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Thursday, March 19, 2009

Kitchen Archeology

We survived!

We remodeled our kitchen this September through December of 2008 and my wife and I are still married! (Although there was about a 24 hour period where we didn’t speak to each other. But more on that later.)

Most of the rooms in our 1924 home have been remodeled but we just kept putting off doing the kitchen. It was going to take several bags of $100.00 bills; and this fall, with the government “kitchen bailout program,” we finally had enough!


And it wasn’t that the kitchen wasn’t in too bad of shape and just needed a superficial cosmetic job. The kitchen was awful. Plaid carpeting from the 70’s, a dishwasher that hadn’t worked since the last century (honest – I’m not making that up), cabinets from the 50’s (one door was warped and wouldn’t close and a couple of the drawer fronts were held on with sheetrock screws). And the wiring was just plain ghastly; some of it was the old knob and tube stuff (you know, the same wiring technology used by Pharaoh Ramses the Second when he updated his wife’s kitchen).

So we lined up a cabinet guy, lined up a sheetrocker friend, and then had a couple of electricians give us a bid. I asked one of them if this was a one bag-o-money job or a two bag-o-money job. He didn’t laugh.

We started the end of September by ripping out the old flooring. And I am not embellishing this story for literary effect – there were actually 4 LAYERS of old flooring!

The top layer (as I mentioned earlier) was plaid. PLAID! Carpeting that was carbon dated back to the 1970’s – officially known as Plaideozolic Period when normally sane Americans actually put carpeting in the kitchen. This was apparently designed to hide smashed Fruit Loops and dried out chunks of pot roast. There actually was black mold growing underneath this layer – it sort of encircled the fridge. Probably a long forgotten junior high science experiment from some previous family’s mad scientist kid.

Secondly, and directly underneath the Plaideozolic layer was a layer from the 1960’s Hippie Generation called the Vinylozoidian Period. It was sort of a hospital white with a light texture. I think it was meant to offset any psychedelic LSD trips to no-where-land.

Underneath that was a ¼” layer of underlayment from the Plywoodcambrian Period – that layer was held in place 12 gazillion staples that had to be removed ONE AT A TIME!


Underneath that was a layer from the Linoleumiuminum Period dating back to somewhere in the 1940’s. Really cool looking And it actually had (in front of the sink, in front of the pantry, and by the dining room and kitchen entrances) inlaid black and red arrow-like directional pointers (sort of in the shape of sergeant stripes). I guess these were to help you if your mom was like a really bad cook and always burned stuff. You could survive by just hitting the floor and low-crawling your way out of the 10x15 smoke-filled room by following the inlaid directional arrows.

Underneath that was a thin layer of black-felt-tar-glue-like substance that was impregnable to everything just short of dynamite. One night when we were cleaning up our archeological dig I could sorta kinda clearly see imbedded in this layer a set of human foot prints heading toward the fridge from the north and a set of Velociraptor prints heading toward the same spot from the south. It wasn’t real clear but it looks as if they converged right in front of the ancient icebox area. And it looked like quite a struggle ensued. I realize this may be disputed, but in my mind this categorically proves that dinosaurs and humans lived during the same period of time – at least in northern Minnesota.

Finally, under all those layers, we discovered the original flooring that dated back to the 1920’s – the Mapletreesmakegoodfloorium Period. We wanted to restore that floor, but alas, after all that digging it couldn’t be saved.


We tore out the old plaster and lathe (or is it lathter and plath) and carried it out bucket by bucket. The old cabinets were sawzalled and smashed and chucked out the window. We pulled out a lot of the old insulation and prepped the walls for the electrician. He roughed in the electrical in a couple of days. We moved the ceiling fan light fixture over about a foot just because we didn’t have anything else to do. I then ripped out the old windows (three of them) and put in new ones (three of them). You know you live close to your neighbor when you can make sure your new windows are level by lining them up with his siding!

Oh, I almost forgot, I tried to make one small plumbing repair. The part cost 50 cents and I told my wife the water would be turned off for about a ½ hour. This was Sunday afternoon. One day, three trips to Menards, one broken pipe with water shooting to the ceiling, brown icky water flowing into the basement, and a plumber later, it was fixed. Me and plumbing do not get along.


The sheetrocker guy did a great job and was done in about a week (I have learned the hard way that taping and mudding is more complicated than rocket surgery or brain science). We painted the walls and ceiling a color that would best hide any sort of exploding meat loaf (just kidding -- actually my wife is a GREAT cook; in our 35 years of marriage she has NEVER exploded ANYTHING in the kitchen that I am aware of).

