Tag Archives: Chisone Valley

by | December 12, 2017 · 7:04 pm

Lord Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise

Lord Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise

By Timothy W. Tron

“The expression “…the creek don’t rise” is an American slang expression implying strong intentions subject to complete frustration by uncommon but not unforeseeable events. It presumably evokes occasional and unpredictably extreme rainfall in Appalachia, that has historically isolated one rural neighborhood or another temporarily inaccessible on several or many occasions.” -Wikipedia definition for “The creek don’t rise.”

The rains fell heavy throughout the previous night. When he awoke to overcast skies, it was no surprise. Quietly he pondered over the morning scriptures. He poured the customary tankard of black brew that he carried with him. Once he crossed the divide, he recompensed upon the bench in front of the little town’s only store. His routine was not yet chiseled into time long enough to be considered a “tradition”, yet he was sticking to the pretense as closely as his busy schedule would allow. The weather apps on his device kept warning of areal flooding. In the back of his mind he knew this meant that his normal route for Sunday worship may be altered, but not if he could help it. The air was one of those moist, damp chills, the kind that sunk below the flesh and lingered in the bones. Donning his cap and grabbing his trusty walking stick, he set out, bare legged and sandals for the eventual challenge, the crossing of the river.

As he rounded the curve in the road toward the river’s edge, he could see the water was well above its normal course. “How much more so,” he thought to himself as he tried to find a marker, a log, anything that might convey the true depth. There at his usual crossing, the stone sand-bar was nonexistent. The greenish, brown fluid rolled angrily past as he vied for any familiarity; there was nothing. Knowing the vantage point from whence he usually sought, he stepped into the ice-cold brink. The bottom kept going as he began to sink deep into the mud. There seemed to be no bottom and before he could recover, he was chest deep. Stinging cold chased him back to the bank where he fought back his disgust. Looking back, the water seemed to laugh back at him. “I will not be turned away,” he silently told himself, “I can do all thing through Christ who strengthens me,” he spoke through his teeth as he charged back in, this time at the point where he knew the bottom was more solid, yet normally deeper. Contact to the stones below was a welcome relief compared to the episode second earlier; however, the battle against the roaring current of the torrent quickly ensued. Driving his walking stick into the river bed, each step carefully taken. The force of the water ripping at his legs, his body being pushed against its will. One foot, one planting of the cane, another step closer to that distant shore. The rhythm of his course began to match his heartbeat. The struggle was all his own, nothing more than the determination to prove nothing to no one. In his mind, there was a greater purpose for which he sought to serve, and someday, sometime, he might be called to answer that calling. This was his personal boot camp for the Lord; the preparation for what may be required someday to serve in the army of God. Nothing of this world that could render flesh numb could stop his progress as he finally reached the calm waters at the edge of the distant shore. Climbing out, he looked back at the raging torrent below. Another Sunday, another journey through the abyss that would not keep him from his worship.

They would amusingly question him, some in disbelief that anyone would be so detached from the normalcy of life to put themselves through something so arduous, but here he was once more, wading the river, even at near flood stage capacity.

His purpose, not for anyone other than himself and God, was slowly becoming a light to those around him. Around him the chatter of the moment was growing ever more lively, for there was something other than to focus their weekly attention on, other than their usual family calamities and concerns. There was something that captured their imaginations and ran with them, diving into that flowing abyss beyond the church.

Meanwhile, he sat on the bench, seeking the warmth inside that only God could provide. His mind drifted back to the hardship of climbing that mountain. Those mountain rivers in the Germanesca Valley that flowed so icily in the summer air would now be slicing, bitter cold, humanly impassable torrents. For these there would be a day, but not until this simple flow in which he had just crossed could be mastered.

The training would continue, one river, one step, one verse after another until the day the Master calls.

In His time, his will be done.

Thanks be to God.

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by | July 9, 2017 · 8:34 am

An Unforgettable Sunrise…

“…whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. – James 4:14

We can no more know what will be in 20 years than we can know what tomorrow will bring; it is like being able to see what is not visible. We ourselves are like the mist, as scriptures tell us, “Whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.” Will my body be capable of traversing what my mind’s eye can see? Will there be the breath of life left within my soul? All of these things and more cannot be answered, nor should they. Our faith should sustain us through all that is, and all that will be to come.

One may project themselves mentally into that point beyond their horizon, that which tells of a distant time and place which none can know. From that place, they may reflect back upon all that might have transpired. From such appointed place we may see with more clarity what we should find of value; of meaning; of purpose. We can take away from our reflection in that distant horizon such  that, when our life’s journey has come to fruition, we all would like to say with assurance, “We have run the race well.”

