Ode To the Snow

Snow and I have a tepid relationship at best.

It’s kind of pretty watching it fall when I'm warm and snug in my living room. And it’s kind of fun to be out tromping around in it, too. But those nice feelings are usually eclipsed by an outright loathing for the stuff when I have to go out drive in it. 

 

Not that it happens very often, because it’s only in the coldest storms that snow falls at 1800 feet in the Sierra Nevada foothills. And not because I don't know how to get around in it when it does, because I do. No, snow makes me cranky because whoever designed the roads in our Alta Sierra neighborhood never understood the concept of a straight line being the most direct path between two points.

 

Although looking at it from above, the roadway layouts cutting though the rolling hills are, aesthetically, probably quite pleasing. At the surface, though, every artery seems to be designed as steep, winding and uneven as possible. Perhaps the road builder was drunk. Perhaps he just liked curvy lines. But with varying degrees of slope and elevation, throw a couple of inches of snow and ice on these crooked avenues and, quite often, sit back and watch the chaos that ensues.

Yet this is where I choose to live. So where did this anti-snow attitude come from? I mean, though the roads were usually straight, I lived in locations where it snowed often all winter. I got used to getting around in it, driving in it, shoveling it, and living with it. It was a fact of life. No, I think my snow phobia is probably a little more deep-seated than dealing with the schizophrenic Alta Sierra byways. I think what really turned me off to the white stuff was triggered way back in childhood, the day I got stuck waist deep in it after falling into a hole on a sixth grade class outing.

It was a day at Soda Springs to play in the snow and learn to ski. I’d never skied and hadn’t spent much time around snow, but it was a whole Saturday to be with my friends and away from home so when it was announced, I was totally up for the adventure. I was even more stoked that Mom didn’t prevent me from going. I thought she would. But the event was on a Saturday and she probably liked the idea of having me out the house for most of a weekend day. At least I wouldn’t be in the way or doing something to make her mad. I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I was just glad she said ‘yes’. 

We were supposed to meet at the school at 7:30 and two busses were scheduled to leave by 8. It was a cloudy cold February morning and raining when the busses pulled away from Kingswood Elementary, and by the time we hit Soda Springs, at around 5000 feet, it was already snowing steadily. It was exciting. I hadn’t seen snow actually falling before.  

At Soda Springs, we were directed to the rental area to be fitted for our skis and then on to the bunny hill, which was all the school would let any beginning skiers try. It was lame but at least we got a good looking lady instructor. She taught us all how to stay upright, how to turn and use the poles. I fell down a couple times (first time on accident), but the lady instructor came over both times to brush the snow off and gently pick me up. Some of my friends laughed, but when they figured out she’d come and help them as well, they started falling down, too.

Our group had the bunny slope all day. I wanted to ride the chair lift, but only the kids who’d skied before, and with their parent’s permission, got to go up to the intermediate slopes. And the bunny slope became boring after awhile, plus it was still snowing. I was dressed for cold weather, but not for really wet weather. The snow flurries hadn’t let up since getting off the bus. If anything, it may have been snowing harder. I had gloves, boots and a ski cap, which offered some protection. But I was getting pretty damp. And cold. So with my buddy Gary McKenzie, we slogged back to the ski lodge, sat by the fire and drank hot cocoa.

 

It felt really nice being inside and I could’ve stayed there all day. But even that grew boring after a while, and once we got warmed up again, Gary and I went back outside and hiked around. We didn’t rejoin the other kids, just sort of trounced around and explored on our own. By then the snow had let up, but it was still a wet, raw afternoon. Gary and I found a trail not far from where the skis rental building and followed it to see where it went. He had a watch and we agreed to go 15 minutes out and then come back. And then go get more hot cocoa.

