Cherry Hill Tomato Run- Final

Confection Reflections

Hoboken Frank

I have been packing up lately. Getting my “stuff” ready for relocation as I will be moving my residence to a new locale. An old man will begin a new life in a few weeks. “Stuff” does not do justice to some of the sentimental family heirlooms. I have not been through this process in a while, but it always has the same effect. Filling boxes is an emotional exercise, sweet memories mixed with lamenting “if I’s” and “could I have’s.” One of the framed pieces coming off the dining room wall was an album soundtrack from the 1957 movie Pal Joey. There is a fading autograph for my long passed parents in the upper right corner that reads, “To Harold and Jean, Frank Sinatra.”

It is at this point lamentation comes into play. The ink inscription is fading little by little each day. I immediately reflect on my recent journey to New Jersey. I think of one 75-year-old man’s annual mission trip soon coming to its last stop. I think of one third generation family farm in an area where there once were eighty-two. I think of 77-year-old Tom Jarvis, patriarch of the lone Springdale Farm who still works the crops, recent hip replacement notwithstanding. All in this world is transition.

Randy & Tom

I think of the Ocean City landmark family business, also third generation, that traces it’s roots to 1892. Shriver’s is the oldest business on the OC Boardwalk. I chuckle that it never occurred to me where the name boardwalk originated from until I was looking down at the lumber under my feet as I walked on it. I learned that Salt Water Taffy- a New Jersey coast original- is the sweet seed of summer romance and I better take some back to my bride to be, Patti, in Marietta.

   SWTaffy Maker 

Wood Boards + walking = Boardwalk!

I learned most astonishingly that there exists a township that holds to the standard that the majesty of God’s great creation does not need beverage alcohol pouring or package carry permits for visitors and residents alike to joyfully experience the area’s local flavor. I learned that America’s heartland does not exist only in flyover country. Last but not least, we all need to cherish and hold tightly to the founding principles of our extraordinary America the beautiful, or we might watch it disappear as if carried away by an Atlantic Ocean rip tide.

“Make a tree good and its fruit will be good, or make a tree bad and its fruit will be bad, for a tree is recognized by its fruit."

 Matthew 12:33

Amen Brothers Randy and Tom

Afterthoughts:

Fruits of tree of Randy

Bradford Bosworth

August 2018

Cherry Hill Tomato Run Part 2

Part 2 of 3-part series:

Garden State Misconceptions

When I mentioned to a friend that I was going on a tomato run to New Jersey, her response was, “I didn’t know they grew tomatoes in New Jersey!” And so, it is with New Jersey and I am a guilty party with the same misconception. Over the years I have driven through the fringes of the state on my way to a more desirable New England where family roots stemmed from. Or one time I was in New York City on business and stayed in Fort Lee. Fort Lee’s forgettable image is elevated somewhat because the subway line runs through Hoboken, a place that was the early stomping grounds of Frank Sinatra, which immediately lends it some notoriety, maybe.

My friend with the tomatoes revelation did not recall that New Jersey is called “The Garden State.” I knew of this tidbit of minutiae because I had seen it on license tags. Yet my image of N.J. was driven downward by my Fort Lee experience. Hollywood cinema’s mafia characterizations by the likes of actors Al Pacino and Marlon Brando discount as well the distant populace’s image of this coastal state. Throw in a little Bruce Springsteen and the Atlantic City “Jersey Shore” television show and enough said. I believe many people look at this state in a much similar fashion. 

Me, Randy & 2017 Beauty

For me, no more. In August 2017, I learned of Randy’s annual tomato mecca and was on the receiving end of his gifting. I tasted and saw that the Lord, of course, is good to the folks in this state. At 75, my former roommate’s nearly two-decade long mission trip back to his childhood roots was likely entering its final days. This year he would ask for a traveling partner for the first time. The trip would permanently alter my view of this marvelous misperceived area.


It all begins with and in Cherry Hill. This suburban town with a fairytale name is much like the town we live in. It has expressways, maddening traffic, a shopping mall and cheap motels. One thing it has that Marietta and Smyrna, Georgia do not, is a full bloom family farm less than five miles from the center of town. Our first morning in, Randy and I visited this magical piece of real estate and my image impression of New Jersey was changed forever!

