What gives Christianity a bad name?

Psychic Readings?

Not too far from our house, there is a small office complex. It is on the southwest corner at the intersection of Greenville, a very major street here in Dallas, and Royal Lane, a semi-major street. Of the 15-20 offices available for lease in this complex, only a few are every occupied at any one time. It’s small and as far as I can tell, doesn’t attract all that many customers.

My contention is that it was a poorly planned complex. If you’re traveling north on Greenville, or west on Royal, you have to drive past the complex, make a U-turn on a usually busy street and then find a spot in a parking lot that looks way too small. Like I said, it was poorly planned.

I drive by this complex usually more than once a day without really paying attention to what's happening there. Yesterday, I was sitting at the light when I noticed that a new tenant had moved in. Looking over, I had to do a double take.

PSYCHIC was all the sign above the door said. As I read the sign and looked in the window, I found myself somewhat intrigued. Big neon words in the window said, “Past, Present, Future.” There is also a neon outline of a hand, which I assume indicates palm readings.

Now, I consider myself to be a fairly open minded person. However, even I have to draw the line somewhere! And this is where I have to draw the line. Maybe it’s my Baptist upbringing, maybe it’s the fact that I’ve lived 40 years and haven’t seen anything to suggest that psychic readings are anything anymore supernatural than a kind of verbal slight-of-hand, maybe it’s just my good common sense. Whatever the reason, I don’t buy into this sort of thing.

All the same I found myself considering (if only for a moment) turning around and heading back to check this place out.

The light turned green and I drove on wondering about our new neighbors. Some of the things that popped into my mind were:

· If you’re a psychic, wouldn’t you simply be able to go to the homes of the people who want/need your help?
· What kind of guarantee does this psychic give? I mean, if this psychic reads my palm and forecasts great things in my future, what if he’s wrong?
· The sign said, “Past, Present, Future.” What in the world can you tell me about the present that I don’t already know?

But the question I had that really gave me doubts about this particular psychic’s ability to know all and see all is…

· How good of a psychic do you have to be to foretell that your future in this particular office complex isn’t all that good?

I’ll let you know as soon as our resident psychic moves out…but I don’t think I need a crystal ball to see that it won't be very long.

Now I'm the psychic!

Pee into the Jug

When I was in the third through the seventh grade my family lived in Houston. My father was the associate pastor of a fairly large church, and my family, partially due to my father’s position and partially due to the fact that we enjoyed it, was very active in all aspects of the church’s life. There was always something happening at the church that made it interesting and fun to be there. I have very fond memories of the years I spent at Tallowood Baptist church.

When I was in the sixth or seventh grade there was a person in our church, a boy I think, who had some rare form of cancer. They had consulted every specialist in the country, tried every treatment known to man, and basically left no stone unturned. However, the boy’s prognosis had not improved.

But this isn’t a story about that poor boy. I’m sad to say that several moves, and almost 30 years have erased most of what I ever knew about him. In fact, the only thing I do remember is something about a possible cure that his family needed help with from church members.

After exhausting every conventional medical avenue of hope that they had, the family turned to other, more alternative, forms of treatment. As it turned out the family discovered a treatment using a kind of medication that was extracted from urine.

That’s right…URINE!

Basically, what they asked church members to do was pee in gallon sized, plastic milk jugs, freeze it, and bring the jugs full of frozen urine to the church. Then they took them to a lab somewhere for processing.

Being the dutiful church members that we were, we volunteered to do our part. Truth be told, it was my father who volunteered the family. Now, for obvious reasons, that I don’t think I need to go into, only the male members of the family got to enjoy or endure (depending on your point of view) this fun little chapter in the lives of the Atkinson family. As I recall, the whole “pee in a jug” thing quickly lost any and all appeal for my brother and me.

I don’t remember exactly how many months we had where a trip to the bathroom involved a before and after stop at the freezer, but there were several. I also don’t remember why we didn’t ask more questions about the legitimacy of this particular line of treatment. I do, however, remember several different aspects of jug peeing that were extremely unpleasant. Some of which involve me scheming for ways to avoid it all together and some were bad things that happened.

My first plan to avoid using the jug was to simply not use the bathroom at home. I quickly deduced that if I didn’t go while I was at home, then no problem. I decided that I could just wake up in the morning, get ready for school, eat breakfast, wait for the bus, ride to school and then go to the bathroom. I had it all figured out.

However, on my very first day of trying this plan, while I didn’t officially wet my pants, suffice it to say, it was rather painful and little messy. I decided that henceforth I would have to use the jug first thing in the morning and maybe at night, but that would be it!

Another aspect of jug peeing that was quite hard to deal with had to do with my age. I was 11 to 13 years old and going through puberty. For boys going through puberty it’s very common to wake up with an erection. Having an erection only added difficulty to an already less than appealing task. I quickly learned that, thanks to gravity, you aren’t able to hold a milk jug upside down and pee into it…at least not very successfully.

My only real reprieve from the jug turned out to be anytime my parents were not at home. I remember holding it as long as I could in hopes that my Dad would have to go to the church, the store, the bank, somewhere, or anywhere!

