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Through the Eyes of a Child

Cast into your mind (or click the link) the melody of “Wayfaring Stranger,” playing as an instrumental number. It’s solitude, its loneliness preparing you for what comes next. The words begin to meld into the memory as one and together present a cinematic scene so forlorn, so haunting; you cannot help but be drawn in.

I am a poor, wayfaring stranger…

Gray skies overcast the scene before me.

Like a cloud of disbelief, the entourage of man, cattle, and feline moved slowly into the beckoning opening of the dairy barn. As a methodical procession, in some unforeseen rhythmic cadence, their existence moved as one. Those of whom the urgency was being pressed upon by their natural state, to be milked, another the knowledge of labor from which life itself is sustained, and the latter, the offering of something to which they had not labored, but only entered into another’s toil. The beasts, united by nothing more than the instinctual desire for relief of pressure and the welcoming call of hunger being satisfied therein, came willingly. Their solemn lowing as if greeting the time answered only by the cats’ thirsty meows. The solitary man, his thoughts straggle along like those hooved footsteps before him, recalls the past when so many more had been with him – beast and child. For this day, another young soul, his eyes fixed upon the moment, would unknowingly forever have this scene etched into his young memory. The elder didn’t dwell on what the grandchild might remember, only that he was proud to have him tagging along – another one that he might share the love of being connected to God’s creation through the lifelong servitude to farming – providing for others what they cannot fulfill of their own accord. There had been many other grandkids, many other children to which he had shown this daily routine. Some had helped when they were old enough. Others found it nothing more than a novelty – an exercise in the quainter side of life. Yet, the one that watched with longing eyes had the soul of an old spirit, one that appreciated more deeply the things to which he was shown – reasoning the old man could understand.

The shadow of the barn’s darkness encapsulated their entourage as they entered. The dusty, fly-specked windows added to the grayness of the light. Like spectral images, the cows one-by-one found their own stall. Wandering to the long concrete trough built into the ancient floor, they began mouthing the sweet-smelling grain the grandfather had placed earlier, long before they had been called. Only when he had prepared their table for dining would he step out of the barn and painfully walk to a point where he knew they could hear his call. His high-pitched shrill, “Sook cow,” echoed off the other outbuildings, ringing into the foothills. They would come as if summonsed from another time, ambling slowly, milk bags swaying as their procession made its way down the long lane, which was bordered by matching wooden fencing on both sides. The Catalpa trees shadowed their walk, like pillars to the sky, their gray trunks, now in the midst of winter’s late clutches.

And the song continued, “Traveling through this world below…”

They had heard of Jesus’ healing powers. Like strangers from the midst, they came. The Passover, the feast of the Jews was nigh when Christ went up on the mountain to sit with his disciples. From whence he came, most did not know. For this day, he had arrived to serve those who could not provide of their own accord. Unlike the farmer, he had not beckoned them, yet they came seeking to be healed, misguided by their misunderstanding of his message. For what Jesus sought was to provide for them that they might see the miracles and believe him when he spoke of eternal life, a place where he would go and prepare a place for us; a place where disease and mourning would have no home.

Meanwhile, the melody plays on, “There is no sickness, no toil, nor danger in that bright land to which I go…”

As Jesus sat with his disciples in supposed reclusion, themselves alone and discussed all that had been said, all that had been done, he realized they were not alone. “When Jesus then lifted up his eyes, and saw a great company come unto him, he saith unto Philip, Whence shall we buy bread, that these may eat? And this he said to prove him: for he himself knew what he would do. Philip answered him, Two hundred pennyworth of bread is not sufficient for them, that every one of them may take a little.”

One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said, “There is a lad here that hath five loaves of barley and two small fishes, but what are these among so many.?” What came next was a miracle to which none other had yet to be compared, the feeding of the multitude, some say far greater than five-thousand. And yet, what became of the lad who had offered to share his lunch? With eyes of wonder, he indeed beheld the miracle that transpired. For the rest of his life, as a baseline for living from that day forward, he would forever be changed.

The child watched his grandfather continue the routine operation of milking the cattle. His eyes were like a sponge unto his mind, absorbing all that he could, impressing this time with his grandfather upon his soul. Etched into his heart, the scene before them began to unfold.