Farm View

Randy had briefed me in glowing terms about Tom Jarvis, the present patriarch of the family owned business that is Springdale Farms. We had hoped to see Tom when we arrived mid-morning, but he was in the field attending to the crops which included plump red tomatoes, the holy grail of our arduous thirteen hour drive the day before. I wandered wide eyed marveling at this oasis in the urban sprawl. To my surprise this Springdale farming family had built a modern market for surrounding families to enjoy the fruit of a still rich countryside. I stepped into the Springdale Farm Market plant yard and our Creator tapped me on the shoulder:

A tap on my shoulder

I would not meet Tom Jarvis for two more days as the tomatoes would not be picked for another twenty-four hours. I learned there is a celestial methodology to the harvesting process. Randy’s trip every year fall’s around the July full moon. To this layman in farming science, it is all Greek, but miraculous indeed! With measured calculation the tomatoes are picked closely after full moon taking into consideration rainfall amounts. The tomatoes are picked blush and boxed ready for our loading the next morning. This way by the time they arrive at their dinner table destination they will be fully ripe, red, plump and juicy.

Blush

It was with that extra day that my tour guide had planned a reunion with some Ocean City High School Classmates. That ninety-minute drive to the New Jersey coast solidified the sea change in my perspective of this state out east. I found myself longing to be riding my Harley. In some spots it felt like parts of South Georgia, especially closer to the coast. To this one-time beach boy, all salt air smells the same. I had some lingering false impressions to get rid of. These were born of Atlantic City images, casinos and such. As we were coming over the big 9th Street bridge into Ocean City, I could see to the north a cluster of skyscrapers. It looked like a large metropolitan city skyline, out of place to rest of the horizon. It was Atlantic City and cannot hold a candle to the quaint character of Ocean City.

OCHS Class of '60

So many of my misconceptions about the state of New Jersey were dispelled on this trip which I’ve come to refer to as the “Cherry Hill Tomato Run.” I was on the receiving end of some great stories from Randy’s younger days, many of which will remain between the two of us. I am still learning anew about the Garden State. Did you know that one cannot buy alcohol in Ocean City nor BYOB in dining establishments? Did you know that it was originally founded by Methodist Ministers in 1879 as a Christian resort? New Jersey as a place to retire, who would have thought it? Apparently in Ocean City, it is not a bad idea!

"The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
(1 Samuel 16:7)

Amen Brothers & Sisters of Class of ‘60


Bradford Bosworth
August 2018

Cherry Hill Tomato Run

Counting Cards

Brad and Randy with a 2017 Beauty

In 1982 after recently moving to Atlanta, Georgia from Charlotte, NC, I found myself divorced and looking for a job. I ended up in the financial services business as a salesman calling on closely held business owners. This was cold call sales and I learned a whole new connotation of the word prospecting, which previously engendered images of adventure and romance. Friday afternoon boiler room dialing for dollars brought frightful adventure but no romance.

Two of the veteran men in the insurance company, which I found a job with, learned in short order that I was looking for a place to live. Just by happenstance Randy and Ed were newly minted divorcees as well. I would fit nicely into the third bedroom of the home they were buying in Marietta. If you were living in Atlanta in the early 1980’s and were single, you most likely were familiar with the bar/club scene thriving at the time. I will stop just short of calling it Sodom and Gomorrah. Of course, our place on Rhodes drive was nothing of the sorts.

In 1983 we moved our separate ways as I left the financial services business. Although I stayed in touch with Ed, I did not have any meaningful contact with Randy for another quarter century. What I remember most about Randy in those years in the financial services industry was that he had a knack for numbers. His real value to our employer was designing Defined Benefit Pension Plans in the private corporation so that the small business owner could get the largest amount of money in the most tax advantaged way out of his business. Large amounts of life insurance could be sold in these plans with pretax dollars.

Outside of the business, Randy put his talents to work playing cards. I was always aware that he was a world class bridge player and a sought-after partner in local tournaments. He once told me that there was a Casino in Nevada where not only was he banned at the black jack tables he was uninvited to the building! Back in our neighborhood was a local watering hole called “The Foxes Den” the three of us used to frequent and on backgammon nights he was known to hustle his meal and adult beverages.

In the fall of 2010, I was a pilgrim on a North Georgia Walk to Emmaus. Mine was a profound spiritual experience on that weekend. A part of the experience was seeing Randy Pettit for the first time in over a quarter century. Not only has our involvement in the Emmaus movement rekindled our friendship, the third roommate, Ed, is now part of the fellowship having been a Walk Pilgrim in the fall of 2017. The three roommates had our first reunion in twenty years in January of 2017.

