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Well it has been a long, long day, I’m dog tired for the Lord has taught me a lesson.
Having emerged from my prayer closet around 6 am, I consulted my schedule for the day and found that I was due to take delivery of 2000 bottles of wine.
One of my small business is in line with Le:24:22: Ye shall have one manner of law, as well for the stranger, as for one of your own country: for I am the LORD your God. And the parable of the Good Samaritan, that basically says “Trust known shysters.”, and who am I to argue?
The business turns a good profit supplying cheap Nicaraguan red wine, relabeled as “Vino della Proprietà Papale” in gold letters, with an impressive picture of Jesus riding a Vespa, to the Catlick churches in Des Moines. The stuff would normally go to industrial alcohol production, so we buy it at $0.05 a gallon and sell it on at $18 a bottle.
I’m just contemplating where I’m going to put this stuff, when the phone rings and Brewster Kainer starts telling me about my order for bottled water for my survival cabin in the hills*. It was in his garage and when was I coming to collect? He can’t deliver as his Mexicans are having some sort of party and there’s nobody to load the truck.
So, suddenly I have a problem. Delivery of the wine is Thursday, and I’ve got a free day tomorrow to go up to the cabin. Jesus gives me the answer, I collect the wine; go to the Kainer place, unload the wine; load up the water, drive the truck back and tomorrow, all is ready for the trip to the cabin. I then tell “Boy” my faithful retainer, to pick up the wine from the Kainer place on Thursday and deliver it around the churches.
Jesus has provided me with the answer, as always, and I tell Brewster what will happen. He expresses his delight with the words, “Yeah, whatever.” And I call “Boy” and tell him the plan so he can clean out the truck and make a few sandwiches for the journey.
At 7.30 am, the wine arrives and I watch as Boy transfers the load from their truck to our truck. He and I drive then start off for the Kainer place. I tell him to sound the horn when we get to the top of the driveway and Brewster comes out. He invites me in for a coffee and I leave Boy to unload the wine and load up the water. He explains to me that this is going to be a one-man job as all the Mexicans are in the backyard area either sleeping or running around screaming and putting up tents for their gods or whatever - there's going to be some sort of party.
It must have been around 2 pm that there’s a knock on the door and we are interrupted in our meal by the news that Boy has finished. I thank Brewster for his hospitality and tell Boy to do the same and we set off back to the Bathfire residence. I had to put Boy in the back of the truck as he was remarkably hot and sweaty looking; all these years with me and still he behaves like a nigra...
At about 5 pm, I get a call from Brewster; he wants me to come round immediately. He won’t say what it is but I’m to go there and then.
I was about a quarter mile off the house when I started to hear gunshots, loud music, screams and the like. At the house, it was like a scene from the pits of hell. There were two couples “going up into one another” in the front yard, some beaner was throwing bricks at the windows and shouting, “Matar a los Yanquis.” Another three, mostly women were being violently sick anywhere they could; Brewster’s wife was tied to the porch with the cable from a leaf blower that was now pointed up the poor woman’s dress, and his collection of classic cars were making their way around a make-shift track in the backyard.
Before I could turn round and seek help, Brewster appeared from a bush, dragged me behind it and said, “You started this with your wine Bathfire, you stop it!”
I asked for an explanation. Brewster was just telling me in no uncertain terms that it was obvious, when one of the filthy drunken Mexicans caught hold of me and shouted to his compatriots, “¡Aquí está! Nuestro mensajero de Dios. Nuestro hombre de los milagros!”
Suddenly everything stopped; even the couples “at it” in the yard stopped and looked up. (Well, one of them did.) There was a huge cheer and before I knew it, I was borne aloft by the crowd and paraded round the street and yard.
It was not a pleasant experience. None of them were steady on their feet and their women kept clutching (somewhat carelessly) at my pants and trying to tear bits off them. One of them, who looked as if she had been ridden hard and put away wet, was particularly excited and I feared for my stones. But worse was to come; someone in the crowd had an idea and started shouting.
