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You will notice that there is a lot of orange and blue on this page. That is in honor of my high school, Lincoln Park High School, good ol' LPHS.
Lincoln Park High, Lincoln Park High Hail to orange and blue We shall ever more defend you Faithful, staunch and true, Rah! Rah! Rah! Honesty and loyalty, they spell our highest aim Fight! Fight! for Lincoln Park, our school’s fair name So went our school song, the tune borrowed from some university in Wisconsin. And for four years I attended classes, met with my friends, and grew as a person in the hallowed halls and classrooms of LPHS. Most of my friends from Keppen and Lafayette were there as well, along with many new people from other elementary and middle schools in Lincoln Park. Together we would form the Class of '59 and go forth from LPHS each to do our part to change the world. But I am ahead of myself. It is only 1955; we have four years to go before we can change the world. First, our selves needed some changing. There were many things about high school I liked. I had gotten used to changing classes and teachers each period when at Lafayette, and I enjoyed having different teachers for each subject. Also, we did not all follow the same schedule, so I saw different friends each period as our schedules followed different paths to the end of the school day. WHAT I DIDN'T LIKE ABOUT HIGH SCHOOL But there was one thing about high school I did not like at all. I had never had to face it anytime in my previous eight years of school. Marlborough in Windsor, Keppen and Lafayette in Lincoln Park did not require physical education classes. Lincoln Park High School did. I indicated in Windsor’s Child how athletic my older brother, Ron, had been. He really loved Navy life because of all the sports he could get involved in. He did not like high school because he did not like studying. How different the two of us were. My interests were more academic. I enjoyed reading, and, as I have indicated many times, I loved writing. And I hated sports. I did not want to be involved in sports in any way. This loathing of sports went back a long way. Whenever there was some kind of athletic contest at recess at previous schools, I was the one chosen last when team captains made their choices. I did not do well at sports, so no one wanted me on his team. That was fine with me. I didn’t want to be on the team anyway. I would prefer to just watch. Actually, I would prefer to have a good book to read, or a pencil and some paper to write something, but if I had to be involved in sports then a spectator was the level of involvement I preferred. But in high school, I was not allowed to take that position. Physical education was required for all freshmen and sophomores. Now, there is a tendency in this strange society we live in, to assume that a boy who does not care for sports is not normal. He may have too strong a feminine side. He may have a hormone imbalance. He may have a strong, domineering mother. That may be true in some cases. It was not true in mine. I had none of these conditions or situations in my life. I just did not have an attraction to sports. As an educator, pastor, and former teenager, I have come to the conclusion that it is a serious mistake to assume that all boys must have an interest in and desire to play sports, and that the “normal” young man will spend his days and nights dreaming of the day he can carry a basketball down a court and drop it in the hoop time and time again and win the championship for his team! It is a serious mistake to think that any boy who does not dream of playing professional sports some day has a hormone deficiency or an incorrectly wired brain. It is a mistake to assume this because it just isn’t true. Different people have different interests. There are many women who enjoy sports every bit as much as many men do. Are they deficient? Do they have an incorrectly wired brain? Fortunately for me, someone agreed with me. One day in the first week of school, the phys ed teacher took me aside and asked me if I would like to take care of the cage during gym class. The cage was a small room in the boys’ locker room where the guys left their valuables — watches, wallets, and other items — while they were in gym class. One or two students would be responsible to stay in the cage during gym class to watch over the valuables. I thought that was great. So I spent two school years, four semesters, seventy-eight weeks, three hundred and sixty school days, in the cage. I never had to take a gym class at LPHS. Later I discovered that Dad had called the teacher to tell him of my predicament and to seek his help in solving the problem. And, although I do not know for certain, I suspect that Mom influenced Dad to make that call. Life in the cage was fine. I could do homework assignments. I could just sit there, if I wanted to. And sometimes I would have a helper, usually someone who had a note from his doctor because of a temporary situation that got him out of gym class. At those times I would