But we hadn't gone more than 50 feet before I managed to step in a small hole. At first, it was kind of weird and even kind of funny. However, as my foot kept dropping deeper and deeper, like I was in quicksand, it wasn’t funny anymore. As the small hole quickly became a bigger hole, my right leg sunk deeper into the gap. When half my body finally stopped sinking, it felt like I was doing the splits. With one foot buried in the hole and the other leg balanced on the surface, I was planted like a cockeyed scarecrow.  A foot straight out here, an arm stretched out and flailing back there; it was awkward and not very relaxing.

Gary laughed, but when he saw me struggling to get out, he tried to help. However, not much bigger than me he had little leverage. With my weight unequally distributed, he couldn’t pull me out, though he nearly pulled my arm out of its socket, trying. But he'd eventually lose grip and fall back onto the snow himself. So I was stuck, with my head and shoulders and one leg in daylight, and the rest of my torso descending into the bowels of the earth. Gary told me to “wait right there”- as if I could go anywhere- and went for help. Ten minutes later he was back with a couple of big guys from the ski rental shop.

As they assessed the situation, I was getting colder and trying not to pee my pants. I thought they might use a rope, or commandeer something like a back hoe for the extraction, which would’ve been kind of cool. So as I waited for what would happen next, I played brave. But deep down, I felt like a weenie. I was scared and wanted to cry. I didn’t know how long I’d be stuck and thought I was in grave danger. I didn’t think I’d ever be free. I wanted my mom. Well, sort of. Almost, anyway. 

However, getting me extracted turned out to be no big deal; it required no ropes or heavy machinery, just alittle manpower. One of the men hooked both his arms underneath mine, and started lifting. As he did that, the other guy reached in the hole, grabbed some pant leg and tugged northward. He tugged so hard, soggy denim rode up my leg, exposing bare skin to cold chunks of snow. It was like being pulled out of a frozen Slurpee. However, in about ten seconds they had me out. 
 

They knocked the snow off and asked if I was all right. I was shivering, damp, very uncomfortable and also quite embarrassed. The mountain had held firm for everyone else, but, apparently it couldn’t hold me- even though I wasn’t very big. And all the surrounding fuss and confusion had me a little too conspicuous and way too stupid. However, the men told me not to feel bad because people fell in snow holes all the time.  Not sure I believed them though. I just wanted to go somewhere and hide.

Mr. Sears, who was in charge of our group, got to the near-disaster about the time I was hoisted out of the snow hole. He was trailed by a bunch of excited classmates who’d all been tipped off that someone had been in an accident. But when the rumors of my imminent death or dismemberment turned out to be nothing more than a clumsy doofus getting pulled out of a snow bank, most of the other kids straggled off with shrugs and some disappointed gripes of “no big deal”.  

Their concern was touching. 

Mr. Sears told me to go back to the lodge and dry out. I heard him thank the guys that “rescued” me and then laugh about something. I was sure he was laughing at me or my clumsiness. Gary asked again if I was okay. Calm once more and, out of the spotlight, I relaxed and thanked him for getting me out. I told him I owed him.  

But he put his arm around me and playfully teased, “Years from now, you’ll tell your grand kids how I saved you from the clutches of death.”  It’d be at least that long before I'd even want to tell anyone about the day I sank in the snow.  

”I must’ve looked like some sort of spaz, a snowbound spaz!”  I spit out the words, rolled my eyes and shook my head, which caused a little more snow fall off.

 “Well, no more than usual”, Gary assured me.

We both laughed like school kids (oh wait, we were) and punched each other in the arm. Then we balled up clumps of lumpy snow to toss at each other and hurl at girls as we walked back to the lodge. Even though the incident turned out to be no big deal, it felt good to have a friend with me who cared.  But that’s what friends are for- when you’re down, they lift you up.  

We were crass and teased each other all the time, but when I was in a bad spot, when I really needed a friend, he was there. To an insecure little guy in sixth grade, just knowing that made the big cold world seem less big and a lot warmer. At 12 years old, there’s nothing better in life than having a best friend. For me, that was Gary McKenzie.  

