ME PROUD (a short story)

2007-02-24T09:17:00.000-08:00

The afternoon would likely end in violence. Two boys who had taunted Shawn before outside the schoolhouse now exited the park and followed not far behind him. Shawn quickened his pace. If they meant trouble, he would not run but would try to avoid an unnecessary confrontation if at all possible. It was a matter of principle. He had to hurry. His home was at the bottom of the next hill, and his older brother might wait there.

Shawn wondered what the boys could have against him.

He was popular among their classmates in the red brick school they all attended, one built on a leveled mound in the shade of stately oak trees that grew in the park. The setting was a vestige of the Old South: a Greek-revival style building populated with the offspring of people who had everything in common. They held the same kind of jobs in Memphis, attended both kinds of churches--Baptist and Methodist. Their children joined the same Boy Scout and Girl Scout troops. They played football in the park in the fall and baseball in the spring. When it snowed, the park hills were a winter carnival for joyous kids who sled together and gathered 'round campfires into the night. Doors were often left unlocked. Conflicts were generally unheard of.

Shawn was bigger than most of his peers and never had had a problem before. This was probably a result of the fact that he grew faster and liked to eat. Consequently, the football coaches loved him, but he was known to look out for the smaller children, a gentle bear of a lad. His grades were good. He was considered to be the school artist, able to render beautiful promotional posters for the library and murals for the classroom, dinasaurs for his friends, and valentines for the pretty girls he had crushes on. He didn't seem to have an enemy. Why were these two so angry?

Shawn turned into his driveway toward the end of the street and glanced back. The boys were still a couple of houses behind him. He had just made it! Shifting his attention to the driveway again, the young boy halted his steps. His big brother stood at the top of the hill, in the middle of the drive, feet apart and fists on his hips. He glowered at his younger sibling.

"Well," he demanded. "What are you going to do about this?"

"Wha... What do you mean?" Shawn asked.

"You know what I mean!", his brother barked. "There are those two hoodlums again, the trash from the other side. If they call you one more name, you are going to fix it--today, or I'm going to beat you myself!"

Shawn knew this was no idle threat. He moved beside his brother just as the two boys crossed his driveway entrance.

"Hey, Jethro!", one called out. "Don't run to your big brother for help. We won't hurt you too bad!"

Shawn recognized them as being from the impoverished area beyond his neighborhood.

For some reason, most of the children in the subdivision were boys. They had waged an ongoing "war" with the kids from the poor side of town. Battles were waged in the woods on vacant lots at the end of his street, at night after the street lights came on. Shawn's brother assumed leadership of their forces. He called conferences in the log cabin, tool shed their father had built in the backyard. The boys from his street conferred there to plan their attacks. They schemed and plotted; in candlelight, tales of imagined insults and treachery fueled their desire for vengeance.

Once their foes had been spotted in the woods, impassioned youths swarmed like hornets out into the night. They hid behind parked cars and hedgerows and advanced breathlessly to the tree line, mimics of the soldiers they saw every night on the news from a distant place calledVietnam. En masse, they would hesitate. Someone would give the signal. With war whoops, the trible would run through the woods and scream, banging sticks on tree trunks and throwing fire crackers or the spined pods from sweetgum (gumball) trees. They would advance and withdraw again and again until everyone was exhausted and drenched in sweat. No one was ever seriously hurt. It was supposed to be all in fun. What was this, now, about?

Shawn's brother gave him his best stern commander look. "They're waiting at the bottom of the hill," he said. "You know what to do."

Shawn slowly walked down to the smart-mouthed boy in front. He obeyed orders without feeling or thought, like a ghost of someone else in his clothes. "Hey!", the other boy exclaimed. "What do you think you're doing, hero?"

Resigned, Shawn stood silently in front.

The boy reared back a clenched hand to strick. However, before he could bring it around, he stopped suddenly. Something had struck him hard in the face.

Shawn blinked and looked forward. It was his own fist. What felt like a nose crunched under his knuckles. Blood gushed out. The boy crumpled to the ground and knelt in humiliation and pain, hands covering his face.

His friend helped him to his feet. After a moment, they staggered off, like drunks, to their shabby houses beyond the trees.

Shawn's brother came down and put a hand on his shoulder. Together, they watched the pitiful retreat in silence. "That trash had it coming," his brother finally said. I knew you had it in you. You make me proud."

Shawn didn't feel proud. He felt sick. The strength he had always known was absent. In its place was shame. He had perceived the failure in the other boys. What he now understood probably motivated their behavior. It was the shame of acquiescence: to weakly give up and give in to the senseless brutality of an unjust world. It was a lesson he would never forget.

J. Wallace

SAVED FROM FATE (written for Libbie Combe, director of Florida M.A.M.A.--Mothers against Meth Amphetamine

2007-02-24T08:59:00.000-08:00

Some people are born with a predisposition to seek out new experiences, sometimes at great risk to themselves. What constitues reality for others is not enough. They want something more: greater understandings; heightened sensual pleasures in music, art, and physical relations; enhanced cognizance and creative thinking, or a numbness --overall, an escape from the mundane, what is perceived as the drudgery of ordinary life.

Any illicit, mind-altering chemical that provides this escape is at first very positively reinforced. It is the "Aha--this is what I have been looking for" moment, a new-found friend whose exciting distractions suppress personal issues and seem to provide a way out. A harmful drug is like a deceitful and evil-hearted lover--seductive and full of promise in the beginning, but one who ultimately takes everything and leaves nothing behind but despair and death.

Some people come into this world with a propensity toward this kind of destructive relationship with drugs. Only education, constructive counsel, and Divine intervention can save them from their fate.

J. Wallace

BIRTHDAY PRESENCE

2006-11-30T14:42:00.000-08:00

My younger brother Chipper was born just before our father died, a gift in the midst of tragedy. Chipper brought an innocent wonderment back into our family Christmases after the rough time we had gone through together. What we did for him out of love brings a smile to my heart even now.

When Chipper was a child, on Christmas Eve our plan began once he was asleep. Our older brother Lee and I would rush to drag the boxes of toys for Chip out of their hiding places to the den floor to be assembled. The brightly decorated Christmas tree, with blinking lights, filled one corner of the room. Shiny wrapped presents were piled underneath it and in every available space; the television blared music from a Christmas program; and a fire crackled in the fireplace--in total, a delightful sensory overload of colors, lights, sound, and emotion. "Santa's Helpers" placed the completed big toys around the tree for maximum effect in the morning when ecstatic squeals would awaken all of us.

The best part came next. Momma left her cooking and cleaning for a few minutes to accompany me. We crept into Chipper's room and gently roused him.

"Listen," I spoke into his ear. "I hear something outside!"

Lee ran around the house in the cold dark, shaking an old leather harness of sleigh bells and yelling, "Ho, ho, ho!" at the window.

Chipper's hands flew to his face. His countenance beamed with an infectious joy that lit up the room.

"It's Santa Claus!", he whispered excitedly.

"Don't let him see you!" (a traditional warning)

He quickly lay back down and shut his eyes real tight.

We snuggled together in the warm covers until Chipper fell asleep again. My brother, my mother, and I were satisfied and happy, vicarious participants in a little boy's dreams for another blessed Christmas. No wonder Jesus chose to come into this world as a child, making His birthday a gift that inspires and heals.

J. Wallace

THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE

2006-11-30T13:55:00.000-08:00

The plethora of recent technological advances, meant to facilitate communication, entertainment and, overall, make our lives easier, in actuality seem to produce the opposite effect: serving to distract rather than connect; fostering alienation instead of socialization; and encouraging the destructive condition of self absorption while our fellowman suffers. This "Ghost in the Machine" is not the Holy Spirit and may be, in reality, a malevolent presence seeking to create harried, self-centered lives incapable of doing any good for anyone.

News programs this week broadcast a tape of shoppers in California suddenly devolving into a violent mob, striking and running over each other just to purchase a Sony Play Station3 video game console. Some of these consoles would be quickly sold again on E-bay for a two thousand dollar profit, but many participants appeared ready to kill just to be the first owners of what is essentially a juvenile, fantasy-oriented activity that requires a lot of time and accomplishes nothing. These were average everyday citizens of our modern society. What happened to them?

The signs are all around us. Another recent report related the dangers of distracted cell phone, MP3 player and personal assistant(i.e. Blackberry, RTM)usage. People using these appliances, oblivious to their surroundings, have caused traffic accidents, pedestrian mishaps, etc., and have been the victims of muggings in subways, malls, and on busy streets. Parents lament the demise of the traditional family dinner hour and other family-oriented activities because members are preoccupied with instant messaging, maintaining their personal blog or Web sites, burning movie DVD's, downloading music files, and/or participating in chat rooms on the Internet.

Pastors are confessing Internet pornography addictions to their congregations-- technologically induced moral handicaps that interfere with and sabotage their work. College and high school instructors complain that their students are "too dumb," unskilled, and narcissistic to create compositions of any worth, being more interested in the shallow aspects of popular culture, that reach them through media conveyences, than any significant social issues, and "dumbed down" by instant messaging and Internet slang. Many other symptoms of this pervasive technology O.C.D. malady are evident to all of us, but it proceeds to metastasize without hinderance.

The public was amazed by the Amish community's ability to respond to the senseless mass killing of their schoolchildren with humility, faith, grace, and even compassion toward the killer's family, yet are still disturbed by that religion's rejection of most modern technological "conveniences." The Amish were inspired by the Lord's instruction to "be not conformed to this world, but transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good and acceptable, and perfect will of God" (Rom. 12:2). They are assured that He gave us an instructional manual on how to live lives that please Him--the Holy Bible, one that requires serenity, study, prayer, and fellowship to be equipped for our task.

Modern Christians can learn a lot from the Amish. The Holy Ghost we share defeats the ghost in the machine every time.

J. Wallace

FREE (a poem)

2006-11-30T13:49:00.000-08:00

Gentle face,
Ceaseless flow,
A sacred place
I will know.

Wide and true
Faultless sky.
Newborn hue,
Wordless cry.

Boundless sight
Where beauty wills,
Heartfelt flight
O'er seamless hill,

Silenced wind.
Vanquished night.
Journey's end--
Blinding light.

J. WallaceI

THE SINGING JESUS

2006-11-18T13:39:00.000-08:00

An enduring image from some old Western movies is one of a Native American Indian, the "Noble Savage," as he is about to die--on his knees, hands raised, crying out a song of prayer and praise to the Great Spirit. The effect is to convey a sense of high moral character and dignity to a people often presented as primitives, but men who could, under great physical hardship, practice their faith in the very face of death.

