Category Archives: Inspirational

To Buy This Front Porch Click Here

Filed under Inspirational, Religion

Tagged as 800 Harts Creek Dr., beauty, bible, cherry blossoms, farm, frogs, Geese, god, Him, Jesus, John 1:14, Koi, lightning, pond, protrust realty, rain, Springtime, thunderstorm

by Timothy | March 26, 2015 · 7:31 am

Front Porch Swing

One can never look beyond the vantage point afforded by the front porch swing and not feel at peace with the world.
Our front porch swing hangs at the southernmost end of our front porch, which now overlooks the gurgling waterfall of the Koi pond. It has always been my refuge in times of strife and weariness. Early summer mornings can find me slowly sitting and swinging watching the cattle graze in the pasture beyond the front yard and listening to the sounds of the earth come alive. Evenings are often spent watching the gentle sunsets over the hill beyond the tree line as the shadows soften the blaring rays of the hot sun. I’ve often set the swing in motion on such balmy summer evenings and then lay down exhausted, soon finding myself waking up on a still swing. The only thing moving is the sound of water dancing down the rocks of the waterfall before me.

Yes, the porch swing is near and dear to my heart.

As a child, we spent many a long hour rocking ever so gently with Grandma Tron in her swing. A large sycamore provided shade for most of the tiny front porch, giving it an extra sense of coolness on long hot summer days. We would lose the tree in m later years to a direct lightning strike which would be another story for another time. The smell of the bare earth beneath the tree mixed with the distant aroma of coal smoke residue gave the old homestead a smell that I can still recall today. Grandma’s easy going cadence was so slow and careful you could almost fall asleep and not realize you were still rocking. She would often snap beans in her lap while sitting there as she whistled melodies so beautifully you had to wonder where the sound was emanating. From that swing we caught up on family news and heard grandpa spin long tales from his lawn chair across the porch. Once in a while a car or truck would pass by breaking the spell and we might go back to the thread of conversation or turn into a completely different line of thought.

Time moved slowly back then.

When the time came to build my own farm house, I knew I had to have the eight foot wide porches with a swing at the end, just like the one grandpa and grandma had. I didn’t realize the fullness of enjoyment in that swing until my children were born. I found rocking an infant to sleep in your arms in the fresh country air was one of the most rewarding and beautiful things in life. The slow cadence of grandma’s gentle push would return and babies would silently glide into peaceful slumber. Although my children will never remember those days, I can fondly look back to a simpler time when that slow cadence swinging and the whistling of some loving gospel hymn would slowly drift back into my memory and once again, all was right with the world; at least from my front porch swing.

Filed under Inspirational

Tagged as 800 Harts Creek Dr., baby, farm, For Sale, fountain, god, God's Not Dead, grandma, grandpa, I Believe, Jesus, Koi pond, love, pond, porch, porch swing, protrust realty, swing, tales, waterfall, whistling

by Timothy | November 29, 2014 · 5:09 am

To Uncle Bill…

Earlier this evening I received word that my Uncle Bill had passed, he was 97.

My first impression from the news was sadness mixed with joy; joy, for knowing that his soul was now with the Lord above and that it could only bring thankfulness and blessings to our memories of him. I could also take comfort that his struggles with his recent medical problems were now over.

The past year or so had been difficult for him and the family with his health issues. It seemed his age had finally caught up with him and that he was finally susceptible to the medical problems that face most elderly people. Up to then, he had led an abundantly healthy life. As long as I could recall, he and my Aunt Norma would walk every day. This was as much of their daily routine as was their morning devotional and prayer. Like Grandma and Grandpa Tron, they would rise early before dawn and sit at the kitchen table reading God’s Word and praying together, a scene as beautiful as life itself.

Unfortunately, we never got to see enough of him and Aunt Norma.

I could never recall them living close, rather always far away. When they would come home to New Harmony for visits, the family would all come into Grandpa and Grandma’s house to fellowship with our distant family. I could recall how my dad would seem to straighten up a bit more and our acts of foolishness would be less tolerated, for after all, Aunt Norma and Uncle Bill were coming. I could probably tell you without knowing they were coming to visit, just based on how everyone seemed to primp, tidy and prepare as if we were being inspected. The irony of it all was that neither Uncle Bill or Aunt Norma were at all bothered by what they saw and could care less how well we dressed or straight we sat at the table, rather, they looked at us to see within ourselves for who we were and what our souls had to say about us. Yes, they were probably the first people I had known that exhibited the characteristic of what it is to be truly Christian, for they carried themselves as such. Their devotion to their faith was not only lip service, it was factual. The adherence to the Sabbath was strict and obedient. In essence, if there were anything that caused us to walk taller and tighten our belts was their straight and narrow path upon which they walked, which caused us to want to do the same. Whenever a Sunday school lesson would ask, “Who in your life would you say are your Christian mentors,” Aunt Norma and Uncle Bill would be the first people to come to mind; that was their legacy. I can safely say that many in our family feel the same way.

So, for many years as my life continued on, I would occasionally hear of them moving to this place or that, but eventually they finally settled down and retired in Florida.

As my own life’s travels carried me from one place to another, I eventually found myself living on the outside looking in, having also moved away from New Harmony, something I would have never have imagined as a child.

Now I too had become a distant relative.

