Apostolic News and My Books

I was pleased a couple of weeks ago to receive an email message that read in part:

I just wanted to let you know that you have been featured as a must-read author on ApostolicNews.org in the Arts & Entertainment section.

If you were like to read the article, it’s here Author Shirley Buxton,  A Great Read

ApostolicNews.org is the fastest growing news site for the Apostolic Movement. We appreciate your contributions and wanted to feature you this month.

God bless! Thank you!

Janell Coskun
Arts & Entertainment Editor

That was nice of them, wasn’t it. If you’d like to have a look, an active link is here.

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New post on my devotional blog here.

The Moon and I

The past few days I have indulged myself as regards my extreme interest in photography . Besides my church activities, my cooking meals and keeping our home straight, I have done little except playing around with my camera, processing the shots on my computer, posting pictures to Flickr, reading exposure manuals, trying to figure out how to use my non-automatic 500mm lens that I bought at a thrift store for $10.00, participating in internet photography forums, and–most intensely of all–trying to learn how to be effective at taking moon shots.

Highlights of my photography days:

I had eagerly ordered a lens I have been wanting, hastily tore open the package when it arrived, but when I tried to mount it on my camera, I found it to be defective. A great disappointment, but it is boxed up and ready to be shipped back tomorrow.

Updated my photography blog…finally.

Took pictures of our delightful friends Wendell and Pat Myers. Posted them here.

On Thursday night, January 29, that bright wolf moon nudged its round nose over the mountains that ring our town. I was ready–had my tripod set up, camera batteries charged, and a head full of beautiful moon photo-making instructions. Jerry went outside with me for a while, but it was cold and he was bored, so he soon went back inside. I snapped away, but every time I looked in the monitor at what I had just shot, I was disappointed. Near the end of the shoot, I carried my tripod and camera up the little incline that marks the entrance to our park.  There I took my last shot.

When I was back inside, Jerry asked, “Did you get a good shot?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s hard. I beginning to believe I just can’t take good moon pictures.”

I attached the camera/computer cord, turned on the switch and waited while the pictures loaded. I whooped when I saw the images. Finally! I had taken a decent picture of our beautiful moon.

Isn’t it beautiful. God made that moon. Spoke the word…and it just hangs out there, splendid in the dark night.

Early Friday morning, I peered out the window into the western sky. There it was! I grabbed my gear, and snapped this picture and the ones following.

Within minutes the golden orb had disappeared behind the far mountains.

Beautiful Lakshimi is now in School

Remember Lakshimi? She is the beautiful child born in India attached to a parasitic twin. Terribly deformed, she had four arms and four legs. Skillful, loving surgeons performed extensive surgery on this striking little girl, and she has made tremendous progress. Now she is walking and in school. Again, I give honor to this charming little girl, to her parents, her doctors and nurses, and all those who around the world have prayed for Lakshimi.

A full documentary is here. I’ve previously written about her here and here.

A new post on my photography blog is here.

The Audacity of President Obama’s Scolding the Supreme Court

The arrogance of President Obama has never been more evident than during last night’s State of the Union speech. As the Chief Justices sat prominently before him, the President, in extremely poor taste, in blatant rudeness, scolded and disparaged the Supreme Court, blasting their recent ruling. It was disgraceful.

watch?v=deGg41IiWwU

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New post on my photography blog. Click here.

Friends

I remember them. There were several whose names I can recall, and whose images are clear in my mind–well at least it seems clear to me these many years later. They were my friends. There were Shirley Snow, Barbra Day and Novella Cagle, among others.

Barbra was my friend in school and once when we were in second grade, the principal came into our class, called for Barbra and me, and took us to the third grade classroom. Every afternoon we walked together part of the way home, and on that day, when we reached the spot where we went our separate ways, I said, “Bye, third grader.”

She grinned at me, her dark brown eyes flashing and returned the words, “Bye, third grader.”

Her parents deliberately spelled her name differently: Most whose names sounded the same were spelled Barbara, and I recall her explaining to me that the spelling Barbra excelled that of Barbara. I was impressed.  Her dad’s name was Raymond, and I think they were a little richer than we were. Once as I spent the night at their place, there was a pencil laying out on a surface, and I asked, “Whose pencil is that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Anyone who wants it, I guess.”

I still don’t know why that made such an impression on me, but I recall it to this day. Perhaps it was because we didn’t have spare pencils laying about at our house. Sounds silly today, I know. When we were a few years older, one afternoon after school, Barbra and I walked to the hospital and visited with her mom who was very sick. She died a bit later…and I recall an occasion when Barbra and I stood on the sidewalk and cried together.