One by one, the dairy herd would enter their spot, as if on cue, and begin eating the grain that the farmer had already prepared for them in the concrete trough. Calmly, in the memorized routine of the bi-daily chore, he would slip up alongside each one of them, patting them on the back, speaking assuredly to them, like a life-long friend, and then gently latch their harness in place to keep them honest during the milking. After all his girls were stationed, he would then grab the two buckets, again prepared in advance, one of the cleaning solution, the other for the harvest of their offering. Their teats would be swollen, some dripping, in anticipation of the service their owner provided – their relief would be short-lived, for the dairy cow must be routinely milked twice a day, as long as her supply remains “fresh,” as they say.

Sitting his short-legged stool near her side, the man grabs the well-worn rag from the edge of one bucket, washes it around in the solution, wringing it out with hands of age and firmness until it was only damp to the touch. He would then wipe down the underside of the cow’s bag and all four of her milking teats. Placing the rag back on the edge of the bucket, he would then grab the milk bucket, the stainless still container, and put it underneath. Those ancient hands, so strong but so gentle, would then begin the process of milking. Here and there, the old girl’s tail swats instinctively at an unseen fly. The elder reaches up to remind her of his presence, and the rhythmic process continues. The streams of bountiful creaminess are seen and heard as their initial crescendos pulsate into the pail, like beacons of hope to the ears of those feline onlookers, the cats come running to the backside of that man and beast coupling. There they sit, licking their whiskers in anticipation, some yawning as if to say we are tired of waiting. When the milk bucket is nearing capacity, the supple hand gently begins shooting streams of the rhythmic pulsations to the furry onlookers. Their faces become plastered with the creamy goodness. The grandfather’s aim is perfect. The years of practice have served him well, as those receiving ungraciously their welcome entrustment. Some, so overwhelmed with the delectability of that fulfillment, the cats begin to stand on their hind legs, reaching for the whimsical ever-rising stream the farmer playfully spreads. Finally, the last remnants of her utters contents are relinquished into the pail, and once more, he wipes down the flesh of her underside. Before moving onto the next beast of the field, he reaches up and unhooks her collar from the bindings.

Meanwhile, she continues to chew the delicious grain as grandpa slides over to the next stall and repeats the process. Eventually, the cats, being filled with their beggar’s meal, wander off. Some stop nearby and begin the cleaning process, their faces first, wiping the bounty from their whiskers with wide-tongue swipes. Lazily, they find their favorite nook within the confines of the barn – their sanctuary from the world.

“I’m going there to see my Father and all my loved ones who’ve gone on. I’m just going over Jordan, I’m just going over home…”

Frantic to be in his presence, to be fed once again, the crowd of witnesses took shipping over the sea of Galilee to find Jesus on the other side of the sea. When they found him, they had yet to realize the significance of the miracle. They only saw it through the natural eyes of man, the instinctual existence of being fed for the profit of the flesh, unbeknownst that they had just received a feeding of the spirit – the true intention of Christ. “Jesus answered them and said, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Ye seek me, not because ye saw the miracles, but because ye did eat of the loaves, and were filled. Labor not for the meat which perisheth, but for that meat which endureth unto everlasting life, which the Son of man shall give unto you: for him hath God the Father sealed.” So often, those who pursue the concept of Christianity without seeking the relationship with God are merely acting as those barn cats or those who had witnessed the miracle of the feeding of the multitude. Their commitment was simply at face value – they had no skin in the game, as the saying goes. Unlike the disciples, those on the periphery of belief were there for the freebies, for the show, and for what they could get out of it that would satisfy their earthly needs.

And the haunting strains of the song continue, “I know dark clouds will gather ’round me, I know my way is hard and steep. But beauteous fields arise before me, where God’s redeemed, their vigils keep…”

The children would never forget the things they saw that day. One, a poor farmer’s grandchild, the other possibly an orphan looking to find comfort in the loving arms of a new Father – each having scenes of life unfold before them so that they would be forever changed. Their recollection of that time etched into their souls would be recalled once more to those that would listen. In the autumn years of life, they would speak of a time before, a moment when what was perceived as the simple task of feeding and being fed would become much more than the visceral study, but a lesson of how God’s love for us transcends anything we can comprehend. One would speak of a miracle so profound, so evident that it would be told for centuries to come. Another would speak of merely a simple day in the life of a peasant dairy farmer. Each would tell of a similar moment when compared in the essence of life being provided by God so that the eyes of a child could capture that moment and realize its significance. Their memories would save that event to share with those who would never know that moment in time personally. Still, through their eyes, the retelling could enrich the hearer’s belief, and they too would be fed like that multitude on the hillside so long ago.

