Category Archives: Inspirational

by | August 13, 2017 · 8:54 pm

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie…

The rain fell in large comforting drops. It had been a sultry afternoon in our little town of Collettsville. My clothes were soaked through with sweat, so the coolness of the precipitation was appreciated. The rain had stopped my work on the land and allowed me the opportunity to run to the store for fuel for the tractor. Closing the door of my truck, I turned to walk inside to prepay. The first thing that caught my eye was the pair of dogs lying on the porch, one reclining against the wall and the other reposing peacefully upon the bench. Earlier that morning when I passed, they were on the opposite end of the store, sleeping under the shade of the shelter. People passed, coming and going from within the store at an almost constant rate, yet the two seemed none the more bothered. Neither beast stirred from their sleep. Their carefree manner seemed so inviting; it made you almost want to join them.

The first thing that came to mind were the scenes from the Beverly Hillbillies when Jed Clampett would be sitting out in front of the mansion whittling on a stick, while Duke, the old bloodhound would be sleeping nearby. All that was missing was Jed and his carving knife. Then again, other than the fact that the community was in constant motion, there actually plenty of “Jeds” around, they just didn’t have time to stop and sit on this particular day. If one were to pause long enough to take heed, they might see logging trucks roaring past one minute, a landscaping crew the next, or perhaps a caravan of motorcycle riders heading for the winding roads nearby. Yet, amongst all the buzz of the daily grind in the valley, there was also a sense of peace and serenity. Call it the aura of the John’s River that flowed peacefully behind the store, call it the sweetness of the pure mountain air, but it was something that seemed to float over the area no matter the day or time.

One might think of this as a little slice of heaven, where the cool waters flow and the people all say “Howdy,” but it is much more. The history portrays devastation, death, and mourning, but through it all, the hearty mountain people here have survived. The scripture, “My Grace is sufficient for you, we find strength in Him in our weakness,” comes to mind in such moments. Their memories tell of stories of struggle and survival. They seldom shrink from any danger, for their spirits are embodied in the ancient tones of those distant lands from which they traveled centuries before. A hearty breed of people that conquered many lands beyond their own, they now have settled into lives that are more complacent than any time before in their history. Yet, occasionally there are tales that rival those deeds of old.

Today we take for granted so many things.

Ms. Zelma and Ms. Clara shared with me this morning of their Grandmother who was a midwife dating back to the early part of the 20th century. She was so important to the area that she was the only person with a car. She would haul people down pig paths crossed with deep ruts of wagon wheels, car bouncing wildly, while she raced to the next person or persons in need. Ms. Zelma recalled her car doors encompassed both the front and back seats. “Huge doors no child could handle,” she reminisced. Her grandmother was one of the last “Mountain Doctors,” as Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies might say. It was her knowledge of herbs, natural cures, and the “Old Ways,” that made her a true M.D. Today, so much of that past has been forgotten, erased by our failure to communicate that invaluable wealth of information from one generation to the next. So, we rely on pharmaceuticals, food industries, and many other man-made, processed entities we either consume or take to supplement what the Lord hath given. All the while, cases of cancers and heart disease continue to rise to new heights.

In the end, we don’t take what the Lord hath provided, because of what was taken for granted; so much the irony of it all.

If we would only live as God had intended.

Our society’s pace is dictated by the world in which we live, creating little time for the “Old Ways.” We find it easier to justify buying the can of beans rather than canning our own. Meanwhile, the meat we consume has been pumped full of growth hormones, and additives to make it more appealing and sellable in the marketplace. In the old days, the animals would be processed in community hog killings, for example, not only providing the nutrients of protein to live on, but also keeping the purity of the food as it had been intended from the beginning. But not just the food was preserved, so were the ways of the people by coming together as a community. In those gatherings, whether they were snapping beans, putting up hay, or killing hogs, the talked while they worked. There the communication carried on, and in that way, those cures and tales of old would be passed from one generation to the next. Later, in the slower seasons, they would be retold around the winter fireplaces while their bellies would be filled with the foodstuffs that had been prepared in the easy, summer days. When they read from “The Book,” from the faint glow of the lamp light or wood fire, the words would have more significance because the era in which they lived more closely matched those of Biblical times, as God had meant it to be.

If only we’d take the time to slow down and sit for a spell. Like those dogs, let us find ourselves just soaking in the moment. Come join me and sit for spell on a porch somewhere.

“Yep, the rain is good.”

“We been having some goodins’”

“Toad stranglers yesterdee”

“Yep, river come up a bit”

“Let sleeping dogs lie,” they say, and so we will, but not for long.

We must awaken the sleeping fold.

There is much to testify for in this world, and the fields are ready for harvest.

Go yea unto all nations and make disciples for Christ, for this is our commission.

Thanks be to God.

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by | July 5, 2017 · 9:32 pm

Day 1 Cont’d: Full Circle

“But we are not of those who draw back to perdition, but of those who believe to the saving of the soul.” -Jeremiah 10:39

Day 1: Full Circle

Through hardship, through strife, through centuries of life, we push on.