Of all my childhood friends, I probably spent more time with Shirley Snow than with anyone else. We were about the same age and attended the church in Springfield, Mo. that my dad pastored. The Snows lived in the country near Strafford, Mo. and Brother Snow worked for O’Kino’s Dairy. Shirley was beautiful and had long, curly hair, which I envied a lot, except after we had been running in the wind, and her mother sat down, positioned Shirley between her legs, and began the fierce task of brushing out that tangled hair. Shirley yelped. Sister Snow made delicious Pineapple-Upside Down cakes, whose taste I can fairly feel in my mouth as I write this.

Novella Cagle also attended our church, and was a year or two older than Shirley and me. I recall gawking at her when she had her first boyfriend, and I remember a beautiful green outfit she wore. She seemed so wise and so superior.

Friends.

They left a few minutes ago; long-time friends of Jerry’s and of mine–friends we have known since before we were married. Pat and Wendell Meyers live in Washington state near Seattle. They arrived here in Lake Havasu on Saturday and were in service with us on Sunday during which time he brought a wonderful message. The past few days we have talked at length–about earlier days, about politics, about God, about the Bible, about God’s people, about computers and motor homes and travel and growing older and faith and promise and health and death. We’ve talked extensively of our children and have bragged about their accomplishments and have sorrowed over their struggles. We’ve eaten at fine restaurants, and ones not so fine, took the ferry to the California side of the lake, ate ice-cream cones in an ice cream parlor after we had already eaten a tasty meal, worked on the faltering Hammond organ in our church, (at least the men did) and shopped at Dillards (at least Pat and I did, and we didn’t spend a penny, and the men were bug-eyed and smiled pleasantly when we told them of our diligent restraint.)

Stop a minute and consider your friends. Need to call one? Send a card? Say a prayer? Buy a gift? Provide a check or a 20-dollar bill? Offer help? Drink a cup of tea with one? Take a meal to a friend’s house…for no reason…or for a great reason?

They’re great to have, those friends.

First Baby Born on USNS Comfort in Haiti

In the midst of the Haiti horrors of death and injury so extreme that it is hard to even think about them, there flash a few bright moments. One of those moments was when baby Esther was successfully delivered by Cesarean section, following her mother’s having sustained pelvis and femur fractures during the earthquake. She’s a tiny little thing, weighing less than five pounds, and even though she was delivered seven weeks prematurely, she is quite healthy and there have been no complications during her short life.

Medical professionals aboard the Military Sealift Command hospital ship USNS Comfort (T-AH 20) delivered baby Esther at 2:27 p.m. on Jan. 21. She is the first baby delivered aboard the 1,000-bed floating hospital, which is in Haiti supporting Operation Unified Response.

Source: Fox News

How blessed is this tiny girl, who while yet within the warm body of her badly injured mother was spared death in that horrendous earthquake, where literally hundreds of thousands were killed and injured. Now compassion has swept us and the world has gone to the aid of these unfortunate people. Her mother is being tended, and in a hospital floating on the Caribbean Sea lies baby Esther, sleeping in that dreamless innocent way of the newborn.

Edit January 23: I have found a link to a blog reporting from the USNS. Lots of news items and pictures.

weblogs.baltimoresun.com/news/haiti-earthquake/

Cheers for Nolan

Don’t stop watching in the middle…please. You may feel like it. You probably will think, “Why did she post that on her blog?”…but please watch this to the end. You will cheer.  Kudos to my friend Dean for letting me understand Nolan.

Snuggy Ducks in Icy Water

On Tuesday while we were still in Crestline, despite the frigid weather, intemittent rain, snow and wind, Jerry and I ventured from the house for a post office run and a quick jaunt around Lake Gregory. The wind was howling, but it wasn’t raining, so while Jerry sat in the car and read the newspaper, I took my camera and traipsed a short distance along the shore line of our beautiful Alpine lake. Birds and ducks came flying and swimming toward me as soon as I stepped from the car, but when they saw I had no food offering, they settled back onto the water and into the routine way of birds on a winter lake.

How can those birds swim in this icy lake and appear so comfortable? I wondered, as I often have before, and I thought of down comforters, duck down, and other insulation the birds possess, but still…it was awfully cold. And what about their feet? Skinny feet with little sign of fat insulation. Gusts of wind blew so hard that once I nearly lost my footing, and after a bit, I walked back to the warm car, reached over and said to Jerry, “Want to feel some cold hands?” and before he could protect himself I pressed my icy hands on his warm neck. The icy hands were the result of my wanting to be ready to snap a promising picture to such degree that I had walked about without gloves.