As life’s journey carried on, I was eventually able to begin attending classes at the University of Florida in Gainesville. An added benefit to my school location was that I finally found myself living within easy traveling distance to Aunt Norma and Uncle Bill’s house. So, when time allowed, I would stop by and visit them in Punta Gorda on my journeys to and from college. On our visits, we would always withdraw to the back of the house, in their Florida room, where we would sit and look out at the beautiful lake behind their home. Like some folks sit around the TV and visit, we would sit idly admiring the living scenery before us as a tranquility of peacefulness would settle upon our hearts. The soft-spoken voice of Uncle Bill would add to the passive serenity before us as we sat and discussed the myriad of tales life had presented since our last visit. Uncle Bill would always take the time to listen to my current plights and struggles and would offer gentle advice while Aunt Norma would listen and agree as we talked. I always found myself inspired from our visits, no matter how much confusion was in my life. In all my journeys, I still cherish those visits knowing they are now part of my collective memory.

On one of my trips, I spent the night and had more time to visit than normal. By chance, I reviewed the items in the bookshelf in the room in which I was staying. Besides numerous Bibles, I also found countless volumes of quarterly Bible study guides with important verses and sayings underlined or highlighted. I was struck by the depth of devotion and intensity of worship the notes in these pamphlets represented. Again, I was reminded of the sincerity of my Aunt and Uncle’s faith and how deeply compassionate their lives had been being devoted to God and the work to which they were called. During that same visit, they took me by their church where they had worked tirelessly for many years creating a food bank and clothes exchange for the less fortunate in their area. Their travels away from home were limited in part due to their commitment to the church. I recall once when I asked about them visiting New Harmony and their daughter who lived in the northeast they replied that they had trouble getting away from the food bank since it was hard to find enough volunteers to man the store while they were away. I was confounded at this but realized they were so devoted to their belief that it was unthinkable for them to leave something they felt called to lead. Once again, I had to admire them for their obligation.

Ninety-seven years is a long, prosperous life to live. I know my cousins, Sarita and Robert, will miss their father. I know Aunt Norma will never be the same without Uncle Bill by her side. For all of these family members and more I ask the Lord to look over them and provide them the comfort they will need in the coming days and weeks ahead. I am very remiss about not writing that letter to Uncle Bill before he passed. He wasn’t one to read emails, so I had planned to write him a letter and print it out then mail it the old fashioned way. Just this past weekend I thought of it again and realized time was quickly passing for us all. Yet, now I know he knows all I had to tell and more and again, for that I am grateful.

So this evening, as I reflect over the far too few times in life we had to spend together, I realize that my Uncle Bill was more than an elder of the family, he was our spiritual leader as well. His and Aunt Norma’s legacy will live on through the rest of us and for that I know we will always be thankful.

May God bless you and keep you Uncle Bill; till we meet again at the Eastern Gate,

– love your nephew, Timothy.

Filed under Inspirational, Religion

Tagged as Aunt Norma, Florida, florida room, grandma, grandpa, Indiana, lake, New Harmony, Tron, Uncle Bill, University of Florida

by Timothy | November 28, 2014 · 1:37 am

Cold Rain of Warm Memories

“The magnitude of any one day is compromised by its passing quickly into the next, a mere moment in time which soon fades into the collective memory of our past.” – T. Tron

Today as I ran in the chilly forty-degree drizzle, thoughts of past times would come to me as momentary glimpses afforded me when the passing cars would allow. Knowing I had to be aware of my surroundings, I couldn’t just drift off into deep thought, so safety was of the essence and thought was only of consequence.

My training was an easy ten mile jaunt over hilly terrain along the main vein of travel that connected our countryside with the link to Hwy 421 and Siler City, known as McClaurin Road. I don’t like to run the route, which it is probably one of my least favorites of all the places I’ve run because of the traffic, but it’s easy and convenient. Its ease of access reminded me of one of my first routes; another country road back in Indiana.

The road back then was also paved, but rough from wear during the winter months of freezing, the ground being forced to and fro from the tumultuous upheavals of freezing and thawing. It was also one large loop that was almost exactly three miles in length, perfect for the beginning runner. The only problem with the course was the traffic, it too being a little narrow country road. Of course thirty years ago, traffic was much lighter than today, almost everywhere and especially out in the countryside of southern Indiana. There was one major hill on the road, one we called Oak Hill. I don’t know where it received its name, but it was quite possibly an island many eons ago when the world was in its infancy and that area was covered with water. However, towering above the fields of corn, it was in a sense an icon of sorts, standing tall above the sea of green below, one that would become golden when the tassels atop the corn would come into bloom. On those summer days, the smell of the tar on the road would mix with the smell of the endless rows of corn, one I can still remember even today. The air was so thick with the smell of corn you could almost taste it.

Here in this area of North Carolina fields of corn are rare.

So as I ran along watching and listening for the next car, my mind would search for the next trigger to take it off into another void of thought and recollection.