However, I can’t say for sure if my wariness of snow goes back to that snowy day in sixth grade when I was encased in the frozen tundra of Soda Springs-for all of about 15 minutes- or not. But when a little snow falls into my life these days and coats our hairpin curving roads, given the choice between looking at the rare phenomenon as just one of those things in nature to either appreciate or ignore, I have chosen to do neither.
 

I swear to the heavens and hope like hell it melts quickly. 

It's a Wonderful Life

.

A lot of people do their best thinking in the shower, the car, while communing in nature....on the toilet. But not me. My clearest and deepest thoughts tend to formulate in the middle of the night. 

In one way this is good because in the dark small hours of the morning, its quiet and these ideas and concepts come in loud and clear. On the other hand, coming at 2:30 in the a.m., they often ruin the rest of a night’s sleep. Case in point, this morning: my brain was wide awake conceptualizing what the world would be like had I never been born.

I had no idea where this was coming from; I'm not George Bailey and his guardian angel, Clarence, wasn't over in the corner waiting to get his wings and I hadn’t even watched that silly movie anytime recently. So I attempted to ‘change the channel', and persuade my mind not to bother; that I’m not important enough to worry about it. As a soul of little consequence, my appearance on the planet, or not, has no bearing on the outcome of human history. Move on.

Didn’t work, though- yesterday was Sunday and I’d been to church, so I knew at least in God's eyes, my soul is of value. So since I still couldn’t get back to sleep I went with the flow and tried to see where this stream of consciousness wanted to go. What would happen if I wasn't here?

My career?  Well, I've had some fun, some highs, some lows; like anybody I suppose. But overall it’s been satisfying. So what?  So, had I not been a jock at KEZC, KGA, KZUN AM & FM, Apple FM, KSPT, KPND and KNCO, then somebody else would’ve. They might even have done a better job. I mean, I was okay. But as a guy on the radio, stacking up my abilities against some of the folks I work with now, it’d be like sending up a Little-Leaguer to pinch hit for Babe Ruth.

Gee, thank you subconscious.  Thanks for that happy little little look back on my body of work. That was fun. I suck. Now, can we move on?

No. My mind moved on to examining what I do now. Continuity and Traffic Specialist at K-love Air 1 Radio; Christian radio. What is continuity? Following the programming work flow; the paper or electronic trail from work order, to the logs, to the on air machines. What is traffic? Besides having nothing to do with cars on the freeway, it’s scheduling to the logs what comes out of continuity and keeping us FCC compliant.

As a jock (well, former jock), it’s work I never thought I'd be doing when I first got into broadcasting- 8 hours of rather robotic, uncreative, unfulfilling tasks that, in the grand scheme, probably aren’t making much of a difference to anybody, or winning a single lost soul to Christ. Thinking deeper into the  night, I found my day job insignificant; being such a small cog in the big picture, God’s picture, I worried, that at the end of my days the duties I did will have done nothing to advance the kingdom or adequately serve my God. I'll have failed. Then where will I be? What’ll happen then? I felt my eyes water and wanted to go someplace else. Or at least, back to sleep.

But then I thought about the people in my life. No, let’s not. Please don’t go there. I wasn't in control, though, so I thought about Mom. How I failed to live up to what she wanted me to be. How I caused her so much pain. I blew it. I thought about my brothers and sister. Have I been the best sibling to them over time? Hell no. I’ve been petulant, free spirited, independent, and often didn't give a damn. I blew it. Same with folks I called friends. I've often been a lousy friend, and at times am amazed I have any at all.

I’ve blown it

Next I thought about my wife and how much better her life would be had I not been here. Our marriage is pretty good, but I am a hand full to live with and, as a human being, quite flawed. Hardly a story book husband, I just wonder if she'd be happier had she met and married someone else. I don't think about that all the time. In the middle of the night though, I guess I do. It comes up a lot.