The night before: On our two-hour ride from the airport in Milan to our final destination for the day, Hotel Palavas, we searched the horizon for their approach; the Alps. Time was not on our side; the sun was quickly falling from the sky. We passed verdant green fields of rice, corn, and vineyards. Each of us fighting fatigue and heavy eyelids, watched with anticipation. Slowly, the horizon began to grow in height. Faintly, there began to appear something that one might construe as either clouds or mighty peaks, unbelievably high. Yet, before our eyes could obtain focus on those majestic altitudes, the sun fell below a nearby peak, and a shroud fell upon the light in the sky. Like Christmas Eve, the present would have to wait to be opened in the morning. Some of us drifted off to fitful naps as round-a-bouts and traffic tossed our heads to-and-fro. Before we knew it, our bus approached an Alpine-looking hotel on the outskirts of Villar Pellice, Hotel Palavas. The staff greeted the busload of weary travelers with open arms. They had a prepared a hearty supper in advance for us, even in the late hour. As darkness fell, we unloaded our bags and once more, hauled, lifted, and tugged them to our collective rooms. The bed called loudly, yet hunger made us leave the welcome repose to find ourselves in the community dining room which would serve as our breakfast and supper for the next week during our stay. Here, long tables made and “L” shape, and we seated ourselves wherever we felt comfortable. Most of the students from Andrew’s University collected at one end of the “L” while the rest of us, professors, staff, teachers, preachers, and guests made up the rest of the seating arrangement. In my own assignment, I felt the least of these. The fact that I was even here was still unbelievable. Trying to bring myself to accept that it was real, I looked around the room of this hotel that was well over 500 years of age. The walls were made of stone, covered over with a decorative plaster. The room was very much like one might find at any other Alpine Inn, wood panels below a chair rail, above which the white plaster covering the ancient stones.

Each evening, as was the first, we were served family style, where heaping platters of pasta, vegetables, and bread were brought out to us until we were pleasantly filled.

Our bellies full, and our bodies exhausted from the nearly twenty hours of being awake, we soon found our rooms once more and collapsed upon our beds, eager to find that present awaiting us at sunrise.

The first thing that I recall was the sound of birds singing outside our windows. We had been paired with other members of our group for room assignments, and my roommate was my dear friend, Pastor Barry Mahorney. He was still sleeping when, like that little child wanting to be the first one down to the tree on Christmas morning, I quietly as possible, slipped on my clothes, grabbed my sketchbook, pencils, and phone then headed downstairs and out the front door to greet the day.

As the large, dark wooden front door closed behind me, the chill struck me immediately. Prepared, I pulled the long sleeve shirt closer to my neck and headed off. Past the nearby rooftop, there was the shadow of either a mountain or a very dark cloud. It wasn’t until I passed through a nearby narrow alley and came out on a higher rail of a little back road that I finally got my first glimpse. There, standing taller than I could believe were the peaks of the nearby mountain range above Bobbio Pellice.

“Praise God,” I breathed into the air, as the fog from my breath steamed ahead.

Excited just being here, it all slowly began to unveil before me; the scenery, the miracle of my just being here, the ultimate experience I had yet to find; it was all so much to grasp.

The night before, the staff had eagerly handed me a letter that had been waiting for my arrival. It was an invitation to come to the Ancient Pathways Church on Saturday night. I was to call the Pastor Estaban Janavel when I arrived. But, since we were tired and it was late, I decided to wait until Friday; Day 1.

Below where I walked two men were working moving their irrigation equipment, so I found a spot on an ancient stone wall and began to sketch the world before me, trying to soak in every aspect as it unfolded. It soon became apparent that the arches of water from just two sprinklers, which each one stood about the height of your waist, could cover one of their pastures. In fact, it also became obvious that their cattle were extremely well-behaved compared to those that I once owned, for they only needed a string stretched like an electric wire about twenty-four inches above the ground to keep them contained. My cattle would have laughed at that, and ran across the road into the neighbor’s garden at first glance at such a meager contraption. Later that day, we would actually see farmers moving a herd from one tiny field to the next. This was certainly a different world.

When I finally got back to the hotel and had breakfast, I asked the proprietor to call Pastor Janavel for me and give him the message that we would meet him at noon in Torre Pellice by the statue of Henri Arnaud. The reason being, I didn’t speak enough Italian, and Esteban didn’t speak enough English; thankfully our host, Elmer, could do both very well. After the meeting was confirmed, I then was told of the wonderful surprise that awaited after our trip to Torre Pellice; a journey to the valley from which my ancestors left 320 years earlier. Conrad Demsky, one of my American hosts, was as excited about the day as was I.  Like an archaeological dig of sorts, we were going to the Chisone Valley to see what we might find if anything. We really didn’t have a plan other than to visit the cemetery, a place where many genealogical researchers begin. Conrad’s wife, the leader, and professor to the student’s, Professor Kathy Demsky, would be headed to town for the weekly street fair with her class. Meanwhile, brother Barry, Conrad, and I would ride in Conrad’s van off on our own little adventures, beginning with the trip to Torre Pellice.

While we drove and talked about the possibilities that awaited, a thought began to run through my mind of the significance of the names that were coming together at noon. Let alone that brother Barry knew of another tour group of people he had known in another conference of churches where he once worked that would be visiting the same town next week. There was excitement for everyone it seemed. Conrad was eager to see our reactions, for this was not his first visit. He and Professor Demsky had been making this trip each year with the Architecture School students for the past twenty years. To him, this was another way to see the valleys, through someone else’s eyes, who was witnessing inspiring events; one after another.

In my own mind, the noon meeting and the names connected in that meeting was beginning to grow in significance; the statue of Henri Arnaud; Esteban Janavel, a direct descendent of Joshua Janavel; and myself, Timothy Tron, a distant relative to Captain Tron-Paulette.