I have heard sermons grapple with Jesus's cry on the cross, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?", causing confusion as to why He would ever utter such a thing, being fully aware of and committed to the purpose of His death for all mankind (Matt. 27:46, Mark 15:34). Jesus also, later, says as He dies, "Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit," a demonstration of faith which serves as a final witness to a Roman centurian (Luke 23:46). It is well known that both statements are quoting the Psalms of the Old Testament (Psa. 22:1, 31:5).

It is also established that the Old Testament Psalms are poems of praise to God set to music--melodic prayers that the Jews sang in their synagogues. When Jesus referenced Psalms on the cross, could He have been once again and finally expressing His faith in the Father by quoting scripture and actually singing His prayers as the Jews did in their houses of worship? (This is a religious practice common to different faiths and peoples throughout the world.)

This interpretation, the "Singing Jesus," is an image of Christ's courage and grace that stays in my mind, a sense of majesty, artistic expression, and enobled Spirit as He suffered an agonizing death. I remember that many of the martyrs of our faith went to their deaths this same way, singing praises to our Father in Heaven--emulating Jesus on the cross--a powerful witness that affected those present and ensured that their sacrifices were recorded in the pages of human history for all time.

J. Wallace

THE RIVER (third installment)

2006-11-15T07:29:00.000-08:00

The sustained roar roused him--constant, unrelenting and surrounded with silence.

Zeke came-to and raised himself until he was propped up by his elbows in the gravel. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the massive, undulating passage of water. Magnificent, it rose and fell, a mesmerizing movement of light and sound that streamed just in front of him. Time passed in which he forgot momentarily who he was and where he was, the shock of the previous incident wearing off slowly. His chest was sore from the concussion. His aching arms and legs were reluctant to begin moving again. What had happened? His mind fought for answers.

Angelique!

Jumping to his feet, he rushed to the shoreline like a sleepwalker who tries to run in his dreams, lumbering and disconnected, stumblingt over the pebbles, oblivious to the cuts and scrapes they left.

Where had she gone? She was just here a few minutes ago; at least he thought it was a few minutes. Now, both were gone in an instant--the massive, fallen log and his beloved sister, carried away by this powerful thing that surged through his life.

"Why..Why?!," he screamed suddenly, without restraint. Hot tears overflowed and stung his eyes as he sobbed, his face in his hands.

"Ze...Ze..."

A mewing cry, like a kitten, came from behind a raised berm of pebbles.

"Ze..."

Zeke spun around to the mound and trench left by the log when it was swept away. The small whispering pleas seemed to come from an indentation, a ditch beyond the grand hills that had anchored the log where it had lain. He scrambled quickly on his hands and knees to peer into the trough in panic.

A dainty form in a flowered shift lay at the bottom, golden curls splayed around a soiled, tear-streaked face.

"I...uh...I got my dress dirty!", she cried pitifully.

Zeke swooped down into the trench and swept Angelique into his arms. Holding her like a baby, he carried them both up and out and onto the riverbank. He laughed and hugged her tight, knowing from her struggles that she was completely unharmed. Squeezing her and dancing a little jig around in circles, he felt as though his heart had burst inside him with happiness and relief.

"Stop...stop..you're squishing me!", she complained, trying to wriggle from his grasp.

He laughed again and spun once more before setting his sister down on the shore to inspect her at arm's length. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her except a little dirt and dried tears. This was a strange event that didn't make sense to him.

Angelique was anxious to leave the scene of her mishap. "We'd better get going so Momma doesn't worry," she reasoned, hoping to get back soon to home and safety.

Zeke couldn't agree more. He quickly found and shouldered the basket for their trip back. This time Angelique dawdled in front and led the way to their path through the woods. Following close behind her, the boy turned to look back once more before leaving. Something had saved his sister from certain death at the hands of his adversary. What was it, and why did its mystery call to him?

Just then, the sun broke through the clouds and shone on the sinuous stream of water, droplets glistening like diamonds, a refraction of beams and spots of light that domed around the children and the dark canopy of the forest path. It was as if Nature herself had acknowledged his thoughts and displayed her pleasure in his recognition of something unspeakable, something he had always felt but would soon learn with certainty, the way things really are beyond the substantial.

J. Wallace

PERNICIOUS PRIDE

2006-11-02T17:23:00.000-08:00

(This entry was inspired by a recent posting on the "Thoughts of Man" blogsite)

Let's not be perplexed or concerned regarding the Lord's plan and purpose for our lives. That's just pride trying to erode our trust in Him.

Recently, I read a booklet that contained an interview with a ninety-five-year-old Greek Orthodox monk named Elder Dionysis (see poem entitled "Blessed"). Elder Dionysis left Romania and entered a monastery atop a Greek mountain at age thirteen. He remained there the rest of his life doing manual labor, studying God's Word, fasting and praying. World wars and other dramatic changes in so-called civilization occured without him. Some would think that his life was wasted (think Bill Gates' recent comment that he had more important things to do than to be involved in religion). The story is that spiritual pilgrims, once they learned of his wisdom, trekked many miles through a forbidding landscape just to speak with the Elder. Some would even try to scale the locked monastery gates to be with him for a few moments.

The Elder Dionysis' message was simple. He merely reiterated what God's Word had taught him--that total reliance upon the Holy Spirit through faith is the only way to please God, and that sins of the flesh are to be avoided at all costs, especially the sin of pride and all its manifestations, i.e. ego, selfish ambition, intellectual arrogance, anxiety, worry, vanity, righteous indignation, rebellion, possessiveness, conceit, a "personal mission" mentality, anger, resentment, bitterness, hatred, self-love, vainglory, dissolutness, greed, etc. He taught that every increase in pride will result in a proportional increase in distance from God.

This insidious sin that caused Satan to be ejected from heaven unfortunately permeates our present society and culture on many levels, and even distresses our Christian communities. "Owing to this worldly spirit--which forms from childhood around the heart through poor education, pornographic movies, advertising, desires, sins, etc.--the Christian can no longer pray, nor can he do a good, salvific deed. But even those who have fallen into great sins can correct themselves, with the help of Divine Grace. This struggle and deliverance from sins and from the demons will be counted unto them as martyrdom." Elder Dionysis. 1.

Only humble-mindedness before God and our fellowman, established in a heart purified by the Grace of the Holy Spirit through the Christian disciplines of prayer, fasting, communion, etc., protects us from this demonic spirit of pride. As Christians, we cannot allow our intellects to second-guess, despute, or try to impede the Will of God, and must resist the seductions of the flesh daily. God acknowledges our struggles to live holy lives that honor Him and will reward our sufferings in heaven.

When you are equipped and ready for service, and trust the Lord completely through the Holy Spirit to direct your path and bring opportunities for ministry into your life, He will do so regardless of your profession, environment, or hardships, including prison.

In times past, it might have required a lifetime of physical privations and self-sacrifice to learn these important truths. Today, they are just a mouse-click away.

J. Wallace

1. The Orthodox Word, "Humble-mindedness: The Doorway to Pure Prayer," Vol. 41, No. 1(240), Jan.-Feb., 2005. p.9.

THE RIVER (second installment)

2006-10-22T19:04:00.000-07:00

The bridge was another of the river's mysteries.

How exactly such a sophisticated structure came to be in an untenanted, wild land, no one could say. It stood as a monument to the people who had constructed it long ago, people who were long forgotten.

Stone masons had laid and mortored the granite blocks together so seamlessly that rain and sleet slid off in sheets and drained as if the bridge had been carved from one giant piece of mountain. The bridge's magestic scale matched the river's: two wagons could pass each other on its span without touching. The guard walls were five feet tall and a foot thick with open, rectangular spaces every three yards, head high. The bridge's bottom supports were gothic arches through which the river roared and cascaded. One lone tower that resembled a castle and housed the bridgetender stood at the far end and bore just a few small leaded windows of warped glass. The bridge had at one time functioned as a fortress; ancient enemies now rested in the icy depths beneath it, according to legend.

The boy, who tried to hide himself in his family's wagon as they crossed, was startled by the clankiing of the wooden wheels as they rattled and shook over the heavy iron grates that flanked the tower. He would jump up to peer transfixed at the roaring rapids below, a pit of ghostly, raging lions that rampaged through and cried out for him. Sometimes, he glanced at the window in the tower that faced the bridge just in time to glimpse a shock of tangled white hair in the darkness. Two glinting eyes shone out and seemed to stare at him alone.

Though Zeke was almost ten and big for his age, his six-year-old sister Angelique was the fearless one. She would stand on the wagon's bench with their mother and father the whole trip, calling out to the people they passed and waving. Everyone loved her. Her shiny, blond ringlets and petite form; big, beautiful blue eyes that gazed into yours without blinking; boundless energy and curiosity; affection for anyone no matter how aged or homely--all these were characteristics that endeared her to everyone she met. Her physical fragility ellicited from her older brother his natural protectiveness and care, a compassion for injured animals and vulnerable people. She seemed to know that he was there to protect her and would amble after Zeke wherever he went. Angelique sometimes got in the way of his plans and projects, but his love for her was so great that he rarely expressed irritation over the inconvenience.

Angelique was to Zeke a little, comical bird who existed only to bring beauty and joy into the lives of others. Her fearlessness was a curiosity and inspirition. It was as if she was completely unconscious of the dangers of life that kept him preoccupied. He envied that kind of innocent faith, her conviction that everything would always turn out right if you just loved everyone and all that life entailed. He couldn't bring himselof to do it, but admired her courage to do so--even if she was just a little girl, a little girl who held his heart in her hands.

She followed him one day on a chore to the river's banks. Zeke lugged a heavy wicker basket for driftwood on his back, secured by a leather strap around his right shoulder as Angelique tagged behind. She stopped occasionally to pick up tiny, red wildflowers that lined the shadowed path through the tall trees, sang to herself, and stuck the flowers into the weaves of the basket. Her presence, as always, diminished the drudgery of his task and lightened his burden. He forgot for a moment what he dreaded up ahead.

"Zeke," Amgelique said, after they had stopped to rest, "Do you love me?"

"Yes." He assured her, the slight tinge in his chest a reminder of how much she meant to him.

"Why?", she asked.

He forced back a smile and adjusted the leather strap. "Because," he answered, "you're so little....and stupid."

"I'm not stupid!", Angelique defiantly countered. "I'm smart enough not to be a boy!"

He couldn't argue with that. Even empty, the big basket was heavy, and his shoulder was already starting to hurt. "Let's go," he said. "I've got a lot to do before it gets dark."

They didn't have much farther to walk toward the river's edge, where driftwood could be found, and he wanted to get the chore over with. The fear had come back with a vengeance .

A distant roar increased as the gleaming white movement broke through the darkness of the branches at the path's end. Gravel began to crunch beneath their boots. His adversary awaited them.

Angelique, oblivious to his halting steps, walked around him and ahead to the river's bank. She immediately climbed onto a big, fallen log that jutted toward the thin beach. She pranced slowly, daintily along the top, arms raised out to her side like the tightrope-walking lady she had seen in the traveling circus. She tried to sing the tune that had played during the show, "La, la, la, laaaa...," and advanced steadily down the length of the log toward danger. Zeke gaped, unbelieving, at what had happened so quickly.

