Category Archives: Stubborness
Water Heaters and Instruction Books
The other day, I found myself getting a bit frustrated. I was standing at the sink, trying to get some hot water to wash my face. It was early in the morning and I was having trouble discerning which knob should be turned to get the water to run hot. It didn’t seem to matter which knob I turned, both were cold. This caused me to question for a moment as to whether or not I had paid the water bill, because I happen to know that if you don’t pay your water bill, they shut off your water. And if they shut your water off, you can’t get hot water.
“But wait,” I thought! “If they turn off the water, you can’t get cold water either.” And I had more than enough cold water. What I was in short supply of was hot water! Just as I was trying to contort my mind around these complicated concepts, my wife walked in and inquired of my quandary. After explaining my situation, my wife suggested that the problem might be with the hot water heater because she had observed water in the water heater closet earlier. I asked her if that water was hot. I was met with a rather cold stare (I’m guessing she didn’t know).
If you have never tried to change out a hot water heater . . . . don’t. As adventurous as it sounds, it isn’t. I knew enough to know my first item of business. I needed to get to the hardware store and purchase a couple of manly looking wrenches and a new water heater.
The first thing out of the salesman’s mouth was “How many gallons does your old water heater hold?” I told him I’d be right back. When I returned to the store, I was prepared. I had written down all the pertinent information, including the color. Having purchased appliances before, I knew the importance of choosing the right color water heater (ours was a kind of dusty white with a bit of graying near the bottom and several rust colored globules on the pipes leading into and out of the heater).
I was rather surprised to find out that the store, which had a wide selection of water heaters, did not carry any color other than white. I was beginning to question whether or not I had chosen the right store. Then the salesman asked me how many BTU’s I preferred. I asked him, “What’s a BTU?”
“British Thermal Units,” he replied.
I told him I was American and proud of it!
I finally got home with my new water heater and carefully maneuvered it into the house, proudly standing it in the middle of the living room. Next, I took my brand new, manly looking wrenches and began disconnecting the pipes from the water heater (taking extreme care as to not scratch my new wrenches). After a few minutes of loosening connections, it occurred to me that it would be prudent to go out to the front yard and turn off the water. I came back inside and changed into some dry clothes and returned to water heater closet. It was at this point, that I wondered to myself, “Why don’t these things come with instructions?” Then, I looked over at a clear plastic packet with some sort of pamphlets inside (Optional equipment brochures, no doubt).
I guess it’s worse with us guys. We hate reading instructions and/or asking for directions. However, if we did read the instructions, we’d probably scare ourselves into calling a professional . . . and that just wouldn’t do! So, after he arrived, I asked my plumber why more guys don’t read the instructions. He just shrugged, picked up a manly looking wrench and began taking my broken pipe apart.
I asked my plumber if he was a Christian and he replied, “Yeah,” but then added that he never reads the Bible, though. He said he didn’t need instructions either.
I wish my plumber would learn the he needs instructions as much as anybody else. I went out to change the brakes on my car and ponder his situation. “There’s a sermon in this somewhere!”
Piano Moving 101
I was recently retained to move two old antique pianos from our church building and relocate them to the local dump. We had been trying to move them out for about two years, putting ads in the Star-Telegram and on Craig’s List. Apparently, you just can’t give good junk away. Anyway, I was recently approached by one of our deacons and he asked if I could enlist some help and move the two pianos. One from the basement and the other from the second floor. I have had experience moving pianos before, and although they are a pain, they usually are not insurmountable.
We arrived at the church and promptly went to the basement, thinking this piano would be the hardest, so we wanted to get it out of the way first. I have moved pianos before with only one other person and while that is pretty taxing, it can be done. My trusted helper Mark and his brother David grabbed one end and I picked up the other—just to get a feel of how heavy this lead-laden beast was going to be. While we managed to get the thing off the floor, we couldn’t even take a step. This was absolutely the heaviest thing I have ever been privileged to rupture a muscle over.