Henri Arnaud, who was a pastor turned military leader, led the Glorious Return in 1689. Before Arnaud, another Waldensian hero, Joshua Janavel, would lead a small group of men against unbelievable odds, battling and winning outpost after outpost until they became known as the “Invincibles.” Janavel was known to only accept pure, Christian fighters, so great was his faith. He believed that the body was a vessel and for God to continue to work through them, they had to be at their utmost. Janavel would go on to write instructions for Arnaud to follow on his battle to retake their homelands, the valleys. Janavel’s journal also included instructions on how to select his officers. For the 1,000 men who would leave the shore of Lake Geneva that August day, one of the ten Captains to lead 100 men would be Captain Tron-Paulette. Unbeknownst to me that morning, Captain Tron would become a folk hero, in that he would be attributed to helping save Arnaud and his men. When the French had obliterated their fortifications with cannon fire and were about to storm their position, Arnaud and his men prayed for divine intervention. They were about to meet their doom at the battle of the Balziglia. That evening, a cloud descended upon the mountain so thick, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. It was Captain Tron, that with the hand of God, led the surviving three hundred men out through the dense fog, in the dark, along perilous cliffs to freedom.

In essence, the descendants of Janavel and Tron would meet at the monument to Arnaud, which would bring together three of the namesakes that made the battles to return to their beloved valleys a reality, thanks be to God.

All of this raced through my mind as our van wound its way around twisty turn-a-bouts and tiny roads only wide enough for one car to pass at a time.

We still hadn’t made it to that fateful meeting with Pastor Janavel. We had yet to taste the sweet water that floweth from yonder fountain. Ahead, stood the Chisone Valley and the secrets she held close. Little did we know; dire warnings and miracles were yet to come.

The day was still young.

Thanks be to God.

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by | July 3, 2017 · 3:46 am

Day 1: The Sun Rise in Garnier

“The heart is deceitful above all things, And desperately wicked; Who can know it? I, the Lord, search the heart, I test the mind, Even to give every man according to his ways, According to the fruit of his doings.” -Jeremiah 17:9-10

Day 1: The Sun Rises on Garnier: Across a landscape, broken only by the stonework of ancient hands, they work in the coolness of the morning hour. Down the lower reaches of the valley toward Torre Pellice, the sun has not yet risen above the shoulder of yonder mountain. Wildflowers speckle the roadsides, their colors a delicate compliment of their domesticated cousins bountifully arrayed in gardens lining the narrow roadsides, each carefully placed in the precious soil of which there is so little. In the shadowed hour, men work carrying irrigation equipment, placing them where the previous circle of showers has missed. Here the crisp pre-dawn air, one can see their breath. The hayfields they grow have already had their first cutting. These are not expansive pastures as we know them in the U.S.; rather, they are smaller plots, divided up so that once the hay is cut, they become natural intensive grazing lands; everything having a purpose in time. In these Alpine valleys, the growing season is short, so every minute of every day is taken with consideration of the long winter that lay ahead.

The men move quickly, their bodies lean from years of difficult manual labor. Neither of the two I watch are young; one appears to be in his late thirties while the other is at least in his early sixties. They do not seem to tire as they move from one field to the next at a pace that would belie a younger man. In these narrow passages, with sharp precipices falling away below, there isn’t room for mechanized machinery from whence more can be done with less. Here, as in times dating back to antiquity, the work must be done with the toil of one’s back and the sweat of their brow.

From my vantage point, sitting on one of the low rock walls, they see me and smile, waving only briefly before pressing on to the next field. Pencil and paper in hand, my eyes try to convey what my hands cannot feel. Their energy seems to buoy up my own. The expected jet lag seems non existent. My hand races to draw the quickly changing scene. Part of me wants to don my old farm clothes and jump into the fray, yet, there is a realization that cannot be dismissed; they would find my strength and stamina far below what they take for granted. My help may be appreciated but would only slow them down. They have a method to their labor, something which more than a classroom can afford, theirs is a tradition handed down from one generation to the next; a multitude of lifetimes of lessons learned.

The irony of it all.

They willingly devote their lives to living off the land, knowing every nuance necessary to eke out the meager existence from this demanding countryside. In their labors, they take nothing for granted, for years of struggle and toil have taught them well. Yet, in their labor, the body, soul, and spirit are sometimes neglected for the sake of striving to make the reality of life work.

How blessed is the man that understands both; the ability to take nothing for granted, but to worship and fulfill God’s commandment as much as he toils upon the land from whence all creation was given; the internment of time. We reap what we sow. Yet, one can become so consumed with living in faith that he fails to tend to the soil upon which all life is sustained; it is a precarious balance that is not easily maintained. As it says in the Bible, “It rains on the just, and the unjust…”.

Many times, we wish it would just rain.

In our faith, we can be lean and agile in what we do. We can remain close to the Word, living out our lives in Christ-like manner. Striving to be a light to those around us, and in our daily walk alone, we can become a true representation of what it is to be a Christian. Yet, some find this life of daily devotion and devote worship far too difficult. Some even remark it is unrealistic to be so “religious.’ To these naysayers, they must see the results of mankind’s slow erosion of the truth. Around them churches seek to become the center of entertainment, filling the void each day with something, anything, just to get folks in the door. The cumbersome trappings of man’s desires only slow us down. When there aren’t enough reasons to hold a party, they invent meaningful tributes to bygone saints. Over time, well-meaning memorials become tiresome traditions. They weigh our souls and burden the truth with details that are without biblical basis. These become the distractions that often lead many into a world of despair and hopelessness. As Jesus warned, we are saved by Grace, not by the law.

