Monthly Archives: June 2017

by | June 30, 2017 · 9:44 am

Misty Mountains…

“Land that drinks in the rain often falling on it and that produces a crop useful to those for whom it is farmed receive the blessing of God. But land that produces thorns and thistles is worthless and is in danger of being cursed. In the end it will be burned.” – Hebrews 6:7-8

This morning we awoke to a gentle rain falling outside our window. The birds call to one another as they bustle to and fro, carrying on as if nothing changes, their nests protected as they have built them to withstand far greater storms. The water, our life-giving source, soaks into the earth; grass and plants drinking in the coolness, their colors being revived.

Standing looking down at the reflection in the pools of water below the bridge, the clear blue sky of yesterday reflected back. Below the surface boulders, dark crevices, and fissures of time lay hidden. The medium, water, danced about, laughing against the rocks, its voice playing a melody to the ears, a chorus written by only the Master’s hand. Like the presence of God, water, our life source, can take may forms.

Our footsteps walked along well-worn paths, crisscrossed by a network of root, vines, and stones; constantly reaching upward, our climb was an ascent on a nearby peak. Walking in the surroundings of antiquity, time only passes to our awareness, a brief instant to our audience, the granite artifacts of eons gone by. Water has eroded their sharpness, smoothing them to a pleasing shape; soft and gentle. Along the stone surface, cracks and fissures are made; the footholds in time. Generations of life hath searched out the multitude of instances from which their web of limbs and root may find sustenance amongst the precious soil, so sparsely found here on the mountain.

Like those plants seeking life, we often find ourselves seeking the truth. Hidden amid the overload of worldly information, like the solid, formidable stone edifices we pass, our hands touching briefly the cool, firmness; a reality; a truth; we seek out this permanence in life. Yet, many cannot find their way. They have become blinded by the incessant tirade of the information with which we are flooded in each waking moment. The progress of mankind is measured by one’s ability to grasp the technology of the day. We place flat panels of information in every room. In the back of our minds, there has been placed a fear of losing touch, a fear of missing the headlines of the moment. We carry with us devices with which we can remain engaged, even when we cannot be near those screens of connectivity. Can we not live without this constant feeding of noise? Can we not leave it behind, and for once, return to the truth that lies before us since the creation? “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and I will bring you back from captivity…” “Knock, and the door shall be opened.”

Sitting upon the monolithic granite peak, we look out at the vastness that lay before us. In the nearby distance, the mountain they call Grandfather stands; close, dark, and vigilant. We can almost reach out and touch him, his closeness comforting. Before we can think, the scene before us begins to change. Around us, the void between fills with the fluidness of life. Clouds roll through, a mist of the life source we watched and listened to only minutes before now takes flight and passes us by; its destination unknown to us, directed by the Master’s touch. Wisps of whiteness, cool refreshing to our skin, blankets the world below. Closing your eyes, you can soak in the bliss. The whisper of sound surrounds us and tells us to release those burdens we have left behind. Blinkingly, we open our eyes to a new reality. Where once stood the solid image of Grandfather, there is nothingness; he is gone, obscured by the cloud in which we now sit. Surrounded by the whiteness of truth, we are closer to God’s face than before, treading where only Angels tread.

Sound, like the images before us, is gone.

Here there are no voices from man’s world to disrupt our blessing, only the closeness of Him.

There is only so much we can understand and which we can absorb through the senses with which we were given. Our comprehension is as it was intended. We are presented with the world from which we came, as ashes, we have been born, the breath of life given to us through our nostrils, the Spirit. We live as one with that which we are born to live, on God’s earth. Here we are only passing through so that someday, we shall share the heavenly abode with Him. Here, we are only temporary guests in a world in which He created.

In tiny glimpses, in what we can relate, we are shown the majesty of what awaits beyond. Moment by moment, we become more aware of what will await us in eternity, should we choose to do so. It is all up to us. We were given the free will with which to choose.

We can seek the truth, or allow the world to tell us what is granite stone and what is not.

The choice is ours.