Frozen, for fleeting seconds, in his tracks, he dropped the basket and glanced in panic, back and forth, from the joy of his family to the raging rapids, frigid waves that broke at the end of the log, twenty yards away. Paralyzing fear had gripped his heart and for a few more moments he couldn't move. Cold sweat ran into his eyes and blurred his vision of the little angel. She fell onto her stomach with a sharp cry and grabbed the rough bark. Zeke finally jumped forward with three running steps just as a booming crash exploded in his ears. ...

J. Wallace

To be continued...

BLESSED (a poem)

2006-10-22T18:47:00.000-07:00

Humble-mindedness,
Judging not another,
Because your sins are
Greater.

Patience,
Baked at midnight prayer,
Is eaten in the
Daytime.

Purity,
Of soul and body,
From all passions,
A perfect love for
God.

Presence,
Of the Holy Spirit,
Joy and peace,
Within you, forever:

Blessed

J. Wallace
(From the teaching of Elder Dionysis [Ignat] of the St. George Kellion, Kolitsou Skete, Mount Athos, Greece) Any misspellings are the fault of the typist.

THE LATE CHRISTMAS GIFT

2006-09-24T18:23:00.000-07:00

This is a story I wrote for my literary club.

This Christmas could be special if he just tried hard enough. Josh knew that it all depended on him: to keep the peace and make everyone happy, to put out the fires as they started, and most important, to bring in the holiday spirit. The most unlikely character in this problem family could make everything right if he just concentrated and planned ahead. Sometimes even a child can make a difference.

First, though, he would have to fortify his own joy of the season.

Josh sat on the carpeted step of the open stairway of his home, dangling his legs. He used the next step as a table to study the TV Guide. Let's see, he thought, "CBS seems to be the network for tonight. 'A Charlie Brown Christmas' comes on at seven P.M., 'Frosty the Snowman' at seven-thirty, and 'Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer' from eight to nine--a full dose of Christmas."

For some reason, he could remember the words of many of the shows' songs after hearing them once, and he began to sing them to himself, even the jazzy piano tune from the Peanuts program. Maybe, he could be a jazz musician one day, in addition to being an artist, and a college professor; he liked that kind of music so much.

Josh nibbled the Russian Tea cookies his mother had made, licking the powdered sugar off the pecan-flavored morsels as he turned pages. His mother was an excellent cook. Since his father's death, his mother tried to compensate somewhat for the loss with her Southern culinary excellence. Josh's young physique showed the results, but he didn't care. It was a love-communication they shared; his enthusiastic appreciation for her skills; her love poured out in an activity he knew eased the anxieties and worries she suffered, a constant in what had proved to be an unpredictable life. It made both of them happy.

Josh turned and glanced at the wall clock in the kitchen. It was already four-thirty P.M.! He felt the familiar clutching pain in his stomach, anticipation of his stepfather's return home from work. What kind of mood would he be in? What brand of moodiness would the family be subjected to? What measure of stress and irrational requirements would be placed on the household tonight? They would soon find out.

Older brother Brad's old, Ford pickup roared up the hill, the driveway that passed outside the den windows to their barn-like garage out back. Brad wouldn't interrupt his plans. After their father's illness and death from cancer, Brad had become a stranger that lived in their house. He spent most of his time in his room reading war novels or "Soldier of Fortune" magazine, using his reloader to refurbish spent shotgun shells, or carousing at all hours with his friends. Sometimes, he would stumble in late at night, waking Josh who slept in the two-story addition to their home that they shared, the addition their father had begun for them, and their stepfather had tyranically completed. Brad would reek of beer and cigarettes.

Josh couldn't blame him. Being older, Brad was the official keeper of their father's memory. He had defiantly resisted their stepfather's inclusion from the very beginning. Josh remembered the many arguments, some disolving into fist-fights, their mother standing by screaming, and glass breaking.

Brad roused Josh from his daydreams by slamming the den door, running up the stairs two steps at a time, yelling, "Watch out, geek!", before ducking into his room and slamming that door shut, too.

Josh sat and thought. Being only twelve, there wasn't much he could do to make everything better. It would have to be something stupendous to chase all the hurt away.

The idea formed in his mind in a flash. There was only a little daylight left, so he would have to hurry.

He ran up the stairs to the small attic access door. Crawling through, he rummaged around the old, dust-covered cardboard boxes 'til he found what he was looking for--the biggest one. He pulled the big box out and lugged it down the stairs as carefully as possible, though it was almost as big as he was. He wrestled the box out the den door and around to the front of the addition. Running to the back of the garage, he found the huge aluminum extension ladder, dragged it to the front yard, and locked it into it's longest extension. Starting underneath the far end, he slowly walked the ladder up into the air, holding it with shaking arms until it stood upright--then fell with a clunk onto the brick face of the two-story addition. Josh laid the contents of the box on the ground. He sorted the wires as best he could. There wasn't time, and he was just a boy with no tools, but he had noticed something before on the addition--three nails left over from the construction.

He first threaded the wires through the bushes in the front flower planter, in the narrow space between the bottom windows. He ran the wires up and around the windows to the farthest shutters, then wrapped them around the single nails at each end. Holding the longest length of wire wrapped around his shoulders, he slowly climbed the ladder. The ladder creaked and swayed as a cool wind blew against him. Climbing to the highest point, just below the roof peak, he carefully wrapped the middle of the wire around the last nail.

Brad heard him begin to stumble down the ladder, the pings of the aluminum rungs just outside his window. He stuck his head out and, with a grimace, grumbled, "What have you messed up now?"

Josh ignored him and continued to the bottom. He pulled the ladder back 'til it rocked upright again, then fell with a crash onto the yard. He locked it into position, then drug it back behind the garage. Going inside the den, he pulled the orange extension cord attached to the wires inside one of the den windows and plugged it in. It was dark enough now. He ran outside, down the hill, and across the street to a neighbor's yard. Brad wandered outside along with their mother who was drying her hands on a dishtowel.

They stood down the hill in their yard and turned to look at Josh's handiwork. His stepfather had just arrived home in his company car and parked on the street. He turned off the engine and sat behind the steering wheel to stare at the front of the house without moving.

A giant Christmas tree of lights two stories high met their gaze. Its red, blue, green, and gold spectacle shone radiant in the cold, crisp air. His mother put her hand to her face, tears in her eyes. She whispered to Brad, "How was he able to...?"

Josh turned to look at the other homes and streets in their neighborhood and saw that the tree could be seen from most of the houses. He saw the lights in their windows and wondered if their families had troubles too. He hoped that these lights, this tree would warm their hearts and remind them of what was really important. It was something his father would have done.

Josh looked up and saw the first star come out in the darkening sky. "Dad," he said, "This Christmas tree is big enough for you to see up there. I made it for you."

j. Wallace

THE RIVER

2006-09-22T13:28:00.000-07:00

This begins a series that I offer as a continuing story with various episodes appearing weekly. I hope you enjoy it.

The river had always terrified the boy.

It was established in his memory and imagination, waiting to intrude upon his thoughts, to strike terror into his heart in the dead of night or in his daydreams. Half a mile wide, it crossed his mind with no beginning or end, a raging torrent coursing through his life determined to have its way no matter how many lives it claimed. Millions of cold, white snakes appeared at first to cover its surface, writhing and squirming, coiled over each other and striking out into the air: a continuous, undulating passage of treacherous whirlpools and white caps of deadly ice-cold water. The spectacle held him with a hypnotic power. Just over the treeline of his wilderness home in the North Country, it cast through the gigantic, dark pines that stood as sentinels along its graveled shore--what seemed to be a malevolent force with a soul intent on laying claim to his. The boy swore to himself that he would fight it with everything he had. He would not lose his life like so many others. This natural fury could be resisted. He vowed that the river would not determine his fate. The entity surged on through the primal forests and his viens to an eternal sea not of this world. It harbored a secret unknown to him: great adventure and treasure awaited the man found worthy.

Every wilderness family had been touched by tragedies wrought by the water. Crossings attempted far upstream sent silent witnesses to the settlement: drowned oxen, cattle and horses tumbled past in the rapids, frozen in postures of fright; submerged wagons of broken boards drifted by with wheels missing; semi-clothed specimens followed that were no longer human, staring at nothing with black eyes, rolling far behind everything they had once held dear. Spring floods occurred occasionally without notice-silent, melted snows that shocked the system and took life quickly within minutes. Day or night, it didn't matter. The results were the same. The waters would rise and all would be lost. The strong currents wrenched apart everything constructed, with steel hands it took it all away, defying the people who struggled to wrest sustenance from the wild land the river ruled. Anything attempted on the loose gravel banks along the water's edge often resulted in calamitous accidents. Cords of driftwood would suddenly be deposited or withdrawn with thunderous cracks and clatterings according to the river's whim, an ever-changing collection of debris along its sides swept from other regions. Every so often, one of the colossal trees on its banks could no longer withstand the river's will. Ripping moorings from the earth, the tree would slowly careen in, taking along whoever, unfortunately, impeded its path. The swift, cold water was dangerous in many ways and could not be trusted, neither the river nor all it influenced.

The boy tried to warn his neighbors that the river was some kind of supernatural force, something in this world but not of it, that had invaded his mind like a spirit. They would not listen. They told his mother, "Your son Ezekiel is crazy! Stop teaching him so much and giving him books to read! You're filling his head with dreams and foolishness, and soon he will be good for nothing."

Zeke's mother ignored them. She had once been a teacher and had recognized in her young son the sparks of intelligence and creativity. She found him at three years old drawing a realistic picture of a deer with a crayon on scrap paper. Knowing that such early artistic ability is often a sign of cognitive sophistication, she set about to teach Zeke to read while he was still a toddler. The precious books of education that she had saved during the family's arduous journey to the wilderness meant everything to her. She had passed on to her son, through these books, the world of thought and reason, a love of learning that she felt made life worthwhile, no matter where a body might be or the hardships he might be enduring. Her son's precociousness and creativity were a constant joy, a gift she had given him for his own personal enrichment and enjoyment. With constant encouragement and nurturing, she had seen them return, demonstrated in his artwork and understanding. If no one else could appreciate his qualities and insight, it was just their loss.