Then came flooring weekend. We went with the old style tongue and really groovey flooring (red oak) so I went to the local Rent-A-Weapon store and reserved one of those flooring nailers. After 2 days of preparation and some precise mathematical calculations I was ready to start. My wife laid out the random pattern of flooring lengths (she was the Randomnator), my daughter made sure all the flooring pieces fit together nice and tight (she was the Hammerchiselsnuggelator), and I was the Bossinator/Nailerator. That nail gun was really cool – you lined it up and hit with a mallet. That set off a miniature nuclear explosion that could drive a 2” staple through steel.


After that the floor was sanded, stained and varnished. I applied the varnish with a mop-like sort of thing that was highly recommended by a person at the local home improvement store. When it was dry it looked like the floor had a bad case of P.A. (polyurethane acne). Note to self: if you ask an “Associate” for advice at one of those home improvement stores, always ask to see their “I’ve actually done a home remodeling job” card.

A couple days later the cabinet guys came and got their part done. Wow what a difference! (If you’re looking for a good cabinet guy, call me).

I installed the sink, hooked up the garbage disposal and connected the dishwasher. We turned on the water and I held my breath. NOT A SINGLE DRIP! I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT! IT WAS A MIRACLE! I actually called my mom, turned on the garbage disposal, and said, “Hey mom, listen to this!” (I recently read in one of those handyman magazines where a guy wanted to save a few bucks by fixing the hinge on his dishwasher door. He got that fixed but when he pushed the dishwasher back into place he didn’t realize that he had knocked the water line loose. The next morning his wife came into the bedroom screaming. The basement ceiling was falling down! Water had run through the floor/ceiling and saturated the ceiling tile all night long. It finally collapsed! That’s not a good way to start your day).

The appliance guys delivered the appliances (not a single scratch anywhere – again another minor miracle) and I leveled the fridge and stove and dishwasher and installed the microwave. The plumber guy that I had met during my earlier “How plumbing can turn 50 cents into 15,000 cents” adventure came and hooked up the gas to the gas stove.

Over the next couple of weeks my wife unpacked all the dishes and I finished up a couple of small detail jobs.

What a great feeling of accomplishment when it was done.

But as I mentioned at the beginning, there was about a 24 hour period where neither my wife nor I talked to each other (but now that I think about it – it was actually more like 48 hours). OK, I guess there were a few other times that it got a little tense, but at least we talked to each other…for example:

Kay: Dan, WHERE IS YOUR BRAIN?
Dan: I LEFT IT AT MENARDS IN THE PLUMBING DEPARTMENT!!!


It turns out that our city electrical code demands that a smoke detector must be installed somewhere on the same floor that any remodeling job is being done on. The electrician explained that it couldn’t be put in a corner, couldn’t be put too near the ceiling, couldn’t be put too near the floor, couldn’t be put anywhere that was inconspicuous, and was to be installed directly in the middle of any wall where the homeowner wanted to hang stuff. Period. Which in our case meant installing it in our newly remodeled dining room SMACK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WALL DIRECTLY ABOVE THE ANTIQUE HUTCH! I had to admit it was horrid looking. I thought and thought and thought and thought about how we could disguise it. My mom is a very talented painter and had painted quaint country scenes on an old shovel of ours and an old lumberjack saw and an old ironing board and an old cheesebox and other stuff. Maybe she could do sort of a really tiny Terry Redlin Americana scene on it. I thought and thought and thought some more. Finally, after much prayer and deliberation and reflection, I came up with a solution.

“Honey, lets just hang a hubcap over it!”

And that’s when the 48 hour period of silence began.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