And the last refrain of the song concludes, “So, I’m just going over Jordan, I’m just going over home. I’m just going over Jordan, I’m just going over home.”

As time passes, the children age and become old men. The image in the mirror is not the one in their heart. With backs bent from a lifetime of toil, they look forward to that day to join those gone on before. But before they go, they too will tell their own grandchildren their stories. Their testimonies will become part of another’s life. They will impart upon those who remain the knowledge of the precious gift of Grace to which they have been given. And the story will continue until the day Jesus returns.

In this we can say without a doubt, “Thanks be to God.”

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What’s Within…

We’ve hunkered down for the long cold spell ahead, or at least for the next couple images4DDAQKHDweeks. We are facing some of the harshest weather we’ll likely see all winter. Instinctively, we find comfort in the minute details, the planning, research and review of the past and future events.  Today, my daughter and I spent most of the day in the tiny office of the Trail doing just that. Sheltered by the warmth of the heater nearby, we worked independently of one another on separate projects. Every now and then we’d come up for air and share in the moment, sometimes joking, sometimes peeking at the other’s work.

Outside, the wind chill made the air feel like single digit temperatures.

Many places around the world share these cold, bone-chilling climates, we are not alone.

This time of year, in Triberg Germany, the ancient customs of long, bitter winters have created a global niche; the Coo-Coo Clock capital of the world. Forced to remain indoors for long periods of time in their tiny mountain chalets, the woodworkers of old would turn their talents inward, creating tiny cogs, wheels, and artifacts that would make amazingly entertaining timepieces. Through their one-of-a-kind artistry, their mountain traits, customs, and lifestyles would be portrayed in what they produced; all because they sought to stay warm within their remote mountaintop homes.

Outside I could see the wind blowing the tree branches. Part of me could almost feel the chill run up my spine. I shivered inwardly and returned to my work.

Inside, there was more than the physical warmth, it was a feeling of being with someone you loved, as any parent knows, the unconditional love of a father for his son or daughter. For a few moments today, we were back in the studio of my barn, painting, and drawing on our own artwork. Nearby, the old woodstove provided the woodsy aroma of fire along with the heat that kept the freezing winds outside at bay. My favorite painting music would be softly playing in the background; Alan Jackson, Gibson Brothers, Balsam Range, Mountain Heart, Dailey and Vincent and many more. Outside, in the barnyard, the cows would be working on the latest hay bale, and then finding a warm, comfortable spot to lie down and ruminate. A rooster would crow now and then to remind us of the world beyond as the wind might rattle a loose piece of tin to confirm.

Up in the studio, we’d lost track of time until either our stomachs would remind us of the hour or the day would turn into twilight and we’d have to find the lamps to turn in order to see. Someone would grab another log and pitch into the stove, maintaining the red-hot furnace in the corner of the room. We’d take little breaks and warm our backsides to the heat, waiting until you couldn’t stand it any longer then jumping away before your skin caught fire; a warmth that would reach down into your bones.

There was a gentleness to those memories; too far and few between to come to expect.  Rather, those were once in a great while treasures that were separated by long painful stretches of third shift work that tore my body and mind to pieces, leaving shards of my being along the rocky path. Sometimes, the mere thought of those precious memories were all that kept me going.

Thankfully, the long, arduous, painful stretches of third-shift are over. Once again, we are slowly finding time to be together to revisit those almost forgotten feelings of kindred spirit. Once again, I’m able to be the father that I almost wasn’t.

The Bible speaks of how we are to teach our children in the way, “You shall teach them to your children, speaking of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way when you lie down, and when you rise up.” -Deut. 11:19 But if when we are absent, they are left to seek Him of their own accord. Too many times, they become the victims of our best intentions; to make more money so that we can shower them with all their needs.

