The Story of Rooster

Granddaddy and Grandma Pickens’ house, wasn’t anything to brag about, but we grandkids sure enjoyed hanging out there for the summer! The old white wood-frame house could sure get to rattling and rolling, with six grandkids romping throughout it!
Once the dinner bell was sounded, it was quit a chore sitting everyone-Granddaddy at the head, grandma at the foot, and mom and dad and we kids lined up and down each side of the table. You could not help but feel welcome and loved in Nellie’s kitchen. We all felt at home, and welcome, in granddaddy & grandma’s house, there at 1670 Ashport Road, Jackson, TN. However, something struck me as kind of strange, and caught my attention. Why did Rooster, another guest, have to eat on the back porch steps, and not get to join the rest of us at the dinner table? Grandma would fix him a plate, and hand it to him, to which he’d respond with a “Thank ya, Mrs. Pickens!”, then go about to sittin’ down on the back steps, and just consume that good ole soul food grandma was accustom to fixin!
Rooster, a young "colored" boy(common reference in the 60's), must have been around the age of fourteen, at the time. He was hired, by granddaddy, to help-out on the land. Granddaddy needed help around the farm with tasks such as, planting and hoeing home-grown tomatoes, turning the watermelon vines, and harvesting all the watermelons. Loading watermelons in the pickup truck was no easy task!
I being possibly 12 back then, was doing good to stand at shoulder’s height to Rooster. Even though he was much stouter than me, Rooster never took advantage of it, and seemed pretty nice. I suppose being strong was why granddaddy hired him to work around the farm. It wasn’t kosher to play with a hired worker, though, since he was hired to do chores, and not play with us grandkids. My grandparents payed him, which helped his poor family.
I never knew how Rooster ever took on the name “Rooster”. Maybe his mother nicknamed him that when he was born, but surely not! Possibly his fellow schoolmates tagged him with it because of his hair, who knows? I never thought, or got the nerve, to ask him though. He once told me his real name, which sounded like “Zephaniah”, or some Bible name, which at the time was difficult to pronounce.
Once, granddaddy and I drove over to Rooster’s house, somewhere near Oakfield Road, and Old Medina Road, just north east of Jackson, TN. Once we arrived at Rooster’s house, I couldn’t help but notice the swinging, tattered and ragged clothes were hanging from homemade clotheslines. The old wood-frame house looked to be built around the turn of the century, and was surrounded by a yard spattered with grass patches and dirt. I could not help but notice an old bicycle rim hanging from what was suppose to be a basketball backboard and pole.

The earth beneath could probably tell of some exciting games played there. I suppose Rooster’s family was just as happy as any of us white folks, for this was all they new in their little family circle.
Although Rooster was the only colored person working for granddaddy at that time, granddaddy had hired and worked colored folk for thirty years or so. He would tell us grand kids, “Colored folks always refer to me as “Mr. Herman”, or they won’t work at all!” He was a contractor and foreman all of his life, and we grand kids must have heard the same old story a dozen times, or so it seemed.
It sure was enjoyable at granddaddy and grandma Pickens’ house, why with all the good food, home-made hand-cranked ice cream, out on the front porch, and the fellowshipping around the table.
I guess I’ll never know what was going through Rooster’s mind, as he ate all alone on the back porch steps, maybe what was going through his mind was, “I sure wish Mr. Herman would let me eat and fellowship with everyone else.” I suppose I’ll never know…..

A Welcome Detour

We are often led by our Creator, to places in our lives, where we never planned on going. At the time, we don't see the big picture, but God, in His wisdom & knowledge, has a way of guiding us to others who need a heavenly touch or word from Him, so be flexible in serving the Lord.

It’s been said by someone, “Life is a journey”, and “surprises come when you least expect them”. Be on the look-out for “Detours” in your life, for they are sure to come. 

For myself, I never planned to make the following detour, at the "Floyd E. Tut Fann State Veterans Home", Huntsville, Alabama. I had never heard of it before. 

On a certain cold windy day, January 1, 2008, I was driving myself from Corpus Christi TX, to relocate to Huntsville AL, a place where I mostly grew up from 1963, and hadn't lived for 30 years. 