The Theology of a Stapler

My brother sent me an email a couple of months ago titled “Through A Child’s Eyes.” It was simply a compilation of short letters that kids had written to God. Among them was one by Nan that said, “Dear God, I bet it is very hard for you to love all of everybody in the whole world. There are only 4 people in our family and I can never do it.” And Larry wrote, “Dear God, maybe Cain and Able would not kill each other so much if they had their own room – it works for me and my brother.” Robert wrote, “Dear God, I am an American, what are you?” Denise said, “Dear God if we come back as something, please don’t let me be Jennifer Horton because I hate her.” And another by Joyce said, “Dear God, Thank you for the baby brother but what I prayed for was a puppy.” They all brought a smile to your face as you pictured each child, deep in thought, penning their deepest questions to God. But there was one that caught my attention. It was written by Ruth and said simply, “Dear God, I think the stapler is one of your greatest inventions. “ Can’t you just see some little red haired, pig-tailed 5 year old watching her dad staple a bunch of papers together and thinking, “Wow!" How does that work?” I was a pretty inquisitive kid and took a lot of things apart to see how they worked. But much to my parents chagrin I rarely put them back together correctly. As adults we immediately dismiss Ruth’s conclusion. We know that the lowly desk stapler was invented by and constructed by man. It’s a pretty simple machine – am guessing maybe around 20 parts. And yet when Apollo 11 landed on the moon in the summer 1969 if they had found a stapler laying in the dusty lunar surface, the immediate conclusion would not be, “Pretty cool how this evolved.” It would rather be, “Hey, how did Swingline get here first?” (That’s one small staple for a man, one giant Stapler for mankind!”). Or maybe NASA would hold a news conference and say, “We have concluded that the only feasible way that a stapler would find its way to the moon is that it was planted there by intelligent life from the Swingline Spiral Galaxy!” For a machine as simple and basic as a stapler to come into existence, it takes intelligent design. That’s a given. Even if you placed the raw materials in a room full of 6th graders for an entire year, you would probably still not get a functioning stapler. And yet when astronomers peer into the outer reaches of space or microbiologists examine the immense complexity of a single cell, the conclusion that “it just sort of randomly happened without any purpose” seems to go against the evidence before us. There is design everywhere we look. You witness design in the spiral pattern of a sunflower head (the Fibonacci number sequence), in the heavenly beauty of a spiral galaxy, and even in a Ford Galaxy! (I think Chevy guys would disagree right about now). In fact every cell in the human body seems to cry out, “Designed!” Within each of the about 2 trillion cells in the human body there is contained a microfine five foot long strand of DNA -- our genetic code. EVERY CELL! And each of those strands contains as much information as is contained in a volume of Encyclopedia Britannica – about 44 million words. Now if Jodi Foster suddenly hollered, “CONTACT!” (Get it?) – and began downloading 44 million words from the Vega System, wouldn’t the immediate conclusion be that SETI had encountered an extraterrestrial civilization? And yet each of our cells is sending us a message, “Yo Adrian! It’s me, God! You are fearfully and wonderfully designed for a purpose. (Psalm 139). A prominent critic of intelligent design and creation, Richard Dawkins says, “A key feature of evolution is its gradualness. This is a matter of principle rather than fact. . . . Evolution is very possibly not, in actual fact, always gradual. But it must be gradual when it is being used to explain the coming into existence of complicated, apparently designed objects, like eyes. For if it is not gradual in these cases, it ceases to have any explanatory power at all. Without gradualness in these cases, we are back to miracle, which is simply a synonym for the total absence of explanation. —*Richard Dawkins, River Out of Eden, p. 83 (1995) quoted on www.answersingenesis.org. Charles Darwin said in his “Origin of the Species": “If it could be demonstrated that any complex organ existed which could not possibly have been formed by numerous, successive, slight modifications, my theory would absolutely break down." Perhaps the “simple” cell is just such an example. The following is quoted from www.ideacenter.org: “Michael Denton, in his book Evolution: A Theory in Crisis, states "Although the tiniest bacterial cells are incredibly small, weighing less than 10^-12 grams, each is in effect a veritable microminiaturized factory containing thousands of exquisitely designed pieces of intricate molecular machinery, made up altogether of one hundred thousand million atoms, far more complicated than any machine built by man and absolutely without parallel in the non-living world." In a word, the cell is complicated. Very complicated.” I believe it was Michael Behe, a biochemist from Lehigh University and author of the book, “Darwin's Black Box: The Biochemical Challenge to Evolution, that penned the concept of “irreducible complexity.” Behe believes that evolution could explain the later development of animals, but he gravely doubts if evolution can explain the existence of the cell. That term “irreducible complexity” basically means that a cell can only function as a complete unit and could