I passed the home of one of the local newspaper writer, Bob Wachs. Evidently some of the cars passing me had been some of that family that had just gathered on his front porch and were being greeted and welcomed in the door as I passed by. I wondered how many of them noticed me just then, or if they had no idea I even existed as they had reached their destination and the joyous family reunion was just beginning. I was the onlooker, like the cattle lying in the pasture nearby, watching the humans carry on as if in some big celebration of sorts that kept them inside and out of sight. The thought came to me, “I wonder what they’d do if I just ran up and invited myself in for dinner?” I began to drift off to Thanksgiving Dinner’s past when suddenly another car tore around the curve ahead forcing me off the road and quickly searching for safe footing as the blast of fury and wind passed.

I continued on, thankful that I wasn’t tied to any table and was free to immerse myself in the cold, fresh air of outdoors this dreary overcast day. It’s funny how days like today make you want to stay inside and hide from the raw embrace of the outside air, but once you step outside and take the plunge into the elements, you find it’s not all that bad; in fact it’s almost refreshing. However, as I neared the end of my run I noticed the wind changing direction and the temperature seemed to dip even farther. If I hadn’t already had a full steam of body heat created, I would’ve certainly found myself colder than I could already gladly entertain. Thankful to find myself trudging up the last big hill toward our farm, I watched as my own herd of cattle lay in repose, chewing their cuds and watching another being trot by, uncaring, unfazed by my presence. Their nonchalant attitude gave me comfort, for they were at peace, and with that knowing, so was I.

After I had reached my stopping point, I walked a bit and soon found myself in the rocker on the back porch with my shoes and socks off for a few brief moments. As I cooled down I thought of the times I would wade in the icy waters of the pool at my mom’s house in Florida the last time I was there for her funeral a couple Decembers ago. I thought of my pond down below the house and wondered how cold it might be today and if wading in it would also bring me back to that pool in Florida. My thought was broken by the hunter’s truck driving back down the hill, obviously taking a break for lunch as it had just passed noon after I returned home. The mist was heavier now and again, I was thankful to have the shelter of the porch upon which I sat to cover me as I sat resting in the rocking chair. The handrail of the porch gleamed proudly with the new coat of paint, another task completed, and another step closer to the sale of the farm.

There would be no turkey dinner for us today, but that’s okay.

Both of my children had oral surgery yesterday and both are on liquid diets. Their ordeal was precipitated by the fact that they wouldn’t miss school after the surgery if done during the Thanksgiving break. Meanwhile, my wife is sick with a head cold and I have to work tonight; fun I know. Yet even with all this, I know there is a purpose for what we do. There will be other Thanksgivings; there will be other dinner tables to gather around, all this I know and with that I can also take comfort.

Yes, today was a good day, and for that I was thankful.

Filed under Farming, Inspirational, Nature, Running

Tagged as Bob Wachs, Cattle, dinner, god, running, Siler City, thankful, Thanksgiving, turkey

by Timothy | September 10, 2014 · 3:03 am

Nap of Ascension

Have you ever awakened from a dream, feeling remorse, feeling a loss for something that was so wonderful, so beautiful during the vision that you had wished it could have continued forever?

That was the case for me today.

After waking up from my nap, I had the feeling that I was visited by an angelic being and when she left me, I literally felt a loss. I say she, only because I felt comforted as if from a motherly figure; warm, compassionate, loving. Her true image I could not recall, having never caught a glimpse of the being’s true form; most of the time she was nothing more than a vapor, a whisper of a body that floated nearby.

In the course of the dream, she visited me several times, teaching me, leading me into a world that was parallel to my own, yet far beyond the reaches of normal consciousness. Each visit I learned and watched as she taught me about true love and how compassion triumphs over all darkness. We watched and observed sight unseen as people dealt with heart wrenching dilemmas, each one a lesson for our ethereal classroom. I can’t explain the feelings or scenes I witnessed, other than after each one I felt both pulled to the depths of despair for what I saw but at the same time uplifted to a higher spiritual plain from what eventually transpired, as if God had directed the people through hell and back. Each lesson built upon the former. After each visit I was returned back to my former self, back where I was still within my own body, but knowing I had returned from beyond. Each time I was brought home, I yearned more and more for the next time she would return until I was worried my anticipation was becoming real. Those around me in my dream realized there was a change taking place, but they did not know its source; they only appreciated the metamorphosis and welcomed it. The change was obviously a good thing. Their acknowledgement was nothing more than an indirect observation; something they could sense but like looking straight ahead while driving down a road, they could see if from their peripheral vision, yet its focus wasn’t clear, so it they disregarded it.

My final contact was bittersweet as emotions flowed from each of us, knowing this was the end of our journey together. I felt guilty about the time we spent together although I had not broken any vows or been unfaithful in any manner; yet, it was the knowing that my soul had been uplifted by another whose spiritual embrace had left me changed that ultimately left me with the feeling of culpability. Like dew on the leaf in the early morning light, the tender touch of the heavenly breath had remained, if only fleeting but real.

I awoke feeling as if there had been a death, as if the angelic being had died, yet I wasn’t sad. There had been something gained from the experience so rewarding that the loss was insignificant to the warmth of memory left behind. The scene of the disciples in their final hour with Jesus before he ascended into heaven for the last time came to mind. They too were saddened by his ascension, but the joy of knowing and experiencing their time with the son of God overshadowed any self-pity for his physical departure.

