Disbelief in Hell?

 

Hayter for January 21, 2024

“Calling for You and for Me"

 

          I was driving south on I-45 last week and was feeling upbeat. I don’t know what I was looking forward to, but I felt good about something.

          From out of the blue of the western sky, came a horrible thought. It was the sudden notion of having a wreck or a heart attack and suddenly dying.” I felt miserable at the thought of missing out on whatever it was that I was looking forward to.

Fortunately, my despair didn’t last long. Short-lived despair is easier to take than long-term. My sinking spell vanished almost as quickly as it arrived. What made it go away? -- The substance of things hoped for.

That is half of someone’s definition of the word “faith”. The author of Hebrews wrote “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.” In a court of law, something that is unheard or unseen is not accepted as evidence.

Obviously, faith alone is no evidence at all. In fact, the number of deaths caused by faith is more numerous than flies in the Australian Outback.

Nations in Europe and Asia have fought numerous wars over religious beliefs, several of which involved Christians against non-Christians. Wars have been going on in the Middle East since before the time of Jesus. The Jews fought practically every non-Jewish group they encountered, both before and after the time of Jesus. At the moment they’re still at war with Muslim terrorist groups.

The bottom line, in the history of mankind the religious among us have not gotten along well. The reason for this low threshold of tolerance has to do with a belief in the afterlife. I’m definitely a believer in that. So was my Mom.

Elsie Hayter was far from being a heathen. She went to church three times each week. Six times a week during vacation Bible school. She taught Sunday school classes, but she never taught Dennis and me. However, she did make it a point to lead us along the path of righteousness. Spankings increased my faith considerably.

A couple of weeks before her death, Mom told one of her kids that she was afraid she didn’t do enough good things in life for God to let her into heaven. It broke my heart.

The Hayter family heard more fire and brimstone sermons than is healthy. Over the years different preachers seemed elated in telling us that if we don’t straighten up, we were going straight to hell. There is no telling how many times I’ve heard sermons on how bad hell is.  Of course, we couldn’t say the word “hell” or else we’d go there.

 

While I have the faith of a Christian, I can’t prove my faith is fact. To argue such a thing would make me faithless. Remember, faith is the substance of things hoped for. I would’ve been booted out of so many different churches had I mentioned my lack of belief in some Biblical interpretations.

I don’t believe hell is a place where we’re given new bodies so we can burn forever. Our time on earth is a nanosecond when compared to the existence of mankind. The thought that God would burn anyone forever is ungodly. Right now, there are some thinking, “Boy, are you gonna find out how wrong you are!” 

Archeologists have discovered the bones of humanoids and etchings in stone that go back a million years. It’s facts like that, that make me sense that Adam and Eve may not have been the only humans on the planet. That causes me to doubt that Adam named all of the animals or that there was a worldwide flood that killed all but Noah and his immediate family. I don’t believe Moses wrote the book of Genesis. Who else could’ve? I don’t know.

I have read practically none of the millions of books that have been written. That’s an indication that I know practically nothing of substance. However, I’m in the same category as people all over the world who believe in one of the thousands of gods that others have worshiped over time. I can’t prove the existence of my God. The closest I can come is through faith, and as mentioned previously, faith is not fact.

All I have are incidents in my life that have encouraged my faith. One I’ve already written about, but would like to share again. It involves Elsie and Faris’ eldest daughter, Lynda. My sister died in 2005 after a 10-year bout with Alzheimer's.

Shortly before she passed away, I visited her in the Alzheimer's wing of a particular hospital. The patients were not assigned individual rooms, they either sat in a wheelchair in the hallway or walked into whatever room they chose. They might lay in bed and sleep, or sit and stare.  It took me some effort to find my sister. A nurse eventually pointed to the room where she last remembered seeing her.

Sure enough, Lynda was lying in bed on her side. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t appear to be looking at anything. Not even her guest. I sat on the floor next to the bed and began telling her about Kay and me and the rest of the family. Her expression never changed.

I eventually thought to sing her an old hymn. You may have heard of “Softly and Tenderly”. I started singing, “Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling—” At that very moment my dear sister said, “Calling for you and for me.”

I was unable to finish the song. I could only cry. I don’t know how or why my sister’s mind appeared to function at that particular moment, allowing her to finish a verse from one of my favorite hymns. I can’t prove it, but to this day I continue to believe that it was a message to me brought on by faith. It’s not evidence in something unseen. It’s the substance of things hoped for. Hope is much easier. 