enjoy the conversations that always developed between us. I do not remember being teased for my lack of athletic ability and interest. I do not remember anyone being unkind to me about it. Perhaps they did so behind my back, or perhaps I just don’t remember the remarks they made. But I was quite content to sit in the cage during phys ed class each day. And the teacher was quite content to let me do so. No one wanted me on their team anyway, so it worked out for all concerned. And no one lost any valuables on my watch either. HOW I BEAT ALABAMA There was one student who made life unpleasant for me for awhile, but it had nothing to do with phys ed class. I don’t know what his name was, but everyone called him Alabama. Dad drove me to school in the morning, but after school I had to walk home. The walk was about one mile long, and Alabama sometimes walked the same path after school. He was not a friendly person. “Give me a dime,” he demanded of me one day when he had caught up with me on my way home. I often had a companion or two to walk home with, but that day I was by myself. I did not want to give Alabama a dime. He had done nothing to deserve it. But I was not about to defend my dime or my honor on a street corner halfway between school and home. So I gave him a dime. That was a mistake. “Give me a dime,” became an almost daily demand from the punk. For a time I met this challenge by arranging to walk home with someone else, and by varying my path from day to day. It worked most of the time, but there were always those days when no one was available to walk home with me. Giving Alabama a dime on those days was not acceptable, but a bloody nose was even less attractive. Tony, my milk companion from Keppen, lived a few doors down from us. I arranged with Dad for Tony to ride to school with us each morning. After school, he became my regular companion on the walk home. Tony was big. He had been big at Keppen, one of the largest boys in seventh grade. But he was a gentle giant. He was not a fighter, unless he had to be. One day Tony and I were walking home when Alabama and one of his punk friends caught up with us. Even though Tony was present, Alabama demanded a dime from me. Tony, who towered above Alabama and who had hands bigger than Alabama’s hands, and probably much bigger than Alabama’s brain, stepped between us. “Leave my friend alone,” he said quietly but firmly. For a moment Alabama wavered. Was the dime worth it? Would his continued extortion be worth the risk of facing Tony’s giant strength? “Okay,” he said, backing away. “I was only kidding anyway.” And Alabama never bothered me again. It was partly because of Tony’s presence, and it was partly because Alabama was not a very good student. He had been held back once or twice in his educational career, and when he turned sixteen he dropped out of school. I figured I would one day read about Alabama in the newspaper. I figured he would wind up in jail. Armed robbery, probably. And it would be my dimes that would have financed his early criminal career. But I never heard from or about Alabama after that day Tony stood between him and me. I did get my dime back, however, in a way, and many times over. A few years ago I sold a piece to a publisher in which I compared Alabama to the devil threatening God’s people, and Tony to the Lord Jesus Who comes to our defense. But of course, it wasn’t really my dime in the first place. Mother had given me the dime. Was I a coward? Probably. Did I not believe in standing up for myself? I don’t know. I just knew I was not a fighter, at least not with fists. So I used my brain to meet the challenge. And from that day on I became a person who meets the challenges of life by using his brain instead of his brawn. That was easy, though. I didn’t have much brawn. I might not have had much brain, either, and it might really be wired differently than anybody else’s, but what I did have I would use to meet life’s challenges and threats. MY FAVORITE CLASS (SURPRISE) WAS ENGLISH Like most students, I had my favorite subjects and my favorite teachers. I also had those I disliked. I had a history teacher who, we all said, did not teach history; he remembered it. He was there when Napoleon suffered defeat at Waterloo. He was there when Washington faced his terrible winter at Valley Forge. He was there when Lincoln was shot. He was not a very good teacher, as I recall, even though he had been an eye-witness to so much history. He was probably only in his fifties, but he seemed ancient. I had a young English teacher who encouraged my passion for reading and writing. He offered some real criticisms and suggestions for improving my writing style. And he made the strange sounds of Shakespeare’s language make sense to my ear. I really appreciated his encouragements and his teaching style. No, he didn’t “make learning fun” either. We worked hard in his class. But it was in his class I learned a phrase from Shakespeare’s Macbeth that I still remember today. Macbeth is starting to feel real guilt for murdering the king when he hears knocking at the door. He says: Whence is that knocking? How is ‘t with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha! They pluck out mine eyes. Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. -Act 2, Scene 2 A pretty, young math teacher inspired me during math period each day, but I still did not like math. It was not math that inspired me. It was her beauty that I appreciated and looked forward to each day. I was not attracted to sports, nor to math. But I was attracted to girls. I liked talking to girls, even though I was a bit insecure doing it. I liked looking at girls, and I felt no insecurity in doing that. And I was certain that someday I would meet, fall in love with and marry the girl of my dreams, whoever she was. A GROWING FRIENDSHIP My friendship with John grew also. I spent some time with him after school, often at his house, since my house was nearly a mile further away from school than his was. We would listen to classical music on his stereo system, or we would discuss current issues of the day, or play board games. John lived with his mother, and his aunt and uncle. John’s father had died when John was still quite young. His aunt and uncle had opened their home to John and his mother. John’s mother worked at a store to help with the added expenses two extra mouths, one of them the mouth of a teenage boy, placed upon the aunt and uncle. The uncle was retired. But when I was there with John, the aunt and uncle gave us full use of the house. They did not intrude on our time together, even though it was their house, and even though we often spent our time in their living room. They would always find something else to do somewhere else in the house. We tried various hobbies together. Photography, using a darkroom in John’s uncle's basement. Flying model airplanes at a nearby park where John swore at me when I steered his plane into the ground. Repairing radios and record players. John was intelligent and he had a lot of interests. I was intelligent, but I had not yet blossomed or developed interests of my own. So I followed John in his interests. Whatever he was into, I was into. He led the way; I followed. He showed me what to do and I did it. And that was okay. I did not mind. John introduced me to many things that I later developed on my own. And it was good to have a friend like John. John was not into sports either. He didn’t have the same feelings about athletics that I did, and he did not work in the cage with me, but team practices and games did not get in the way of our friendship or of our pursuits because John chose not to be on any of the teams. Perhaps his brain was wired differently, too. But, like me, he also liked girls. There were other people in my life as well, or those I wished would be in my life. Sarah comes to mind. Sarah had not been at Keppen or at Lafayette. She lived in the southern part of the city. I and my friends from Keppen and Lafayette lived in the northern part. I had never met her before ninth grade, and I did not pay much attention to her until tenth grade. But one day I looked at her and decided I was going to marry her some day. At the time I was not aware of the little girl in Indianapolis who was 300 miles and 12 years away from me. That girl, who has been my wife for the past forty plus years, recently asked me if I ever made a fool of myself over a girl. I had to admit that I had. The notion that I was going to marry Sarah someday was one such time. It is quite a thing for a high school boy, and one who was not much of a romancer — who was not a romancer at all — to decide. Especially since he possessed neither skills nor attractiveness nor boldness to make such a thing known to the girl of his dreams. I only had one date with Sarah, but I will tell about that later. Sarah was to play an important part in my life, though neither of us knew it at the time, and she probably still does not know. And it had nothing to do with her someday becoming my wife, which she never did, of course. ON THE STAFF OF THE RAILSPLITTER In my junior year of high school, when I no longer had to sit in the cage each day because I was no longer required to take phys ed, I got to take an elective. It was journalism class. In the fall semester we learned about newspaper reporting and writing. Who, what, where, when, why and how. Start with the most important facts in the first paragraph and then write the remaining facts in descending order of importance. Write headlines using present tense verbs and few or no articles. 
LPHS had a school newspaper, the Railsplitter. It was named after the fact that Abraham Lincoln split rails in his youth. The paper was a far cry from the Keppen Chronicle. The paper was not typed on a typewriter, nor reproduced with spirit masters. The type was set by a professional printer on a real typesetting machine, and then printed by the Advanced Printing class right at school. And after one semester of journalism class, I could be on the Railsplitter staff. That was exactly where I wanted to be.
And that is where I wound up.
