Category Archives: Religious Experience

by | October 18, 2015 · 10:02 pm

Power of Prayer…

 

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart Be acceptable in Your sight, O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer.” –Psalm 19:14

Prayer connects us to God in ways we as mere mortals beings may never understand.

Each day I find God only tests us with what he knows we can handle; this week was no different.prayer

First thing Monday morning we had our first visitors, a walk-in family of four who were there or a self-guided tour. As I began introducing them to the Trail, I felt led to share with them more than the basic story and soon found myself sharing my testimony. Their children were very attentive and extremely well educated in Christianity; knowing more scriptures than many adults I’ve met. Later we would find that they were home schooled which explained their advanced Biblical knowledge. I specifically recalled the point where it hit me that this was another “God Moment,” as I’ve been calling them lately. That moment came after they had watched our introduction movie and had turned around to ask questions. For some reason, I can’t recall the details, they mentioned something about being from Durham. Perhaps I had shared with them the farm and the fact that we hadn’t yet sold ours back in Chatham County and then they said how they were looking to get out of Durham and move out into the country. It was then the image of God smiling, looking down on us all came to mind. I know God has a sense of humor; knowing all the struggles, showings and lack of getting our house to move at all. Could this be the family that only He could have found and sent to us to start the ball rolling?

As I took them on more of a guided tour than a self-guided tour while I was able, as long as another guest didn’t arrive we can spend more time with our guests, I was able to share with them in more detail the whole story. When we give tours, we can often tell when the Holy Spirit begins to work in our visitors and this particular morning, He was definitely with us. I learned that the mother’s maiden name was “Barba,” as the name of those who taught and led the student’s at the college in the valleys. I encouraged her to seek out more of her family tree, especially since she knew she was of Italian ancestry. Although I don’t need a miracle to believe, there are some who do and what another amazing story it would be if this was the family.

Oddly enough, when we tried to show them our farm that was for sale on the MLS listing, it hit me, that we had taken it off the market temporarily and that it wasn’t available to show them. Instead, we gave them contact information for our realtor and the address, just in case. It was almost as if we weren’t allowed to go too far that day, but just enough.

In God’s time, we shall see.

Then, as if we needed another gear switched, we had a totally different perspective arrive on Wednesday when Ron Long and his wife Donell arrived from New Mexico. For Ron’s birthday, Donell arranged to bring him to Valdese to visit the town from where his grandfather had come. Before finding us at the Trail, they had already gone to the museum downtown. They had also studied the Waldensians somewhat so that I was able to jump right into my testimony and share with them my own spiritual journey. As I did, we soon found our ancestral ties, since Ron’s family tree also included Trons. As their self-guided tour turned into a guided tour, while I was once again able, we found so many connections and similarities in our own journey that we literally could not find enough words to share the moment. Family reunions like this, set apart by centuries of time, require nearly an eternity to allow us all the time needed to pass from one to the other the stories of who, what, where and why. I can only imagine that day when Christ returns and we shall all be called to that eternal heavenly home, to share with all our family gone on before. Eternity awaits, for it will be needed in order to hear every last word of every last tale that each of us has to share.

Ron and Donell felt such a strong desire to be part of the journey that they openly expressed how they wished that God might find a way to move them here someday. I offered them my prayers that it might come to pass.

Before Ron and Donell left, we shared our contact information and let the know about the evening meal at the Waldensian Church later that evening. We hugged goodbye not knowing if we would ever meet again. As fate would have it, we met them at the Church dinner later. They were there along with Marilynn from the museum, who had given them their tour earlier in the day enjoying the wonderful Wednesday evening meal. We had another great visit and soon found ourselves hugging goodbye more than once; family whom you know you might never see again is very hard to see go away, especially after you’ve just met. God only knows!

As if the week hadn’t already been moving enough, then came Thursday.

An older couple came walking in later that Thursday morning. I began the introduction to the Trail for their self-guided tour and it was during that brief intro that I felt something speak to me, to tell me to go on, so I did. As I gave my testimony, I felt myself being drawn closer to God in a way that I had never felt before. Before I knew it, the lady to whom I was speaking began to cry and then said to me that she had cancer. I could feel her need for fervent prayer and I opened my arms, embracing her and her husband at the same time, praying over them, asking God for healing and strength; it was a first for me here at the Trail. It was then that I shared with her how my own mother had fought and battled cancer for over 20 years before passing a couple years ago, and that with faith, anything was possible. From that point on, until I could go no further due to other arriving guests, I stayed with them and felt a connection unlike any other. We didn’t have to be blood relatives to feel a bond, we were brothers and sisters in Christ. Later when they came back in, we hugged goodbye and I prayed a silent prayer for them as they drove away. We may never meet again on this side of Glory, but oh what a glorious day it will be when we do.

And then came Friday.

Suffice it to say, we had our challenges but our staff and volunteers worked like seasoned professionals, meeting every obstacle with undaunted determination. In the end, we served nearly 100 guests who were all able to hear our story, our testimony, smell the wood being cut on the sawmill, taste the fresh baked bread and even allowed to roll a few bocci balls. Yes, Friday was as beautiful as it was blessed, with its azure blue skies and crisp fall air.

We had made it through one of our best weeks to date and survived. My 4:30 AM start date that Friday morning wore on me pretty hard by the time 11:00 PM rolled around at the youth center, but I was quite thankful to be able to go home and have a wonderful night’s sleep.