Even though we were all straining so hard that we were unable to speak, we managed to communicate with our eyes and agreed to drop the thing in unison. Attempting to get a second, better grip and having our fourth helper Kirk join in resulted in nothing better than the first attempt. I quickly processed the following: We are supposed to take this thing to the dump. The dump will have a large machine roll over the piano numerous times, reducing it to toothpicks and thus depriving us of the opportunity to utterly destroy the thing ourselves.
After about two hours, it occurred to me that mother had been wrong when she told me to be careful with our neighbor’s piano because I might break it. This thing wasn’t gonna come apart with a mortar blast. We unscrewed every screw and unbolted every bolt. And yet this thing was still in one solid piece. It was like magic. It was like they had used some sort of industrial strength glue or something.
With everything unscrewed or unbolted, we then grabbed a ten-pound sledge hammer and begin to give it “the ol’ college try!” One hard swing and then another. We barely scratched this hundred year piano. I was beginning to think that it was actually a recycled World War I bunker. But finally, the large, flat board on one side of the piano flew off with amazing force. Then the rest of the piano fell over backwards and nearly killed Kirk.
It’s amazing how loud a piano is when every string is struck at the same time.
In any event, we finished disassembling the piano and carried it up the stairs in manageable pieces. The string board by itself was actually heavier than most pianos I have moved. We got the thing loaded on the trailer and called it a day.
The following day, we reluctantly returned to grab the second piano. We stared down the menacing beast for a few moments and then I gave the command to lift. Surprisingly, it came loose from the floor with a modicum of ease. It was still very heavy, but after our battle the day before, we felt buoyed to victory. We felt like we could do this.
We quickly moved a couple of items and marched the doomed piano out of the cell that had held it until this moment. This was going to be easy. Then we arrived at the door. Just outside the door was a stairway that ran along the outside of the building. We had measured it and to our surprise, it was plenty wide for the piano. Not for us, but for the piano.
After some mild trouble making the corner, we decided to launch the piano down the stairs and pick it up at the bottom. It didn’t launch. At best, we could, with great effort, hanging from the outside part of the stairwell, get this thing to roll and tumble uncontrollably down one, sometimes two steps before one of us would lose our grip and fall off the side of the stair well.
Amazingly, the piano was still in one piece—aside from a couple of removable parts that we had removed. Finally, at the bottom of the stairs, this thing seemed to have gained weight. We could no longer easily pick it up. We were exhausted and Kirk kept whining about one of his feet that was pointing in the wrong direction. In spite of all this, we finally got it into the trailer and loaded up.
After driving about a half mile through a backwoods residential area that is truly off the beaten path, I navigated a corner and pulled over so we could reload the piano. Picking it up out of the ditch proved to be a bit of challenge since there was nothing level to balance the piano on. After some wrestling, we managed to get the piano back into the trailer. I noticed that the base of the piano or the floor of the trailer (I couldn’t tell which) seemed to be a bit wobbly. I thought about tying it down this time, but all I had with me was my good rope and I didn’t want to hurt it.
I took off slowly and crept my way down the street trying to ignore the faces in the windows of the homes we passed. After driving about a half a block, the piano committed suicide. I realized at that moment that this piano was not put together like the first one. It completely shattered the second time it hit the pavement. It was a sad end to a condemned life. Its last several years had been in spent in storage. And now, it lay in assorted pieces strewn along the roadway between two houses. In unison, we all jumped into the air, giving a fist pump and a primal scream of approval. Well, everyone except Kirk who was still whining about feigned injuries sustained back at the stairwell.
After picking up the pieces . . . . and Kirk, we retired to my house for lunch and a rousing game of Halo. After a bit of debriefing, we decided to add a line to our services—Piano moving! But so far, no one has called.
Why I Don’t Watch Late Night Basketball!
