Cybersalt Digest Archive

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Cybersalt News

Oh look, Chicken Thursday.

I now have fewer emails in my inbox than the number of years that Dick Van Dyke has lived. I promise I will stop telling you how many emails I have once I reach my zero inbox goal!

Speaking of Dick Van Dyke, Today's video share is a co-operative effort between Spike Lee and Coldplay, featuring Dick Van Dyke - who turns 99 tomorrow!
Click Here to Watch

~ Pastor Tim 

This joke first appeared in the Cybersalt Digest in 2005 when these computer programs were mainstream! A blast from the past.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, except Papa's mouse.
The computer was humming, the icons were hopping,
as Papa did last-minute Internet shopping.
The stockings were hung by the modem with care
in hopes that St. Nicholas would bring new software.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of computer games danced in their heads.
PageMaker for Billy, and Quicken for Dan,
and Carmen Sandiego for Pamela Ann.
The letters to Santa had been sent out by Mom,
to santaclaus@toyshop.northpole.com -
Which has now been re-routed to Washington State
because Santa's workshop has been bought by Bill Gates.

All the elves and reindeer have had to skedaddle
to flashy new quarters in suburban Seattle.
After centuries of a life that was simple and spare,
St. Nicholas is suddenly a new billionaire,
with a shiny red Porsche in the place of his sleigh,
and a house on Lake Washington that's just down the way
from where Bill has his mansion. The old fellow preens
in black Gucci boots and red Calvin jeans.
The elves have stock options and desks with a view,
here they write computer code for Johnny and Sue.

No more dolls or tin soldiers or little toy drums will be under the tree,
only compact disk ROMS with the Microsoft label.
So spin up your drive,
from now on Christmas runs only on Win95.
More rapid than eagles the competitors came,
Bill whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.
"Now, ADOBE! now, CLARIS! now, INTUIT! too,
now, APPLE! and NETSCAPE! you're all of you through,
it is Microsoft's SANTA that the kids can't resist,
it's the ultimate software with a traditional twist -
recommended by no less than the jolly old elf,
and on the package, a picture of Santa himself.

Get 'em young, keep 'em long, is Microsoft's scheme,
and a merger with Santa is a marketer's dream.
To the top of the NASDAQ! to the top of the Dow!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away - wow!"
And Mama in her 'kerchief and I in my cap,
had just settled down for a long winter's nap,
when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
the whir and the hum of our satellite platter,
as it turned toward that new Christmas star in the sky,
the SANTALITE owned by the Microsoft guy.

As I sprang from my bed and was turning around,
my computer turned on with a Jingle-Bells sound.
And there on the screen was a smiling Bill Gates
next to jolly old Santa, two arm-in-arm mates.
And I heard them exclaim in voices so bright,

"A MICROSOFT CHRISTMAS, and TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!"

At some point you will find someone who is obsessed with you and wants all your time; that person is your manager at work.

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If there's a watermelon, shouldn't there be earthmelon, firemelon, and airmelon. The elemelons.

"Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can't see."

- The Polar Express

I ran short of money while visiting my brother, and borrowed $50 from him.

After my return home, I wrote him a short letter every few weeks, enclosing a $5 check in each one. He called me up and told me how much he enjoyed the letters, regardless of the money; I had never written regularly before.

Eventually I sent off a letter and the last five-dollar check.

In my mail box the next week I found an envelope from my brother. Inside was another $50.

Featured Illustrations are items well suited for illustrating or inspiring a point in a sermon, speech, or devotional. Funny, moving, or perhaps even graphic, the point of them is the point you make with them.

Susan Page writes . . . . 

- photo by Susan PageLife can change dramatically through loss. Sometimes, these changes force us to think of new ways to celebrate the holidays.

Years ago, I prayerfully considered how I might create new traditions that my family could treasure together. A former colleague of mine had given me the idea that the gift of memories will last a lifetime, while commercial gift-giving may only last for a moment. This can be true for any age and circumstance but is especially applicable when our children grow into adulthood.

The challenge was to think of what my family, each with unique interests, could enjoy together. We decided to see the theatrical production of Les Misérables.

The Cybersalt Digest is a ministry of Pastor Tim and Cybersalt.

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Cybersalt News

Sunday greetings, everyone.

'Tis the season for Christmas plays and performances. Yesterday, Grandma Cybersalt and I attended the Highland Dance performance of one of our granddaughters. Today, our house will see a procession of violinists whom she will be accompanying at a recital next Sunday, the day after we attend a piano recital with the same granddaughter and her brother. It's good to be old and be able to come home and rest after these things!