Prayers had been answered more than once, and some we may never know.

Later that weekend my sister called to let me know my brother-in-law had found a job. I shared with her that after the last time we spoke, about a month earlier, I began making a conscious effort to pray for him to find a job. That had been nearly three weeks ago. I asked her when he found the job, she then paused and said, “It was about three weeks ago.” He had been about to take a job far, far away where he might have to move to temporarily and work making an extreme hardship on him and the family but suddenly before he packed to leave, another company called an offered him a job locally, for more money. That was the job he now had. It was then that we thanked God for prayers answered on both ends of the phone.

As Allen King, the pastor of River of Life Church, continues the prayer revival, we too return to prayer more and more. As we do, amazing Godly things begin to transpire, transforming our reality into answered prayers.

All we have to do is believe, and pray.

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by | April 20, 2015 · 9:02 am

Flipping Your Town…in the name of Jesus!

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A gray, overcast, soggy morning greets us today; a writer’s comforting quilt of reflection washes over me.

Yesterday as I spoke to the congregation at Cumnock UMC, there was a sense of urgency to what I was saying, something that led me to want to push my fellow Christians farther than they’ve ever gone before, to boldly go forth and espouse the Word of God. Part of me knew, that as soon as many left that front door, stepping into the world beyond, that message would fade and when confronted with the “real” world, interactions with others would face the everyday scrutiny of social adaptation we all face, myself included. However, there were many reflections as I drove to Greensboro to take Mary out for dinner in order to celebrate her 14th birthday (yes, that is another blog, about where the time goes and how blessed we are by this beautiful, smart young woman we are watching grow before our eyes.).

Today when I checked the latest happenings with the world around us via the social media devices, I found a refreshing and boldly innovative initiative being undertaken by a church in Valdese, NC.; The River of Life. I saw where they have started a ministry to the local community called, “Flipping Valdese” #flippingValdese . It made me think back to the part of my sermon yesterday where I tried to convey how hard it is to go out into the world that we are most familiar and witness to others. I believe it is much easier to go to another country and spread much needed food and clothing to less fortunate populations and then witness to them, nearly a captive audience. But try to go out into a world that has their basic needs met, who choose to turn from the Word for one reason or another, and you will find the true test of your faith. Now, I am not condemning the work done by our many missionary teams and persons, these are all valuable and desperately needed, but few dare to go where the person we speak to is of our own kind, like minded in some aspects, to those who have all they need and turn from the Word of God because of their own worldly desires. For Jesus came into the world, and the world was made through him, but the world did not know Him.

We as Christians face many challenges in a world that grows closer to the darkness each day. To arm ourselves with the Word and to go out into the world is a bold move that many will shrink from the challenge. It takes someone with deep devotional fortitude to go out and witness to those who can just as easily tell you where to go, literally and figuratively. It is not going to get any easier with each day we are being invaded by those that want to take away our religious freedoms, our faith and our Lord. I applaud the River of Life Church and their pastoral staff led by Pastor Allen King for doing the unthinkable, the most avoidable and the most needed, witnessing to our fellow brethren.

Join with me as we lift their ministry up in prayer and think about starting your own “Flipping _____” where you fill in the blank with your town, city or community. We cannot sit back and wait. Darkness seeks to destroy us all and we can only sit back on our laurels so long before it’s too late.

Flip your community and see what miracles the Lord can do for you.

Please keep our friends, family and community in prayer as many are needing help, healing and condolences for loss.

Have a blessed week.

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by | 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 angelicduring 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.

ascensionI 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.

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by | August 10, 2014 · 8:56 pm

Agape Journey…

The rain came down in sheets as dark clouds loomed to the horizon.10592838_10204470877797851_7162012123435692523_n

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.

10609549_10204474460927427_2830980695479622225_nIn 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.10514648_10204470795395791_1250824463609537247_n

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

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by | January 17, 2014 · 8:50 pm

Epiphany Through the Fog of Time…

rainydayThe air hung heavy overhead like a cloud enveloping my mind. As I left work, I knew that I was but a whispered breath away from passing out from exhaustion, but this was my Friday, the last night’s work for the week so I would celebrate with a hot breakfast for the ride home. I had stayed longer at work that morning than was expected due to the strange feeling I had of needing to hang around and talk. When I left the building to go to my car, rain was falling in a thick mist adding to the chill of the gray morning air; sleep would come easily, but I first had to make it home safely.

By the time I had left the drive-thru with my warm breakfast in hand, the rain had subsided, but the overcast sky was dull and foreboding. To visit my favorite drive-thru meant taking the two lane road home; a dangerous option, but one that I took with the understanding my senses had to stay alert. There on the windy two-lane highway of 751 that threaded its way from one major highway to the next past farms and Jordan Lake, the scenery itself was enough to help keep your mind awake if not provide for a reminder of the seasonal world in which we live. I had just turned onto 751 when a log truck pulled out in front of me stabbing my waning energy with the likelihood of being stuck behind a slow moving vehicle. To someone who was well into the throes of sleep deprivation, getting stuck behind a slow moving object is like putting an anchor on your back and running a marathon. However, today was my lucky day, or so I thought for the truck quickly accelerated and I soon found myself losing ground to the heavy footed driver; for that I was thankful. I regained focus on the warm meal and melded with the music that was thumping along as the fields and forests passed by.