“And He led them out as far as Bethany, and He lifted up His hands and blessed them. Now it came to pass, while He blessed them, that He was parted from them and carried up into heaven. And they worshiped Him, and returned to Jerusalem with great joy, and were continually in the temple praising and[j] blessing God. Amen.” – Luke 24:50-53

One can only imagine the glory that flowed that day as the disciples returned to the temple praising and blessing God. If only we could reach our brethren today in the same manner such that all Christians might be so uplifted that they walk down the street praising and blessing God out loud; glory, hallelujah what a day that would be!

I may never know who or what it was that I met in my dream today but I can honestly say I won’t be upset to meet him or her once again. Grace received is grace embraced and for this we can only be uplifted to His righteousness.

Peace and Grace to all.

Filed under Inspirational, Religion, Religious Experience, Visions

Tagged as angel, angelic, ascension, brueck to heaven, dream, faith, god, Heaven, hell, Jesus, Luke, Timothy W. Tron, vision

by Timothy | September 8, 2014 · 11:57 pm

A Runner’s Eutopia

The rain that began as a gentle patter upon the roof of the car had become a steady driving rain by the time Pastor David pulled up in his little red truck.

“You sure you want to do this,’ he said with a challenging grin as we both emerged from the warm, dry vehicles dressed to run?

“Sure, why not,” I replied, “I’ve can remember running in worse.” And it was true; like the rain pouring down from the gray sky, so too did the flood of memories come roaring into my head while I had waited for him to arrive.

It was all good.

My first recollections took me back to when I was just a toddler. The brown water swirled beneath my father’s legs as he waded through the flooded waters of the Wabash River in southern Indiana on the outskirts of the little town of New Harmony. Due to heavy rains and ground already saturated by melting snows, the river had spilled over its banks and into the lower pastures of K.D. Owen’s farm, where my paternal grandfather lived and managed. I watched in amazement at the fluid patterns passed beneath us, me safely on dad’s shoulders. I begged and squirmed to get down, wanting to become one with the moment, but he refused; the water was too deep at this point. It wasn’t until we had reached higher ground that he gave in and allowed me the chance to set my feet down into the cold, frigid chocolate-colored water. I held his hand as we trudged together under a gray sky, much like today. I would later come down with double pneumonia, my second time in as many years of my young life. The time in the hospital is another story, another chapter. Looking back, I’m not positive if the cold, wet feet preempted my illness, but it was evident that the event was significant enough to register a memory so distant, so deep that it came to mind today.

As we started off, the gravel road was covered in standing water which caused us to look for carefully chosen footholds of higher ground. The standing water reminded me of mud-filled trenches covered with barbed wire. My mind flashed back to basic training at Lackland AFB in Texas, nearly 30 years earlier. Another overcast day, another deluge that buried the obstacle course we were scheduled to run that morning in several inches of water. Our Drill Instructor, the epitome of being “Gung Ho”, Sgt. Smith, whipped his troops into a fury and with the spirit of Rough Riders charging San Juan Hill he roared a rebel yell and cut us lose as we attacked the course through the driving rain; our only enemy, the weather. My government issue horn-rimmed glassed, also known as “BC” which was short for Birth Control, referring to how much attraction you could expect from the ladies when you wore them, immediately began fogging up to the point they were useless. Trying to wipe them clear was futile, so I stuck them in my pant pockets and charged onward. Being nearsighted, the obstacle course immediately became ten-fold more difficult; especially considering the fact I could no longer discern distances. This became evident when the leaping from one slick horizontal telephone pole to the other found me planted firmly upon my groin, a severe pain to which any man can attest and the crack of the BC’s snapping in my pocket; despair one can only imagine. From there, the course only got worse. The image came to mind again of crawling face down under barbed wire, through a rain soaked trench filled to the brim with water the color of the contents of a newborn’s diaper. Needless to say, holding your breath and forgetting how cold and nasty you felt were the only options to passing this most uncomfortable part of the course. Compared to other branches of the armed forces, I’m sure this is quite humorous, but at the time it seemed quite unnecessary; but then again, we had Sgt. Gung Ho leading the way, and so it was.

But I was back, and we were now well on our way down the American Tobacco Trail, enjoying the day, regardless of the weather that continued to fall from the sky. “Hey, at least we weren’t crawling through the mud puddles'” I thought to myself.

As we ran along, talking and sharing stories, it became quickly apparent to me my running partner was in much better shape, since he was able to breathe and talk while I felt as if I was turning blue. My lungs gasped for air and my legs sought redemption, but my mind pushed onward. Drifting off again, I was once more training with the Southern Indian cross country team, myself soon to be only a junior in High School. It was a privilege our coach, Steve Edwardson had arranged to help get his team in better shape. During the summer, before the season started, we were allowed to run with the college team at SIU. Although their endurance and strength surpassed my own, it didn’t stop me from trying to stay with them. They joked, laughed and told all sorts of tales while they ran. They explained to me that if you could converse while running, then you were running at a good long distance pace; one that wouldn’t overtax your body. Today, it didn’t seem to take long for my old body to quickly become overtaxed. To be totally honest, the 13 hours of working the night before and the five miles from the day before on two hours sleep was just a little much; but to forego the chance to run with another person was too great a reward to surpass, so here we were.

Onward we splashed.

By the turn around point, I knew I was getting tired when I no longer avoided the puddles; plowing straight through them now, taking the most direct route without care of how deep or cold the wetness felt on my backside. Comfort had giving way to efficiency.

