The school year was coming to an end and we freshmen had mastered the art of all tasks set before us. Mr. Jackson, our mentor, teacher, hero, and sometimes friend, had taught us well the arts of wood work, lawnmower repair, welding, and a thing or two about electricity. It was just another day to kill as the academic year came to a close for the summer.

That was until Bobby set himself on fire. The excitement meter took a noticeable tick upwards when someone noticed the smell of burning cotton and flesh. The odd thing was that Bobby was completely engrossed in his mission. He was sitting on the very top step, which we had been taught was no step at all, of a 10-foot step ladder with his arms entangled in roofing rebar while welding something. We never knew what he was welding.  

With the right sleeve of his new FFA (Future Farmers of America) jacket ablaze, he continued to weld. We talked it over for a few minutes. Should we tell him or let him figure it out?  After a moment in a high-level conference, we decided to tell him. Bobby is on fire; we are silently watching and nobody has said a word. These are the moments in life that a camera would have come in handy.  

All at once the entire class began screaming at Bobby. A cacophony of 9th grade voices erupted without a single intelligible word to be heard. Without looking up, and with full attention to whatever he was welding, Bobby began to scream back! Something about a scream muffled behind a welding mask that leaves a humorous, non-descript, kind of noise.  

We screamed louder and so did Bobby. About the time we began to smell burning flesh Bobby caught on to the urgency of the situation. He lifted the welding helmet and began flapping his burning arm like he was trying to take flight! At this moment someone said something about stop drop and roll. Did I mention he was sitting 10 feet from a concrete floor?  

With Bobby flapping a burning wing 10 feet above us, I thought of the fire extinguisher. We had learned all about the tools in the shop. I knew about the drill press, the names of all the hand tools and how to use them. We could all rip a board, weld a bead, and start a dead mower. But nobody taught us how to use a fire extinguisher.  

As I fumbled with the fire extinguisher, that seemed to be permanently attached to the concrete block wall, I saw some instructions. At this point Bobby is on fire, half the class is laughing, for the first time in my life I read the instructions.  

By this time, the right sleeve on the FFA jacket is toast; burned toast. Bobby realizes the flapping is only making things worse and begins to try to get off the ladder. Just as he gets into position to descend the ladder, or take full flight, I pull the pin on the fire extinguisher.  It never occurred to me that the proximity of the extinguisher to the fire is an important factor. Running across the shop with the extinguisher spewing a white cloud of gray-white fire putter-outter, I finally made it to Bobby. Now I could have used less than the full charge in the extinguisher … But why would I?

With a class of 9th-grade boys covered in fire putter-outter, Bobby lying in a scorched daze on the floor, we made an important discovery. He was using an acetylene torch to weld!  In the excitement he had dropped the torch without shutting off the valves! The only thing in that room that would burn at that point was, and it was aimed at two H cylinders filled with oxygen and highly explosive acetylene gas! 

Had that torch ignited that tank we would have lost the shop, the lunchroom, and the very brain trust of the class of 1978.

Sometimes we can get so engrossed in the urgent that we forget the important. When we neglect the important to tend to the urgent long enough, the important will become urgent. When that happens, it is too late.  

In the clamor of our culture, does anyone know how much the federal debt is? Maybe we are just too distracted by our divisions to see what is really important.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

There is nothing like a good road trip. The thrill of hitting the highway with no destination in mind is something like a rite of passage in America.

Recently I met two young ladies who took a senior road trip to Tennessee. That sounds pretty tame, and that is exactly what they wanted their parents to think. They indeed took a road trip to Tennessee and stayed every night there. 

However, each day they hit the road. They went to Chicago, Indianapolis, Asheville, St. Louis, and points beyond. And they spent each night in Tennessee. I don’t remember their names, but I love them!

Last summer, my wife and I took out oldest grand on a trip out west. We drove from Atlanta to San Francisco to Yellowstone and back. We drove either 7,425 miles or 7,245 miles. 

It was epic! 

We towed our camper the entire way so we were never without a place to sleep; albeit a truck stop or rest area had to do a few nights. I just love a good truck stop.

As thrilling as the drive is, a traffic jam is as frustrating. While driving through Arkansas on I-40 we ran into a traffic jam. At once I switched on my trusty CB radio. Yes, I have a CB, and my “handle” is the Deputy Dog. 

Talking to truckers has always been a thrill, too. Trees had been blown across the highway and a parade of traffic waited on highway workers to clear them away. It was raining and dark.  

Which brings me to the point of my thought. An internet search confirmed that in 2022, 118 police officers died in the line of duty. In that same period, 96 firefighters lost their lives in the line of duty. The loss of a single life is tragic. It may be even more tragic when we realize they died doing something for other people.  

Another internet search gave graphics for deaths of highway workers. 

The latest year reporting a complete year is 2021. In that year alone, 1,253 highway workers died in the line of duty. An additional 25,830 were injured badly enough to cause a loss of work time. These numbers reflect only those killed or injured due to traffic accidents. Who knew?  

As I drive the highways and back roads of our country, I regularly see workers risking their lives to pick up our trash, fill a pothole, mow the medians and other road construction. I also notice that few people slow down unless there are blue lights flashing. 

Every person filling a pothole, putting up Christmas decorations, or repairing a street sign, is someone’s son or daughter, father or mother, husband or wife.

Give them a brake. For the sake of someone’s family please slow down. 

The road trip will be much better when we all get home safely.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

Tomorrow, we will turn the page on the calendar and begin a new year.

Funny, the year is new but I just don’t feel it. It may be a new year but my body reminds me that no matter how new the year, the equipment is still a 1960 model.

Time seems to be accelerating at an alarming rate. Is it possible that the earth is actually moving more rapidly around the sun that it did when we were in grade school?

We set up the Christmas tree and as soon as the house is well decorated, the tree is at the curb awaiting pick up by the street department. Seasons are passing so quickly that we don’t even get tired of one before the next is upon us. Every day we live, there are fewer people on earth older than us, and more people younger than us  That was just to cheer us up a bit.

Several years ago, I read a book entitled, “The Last Lecture” by Randy Pausch. Randy was a professor at Carnegie-Mellon University. As a young man, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and was given a short time to life. His university has a tradition of asking a retiring professor to give one last lecture to the entire faculty and student body. Randy was not retiring in the traditional sense, however, his terminal illness meant that soon he would end his time in the classroom. The university invited him to give his final lecture.

If you can, please read the book. It is certainly not a great work of theology. It is, however, a great book as a person reflects on his life and offers some lessons he has learned. It is rich in reflective content.

We all have an expiration date. Some are fortunate enough to find out the general date a few months in advance. Twice I have been given an expiration date. When you are given that date you are also give the gift of clarity. When you get that date, the gutters don’t seem to matter much anymore. The second doughnut seems more logical. Friends seem dearer. There is no better mirror for a person’s true character than hearing an expiration date. How do you think you will react?

As we all face a new year with older bodies, let me challenge you to do a couple of things.  First, realize that all things are temporary. Only death is permanent. When we realize the transitory nature of all things, we can appreciate the good with more pleasure, and endure the bad with more grace since both are passing quickly.  

Spend more time with good friends and family. It is never too late to gain a good friend. Cherish the old ones while reaching new ones.

Don’t let work rule your life. Having stood with a thousand friends who were passing, none regretted taking a day off from work. Honestly, I can’t recall a single person say, “I wish I had spent more time at work.”

Find what you were created to do. Then do it with passion. Death is not the greatest tragedy. The greatest tragedy is dying without having ever really lived. I would hate to die having never done what I was created to do.

Love liberally. If we love the ones who love us, then we are really no better than the heathens. Even they love those who love them. However, when we love the ones that are a little hard to love, we grow rich.  

Be a friend to the poor. The Bible says when we give to the poor we are lending to God. I like that!

