Catherine

Jesus Loves You (A Red Light Story)

The other day, I was sitting at a red light waiting to turn left when a car pulled up on my right side. We both were waiting for a green light.

The man driving the car next to me rolled down his window, blew his horn, and started waving at me to roll down my window. I looked at him, looked the other way, looked back at him, and he was flapping his arm like there was no tomorrow.

Seriously, he was starting to scare me, but I rolled down the window thinking he was going to tell me something was wrong with my car.

“Jesus Loves You,” is what he said to me.

“Jesus Loves You,” once again.

I sat there thinking this man is going to whip out a gun and shoot me, so I waved, rolled up the window, and prayed like you know what that the light would change right away (which it didn’t). He kept staring at me as if he expected me to carry on a conversation with him. It was very strange.

So, yesterday morning I was driving home from the doctor’s office, and some man in front of me had his window rolled down, and he was waving at each car that passed by. No joke! Each on-coming car got a big ol’ wave from his big ol’ hand.

I was thinking, “This can’t be the same man, can it?” and slowed down a bit.

He turned left. I went straight.

End of story.

The Internet Is Not My Lord and Savior

John 8:7 – And as they continued to ask him, he stood up and said to them, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Just because certain people aren’t running around with their hands in the air shouting Hallelujah, Praise the Lord, and Thank You, Jesus, does not mean they are not people of faith.

I am a person of faith. My relationship with God is personal. I have friends – devout Christians and Jews – who have prayed for me on more than one occasion. If prayers get you to Heaven then I’ve got my one-way ticket come Judgment Day.

Anyway, it is quite clear that if you don’t do the Christian boogaloo according to the gospel of certain folks then you are not true believers. There are those who would not know a Christian value or the polite, kind way to treat another person if it bit them on the ass.

Is it their job to roam the Internet looking for people to stone to death because – wait for it – they are good and fine upstanding members of the community, and as God as my witness, they are good Christians?

I don’t know what Bible some of you read, but I’m beginning to think there are those who have a Jim Jones mentality.

Warning: Don’t drink the Kool-Aid.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Operator
by The Manhattan Transfer

Dirt Track Auto Racing

Way back in the day … I mean before some of you were even born … I moved to in a small southern town that supported dirt track auto racing. The women were way too pretty for their own good, and the men always had a wad of tobacco tucked in their cheeks and talked like they had marbles in their mouths.

Did I mention the men wore tight jeans?

I was the new girl in town. It was a small town and word got around fast.

“Hey! Did you meet the new girl in town? I hear she’s from the big city.”

Anyway, it was a friendly little town, and people were always inviting me here and there to meet other friendly people. That’s how I ended up at the dirt track.

Dirt track auto racing was a big Saturday night event, and half the town showed up to cheer for their favorite driver. People would come from miles away on dirt track racing night. As it turned out, there were other dirt tracks sprinkled throughout the neighboring towns. Once, we ventured as far away as Valdosta, Georgia.

The brother of a new friend had two friends who owned a dirt track race car. We were in high cotton because we got to watch the race from the back of a pickup truck down in the pits.

Being much younger back then, hopping on and off the tailgate of the truck was easy. Once, I almost caught the hem of my jeans on a something or other, which would have put me face down in the dirt. There’s an art to hopping off the tailgate of a pickup truck.

After each Saturday night race, we would head on down to the all-night diner for breakfast. I think the only time the diner stayed open all night was on dirt track racing night.

Did I mention how dirty everyone was after the race?

Being a squeaky clean kind of gal, I soon learned that a little dirt (or mud) on my face wasn’t the worst thing in the world. By then, I had learned to dress appropriately for race night: jeans, boots or thick sneakers, a long t-shirt with the number of my favorite dirt track race car on the back, a ball cap with my hair twisted up under the cap, and a bit more than usual makeup.

You had to be there to appreciate the look.

Two years later, I moved back to the big city. After a few road trips to visit my friends in Small Town, USA, we all moved on, some moved away, and a few passed away. My dirt track auto racing days had come to an end.

Last I heard, they torn down the all-night diner to make way for a four lane road that goes right through the middle of town.