I was suddenly and quickly awakened from my trance by the red lights of the logging truck just ahead that had slowed. Not giving it much thought, I figured he or the car just ahead of him was taking a left and we’d soon be on our way; but we didn’t.

We came to a complete stop.

The rain had picked back up, and my windows were slightly fogged as was my mind. I could see the images ahead but like something unexpected when you emerge from a deep sleep, their juxtaposition and shapes don’t make sense, so they don’t register. I sat for a moment taking in the scene before me looking at dark shapes, objects blocking the road where there should be open lanes. Pools of liquid oozed from one pile of metal as fumes escaped. Nearby, the large dark object was still not making any sense. A man walked out, snapped a picture on his phone and returned from wherever he had come. It then dawned on me, the large dark object had wheels, and I was actually looking at the underneath side of a large transfer truck. Then like the slow dawn of a morning sunrise, the gravity of the situation hit me. I felt a pit in my stomach. There before me was a horrific car wreck, and from what I could see ahead of the logging truck in front of me, there was little chance the person that had been in the heap of metal still lying in the middle of the had survived. Something was odd about it all, for I didn’t see anyone walking around other than the lone photographer. I sat unthinking, feeling as sullen as the skies above. The rain pelted my window.  I turned the wipers back on to see cars beginning to turn around; we weren’t going home this way anytime soon. I felt the tug of exhaustion mixed with another feeling I couldn’t describe. I knew I had to turn around and take another route if I were going to make it home this day.

As I drove off, the farther the distance between me and the accident grew, so did the realization of what I had just witnessed. Emergency vehicles began to pass me going the opposite direction on their way to the scene. Totally unaware at the time, I soon realized, I had been one of the first people to arrive.  There hadn’t been anyone walking around because it had just happened.  That feeling I couldn’t recall earlier returned and a sensation of crushing despair flooded my soul.

My mind flashed back to the fateful night in New Harmony when a woman drove past the DOT barricades blocking the road that was a dead end which stopped on the banks of the Wabash river overlooking a small cliff. At that time, as a kid, we looked at it like the woman was just lost and had panicked; thus, flying off the end of the road and landing in the swollen river, where she and her car load of children drowned. It wasn’t until a recent reflection upon the event that I was profoundly struck with the realization that it was more than a possibility that she meant to do what she did. This would be years before another woman in South Carolina would do the same thing and attract national attention, when she climbed to safety from the sunken car leaving her own children behind to drown.

However, like the epiphany of the past in New Harmony where the truth pierces through the fog of time, so did the conclusion I could’ve possibly helped. Yet, I was in no shape with myself being on the verge of passing out at any moment. Then another burst of realization hit me, “Had I not stayed at work as long as I did, that pile of smoldering metal could have been me.” Once again, God had placed his hand upon my life, directing me, guiding my pathway for my journey was not yet complete. I said a prayer for the person or people who might have passed, for something inside told me a soul had departed from us back there on that rainy roadway.

The grayness of the day had now become one with the emotional landscape through which I drove. My mind floated from one past event to the next knowing a moment in time can make the difference between living and dying. God gave us free will, yet when we give our lives to him, we allow his presence to define who we are and how we live. I can’t help to believe that with this faith, we also allow his heavenly hand to reach down and direct our daily paths.

That night I had a dream.

littlechurchI had found a small country church, empty and abandoned. It was nothing fancy on the inside with an interior of pine paneling for walls and the typical red carpet underneath the modest wooden pews. I sat near a window and waited. Soon, as if I had expected them, there came a crowd of people dressed in what first appeared to be robes. As they drew nearer, I could see that they all had extremely pale complexions and snow white hair. Each of them wore suits of fine white linen. All but one were young men; the other being a stunningly beautiful young woman wearing a flowing white gown.. As they filed passed, I inquired to one of them as to where they were going. They told me they were going to a funeral, but they would return for me when they were finished. Something I don’t remember happened when they returned because I tried to speak in my dream, which caused me to shout out in my sleep, waking my wife who would have thrown me out of the bed if she were physically capable.  I don’t remember any more of the dream past that point.

The next morning I was still somewhat bothered by not only the accident but the dream as well. So, I decided that maybe it would help my catharsis if I sketched down what I could recall; the scene in my mind that would not go away.

751crash_sketchAs I began to draw the accident from the day before, another accident scene from my childhood came to mind. I could see the bus over the fiery figure underneath. The high school boy, Scott Knapp was his name, had pulled out on his motorcycle and crashed into the bus, getting trapped underneath. The bus was moved away from the flames, but the boy and his bike remained in the fireball on the road. We all watched from across the road, unaware at the time, there was a kid in that blazing inferno. After what seemed like an eternity, Mr. McKinney came running out of the school with an army blanket and ran to the fire, throwing the blanket on an object and pulling it free; it was the badly burned body Scott. I recall how he survived for a few days but eventually the 3rd degree burns were too much to overcome, and he died. I often wondered after that day if I had known he was still in the fire if I could have or would have done anything different.

I finished the sketch and realized I had drawn the perspective of standing in front of the logging truck that had blocked my view. I figured it was just my imagination, and left it at that. Days later, I spoke to another coworker about that morning, and we found the crash online. Just as I had feared, there had been a fatality. Mr. Harold Sugg of Pittsboro had died at the scene. Then, along with the description of the accident was the photograph. There in the 751crashnews photo was a picture exactly the same angle and direction from my drawing, the one I had done from memory.

