The rain was lightly falling today when I happened upon the
display of the 2020 WHS graduating class posted in front of the Boone Post
Office. In my mind, I had made a promise that if I found them displayed, that I
would go see them one last time. As is often the case, God answered my prayer
before I knew I had prayed.
One placard after the other, faces of the students who had
become part of my life, now part of this virtual graduation. Part of me wanted
to cry, while another wanted to laugh. One after another their smiling, proud photos
brought back hundreds of memories. In many of the Professional Developments
(PD), they teach and encourage new teachers to get to know the person behind
the desk. For me, it was the only way to understand how a child was relating to
the material. As a Math teacher, you quickly come to understand that most of
your pupils are only there because they are required to take the class. So, for
the most part, you must know where they are coming from in order to better
reach them, and in that hope, plant the seeds of education for what curriculum
you represent. I took it to heart.
In my journey, learning the person behind the face not only
became part of my job, it became part of my mission. Each day during the pledge
of Allegiance, at the end of the short ceremony, I would breathe the silent
prayer, “Lord give me strength, guidance, and wisdom.” Each time, when I would
open my eyes, there before me was the purpose behind the path upon which God
had placed me.
There were all manner of days to deal with, from the unforgettable,
to the horrific. From the jokesters, who at times stretched my patience beyond
boundaries I knew existed, to the sweetest personalities that could melt a heart
of stone, they were all there. This was not the first class of graduating
seniors who had passed through my classroom. But these were the first that
seemed like we never got to say goodbye, for more reasons than one. In essence,
their moment of shining before all to see had been taken away thanks to an unseen
enemy. Now, without them knowing, we were saying goodbye in a one-way tribute.
Sweet Ms. Carol Brown told me before my first day of
teaching at Watauga, that I would find a different kind of student on the
mountain, any unlike I had met before. She and her late husband Horace had
grandchildren up in that area. They were never more right. Ironically, before
learning that I would become a Math teacher, I had read the story of Crossnore
and how Dr. Sloop and his wife, Dr. Mary Martin Sloop, had struggled with the
indigenous peoples, particularly with keeping them in class when they were
needed on the farm. The stories Mrs. Sloop recalled gave one an insight into the
mind of those mountain families who inhabited the deep hollars of the Blueridge.
From their work, the Crossnore Children’s home would come to be. And yes,
eventually my life’s pathway would lead through there as well, but another story
for another time.
My life’s journey had taken a detour from Watauga before this year’s classes began. God’s plan is never our own. And wherever he says to go, I must follow. So as painful as it was, I was able to tell those who had me on the last semester goodbye in 2019. But today, with the pictures of them in their graduation robes and hats, it seemed more final. Here before me was the entire class of 2020. For a year, I had not seen them, and most were still the same, those faces of innocence only the parent of teens can appreciate. While others had changed so much that it was not until my second pass that I realized who they were. As my feet traveled down the damp sidewalk, it was as if God was allowing me to review those three years, as if to say, “It was all worth it.” There were some who made me laugh out loud, while others made me stop and say, “Thanks be to God, they made it.” There were those who had made an impact on me in ways that were never expected. One day, on my way to the school, a song came on the radio by Casting Crown, “Only Jesus.” In it, the lyrics remind us that our life should not be about us, but rather, should point toward Christ. We shouldn’t strive to leave a legacy about us, but instead, point all we are to Him. From that day forward, my purpose became to have them not remember me, but only Him. So, in all that I did, I tried to be someone that would bring the light into their life, even if they didn’t realize it.
One can only hope that we plant the seeds of hope, and the
truth for their generation instead of taking it away. A virus may have ended
their “true” senior year before it was allowed to culminate, but my prayer is
that they will make something of themselves far beyond what the limitations of
this physical world will bring.
Yes, today I walked for them because they could not.
It becomes obvious, as my mind reflects on what to write
about this morning, that I have unintentionally surrounded myself in the
comfort of rocky, and coarse elements from nature. Sitting in the Retreat and
listening to the birds of the morning, my eye wanders to the things that are
near. From the roughhewn lumber sawn at the local sawmill to the river rock
that encompasses the fireplace in the Retreat, there is a sense of “raw” earth
which exudes from this place. The trees were harvested from where the building
now sits and were masterfully sawed by Tony Moretz. The rocks were provided by
the Gragg family’s section of the John’s River. Through all the harvesting and
collection, there was the journey of life and interaction with those that
helped to obtain the resources to make it all possible. Each one a story of
their own. While the building is not the polished brass or pure, waxed floors
of the highest cathedrals, the Retreat is a place of humble submission. In my
heart, I like to think that it’s a place not far removed from God’s creation.
Here, in this forest abode, there is a deeper connection with the One above,
less of the man-made interferences we so often seek. It is in this vein that this
story begins to unfold.
The scripture from Matthew struck a chord with me earlier
this week, “He causes his sun to rise on the evil
and the good, and sends rain on the just and the unjust.”
A long time ago, in the other life, we were
walking through an antique store in Cameron, NC. I overheard some folks cutting
up and enjoying one another’s fellowship when they mentioned the scripture from
Matthew. It had been a time during a lengthy drought. My pastures were dying
and the cattle were beginning to suffer. The garden had nearly all but dried
up. It was during a time such as that when the comment struck a chord with me.
One man said to the others, “You know the Bible says that it rains on the just
and the unjust?” The others murmured their agreement, knowing where this was
probably headed, when he continued, “I wish it would JUST rain.” At which
point, the others joined in laughing and continuing to have a good time.
As the memories of that dry-spell comment rang
in my head, the weather outside was still wet. It was the fourth day in a row
of heavy downpours. It was obviously the opposite extreme to that faded memory.
Yet, the words of the scripture echoed once more, “It rains on the just and
the unjust.” It was then that I stopped and thought about the verse and
what it meant to our times under the Quarantine-life of COVID-19. In this time,
so many find that their lives have been centered on the things of this world.
Their idols, albeit justified in their minds, however, they wish, from sports
stars to music entertainers, had all been taken away. Now, in the vacuum, many
find their lives empty, void of meaning. All along, they had been living a life
of earthly treasures but hadn’t stopped to take notice until now. The suicide
hotlines are flooded and reports of suicides during the last four weeks have
equaled that of a year’s worth of deaths previously. Sadly, some preachers even
go as far to find wisdom in the data of the Corona Virus media reports instead
of their Bibles. In so doing, they purposely prevent their parishioners from
receiving the very thing that they need most; the Spiritual interactions of
fellowship and worship; the very thing people need most at times like this. I
could go on speaking of negativity, but the tragedy remains the same, many seek
what can never bring them true happiness. The question came to mind, “Do I allow
myself to be brought down by the long, cloudy days, or do I make the best of
what I have?”
One such day last week fit the bill – pouring rain
with dark overcast skies. Through the course of the day, as the hard, driving
rain continued to fall outside, inside I continued to work from home at my
new-found career. The position at App State is a blessing in and of itself, and
in that, there is a testimony that can be shared. But, in addition, there were
the peripheral things of the day that made it bright. That day’s evening meal
was one of comfort food. Again, like those materials that comprise the
structure of the Retreat, the food that brings a sigh to my spirit is that of
good ‘ole’ country food. That evening the family and I sat down to a big pot of
ham and beans, greens, and cornbread. For dessert, I had also baked oatmeal
cookies from scratch. In a sense, I had returned to my roots; the things in
life that make us who we are.
I was blessed in life to be raised by
depression-era family members. Again, I could dwell on the negativity of my
life, but to be able to look back and be thankful for the journey, regardless
of how difficult or challenging it might have been, allows me the vision to
look ahead with gratitude. Being reared by those who had little gave me the
appreciation for those “roughhewn” things of life. While I’ve never had the
“Best Things” of this world, I certainly have been blessed beyond measure in
other things, those that mean the most; God and family. My faith is not
polished and practiced of that of a seminary student, but rather that from
which I have gleaned from the pages of the Word itself. Like those cornfields
of my youth, when we would walk row after row behind the trailer being pulled
by Grandpa’s tractor, gleaning missed cobs, I have studied the Bible for truth.
It is in God’s word that one can find comfort and solace even in the lengthiest
rain spell, or as now, the longest time of forced isolation known to our
generation.