The film strip in my head flash ahead, and moments of my life flashed in front of me. There were valleys of deep wounds running deep inside, some that aren't yet healed. I ached. I also saw the scars inflicted and left behind on the lives I'd intersected with too. I ached for them. Both scenes made me sad.  Then I remembered why I was wide awake and the general theme of this nightmare- contemplating a world I’d never been born into. I liked the idea. I'd have escaped all that misery- my own and those, who by chance or accident, found their lives entwined with me. 

Just send me back, marked ‘defective’, and call it a day. Or night.

I wanted to go back to sleep. I didn’t want to dwell any more on whether the world would’ve, could’ve, should’ve been better, with or without me. It was depressing. All the variables were breaking my brain and keeping me wide awake on a night I felt was never going to end. It all seemed hopeless. The darkness tends to do that; but in those last few moments before the dawn came and crowded it out, the light went on.

As hard as it is to keep going sometimes- or even when it’s easy- one fact remains: I'm here. I’m not a mistake. That I’m upright and breathing at this moment and time in history is not by random chance. My life isn’t an accident. There is a reason and a purpose for my being, and though I struggle and occasionally lose sleep trying to figure out what it is I remain part of the plan. A plan for today, and all the days going forward. God’s plan.

The first rays of sunlight relaxed the grip of night and, with fear and trembling, I arose to wrestle with my faith again. As a believer though, this isn't a unique concept. I believe it's a challenge everybody faces.

I just think I'd do it a lot better with a little more sleep.

Cup of Youch!

I stopped into the AM/PM this morning to grab a cup of coffee. With the windy, wacky weather keeping me up the last couple of nights, I needed the caffeine to get charged up and focused for another challenging day; or to stay awake if it’s a boring one.

Even though I would've liked a white mocha from Its-a-Grind (a concoction to die for), I'm not really a super-dooper coffee connoisseur. If it’s hot, black and smells like coffee I'll generally drink it. And with the nearest Its-a-Grind about 25 miles away, I was content to settle for a cup of $1.25 AM/PM "house" blend. But Good Lord, why do places like mini-marts have to make everything so dang stinkin' hot?!

Yes, hot coffee is good. Molten coffee is not.

Once the plastic cup was full, and even with the little cardboard thingy wrapped around its circumference as I carried it over to the register, I thought the fingerprints were being burned off my hand. With all that seared flesh, my first concern was, "Dang, how am I gonna send a text?"

Then in the car, through the tiny hole in the plastic lid I took my first tentative sip.
Immediately I felt my tongue recoil in shock. So for the sake of safety, and to avoid incurring another second degree burn, I placed the coffee cup in the cup holder and drove on.

Periodically I picked it up to try a touch or taste test, only to find it was still just this side of spontaneous combustion. It's like they brewed this stuff on the sun. So I kept driving. And driving. And driving some more.

Twenty minutes later I pulled into the parking lot at work, and at last was able to get a sip in edgewise. My caffeine fix was satisfied. I could face the day. But had more than half my brain been engaged, I could've just waited till I got to the office, headed to the break room and got a fresh cup of workplace coffee there.

Already brewed, lukewarm and free.

ZZZ's and BFF's

"Gosh, you look like you just lost your best friend"

A couple people told me that at work today. Did I really look that bad? I think it's just I felt drained and dead tired. Two straight nights with an almost total lack of sleep will probably give anyone that "hang-dog" look. And the weather isn't helping either. There's something about these cold grey gnarly days of winter that seem to gang up and when least expected, sap the life out of me. As gloomy and dismal as the sky looked today, that's about how I felt and, no doubt, communicated though my body language.

It's like I was a marionette, but the puppeteer got another gig and left me behind, bent at the torso with arms and strings draped to the floor in a lifeless crumble. I didn't want to work, didn't want to eat; I did want to sleep. Still do. But if I couldn't do that, I just wanted to be left alone like the cold, unhappy, worn out zombie who'd temporarily moved into my soul.