Like water that can reflect a clear blue sky, or suddenly take the form of a white mist, shrouding even the most majestic mountain, His magnificence is beyond our human comprehension, as is our ability to know what lieth beyond heaven’s gates. We need not fear Him if we come to know Him, and in the end, it is up to us to choose.

Seek him with all your heart, knock and the door to eternity shall be opened.

Thanks be to God.

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by | June 28, 2017 · 5:07 pm

God-Chance with the Wilderness Scouts

Once again, the crisp cool morning was a welcome respite. The weather has been quite welcoming these latter days of June, once more reminding me of the high altitude climate of those distant valleys of my recent travels. So it was this past Monday morning, when other than the Statistics classwork, the only other items on my to-do list were to meet a buyer for some of our furniture at the storage unit and to drop by some friends house to return a book and to share a new one. In the meantime, I thought it would be nice to drop by the Trail where the rest of the family was meeting for lunch, and spend some time together.

If nothing else, it was a beautiful day just to be out.

The early morning passed quickly, as did the chill that had been so refreshing. Soon I found myself on the road and focusing on the tasks at hand. Before long, my car pulled into the parking lot of the Trail to find a van full of students and teachers already unloaded and heading into the Visitor’s Center. The first thing that stood out was that they were dressed much like the rural people of the valleys from where I had just been, with the women wearing long skirts and head scarfs. It was nice to see something that crossed the decades of time and oceans which were a physical reminder of the past. Making my way into the office, past the bustling activity of the visitors preparing for their tour, I settled down for my meal. About that time my wife whispered in my ear, “Would you have time to give them a guided tour if they want to take one?” With almost no thought I replied, “Sure, I can make time.”

In the other room, the group decided to eat lunch first, so without knowing it, our timing would be in sync for what was to come. From the other room I overheard a marvelous tale. As they ate, one of the leaders read a story to the group of a young Waldensian girl and her mother. The story told of how Piedmontese soldiers showed up one day to search their house for any trace of a Bible. They had just been reading scriptures while mixing the dough for the daily bread. Owning or possessing a Bible during this timeframe was punishable by death. Knowing the dire circumstances, the woman had to act quickly. Before the child knew it, her mother had hidden the family Bible in the dough she had been kneading at the time of their arrival and shoved it into the hearth to bake. The mother answered the angry knocks at the door, allowing the men to enter and search as they wanted. Not soon enough, they left, as rudely and briskly as they had entered. They were none the wiser.

“Where did you hide our Bible,” asked the little girl?

“Soon you will see,” she smiled.

Not long after the mother pulled the finished bread from the oven. The mother smiled and nodded toward the loaf sitting before her. The child’s eyebrows raised at the thought.

“You put it in the bread,” she questioned, unbelievably?

“Yes, where else could I have put it?”

The story was a perfect preface for their visit. I hadn’t heard it before and wondered to myself where they had found it. My mental deliberations were momentarily broken when I heard my wife asking them if they might like a guided tour instead of just taking the self-guided tour, “We actually have one of our guides here today,” she was happy to convey. After a short discussion, the group leader replied, “Yes, we’d love to if it is possible.”

Quickly swallowing the last of my sandwich, I found an extra Trail T-Shirt in the closet and donned my uniform for the afternoon.

I was back at the Trail.

Like most tours, we started at the relief map, where we describe the valleys. However, something was much more real to me than before. Looking down at the man-made mountain tops, I now knew where and how these valleys flowed. Although one could spend a lifetime trying to learn every crag and valley path, my journey had allowed me a perspective unique to anything previously thought. As I pointed to the various places, I pulled out my device and opened the gallery, then with pictures displaying in hand, I waved above those points relative to the pictures to bring alive the crude landscape below; it was amazing.

“You need to make that part of the display,” exclaimed one of the leaders.

As we stood watching, one by one, we saw the valleys come to life even before we left the Visitor’s Center.

From there, my previous script for presenting the Trail began to change. The reality from which the exhibits on the Trail were created now had new meaning and purpose. Beyond what was before us, the story behind the story became more concrete, more vivid. From ages of third grade to adult, our tour group listened intently at each new scene before them. Their questions kept bringing to light, additional details that were too important to leave out. What once seemed relevant, and meaningful seemed to diminish in what really was at stake; sharing how the Word was protected, preserved, and evangelized so that all might come to know the one true, living God.