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

We cut our Christmas tree today. 

Denise, my bride of 41 years, and I made our annual pilgrimage to the Springfields’ Christmas Tree farm. Even when we lived in Atlanta, we always made the trip back to Springfield’s to cut our tree. I always let our two children ride in the back of my old red Chevy, Fred. That was the only time they were allowed to ride on the tailgate and dangle their feet as I drove. 

Now, I’m not saying that I actually tried to throw them off, but at least once someone did in fact fall from the tailgate. When I was a kid, it was a rite of passage. Today it may be considered child endangerment. I think my father killed me a couple of times, but I’m not sure.

This time the trip was different. The trip was quiet. For the first time in 38 years, we cut the tree alone. It sounds odd to say we were alone, but together. 

That is how it felt. For the first time we had neither children nor grandchildren to share the experience. A few years ago, we had the whole family together for the annual event and even had pictures taken. I wonder if that will ever happen again.

Sometimes we take little things for granted until they are gone. Then we realize they were not little at all. Those little things were actually big things. Cutting the tree was a big thing to me back then. Maybe it is even bigger today.  

Denae, our daughter has left her raising and has an artificial tree. Pray for her.  \Jordan, our son, will probably roam the farm and find a sturdy cedar tree to cut. It is time for new traditions to begin. Those are big things.

The Christmas season is in full swing now.

Shopping centers have parking lots filled with cars. The checkout lines are all open taking people’s money as fast at they can hand it over. Radio stations are playing the sounds of Christmas.

Church choirs are rehearsing for the biggest show of the year. Children practice their parts as Mary, Joseph, or maybe an angel or wise man. Soon all these children will don bathrobes for tunics and towels for turbans and recite well memorized lines from Scripture. All these are big things.    

At Christmas we celebrate the biggest thing in history. I believe that an infinitely great and powerful God, the uncreated One, humbled Himself, and punctuated history by becoming a human. Not a powerful man of great stature; but a baby, born in the humblest of circumstances. That was a big thing.

Right now, Denise is doing one of the things she does best. She is making the home explode with Christmas. Before dark, every corner will proclaim the glory of the Christmas season. That is a big thing.

Statistics inform us that during the Holiday season the number of suicides increase. It is easy to see why. Each year we mark another year has passed and we are a year older. 

Each year brings the loss of some we love and new additions that we have come to love.  Christmas and New Year’s is a way of measuring the change that has taken place over the year. But the very message of Christmas is one of hope. That is a big thing.

My hope for you this Christmas season is that you enjoy the little things because they will soon be big; and that in the midst of the commercial Christmas you find the hope of the real Christmas. 

 That is the biggest thing.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

I finished my master’s degree from New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary in 1987. In 2003, I finished my doctorate in education from the same. Along the way I earned all the hours for an Ed,S, at the University of Alabama and a doctorate in ministry as well. All that just means that I am a slow learner and went to school way too much to still be functionally useless.

Along the way I have had many professors. None of them can stand in the shadow of the great one: Dr. C.C. Randall. Though he stood barely 5-foot-5 he was a giant. No professor could measure him in heart or passion.

One day, in a required class, Dr. Randall took a tangent in his lecture. He often did this and these were his greatest lessons and this was the greatest of all. In the midst of his lecture, he paused and waved his arm like a machine gun over the entire large class. Then he said, “Let me tell you all something! You leave football out of the pulpit.

“Your passion for your team may be the very thing that turns someone from making the most important decision in life.”

Sitting front and center, right in front of Dr. Randall, was a large man who frequently slept during class. He woke from his slumber just in time for this exchange. 

“Dr. Randall,” he said, “I don’t know where you are from, but I’m from Jackson, Miss. Now, you see, Jackson is a football town. We have Mississippi College, Jackson State, and each year Ole Miss & Southern Miss play their rivalry game in Jackson.

“Dr. Randall, I don’t know where you are from, but football belongs in the pulpit in Jackson, Mississippi.”

Dr. Randall stood beside the lectern and held it with his left hand, the lectern level with his left shoulder, and calmly replied, “You may be right. But for 22 years I was the Pastor at First Baptist Church of Tuscaloosa, Ala. We had six national championships those years and Bear Bryant frequented our worship services as did many of the players, most you know because they played in the NFL.

“Football doesn’t belong in the pulpit in First Baptist Church in Tuscaloosa, Ala.”  

In all my years of higher education, that was the only moment I stood to my feet and tearfully applauded.  

Dr. Randall never knew of social media. Had he known, he no doubt would have offered the same stern warning about parading any personal passion, politic, or agenda that would in any way cause someone to turn away from listening to a more important message. The truth that changes lives is more important than my team, my party, my opinion, even my rights.  

When someone finds a higher cause in life, then it is easy to sacrifice all other lesser agendas for the sake and purpose of that higher cause. I love to see people succeed.  I love to see people grow. I love to see people move from where they have been stuck for decades and find a new place in life. In short, that is my life purpose: helping people find a better way.

I hope that my social media footprint doesn’t have enough evidence to convict me of being either Democrat or Republican; Auburn or Alabama fan; or any other that would keep you from finding a better way.  

Purposeful sacrifice of the expression of my personal opinion is a small price to pay for you to have a full and meaningful life. The great one might have said something like that. 

Thank you, Dr. Randall.  

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

My grandfather had a dug well beside his home with a concrete pipe fitted vertically atop.  On top of the concrete pipe, that was about three feet in diameter and stood about as high, rested a wooden lid. 

Some of my earliest memories are of being warned about that well. Rightfully, my parents and grandparents worried about their firstborn removing the sophisticated lid and falling into the well. The more they warned, the more desirable the well became.  

For reasons embedded in nothing but fear of my father, I never removed the lid on that well. However, on the side of that pipe was a hole just big enough to fit a hickory nut through. As fate would have it, a stately hickory tree stood at the corner of the drive and Patterson Street. If I couldn’t get into the well from the top, I could by the side entrance.

I found a strange delight in dropping a hickory nut into the well then quickly putting my ear against the hole to hear that unique sound when it plopped into the water. The well shaft added a resonance factor that was delightful. It sounded something like “kaluuugee.” Vibrations then echoed in the well shaft for almost a full second.  

Once my hobby was discovered, I was reprimanded and told to stop. Something about that sound made the fear of bodily harm diminish. When I ran out of hickory nuts, I used anything that would fit into the hole.  

For reasons that I don’t remember and can’t fathom, my grandfather favored that well water for his ice tea over the freshly plumbed city water. Vividly I remember him towering on the side porch with a freshly drawn bucket of well water for his tea. He looked down at me and asked, “Boy, have you been putting “hickernuts” in the well again?”  

There I stood; a guilty soul without a word of defense. Well I remember thinking of what to say. Then my grandfather lowered the bucket of water to my eye level. Floating on the surface was a family of hickory nuts, and the distinctive stick that had formerly supported a sucker given at the drive thru at Marshall-DeKalb electric cooperative. Busted.

In that moment I learned a fundamental truth in life. What’s in the well, comes up in the bucket. That truth is consistent with hickory nuts as well as attitudes and values.

Sometimes adversities in life force us to see ourselves as we really are. At best, we only think we know how we will react in a given circumstance. We THINK we know how we will react when the phone call comes that changed our lives forever. We THINK we know how we will react when the doctor gives us an expiration date on our lives. But when the call comes, when the doctor walks into your room, then and only then do we KNOW what is in the bucket.

What comes up in the bucket is a direct reflection of what we have put in it. If we pour good stuff into the wellspring of our hearts, then that is what the bucket of adversity will bring up. If we pour bitterness, hate, and greed into the same wellspring, then that is what the bucket of adversity will bring up.  

The problem is that we never know when the bucket will be lowered. Once the bucket falls the time for adding to the well has passed. 