Perhaps due to his artistic sensibilities and intellect, enhanced by the books he had studied, Zeke had known for some time that things were not as they seemed. Knowing their limitations, he did not completely trust his senses. He could easily represent the reality he perceived with sight by employing depth and perspective techniques on a two-dimensional piece of paper, and reasoned that the world of sight was also that easy, just two dimensions folded over third-dimensional spaces: an illusion of substance concealing a void in which anything could exist. Within this void, he believed opposing forces of good and evil operated and did battle. The beauty and terror of the natural wilderness world in which the lived, he understood as an extension and projection of his own imagination--enriched and intensified by an artistic eye and perceptions of the infinite, inherant in all things. The mysterious realm of the void sometimes "leaked through," encroached upon physical reality and this is how he felt the river came to be. Despite the dangers and his paralyzing fear, he endeavored to discover the true origin of the river's power, it's true meaning and purpose, not knowing that the risks he took would affect everyone's life, would change everything forever.

To be continued...
J. Wallace

NIGHT CLASSES

2006-08-26T06:35:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a wonderful dream

Dreams are peculiar things. They come when you are asleep, unconscious, and vulnerable. You have no control over their content. While dreaming, anything can happen.

Last night, I dreamt I was a student in the audience of a college course, one that encouraged student participation in the discussion, an environment I especially enjoy. The other students were young married couples. The instructor's interesting lecture concerned a catagory of sins I have wrestled with since I was eleven years old.

Once you open the door of your life a crack to this particular kind of evil thought process, this iniquity bullies his way in and brings all his friends. These parasites begin by diverting your attention from things that are truly important, proceed to eliminate all the aspects of your life that you hold dear, the people and interests that give your life meaning, and don't stop until their host is completely alienated and destroyed.

I unwittingly opened the door to them after my father's death, when as a child I found a paperback novel of pornographic literature an older person thought he had hidden. The initial, protective disgust and revulsion I felt in my own strength still remains, but has been periodically overwhelmed and subdued by stronger forces during times of stress. Alone against their power, I was helpless.

This sobering nocturnal collegiate assembly was revealed to be a sophisticated Sunday School class. I suddenly realised with astonishment that my teacher was Jesus Himself! He told me compassionately that when your life and heart are completely filled with Him and His Holy Spirit, all the characteristics of His personality: His love, compassion, mercy, and kindness--become your own. There is no room for anything else. The evil spirits flee as if from a burning building! He made it all so simple to understand; I wanted to remain there in His presence forever. The instructive session ended with everyone singing an old Christian hymn I knew from growing up in the Church of Christ, "Trust and Obey." I cannot describe what I was feeling then in words.

I awoke with the hyumn still going through my head and tears pouring from my eyes. I could not go back to sleep nor rest until I had written all this down.

J. Wallace

INTO THE LIGHT

2006-06-19T06:20:00.000-07:00

One of my earliest memories is one of my father--in his Sunday suit, gold stickpin that spelled out "Bud" in his tie, lugging a heavy, movie projector up rickedy, wooden steps behind an old apartment building. This was in the 1960's, long before VHS tapes or DVD's, so a movie shown in one's own home was an unusual occurrance, a grand occasion. My father worked hard all week as a chemical engineer on the night shift at Dupont Industries. Why was he going to all this trouble on the weekend for people we didn't even know?

At that time, young married couples with small children were moving into our area, a growing suburb north of Memphis. They didn't have much money and often started out in some of the more shabby apartment complexes. The apartments were dingy and small, sparsely furnished with secondhand chairs and a table, a threadbare couch, and worn, oval rag rugs on the floor. This particular husband and wife, barely older than teenagers, huddled together on their sofa, obviously anxious over having visitors in their first home. The young mother tried to calm a squirming toddler on her lap, but we were all too excited to be still.

My father set the big metal projector on a fragile-looking coffee table; the spindly legs swayed slightly with the weight and then settled into one stiff position, much to everyone's relief. He put one large, empty metal wheel on the front arm of the black box, and another one full of shiny, dark brown tape on the back arm. He threaded a loose end of the tape over and around several small wheels on the left side of the projector and attached it to the empty wheel in front. Even the toddler was quiet now. We watched my father's mechanical operation with rapt interest, and I felt very proud of him; this must be important for some reason, considering all the trouble he was going to. He didn't seem to mind.

He stretched out the cord, found an electrical outlet and pulled the plug that was there. Suddenly, the room went dark! I stiffened in the strange room and held my breath. A switch was flicked. A very bright light beamed from the lens on the front of the projector onto a bland wall by the kitchen, illuminating the room. The machine rattled as its wheels began to turn. A loud humming noise blew hot air in my face from a vent in the back. I scooted away from the heat and turned to the images that appeared on the wall.

Who was this bearded man in the movie that seemed to hold everyone's attention? He seemed nice. Everyone liked him. You could tell from their faces which showed rapt attention as they stood around in their bathrobes. He patted the children, and they sat in his lap as he told stories to the crowd. One time, he fed everyone from his baskets, fish and bread. People shouted, turning happy faces and raised hands toward the sky. One little girl was sick and lay very still on her bed. The nice man smoothed the hair on her forehead with his big, rough but gentle hands, and she opened her eyes. Her momma and daddy cried.

One old man had trouble with his eyes. The nice man put mud on them. The old man washed his eyes, and then began to run around and shout. Another man sat on his twisted legs and refused to walk. The nice man told him to, so the little man slowly stood up, and then began to run around too, shouting to the others.

It was quiet and scary when the nice man came to a cave. His friend was alone inside in the dark. Hearing someone call his name, the little man, wrapped in rags, stumbled out into the light. People screamed.

After that, everything changed.

The nice man rode on a donkey, and people waved branches of leaves, but others whispered in the shadows, old men with long beards and fancy clothes. They found him when he was alone and crying. They grabbed the nice man and took him away. His friends were afraid and hid. The nice man was pushed onto the ground. They stretched out his arms. Then, he was lifted up, pointing to the sky. Dark clouds gathered, and thunder and lightning raged. The rain fell on the people as they cried, sorry for what they had done.

Then, the nice man was alone in a cave in the dark, just like his friend had been. A big rock rolled away; the nice man stood up and walked out into the light of day. He joined his friends, who were happy again.

The end of the shiny tape whipped loose and the metal wheels clacked. My father turned off the projector and plugged the lamp back in.

The young couple hugged each other and cried quietly. My father took their hands as they held their baby, prayed with them, and they were happy again, too.

It was still a bright afternoon outside.

On the way back to our car, I held my father's hand, a rough but gentle hand like the man's in the movie, the man who reminded me of my father. They both seemed glad to go to a whole lot of trouble to make other people happy. I wanted to grow up to be just like them.
J. Wallace

ROUGH SEAS AHEAD

2006-05-30T18:35:00.000-07:00

(This short story is an assignment I completed recently for the Literary Club, for which we were given a long list of seemingly unrelated words, ie: coterminous, hysteria, drunken, impious, Scooter, etc., to be included in any imaginative tale we could come up with, making sure to include all the words.)

"What a great day to get to know your mother better!", yelled Chumbucket Bob, (known as "Chum" to his friends), over the roar of the outboard motor to Scooter, his ever-flatulent sidekick and fishing-boathand. Scooter didn't reply, but raised his hounddog face slightly and began to pick his nose with his longest finger.

"Ah--you despicable cur! Don't play with me with your boisterous repartee! We'll have to scrape this hull soon. It's beginning to look like your hungover mug!" Chum's hyena laugh bounced off the cold mist that covered the early morning sea of green glass, before a disturbing thought cut it off:

Scooter, that pitiful sot, had foolishly made a drunken and impious suggestion to Sharon the barmaid at the Rusty Cleat Bar last night, something regarding a coterminous sleeping arrangement,. Known to be frugal with conversations, Sharon promptly responded with a fishclub to the top of Scooter's head, sending him off to sideswipe a parked car before driving his rattletrap truck into the bay where it sank like a stone. He swam free and just made it to Chum's boathouse, falling on his mangy bunk and completely crashing an hour before Chum arrived. Now, the only vestiges of Scooter's misadventure were his still damp clothes, a slight limp as he tromped about the tackle and rigging, and a certain confused hysteria about the eyes, more so than usual--almost dangerous looking.

'No reason to rile him in this state,' thought Chum. He turned his back, stealthfully removed his handgun from the wheelhouse holster, and slid it into the front pocket of his coveralls.

THE FEROCIOUS FAITHFUL

2006-05-22T06:32:00.001-07:00

The adversary and his minions want to believe that Christians are easily defeated, but nothing could be further from the truth. Thousands of years have passed by, and they are no closer to recognizing the delusions they live by and what they are really up against. The ultimate "Day of Reckoning" is quickly approaching, the epiphany of mind and spirit that will reveal all to everyone in an instant, and will be preceded by the couragous acts of defiance by a few faithful that have nothing left to lose.

The powers that be that perpertrate campaigns of persecution against Christians evidently don't realise their vulnerbilities that exist on a personal level. They have been deluded into believing, by the originator of lies, that imagined powers in the spiritual realm will protect them. But these campaigns realistically have to be carried out on a man-to-man basis--that is, some individual or individuals place themselves at risk when their evil deeds are conducted. In the physical realm, where the second component of this spiritual battle is waged, everyone is on the front lines and there are no trenches. Each evil doer, for the time being, is stuck in this carniage of flesh and blood like the rest of us. Their physical lives are as precarious as candle flames by an open window where the slightest gust of wind will snuff them out. In these Last Days, the source of some of these gusts will surprise them.

It has been said that courage is the greatest virtue because it makes all the other virtues possible. Some people who have performed potentially dangerous and heroic deeds have said that courage came easily and automatically when there was nothing left to do but respond in a moment of crisis. Many Christians today, due to circumstances beyond their control, find themselves in this same position of critical decision. The courage possessed comes not from themselves but from the knowledge that when they die, as Born-again Christians, they will be with the Lord in an instant. When it is necessary to right a terrible wrong or prevent some of the workers of iniquity from preying on the innocent, to make some impact even if it involves a terrible risk, it is their duty and destiny?

"As it is written, for thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as a sheep for the slaughter. Nay(!), in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us," (Rom. 8:36-3.

The days of the Roman Empire and Christians being fed like sheep to the lions are gone forever. On Peter, the "Fighting Apostle's" fierce faith, Jesus said He would establish His church, His church being His people. As Christ's return is eminent, the infirm can pray, the incapable can preach, and the hopeless cases can fight--each fulfilling his or her purpose best as their circumstances dictate. It's the rational utilization of our resources in the last days of this war--the final war that we will win, once and for all, for all time. Amen.

J. Wallace

ETERNITY

2006-04-28T18:51:00.000-07:00

Father, take my hand and lead,
Wherever we are going.
This path is not one I would choose;
I cry inside, not knowing,

How did we ever drift apart?
Why did I go astray,
Too proud to call out for help,
When lost along the way?

I bear the scars of foolish pride,
Now weary from the race.
I need you to guide me through this time,
At a gentler pace.

We'll take it slow and stop to rest;
I'll read your story through.
We'll talk, I'll listen, and then I'll know
What you want me to do.