As a farmer, I can tell you that there is a
breath of relief, a sigh of thanks that goes up when the rain begins to fall
after the fields have been properly dressed with fertilizer, when the rows of
corn are safely in the ground. Through the replenishing of the earth’s moisture
it as if the farmer’s soul is also renewed. As it says in the 23rd Psalm,
“My cup runneth over,” is an expression best displayed by the overflow
pipes of a farm pond and the satisfaction within the farmer’s heart. Yes, even
when the rain falls, there is a sense of reward and comfort on the farm where
others find dread and gloom. It is a mindset that many fail to notice in the modern
world. A connection to nature, and to our Creator, has been lost by so many in
the pursuit to make life “better.”
Should we sit and dwell on wondering if we are
the just or the unjust, or should we press onward as the Apostle Paul would
say? In my heart, and my prayer for those in this world who are hurting, is
that we would seek to press on. To find God, to bring him close and to find
beauty in even those things that matter little to the world. In the coming day,
try to spend time with a friend or family member that you haven’t heard from in
a while. Reach out to those who continue to find need to self-quarantine. The
worst thing we can do is to leave someone alone who might be feeling lost and
hopeless when we ourselves have been blessed. Even if our own worlds are
nothing but stones and roughhewn logs, we can still be a comfort to those
around us if we choose to do so. It is up to each of us to be the light in a
dark world.
While our blessings may be worthless by the
world’s standards, they are priceless in the kingdom above.
Embrace love to thy neighbor and be thankful for
the rain, just or unjust.
Thanks be to God.
“But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute
you, that you may be
children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil
and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” – Mt, 5:44-45
Under the overcast, grey sky, a chilly wind blew across the John’s River. The water, a fluid tepid green, like the lifeblood of the forest, flowed past our church’s parking lot. We were setting up for another “Parking Lot Preaching,” at Rocky Springs Baptist Church. Yet, another one of the new “normals” since the start of the lock-down of social distancing by our State government. Each Sunday since the beginning of this COVID-19 crackdown on social gathering, we have had our church services outside. No two times are ever the same.
Rocky Springs Baptist Church alongside the John’s River, Collettsville, NC.
On the mountainside across from where we stood, the trees
were now all springing for the fresh greenery of new leaves. This past month,
we’ve been blessed to watch the progression of seasons unfold. As Pastor Joe
speaks, my eyes wander through the forest across the narrow body of water. Like
the many passages of scripture, each limb, root, and leaf reveal another
mystery yet to unfold. Slowly, like the buds giving way to leaves, our outside
church has evolved, becoming better each week. Below the fauna, under the
shadows of the overhanging undergrowth, a momma wild duck and her brood of
ducklings floated past. The signs of spring were showing their bountiful glory
even within the unprecedented times in which we were living.
Regardless of what mankind was experiencing, the earth was
returning to life.
I awoke this past Sunday morning with the feeling that our
outdoor services were like a string of Easter Sunrise services. Typically, once
a year, to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ, congregations shed the walls
of their church for that of an outdoor sanctuary. Once churches were allowed to
provide the safe-distancing option of staying in their cars during preaching,
we’ve been hosting the Sunday morning and Wednesday evening services
out-of-doors, under the open sky in our parking lot that adjoins the scenic
John’s River in Collettsville, NC. Although we’re not hosting the services at
dawn, there is always the nostalgic feeling of those pre-dawn preparations for
when we did. Probably more than anything, one gets a sense of worshipping God
within the element of his creation, the earth. To feel the chill of the crisp
morning air upon your countenance brings an absolute reality to the message.
The physicalness of holding the page of your Bible down, lest the wind, like a
silent hand, turn it for you, reminds us that we are not alone. “The wind
bloweth where it may, yet we cannot tell from whence it came, neither where it
goeth.”
As we live in the flesh, we experience life through our
terrestrial being. We are only capable of understanding what we have seen or
learned through what limited abilities with which we are born. To know any more
than that requires intellect. Even when Nicodemus inquired to Jesus under the
cover darkness how these things could be, Jesus replied with, “Art thou a
master of Israel, and knowest not these things? Verily, verily, I say unto
thee, We speak that we do know, and testify that we have seen; and ye receive
not our witness. If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how
shall ye believe, if I tell you of heavenly things?” [1]
It is our innate mental capacity that allows the Holy Spirit
to dwell within our human spirit. It is within this spiritual realm that we
rise above all other God’s creations. It is because of our ability to read the
message given over 2,000 years ago, and through it, that we may receive the
divine Spirit of God. When we find ourselves removed from the man-made
structures in which we usually spend our Sunday mornings, we are then brought
closer to the rest of our Creators magnificent works. Like those meals cooked
over the open fire, food seems to always taste better prepared outside.
Likewise, the bread of life when received out of doors is more delectable than
honey. Yes, the Word of God takes on a whole new perspective when one worships
under the canopy of clear blue skies rather than a painted ceiling.
The actor, Jonathan Roumie, who plays Jesus of Nazareth in the YouTube TV series, “The Chosen,” was interviewed about his role and how it affected him as a person. He replied that although he felt comfortable acting the part of the “human side” of Christ, that it was far beyond his abilities to convey the divine side of Jesus. Roumie said that he did his best to fulfill what he perceived of Christ’s human actions, but left it up to God to work through him to allow the viewers to see God through his character. In other words, Roumie could take care of the physical nature of his role of Jesus, but knew it was beyond him to act out what God was doing through the real Jesus Christ; that was up to the Holy Spirit.
Similarly, it was through the death of Christ in the flesh,
which took away the curse of Adam upon the world. Through the blood of Christ,
the door was opened once again for all of God’s children. Because of the
sacrificial lamb upon the cross, we can with, “boldness enter into the
holiest by the blood of Jesus, By a new and living way, which he hath
consecrated for us, through the veil, that is to say, his flesh;”
It was because of Christ’s flesh that we were saved, and it
is through our flesh that we experience the temptations to sin. The irony is
purely God. When we receive salvation, we are made anew, and we no longer seek
those fleshly rewards. When we are changed, we are then more capable of
connecting to God’s earthly creation, and to His living word. When we have
received Christ into our lives, we can see God’s handiwork more readily, and
because of it, we see with new eyes. When you see with open eyes, the world in
which we live changes. The colors of the flowers seem brighter, the sounds of
the forest birds more animated, and the sunsets appear more grandeur. In some small
way, we get a tiny glimpse of heaven on earth.
While we face challenging times like never before, we must
know that God has a purpose in everything.
Embrace that new normal and let God open your eyes to those
things which we have taken for granted too long. Seek, and ye shall find Him,
knock, and the door shall be opened. Enjoy those outdoor services while you
still can and look upon them with a renewed appreciation.
May each day be another sunrise upon the empty tomb.
“And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season
we shall reap, if we faint not.” – Galatians 6:9
This morning I awoke but felt as if there was no purpose in
escaping the comfort of the warm covers. When my feet finally hit the chilly
floor, my body felt as if it needed another night’s sleep. A weariness of the spirit
seemed to weigh me down.
Low Water Bridge, Collettsville, NC. April 14, 2020
Yesterday’s work had been one grueling mental challenge that
lasted the entire day, from before sunup to after sundown. It sometimes
surprises me how tiring the mind can become, and in so doing, bring the body
down with it. In these times of uncertainty and struggle, many are facing the
same challenge, feeling their minds reaching a certain level of strain that
begins to seem as if their entire world is starting to unwind. Combine that with
that the fact that they are held captive in their own homes with people, whom many
will call family, that are now beginning to weigh on their patience. Meanwhile,
they struggle to find the new norm when attempting to keep the same level of
workload with which their jobs demand, working remotely.
For some, the pressure has become more than they can bear.
Yet, in my struggles, there I was once again, striving to do
it all on my own. We sometimes push ourselves beyond what we are capable of,
both physically and mentally. As I was driving back from the office, having
made one of my bi-weekly “Essential Needs” run, my body battled to remain awake.
The intellectual demand had literally worn me out. In that solitude, driving
down the beautiful mountainside on a sunny April day, it occurred to me the
error of my ways. Like those awful storms that had awakened me at 3:00 AM, there
was now no sign of them. The five inches of rain that had fallen on the
mountain had all but vanished. Yet, when something falls, there is always a
price to pay. Down the mountain, in our foothill village of Collettsville, the
price was waiting to be paid. When we mess up in life, we must always learn to
face the consequences, no matter how hard they are to look upon.
