If I say, “$#&^ God,” I can be accepted almost anywhere. If I was a late-night comic, I could generate howls of laughter, if I was in a movie, no one would bat an eye or be shocked. However, if I say, “God loves you,” I am looked upon as a nut, a “Holy Roller,” unintelligent and intolerant.

How did it get to be like this? Is the hard work of faith too much for us? God’s standard is perfection, it is impossible to attain that standard. Perhaps that is why we just stop fighting the daily battles we face. Maybe we lose sight of Jesus, and what He did for us in dying for our sins.

It seems we have put blinders on in regard to the importance of that sacrifice, and the important role that faith in God had in the founding of our country, and in the lives of people. We are erasing God from the public square and yet, wonder where God is now, and in times of trouble.

There seems a new theology is taking hold, and it is a welcome one. It goes like this; God is a loving God, and He would not send people to Hell. Jesus died for all sinners, so everyone can go to Heaven.
That’s nice, but not true. It is a lie that is easy and comforting to believe, but it is condemning untold numbers of souls to Hell. Satan is all about comfort for you in this world, and your eternal suffering in eternity.

We all struggle, all step off the path, and all fall short of the mark. God does love you. Jesus did die for your sins. God is perfect, and just. Only the sinless can enter Heaven. Jesus died to wash your sins away. He is the bridge to Heaven.

Jesus said to him, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me. (John 14:6)
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            As we struggle with faith and life’s challenges do not be fooled.
      
                                                                          John 3:16-17
 

Sometimes God does give you more than you can handle. He does this so you lean on Him, and trust Him.

Psalms 61 

           ​I used to live in an apartment, and the stories I could tell, but today I want to address one of my pet peeves about my wonderful, former, apartment complex, Stoney Creek. To say that parking is limited in my world would be an understatement. Often after returning home from a late night working, I’ve had to walk a quarter mile to my building.  While this is frustrating, it is not what has gotten under my skin.

            We often hear of the wonders of the Americans with Disabilities Act, better known as the ADA, and how it is helping the disabled.  I guess my landlord is still living in the 1940s; granted that’s how old my carpet is, but really, join the rest of the world.  My friend had a stroke and has difficulty walking and using her arm.

            We asked the landlord to designate a parking spot near her building, to make things a little more manageable. They did and painted the internationally recognized symbol for the disable in a parking spot. Granted it was blue, on black asphalt, and the size of a pizza pan, but what the heck. Problem solved, right? Not quite; no one could see it, and we spent much time contacting the landlord about the issue. The police were, well more about them later.

            I learned that to get a “real” handicap parking space for her, we had to buy the sign, which I did.  When it arrived, she took it to the office for them to put up.  She was informed she also needed to buy the hardware and pole to place it on. (I should mention that this is a standard at Stoney Creek if you need handicapped parking.) After purchasing that, it was grudgingly put up. Problem solved, right? Not really. You may find this hard to believe, but people are lazy and ignorant. I know, shocking!

            So you have a group of disabled apartment dwellers, each with their own purchased sign that has the parking permit number displayed for the entire world to see.  Recently, the situation has gotten worse, the allegedly normal people either can’t read or don’t care, or both, and have been parking in the disabled parking spots. There is nothing quite like watching someone with a disability struggle with a wheelchair through the snow covered lot, or a stroke victim trying to carry groceries a quarter mile to their apartment, while a healthy person hops out of their car and jogs into his apartment building. FYI-handicapped parking is not there to make your life easier, but for those who actually have a disability.

            Enter the protectors of the downtrodden, enforcers of the law, the Bethel Park Police Department. At first they would come and write a ticket for a sign violation, but after the second time down, things changed. First it was a private lot, and then it was the sign didn’t post a warning of being towed or fined, and then finally, it was the fact that the symbol on the ground wasn’t the correct size.  Basically, they couldn’t be bothered to “serve and protect.”

            As a result, if you come at the right time of the night, thanks to an ever caring landlord too cheap to put the “correct” signage up, and the less than zealous Bethel Park PD, you can watch a re-make of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video, as the disabled struggle to get to their apartment buildings over a snow covered, icy, pothole filled, uneven parking lot.
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            As for the police, of which I was one of years ago; if I hear I need to be understanding or sympathetic to their plight and difficulties of the job; all I’ll say is this, you’re only as good as the criminals you protect.

           While I have attended several different schools, I believe the one that had the most influence on my life was Cannock House School in Chesterfield, England.  The first thing I remember about my English school experience was that I was surrounded by boys, all boys, after all it was an all boy’s school.  When I left the school to attend an American high school I had to get use to having girls in my classes.  While at Cannock my only contact with the opposite sex would come after school in neighborhood situations or at the yearly dance when we would be taught how to interact with girls.             
           Another outstanding feature of Cannock House School was uniforms.  Here in the United States there is much discussion over school uniforms, and very few schools wear them.  However, looking back, I can see how uniforms actually helped with school spirit and unity.  Here in the States everyone is concerned about what they look like, what they are wearing and who is wearing the latest fashion.  Our only concern was if we were 4’10 ½” tall, the dividing line between short or long pants. 
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           Finally, one of the most interesting differences between my UK and the US school days was the fact that when a teacher in England enters a classroom the students had to stand, while in America the students move from class to class.  In England you are taught to respect those in authority, in the States we seem to just want to fight authority.  While much of what is taught in the schools is similar, it is in the social aspects where the two cultures diverge. In England, at the time, the focus was on manners, respect and education.  In the States the focus seems to be on individualism, and the social mores are largely ignored.
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(My attorney assures me that the statute of limitations has passed.)
A long time ago in a distant land . . .