Randy, Brad, and Ed in 2017

Since reconnecting, I have learned that Randy has developed a strong faith and a servant’s heart. There are some women in more than one church who refer to him as the “Tomato Man”. About twenty years ago, Randy was on his yearly trip back home to New Jersey when he discovered amidst the urban sprawl of Philadelphia an oasis in the metropolitan desert. In less than a twenty-minute PATCO train ride from Philadelphia and minutes from Cherry Hill, NJ he found the family farm of a man named Tom Jarvis. The farm starts in the backyard of the Jarvis home and from it come some of the plumpest juiciest home-grown tomatoes in God’s creation.

On that initial trip back to Marietta, Georgia he could only get less than a hundred pounds into his late model sedan. He gave those tomatoes away to neighbors and friends from his Church. The demand grew so that Randy bought a much larger pickup truck. Now this annual “Tomato Run” has become a major fundraiser for Missions at East Cobb United Methodist Church as Randy brings back over 1,000 pounds of tomatoes! In August of 2017 I was blessed to receive and enjoy a few of these wonders of creation.

At 75 years young, Randy believes 2018 is most likely his last “Tomato Run.” This writer, who volunteered to copilot this year’s sojourn out east, can attest it is a grueling trip especially when you compact it into four days. There is a critical element to his turnaround calculations because timing is crucial in tomato ripening from picking and transporting to distributing. He also includes in his itinerary visits with family in the Philadelphia area and with old high school friends over in Ocean City.

One thing I know about my friend, who has always been a specialist in Defined Benefit Pension Plans, through his strong Christian faith he has become an expert in divine benefit service to others!

Amen Brother Randy!

You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you. You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit—fruit that will last—and so that whatever you ask in my name the Father will give you. This is my command: Love each other.

John 15:14-17 (NIV)

Fish Story

Keeping the Faith

High school boys never run short of adventuresome schemes, especially during the summer when they have less structure and an escalated sense of entitlement to engage in mischievous conduct. Never is this mind-set more prevalent than in Miami, Florida. The ways of the water’s omnipresence magnify this attitude.  And for me, the surfing sub-culture, engrained from endless days spent at South Beach Pier, was a contributing behavioral adjunct as well.

In the tropical confines of August 1968 my good friend Mickey Schemer and I were finishing our routine football work-out in prep for the fast approaching camps when we would go our separate ways; he to local Miami Edison and me to a military boarding school in Tennessee. We were in search of that ultimate end of summer excursion that would allow us to blow off steam in the way only we knew how.  It would be the last time until Christmas break that we could push the boundaries of our experiences together.

The chances are if you are raised in Miami, you learn and grow to love fishing; whether it is with a pole from an Atlantic pier, or a long dip net with a lantern slung low from the catwalk of a bridge full moon at high tide on Biscayne Bay. Our plan had to employ the possibility of this sport in any form and it had to fit within our limited financial resources.

“Hey- we should- go to Bimini,” I posited in short breaths in Mickey’s direction.

It was via my experience at the boarding school that I learned of this beautiful treasure of an Island lying in our oceanic back yard. I had been a guest of a schoolmate’s family on a spring break trip that same year.

Mickey- ever the pessimist- stopped, his towel paused midway through his sweating brow. “Bimini? How the hell do you expect to get there? I thought you wanted to fish? Plus, there’s no way we can afford it,” he stated running the towel through the rest of his red hair.

“Come on man- where’s your head?” I asked. Then I argued we could do it and explained how.

On surfing trips to South Beach from our neighborhood, one would travel MacArthur Causeway with Government Cut on the right and Watson Island passing on the left. Invariably two residents of that island would visually stand out: the gigantic Goodyear Blimp and those flimsy looking Chalks Seaplanes. I had learned recently that one of those Chalk’s rust buckets could get you to Bimini in about a half hour and cost only $35 round trip! The scheme was almost complete, because getting a cheap motel room splitting the cost three ways would leave us ample money for shenanigans and hopefully some fishing. Our friend John Bernardi was the third and along for the ride.