Upon arriving Huntsville, New Years Day 2008, I made my way down University Drive, stopping at the Jordan Lane intersection. My first thoughts were memories of the many times dad would take me to his first cousin’s house, Bill Baker. My daddy, Herman Leon, always referred to Bill as Billy, so I did as well. Billy is my daddy’s first cousin. They grew up together in Jackson, TN, to which dad has shared several good memories of their times together, chumming around the North Jackson countryside! So, as I sat at the Jordan Lane intersection, I glanced up the hill and spotted the big white water tower. That tower was very close to the Bill & June Baker homestead. Pleasant memories flooded my mind of visiting their family over the years. I had recently heard that Billy’s wife, June, had passed away, and pondered where Billy might be living now. As I passed through the intersection, driving further into town, I headed my Dodge truck over Chapman Mountain, and settled-in at my son Phillip and daughter-n-law Rebecca’s home, located in the Huntsville NE area. Over the course of the evening, and into the following day, my thoughts were, “I need to go check-on Billy Baker”. I really don’t know why I was contemplating it. I wasn’t aware of the purpose of God leading me in Billy’s direction. I decided to call my sister, Jeanne, to inquire about Billy’s whereabouts. I pretty much knew that Bill & June Baker’s kids, David & Diane, no longer lived in Huntsville, but I had no idea where they were now living. The reason for calling my sister was I reasoned that girls were better at keeping-up with kinfolks than guys were. I felt dad would probably know, but I didn’t want to bother him about it. As God would direct my path that January day, my sister, Jeanne, told me that she had heard Billy was living at the "Floyd E. Tut Fann State Veterans Home", located on Meridian Street. She offered to meet me there, so shortly thereafter met out front of the facility. This was our first time to see one another, so we gave each other a big hug, right out front of the facility! Jeanne didn’t have the time to go inside with me that day, for she had something going on at the time. Upon her driving away, I grabbed my harmonica, slipped it into my pocket, and proceeded inside to the front desk. The receptionist had me sign the visitor’s log, and pointed me toward the “F” wing. Heading in the right direction, along what seemed like well lighted long hallways, I finally reached my destination. Upon arrival, I asked the nurse’s station that I was there to visit my cousin, Billy Baker. The nurse informed me the “F” wing was mainly for Alzheimer’s patients, and that indeed she had a Billy Baker in her wing. She also educated me a little on visiting AZ’s patients, and that Billy would have to be found. I followed her around looking for Billy. The nurse informed me that AZ’s patients often leave their rooms, and can’t recall where they came from. She said they often end-up climbing back in bed, but it won’t be there own bed, but someone else’s. This wasn’t the case for Billy that day. I returned to the nurse’s station to wait. My thoughts were, “I hope Billy is in good walking health, so I can have a good visit with him.” A few minutes passed as I waited. Looking down each hall for the nurse, I spotted the nurse walking toward me, with holding Billy’s hand. I heard her say, “Now, Billy, you have a guest who has come to see you, so you behave yourself, ya hear?” I could tell the nurse was just being fun with Billy, so I smiled as she placed Billy’s hand in mine. I recall his hand was warm, and I was just hoping my own hand wasn’t cold, as it often is….ha-ha. This visit was new territory for me, having never dealt with Alzheimer’s patients before, or at least not that I ever new. I’ve visited nursing homes before, Christmas caroling with my church, and playing harmonica with other friends over the years. With his hand in mine, I felt as if I had a child in my hand. The nurse pointed me down the hall to large open room, where she pointed to a row of empty chairs along the wall. This was the visitor’s room, where families could interact with their loved one. Around the room, were other men, with various stages of AZ’s, but I noticed no one was there visiting them. I believe one of the men actually spoke to me, albeit in broken sentences, and I kindly acknowledged him. I sat Billy down on one of the soft vinyl chairs, and began to talk to him. Billy was wearing just a pair of socks, to which he seemed to be looking down toward. I quickly realized that this would be very much a one-way conversation, and that God would have to give me the words to say. Me acting and feeling sorry for his condition is not what Billy needed. I had to be strong and upbeat, and stay focused on being a blessing to him. What I’m about to relay to you, may not be verbatim, but to the best of my recollection, here is how the visit went: “Billy, I don’t know if you recall who I am, but I’m Herman Leon’s son, Barry Pickens. I used to come visit you with my dad. I recall how smart you were about building & constructing your own water skis, and how you knew electronics real well, and seemed to be able to fix anything. I just wanted to come by and visit with you, and maybe play you a couple of songs on the harmonica. Would you like that?” Billy continued to sit there quietly, with his hands on his lap. I gave him a few seconds to respond to my own introductory words, while looking into his face for expressions to my words. I was encouraged to hear a few recognizable words. The best I could determine, he was attempting to explain the building and testing of some type of electronics. His words were mixed-up, although I did recognize some of the electronic terms. That was kind of cool that I could at least see that he had a mind that was still able to say those. His sentences were short, and incomplete. That was ok to me, for I understood the circumstances. He moved his hands and fingers together, seemingly constructing something, or possibly explaining something to me. Who knows, but maybe he was reliving an experience with a group of fellow engineers, whom he may have worked with at NASA. In honor of his service to others, and out of respect for his intelligence, I replied to him with, “Yeah, that’s right, good, I see, uh huh!” I decided I may as well become one of his engineer friends, and play the part for a second. Maybe that would help him to explain what he was telling me. After a few minutes of this time, I took Billy’s hand in mine, and asked him, “Billy, would you like to hear me play a hymn for you on my harmonica?” to which he didn’t reply, but just looked at me quietly. I figured that meant, “Of course I’d like to hear a hymn!” Up to this point, I was sitting in a chair angled toward his chair. I leaned over toward Billy, so as not to be too loud for the other patients in the room. I’m sure I played one of my favorites, like “Sweet Hour of Prayer”, or “Amazing Grace”! I didn’t want to be too lengthy, not knowing how long he could endure the sitting still like that. I watched intently for any signs of response to the harmonica music, but he seemed to like listening, the best I could tell. Once I stopped playing the hymns, I figured it best that I begin wrapping-up my visit, so I got down on my knees, and looked into his face, much like a mother would do, and I began to speak these words to him: “Billy, I want you to know that God has not forgotten you! You are special to him, and you have served Him for many years. God would want me to tell you that you are not forgotten, and I love you! Don’t you worry; June says hello to you, and so do David and Diane. They all love you very much! Billy, I now want to pray with you, if that will be ok.” I then continued to hold his hand in mine, and prayed a little prayer with him. I didn’t know how much he understood, but somehow, I felt he did. I ended by telling him, “Now you take care of yourself, and be good, and I’ll come visit you later on!” I then led him back to the nurse’s station, and headed home that day. I was reminded of the bible verse, “And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Matthew 25:34-40 I don’t know what Billy got out of my visit, but I know what I got out of it. My detour that day led me down a path of ministering to Jesus, face to face, and I shall forever be grateful. For, on that day, January 2, 2008, God led down what I would indeed call “A Welcome Detour”. 