As we ran, Pastor David and I talked and discussed topics close to the heart and we shared stories that I will carry with me forever. Those thoughts becoming one with the past, the places my running had taken me before.

It was then I began to rekindle the spirit of the wind.

The flood of memories were non-stop now: the forests of ages ago, the dog by my side, running as one; each watching out for the other passed through my head; struggling across the steel swinging bridge on the Isle of Palms into a freezing cold rain, as we fought to return on our long run the day of the Boston Marathon, 1983; countless quarters of pain around the track at the Citadel in Charleston SC; hot-steamy long runs down the middle of McGregor in Ft. Myers, FL., reveling in the smooth road and royal palms that lined the grand boulevard; those first few runs with my children on the beach at Oak Island, as if we could run forever, their little feet whirring as quickly as they could go, me floating alongside, as if in a dream; then those countless runs, when at ten miles, I could no longer feel my legs as I floated on the air of the earth as if tides of unknown seas, racing logging trucks down back roads of uncharted forests; tree lined oaks of Micanopy draping over the road as we trained in a runner’s heaven on earth.

Yes, they all came back and more.

I shall return to those long vaunted trails where spirits join and the past becomes one with the now.

And yes, it was most definitely a good run.

Filed under Inspirational, Running

Tagged as American Tobacco Trail, basic training, Charleston SC, Citadel, Cumnock UMC, eutopia, forests, Ft. Myers FL, Goldston UMC, Isle of Palms, Lackland AFB, logging, McGregor Blvd., Micanopy FL, North Carolina, Oak Island, Pastor David King, pnemonia, Royal Palms, running, SIU, Texas, University of Florida, Wabash river

by Timothy | September 7, 2014 · 8:03 pm

A Shadow in the Mist

What I am about to tell you is totally true, beyond a shadow of a doubt and undeniably without any thread of exaggeration.

I was on the last leg of my Sunday morning run; the sun had just managed to reach the horizon while I had still yet to see its morning glow. The air was thick with humidity and any trace of coolness had long ago evaporated into the sweat that now poured off my tiring body. I turned the last corner of the gravel road, the last mile of my run and was about to head into the thickest part of the forest which made the road upon which I ran a living tunnel. Overhead trees draped across the lane, blotting out the sky above. The recesses of the darkness seemed to go on forever, the air cooler, whispered voices of beings therein. I was well within this domain when the thought of coyotes came to mind. Just as the thought entered a small dark figure of a squirrel raced across the road ahead of me, momentarily causing my heart to jump. I went back to the idea of the wolf-like creature and wondered how I might have reacted had the carnivorous being I had imagined actually passed before me. “Where they watching me even now,” I asked myself, my eyes searching as I ran the inner depths of the forest that lay to my left. The blur of vegetation passed as a movie as my body moved forward, one foot plodding before the other, the taste of salt on my lips. Not long afterward, I turned my focus forward again as I emerged from the wooded section of the road and came out into the growing brightness of the morning, running past the pond and up the last hill of my run, soon to put the images of primeval forest behind me.

After my brief cool down, I found myself on the back porch, looking out upon the pond and road from which I had just emerged. My glass of water in hand, I sat down upon the rocking chair and allowed my bare feet to breath in the cool morning air. I leaned back and closed my eyes, the air, my body becoming one with the world around me, drinking in the moment, blood pumping, my breathing relaxed, all was good.

The sounds of the earth serenaded my soul.

Then suddenly, from the depths of the darkness came the bark and howl of a lone coyote: its voice so close, so clear; so haunting.

My eyes flashed open and noticed the horses standing below where I sat on the porch, their images visible in the gray pasture shadows. Their actions confirming the sound I had just heard; their ears perked and alert as they turned to face the dark woods from which I had just passed moments earlier on my run.

Something from a repressed memory of an ancient time reached my consciousness, something unbelievably real, yet unbelieving in its existence.

“Had I known of their presence while through yonder dark woods I hath traveled,” came the voice in my head? “Surely it was just coincidence,” I replied, “or was it?”

I waited to see if there were another call but none came; only the sounds of predawn chorus continued.

My eyes scanned the lower horizon, watching for any signs of movement, but there was nothing.

The padded paw left no trace, its breath a mist upon the morning air and then vanished like the beast from whence it came; nothing left behind but the memory of its passing. A shadow in the mist.

Then I began to wonder to myself, “Was this the way we suppress so many other things in our world, things we recognize but then dismiss when they our outside the realm of our belief?” If nothing more than a physical image can be brushed aside, then what else is there that we understand as truth yet knowingly pass on its belief until we form the space in which we can comfortably exist, one we know and are familiar with, yet one that scares the hell out of us should we venture beyond its borders; the howl of the wolf, the connection to a world beyond our control, one where we are no longer the masters. The padded paw of silence follows us waiting for our minds to stray from the path, ready to pounce upon our unbelieving weaknesses and use them against us before we recover and scamper back to the safety of our predefined borders. How many without faith find themselves in this predicament everyday as they succumb to the evils of the world in which we live, finding themselves trapped in a darkness they cannot control or emerge; lost to the clutches of its demonic fanged breath.