Whatever these blues are, I had 'em bad today.

But come to think of it, I did lose a best friend before, and it felt an awful lot like this, minus the lousy weather. Gary McKenzie had been my buddy from fourth grade through middle school. But 6 weeks into our freshman year in high school, he up and moved away. Didn't say anything, didn't get a chance to say good-bye. He was out absent on a Friday and was gone the next week. Then I heard he wasn't coming back. At all. The family had left California

By 14, stuff like that wasn't supposed to bother me anymore, but it did. It came at a real difficult time. The navigation from 8th grade to high school was difficult enough. But having a trusted friend to come alongside as we learned to swim in the choppy new waters was invaluable. We caught the bus together, met up at each other's lockers during break periods, ate together during the same lunch session and hung around together after school. Though Gary and I both liked girls, in a totally innocent way it was like we were 'dating'.

Best friends since being nine, we shared the same warped sense of humor, played football together, rode our Stingray bikes out behind the school together and bought a lot of Icee's down at the 7-11. We 'got' each other. Gary stuck up for me, listened to me, laughed with me, and just knowing he always had my back gave me a load of confidence I didn't seem to find anyplace else.

Most kids during their school years look forward to the weekends. I did too. And up until high school, I was always glad when it was finally Monday because I'd get to hang out with my friend again. But then Gary was gone.  Suddenly, the halls of my high school seemed quite unfriendly and though everything looked the same, nothing was the same again. I couldn't wait till Friday so I could get away from it all. I didn't eat in the lunchroom anymore because Gary wasn't there. The always drafty bus seemed even colder in the wake of my friend's departure. For weeks, I didn't even want to go to the 7-11 or have an Icee. Both reminded me of old times.

Later in life, I'd feel the same way after breaking up with my first girl friend. Everything and everyplace reminded me of her. I didn't want to leave my room and all I wanted to do was cry. It wasn't that bad when Gary moved away, but was a painful preamble of how it'd feel to lose a deepening friendship.

Out of college, I wrote a poem called "Driftwood". Written in staggered stanzas, representing a meandering river, it tells of people and relationships that had drifted in and then out of my life, like flotsam and jetsam.

Driftwood

          I had a dog once.

         He'd run and fetch

         and when he panted

         it looked like he was smiling.

         The dog ran away.

Grandpa tried to comfort me

and said there'd be other dogs, other days.

So we went out and got sodas.

Grandpa died later that year.

                 I almost got in a fight one day at school

                 with a bigger kid who promised

                 to knock my block into the next block.

                 My friend Gary stepped in and took the beating,

                 preserving my chops

                 as well as my life, no doubt.

                 That fall, Gary moved to Texas.

         Back in college

         I spent many a long night at Rob's Place,

         a little dive near campus

         which served Old Milwaukee on tap.

         In those days,

         'ol Mil on tap was nectar

         to my unsophisticated palate.

         Anyway, my buddy Bill and I

         would drink beer,

         shoot pool

         and play Waylon Jennings on the jukebox.

                                           Then later, moving to a corner table

                                 as the late evening turned to very early morning,

                                 under the light of the Old Milwaukee neon

                                 barely illuminating where we sat,

                                            we’d discuss the important things in life:

                                                     like the advantages of real grass over Astroturf,

                                                     would the Red Sox ever win a pennant?

                                                     what did Popeye ever see in Olive Oil?

                                                     and would we all live to see 30?

             But I never talked about her-

             not even the brew, the mood or the late hour could coax her name to cross my lips.

             She was missing in action, too, had said good bye,

             and I didn't want my friend to see me cry.

                                          Last I heard,

                                          Rob's Place filed for chapter eleven,

                                          Bill filed for divorce

                                          and I haven’t shot stick since then.

Last year, I met a new girl,

who made me forget the other one.