Once again, in my unintentional arrogance, the “I,”
had tried to solve the problem alone. Had not the previous summer’s lessons
been learned? Was I still ignorant of how God was with me, but it was up to me
to ask for his help and guidance? Again, my mind reflected back to those times
before of calling upon His name, and how each time, there was an answer. The
next morning, again before starting, I prayed for God to forgive me for my
previous day’s arrogance, and to give me strength, guidance, and wisdom. I then
vowed to never again forget to seek Him in all that I do. To make sure, I
pulled up Romans 12:2-3 to help me keep focus, “And be not conformed to this
world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your
mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of
God. For I say, through the grace given unto me, to every man that is among
you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think; but to think
soberly, according as God hath dealt to every man the measure of faith.”
Within an hour of starting that morning, the problem had
been solved.
There is no better feeling of satisfaction than to know God
is with you. The sense of accomplishment on our own is one thing, but to know something
happened because of God working in your life is an entirely new level of triumph.
The song, “Victory in Jesus,” comes to mind, and says it
best.
I heard about His healing,
Of His cleansing pow’r revealing.
How He made the lame to walk again
And caused the blind to see;
And then I cried, “Dear Jesus,
Come and heal my broken spirit,”
And somehow Jesus came and bro’t
To me the victory.
Chorus
O victory in Jesus,
My Savior, forever.
He sought me and bought me
With His redeeming blood;
He loved me ere I knew Him
And all my love is due Him,
He plunged me to victory,
Beneath the cleansing flood.[1]
Later, I took a walk along the river. The low-water bridge
across the John’s River that is my route into Collettsville had been inundated
by yesterday’s flash flood. Piled on top of the bridge chest-high in the storm’s
wake was all manner of wood, debris, and full-grown trees. Below, in the shadow
of the bridge, the water now ran full-throated, clouded and murky from the deluge.
Continuing onward, with my walking stick in hand, I carefully climbed to the
top of the massive heap of rubble. My mind flashed back to the previous day’s
struggle and how the tabs along the top of my page were like those countless
limbs and trees now underfoot. One-by-one, they were caught in the fight to
flow onward, until they created the gigantic roadblock. Had my struggle continued
without stopping and regrouping, and finally seeking God’s divine intervention,
I would have never solved the crisis. My attempt to unravel the challenge would
have only ended like the massive pile of debris upon which I stood, at an
impasse with no way around it.
Thankfully, the words find purpose, “be ye transformed by
the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable,
and perfect, will of God.” Yes, God doesn’t want our lives to wind up like
a useless pile of trash. When we seek him, our lives become filled with a
purpose, an intentional reason for being. When we acknowledge that He has paid
the price for our sins and that we are redeemed by his blood, we can afford to be
plunged beneath the cleansing flood and come up victors.
Yes, there’s victory in Jesus.
Try never to forget, you are not alone.
Seek Him with all your heart and knock and the door shall be
opened.
Leave the “I,” behind, and learn to lean upon the
everlasting.
Walking along the dirt road, the thud of the man’s walking
stick kept time with the beat of his heart. Alongside him, beyond the forest
ferns and blooming dogwoods, the river ran clear. Here and there, the rush of white-water
pulsating through rocks and ledges as it flowed forever onward echoed the sound
of time. These mountains were the home of Fetch’s family for as long as he
could remember. They were the clan of Gragg, a remnant of those ancient forefathers
known in their mother country as the Clan of MacGregor. They had emigrated from
Scotland centuries before to escape the tyranny of England. No longer a young
man, his memory spanned the deep hollers and ravines like the morning mist, each
with a story of its own.
As the aging Gragg’s eye scanned the distant horizon, the
mountainside was shrouded behind curious folds of clouds awash in pink and
gold. Tiny birds flitted about as bats dove in the twilight air, creating an orchestra
of life, ebbing forward and never ceasing.
Somewhere in the distant shadows, the sound of the Whippoorwill
called. With it, an eeriness washed over his mind. A day or so before, he had
sat upon the porch of the building he now called his “Retreat.” There, in the
shade of the forest along the trickling brook, he sat sipping on some hot,
bitter brew and reflected back to the year before when the porch had not yet
been built. There had been so much that had passed between the here and now.
Like the river that flowed nearby, its current like the movement of time, never
stopping, always flowing onward.
When the shadows of the valley of darkness are all about, we
cannot seek the end of the ravine fast enough. Yet, when we reach those heights
of jubilation, we often fail to remember the struggle that it took to scale
those monumental walls to reach our peaks in life.
The beat of the aged Sycamore kept time to Fletch’s legs as
he pushed ahead. Somewhere the Whippoorwill called once more. Like a shift in
time, his mind was pulled back to the century before, to a time of greater
hardship, much worse than today. The
death toll made that of the current crisis seem like child’s play; the 1918 Swine
Flu Pandemic.
Just then, the sound of the song, “Wayfaring Stranger,” began
to play through his head. The ancient sound of a mandolin tickled the notes to
the melody as the sweetness caressed his soul, “I am a poor, wayfaring
stranger. Traveling through this world below. There is no sickness, toil nor
danger, in that fair land to which I go. I’m going home, to see my mother, I’m
going home, no more to roam. I am just going over Jordan, I am just going over
home.”
Wilson Poe Sr. had been a little boy when the sickness swept
through North Carolina. Born in 1912, he shared the story with Gragg when he
was a much younger man, traveling through the Piedmont regions of North
Carolina. Poe recalled in his whisper of a voice, how the soldiers had brought it
back with them when they returned from the Spanish-American War. The sickness
didn’t target the elderly or children, but rather, it killed the working-age
population. Wilson’s head bowed deep in thought as he told of how he lost both
his parents, all his Aunts, and Uncles and all of his older brothers and sisters.
The only family members that survived were him and his younger sister. They
were forced to go live with their only surviving family members, their
grandparents. Mr. Poe had been in his eighties when he told that story, somewhere
around the mid-1990s. When old man Poe finally looked up from the floor, his eyes
were rimmed with tears. He pointed to the bookshelf behind him to a framed
image of a little boy and girl. Between them, oddly enough, stood a larger than
life-size doll. At that moment, through the open window, the evening sound of a
Whippoorwill wafted into the room. Fletch could never erase the memory.
Someone had found the story in a magazine and recognized the
name. They looked up Wilson and his family and were thrilled to have been able
to connect with a living treasure, once only thought to have existed in the
pages of a book. Wilson kept the photo as a memento of his survival.
The melody continued to play, “I know dark clouds will
hover or me, I know my pathway is rough and steep, but golden fields lie out
before me where weary eyes no more to weep. I’m going home to see my father, I’m
going home no more to roam. I am just going over Jordan, I am just going over
home.”
Poe said that some photographer who had been covering the
pandemic, caught him and his sister standing alongside the road. Wilson
remembered how they had watched in disbelief as wagon after wagon carried away
the dead. Fletch could only shake his head as the knot swelled up in his throat
when Wilson said that he and his sister had cried until there were no more tears
left to cry.
Gragg’s footsteps carried him nearer to the shadows of the
granite walls, where the river turns, and the mountain laurel grows thicker. He
could almost hear the relics of the past echoing off those stone walls. “God
has a purpose in all that we do,” he reminded himself as his thoughts
continued.
Oddly enough, it was just as well that someone else had
found the precious memory. Mr. Poe would have never been able to keep the
picture himself. Struggles seemed to follow him all of his life, like the wagon
of the dead. His house caught fire one cold winter night and burnt down. His
family lost everything but their lives. Up in smoke went all of their earthly possessions,
including the family photos.
Fletch stopped. He stood upon the water’s edge, as the
shadows of darkness began to envelop the crystal clear river before him. The
remnants of the song concluded with, “I’ll soon be free from every trial;
this form shall rest beneath the sod. I’ll drop the cross of self-denial and
enter in that home with God. I’m going home to see my Savior; I’m going home no
more to roam. I am just going over Jordan. I am just going over home.”
. “Yes, this world must come to its senses, and lay down
their cross of self-denial,” Fletch mused to himself. “Second Chronicles
chapter seven says it the best,” he continued talking to the trees leaning
toward the water’s edge as if they appeared to wait for the rest of his quote. “If
my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and
seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven and
will forgive their sin and will heal their land.”
Looking across the river, there was nothing but the cold, granite
walls reaching up to the sky
Fletch closed his eyes as if to look beyond what was there,
seeking something more profound than what was merely temporal. Dark wagons
under thunderous skies rolled past him. The tears of sorrow blended with the
rain, each flowing down his soaked body into the mud, which had swallowed his feet.