I don’t normally eat breakfast. I’m more of a late-night-snack guy. The other night I was sitting in my recliner watching a basketball game on TV. It was a late game, but I was determined to see it through. At about half-time, I woke up and became aware of the strong sensation of hunger. I had to let that sensation simmer for a few moments while I tried to regain consciousness.
I decided a snack would help perk me up and get me through the second half wide awake. Our kitchen is just off the bedroom where my wife was making wounded moose sounds (her version of snoring). I didn’t want to wake her, so I didn’t turn on the light. As is my habit, I removed a large empty butter tub from the shelf (my choice of bowl), and filled it half way up with my favorite man-cereal: Honey Smacks.
At about that time, one of the dogs wanted out so I put the cereal on the counter and went to the back door. It was cold out and my basset hound, Beau, is afraid of the grass. When he needs to go, I have to walk out in the grass ahead of him so he can see that he won’t fall through, be attacked, or suddenly explode. I’m not sure what his deal is, but by the time he got through going, I noticed that I was now cold. I was shivering. This wouldn’t have happened had I thought to put on a coat, but I hadn’t. We came back in and I quickly returned to my place in my recliner. I grabbed a nearby blanket, covered up and was quickly joined by my fifty pound lap dog who was now invigorated by his late evening jaunt four feet out into the yard and wanted to play.
At this point, I realized that not only was I cold and missing the game because of the huge beast standing on my chest, but I was still hungry. After some wrestling I finally got my dog off of me (he thought we were playing and kept dragging out the event) and headed back into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal. I went to the cupboard to retrieve a butter dish and cereal. There was very little cereal left and then I remembered, I had already pored a bowl . . . . . somewhere.
After a brief amount of searching, I discovered the cereal in the bowl on the counter. But now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim evening light, it appeared that my cereal bowl was way too full. I turned on the light above the stove and sure enough, the bowl was almost full of cereal. This obviously was a waste of cereal. I would not be able to eat that much and it would take a second bowl just to put the milk in. I thought about this quandary and decided that some of the cereal would have to go back in the bag.
After searching diligently, but unsuccessfully for a funnel, I remembered I had one in the garage. I went back outside in the cold and opened the garage door. My garage is kind of disorganized and I couldn’t find the funnel in the dark. Since the light switch is in the bedroom (I don’t know why it’s in the bedroom—I didn’t put it there) where my wife was still sleeping, I gave up and returned to the kitchen. I was now cold all over again and shivering. I decided to try to hold the self-sealing bag of cereal open with one hand and pour the cereal back into it with the other.
It was just at the moment that with shivering hands I began to pour the cereal back into the bag, that I discovered that I had apparently forgotten that I had already put milk in the cereal. The Honey Smacks were deviously hiding the milk from my view and all the while pretending to be filled higher than they were. Between my shivering, the surprise presence of the milk, and the slightly flawed plan, I wound up pouring cereal and milk all over the counter and noticed that much of it was running down past the burners and ending up under the stove top.
I knew Sara was not gonna be happy with this in the morning, so I decided it would have to be cleaned up. I snuck into the bedroom and returned to the kitchen. I gently placed the rudely awakened cat on the counter top and watched him go to work. I could tell this was gonna be more than the cat could handle by himself, so I picked up Beau and placed him on the counter too. This worked well for a moment, but apparently, Beau got a little to close to Bob (the cat), and Bob snarled and clawed at Beau. This maneuver on Bob’s part caused Beau to bark several times in self-defense.
Beau jumped from the counter taking a few pots and pans with him, I presumed for his protection. All of the barking, meowing, clanging and banging, brought my wife from the bedroom requiring an answer to her question: “What is going on in here?”
I answered in the only way I know how. I told her, “Apparently, Beau got up on the counter and tried to get into the cereal and milk I had left there. The cat was already up there and they got into a fight.”
After a late night impromptu discussion, Sara took the cat and went to bed. I tried to figure out whether I needed a broom or a mop. Neither seemed quite right, so I opted for the shop vac. By the time I returned to the living room, the game was over and so was the post game. I still don’t know who won. But I sure learned a lesson!