Sadly, we lose sight of what they need most, which is precisely what we fail to give them; ourselves.

We still await the sale of that farm and our precious studio loft in the barn.

Meanwhile, we take with us the most precious piece of that experience, …ourselves.

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The Comforting Soul of the Barn Studio…

2013-01-03 21.17.25-1It pretty much started back when the late John W. Parsons said to me, “Do you have an out building you can practice in?”

J.W., we called him for short, was referring to me learning how to play the fiddle and that it would be best if I had somewhere to practice, lest I drive my wife crazy with the horrible sounds of a beginner fiddle player in the house.

“No,” I respectfully replied.

“Well, you better build one or you won’t be married long,” he said, and laughed before refocusing on where we had left off in our lesson that evening.

As a matter of fact, I had already begun adding onto the original section of barn I had built years before, unsure of how it might be used. I now had a reason to make part of the new addition somewhere I could get out of the weather and perhaps practice my newfound instrument. So with the purpose of creating a room to play music in, the studio in the barn began to take shape. I purchased ship-lapped poplar from Foster Rives, who had cut it from local lumber and planed it in his own sawmill just down the road from the farm. I installed it after putting up the walls, roof and outer shell of the barn, completing what would be a welcome retreat. Over time, the poplar becamed naturally aged to the golden hue it displays today. The wood stove came later, moved up from the old cabin, making the studio complete.

IMG_20140101_084557The cold rainy days when the farm work had to be put on hold, I would eagerly retreat to the studio. There I would build a fire in the woodstove and soon, the beautiful aromas of coffee brewing in the old percolator pot mixing with that of the hickory in the fire blending with the faint smells of the sweet hay in the hayloft just outside the studio door combined to make an ambiance that would start my creative juices flowing. There in the studio, I once more revisited old talents I had unintentionally left behind; starting to paint once again after years of leaving my paint brushes in the closet. It was here that I also rediscovered my writing, after years of leaving the pen lie dormant, with the occasional story that might rise to the surface, perculating like the coffee in the pot on top of the wood stove. And, of course, I would practice my fiddle, alone and away from ears that might be bothered by the slowly diminishing sour notes that had once been produced in abundance in my early days of learning.

Inside the upstairs room in the barn, strains of music wafted from the CD player. Songs were played according to the activity I was performing which accompanied my subconscious as I worked either on portraits, landscapes, stories for my book or just playing along on the fiddle. This was my home-away-from-home. Outside the windows, the world would present itself as the farm around me lived out its daily routine, regardless of the elements. As the rain pitter-pattered down, the cows might lie lazily underneath the cover of the trees that stood near the chicken coop. The chickens would cluck and crow, scratching the ground paying no mind to the nearby bovine neighbors as they walked about their runs, safe from the world and uncaring of the weather. Their only cares being that they might find a morsel of protein wiggling about in the dark earth.

Inside the comfort of the studio, I watched the seasons pass; winter, spring, summer and fall, safe from their temperature extremes, yet thankful that each were tranquil in their own right. Eventually, when my children were old enough, they would join me in the room up in the barn to paint, play music or just warm themselves by the woodstove if the opportunity presented itself. At times, I would cook meals in the cast iron skillet on the stove top, making the room come alive with smells of fried sausage or bacon. To me, there aren’t any restaurants to which I am aware that can compare to a home cooked meal on an old wood stove. As I would sit back in the easy chair and savor the delectable morsels of food, the air would still linger with the soothing smell of fresh cooked food, wood smoke and hot fresh coffee still bubbling up in the percolator.

Yes, the barn studio is someplace I will miss once we move. It is someplace that the kids will undoubtedly never forget, knowing that it too became a retreat to which they could go to reinvent themselves and become one with their inner person. We all need a place to go where life can be left at the door, where we may once again turn our thoughts inward and be at peace with our soul; giving ourselves to the gifts with which God has blessed us.

May we never forget our studio in the barn.

See how this studio can become a welcome retreat for you by clicking here.