End

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Family Oddities

 

Hayter for January 14, 2024

“A collection of family oddities”

          I’ve got a question just for the grown-ups. – Kids, it does not apply to you, so ignore it. Here we go. – When you were young, what did you call the small piece of cloth that you used when you bathed?

          My family and every family that lived on my block called it a ‘washrag’. It was decades before I was introduced to the word “washcloth”. It sounds so sophisticated to me.  

          I started thinking about this while folding laundry yesterday as Kay was hanging up clothes. It was while folding a washrag that the name struck me as odd. Let’s face it. It’s a lousy name for something you touch your naked body with. That’s the name you call something that you use to remove spots from the floor. And “washcloth” sounds like something from Downton Abbey.

          I asked  Kay what her family called a washrag. She explained that they called a washrag a washrag. “When I was young, the family was poor so Mom made washcloths out of old towels. We referred to them as washrags, because that’s what they were, rags to wash with. Get it?.”

While I didn’t know the origin of the word “washrag”, I thought Kay shouldn’t have answered in a way that made me look stupid. I was the fifth child born to Faris and Elsie. Mom must’ve been ripping towels for years before I was born. I called them washrags same as the rest of the family. Mom never explained the name to me, and I didn’t ask. I was so much less curious back then.

Regardless, my recent history lesson on the“washrag” helped me realize that I was born to a poor family and lived in a poor neighborhood where none of the kids ever heard of a washcloth. 

So, here’s the question: When you were young, what did you call the piece of cloth that was in the tub with you?  If you answer, I promise not to mention your name to anyone.

It was the folding of a “washrag” that made me decide to write about family oddities. I immediately came up with several but decided to ask my siblings about their memories.

Dennis reminded me that Dad called the meringue on Mom’s pies “calf slobber”. I always thought it was Dennis who came up with the name. When it comes to food preparation, Mom was a great cook. Yet, her meringue never looked like the one that Wyatt’s Cafeteria put on their coconut crème pies. I don’t remember ever seeing a single Hayter kid eating Mom’s meringue. I’m only telling you about it now because Mom’s in heaven and doesn’t give two hoots what either Dennis or Dad called her meringue.

Dennis also said that Dad used to say, “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” I think he got that from the refinery where he worked. One thing each of us said back then as well as today is “fixin’ to“.That’s such a misuse of the word “fix”.

You’re supposed to say -- “I’m about to” or “going to”, “probably will” or “have a notion to”.  You’re not fixing to eat a bowl of cereal. You can’t fix something like that. All you can do with cereal is pour it out of a box and eat it. Yet to this day, I’m still fixin’ to eat a bowl of cereal. That’s how grownups ruined my language.

Larry, the eldest brother, mentioned that Daddy used to say, “Don’t get your tail on the dashboard.” That was all he had! And it’s not even right. You get your tail in a crack, not over a dashboard. That can’t even be done. I love my big brother, but he really blew this one.

My kid-sister Jill mentioned some games we used to play. I don’t remember any games we played that were as complicated as hers. -- Before playing tag we had to choose which person was the tagger. To do that we gathered in a circle with both fists held out.  The leader (whoever that was) would fist bump each fist while chanting, "My Mom-ma and your Mom-ma were hanging out clothes…” I remember the chant, but I don’t remember everything that followed. I think I was too dumb to play the game.

 Jill also mentioned that we played Red Rover. I do remember that one. Two teams would stand in a straight line with a wide space between them. Each side is clasping hands with the person next the them. A kid from one of the sides yells, “Red rover, red rover, let Dennis come over!” Dennis would immediately unhand the person on each side of him and run across the yard hoping to bust through two clinched hands. I don’t remember what happened after that.

          Al didn’t have anything to add to our family oddities. He is the youngest of Faris and Elsie’s kids, so he missed out on a lot of oddities. He would’ve loved our somersault races, but Mom made us quit because Jill really got her bell rung.

          The second oldest sister, Susan, has yet to reply to my request for oddities. She lives in Washington State and stays busy. She’ll send me something in a few weeks. It will probably be something about her grandkids, and have nothing to do with when we were kids. When you’re around kiddos for a long duration, your memories of the long past are less remembered.

          I can remember much of my past. I’m best at remembering songs. However, as mentioned before, my short-term memory is shot. I have trouble finding what I’m looking for. Speaking of which. I like that song by U2. --  “I believe in the Kingdom Come/Then all the colors will bleed into one/Bleed into one/ But yes, I'm still running…”  -- Next time.