I'll yield to you, my Father-God,
My Lord, and yet, my friend,
We'll make it home, together, where
Eternity begins.

J. Wallace

Easter Prayer

2006-04-16T21:12:00.000-07:00

Easter is here again, a time when we celebrate Jesus's sacrifice, His proof of an Afterlife, and His promise of Heaven. I imagine that I am not the only Christian that prays daily for His return. What better time for this to happen than Passover Week, the week God chose for the original Easter for many good reasons. Could His merciful deliverance be demonstreated once again, once and for all, for His suffering children during our most significant observance?

The most "humane" facility in Florida's DOC System (comparatively) is still a place of misery for this Christian, hence the name of this blog, "Purgatory Penman." I'm surrounded almost every waking moment by terrible examples of mankind given over to evil, a glimpse of hell for a normal, moral human being (I'm eternally grateful that is is the only hell I'll ever know). Although Jesus is always with me, this Paul does not have a Silas. It is a lonliness that aches in the core of your being like a cancer--an actual source of constant physical pain. Elements persecuting me because of the politics of my case have not relented in nine years of incarceration. I could not escape their abuse through eleven different camps. How many Christians today live like this where every day is a challenge to survive and see it through to the end, pleading with the Lord to deliver in an honorable and timely fashion?

Please pray that Jesus returns soon and rescues His people from the corruption. I understand that such evil beings and deeds are rampant in our society throughout the greater world today, like we have never known before.

Please appeal to the Lord's infinite mercy, demonstrated by His willingness to give His own life to save us from sin, that He will intercede now and save us from an unimaginable future. Amen.

J. Wallace

Fellowship Finale

2006-04-06T13:39:00.000-07:00

As our time is running out, the Christian community should stick together. If someone has repented of his sins and has accepted Jesus as the Son of God, Lord and Savior, and the Holy Spirit into his life, regardless of his past or subtle doctrinal differences, he is a brother or sister in Christ. Our different heritages or origins as Christians are not enough to keep us from each other.

It is common knowledge within Christian circles that in the "End Times," evil will prosper and the good will be persecuted. Today, which churches and doctrines are prospering financially and growing in numbers, and whose numbers have been decimated by scandal, whose members are suffering? Catholics and Protestants have been at odds to varying degrees off and on since the Reformation. Why, if their basic gospel message is the same? If Catholics want to revere Mary as the mother of Jesus, just as almost everyone of us reveres his own mother, what is the harm? The psychological dynamics of the matter seem to be the same. No individual member is responsible for what his/her church hierarchy or administration decides or does. Why do we hold him/her responsible? As Jesus's representatives, who are the suffering brothers and sisters we are to be ministering to as Christians? They are right in our neighborhoods, their churches down the block.

Why do we allow imagined conflicts and affronts seperate and concern us when Jesus has already won the Victory? Let's not waste any more time at a point when it is so precious.

J. Wallace

CAT (a Literary Club assignment)

2006-04-06T13:17:00.001-07:00

*In the lamplight, the withered leaves collect at my feet.

She lies on her side on the new quilted bedspread, legs tucked underneath as if asleep. I know she's not by the way she moves two green eyes, narrow slits ignoring my presence. She turns onto her stomach while stretching out her limbs to clutch the soft, downy cover, stretching with a low purr, confident she has my full attention. I stroke with one hand from her shoulders down her spine as slowly as possible, barely touching, knowing from experience the demands of her pleasure. She responds nonchalantly, gradually arching her back, then raising her hips at the end to meet my hand, pushing hard against it as if to say, "You dare to disturb my solitude?"

Sometimes, I feel like I'm just a source of sustenance to her, a warm place out of the rain. But that can't be true; why does she stay when anyone3 could provide her with what I provide?

She was on her own a long time before I took her in, a creature bound by instinct and self-preservation with a hard-luck past. No wonder she finds people untrustworthy. I believe that she loves me even if she is still unable to show it. Our time together must mean something to her. For now, I'll settle for just the mystery of our companionship: Why this exotic beauty chose me to ease her troubles; how she unespectedly came to help me forget out of the lamplight.

She leans close and whispers, "You're the only one who understands."

* from the musical
Cats.

J. Wallace

Rescue (fiction)

2006-03-23T18:16:00.000-08:00

The man adrift in the fog-enshrouded, endless ocean had little recollection of the night before. Salt water from every wave that broke upon his precarious craft stung his eyes, the cracks in his lips and hands. He stretched out prone across the wicker basket of fishing floats thrown from the ship. The impromptu preserver rocked back and forth, threatening to capsize with every swell, stressing his exhausted muscles and joints. The pain was unbearable and melded into one stoic mass of resistance and fear.

How long could he continue to hold on? It would be easy to let go and allow the sea to consume him. His torment would end: no more pain or guilt-stricken torture for his cowardice. Why had he run away in an impulsive attempt to escape his destiny, a prideful rebellion that had risked everything for foolish principle? The cold grasp of the deep would solve all of his problems if he could just surrender to it, drifting free forever from these troubles in a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

A pale, yellow sun finally rose. This reluctant mariner was startled back to his senses by a form on the horizon. He shook his head and tried hurriedly to clear the crust from his face and sight. Not large enough for a landmass and moving toward him--it must be a ship! Yes, the ship must have returned to search! He slapped the water with his damaged hands and croaked a cry as his blurry vision witnessed the advance. Hurry, Hurry! Faster and faster it came, but in a straight course for his position! Would he be overrun after such a long night of suffering? No, he couldn't allow it! He frantically tried to propel the basket alongside the bulk of the trememdous shadow that overtook him. A dark void opened like an umbrella over his head blotting out the sky. Rushing water rolled everything over and over and downward; suddenly, a black curtain fell. Then--nothingness.

Hours passed. He awoke incredulously in the cold darkness. Horror struck with his first thought:alive! I'm still alive within the belly of the beast!

J. Wallace

Seaside

2006-03-10T17:03:00.000-08:00

My first experience of Florida as my new home was the beach on a bright, moonlit night. Even now, it seems like a scene from a movie, surreal and perfect. A cool, stiff breeze blew in from the ocean, followed by strands of low lying clouds that raced across the blacklight sky. Something oblivious to our party waited on the sand below to be forever etched into my memory.

My fiancee' had convinced me to accompany her and her parents to Florida that summer to help with a temporary move and assignment--refurbishing their rental property in North Palm Beach. I drove their huge Oldsmobile with my girlfriend riding shotgun. We followed the U-Haul truck her father drove with his wife beside him, both vehicles packed with suitcases, furniture, and cleaning supplies. The scenic trip from Tennessee was exciting; one romantic and dangerous interlude occurred during a driving rainstorm on a treacherous, curving mountain pass outside Chattanooga. Ah, the impetuousness of youth! Florida lay ahead, a destination I had dreamt about all my life, and I didn't have a care in the world.

We drove straight through and arrived in Palm Beach County around midnight. The lead car pulled over onto a two lane road banked by sand dunes and wheat grass and stopped. My new friends said they had a surprise for me. We walked down a steep path through the dunes and seagrape bushes to where the sand leveled out in the blue light. Foamy surf roared and broke thirty yards away in front of a rolling sheet of black satin whose end disappeared in the dark. A large boulder appeared to struggle in a hole on the beach. Its rubbery side flaps sprayed sand into the air. Someone shined a flashlight underneath. Wet ping-pong balls plopped down methodically into the pit it had dug. The huge, loggerhead turtle glanced up for a moment from her egg-laying work. Tears rolled down her cheeks. My future mother-in-law said, "They always weep like that. She's crying for joy!"

I looked around for a moment, taking in the sound, the waves, the moon-bright night, the rustling palms, all of God's creation, and then looked back at their happy faces. I understood perfectly.J. Wallace

Why I Write

2006-02-27T20:50:00.000-08:00

(Written for an assignment)

For the moment, I am forced to be in prison, but prison will never be in me.

To internalize the effects of these circumstances and senseless cruelties, to isolate and withdraw from confrontational stressors and negative influences, allowing cynicism and bitterness to cut off the honest communication of my thoughts and feelings, my inner life, would be a form of surrender to an archaic and inhumane system. I will never permit them to make me into what I was never intended to be--a hardened prisoner removed from society and incapable of contributing something positive and meaningful. The most effective way I have found to resist this process in nine years of incarceration is to write, to put a pen to paper and record for any use that can be made of them my ideas and perceptions, who I really am as an individual.

Throughout history, this has always been the way. From St. Paul's letters to the Colossians to Dostoyevsky's "Notes From the Underground," Alexander Solzhenitsyn's political protests from a Siberian Gulag, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s "Letters from Birmingham Jail," Nelson Mandela's critiques of Aparthied, and many others: all examples of man's resistance to suppression, how the truth can be conveyed and lives changed from within the confines of a jail cell.

Bi-weekly prison literary club meetings and required writing assignments may seem unimportant, just another excuse for sponsored banquets and gluttony twice a year. Actually, this extracurricular activity is what you make of it. The intrinsic reward is directly related proportionally to the effort one is willing to extend. The inspiration to do my best at something has always proved to be rewarding and good for me, the results of education and intellectual work always beneficial; it is to write for writing's sake, refusing to be silenced.

J. Wallace

Testify

2006-02-16T19:55:00.000-08:00

I had not witnessed anything like it in nine years of imprisonment, ten different camps and chapel programs.

Thursday night, the "Jesus Freaks X 3" ministry held their monthly service in the Polk C.I. chapel. Heidi, a slight and attractive young woman with yards of long, curly, blond hair and tattoos, began this ministry after she became a Born Again Christian several years ago. She told us her story, a long history of drug and alcohol abuse culminating in a spur of the moment trip to Japan. Once overseas and broke, she was forced into the degradation of prostitution. Visiting U.S. Marines, thankfully, found her there and, after learning her story, rescued her and brought her back to Seattle. However, her substance abuse didn't end then.

Heidi met Mike, a man caught up in the same destructive lifestyle. They somehow stayed together fifteen years and were blessed with a little girl. Heidi began to attend a local church, once they moved to Florida, and gave her life to Jesus. She convinced Mike to attend also, and he became a Christian after his daughter told him one day, "Jesus doesn't want you to live like this, Daddy!"

Heidi explained that she received a calling to minister to the imprisoned--that the terrors she had experienced and was delivered from opened her eyes to how many people could end up in prison. She now brings the love and joy of the Lord's salvation to the incarcerated, trusting the Holy Spirit to make a way and to prepare a worship service.

Thursday night, once again, she was trusting the Lord to make things happen. After the prison choir sang several wonderful songs they had written, one inmate stood up and proceded to the podium. He had volunteered to give his testimony.

You could tell that something had profoundly moved and humbled him. He bowed his head and spoke slowly while unfolding several sheets of notebook paper, the microphone concealing much of his face. He began by stating that the Lord told him to give his testimony "the first chance he got" several days ago, and kept him up through the night to write it down, a testimony which he now read in his own words.