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“Don’t No”…Sermon delivered on June 16th, 2013 at Cumnock UMC

Luke 24: 36-39  Now as they said these things, Jesus Himself stood in the midst of them, and said to them, “Peace to you.” 37 But they were terrified and frightened, and supposed they had seen a spirit. 38 And He said to them, “Why are you troubled? And why do doubts arise in your hearts? 39 Behold My hands and My feet, that it is I Myself. Handle Me and see, for a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see I have.”

cumnock UMCThis past week I came to the realization that we often overlook the Heavenly connections in our real world; they pass us by and we don’t even know. Too often we are too busy to take the time to reflect on the moment.

“Oh, worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness! Tremble before Him, all the earth.” – Psalm 96:9

Take for example the time of evening when the world around us prepares for dusk; birds calling to one another as the night owls prepare their flights, the choruses of frogs in the nearby ponds begin their chants and the occasional cry of the foreboding call of the coyote. The sky transitioning from the day to night, when the low hanging sun causes the horizon to be painted in hues no earthly artist could conceive. Beauty so overwhelming in every sensation that too try to recreate it would be utterly impossible; and we don’t even know.

It was during the funeral of Ms. Frankie Harris on Tuesday that I became overwhelmed with the idea which I speak to you about; how things happen and we don’t even know.

A couple years ago, before John Harris passed, I would go over to the Harris house and help sit with Ms. Frankie. She was suffering from the advance stages of Alzheimer and would require someone to be with her 24×7. So, Ms Frankiemembers of our church would go and sit with her while members of her family would take her husband John to the hospital for treatments. It was during this time that I found out Ms. Frankie loved to sing. When I would come for my visits, I would bring my guitar and we would spend my time with her singing old hymns, one after another. Boy how the time would fly. I would need my song book to read from but I found Ms. Frankie was singing her songs from memory. It was then that I realized something special was happening with the music. It was an avenue for her to step back in time and recall memory that was otherwise blocked by her illness. It was then that I realized our connection through music was Heaven sent.

Sometime after John passed, we would still find time to get together to sing on odd occasions. So it was one Sunday that I asked Ms. Frankie if she would do me the honor of singing one of my mother’s favorite songs, “In the Garden”. Ms. Frankie responded happily, “I’d Love to”. So Ms. Frankie, her son Jody, who helped her out on the occasional memory lapse and myself sat up in front of the congregation and did our best rendition of, “In the Garden.” We used it for the special song that day and unbeknownst to me, Denise filmed it on her phone. What started out to be us simply having some fun honoring God, turned out to be a legacy of Ms. Frankie. They played the video during her funeral this past Tuesday and I can’t be sure but I doubt there was a dry eye in the house. Personally I couldn’t watch; the tears were streaming from my eyes so much I couldn’t focus on the screen. As I sat there with head bowed listening, watching the waterfall running off my cheeks, I realized I was hearing myself sing with an angel.

Ms. Frankie Harris Singing

At the time of the filming, I didn’t even know…but I could have said “No”.

You see, I didn’t have to spend the time sitting with Ms. Frankie in the beginning. I could have easily said I’m too busy, and that “No, sorry but can’t do it”. But I didn’t.

Like my time with Ms. Frankie, we could have easily skipped the special song that Sunday and simply said, “No, don’t think we can do that, we’re just not good enough. But we didn’t.

How many times in our lives had we had the opportunity to do something to honor God, but we found it easier to just reply, “No, sorry, can’t do that now,” so we didn’t?

As I was driving to work the night Denise contacted me to ask me if I wanted to deliver the sermon today, I began thinking to myself about what I would talk about. My first response to her was that I had to work both nights prior to that Sunday and that I had a book signing on Saturday at B&N and would barely get two hours sleep, if that. I pretty much said ‘No”, but in a round-about way. She replied that was ok, she understood. But then as I continued to drive to work, God began to work on me. The scripture from Ephesians came to mind: “Be very careful then how you live, for the days are evil. Make the most of every opportunity.’

The story about Ms. Frankie had been bugging me all week and the fact that I had put off writing it down until now had kept nagging at me until I just about couldn’t take it any longer. You know, that voice that keeps saying to yourself, “When are you going to do it?” Sometimes God can be more demanding than my dear wife with an overdue to-do list. So I began thinking about Ms. Frankie and the fact that I had heard myself singing with an angel, and the question came to me, “How many of us could even recognize an Angel if we were in the same room with one?”