I don’t know what all of this means, I don’t know what God is trying to say, but all I know is that I’m thankful to have had another day to hug my children and breathe a breath of fresh glorious air on this side of the green grass.

May your journey’s be fruitful and your travels safe, God Bless.

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by | December 23, 2013 · 11:03 pm

The Birth of Hope…

imagesCANET9ZXThis past Sunday I had the privilege of filling for Tom Lee during the part of the service where he normally delivers what is called the, “Children’s Message”. Tom and his wife were blessed to be called away that morning to the birth of a new grandson named Jacob. Ironically, my message involved the birth of another child, yet this would not be the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as you might be expecting. No, this was not a Christmas story you might come to anticipate this time of year, so first allow me to explain why I was lead to share this story.

Earlier in the week I had a unique dream which I wrote about in a previous blog, “Flames of the Spirit”. To summarize; in the dream I went back in time and met people rejoicing in the spirit and met an ancient being who told me that we had to carry on the special gift we’ve been given, passing it on from one generation to the next. To some degree I was perplexed by what the elder I met in the dream meant by his words, but the more the week went by, the more I understood what he had been telling me. Then a couple days later I saw a trailer for a movie to be released in 2014 and it all became clearer. The movie is called, “Noah” and stars Russell Crowe and Emma Watson.

Here is a link to the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OSaJE2rqxU

We all know the story of Noah, but not until recently did I understand how Noah fit into the family lineage of Enoch. Enoch as you may recall is only one of two people that were taken to Heaven without dying, Elijah being the other. Enoch was afforded a view of Heaven before leaving and was allowed to return to earth for 30 days in order to tell his son Methuselah what he learned so that mankind could record the events of the past, present and future. I’ve been studying the books of Enoch as part of the references I am using in my sequel to “Bruecke to Heaven”. As I mentioned earlier, this story had to do with another birth but this was not the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, but rather the birth of Noah.

So unusual and strange was Noah at birth that his father Lamech was alarmed, as were all that saw the imagesCAK6UHLKnewborn child. His skin was as white as snow and as red as a rose; his hair was as white as a white lamb’s wool. His eyes were the like sun’s rays that lit up the room and his face beamed as something from another world. The nursemaid held him up to show everyone and as she did, the newborn baby levitated from her hands into the air. Everyone was scared and afraid of the infant and cried out. Lamech was so bothered by the condition of the child that he immediately went to his father Methuselah and pleaded with him to go to his father Enoch and ask him if there had been any tampering or foul play by angels with his wife to cause this calamity.

You have to understand that this was a time when angels were known to visit earthlings and copulate with them, creating giants (Nephilim) and other creatures which began to defile mankind. So adamant was Lamech about it that Methuselah agreed and went to the ends of the earth and called out for his father, who by then was already in Heaven permanently. Remarkably, Enoch heard his son’s cries and answered him. He assured him that the baby was indeed the son of Lamech and his wife and that there was no interaction or tampering from angels to be worried about. However, he told him that the child was indeed special and chosen by God and that his name would be Noah. He went on to tell him that mankind had become so full of sin and unrighteousness that God had no choice but to destroy the world with a great flood; all would die except for Noah and his family.

Methuselah returned and told Lamech of the words of his father and how Enoch had said that from now until the end of time, even after the great flood, that mankind would continue to become more and more unrighteous until one day, there would finally come a generation that would arise up and defeat all sin and darkness.

Yes, eventually a generation would rise up and defeat all sin and darkness, halting the unrighteousness.

It was upon reading this that my dream came back to me and how the elder had been so clear about the wealth we possessed and how it was imperative that it be passed from one generation to the next without it being allowed to expire.

Then like a light switch turning on, it finally dawned on me that the wealth, treasure and inheritance the elder was speaking of was right in front of me; The Word of God and the story of his love for us all. For there to be that future generation, we have to pass on our inheritance and educate our children so that they too can carry on when we are gone, keeping the Word of God alive; our hope is our future just as is the birth of a new life.

untitledYes, it is the season of birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus, through whom we all inherit eternal life, if we only choose to accept him into our lives and continue to share the story and to continue to have hope of life eternal.

After all, it is most undoubtedly the best Christmas gift of all.

Merry Christmas.

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by | December 19, 2013 · 2:57 am

Flames of the Spirit…

imagesCAZ5RNSOIt’s not often that dreams stay with me after I wake up but I had one recently that was so vivid and profound that even a couple days later I am still able to recall most of it with clarity. The parts that especially have stayed with me involved a celebration and someone I met; for some reason, I had stepped back in time.

The first part of the dream had something to do with an outdoor event where people dressed in long robes and dresses that one might call, “Sack Cloths”. They had gathered as a multitude upon a tree-lined grassy lawn. The congregation was celebrating some event with songs and praises. I was encouraged to come closer and join in, so I did. Shortly afterward, out of nowhere, from over our heads came a large light beige colored canopy that began to descend over the throng. I got the feeling of being inside an enormous tepee, where the sheet wrapped completely around the crowd, but angled up toward the center as if suspended by a hand from above. Folds of the canopy lay upon the grass and completely enclosed us all from the outside. The material was light enough I could still see the sunlight filtering through it.

