I like good news as much as anyone. Early on, this good news consisted of being told by Dad and Mom that we were going to visit my four grandparents in Vernon, Alabama. For my brother and me, that meant plenty of neat places to explore, including some areas we shouldn’t have been.
Papa Haynes’ bee hives were one of them. Jim found out the hard way by being stung just below the eye. The swelling didn’t go down until a few days later. We were instructed numerous times afterward not to shoot our BB guns at the hives again. I don’t believe we needed a warning by then, especially Jim.
Getting an A on a school test was good news. Some kids got them all the time, and I suppose they eventually came to take things for granted. Not me. There were instances where I wondered if I had actually gotten the grade or if the teacher made a mistake in grading.
Mom was the happiest when I brought home an A, which was a rare event, on the same level as spotting a white raven. Because of a genetic mutation, only one raven out of 30,000 will turn out white. Seeing one in the wild is something very few bird watchers ever achieve.
Good news thirty years ago was hearing that someone was getting married or having a baby. A pay raise or a promotion was considered good news. Discovering that we were having my favorite food for dinner was good news, especially when it was macaroni and cheese.
As I’ve grown older, bad news often tries to cut in line—stepping in front of the good news. I’ve heard a few senior citizens say, “Bad news comes with the turf!” In so few words, they’re claiming that age dictates bad things are bound to happen in our circle of friends, more so than with the younger generation. There’s validity to that.
Nowadays, when someone asks, “Do you want to hear the good news first—or the bad?” I tell them, “Neither!”
With so much bad news coming from my friends and family, about either their health or someone else’s, I’ve become somewhat distant while listening. I can only take so much bad before going on a ‘downer’ as the 1960s and 1970s crowd labeled depression.
Prayer eventually helps me get through this, but it’s not always instantaneous. A bit of good news also helps lift me out of the mire.
I was in one of these ‘Debbie Downer’ moods right after New Year’s. With a nasty cold, I was doing my best to remain upbeat, deciding that a trip to Culver’s for frozen custard would help ease the pain.
Jumping in the Jeep and backing out of the garage, my wife spotted a lethargic-looking dog with its ribs showing, standing in front of our house. We keep a water bowl out front for the wild birds and other animals to use. Quite thirsty, the collarless canine was taking advantage of it.
This dog quickly headed to the Western Arizona Humane Society building, a block away, perhaps having been there before and knowing it was a safe haven. Unfortunately, my attempt to call the animal resulted in it running away, but not before Joleen snapped a photo.
Curtailing my trip for frozen custard, we went back home and posted a photo of the loose dog on social media. Within minutes, folks came online saying that they’d try to find the pooch. One person recognized the golden-haired dog as “Whiskey.”
We searched some more that evening ourselves, but it was too dark outside to see anything. Before going to bed, I said a simple prayer, asking God to lead someone to Whiskey before it was too late.
From the condition of the animal, I didn’t know if it’d last through the night. Afterwards, thinking back to my request, I had to silently chuckle. A few folks will catch the humor once they reread things, although my wife didn’t.
Sunday, after watching the 11:00 a.m. Calvary Baptist Church service on Facebook, a message appeared at the top of my computer screen saying that Whiskey had been found. That was good news for a bunch of people—especially me.
I’ve never doubted that prayer is the first place to go when all seems hopeless, but this answer to prayer reaffirmed it in me—one more time!
I like to write junk... 