Category Archives: Inspirational

by | May 15, 2016 · 10:29 pm

Faith in Flight…

“And it shall come to pass afterward That I will pour out My Spirit on all flesh; Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, Your old men shall dream dreams, Your young men shall see visions.” – Joel 2:28

Major Dowd and his crew rushed into our Avionics Shop early one morning barely giving the on duty NCO to call the room to order. “Never mind men, at ease,” he hurriedly commanded.

I was standing at the test bench going over some equipment that had come in during the previous night’s routine airplanemaintenance. He looked in my direction, “Grab your flight bag, you’re coming with me Airman.” A lump instantly grew in my throat the size of a watermelon. It seemed the only time a maintenance crew member got to fly was when there was a plane so broken, that the only way to reproduce the problem was to take her, the aircraft, into flight. Before I could reply, “Yes sir,” MSgt Hall spoke up, “I better go too sir.” He looked at me and winked then turned back to the Major, “She’s been giving us a fit on the ground so it will take two of us.”

“That’ll be fine,” the Major replied, “Meet me on the flight-line in 30 minutes and we’ll take her up.”

“Yes sir,” we both replied.

The Major and his entourage turned and departed. Sergeant Hall turned around and grinned that Missippi toothy smile at me, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.”

All I could do was shake my head and bite my lip. Yes, I was in the Air Force, but the truth was, I hated flying.

Growing up, I had repeated dreams of flying in the most unconventional manner. It seemed each time I would take flight as if I were swimming in the air. However, instead of flapping my arms, my altitude was always maintained by kicking my legs. Many times my preferred dream aircraft was an old tire swing. Unfortunately, in almost every dream, it would end in a downward death spiral, one that I could not control. Each time I would wake up on impact, breathless but still recalling the thrill of the flight, if only a few seconds afterward.

Later in life, I would continue to dream, but not as often of flying. My dreams would turn to things that pertained to my life and what sometimes might lie ahead. When writing, I would turn to God and pray for an answer to where my plot line might need to go. I would wait for a sign or a word. Many times, the answer would come to me in a dream or vision. Today, I still draw my inspiration from dreams, and so it was with this story.

That particular day the Major came into our shop, we loaded into the SINCSAC’s plane. It would eventually be the same plane General Schwarzkopf would command from during the beginning of Desert Storm and during the Gulf War. Needless to say, this was mainly the reason for the Major’s hasty visit to our shop that morning and our immediate orders for in-flight repair; it was a crucial plane.

We climbed into the command quarters of the prestigious aircraft and took a quick survey. The aft section of the plane contained a comfortable sleeping quarters and conference room fit for any General. There was even a full-blown kitchen with a menu of steak and lobster; nothing was spared for the top brass. The flight crew showed us to our seats. Unlike any other KC-135, these were plush commander-in-chief type seats, complete with covered head and armrests. The sergeant and I buckled into the nicest seating we’d ever know and prepared for the flight from hell.

We knew in advance that there was a problem with porpoising. Porpoising was the gentle arcing of a plane during autopilot. Plus or minus fifty feet was within specifications, which is what she had tested on the ground. Yet, the flight crew was reporting severe porpoising, nothing like we were saying we found; thus the surprise flight. As the plane climbed to altitude, we were well over the base were I was stationed at Warner Robbins Georgia. Below, through the pilots window, we watched as all of Georgia spread out before us prior to Major Dowd issuing the command, “Ready gentlemen,” he said to his crewmen. It was then I noticed the flight engineer grab the edge of the command center wall.

Something bad was about to happen, I could just sense it.

When God calls us, we often run and hide. We find our hell becomes the world we are creating in order to avoid his call. We find our lives slowly beginning to spiral down, down, down. We push away until all is lost.

“Many are called, but few are chosen.”

My mind raced back to those childhood dreams and the death spirals. I pushed them away and listened as the Major then spoke to Sergeant Hall and myself as he looked back toward our seats, “I’m going to engage the autopilot now, you may want to brace yourselves. You’ll see what we mean when we say it’s out of specs.”

My hell was about to become real. Had I run until it was too late? Was this my wake up call?

Initially, there was only a minor jolt. “Hmm, not so bad I thought,” as I looked over at Sergeant Hall. He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “I don’t see any problem either.”

Then before our thoughts could allude any further separation from the truth, there was the feeling of your stomach climbing into your mouth as we looked out the front window to the horror of only the ground below in our sight. We had begun a complete nose-dive. In fact, we seemed to be headed straight for a Kamikaze strike upon my mobile home below, sitting in the on-base Trailer Park.

“God, is this it,” I thought to myself as I looked at Sergeant Hall who was beginning to turn green.

In the next instance, there was nothing but blue sky in the windshield as our stomachs went from our throats down to our ankles.

There was an immediate sensation that I was about to lose my breakfast.

“How embarrassing,” were the stifled thoughts as I watched Hall scramble to unleash his seatbelt. He was beginning to turn green himself.

The plane continued the death spiral to near stall climb, over and over. Meanwhile, Hall inched is way over to the equipment rack. Nearby, the flight engineer took his seat. Later I would learn that flight engineer’s prided themselves on standing the entire flight; all but this one of course.

We had learned in Tech. School that the one thing you never, ever wanted to do to the autopilot equipment was to bang on it, ESPECIALLY while in flight. Our equipment was created in the 1950s and as such, contained tubes. They had not yet transitioned to digital flight components. Part of the reason they had not been upgraded was because of the ability of the amplifiers to withstand nuclear pulses. So, if you jarred one of the primary controllers tubes hard enough, you could send the plane into an unpredictable attitude. Meaning, we could turn upside down and crash!