And that’s why I don’t watch late-night basketball! It’s nothing but trouble!
Where Do You Stand?
January 18, 2012–Danny Sadler
Have you ever had to pick a team or a group that you wanted to support? How did you decide which group you wanted to be part of? Have you ever secretly supported a group or a team, but you were afraid to let others know what you thought? I have cheered for teams in the Superbowl before, but because “my team” hadn’t made it, I really didn’t care who won. I was a fan of the moment, but I was not sold out for them.
In a way, that’s what it is like when we decide to follow Christ. Some people have no issues in deciding to follow Christ. Others refuse to follow Christ altogether, for a whole host of reasons. And there is the group in the middle. They don’t want to give up anything in order to follow Christ. But they want the fire insurance, so to speak. Still, others want to follow Christ–for right or wrong reasons, but they have difficulty expressing their faith to anyone. Some are shy about expressing anything, others are afraid of being laughed at or being ostracized because they are a believer. Which group are you part of?
So, just how important is it to proclaim which team we’re part of? How important is it to let people know that Jesus Christ is our Lord? Well, if you want to be a secret fan of the Green Bay Packers, that’s probably advisable, but if you’re wanting to follow Christ in the privacy of your own world, you might want to hear what Jesus says about it:
23 Then he said to them all: “If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. 24 For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it. 25 What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit his very self? 26 If anyone is ashamed of me and my words, the Son of Man will be ashamed of him when he comes in his glory and in the glory of the Father and of the holy angels.”
–Jesus, (Luke 9:23-26, NIV, ‘84)
- In order to follow Christ, we must die to ourselves.
- This does not mean that we physically die, but we must die to our own will, even to the point of death if we are called to that.
- Without Christ, we are free to do what we want now, but we will lose our souls for eternity.
- If we choose to follow Christ, we cannot do so secretly. It’s not an option!
Look at the three pictures below. The first is a life with Christ on the outside, wanting in. The second is a life that has Christ in it, but the person is still in charge. It’s as if the person has simply added Christ to their life, but hasn’t cleaned anything out. The third is a life with Christ in the center and the individual allowing Christ to rule over them and through them.
Which life represents yours?
Look at this:
9 “Then you will be handed over to be persecuted and put to death, and you will be hated by all nations because of me. 10 At that time many will turn away from the faith and will betray and hate each other, 11 and many false prophets will appear and deceive many people. 12 Because of the increase of wickedness, the love of most will grow cold, 13 but he who stands firm to the end will be saved.”
–Jesus, (Matthew 24:9-13, NIV, ‘84)
When it is easy to follow Christ, there are many “shallow” followers. Many who play the game and “look” like Christians. But whenever it becomes “hard” to follow Christ, the true believer continues to follow. The “shallow” or false believers begin to drop out. When it begins to get too difficult, they even begin to turn away from the faith. They join the enemy camp.
Where do you stand?
How to Stop Procrastinating!
Hey everybody! I’ve just discovered a sure-fire solution to aid in fighting procrastination!
. . . . . . . . Please be patient. I’ll get back to this one
later.
The Princess and the Pee
My wife Sara and I have had a number of pets over the years and each one has had their own distinct personality. One such pet was an older Chihuahua that we were asked to take charge of. Princess wanted to be independent and once outside, often rebelled against authority. We lived in a house that did not have a fence around the yard, so we couldn’t let Princess out without going out with her.
Princess always had a trick or two up her . . . . . leg. When we’d let her out, she would take off in a slow trot toward the church building next door where I was pastor. We quickly figured out that she had no intent of stopping, so each time she approached the property line, we would have to yell “Princess!”, or “Stop!”, or “No!”