But the birds of Lake Gregory were quite content to paddle around in that bitterly cold water. They appeared to be perfectly comfortable. How? Why? I continued to wonder, so I did a little research and want to share the information with you. Much of this I found on a site named Quarks, Quirks and Quips.

The secret for ducks (warmth in cold water) is in the blood flow system. To maintain healthy tissue, and prevent frostbite, you need to provide nutrients to the tissue and keep it warm enough so that it doesn’t freeze. In ducks (and other cold-weather birds), this is done by a physiological set up called “countercurrent”. Think of venous blood, cold from exposure to the air, flowing back into the body from the feet. Too much cold blood will bring the core body temperature down, leading to hypothermia. Then think of warm, arterial blood rushing from the heart. In animals adapted to the cold, the veins and arteries run very close together. As cold blood runs up the leg from the foot and passes by the artery, it picks up most of the heat from the artery. Thus, by the time arterial blood reaches the foot, it is very cool, so does not lose too much heat in transfer with cold water. Blood flow is carefully regulated to maintain the delicate balance of providing blood but maintaining core body temperature.

In this way, the blood in the foot of a duck remains very cool at all times, yet warm enough to keep the tissue healthy. By maintaining blood flow, nutrients required by the foot tissue are also provided. That being said, ducks can still get cold if they stay in the water too long.

It turns out that birds are not the only creatures to use countercurrent to survive in the cold. Marine mammals such as whales, seals and dolphins have arteries surrounded by a web of veins. This makes heat transfer between arterial and venous blood even more efficient, protecting flippers which do not have a juicy layer of blubber to insulate them. People, too, have a rudimentary system for countercurrent. Deep in the arms and legs, arteries and veins run together. When cold, only these protected arteries and veins are used. This restricts blood to extremities and causes – yes, frostbite. However it protects our core body temperature so that we survive (minus a few appendages). The reason our system is less developed is that we just don’t need the system that often – we are more used to trying to dissipate excess heat (by sweating or running blood close to the skin).

Back to ducks. Living in a winter climate is very costly, with an enormous amount of energy needed to reheat ducks after a cold swim or an icy meal. However ducks have adapted to gain advantages from the chill.

Cooling may allow ducks to dive deeper and swim further. By cooling the brain, less oxygen is required and thus a duck can stay underwater longer. In one study, ducks diving in 10 degree centigrade water could stay under 14% longer than those diving in 35 degree water.

References

Caputa M, Folkow L, Blix AS. (1998) Rapid brain cooling in diving ducks. Am J Physiol.275(2 Pt 2):R363-71.

de Leeuw JJ, Butler PJ, Woakes AJ, Zegwaard F. (1998) Body cooling and its energetic implications for feeding and diving of tufted ducks. Physiol Zool. 71(6):720-30.

Koeslag JH. (1995) Countercurrent mechanisms in physiology. Continuing Medical Education 13: 307-315.

Reite OB, Millard RW, Johansen K. (1977) Effects of low tissue temperature on peripheral vascular control mechanisms. Acta Physiol Scand.;101(2):247-53.

Schmidt-Nielsen K. (1981) Countercurrent systems in animals. Scientific American 118-128.

Of Mice and Men and Traps

We get mice in Crestline. Maybe it’s because we are gone to Arizona so often, and maybe there really is a mouse network, and perhaps there actually are mice supervisors who the minute our Jeep heads down the driveway, get on the horn and squeal out the message: “They’re gone. Hear me? They’re gone. Everyone gather in for a party!” Not sure exactly how it works, but during the nine years we have lived here in the San Bernardino Mountains, we have been “blessed” with numerous mouse visits, and with the evidence of Mickey and Minnie parties so wild as to cause even Disneyland to take note. Don’t get me wrong; I think mice are cute, but I just can’t have them traipsing around my kitchen, dipping elegantly into morsels of sweet, and of grain, and of other exotic foodstuffs. Our mice like dry chicken broth mix. I’m sure of that, for once when we had been away for an extended period, I found that the blue lid covering the broth mix can has been chewed and nibbled so that shreds of plastic lay about. Take a look at this one here. Look at his beautiful eyes, his elegant whiskers, and his shinny fur.

We arrived here for Christmas before any of our children, and saw right away the evidence of micey winter banquets. Jerry got out his trusty traps, and before anyone else arrived, he had snagged two. Our mice here in Crestline are bright; we’ve known that, so we were not exactly surprised when the second time he set them, Jerry’s traps were licked clean of the essence of peanut butter, but the spring had not thrown. We caught no more during the holidays.