It was then I watched in horror as Sergeant Hall began beating upon the main control amp in desperation to release us from the prison the Major had purposely imposed upon us in order to gain an understanding that the plane was definitely still broken. It was then the thought passed through my mind, “Would the Major really try to kill us all just to prove his point? Surely not,” I answered in a not so confirming reply.

I closed my eyes and prayed. Swirling death spirals returned to my mind. I prayed harder.

Sometimes, when all is lost, the only recourse we have left is prayer and our faith. When Waldensians, the people of the valleys of the Cottien Alps, were released from their prison cells the size of modern day wash machines, their emaciated bodies were then forced to march 128 miles to Switzerland during the middle of winter. They had been imprisoned for their refusal to abjure their faith. Three thousand left for their freedom. Over 400 died along the journey. They recalled to those Swiss waiting for them with open arms, as a heroes welcome, “Faith in God is all we had.”

So it is in the darkest hour, we often find, faith is all we have left.

The plane jerked, then jolted and suddenly the porpoising ceased; at least for the moment.

“That’s it,” Sergeant Hall quickly reported to the Major, “You’ve got a bad Op Amp.”

“But I thought you said you already replaced it,” replied Dowd.

“Sure enough,” Hall responded, the color now returning to his forehead. “Well, this one must have been defective. You know how this old stuff can act up.”

The Major smiled and nodded. “I’ll turn off the autopilot just to be safe and take us back home.”

We all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

God had once more answered prayer.

The sergeant looked at me and whistled a quiet reprieve out of view of the flight crew on the others side of the wall from the equipment rack, wiping his forehead with his forearm. We both knew we were lucky to be alive.

When we landed, the sergeant requested the entire system be replaced. We called that “Shotgun” maintenance, meaning that if you don’t know for sure what the problem is, you just take a shotgun’s blast approach and replace it all.

I was never so thankful to be back on the ground once again.

We recalled the adventure to the rest of the Avionics shop, and they all agreed it was the best move, but none could believe that Sergeant Hall had actually pounded on the Op Amp, and we survived.

Looking back, I know that all through my life, even in the darkest hour, God was always there. Even when I was not seeking Him, He was still there for me, with me and watching over me. As it says in the 139th Psalms, “O Lord, You have searched me and known me. You know my sitting down and my rising up; You understand my thought afar off. You comprehend my path and my lying down, And are acquainted with all my ways.”

Nowadays, my flights are few and far between, both those imagined and real. But today, my walk with the Lord is ever more close as I seek Him in all that we do. Yes, those dreams of old were there to serve a purpose, and those to come will do likewise. All we have to do is to listen and He will direct our paths.

Thanks be to God.

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by | May 1, 2016 · 7:25 pm

A Walk in the Garden…

Last Sunday, after a morning of worship, I took an afternoon off to bask in the warm sunshine and walk in the garden. The rows of lettuce, cabbage, radish, and potatoes were doing quite well considering we had little rain in recent weeks. In fact, the taters were doing so well that they really needed some dirt mounded up around them. In the wanderlust of leaving the house on such a beautiful, heaven-sent day, I had forgotten to grab my garden hoe. Regardless, I plopped down upon my knees and began to scoop handfuls of loose soil about the dark green sprouts. The warmth of the earth trickled over my palms flooding my head with precious memories of grandma and dad working on Sunday afternoon in their gardens.

“There is something about working in the dirt with your hands,” father would tell me as he showed me how to cultivate the rich, dark soil of the fertile lands along the Wabash River. “You don’t need a hoe, dirtyhandsjust use your hands,” he said as he held up his dirt ladened palms. The black earth had worked its way underneath his nails so that he honestly looked as if he had been living as a barbarian for some time.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use a hoe,” I asked, not understanding the message.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “How you gonna feel the earth with a hoe,” he responded.

So, there is sat, hands covered in dirt as I pulled heaping piles of rich, dark red dirt up around my taters thinking of those sweet days gone by. The garden and springtime were essential to our families. Grandma always canned as if she were feeding a multitude, which generally she was. You never left her house without some canned goodie or baked something or other. The root cellar always had the essential to last us through the year. The only time I recall going to the grocery for her was the time Deep and I got in trouble with the supposed pet skunk, but then that’s another story. The trip to the grocery in that circumstance was in order to air us out on our half-mile journey to and from the store. If you pulled up to grandpa and grandma’s and couldn’t find anyone at the house, you knew they were either in the kitchen garden just behind the house or across the field in the big garden behind Mrs. Wolf’s house. You would know to be careful when you reached the small pasture gate. It was maybe fifty yards across to the garden gate, but it might as well have been a mile when one of K.D.’s bulls was in there. So, with great caution, you always were certain to look both ways before crossing to see what manner of livestock might be grazing nearby.

From time to time, even when I didn’t have a place to call my own, like now, I found a way to have a garden. When my wife and I were stationed at Warner Robbins AFB, in Warner Robbins Georgia, I found that airmen were allowed garden lots. All you had to do was sign up at the MWR Center, and they would assign you your very own plot. There in that foreign soil, mostly sand and clay, I found another crop of vegetables soon filling our produce baskets to overflowing. It was there that I also learned how to grow peanuts, something I had never imagined. But once more, armed with just a hoe and a tater fork, I turned the soil the old-fashioned way, by hand. Grandma would tell me, “The connection to the earth and the land make us one with our maker.” She would then gently remind me the passage from the book of Genesis, “In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread Till you return to the ground, For out of it you were taken; For dust you are, And to dust you shall return.”