Having been in the real cave with a communion, I was worried that there would be a fakeness to the Trail’s cave which might deter feelings I had once experienced almost every tour. When the group began to sing “Holy, Holy, Holy,” the fear quickly disappeared. The tiny little voices mixed with those of the adults made a chorus that was heaven divine. My faith was restored once more.

As we passed through the doors of the church, my mind once more wondered how this too might change. Would it seem less than before? We would soon know.

While sharing the story of the Ciabas and the history behind it, everything seemed the same, up until one of the leaders asked how I had found out I was Waldensian. That’s when things changed once again.

Standing in front of little ones, I was worried about the length of time it might take to share my personal story. Yet, as I began, my eyes kept searching for signs of boredom, idleness, or sleep; there were none. It was as if they were rapt with the moment, so I kept going. Before long, my heart was overflowing as the Holy Spirit poured forth. As my eyes filled with tears of emotion, there was not much more one could say, other than, “Thanks be to God.”

On a beautiful, clear Carolina day, a sweet group of children and adults found their way to a place where a man once called his job, although it really wasn’t a job, because that is something you do for work. If you love what you do, you’ll never work another day; and so it was. But God had plans to push us further than we often think we can go, and usually more than we think we can handle. We may never know where and how He is using us. On this one particular day in June, God’s pathway put us together, where the Lord led us all to the Trail of Faith. He united a wonderful group called the “Wilderness Scouts,” with a former Director and tour guide, who now is simply a servant of the Lord. The result from this servant’s perspective was Godly.

“For we were once darkness, but now we are light, live as children of the light…”

As one of the leaders expressed as they were about to leave, “It was another God-chance.”

And to that, all one can say is, “Amen.”

Thanks be to God.

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by | June 25, 2017 · 9:56 pm

Your Testimony may save a life…

“And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, and they did not love their lives to the death.” – Revelation 12:11

There was a refreshing coolness that greeted me at the door this morning when I stepped out onto the porch for my morning coffee and worship. It was hard not to think of being somewhere else. Sipping the dark brew from the cup, I closed my eyes and tried to stay, but that distant land called me back, once more.

“How was your trip,” they ask when meeting up with friends and acquaintance aware of the recent journey. A flood of words, scenes, and experiences overwhelm my ability to answer coherently, so most times, the answer is simply, “Great.” Inside my mind’s eye, there is a multitude of moments, vistas, and sheer splendor that would take more time than would be kind to the would-be inquisitor. Most often they seem to be waiting for more, but in honesty, there is too much to tell.

How does one put into words the dramatic landscape that is difficult even now to describe to myself, let alone someone else? How does one convey a deep connection to a place that they had never seen before, until a few days ago? How does one share the emotional roller coaster of a faith journey which reaches the very depths and peaks of comprehension, many times in the same day? How do you share a family’s journey that took three centuries to come full circle? How do you explain how ill prepared to you feel to answer their simple question because, in truth, you know the bottom line is that God had worked a miracle upon miracle for your very existence?

There is a gulf between the here and now; a chasm that separates this world from the one that was left behind. The void is something that only time can bridge. As the water flows over the rocks below the surface, time slips past, beneath the visible there exists those that have been there, since the beginning of creation. Their bones now buried with the stone upon where they once stood. When the torrent shifts, the surface dances exposing for an instant the rocks below. For a brief instant, the flash of what has been becomes known. We are able to perceive something beyond what we can describe, for before our capacity to understand can grasp what is evident, it is gone, hidden once more from view. As if taunting our mind’s ability for conceptualization, we are left with an impression of wanting more. Nothing would satisfy our intellect more than to be able to confirm what we can only now guess.

