One eighth of an inch, that’s all it was, one eighth of an inch. You wouldn’t really expect such a small increment to attract a large amount of notice, but it did. In terms of rocket engines, and even a car’s V4 one eighth of an inch is huge. The tolerance in delicate engine parts is very critical and is measured in mills not inches. However we are not talking jet engines here.

As I think about it jet engines may not be as exacting a piece of machinery as most of us would like to believe. Way, way back in nineteen hundred and seventy-five I boarded a plane in Salt Lake City on my way to Lubbock. Just after takeoff I felt a jolt, heard a terrible noise, and began smelling this horrible scent. The plane had encountered a flock of Sea Gulls and at least one of the dumb things had gone through the engine on my side of the aircraft. After the initial thump, that I felt as the poor bird was puréed by the huge right food processor, I mean the huge right jet engine the flight continued on its smooth ascent. The pilot came on the intercom and told us that we had had a bird go through an engine and even though things seemed to be ok, we would turn around and land back in Salt Lake just to make sure the plane was ok.

Once back on the ground we stayed on the plane and I watched out window as a pickup drove up beside us and parked. One of the mechanics stood up in the back of the pickup and then pulled himself into the massive intake of the jet engine. After a few minutes of visual inspection he stuck his head out of the cowling and said something that I could not hear to the men waiting in the bed of the truck. One of them spoke into his radio and a few minutes later another man came walking toward the plane with the tool that had apparently been ask for by the man in the engine. The tool was a ten pound sledge hammer. This ten pound chunk of steel attached to a three foot long wooden handle resembling a baseball bat was handed to the man inside the jet engine of the plane I was intending to safely ride to my next destination. What!!!

In a matter of a few seconds I could hear and feel the blows being administered to this delicate jet engine by that massive chunk of steel. “Clang!” “Bang!” “Thunk!” “Ding!” and with every noise a jolt reverberated through the backbone of the aircraft and continued through the seat of my pants. This was not a confidence building experience. After a few minutes of this delicate precision engine overhaul the Captain came back on the speakers and said that we would now deplane so they could take the plane out aways from the airport, run up the engine, and see if the thing would hold together and be deemed safe for us to fly. I stood staring out the window of the terminal and watched as the plane sat still several hundred feet away. I could see the exhaust as it left the rear of the engine. I could even hear the whine of the jet as the throttle was pushed to maximum. I guess the thing was deemed worthy because the plane returned to the terminal, we were herded back on board and soon we were back on our journey. So, maybe one eighth inch isn’t such a big deal! In that instance the balance of the engine had not been disrupted even though the engine had chewed up a bird and withstood the best a man with a sledge could administer.

Saturday a much smaller man stood with a tool weighing less than two pounds in his hand. He was about to make a stroke that would be noticed and commented on many times over the next few days. He had no idea the difference one eighth of an inch would make. He soon learned that sometimes very subtle differences are noticed. With the first stroke of his hand he realized that something just didn’t seem right, but what was it? He continued his work wondering why things look different than he had expected and he kept trying to figure out what was going on. Had it really been that long? Was it really that long? So long that the mere act of cutting it made such a difference that it seemed abnormal? Finally, after the job was half finished he realized what had happened. He had the wrong guard on the tool. The guard that he had always used before was a one quarter inch guard, the one now on the tool in his hand, the tool that was making a noticeable difference in his appearance was a one eighth inch guard and he looked like a different man.  

When the little lady came home she looked at him with eyes that displayed a question. It seemed to the man that the question was, “What in the world have you done!?” He went to work and the first person he saw commented on his new look. Then the second person and the third took notice. The next morning at worship the comments and double takes continued. Such a small difference was having a wave of impact on the people around him. They could see the change.

Yup, I done went and messed up…again. My hair is almost gone. There is a huge difference in one eighth of an inch of hair and one quarter of an inch of hair. Heck, If I’d known women would swoon and go week kneed at the sight of me being bald headed I’d a done this a long time ago!  

Hey friends, I know it’s a dumb story, but I also know people remember dumb stories, so I told you this one to help you realize the impact you have on those you see every day. Friends, co-workers, and relatives notice when things are different with you. They see a change in you and are affected by it, so I want to offer you a challenge. I want you to commit to become more Christ like. Being more Christ like may not even require much of a change for you, but it will be noticed, and it may well lead your friends, co-workers, and relatives to become more Christ like too.