So many lessons learned, many while working in the garden, so many memories made. Those are seeds of faith planted which are to be harvested throughout our lives.

I don’t guess it’s any wonder that one of my favorite old time gospel hymns is “In the Garden.”

The day that Ms. Frankie and I sang it in the church was another special day in my life. Ms. Frankie had suffered from Alzheimers for some time. At that point in her life, the illness had progressed to the point she could no longer read or write. But when we would sing together, she remembered more lyrics than I did to many songs; all you had to do was get her started. That morning, there in Goldston United Methodist Church, we made beautiful music together and memories to last a lifetime.

Ms. Frankie passed a couple years after that, and they played the video from that day at her funeral. The tears rolled down my cheeks as I listened with bowed head to the sound of her singing once more, knowing that she was watching us all from heaven that day, singing along while holding her husband John’s hand. She was indeed walking in His garden that day as well.

Here is the video of that wonderful day.

Sometimes, my hands in the earth are all I need to make my day complete.

We came from the earth and to the earth, we shall return. There we will become one with the soil and add to the abundant life everlasting of those who come afterward. “And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and man became a living being.” – Genesis 2:7

Yes, walk in the garden and feel the presence of our Lord. Your life will never be the same.

Thanks be to God.

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by | April 30, 2016 · 8:39 pm

The Weight of the Mind…

“When wisdom enters your heart, And knowledge is pleasant to your soul, 11 Discretion will preserve you; Understanding will keep you, 12 To deliver you from the way of evil…”

– Proverbs 2:10-12booksbooksbooks

Sweat drained down my face as each arm carried the burden down three flights of stairs. Their weight was not as exhausting as was the repeated climb to-and-from the attic as I slowly emptied years of accumulation into the moving trailer. My current load was books that at one time occupied my library. They had been stored away for safe keeping until the day came that my study would once again be restored; that day had not yet come. They varied from works of fiction to technical manuals. The piles had been placed as they had been evacuated from their respective shelves, into shopping bags which I now used to transport them once again. “How many more times will I continue to move books that are already in my head,” I thought to myself as I panted down the steps.

The intrepid fear of losing memory instantly came to mind as my excuse. We spend more and more money in this modern day and time to backup our precious pictures, documents, and writings; memories. The mere thought of losing one’s lifelong collection of photos is enough to cause a shudder to run up and down your spine. A friend of mine once exclaimed how they had lost everything in a house fire when she was young. They, the family, had all survived, but she said of all the worldly things they lost and missed the most were their family photos; something that could never be replaced. It is no wonder that the ambiguous cloud is one of the fastest growing industries today and has become a sanctuary of safe keeping.

“Never fear, keep your memory safe and back it up to the cloud,” adds tell us as they promise safe and secure storage for all manner of devices and computers. But how much is enough and what do we really need to keep?

“Can I afford to toss some of these antiquated manuals and books from college,” I thought out silently. Several years and thousands of dollars were spent studying in several of those books that allowed me to invest 23 years of my life into the telecom industry. Then there was the box of notes with which were used to study; many more hours of time spent pouring over equation after equation in order to train my mind to think a certain way. “No, I cannot,” I told myself, “besides,” my mind continued to reason, “one day my children might find it interesting or at least entertaining to see what I went through to build the world in which they lived for their first 15 years of their lives.”

So, I trudged on carrying the heavy load. “Be real,” I told myself, “you’re just carrying this boat anchor around. When are you going to realize it and set yourself free?”

As I strained, my mind continued to wrap around the recent understanding of a Biblical principal I had so long overlooked; our soul and what it encompassed. One aspect of our soul is our minds, our ability to learn, reason and understand. Proverbs 2:10-12 describes how we gain wisdom, and it pleases our soul. The thoughts continued to swirl around in my head as I thought of my ancestors and their ability to memorize so much of the Bible. Their physical burdens of that precious text were small since so much of it was within, deep inside their soul. They had learned that the only safe place was inside their hearts, not on their backs, nor in the cloud of today’s world. Instead, their cloud was a place beyond the limitations of mankind, far above our terrestrial abode. Their storage capacity was limited only by their ability to take it in, as is ours today. They used their God-given gifts to increase their storage capacity until it is nearly beyond our belief today.

I placed the cargo inside the trailer and looked down at the accumulating pile of books. So many stories that had led me to this point in my life. Tales of death and mourning, stories of adventure and might and whimsical journeys of fantasy, all fun yet seldom endeavoring to affect the person I was to become. Had I studied the Bible to the degree that I had poured over these countless volumes, how much more different my life might have already been. Yet, God has a plan, and it is not for us to try to understand.

“You must learn to let go,” the voice said, “be free.”

As I slowly closed the door, I realized that there was still so much to learn. My arms trembled from exhaustion. I sat down on the porch and took a long drink from the water bottle, realizing my clothes were drenched with sweat. I could feel my heartbeat in my temples as I closed my eyes to find coolness in the air around me. My heart was finding a new pathway to walk, a new way to think.

There was so much to consider.

The cloud might protect my writings, but my real sanctuary lay within Jesus Christ. When we truly can turn it all over to Him, our spirit within becomes fed from the Holy Spirit so that our soul can then reach its potential we never imagined. We then become capable of doing things we never realized were possible.

Letting go is never easy.

All we have to do is release our burdens to Him and accept him into our hearts.

Once we are set free, moving never became so easy.

Thanks be to God.

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by | April 26, 2016 · 9:47 pm

You Never Know…

They come for many reasons.20160426_084100

Their paths are as varied as there are stars in the night sky.