She was very pretty and liked to run,

and when she panted, it looked like she was smiling-

though one could never be certain.

    I told her I loved her

    and wanted to get married

    and buy her a house with lace curtains.

She thought that was nice--

then ran off with her therapist.

    

   Today, I bought a new dog......

But people and friends aren't driftwood. They're flesh and blood and real. And as one who sometimes wears his heart on his sleeve, the ones I let in the closest seem to leave the biggest hole when they go. I wouldn't admit or even begin to understand a concept like that when my childhood friend moved on. And I wouldn't trade for a minute all the fun and good times we had, either. But I sure missed it when life wasn't like that anymore.

Crazy though, what exhaustion and energy draining winds and cold rains can do to a tired spirit.  I hadn't thought about Gary in years till the other day when the subject of friends and loss came up. But I guess he was my first BFF. We had a history together. The hard lesson learned, though, is not all best friends forever are. They don't come along every day, too. But when they do, like Gary, I've learned to treasure every one. And while many may be gone, none are forgotten.

Funny what pops into your head under a few dark rain clouds; or when you're so sleepy, you can't hold up your head. Truth is, nothing’s changed since yesterday. I haven’t really lost my best friend; only a few winks of sleep. And when this mid-winter gloom and ‘yuck’ storm is over, the sun is going to shine again too. So I’ll be fine. I am fine.

And though I didn't get to say it back then, I’ll say it now- thanks Gary. For everything. You really were a great friend.

Friends I will remember you,
think of you,
pray for you.
And when another day is through
I'll still be friends with you
--John Denver

 

Modern Day Revelation

I'm looking out the window here at work as gathering storm clouds begin to usher another winter storm. It's windy, and the darkening afternoon is ripe with turbulent energy. But February tends to be a breeding ground for these types of tempests; they come hard and fast and deliver quite a wallop. But in a day or so, they blow by and the calm doldrums of a Northern California winter continue. 

In the strengthening gale, though, I noticed a bright beam of sunlight penetrating through the thickening overcast, like God shining a flashlight down from Heaven. I put my coffee cup down and kept staring out the glass, being most unproductive as the divine panorama momentarily turned my thoughts from earthly deadlines to eternal destinies.

I believe in Heaven and Hell and hope like hell I end up in Heaven. Okay, it’s a cheeky way to describe it but that’s what I believe. Though my walk is generally disorganized, my faith isn't. I firmly believe in Jesus Christ, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, and take Him at His word that He's coming again someday to judge the earth and square up accounts between good and evil. I also know I don't want to be on the wrong side of history when that happens because, in case you haven't read the book, evil loses--badly. It's really not going to be very pretty.

However, though I believe in the Lord's return, I have no idea when that's going to happen. Today, tomorrow, next year, next century? God only knows is a perfectly good answer to the question and one I'm perfectly content to live with. People can guess and speculate all they want, and many do, but their logic and conjecture is only as good as any other human beings- small and imperfect. And as it pertains to the perfection and hugeness of the Deity, likely wrong, too.

So I find it somewhat amusing to hear what's going on at the Family Radio Network. Family Radio is a listener supported Christian radio ministry based in Oakland, California. They've been around a little over fifty years. In fact my first radio job was at KEBR-FM, the Sacramento Family Radio affiliate. I was in college at the time and worked two summers there, answering phones, changing tapes, running the board. Being at KEBR was interesting, because it was my first chance to experience and learn the inner workings of a real radio station. The programming content, however, was mind-numbingly dull.

It still is.

But that’s not the issue. I've got nothing against Family Radio and will always be grateful they gave me my first paying job in broadcasting. But I do have some questions about the sanity of President and Family Radio Founder, Harold Camping. Though he and I never crossed paths during my time toiling in KEBR’s studios and he wouldn’t know me from Adam, I think I can say with little fear of being contradicted that the man is a loon. Now approaching 90 year sold, the old codger has recently made it his life's work to swear up and down that Judgment Day is coming. Of course, in a general way all believers know that. But for the last year or so, Harold Camping has targeted a specific date: Saturday, May 21. This year. For those of you keeping score at home, that's about three months off. 