My previous experience in Bimini had impressed upon me that the “almost anything goes” outlook on that tiny strip of land fit our style just fine. Late teenagers were welcome to belly up to the bar along with the most seasoned rummies. The natives were as friendly as anyone you would ever meet with an uncanny knack for always remembering your name. On Bimini you fished and partied. When you partied, you made new friends. What could be better. It took just a few days for us to make all arrangements.

The three of us had just finished strapping ourselves into the plane when the pilot turned from his seat in the cockpit to greet us. He looked like Humphrey Bogart straight out of “The African Queen” off a three-day drinking binge. Looking around the interior, the thought that one could stick their finger through the fuselage crossed my mind.  We had a loudly beautiful trip never feeling like we were more than a hundred feet from the ocean surface. I swear you could hear that amphibian’s every nut and bolt rattle in route. The take off and landing could by themselves have been the entire adventure we had been seeking.

My earlier experience on this spit of land found me enamored with the native guides who went by the names of the fish they would direct you to catch. “Bonefish Rudy” and “Blue Marlin Willie” are the two monikers that are seared into my memory.  I remember sharing a few Becks with those men at the Compleat Angler; purportedly the quaint tavern that Hemingway hung out in while writing “Islands in the Stream”.  Those guys were the ones that turned us onto the idea that catching on with a day trip did not always necessitate the exchange of money but sometimes being in the right place at the right time could garner a hospitable invitation. This idea became part of our plan as did the adoption of our own fish names. Thus, we became Mullet Mike, Jewfish John and Blowfish Brad.

Besides the unique guide naming practice, Bimini had other distinguishing idiosyncrasies. For example, the cocktail of choice for the locals was scotch and milk on ice; something we could never develop a palate for.  There was the End of the World Bar where we searched for Hemingway’s signature on the walls and ceilings, plus a blank space to write our own.  It was here we met two brothers: Matt and Brett Kirkland who were from Pompano, Florida. Matt was the oldest and about to finish at FSU.  He would complete Captains Certification by the end of the year. Brett was our age.  They chuckled when we introduced ourselves by our fish names and we struck an immediate kinship.

The Kirkland brothers were fortunate to be staying aboard their father’s 41 foot Hatteras moored at The Big Game Club.  Mom and dad were, of course, bunked in one of the Club’s rooms.  We talked fishing over St. Pauli Girls and soon it was established that the scope of our experience was limited to the asparagus green waters in and around Miami.  We were well versed in Boston Whaler, working the bottom for red snapper and jigging for jack but had never been close to the blue water which can serve up big game fish.  Then the invitation came.

“Man, you guys gotta try trolling,” Brett proclaimed practically yelling, then. “Matt, can they go with us tomorrow?”

Matt showing added maturity was non-committal, “We should discuss this with Dad!” After more discourse on the merits of off-shore angling, the decided that we should just show up at the marina at 6:00am.

The Kirkland boys had planned to take the boat out for a few hours on their own as Dad had planned to bonefish in the flats for the day. When Mickey, John and I showed up at the docks, their father was somewhat cautious after looking us up and down.  He must have surmised we were not the drug running type and agreed to the plan. He also made Matt promise to keep the vessel close to the shore and limited the expedition to four hours. After some last minute gathering of provisions we pulled away from the pylons.

Never had I experienced the relaxing exhilaration of the constant rumble of the huge V8s coupled with the gentle roll of the boat through the swells. We moved back and forth, Bimini starboard, then Bimini port side. We looked to be riding the edge of the deep blue water, two lines outriggers only. Brett, acting as mate, kept working the tackle and riggings in a way that convinced us he knew what he was doing.

After about an hour and a half we were wondering if Brett really did know what he was doing. Mickey and I talked about Matt as Captain. Could he really read the instruments or were we just along for a nice boat ride? Nothing was happening. Our patience waned. Bimini always seemed to be within swimming distance a perception that staved off most of our insecurity. I moved up to the bow to catch some morning rays and soon dozed off.

Matt yelled out, “Fish on!” Brett was scrambling. I was out of position trying to get to the boat’s stern. Mickey was underneath in the cabin. John who was hanging out having a smoke was the boy in the right place at the right time. My thoughts were a mix of confused elation and maybe Brett and Matt did know what they were doing.  John grabbed the pole from Brett but the fight disappeared quickly and we learned we had hooked a small barracuda. Brett got him off the line at the boat and the fish swam away.