Soldiers return home from active duty and find themselves having to adjust their mental condition to a pace of life far different from where they had just left. In the worst cases, they have suffered battle scars that will never heal. They are trapped in a world that cannot understand the depths of hell from which they had survived; meanwhile, the reality of living must go on. The trip to the grocery store is no longer a forgettable routine. The images, sounds, and smells can trigger an instant replay of the carnage from which they have come, leaving them shaken and disoriented. As the heartbeat quickens, there is an instinct for survival that returns, and they act out in ways those they have known for a lifetime don’t recognize. These are their battle scars, the acronym known as PTSD.

Similarly, the missionary or peace worker that returns from a war-torn country, a disease riddled death zone, or a horrific life changing event, sometimes face similar, but most often, to a lesser degree, the same experience. There is a gulf created between the world they once knew and who they’ve become from the event. As they try to readjust to the normalcy they once knew, there is so much going on behind the façade they put forth. Deep inside, they are reliving what death and despair can become, while about them, others argue about the difficulty in choosing plain or peanut flavored M&M’s before they find their movie theater seats. In the grocery store, in the next aisle over, a child screams for their favorite Nutella flavored cereal. They blink, and the image of the body of an emaciated child they carried to the medical tent just the week before, sucks the air from their throat. They bite their lip and leave behind the shopping cart, racing for the exit of the store before they must explain to some stranger why tears are running down their cheeks.

In truth, if your journey was severe, if your trip was extremely uplifting, or in the rare case, it really didn’t to seem to change you, a mission trip can leave you feeling more than a little awkward once you return to the life you once had. There is an emotional gulf that cannot be explained to most, and in truth, many really don’t want to hear it. “It’s your choice to go, it was your choice to put yourself through that, so why do we have to hear all about it?” they say.  They may not say it to your face, but many times, they think it silently.

However, we cannot be dissuaded by calloused remarks; it is our duty to share. What our detractors may say and think is the darkness speaking. Satan using their fears of the unknown to keep them frozen in their comfortable lifestyles. As long as the lost can remain afloat in their feeble existence, savoring the brief moments of fleshly pleasures, Satan has won. They’ll never have a reason to change.

Your testimony may be the difference between someone accepting Christ into their lives, or at the very least, making them think twice about why they don’t believe.

When the battle was at hand, we called upon His name, our Father in Heaven. Once more, when we return, we cannot do it alone. To reach the mountaintop and return, there is more than is humanly conceivable one can do, and just like before, we must ask for our Father’s hand. As a disciple for Christ, He prepared you for the journey, and as that disciple returning home, He will prepare you once more.

Miracles made your journey possible, and many more await when your testimony becomes the path for many more to follow. Let your story be told, and with it, the Word be shared, so that others may find their way to the light.

Time is short.

“And do this, knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep; for now our salvation is nearer than when we first believed. 12 The night is far spent, the day is at hand. Therefore let us cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armor of light.” – Romans 13:11-12

We must not delay.

And in all that we do, give thanks.

Thanks be to God.

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by | June 22, 2017 · 8:14 pm

Day 6: Costelluzza: A Solemn Reminder

Day 6: Costelluzza

The rocks were damp to the touch, but the coolness and relief from the flies was refreshing. The climb through the forest was intense. All around the sparse trail, plush ferns grew, blanketing the forest floor. Here and there, granite boulders peaked above the greenery, their stillness matching that of the tree trunks that stood towering to the canopy overhead. Only two days before, we had scaled a mountain reaching 9137 feet while watching the world from high above the tall waterfall that cascades down into the Germanasca valley. Today’s climb seemed more intense, more purpose-driven.

Briars ripped at my flesh, exposing streaming trails of blood down my forearms. “Battle wounds,” I mused to myself. As I caught the group that had been dropped off ahead of mine, I was stopped by a very caring, dear, EMT trained student who was traveling with us, Nadine, who insisted she bandage my wounds. Looking back, it was just as if we had fought through enemy lines, and one-by-one, we were taking care of the wounded before we ascended further. Once my dressing was complete, and the remainder of my team arrived, we rushed onward.

Mount Costelluzza, overlooking Torre Pellice, Italy.

As we climbed, it felt as if something were driving us.

There was a sense of urgency to the ascent.