He passed me as I walked along the road, picking up debris and clutter. It was early afternoon on a crystal clear April day, warmer than usual. He sat up high in his navy-blue Jeep Cherokee, a master of his vessel. The bulk of belongings stowed upon his roof where hidden from view by the royal blue tarp that flapped in the wind catching my attention as he drove by. Something said to me there was a story there; the voice couldn’t have been more prophetic.

As I rounded the corner and began my descent down the stairs to the Visitor Center, I heard the car door shut. From where I was walking, I didn’t see anyone pull in. “It has to be him,” the voice said. Sure enough, by the time I got to the bottom of the stairs and the corner of the building, he was almost at the front door. His small, stout body topped with a thick head of creamy white hair was eager to get started.

“Are you open,” he asked, smiling broadly as we approached the front door.

“Why sure,” I replied, opening the door to invite him in.

“Well, you’re about the only one in town, he joked, “must be a Monday thing around here.”

“Yes, it does seem to be that way sometimes,” I chuckled, thinking of the two places that came to mind.

He began his introduction by telling me his name, Fred Greene. He told me how he had just been through Greensboro and how his great grandfather was part of its founding, although they hadn’t used the “E” at the end of the town’s name in so doing. “They at least had a Greene Street,” he continued, “with the “E” on the end.”

I nodded and waited. I could tell there was more to come; there was something about him that looked weathered and traveled. His skin was deeply tanned from countless hours exposed to the sun. His vessel, the jeep, was just about as dry and aged in its appearance. There had been a day wax once existed on its paint, but that was a distant memory.

“I was traveling down the interstate on my way from Greensboro and saw your sign. I had never heard of the Trail of Faith, so I thought I would stop and see what you were all about.”

“That’s great,” I quickly replied.

“God leads me every day, and I never know where I will end up.”

I soon learned that he didn’t want to tour the Trail, but only wanted to hear what we were about; a scouting mission of sorts. I began to share with him a brief introduction to hopefully entice him into further discussion. He drank in everything I had to say and was wholefully accepting of every word.

We hadn’t gone far into the story of the Waldensian people when I could tell nature was calling.

“Is there a bathroom here I could use?”

“Sure, down the hall and to the left,” I pointed.

“Great, I’ll be right back,” he said before scurrying off.

Seconds later I could hear the door shut and knew he had found his immediate relief. Thinking he might be thirsty, I poured us a couple of cups of water, one for each of us. Not long after he emerged from the restroom. I offered him his cup of cold water, but he declined to say he had water in the jeep.

It had been a slow day, to say the least. There was enough time for me to begin touching up the sign at the entrance that morning. So when we sat down at the table, seated so I could keep watch of any incoming visitors, Fred began to share with me who he was and what he was about. I was interested to hear the rest of his story.

Every day at the Trail there seems to be another tale of life and inspiration that seems to find its way to us.

As he spoke, the elderly man before me could have easily stepped out of the Bible. His knowledge of scriptures was unbelievable as was his delivery. He used the words I had just spoke to tie in his own beliefs, and his endeavor to win people to Christ. As we talked about how the world had strayed from the truths within the Word, he continued to bring up a certain preacher, someone I had never heard of before. I kept listening and marveling at his ability to quote from memory, long passages of the Bible, feeding his story, one that at times felt somewhat practiced as if he had told many more people than just myself.

Later that day, I would speak to a pastor friend of mine about the visit and he reminded me that we can never be sure that we don’t entertain angels unaware, regardless if they appear sane or not.

When we finally got to the point of his delivery that I was supposed to be moved by the Holy Spirit, something seemed to fall flat. It was then he handed me the cards that displayed the face of the man he had been referring, over and over again, Reverend William Brandham. For a moment, my heart plummeted, like the free falling rock from the cliff’s edge as one’s foot slips. For a split second, your heart races and fear shoots through you to the point your breath is taken away. This was different, in that my heart was sickened at the same pace. Here was a man, knowledgeable, wise and every bit a Biblical scholar who followed someone that was to him, the prophet Elijah incarnate.

My wife would later tell me that maybe that was how those ancient Jews felt when they heard Jesus speak about another way to believe, a gospel they had never heard. It was beyond their ability to grasp this revolutionary way of thinking.

Fred went on to tell me about the miraculous healings and prophecies of Brandham during his lifetime. Later, after I was finally able to peel myself away from Fred, I would learn more about Brandham and his movement that eventually would become a near cult following. Brandham would die in a car crash in 1965 at the age of 56.

For some reason, I don’t think he saw that coming. Of course, I could be wrong.

Now don’t get me wrong, there could have been some truth in all of those wonderful healings that Brandham was purportedly performed. There may have been truth to some of the prophecies he would be attributed to having told. Yet, standing there that day and listening to Fred show me a picture of what was supposed to have been seven angels descending from heaven as reported in Time magazine, I couldn’t help feel a loss for someone that could have totally blown me away had he stuck to the truth, the true Word of God.

I didn’t need healing, prophecies nor miraculous performances by a long passed preacher to bring me to Christ. All I needed to hear were the words that Jesus spoke so long ago, “Knock and the door shall be opened, …ask and ye shall receive.”

Fred was another one of the blessings God sends to me every day at the Trail; one of those sweets from God’s box of chocolates. He may not have shared with me the gospel in the context in which I was accustomed, but he also taught me more valuable lessons than I could have ever found on my own.

This morning, at dawn, I went out looking for Fred. He had left the Trail yesterday heading down toward the falls to find a place to stay for the night. I found him parked by the Valdese Fire Department dispatch tower sound asleep. I felt bad that I had no place to offer him to stay. I wasn’t far from living in a jeep myself. When I found him, sleeping like a baby, I quietly placed a note on his windshield to join us for our Tuesday morning prayer breakfast at McDonalds.

