Monthly Archives: January 2017

Mission to R.I.D.E.

Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.” -Matthew 7:7-8

After leaving a friend’s home recently after having dinner with them, we had discussed the possibility of my joining a mission team to the Waldensian Valleys located in the northwest corner of Italy. I was overwhelmed with a sense of purpose once again. This was not to be misconstrued with my everyday purpose in life; standing before the next generation and doing my best to implore before them the necessary morals and standards to base their lives upon, albeit through the discourse of Mathematics. No, this sense of purpose was of a higher power, from God. To be more specific, it was the answer to my question I had asked Him in the recent past. “When you are ready for me to go, let me know,” was my question to God about going to the Waldensian Valleys. Suddenly, out of the blue, He has called for me to go. However, as before, the human nature of my mind wants to step in the way, especially when the question of funds arises. I know deep in my heart that if it is meant to be, then there won’t be any doubt, regardless of funds or no funds. So after leaving their house, I purposely asked in prayer that if He truly wanted me to go, to speak to me directly. The next morning, Matthew 7:7-8 was waiting for me in my daily scripture reading, “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find…”

Yes,” he had answered.

On our way home, before the prayer, the thought of “how” nagged at me in the back of my mind. Suddenly, the idea of the “GoFundMe” project came to me. Would it work? Would I have a purpose needful enough to spark the imagination of other enough for them to donate to my cause? Deep in my soul, there is a voice speaking to me that tells me once my feet land upon that soil of those ancient martyrs, my life will never be the same. Like the Englishmen, Charles Beckwith, who would eventually relocated to the valleys to serve,  I know beforehand the potential impact that standing in places that heretofore I could only imagine, would be cause for great joy and weeping, simultaneously. Tour after tour at the Trail of Faith, I shared with those who could not go, like myself.  God again and again, spoke through me and allowed me to bring the Trail of Faith, which was modeled after the original monuments and historic buildings of the valleys, to come alive. Many visitors, and myself,  were often moved by the Holy Spirit. Now, to go to the very place where my heart was preparing for not only those guests but for my own testimony, would be a mission of more than just self-inspiration and revitalization. There is the hope that in this journey, there will be an evangelistic fire that will erupt from which many will be touched. How, where, and by what means this will happen I can only conjecture at this point.

To try to explain the nature of this mission in one word is not possible. Brother Barry exclaimed that it was many things in one, and thus was born the acronym, R.I.D.E. (R-Research, I-Inspiration, D-Devotional, E-Education). As God prepares my heart and mind for what is to come, there are also those miracles that one cannot predict, only God is capable of knowing. So it goes, with what little I can predict, the RIDE will by His will become reality.

In all of this, there is so much that I have already learned. Learning to receive was and continues to be for me one of the most difficult attributes to practice. “Ask and ye shall receive, knock and the door will be opened…”; easier said than done. But when one thinks on this as God’s will, there is no hesitation to knock nor ask.

Another night I wearily prepare for much-needed rest, and another night, I lift up this need to God in prayer and ask that if it is to be. If that comes through GoFundMe, then so be it. However it happens, I can peacefully rest assure that it is in His hands.

Thanks be to God.

If you would like to help fund this mission project, please click here, Mission to R.I.D.E. and Thank You in advance.

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Sitting On a Step Watching Life…

Today God took me to the front porch of the little convenient store in the town of Colletsville. There, as I sat on the steps of the modern day general store watching the world go by, I waited. The voice had told me to go there and wait for someone, whom I did not know. So there I sat. One person after another got out of their cars, and either went inside the store or pulled up to the gas pumps to fill up their vehicle. My destination began with speaking to the workers inside asking if they went to any local churches; neither did. I asked if they lived in the area, and they said yes, just up the road. It was then I realized there was part of the reason I had been sent. Pouring myself a cup a coffee, I then retired to the front steps where my story began and waited.

It didn’t take long, but soon an older man, scruffily dressed in overalls, pulled up in his pick-up truck and got out, calling out to me as he shut the door. “Fine day we’re having,” he nearly shouted from across the parking lot. I took another sip of the hot brew and nodded, “Yes, it certainly is,” I answered.