I spent a year as a Metro Transit Officer in Washington, DC.  Then I spent time as a Deputy Sheriff in the Land That Time Forgot.  Calvert County, Maryland.  It has gotten bigger and more modern since I left; in fact, just last year they got streetlights.  I remember one conversation I had with a local; in which we discussed the lack of a mall, only one movie theater, and how upsetting it was that they took, “Green Acres,” off the county’s PBS system. The highlight of the conversation?

“You know there isn’t one escalator in the entire county,” I stated.

“Escalator? Escalator? What’s an escalator?”  

​“Moving stairs…”

“Oh.”

Sorry for the digression…

After a year in DC, I left to become a Deputy Sheriff. I had to take some extra training as when I was with the Metro Police I rode the subway, in Calvert I’d be in a car, or, as they like to call it a MOP, Mobile Observation Platform.  Once I had completed my intense training of driving around, finding the good places to eat, sleep and hide from the general public, I was cut loose.  On my own cruising, the mean streets of Calvert County.

Well, there I was in my Mobile Observation Platform, on Rt. 4, looking for speeders.  Now there are several ways to do this, for the big boys, there’s radar, for others VASCAR, but for me there was pacing.  Pacing is when the deputy, me, follows a speeding vehicle for about 2/10ths of a mile, pacing their speed.

After pacing a blue 2 door Chevy for 2/10ths of a mile I activated my emergency equipment, lights and siren for those of you not familiar with cops.  The vehicle pulled over to the shoulder of the road, I got out of my Mobile Observation Platform, and things went bad.

As I was exiting my vehicle, my mace canister bumped the door lock. Ever notice how life becomes a slow-motion sequence at times?  Unfortunately, I had already given the door a gentle push and watched the door slowly click shut. I stood there, listening to the traffic pass by, and prayed silently, that through some magical intervention, that my door was a jar. So, there I was, vehicle running, lights and flashers on. Undaunted, and deep in prayer; I turned and introduced myself to the driver of the speeding Chevy.

Hello, I’m Deputy Parks of the yada-yada-yada, you were traveling at yada-yada-yada, license and registration please.  I slowly walked back to my car, this was the moment of truth, my defining moment as a deputy and, yes, my friends, it was locked.

What to do?  Call for assistance? Let the entire county know I’d locked myself out of my car?  Be fodder for harassment for the rest of my career?  What would Inspector Clouseau do?
I calmly walked back to the driver of the Chevy.

“Ma’am there is a sight problem.  I need you to drive me to Headquarters.”

Fortunately, the station was only a minute away.  I snuck into the station, grabbed the extra set of keys, snuck out the door and had the lady drive me back to my deserted car; on the side of the road, with the lights still flashing.
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I unlocked my car, gave her my thanks, swore her to secrecy, and a warning always make sure she exited her car with the keys.

I now understand why millions of illegals cross our borders each year, infrastructure. Yes, I said infrastructure. There is a certain familiarity to it. Where I live in the Pittsburgh area, I am surrounded by pot-hold laden roads, I lose my power nightly, and today a water main break has changed the day's plans.

The only difference between us and North Korea, is our nuclear weapon program is up and running, and their program isn't, maybe...

Perhaps instead of sending billions of dollars around the world fixing other countries infrastructure, and paying benefits to millions of illegal immigrants, we should take our tax dollars, and fix our roads, bridges, flooding, water mains, etc...

Just saying...

           It is a strange phenomenon; my special rescue pit bull, Lucy, refuses to go to the bathroom in our yard. I hear you, and your disbelief; but believe. Perhaps it has something to do with the abuse in her past, perhaps it is the fact she now has her own yard, or perhaps she just loves messing with me.

            When we first brought her back from North Carolina, we laid pee pads down as a training tool to direct her towards the door. However, she found her favorite spot in the living room, where she would do her business. Now don’t think our young lady is classless, she will only pee or poop when she is alone in the room. I can see her looking down her nose at me, “Really, how degrading pooping with an audience present. What do I look like? Your ex-wife?”

            In an effort to modify her behavior, my wife and I would take turns walking the yard with Lucy. However, all this accomplished was our yard began to look like it had a moat around it from the “Lucy Path.” Really, the path we wore trying to get our girl to use the outside facilities was easily six inches lower than the rest of the yard.

            I began walking her around the block, and that was successful, but I am selfish, and 6 am, or midnight stroll around the block was a bit too much. We eventually began walking around a local cemetery daily. This was, at first, to avoid other canine types. While our girl loves people, other dogs, not so much. The only problem was that Ms. Lucy would not go to the bathroom until we took our stroll through the spirit world.
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            I don’t know about you, but going to the bathroom is more than just a once daily occurrence with me, so I was a little concerned about Lucy’ health, and comfort. So, in a great compromise, of sorts, I built a small stall around her favorite pee/poop pad area. It is high enough to protect my girl’s dignity, but low enough so she can watch her favorite television programing on Cspan.