The first masthead to include my name was dated Friday, February 21, 1958. For that issue I wrote a brilliant headline:
This headline announced the fact that a new staff had taken over the Railsplitter (duh!). In the fall semester, students took Journalism I and learned the basics of writing, editing and producing a newspaper. In the spring semester, the new journalists got to take Advanced Journalism, which is the class that produced the paper. Many students took Advanced Journalism only one semester. I took it for three. I also wrote a portion of an article about the new freshmen who came to LPHS that semester: This semester as last, freshmen handbooks were distributed to the newcomers as a guide in getting a good start at high school. The handbook contains information as to requirements for graduation, courses offered, clubs, sports, and other activities. A special assembly was also held during the first week of school as an aid to freshmen. Some of the new students have already achieved high honors from their various schools. Pictured are various issues of the Railsplitter from Lincoln Park High School in 1958-9, the years I served on the staff of the paper. |
NEXT CHAPTER It was a long way from my “Helpfulness” article in the Keppen Chronicle just four years earlier. I was listed as “Managing Editor” with another young man named John as the editor. This was not the same John who was my best friend. This John was sort of an “egghead.” He liked to discuss philosophical and political issues. He was a good editor, though, and he and I got along quite well. Here was another one whose brain was wired differently. He also did not have much admiration for sports, although he did sometimes participate in a game or watch one on television. I usually did neither. From the annual American Legion Speech Contest to this week’s big game, we covered it all in the Railspitter. I even had a column in each issue. It was called In Our Opinion. Here’s a sample, from the February 21, 1958 edition: If any of you boys have a sister whose birthday is coming up soon, here’s a gift suggestion. Go down to your local feed store and get her a flour sack. It’s the style this year. By now we suppose the freshmen have learned that elevator tickets are a part of the fund raising project of the H.F.C. — Horseplay Finance Corporation. There’s been a lot of talk lately that chivalry is dead. But just the other day we saw a boy put a coat across a mud puddle so his girl companion wouldn’t get her feet wet. The only thing, though, it was her coat. We just figured out why they call those TV shows adult westerns. It’s because the plots are all over twenty-one years old. Do you ever feel like putting someone on the spot? The best way to do this is to ask a friend what he thinks of you. The friend doesn’t want to lie, but he also doesn’t want to tell the truth and hurt your feelings. Don’t the words to some of the current songs just thrill you. - There are such beautiful things as, “Umbiladada click-clack, click clack, umbiladada shhh! And that was my column, a collection of wit, sarcasm and stolen jokes. I also wrote some serious editorials and some feature articles. But mostly I was the managing editor, and I wrote pretty much what I wanted to write. Let the other lesser reporters write the news reports and cover the sports beat. I would do the more sophisticated stuff. I would sharpen my sarcasm to a keen edge and right all the wrongs of the world with my typewriter. And I knew how to deal with critics, as this example from “The Mailbag” column of March 14, 1958 shows: Lincoln Park’s got the rottenist paper around. It’s very boring. No senior news in it. Other school papers are a lot better. Editor’s note - So, go to another school where the paper is better! Maybe you’ll learn that there is no such word as “rottenist!” I also wrote some things that did not get published in the Railsplitter. For example, John (my friend, not my coworker on the newspaper) and I had tried our hands at a lot of things, including the writing of poetry. We did not do this for a school assignment, but simply because our differently wired brains led us to enjoy a wide variety of activities. I wrote this poem in February of 1958: Look with your eyes and what do you see? Physical beings, a rose or a tree. Look with your heart then you will know The real people, their selves and soul. For eyes only register the physical things, Light, dark and color and the rainbow’s rings. But the rainbow’s rings are just lines in the skies When, instead of your heart, you look with your eyes. But your heart makes the lines beautiful streaks of gold And the rose and the tree add beauty to the road. Not bad, I think. Not good. But not bad. Winter turned to spring and spring brought us to the end of our junior year of high school. In June of 1958, I was pleased that I had held the editor position of the Railsplitter for one semester, and would have it again in the fall semester. This was my finest hour, I thought. All my life, since I was a child in Windsor, writing, especially newspaper writing, had been my dream, my goal, my hope and joy. Some kids want to play professional sports. I wanted to play professional writer. And now I was the editor of a high school newspaper which reached more than 2600 students, faculty and parents each issue. I was more certain now than ever that I wanted to pursue a newspaper career for my life’s work. My plan was to attend Wayne State University in Detroit and get a degree in Journalism, then find a position on a newspaper — any newspaper. Maybe someday I would be the editor of the Detroit News, or the Free Press. But in the summer of 1958, a change in my life began. And in the fall of 1958, that change led to a decision which had a strong impact on my desire to be a newspaper writer. Indeed, it was one of those life-changing decisions that really can only happen once in any particular