Does God answer little prayers? On time? Everytime?

Does God answer little prayers? Well, all I know is that after whispering a simple little prayer for help, I ended-up finding my recently lost electric airplane, which I lost while flying it in Demopolis, AL!

Back on Sept. 18, 2008, and right at dusk, I was having a blast flying my 26” electric airplane. I had it at a super high altitude (fun flying, safer for mistakes), almost directly above my head. I was doing circles up that high trying to see how well it stayed aloft, catching the upper-wind currents. All of a sudden, the plane was not doing what I was telling it to do. The upper-level winds forced me to drive it down-wind. This made westward direction, on highway 80, drifting further away from me, making it harder for me to see. Being so high up, with the upper-level winds keeping it aloft, I made the atempt to shut the motor off, and gradually fall, hopefully losing altitude. Since it only a 2-channel functionality, rudder & electric motor speed, I couldn't point it into a hammer-head dive. The only way to get it down was to float down-wind of me, and hopfully lose altitude. The altitude, and the wind keeping it aloft, was working against me, taking the plane toward the main highway, almost out-of-sight, a common problem with R-C (remote control) oweners, they can't determine if the craft is coming toward them, or going away!
For a split second, my imagination ran wild, for I quickly imagined a couple of crash scenarios! I was worried it may have crashed into some little ole lady driving down the highway: "Demopolis Times headlines, “Lady has head-on crash with plane! Pilot no where to be found!”, or possibly some kid spotting my plane from his parent's automobile. He screams, "Stop mommy, I just saw a airplane crash in that field. He jumps out of the car, all the while yelling back, "Hey mom, look what I found!"
In either scenario, my $90 plane, which was my Father’s Day gift from my kids, would be lost forever!