As I drove up 540 toward work, with the question still on my mind, a car drove past me with the license plate that read, “Don’t “No””.

I nearly choked.

At the next traffic light, I messaged Denise back that I would do the sermon since God had just given me one.

“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” – Hebrews 13:2

But it goes beyond that, beyond being able to recognize and Angel in our midst. It goes beyond being able to recognize a Heaven sent sunset. It goes beyond realizing that the newborn child in your arms is the face of God.

The words “know” and “no” are Homonyms; words that sound the same but have different meaning. When I hear homonym it makes me think of an egotistical grit, one who’s head swelled so much even his friends don’t know who he is….but then that would be hominy.

Back to the work “know”

We don’t know:

  • The future of Cumnock United Methodist Church
  • How the bypass will affect the town
  • Then new preacher at Goldston
  • The Fracking underneath us
  • Will there be new subdivisions pop up from the bypass?

You see, if would put our hope in the world and not in faith, then the unknown becomes scary. There are so many unknowns that we could quickly become overwhelmed and become frozen with fear.

We can’t Know everything.

Yet, we must continue to move on, putting our faith in our Lord Jesus Christ.

You see, before we can “know” Him, we have to stop saying “No” to Him.

No matter how many times we say “No” he eventually finds a way for us to “Know” him more. To know him is in a sense to be exposed to him, here then the scripture:

“13 But all things that are exposed are made manifest by the light, for whatever makes manifest is light. 14 Therefore He says:

“Awake, you who sleep, Arise from the dead, And Christ will give you light.”

15 See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, 16 redeeming the time, because the days are evil.” Eph 5:13-15

A couple years ago I set out on a journey I had never expected to make. I accepted Christ into my life when I was thirteen, but it was only when I decided to trust in him for everything that the real journey began.

I was in a sense; rising from the dead…Christ was beginning to show me the light.

Eventually I found myself writing a book about a people that not only typified the embodiment of Christ, but also lived Apostelitic lifestyles; amazingly enough, they were my ancestors.

Not only did they keep the Word of God alive for centuries by memorizing it and verbally passing it down from one generation to the next, but they also eventually evangelized to the world, which was against the law of man at that time.

You see, they didn’t live by man’s laws, but rather, they lived by the Word of God. They felt their obligation to faith was to God, not to man.

However, today, do we not find the rules and regulations of the church so daunting, so demanding that at times it clouds the reason for why we even come to these respective institutions to start with? Has man once again placed so many barriers to what God had intended that we are losing sight of what is most important.

Let’s not forget verse 15:

15 See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, 16 redeeming the time, because the days are evil.”

Satan waits for us to begin questioning our faith, he waits for us to falter and lose sight of what are faith is about. He relishes in our despair and encourages us to stray. He waits for us to become so overwhelmed with the fear of the unknown that we start to accept the lies he tells us.

Other times, we can be a stubborn as an old mule, of which I am guilty as well. Being stubborn and refusing to accept what God asks of us allows Satan to step in and take control.

Satan wishes nothing more than for us to allow him to control our lives.

Sometimes we find animals that seem to embody that very attitude.

There was this farmer named Virgil who once had a mule who he just knew was possessed by the devil himself. One bright spring day, after having returned from town, Virgil put on his new coat and climbed atop his Farm-All A model tractor and happily began tilling up his garden. Not long into his task he realized he had not eaten dinner, so climbing down from the tractor, he took off his coat and placed it on a lever on the side. He knew he wouldn’t need the coat inside the house and besides, it was warming up to be a nice day. Once inside, while sitting at the kitchen table while looking out upon the barn yard, Virgil saw that mean old mule come from behind the barn and walk toward the tractor. For lack of nothing else better to do, Virgil and his son continued to watch the demonic mule as it walked up to the tractor, sniffed Virgil’s coat, then suddenly grabbed the coat and muletook off running behind the barn. Virgil was so mad, he jumped up from the table and took out after the mule, with his son in tow. They found the old mule behind the barn with the coat still clinched tight by his teeth. They chased that honery mule around and around the barn lot until they were so tuckered out, all they could do was stand with their hands on their hips panting for their breathes. As they stood there winded and exhausted, the old mule walked up before them, a few safe paces away, and dropped the coat on the ground. Virgil took a step toward the coat to pick it up but before he could retrieve his new jacket, the mule stepped on it with a heavy hoof, then with his teeth, reached down and grabbed the edge of the jacket and gave it a mighty yank, ripping Virgil’s brand new coat in half.