To run that race well, there are a few moments which I hope to find, which many may find as their own: to see my children grow into adulthood, to see them become parents with successful careers; to hold that first grandchild in my arms; to see the end of a successful career of teaching; to see my wife and I gracefully grow old together; to see with mine own eyes, the bridge at Salbertrand; to see the sunrise from the top of the Chisone Valley as did those brave men on their march through the Glorious Return; and lastly, but not least of all, to lead others to Christ through the blessings God has bestowed upon me. These are but a few of all that I hope to find on that day, so far from now.

Yet, in the blink of an eye, it will be here.

Time is a precious commodity none of us can take for granted.

The bridge between now and the end of our time here on earth grows shorter with each passing day. We are aliens upon this earth, put here by our creator, and when we pass, we move on to the place He hath created for us; a home eternal. What we do with the time we have left is as much our choosing as is our choice of deciding if we want to live beyond this life, through the salvation Christ has given to all, should they choose.

When we stand on that future mountain top and look back, one should hope to see how they have lifted up others in their wake, being as Christ-like as possible. To become the light is all we should seek.

To get there from here, we must take one step at a time. Each new footprint, insignificant as each one may seem, leads us to the eventual destination if we can remain focused. In our hearts, we know the words, “Yeah though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff comfort me…” All around us, the dark peaks of struggle are pitched against us. The fog of doubt and uncertainty shroud our way. Yet, we push onward, one step at a time. We must not look back when the sorrows pull us down. We cannot relive what has gone on before us. We cannot return the dead to the living; we must push onward.

Closing my eyes, I drift off to that future time and place.

From that distant vantage point, my breath is labored. The height at which we have achieved to gain this point is substantial in altitude. The air is thin up here. In my mind, I’m standing upon the highland overlooking the Chisone Valley; the year is 1689. Darkness is before me, it is night. Behind me, I can hear men struggling up the side trying to reach the summit. We are nearest to Him on this imagined peak. What we left behind to obtain our position is a haunting reminder of how our lives have been shaped by perseverance. Like Arnaud, his men having fought past the bridge at Salbertrand, seeing the miracle of 600 men routing over 2,500, they are now the survivors of the ten days of forced march. They have avoided the main roads, taking the goat paths and cliff faces in their march. They have fought through one village after another. After this late day battle, they are now struggling through the night to reach the summit. Exhausted, they will fall asleep almost before their heads hit the ground. Arnaud stays awake well past what his body will allow making sure the few sentries he has posted remain awake. He doesn’t know I’m here, but together we watch as the coming dawn begins to lighten the eastern sky.

With trepidation, we await, as the sound of men scattered about us sleep in fitful slumber. The wounded moan as they turn to find comfort upon the hard ground; there is little to relieve their pain. The campfire is nearly gone, its embers glowing red, like the horizon that begins to hint of the coming day.

As the dawn broke before them on that glorious morning, the sunlight filtered into their homeland, those ancient valleys of granite and raging torrents. Their faith was at a zenith, they knew this was not the end. Before them lay the unknown. God had surely delivered them to this point for a reason. Yes, they had made it. Yet, the battle to reclaim their valleys had only begun. The dead that they had left behind, now almost half their number, cannot be forgotten; yet, they must not allow the darkness to consume their fate. Before them, the mountain falls away, revealing the Chisone. Some are eager to get down below; family homesteads occupied by the enemy burn in their minds. Liberation of their own farms begins to overwhelm them, but their leader, Pastor Arnaud, recognizes this inner strife and calms them once more with prayer.

“Men, let us bow our heads, ..God, your hand has been upon us each and every step of the way. We thank you for all that you have given us to this day, but Lord, you know better than we, that if it is your will, this place which you hath prepared for us in the beginning, will once more be returned to us again. We ask for the forgiveness of our sins, for taking another man’s life is something we do not dismiss easily from our hearts, but at the same time, we ask that you forgive those that seek to destroy us. For all we do, we do in servitude in our Holy name. For we thank you, God the Father, and ask that you continue to watch over us as we go forth, so that we may be allowed to restore the faith, truth, and the light back to the valleys from whence we hath come. Thank you for your son Jesus Christ, who died, was buried, and rose on the third day. His blood was shed for our sins, so that we may have life eternal. In all these things, we thank you, in God’s Holy Name,…Amen.”