Till next time,

Grump

Man it was a very frightening experience; I thought I’d lost it. I was completely dumbfounded trying to figure out who this guy was, and why he was talking to me. My phone rang last night and I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was my best bud John Hendry. Sure enough I answered the call and said “Hey Padre what’s up?” John said “Hold on I’ve got someone who wants to talk to you.” Now John and Pat are at their house in Colorado so I wasn’t sure who he could be talking about, and when the voice came on the line I had no clue who it belonged too.

This guy says something like “Hey old man what’s up?”

“Well…I don’t know. Who is this?”

“I was at church tonight and got to visiting with this guy, and I said something about being from Denver City,” and he said ‘Denver City, do you know a guy named Kent Smith’ and I said “Kent Smith? You mean that little old man with a worthless son and beautiful wife?” and he said ‘well I think that’s the one I’m talking about.’

“Wait a minute; I still don’t know who you are.” I was really at a loss and had no clue. I was racking my brain trying to figure out who I was talking too.

“Man I grew up in your house.”

“What?”

“I even called your wife “mom” all the time.” Now that should have been the clue that gave it away, but I was still at a loss. I was about ready to check myself into an Alzheimer’s Clinic.  I said “This can’t be Tony.” “And he said your right old man this ain’t Tony. I can’t believe you don’t know who I am.” Then he said “My dad’s a big obnoxious man with a really big nose!” And that’s when it hit me. I was talking to Lowcephus, aka, Low Beau Bennett. How could I have not known him? I was introduced to Lowcephus when he less than two years old. I coached him in Little Dribblers Basketball. I’ve even written a couple of blogs that included him!

The conversation continued for quite some time as we caught up with each other, but I kept having this sinking feeling because of the fact that it had taken me so long to place his voice, but then it finally hit me. I wasn’t the one who had lost it. It was him. Low Beau Bennett had lost it, he is the one in need of help not me. I may be suffering a memory loss, but that boy’s done gone and lost his Texas! He’s been off living in Missouri and Arkansas for the last one third of his life and he’s started sounding like a foreigner or worse yet, a Yankee!

Man was I relieved that I hadn’t completely lost it, but I was still worried about Lowcephus, so I told him “Hey Bro. you gotta git back to Texas before its too late.” I really hope he will take my advice and get help as soon as possible. I mean its one thing to lose your memory, your voice, your hair, your dog, or even your toe nails, but to lose your Texas…that’s just too tragic to think about.

Till next time,

Grump

I really am trying to stay out of politics with my posting and up until now I’ve done a pretty good job it. I’m even going to stay away from politics today in terms of taking sides, but I really feel like something needs to be done, and maybe my meager input can help in some way.

I am sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I want to touch on it again. Entitlements are going to help the USA collapse, plain and simple. The idea that folks are entitled to something breeds complacency, it breeds laziness. Anytime someone feels they are owed something because of their background, or circumstances they tend to sit back and wait for others to see their plight and help them out. Now the main problem with this is that when a country has more people who feel entitled, than there are people who can provide the entitlement the country becomes unable to sustain its self, and collapses.

One example of entitlement sitting by as help was working came to me from an individual who went to help in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina. The comment from this individual was indicative of the sit, wait, and watch mentality of those who feel that the rest of us owe them something. Here is the comment; “I couldn’t believe it. I was working to clear the rubbish, and destruction out these peoples yard, and realized that they were sitting on their porch, in the shade, drinking a coke and smoking, just watching us work to help them. Able bodied people, people who could have been doing the work themselves just sat on the porch and watched us!” I know that not everyone effected sat by and watched as the helpers helped, but the point is there were those who felt they were owed something, and they refused to help themselves because they knew someone would come by and take care of them.

Another aspect of this is the feel good Robin Hood story. Folks are feeling depressed and beat down by the “rich”, and remember that “rich” is determined in the eyes of the beholder, so they look for ways to bring down the rich instead of working to become the rich. I’m reminded of sitting in a hearing in the State Capital of Texas years ago. One of the elected officials from a poor district, a district that wanted to “Robin Hood” the rich, in order to help the poor made the following statement. “I want to strip the rich schools shelves bare.” WHAT?!!! Does that sound like a man who wants to help better the education of Texas school children or someone with a jealous attitude of entitlement?

I guess you could say my little tirade this morning was brought on by the new health care bill, and you might be right, but to me it is just one more example of the entitlement concept. I told someone Sunday that I believe I’ll be pushing up roses before the country completely collapses, but I am sure that my kids and grandkids will live to see that day. I pray I’m not right.

Till next time,

Grump

Hi Friends, I’m back from a week of vacation with my beautiful wife, Paula. I wanted to tell you we were heading out for a few days, but then I got to thinking about announcing to the world that I was leaving my house unattended for a week, and decided it was best for you to just think I had died.

