confronts me.I remember now,in one ofthe above you get paid and in the other you don't. I don't know why I worry about it when I could be like everyone else, spending millions on deciding on a new flag or who will win the World Cup rugby or other vitally important problems that face us. "To smoke or not to smoke?"1 think 1 will smoke.I've heard that it eases your nerves and makes you relax which sounds like a good idea. If 1 smoke something stronger maybe 1 won't have to worry about any ideas at all and that would be really worthwhile. by Mark Pearce Form 6 WORK FOR THE LORD: THE PAY IS POOR BUT THE FRINGE BENEEITS ARE OUT OE THIS WORLD Why is it that everything in our ever competitive worls is- measured by some sort of critical standard or unit of measurement? What is the pass mark of holiness or acceptance into Gods'presence? Who sets this popular but harsh standard of success? And why work for the Lord if the benefits don't rate highly on someone else's pay cheque? These are all question 1 have asked myself and devised individual answers which 1 have changed or added to along the path of personal development. 1 believe we are all slaves to our own ideas and the images ofsuccess which drives us. But whose ideas are these? Public opinion and human measurement are so powerful that unless we stop to think, we can find ourselves running offto achieve someone else's dreams and goals. As far as setting things in order of importance, we have a long way to go before we can define a sense of values for our children. Take women for example, they always seem to be rated in terms of their looks. Beauty pageants have become almost outrageous cultural events, rating women in different states of make-up and undress - rating them in tenths of a point. 'Here comes Miss USA, 1 give her a 9.6'. Although 1 don't deride the importance of good looks, I feel other important characteristics should have their place on the rating card. What kind of message do you think this sends the younger generation? It's no wonder we have ten and eleven year old girls fainting in maths class because they are dieting to obtain the desired image.Women should not be rated and weighed up like cattle,just like the service we give the Lord should not be weighed up in rands and cents. We are all slaves to our own beliefs giving in to the set standard of measurements. Let's move on to Hollywood, the headquarters of wealth and success. I have heard that action movies sell best both there and overseas. So now we have a plethora of movies containing only death,dynamite and destruction. Is this the best we can do for our creator and the children, our creative future? If money is such an important factor, does the Lord have to pay us to gain our service and approval? I can just picture the job offer now:'Work for the Lord: the pay is poor,but the fringe benefits are out of this world. If interested, phone 031-524563'. How many calls do you think the Lord would get? Yes,money has its uses but should the persuasion of its quantity be so great? Jesus says something specifically to this effect 'using money as the only unit of measure is the root of all evil'. It is time for us, for all of us, to change the unit of measurement. How we measure success, how we measure progress and how we measure ourselves. Work for the Lord, not because of one man's description of benefits, but because of your own personal fulfilment. by Mark Nelson Form 5 THE LAST DAY OFCHILDHOOD Heat has a particular smell about it. It is full, rich and fills the nostrils like warm honey. It is tired too, and drips to the ground where it wallows lethargically around the feet of those who smell it. Maybe it is simply the mingling of sweat and dust which we recognize, but I smelt heat that day. It rose from the gravelled road beneath the cart, and brought a fine, glistening sheen to the mare's swaying flanks. The horse's giant shoulders bunched and quickened the pace in response to a light flick from the switch held by the man beside me. His steel grey eyes watched the town's church tower drag itself gradually over the horizon, and the comers of his mouth hinted a smile at the completion of ourjoumey. Where lowveld bush had parted for the road minutes before,buildings now did the same.The steel bit tore into the horse's lower lip as the reins halted the cart deftly. My grandfather stood up. His hand dusted the wide brimmed hat he held and slide it neatly onto his head. "Wait here," he commanded, those eyes daring me to complain. "1 ..I will," I faltered in retum. He flashed a rare smile in compensation for his harsh words and tumed his back to the cart. "I'll only be a minute, but you wait here," he repeated over his shoulder,and headed for Mnr Smit's trading store at the far end of the street. I watched the people who walked past. The rich Afrikaans farmers with their silent, following families. The kaffirs on the comer with a guitar, passing a cigarette between four of them. The pretty, young English girls who stmtted past in the vain hope that they might be noticed. The kaffir's strumming stopped. The road seemed silent. 1 swung in my seat to see what had stopped them. A white man addressed the man with the guitar. His back was tumed, and their voices muted by the distance. I dropped silently to the road, and tried to minimize the crunch a boot makes on gravel as 1 walked towards the small crowd which had gathered. From the cart 1 had not realized the size of the white man. His giant forearms now bulged as he gripped the kaffir's shirtfront and held his writhing torso easily to the slatted wall of the shop. His right hand curled, forming a sledgehammer fist, which he drove - almost carelessly - into the black man's jaw. He slid to the ground at the feet ofthe Afrikaner,and doubled up over 40 Kearsney Chronicle 1995
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