Had Virgil not been a God fearing man, the mule would have died that day.

But unlike animals, we and Virgil honor our Father in Heaven by adhering to his Word.

“To know God is to Love God.”

Like those ancient Waldensians, they knew the Word of God and knew that they had to answer to a higher authority than man. At that time, the laws of man condemned owning a Bible or evangelizing the Word of God. Someone found guilty of either was either imprisoned or more often that naught, put to death.

To avoid capture and death, they would hide the written Word in loaves of bread, which they would give to persons to whom they had witnessed. This way, once the Waldensians had departed, their hosts could consume the bread and still have the Word of God to continue to live by.

I try to continue on their legacy in some small way, by telling their story through my writing and speaking. Another part of my ministry is that I also try to continue to spread the written Word; the Bible.

breadA couple weeks ago I brought several loaves of Ms. Tina’s bread for you. With each loaf you should have found the gospel of John. But today, like those disciples so long ago found, the bread of life, the body of Christ, are perishable. They don’t last forever. Hopefully you ate your bread or shared it with someone who ate it. But like the gift those ancient Waldensians left for their hosts, long after the bread or body was gone, the Word lived on.

Today, we will once again experience receiving the body and blood of Christ through the communion. This will be a special communion for us today, since this will be Linda’s first official communion having recently received her licensing. She will be able to “officially” share the body and blood of Christ with us. Although the physical nature of the act is obvious, we must not forget that it is meant to signify the sacrifice Christ made for our sins and that like the bread and wine, long after they are gone, the spirit within us will live on.

You see, it’s through the Word that we can also receive the spirit. Once we accept the spirit of God into our lives, then we can once again make that spirit a reality; a reality in how we walk each day with Christ.

With the Word, we can become one with the spirit and we can know him.

As Jesus told his disciples:

Luke 24: 36-53  Now as they said these things, Jesus Himself stood in the midst of them, and said to them, “Peace to you.” 37 But they were terrified and frightened, and supposed they had seen a spirit. 38 And He said to them, “Why are you troubled? And why do doubts arise in your hearts? 39 Behold My hands and My feet, that it is I Myself. Handle Me and see, for a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see I have.”

 

40 When He had said this, He showed them His hands and His feet.[f] 41 But while they still did not believe for joy, and marveled, He said to them, “Have you any food here?” 42 So they gave Him a piece of a broiled fish and some honeycomb.[g] 43 And He took it and ate in their presence.

Then He said to them, “These are the words which I spoke to you while I was still with you, that all things must be fulfilled which were written in the Law of Moses and the Prophets and the Psalms concerning Me.” 45 And He opened their understanding, that they might comprehend the Scriptures.

 

46 Then He said to them, “Thus it is written, and thus it was necessary for the Christ to suffer and to rise[h] from the dead the third day, 47 and that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in His name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. 48 And you are witnesses of these things. 49 Behold, I send the Promise of My Father upon you; but tarry in the city of Jerusalem[i] until you are endued with power from on high.”

50 And He led them out as far as Bethany, and He lifted up His hands and blessed them. 51 Now it came to pass, while He blessed them, that He was parted from them and carried up into heaven. 52 And they worshiped Him, and returned to Jerusalem with great joy, 53 and were continually in the temple praising and[j] blessing God. Amen.[k]

How can you NOT get excited about that!!!

How can we even stand to sit still when God tells us point blank, to know Him until you are endued with the power from on high!!….AMEN!!!

The disciples were guilty as we are today of ignoring the obvious.

Do you know him?

We go through our world, not knowing if there are Angels in our midst, not knowing the sunset before us is Heaven sent, not seeing the face of God in the newborns smile.

You see, before we can “know” Him, we have to stop saying “No” to Him.

We must learn to say to ourselves,

Don’t say no to know,” or in short…. “Don’t No.”

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