What will you find in your bucket?

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

High atop Lookout Mountain, above Fort Payne, cradled in hardwoods, hides Camp Comer.

Most of her alumni just call her “Comer.” She isn’t visible from the main road that travels along the ridgeline of Lookout Mountain. However, if you turn off the county road and pass beneath the silver archway to good camping, after driving a winding downward road, you will find her. She is the keeper of many of my favorite childhood memories.

I am an Eagle Scout.

During my career as a Scout, I earned every badge between Bobcat and Eagle. You might say that Scouting was an early love of mine. Boys who were faithful Scouts usually fall victim to two powerful smells: gasoline and perfume. Those two powerful aromas usually punctuate the end of a promising Scouting life.

For more summers than I can count, Comer was my home for one week. During that week, Scouts from all around Alabama and beyond, converged on Comer. We worked on merit badges designed to give us working competency in things like power boating, archery, shooting, leatherwork, first aid, and more than I can possibly list.

It was awesome! One week free of parents. One week set almost-loose in nature. One week of camping like our pioneer ancestors did. One week of bathing optional. One glorious week in the year when a boy was allowed to just be a boy. I miss those days.

In my possessions is a small red leather chest, trimmed in black. It looks like it might hold the treasures of Black Beard. Instead, it holds my treasures.

Inside you will find all those accomplishments from the days of scouting. You will find my Philmont patch from 1975. Led By Jonathan Medlock from Arab, we took the longest itinerary in Philmont history. A part of me still hikes the trails at Philmont. That was 10 days in the New Mexico Rockies with boys from across north Alabama, who all just wanted a walk in the wilderness.

I miss the wilderness.

I miss the feeling you have when you wake from a night’s sleep on nothing but mother earth. I miss the smoke from the fire that always follows you no matter where you sit. I miss sitting around a camp fire on a cold night with friends, letting the fire warm our boots.

Do I miss the wilderness? Or do I just miss me?

Fall has arrived and with it the call of the mountains. My annual reading of Washington Irving’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” will soon mark the official beginning of fall for me.

Once each year I make a pilgrimage back to Camp Comer. I walk the paths that connect campgrounds. I walk beside rock formations from which I used to jump. I peer into the dining hall where so many bad meals were served and just as many gallons of watered-down Kool-Aid were guzzled. And there I remember.

I remember a verse that goes something like this: “Across the fields of yesterday he sometimes comes to me; the little boy just back from play; the man I used to be.”

I wonder if the 12-year-old Aaron would be disappointed in the 63-year-old version. Oh, how I wish I could talk to that kid! There is so much about life that I would tell him.

I can’t talk to the 12-year-old me. However, I can talk to another 12-year-old. He needs to hear the same things that I needed to hear when I was 12.

We all have a debt. We owe a debt to the next generation that we were given by all those people who made us who we are today. I pay my debts.

To all the teachers, coaches, scout masters, volunteers, Sunday School teachers and all the rest who tolerated the 12-year-old me, who poured into me, thank you.

I will be faithful with the debt.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

Several years ago, my organization was in search of a key leader. We appointed a search team and commissioned them to find the right person for t he job. After several months of searching, they reported they had found what we were looking for.

Before taking another step, I made an appointment to meet him and his family. We picked a suitable time and location for a friendly visit, just to get to know each other. The visit went well and we eventually brought him onto our team. What I remember best about that night was the visit I had with his son who was about 10 years old.

While sitting at a restaurant table in Birmingham, I asked his son the same thing I ask everyone regardless of age. “What do you want to do when you grow up?” He looked up at me for the first time.

He had been transfixed on his phone until this moment. With one eye closed and a skewed smirk he said, “I want to be a YouTube star.” That was a new term for me, though I knew about YouTube.

The next question seemed perfectly logical to me. I asked, “What do you want to do in your videos?”

Once again, he looked up at me with a face that resembled Popeye and said, “Fishing!”

Then he shook his head like I must be the dumbest person on the planet. It was like every person on earth should have automatically known that all 10-year-old kids wanted to be YouTube famous for fishing.

Since then, I have learned a lot about being famous on social media. Just this week I was notified by someone who keep score on such things, that I was a rising influencer! Wow!
Now the question is, “what is an influencer?”

An “influencer” is someone who has a following on social media large enough that advertisers will actually pay them to put ads on their social media platform. I think.

So here I am, a rising influencer who has no clue what that really means.

Author and motivational speaker John Maxwell defines leadership as influence. With that as a working definition one might see that those having a social media footprint influencing others are thereby actually leaders.

I firmly believe that we all have a circle of influence.

It may be as small as our spouse, but in that tiny circle we have influence. It would be easy to neglect the smaller circles of influence in the pursuit of the larger circles of influence.

The trouble is the smaller circles are the most important ones. Those small circles called wife, husband, son, daughter, parents, all have more lasting influence on us that those large circles noticed by faceless algorithms on a computer somewhere in a cloud.

I don’t understand the cloud, either.

Here is my point; small circles are more valuable than all the big circles combined.
What real profit do you have if you have 1 million followers but lose those closest to you?

Success is rarely enjoyed alone.

I have never made a penny from my writing. And that is exactly what it is worth too!

Really, I had to say it before you did.

The point of my writing is indeed to influence the reader. But I have no book to sell, no talent to market, no profit to make in all these words. Yet each week I try to write.

I write not for profit, but for encouragement. It thrills me to see someone figure out their purpose in life, then enjoy the benefit of doing what he or she was created to do.

I mean it really thrills me! And when we are fully engaged in our purpose, and walking in our gifting, we have influence.

So, to all my fellow influencers out there; seize this day! Just be the best you there ever was and in doing so, you will find your influence.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

Every small town had one.

In my hometown of Boaz, it was the Dipsy Dip. In Albertville, it was Frank’s Variety store. In Sardis, it was the Lion’s Den. You know the place; the one with the best burger on Earth.

Since the Dipsy Dip closed in about 1980, I have been on a global quest for the best hamburger on Earth.

Wherever I have traveled, the scenery has been secondary to finding that hamburger.
From Anchorage to Key West, and from San Diego to Portland, the quest has been the same. I feel it almost a divine obligation to discover the world’s best burger. Humanity needs to know where the truly best burger can be found. As serious as any explorer in history was, so too was I. As passionately as DeSoto looked for the fountain of youth, I have looked for that burger.

From time to time, I thought I had found it. Once, in Flagstaff, Ariz. I ate at a restaurant beside the railroad tracks called Altitudes. It was good. But I might have just been hungry. Three times I have eaten there and never have I been disappointed. However, none every measured up to the special at Frank’s, or the Texas burger at the Lion’s Den, or the big burger at Dipsy Dip.

No matter how good any burger was there was always something missing.

Then, it happened. As these kinds of things usually do, it came unexpectedly, without warning, it was just there. Denise and I were in Hollywood and lunch time came around. If you have been to Hollywood, you know there are few choices for lunch.

At this point the reader might want to know that the Hollywood I am speaking of is the original Hollywood in Jackson County, Ala. You will find Hollywood on U.S. Highway 72 just east of Scottsboro.

Just off the beaten path of Highway 72 sits an old store called “Shorty’s.” I don’t know if the owner is short, and I don’t mean any insult to anyone vertically challenged. That was just the name of the old store.

Four gas pumps stood like silent sentinels out front. The old brick building was weathered and welcoming. There were no claims about the quality of the food or how many billions they had served.

There was nothing more than a sign on the side of the building announcing the name of the place.

We walked in to find ourselves a classic burger joint. Chip and Joanna have never been to Shorty’s and you won’t find it featured in Southern Living. The room was large, well lit, with wooden floors, and mismatched tables and chairs. It was a place where good food was made for good southern folks by good southern folks.

