author unknown
A few months before I was born, my dad met a stranger who was new to our small Tennessee town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer, and soon invited him to live with our family.The stranger was quickly accepted and was around to welcome me into the world a few months later.As I grew up I never questioned his place in our family. In my young mind, each member had a special niche. My brother, Bill, five years my senior, was my example. Fran, my younger sister, gave me an opportunity to play *big brother* and develop the art of teasing. My parents were complementary instructors-- Mom taught me to love the word of God, and Dad taught me to obey it.But the stranger was our storyteller. He could weave the most fascinating tales. Adventures, mysteries and comedies were daily conversations. He could hold our whole family spell-bound for hours each evening. If I wanted to know about politics, history, or science, he knew it. He knew about the past, understood the present, and seemingly could predict the future. The pictures he could draw were so life like that I would often laugh or cry as I watched. He was like a friend to the whole family. He took Dad, Bill and me to our first major league baseball game. He was always encouraging us to see the movies and he even made arrangements to introduce us to several movie stars.The stranger was an incessant talker. Dad didn't seem to mind, but sometimes Mom would quietly get up, while the rest of us were enthralled with one of his stories of faraway places, go to her room, read her Bible and pray. I wonder now if she ever prayed that the stranger would leave.You see, my dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions. But this stranger never felt obligation to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our house - not from us, from our friends, or adults. Our longtime visitor, however, used occasional four letter words that burned my ears and made Dad squirm. To my knowledge the stranger was never confronted.
My dad was a teetotaler who didn't permit alcohol in his home - not even for cooking. But the stranger felt like we needed exposure and enlightened us to other ways of life. He offered us beer and other alcoholic beverages often. He made cigarettes look tasty, cigars manly, and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (probably too much too freely) about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing. I know now that my early concepts of the man-woman relationship were influenced by the stranger.As I look back, I believe it was the grace of God that the stranger did not influence us more. Time after time he opposed the values of my parents. Yet he was seldom rebuked and never asked to leave. More than thirty years have passed since the stranger moved in with the young family on morningside Drive. He is not nearly so intriguing to my Dad as he was in those early years.But if I were to walk into my parents' den today, you would still see him sitting over in a corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures.His name you ask?We called him TV.
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The Thief (Author Unknown)
I would never have dreamed he was a thief. Our acquaintance had all been so friendly and casual. It started one evening at my front door. It was a Tuesday in August. "An entertainer turned salesman," was his smiling approach to me. But I was not one to be taken off guard so easily. I prodded him about his background. "Who are you with?" I asked. It came out that he
had ties with several of the largest distilleries. He also had an account with a prosperous tobacco company. "At present," he continued, "I'm an agent for a leading national magazine."
So I let him come into the living room and listened to him for a couple of hours. On learning of his connections, I took pains to tell him of my Christian faith and love for Christ.
"There is no place in my life for such things as liquor or tobacco," I told him deliberately. "As a Christian, my body is the temple of the Holy Spirit." I was sure these words would bother or affront him. But no, he was totally undisturbed by my convictions. He would hold his views, I could hold mine. This status quo was to mark our subsequent discussions.
In a light-hearted moment he slipped off on an off-colour story. I was quick to inform him such things did not go in my home. In fact, I cut him off sharply.
As you may imagine, I had reservations on the truth of many of his stories. Still, I must admit his experiences often excited me. After having an interesting evening together I invited him to come back the following night. "It may have a helpful influence on him," was my naive hope.
It took my wife's words to remind me that his return visit conflicted with our church's mid-week prayer meeting. "I should attend," I confessed, "but I must stand by the invitation I have given this friend." I shared with her some of the things he had said to me. Well, to put it lightly, she was reluctant to accept him. "I just don't trust him," she would say. She grew steadily more concerned as he took up more and more of our family life.
My entire day was boring in comparison with my evenings with this character. He had an imagination that was captivating. I would sit and laugh myself sick at all his crazy experiences.
There were other times that my hair would stand on end. His scrapes with the FBI and the law were absolutely breath taking.
If his stories were true, he was also an "extra" in motion pictures. But he couldn't talk about this without including sex. This forced me to cut him off time and time again.
Then he began to affect my teenage son, Charles, and my nine-year-old daughter, Eloise. They just couldn't wait to catch his latest quip or some hair-raising tale. They would have stayed up all hours if we had allowed it. All this distraction was hurting their studies and did their health little good. I began to worry about this fellow's presence in our home.
And then it came. The "straw that broke the camel's back." One day, several of my best books turned up missing. I searched in vain for them. "This fellow may be something of a thief," I
concluded. "If he is," I continued, "who can tell what else he's taken from us."
It all looked very suspicious. The next day I was so wrought up about it that I decided to check on him next door. Sure enough, he had taken things there too. At one friend's home I noticed
no more Christian magazines. In another the Bible had disappeared.
I was amazed at his subtle manoeuvres. In one home he had entered as a religious teacher. Another neighbour, a salesman down the block, knew him as an efficiency expert. "He's showing
me the latest gimmicks." "He certainly has a lot of ways of getting in," I concluded.
At long last I realised that my visitor was afflicted with kleptomania. Like an inveterate thief he had stolen my books, magazines and time. But the chief things missing were my close fellowship with Christ and the evenings spent in talking with my friends and family. I'm sure that others are having similar experiences.
