You Are Not In West Texas Any More

You know you are not in West Texas when:
People prepare for a storm in advance.
When you are introduced to Bubba Jr.
When BMA (Baptist Missionary Alliance) is the brand of Baptist available most often.
When logging trucks cause a traffic jam.
When the humidity is worse outside than after the hot shower inside.
When your red car becomes black with the guts of "love bugs."
When you lose a significant part of your horizon to the trees.
When you have straight line winds without sand and dust.
When all folks talk about is their hurricane damage.
When a major appliance purchase is a generator.
When camp sites have trees for shade and are generally close to real running water.
When mushrooms are yard art.
When grass is green without ever being watered.
When bends in the road reveal more breath taking pastoral scenes.
When the smell of pine saturates the air.

Feeling The Threat

One of the concerns folks who know me have had about my career change is my personal safety. I have been cautioned and warned about being careless in a prison--especially a maximum security prison housing death row. Granted I am not always the most careful or the most surefooted, but I have tried to be wise, be alert, and always aware of my surroundings.

I have visited five prisons counting the unit on which I work. One other has been a maximum security prison which means it houses serious offenders. I have been in and out of these prisons most every day for a month, and have never felt threatened--until today.

It was surprising what happened and only after I was safe did I realize what a foolish thing I had done. It could have cost me my life.

My intentions were honorable, my heart perhaps overruling good judgment.

I had scheduled the first staff meeting of my new job. Between rarely being on the unit because of my training, two hurricanes, and sickness in the unit, my folks have been scattered for the last month. Today was the day. I planned a working lunch so that we could catch up on work but still have time to do some bonding and developing as a team. So, my idea was to bring in pizza for the Mental Health staff and treat them, starting our relationship on a hopefully upbeat note. We have lots of work to do and the work is never easy.

Doing anything is a challenge in the prison. So, I had to write a letter to the Warden asking for permission to bring boxed food to the prison. I discovered no pizza place delivered pizza out as far as the prison and we did not have a lot of choices to begin with. I moved the meeting time till later, planned to call in the huge order and go get it myself. I ordered an extra pizza to use as bribes as necessary.

It was only when I started the long walk to the front gate that I heard it. The staff camaraderie finally showed itself. The whispering was rampant, "Skip the cafeteria today, it is pretty bad." One of the perks of working in the prison is that staff can eat in the officers' cafeteria for free. Three meals a day are served and a staff person can dine breakfast, lunch, or supper. However, sadly, there are days when even being free isn't enough. Today apparently was one of those days.

So, I slipped out and brought back four large, hot, smelly pan pizzas with two boxes of cinnamon breadsticks.

I stepped in the front door and realized the danger in which I had placed myself. I was going to walk about one half mile, through six security gates during offender lunch hour with over 1900 persons going to or from the dining halls, being watched by over 150 Corrections Officers who knew not to eat in the dining hall. Yep, not one of my better days or smarter decisions.

Honestly, I wasn't worried about the offenders. It was the Corrections Officers that had that hungry, drooling look on their faces. I immediately realized I was in mortal danger.

One of the quirky features of my mind my imagination often zips to a newspaper headline detailing my demise. I remember the headlines preparing for the baptism of the morbidly obese man who was phobic of water. When he got anxious, he sweated profusely and was prone to pass out. You use your imagination. "Local pastor drowns in own baptistery." The lead line would follow, "Michael R. Chancellor, local pastor was finally pulled from the bottom of his baptistery following a baptism that took an unexpected turn. The 400 lb. candidate became anxious and passed out falling on the pastor and pinning him down in the water until he quit bubbling."

Yep, too many headlines have raced through my mind over the years.

Today it was simply but movingly sad, "Missing Pscho found buried beneath a mound of empty pizza boxes. Officers smeared in pizza sauce puzzled by events."

Home Again

Today we found our new home. It was wonderful.

More than anything else, believers need to find a new family of faith when they move to a new location. Nothing else seems to fall into place until that happens. I am not a shopper, but I am one who tries to understand where God wants us to be. This morning it was obvious.

We stopped a young lady in the street and asked her where we needed to go for worship. She was friendly and pointed us to the auditorium. It would have been easier, but this congregation is building a new worship center, and the hurricane has scrambled things a bit, so signs are down and and it was not quickly apparent to me where worship was located.