The stone wall upon which I sit, built decades or maybe even centuries before, a testament to the labor of those gone on before. There are no names to remind us of their creator, only the stories passed down from one generation to the next. A legacy can only by as such, if the subsequent generations to come know of it’s history.

When all else falls away in life, when our bodies come to that final resting spot, it is then that those left behind finally take the time to reflect and take note of all that has transpired. The breath of life has left the one they loved, their spirit is gone. All that remains is the legacy of who they were. Those that survive are left wondering what was it all for? What had they done with a life in which they served only one master; themselves? There is nothing left to advance the hope of an eternal life for those that have passed. Yet, when the one that has gone served a higher calling, but still worked the land with regard to being the caretaker for God’s creation, it is then we realize that they had served the real Master. Their final journey not complete, for one day, they too will reach the right hand of God the Father, and then, when the trumpet sounds, they will have all eternity in which to take a respite of their previous life’s toil. When we see a culmination of a life well-served and a life well-lived, we can rejoice in seeing what it is to be one with Christ. In the knowing, there is a peace returned to our soul.

A cool breezed passes before my countenance as I return to the present.  The sprinklers pulsate in a syncopation while in the distance, the roar of the torrent can be heard. It’s a constant reminder of the abundance of refreshing, life-giving fluid that is necessary to sustain everything that lives. There is the feeling of an energy it exudes, just by the very sound of its distant, gentle white noise. An occasional songbird breaks the trance. Above the dark nearby hillsides, the glow of the sunrise begins to brighten the upper reaches of the still snow-covered peaks of the mountain tops. Above their majestic summits, the blue skies show no trace of clouds.

We know not what lies ahead. Nearby the rooster crows as the shadows slowly slip away. God’s creation stands before us and the day is young. What lies beyond the next bend in the road only time will tell.

A beautiful day awaits.

Thanks be to God.

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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 | May 29, 2017 · 9:47 pm

Sevenfold and the Vehicle…

“But none of these things move me; nor do I count my life dear to myself, so that I may finish my race with joy, and the ministry which I received from the Lord Jesus, to testify to the gospel of the grace of God.” -Acts 20:24

Singularly I matter not.

Swirling over the rocks, like the eddies within a swollen river, we smash against all that prevails before our paths; blinding, racing fury, hurling down the mountainside. Alone, we are but a single drop of fluid but combined as one, we become a force to which incredulous powers are bestowed.

At times, my life feels like it has become one with the mountains.

There is no scene before the eyes from which I look anew each day that does not thrill within my heart. For if it were not one cascading tributary, then it shall be yet another, each providing inspiration, a renewal of spirit, an encouragement to the being within. Like the sweet strains of the melodic voice echoing from the fiddle string, uniting with one in the chorus of the evening calls of yonder whippoorwill. Below us, the sun sets in a spectacular display of God’s handiwork, painting the heavens in colors too numerous, too capricious for one to espouse. The tongues of fire leap from hidden shadows to dance in the sky above, as eyes follow the enchantment until bluebird pastels darken into a Prussian blue chasm, deep dark depths of the void above us, where distant stars twinkle like the frost covering the ground on a chilly sunrise.

Everywhere, the crisp new green leaves of spring sing their sweet songs. Whispers of ancient tones, while stem, bark, and root below seek the heart of a mountain beneath. Through the crevices of granite strands, rich forest loams, one after another savoring the earthen riches within until their sap is nourished and sent once more to rejuvenate those so far away, so close to the outer limits, yet, so reliant upon those below.

We are nothing alone, living in solitary remorse, we cannot be what we have been created to be; our purpose unfulfilled. Only when we come to the awareness of life, can we begin to understand all that there is and how thankful we must be for what we have been given. It is then, perhaps for some too late, that we finally find our purpose, our calling. It is then many come to the solemn conclusion, the race has yet begun. At that moment, in that awakening of the soul, we ultimately realize that we have been put where we are for more than one reason.

Often, when there seems to be an obstacle facing what lies in my path of everyday life, it is then I am aware that struggle is merely the vehicle to get me where God wants me to be, for a purpose unbeknownst to myself or anyone else. Sometimes it is made clear once that vehicle has reached its terminal point, what the purpose was; sometimes we may never know why. But when we do suddenly fathom the thought, “This is not the real reason I’m here, but that this issue is merely the means to get me to this point,” it is in that moment that we suddenly reach a new level of communication with our Heavenly Father, if only for an instant, we reach into the complexity of all that surrounds us. It is then that we, in the blink of an eye, find the Holy Spirit among us and then we can fully appreciate with open eyes, and arms, that which is about to happen.

Thus, was my recent experience.

One cannot begin to comprehend the magnitude of all that had transpired to lead up to the point that I heard myself exclaim out loud, “This is not the real reason I’m here. This is just the vehicle. Something else is about to happen. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it; no, this is just the vehicle to get me here.”

To understand the complexity of the problem would require more than this article could stand.  Yet, it cannot go without saying that the depth to which the problem prevented me from going forward was as if a granite boulder had been placed upon my shoulders and my legs had been set in chains. I had mentally struggled, made numerous phone calls, and spoke with multiple people who might be able to help; all were unable to find a solution. It was then, I knew something greater than myself was needed.