Painfully, Arnaud and his men arose and began the ascent into the dark valley of the Chisone below to reclaim their homeland. There, hiding in their own homes, churches, and villages, the enemy awaited.

Painfully, in that distant time, we will continue on in our ascent into that dark valley below where the enemy awaits; Satan. There, hiding in our own homes, churches, and villages, he awaits our every move.

We must do all that we can to bring them back to the faith of our ancestors, to bring them the salvation for which they were once freely given.

Each faces an uncertain future.

Each knows from whence they came.

Each knows that the going forward will not be easy. Time is against us all, no matter when we face it, but with our faith, we can find our way is not alone. “We can do all things through Christ who strengthens us,” and in that, we can face tomorrow.

We know not what tomorrow may bring, but with faith, we can face tomorrow.

In all that we do, let us serve Him, and to never forget,

Thanks be to God.

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by | July 5, 2017 · 9:32 pm

Day 1 Cont’d: Full Circle

“But we are not of those who draw back to perdition, but of those who believe to the saving of the soul.” -Jeremiah 10:39

Day 1: Full Circle

Through hardship, through strife, through centuries of life, we push on.

The night before: On our two-hour ride from the airport in Milan to our final destination for the day, Hotel Palavas, we searched the horizon for their approach; the Alps. Time was not on our side; the sun was quickly falling from the sky. We passed verdant green fields of rice, corn, and vineyards. Each of us fighting fatigue and heavy eyelids, watched with anticipation. Slowly, the horizon began to grow in height. Faintly, there began to appear something that one might construe as either clouds or mighty peaks, unbelievably high. Yet, before our eyes could obtain focus on those majestic altitudes, the sun fell below a nearby peak, and a shroud fell upon the light in the sky. Like Christmas Eve, the present would have to wait to be opened in the morning. Some of us drifted off to fitful naps as round-a-bouts and traffic tossed our heads to-and-fro. Before we knew it, our bus approached an Alpine-looking hotel on the outskirts of Villar Pellice, Hotel Palavas. The staff greeted the busload of weary travelers with open arms. They had a prepared a hearty supper in advance for us, even in the late hour. As darkness fell, we unloaded our bags and once more, hauled, lifted, and tugged them to our collective rooms. The bed called loudly, yet hunger made us leave the welcome repose to find ourselves in the community dining room which would serve as our breakfast and supper for the next week during our stay. Here, long tables made and “L” shape, and we seated ourselves wherever we felt comfortable. Most of the students from Andrew’s University collected at one end of the “L” while the rest of us, professors, staff, teachers, preachers, and guests made up the rest of the seating arrangement. In my own assignment, I felt the least of these. The fact that I was even here was still unbelievable. Trying to bring myself to accept that it was real, I looked around the room of this hotel that was well over 500 years of age. The walls were made of stone, covered over with a decorative plaster. The room was very much like one might find at any other Alpine Inn, wood panels below a chair rail, above which the white plaster covering the ancient stones.

Each evening, as was the first, we were served family style, where heaping platters of pasta, vegetables, and bread were brought out to us until we were pleasantly filled.

Our bellies full, and our bodies exhausted from the nearly twenty hours of being awake, we soon found our rooms once more and collapsed upon our beds, eager to find that present awaiting us at sunrise.

The first thing that I recall was the sound of birds singing outside our windows. We had been paired with other members of our group for room assignments, and my roommate was my dear friend, Pastor Barry Mahorney. He was still sleeping when, like that little child wanting to be the first one down to the tree on Christmas morning, I quietly as possible, slipped on my clothes, grabbed my sketchbook, pencils, and phone then headed downstairs and out the front door to greet the day.

As the large, dark wooden front door closed behind me, the chill struck me immediately. Prepared, I pulled the long sleeve shirt closer to my neck and headed off. Past the nearby rooftop, there was the shadow of either a mountain or a very dark cloud. It wasn’t until I passed through a nearby narrow alley and came out on a higher rail of a little back road that I finally got my first glimpse. There, standing taller than I could believe were the peaks of the nearby mountain range above Bobbio Pellice.

“Praise God,” I breathed into the air, as the fog from my breath steamed ahead.

Excited just being here, it all slowly began to unveil before me; the scenery, the miracle of my just being here, the ultimate experience I had yet to find; it was all so much to grasp.

The night before, the staff had eagerly handed me a letter that had been waiting for my arrival. It was an invitation to come to the Ancient Pathways Church on Saturday night. I was to call the Pastor Estaban Janavel when I arrived. But, since we were tired and it was late, I decided to wait until Friday; Day 1.