It was at this point that I became aware of there being two factions of belief in the crowd; those who accepted faith and our ancestry unconditionally and those who believed but had difficulty accepting everything and felt obligated to track the past one brutal line for line, word for word, tracing it back through time upon part of the canopy that now hovered overhead. The non-accepting partisans had their section of cloth partitioned off into an oblong section of the strange cloth where all of their precious writings were kept. They obviously knew what was coming and had their cloth cut out from the other material, but yet it was still held in place from where it had been cut. The separated cloth was suspended by a large hoop that the cloth was stretched over and was held in place in the massive overhead canopy by leather lashes which were stitched into the main cover. It made their special cloth appear like a door stitched into the floating canopy that was sewn shut.

All believers, accepting and non-accepting began to shout and hold their hands aloft, singing praises and imagesCAXMGPNSworshipping aloud, their voices becoming one. The noise became so strong that the cloth overhead began to rise off the ground. I could see light from underneath the bottom of the great sheet as our shouts lifted it higher. Suddenly, there appeared flames above us, flames that soon caught the overhead canopy on fire and it began to burn. The flames were mostly clear but flickers of yellow and blue sporadically appeared on the edges of the cloth being burnt. Blue sky could be seen through the holes where the fire had burnt and before long the flames had entirely consumed the cloth, allowing the sun and sky to shine on us once more. The oblong cloth stretched over the hoop had been unharmed by the flames and fell gently upon the green lawn below, where it was immediately examined and found to be safe from harm. A chorus of elated voices followed as everyone was overjoyed to find the history had been preserved. It was odd, but those who had been accepting and those who hadn’t had suddenly become one in spirit; the sensation of being divided had vanished like the cloth overhead. I had an urge to share with them how amazing this was but then a strange feeling came over me: I became aware that there was a reason I was here but that I wasn’t to tell anyone what I knew. For some reason I realized my knowledge would only cause trouble and change the course of history; a tragedy for all. So I kept quiet and continued to take it all in.

imagesCA1HVR49From this courtyard of celebration I was led past several small buildings until we reached the yard of a humble dwelling; its functionality greatly outweighed its aesthetics. In front of the home was an elder seated at a table made of roughhewn wooden slats. His white hair was bushy but shoulder length with a smattering of gray streaks throughout.  At first he looked as if he had black bushy eyebrows but once my eyes became accustom to the light, I realized he wore thick black rimmed glasses. His face was clean shaven but the lines of age had etched their mark leaving the corners of his mouth in a permanent frown. He motioned for me to join him and my guests soon left us. He introduced himself, but I didn’t catch his name. I only understood him to be an ancient relative whose message to me was of grave importance. He proceeded to tell me that it was vital for me to understand that monetary things of this world could not be taken with us to the other side. He explained that it was our duty to make what was left behind not easily accessible to those who might be considered our heirs lest it corrupt them and cause anguish. Rather, we had to invest our wealth in things that would continue to grow over time and would enrich the lives of those loved ones we left behind. Their ability to cash out these investments must be made unreachable and only the maturity of our investment be realized from something other than worldly possessions.

I was confused by his words and pondered it at great length. He realized my frustration and then confirmed the feeling I had felt moments earlier when he said, “You are here for a reason and cannot tell anyone, lest you cause great harm. Go and continue your journey and continue to share your story as before.”

I awoke and felt as if I had visited someone very dear, but his face was as unknown to me as was his name. I got up began to go about my day as normal and kept reflecting back on the dream. As the hours passed only certain aspects of the dream began to slip away yet the celebration, the face of the elder and his message stayed with me.

I began to think of the dream in context after hearing another family member talk about loved ones coming back to visit us after they had died and then it dawned on me what the dream had been about. I was no longer perplexed but thankful for the vision and realized the power of the Holy spirit like that of fire, consuming all that tries to smother it, eventually overwhelming all that attempt to block out it’s light revealing the truth and uniting our faith as one.

I might not ever know for sure who the elder was in the dream, but I have a pretty good idea…Lux Lucet in Tenebris.

What do you think?

“And again, when God brings his firstborn into the world, he says, “Let all God’s angels worship him.”[a] 7 In speaking of the angels he says, “He makes his angels spirits, and his servants flames of fire.”[b] 8 But about the Son he says, “Your throne, O God, will last for ever and ever; a scepter of justice will be the scepter of your kingdom.” – Hebrews 1:6-8

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by | September 10, 2013 · 9:38 pm

The Doctors’ Street…

The following article was written following a recent fieldtrip taken by the Goldston United Methodist Church’s writers’ group, “The InkSpots”. We were blessed to have had the unique opportunity to tour the Street family homestead and to hear the stories of healing and faith. We found a treasure trove of inspiration from which to write and hope that someday, this precious gem of history will be preserved for generations to come to visit and be likewise inspired. Thanks to our hosts, Al Simmons and Paul Paschal whom without, this journey would not have 5049398450_bd137a0d54_zbeen possible.

 

We turned off the main road onto the lane that led past a small pond to the homestead of the Street family. The structures were weathered and gray as one might expect from buildings that were over 100 years old. We were not there to learn as much about the buildings as we were to hear about the people that made them come alive with hope and relief. The family that lived here were as much about the spirituality of living as they were the physicality. The Streets, as they were named, would become known far and wide for their care and perseverance for their patients; this was the homestead of the Doctors’ Street.