Without the armor of light to protect us, the Word of God, we are mere babes in the woods. It is up to those of us who know better to prepare those who are without; salvation through God’s grace and thus become children of the light. Otherwise, we leave them to become prey to the claws of the world’s clutches.

How many only wish it were just a dream from which they could emerge, or a morning’s run through the early morning mist? How many can we reach before the fangs of this world pull them asunder?

What will you do to escape, what will you do?

Filed under Inspirational, Nature, Religion, Running

Tagged as armor of God, bible, breath, bruecke to heaven, Children of the Light, claws, coyote, death, evil, fangs, forest, Jesus, paws, runners, running, Timothy W. Tron, wolf, woods

by Timothy | August 31, 2014 · 10:13 pm

The Gift: A Request from Beyond…

God’s Light

I recently had the pleasure of finding an email sitting in my inbox from one of my mother’s dear friends, Juanita Scott. My mom had shared with her some of my note cards from a painting I had done titled, “God’s Light” and she was trying to find someplace where she could obtain more of them; thus, the impetus for her writing. Juanita lives hundreds of miles away from me, so we couldn’t just meet at the local coffee shop or go to one of the local art galleries where my work is displayed.

The note cards originated from a painting I had done years before titled, “God’s Light”. The scene depicts two children dressed in farm clothes heading out to a small pond to go fishing while off in the distance a storm is brewing. It was inspired by my children, whom to this day even in their teens, still love to go fishing any chance they get the opportunity. The action in the painting leaves one to ponder, as the old saying, “Is the glass half empty or half full,” since you could debate if the storm in the distance had passed or is yet to come; the irony left to the viewer.

However, Juanita’s email itself had an unexpected effect on me.

The act of mom’s dear friend reaching out to me felt in some small way as if my mother had reached down to me from her heavenly abode, if nothing else, to let me know she was still watching over us all.

Juanita had shared with me that my mother had been so proud of me, although this was something I rarely heard from my mother herself; our relationship was one of few words. My mother often acted out her love in many ways, more than mere words. In this case, she took the opportunity to share with her closest friends pieces of my artwork, a part of her that she was proud to share. I felt touched by the request and Ms. Scott was correct, I had not thought to put the notecards online for sale, since I usually only sold them at events as a side item; thus, they were nowhere to be found other than here at my house and a couple local art stores, many hundreds of miles from Juanita.

I replied back to Ms. Scott letting her know I got her email and that I would try to figure something out. I then put the thought on the back burner. The next couple of days would be quite busy with our musical performances at Silk Hope Old Fashioned Day and at the Cumnock Community Ice Cream Social; in other words, I already had a lot to think about. Time passed as it often does with our fellowshipping with the Lang Sisters and many other friends over the course of Saturday and then to add to the celebration of the weekend, we were to have a concert at church Sunday morning; the weekend just kept getting better and better.

Eunice Gillis, the mother of Pastor David King, put on a solo concert of singing and piano playing which was more wonderful than we could have ever imagined. During the performance, between the music played and the words spoken, something brought back the thought of Ms. Scott’s email once again. I’m sure Ms. Gillis reminded me of my mother and how she had always wanted to play the piano too and did eventually later in her life. Sunday morning, beautiful melodies echoed through the old church out of the magnificent concert grand piano as Eunice shared with us the story of her life in between sets. She too had been raised in Indiana on a small farm and was from a very musical family; could it get any better? As we absorbed the splendid sounds, I thought about my children who were sitting next to me, rapt in attention to the concert and how this might someday cause them to reflect back in life when they too sat in their front row seats to hear this beautiful elderly lady put on a show that was fitting for a concert hall of hundreds, yet it was just only our small congregation in attendance. I couldn’t help thing that somewhere up above us a heavenly host of angels watched. There among that legion was my mother, smiling and singing along.

After Eunice had finished I went up to thank her and give her a hug. As I stood hugging this wonderful lady, I felt a need to extend that embrace, the kind that you feel obligated to perform for fear of never having the chance again. My mom flashed in my mind and the scene from when she stood next to me, warming ourselves next to the heater before I left to return to North Carolina, came to me. I somehow knew that it would be the last time we were together on this side of those Heavenly gates. We spoke very little as usual but before I left, I hugged her tight and for a long time, much longer than usual; as with Eunice Sunday morning. Tears filled my eyes as I felt those emotions from the past unite with the present, something greater than us all, something Godly was at work there in that little church. I tried to whisper to Eunice that I couldn’t speak but even that was futile, so I just shook my head and hugged her once more and smiled through tear filled eyes.

Afraid my children would see my emotions; I backed away and tried to hide the blessing that was overflowing my soul; the music, the Holy Spirit and the hand of God. As we made our way out of the church I thought of mother again and how she would have loved this. I looked up to the heavens, as my eye followed the old church steeple up to an amazingly azure blue sky. I paused as I looked up; contemplating taking a picture. I started to reach for my phone and then noticed a tiny white cloud drifting by, barely visible, yet moving past as if she had somewhere else to go. I felt a warmth pass over me and knew in my heart, although she never said it much in my presence, mom was proud of what I had done and was now watching over my little family. I realized she had been there with us the day before as we sang and performed ourselves, once again passing around the invitation to the other angels to join her as she observed from her heavenly abode, telling them how proud she was and that she had been with us once more today, as I suspected, reveling in all the glory alongside us.