He told a terrible story of physical and sexual abuse that had begun when he was three years old. After his alcoholic and abusive father abandoned his family in Chicago when the boy was young, various people abused him for many years. He began to drink and use drugs to escape the pain he felt, pain from activities he did not enjoy but was forced into and later pursued as a substitute for love. He had never been shown love; these twisted attentions were all that he knew. Still, something was terribly wrong and the thought filled him with rage.

He ran away and prostituted himself as a teenager for money to buy drugs and alcohol to suppress the rejection and self-hatred he felt, his fear and fury and anger at God for allowing his life. This reservoir of dammed-up wrath broke when he was told to leave one place where he was staying. He tied up the person he had been staying with and proceded to torture and strangle him to death.

Prison did not change his behavior. "The lock" was just a convenient place to continue his self-abuse: drugging, inflicting and receiving pain. He learned he was HIV positive, a wasted life and hopeless case.

All the while, his mother had been praying for him. She told him that his brothers both had had AIDS, but before they died, they had become Christians and had also prayed for his salvation.

No one in that chapel of hardened men made a sound.

The inmate began to cry. Others cried, also. Some voiced words of encouragement to him and praised the Lord.

This was a very unusual occurrance in prison. No one purposely exhibits any sign of weakness or vulnerbility for any reason. No one is supposed to know too much about you personally in case it could be used against you. This inmate had bared his soul, his all, before all of us for the sake of our souls, and he gave the Lord complete credit for his courage and purpose. He committed the rest of his days to service to the Lord for what He had done for him and his family. He explained:

Love Personified had met him and shown him the love he had never known. Jesus had taken the filth of his life to His cross and washed it all away with the Holy Blood of His sacrifice, coming into his heart to live. And now, no matter what happens, he knows that one day he will join his mother and brothers to live in a place of love and joy without pain or regret forever. Amen.

The entire congregation of inmates spontaneously sprang to their feet and gave this courageous man a thunderous, standing ovation that went on for five minutes, shouting praises to the Worker of Miracles.

J. Wallace

Birds

2006-02-08T19:39:00.000-08:00

A flock of birds had gathered restlessly on the peaked roof of the entrance to the military-style barracks converted into a prison dormitory. The inmates trudged out of the dorm, listless and hungry and obedient to the narrow, yellow lines painted on the sidewalk out front. Many turned slightly to notice the birds and an old man vying for their attention.

"Watch this!", the grizzled, old inmate called out to them, and raised his fist high, one obscene finger sticking out.

Anything can happen in prison. The unexpected becomes the expected and is anticipated as a welcome diversion to the monotonous routine. Still, wary eyes darted first to the guards to make sure everything was kosher. The guards weren't paying attention. They listened intently to the radio for the command to move the dorm to the chowhall, oblivious to the old man's stunt.

Out of an assemblage of supposedly wild birds, one small finch flitted out from the others. He was rounded and fat for his size and seemed to struggle in the air, but that was just the style of his species, putting on a show as he circled the line of inmates, just over their heads, for several passes. It was so quiet in the gathering dusk, the only sounds the fluttering of little wings and occasional radio static.

Finally, the tiny bird lighted upon the old man's raised finger as the inmate pulled some bread crumbs from his pocket to feed it. An unspoken, "Aha!" lit up the new arrivals' faces. This was some kind of trained bird act! Who knew how many years this had been going on--the old man, his raised finger, the bread crumbs? How in the world did it begin? There were many unanswered questions. No one bothered to ask them though, in the settling silence. All they needed to know was that, for a few moments, they weren't in prison.

The only thing that seemed important, the significant part, was when the finch, after getting his fill, casually flew back to join his friends. Then suddenly, with a start, the whole flock, like a black cloud on a gust of wind, flew away quickly to the countryside beyond the tall fences, to the green fields and trees that lay just out of reach. The little fella was being fed by the State! The difference was that he could take it or leave it, come and go as he pleased. He was free.

The decrepit, old inmate laughed with bright, shining eyes and pointed over the razor wire after them. "Jailbirds!", he exclaimed, but we knew the sobering truth.

At that moment, I put it all into the Lord's hands: my failed life, thoughts of vengeance and retaliation, retribution for all the injustices, persecutions, mistreatments and misery I had suffered, the fears for my family, worries for my children and my mother's declining years, the uncertain immediate future--the whole mess. He promised to bring the wicked to justice and make everything right again. I won't have to do anything but trust that He will do what He said, and one day soon, fly away to join my loved ones in those pleasant green fields forever, free again forever. Amen.

J. Wallace

The Power of Innocence

2006-02-02T14:07:00.000-08:00

The Unity Christian Ministry Singers, out of Greentown, Ohio, were coming to Polk C.I. on Thursday night for a worship service! Flyers with a photo of the trio, two women and a man, dressed in fancy attire like a Las Vegas Act, were posted on the chow hall and the prison chapel doors. Everyone was excited: the few, genuine Born Again Christian inmates due to the evangelistic opportunity; many others just because it was something different, a chance for entertainment in their dreary lives.

That night, the chapel was soon packed with two hundred Knuckleheads forced close together in the pews and chairs in the back, everyone as well-behaved as possible. They appreciated Polk's continued support of these programs and did their best to control themselves, but one never forgot that this was a prison population, usually removed from society for good reasons. After a few announcements from the Black Moslem chaplain, the crowd settled down to low, expectant mummerings as the Unity Singing Group entered at the side door.

This time Darrell, the lead singer, had brought along a surprise! With stunned disbelief, all eyes fell upon a pretty, eighteen-year-old girl as she walked slowly in. She was slender and graceful with long, curly, dark hair that framed an angelic, dimpled face. The surly crowd could not have been more shocked if the president of the United States had made a sudden appearance! She walked with her head bowed but showing a slight, beatific smile, obviously praying, but also aware of her surroundings. Like a roomful of Catholics confronted with a nun, the inmates weren't sure how to respond. How could this little girl be so brave as to come to this place to minister to these hardened men? It defied understanding.

I immediately began to earnestly pray for her. "Oh, Lord, please don't let anything mess this up! It must be important for some reason."

The young girl was introduced as Michelle, Darrell's niece from Ohio, who had asked to come along with his ministry team to Florida this winter. Darrell mentioned how unusual it was for a teenager, at this point in her life, to leave her friends and interests to selflessly minister to imprisoned men and women. It seemed more than unusual, even supernatural, especially when she took center stage and began to sing. How could such a young person be so self-assured and poised, composed and dignified in her presentation? Any lascivious temptations were immediately shamed into subjugation, ultimately destroyed by the powerful innocence that radiated from a young, beautiful face lifted toward heaven.

She sang several happy songs of faith while her dark eyes shone with joy and fearlessness, the smile never leaving her lips. Darrell and his backup singers then followed with several rousing songs of inspiration, very professionally done in a way that made you proud to be a Christian, intermixed with sermonettes from scripture.

Everyone's face was just expressing pleasure with the program that had lasted an hour and a half, when once again Michelle took the stage, this time alone. She knelt down with head bowed as a song began to play from the chapel speaker system. No one seemed to move or even breathe. She began to pantomime the words using sign language in flowing gestures that resembled an interpretive dance, elegant and dignified, something completely alien to the culture she performed before. The Christian artist on the CD sang about his own prodigal son story, analogous to the relationship between God and a repentant sinner. As he sang the words, "You're still my son no matter what you've done," and "He ran to me," Michelle stood to her feet with a sweeping embrace, and then, hands raised up, she praised God for everything. No words of her own were needed. Hardened hearts were broken at that moment. Tears flowed freely and were quickly wiped away. A shuddering of suppressed emotion moved through the audience like waves that broke upon a shore. Many allowed themselves to be swept up, and gratefully raised their hands during the invitation to accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior.

It has been said that everything we say and do has an impact upon the world in ways we would never realize. This idea has been expressed in novels and movies like
"It's a Wonderful Life," "Six Degrees of Separation," and "The Butterfly Effect." That night in an old prison chapel, the power of one young woman's pure faith and courage, her decision to serve the Lord by sharing His love with the unloveable, in many lives changed everything. As in Daniel's day, the Lord shut the mouths of the lions in their den. His music soothed the savage beasts, and in this case, brought to them His salvation through an innocent heart.

J. Wallace

Your Correspondence Is Desired

2006-01-14T18:50:00.000-08:00

I hope you enjoy reading the articles on my blog. The creative pieces, spiritual analyses, personal descriptions of my situation, and philosophical ruminations are my way to communicate with the larger society. Please share your thoughts with me by writing to me at:
Jeffrey Wallace K02412, Dm E3203U
Polk C.I.
10800 Evans Rd.
Polk City, FL 33868-6944

Thank you.

Phantoms

2006-01-14T18:05:00.000-08:00

When I first entered prison oldtimers, after learning that I had a life sentence, would refer to me jokingly as a "ghost." I had no idea then what they were talking about. Now, years later, I understand what they meant. It's something prisoners learn after years of experience, something you can't convince first-timers of in the beginning, something you can't believe.

After you've been in prison awhile even the people you care about the most slowly, over time, begin to forget about you. Maybe it's because the idea of your imprisonment is too painful for them to bear, so the thoughts of you become more and more infrequent. It's a natural consequence or coping mechanism brought about by an intolerable situation, to begin to unconsciously block out the worries and hurt that interrupt your daily life. An incarcerated individual can often become a cathartic sounding board for a loved one, a safely confined and captive counsel, eliciting the vocalization of all manner of pent-up emotions and concerns, even lies (often regarding money or gifts) if it will make them feel better. We understand this difficult function and accept it. At least we are serving some sort of worthwhile purpose. But even this usefulness ultimately becomes obsolete, the burden too great.

The mind-numbing, monotonous daily routine of imprisonment creates its own senseless "fugue state" of confusion. Removed from normal life, separated from love and companionship, frustrated by inconsistency and pointlessness, guarded against spontaneous violence and hostile misunderstandings, wearied by cruel mistreatments, constant disappointment and barely subsistence living, all conditions leading to despair and hopelessness, you exist like a vapor, moving from moment to moment, conflict to hindrance, meal to meal, phone call to letter, sunrise to sunset, an apparition without purpose or meaning, ineffectual, helpless.