People greeted us all the way into the sanctuary. We found a place on the side of the building. It is a small building laid out like a cross and we found ourselves sitting at the front of one of the side beams of the cross. I liked what I saw. There was a youth right in front of us getting his electronic drums ready. A man came in with a trombone, another with a trumpet, another with a violin, and then the pianist and organist took their places. The powerpoint came up and people were greeting us as they entered. We felt at home--really at home. Then worship started on time. Those who know me know this is vitally important. It shows respect for those in attendance. Going long is not a problem for me. Starting on time is essential.

However the pastor apologized for the departure from the usual schedule. He needed to update the church on things going on as a result of the hurricane. The next 15 minutes was spent exhorting the church to give more assistance than they had already generously given. Arizona Baptists had been feeding over 5,000 meals a day with their disaster relief unit, and Central Baptist was going to pick up the work on Tuesday. They needed people to help cook and serve. I signed up for supper each day. I am off at 4:30 and would love to get involved.

Then, when all the ministry was taken care of the Minister of Music stepped up to the microphone with his shiny red electric guitar and we stood and began to sing. Folks were glad to be there and they sang with joyful hearts. On we moved from one hymn to chorus to hymn to chorus, everyone seemed to feel God's Spirit and moved with the flow. Anna and I worshiped.

The message was excellent and simple but had direction and purpose. Folks who know me know all of that is important. Hurricanes are bad enough in the world, but blustering wind and pointless stories don't do much for me or I suspect for the saints.

Perhaps the greatest affirmation for me was when the decision time came and we stood to sing congregationally, "The Untitled Hymn." Most folks call it "Come to Jesus." I have listened and wept and prayed through this great song, but today, I got to sing it with everyone else.

Yep, I have found my home. And now, we are really poised to get on with the rest of our lives.

The Chief Psycho is In

In government jobs, no one is assigned to design titles that easily fit on a business card. There is also no one responsible for creating titles that actually tell an outsider what one does.

So I have come to my new job and my title is "Responsible Psychotherapist." I have informed my co-workers they need to know two things about their new boss. If the organization had advertised a position for "irresponsible psychotherapist," I would have applied for it first. But, I have come to discover, those positions are already filled.

I also told them they were free to call me the "Responsible Psycho." Hence the conversation at the end of business yesterday. Offenders turn in a request to see the doctors, nurses and mental health folks. They are escorted to a large cage that houses about forty at a time. When it is their time, they are called out of the cage to see the respective person. My appointments didn't show up so I stopped by the Corrections Officer's booth to see if they were there. No, they were not I was told. Several offenders heard me and ask if I was the "psych guy." I replied in the affirmative. One said, "I don't have an appointment, but I will take the guy's who didn't show up."

"Why do you need to see me?"

"Doc. I have this little man that lives in my back pocket."

"How long has he been there?"

"oh, 'bout twelve years!"

"Well, why don't you have your imaginary friend call my imaginary assistant and he can set up an imaginary appointment to talk about his imaginary problems. "

This is going to be a great place to work

The Parade only a Hurricane can orchestrate

I watched parades all my life. Growing up in West Texas, we had a 4th of July Parade and my band often marched in it. Later on in life, we lived in a place that had their big parade at Saint Patrick's Day. In Abilene, any good occasion was a reason for a parade. So we had a Veteran's Day parade, a Stock Show parade, a 4th of July parade and a Christmas parade to name just the obvious.

But it took moving to Livingston and living through a hurricane to see the parades I saw these last few days. First, there was the parade of cars coming from the coast in preparation for Gustov. Then there was the parade of cars going the opposite way with folks frustrated by the close call and the expense of evacuating for no good reason.

Then came Ike. Parade going up the state and parade going home to some of the evacuated places. The damage from Ike is so extensive, some are not allowed home.

The best parade was the blinking yellow lights that adorned the multitude of energy companies dispatched to the area to restore power. I have never seen so many power company trucks and tree removal trucks as inundated our area. People were pulling over and applauding as they passed like proud troops in formation marching in a Veterans Day festival. Thursday evening, I was out late in the afternoon and the guys were calling it a day. It was about seven and the sun was beginning it nightly ritual of slow descent. And moving into town was a convoy of over 30 trucks amber lights blinking coming in as from a battle.

For many in this region, amber is the color of hope, and the sound of a diesel truck the sounds of hope.