life. MY FIRST DATE WITH A REAL GIRL I mentioned earlier my feelings for a girl named Sarah. I started to notice her late in my sophomore year. That was not hard to do. Sarah was a very popular young lady, to say the least. Hardly an issue of the Railsplitter went by without Sarah’s name, and very often her picture, appearing on page one. This was not because I was the editor. It was because Sarah was involved in so many things. In our sophomore year, Sarah was a member of the Synchronized Swimming Club. Hollywood’s Esther Williams had been making a big splash in “aquamusical” films for several years, and synchronized swimming was popular because of her. In May of 1957, the LPHS girls put on a show called “Broadway Musicals.” They called themselves “The Flamingoes.” They performed in, on and under the water to music from Broadway shows that was played by our own high school band. Twenty-two girl students were in that show. One of them was Sarah. And I was in the audience. It was a great show. Special lighting effects, excellent music and very difficult routines performed by the girls all worked together to make it a memorable experience. I remember distinctly that one of the songs they did was Richard Rodgers’ No Other Love, which had originally been written for Victory at Sea but was later adapted by Rodgers for Me and Juliet. And I was beginning to think that there would be no other love for me but Sarah, that someday it would be me and Sarah. I carried these feelings for Sarah throughout that summer and into our junior year in the fall of 1957; in fact, I carried those feelings all through our junior year. I did not pester Sarah with my feelings, although I know she was aware of them. I kept them mostly to myself — and talked them over sometimes with some of my friends, such as John. But there was little, I thought, I could do. Sarah was big time. I, in spite of my position as editor of the school paper, was small potatoes. However, in the spring of 1958, when the Flamingoes presented their second program, Sarah was not in the group. I think she just did not have the time to be involved in the heavy rehearsals a synchronized swimming show required. But I knew she would want to go to the show. So I asked her. It took a great deal of courage, and, to be honest, I don’t remember the actual asking. But I do remember her answer. She said yes. It was the only date I ever had with Sarah. I picked her up in Dad’s car, and we drove to the high school and sat on the bleachers where we could watch the swimmers in the school pool. There were twenty-some young ladies swimming in that pool. There were a hundred or more young ladies sitting in the audience. But there was only one young lady in that room, as far as I was concerned. And she was with me. I don’t remember much about the evening, after all these years. I remember not being certain what to say. I remember she was wearing a gray skirt. And I remember the wonderful music that accompanied the program. But what we said to each other, and how we got through the evening has no longer a residing place in my memory. It was probably awkward for both of us, and I am certain I tripped over my tongue more than once. But Sarah was gracious, and all too soon the evening ended and faded into a vague but pleasant memory. I do remember as I drove her home, discussing with her the fact that mothers always seemed to press upon their young people the importance of wearing clean underwear when they went out, because they never knew if they would be in an accident and have to go to the hospital, and they certainly would not want to be wearing dirty underwear in such a situation. I think it was Sarah who brought up that topic. I don’t think I would have been bold enough to introduce the subject of underwear! I believe we had a good time, in spite of my awkwardness and insecurity with a girl and her knowledge that I was in a big-time crush with her on the inside, but just a friend on the outside. She made no attempt to embarrass me or make me feel dumb. She was very kind and friendly, and did her part to keep the conversation going. But I have no doubt she breathed a sigh of relief when the evening was over. NO OTHER LOVE? NOT REALLY I say there was “no other love” for me at the time but Sarah, but that is not really true. Sometime during my high school years I did fall in love, permanently and unashamedly. I have to admit that fifty years later, that love is still very much a part of my life and in my heart. Oh, what a beautiful morning it was when I realized that you are beautiful. It made me feel younger than springtime, and I could not say “no” if I tried. Hello, young lovers. I know what it would be like if I loved you. I would never walk alone. I must have done something good because here you are standing here loving me, flying out of my dreams and into my arms. Well, if you didn’t figure it out from that, you must not share my love. I fell in love with the music of Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein III. I had recordings of their major musicals, Carousel, Oklahoma!, South Pacific, The King and I, The Sound of Music. I loved the way the music and lyrics fit together so well, the way they told a story, and the way they always made me think about a person I had not yet met. I listened to those records so many times as a teenager that I memorized the words and still can recite (no one wants to hear me sing) lengthy passages from them. I knew that someday, across a crowded room, I would see a face that I would want to get to know. The music of the master musician and incredible lyricist almost made her visible when I listened. Alone and awake, I had looked at the same moon and stars that shone on her, wherever she was. Expressions like that set to the sweet, full, and resonant sounds of Rodgers’ music filled my heart and made me feel, well, younger than springtime. I always wondered how those two men