Anyway, Paula and I have found this really great place in Wimberley, Texas. It is close to town, yet private. It is quiet and peaceful, and you can sit out and drink a cup of coffee in the morning and just enjoy God’s beauty as the sun rises. The small lodge has its own pool and hot tub, and a nice deck where a couple can simply lay back and enjoy one another’s company.

Here’s the thing friends, I believe it is vitally important that couples take the time to recharge, and reconnect. I believe that couples need to get away from everyday life every now and then, and just spend a few days enjoying and strengthening their marriage. The word rebuild comes to mind, but that’s not it. Some marriages may need to be rebuilt, but I believe that every marriage needs it’s time away from life, a time of courtship, a time of dating, a time of reliving falling in love with your lover all over again.

So, all you clods take your wife away for a week and spend the whole week on her and nothing else. You clodettes, (I know, don’t say it.) forget your kids, and your job for a week or a weekend, and turn that man of yours back into the guy who couldn’t get enough of you “back when.”  

Till next time,

Grump

Seems to me that this whole blog thing is a little funny given how open we are with the blogging world and all. I mean some of us tell the whole world things that we have kept from our spouses. Some blog about their in-grown toenail and how many times they tooted yesterday, while others use the blogosphere as a teaching tool, or platform. If you are reading this blog post I can assume that you either know me, or at least enjoy what I have to say, after all there must be millions of blogs to choose from.  

I really never expected to enter the blog writing world, I mean who would give a rip about what I have to say besides my mom? Now that I have started participating in the blabbery blog biosphere I must admit that I enjoy being here. (According to my computer I just invented a word.)Sometimes I use the blog to blow off some steam. Sometimes, I just tell some worthless story for the benefit of a laugh, and other times I write in an effort to help others through some experience in life. Many times I will wake up in the morning with a story on my mind, and many times I have to really think about what I could write, and sometimes I just think “there’s nothing there today” and don’t post at all.

There were two reasons I joined the millions who put their life on the net; 1) I wanted to help people if I could by letting them know that they are not alone in their struggle, whatever it might be. 2)  I need the exposure provided by a growing blog. I need people to know who Kent “Grumpy” Smith is in order to sell more books, and gain speaking engagements. What I have discovered has been wonderful. I have folks who read my post every day, and if I don’t post that day they re-read what I wrote the day before. I have heard from people I have never met, who say how much they look forward to my posts. I’ve been contacted by some who have thanked me for helping them overcome some obstacle in their life, and I know of some who think I’m full of prunes.

I sometimes wonder if certain people recognize themselves in my stories. Since I haven’t named them do they realize how important they are to me? Do they realize they are the ones who helped make me who I am? I hope so. I have talked to Czech and he gets a laugh out of the things I have written about that we have done together. He and Chung, and Hord were, and are very special to me, and want them to know that. Does the person I alluded to yesterday know how much I struggle to love him? Does he know he’s the one? Has anyone from my time in Idaho run across my blog? How about the folks who more or less became our parents when Paula and I were newlyweds and moved to Colorado? How about the first girl I ever kissed, has she run across me? I wonder about my flight instructor from Blackfoot, or even the guy I had as a roommate when I first move there?

Yes, I participate in the world wide blogosphere.  I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and I don’t guess I’ll ever really know how much, or little impact I have in the cyber world. I would love to help millions, but I know I have already helped a few because they have told me so, and some of them I have never even met.

Dear Lord,

Thanks for using me to help others. Amen

If you have a minute let me know who you are. I’d like to know where you are from and how you found me, and if you find me worthy, I‘d like to ask you to tell your friends about me. It may just be that God will use you to help someone thru this grumpy ole ordinary man.

Till next time,

Grump

Last week CNN ran a series of reports on the high cost of medical care. In one of the reports it was suggested that a patient should question the need for procedures, and even offer advice on occasion. Well first off, my friend Turkey Tom Moseley says “If you don’t know your jewels you gotta trust your jeweler.” I know we are talking about medicine here, but I hope I don’t have to explain the connection. Anyway, I once offered advice, or at least made a request of a nurse, and I’m quite sure I’ll never do it again.

After being completely eat up with a case of the stupids and turning myself into a human candle, I found myself in the hospital being scrubbed raw two times a day for the next seventeen days. I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone by the way…well there is that one guy I might not be too upset about…oh rip, Jesus said to love your enemies’ so never mind about that one guy. Anyway, they had me hooked up to an IV with a port attached to it so they could administer pain killer directly into my blood system anytime I needed it. I for sure needed it two times a day, one at 8:00 am and another at 4:00pm. Those were the times of day that I was taken to the Hubbard Tank and scrubbed back down to the raw to get rid of the “bad” tissue that had grown over the burned area.