Some have lost things of real value, not trifles, but precious family things they once enjoyed together. Spiritual, social and intellectual experiences have been taken from them, replaced
by only a moment's crackpot amusement.
This fellow is not at our home now. Though, if I could keep him in his place, he would be quite harmless to have around. Kleptomaniacs are not always deliberately bad. Even this one might profitably drop in with tidbits of news and a light word or two. But you must keep your eyes open, or such a person will continually steal things from you.
His name escapes me, but I will never forget his initials. They were, "T.V."
I wonder: what has T.V. stolen from you? Time? Devotions? Good reading? Wholesome conversation? Church attendance? Check your list and see. You may be very surprised at what
you'll find missing.
My dad was a teetotaler who didn't permit alcohol in his home - not even for cooking. But the stranger felt like we needed exposure and enlightened us to other ways of life. He offered us beer and other alcoholic beverages often. He made cigarettes look tasty, cigars manly, and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (probably too much too freely) about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing. I know now that my early concepts of the man-woman relationship were influenced by the stranger.As I look back, I believe it was the grace of God that the stranger did not influence us more. Time after time he opposed the values of my parents. Yet he was seldom rebuked and never asked to leave. More than thirty years have passed since the stranger moved in with the young family on morningside Drive. He is not nearly so intriguing to my Dad as he was in those early years.But if I were to walk into my parents' den today, you would still see him sitting over in a corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures.His name you ask?We called him TV.
*************************************************************************
The Thief (Author Unknown)
I would never have dreamed he was a thief. Our acquaintance had all been so friendly and casual. It started one evening at my front door. It was a Tuesday in August. "An entertainer turned salesman," was his smiling approach to me. But I was not one to be taken off guard so easily. I prodded him about his background. "Who are you with?" I asked. It came out that he
had ties with several of the largest distilleries. He also had an account with a prosperous tobacco company. "At present," he continued, "I'm an agent for a leading national magazine."
So I let him come into the living room and listened to him for a couple of hours. On learning of his connections, I took pains to tell him of my Christian faith and love for Christ.
"There is no place in my life for such things as liquor or tobacco," I told him deliberately. "As a Christian, my body is the temple of the Holy Spirit." I was sure these words would bother or affront him. But no, he was totally undisturbed by my convictions. He would hold his views, I could hold mine. This status quo was to mark our subsequent discussions.
In a light-hearted moment he slipped off on an off-colour story. I was quick to inform him such things did not go in my home. In fact, I cut him off sharply.
As you may imagine, I had reservations on the truth of many of his stories. Still, I must admit his experiences often excited me. After having an interesting evening together I invited him to come back the following night. "It may have a helpful influence on him," was my naive hope.
It took my wife's words to remind me that his return visit conflicted with our church's mid-week prayer meeting. "I should attend," I confessed, "but I must stand by the invitation I have given this friend." I shared with her some of the things he had said to me. Well, to put it lightly, she was reluctant to accept him. "I just don't trust him," she would say. She grew steadily more concerned as he took up more and more of our family life.
My entire day was boring in comparison with my evenings with this character. He had an imagination that was captivating. I would sit and laugh myself sick at all his crazy experiences.
There were other times that my hair would stand on end. His scrapes with the FBI and the law were absolutely breath taking.
If his stories were true, he was also an "extra" in motion pictures. But he couldn't talk about this without including sex. This forced me to cut him off time and time again.
Then he began to affect my teenage son, Charles, and my nine-year-old daughter, Eloise. They just couldn't wait to catch his latest quip or some hair-raising tale. They would have stayed up all hours if we had allowed it. All this distraction was hurting their studies and did their health little good. I began to worry about this fellow's presence in our home.
And then it came. The "straw that broke the camel's back." One day, several of my best books turned up missing. I searched in vain for them. "This fellow may be something of a thief," I
concluded. "If he is," I continued, "who can tell what else he's taken from us."
It all looked very suspicious. The next day I was so wrought up about it that I decided to check on him next door. Sure enough, he had taken things there too. At one friend's home I noticed
no more Christian magazines. In another the Bible had disappeared.
I was amazed at his subtle manoeuvres. In one home he had entered as a religious teacher. Another neighbour, a salesman down the block, knew him as an efficiency expert. "He's showing
me the latest gimmicks." "He certainly has a lot of ways of getting in," I concluded.
At long last I realised that my visitor was afflicted with kleptomania. Like an inveterate thief he had stolen my books, magazines and time. But the chief things missing were my close fellowship with Christ and the evenings spent in talking with my friends and family. I'm sure that others are having similar experiences.
Some have lost things of real value, not trifles, but precious family things they once enjoyed together. Spiritual, social and intellectual experiences have been taken from them, replaced
by only a moment's crackpot amusement.
This fellow is not at our home now. Though, if I could keep him in his place, he would be quite harmless to have around. Kleptomaniacs are not always deliberately bad. Even this one might profitably drop in with tidbits of news and a light word or two. But you must keep your eyes open, or such a person will continually steal things from you.
His name escapes me, but I will never forget his initials. They were, "T.V."
I wonder: what has T.V. stolen from you? Time? Devotions? Good reading? Wholesome conversation? Church attendance? Check your list and see. You may be very surprised at what
you'll find missing.
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