The hushed tones of mournful cries seemed to leech into the grain of the wagon
boards, filling the cracks until there was none. Etching the pain of ones being
until there was nothing left to fear. The vision then looked to the sky, as if
to ask God why. The swirling gray cauldron above looked like someone wringing
their hands in tormented anguish. The flash of shadowed lightning turned his
head to look away. Then came the answer in the form of a deep growl of distant
thunder that shook the ground.
Somewhere nearby, the flash of a photographer taking a
picture of two traumatized children standing near the roadway, caused him to
flinch. It was as if mankind was trying to mimic the almighty power from above.
Forever etched onto his monochrome plate was the form of two souls whose lives
would never be the same; generation forever altered by the course of events,
not of their own doing.
Gragg sucked in a deep breath as if he had just surfaced
from beneath the water.
There before him was the stone walls covered in thick laurels.
The darkness permeated evermore as the moon had already risen high above the
horizon behind him. “This too shall pass,” he could hear his Granny tell
the children as they would sit and listen to her tell them tales of yesteryear,
always with giving the sense of comfort of one having survived worse times.
Fletch turned around to go back to his holler from whence he
came. As he did, the Whippoorwill sang once more. Its cry echoed again off the
canyon edifices bringing a chill up his spine. Up above the moonlight now lit
his path and reflected golden rays across the silvery waters of the river nearby.
Although some would fear the darkness, Fletch knew he wasn’t alone.
Many had survived worse times than these, and yes, many had
gone on home to cross that river of Jordan to a far better place. Someday he
would too.
The Whippoorwill called once more, and the voice echoed
again, “This too shall pass.”
Like haunted echoes through
the canyon walls, their cries of mourning and anguish retell the story of old. There
in the northwest corner of Italy, they were forced into isolation. They were hunted
like animals, labeled as heretics: their crime, merely sharing and evangelizing
the Word of God. In that foregone time, the troops could be seen coming from afar.
Standing on the abyss of the mountain tops, the faithful ancient Waldensians,
or people of the valleys, knew their only hope of survival, other than having
faith, was to retreat to the upper mountain passes; to the places where even Angels
feared to tread. There, in those high, Alpine meadows and caves, they survived.
Their legacy, the very Word of God. For through their faithfulness, they had
planted the seeds of the reformation.
Today, those voices are
once again crying out. Unlike before, their torment is not from man, but
rather, from an unseen enemy, a virus. The sickness has permeated their region
to the point that the government has called for a total lockdown; nobody can be
on the streets without justification. Even vending machine use is forbidden. Again,
the people of the valleys, the descendants of the ancient Waldensians, face a
darkness that slowly invades their land. Like armies of death marching to seek
and destroy, they find once more their hope of survival is that of finding
refuge in those high, solitary lands. The remote valleys once more become the
perfect setting for isolation and self-quarantine. Having lived through past
invasions, plagues, and economic strife, their heritage has taught them to be
complacent with impoverished life. Yet, we must decrease so that he may
increase, as the Apostle Paul would say.
Forced isolation caused
those ancient people to learn how to cope with less. While eeking out a meager
existence just to survive, they turned inward to find solace in the scriptures,
and in those pages, found hope. Their fears had been diminished by knowing that
their trials were only preparing them for a more magnificent journey someday.
In those dimly lit stone caverns, they found comfort in the gifts that their Creator
had bestowed upon them. Using these blessings, they would use them to pass on their
faith, culture, and heritage. Today, one can find a more significant percentage
of those ancient Waldensian descendants with all manner of creative talents
than in typical societies. It is no wonder that their time in isolation had
proved beneficial in not only keeping them alive but also it afforded them the
time to enrich their souls.
Last night, as we passed
the time in our own home, thousands of miles from those battling to survive in
Northern Italy, I was reminded of how when we turn our thoughts to our
brethren, our real gifts begin to be seen for what they were intended; to lift
those up around us and to be the light for our world. As my eyes scanned through
various social media platforms, a message began to emerge.
Musical artists of all
ages began to stream live free music. From the stage of the Grand Ole Opry, Marty
Stuart, Vince Gill, and Brad Paisley played and sang to an empty Ryman Auditorium.
Meanwhile, across our country, various bands played in front of phone cameras
to professional-grade videography. In some cases, husband and wife duets
performed for the world after having put their children to bed. It was an
evening of sharing and uplifting songs. As the performers played, they all
spoke in like tone; prayers for our country and for those people facing the
uncertainty of tomorrow. Unlike traditional performances, the platform of
social media allowed people to give instant feedback to their entertainers. Those
of us watching could see a much-needed catharsis taking place as people would
praise the singers and lift family members up in prayer.
In all my years, I had
never witnessed anything like it.
But it didn’t stop with music.
Poets were reading their works to the public to enlighten others. Individuals
were sharing inspirational words of encouragement and scriptures. It was as if
the world of social media had turned off the news and found themselves once
more.
Then, this morning, after I
had begun my morning coffee and finished my devotional, I once more wondered
what the rest of the world was doing for Sunday morning worship. Once more,
scanning through the pages of social media, I was once again blessed to find all
manner of preachers, congregations, and individuals finding creative ways to
share the Word of God. In my heart, there was a renewed feeling of hope. Gone
was the negativity of the new media, and in its place, the true spirit of our
country began to emerge, a voice of love, faith, and determination.
Bear the puppy.
Today, as my own family
found time for a walk together with the newest family member, Bear the puppy, a
sense of purpose, a restoration of hope began to return. In my mind, I tried to
drink in the moment. Just being in their presence was enough.
Sadly, there are those in
our world that don’t have the ability to receive help from all of those bands
on social media. Some have no family with which they can find solace. Many sit
alone in the solitary confines of a dark room waiting, listening to the sound
of their own heartbeat. Some wishing that it would end.
Reading over the
scriptures this evening, I asked God to send a message; to show me the
scripture that would help to give hope to the world. It was then the voice said
to look upon Isaiah. It was then the words over the recreation of the Church at
Ciabas on the Trail of Faith came to me. The inscription reads, “Le Petit de Sion,”
meaning, “God will surely find comfort on Zion,” taken from Isaiah 51:3.
Turning to the scriptures,
I read once more, “Hearken ye to me, ye that follow after righteousness, ye
that seek the LORD; look unto the rock whence ye were hewn, and to the hole from
the pit whence ye are digged…For the LORD shall comfort Zion: he will comfort
all her waste places: and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert
like the garden of the LORD; o and gladness shall be found therein thanking,
and the voice of melody.”
I was reminded of those
ancient people of the valleys. They didn’t allow their solitude to destroy
their faith. Their heartiness, their ability to live and survive at high altitudes
of long periods, as if hewn from the granite upon which they trod, came to
mind. Much like the spirit of the American people today, beneath the ambiguity
and divisiveness that some would want to portray, we are a hearty people. When
we are pushed into a corner, the true American spirit begins to return; one of
faith, hope, and charity. Satan wants nothing better than to see us fight over
rolls of toilet paper and to hate our neighbor. The fear and despair that Satan
preaches can only be spread by those who have no hope of tomorrow. It is up to
us who know the truth, those of us who share a belief that God has a purpose in
all that we do, to share our faith and hope of tomorrow with those around us. We
must be reminded that although we face an unseen enemy, it is no different than
any other day we face the same enemy, except it usually isn’t called a virus,
it is called sin.
This next week, I urge
each of us to lift up your family, your brethren, and your neighbor. Seek to
use the gifts God has bestowed upon you to bring light to someone’s dark world.
Make someone’s wilderness an Eden; their desert a garden of the Lord. There,
when you share with those souls abandoned to dark rooms of despair, you will
find hearts floating in the air, and the smile of gratitude spread across their
faces. In that moment, when the happiness begins to shine in their hearts once
more, listen for the voice of melody, and you will know God has spoken through
you.
Yes, gladness,
thanksgiving, and the voice of melody will return.
“Brethren,
be followers together of me, and mark them which walk so as ye have us for an
ensample.”- Phil 3:17
It was an
early Sunday morning. The air had the feeling as if it could snow at any
minute. In an uncustomary manner, my morning devotional was actually upon the
steps just outside the front door of our church, Rock Springs Baptist. There, I
opened my Bible, journal, and thermos, pouring a hot cup of coffee to accompany
my communion with the Lord. Before beginning, the steam from the coffee caught
my attention. Swirling from the depths of my cup, the vapor rose, swirling as
it ascended, like a spirit rising to meet our maker. On my walk, the
bone-chilling air had eventually found its way into my very core. Taking a sip
of the hot, bitter brew, I could feel the warmth invade my body, slowly
recapturing that which had been nearly frozen.