Later that evening I went home and made it possible for Ms. Scott to purchase those notecards online, so she could more easily obtain those heartfelt gifts that my mom had once shared with her, either out of kindness or as a token of her love. It was during that time that I felt the need to write about all that had transpired, since I wanted to share more than just the obvious with Juanita since she had unknowingly given me much more in return; thus this blog.

From a simple request came so many memories, yet so much can be gained from so little if we only try.

I pray I never stop trying to do God’s will, at least if nothing else, for my mother’s sake.

God Bless.

Filed under Art, Inspirational

Tagged as www.timtronart.com/NoteCards.php

by Timothy | August 17, 2014 · 10:44 pm

A Message in the Clouds…

Clouds tell us a lot.

This morning as my son and I went out for our morning run, we had just passed a particularly challenging uphill section of our route and as I gasped for breath, I looked up to the sky and notice a nondescript cumulus hovering overhead. It made me think back to how many more times I had done the same, looked heavenward while running. The act of looking skyward in some instances was from a need for silent prayer to get me through the day or at least to the end of the run, but in this case it was simply to enjoy the beautiful day that God had made.

Then the thought came to me, “How many times had I had passed this point of exhaustion in my younger days, only to have no idea that someday I would be performing the same feat, but with a son at my side?”

I listened to our rhythm of footsteps, his matching mine even though his stride could easily be half as great as my own. He now stands six foot tall and his loping pace seems too easy for his slender frame. He barely breathes as I struggle to gasp in anything that would ease my burning lungs. Yet, as we continue onward, we move as one; father and son under a pale blue sky, the sunrise at our backs. In my earlier days, I would push the pace when running with someone so that we might achieve a greater return from our workout, yet this morning I neither desired to push the pace nor shorten our time together; this was more than just exercise.

As we trotted along, we talked of many things. My mind ran parallel, looking down at the two images flowing along the green backdrop of countryside. My own father never dreamed of running with me, or at least if he had, he never said so. One summer when I was in high school I began increasing my long runs. On one of the first attempts, I asked my dad to check on me while I tried running an 18 miler. He agreed and became my support vehicle of sorts. He would drive by in the old Chevy Suburban while drinking a beer. He even offered me a drink, realizing I was probably in need of fluids, and then he was off, driving away in a cloud of dust down the gravel road as I plodded onward. Those were solitary runs, something I became to understand were part of the territory. Having someone accompany you was a treat, as was today. We had by now turned and were on the return leg of our run with the sunrise now facing us, as ominous clouds blocked its rays; precursor to potential rain I told my son. He nodded; the pace was finally catching up with him.

The last mile of our run is up the hill to our home; one of the most challenging climbs I’ve known in all the years of my running. As we approached it, I kept talking, sharing not realizing the strain the incline was taking upon my body. Not until we nearly reached the summit did I have to stop speaking and search for oxygen to feed my starving limbs. The scene of cross-country runners passing the finish line and bending double to catch their breath came to mind, hands on hips, heaving chests. One young man from Oregon had joined our high school team, a boy who could have doubled for the late Steve Prefontaine. He walked up to me and told me putting my hands on my hips was cheating, that it was making it easier for my body to recover, not allowing my chest cavity to build strength which was part of the training. I dropped my arms at the time, trying to achieve the effort my teammate mentioned. Today, I hugged my hips and sucked in air, thinking of whatever happened to the young man and where he might be today, if alive at all. The greenness of the shade we had reached at the peak of the hill made me think of Oregon and what running in that place might have been like in Pre’s time; magical for sure.

The whinny of Sugar, Mary’s pony broke my dreamlike state as we walked through the front gate and into the inner yard. Sugar stood waiting for her breakfast, which we soon took care of as we walked our cool-down to the barn. Kittens danced and spun in the early morning light; happy to see us approach knowing breakfast was soon to be served for them as well.

Then my son asked, “Dad, did you notice there wasn’t one car?”

I thought and he was right, we hadn’t seen one car on our entire time out.

“No, you’re right,” I said in response.

“Is it always like this in the morning?”

“Well, if you get up early enough on Sunday morning it can be,” I replied, “but if you go far enough, there will eventually be at least a couple cars.”

He nodded.

I would save the stories of countless miles I had once run on the logging roads in the Weyerhaeuser forests of South Carolina and not seen one human during an entire summer.

Today was about us, not about the past.

Later, after our cool-down, I sat on the porch sipping my morning coffee and noticed the sky a perfect blue. All the clouds had vanished and the pasture grasses before me echoed a richness of plush moisture. My son walked up to the porch after having checked the chickens and I noticed he looked as if hadn’t even broken a sweat. I told him to come on up and take off his shoes and socks so his feet could breath. He obliged and we sat side by side, once more sharing and watching the world before us come alive with the days dawning, our bare feet cooling in the breeze.

Off in the distance, clouds began to loom once again as a hummingbird flitted by.

That afternoon on our way home from church, I looked up in the sky and saw a cloud with the perfect face of an angel looking down. The image was so perfect, it looked almost appeared man-made. The angel had wide outstretched wings and seemed to be floating across the sky, a vision of comfort and peace from above. I felt a certain confirmation inside, knowing that we were being watched from above and that somehow, someway, no matter what life had in store, God would see us through; so said the image in the cloud.