Now, let's fast-forward two weeks, where once again, sent me to town on-business.
On my mind this time was definitely the incident of losing my plane that one evening, two weeks prior.
Who knows, maybe I could retrace my steps? I had nothing to lose? Hey, I could make one last ditch effort to search for my electric plane. At the close of the work day, and heading back to town at around 6 p.m., I stopped along the highway in front of the large hay field, across from Wal-Mart. This was where I thought I saw the plane go down, when I was flying it from the field behind Fairhaven Baptist. It seemed to be the most logical place crash site for my airplane. I had previously scanned the roofs of all the local places of business, excluding the Wal-Mart, of course. On the day of losing the plane, the winds were not blowing it toward Wal-Mart anyhow. My hopes & desires were that it had ended-up in the hay field, across the highway from Wal-Mart, and other businesses.I pulled my car into the property owner’s open field, while busy car drivers whisked up/down busy highway 80. My eyes were drawn toward the large open hay field out in front of me, with round bales of hay grouped together in an unorganized fashion, and scattered throughout the field. I couldn’t see very far due to newly grown hay nearly at chest height. It's a little scary walking around in tall grass, and not being able to see snakes, armadillos, rats, wild game, etc.
My imagination wasn't over just yet. this could have been how it worked-out:
You’re a local citizen, driving down the highway, in your sleepy little town, where everyone knows everybody else's business. You spot a stranger, off to your side in a field. Curious at what’s-up, you observe this stranger walking around in your field. You then see him climbing on top of each bale of hay, raising his hand to his eyebrow, and then see the crazy guy jump from bale-to-bale. He then hops down from the end bale, only to scurry over to the next group of bales, and does the same strange action! You think to yourself, “Someone’s not playing with a full deck, or a full bale!”
Anyway, that’s what it looked like that evening!The goal was to climb-up something taller, in order to get a better view across the field. Even with that, I still couldn’t spot my airplane. Feeling a little disheartened, after about 30 minutes of searching, I headed back across the field toward my car, . I felt that this was the last straw, my last chance to possibly find my electric plane. As I came within about 500 feet of my car, I stopped to pray, to see if maybe God knew where it was. Would He have the time to listen to a silly prayer like that? We all know God fixes more important things, like making people well, helping marriages & relationship problems, helping wayward teens. He does miracles, much more important than some silly lost airplane, down in little Demopolis, Alabama.I quickly reasoned, “Of course God knew where I lost it two weeks
ago, but my immediate problem was, I didn't know what God knew!” That fact was certain! Right then, in the middle of that field, I quietly bowed my head and whispered a simple prayer to God, "Lord, you know exactly where my airplane is, and the exact spot that is rest at this very moment. Please help me to find it, if it’s your will. I ask this, in Jesus name, Amen." I was pretty much ready to give it up at this point, feeling that maybe I wasn’t suppose to get it back after all. I was ok with that, if that was the way it was supposed to be.

You're not going to believe what happened next? As I raised my bowed head, and looked around again, I still couldn't see it anywhere near me. At that moment, I began my walk back to my car. My walk was perpendicular to the main highway, and where my car was parked, at the edge of the field. I decided to not avoid the thick tall grass, but commenced to traverse straight through it, all the time hoping not to awake some critter! As I walked back, still no airplane was to be found. Coming near my car, I walked past the car a few feet, looking in the nearby group of trees, still no sign of it. At that point, I decided to walk back toward the open field, some 50 feet from my car. While gazing once again toward the field, I saw what appeared to be some trash. I thought, “Maybe that’s it!” My airplane is white, so it was worth a shot! Drawing closer to the white bag, I discovered it to be a white Wal-Mart shopping bag. Guess why God led me to the white bag? It was because sitting next to the Wal-Mart bag, was my very own white airplane!
The plane was undamaged by the crash. All that suffered damage were the rubber-bands, which hold the main top wing in-place, were sun-baked & cracked. The top wing was barely hanging on, being held in-place by one lonely rubber band. I was ecstatic, and so pleased to find my plane. I felt like the Good Shepherd, who had a sheep which got lost, then after searching for it, finally found it. It was mine the first time, now it is twice mine. God heard my simple childlike prayer! It could have been practically anywhere, but it was lying right there all the time. No one but God saw it everyday I was away. I believe He was just waiting for me to ask, in childlike faith. I was taking it home now!

What a simple lesson to learn about a childlike prayer!

Does God answer little prayers?
Yes indeed, and right on time!

The Christmas with the Snelson family

It all started at West Heights Baptist Church, in Corpus Christi, Texas, with the Snelson family, and ended with their first ever, real Christmas tree! They had moved downtown in an old upstairs apartment, not too far from the downtown jail. There's more to the story.....so adventure with me now to meet this family......

They’re all around us, it seems. Everywhere we turn! And not always easily recognized. Who or what are they? They are the poor homeless families! Walking along the streets! In the gutters! Living out of cars! Sleeping wherever! At times without a place to call home! How do we escape from their presence? Or, is this what we really desire to do? To get away from them?
After reading this true story, I think you will see how helping the poor, benefits those we help, ourselves, and others who might be perhaps be watching or listening.
The poor, with little to give, might be able to give back to us more than we care to think! I know it did for my family! For I share with you, my audience, a personal experience in helping a poor family in our city, Corpus Christi, Texas.
I would like to begin with introducing you to this family.

