Revisiting Life's Oases

By Bill Bagents

The stories we love to remember bless us on countless levels. They represent and explain us. They entertain, educate, empower, and elevate us. They calm, center, challenge, and contextualize our lives. At times, they help us repent, self-correct, and promise to do better.

 

The personal stories we choose to share with other

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heritage Christian University
• Release date: Mar 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087947129

Book preview

1

Introduction, Explanation, Reader’s Guide, and/or Apology?

Like most folks, I love a sweet story. If it includes a smile or a laugh, all the better. My Amma’s favorite saying was better to laugh than to cry. She was Amma because I was the first grandkid and couldn’t pronounce my g’s. She was right about the power of laughter. She was wise in knowing that we can often choose laughter over sorrow. Even when we can’t, finding a bit of happy makes the sorrow less bad.

Admittedly, some important stories aren’t sweet. Some are bittersweet, some BITTER-sweet, and some good for the soul but fiercely challenging in the moment. Ultimately, God uses even the toughest to bless us. Ultimately, we find our souls soothed by memories of His gracious care. If you’re reading this paragraph as foreshadowing, you’re reading wisely.

A frenemy once told me, A sense of humor is a good thing; you should get one. I wondered how long he had waited to use that line. Then, I wondered how much my failure to be bothered bothered him. I’ll admit that his bewilderment amused me. I counted that as a major win. Karma can be both instant and fierce. It’s not that I lack a sense of humor; it’s more that mine is a bit off kilter—if you speak statistics, it’s several deviations from the mean.

Not to put all the blame on them, but numerous friends over many years have offered similar versions of this suggestion: So many funny things keep happening to you. You should write a book. They meant funny in the broadest sense—from humorous to surprising all the way through odd into weird. For better or worse, here it is.

Most friends don’t know how early those funny happenings started. While I can’t remember it, I’m told that my first bassinet was a banana box. For me, that explains why I still like bananas, boxes, monkeys, and the color yellow. The first toy I loved was a terrycloth dog. Its tail was my favorite pacifier. I’m told that a church lady’s fox stole caught my attention. It had a face and everything. As the story goes, my offer to her was, I’ll trade you my dog for yours. She ignored my generous offer and compliment; good thing as I’m sure I didn’t mean it anyway. Weak moments happen.

Within this book, some names have been changed or omitted both to avoid litigation and to protect the guilty. There’s also the matter of my flawed memory. I don’t have to lie to mislead. I tend to conflate events—some stuff just runs together. And if I can’t quite remember, I self-servingly tweak things toward the way I wish they’d happened.

Now that I’m old, I’ve learned to laugh at myself. I cross-file that under if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em and why should other people have all the fun?

As I write I’m reminded of a Spock quote from Star Trek: You may find that having is not so pleasing a thing after all as wanting. This is not logical, but it is often true. As I remembered some things errantly, Google rescued me. As you might guess, much was beyond even Google’s ability to help.

I don’t know if these ramblings will bless you, but I’m certain that they’ve helped me. If we get a double-dip so everyone benefits, how cool is that? One of my personal rules for both counseling and life is DO NO HARM; DON’T MAKE IT WORSE. I think we’re safe on that one. But in case the disclaimer is needed, in every case that it should apply, DO NOT TRY THIS STUFF AT HOME.

* * *

Stories as Gifts from God

Even contemplating humor, I find myself needing to explain the title, Revisiting Life’s Oases: Soul-Soothing Stories. Teachers feel compelled to explain stuff; explaining is woven into our genetic code. I started with Small Sabbaths, a takeoff on the strong current metaphorical emphasis on biblical sabbath rest—taking breaks for rest, reflection, and recharging. For me, humor and stories fill that need. They’re a break for the soul, spirit, body, and mind. Then, I had a Salve for the Soul moment because I love alliteration. But that one smelled funny and sounded too medicinal. I moved through other phases too silly to share, but kept coming back to thoughts of oases.