Fred never showed.

Later in the day I saw him parked at McDonalds, seated outside at a table sharing his story and gospel with a couple of ladies.

Fred continues to follow God sharing his gospel the only way he knows. I can appreciate his servitude and am thankful to have crossed his path in life. Fred showed me what genuine commitment to giving it all away and following Christ really means, and for that I am thankful.

Fred was inspired long ago by a man many felt was a modern day prophet. So great was Fred’s conviction, he gave his life to serving as a fellow Christian; for that I am grateful.

In all we do, let us not forget, Thanks be to God.

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by | April 10, 2016 · 9:55 pm

Wood, Rocks and Faith…It Started With a Tree

It was in the fourth grade that I can first recall my life changing with regard to something said to me byIMG_20140422_101933 Mrs. Bradshaw our Art teacher. We had been working on drawing landscapes and for some reason trees began to grab my attention. The particular tree that most interested me at the time was the oak, with its twisting, turning bark and ever-reaching limbs. Mrs. Bradshaw became an inspiration in my life and an encourager for bringing out the gift in so many children.

As she peered over my shoulder, the words that stuck with me even unto today were simply, “You know Tim, drawing trees are a lot like drawing people. They are unique in their own way. If you can draw trees, you can certainly draw people.” Those words mystified my young mind.

Today, as I sat preparing to speak before the Faith Community Church about the “Go and Do Day,” I asked God to send me something, a word, a thought, an image; yes, anything that would help me start my presentation. The vision of the tree and Mrs. Bradshaw were the words He spoke to me.

The majestic oak, spreading its great limbs broadly across the landscape; a home to countless birds and animals was a lot like what Jesus described to the disciples as he foretold of his death. “In my Father’s house, there are many mansions…I go there to prepare a place for you.” The great oak, a house of so many mansions, yet its roots growing deep into the soil, curving and wrapping around all manner of dirt and rocks. Eventually, the tree is cut down and the wood is made into boards, beams and timbers. The stones are dug up and made into walls and walkways. Each piece becoming a structure, an inanimate object until that structure begins to come alive with a story. In a way, the tree and rocks live on. Like Adam whom God made from the dust and then breathed life into his nostrils, on the Trail, these structures come alive when we share the Word of God through the story of the Waldensian people, the people of the valleys.

The journey for each visitor to the Trail is personal. They each come for their own reasons.

As distinct as the tree is unto itself, so are the lives and twists of fate that lead them to seek the Trail. Like those branches that spread out across the landscape, like those roots meandering among the rocks in the soil, so do the events that lead them here. One lady said it would be difficult for her to explain all that had transpired to bring her to the Trail. She said the journey had begun literally years before and it was an amazing, and unbelievable tale. I then said, “Here at the Trail, we aren’t afraid to call those miracles.” She smiled and wiped away another tear and said, “yes, they were definitely miracles.” In fact, they had not called in advance but arrived miraculously on a day when we were able to provide them a guided tour. There had been an extra loaf of bread, the staff was all still there from the previous two tours and there was enough time; yes, yet another Godly moment.

Once more, out of the wood-fired oven made of rocks and wood, we shared bread and the Holy Spirit moved through us. Once more, through the rocks and wood placed one upon the other, the faith of our founders who held the substance of things hoped for, evidence of things unseen to be their vision, now allowed us to bring those seeking hope, faith and love a little closer to being one with the Father.

Through the structures on the Trail, the trees and rocks live on. Through the Trail of Faith, the story of conviction and perseverance lives on. Through our testimony of the Waldensians, we can then share the Word of God so that through the trees, the wood, and the witnessing the faith of Jesus Christ becomes possible.

The master’s hand continues to lead us on.

God had prepared a place and through His will, it all…shall ….be …..done.

Thanks be to God.

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by | April 9, 2016 · 9:52 pm

The Crack in our Armor…

They come for many reasons.

Some feel called, others feel led.

They come for many reasons.

She and her daughter had traveled from New Jersey. The pamphlet told of the Trail and something spoke to them to go. They showed upimagesKK89TV6O on a chilly Friday evening, just mother and daughter. They guided themselves, taking care at each exhibit, each step of the way, savoring every morsel of the ancient history.

We stood at the oven preparing for the next day’s guided tours as they came closer, working their way through centuries of persecution, centuries of Waldensians dying for their faith.

I carefully placed the log upon the splitting block and looked for the weakest section, one that had a hairline crack; something the maul’s edge could use to begin the split. The tiniest of line running from the center out along the years of growth showed me the spot where I had to aim. Lifting the maul, I arched my back and swung in the movement learned from years of manually splitting firewood, arching the back as I rose to my toes, then with the force of momentum on my side, began the downward arc of the ax.

The solid crack of the log confirmed my aim had been true; the fissure had begun.

Something about splitting firewood for the oven made be think how this activity and the church had something in common.

In today’s society, many churches are like the log to be split. Satan seeks the tiniest of crevice wherein he can find an avenue to slip in. Once the opening begins, he brings the force of the depths of hell upon the smallest of hairline splits until evil has blown open a fracture in the church so deep and wide it can destroy the very institution that once could have easily withstood the demonic onslaught. The tiniest opening was all that was needed.

The guests were now rounding the corner of the Refour house and walked up to the oven where we worked. We introduced ourselves and began to share with them what we were doing and the story behind the community oven. Something we said about sharing the bread of Christ and modern day miracles triggered an emotion with them that began to bring out the mother’s testimony; something I knew I would have to save if only to remember for another day, another time.