not have come into existence through the process of “gradualness.” To illustrate he uses the example of a simple mousetrap. If any of the parts are missing (I think a total of 7 parts) the mousetrap ceases to function smoothly. Thus with the cell: unless all of the parts are there, the cell will not function. Another example that is given to refute the theory of evolution and gradualness is the amazing process through which blood clots – if any of the steps are missing the process will not work. There are those that refute this idea of “irreducible complexity” and point out that Behe’s mousetrap could indeed function with less parts. But it seems that what they fail to point out is that a) they begin with a full set of parts already in existence and work backward from that, and b) they are using “intelligent design” to reduce and rearrange the parts and still be able to catch a mouse! To illustrate this enormous complexity and mind-boggling intricacy of the cell, an example that is sometimes given is the bacterial flagella. (Or is it flagellum? I never get that singular/plural Latin thing right). Behe points out, "In 1973 it was discovered that some bacteria swim by rotating their flagella. So the bacterial flagellum acts as a rotary propeller — in contrast to the cilium, which acts more like an oar."—Michael J. Behe, Darwin’s Black Box, p. 70. But the flagellum (or flagella ) tail doesn’t just simply rotate – it spins at an amazing 10,000+ RPM! And not only that, it can stop in ¼ turn and reverse direction. There is NO (NONE, ZILCH, NYET) engine on planet earth designed by any car/plane/motorcycle manufacturer that can do that! (Very few can even rev past 10,000 RPM). To suddenly stop an engine spinning at that velocity would really really mess up your garage. David J. DeRosier says, “More so than other motors, the flagellum resembles a machine designed by a human" (David J. DeRosier, Cell 93, 17 (1998)). Quoted from www.ideacenter.org) If you Google “rotating flagellum” (or flagella) you can find a mammoth amount of information about this fascinating microscopic machine. There are also some amazing artistic renditions of this thing. It looks like something out of a futuristic Chilton’s Car Repair Manual or something that George Lucas designed for Jar Jar Binks to ride around in Star Wars II: The Attack of the Clowns (or maybe it was Star Wars I, I can’t remember…I was just glad when Jar Jar went bye bye). In his book “Darwin’s Black Box” Behe makes the following statement, “In summary, as biochemists have begun to examine apparently simple structures like cilia and flagella, they have discovered staggering complexity, with dozens or even hundreds of precisely tailored parts. It is very likely that many of the parts we have not considered here are required for any cilium to function in a cell. As the number of required parts increases, the difficulty of gradually putting the system together skyrockets, and the likelihood of indirect scenarios plummets. Darwin looks more and more forlorn. New research on the roles of the auxiliary proteins cannot simplify the irreducibly complex system. The intransigence of the problem cannot be alleviated; it will only get worse. Darwinian Theory has given no explanation for the cilium or flagellum. The overwhelming complexity of the swimming systems push us to think it may never give an explanation. (p. 73)” quoted on www.veritas-ucsb.org Back to our lowly stapler and little Ruthie’s statement, “Dear God, I think the stapler is one of your greatest inventions.“ I don’t have a degree in biology. I don’t have a degree in astronomy. I don’t have a degree in philosophy. And if I were to debate Richard Dawkins or another eminent evolutionist I would probably wind up as a blithering glob of goo. But I do have a degree in Common Sense (or at least my wife does). And it just seems utterly absurd to me that we can look at something as simple as a stapler and draw the conclusion of intelligent design, and yet we can view the Ferrari of the cell world and think, “It just sort of happened.” Perhaps we think Ruthie’s statement as cute and funny and amusing. But I think in her innocence she strikes closer to the truth than those who, after viewing the intricacy of the cell (and in particular the little flagellum/flagella), conclude, “Wow! It sure has the appearance of being designed. But I guess it’s just some random forces at work through the magical potion of natural selection and gradualness.” Alvin Allison wrote a book titled “From Monkeys to Men and Back: A Preposterously Essential Science Lesson According To A Darn Good Ex Chicken Farmer. In it he said something like, “If a giraffe can evolve a longer neck by stretching, what might yawning end up doing to us humans?” But he also says this about his reason for writing the book, “I wrote From Monkeys to Men and Back in hopes that those who feel as I do about the teaching of evolution might get a laugh out of it while at the same time receiving even more reason to continue believing that the only possible way humans could’ve gotten here is not because some monkey lost practically his entire ability to scamper up a tree, but because of an intentional creative act by a loving Creator.” (Found on www.authorhouse.com”) Psalm 139:14-17 I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well. My substance was not hid from thee, when I was made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them. How precious also are thy thoughts unto me, O God! How great is the sum of them! Dan Vander Ark 2009 All Rights Reserved onetoomanypotatoes.blogspot.com