It was
then the similarity hit me; the steam; the Spirit, warmth of my body; us
accepting Christ into our hearts.
A car
passed and broke my focus for a moment. Taking another sip, I closed my eyes
and prayed. The sound of the vehicle dissipated, and soon, the voice of the
John’s river began to speak, which lay just beyond our church’s parking lot.
The soothing sound and the warmth of my coffee began to erase all the toils,
and struggles of the week as the hand of the Lord wrapped his arms around my
being. As I exhaled, my breath made another pathway of steam into the air. It
was then the thought of how much better coffee tasted when you were partaking
of it out in the open, especially on a cold, winter morning. In fact, the more
I thought about it, the more everything seemed to taste better when eaten or
drank in the outdoors, where all that was man-made was removed, and you were
one with the elements; purity begets purity.
Then my
mind turned toward the devotionals on my Sunday morning hikes to church and how
they always seemed more powerful, more meaningful than those of which I partook
every morning before heading up the mountain while sitting in my home. It was
as if the materials of man’s creation removed, allowing for a purer experience,
a cleaner connection to the Almighty if you will.
There, I
had done it; allowed myself to find something of God in merely drinking a hot
cup of java on the front steps of the church.
Then my
mind took a quantum leap, back, many years to my youth.
The ground
was covered in snow. It was the dead of winter in Indiana, a place where Boy
Scout Troops wouldn’t cancel a camping trip for the weather, regardless of the
conditions. Fortunately, the camporee was at a camp where our tents were the
heavy canvas permanent type built on wooden floors; surplus from a not so distant
war. It was Friday night when we arrived. The routine was that we were to build
a fire and then cook our supper while we made camp. From experience, we knew
that in this weather, the fire was the key to everything; warmth, food,
survival. Yet, everywhere we looked the snow had covered everything; not one
stick of firewood was left untouched. Everything was either frozen or soaked
with water. Knowing that we might face a challenge for which we may not fair
too well, we began to build our wood in preparation for a valiant attempt,
nonetheless. By good fortune, one of our patrol members found an old mouse nest
in a hole in one of our tents’ floor. Thankfully, we shoved the dry tender in
amongst all the other shoots of Sassafras, Cherry, and Pine, knowing that once
the moisture burnt off, we would have the start of a roaring fire. One of the
patrol leaders went to the cook box to find matches. When he returned, he held
open the small cardboard box, with the little drawer, pulled out. The look on
his face said it all. With a look of shock and dismay, we all quickly realized,
there was just one match left. We gathered round, each of our young faces had a
look of fear and anguish. One of the new scouts almost began to cry, “Oh no,
we’re going to starve,” he stammered as tears welled up in his eyes.
“No, we’re
not,” I bit back, the steam from my mouth shot into the air like a blowtorch.
“You have to have faith. We’ve been through tough times before, and if anyone
can make a fire with one match, it’s this patrol.” Ricky, the Scout Master’s
son, who was also my good friend, stuck up for me at that moment, and reiterated
what I had just conveyed.
“You gotta trust us man, if anyone can get a fire going, we can make it happen.
We’re going to show them all, with one match, we’ll keep this fire going all
weekend.”
There, he had done it; Ricky had unknowingly made the vow that we would all gladly
have given our last breath to uphold. It was an unspoken word of truth and
honor, nearly as revered as the Scout Law.
Delicately,
like marooned sailors on a deserted island, we made all the preparations and
double-checked each other’s work to make sure that the one match would work.
Then, with a shaky hand, someone struck the match. The smell of sulfur and
warmth filled the space before us. Immediately, we all gathered around, holding
our hands as a shield to prevent any breeze from extinguishing our flame before
it could take. Slowly, the flame touched the old mouse bed, and steaming smoke
began to spread through our pile of tender.
“Nobody
breath,” Ricky commanded.
We all
stood, feet in shivering in the snowbank that we had created digging out the
fire pit so that it would be clear of any moisture, and watched as the smoke
seemed to almost disappear. The skeptical scout almost began to whimper once
more. “Have faith,” I breathed again.
Then, as
if prayers had been answered in unison, a flame nearly 12 inches tall leaped
from the center of our woodpile. Smiles spread across our faces as we older
scouts looked and nodded at one another. The younger scouts then realized they
were with someone who would take care of them.
That
weekend happened to get so cold, below zero, that they made us stay in the chow
hall one night, for fear we might freeze to death in our cots. Meanwhile, we
had stoked and prepared our fire, so that no matter how long we were gone, it
would continue to keep a hot coal bed. We needn’t fear that the fire would
spread since the ground was covered in almost a foot of snow. So, unlike other
times when we would have to put out a fire when leaving our campsite, that
particular weekend we were allowed to keep it going. Memory also recalls that the
other patrols had not been so lucky when trying to strike their fires. More
than one patrol visited us that weekend to warm themselves because of their own
inabilities to keep a fire going. We learned a lot about ourselves in the
process, not only that we had possessed a knowledge which provided for our own,
but that we were able to pass on this to others while sharing with our neighbors.
I don’t remember
anything else about that weekend, other than our parents came to stay with us
the night we stayed in the chow hall. But the one thing I do recall, even to
this day, was that by the time to pack up Sunday evening to head home, we had a
fire that had never gone out. Meanwhile, other patrols had problems just
getting theirs started, let alone able to keep them going.
We had
struggled through adversity, but already in our young lives, having experienced
hardship campouts before the one just mentioned had allowed us to have faith.
It is the same in our walk with Christ. Those who are new to the faith struggle
with knowing that the Father is with them always. By providing them examples of
our own steadfast faith, we can give them the courage to face the struggles in
their own walk.
The
Apostle Paul had faced many trials and difficulties in his life once he turned
to serving God instead of persecuting Christians. He was an encourager to
others in the faith, and with confidence, not arrogance, as brother David said
this morning, he told his disciples to ““Be ye followers of me, even as I
also am of Christ”[1]
He had faith enough to know that if they were to become believers, that they
would have to have faith in what he said and to know that through believing
him, they too would come to know Christ.
Once they
had faith, they would find the love of Christ working in them, warming them, imbuing
them with the Holy Spirit, lighting the flame within and starting the fire.
Like that hot cup of coffee and a cold winter day, God envelopes you with His
Spirit and warms your very soul.
Each day,
as I begin to climb the mountain, either figuratively or physically, I ask the
Lord to help me find my way. Each day, he answers me in the most unexpected
ways.
Nearby,
the river speaks to me, and a song begins to play in my head:
“Once I
stood at the foot of a great high mountain
That I wanted so much to climb
And on top of this mountain was a beautiful fountain
That flows with the water of life
I fell
down on my knees at the foot of this mountain
I cried, “O Lord what must I do?
I want to climb this mountain, I want to drink from this fountain
That flows so clear in my view.”
Then I
heard a sweet voice from the top of this mountain
Saying, “Child put your hand in mine.”
I started climbing slowly, “Watch your steps at the edges
And take one step at a time.”
I started
climbing upward taking one step at a time
The higher I got the harder I climbed
I’m still
climbing upward and my journey’s almost ended
I’m nearing the top and you ought to see the view
Oh the water flows freely, there’s enough to make you free
So friend, if you’re thirsty climb this mountain with me.”[2]
In the
gospel of John, Jesus said on the last day of the feast, “If any man thirst,
let him come unto me, and drink.”[3]
While these
may or may not be my last days, the harder I climb, the more beautiful things I
see and reveal, seeing with eyes anew. From walking in faith, although I will
never achieve the level of the Apostle Paul, I can, with deep conviction share
with others that with faith, all things are possible. In sharing that belief,
may it light a spark within their own soul, one that will make within them a desire
to seek Him.
With one
spark, a fire can be built, and with it, the light of life can begin
That
particular campout of which I shared earlier was one where our parents were
invited to come spend a night camping with us. It was one of only two times
that a parent of mine came to a campout. My mom, of all people, came to stay
Saturday night. She, along with the other parents, stayed in the chow hall with
the rest of our troop. Looking back, I wish I had done more to interact with her,
but it was a treat just to hear her voice talking to the other adults and to
know that someone who loved me was present. Now that she is gone, those few
glimpses of the past are ever more precious.
She, along
with the other parents, more than likely had no idea of our fire struggles, but
rather, took it in stride that we had learned how to survive and were doing
well enough. I don’t remember anything else about that weekend, but the one
thing I do recall, even to this day, was that by the time to pack up Sunday
evening to head home, we had a fire that had never gone out.
