A Cold Room and A Cold Message

The words from the radio, "On a cold and gray Chicago morn another little baby child is born in the ghetto, and his momma cries" as I listen to Elvis sing I can hear the phone ring downstairs. The voice of Elvis continues and then I hear my mother gasp and begin to cry herself. My bedroom is unheated and cold so it takes a moment to get our from under the covers and head for the stairs. I open the door and the kitchen and dining room are to my left. My mom is crying and my dad is hanging his head. My Uncle Bob and Aunt Lucille are at the table with them.

My dad tells me that the V.A. hospital in Allen Park has just called and a cold voice using cold words tells the Galloway family that Thomas Galloway has expired just minutes ago. The coming hours are a blur and yet a flurry of activity. A call to a funeral home, people in the house, friends calling, sports fans calling and crying. A newspaper calls and words are expected to give detail to a young life, a big Marine, put into a grave, not by an enemy bullet but by an enemy in his blood.

It was early May when Tag first called to give us the devastating sentence that would lead to his death. He had been promoted and his marine buddies had punched him in the arm to congratulate him. Days later he was black and blue from his shoulder down to his hand. The Naval hospital in Pasadena diagnosed him with leukemia and he was headed home as soon as possible. Once in Allen Park at the hospital the full extent of his illness would come down on us like a wrecking ball turning brick to crumbs. Within a couple of weeks massive blood transfusions were required and people from all over the downriver area gave their precious gift.

Tag fought hard and had some brief times of strength and we hoped for recovery. But, when he went back into the hospital as the Oak and Maple leaves came down he commented to my dad that he would not be getting out this time. He never made it home again. They say that the line of cars for his military funeral was a mile long. It didn't matter to any of us at the time. We only knew that our mom and dad were burying our brother.

My parents were never the same and neither were we. The years have come and gone. In 1987 I conducted the funeral for my dad and he was laid to rest next to Tag and my mom. All of us question the unexplainable and we are left with no answer. At times we even doubt the wisdom or even existence of God. Thousand of troubled souls abandon faith and embrace nothingness and emptiness. I have traveled the road of doubt and have questioned the very truth of God.

I am glad that I doubted and questioned. I am glad that I honestly searched for purpose and meaning for mankind. In my search, which has taken me some years, I am convinced more today than ever before that: He was, He is, He always will be. In spite of my belief or unbelief He is.

A Monster from the Detroit River

As soon as school got out for the summer it was time for two of my favorite past times- sleeping out and fishing in the Detroit River. At night my brothers and I would catch night-crawlers. Our neighbors who watered their grass were fair game for our late night, flashlight guided, worm hunts. The slimy fish food was tossed into a can and when our slippery and succulent (for the fish) casche reached three or four dozen then it was only a matter of waiting for daybreak.

With the rising of the sun it was off to the river. We would ride our bikes to the Grosse Isle toll bridge. Once across the bridge the bikes were ditched on the side of the road and over the fence we went, fishing poles and worms at the ready. Many will remember that during the mid to late sixties the Detroit River was a bit of a hazardous, combustible, and slightly green movement of what was called water. Needless to say the catch of perch, bullheads, carp and the occasional bass were never eaten due to their combustion properties (smelled like gas).

Well it just so happens that one of our fishing excursions was on an unusually hot day. So after our time of drowning worms and rescuing flammable fish my little brother and I decided to take a swim. We crossed the bridge and went down to the Riverview docks. Off came the jeans, t-shirts, and tennis shoes. Standing on the end of the dock in our white Fruit-of-the Looms, into the river we dove. After a few minutes of cooling off in the refinery tributary it was time to get out.

Little did I realize, and of course my little brother, who is obviously dumber, he never had a clue, what would happen to us as we enjoyed the coolant. As we climbed onto the dock our white Fruities were a sickly mix of grape green and pea soup. As our luck would have it, as we stood on the dock, a Riverview Police patrol car drove into the parking lot of the dock. We must have looked like Green River Monsters, and I was sure we were beyond recognition. The patrol car did a slow circle in the lot and left.

Well it must have been fate or the Detroit River Specter, but the officer recognized the Galloway kids and promptly told my father of our excursion into the river and the green aftermath. He, dad, was waiting for us when we got home. After a ton of verbiage on the risks of swimming in the river he let us go. We did a lot more fishing that summer but we decided to deal with the heat and stay out of the river.

How many times have you and I thought we were going to get away with something? I could take hours re-telling stupid episodes in which I was sure I would never be found out. Most of the time I was found out, usually in record time. Remember what the Bible has to say about trying to hide your sickly green Fruities, "be sure your sin will find you out."

Slam of the gavel

On Saturday a friend of ours will be conducting an auction at our farm in the Hubbard Lake area. People from far and wide will come to look over, poke through, examine, and probe, through all kinds of stuff. An old antique cream separator, antique apple picking bags, old bouncy horses, a powered wheelchair, 100 gallon tree sprayer and lots of other stuff will go before the gavel of the auctioneer.

I agreed that there would not be any "reserves", that means that what it sells for is it. What I think is worth ten dollars may only be worth a buck. The highest bidder gets the prize, or junk, just a matter of opinion. Now, for the most part it is not such a big deal. Unless, unless something that we value, what determines value, is sold for a pittance. Once it is put into the hands of the auctioneer that is it. Now, a very positive point is this, I have complete, 100% trust, in the auctioneer. She has conducted hundreds of auctions all over the state. And, she is a good friend.

So, this Saturday a lot of stuff will leave the property, never to return. For the most part I will not miss any of it. Donna and I are beginning a new phase in our life and I am enjoying every minute of it. She is pastoring a wonderful congregation and I get to write and work on a mammoth carving and other wood projects. There will however be a bit of sadness as a few of the real treasures leave Genesis Farm.

I am so glad that the value of humanity in general, and me in particular is beyond measure and price. Even mankind in his ugliest hours has the same value as in his most noble and glorious hours. You were not bought back with corruptible things as with silver or gold from your sinful and former ways. But you were bought with the precious blood of Jesus Christ. The highest price ever determined was the price that had to be paid. The lifeblood of the incarnate Son of God, the Lord Jesus Christ, the Creator of all that was, is, and to be, was the price.