In fact, Family Radio- or really, Mr. Camping-  is so certain they've put up billboards and when logging onto the home page of their website, it's the first thing you see in bold letters: "Judgment Day... May 21, 2011. The Bible guarantees it!" Now, I make no claim to be a theologian or Biblical scholar, but I have read the Bible and never once saw May 21, 2011 mentioned anywhere, in any context, in either the Old or New Testament. What I do recall reading was that no man shall know the day or the hour of the Lord's return, that He'll come as a thief in the night; that we are to be watchful and live each day as if it was the day of His return, too. But only God knows if May 21, 2011 is that day; not Harold Camping

What I do know is there will be signs to watch for as Jesus' return approaches:  wars and rumors of wars, famines, natural disasters. Of course, haven't we had all that stuff since about the dawn of time? But what about such inconvenient truths, like the Battle of Armageddon, or the revealing of the Antichrist? Aren't these two of the events also guaranteed by the Bible to occur in the last days? Yes, I think they are. But doggone it, while I like to consider myself fairly up to speed on current events, I don’t think either of those two things has happened yet. Unless I just missed it, although if the world really was ending I'm pretty sure CNN and Fox News would be all over each other to see who'd be first to cover the biggest story in history. So I think I would’ve heard about it by now.

However, I will concede that we may be near or already in the end times, The recent implosion of Egypt, a nuclear Iran and the re-arming of Russia point in that direction. The Bible says that in the last days, Israel will be surrounded on all sides by enemies. Take a look at the map: if Egypt goes radical Muslim, except for a shaky Jordan, Israel will be surrounded by enemies. When that happens it's also prophesied that a large army from the North will advance and bring all its might to bear on the Israel.  Again, look at a map; Moscow is due north of Tel Aviv. Could that be the army the Bible is talking about? I don't know. But I know enough to know I don't know, except that someday Jesus is coming back. That much I'm quite certain of.

However, I'm not mocking Harold Camping or his beliefs or his ministry; although it isn’t easy not to. With a deep, craggy, shaky voice and delivery, listening to any of his programs- which I had to often when I worked for him- is like being lectured by Moses. Or in more contemporary terms, like the mean old neighbor down the street who hates kids: Why you young whipper snappers; get off my lawn!  He seemed then- and now- like a really old overbearing know-it-all.

But if he's right and this coming May 21 is the end of the world, so be it. That'll be a great thing for all Christians. We'll all be in Heaven. But if he's wrong- which is not unprecedented (he made a similar prediction in 1994)- Mr. Camping opens up the faith to even more ridicule and marginalization. That happens often enough without any of us even opening our mouths. Why make it any easier for the non-believers and skeptics? And how many more times can prominent so-called biblical 'scholars' cry wolf and get away with it?

And what happens to Family Radio if, on May 22, the world wakes up to just another run-of-the-mill spring morning?  Knowing how things work in radio, I almost guarantee the network has programming already prepared to roll that day- just in case. Along with some lame excuse about, "God giving us more time", or Mr. Camping's calculations were slightly off-base.... again. But who’ll be listening? If the sun rises uneventfully on May 22, Family Radio will have zero credibility. And if we're not history by then, then Family Radio certainly will be. Or should be anyway.

But that's not my call. I leave that judgment up to God.

Outside, the beam of sunlight I was looking at has been swallowed up again by darkening clouds and it looks like it could rain any second. The storm is almost here. But as I return to my daily grind- which, not coincidentally, is at another large listener supported Christian radio ministry that doesn't put itself out on a limb and make fools of themselves and our faith as Family Radio does- if we are on the cusp of the end of the age, I find it eminently satisfying to be working these last days in the Lord's vineyard.