From all
of this, we can surmise that we are a constant work in faith. We may never
achieve the level of faith of an Apostle Paul, but we can share our testimony
with others, and with that, provide them the knowledge that they are not alone.
Through our faith, shall we lift up others, and in the end, give them hope of
the Father.
Like steam
from the coffee cup, the Holy Spirit will warm us through and through, and our
walk of faith will continue to grow as we climb that final mountain and drink
from the eternal fountain.
Their shadows raced across the ground, fleeting patches of
darkness. Like spirits nearly visible, “…the substance of things hoped for,
evidence of things unseen.” Their existence being enough to block the light,
but not enough to be seen. Above, in the brilliant Carolina blue sky, their
sharp cries pierced the morning air. Slowly, the pair of Red Tail Hawks made
their way up the river, twisting and turning in figure-eight patterns; seeking,
searching, hunting for their next meal. So many times, the river has been a
source of my inspiration, a bridge for which God sends to me the words with
which I share.
The morning chill had given way to a welcoming warmth,
despite the frigid air. It was just a couple days into February, yet it felt
more like the beginning of spring. My weekly walk to church had culminated in
the parking lot as Ms. Dorothy had picked me up just yards away and carried me
honorably the remainder of the way. Each time she stops to beckon me into her
vehicle, we make a quick rearrangement of her week’s collections in the
passenger seat before I jump in, backpack, walking stick, and all. Encouraged
from our encounter, like the first few sips of a morning coffee, we eagerly chatted
about the reorganization and plethora of oddities she had collected in her life
that week.
“Those boots I’ll probably use for firewood after I take out
the laces,” she said with a wink and a grin.
I laughed, “Firewood?”
“Yeah, look at em, they’re not much good for anything else.
Somebody dropped them off, and ain’t nobody gonna want a pair of boots that
look like that.”
Looking at the well-worn boots, I had to muse about Dorothy
and her take on life. That would have to wait for another story, another time.
In the back of my mind, I too had many items to share, but
unlike hers, mine had no tangible evidence. Memories are said to be like smoke
in the wind, they are seen but for a moment and then are gone. Just the week
before, as I once more sat on the picnic table by the General Store, I had
written in my journal about the two town dogs, Barney and Otis. Each had made
an impression upon me, although they never graced my presence for more than
just a few minutes each time we met. It was in my reflection of how each had
their own character. Barney, with his unrivaled enthusiasm, would follow me to
the picnic table and jump up on it, so eager he was for affection. Otis,
meanwhile, would patiently sit upon the ground and lean against my leg where I
sat. He would gladly take the petting that would follow in time.
It was during my thoughts the previous week that I realized
it had been many months since the last time we had shared our time under the
broad elm by the river. Both Barney and Otis had been up for many hours as was
evidence of their wet, muddy coats. It was something out of the ordinary, in a
way, since they usually were clean and reserved. Each had been in the river and
looked to be quite animated that particular morning from my recollection. After
our brief time of greeting, they soon ran across the bridge and down on the
other bank to where they continued their hunt. Evidently, they had found a den
of groundhogs and were bent on capturing the remainder of the brood. I watched
as the two friends worked together, Barney sniffing them out and then chasing
them toward Otis who would patiently wait at the far end of the rock pile where
their prey kept quarters. It was a fascinating adventure to observe. Had I
known it was to be my last, I might have filmed it rather than merely observing
it.
Not long after that chilly morning together, Barney was
struck and killed on the road somewhere near the bend in the road above his
house. We all knew it was just a matter of time. Barney had grown so old and
careless that he would sometimes lay in the middle of the parking lot at the
store while cars and trucks would haphazardly pull in, not realizing a dog was
sleeping in their path. After Barney died, Otis wandered around town, like a
lost soul, looking for his buddy. He was never the same afterward. We all, too
were changed in seeing the poor dog missing his old friend. Who could blame
him; we all did?
So, with a heavy heart last week, my thoughts turned toward
Otis and what may have happened to him since I hadn’t seen him in quite a
while. The last story I had heard of him was that he saw some people going down
the river in kayaks. They petted and spoke to him, kindly giving him some much-needed
attention. Otis was so happy to been shown affection that he followed them,
swimming and running when he could down the river; and not for just a few yards
either. He went with them all the way down the river to a point they eventually
put him in the boats with them for fear of him tiring and drowning. Finally,
when they reached their destination, they carried Otis back to Collettsville,
his home. The lady that brought him back told the people working at the store
about his adventure and that she figured it was best to bring him back to where
he first started following them.
It was true. Otis, the dog, was home again.
Oddly, as my thoughts had turned toward them last week, it
was this week that I learned of the sad news. Otis had been put down. He had
developed a brain tumor and, toward the end, couldn’t even open his mouth to
eat. It was a bitter end to an old hound dog that had blessed the hearts of so
many in the community. Like the sauntering old Otis from the Andy Griffith
show, you couldn’t help loving him, even though he nor Barney may have been the
cutest dogs around, they were definitely the most loveable.
Once more, my mind still goes back to another morning of our time together. It was a cold, wet morning when I rounded the bend in the road, and there the two town dogs stood, eagerly waiting on me at the edge of the store parking lot. At first, they were hesitant to acknowledge me – a stranger walking down the road in a coat and toboggan. But when I called to them, greeting them, they instantly knew me by the sound of my voice and began to bounce on their front legs, whispering quiet barks of fog into the chilly morning air. Their tails beat so violently that they were quite literally the epitome of – the tail wagging the dog. They were cold and wet, so when I reached our bench at the front of the general store, I could sense that they wanted to share a moment or two together. Years on the farm had taught me to sense an animal’s demeanor, be it good or bad. That day it was one of welcome relief. Thankfully, I had left home early enough to afford me plenty of time before Church started. Enough time that I sat petting my two friends while seated on the bench in front of the Collettsville General Store as they both drifted off to sleep. It was a heartwarming moment, knowing that they had eagerly invited me to join them and then, in their comfort with me, fell asleep on my lap. Their trust and instinctual love allowed for them the presence of mind to let down their guards and to rest in peaceful sleep. In life, there are those rare times that you are aware that your presence is actually making a difference. Sometimes, those moments come in unexpected ways, and when they do, we should take comfort in knowing that God is giving us an example of our love for him, allowing us to find peace in his presence, and when we do, we can finally fully trust and relax in his arms; giving all our cares up to him so that we have nothing to fear. “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”[1]
And for a few minutes, one cold, chilly Sunday morning, two
dogs and an old man come together to find solace in one another’s presence,
each being cared for by God’s loving hands.
These are the days that sometimes pass like the shadow of
the hawk upon the ground, fleeting, but when we look toward the sky, we know
from whence they came.
Each time he returned from the mountain,
his life was changed. Another nuance of who he had become was revealed. He was
forever changing into the new person to which he had sought his entire life to
become. There was no tablet in his arms as he descended from the heights above;
no law; no antiquated precept for which to behold; rather, there were pathways
to distant memories that had once been buried, now unearthed to become the
inspiration for going forward. They had returned as ghosts from his past to
help others around him see the light; that which is the true light. He was not
that light but was there only to help those, through him, believe. Those scars
of life’s experiences became a therapeutic source, something he never
anticipated. Through the catharsis of healing, he could now better understand
his purpose for which God had intended. Through the new journey, there was more
than just the apparent nature of healing spiritually, but physically as well.
Where the spirit is weak, so is the
body. One cannot exist without the other.
Each day as the sun arose, the
scriptures spoke of new hope, new promises to be found.
Each day, the healing within and without
continued.
Jacob, a good friend of mine, had only recently found himself able to once more confidently be himself. His world had seemed to fall apart, one seemingly unbelievable event after another. It was as if anything that could go wrong would. From one loss to the next, it seemed as if bad news were the only guarantee in his life. The stress of so many unanswered prayers continually compounded themselves; dark waves crashing against the bedrock of his soul, one upon the next, until it seemed his heart would break. Pushing it all aside, using every ounce of faith he could contain, he forged onward. “Press on toward the mark,” he could hear the Apostle Paul saying. Every morning he arose, making himself pretend there was a consistency in chaos. The work of the building kept his mind occupied while he communed with the Lord. The blistering heat swayed not his determination. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. When it appeared as if all detrimental events had subsided, a new, more deadly attack came.
Looking back, Jacob could see where the
sultry summer solstice had merely turned out to be the calm before the storm.