In an instant, we had learned our first lesson of off shore trolling: this type of fishing is no different than others. Patience and faith is the order of the day. The three amigos never left the back of the boat again, not even to take a leak!  We also learned that the first fish is always the most important.  It breaks the ice, so to speak -more importantly- we knew we were not going home without a tale to tell.

We hooked into a couple more cudas over the next ninety minutes and because we knew they would not end up on the dinner table, we let them go. We were close to the end of the trip and we were happy.  Our experience had been fulfilling in so many ways. Not many boys our age ever get the chance to fish off shore in these type waters in such a spectacular craft.

Then, this time something different happened. There was a loud unfamiliar “SNAP” audible over the thundering engines. Even before Matt could call out from the bridge, the large Penn reel started to scream “ssssssszzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!”

‘Grab the rod!” Matt commanded from overhead. Mickey was there first. I always knew he was a better athlete than I. Faster and quicker, he would be named that same season “All City” at linebacker.

“Get in the chair!” Brett yelled as Mickey positioned the rod in place. The line continued to spool off the reel sounding as if a thousand yellow jackets were sprung from a nest between his legs.

“Keep that tip up!” yelled Matt as he backed down the big twin V8s coming to a crawl. “Whatever it is. It’s going down deep.”  I thought I was stoked because of our earlier experiences on this awesome excursion.  Now there were no words to describe the feelings and emotions and I was not even the guy in the fighting chair.

About thirty or forty minutes went by and Mickey was making progress.  The fish was coming back up. Matt caught sight of the silver flash beneath the shimmering Atlantic surface. He was now backing the boat up. “Brett get up here,” he commanded his brother. “Hold the boat steady and when I call you throw her into neutral and come on back down,” the future Captain gesturing as he joined the fight in the stern.

Looking down into the azure emerald waters Matt quickly turned to Mickey. “I want you to give me the rod. I think this fish is a tuna -a big tuna- maybe a record size. We don’t want to lose it,” he calmly explained.

Mickey was happy to turn the rod over; his arms so tight he could hardly lift them above his shoulders. Matt reeled and reeled again as the boat continued to ease backward. And then we saw it. It was the biggest fish I had ever seen. Not long, it was four to four and a half feet. But it was huge in it’s girth. I wondered, could it be pregnant.

“What is it?” John queried.

Mickey shot back, “It’s a big fish numbnuts!”

Brett from up top, “ I can’t tell but it could be a tuna.”

Then the fish started coming in and Matt was reeling for all its worth. “Brett Get down here and grab the gaff.” Matt barked over his shoulder as he climbed out of the chair. The boat was now drifting as the engines slow hummed. And Brett seemed to fly off the controls, his feet never appearing to touch the ladder rungs grabbing the gaff in one swift motion. Yeah – I thought to myself – he knows what he is doing.

We all managed to get the behemoth across the transom and we just stared at it for the longest time trying to figure out what kind of fish it was. It had the shape of a tuna but the look of a wahoo or so it seemed. All I knew was that it was big and nobody in Miami or Tennessee would believe this story.

The next most important learning experience from this adventure is: the last few hundred yards coming into the marina are the most precious moments of any fishing trip when you’ve got a big catch on board. The are always people waiting and watching to see what you have. Our chests thrown forward were busting out in pride. When we laid out our fish, it was identified by the experienced natives as a Kingfish. This beauty weighed in at 49 pounds. I remember someone saying it was only six pounds off the world record.  We had some of that fish for dinner that night. To this day, I have never tasted any better.

Our next and last day on the island we said our goodbyes and thanks to the Kirklands over some conch chowder in a little aqua green 80x80 cinderblock building named “Fisherman’s Paradise.” Contented that no experience could top the events of the last forty eight hours, we bid adieu to the brothers who themselves would continue on with their parents.

Mickey was beginning to be his pessimistic self, fretting about our flight back when Sammy, the owner of the place came over to our table. He nods to a lone man sitting at the table in the corner. Looking at us and in a low voice he asks, “Do you know who that is?” Seeing the quizzical looks on our faces he continues on before we can say no. “That’s Adam Clayton Powell Jr.  Go introduce yourselves.”

And that is exactly what we did and Mr. Powell asked us to have a seat and join him! We spent our last thirty minutes on Bimini sitting at a table with a US Senator talking politics.  We did not know what we were talking about but it made sense. When we said our good byes his last words to us were, “Keep the Faith Baby.” And that is no fish story!