After Christmas, Andrew stayed at our house a few days longer than we did, and before we left, Jerry showed Andrew where he had set a trap, and gave Andrew a mouse lesson…peanut butter, and all that…..A couple of days after we were back in Lake Havasu, Andrew called with the news of a mouse capture, and that he had thrown away both mouse and trap.

“You threw the trap and all away?” I asked, aghast at such waste.

“Yes, Mom. I’m not touching the nasty mouse.”

We’re up in Crestline now, and when we arrived Sunday evening, my routine examination showed no evidence of mouse celebration. Evidently Andrew snagged the last one of that particular party.

I noticed one of the traps today at the top of the basement stairs and that set me to wondering: Do most people throw away their mouse traps, or do they (as does Jerry) empty the trap, and then hold some sort of a decent mouse disposal activity–not saying its a full-fledged funeral or anything like that, you understand. I’m curious about your habits–you, the faithful and kind readers of my blog. Do you carefully remove the little fella from the hideous trap? Do you wear gloves? Do you have any kind of a service? Or do you throw away both trap and trapee? Do you say sacred words as you toss both into the incinerator?

Note this post to be another world-shaking consideration following close on the trail of that one that considered in depth the correct pronunciation of the year of our Lord 2010.

By the way…it’s snowing here in Crestline. I’m wondering if there are smirky mice snuggled down in our basement…dreaming of sugarplums and of tasty peanut butter.

Has the Preacher’s Dream Prevailed?

An aspect of Rev. Martin Luther King’s service to our country that is often overlooked is that he was a preacher; one who stood for Biblical principles and godly living, and who understood that this great country was founded on Judeo-Christian values. While he was not perfect (as are none of us,) the thrust of his message was that taught by Jesus Christ. As Jerry and I were driving to Crestline yesterday, we heard a portion of his most famous speech, and Jerry remarked as to the quality of his speaking, and a conversation ensued in which we discussed that he was a Gospel preacher, and that that quality and method of delivery was ever apparent in his messages. Those in our society who chafe against the acknowledgment of our country’s being formed on these principles would do well to consider this aspect of Rev. King and his tremendous contributions to the United States of America.

But has the dream prevailed?

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

Answering my own question, I believe that since the days of Rev. King’s death, we have made progress toward the elimination of racial and other injustice. Certainly, racism still exists–in the white community, in the black, in the Hispanic, and probably in others–and, granted,  there are some so steeped in prejudice that it is likely they will go to their graves, tightly grasping the ugliness of prejudice. But there are others–the majority of us–who reject such influence and such mindset. Think about it. We now have a black President, a Latin Supreme Court Justice, and a female Secretary of State. Remember that in the 50s, federal troops were called in so that a black student could safely attend school. Yes, we’ve made progress, the dream is yet alive.

But we have many miles yet to go. Yesterday in my Sunday school classroom, a 9-year old slim, beautiful little girl, born to an interracial couple, said gaily to me, squirming and wiggling as such children are prone to do.

“I have a best friend.”

“You mean other than me?” I teased.

Startled, then recognizing the joke she smiled broadly and continued.”I have a best friend, and she really likes me.”

“That’s neat,” I said, encouraging her, for I sensed she had something important she wanted to say.

“She was going to come spend the night with me, but her mother wouldn’t let her.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Her mother doesn’t like black people.” She smiled and seemed to be not overly concerned.

The child’s father is black, and in the conversation that followed she explained: “People tell me I look mostly like my dad. I’m black like he is, but my face is like my mother’s.” She grinned as she told me this, continuing to work on her Sunday school papers with her slim brown hands.

My heart jerked, and I was instantly furious at the best friend’s mother who could be so cruel, so insensitive, so lacking in common sense as to judge a person by the color of her skin. I hugged that exceptionally sweet and charming little girl–hugged her tight, and said: “I love you just like you are. You are perfect, and you are just what God wanted, for He made you just the way you are.” I weep at this moment as I think of that charming nine-year-old child who so soon has felt the bitter sting of racial prejudice.

So, yes, I believe the preacher’s dream yet lives, but I understand we have a far distance to travel before its complete fulfillment.

I Have a Dream – Address at March on Washington
August 28, 1963. Washington, D.C.

“I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.

But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.

In a sense we have come to our nation’s capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked “insufficient funds.” But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check — a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God’s children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, “When will you be satisfied?” We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro’s basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.

I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.”

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor’s lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with a new meaning, “My country, ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim’s pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring.”

And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!

Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous peaks of California!

But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!

Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, “Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”