These pain killer shots, main lined into my vain were at once a delight and an agony. You see, I could immediately feel the comfort rushing through my body as the medicine took effect, but I could also feel the pain of the medication as it entered my blood stream at the end of the needle. The IV drip that was entering my body constantly was room temperature whereas the pain medicine was kept in a refrigerator.   Now when that cold pain killer hit my blood vain it burned like a big dog. Ya know what I’m saying? To put it in terms you can understand, it hurt, and it hurt the most when administered quickly!

So, in walked my morning shift nurse, I have forgotten her name because I’ve tried to block out all of the folks who have done me dirt in the last fifty-three years. As she began sticking the needle into the port I asked her to please administer the shot slowly. Now at this point I can only guess why she reacted the way did so here goes, 1) Her husband forgot to kiss her goodbye that morning. 2) Her husband forgot her birthday. 3) Her husband remembered her birthday, and gave her a vacuum cleaner as a gift. or worst of all, 4) She had to use fat free milk on her corn flakes that morning. At any rate, she hit that plunger with two thumbs instead of one, while at the same time rising to the balls of feet in order to gain leverage, and then she leaned her over weight body mass into the effort thereby shoving the plunger to the bottom of the syringe in Guinness Book of World Records time. The end result being that the needle almost came off of the syringe because of the back pressure force of so much liquid being forced through a very confined space in less than a millisecond. WOW THAT HURT!!!!  

So, the take home from this story? Always make sure your health care professional has plenty of ice cold, wholesome whole milk for their corn flakes before offering advice on the administering of pain killers.

Till next time,

Grump

Within the last month or so two highly influential men have passed away. Their names? Willard Tate and Jack Exum. Willard Tate was a teacher/preacher/speaker extraordinaire. He had the ability to bring laughs and tears simultaneously. His messages always touched the hearts of his listeners, and his class rooms always overflowed with fans who loved his presentations. Honestly, I was only able to listen to Willard a few times, but I always longed for the opportunity to hear him again. I can say without hesitation that the one of the best compliments I have ever been given was when I was told “You remind me a little of Willard Tate.”

Jack Exum was the first preacher I ever saw who used props in his lessons, and it really helped his message stick with me. He came to Denver City, Texas a few times when we lived there, and I always learned from him, and I believe I can remember more of his lessons then just about any speaker I have ever listened too. The lessons I learned from Jack didn’t end at the end of his presentations. I was privileged to drive Jack to the Airport in Lubbock one Sunday afternoon, and consider that drive one best learning experiences of my life. For those of you who enjoy my use props and singing in my presentations you can thank these two men for their influence on my style.  

As I think about these two men I have to ask myself this question, am I living the life and leaving the long lasting impression I should be? You see, I believe everyone is somebody’s hero. You and I have someone we influence every day, and we need to live a life that would lead that someone to a better way of living.

Dear Father,

When my friends and family gather around my body of dust, and remember the life I have lived, I pray that they will be able to say, “I’m a better person because I knew ole Grumpy.” Please help guide me, and use me to influence someone the way I have been influenced by Willard and Jack.  Amen.

Till next time,

Grump

bump, bump, bump another one bites the dust, clap, clap

bump, bump, bump, another one bites the dust,

and another one’s down, and another one’s down,

another one bites the dust…

Ahh, the hero’s anthem. The victor striding across the field with his head held high after taking on one more unworthy opponent. Or, maybe it’s the song of the Cinderella team enjoying an unexpected breakout year. Picture Mike Tyson in his prime as he stands over one more victim with more guts than brains. You get the picture? We’ve all seen it before, right?  Only this time it’s not what you think. This time we’re not talking about victory and defeat. There are no victims being left in the path of a hero. Naw, this time we’re talking about cups. Styrofoam coffee cups.

I saw them thrown to the ground. I witnessed them being slung to the ground. I observed as they were simply dropped from his hand. Most of the time they did hit the dust, but sometimes in fit of disgust they would be dashed onto the hard concrete surface of the truck scales, the continence splashing in all directions. Coffee, gallons of coffee wasted while people in deepest darkest Africa starved to death.

Circa 1978, Sawyer Flat, ten miles south east of Loop, Texas, a cotton gin stands at the intersection of a black top road, and a dirt road. The gin has just been bought by a group of five farmers and a gin manager. The gin manager has extensive experience in the industry. He is looked up too by farmers from three small farming communities in the area. A man of integrity, knowledge, and a work ethic above all others, however this giant among gin men has never encountered, a steady flow.