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Looking For The R & S Bookstore And Other Mysteries Of Las Vegas (Subtitle: We Don’t Get Out Much)

From 1977 until 2004 my wife and I didn’t fly on one single commercial jet. Its not that we were afraid to fly, it’s just that, well, I guess we didn’t have any place to go. Although I did fly a couple times on a de Havilland Beaver on our way to a couple of fishing trips in Canada – I sat next to the fuel drums and you had to YELL REAL LOUD TO TALK TO THE PERSON NEXT TO YOU SO THEY COULD HEAR. So in 2004 when my wife was awarded a trip to the Bahamas we went. When I told my mom we would be flying she said (and I quote), “Yeah Danny, they even have jets now!”

In 2005 she was awarded another trip to Hawaii and we flew there too (dah).

And we flew to Phoenix a couple times to visit my brother.

So this past February when we flew to Las Vegas to attend my nephew’s wedding, we figured we were pretty seasoned world travelers. And for those who know us, “Dan and Kay are going to Las Vegas” is almost as ludicrous of a statement as “the Vikings have won the Super Bowl!”

We left O’Dark Early on Friday. The ticket lady at the Duluth Airport was really nice. I brought along some cookies my daughter had made and I asked if she wanted one. “No thanks!” she replied politely. Was probably one of those post 911 regulation things – am guessing Homeland Security was on the lookout for a Dutchman wearing suspenders carrying a baggie full of Spritz cookies.

When we went through security we made sure we didn’t have any axes or scissors with us and that we had all of our carry on liquid stuff in a quart sized baggie.
“Pay attention!” my wife said, “Your baggie is in here!”
“OK I said,” noticing how crumbled my cookies had become.
When I went through the Stargate Metal Detector portal it started beeping.
It was my suspenders. I had an inkling they might set off the alarm, but I wasn’t too alarmed
The security guy asked if I wanted a) to take them off (No thank you! They just happen to hold my shirt down!) or b) go through added security. Much to my wife’s dismay I chose door number two. The security guard directed me to go back to the private room that EVERYONE coming through security could see into. As directed I placed my feet on the inlaid footprints and stretched out my arms with the palms up. I felt like I should close my eyes and start chanting or something. After about 10 minutes he determined that I was not a terrorist, just some sort of suspendered geek with a baggie full of cookie crumbs.

My wife and I made it to Las Vegas about 11:00. One of the flight attendants directed everyone to go to carousel C to get their luggage. So off we went in search of carousel C with a zillion other people who were coming to Las Vegas for the weekend.

Turns out carousel C was in another building that you had to take a tram to. A tram it turns out is similar to a train, except that it rams you back and forth as you ride it…thus the name: tram.

But it turned out that one of the trams was not running, so for crowd control the airport people filtered us through one of those zig zag stockyard cattle rope things. You know – where you want to get to point B which is like 10 feet away but first you have to go 100’ this way and then 100’ that way and then 100’ this way and then 100’ that way.

MOOOOOOOOOO!

One of airport guys hollered (and I am not making this up), “Floor Space! I don’t want to see any floor space!” Apparently you are only allotted one square foot per person.

MOOOOOOOOOO!

At last we waddled our way onto the tram and proceeded at the speed of light to the suitcase building. We finally found carousel C, got our luggage but didn’t know where we were supposed to catch the bus to the hotel/casino. So I asked some guy that looked like he worked for the airport.
.
“Excuse me sir, could you tell me where to catch this bus?” I showed him the voucher.

“Door #12!” he said, obviously irritated.

“And where’s door #12?” I asked.

He pointed. “See! Door #9, door #10, door #11, door #12!”

I felt like saying, “Thanks Doorknob.” But I didn’t. It seemed as though “Minnesota Nice” was about 1500 miles east and north.

When we got to the casino/hotel and walked in, it was then that I realized, “We aren’t in Kansas anymore Toto!”

We registered but had to wait about 3 hours before we could check in so I called my brother. “Hey Bro, we is here!” They headed toward us from the Paris and we ventured out and headed toward them from the Imperial.

We really did have a great time visiting with my brother and his wife, seeing Scott and Lindsey get married, going to the Hoover Dam and just seeing the sites. And I was taking more pictures than Jacques Cousteau on the bottom of the ocean.

However, as we walked through one of the casinos I happened to notice a sign that read “R & S Book.” Now I love killing time in a bookstore. “Hey honey, let’s go find this place.” We meandered around for awhile in the casino but never did find the R & S bookstore. The next day I noticed the same sign in a different casino, but we never found that bookstore either.

That was puzzling to me. When we got home I emailed my sister-in-law.

“Moe, does ‘R & S Book’ mean something like Race and Sports Betting?”

“You got it!” she replied.