 ****

Writers Notes:

I recently read Eric Metaxas’s book “Bonhoeffer, Pastor, Martyr, Profit, Spy” about Dietrich Bonhoeffer. It is a remarkable biography of this German Lutheran Pastor who resisted against Hitler and the Nazis to the point of helping to plot the fuhrer’s assassination. Bonhoeffer's brave stance ultimately cost him his life.

While reading this book I discovered a remote connection with this Godly man. In the book it describes Bonhoeffer's travel as a newly ordained minister to America in the early 1930’s. It was at the beginning of Hitler’s rise to power. Metaxas writes about how the young German clergyman was taken with an African American Preacher at a Baptist Church in Harlem, NY. That Pastor’s name was Adam Clayton Powell Sr.

It must also be noted that this short story is not a work of fiction in that the events, as mentioned in it, did actually happen. The original manuscript was written in November 2005. I have changed some names and some recollections are blurry after a half century has passed. 

My friend Mickey passed away in February, 2010.

Amen and Shalom Brother.
Bradford Bosworth
June, 2018

Pang Pong

Wanna play some Pang Pong?

         

“For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now.”                                                                          Romans 8:22 (NKJV)

Creation Groans

It sure appears to me that the world I live in is writhing and contorting. If the world were an adolescent, it would appear as one squirming in his chair having the overwhelming urge to pee. Being too embarrassed to raise his hand in the middle of class to ask to go to the bathroom, he would rather tough it out till the bell rings and then sprint down the hall to the boy’s room. Oh damn! I have not been politically correct. I was supposed to write that description as he/she and the boys room should have been described as….err… what: the unisex room or transgender room? Now I have the urge of pulling the paper out of the typewriter, crumpling it up and throwing it at the wastebasket. Except this is not a typewriter!!!! Uggghhhh! Let the groaning begin.


Our scripture from the eighth chapter of Romans contains the word “pangs.” It is found in some classic translations including the New King James Version quoted above. In today’s world, the word “pangs” will likely not be recognized and even thought to be a typo by many readers. I also submit that by the next century the word might have already passed away from our spoken language. However, it is Webster’s second definition of the word that sums up the vibe of this “Pang Pong” post.

Merriam-Webster

Definition of pang
1: a brief piercing spasm of pain, the pangs of childbirth.
2: a sharp attack of mental anguish, pangs of remorse, a pang of guilt
    a pang of disappointment.

One thing I am certain of in our society and culture today is that there is a load of mental anguish whirling through our populace no matter what side of the political spectrum you may reside. When I begin to get caught up in the spin cycle of disappointment, I know that I must do some self-examination. I must refocus my attention on the Truth. I have many places that I can consistently find truth but the first and foremost location is in the Word.

Kilauea Burps

Allow me to put forth wisdom and guidance from the Word that helps me make sense of the creation groaning and pangs concept. In layman’s terms, ‘you can’t have it both ways’ sometimes expressed as, ‘you can’t have your cake and it too.’ (See Matthew 6:24, re serving two masters). First it is my human nature to want to depend on and be fueled by my will (ego driven) which is of this world and finite. By personal experience and a lot of faith, I am assured that when I align my actions with God’s will, the distressful pangs will roll away. Relying on the Creator of the Universe, I am now fueled by a groan-free infinite energy source.

What is happening in our country now, playing out on the political stage is a magnified manifested representation of what happens individually to us all. We can rely on our will fueled by the ego pushing God aside or we can search daily for the divinity within and rely on His will to guide us. To the extent we rely on the ego we will experience pangs of dissonance for the divinity within is our constantly burning eternal pilot light. As spiritual beings in a material body and world, we are continually engaged on one level or another in an internal battle between what is Truth and what is illusion. To the extent which we are fooling ourselves, beholden to our material delusions, will we be groaning. The house and kingdom divided cannot stand (Mark 3:24-25).

Which way do we choose?

The book “A Course in Miracles” frames our daily choice this way: “Would you be hostage to the ego or host to God?” We have this daily choice to make. To the extent that we land on the ego side of the net we will find ourselves playing Pang Pong.


Father God may it start with each of us individually choosing to be Host to your Son, so our growth pangs will come only from growing in Your Love.

Amen
Bradford Bosworth
June 2018