She began with how there was a movie that she badly wanted to see back home, back in New Jersey. Yet, every time she tried to go see it, the movie was sold out. When she arrived in Charlotte, where her daughter lives, she tried once more and was finally able to get in; the miracle began. She continued on about her home church and how it had burnt down. She felt called by the Lord to start a building drive to raise money to rebuild. She asked God, “Are you sure, this is me you are talking to. I can’t do something like that.” She told how she tried to reason with God but every time she spoke against it, God told her he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Finally, she conceded and accepted that she had no choice. She was one month into her ministry, having already visited neighboring churches to try to ask for their help when her doctor called.

Emotions began to well up in her eyes as she sat down on the knee wall and continued.

She shared how the doctor told her that her cervical cancer had returned and that she would require more surgery.

“Why, God,” she cried out, “why would you do this to me after I finally accepted your call?”

The thought came to mind when I hear of bad things happening to good people. “You must be doing something right with regard to God when Satan steps in and tries to bring you down.”

So she had to tell the churches she had already visited that she would be back after her cancer surgery if it were the Lord’s will.

Three months passed and once she recovered she returned to the ministry. Their visit to the Trail was part of that recovery. Not only did she have to find her strength physically, but spiritually as well. She found power in the story of perseverance and standing strong through the countless centuries of persecution. “Yes,” she said, “We were more than a blessing to her, we were confirmation.” She then went on to tell us about the rest of the miracle. That very morning before they came to the Trail with her daughter, she received a text message. There had finally been a significant donation, one that would allow them to begin construction on the church; a single private donation of over one-hundred thousand dollars. The tears rolled down her cheeks as the breeze drifted tiny flower petals down about us. The Holy Spirit was moving down my spine as she spoke.

“Thanks be to God,” I replied as I felt the lump in my throat grow. “We serve an awesome God.”

Satan had tried to stop her, there was a crack in her armor, but the will of the Lord prevailed. The abyss of darkness wasn’t able to consume her light as she continues on.

They left shortly afterward knowing that we had received their testimony. Their visit, while only brief, will remain with me as a reminder.

Part of me wondered as they drove away if the knew the Lord. To say it was obvious wasn’t satisfying the question that arose. “Whey didn’t I ask,” I thought to myself?

Sometimes the crack that opens up isn’t for us to fill, isn’t for us to use. No, sometimes that crevice that appears is just merely for us to see a glimpse into the world of someone else’s walk with God if only we will listen and pay attention.

That evening as I put the ax away, I realized there was another precious memory for us to savor. Something to pull out on one of those days when nothing seems to go right; something that we can sit back and embrace when our time on earth nears its end and we seek to walk the journey one last time.

Yes, another day and another box of sweetness the Lord has provided.

Thanks be to God.

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by | April 7, 2016 · 9:12 pm

Drink Up…

“Jesus answered and said to her, “Whoever drinks of this water will thirst again, 14 but whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life.”-John 4:13-14
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The spring of the year seems to heighten our awareness of the world around us in so many ways. Walking outside the door this morning after the night’s rain, there was a freshness to the crisp air that brushed past the tiny pink blossoms of the bushes blooming in the front yard. The birds were welcoming as well as the dawning of the day had yet to reach its horizon. There was a sense of urgency, a sense of something to come; everything being so vibrant and alive, at least to those who are in the frame of mind to recognize it. If you have sipped of the well of everlasting life, there is something special about days like this. Please don’t take this sort of rejoicing as someone trying to sound overly righteous, it is simply an exhaltation of the glory of the Father.

“Oh, magnify the Lord with me, And let us exalt His name together.”-Psalms 34-3

Sadly, many will not care or will not bother to take the time to notice. Their minds are clouded with the frusttrations and worries facing them in the coming days as they madly dash for the car, expecting it to start and be on their way before the ignition switch is even turned. They continually drink from the resevoir of the secular world where the water jug is never big enough to hold all the fluid to sustain their family. They continally try to seek ways to bring bigger and stronger storage jugs to the well in which to carry back the fluid that only provides momentary satisfaction, then it is gone as quickly as it passes their lips. There is never any sweetness to their life. They seek to fill the void with one worldy substitute after another. Some turn to addictions that never produce the peace they seek until they ultimately find their life lost to the very thing they used to replace God; their worldly obsessions.

We all fall short of the glory of God, but we can become one with the Father if we only seek to drink from the well of His sustenance.

The water from the well analogy is purposeful in that we often seek what cannot sate our insatiable desires.

Once we choose to drink from the water of life everlasting, suddenly the world in which we live takes on an entirely new meaning. Our eyes become opened to untold beauty we beforehand had hurridly passed in the race to achieve more,… day-after-day. It when we begin to drink in the nectar of life as God had intended. Glimpses of heaven on earth begin to tug at our heart strings. We cannot share the pictures before us quickly enough before they are gone; the fleeting clouds rimmed with sunlight so brilliant, it is as if angels are standing behind them praising at the very foot of God almighty; sweet moments of the song bird, serenading in a chorus of blissful melodies at the break of dawn; skies so blue, their very essence substantiates the presence of God watching over us all.

Yes, there is a dipper of liquid so refreshing you will never need another sip, for the rest of your life.

It is up to us to choose to take it.

Knock and the door will be opened.

Seek and yea shall find.

Choose Jesus.

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by | March 31, 2016 · 9:22 pm

The World Outside the Box…

If we were to turn to our own way, He would have died in vain. Yet, he did not, for we must instead turn away from these bondages 20160325_194419~2of sin that drag us down.