They were the Snelson family: Dad, Mom, and seven children ranging from 2-14 years in age. Quiet a large family at the time, around 1992. With this size family, there were many needs. According to author Cheryl Gorder in her book, Homeless! Without Addresses In America, “The three elements necessary to function in American society are money, food, and shelter.” This family definitely suffered in these necessities! I know, at times, I take these things for granted myself, as I’m sure some of you do! At the time, this poor family with Dad, Mom, and seven children, was sharing two small adjoining rooms, at a run-down motel. My wife, Connie, tells it this way, “I think of how this large family of little people would stick together and share everything. Six even shared a fold out sofa to sleep on. The youngest slept with the parents. Yet they were so proud of one another and protective. They were so happy with what we would call nothing.”
Now understand, this class of motel they called home, still exists down on Leopard Street, in the old part of Corpus Christi. Before moving to this particular motel, this family had previously been living out of a tent down at the Nueces River Park area, on I-37.
I’m sure their life was full of mystery, if anyone would just take the time to listen! But who would want to get involved in that kind of social dilemma? Well, we, the Pickens family, accidentally, or I should say providentially, have a personal encounter with the Snelson family we shall never forget!
We’re the Pickens family! Just common people. No one special! Think of us as your, “Howdy Ho neighbor!”, next door neighbor! We just lived right around the block from the Snelson family and the neighborhood church we attended at the time.
A certain Sunday, the Snelson kids showed up at the church we attended. You see, the motel I mentioned they were living in was in the shadow of our church’s steeple. I seem to recall all seven kids practically filling a church pew. Tom, their dad, would eventually accompany the children to church. He finally came with them after his wife had kicked him out of the motel and he was really depressed about it. The children had begged him to go to church with them. You know, folks, we never know what brings people to seek answers to life’s difficulties but there is always more to the story than meets the eye.
Once again, if any of us stop long enough to listen.
Now, we as a small community church, were use to seeing visitors in the congregation, after all, this was a transitional area of town. People came and went all of the time, so the church members were use to new faces in the crowd. This family was more noticeable due to the size and all. But, there was something more here than just another poor homeless family! You might say they were, “A gold mine just waiting to be mined!”. “A gift just waiting to be received!”
My wife, Connie, our children, and I, all came to know the Snelsons in a short period of time. You see, Connie, and I, were teaching church Sunday School when we were invited to a birthday party by David and Alan Snelson, brothers in this poor family. These two brothers, being trusting and innocent, invited the whole church youth department to attend their party. The real test was, “Would anyone come to the birthday party since it was being held at the rundown motel across from the church”. I recall feeling a little obligated to attend, them being in my SS class and all. My two sons Phillip and Aaron, and nephew Michael, came along with me to the birthday party. To me it was somewhat sad that no other church kids showed-up, but it did not seem to bother David and Alan. I remember the party being held beside their motel swimming pool. These two poor kid brothers were so happy just to be having a simple cake and “Blue Bell ice cream” as stated by my son Aaron. I tried not to notice the spaghetti stains on the saucer they handed me. What could I say? I wasn’t too good to eat off of it, they did! Prior to the birthday party, they told us to bring our swim suits to go swimming in the motel pool. We played “Marco Polo”, as recalled by my son Phillip. I’m sure glad friends did not brief us before the party or we probably would have stayed away from the pool, with diseases and all being prevalent nowadays. You just don’t think and worry about things like that when helping people. You’re just there for them, through the good and the bad! Those kids were so proud of their little motel pool and the birthday party given by their parents. Words cannot express the meaning of this memory. Can you begin to see who really received a gift and benefited here?
And the giving doesn’t stop there!
Working at a nearby Circle K just wasn’t enough for Tom Snelson and his family. He was forced to walk two miles to work since he could not afford a car. I felt for the man and talked him into applying at a grocery supply warehouse closer to the motel. Feeling that his application might not get much attention, I followed-up his application with a personal visit to the manager of the warehouse. The manager expressed his appreciation for sharing the poor family’s situation. You see, the warehouse manager had a handicap himself. His left arm was extremely shorter than the other. I feel sure this man understood what it was like being given a chance at a job. I’m sure Tom was hoping and praying, as I know I was! It was extremely hard keeping my mouth shut when Tom excitedly told me, “Barry! I got that job! You know, the warehouse one!” As far as I know, Tom still doesn’t know how it all happened. He didn’t know any flowery prayer to say, but like a innocent child I know he expressed thanks to God for the job.