Missionaries with groups from outside ministries tell me that prisoners aren't the only ones living like phantoms in today's stressful world. Many supposedly free people experience similar symptoms, living in prisons of their own construction. Without sincere Christian faith, it seems impossible to survive such a life. God's chosen people wandered the desert for forty years before they reached their ordained destination (Exodus). They were often confused and bewildered. Only their faith and God's providence sustained them. He miraculously directed and delivered them despite their troubles and foolishness. He has also guided and preserved my life to this day, against all odds, through a desolation experience, His word serving as the road map of my own deliverance and Promised Land, as a vessel for the Holy Spirit, raised like Lazarus from the dead. Amen
J. Wallace

Unconditional Surrender

2006-01-09T08:42:00.000-08:00

During the Civil War, two strategic battles occurred over Fort Donaldson on the Columbia River and Fort Henry on the Tennessee River. Rivers were major thoroghfares for the transportation of goods in that era so these forts, previously held by the Confederacy, had to be taken by the Union Army. Union forces led by General Grant bombarded the forts from warships for several days. When the Confederate troops could take no more, they hoisted a white flag and sent a message to General Grant asking, "What are your terms?"

Grant replied, "No terms--just unconditional surrender!"

General Grant, in his position, was entitled to this demand. God requires no less from us when we become Christians.

When we come to the Lord with sin-stained lives, nothing is to be withheld from Him. Nothing is worth holding onto. Our carnal flesh and minds may try to convince us otherwise. There may be some secret sins we try to conceal out of shame, or just in case we might want to indulge them in the future--addictions are primary examples. Some things we hold on to out of selfishness or a lack of trist--doubting that even God could fixc these hidden tendencies we possess that disgrace ourselves.

God not only wants all these things--everything that makes up what we really are--but He demands them. Nothing less than complete, unconditional surrender will do. We are to lay everything on His altar and trust Him, then with repentance be cleansed from all unrighteousness by the shed blood of His son Jesus Christ, sacrificed on the cross for all of our sins. Nothing of the past is to be retained. "Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things become new." (2 Cor. 5:17) The dried, old, dead husk is broken and split, cast aside and discarded in the ground when the new, green shoot pushes forth, into the springtime to grow and flourish. Its leaves rustle in the cool breeze and turn gently heavenward to bask in the warm, wonderful sun that gives life, surrendering all.

Another Pic

2006-01-04T14:33:00.000-08:00

This is a picture that I drew some months ago of a friend who serves the Lord as a missionary, on her wedding day. I did a drawing of her husband, also.

Missionary: a portrait I drew of a friend who is a missionary

2006-01-03T06:25:00.000-08:00

The Emperor's New Clothes--Again

2005-12-23T07:12:00.000-08:00

"Let us learn our lessons. Never, never, never believe any war will be smooth and easy, or that anyone who embarks on the strange voyage can measure the tides and hurricanes he will encounter. The statesman who yields to war fever must realize that once the signal is given, he is no longer the master of policy but the slave of unforeseeable and uncontrollable events." Sir Winston Churchill.

Why can't this simple truth be remembered and heeded? We are at present a nation in denial, hoping against hope that the greater good will be served by the current wrongs. We follow a man because there is no one else, deluded by fear into believing that the faith he professes will somehow substantiate character and integrity not exhibited, that the power his administration wields will somehow make everything right--against our better judgement.

An old fable tells of an emperor in a small kingdom. Like most aristocracy, he had been seduced by power into a false sense of superiority, and he was out of touch with the governed. His imagined realm of supreme entitlement and inerrancy was soon exploited by someone more ambitious and unscrupulous. A conman sold the emperor a garment suppossedly made of cloth so fine it could not be felt or sceen. He appealed to the emperor's ego and told him no other kingdom on earth possessed such attire, and that it would be essential to his country's continued prominence in the world and the peoples' patriotism that their leader represent the very best, stand for something significant and important. Actually, the conman just wanted to be rich himself.

The emperor was anxious to display this visible proof of his eminence and arranged a grand procession before his vassals. Every9one was too afraid to say anything and were ashamed that their monarch could be so foolish. Only a child, who hadn't yet learned to fear, pointed and exclaimed, "The emperor is naked!"

Today, an unnecessary war is being waged by this country that costs the lives of honorable Americans in military service and untold numbers of innocent civilians. It is a conflict sold with lies by unscrupulous and powerful men to a gullible president blinded by his own agendas and forced onto a fearful public shamed by their own powerlessness.

On this Christmas of the year 2005, in the spirit of the child born two thousand years ago to lead the world with faith and courage, who will have the courage of a child to stand up and speak the unpopular truth and the faith to do something about it?
J. Wallace

Presidents

2005-12-19T11:00:00.000-08:00

It has been said that for the past two hundred years this country has been led by members of an elitist, ruling class that does not represent the cultures, cares, ideals or wills of the people they govern. The amount of money needed to win political campaigns narrows the field of potential presidential candidates to a select few backed by wealthy families, people who have exploited this flaw in our political process to hold on to their power through succeeding generations.

With few exceptions, candidates are groomed from infancy to be completely dependent on and to protect the advantages and comforts of the insular world of wealth and influence that produces them. Most are educated in Ivy League preparatory schools and colleges and socialize almost completely within these environments. Their values and principles are in turn shaped by their peer group and long-established obligations to the dynasties that have supported them. Law schools callenge their mindsets of absolute right and wrong and realign their ethics to ones more "situationally specific and productive." Friends from the same background assume their positions within the ranks of corporate business and banking and establish invaluable allegiances for financing the political schemes and agendas of the privileged. The presidential candidate becomes an investment in the future perpetuation of the status quo: that those who have been in power stay in power.

Unless the American style and institution of presidential selection and election is completely overhauled, and its system of campaign financing effectively restructured and policed, the wealthy elite will continue to run things as they see fit and protect their interests, and the United States will remain a democracy in name only.

Jeffrey Wallace

Portrait of a Tot

2005-11-14T07:37:00.000-08:00

/a This is my son who has been a wonderful blessing in my life. My children are God's special gifts that keep me from losing hope in my darkest moments. I drew this picture when my son was two years old.

Men of Courage by J. Wallace

2005-11-13T07:51:00.000-08:00

Throughout history,
At their moment in time,
Arose men of courage,
Of spirit, and mind,

Who spent themselves
In pursuit of the Truth.
A defining character,
Irrefutable proof,

Of an existence greater
Than the sum of our deeds,
The failures of ignorance,
The desperate pleas

Of civilization wronged
By its own petty fears,
An anguished rage,
Wasted years;

Men judged by criteria
Irrational and false,
Not considering the pain,
The injustice, or loss,

Men who died young,
Before they could see
Their battles almost won,
People almost free.

One day we'll realize
How foolish we've been,
To wage senseless wars
No one can win,

And stand before our Father,
Who according to plan,
Created us brothers,
The Family of Man.

(Dedicated to my father and to Dr. Wilson Bradshaw, Dean of Metropolitan University, Minneapolis, Minn.)

An update:
This poem won first place in the literary contest sponsored by a Florida University.

A Search for Meaning

2005-11-12T18:05:00.001-08:00

To live for the mement is not a bad thing. As a matter of fact, to live for today at your best is an important part of what Jesus taught. It is a key component of the mindset needed for personal fulfillment with a sense of purpose. Though times have changed since Christ walked this earth, human beings basically have not. What was true then concerning the actual nature of reality and what part our lives play in the course of human history remains true, even as you read these words on your computer screen at this moment.

Most people today would admit that their lives are confused. Shoppers will scan the tabloids to see if Brad Pitt wants to play house with Angelina Jolie, if Jennifer Anniston really loves Vince Vaughn or is just using him, or if Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie will ever forgive and forget and mend their friendship--and yet not know what is wrong with their neighbor, why her son will not come home or her daughter needs therapy, and what they could do to help. People confess the most intimate details of their lives to complete strangers on the Internet, and are emotionally distant with the members of their own families. They converse obsessively on cell phones, oblivious to the suffering they are surrounded by in the streets of most cities, and wonder why their lives are empty. Churches plan expansion programs to cater to the culture and "wholesome Christian recreation" of their congregations, while countless poor members of their communities, especially children, are hungry and without proper medical care. People are willing to work on their bodies, their entertainment centers, their cars, and yards, the beautification of their homes, improving their health, their chances for economic success--and ignore their faltering relationships.

A recent article in the New York Times describes a growing psychiatric problem in today's youth observed by a respected psychiatrist. More and more young people are exhibiting symptoms of a fragmentation of their personalities and psychies, a disassociation and emotional seperation not only from their families and other people, but from their very selves. Without a firm foundation of care beliefs, values, and ethics, they are cast adrift in society--not sure from one minute to the next what they believe or think, what is absolutely right or wrong, out of touch with what they feel or should feel. They manifest in their behavior what they have interpreted to be the most situationally specific, socially appropriate and politically correct emotional response to a given target audience or peer group--like an actor on a stage. These contrived theatrical personalities are closely tied to a constantly evolving media-dominated, popular culture, constantly changing like the headlines of supermarket tabloids, and just as shallow. They sometimes speak of themselves in the third person, as if they were referring to someone else or an imagined self. Like the video games they play or music videos, movies or television shows they watch, their lives are not firmly rooted in reality and might as well be a figment of their or someone else's imaginations. This psychological disorder is symptomatic of a pervasive and growing problem in today's society, the alienation and disillusionment of modern mankind--and yet, it's accompanying questioning of long-held beliefs and the very nature of reality (think "Matrix"), can actually be a step toward discovering abstract, deep philosophical, theoretical and theological concepts that have been taught for centuries. (TO BE CONTINUED)

Second Segment

Nothing is as it seems! Science acknowledges this truth. Theoretical and Quantum Physics tells us that atoms, the building blocks of everything, are comprised mainly of empty space. Discovering that electrons do not have mass, photons of light sometimes behave like particles and other times like waves, most of the universe's mass which creates gravational forces essential for the functioning of the cosmos cannot be accounted for, mysterious particles like neutrinos which do not appear bound by the regular laws of nature, etc., scientists now admit that they do not have the answers. Most of what they observe at the subatomic level cannot be explained. Albert Einstein realized that gravity can warp time, space, and light. Even our observances of natural phenomena are not to be taken at face value, measured data being "relative" to factors characteristic of a given observer one moment in the Time/Space Continuum only.

The passing of time was even revealed to be an illusion, an unsubstantiated concept resulting from distances traveled through space, noted by simplistic human perceptual systems and conceived in finite minds "relative" to their surroundings. In other words, much of what we use to determine what our lives are about, our "reality", is not to be trusted. We "see through a glass darkly", seldom fully aware of what is really happening around us and what impact our lives are having in the scheme of things. Ancient religions like Buddhism and Hinduism realized this truth concerning reality long ago; philosophers throughout human history postulated this possibility long before science caught up. Jesus expressed this theme in many of His teachings to illustrate an important point: All we really have is this brief moment in time to make a difference. The past is gone forever and the future never gets here. Worrying over past mistakes, failures, missed opportunities, or future potentialities, agonizing over what has gone before or what may befall us tomorrow, is a waste of time, actually squandering needlessly the few precious moments we have now. Jesus promised that God, like a good father, would take care of all of our essential needs as His children. Like children, we are to seek and abide in the constant security of His presence in every moment of our days, the bliss and comfort of this security exhibiting itself through our lives and drawing others to Him. We are to trust Him completely with everything and, with the time this trust makes available, live in the ways Jesus taught us to give our lives meaning--to love the Lord our God with all our hearts, our minds, our strengths, and to love others as well. The fact that we exist at all in the scheme of things is nothing short of a miracle. Jesus explained that there is nothing we can do to add to the significance of this, other than fulfilling the purpose for which we were created, every day, every moment we have, (that is to bring glory to God's holy name) until He returns.