Coming down the mountain on my daily drive home, I literally called upon His name, and asked Him to take the steering wheel of my life, for it was beyond me to figure out. At that moment, there was silence; no radio, no words, just the sound of the car slipping down the winding road. Outside my window, the blue-green vista beckoned as the sun began its slow decent below the distant peaks.

“Sevenfold,” came the voice.

I instantly knew what He meant.

Yes, there was comfort in knowing where He wanted me to go. Melanie’s store located in downtown Lenoir, named “Sevenfold,” is a place that makes you feel more than good when you walk through the doors. While she may not have a bustling tourist icon in one of those fancy mountain town locations, her humble store has a feel much more special; God is there.

“I should swing by the bank, get my address changed, then if there is time, I’ll swing by Sevenfold,” I thought back to myself, keeping in mind what He had said.

“Sevenfold,” came the voice once more.

“Yes, yes,” I thought, shaking my head, “Yes, of course, I’ll go. For certain, yes, I’ll go.”

At the bank, I tried to use my own intellect to figure out the problem once more, and once more, He stopped me cold.

“Sevenfold.”

“Guess I’m still going to Sevenfold after all,” I thought to myself.

Moments later, as I walked through those old Walgreen’s glass and metal door, I was instantly filled with warmth. The home within the office building grew on you. One after another, tiny treasures lay about the store, including some of my own work. Combined, it made for a jewel in the rough, some place yet to be discovered by the world; a littles piece of heaven. Melanie was in the back of the store at the lunch counter holding court with two older black men, debating details about grass, or so I heard, when I walked up.

“Do you know that grass that they spray along the steep banks to keep the dirt from washing away. I think it starts with an “S,”” she said, squinting and smiling at me at the same time. I had met Melanie when she first showed us the house we now live in. She was a realtor back then. I don’t know if she had already begun her calling when we met, or if it was something that came later. All I know is that she was now fully upon her journey, and like so many of us was finding the fury of the wind in her face. In that, we knew she was on the right path.

“Centipede,” I answered, in more of a question than an answer?

“No, it’s not that,” she said, smiling.

“I said it was bluegrass,” said the younger of the two men, his name was Craig Perkins, the son of the Councilman, Ike Perkins. He seemed older when I first looked at him, but later found out he was about my own age. He skin was weathered, but his eyes were bright. I would also learn later that he too was an artist, and dabbled in various forms of mediums.

Once we got past the grass situation, I began to share my conundrum with the group. Melanie began to shake her head yes, “I’ve got this,” she answered. About that time, customers came walking in the front door. She scooted off to them while Craig said, “I’ve got an idea,” so he and I slipped out the door and across the street to track down someone he knew. We came back shortly afterward without success. When we walked back in, the thought hit me, “God wants you in the store, and in this, you will find that something else awaits; this issue is just the vehicle to get you here.”

“Thank you,” I said to Craig, “I appreciate your help, but I now know why I’m here. This is just the vehicle to get me here. Something else is about to happen.”

“I actually had the nerve to say it out loud,” I mused within my aching head. The toll of the day’s mental struggle was building to a crescendo, and the pain was becoming a gentle throb at the base of my skull.

About that time, Melanie called us to the back of the store to the lunch counter. “I’ve got somebody coming that will take care of everything.”

“Wow,” I said shaking my head. I then began to share with her my revelation of the vehicle.

“She’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

“Not a problem, unless you have to be somewhere,” I answered back.

“No, we’re here as long as it takes.” She and Craig smiled back. We then began talking about what all had been going on and what was happening in her world. Her father had been in the hospital. It was then the phone rang. It was her daddy on the other side of the line. “He’s coming home from the hospital,” she whispered while holding the phone away from her mouth as she spoke, smiling gleefully.

“That’s great news,” Craig replied, “Tell him I said hello,” he followed up.

“Okay,” she assured him.

About that time, a lady came racing through the front doors holding various implements of writing and office materials; my angel had arrived. We quickly went through the details, which she knew every answer, every angle to cover, and in the blink of an eye, the problem that had seemed impossible to solve was done.

Yes, in the blink of an eye, the unsolvable was wiped away.

Then came the real reason we were there.

I don’t recall how, I don’t know why, but for some reason, the lady mentioned that her mother was an artist also. “Yea, she painted the mural on the bridge abutment at the park in Collettsville.”

“You mother is Mary Lou?”

“Yes.”

“And Ray your father has cancer?”

I paused. As the solemnness of the moment hit me. It hadn’t been that long ago that my own mother succumbed to her disease after a twenty-year battle. Ray’s battle was something I didn’t take lightly and here stood a daughter whom I never met. My mind was full of questions, but this was not the time.

“I pray for him and your mother almost every day,” I said to her, as I looked her in the eyes. I could sense she wanted to say more, but was holding something back; an emotion, a feeling that couldn’t be spoken.

“Thank you,” she responded. Her shoulders seem to sink a little as a shadow passed over her countenance; there was a hidden pain within.

I could feel the emotion welling up inside myself as well. From the corner of my eye, I could see Melanie was also becoming affected by what was transpiring. I knew at that moment that the lady before me did not go to church with her own mother and father. I had never seen her before, even on Easter Sunday. It was then I realized the vehicle’s purpose and why I was there.

“God put me here for a reason today…to meet you.”

As she smiled, not sure of what to say, I walked over and hugged her, “I’ll continue to pray for them and you,” I said.

From that point on, it was a blur.

There was something about a painting of a horse, whom the lady had owned, and a painting that Melanie had owned for a long time, but suddenly felt God telling her to give it to the lady. There was such a flurry of emotion it was all difficult to keep up with and understand. It was as if a tsunami of the Holy Spirit had flooded the store and we were awash in his glory.