In the back of our minds, the story of the people of the valleys fleeing their persecutors, looking for refuge here on this mountain peak which overlooked their village kept driving us onward. Some may have sought shelter from the cave below, but their attackers followed too closely, so in a sheer panic, they tore at the rock, hands, feet, anything that could grasp. The air emptied from their lungs, as their hearts beat in their ears. Their body’s energy spent, they called upon God to deliver them. Inside, a force from on high lifted them, their pains erased as the chill of the Spirit came over their beings. One by one, they reached the summit only to find that the men below, pushed by the darkness that ruled their world, would not stop their pursuit. There on the edge of the earthly terrain, the chasm opening to the depths below; the drop which plummeted beyond where the eye could follow. Nowhere else to run, they turned to meet their attackers.

Some knelt in prayer, others embraced their loved ones, while some chose to resist, but in vain.

The crime for which they were sought for slaughter was only to worship, possess, and evangelize the Bible. To these Waldensians, as they came to be known, the Word was real. Their scriptures came alive, they became part of who they were. Some might imagine them reading the scriptures as thus, “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld his Glory,” and for this they believed the words written when He said, “ Go therefore[c] and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20 teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” Amen.”

It is written that the blood of the martyrs became the seeds of the Reformation.

Some say over three-thousand were thrown to their deaths that day. John Milton would be so moved, that he would pen the words to the sonnet, “On the Late Massacre in Piedmont.”

“Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold, Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones; Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O’er all th’ Italian fields where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who having learnt thy way Early may fly the Babylonian woe.”

I sat on the cool boulder within the shadows of the cave. Looking out on that solemn stone surface, the edge of the earth disappearing before me, the mist of the sky becoming one with the feeling of sorrow filling my soul. I ate in silence, feeding my body’s need for nourishment. From the protection of the stones, I sat and chewed, trying to absorb the moment. There was no joy in that sustenance, only that it would allow me the strength to descend from this point. Something inside me wanted to hold onto this place. Part of me wanted to keep its memory in me, but fear of feeling that pain of remorse, the depths of which paled in comparison to the heights at which so many fell from when they met their fate on the horrific Easter day so many years ago, it all was so difficult to comprehend.

The sheer tragedy so long ago was still here; its mark forever cast upon the granite, like gravestones of the perished.

They did not all die. For if it were so, I would not be here to tell you of this story today.

Our tale continues.

Yes, the light still continues to shine in the darkness.

The students came, slowly, painfully, but they came. The pestilence of flies flew in clouds about our bodies. Satan himself vying for attention in a place he had claimed his own, its darkness could still not overpower the faith that was shared. As the testimony was called upon, the air seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. His Word was spoken, out loud, freely with no fear.

God wiped his hand across our vestiges, and the darkness subsided; the cloud of flies dispersed. In the distance, thunder rumbled a warning. Not yet fully recuperated, we began racing for the trail to descend. Weary legs were called upon to carry us safely down the rocky path, winding back and forth in a seemingly never-ending drop down the backside of this monolithic reminder of the martyrs that have gone on before.

Our time at the summit was brief, yet the impact of its solemnness will live with us forever.

There is so much more to tell, but the gravity of this journey weighs heavy upon the soul. It will take time for its meaning and purpose to come to fruition in my life, as well as all those that made the journey that day.

I’m thankful beyond measure and blessed beyond belief to have made the trip, for with God, all things are possible. To know the obstacles that stood in the way, would in itself be enough to write about, but there is so much more to the story.

With time, it will come.

In all that we do, let us give thanks.

Thanks be to God.

{Events described herein were from the recent Mission to R.I.D.E, my first ever, journey to the Waldensian Valleys in the Cottien Region of the Italian Alps. My trip was made possible in part to many wonderful contributors, to whom I cannot thank enough, and to Andrews University, for allowing me to ride along with their inspiring group of young adults, to whom I will forever be thankful. Thanks to Professor Kathy Demsky and her husband Conrad, for being such an inspiration.  My journey would not have been the same without my traveling companion and brother in Christ, Barry Mahorney. Lastly, but not least, I give thanks to God the Father, for all that he has blessed us with, both at home and around the world. Thanks be to God.}

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