Below where I walked two men were working moving their irrigation equipment, so I found a spot on an ancient stone wall and began to sketch the world before me, trying to soak in every aspect as it unfolded. It soon became apparent that the arches of water from just two sprinklers, which each one stood about the height of your waist, could cover one of their pastures. In fact, it also became obvious that their cattle were extremely well-behaved compared to those that I once owned, for they only needed a string stretched like an electric wire about twenty-four inches above the ground to keep them contained. My cattle would have laughed at that, and ran across the road into the neighbor’s garden at first glance at such a meager contraption. Later that day, we would actually see farmers moving a herd from one tiny field to the next. This was certainly a different world.

When I finally got back to the hotel and had breakfast, I asked the proprietor to call Pastor Janavel for me and give him the message that we would meet him at noon in Torre Pellice by the statue of Henri Arnaud. The reason being, I didn’t speak enough Italian, and Esteban didn’t speak enough English; thankfully our host, Elmer, could do both very well. After the meeting was confirmed, I then was told of the wonderful surprise that awaited after our trip to Torre Pellice; a journey to the valley from which my ancestors left 320 years earlier. Conrad Demsky, one of my American hosts, was as excited about the day as was I.  Like an archaeological dig of sorts, we were going to the Chisone Valley to see what we might find if anything. We really didn’t have a plan other than to visit the cemetery, a place where many genealogical researchers begin. Conrad’s wife, the leader, and professor to the student’s, Professor Kathy Demsky, would be headed to town for the weekly street fair with her class. Meanwhile, brother Barry, Conrad, and I would ride in Conrad’s van off on our own little adventures, beginning with the trip to Torre Pellice.

While we drove and talked about the possibilities that awaited, a thought began to run through my mind of the significance of the names that were coming together at noon. Let alone that brother Barry knew of another tour group of people he had known in another conference of churches where he once worked that would be visiting the same town next week. There was excitement for everyone it seemed. Conrad was eager to see our reactions, for this was not his first visit. He and Professor Demsky had been making this trip each year with the Architecture School students for the past twenty years. To him, this was another way to see the valleys, through someone else’s eyes, who was witnessing inspiring events; one after another.

In my own mind, the noon meeting and the names connected in that meeting was beginning to grow in significance; the statue of Henri Arnaud; Esteban Janavel, a direct descendent of Joshua Janavel; and myself, Timothy Tron, a distant relative to Captain Tron-Paulette.

Henri Arnaud, who was a pastor turned military leader, led the Glorious Return in 1689. Before Arnaud, another Waldensian hero, Joshua Janavel, would lead a small group of men against unbelievable odds, battling and winning outpost after outpost until they became known as the “Invincibles.” Janavel was known to only accept pure, Christian fighters, so great was his faith. He believed that the body was a vessel and for God to continue to work through them, they had to be at their utmost. Janavel would go on to write instructions for Arnaud to follow on his battle to retake their homelands, the valleys. Janavel’s journal also included instructions on how to select his officers. For the 1,000 men who would leave the shore of Lake Geneva that August day, one of the ten Captains to lead 100 men would be Captain Tron-Paulette. Unbeknownst to me that morning, Captain Tron would become a folk hero, in that he would be attributed to helping save Arnaud and his men. When the French had obliterated their fortifications with cannon fire and were about to storm their position, Arnaud and his men prayed for divine intervention. They were about to meet their doom at the battle of the Balziglia. That evening, a cloud descended upon the mountain so thick, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. It was Captain Tron, that with the hand of God, led the surviving three hundred men out through the dense fog, in the dark, along perilous cliffs to freedom.

In essence, the descendants of Janavel and Tron would meet at the monument to Arnaud, which would bring together three of the namesakes that made the battles to return to their beloved valleys a reality, thanks be to God.

All of this raced through my mind as our van wound its way around twisty turn-a-bouts and tiny roads only wide enough for one car to pass at a time.

We still hadn’t made it to that fateful meeting with Pastor Janavel. We had yet to taste the sweet water that floweth from yonder fountain. Ahead, stood the Chisone Valley and the secrets she held close. Little did we know; dire warnings and miracles were yet to come.

The day was still young.

Thanks be to God.

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by | October 25, 2015 · 11:04 pm

A Life Rejoiced…

axeThey had gathered to honor her memory, to celebrate a life well lived. Before they all returned to their homes, distant places far from the elder who remained, they decided to visit a place that would give them comfort and inspiration; possibly in order to take their minds off of their recent loss. Either way, they came to find solace and hope that their remaining parent would be blessed; after all, it was his wish for them to come.