Our heads were buzzing with thoughts, emotions, and joy.

After she and Melanie had gone outside to say goodbye, I sat on the stool looking at Craig who sat at the other end of the counter. I felt drained like I had just been through a boxing match; a fight with myself mostly, and had won. The headache was gone, and the weight had been lifted.

Craig sat there looking back at me. “God put us here for a reason Craig, he put us here for a reason,” I said in half sigh of relief.

“Amen,” he smiled, “Amen.”

Alone we are nothing, but with Him, we can do all things.

Thanks be to God.

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by | May 21, 2017 · 4:20 pm

Every Mountain has Two Sides…

“His foundation is in the holy mountains.” -Psalm 87:1

For every mountain has two sides, like every story has two tales.

He stood looking as the sunset washed against the granite walls making the monolith perpetuate itself against an azure sky. Long shadows cast about where he stood as the nearby peaks already beckoned the coming night. He had not seen Grandfather from this angle before, facing east. Heretofore, his sunsets were always on his eastern side facing west. Tonight, he was on the other side, in more ways than one.

A few feet from where the man stood, the entrance sign to the Hugh Chapman Center began to flicker, attempting to illuminate the letters. The beautiful YMCA facility set against the backdrop of Grandfather Mountain was a picture postcard scene, one which all of Avery County could be proud. A chill began to blow across the collar of his sports coat reminding him that he had not dressed for the duty to which he was now assigned; standing guard at the entrance of the High School Prom. As the temperature dropped and the sun slid behind distant peaks, his mind began to wander.

Ironically, even after all these years, this would be his first Prom…ever.

Across the many miles of life, the soul hath traveled.

In his youth, he sought to climb the mountain before him, the beast in his mind’s eye, the obstacle in his path which prevented him from becoming what he thought he was meant to be. There were so many unknowns. The mountain before him in his youth was shadowed from the sun, dark and ominous; he seemed to face another uphill battle around every corner he turned. The child fought against himself as much as he clashed against the world around him. Many had sought to help him along his way, and as such, he was no stranger to the Word. Even in the midst of all the struggles, he heard the preacher tell his congregation one Sunday that if you wanted to find a home in eternity, you needed to find the Lord; and at the tender age of 13,  he was saved. Yet, like those finding salvation in their youth, he seemed to lose his way. As a teen, he continued to try to run from God, making bad choice after bad choice, while many times being saved only by the grace of God. However, with time, and the prayers of those who loved him, he eventually found his path, the one that leads to the top; success would eventually be within his grasp.

Accolade after another began to pour in when he finally made something of his life. From nothing to something, this was his story; the world was in his pocket, or so he thought.

One day, after having achieved the summit, the man realized he was still bound to his earthly domain, stuck in a rut from which there was little escape. What once seemed to be the prize had now become his prison. Distraught with denial he had chosen incorrectly, he began to question where he now stood in life. His thoughts turned to his salvation and what it all had meant.

Still the prayers were lifted on his behalf, and at last, his own were added to the chorus.

“Many are called, but few are chosen…”

When the realization of who he had become, and who he served, the man realized the truth; he had been following the wrong master, for God was not the center of his life. Seeking answers from the only place he knew, the man turned to the Word of God. In the corner of the bookshelf, he found the dust covered volume he had so long neglected. When he opened it, there seemed to be a voice speak from within, “I AM with you.” Page after page, the light began to shine upon where he must go and what he must do. He was finally awakening to what God had called him to be; following Him, the creator of all, God the Father.

A new world began to open before the man, and with the new world, he found new friends and a new beginning. The prison in which he thought he had been trapped suddenly released him and the mountain of debt was dissolved; the shackles of his life had been removed like Paul and Silas’s; God had set him free.

But where do you go when you are finally freed from someplace you never thought you would escape, let alone survive?

You must begin life anew.

Once the man set out upon his new journey in life, he soon realized, he was now back in the deepest, darkest valley, far below that distant mountain top. He was starting over, like a babe in the woods. Yet, he feared no evil, he feared no darkness, for the Lord was with him. When he tired, he rested, when he thirsted, the Lord provided him nutriment. Step by step, he learned how to survive in this new world. Unlike the struggles he had found in his former life when trying to reach the summit, these new obstacles didn’t dissuade him from his path. Instead of becoming distraught, he sought answers in prayer. When he was overwhelmed with trials, he sought the Lord in prayer. Every new challenge he found he was never alone.

One day, after several months of hiking, he looked up. There before him stood the same mountain as before, but now, he looked upon it from the other side. Unlike before, he could now see the beauty in its splendor for the sunset was no longer shadowed in its path. Alit in a miraculous glow, the glory of the Father beckoned him onward, and upward, calling him to the summit above.

As the night air swirled around him, he pulled his collar up a little tighter. He stamped his slowly numbing feet to keep the up the circulation. However, the elements bothered him little. He was here for a purpose. Deep in his heart, he knew the decision was right; he had finally chosen wisely.

Yes, he had never been to a Prom before, but oh how beautiful it was now that he had finally made it.

The day we step into our Heavenly home, will be the greatest day of all, and then, we shall all rejoice in His glory, the Prom of all Proms.

Thanks be to God.

 

 

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by | May 4, 2017 · 9:15 pm

Welcome Home, Dave, Welcome Home…

 Another soldier, and brother in Christ was called home today.