Tonight I sat in a meeting next to a man that had lost his entire family in the span of 22 months. “I’m the last of my family,” he said somberly.

The words hit me hard. To some people, this would have been enough to make them give up, not the man sitting next to me. He went on to create a successful cleaning company and now stays busier than he wants to be some days.

Many people spend a lifetime seeking, searching, and living in a world they cannot understand. Unable to rise above their environment, they give up and succumb to what weighs them down. If we are to stand for something in our lifetime, we must struggle through the pain and apathy that kill so many dreams.

One by one, we lose those loved ones until one day, we too are no more.

Someone once said that we are nothing but two dates separated by a dash; it is all that remains.

Yet, to me and so many others, the dash in between is where all the living exists. It may be a short, straight line, but if we truly become who God made us to be, the line will be anything but straight and short. To live outside the box of your environmental boundaries, to set break free of the bondages that hold you and keep you from becoming all that God intended you to be, is what living is all about.

“How is that possible,” you ask?

The prophet Isaiah gave us the blueprint for salvation so many centuries before Christ arrived. All that is required is for us to believe in Him, confess with our mouths that Jesus Christ is the one true Son of God and that He died for our sins, on the third day arose and sits at the right hand of God the Father.

“How is that setting me free of my bondages, my addictions?”

Once you truly accept Jesus into your life, your body, mind and soul begin to change in ways that you had never before thought possible. For some, it’s instantaneous. But for most, it takes years for the transformation to be complete. Slowly, day by day, you will find the more precious gifts in life have no price tag: The morning dew on the blooming flower at sunrise: The call of the whippoorwill at dusk, as the fireflies begin their dance across the pasture: The brilliant sunset against a sky of clouds arranged such that their golden seat of God’s heavenly throne is all but complete.

My world is now anything but inside the box. I have chosen not to turn my own way, but His.

I now live in the world solely outside the box, walking in His pathway.

The dash is not a sprint, it’s a lifelong journey and living for God has a whole new meaning.

Yes, each day is another exciting spiritual journey that you never know where it will end.

Thanks be to God.

“But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; The chastisement for our peace was upon Him, And by His stripes we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray; We have turned, every one, to his own way; And the Lord has laid on Him the iniquity of us all.” -Isaiah 53:5-6

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by | March 28, 2016 · 9:29 pm

Tiny Petals of Wisdom…

“He who comes from above is above all; he who is of the earth is earthly and speaks of the earth. He who comes from heaven is above all.” -John 3:31

Sometimes when I look to the sky above there is an infinity of space that goes beyond our terrestrial realm; a blue so unbelievable that it’s limit must be only be bound by Heaven itself. It’s days like today that take your breath away when you look skyward. Part of me wondered if it was like another time in my life when the illusion of what was before me was really there.20160324_131427~2

It was the first time I had ever dove into an egg-shaped swimming pool and looked up to the surface from the bottom. For a moment, as I stood on the bottom of the hotel pool, my heart raced as the opening above me appeared tiny compared to what I had expected. Instinctively, I pushed off and raced for the safety of the surface only to find the optical illusion had created an unwarranted panic attack. However, unlike that day in the pool, today the feeling was quite the opposite; a sense of peace and calmness washed over my countenance.

All about me, tiny white petals floated to the earth as the soft breeze gently lifted them aloft. The warming rays of the sun illuminated their thin, frail figures as they drifted on currents of unseen tides, wave after wave until portions of the ground were like that of new fallen snow. Robins flitted too and fro seeking their early morning breakfast, some landing on the crisp green grass, unconcerned by my presence.

When asked how his day was going, dad would often respond, “The sky is blue, the grass is green and the birds are a singin’.” The sound of his voice still echoed in my mind as the beauty of the morning unfolded before me.

I sat alone, yet I wasn’t.

While dad was still with us, he was physically unable to travel very far due to his medical condition. That meant that he would never be able to visit the Trail. He would never again be able to sit on my porch and sip coffee while we watched the morning sun rise. It pained my heart to know that we would never have those moments together even while he was still with us here on earth.

Yet, today, unlike ever before, I felt comfort in knowing that in some way he was here.

Time, like the tides, rolls on. Each day another nuance that awakens something in us not realized before. Sometimes we understand that awakening; other times we brush it off as just something else to disregard. God feeds us in tiny portions so that we may comprehend all that there is to fathom. For us to push it aside is to fail to grasp the message he provides, if only we will listen.

Time passes and eventually so do we. As we walk in faith, our ability to hear His wisdom becomes like those loved ones speaking to us and at times, they become one.

He who comes from above is certainly above all and someday, if we have accepted Jesus Christ as our Savior, we can trust that we will be there as well.

Blessed be the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit…Amen.

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by | March 27, 2016 · 9:28 pm

Graveyard Calling…

It seems a lifetime has passed in the past week.IMG_20160322_193649

Only a week ago today, we had the showing for my father’s funeral.

A gray overcast sky remained above us all day; it fit our mood perfectly. I began my morning long before the sunrise. Through the night rain had fallen, so with trepidation, I faced the coming dawn. Dad had passed Friday and we were there in New Harmony preparing to take his body on its final journey.

The day before, Saturday, had been a long one with my drive beginning in darkness as I headed over the Blue Ridge to meet up with my sister and her family in Lenoir City. Driving over the mountains through the pre-dawn mist I reflected on my dad’s life. In many ways, my mind was like a snowstorm of memories and thoughts all flying about overhead. It was as if I was in a giant snow globe and someone had shaken my world, subsequently scattering all ideas into a blizzard of recollections. All I had to do in order to recall one was simply to stick out my tongue and catch the nearest falling snowflake.