He stepped on the first step and started to climb but paused when I said, “It’s not quite as bad as it was last night, though.” The rough-hewn mountain man looked down at me, “Yea, that wind can cut right through you.”

 The previous night had been a bitter cold sixteen degrees with winds gusting to thirty miles an hour. The chill was still in my bones; thus the hot coffee well after dinner. I took another sip as I nodded in agreement. I removed my sunglasses so as not to seem unfriendly and asked. “Do you know of any good churches in the area?”

“What kinda church you looking for,” he answered as he stepped backward off the step so that he now stood in front of me.

“One that preaches the Word of God,” I answered solemnly.

“Thems the best kind. That’s what I like,” he squinted as he checked me out. It was at that moment, that silent split second when you feel a connection to someone; someone you had never met before, but there in the moment, there was something that tied you together far beyond the mere seconds in which you stood. “Well, there’s the couple we have here in Colletsville,” he tilted his head in the direction of the two churches I had just driven past a few minutes earlier when I was checking out their starting times and denominational affiliations. “The Advent Church was started nearly over a hundred years ago when their preacher rode down from the mountains on a mule.”

“Wow,” I exclaimed.

“They’re all good folks.”

“I noticed they were pretty close together, the churches that is.”

“Yeah, the one used to sit facing the road but the flood spun it around on the foundation, and they just left it there after it was repaired.”

“The flood that took out the railroad tracks?”

“Yep, that’s the one.” He then stepped forward and introduced himself, “I’m Cecil Byrd.”

I reached out my hand and shook his firmly, “Tim Tron,” I answered, smiling back at him. I followed with, “You have the same name as one of my favorite uncles.” To that, he smiled extra wide.

“Yep, I guess it ain’t a very common name.”

“You take my brother, for example, his name is Daniel Boone Byrd. You’da thought they would’ve called me Davie Crockett Byrd, but no, they called me Cecil.”

 “No, I guess not. Did they name you after a family member?”

 “No, they told me my daddy worked for a man that he didn’t like. His name was Cecil.”

“Hmm,” I said biting my lip in curiosity.

“It don’t make any sense, but then sometimes that’s just the way life is.”

When I asked if there was anyone around that made string music, he told me, no, but his mother used to play the banjo.

“She was quite musical you might say. She played the banjo, guitar, and even the piano.” The pride in his voice was evident, but as he spoke, he seemed to drift off almost as if he was still listening to those ancient tones come back to life. In the distance, I could almost hear that relic of clawhammer sound echo off the mountain walls near us.

As our conversation continued on, Cecil would welcome or call out to almost everyone that was coming and going in and out of the store. It was obvious he was the unofficial town Mayor. Some he would ask how they’d been or some would ask about a job he had just finished, which was putting a new roof on another church just down the road, not either of the two we had talked about earlier. He was a roofer by trade, putting on roofs for the past forty years. His father had taught him before he passed when Cecil was only twenty years old. I shared with Cecil my calling and how God had brought me here. He shared with me more of his family history and how he had lost some of his siblings throughout his life. Soon a large black Ford 2500 Diesel pulled up which commanded all of  Cecil’s attention. It had just pulled out of the school parking lot which was across the street from the store.

“Nice rig,” I remarked admiringly.

“Sure is,” he grinned, “That’s my boy.”

Cecil then left me and walked over to visit with his grandchildren who began pouring out of the massive, fully-loaded pickup, complete with a heavy duty electric winch fastened on the aftermarket painted black metal, Texas brush bumper.

I waited for the appropriate time so as not to interrupt, tossed my empty coffee cup into the garbage nearby as I headed for my car.

“Talk to you later Cecil,” I said, waving goodbye.

“You too,” he called back, waving in my direction. “Good talkin’ to ya.”

Behind the store, the Johns River silently flowed past as time and mankind came and went. Somewhere in the farthest reaches of a holler nearby sits a banjo covered in dust whose memory begs to come to life. Somewhere those memories are still alive, a  heartbeat away.

Welcome to my new home.

Thanks be to God.