We placed our order at the counter. I always ask the same question, “How is your burger?” And without fail they always claim it is the best one around. With a smile on my face and doubt in my heart, I ordered a burger.

The petite lady behind the counter looked up and asked, “Large or regular?” Offended I asked, “Do I look like I want a regular anything?” She laughed and wrote down “LARGE.”

My smile was back.

In short order the smiling waitress brought out our food. After the first bite I know I heard the sounds of harps and angel voices. Heaven opened that day in Hollywood, Ala.

Just off Highway 72, not far from my home in Guntersville, I found the best hamburger on Earth.

It didn’t come with special sauce, unless ketchup qualifies. Lettuce, tomato, onion, ketchup, and half a pound of USDA-inspected ground beef between two soft hamburger buns caused a seismic shift in my life. The food was simple, high quality, and served with a dash of southern hospitality.

Who knew heaven was in Jackson County, Ala.?

Simple is always better than complicated. Shorty’s is simple, kind, and good.

Sounds like a good motto for life to me.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

While in college, I took a Psychology course called “Experimental Methods.”  As I recall it was a senior level course and required for my degree.  The course was dedicated to teaching the student how to develop a technique for conducting scientific inquiry.  The goal was to produce data that was reliable, not corrupted by variables.

The professor taught us how to identify dependent and independent variables.  He taught us techniques of blind and double-blind experiments using human participants.  He taught us the qualifications required to have reliable, or repeatable, statistics.  

We learned how to look at things objectively, without what he called rater bias.  A pure experiment is conducted by someone with no agenda other than true and pure discovery of a reliable cause and effect.

The same was the practice in Biology, my other field of study.  When pursuing discovery in Biology, the researcher uses proven and reliable scientific methods.  One of these is the Petry dish.  

The dish is a shallow clear plastic disc, filled about halfway with a medium that simulates a living being.  The dish also has a clear plastic top.

Matter, such as bacteria or a virus, is introduced into the red gelatin substance in the dish and allowed time to grow.  In time, the growth can be examined under the strength of a microscope.  A trained scientist can identify the outgrowth and there by determine biological characteristics that will reoccur in a living host.  

Right now, we are living in a societal Petry dish.  Right now, we can look at cause and effect in cities like Portland, Seattle, San Francisco, Chicago and other large municipalities.  We can all learn from their policies.  

The simple question is; “do their policies work?”  The reader can make up his or her own mind about that.  

I know my mind is made up.

I am a son of the south.  I am an Alabamian from the early 1800’s.  Before the treaty with the Cherokee nation was settled, my ancestors were already here.  

If you are more Alabamian than me, then you are a Native American.  

I love my home state.  And apparently so do a lot of other people from those cities I just mentioned.  

It amazes me how many people are leaving those very cities and settling right here in the heart of Dixie.  Those of us who call Alabama home have known it for many years.  However, word is getting out.  

Maybe it is time to build a wall just north of Tennessee.

One hundred percent of the good people who have moved here from those cities tell me they came for a better life.  People are looking for systems that work; lower crime and costs of living.  That sounds to me like our Petry dish is growing better things that those of Chicago, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle.  

I hope our elected officials will take a moment and do some scientific inquiry into the success or failures of policies in those big and formerly desirable cities.  

We don’t need to be more like them.  We just need to be more like us.

So, cheer for the Dawgs, the Tigers, or the Tide.  And put a little South in your mouth; and please, don’t tell us how you did it in Cleveland.  

You folks can’t drive on ice either.

Today Denise and I drove to Kennesaw, Ga., for a band concert. I’m not a big fan of any specific genre of music. The idea of a band concert really has about as much appeal to me as a Yugo. That begs the question, why? Why would we drive 250 miles, round trip, to hear a band perform a 15-minute concert?

Grandchildren!

Our oldest, Lydia, is in the sixth grade and has chosen to play in the band. She is already a competitive swimmer. Her choice to play in the band thrills me as much as her swimming. And to make the whole package even better; she is in the percussion section! During the days of parenting her mother, Denae, I often dreamed of these days. I encourage Lydia to practice as much and as loud as possible; at least when she is home.

As of today’s performance, she is playing the xylophone. Yep, spell check had to help me on that one. And, as far as a first three weeks, first year xylophone player, she rocked!! I had no idea how riveting “Soft Kitty” could be.

I have heard it said that country music is three chords and the truth. I don’t know about that. However, five notes on a xylophone can be arranged into several memorable tunes.
We heard flutes, clarinets, drums, saxophones, and some other instruments I can’t name.

The performance was excellent. Never have five notes been played so well or delighted a Pop so much, as did they today.

Every stellar instrumentalist began somewhere. Maybe he or she started in sixth grade band. I wonder how many of our favorite songs from our collective lives would not exist had it not been for sixth grade band. If any reader can answer that
please let me know.

Five notes. Just five notes played well can be beautiful. Five notes can produce a thousand songs. Five notes played well could produce a hit single, a YouTube sensation, or a tune to make a Pop shed a tear.

Have you found your five notes? It is a tragedy that so many people die with music left in them; not the music made with instruments. I’m talking about the music that a life well-lived plays. Each life is an instrument. We all have a season to learn to play it and some learn to play well. Others neglect the gifts that God has given and never find their five notes.

Some look with envy on others who play their lives so well and grow jealous, envious, even bitter. Others dance to a different drummer, play their own notes, and make us smile, laugh, or weep. Are you even looking for your five notes?

I hope when I get to heaven, this body has played the last note it had in it. I hope I have cheered on those who are struggling, championed the cause of the voiceless, and maybe stood up to some bullies. When we learn to play our five notes well, we get to learn more. Five notes for a beginner is good. For a seasoned old man like me though, I need to know them all.

Discover your purpose. Live your passion. Find those five notes. Play them with excellence. And when you do, the world will notice.

Who knows? You might just be asked to be in a band.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

Lagniappe is word used often in and around New Orleans.

The simple definition is, “something a little extra.” In other words when you get a dessert added to your meal at no additional charge, that is lagniappe. When we get a little value added to the agreement, we get a little lagniappe.

A friend who owns a successful business once told me that he wanted his company to under promise and over deliver. I suppose that too would be a little lagniappe.

We don’t get much more than we bargained for these days. In fact, we rarely get what was promised. Outside of my faith and my marriage, I can’t think of anything else in my life that has given me more than I bargained for.

I often wonder about politicians and what they are supposed to do.

They manage the cash flow of an economy. They promote the general welfare of the people, provide for the common defense, and secure the avenue to pursue personal liberties while not infringing on those of others.

At least I think that is what they are supposed to do. And they are paid very well to accomplish these things.

An acquaintance once told me that nothing mattered to him in national politics other than bringing home the money. He wanted his next Senator and Representative to do nothing more and nothing less than bring money back to their constituents.

He didn’t seem to grasp what a 20 trillion-dollar deficit means.

When it comes to our elected officials, are we getting what we paid for? Our president has taken almost exactly 365 days of vacation in less than three years.

Before we cast any stones at him, we might need to find out how many days our own elected senators and representatives have taken off and who paid the tab.

When I miss one Sunday people think I’m away too much. When I am on vacation the whole world knows it. I wonder about our representatives in Washington.

Our elected officials at the state level are close to home. They exist under the watchful eye of their constituents. Washington, D.C., is long way from Sand Mountain. I have no idea how many days off any of my elected representatives in Washington have taken. For all I know they are off more than the president. Little accountability exists for our elected employees who are far removed from the watchful eyes of the local press and constituents.

Maybe we receive no lagniappe because we no longer expect any.

The job market is such that employers are willing to lower standards just to get people in an open job.

Our expectations lower as does the performance.

I want to elect people who will give us a little lagniappe. I really feel that we should expect more from our elected employees, not less. I want my elected employees to under promise and over deliver. I want a little lagniappe from Washington.