Among the myriad of remembrances, I wondered if he was listening. “God would surely give me a sign if he was,” I thought to myself.

Outside my little car’s windows passed ancient mountain tops who had witnessed countless lives. My passing was nothing more than a blink of an eye in their time. The road descended downward toward the bridge ahead that spanned the deep ravine below, connecting the interstate to the other mountainside. Around me the clouds hung like blankets of silence, the glowing dawn just beginning to bring color to the blue-gray landscape. It was then, just past mile marker 445, a magnificent bald eagle soared over the roadway ahead. I had never seen a bald eagle in the mountains before and as the sun rose behind me, a gentle glow was painting the tops of the peaks before me and like a spotlight, the great raptor was illuminated. He flew from my right to left and soon our ways parted but the memory lingered in my mind.

“Was that from him,” I hesitated to believe? “Would that be it?’

Trying not to awaken anyone else in the house, I quietly sipped my bitter brew and studied the scriptures in the dimly lit kitchen I couldn’t help think of the scene from the day before, the eagle so close, so beautiful. We had stayed up late visiting the night before but here I sat. The others were still asleep, which allowed my solitary bleakness to compound upon itself. Alone, the darkness was bigger and our losses tend to be magnified; so it was with me. Outside the warm weather, the week before had been replaced by a bitterly cold rain. The bleakness of missing dad overwhelmed my thoughts again and again until I could only do one thing; go for a walk, regardless of the weather.

I slipped on my jean jacket and gloves then headed out. I wondered if they would be enough, but I had no choice; I had to go. Stepping outside, I was thankful the rain had at least paused for the moment. The air was crisp and fresh. The morning light was just beginning to fill the cloud filled skies above. Lights inside warm, cozy houses greeted me along my path, my destination not yet determined. Something called me toward the old homestead, the remains of the farm we once called home on the edge of town. Through the park where we played as children, the dark, ominous trees stood, vestiges of a time when the park was new; now giants towering above. Past the old farm I walked. It was nothing more than a pasture with the images of the home and outbuildings remaining in my mind, forever etched in place.

I kept heading south, the cold wind at my back.

The graveyard called.

Just past the house that was once Ms. Wolf’s, I heard the rooster crow. The sun had not yet found the horizon and already the cock was crowing. “Would this be my sign today,” I thought, ‘Would this be it?” My mind slipped back to the passages of Peter denying Christ. How painful it must have been for him to realize Christ’s own prophecy was fulfilled by the sound of the rooster crowing at the coming dawn. These were still fresh in my head as I made the turn at the gates of Maple Hill Cemetery.

There before me stood the daunting scene of weathered tombstones scattering the tree covered hillside. The sound of water rushing from the recent rains gurgled by the roadside as I began my ascent up the hill to the top, following the crude graveyard road. At the top, I turned left heading toward our family’s grave sites. All around me massive oaks still dark from their winter slumber stood watch. Their barren branches, like bony fingers reaching for my soul, made an eeriness about this place.  It was then I heard the hoot owls ahead of me, beyond the cemetery boundaries in the direction of the Old Dam.

“Was this my sign, was this it,” came the thought again?

Continuing on, I eventually reached the end of the cemetery and soon found myself standing looking down at grandpa and grandma Tron’s headstone; Victor and Mildred Tron. Their lives and memories are a part of who I am and will always be. I gently pulled the weeds away from their dates, then gently wiped off the face of the cold granite stone. Around me, the world was alive with birds of all manner singing the praises of the coming dawn. The hoot owls called again and the rooster crowed once more.

Compelled to spend more time here, I sat down on steps nearby where I could overlook Victor and Mildred. Farther down the hill by the old cedar was my cousin Michael; death called him home too soon. Beyond him was Uncle Bill; a saint to our family. I was there, sitting and reflecting while their souls had been gone for some time. In my solitude, I felt a calming peace come over me.

Then the sound of a woodpecker rang from behind me, over my left shoulder. The rooster and hoot owls called again as if to respond.

Serenity can come in the oddest of places and at the most unexpected times.

As I sat reflecting on the well-being of the rest of the family, my thoughts were interrupted by yet one more woodpecker tapping on a distant tree but in a different pitch than the first. Then oddly enough, the first woodpecker responded. The hoot owls called and the rooster crowed. All around the plethora of birds tweeted and sang. A smile began to creep across my countenance.

As I sat in the lonely graveyard, I listened as woodpecker after woodpecker joined the chorus, each adding their tap at alternating pitches, each as if playing their own notes. It was as if I sat in the middle of a flock of woodpeckers. The tapping began to ring true in my mind as another ringing of a similar sound returned from my childhood.

When I was a young lad, my dad worked in the main telephone office in Booneville, also known as the Central Office (CO). In that day, there was no digital switching equipment; everything was analog. When the phone lines would ring, the relays would chatter, making the sound that would be unique to that line. The chattering of those ancient relays sounded just like the woodpeckers that surrounded me. Phone line after phone line around me began to ring that morning.

It was at that moment I realized, dad was ringing the phones.

A smile came across my face as a tear ran down my cheek while I listened to the miracle taking place.

Yes, there was a calming like I had never known at that moment as the peace of knowing he was still with me. The thought overshadowed even the bitter cold that numbed by fingers.

Walking back to town, into the freezing north wind, I was never farther from being cold while my hands lost their feeling. Deep inside, my heart was overflowing with the warmth and the joy of the life eternal.

In my heart and in my mind, there was finally the answer, “That was it.”

Thanks be to God.

“In God is my salvation and my glory; The rock of my strength, And my refuge, is in God.” -Psalm 62:7

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