Thanks to all the men and women who moved in and put us back into light.

Batten down the hatches, Here comes IKE

In Abilene when one finished a transaction, it was not unusual for the clerk to say, "Have a nice day."

It is a friendly benediction on one's purchase and patronage.

In Livingston, last week, the benediction was, "Be safe."

Why would anyone say that? Hurricane Ike was coming.

Every hurricane is a different experience. It all depends on where one is in relationship to the eye. If one is in the path of the eye, it will be wind, rain, calm, wind, rain, and then it is over. We ended up on the dirty side of Ike. That meant we were on the east side of the eye and there was no relief from the wind and rain and wind and rain. Because of that, the area received a lot of damage.

In the yard where we are staying, five trees succumbed to Ike. Curious the way trees can fall. Some looked like they were toppled by some giant moving through. Some were missing their tops but the rest of the tree was intact. Some were snapped at the base and others were laid over with huge root balls protruding from the ground and great craters left where roots once laid. Then there were the trees that looked as if the giant had reached down and twisted the trunk of the tree until it unraveled. I was told that was evidence of a tornado.

We were without electricity from Saturday morning until Wednesday afternoon. However, a generator helped us keep a modicum of comfort and life in place. The generator ran fans and refrigerators. Blue Bell helped us deal with the discomforts of post storm life. But then the Blue Bell ran out. Good thing my sister-in-law thought to buy "Jiffy pop." This old technology
popcorn can be accessed with a simple propane stove. So when the ice cream ran out, we did jiffy pop. Now these were not our only sourcees of nourishment. =They were our only source of comfort food which is equally important to surviving a hurricane.

Weather cooperated after the storm and the Monday night after Ike left town, we were sitting out on the deck, roasting chicken and feeling like we were in the mountains. In the air was cool breezes, the smell of pine and the smoke from pine branches. I could close my eyes and believe I was in the mountains of Colorado enjoying the atmosphere only the mountains could provide.

So, the hurricane isn't the worst experience I ever had.

That is still held by any number of kidney stones that decided it was time to exit the scene.

Going to the Hospital? BYOB

While most folks go to the hospital only when they must, it would seem a given that a good bed is essential to the healing process. Not so much.

Apparently hospital beds are an afterthought--much like the food that is erratically served in most places.

While bed frames now come with all the whistles and frills--like "in-console" TV controls and weight meters at the end of the bed, hospital mattresses are the eighth wonder of the ancient world. I believe that hospital mattresses in America were all made before 1945, then stored in an old barn until they were totally useless. Then someone got the bright idea to sell them to hospitals. After all, the people are too sick to complain! A lumpy bed is the least of their problems.

Adding insult to injury, family staying with the patients have been treated to fold out beds that masquerade as uncomfortable chairs. With luck, an engineering degree from MIT, the persistent person can reshape their uncomfortable chair into an equally uncomfortable bed.

In my wife's room, the fold out bed resembled a slab for a cadaver in the local morgue. It felt just as comfortable. I first discovered the fold out bed when I mistook the thing for a chair. When I sat down, the seat began to roll out and I quickly found myself admiring the ceiling. On the whole, hospital ceilings are rather understated and not given the attention they deserve.

Having discovered the bed, I began to attempt to assemble that feature of the furniture. Having previous experiences with such devices, I knew to start early and be persistent if I expected to sleep on the contraption come nightfall.

It only took two days to get it to work. The first night was like sleeping on the exam table in the doctor's office. You know the one: the shelf slides out for your feet. The only problem is the shelf is a full half foot below the rest of the table. Yea, it is so comfortable, a fold out bed has been designed for the hospital room using the same inspired design. The next night I discovered the shelf could actually be moved up and one could have a cadaver slab instead of an examining table.

So Anna on her bed, and me on mine, we dozed off blissfully confident that the $2500.00 a night was not for a "sleep master," extra cushioned, twelve pillowed bed. Nor was it for gourmet food tastefully presented and wonderfully nutritious. Nope, we were paying that much for Anna to come under the healing touch of a back surgeon whose knowledge and skill would stand up to bad beds and interesting meals.

And miracle of miracles, somehow, she would leave the hospital better off than when she came. The back would be repaired--no thanks to the bed in which she stayed. The body would be healing no thanks to the meals.

And the husband would be glad to move from the morgue to the bedroom.