What a wonderful memory to play a part in!
And the giving doesn’t stop there!
Taking the Snelson boys, David and Alan, to church youth camp, was a treat one summer! Them being poor and all, their traveling luggage was a dirty white, faded, laundry bag, with a draw-string at the top. The brothers, or their mom, just threw their clothes in together without any regard for wrinkling. They seemed happy though!
In the boys dorm our group stayed in, David and Alan pulled their bunks up close to each other, head to head, indicating their love for each other, and possibly signifying them missing the rest of the family back home. Somehow, these two brothers, got nick-named “Buzzsaw & Stinky” by other kids at camp. I guess it was due to the homespun buzz haircut on one and I’m not sure about the other nickname Stinky, I didn’t ask. They seemed to like the attention though! Another church group went in together to buy Buzzsaw and Stinky a camp tee-shirt. That was no doubt their first ever new tee-shirt. The X-Large tee-shirts swallowed their small bodies! They wore the camp tee-shirts proudly, then tossed them in their laundry bag together with their other clothes. That particular summer, youth camp was a very special one with the two Snelson boys along.
And the giving doesn’t stop there!
Christmas! Ah, Christmas! What a wonderful time of the year! The time of the year when you give something or get something! Right?
Who could ever forget that Christmas with the Snelsons? The particular year, my family shared in helping make a meaningful Christmas. We thought we were doing the giving but this poor homeless family would give to us gifts that cannot be bought.
It all began when one of the Snelson children somehow let one of us know that they didn’t really have any plans for Christmas. They didn’t really have the money to buy a Christmas tree, or gifts for that matter. Now I know that they probably never really had these things, but understand other kids, at church, and I’m sure school, discussed what they were wishing for, and what they would be getting for Christmas. By this time, the Snelson’s had moved into an old duplex apartment downtown. This is where this particular Christmas was spent.
My family decided we would surprise the Snelson family with a real live Christmas tree, with ornaments to boot! You should have seen the excitement amongst that family when we knocked on their upstairs apartment door, and as they opened the door, and there stands a Christmas tree, a box of ornaments and lights, gifts, and of course people grinning like a possum! It was such a blessing to us as their kids scrambled around to decorate it, and their parents were, well, you might say, overwhelmed with what was taking place in their apartment that day! My four kids were excited to be sharing some of their own toys with the Snelson kids as well as giving each child at least one new toy or gift.
And the giving doesn’t stop there!
My family’s experiences in helping the Snelson family also had an impact on other people. Some people were supporters in helping, some were critics.
As far as the supporters, there were just a handful.
You’ll never get them to admit it, but my wife’s parents helped out on a late motel bill for the Snelson family. They would tell you that this family touched their hearts.
Another family that wanted to do something for the Snelsons was the Bryant family. I purposely did not mention the Bryant family earlier because I wanted to share a personal testimony by Donna Bryant, the mother, “They were all so small for their age. They were so excited to attend Sunday School & Church. So willing to love & be loved by us! They were always smiling, even though they had such a meager and sad existence. The youngest, Tommy, was such an adorable child, beautiful and angelic. The Christmas, that three or four families from church got together and shared the real Spirit of Christmas with those precious children, was unforgettable. The looks on their face will live in my heart always! They were so excited to have a tree and a few small gifts picked out especially for each one of them. I felt a special bond with Christi, the oldest and only girl!
She was so small yet tried to be tough enough to take care of her brothers. We think of them all sometimes and still say a small prayer for God to keep alive in their hearts His love and our love. I thank God for the blessing that they were to all of my family-Rob, Donna, Travis, Ryan, Brandy, and Ricci.” Now, as far as the critics are concerned, there were a few.
I will mention that there was some in the church who didn’t like this unruly bunch of kids. Someone told the Snelson kids not to come to church anymore because it was being changed to a new denomination. Ridiculous, but those kids believed it and stayed home until my wife and I told them otherwise. You may find it hard to believe, but these kids let us know they were not treated very nicely by the preacher either. Folks, critics have always been around, even at church, but I’m sure glad that life goes on, in spite of the critics.
Well! People helping others! Giving unto others as unto ourselves. This is best stated in a verse from the Bible, “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son”. Now that you have shared these few moments with me, I hope you will see how helping the poor, benefits those we help, ourselves, and others who might be perhaps be watching or listening.
Tonight, as I shared this story with you, I like to believe that you were receiving a gift from this poor homeless family as well. Now, we’re not suppose to give just to get something, but, somehow, we do end-up getting when we give! Funny how it works out!