Come to think of it, I need to expect a little more from myself. If I expect more from our elected employees, then others have the right to expect a little lagniappe from me.

The purpose of life is really quite simple.

Our life’s purpose is to know our Creator, then spend the rest of our lives adding value to the lives of others. I may not know what elected employees are supposed to do, but I know what I am supposed to do.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

This morning I stopped at a local McDonald’s for breakfast.

As usual I take a table near the back of the dining room to have breakfast and read. In front of my table was an exit and two trash receptacles logically located.

As I read, I noticed a young man, no older than early 20s enter the dining area. He was appropriately dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, and an unbuttoned flannel shirt. His jeans were firmly cinched just below his plaid boxer shorts. He had a thick full beard and well-kept bushy hair. I only noticed him because of his jeans. I had no idea how he kept them on, or why he intentionally wore them low enough for me to see all of his under britches.

As he entered the restaurant, he didn’t make his way to the counter to order. Instead, he opened the doors of the trash, stooped down, and removed one of the plastic trash cans. He then rummaged through the trash and found two large plastic cups. He took them from the trash, replaced the can, closed the door, then proceeded to fill each cup with Coke, put lids and straws in each, then walked out.

It happened so quickly and with such rehearsed precision, that I didn’t know what to do, say, or think. Stunned I sat there for a moment. After a moment, I stood to see where he had gone. He had disappeared.

Still in a bit of shock I walked to the counter. The manager made eye contact with me and she immediately knew something was amiss. With a concerned look she asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No ma’am”, I replied. Then I said, “There is nothing you can do about this, and I am not complaining.”

Then I told her what had taken place.

She shook her head and said, “That is disgusting. But they will do anything to keep from working. We have people who sit in the parking lot and beg for food in 96-degree heat.

“Every time I offer them a job, they leave. I even offer to pay them to pick up trash in the parking lot and they refuse. They would rather beg than work.”

Suddenly, I am more stunned with her comment than I am the trash cup bandit.

When the colonies were young, Captain John Smith is credited with saying, “If a man does not work, he shall not eat.” He said that in light of the fact that many of those who traveled to Jamestown had no idea how hard life was going to be. Gentlemen were refusing to do manual labor and yet ate from the stores of food brought from England. The problem with that is the storehouse will eventually be empty and people will starve.

A strong work ethic is the backbone of our nation. Our country was borne on the backs of strong men  and women who were not afraid to work.

My first job was mowing lawns in my neighborhood. Then, at 13, I landed a job at San Ann number 7 in Boaz. At San Ann I was paid $1.50 per hour and I earned every penny. Minimum wage was about $2 back then. My senior year in high school I worked at Piggly Wiggly in Boaz. I still have the check stubs that show that during that year I regularly worked over 50 hours each week.

I have had some pretty dirty jobs over the years. Few things in life feel better than finishing a hard job, walking away, and knowing you produced something of value.

A dear friend of mine, Ray Bice, used to say, “Do it like you were going to sign your name on it.” When I finish this life, I hope I will have done something well enough that I would be proud to have my name attached to it.

Come to think of it, Captain Smith borrowed that quote.

About 1,600 years earlier a man name Paul wrote a letter to some friends in Thessalonica and said the same thing.

Makes me think the Captain knew something of Paul’s writing.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

“Those People.”

We all walk with a limp.

The limp may be physical.

Worse yet, the limp may not be detectable to others. Your limp may be from a broken heart, a loss so deep you can’t express it, or just the collection of scars that life sometimes inflicts.

Time and again I hear church folks refer to “those people.” When they use that phrase, they mean people who have a different kind of limp. They refer to the unhoused, the addicted, the incarcerated, or any of a long list of people who are different in some way.

Below is a brief testimony of one of “those people.” She is different though. She is a stunning beauty.

She looks like your daughter. And she is my hero. I have known her most of her life. Her uncle is my brother-in-law and her father is a high school classmate. She is as close to family as she can be and not share DNA.

Here is her post from Aug. 12:

“…August 12th…

“May seem pretty insignificant to most.

“But, August 12th means a whole lot more to me.

“It is a day of celebration.

“It is a day of freedom.

“August 12th, 2010 – I got high for the very last time

“August 12th 2010 – I stuck a needle in my arm for the very last time

“August 12th 2010 – I went to jail (for an extended stay) for the very last time

“August 12th, 2010 was the day God intervened..

“August 12th, 2010 was the day God saved my life!!!

“August 12th, 2010 was •THIRTEEN• years ago!!

“If you knew me 13 years ago when I was living in addiction then you know what a marvelous work the Lord has done in my life!! 

“Today I celebrate 13 years of sobriety!! 

“Today I celebrate 13 years of freedom!!

“Today I celebrate because 

“HE DELIGHTS IN ME ?

“Sobriety is hard. So hard.

“But it CAN be sustained. It can be achieved.

“I am proof of that ?

“He delights in me, but He delights in you just as much ?”

Today, she is a successful real estate agent in Guntersville, a wife and mother of twins. 

She has faced and overcome cancer this past year. She is the picture of love and grace.

Maybe she shares a common story with you. Maybe you have a child in addiction. Maybe you are in addiction or recovery.  

I think we should all be able to admit that we are all in recovery of some kind. My limp is more socially acceptable that hers was. But it is still a limp.

At one time or another, we have all been one of “those people.”

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

For many years I was a runner. That was before the knee replacement surgery, the fifth on the same knee. During those years I made a practice of calmly calling out to the person in front of me before I passed them. “Comin’ ‘Round” was usually what I said. That warns the walker in front that they are about to be passed and prevents them from being shocked when I blew past at a blinding speed. Well, kinda.

Riding my bike I have always done the same thing. While most of my riding has been on the road, from time to time I find a perfect trail. Any biker will tell you that cars are the enemy of a good bike ride. Any chance to get off the road and on a paved path is a golden opportunity.

A few weeks ago I was riding on a path in Guntersville. The path is shared by walkers, runners, bikes, trikes, skate boarders, geese, ducks, and the occasional eagle. The path was sparsely populated that day and the day was a biker’s dream. Warm enough to make you sweat and cool enough to prevent death.

As I rode the path, and called out to the folks I was passing, I noticed a change. It is important to mention that it has been about five years since I was an avid rider. Things change. As I called out, nobody noticed.

I didn’t want their space on the path. I just wanted to warn them that I was about to pass and didn’t want to startle them. No matter how many I passed, not a single one acknowledged my passing. Not a single person waved, looked around, or shifted their gait.

Nothing.

At one point in the path, near the end of my ride, I passed the final person that day. It was a lady who was in a death march somewhere. She was focused and alone on the only stretch of the path that is not heavily used.

As was my custom, I called out “comin’ round” and she, like the rest did nothing; until I passed. As my person passed her, she gave birth.

Not literally mind you; figuratively. She lost her mind. She screamed, flailed her arms and made a move that I thought was anatomically impossible.

At that point my speed is pretty fast and she is becoming aware of the situation. I didn’t dare stop.

What would she have thought?

I finished my ride and she finished her walk, or was raptured. I felt badly, she was probably
embarrassed, and we both regretted the event.

What happened? Why had all those people ignored my call?

After finishing my ride, I sat and cooled down a bit. Then it dawned on me. Every person walking the path had little white plastic things dangling from each ear! They were unaware of their surroundings because they were listening to music, a podcast, or on a phone call.

A lot has changed in five years.

We are distracted.

Drivers are killing people on roadways because they are too distracted with phones and other devices. Earlier this week, I saw the driver of a semi-truck and trailer texting while driving. What is more important than being in the moment?

Is life so boring that we need a distraction from enjoying life?

Do surgeons perform operations while listening to AC/DC? Does the airline pilot sing karaoke while landing a 747 in a severe cross wind?