A steady flow is a simple machine that keeps the same amount of cotton flowing through the cotton ginning machinery at all times. It contains a hopper that fills with cotton as it comes into the gin by way of a suction tube operated by an individual. If the hopper gets full of cotton it stops the air flow of the section tube, thereby stopping more cotton from coming into the gin until there is room for more in the hopper. A good suction tube operator could work hard for a few minutes in an effort to fill the hopper. Once he had filled the hopper and the air had been shut off he could rest for a few minutes. Dad was not used to a man being able to rest while running the suction. All of his ginning experience told him that if the section operator stopped there was trouble in the gin, and trouble in the gin was never a good thing. He’d spent years watching out the window of the office to make sure that the suction tube was moving back and forth delivering a supply of cotton to the gin. Year after year he had opened the door of the office and headed to the gin every time the suction stopped moving because he knew something was wrong, and every time he headed out that office door he seemed to have a cup of coffee in his hand. Invariably that coffee cup ended up on the ground as he threw, slung, or dropped it so he could start putting on a pair of gloves and get to work helping fix the problem in the gin.

It was instinctive for him to leave the office, and go out to the gin to see what the problem was. He did it without thinking, it was ingrained in him because of prior experience, but now things were different. That tube stopping didn’t automatically mean that there was trouble in the gin. Now he was jumping to the conclusion that there was trouble. Now he had a knee jerk response to a non-existent problem, and that’s the reason I told you this whole story. I think there many of us who need to stop jumping to conclusions. I think there are a many of us who need to take a sip of that nice hot cup of coffee, and think before we act or react in a way that would keep us from enjoying the warmth of life.

Till next time,

Grump

It seemed kind of strange when it occurred to me; life repeating itself through the family. It really doesn’t mean anything special, or important, it’s just a little ironic that’s all. Paula and I spent Sunday with Miranda, and Ranger. Chad was out of town, and we had stayed the night with Miranda, and Ranger, and then gone to worship with them. After worship we went back to the house and started watching the Olympics. As we sat watching the Gold Medal Hockey game it dawned on me how little I watch Hockey.   I’ve been to two Stars games, I watched the finals a few years ago when the Stars won the Stanley Cup, and I watched the “Miracle on Ice” back in 1980. That’s about it.

Sunday, Paula was doing her best to keep up with Ranger, while Miranda and I watched the game between Canada and USA. Somewhere during the game it hit me. When Paula and I had sat in our “Trailer House,” as it was known back then, and watched the “Miracle on Ice” she was, ever how you want to say it, “with child,” “expecting,” “carrying,” “in a motherly way,” “had a bun in the oven,” or “knocked up.” Our second “bundle of joy” was due in September, and her name would be Miranda Darice Smith. Sunday I sat on the couch and cheered with, moaned with, and held my breath with Miranda, as she sat on the couch watching Team USA play for the gold, with a slightly protruding belly that is the home of her second child that is due in September.

Like I said, it doesn’t really mean anything in the grand scheme of life, but it was kind of neat to think about.

Till next time,

Grump

Before she was conceived she was prayed for. Before she was born she was talked to, read to, and sang to. Before she left the hospital she heard prayers lifted to God on her behalf. Before she rolled over by herself she listened each night to scripture being read to her. From the time she was two months old until now she has “been to church” every time the doors are opened. She has witnessed service, work, responsibility, and love as it was lived by her parents and grandparents regularly during her short life.

I will admit that as I saw the event of her new birth on the horizon I thought, she is too young. I questioned how anyone eight years old could be guilty of sin in God’s eyes. I saw innocents in the life of a young child who plays with dolls, and pretends to be Snow White. I wondered if she could really make a lifelong decision, a lifelong commitment, to follow Jesus. Then it came to me. This is what we had prayed for. This is what her mom and dad had petitioned God for from before she was born. This is a child touched by God. Who am I to question God’s timing? Who am I to say “You’re too young.”?

Saturday evening Mary Alice Smith put on Christ in baptism. Saturday evening she became something greater than my granddaughter, she became my sister. Saturday evening she became to God, as I have always considered her; sinless.

Mary Alice is the first born great-grandchild of Homer and Glenda Smith. That doesn’t make her better, or more privileged than the twelve other great-grandchildren they have. She just happened to be the first of the next generation in the Homer Smith family. Now, Mary Alice is the first born into God’s family. She is the first, of the next generation, of the Homer Smith bloodline to become a child of God.  

Praise God!

I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth.

3 John 1:4

Till next time,

Grump