That, of course could be tolerated, but her next trick was a bit more devious. She would hunker down and begin her business, all the while keeping a keen eye on us. If we turned to look at something in the other direction, Princess would immediately turn and begin trotting off while watching over her shoulder. As soon as we began to turn back to her, she would stop and resume the pose we had last seen her in. If she was able to do this a couple of times, she would then break out in a full-out run when she saw us turn back to her. At this point, she would’ve had a good head start and our only recourse would be to give chase.
One day, I had taken the little irritant out and was watching her when a friend drove up and began talking to me. After a few moments, they drove away and I turned to find that I couldn’t find the dog. This would not have been such a big deal except that I’m pretty sure my wife loved the dog a little more than she loved me and if I wanted supper anytime in the foreseeable future, I was going to need to return to the house with Princess.
I looked down the street and quickly spotted her about a half a block away. She was sitting next to the road on the edge of a vacant lot, glaring at me. I called out, “Princess, come here!”
She continued to stare at me.
It was obvious to me that I had not been forceful enough. Besides, she was a half a block away and getting older by the minute. I wasn’t sure how good her hearing was, so I yelled a little louder, “Princess, COME here!”
She mocked me with her stare.
Again, I screamed, “PRINCESS, COME HEAR!”
She was unmoved.
I was now livid—and I don’t even know what “livid” means. This sort of thing had happened a time or two before and the same scenario always played out with my tender-hearted wife walking out to where ever Princess had parked herself. Sara would pick her up and scold her all the way back to the house. By the time they arrived back inside, Sara would be pretending to be irritated, but she was already loving on the little thing.
I was not pretending.
I decided that Princess had to be taught to come to me. I’m the one with the superior intelligence. I’m the boss. So I walked as far as the property line between our home and the church, and began to yell at Princess.
She glared at me with the unmoving will power of a block of concrete.
I continued to yell over a period of about five minutes and slowly became aware that several of the neighbors had come out and were now perched on their porches, watching me. As a pastor, I was used to being watched and was keenly aware that it is always important to set a good example for people. I figured that I had already blown the don’t-raise-your-voice rule, so I now turned my attention to showing them the importance of being persistent and in charge.
Since I now had an audience, I decided that demanding that Princess must come to me could wait. So, still irritated and now a bit embarrassed, I began slowly walking toward Princess, all the while yelling for her. I was now imploring her to come to me. I stopped every little bit and bent over, clapping my hands together and whistling or cooing, trying to get this unruly beast, which was only slightly larger than a rat, to get up and return to me.
I was trying hard to ignore the increasing presence of the neighbors, but I’m pretty sure I overheard one guy on a cell phone encouraging a friend to hurry over and “see this!” I glanced back over my shoulder and noticed a handful of neighbors that had ventured off their porches and were crossing yards to discuss something with their friends a house or two closer to where I was. They were following me. I was now trying to sound soothing through tightly gritted teeth as I called, “Princess, come here girl!”
When I got closer I was suddenly horrified at what I saw!
The little rat-like dog I had been calling was actually a brown paper bag caught on a weed. I looked around and noticed many of the neighbors seemed to be snickering. I had to decide what to do, and quickly. So I walked up to the bag, bent over, picked it up with both hands and tucked it into the crook of my elbow. With my free hand, I spanked the bag, said, “Bad dog!” and turned to walk back through the gauntlet of neighbors.
I was greeted back at the house by my wife, who was leaning out the front door. Princess sat innocently at her feet, wagging her tail. Sara asked, “What are you doing?”
“NOTHING!” I responded as I walked past her to place the imposter in the trash can and find the check book to see if we had enough in the account to pay for a new pair of glasses.
I realize not everyone is as stubborn as I am. But we all have our moments. And all too often, our stubbornness comes out not against a paper bag masquerading as a Chihuahua, but against God’s will in our lives. The Bible says we “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). We’ve all rebelled. And we all have a need to turn back to our Master, Jesus Christ who is imploring us to return to Him: “Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord, and that he may send the Christ, who has been appointed for you—even Jesus” (Acts 3:19).
theweirdworldofdanny 