2013-08-02 15.17.21Considering the age of the buildings, they were all in very good shape. There had evidently been many hands over the years that had maintained these aged edifices as well as preserving the story of the families that made them the historical structures for which they were known. Large oaks and cedars surrounded the buildings providing shade in areas of the fresh mown lawn. Here, often at the first light of dawn, the doctor would find the yard filled with wagons and in later years, cars, which had parked waiting for the good doctor to awaken. In other words, the grounds surrounding the office and home became the waiting room for patients who made the long trek during the night, being too ill to wait for morning.

The original structure of the doctor’s office was built in the late 1700s and used as a law office of a former governor of North Carolina. The law office would later be used by the first Doctor, Richard Street. The Richard returned from the civil war and took up medicine, practicing initially only in the former law office, and then eventually expanding the building adding on a back structure, shaped as a “T”, that would house additional rooms for examination, pharmaceuticals and an administrative office. It was not known if Richard had practiced medicine in the civil war, but there was an old medical saddle bag on display which was very worn that could have easily have been used on those ancient battlefields. What motivated the young Mr. Street to become a doctor one can only speculate. Having lived through the horrors of war, there were likely more than enough traumatic battlefield scenes which could have easily been the impetus for his lifelong pursuit.

Throughout the doctor’s office, there were large brown bottles of chemicals and compounds used to make medicines2013-08-02 15.02.27 that the doctor would administer to his patients. Likewise, there were volumes of ledgers, medical manuals and various reference materials. I quickly got the feel that Dr. Street was a beacon of hope in the darkness in a landscape of medical poverty. He not only applied his craft but continually strove to further his abilities to do so. When we read the signs outside of most modern medical facilities we read the term, “Medical Practice of…”. In the case of the late Dr. Street, this was not only a statement, but a fact made obvious by his self-imposed continuing education. He was not only the doctor, but also the pharmacist, specialist, surgeon and even eventual caretaker. From the act of bringing life into the world to the act of consoling the families of those patients that he could not save, the dust on the books of memories belied the stories within that a painful heart would have been driven to pursue excellence beyond the weathered walls in which he inhabited. We were made aware that often, his patients would stay for extended periods of time in his home either to recover or to prepare for eventual medical needs like giving birth. As I stood in one of the upstairs rooms of the home, I could almost sense the lives that entered and passed to and from this world in that room comforted by the man they called Doc.

In addition to continuing his self-education, Dr. Street also strove to educate his fellow medical peers by speaking and writing about the need for more “Diagnostic Medicine”. He felt that too many young doctors were coming out of medical school and going into specialized surgery rather than focusing on the diagnostic medical practice. More than once our host and descendent, Al Simmons, found reference in letters to the doctor of how his diagnosis of some rare ailment or disease would sometimes years later be confirmed. In other words, when Doc Street told you that you were sick, you could count on it.

Dr. Richard StreetIn the book cases filled with countless medical volumes, there were also several worn Bibles. My interest was piqued since I knew that many times the family genealogy would have been preserved in the “Family Bible”. Upon inspection of the Bibles on hand, I didn’t find any genealogy information but I did find line after line of scripture references, obviously favorites that someone had written for easy access, either for future reference or when a spiritual chord was struck. I was moved to find that the Street’s were as known for their strong Christian faith as they were for their medical practice. A local church even began in one of the front rooms of the house. This only confirmed my belief that this place was a haven of recovery and health for the whole being; an Eden in the wilderness.

Here I found the true meaning of “Practice”, with regard to medicine. Over the years, through countless struggles to preserve the health of those terminally ill, through tomes of medical literature the good doctor would pour until he had exhausted all known medical knowledge; he then would turn to the Almighty for prayer. Each painful loss only fueled his drive, his passion to prevent it from happening again. Each time, he would become better at what he did, continually striving to better himself, not only as a doctor, but also as a Christian. In essence, he practiced what he preached, and strove to become a better man while here on this earth for it.

As I watched my children observe, listen and record this visit to an underappreciated historical treasure and landmark, I could only hope that in some far away recess of their minds a spark was lit to pursue life in the same manner in which the good doctors had done.  Dr. Richard Street had made such an impact on his community and family that eventually not only his son, but his grandson would likewise follow in his footsteps, practicing medicine and making the world a better place. In life, we often struggle and toil in the moment, sometimes losing focus for what matters most. When our livelihood entails life itself, our perspective changes and suddenly the reality of mortality changes us making us either better or worse for it, depending upon our character. It was obvious from the archives and treasures left behind by the family of doctors that they had all been better for it, and so were we.

What began as a casual conversation with Paul Paschal and I before Christmas of last year turned out to be a discovery of healing and faith. I saw a lady in her seventies turn into a little girl once more and saw teenagers enthralled by the antiquity of a medical practice almost unheard of in today’s fast paced world. God leads us in paths we never can imagine, and last Friday was one such day I’ll not soon forget.