Brother Dave Murph went to that far distant shore. The first words he might have heard were, “Welcome home my son, I knew you’d come. Welcome home, you’re here for good. Look around, was it worth the wait? Welcome home, step through the gate.” These were the first few words of the chorus to the song recorded by Dave and the Gospel Plowboys called “Welcome Home”.

Tonight these poignant verses touch my heart deeply. One cannot help to sit and listen to this beautiful rendition of “Welcome Home,” by the Gospel Plowboys and think of Dave.

His passing has touched me in a way I can’t describe in mere words.

To know Dave was to know true faith.

Seeing him and the rest of the Gospel Plowboys for the first time, a few years back, in person at the Denton Bluegrass Festival was a treat in and of itself. I had heard them on recordings and videos on YouTube. I knew that someday our paths would cross. On that peaceful May evening, I heard the band like never before, in person. That is when I came to know the real David Murph and what his calling in life was meant to be. His witness there on stage that evening was nothing fake, no façade of an image for the sake of selling something, it wasn’t an act, it was the real deal. With his hand raised in testimony as he spoke, there was no rush for the need of getting to the show, for the sharing of God’s Word was what he felt in his heart and on his lips. Standing underneath the stage lights, their crisp white shirts stood in stark contrast to the blue of their Pointer Brand denim overalls and red matching ties. There was a statement in what they wore which matched as much who they were as much as what they were about. They were truly living for God.

It was that same moving evening that Dave had found me. It seemed we both had wanted to meet for some time. God had finally put us together, and from there a friendship grew. Our kinship was in Him, and through our personal commitments to follow God’s plan, we had crossed paths, and as such, we had a common goal; to share His Word in all we did; Dave through the music I loved, and myself through my writing. That weekend we met and talked about all that we shared and what Dave had hoped would someday be an article that we would hopefully submit to “Our State” magazine. In my interviews with the band, I learned how they would always pray on stage before starting their show or performance, regardless of where they were. One evening, at a Fiddler’s Convention Contest, they debated whether to pray before their competition. Knowing that they could be disqualified for praying beforehand, Dave told me, “It didn’t matter if we won or not, we were there to lift up God, and that’s just what we did.” That evening, they were never disqualified, never stopped, for after praying, they went on to play the winning songs that they became known for, and never looked back. It was who they were, there to serve Him.

However, that article we worked on that precious weekend was not meant to be. One thing after another kept putting off our editing and publication request. They performed near where we lived at the time at Cumnock Baptist Church. Looking back, I didn’t realize it would be the last time I would get to see Dave. We never know when or where we’ll be called home, but I know in my heart, Dave was ready. A few months later, I called Dave after seeing Rita, his devoted, lovely wife,  post an update on his health; it concerned me. When he answered the phone, we picked up right where we had left off; a friend is a friend no matter the distance or time. He shared with me his battle with his disease and how he knew God would lead him through whatever this world would put in his way. He wanted to know where I was in my life, so I talked with him of my own personal leap of faith. That day I was literally driving down the road on the way to start my new journey as the Director at the Trail of Faith. I told him how he had inspired me to go further in my faith, and for that, I was forever grateful. Once more, my friend was doing what God had intended for him to do, lift up others through his message. Although he was suffering and battling the disease that eventually claimed his life, he was not complaining, nor discouraged. He only wanted to get better so that he could continue the ministry God had placed before him. We said goodbye hoping to meet again soon, but it never happened. Dave went on to get well that particular time and eventually he and the Plowboys would make it to the Outer Banks Bluegrass Festival where I’m certain they found many more to whom they could share the faith. In the meantime, he and the Plowboys went on to record what would be Dave’s final album, titled, “The Gospel Plowboys – Welcome Home.”

The title cut says it all in a prophetic message that cannot be denied.

It wasn’t but just a few days ago that his wife Rita posted how he had become gravely ill. It didn’t seem right to know that a man my own age was so near death. It didn’t seem fair. He had so much more to give. But when the Father calls you home, you do not tarry, you do not delay.

As I walked home from Church last night, I could hear the sound of a lonesome whippoorwill calling. It was almost dark by the time I found the porch steps. The deep woods call of the lonely bird made me think of souls that had gone on and how in their journey to Heaven’s shore happens in the twinkling of an eye, leaving us sorrowful souls behind, alone in the dark to sing praises singularly until we too will one day be called home to sing in that Heavenly choir. Dave and our other bluegrass buddies like Randy Shumaker are surely there, jamming around that campfire along with so many who have already gone on, singing and rejoicing in the glow of God’s graces. They have so much to look forward to, and so much to share with us on the glorious day of reunion.

Somewhere I have the article that we started. I might find it and glean pieces from it that speak about Dave. Perhaps it will inspire me to write something, perhaps not; either way, there’s a wake in his passing that I cannot ignore.

A great man, a loving husband, a dear grandfather, and a brother in Christ has left us, and God has gained another angel.

See you soon Dave, until then, give God the glory and tell Him I said, Thanks.

Please lift up prayers for Rita and the rest of Dave’s family as they struggle through this time of loss and sorrow.

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by | April 21, 2017 · 9:04 pm

The Walk to Church…

The gentle rain begins to fall around where I sit, perched high above the forest floor below in our screened in porch. In the distance, Grandfather Mountain sleeps under a blanket of clouds. Today, there is a certain “farmer” comfort to my being. When the soil has been properly prepared and the seed planted in its bed, it is then the farmer works hand-in-hand with his Creator, knowing the rains will come; all in God’s time. Once the skies open, it is like a sigh of relief for the earth below and the soul within; and so it is this evening.