Part of that flows from a way cool photo of a camel. I call him Camelle (kah meel). He’s a good camel—never talks, makes no messes, and stays where you put him. Part flows from Casablanca being my all-time favorite movie. There’s the fact that I’ve been known to confuse the spelling of desert and dessert (major sweet tooth). And part flows from knowing that life is tough; it can be quite a grind. To keep myself within the broad zone of tolerable (read that as marginally fit for human company), humor and odd stories serve as a balm for the abrasions of life. Sometimes they prevent damage altogether. On occasion, they enable survival. They are oases for the soul.

Laura Lynn Bagents, my patient and enduring wife and chief editor, came up with Revisiting. We’d be extra dumb to enjoy sweet stories just once. We tell and retell, we relive and revisit. They’re like some of my recurring dreams; they bless each time they show up.

Now that you’ve read them, what were these two sections: introduction, explanation, reader’s guide, apology, mere ramblings, or some strange combination? If you figure it out, drop me a line. I think I’d like to know.

2

Life Happens

Dee Honk

We got our Christmas wish—a horse. While we loved her, she was a bit too much horse with way too much attitude. She’d use the clothesline to scrape us off her back. The only time I’ve been knocked out, she dumped me. I woke up in bed at home with no clue how I got there.

Our parents took us outside on the Christmas morning she arrived. My dad’s first question was, What will we name her? My sister Melanie was very young at the time and said, Dee Honk! In that it was a perfectly embarrassing choice, it stuck. Most days it was shortened to Dee, but we all knew.

* * *

We’ll Cry Later

We got invited to the neighbor kid’s birthday party. In that there were six of us and we lived in the country, this was rare. We were excited.

Her house was within easy walking distance, so we grabbed the present and headed there. Our beloved Beagle followed—at least until the school bus crossed the center line and killed him in front of us. Immediate tragedy. What could be done to salvage the day?

We made a pact: We all want to attend the birthday party and have a good time. We’ll do that. On the way home, we will pick up Blacky’s body, cry, and have the funeral. We also agreed to get a bigger dog next time—one large enough to overturn a bus. That part never happened, but the whole event still reminds me of McClintock, the John Wayne movie, where they choose not to let an Indian raid spoil a good rodeo and barbecue.

In the years since, we’ve all faced other occasions where all we could do was agree to cry later. While we never invite such moments, I think we’re better for them.

* * *

Bowls Are for Ice Cream

The mom of one of our neighbors was a very pleasant lady from Korea. She fancied herself a barber. Somehow I knew better to the point of telling my mom, Please don’t make me let her cut my hair. I’ll pay for my haircut! Mom kindly let me decline, but Ricky and Mike let Kim try. It was a one-and-done experiment. They looked like bowls had been put on their heads and shaved around. Their hair eventually grew back into something like normal. Bowls are not good hairstyling tools. Bowls are for ice cream.

* * *

Noma

When we were kids, Noma and her daughter Johnnie Harrell sometimes worked for my grandparents. We’d go by their house to pick up the ironing or the peas that they’d shelled. The coolest part of each visit was drinking water from the dipper at their open well. The scariest part of each visit was Noma.

Noma was a quiet and gentle soul, advanced in years. But that’s not the scary part. One of my brothers had a wart on his finger. Our Amma told us, Let Noma rub that wart, and it’ll go away. After a time of notable encouragement, manipulation, and bribery, Noma gently rubbed the wart for several minutes. It left within a few days.

I still have no clue whether Noma caused the wart to disappear, but she had power and respect with us from that day onward. If she could make a wart disappear, what else could she erase? We filed that under it’s WAY better to be safe than sorry. Don’t mess with people who can hurt you.

* * *

Mama Alma

We were somewhat afraid of Noma, but we were stone cold fearful of Grandpa’s mother, Mama Alma. When Amma would take us to visit her, we never felt at ease. As children, we saw her as large and stern with snow white hair. She drank steaming water. The story was that the doctor made her quit drinking coffee. We couldn’t imagine anybody making her do anything, but we knew that a person who voluntarily drank water that hot was not to be messed with. "If she does