 

end

hayter.mark@gmail.com

 

I'm Normal

 

Hayter for January 7, 2024

“The Good News is, my doctor thinks I’m normal..” 

          On Tuesday I got a checkup with my family doctor. We both didn’t get the checkup. He was the one who administered it. – More and more I find it necessary to clarify myself.

First off, the doctor asked if I had any problems. I thought, “Where to start?” I ended up starting with my short-term memory. I told him it was shot to heck and back. He informed me that he saw a movie with a similar name. The man has a great sense of humor.

I started off by bragging about my long-term memory. It’s great. I told him that I could remember tripping this kid on the playground when I was in the second grade at Richey Elementary. The kid was running lickidy split right in front of me. He was moving so fast that I didn’t have time to think. I just stuck my foot out and tripped him. The playground teacher asked why I did it. I didn’t know why. I told her it was an accident. I just took a step without seeing Josh jetting past me. It still bothers me to this day.  – The doctor said, “Mark, I think it’s time you let it go.”

He missed the point. I told him that was an example of my long-term memory. It’s fantastic. It’s my short-term that stinks on ice.

As an example, I told him about the incident during the U.T./Washington football game. In between plays, the camera zoomed in on one of Texas’ backup quarterbacks, Arch Manning. The kid looks like he’s in the ninth grade. His grandpa is Archie Manning, and his two uncles are Peyton and Eli. But, I could only remember Archie and Peyton’s names.

I went through the alphabet twice. There wasn’t a single letter that resonated. Archie, Peyton, and… uh, who? About five minutes later it hit me. “Eli! New York Giants, winner of two Super Bowls!” Yay, me! So, it’s Archie, Eli, and, uh…” I lost Peyton! It took me five minutes to forget the name that was embedded somewhere in my noggin. But, where?

          When I told the doctor the story, he had no comment. I said, “You know what I’m talking about don’t you, doctor? I’m losing my mind.”

          He kept his eyes on my chart and said, “Your mind is better than mine. I didn’t know the  names of any of those guys.”  -- That’s only one reason I like my doctor so much. He’s got a great sense of humor. And, while not recognizing the names of football players, he knows a lot about bone structure, organs, blood, migraines, spider bites, weight gain…

          The doctor explained that what was happening to me was common among people my age He said that the time to worry is when I’m driving and forget where I am and where I’m going.

          I thought that an encouraging thing to say. I shall assume I’ll keep my mind a year or so longer. Kay has managed to cipher my code names. I’ll be walking around with my keys in hand and she’ll ask what I’m looking for. I’ll say, “My keys.” She immediately notices that I have my keys in hand, so guesses at what I’m really looking for. “Your wallet is on top of the hall cabinet,” she said. I can’t let anything happen to this woman.     

          Speaking of the New Year, we didn’t have the traditional New Year’s meal. I had purchased a head of cabbage for New Year’s but ended up turning it into coleslaw two days prior.  There was still a bit left for New Year’s Day, but I’m not sure coleslaw counts for cabbage.

The black-eyed peas didn’t happen. We had a can in the cabinet, but neither of us cared for it. Monday’s are not good for black-eyed peas. I must’ve read that somewhere. Anyway, this New Year’s was the first one in memory that we didn’t eat the traditional meal

Do you want to know why I’m not concerned? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. We’ve had some lousy stuff happen to us during some of the years when we ate the traditional New Year’s meal. I don’t know what that tells you, but it tells me that black-eyed peas and cabbage are not lucky charms. Neither is the breakfast cereal by that name. “Lucky” my keester!

          There’s already been one thing that’s messed me up for the New Year for me. Brad and I were supposed to play racquetball the day after New Year’s, but he said he was sick. He had been sick the game we’d played previously, but he made a go of it. I beat him two games out of three. That seldom happens, so this time, he refused to let it happen again.

          I make it a point to mention racquetball during my doctor checkups. “So, Mark, have you been exercising?” – “Have I been exercising? I’ll have you know, Sir, that I play racquetball two days a week.” -- I didn’t mention that I tend to lose a lot. I don’t think my doctor cares if I win or lose, just as long as I’m exerting myself.

In truth, I don’t exert that much, because Brad is good at hitting the ball away from where I’m standing. This year I’m going to surprise the Bradster by moving a bit faster on the court. That’ll shock both of us. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to have to trip him. I’m apparently good at that.

end

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