In reflection of this past week, there is indeed a particular comfort to many more things than just the soft shower from above.    Our Spring Break has been a much-needed regeneration of mind and body.

As I walk along the river on my trail that leads to Church, I oft wonder how many others would also love this route I take. Indeed, I could just as easily jump in the car and be at the doors of our sanctuary within five minutes, but there is something more spiritual about that thirty-minute journey that makes me want to walk instead.  There is something healing in that journey. The majority of my pathway winds alongside the John’s River. There, the waters speak to me in various tones. In those voices, I find comfort and thoughts of distance times. From the seclusion of the forest to the dwellings of those in the tiny hamlet of Collettsville, there is a reminder that not all that goes on in this fast-paced world is good. There is a need in each of us for something slower, something to which the inner being can grasp onto and embrace. In the whirlwind of life, we often feel as if we are being swept off our feet. When we feel like there is no control, we must find a place to where we can be grounded, a place where the scriptures come alive and their meaning take root in the world before us, not in a distant place that is seemingly imaginary. As I walk along, the sounds, the images, the taste, and the smells of life abundant explode into my thoughts as one vision after another dance in and out of what I attempt in vain to attend. There is almost an inner tumult that cannot be explained, only embraced. For the quiet about, turns what cannot be controlled into calm, and the inner self that had been abandoned is allowed to awaken, one taking the place of another until there is hope once again of hearing what He has to say; that still small voice can once more be heard.

Each trip enraptures another nuance that heretofore, had been forgotten.

The root-laden path through the forest, like Jesus, walk into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, is alive with the multitude of nature’s chorus singing praises,  lifting the spirit. The palm branches replaced by leaves and twigs, like a carpet of love from above. The spring that flows alongside which will eventually become one with the river takes its time, pausing here and there to take wonder before slipping silently into the waterway below. Around the next curve, tiny waterfalls play the melody to the tune of those beyond the greenery in the canopy above. Before I ere reach that blissful sound, my soul is already on fire.

A short jaunt through the vineyard and the miracle of Jesus at the wedding floods my consciousness. Their leaves just now budding, soon will become the fruit for which they were intended to bear. Like so many Christians I know, who have just stepped into their faith, but take time to grow and flourish so that they too might know Him in His fullness. Newness is the foundation of opportunity, and a faithful spirit is indeed a blessing to behold.

Before I can recollect my intellect, the rapids rush into my earshot. Purposefully, I switch my Bible from one hand to the next, its minimal weight barely being felt, but more so, the feeling of protection from the violent water below causes the motion. A multitude of echoes within the rocks and eddies, as often described when hearing the voice of God, like a thousand waterfalls; these white-water wonders below thrash about. Even so, there is a calming effect they have, through their anger, through their violent nature, there is something that says all is right within.

I sigh, and  again I think of how many of my friends would love to journey this same path with me. How I could wish so many could take every trip to Church like this. How much more rewarding would those words spoken by the Pastor be received once the soul has been properly prepared by God’s handiwork? Like the soil of the seedbed, all is ready, now let us receive His Holy Spirit.

Thunder rolls through the valley just now. Its magnitude reaches up through my feet as mountains are one with the sky. Another thunder clap reminds me that I’m nearly in the elements, so care must still be taken even if I’m caught up in the moment in the story.

Yet, one cannot be without the other.

As my footsteps carry me eventually along the river into the little town of Collettsville, I find houses next to the river, well within its floodplain, apparently  , victims of previous floods. The smell of ancient Earth reminds me of another place much like this, back where I grew up in New Harmony, along the banks of the Wabash River. There too, were places that all knew well which were potential  casualties for when the water would rise. The earth smelled the same, a dark, damp musty-ness of antiquity. The houses were similar as well, modest dwellings with sparse décor. Humbleness overflowed onto the porches, where comfort overrode fashion. A place where the set of my favorite TV Show, “Andy Griffith,” might have been filmed. The little homes, each peculiar within themselves, had their own story to tell. The waning light of day made the soft incandescence of the lamplights within mirror the heartbeat of their inhabitants, warm and glowing. Slowly, one-by-one, I’m learning their names, but that will be for another story, another time.

Interspersed between homes, little kitchen gardens, as grandma called them, displayed a variety of early crops; cabbage, taters, onions, and broccoli. Here and there a brave soul had put out a few tomato vines obviously wanting to get the jump on their neighbors. The aroma of newly turned soil and fresh cut lawns wafted through the air. A sweetness that seemed almost enchanting.

Time being the present, there was no fear of what the world might bring, there was a silence only broken by the sound of the river running past.

Somewhere on the mountain beyond the river, in the darkness of the forest, a night bird called.

Somewhere near me, the thunder rolled once more.

To each there is a moment in time when we realize all that we do, we must do for a purpose in this life. Eternity, that time for which awaits, for which we must knowingly prepare, must not escape who we are now. All around us we are given the opportunity to awe in His wonder. Is it any wonder then how much more beautiful that which is to come shall be? There is only one thing that separates us from that, and that is simply that we accept what God has provided and allow Him to enter into our lives.

The thunder echoes through the valley, and I’m thankful for all that is.

Thanks be to God.

You can learn more about God’s plan for my journey at Mission to Ride.

“For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even His eternal power and Godhead, so that they are without excuse,…”-Romans 1:20

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