J. Wallace

I encourage you to read the other entries on my blog and give me your thoughts about these topics, either as comments here or write to me at:

Jeffrey Wallace K02412, Dm. E3203U
Polk C.I.
10800 Evans Rd.
Polk City, FL 33868-6944

2005-11-12T08:07:00.000-08:00

My Purpose:

This blog will be devoted to the life and times of an individual incarcerated by the Florida DOC. My story differs from the usual situation of inmates in that, due to forces ourside my control, I experienced a tragedy that caused me to be removed from my home and family. Never having been in trouble with the law authorities, I found myself in a situation in which my actions were judged erroneously, and all I had to give to society was diminished. I continue to work at my art and writing, commenting on social and religious realities, while attempting to expose the shortcomings of the judicial system of this country and the State of Florida.

My Artwork

2005-11-10T07:45:00.000-08:00

I almost completed this mural for Dr. Patricia Barkley, my friend and counselor, the psychologist at Avon Park C.I., before the hurricane hit last year. We were both in the psychology doctoral program at Nova University, Ft. Lauderdale, FL, in the early 1990's. She was pursuing a Ph.D. in Marriage and Family Counseling and I a Clinical Practice Psychology Doctorate. The mural was to have a therapuetic theme: at the top was to be written "Don't Miss the Boat!", and the boat was to be named on the back "Serenity." Dr. Barkley loves seascapes, so it fulfilled several objectives.

God's Reality Program

2005-10-16T18:07:00.000-07:00

Philosophers and scientists have struggled for centuries to define reality--what really exists, and why we perceive it the way we do. The questions that arise naturally from these discussions, such as "Why does anything exists at all? and What is our purpose in the scheme of things?", have often been dismissed as being too difficult to explain and understand. Christians, on the other hand, have known the answers to these questions from the beginning.
Secular arguments concerning this subject continue until today without agreement. The philosophers Immanuel Kant and David Hume, for example, disagreed in their conceptions of how reality is perceived and constructed within the human mind. Hume believed that our minds start out as "blank slates--tabula rosa" that are written upon by our experiences of the natural world, the data conveyed by our senses actually constructing within our brains concepts such as what it means to be alive. Kant, conversely, thought that we come into the world with what he called "a priori" knowledge, a pre-intellectual awareness or intuition that enables mankind to understand abstract concepts such as time and space, ideas that sometimes change with experience, a subjective rather than objective dynamic.
A similar conflict arose between the famous physicist Albert Einstein and a later field of study developed from his Theory of Relativity called Quantum Physics. Quantum scientists sought to explain away the experimental mysteries they encountered at the subatomic level by stating that "nothing exists until we observe it." Einstein rejected this completely subjective version of reality, responding that the laws of physics are irrefutable and exist outside our sphere of influence, that "God does not play dice with the universe." Hagel, another famous philosopher's wonderful idea, "The Absolute Mind," the source of everything, was preceded by a few thousand years in the pages of the Bible.
Christians have always known that it doesn't matter what our imaginations come up with to understand reality and our place in it; God has explained it all in His Holy Word. Scripture tells us that the Lord created everything with His spoken Word for His own honor and glory (Gen. 1; Job 38:39; Psalms 8) Everything is contained within Him, including ourselves, to honor and glorify Him with all that we think, say, and do (Duet. 5:5, Mat. 22:37, Luke 10:27, Mich. 6-9, I John 5:2-3), to love others the way He loves us, and to serve them (Lev. 19:18, Matt. 19:19, 22, 22: 39-40, Rom. 13:9, Gal. 5:13-14, Matt. 20:26-28).
No matter how we try to complicate it, God's version of reality is the simplest and easiest to understand. His purpose and our purposes have been clearly defined.

Creational Art

2005-10-15T20:25:00.000-07:00

Art is one important aspect of the fact that mankind was made in God's image. It is an expression and evidence of the creative process that brought us into being, a manifestation of the Divine spark left over in everyone that enables an artist to manifest in his heart and hands the very power of creation; to bring into reality a thing of beauty from raw materials and inspiration alone. The evocative nature of art is just a continuation if this process, to ellicit from the universe a realization of the angst and desire that birthed the artistic experience, each time a reiteration and reincarnation of Genesis.

The field of Psychological Science illustrated this indefinable essence of the artistic creative process with an experiment. A group of participants, made up of traditional classical artists, craftsmen, and engineers, and people who just professed an ability to draw were asked to draw a portrait of a stranger. While these subjects drew these portraits, they were given CAT scans that mapped the areas of their brains that were experiencing the most electrical activity during this assignment. The results were examined and analyzed and the resulting CAT scan data separated the group of subjects into two distinct camps. As you would expect, the draftsmen, engineers, and amateur drawers processed most of the information they received and utilized through hand-eye coordination to render their portraits in the area of their brains called the visual cortex, an area at the back of the cerebral cortex that processes visual stimuli. These participants in the experiment were merely duplicating as accurately as possible what they saw, no more than a facsimile of what their eyes perceived.

The classical artists, on the other hand, were found to experience the most electrical activity and hence process the most information during this portrait creating activity, in the area of their brains called the Frontal Lobe. This area is generally believed to be the seat of human consciousness, where the thoughts occur, through various idea creating and analytical processes, responsible for every advancement in the field of human intellectual development strongly influenced by emotional content, the basis for inspiration. It has been theorized that what the artists are doing is bringing into existence through the creative endeavor their "idea" of the portrait, not a mere processing of visual information, but a utilization of a quality of consciousness expressed in symbolic forms that other people can recognize, interpret, and respond to, bringing forth into our physical reality a concrete representation of what it means to be human.

The artistic experience, perceiving the world in unique perspectives and recognizing its potential, through the creative process, appears each time, in every artist's own way, to be a repetition of the original act of creation, bringing forth from the humble earth truth and beauty. Though artists have often been under-appreciated in our greed-driven , Western culture, in this sense they are like priests, possessing an innate ability to perceive and conceive the divine and infinite, and to express and communicate these qualities in a tangible way to world-weary souls. J. Wallace

Writing for Literacy Club

2005-10-15T19:16:00.000-07:00

A FAVORITE THING

My favorite thing is plural--actually things, or favorite memories, memorable times in my life that have made it worth living. The births of my children, significant family gatherings, my first big job just out of college, and a moped adventure with my wife-to-be, through the backyards of Palm Beach mansions are just a few examples. One memory stands out for different reasons.

Viva Zapata! is a Mexican-themed bar open on one side to the street, veranda style, in Key West. At one point after my divorce, I sat in the "eye of the hurricane" of my life in Viva's cool interior, taking a rest from the storm. One song says, "Freedon's just another word for nothing left to lose." Everything that I had loved had been swept away, or I had walked away from, and, in a strange way, it was freeing. A cute, little eighteen-year-old redhead had taken a liking to me. She considered herself a "post-modern hippy" and found me attractive for some reason, burned out, disillusioned drop-out from two previous professional careers hiding out in Margaritaville. Go figure! Almost every afternoon we would get semi-intoxicated and sing old Eagles' tunes with the jukebox: "Take It to the Limit," "Take It Easy," "Desperado," etc. Those old songs then somehow spoke to my situation. She found them nostalgic (!). We sang them with all our heart and soul; she even cried a little during "Desperado."

Like all foolish dreams, this one did not last long. Soon, I would have to wake up and face reality, the wreckage of my life, and the danger I was surrounded by. But, for a moment, I lived a romanticized version of suspended animation, a vagabond with no responsibilities, the tragedy of my circumstances put on hold as that Eagles' CD spun into place. Someone bought another round of drinks, a young woman snuggled up to me, teary-eyed, and the world stopped to let me get off.
J. Wallace

The True Nature of Faith

2005-10-06T12:30:00.000-07:00

The True Nature of Faith

Faith, as it is often practiced today, seems less the supernatural phenomenon described in scripture, in the “substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen,” a perspective and confidence that supercedes our physical reality. Rather, it seems more of a type of “hope, wish, and a prayer” often ridiculed in our popular culture. Unless the Biblical truth concerning what is required to actually begin to approach God and, more importantly, to please Him, is explained and made evident by our Christian teaching and example, it will be lost forever to a generation of young people Biblically unschooled and befuddled by guided misconceptions.
Faith, as it is explained in scripture, is not hoping, but it is knowing that the Lord will intercede for us as born-again Christians (Mark 11:22-24, Matt. 21:21-22, 1 Peter 3:12, Heb. 4:14-16). It is a belief not based on personal cause and effect observations or life experiences in the physical world; faith does not rely on scientific laws or physical realities at all (2 Cor. 4:13-18). It is the confidence placed in the Word and assurances of the Maker and Sustainer of everything, the One who gave us life and mercifully revealed Himself to us. It is an understanding born of scriptural study (Rom. 10-17) and countless intercessions on our behalf in times of need and crisis. It is a shifting of the mind from the bondage of fear and doubt--plagued thinking, to a free realm of positive expectations and results (Mark 4: 37-41, I John 4:17-18, Heb. 10:35). It is an active choice made daily, moment by moment, in its purest form, absolutely essential for victorious living.
The main reason faith exists is to please God, and it is impossible to please Him without it (Heb. 11:16). This truth is such a main tenet of Christian belief that it almost goes without saying. But, if the true faith described by scripture, a belief constant and certain despite all worldly reason, often goes unrecognized, does that mean God is seldom pleased with our endeavors, and if not pleased, is He disappointed, even displeased? If so, it would then follow that the often unproductive nature of the modern Christian life is not so mysterious. It is to be expected, if the modern mind is fully immersed in the cares, the delusions of some sciences, the mistruths and outright lies of secular civilization meant to misdirect and hamper naive believers.
Therefore, it is our Christian duty to display in our words and deeds, not “hope, a wish, and a prayer,” but true faith, with knowledge and sometimes grim diligence, despite all hindrances, obstacles, temporary hardships, and arguments to the contrary, with assurance and determination, set our course and see it through to the end to the Lord’s honor and glory without waiver. This is true faith in thought and action. It is what we owe to Him who gave His all for us, to all the unsaved souls who observe and measure our faith, and to all the Christian generations that look to us for wisdom and guidance.

J. Wallace