 

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by | September 8, 2013 · 8:47 pm

Zen Miles…

webThis morning I ran ten miles, which in German would be “zehn” miles. It made me think of the Eastern philosophy of “Zen” and how my exercise had a lot to do with the “Zen” of life. I thought of this homonym on the return route, since my zehn miles is an out-and-back course.  A colleague at work and I had discussed this past week how running seemed to cleanse our minds from the stress and chaos from work; thus the Zen.  I didn’t initially plan to run ten, but rather eight miles. As I went along, I eventually found myself willing and able to continue farther with a memory that would spur me to go the extra two miles I hadn’t planned; but that part I will unfold later. The first few yards of my run each day take me down a gravel road through a deep wood, where this morning I happened to pick up several spider webs that had miraculously stretched across the roadway during the night. I could feel these nearly invisible strands of fiber trailing behind me, like the tail of a kite and with the thought of Zen, they became as memories in life that I recall on my run, often invoked by an image or sound along the way as they floated behind.raincrow

This morning my first recollection was of a sound; a Rain Crow.

The rain crow is actually a “Yellow Billed Cuckoo” native to this area but according to an old wives tale,  its call often signifies the prediction of rain by the next day. I first heard of this while visiting the gathering that use to occur at Reno Sharpe’s Store, down the road from where we live. In those days, mostly old men would gather and sit on the porch when weather would allow, sipping on bottles of coca-cola or spitting chew off the porch while sharing the news of the day. It was here I leasharpestorerned of the rain crow and its ability to foretell the weather among many other things in life that are passed down orally; history told in a manner in which it comes alive.

The prediction of rain made me think about the day before when I had just disked up the garden plot, so today would be the day to get the seeds planted. My daughter, Mary and I, would most likely be the ones to do this later this day. We shared in our endeavor to raise a garden. Bringing in the fresh produce was a rewarding to us as anything, especially when it enriched our dietary pallets. This reminded me of the days we would go to my paternal grandmother’s house on Sunday. They were Seventh Day Adventist, so their Sabbath was on Saturday. So when Sunday rolled around in late summer, we would go and help her set out the fall garden, preparing for the hearty plants that would last well into the cold winters of southern Indiana. It would be a family event, one that would get us all out working in the dirt with our hands, then returning to the front porch to drink cold water from the old tin cups she had saved and sharing stories. Telling tales and passing down family history was something we had always known. The trips to the local store only made North Carolina seem more like home.

A trail of web dropped off as I plodded along, the sun rising behind me as I headed westward.

The cool mist of the morning was heavy in the lower valleys today, opening another chapter of life. There was a day when I was a very competitive runner and ten miles was merely medium distance in my training, unlike today wherefog it was definitely my long run. I remembered running on the back roads of Ocala Florida under wide Oaks with drapes of Spanish moss hanging down where misty mornings were common. On those runs along the Turkey Bridge road, a hilly section near my house, I could literally run down into a fog bank so thick the ridge behind me would disappear and the temperature would drop ten degrees. It was an eerie feeling to run up and down this hills that were like islands in the sky separated by white lakes of floating mists.

One more web loosened itself as I rounded the next bend in the road.

My morning Bible study at been all of 2nd Peter. It was written telling people the faults of following false prophets and how retaining hate in your life was unhealthy. The image of all the media and the threat of war in Syria came to mind. People fed a daily ration of hate, people stockpiling weapons, fear growing of government invasion of personal privacy; all of it compounding upon what 2nd Peter foretold of a nation that lost their way and became ignorant of their faith. But here I was flushing this vileness from my mind, not retaining it, so I took in a deep breath of the pure country air and let it go, relishing in the beautiful morning before me as I could hear a flock of crows calling off to my right, another thought another memory I left with them.

I passed the mailbox of Clyde McClaurin; I happened to be running on McClaurin road, which had been named after Clyde’s family many years before. Clyde passed away over ten years ago, so his name on the mailbox stands as somewhat of a memorial to him. The name on the box also reminded me of a time gone by when people weren’t afraid to put their names on their mailboxes. Today, in the world of instant communication and Google Earth, I find people hiding more and more behind numbers and false names in order to hide their true identity, thus allowing them to continue the conversation of hate which I alluded to earlier.

Wanting to stray back to the moment and get away from the world in which we live, I focused once more on the open road ahead.

Not far away I passed a mailbox numbered 1805 and thought of how it might be interesting to write a story about someone that went for a run and how each mailbox number became a date So, as they ran along a road with decreasing numbers, they would find themselves going back in time. I thought of this mailbox next to the barbed wire fence and how it was likely that there wasn’t any barbed wire in 1805, something I’d have to look up before writing that story. I knew from my experiences visiting historic sites in that time frame that split rail fences or rock walls were common, so it was that it was very likely I’d find myself running along old rock walls if I had been transported to the early 1800s. Thankfully the barbed wire fence continued as did my run.

As is often, I thought of the sequel to my book that I was writing and where I might go with it. I’d fixate on the image of each twist and turn and before I realized it, I’d be a mile or two down the road. This mental writing while running is something new to me but its quite rewarding to be able to write and run without worrying about pain or discomfort. I know when I first started back running last summer this was not at all possible because the pain was too great. Thankfully a year later I’m able to run nearly pain free for all of ten miles.

Then it dawned on me, I hadn’t run ten miles since before my mother passed away last December.

darknessThe flood of memories with her death and the visits beforehand came rushing back. I remember the day of her funeral, I went out to run, to try to leave it all for just a few minutes, but it would go away. Her passing was the finality in my life that I knew would eventually occur. Her release from her battle with cancer was a relief in itself, but just knowing there wouldn’t be another time I could hear her voice on the phone; those would be the times that would be missed. That day I ran ten miles and felt like I was in a cloud, but it was a dark one. There had been a dangerous flu going around, one I would eventually become ill with. I wouldn’t be free of the sickness for a couple months; thus the reason my running stopped that winter, and my long runs. It was a dark time and without a way to shed the pain, the months crept along. Today was my chance to put it behind, physically and mentally; ten miles it will be I decided, Lord willing.