wrote so many wonderful songs together. Which came first? Did Rodgers go to Hammerstein and say, “Oscar, I have this melody going through my head that I think would fit our next musical. Can you think of a lyric to match it?” And of course, Oscar did. Or did Hammerstein go to Rodgers and say, “You know, Dick, I have this lyric I scribbled down here. Can you find a tune for it?” And of course, he did. Not all the music was romantic in the sense of being about boy-girl relationships. Some of it was just funny. I remember the song from Oklahoma! about poor Judd Fry being dead, with fingernails that have never been so clean! Or it had a more serious message, such as in You’ve Got to be Carefully Taught from South Pacific. Hating all the people your relatives hate was exactly what I saw people doing. But underneath all those lyrics that drove themselves deep into my mind and heart were those wonderful sounds Rodgers wrote for orchestras to play. I now know that much of the orchestration work was not done by Rodgers, but by Robert Russell Bennett. In that song from The King and I about young lovers, there is a simple, plaintive musical phrase that occurs frequently. It is just a variation on a musical scale, played at the beginning and throughout the song, but it sets the mood of the song so well. Now, I mention this because it was so important to me at the time. It still is. I still will go out of my way to listen to music by Rodgers and Hammerstein. If there is a performance of a musical of theirs anywhere near me, I will try to get to it. Of course, not many such performances occur any more. Both gentlemen have been dead for some time and there is no new music from them. But what a plethora of music they left behind. There have been others, of course. Meredith Wilson’s The Music Man, Learner and Lowe’s My Fair Lady, and Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Phantom of the Opera. But no one will ever take the place of Richard and Oscar in my musical heart of hearts, although much of Weber’s music comes very close. POOR TOM IS DEAD Also during those days, Dad decided it was about time he and his children, at least the two who were able to do so, start attending church. His choice was a local church in town where the pastor’s son was one of my classmates at LPHS. This was also the church that Sarah attended. I did not make the decision to go to that church. Dad did. And I had no influence over his decision. I did not discuss with Dad my feelings for Sarah. Like many teenagers, I felt Dad was from another century — maybe even another planet. I forgot that he had been young once, and had pursued several young ladies before he met Mother. But there we were, Dad, Lynne and I, each Sunday in the church where Sarah attended. Also, there was a club at LPHS called VCY — Voice of Christian Youth. It met on Friday mornings. My homeroom teacher had remarked once, in announcing the club’s meeting, that “a fellow would have to be a Christian to get up that early.” That, or in love. Sarah attended the VCY meetings. But it was not just Sarah. Something else was at work in my life. Another friend named John — there were many Johns at LPHS and in my life — wrote an interesting thing in my yearbook for our junior year. He wrote his name, and under it he put “John 3:16.” It was a Bible reference, and I was not real familiar with the Bible. But I had decided several months before to start reading the Bible on a regular basis. I had attended a vacation Bible school in Windsor just before we moved to Lincoln Park, but it had not made much of an impact in my life. However, I felt the need to be reading the Bible. I started in Genesis. Much of it was somewhat familiar as I had read Bible stories when I was a child in Windsor. Exodus was interesting, too. Then came Leviticus. I really got bogged down in the quicksand of numerous laws and rules. I didn’t like rules, after all. And that seemed to be all the Bible was. But I kept reading. I did look up the reference John had written in my yearbook. It said, “For God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” I wasn’t certain what that meant. But I kept reading the Bible all through that summer of 1958 between my junior and senior years of high school. I saw little of my school friends, mostly just John — not John who signed the yearbook, but John with whom I shared several different hobbies and a friendship. I learned how to drive that summer as well. But I also was learning that there was Someone else I needed in my life. I may not have shared common interests with all the guys in my class, but I did share a common problem with them. It was called sin. I knew I was a sinner. And going to church did not make that less true. In fact, it had quite the opposite effect. It made me more aware of the fact. But the church I was attending didn’t offer me much in the way of a solution. I was encouraged to do what was right, and to live a good life, but no one told me what to do with the sin and guilt that were already there in my heart. What sin? What guilt? If you have been paying attention, you will note that I didn’t seem to be a very bad guy in high school. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. I didn’t hang around with “bad” girls. I was lucky to get a “good” girl to spend some time with me! How could I have sin and guilt in my life when I was such a goody two-shoes? Well, I did have sin and guilt. I knew the person inside as well as the one outside. I knew the bad thoughts. I knew the resentment. I knew the anger. I knew it all. And I knew it didn’t belong there. Yet there it was. And I had no idea what to do about it. It didn’t make me feel younger than springtime. It made me feel like poor Judd who had clean fingernails on the outside, but who was dead on the inside. |
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| Copyright © 2010, Thomas M. Parsons, All Rights Reserved. - 119 |