We don’t get out much. ;>)

Praying With A Lonely Lady on the Vegas Strip

To those who know me, using the words “Dan” and “Las Vegas” in the same sentence seems like some sort of weird anomaly. “YOU’RE going to Las Vegas?!?!” My nephew was getting married and we wanted to be there for Scott and Lindsey’s wedding. So we flew out on Friday, attended the Wedding Saturday, went to the Hoover Dam on Sunday, and flew back on Monday. And I didn’t dance at the reception. I told my wife if they had a slow dance I would dance, but they didn’t so I didn’t. My brother and sister-in-law tried to get me to dance, but I am only extroverted on the inside. Maybe you’ve heard of the movie, “White Men Can’t Jump”? Well this Dutchman can’t dance. I did however tap my foot to the beat…at least I think it was the beat.

It was a really nice wedding and we had a really great time.

I took a bazillian pictures. However, we didn’t gamble a single penny. If there is anyone else out there that has PURPOSELY flown to Las Vegas and NOT gambled, please raise your right hand.

We walked the strip, saw the water show at the Bellagio, witnessed the volcano going off at the Mirage and almost bumped into Elvis. My wife had her picture taken with a rather waxy Nicolas Cage and I did with a paraffin Don King. Even though some spots were shoulder to shoulder people, it was fun. I like the people watching thing. On Sunday night we were to meet my brother and his wife at the Paris for supper but had some time to kill so we just wandered around for a while and did some window shopping.

On our way out of the Bellagio we just “happened” to bump into an older lady (I don’t know – 65 maybe?) that was nicely dressed but a little tipsy. She just sorta started talking with us and asked where we were going. She kind of volunteered to show us how to get to where we needed to go. Lee Greenwood’s “Proud to be an American” was the song at the water show and she stopped, put her glass down, raised her hands and cheered when it was done. (I get a lump in my throat whenever I hear that song). As we kept going and either we followed her or she followed us we continued our conversation. We paused within half a block of the Paris; she put her packages down and just kept on talking. She shared about some of the problems in her family – I knew that we had to meet my brother but I resisted the temptation to look at my watch. After she talked some more I put my arm around her and told her that Jesus loved her and cared about her problems. I then asked her for just her first name and said that we would pray for her and her husband. She said, “Are you a minister?” I said, “Yes I am.” Her immediate reply was, “I thought you said you worked at a medical facility?” (This and a couple other of her comments made us realize that, even though she had been drinking, she was more than sort of with it) I quickly explained to her that I do both but in order not to scare people away by immediately telling them I am a preacher I usually just tell them I work in a purchasing department of a large medical facility. I mentioned we would pray for her and her husband and family. That’s when she grabbed our hands and said, “Lets pray RIGHT NOW!” Pretty much surrounded by people the three of us bowed our heads on a really busy corner just down from the Paris. She prayed a little and then abruptly said, “OK, it’s your turn!” Kay and I both prayed for her. I felt the love of God well up in my heart for her as we prayed and I became immune to the crowds and the need to meet my brother. We finished, chatted a little more and then went our separate ways.

She headed back to her time-share apartment. I honestly have no idea if any of our conversation sunk in or how much of our prayer she grasped. Her doctor-husband had flown out earlier and she was alone. Maybe she just fell asleep, maybe she drank some more, maybe she wished some friends were with her. Or maybe she wondered if God really does love her.

God cares intensely about people. Read the Gospel of John chapters three, four and five. In chapter three Jesus met at night with a VIP of Jerusalem named Nicodemus. To this outstanding and upright citizen (who knows, maybe he was voted the husband and father of the year) Jesus said, “You have to be born again to enter the kingdom of God.” In chapter four Jesus just “happened” to run into a woman at a dusty well just outside of Drunktown. She was hardly your model citizen. Five failed marriages, living with number 6 and the social outcast of Sychar. Yet Jesus took the initiative to gently break through her hardened exterior and extend to her the gift of eternal life. In chapter five he found a man at the pool of Bethesda that was paralyzed for 38 years. You get the feeling that maybe he blamed everyone and everything for his problems. Yet Jesus stopped, healed the man, and lifted him out of his paralyzed condition.

Maybe you are a leader of your community like Nicodemus or maybe you feel like a social outcast like the woman at the well. Or maybe you are lying paralyzed in your problems like the man beside the pool, or maybe you are just like the lonely lady on the Vegas strip. Whatever your situation, Jesus cares for you. John 3:16 reminds us, “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever (YOU!) believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life!”