Out of nowhere, an insect-borne illness struck.
Jacob was bedridden for days. The excruciating pain, fever, and chills were like
nothing he had known to this point in his life. The doctors were initially dumbfounded
by the test results. Eventually, the prognosis became clearer, and medication
was finally prescribed; but not after Jacob had seemed to hit rock bottom. At
one point, the pain was so intense, the darkness so great, he had prayed God to
take him home. There was nothing more he wanted than to be free of his earthly
body. Broken and shattered, he lay in the pool of sweat as his body felt
frozen. He felt as if he had now found the deepest darkest valley as he lay in
the shadow of death.
The painful hours passed, and Jacob contemplated
if he would ever be able to reach the top of the mountain again. “The deeper
the valley, the higher the peak,” he kept telling himself, through one exacerbating
breath after another.
In the course of searching for answers
to Jacob’s malady, there was another discover; one that had not been anticipated
initially. Jacob’s heart was not functioning as expected. Upon further
investigation, there was a concern of the erratic nature of the heart’s beat,
to the point he was sent to a Cardiologist. Later, the insect-borne disease he
had contracted was found to attack the heart in a way that it would affect the
beating. However, God always has a purpose, even when we think we know why we
are on a particular path, God’s plan may often be something unexpected,
something never imagined.
Eventually, the Cardiologist would find
it necessary to perform a heart catheterization on Jacob. In disbelief, he sat
listening. “What next,” he thought to himself as the doctor shared with
him what to expect. It seemed as if the summer, which he at one time had hoped
to be spent on a whirlwind, inspirational mission trip, had turned into the
summer of incomprehensible horror. A darkness of the most profound evil had
besieged him and his family. In the darkest moments of the storm, he had
continued to cling to the only thing that gave him comfort, the Word of God. He
placed his mind in the shadow of Christ as he continued to listen and felt his
savior envelop him in his arms.
“We might have to put in a stint, should
we find enough blockage, which is what I suspect,” espoused the doctor smiling
with the best intentions.
Jacob’s mind wandered back again, back
to another place and time to another one of those scars in his life.
He and his wife had visited his
hometown. It was nothing more than an opportunity to share with her the place
he grew up. Having left it behind so many years ago, it was as if they were
both discovering it anew once again. During that trip, they met with family
members for supper at a small country diner. In the group was Jacob’s most honored
family member, Uncle Markus. Markus was one that Jacob had looked up too and
admired for all that he had accomplished in his life. His Uncle had also become
the beloved spiritual leader of their family; the outpost of faith since Grandpa
and Grandma had passed. His Uncle Markus had been one of the first men of the
family to obtain a college degree and then went on to become a high school teacher,
and eventually, a college professor. Markus was there along with his wife, Rose,
and two sons. It would be the last time Jacob would see his Uncle Markus and Aunt
Rose alive.
Looking back, that evening in the St. Joseph’s
Diner so many years ago, those in attendance were just a tiny portion of Jacob’s
father’s family. There had been seven siblings total in the paternal family;
five boys and two girls. Likewise, they were a tiny fragment of the fun-filled,
rollicking antics so often characterized by his paternal family. He recalled
how he had bought some cast rubber replicas of morels from Wilson’s Furniture
Store earlier in the day. They were unusual in that they had suction cups at
the bottom. He had guessed at the time they might be fun to stick on the dash
of the truck the next time they went morel hunting. Without thinking, he stuck
them in his pocket that morning for safekeeping. Hunting morels was a favorite outdoor
event that the entire family looked forward to every year. Morels are a type of
mushroom that only come up in certain soils at a specific time of the year.
Because of their precarious growing season and climate, they are difficult to
find. But because of their delicious flavor, when they are discovered, you feel
like you are receiving manna from heaven. So, as the course of the evening’s
meal ensued; somehow, the topic of morel hunting came up. When someone was
describing their prowess at finding the elusive mushroom, Jacob remembered the
rubber replicas in his pocket. Quietly, and without garnering attention, he
bent his head down and fastened the suction cups to the lens of his glasses.
Then when the moment was right, he looked up and said, as the rubber morels
goggled before his spectacles, “I would say, that I would be the best Morel
hunter around simply because of my superior morel vision.” The entire table, and
the rest of the restaurant who couldn’t help to overhear broke out into laughter.
The establishment had in a way, become their surrogate kitchen that evening,
and everyone shared in the raucous laughter. That memory, along with the
fateful journey of his Uncle Markus reverberated in his soul once more; afresh
and new, like the recovery of an ancient treasure that blesses the very spirit
within.
Not long afterward, his Uncle Markus was
told by doctors that they had found blockages in his heart, but there was no
dire concern because they had a new way of relieving the life-threatening condition
through a new procedure using stints. The family was very much relieved, yet
apprehensive when it came time for the surgery. The operation went well, and Markus
was to stay overnight for observation, just as the doctor had told Jacob.
However, Markus’s surgery was forty years prior, the new miracle cure had only
just begun being used. Markus had been warned not to move around, but as was
the case, he got up simply to use the restroom during the night, harmless as
that may sound. The doctors would later surmise that plaque had broken loose in
the artery where the stint was inserted, which found its way to Markus’s brain.
Uncle Markus died long before his time. Yet, it was God’s time, not our own.
Jacob’s mind panged once more for his Uncle
and knew that God had used the stint to call him home. It didn’t make the
memory any less painful, nor did it comfort him knowing that medical advances in
the past forty years had made the procedure much less treacherous. In the back
of his mind, he couldn’t eliminate the thought of possibly facing the same fate.
Feelings of the recent trials and
struggles haunted him in the hours leading up to the operation. “Had he done
all that he needed to prepare for leaving this life,” he thought to himself?
“Had he done all that he could do to help his family financially once he was
gone?” Then the formidable realization of their salvation bore upon him, “Had
he done all that he could do to prepare them for life eternal?” He felt in
his soul that his work was not over, but if God was calling him home, he was
ready either way.
“The Lord would provide,” he told
himself, again and again.
Yet, he was never alone.
Friends and family had encouraged Jacob
on his journey, and many had prayed for him. As the Bible tells us, “Wherefore
seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us
lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us
run with patience the race that is set before us.” All his life, there were
those praying for him even when they had lost contact with him physically;
those faithful prayer warriors that lift us up even when we are the least
worthy.
Jacob never forgot this, that many had
lifted him up in prayer, as the day for the surgery came. As the lights,
needles, and monitors flickered and beeped through the operating room, his mind
rested peacefully as he felt the hand of God warm him in that cold, foreign
place; prayers were being answered. Before he knew it, the medical staff and
the lead doctor were wrapping up.
“You’re all done,” the Cardiologist
proclaimed proudly.
“Your heart had a major blockage,” he
relayed without remorse, as he held his personal device over Jacob’s head.
“But, as you can see,” he said through
his operating mask, “Your heart has healed itself by making its own bypass. Better
than I could have done,” he said, pointing his purple glove finger toward the
miniature screen.
“It’s just beautiful,” the doctor
continued, admiring the tiny image before Jacob, as he turned to look at it
himself one more time. “You won’t need any stints either, your heart is
perfectly clear other than that one blockage which has miraculously healed
itself.”
Jacob couldn’t believe what he was
hearing. Through the fog of medication necessary for the operation, he
struggled to understand all that the doctor had just said.
“Miracle,” was all that he could
think, “God had performed a miracle. I should be dead,” he whispered to
himself.
Prayers had once more been answered;
like a thunderbolt, their presence was felt. Warm tears filled Jacob’s eyes as
the gurney was wheeled out of the operating room and back to recovery.
As the cloud of the sedative began to wear
off, Jacob continued to feel buoyed by the very nature of the miracle that had transpired;
unaware, unexpectedly, God had cured him of the life-threatening blockage. Not
only that, he had cleared every other debilitating possible blockage so that
his heart was like new. “With time, your heart will grow stronger,” the nurse
conveyed, as she heard Jacob speak of the revelation in the recovery room.
A gleam of joy shone into his now
healing heart.
The next couple of days were spent
resting and allowing the medication from the surgery to wear off. But once Jacob
was able to get outside, he took a short walk along the ridge where he lived.
In the distant, the blue peaks stood majestically; proud and stoic. Never so
bright were the flowers. Never so blue was the heavenly blue azure sky above.