Come to think of it, I may have had both that surgeon and pilot.

Let me invite you to become aware of the life that is surrounding us. This moment in life is all we have, the next is only a hope and the last is only a memory.

Enjoy the music, sing the songs, listen to the podcasts, but don’t sacrifice the sacred moment we have.

Carpe Diem my friend! And enjoy the moment.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

The main reason old men get injured is because they think they are young men. That saying didn’t originate with me, but I don’t know who to give credit. Let’s just say it’s mine. The older I get the more truth I find in it. From time to time my body reminds me of this fact; like every time I think I am still 20.

The last year has been especially difficult for me physically. I was met with a round of radiation to overcome prostate cancer. After having had nine months of chemo with a previous cancer diagnosis, it was embarrassing to ring the bell at UAB when the last round of radiation was complete. Chemo makes radiation seem like a bump in the road. However, it is still not without significant side-effects.

Previous cancer surgeries left my body a perfect prospect for radiation. As the oncologist put it, “You don’t have anything left we can hurt.” I think he meant that to be comforting.

Oddly, it wasn’t.

For me the primary side-effect was fatigue. Fatigue would come at random times and without warning.

During the middle of doing something small, like taking out the garbage. It would come daily and visit as long as it liked. The past year has been one of waiting to feel good enough to actually do something that resembled a normal life.

With fatigue wearing away slowly, today was the day!

My wife, Denise, is in Kennesaw, Ga., taking care of three grands while our daughter begins her new job teaching for Cobb County. Alone and unsupervised I chose to go on a bike ride.
In days gone by, I rode my bike often and for long rides. Twice I rode over 100 miles in a day. And nobody was chasing me! Truth be told; I have put less than 10 miles on my new bike and it’s four years old. So, I did what anyone would do; I strapped my bike on the rack on my truck and drove to Jacksonville, Ala.

Did I mention that I was left unsupervised?

The Chief Ladiga trail stretches from Anniston to the Georgia state line between Piedmont and Cedartown. There it links with the Silver Comet trail and continues all the way to Smyrna, Ga. The total distance is just under 100 miles. This entire trail is paved and is the result of unused railways being donated for the purpose of recreation. This is one of the finest bike trails in the nation and we are fortunate to have it.

I did my undergrad degree at Jacksonville State and I dearly love the place. Each time I return it is a little different, but always the same somehow.

Parking at the campus puts you right at the trail, where it crosses Highway 204. From Jacksonville, Piedmont lies to the north and Anniston to the south. There are no stops between there and Piedmont.

However, the village of Weaver punctuates the trail just a few miles before you get to Anniston. Not wanting to push this ride too far, I opted for a leisurely ride to Anniston. Round trip would be something like 15 miles, I think.

The weather was perfect. Trees lining the trail gave shade for the ride and the kudzu along the side made me smile. I wondered about the chief whose name the trail bears. I wondered how long it had been since a train stopped at the Jacksonville depot. Today it is a visitor center and municipal offices. I wondered how many soldiers left small towns and road this path to Fort McClellan to prepare for war. I wondered how many of them never came back home.

Have I mentioned that I had not ridden a bike in over five years?

Have I mentioned the number one cause of injuries in old men?

Have I mentioned that I was unsupervised?

Did I mention that after four years away from riding my bike, 7½ miles felt like it was just over 200 miles to get from Jacksonville to Anniston?

It took 35 minutes to arrive at the trail head in Anniston. The terminus is in a park with beautiful old growth pecan trees; and no water.

Before I died, I thought I should let Denise know where to find my body. I sent a text and told her this might have been a mistake.

She only asked about Nola, our dog.

After a full 30 minutes of recovery, I again mounted the bike and headed back for Jacksonville. Another 200 miles lay ahead of me. Minus a 15-minute stop in Weaver for Gatorade, I made it back in another 35 minutes.

I won’t ever do another triathlon. But today was a start. If you aren’t making progress toward your goal, you are losing ground.

As I drove away from Jacksonville, I was happy that I came and vowed to return.

What is your Wildly Important Goal?

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

Back to school season is upon us. 

For some reason this season is special to me. School days were some of the best times during my growing up years. I never attended school for an academic pursuit. My sole purpose in school was what I choose to call “social enrichment.” But even those of us who attended for less than academic scholarship, getting supplied for school was an event.

The big purchase each fall was tennis shoes. There were only two choices back then. A kid could choose Keds or PF Flyers. 

The shoes were pretty much the same except for the rectangular label on the heel of the sole. Well, that and the cool gadget the company gave with each purchase. I well remember a secret spy code device that allowed the owner to send and decode messages to and from another kid with the same shoes.  

I usually picked PF Flyers because of their cool gift and because of their super cool slogan. The advertisement always said, “You can run faster and jump higher when you wear PF Flyers.”  

I was a thick kid with jeans from Sears & Roebuck because they were the only ones who carried “husky” jeans. The very sound of running faster and jumping higher was enough to entice a thick kid like me to pick the Flyers regardless of the cool gadget.

One year, before I was old enough to be in school, my parents bought me my first pair of Flyers. The day after the purchase my mother had dressed me and sat me on the couch with strict orders to remain there until she got my little brother, Michael, ready for departure. I well remember sitting there looking at these shoes that were certain to make me the fastest kid on the block.

Who was she to tell me to sit there and wait? I had PF Flyers! She couldn’t catch me!  

In an instant of foolish bravery, I jumped from the couch and dashed out of the house. I faintly remember hearing my mother shout my name. That move began a series of mistakes.  

My dad was home that morning. I was aware of that, but you had to remember, he had no PF Flyers!  

I could run faster and jump higher than anybody in town! As my foot stepped onto the grass off the porch, I heard my dad call my name.  

He was unaware of my new superhuman speed and my ability to defy gravity. In an instant, I chose to run from my dad.

The next mistake was running into the back yard. Our back yard was fenced, with a single gate. As I ran an arc in the yard, my dad stepped into the back yard and closed the gate.  

He casually took the time to stop by a shrub at the corner of the house and carefully select a healthy branch. He stripped the leaves off with one smooth strip, then turned his attention to his son, now making laps inside the fence.  

At this point in time, I learned a truth about advertising. PF Flyers lied.

My dad wrote the book on how to use a hickory. Like Indiana Jones, he directed me back into the house using nothing but a hickory switch. As I recall, the switch wore out about the time we cleared the threshold.    

Tearfully sitting on the same couch, I had earlier escaped, I made two decisions. One was that I would never believe another advertisement. The second, never again would I run from my father. 

And I didn’t.  

I still don’t believe all the advertisements. The right cologne won’t make me irresistible.  The right truck won’t last forever. And I still haven’t called Alexander Shunnarah. I have not seen a pair of PF Flyers in years and I think I know why.  

I was blessed to have a father who worked to provide and a mother who took care of us. When school starts next week, a lot of kids will go back without the network of support they need. That is where we come into the picture.  

Find out what you can do to make an impact on some kid who can’t afford a new pair of PF Flyers. 

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

In 1868, a small group of Methodists met beside a spring, not far from Rome, Ga. They gathered from several local churches and cleared the brush and made a “Brush Arbor.”

That term is largely lost to history and understood by only the oldest of us. It is simply a place where the brush is cleared out between the trees, and the clearing is used for a place to worship.

Families began gathering for an annual worship event at the Arbor that lasted all week. That small gathering of Christians called the place, the Morrison Campground. This week descendants from those first families, and any others who desire, still gather at the same place for the same purpose.

Every person is welcome. Every denomination is welcome. Every tradition is welcome.

For some it is a needed vacation from work. For others it is a family reunion. For many it is a tradition passed down since 1868. However, each person will tell you the center of the event is the Arbor. The place of meeting for worship.