Filed under Inspirational, Nature, Running

Tagged as angel, bruecke to heaven, church, cloud, farm, god, High School Cross Country, Jesus, kittens, North Carolina, Oregon, pony, running, Steve Prefontaine, Timothy W. Tron

by Timothy | August 10, 2014 · 8:56 pm

Agape Journey…

The rain came down in sheets as dark clouds loomed to the horizon.

We sat inside thinking of the months of practice, looking out as the water flowed down Main Street as the torrent fell from the sky. It was Friday morning, the day of our Festival of Faith which was to be performed later that day at 5pm in Jacumin Plaza. The forecast had been for rain, heavy rain and now it seemed that for once the weatherman had it right. I looked at my family and knew that regardless of the outcome, we were going to perform, knowing there would be no tomorrow, no second chances, or so we believed.

I bowed my head and said a silent prayer asking for God to halt the rain long enough so that there would be a break before the time of our show, perhaps letting folks know it was safe to venture out, and then long enough for us to conclude our performance. I had learned from Pastor Thomas to be specific in prayer requests and as I have been told, I am far too sparse on prayer requests for my personal needs. So not withstanding my own conviction, I asked and I asked boldly; so much so that I told the children I had asked God to make a break in the weather, to which they only nodded.

The heavy rain kept falling.

We carried on during the day preparing regardless of what the skies above did; the rain continued to fall with clouds so dark it sometimes seemed as if it were late evening rather than early afternoon.

Then miraculously, about an hour before the time of our show, the rain slowed, ebbed and finally stopped. As we began setting up the sound equipment for the stage, the street dried and clouds began to part with intermittent shafts of sunlight flowing through.

My heart smiled as I realized, God had not only answered my prayers, but also for the fact my children saw once again the power of prayer in action.

The evening’s show went off without a problem as the youth of our bands, the Boy Scouts from troop 192, and Senator Jacumin performed flawlessly, providing an emotionally charged performance that moved those in attendance beyond words. The response was so great from those who arrived late, that we were asked to perform the show again on the next day, Saturday; another day that the weather forecast had predicted 100% chance of rain. Those who were part of the performance looked at me thinking it impossible, but I smiled for within I knew if it was His will, it would be done. I agreed that if it were possible we would do a second show on Saturday.

In the meantime, we had never seen the play “From This Day Forward” and since the rain had abated, we all hurried from our show off to grab a quick bite for supper and then still in costume, attended the long awaited play. We were not disappointed. The first Act had such an impact that I found it difficult to hold in my emotions, even after I had written about such atrocities. So well done was the performance of the “Massacre” scene that the full force of the sight and sound combined brought all to tears as the sounds of cries in the darkness still echo in my head. It was truly a moving moment. That Saturday evening, even though dark clouds loomed overhead, we were protected as the entire play went off without the first raindrop.

On the way back to the hotel from the play, the weather finally broke and the heavens opened up; my soul felt relieved and thankful all at once.

We awoke Saturday morning to an overcast sky, but the rain had stopped just before dawn.

Later in the day, sometime after the second show, when there had been no rain since early that morning, I sat and thanked the Lord once again for answering prayers beyond what were deserved or expected and realized His will had been done once again.

In all, the weekend was more than just our performance; total immersion in the spirit is the only way I can begin to describe it. For our small troop of performers and families, we found the will of God working in our immediate lives so greatly that we will forever be changed. From the beauty of the sweet voices being lifted up in praise to the words of gratitude spoken by our audience members, from blessings of seeing what we portrayed acted out by others, to strangers stopping us on the street asking us why were dressed in costume which gave us the opportunity to witness to them our story and conviction; it was more than just listening to a story, it was living the tale, the journey became one with the lives we lived. As we stood in the darkness of the Cathedral Cave on the Trail of Faith and I described its significance to those young voices who asked in that darkness what it was about, I realized there was a need, a reason to share the story beyond merely telling it; reliving it to some degree was necessary.

This Sunday morning, Pastor Dr. Fredrick at the Waldensian Presbyterian Church gave his sermon on the Agape Center that began in 1947 by a small group of Waldensians. Agape is Greek word describing “Christ-like love” and is considered the highest form of love; it is self-giving. After this weekend, I felt I had begun to understand what others came to realize through their total immersion in the spirit when they came together to create the center by hand. From this small group of Waldensians led by Tullio Vinay their servitude created something that brought together Christians from all walks of life, rather than divide them. To this day, the Agape center is used by Christians from all over the world as a spiritual retreat, a place where one can take a sabbatical, a place to step back and understand all that God has done in our lives, whether we realized it or not.

Although it was only slight, I believe we experienced Agape love this weekend and for that I am beyond grateful.

How much more could one ask, how much greater could time spent with friends and family be spent; this I cannot imagine or answer other than this was more than a fulfillment of any dream I had dared to imagine.

Blessings are given to those who seldom realize them until it is too late. I pray that the Lord allows me to never forget the blessings I received this past weekend, for the Festival of Faith was all and more than I could have ever imagined, Agape love if you will and for this I feel truly blessed.

Thank you God!

“[ The Greatest Gift ] Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it profits me nothing. ….” – 1 Corinthians 13