I knew in advance of their upcoming tour. Unfortunately, our retired pastor, whom would have been a perfect match for this group, was unavailable, leaving only myself to lead them. Before they arrived, I prayed for guidance, strength and God’s will to speak through me in spite of myself; something I seem to do more often that naught. When they arrived, the man to whom needed their sympathy most, seemed to beam brightly as he led them into the visitor center. I soon found that their faith had allowed them to say goodbye to their mother, grandmother, and wife, but knowing that she would be with them in Glory allowed them to almost celebrate her final victory.

This was going to be another blessed day.

We began the introduction as we normally do, at the map. I had given them some of my personal testimony but was planning to deliver the remainder of it as we traveled further upon our journey. In the back of my mind, I wanted to share with them the story about the new ax we had received as a donation from Bill Bradshaw but for some reason, it just didn’t feel right at this point. Part of me felt as if I had already shared too much and we needed to move on. Also, I still had Ms. Regina’s message in mind about discernment, and how that we should be able to know if God wants us to do something or not, if we have matured enough in our faith; so I resolved that if it was God’s will, He would let me know if it needed to be told. We were about to walk into the movie room when suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I caught the glimpse of our realtor from ProTrust Realty, Christi, standing at the door waiting to enter. Christi lives in Cary, nearly three hours’ drive away. We had been in contact via email the past week as we continue to find another way to get our farm sold. All of a sudden, she was here, out of the blue.

Another Godly moment, another chance to feel his Holy Spirit.

It was at this point that I shared with the family in my tour who Christi was and the amazing moment I was experiencing with her being here. It was then I realized, I had to share the rest of the story with them, and include the ax as Christi and her family joined our ongoing tour group.

Now, I must back up at this point and share another miracle that had transpired this week, which would become very relevant at this point.

As I wrote earlier, Bill Bradshaw had donated an ax to the Trail of Faith. Bill’s father, Dwight E. Bradshaw received the ax from an old Waldensian in Valdese, possibly a Refour family member. The head of the ax had an imprint, “Italy” stamped on it. Bill had shared with me how he had wanted to donate it to the museum, but it had just never felt right; not until he met me. Bill had taken the old head to a handle expert in the mountains nearby in order to get the old missing handle replaced. The handle luthier explained to Bill how this required a “special” handle, not one many people would know. As I held the beautiful antique in my hands, I couldn’t help feel deeply honored to accept this gift on behalf of the Trail. Later that evening, as I walked out into the dark, a street lamp lit my way and as I walked I could see the “Italy” stamp clearly marked, but the odd angle of the light also provided another engraving I had missed earlier. Carefully, I tilted the ax at different angles toward the streetlight and could make out the letters, “OURE,” with the “O” partially worn off. Instantly, the name of my ancestor’s village in the Chisone valley popped into my head, “ROURE?”

Could this ax head have been from Roure, in the Chisone valley?

How profound, if that was the case, for this ax to make into the hands of someone in Valdese who would have ties to this exact village, especially when the inhabitants of Valdese all came from the neighboring valleys! It wasn’t until later the next day that I was able to confirm, the second stamp was undoubtedly the “Roure” as I had expected, and quickly put it into our display case for safe keeping. This was another Godly moment that was going to take time to sink in.

So, as Christi joined our tour, I shared with the tour family of God’s confirmation once again. To this they replied, “as it is His will.”

I would later find out that the patriarch of the family was going to be celebrating his 90th birthday this Tuesday. He had been a missionary for 60 years, traveling the globe, serving the Lord, he and his late wife. As we stood at the foot of the path to exile, one of the exhibits on the Trail, I stood next to him and felt a special moment pass as he looked up at his family climbing the pathway to the platform overhead; his pride of bringing them all to this point, his love going onto Glory, and this beautiful day to share with is family. We stood for a moment in silence and took it all in, he and I. It was then he turned to me and said that he would be celebrating his 90th. I exclaimed to him how amazing he looked for a man of his years, his appearance being nothing more that someone in their late 60s at best. He smiled broadly, thanking me for the bad judgment of age.

We turned to join the others as they returned and continued on our journey.

It was then that it struck me. Here was a man nearing the end of his mission and me just beginning, both of us walking together at this moment, but soon we would part. Although our time together is brief, we shall walk together again someday on the other side of glory, and then, we can share the many tales of our times here on earth once more, those many missions, those lives touched.

Yes, it was just another Saturday, a day to revel in life lived and just one more to remember for eternity.

To God be the Glory!

 

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