The arbor is now a large open pavilion with a concrete floor and slatted pews. The roof is steep and old. Until recently it retained the cedar shaker roof. Memories live beneath the Arbor.

Beyond the place of meeting, family units still gather just as they did in 1868. Basic block cabins now line the square around the special place of meeting. Each cabin has a story of its own; as does the family who dwell there one week each year.

The location of the campground prevents internet and phone connections from being available. So, the children play today much like they did in 1868. They play every manner of sports that can be imagined. The highlight of the event for the children is the playing in the spring across the road.

Without the distractions of the phone, internet, and other devices, relationships are forged that will last a lifetime.

I like simple.

Last night, I had the honor of speaking at the annual camp meeting. We have visited this annual gathering as often as we have been able for almost thirty years. The privilege of speaking was truly an honor for me.

With no padded pews, no hundred-thousand-dollar sound system, no video equipment, no screen or projector, no carpet, no pipe organ, no suit or tie, no air-conditioning, and no walls; someone rang a dinner bell, the families converged on the place of meeting, and we worshipped.

It was simple. I like simple.

After 40 years of ministry, I have come to the conclusion that much of what we do at church today is more of a distraction than an act of obedience. A few years ago, I stepped away from the traditional church model and waited to see what God was going to do with me.

Today I lead a group of precious people from 11 denominations. Last Sunday I told the gathered congregation, “We are a group of souls from 11 different denominations and a handful of heathens.” We do simple church. Truth is, I am a lot like a mule in the Kentucky Derby; no show.

I like simple.

I am not an entertainer. I guess I am just a speaker who loves people. And I love to see people set free. And I will spend the rest of my life seeking opportunities to use what few gifts I have to set people free. That is simple.

Have I mentioned that I like simple?

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

The past couple of years have been hard on a lot of people.

During this time of pandemic, I lost an uncle, and a brother-in-law to COVID and I did 22 funerals for friends who lost their lives due to COVID.

This season in our lives also saw businesses have challenges that this generation had never seen. Until the pandemic, few of us ever had any concern about computer chips or supply chains. Prior to COVID, if you wanted a new car or truck, you just went to the dealer and picked it out.

That all changed for a while after COVID. In fact, until very recently, no matter how much money you had, you could not purchase exactly what you wanted in a vehicle.

Perhaps those hit hardest were the small-town businesses; the businesses that once made Main Street what it was. These are the men and women who built what we now know as the United States.

We have months and days of recognition for most everything under the sun. I want to suggest we have a “Small Business Month.”

The entrepreneur is the one who dares take the risk to build something from nothing. The entrepreneur begins with an idea and most of the time with debt. The small business owner doesn’t get paid to take off for holidays.

They don’t know the comfort of having a check delivered to their account the same day each month. They don’t get vacation, sick leave, maternity leave, paid holidays, days off, or a match on their Social Security. The small business owner works on days he is sick, when an employee would have the luxury to call in sick.

When I was in high school, I worked a number of different jobs. The first real job, beyond mowing lawns, was at San Ann No. 7 in Boaz, Ala. I worked my way up to Piggly Wiggly, Paragon Decors, and RC Cola. Each and every one was owned locally by men and women who took the risk to build something. Their risk paid my salary.

Recently I came across a small plastic box. The box was designed to hold small index cards in a horizontal position. As soon as I saw it I smiled and remembered what was inside.

There, curled and stacked in order, were all my pay stubs from 1978. I worked 60 hours some weeks at Piggly Wiggly during my senior year. I was, and am, grateful for the opportunity I was given.

When parents deny their children the opportunity to work, they deny them the opportunity to build self-worth. We are seeing the evidence of a generation that never learned to work.

I have watched it happen time and again with parents who have done well financially. They don’t teach little Johnny how to work. Then, when little Johnny gets his four-year degree, he crammed into six, that he can’t make a living with, he is given a job in the family business.

I am still waiting to see one of those situations work out well for both parent and child. Without a work ethic, who will create the jobs for the next generation?

For years I have wanted to start a ministry of encouragement to business owners. I wanted to call it “The Front of the Check Ministry.” That’s because if you sign the front of the check, you understand a great deal more than if you sign the back of the check. But I thought it might be kind of tasteless. You can let me know what you think.

My hat is off to all the men and women who work when sick, create jobs and opportunities; who support the local sports teams, pay for ads in school papers and year books; who generate a tax base for their communities; who stand between customer and supplier, OSHA and employee, the IRS and the loan at the bank. May your tribe and the spirit of entrepreneurship be passed on to the next generation.

Thank you for doing your part to make America great!

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

Wells is a dot on the map, located in the northeast corner of the state of Nevada. Wells is one of those towns that was bypassed when the new interstate system was build. That bypass left mom and pop cafes and motels mostly without customers.

At the exit were a couple of chain hotels; those known by numbers and not real names. Wells is a town that resembles a ghost town just before the ghosts show up.

We camped in a gravel lot with water and power connections in Wells last night. It was a place to park with absolutely nothing else to offer the traveler. I’d like to call it a campground but that would be an insult to all other campgrounds.

I walked down main street to take in some of the local color. Strewn down the main street were remnants of what used to be. The motel on the corner of 5th and Main was being reclaimed by nature day by day. A local told me that it was used in a movie long ago. Today it looked more like something Freddy Krueger would occupy.

Right across Main Street was a picture of vanishing Americana. The “Sharon Motel” still glistened like new. The doors were all painted a bright yellow with a matching yellow metal lawn chair stationed beside each door. The building was red brick with fresh white trim. These places draw me like a moth to a flame.

I walked over and entered the office. I knew it was the office because a blinking neon light in the window gave me the hint. The office was tiny, with room for no more than two people in front of the desk.

Immediately a young lady stepped from a door behind the desk. Her name was Janae. She was polite, and as adorable as the motel where she worked. She appeared to be in her early 20s.

After explaining that I was camped, or parked, across the street and just wanted to ask about the motel, she invited me to examine the rooms. She took me to two rooms – one room wasn’t enough. Each was as spotless inside as the motel was on the outside. The rooms on the north side were all patriotic in décor. The rooms were small, completely appointed, and all red, white, and blue.

She beamed with pride.

I asked about the occupancy and after explaining my question, she said, “We are usually turning down customers by 5 o’clock. You know, we are the highest rated Motel in Wells.”

Through the magic of the internet a traveler can motor down lonely I-80 and find this delightful gem. They have only 10 rooms, so you need to book early.

Janae is a local. She is one of those kids who grew up there and chose to stay there. She was proud of her little town and seemed content to live there. I asked her why this motel had thrived and three others were filled with ghosts. Janae explained that the owner had recently passed away.

However, until his death he lived there and took pride in his motel.

Did you see that?

He took pride in his motel. He took pride in what he did.

Pride has mostly vanished from the psyche of the American worker. With a resume in our back pocket, we are terminally looking for the next big thing. Loyalty to the employer who gave us our first chance is a forgotten commodity.

I have noticed that chain retailers that are owned and operated by a local always serve the customer better than those owned by someone in another time zone. Just ask the worker in the next Pizza Hut or McDonald’s who owns the restaurant. If the place is owned by a local it will give better service and product than one owned by a corporation somewhere else.

The corporation really doesn’t care about supporting the local sports teams.

I think it goes back to pride. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it to your utmost ability. People still notice a job well done. If you can’t take pride in what you do, then consider finding something in which you can.

I’m hometown proud.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

The summer of 1963 was pivotal in the development of my psyche. That summer my grandfather, Henry, purchased a new Ford station wagon. It was white with red interior.

His sister and her family lived in San Diego and for reasons that still evade me, they thought it would be a good idea to load up my parents, my aunt and uncle, along with grandparents and three-year-old Aaron and head to San Diego.

We must have looked like the Griswolds barreling down Route 66. We had a rooftop carrier filled with all we needed. Each night when we stopped the entire thing had to be unloaded, only to be reloaded the next morning.