The trees sounded as if they were singing the praises of the noonday sun. The
joyous memory of that evening in the St. Joe Diner sparkled once more in his
mind. The flicker of life revived, of happiness and laughter. The old spirit of
rejoicing with gladness the moments in life afforded us, no matter the setting,
no matter the circumstance had been rekindled. The old spirit had reunited with
the new Spirit; together, their energy was more than enough to uplift the weary
soul; they gave new life to the body within.
Jacob’s life had been a culmination of
learning and finding the way through failure and loss. The sins of his life had
kept him shackled to the world of the flesh, and because of it, had prevented
him from being to that which he was called. Subtlety, and without any
instantaneous change, Jacob found himself seeking direction from something beyond
the temporal world around him. Once he did, God began to work through him in inexplicable
ways. Some say that God works in mysterious ways, but when one walks through
the valley of the shadow of death and someday finds themselves on the mountain
top of that remorseful valley below, it is then that they can finally
appreciate what it is to receive Christ into their lives.
Yes, my brothers and sisters, God is
waiting for you to answer your call. He is ready for you to take him into your
life. Not only will your spirit be renewed, but your body will be blessed
beyond measure.
Look to the horizon and climb the
nearest mountain, leaving that valley below. When you reach the summit, allow
all that you experience to fill your cup to overflowing. Allow yourself to be
changed. Sup from the spring of God’s mercy while you can for the peaks of our
lives never last forever. May He annointest thy head with oil. Share the testimonies
and miracles in your life, for you may be the inspiration that someone needed
to hear.
Someday, you will descend into another valley,
and when you do, take with you the precious gift of God’s grace. By our scars,
we can be healed, and by Christ’s scars we can be reborn. Be the light for all,
no matter where you are; whether if you are on the highest mountain top, or in the
deepest, darkest abyss, let your light shine for all to see.
As Paul said, “For to me to live is
Christ.”
So, my friend, live as if living is
Christ, and goodness and mercy will follow you all the days of your life.
We awoke this morning to a
blissful 64 degrees here in the foothills of the Blueridge Mountains. It was
indeed a long-awaited respite from the summer’s toils. Although the sky was
overcast, the soothing temperatures allowed for a more leisurely feel to the
walk to church. Along the way, the bountiful colors of the wildflowers began to
catch my attention. “Had they been there all summer and I just missed them
amid the turmoil of heat and fatigue,” I pondered as my walking stick continued
to make the rhythmic knock upon the trail? At first the red of the Cardinal
flower caught my eye, but the farther I walked and became aware, the more
colors that began to reveal themselves until the full spectrum of the rainbow
was pulsating within view; the Vincas, Violas, Orchids, and Lilies of all shapes,
sizes, and varieties. Pausing to catch my mental breath, my mind began to drift
back to another hike in a far distant land. The place where the 23rd
Psalm seemed to come alive; the Germanesca Valley in Italy.
My heart began to race as my
thoughts returned to the life-changing scenery we had experienced on our Alpine
journey.
Like a wounded warrior returning
from battle, my body fought to keep the path of descent. In our unencumbered ascent
up the mountain, we had seen with beholding eyes unspeakable beauty, flowers of
every color of the visible spectrum. We had just scaled up the Germanesca
Valley in the Cottien Alps to a point not far from the summit of Col-du-Pis.
The altitude was challenging alone, reaching slightly above 9,000 feet in elevation.
The thin air caused us to breathe while we walked as if we were running at full
speed. Each new turn in the trail unfolded
another revelation of God’s creation, one that we had heretofore never
witnessed. But in our haste and unimagined divine adventure, we had not
accounted for the human element which so often detains us, shackling us to man’s
law; time. From unimaginable heights we now scurried, our bodies weakened by
the lack of oxygen battled to keep pace with the spirit within. In our haste,
we pressed the pace around another massive boulder only to find a spectacle
beyond comprehension. Looking back, had we not been suffering from the
consequences of poor planning, or rather, spontaneously inspired destinations,
we might have taken the moment we were about to encounter more slowly, more
diligently. We are often reminded in those fleeting few seconds before death
that events you thought could never be captured return in one glorious review.
What was thought lost returns with a voracious message of what was most
important.
How many times had the disciples
asked themselves the same thing? Had they only taken more time to appreciate
the precious little time they were allotted to spend with the Son of Man, Jesus
Christ, how much more would they have understood? Jesus had tried to make them
realize again and again.
“Jesus replied, “You do not
realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand…. I am telling you
now before it happens, so that when it does happen you will believe that I am
who I am.” – John 13:7,19.
How many more questions they could
have asked? How much more faith they might have found had they only known?
“Why weren’t they warned,” you
ask?
Jesus foretold his death and
resurrection on more than one occasion. “Now
Jesus was going up to Jerusalem. On the way, he took the Twelve aside and said
to them, “We are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be delivered
over to the chief priests and the teachers of the law. They will condemn him to
death and will hand him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and
crucified. On the third day he will be raised to life!” – Matthew 20:17-19
Yet, they too were so pressed for
time of this world, trying to make it day-to-day in circumstances under which
they had little to no control. Albeit they were in the presence of Jesus, they
too found it difficult, seeing so many miracles and hearing so much, that there
was little time to take it all in and absorb it fully. After a while, their
human bodies began to tire. The weariness of the journey was more than many
could physically take; the emotional and spiritual strain alone of having one’s
mind stretched beyond belief each day would be enough to cause a mental breakdown.
Yet, Christ afforded them through his divine power the ability to
understand, as he opened their minds as only God could do. “Who hath ears to
hear, let him hear.And the disciples came, and said
unto him, Why speakest thou unto them in parables? He answered and said unto
them, Because it is given unto you to know the mysteries of the kingdom of
heaven, but to them it is not given.”-Matthew 13:9-11
Enthralling scenes that no human
could imagine took the disciples breaths away; again and again. They could
never dream of what was just around the bend.
Just beyond the shadows of the granite edifice from around the curve in the path lay a patch of grasses covered with wildflowers, colors as vivid as the cloudless azure blue sky above. Yet, unlike anything we had yet to discover this day of miraculous discovery on the mountain, there was something unreal; something that pulsated from this patch of living color. As we neared, our shadows ran before us, touching the breathing spectrum of life. Without warning, the colors began to rise in place, as one. Our mere mortal eyes couldn’t understand what we were seeing; yet, we saw something beyond explanation. We inched closer and soon realized the cloud of flowers were hundreds of tiny butterflies, each matching the fauna of their selected petals below. As if their spirit could sense our breathlessness, before we could capture the image for all to see, the cloud of cuspid elegance dispersed into nothingness in a cloudburst of flight. Pausing, my traveling companion and I simply looked at one another in awe of God’s unending magnificence.
Numb from our weakened physical condition,
we shook our heads and pressed on. Had we been less hurried, less concerned
about our fear of missing the bus, would we have been able to capture the
magnificent event? Would we have found the moment more impressive at that
instant than we had otherwise seemed to feel considering our weariness and exhausted
conditions? Each of us had witnessed something that would forever be part of
something special, something that would allow us to forever change our perspective
of life.
It would take many months for the
scene to return to our minds in as an epiphany of revelation.
How do you describe the
indescribable to someone?
How do you share a vision or
testimony to someone that hasn’t shared the same path as yourself or has walked
in a field of wildflowers?
More than likely, your answer is
that it is nearly impossible. If the person you are sharing with has never had
a similar experience in life or has never found themselves able to question
their own spirituality, then they probably will not understand how to relate to
what you are describing. Just as Jesus fought to make his disciples aware,
against even the most obvious, in-your-face statements, they continued to be
confused. Up until the very day of his capture and eventual crucifixion, they
had yet to come to the understanding of all that he had said. It was until
after his death and resurrection did they finally begin to fathom the trail of
clues their Master had provided during their earthly time together.
Likewise, we must be aware of
those around us that are either knew in faith are or those who have yet to
accept Christ at all. They will look at you with ears unable to hear, with eyes
unable to see, and with hearts often hardened from years of hearing the very
words you might say to them. It isn’t until they have walked the trail of
wildflowers and seen the cloud of flowers burst open into a prolific spectrum
of colorful butterflies will they finally be able to comprehend your words. In
the end, it isn’t us that can come into their hearts and minds, but Christ who
must be the one. Alone we are only mouthpieces. It isn’t until Christ speaks
through us in spite of us can we reach the lost souls of our world.
Yes, we can never do it alone, nor
are we ever alone.
Open that back door and take a
walk down the nearest trail and search for God in all that you do.
You will never be disappointed,
and most importantly, you may find a miraculous beauty made by our Lord that
will forever change who you are.