It’s been almost 30 years since we tossed out the jug forever. My brother and I laugh until we cry about different parts of our lives and the “Pee in the Jug” chapter always seems to come up whenever the conversations turn to some of the more bizarre aspects of our childhoods.

My brother recently told me that he did some Internet research and discovered that the whole cancer cure using urine thing was pretty much a hoax. I think it was some sort of holistic kind of thing. Looking back, I wish I had asked more questions, done more research, but there was no Internet and nobody knew about urban myths. I simply trusted that my Dad wouldn’t have us peeing into a jug for no good reason. I won’t make that mistake twice!



I know RLP has even better memories of our jug peeing days…maybe he’ll post a few of his favorites. It couldn’t hurt to ask.

Inside a Third Grade Mind

I have several students who, on the outside, seem to be very typical, very run-of-the-mill kids. However, I see the occasional hint, the occasional clue that tells me life is not fun or carefree. A third grader shouldn’t have to leave school wondering if they are going to have dinner. A third grader shouldn’t have to spend time worrying how the rent will get paid. A third grader shouldn’t have to do anything but be a third grader.

Inside a Third Grade Mind

I climbed inside
A third grade mind
With no idea
What I might find

I found the most
Miraculous place
It was quite huge
Without much space

Excitement was
Most everywhere
Wild images tossed
Here and there

Fun flowing thoughts
Were all around
And happiness was
Was all I found

I realized that
I longed to find
A life like in this
Inside my mind

I strolled around
In dream-like daze
When something horrid
Met my gaze

This life that I
Had thought to be
So full of fun
And fancy-free

Turned out to be
A quite harsh place
And as for joy
I saw no trace

The fun I’d seen
Did not remain
And as I searched
I just found pain

This third grade mind
Had one hard task
For third grade pain
Is hard to mask

A Day to Remember

September 8. It’s not a date that really stands out all that much. For most of us it passes by like any regular day. However, for members of my family, if you tack 1990 to the end it suddenly becomes a day to remember.

September 8, 1990, is the day my wife and I were in the car accident that changed our lives forever. I wrote about the accident in I Lost Part of my Life and some of the issues I’ve had to learn to deal with in Closed Head Injuries and Anger.

This is the first year I can remember where, in the days preceding September 8, I didn’t think about the upcoming anniversary at all. This morning I got to school and was in the lounge reading the day's announcements when I noticed the date. The crazy thing is, I had to double-check myself to make sure I had the right date.

I've always wondered if there would ever come a day when I might be able to really thank God for an accident that nearly cost me my life. And I have to admit…I was quite sure that day would never come.

However, my life has many wonderful aspects that I do not believe would be there if not for a slick road, a left turn and a truck.

Thank you, Lord. Thank you for a day to remember.

A Taste of my own Medicine

I’ve been talking with parents of my students for many years now and I hear it over and over again.

“Every time I try to help my child with his homework he says I’m not doing it the way Mr. A. does it and maybe multiplication has changed since I was in school. I just can’t get him to understand that I know what I’m doing.”

I do my best to assure them that what they are going through is normal and to just keep working with their child. However, there is a tiny little voice way back in my brain that begins to whisper...

“They’re either just too sensitive or they really are doing it wrong and just can’t admit that their child is way smarter than they are. Maybe if they had raised their child right they wouldn’t be having these problems. Perhaps you should just tell them to let their child be the tutor…maybe they’ll learn something. Go on, tell them…”

It’s only a tiny voice that I don’t really listen to, and besides it’s usually wrong…usually.

I got a taste of my own medicine yesterday…it was mighty bitter and it went down hard.

My daughter’s fifth grade class is studying latitude and longitude, one of my favorite things to teach. However, teaching third and fourth grade, I really don’t get to do much with map skills. So I was pleased as punch when M came home and said she needed some help with, “This latitude and longitude stuff!”

Of course she went to Mom first.

Now my wife is one of the smartest people I have ever met, but latitude and longitude have way too much in common with math for her to have any real interest.

I’m sitting in the other room trying to answer an email and listening to them trying to figure it out.

“Look Mom, this place is at 45 degrees, east latitude and 130 degrees north longitude.”

(If it’s been a while since you’ve studied latitude and longitude,
here’s the skinny. Lines of latitude are horizontal. Lines of longitude
are vertical. However, and this is the confusing thing for most students, latitude lines, that run east and west, are measuring distance north and south.
Longitude lines, running north and south, are measuring distance east and west.)

Being the latitude and longitude superhero that I am, I burst through the door with my cape gently flapping in the breeze.

“M, you’ve got those backwards. It’s 45 degrees NORTH latitude and 130 degrees EAST longitude.”

But I wasn’t prepared for the sucker punch.

“Dad, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Have you really ever taught this before?”

Instantly I was transformed from superhero to mild-mannered shoeshine boy and a tiny little voice began to whisper...

“You’re either just too sensitive or you really are doing it wrong and just can’t admit that your child is way smarter than you are. Maybe if you had raised your child right you wouldn’t be having these problems. Perhaps you should just let your child be the tutor…maybe you’ll learn something. Go on…”