I was carried to the side of the garage and carefully placed down on my feet. As the crowd stepped back, I could see a body lying face-down in a pool of blood. One voice spoke from the silence, “Meester Bathfire, you turn water into wine, he was loving the bride and he is now dead but you can make him well again.”
It was then that Jesus saw fit to have the police arrive in force.
There was a degree of unpleasantness as our law-enforcement officers did their duty with tasers, guns, and pepper-spray but eventually all was in order and I found Brewster, his pants down by his ankles collapsed over the hood of a 1957 Olds. I dragged him into the house and gave him a glass of water. He came round but refused to sit down as he explained that this would be painful for him.
It turned out that the party had been a wedding and Brewster, having had servants drunk and useless before, had decided that this would be a dry affair. The Mexicans had not liked the idea but they knew who paid the wages. They thought that the water in the garage was their water for the wedding. It was immediately after the ceremony that they discovered that the water was now wine and I was the only person who had been to the house all that day.
We talked about the Christian meaning of this for an hour or two, then did a little clearing up but, as I left around half past ten and we switched off the leaf blower and untied Mrs Kainer, I was not much clearer in my mind what this all meant.
It was on the drive back that Jesus spoke to me. I heard His voice recite Joh:2:1-5:
And then, I realized: My mother Agnes Bathfire is long since departed to Glory and it was I who told the servants (Boy) what to do. It should have been her...
This is clearly a message to honor your parents and obey them, and if you fail whilst they are alive, no amount of regret will change that.
*(Mrs Bathfire complains a lot that I have dragged her up to the cabin at regular intervals ever since the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. (I remember that the Y2K one was particularly protracted as I destroyed all electrical equipment and knew nothing of the unfolding good news of how God had spared us) and the last time was when the World should have ended last year.
However, I take this bickering in my stride because women don’t understand these things, and any one of those critical incidents could have made us appear like the foolish virgins that Jesus spoke of.)
Having emerged from my prayer closet around 6 am, I consulted my schedule for the day and found that I was due to take delivery of 2000 bottles of wine.
One of my small business is in line with Le:24:22: Ye shall have one manner of law, as well for the stranger, as for one of your own country: for I am the LORD your God. And the parable of the Good Samaritan, that basically says “Trust known shysters.”, and who am I to argue?
The business turns a good profit supplying cheap Nicaraguan red wine, relabeled as “Vino della Proprietà Papale” in gold letters, with an impressive picture of Jesus riding a Vespa, to the Catlick churches in Des Moines. The stuff would normally go to industrial alcohol production, so we buy it at $0.05 a gallon and sell it on at $18 a bottle.
I’m just contemplating where I’m going to put this stuff, when the phone rings and Brewster Kainer starts telling me about my order for bottled water for my survival cabin in the hills*. It was in his garage and when was I coming to collect? He can’t deliver as his Mexicans are having some sort of party and there’s nobody to load the truck.
So, suddenly I have a problem. Delivery of the wine is Thursday, and I’ve got a free day tomorrow to go up to the cabin. Jesus gives me the answer, I collect the wine; go to the Kainer place, unload the wine; load up the water, drive the truck back and tomorrow, all is ready for the trip to the cabin. I then tell “Boy” my faithful retainer, to pick up the wine from the Kainer place on Thursday and deliver it around the churches.
Jesus has provided me with the answer, as always, and I tell Brewster what will happen. He expresses his delight with the words, “Yeah, whatever.” And I call “Boy” and tell him the plan so he can clean out the truck and make a few sandwiches for the journey.
At 7.30 am, the wine arrives and I watch as Boy transfers the load from their truck to our truck. He and I drive then start off for the Kainer place. I tell him to sound the horn when we get to the top of the driveway and Brewster comes out. He invites me in for a coffee and I leave Boy to unload the wine and load up the water. He explains to me that this is going to be a one-man job as all the Mexicans are in the backyard area either sleeping or running around screaming and putting up tents for their gods or whatever - there's going to be some sort of party.