"The Christmas Spirit", Have you got it yet?

The Christmas Spirit

Hi there folks!
Say, have you got it yet?
You know, "The Christmas Spirit"?

It's a feeling we hope we feel each Christmas, and yet often remains elusive, hard to get. 

You've probably heard someone state, "I feel blah because I don't seem to have the Christmas spirit like the children get.". The children certainly know what it's like to feel the magic. You no doubt recall what it was like when a child.

Actually, it doesn't come to us by sitting around waiting, but "The Christmas Spirit", if you want to call it that, is rather simple to begin to acquire. Contrary to popular thought, the feeling comes through "giving", not "getting". We start by giving of one's self, to someone who is often forgotten at this time of year. Ignoring hurting people is easy to do, with all the hustle and bustle of Christmas. Who has time to help someone, when just resting your feet, would be a welcome relief.

The true "Christmas Spirit" is never conjured-up. It most likely will require getting out of your normal everyday routine, and most likely stepping away from the office, and even the shopping malls. It is simply mixing with people where they live their everyday lives, the place they move and breath. Sacrificing your own time, and resources, helps to bring about "The Christmas Spirit".

I had the following happen to me in the year of our Lord, 2008. It may not have been precisely Christmas, nonetheless, I experienced what I would call "The Christmas Spirit".

I had dropped by my sister Jeanne Denise Shrader's place of business, Attitudes Day Spa and Salon, Huntsville Alabama, just to say Hi!
She had rented an old church building for her salon. How cool is that!

"Here I am getting a geek hug from my little sister, Juli Elaine Dudley. Hey, computer geeks need to learn how to hug, too! 

Juli was always assisting her sister Jeanne with her clients, like her best friend Dawn.

On that particular day, she was in the process of cutting a client's hair, with the girl's back facing toward me. She introduced her client to me, as she continued working. The overhead speakers were streaming tunes via the Internet, and a few customers were scattered throughout the salon, being pampered, like any normal day. I didn't have anything special going on that day, and my wife may have been visiting family in Texas, so I had some time to kill. I asked my sister, along with her customer, if they would allow me to play a few tunes on my harmonica, to which they replied, "Yes". I always carry a couple of harmonicas in my car, so I darted out to the car to grab one! Once back inside, I slid into a nearby barber's chair, and commenced to gently playing one of my favorite hymns, "Amazing Grace". I've heard it said, "Music has a way of soothing the soul", and "Amazing Grace" didn't let us down. In those few precious moments, God granted me the privilege of playing through a few church hymns, like "Sweet Hour of Prayer", and "Face To Face With Christ My Saviour". For some reason, I had the sudden urge to sing the balance of "Face To Face".

I know, I know, it wasn't Christmas back in the summer, but "The Christmas Spirit", which comes through giving of ourselves, was present with us in that big open room!

I couldn't see the girl's face, although my sister, facing toward me while she worked, gently lifted her pretty eyes, looking toward me, and smiling as our eyes connected. Returning a smile, I knew exactly what my sister was thinking. We both were mutually sensing God's presence amongst us. The girl sat quietly listening, and seemingly aborbing the moment. Unbeknown to me, she began to tear-up, and my sister later shared with me that the girl had been going through some tough events in her life.
We rarely ever know what people are going through at any given time. It is amazing when you let God minister words of hope, or a simple non-rehearsed song, to a stranger. I suppose it was a "God moment" that day! God moments happen when we don't plan anything, but just happen when going about our everyday lives! I am so grateful for the "God Moments", for they just happen when God is ready, and we're available.
So, we end with my original question,"'The Christmas Spirit"! Have you got it yet"? If so, then you'll see it's true meaning, and that is in giving, wherever, and to whomever, God takes you to this season, and on into the future!

Merry Christmas!

Barry Pickens family

The basement we dug ourselves

WE were the kids, in the neighborhood, who dug their own basement, while living in Huntsville, Alabama, during the late 60's, and early 70's! Didn't every normal family dig their own basement?

<<< Here is a picture of dad, in the most recent years.

I faintly remember how we were somehow made to feel privileged in digging our own basement!
We boys were told to crawl through the small opening behind our house, with picks & shovels, into the dimly lit underside of the house, onto the hard-packed dirt floor.
We initially had to lay on our side, while our dad told us to start digging.