Today's video share is another audio listen. My friend, Greg Vaughan, has just released some new Christmas music and it is very calm listening!
Click here to listen.

~ Pastor Tim 

It was the beginning of December.  The trip had gone reasonably well, and he was ready to go back.  The airport on the other hand had turned a tacky red and green, and loudspeakers blared annoying elevator renditions of cherished Christmas carols.

Being someone who took Christmas very seriously, and being slightly tired, he was not in a particularly good mood.

Going to check in his luggage (which, for some reason, had become one suitcase with entirely new clothes), he saw hanging mistletoe.  Not real mistletoe, but very cheap plastic with red paint on some of the rounder parts and green paint on some of the flatter and "pointier" parts, that could be taken for mistletoe only in a very Picasso sort of way.

With a considerable degree of irritation and nowhere else to vent it, he said to the attendant, "Even if I were not married, I would not want to kiss you under such a ghastly mockery of mistletoe."

"Sir, look more closely at where the mistletoe is." (pause)

"Ok, I see that it's above the luggage scale, which is the place you'd have to step forward for a kiss."

"That's not why it's there." (pause)

"Ok, I give up. Why is it there?"

"It's there so you can kiss your luggage goodbye."

When I ask for directions, please don't use words like "east."

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There's a big sale down at the Lego store. People are lined up for blocks.

"How many lessons of faith and beauty we should lose, if there were no winter in our year!"

- Thomas Wentworth Higginson

First the story behind the story "The Room."

Seventeen-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a class. The subject was what Heaven was like. "I wowed 'em," he later told his father, Bruce. "It's a killer, It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote." It also was the last.

Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teays Valley High School. Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them - notes from classmates and teachers, his homework.

Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life. But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized that their son had described his view of heaven. It makes such an impact that people want to share it. "You feel like you are there." Mr. Moore said.

Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was driving home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted. The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room.

"I think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of it," Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him again."

The Room

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger" "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.

Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched ," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me.

One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With."

The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand. And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments, couldn't bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him.

His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

By Joshua Harris. Originally published in New Attitude Magazine. Copyright New Attitude, 1995. You have permission to reprint this in any form. We only ask that you include the appropriate copyright byline and do not alter the content.

Featured Illustrations are items well suited for illustrating or inspiring a point in a sermon, speech, or devotional. Funny, moving, or perhaps even graphic, the point of them is the point you make with them.

Susan Page writes . . . . 

- photo by Susan PageJesus came and his coming transformed our world!

We do not have to look too deeply into the Christmas story to be dazzled by the transformational message of Christ’s coming to save humanity. Mary and Joseph’s reactions alone carry deep lessons on what it might mean to have our minds renewed and transformed.

The Cybersalt Digest is a ministry of Pastor Tim and Cybersalt.

Click here to view this edition online!  

Cybersalt News

Oh look, Chicken Thursday.

We have been having some lovely December weather here at Cybersalt World Headquarters. I've been slamming away at catching up here at work and am happy to report that my email inbox now only has emails in it from 2024. I have less than 150 to go to zero!  

Today's video share is about a camera sent to Jupiter for non-scientific reasons and what is being discovered from the data that came back!
Click Here to Watch

~ Pastor Tim 

If you are wondering what a Goober is, there is a picture of one at:
https://www.cybersalt.org/pastor-tim-s-cleanlaugh-site/what-is-a-goober

*Seasonal Ways of Calling Someone a Goober*

- A couple of slates short of a full roof.

- A few pies short of a holiday.

- A few too many lights out in his Christmas tree.

- All wax and no wick.

- Batteries not included.

- Bright as Alaska in December.

- Chimney's clogged.

- Got his brains as a stocking filler.

- Not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.

- Several nuts over fruitcake minimum.

- A few presents short of a full sleigh.

Sometimes, someone unexpected comes into your life out of nowhere, makes your heart race, and changes you forever ... we call those people cops.

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I bought a wooden car. It's got a wooden engine, wooden doors, wooden seats, wooden wheels, even a wooden key.

Guess what?

Wooden start.

"One kind word can warm three winter months."

- Japanese Proverb

It was a hectic day of running errands with my wife and son.

As if the stress weren't enough, four-year-old Christopher insisted on asking questions about everything, told me how to drive better, and sang every song he knew.

Finally, fed up with the incessant chatter, I made him an offer: "Christopher, if you'll be quiet for just a few minutes, I'll give you a quarter." It worked.