 

 

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The Sleeping Beast…

Each morning, long before the sun begins to brighten the horizon, my day begins. There ahead of me awaits the sleeping giant, repose and silent as it slumbers. To stir the beast before one is ready to do battle is to invite defeat and untold injury upon the soul. So I begin each day well in advance of my first class, so that I may prepare as best I can with what little time is available.sleepingdragon

A certain dread of uncertainty fills the void within me when I enter the doors of the school, like the lair of the sleeping leviathan. When there is no time to prepare, as is often the case for the Lateral Entry Teacher, one must breach the entrance with honest trepidation. Often, a lateral entry person enters the fray in the midst of an ongoing semester. It’s much akin to parachuting into a “hot zone” in military terms, in the fray of battle. There has been little time to formulate a lesson, let alone a syllabus from which a basis for all manner of conduct and instruction can be grounded. Ill-conceived lesson plans are like thin shields against the blast of the fiery breath of the beast. One must rely on the stealth and agility of having battled circumstances from the distant past when there is no time to garner a defense. The weaponry we wield are countless moments and events in our own history that shaped and formed us into the warriors and the potential educators we have become. The ability to think on our feet and pull from our mental resources become our best ally. Meanwhile, our intellect is our sword, something we must learn to sharpen each day; without it, we have little chance of surviving future struggles. Our culmination of a lifetime of education suddenly is called upon to serve us as we serve them whom we teach.

As the exterior door of the school silently closes behind me, the sound of ventilation system can be heard; the giant breathes in peaceful slumber. My footsteps echo in the halls. There is less fear of each new day, less angst for what lies ahead. My peers reassure me again and again, “It gets better.” Yet, there is that fear of the unknown that nags at your unconscious thoughts, like the drip of a faucet in the other room; it is there. Rather than allowing that trickle of negativity to consume you, one must turn it into a positive.  For me, the anticipation of the unexpected now becomes the adventure. Those things which still create the uneasiness are focused into an energy that propels us harder into the task at hand.

I didn’t always think this way.

It was Summer Camp, only my second as a Boy Scout. We had heard the horror stories well in advance of the annual summer event of the dreaded Mile Swim, one of the requirements for the Swimming Merit Badge. For some, it had become a rite of passage. This particular summer I was scheduled to take the Swimming Merit Badge class, one that was required in order to earn the prestigious rank of Eagle. None of the other requirements mile-swim-bsa-patch-boy-scoutsbothered me as much as that long distance endurance test. The participants who took part in the marathon swim followed closely behind a rowboat where two adults watched the small pack of boys trail behind. At the first sign of struggles, the endangered youth would be hauled into the boat where they would safely ride until they could be taken to shore. The part that we feared most was swimming out into the depths of that black bottomed lake. The darkness of the water allowed our boyhood imaginations to create all manner of monsters whose abodes lay below in the seemingly endless pit; a verifiable abyss. When I told my fears to my father, he shared with me this thought that stayed with me for the rest of my life. He explained to me that he would be scared to swim out in that lake too, but sometimes when we feared something, we should learn to use that fear to drive us harder; make it our impetus to be better than we ever imagined. Later in life, I would tell my music students before taking the stage, “Take your butterflies and teach them to fly in formation.” So with all of my fear urging me onward, little Rick Anderson and I swam our first mile without stopping that summer, following closely behind his father and my Scoutmaster, the late Tom Anderson. Tom was one of the best Scoutmasters a group of youth could have ever had. His commitment to us boys was never faltering. He was to me a “John Wayne” of Scoutmasters. Rick and I never feared we never faltered that day, for we had all the assurance with us we thought we needed sitting right in front of us, his dad. He gave us the encouragement and courage to do more than we thought possible. Mark Twain once said, “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear,[1] and so it was that summer day so long ago.

Once more, the recollection of the past strengthens the present, and my fortitude is re-energized. Those pillars of our past lives become the supports for our character, the very thing that makes us the leaders of today. They may have gone on, but in essence, they are always with us. Their lessons of encouragement become the very tools from which we now can draw upon.

The keys rattle in my hand as I approach my door in the dimly lit hallway. As the lock turns and the click of the door opens, I can hear the beast within draw its breath.

Time to awaken this Math beast and let the day begin.

Now to Him who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that works in us,…” -Eph. 3:20

[1] BrainyQuote.com, https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/m/marktwain138540.html

 

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