It was hard work, although I suppose we thought it was fun, for a short time, I'm sure! I doubt the girls were privileged to perform any digging, but maybe they did a little digging also? (Maybe on this blog, my sisters will have a comment if their own?)
While underneath the crawl space of our home, we finally were able to throw dirt onto dad's home-made conveyor belt. You should have seen all the dirt coming out from underneath that house. The dirt would dance-up the home-made conveyor belt, whereas the clay would clog-up the conveyor rollers, whereby causing a slow-down in our progress. The conveyor contraption was designed and built by dad. He used surplus conveyor belt material, 2 x 12's, home-made wooden end-rollers, and powered by, no doubt, a surplus washing-machine motor. I recollect we were encourage to keep-track of each load of dirt, by penciling slash-marks on the house floor joists: one mark for each load of dirt we dumped into the ditch at the back of our big yard! I suppose those marks are still there. Someday, I might investigate that, but the present house owner might not quite understand my visit!
With all the trailer loads we hand-pushed to the back of our yard, we got a little careless, I suppose? Why, we once dumped a whole trailer load of dirt, and while doing so, we carelessly let the complete trailer slide-off into the ditch with the dirt. Our hands just couldn't hold-on to the trailer tongue! Of into that ditch, it went! I still don't recall how we ever got it out! The trailer belonged to dad's father, our grandaddy Pickens. He probably never knew about the accident!

Was this child slavery, family chores, or just ole' fashion family bonding? I occasionally share this story with my friends, and they find it hard to believe. I usually tell them, my dad always prefaced his ideas with, "Son, I love you, and I have something I want you to do!" Whether that was really ever said is not the point, but the mere fact dad wanted to spend the time with us kids, even if we were part of the experiment, said volumes regarding "Love".
Dad pushed sometimes pushed us to the edge, you might say, and helped us to experience some fun, at the same time.
Say what you will, but all I can say is, "WE were the kids, in the neighborhood, who dug their own basement!

Barry

The home-made Go-Kart

Aren't dads great?
Along when I was about 12, I recall my dad telling me to climb aboard a home-made go-Kart, which he had constructed out of plywood, 2 x 4’s, wagon wheels, cast-iron gasoline engine, and various other junk in the garage.
Of course, he being an engineer, it was designed carefully, hopefully, by a safety-conscience dad, with the following specifications:
Drive-train-Sprocket & chain-Clutch not standard feature on this model
Steering-Gear-box attached to a wagon wheel for a steering wheel
Throttle control-Not standard feature (Ran at full throttle, due to defeated/non-existing governor control)
Kill-switch-Not standard feature
Braking System-Not standard feature ...hmm?
Roll-bar and safety belt-You guessed it….
I recall dad telling me to get on it, while it seems like mom looked-on. Dad would push me to get it started, just like the race cars have to be pushed to get them started, sometimes. Dad, and I think mom too, curiously gazed at me drive away, disappearing quickly around the curve, where the Herron family lived, and quickly down the street out-of-sight. Did he and mom come looking for me? Nooooo! Not on your life, I mean my life, that is! You see, we didn’t follow a pre-inspection and declare, “All-Systems-Go”.
I would quickly learn, this was going to be one of those "hang-on-for-your-life” experiences! Quickly discovering I lacked a kill-switch, I got a bright idea for killing the engine. As I reached behind me with one hand, I made the attempt to pull the spark wire off. In doing so, my hand missed the insulated part of the spark coil wire, and you guessed it. The hi-voltage spark grabbed a hold of me, jolting my arm...YOU know exactly what I mean if you've ever messed with gasoline engines with spark wires!!!!
Ever gaining speed as I went, without any brakes at my disposal, coupled with the over-sensitive steering, I was flying down through the neighborhood! There was no way out, I was trapped on a machine my dad had built, with no helmet, and a curve daring me at the end of the street. Some of my thoughts were, "Think, think! I've gotta ditch this go-kart, and lightning quick!" As I passed my brother and his friends, playing tackle-football in friend's yard, my yelling, while passing them, must have been amusing! I think some of the boys may have chased after me. Heading toward that curve, I quickly ditched the home-made wooden go-kart, flipping it and me in some stranger’s front yard. I was OK, and was able to walk home afterwards. I don’t recall what I did with the go-kart.
And to this day, I never knew if dad or mom made any attempt to go looking for their son.....hmmm??? Well, I did live to see & try dad's other inventions, so I suppose I wasn't too emotionally damaged. It did leave me with good memories though, which I can laugh about now! It just reinforces my original statement, “Aren't dad's great!”
Now, the following is not me or my dad, but it reminds me of my growing up with my dad. Observe the dad put his foot down to stop it. I suppose he also forgot to design a braking system! "go cart handmade"
View another dad spurring his son to get-on down the road Rocket-Powered-Skateboard
Barry