But when we stopped for lunch, I unknowingly began to harp on him. "Christopher, sit up straight ... don't spill your drink ... don't talk with your mouth full."

Finally he said seriously, "Dad, if you'll be quiet for just a few minutes, I'll give you a quarter."

Featured Illustrations are items well suited for illustrating or inspiring a point in a sermon, speech, or devotional. Funny, moving, or perhaps even graphic, the point of them is the point you make with them.

Susan Page writes . . . . 

- photo by Susan PageJesus came and his coming transformed our world!

We do not have to look too deeply into the Christmas story to be dazzled by the transformational message of Christ’s coming to save humanity. Mary and Joseph’s reactions alone carry deep lessons on what it might mean to have our minds renewed and transformed.

The Cybersalt Digest is a ministry of Pastor Tim and Cybersalt.

Click here to view this edition online!  

Cybersalt News

Sunday greetings, everyone, and welcome to December!

Even though it is December 1st today, it would not be out of place to wish me a happy new year because today is the beginning of a new fiscal year for my business. I am grateful to God for the way He has provided in the past 12 months. BTW, I am down to just over 200 emails in my inbox, which I hope will be zero by the time the real new year roles in.

Today's video share contains one of my favourite kinds of humour: self deprecating. I love how Jack Benny serves it up on himself in this clip.
Click here to watch.

~ Pastor Tim 

After the church service a little boy told the pastor, "When I grow up, I'm going to give you some money."

"Well, thank you," the pastor replied, "but why?"

"Because my daddy says you're one of the poorest preachers we've ever had."

I don't mean to interrupt people. I just randomly remember things and get really excited.

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How much does a chimney cost?

Nothing. It's on the house.

“A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together.”

- Garrison Keillor, Leaving Home

The late Peter Marshall was an eloquent speaker and for several years served as the chaplain of the US Senate. He used to love to tell the story of the "Keeper of the Spring," a quiet forest dweller who lived high above an Austrian village along the eastern slope of the Alps.

The old gentleman had been hired many years earlier by a young town councilman to clear away the debris from the pools of water up in the mountain crevices that fed the lovely spring flowing through their town. With faithful, silent regularity, he patrolled the hills, removed the leaves and branches, and wiped away the silt that would otherwise have choked and contaminated the fresh flow of water.

The village soon became a popular attraction for vacationers. Graceful swans floated along the crystal clear spring, the mill wheels of various businesses located near the water turned day and night, farmlands were naturally irrigated, and the view from restaurants was picturesque beyond description.

Years passed.

One evening the town council met for its semiannual meeting. As they reviewed the budget, one man's eye caught the salary figure being paid the obscure keeper of the spring.

Said the keeper of the purse, "Who is the old man? Why do we keep him on year after year? No one ever sees him. For all we know, the strange ranger of the hills is doing us no good. He isn't necessary any longer." By a unanimous vote, they dispensed with the old man's services.

For several weeks, nothing changed.

By early autumn, the trees began to shed their leaves. Small branches snapped off and fell into the pools, hindering the rushing flow of sparkling water. One afternoon someone noticed a slight yellowish-brown tint in the spring. A few days later, the water was much darker. Within another week, a slimy film covered sections of the water along the banks, and a foul odor was soon detected. The mill wheels moved more slowly, some finally ground to a halt. Swans left, as did the tourists. Clammy fingers of disease and sickness reached deeply into the village.

Quickly, the embarrassed council called a special meeting. Realizing their gross error in judgment, they rehired the old keeper of the spring, and within a few weeks, the veritable river of life began to clear up. The wheels started to turn, and new life returned to the hamlet in the Alps.

Are there leaves of anger, twigs of resentment, or silt of unforgiveness clogging your spring of living water? Just as little by little the stream became clogged and contaminated by debris, so our spirits can become obstructed by the *small sins* of day-to-day living. Let's keep the water clean and flowing.

- Charles R. Swindoll

Featured Illustrations are items well suited for illustrating or inspiring a point in a sermon, speech, or devotional. Funny, moving, or perhaps even graphic, the point of them is the point you make with them.

Rev. James Snyder, God's Penman, writes . . . . 

I am not given to complaining, except when I'm awake. That's according to The Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage.

Lately, I've been leaning towards a complaining attitude. I've reached the point of being an old geezer. I'm older than both of my grandfathers, and in three years, I'll be up to where my father was when he passed away.

The Cybersalt Digest is a ministry of Pastor Tim and Cybersalt.