With no air-conditioning, the warm breezes blew through the old wagon like an Oklahoma tornado.

You probably wonder how much of this a three-year-old can remember.

Obviously, I don’t recall every moment, but I vividly recall the Petrified Forrest, the Grand Canyon, Disneyland’s twirling cups and boats that plowed through dark blue water in a never-ending circle.

I remember crossing the border into Mexico one day and crossing Death Valley.

I remember the adults discussing the issue of raising the windows to see if it would be cooler. It wasn’t.

I remember my father and uncle encouraging my grandfather to attempt to win the free 72-ounce steak at The Big Texan in Amarillo.

Though the memories are scant, it marked me for life. I became an explorer at the age of 3.

This Sunday, Denise and I will set out on another adventure. We will head to San Francisco. We will make a loop up north and hit the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone on our way home. Every place we go, we have already been.

Why would we go back to where we have already been?

Because our 11-year-old granddaughter hasn’t been. We are taking Lydia Grace with us this time. This time we will see Yosemite, the Golden Gate bridge, and Old Faithful through new eyes that have never seen these sites.

My retirement account would look much different if we had not traveled as much as we have. But I believe my memory bank would be impoverished. The memories made and the places seen will last as long as my memory.

Travel has made my life rich.

Now I get to introduce the next generation to Route 66, our national parks, and The Big Texan.

My wife’s parents worked hard all their lives. Every paycheck saw savings come out the very first thing.

They saved fiercely and denied themselves things others would have readily purchased. They were saving for retirement and the adventures that awaited.

He announced his retirement and did all the needed paperwork to make his exit from Hayes’ Aircraft in Birmingham. For over 30 years, he and a group of riders drove roughly 130 miles round trip from Boaz to Birmingham every day.

Two days before his last day of work, he was riding in the passenger side of the front seat, when a dump truck, pulling a low-boy trailer, with a front-end loader, abruptly pulled in front of them. At 55 mph, they slammed into a heavily loaded trailer that didn’t budge. That began years of decline, punctuated with a stroke and eventually his passing.

The money they saved for travel was never used. Those trips in retirement were never taken.

Yes, my retirement would be better financially had we not traveled as much. But one day I will sit in our home and hold the hand of the bride of my youth and re-tell the stories of remember when.

All the great stories of my life begin the same way, “One day Denise and I were …”

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

The building is about 15 feet wide and maybe twice as long. Mirrors line the side walls almost from front to back, with a dozen chairs on the right side and four on the left.

The front wall is a full window beside an aging door made of a wooden frame and a single large window. A landmark stands like a sentinel directly in front with red and white strips that swirl around a cylinder standing on a vertical post.

Here is the final bastion of male masculinity.

For more than 60 years Colin Barnes has owned and operated the barber shop that bears his name. Many call it Barnes’, while a few know it as “Floyd’s.” That name has been earned due to the similarity between Guntersville and the fictional town of Mayberry, where Andy Taylor and Barney Fife kept the peace in black and white. And of course, Floyd kept the men in town well groomed.

That was a thing at one time.

My first haircut was at Johnson’s barber shop in my hometown of Boaz, Alabama. I was terrified. The pictures give silent testimony of my trauma. As I grew, I learned to love going to the shop.

There, men were allowed to just be men. Political correctness had not yet been invented and it would not have mattered anyway. The men talked about sports, work, church, and the weather.

Back then, a man could get a shave, with a straight razor, after having a hot damp towel twirled around his face. And no haircut was complete without the traditional warm shaving cream professionally applied around the neck and ears. A straight razor was then used to trim a flattop to perfection.

On a trip to Barnes’, when my son was about 4, he decided he wanted a flattop. I was thrilled. Without consulting with Mom, he got one of the best cuts of his life. When we came home my wife, his mother, cried. I thought it because of the cut. No, it was because he looked like a man.

There is a barber shop scene in a Clint Eastwood movie, “Gran Torino.” Eastwood’s character had taken a young man from next door under his wing. He intended to show this young man how to be a man. Of all the places he could have taken him for a laboratory in manliness, the barber shop was his choice.

He was right.

I can’t think of another place where men can just be men.

Most men wait their turn passing the time in relaxing conversation. Some men wait on their preferred barber, while the men like me just take the next available.

From time to time a lady will come to have her child’s hair cut and she is always welcomed. Men think nothing of the female in their midst. Everybody is welcome at the barber shop.

The last time I was there a lady came to the door with her son. Two men jumped up to open the door for her. I don’t think she was insulted.

I love the barber shop. It reminds me of a simpler time when crime was low and respect was high; a time when men opened doors for a woman even if he didn’t know her. I miss those days.

I’m glad my father took me to Mr. Johnson’s barber shop. I saw men in their natural habitat. Each trip brought a new tribe of men. And not once in my life do I recall a word of profanity spoken or a vile joke told. The barber shop is a good learning lab for any young man.

At this time in history, we are dangerously deprived of high-quality models for men. The barber shop was always populated with good men, men who work hard, pay their bills, and help each other out when needed. Those sound like good qualities to me.

This Father’s day, maybe you could take a kid to the barber shop.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.

Vacation Bible School will kick off in churches across the nation this week. This annual event has become so engrained in the psyche of many churchgoers that it needs only to be referred to by the initials, VBS.

VBS is special to me for many reasons.

One of them is my shoe shine kit.

There was a time when a young man polished his shoes each week before attending church. Shining shoes has become a lost art. I don’t know when the art died, but it had to be between my generation and that of my children.

My dad taught me to shine shoes when I was a kid and I was expected to keep my Sunday shoes in top shape all the time. And I did. That little gift paid dividends when the Army expected well-shined boots. I failed to pass the art along to my children.

I welcomed VBS each year like it was a family vacation. VBS lasted two weeks and was four hours each day. The week started with a parade around Sardis with a fire truck leading the way. The siren alarmed the community that VBS was about to begin.

Each day we lined up outside the auditorium and marched in behind the Christian flag, the American flag, and the Bible. We recited the pledges and listened to my dad or Mrs. Smith do the opening session. Then we were off to our respective classes.\

About mid-morning we took a break. Truth be known, this was the real reason a kid loved VBS. Each year we had cookies, chips, and most important was the orange drink that came in the small half-pint carton. That is the only time in my life I remember getting a half-pint carton of orange drink.

I would like one right now. Let me know if you know where I can find one. That might be a VBS-only kind of product.

Each year, the older kids in VBS get to make a craft of some kind. The summer of 1968 began with VBS at Sardis Baptist Church as it had for centuries. That year, Rex Brown took the time to saw boards and paneling into lengths, shapes, and widths that, when assembled became a small box suitable for a shoe shine kit. The box was open with tapered end pieces that had a wooden handle attached to each.

Since 1968 that box has served me well. For 55 years, that box has held all that is needed to keep my shoes well-shined. Sometime along the way I used a wood burning tool to burn my initials in the end.

The handle came off last week and I had to reattach it. But it is still pretty much exactly like it was when I built it.

I don’t remember the Bible lessons taught that year. I don’t remember who taught my class, or what room was ours.

But I remember Uncle Rex. I was the first person to give him that title. He was not my uncle, but I sure wanted him to be. He and Aunt Margene, were older than my parents and had no children of their own. They adopted me and I them. It thrilled them when I asked to call them Uncle and Aunt.

My life is richer because of VBS. My life is much richer because of Uncle Rex & Aunt Margene. I never touch that shoe shine kit without reflecting on them and how they impacted my life.

Do what you are gifted to do. Uncle Rex never taught a class, preached a sermon, or ran for office. He just cut some scrap boards.

And that has made all the difference to me.

I wonder if anyone will think of me in 55 years and appreciate how I loved them.

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.