It must have been around 2 pm that there’s a knock on the door and we are interrupted in our meal by the news that Boy has finished. I thank Brewster for his hospitality and tell Boy to do the same and we set off back to the Bathfire residence. I had to put Boy in the back of the truck as he was remarkably hot and sweaty looking; all these years with me and still he behaves like a nigra...
At about 5 pm, I get a call from Brewster; he wants me to come round immediately. He won’t say what it is but I’m to go there and then.
I was about a quarter mile off the house when I started to hear gunshots, loud music, screams and the like. At the house, it was like a scene from the pits of hell. There were two couples “going up into one another” in the front yard, some beaner was throwing bricks at the windows and shouting, “Matar a los Yanquis.” Another three, mostly women were being violently sick anywhere they could; Brewster’s wife was tied to the porch with the cable from a leaf blower that was now pointed up the poor woman’s dress, and his collection of classic cars were making their way around a make-shift track in the backyard.
Before I could turn round and seek help, Brewster appeared from a bush, dragged me behind it and said, “You started this with your wine Bathfire, you stop it!”
I asked for an explanation. Brewster was just telling me in no uncertain terms that it was obvious, when one of the filthy drunken Mexicans caught hold of me and shouted to his compatriots, “¡Aquí está! Nuestro mensajero de Dios. Nuestro hombre de los milagros!”
Suddenly everything stopped; even the couples “at it” in the yard stopped and looked up. (Well, one of them did.) There was a huge cheer and before I knew it, I was borne aloft by the crowd and paraded round the street and yard.
It was not a pleasant experience. None of them were steady on their feet and their women kept clutching (somewhat carelessly) at my pants and trying to tear bits off them. One of them, who looked as if she had been ridden hard and put away wet, was particularly excited and I feared for my stones. But worse was to come; someone in the crowd had an idea and started shouting.
I was carried to the side of the garage and carefully placed down on my feet. As the crowd stepped back, I could see a body lying face-down in a pool of blood. One voice spoke from the silence, “Meester Bathfire, you turn water into wine, he was loving the bride and he is now dead but you can make him well again.”
It was then that Jesus saw fit to have the police arrive in force.
There was a degree of unpleasantness as our law-enforcement officers did their duty with tasers, guns, and pepper-spray but eventually all was in order and I found Brewster, his pants down by his ankles collapsed over the hood of a 1957 Olds. I dragged him into the house and gave him a glass of water. He came round but refused to sit down as he explained that this would be painful for him.
It turned out that the party had been a wedding and Brewster, having had servants drunk and useless before, had decided that this would be a dry affair. The Mexicans had not liked the idea but they knew who paid the wages. They thought that the water in the garage was their water for the wedding. It was immediately after the ceremony that they discovered that the water was now wine and I was the only person who had been to the house all that day.
We talked about the Christian meaning of this for an hour or two, then did a little clearing up but, as I left around half past ten and we switched off the leaf blower and untied Mrs Kainer, I was not much clearer in my mind what this all meant.
It was on the drive back that Jesus spoke to me. I heard His voice recite Joh:2:1-5:
And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee; and the mother of Jesus was there: And both Jesus was called, and his disciples, to the marriage. And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have no wine. Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what have I to do with thee? mine hour is not yet come. His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.
And then, I realized: My mother Agnes Bathfire is long since departed to Glory and it was I who told the servants (Boy) what to do. It should have been her...
This is clearly a message to honor your parents and obey them, and if you fail whilst they are alive, no amount of regret will change that.
*(Mrs Bathfire complains a lot that I have dragged her up to the cabin at regular intervals ever since the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. (I remember that the Y2K one was particularly protracted as I destroyed all electrical equipment and knew nothing of the unfolding good news of how God had spared us) and the last time was when the World should have ended last year.
However, I take this bickering in my stride because women don’t understand these things, and any one of those critical incidents could have made us appear like the foolish virgins that Jesus spoke of.)
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