One by one, mile after mile,  I left the strands of web behind like the memories along the run until I wasuphillrun approaching that last final hill, the one leading to my house; here to the present. My daughter wanted to run a couple miles with me this morning in order to train for her cross-country at school. This was something I enjoyed and would endure no matter how tired I had become from my long run. Our children are our future. This was the here and now, as the last final cob web fell to the side of the road; this was the creation of new memories that I would reach back for someday.

My mind clear, my soul refreshed and zehn miles under my belt; once more, I was home.

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by | September 3, 2013 · 10:23 am

To Thirst No More…

Yesterday I came in from mowing out in the heat and humidity and went to the kitchen sink and began pouring a mason jar full of cold clear refreshing water from our well. As I watched the life giving clear liquid fill my jar, IimagesCA493ZJG couldn’t help but be thankful that God provides for us in such a rewarding manner; giving us life sustaining nourishment from the very ground upon which we tread. Too many, this may not even be a second thought, going to the kitchen sink and pouring yourself a glass of water, but out in the country when your life source comes from a well, you live by the old adage, “You don’t miss the water until the well runs dry.” As I stood there admiring the clear effervescent beauty before me, I thought how many people do the same thing with their faith?

In today’s world, amongst all the distractions, temptations and non-stop society, we often see people who pass by their local church to often without stopping. You hear the usual excuses, “Oh, I use to go all the time; I’ve done my time; They’re all hypocrites, so why should I become one too; I don’t need a church to be a Christian, and so on…” But slowly, our Christian base is dwindling, day-by-day. Like the aquifers that feed many of our nations water supplies, they are slowly drying up, one-by-one. Do they realize that if we don’t recognize this fact and act now, that what we now take for granted might someday be gone.

This doesn’t even begin to touch on the fact that we are in a daily battle with evil; evil that would gladly take away our right as an American to pursue our faith without persecution. You think the NRA and gun owning public was upset when there was talk of banning an assault rifle, can you imagine what the reaction might be if it were said that they would be closing the doors of hundreds of churches in our nation?

The answer is none, because that is exactly what is happening as we speak.

It may very well appear that our nation and media cares more about losing our gun rights than our right to freedom of religion. Slowly, one-by-one congregations are disappearing leaving behind empty sanctuaries that once held vibrant healthy church families; now gone, gone without a whimper; no outcry here! Are you thirsty yet? Did you notice the flow from your spigot beginning to slow to a trickle?

Amos 8:11-12 tells us ““Behold, the days are coming,” says the Lord God, ‘That I will send a famine on the land, Not a famine of bread, Nor a thirst for water, But of hearing the words of the Lord. 12 They shall wander from sea to sea, And” from north to east; They shall run to and fro, seeking the word of the Lord, But shall not find it.”

Slowly, we are becoming a people as in the time of Amos, unable to hear the words of the Lord for our knowing makes us believe we don’t need Him. Our busy lifestyles are making it so there is no time for what is important. Mere Christianity is all we need not the pyro technique displays, not the mammoth churches nor the Hollywood sets and entertainers. We need back to basics faith, the kind you held in your hand and read aloud to your children. This is the thirst we must once more yearn for, for to drink from His well, you shall never thirst again.

As I stood there looking at my simple glass of water, my mind went back to the crystal clear springs in Florida where I once visited; snorkeling in their breathtaking cold clear waters. One spring in particular came to mind, Manatee untitledSprings. There a dock juts out into the pool that is created by the spring, where the spring head is nearly forty feet down emitting nearly sixty million gallons of water per hour. Here, standing on this dock, I ran and dove into the water, allowing myself to become immersed in this pristine body of water, becoming one with the water world below; silently gliding along with the fish and plants all swaying in unison.  In a way, my faith has become like this experience in the springs that day. I chose Christ in my life and from that day forward, I dive into my conviction, headlong, becoming one with the Holy Spirit until I’m buoyed by his Grace, the effervescent beauty of his love envelopes my soul and I am revived to once again, come up for air and exalt His name, Emmanuel!

Deep below the surface of Manatee Springs, a cave sits at the bottom of a cliff from which the millions of gallons are expelled, shooting out like a great water cannon creating the flow that turns into the Sawanee River just a few yards away. One can snorkel down the cliff face and then flip yourself into the million-gallon flow and literally take the ride of your life in the flow, being ejected out into the flow, quickly finding yourself yards downstream. When we seek God, really dive into the Word, we too can experience the same “ride of a lifetime”. To what depths of discovery you go is up to you.

Before you can begin to swim you first have to believe and accept Him into your heart. Like my glass of water that I turned up and drank down, cherishing the refreshing life-giving nourishment, you too can bring the Holy Spirit into your life; being revived and reborn. Once you do, the journey into that crystal clear spring of faith is up to you. God will take care of your abilities to swim, all you have to do is dive in and let the rest of the story be one that is already written in the Lamb’s book of Life.

Remember, “You don’t miss the water until the well runs dry.”

“You don’t miss your Jesus until the faith is gone…”

Drink up, and be reborn.

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