On Saturday, my wife said that she had read on the Cove’s forum that blueberries were ready to pick down at the community garden and asked if I could pick some for her. Wanting to be a good husband and knowing from years of training that the two best words a man can utter are, “Yes, dear,” I replied that Sunday would be a better day to do her bidding.
So, yesterday, when time availed itself, my preparation for the good deed began. Looking for a container with which to retrieve the berries started out with the idea of an old plastic milk jug cut in half, knowing that there probably wouldn’t be many berries remaining. After all, the message had been sent to several hundred people. However, from not finding a suitable cutting tool to having no other small container available, it felt like I was being led to take something larger. Soon, after listening to that still small voice speak, a left-over dry-wall mud bucket was chosen. “Too large, but at least it would be easy to tote since it had a nice handle,” I said to myself.
After washing my new oversized carrying container under the outside hydrant, my journey began. Through the shade of the deep woods, over the trail that wound beside a gentle flowing stream, the pathway led. There was a cool breeze – quite a pleasant surprise, considering we are in the midst of the summer months. The birds were singing melodies quite pleasing to the ear, providing a serenade of peace that made the weary soul rejoice. Before I knew it, the forest gave way to the open field surrounded by the black wooden fencing where the gardens lay.
My suspicions from the initial thoughts of the number of blueberries available to be picked were soon confirmed – pickins’ were far and few between. Yet, knowing that even a couple handfuls would make my beloved happy, I began taking what few drops of heavenly sweetness would afford. After gleaning as many as possible, my large bucket seemed still wholly empty. The breeze wafted, causing the apple trees nearby to catch my eye. There, splendidly arrayed, were several trees with ripe apples of different varieties. “Well, since there’s plenty of room, why not,” the thought came. So, ambling in their direction, my hands eagerly picked some of the delectable choice morsels. “These would be wonderful treats and add a nice touch to my daily smoothies,” the thoughts cascaded into my head.
While I had been picking the bounty of fare, several different groups had arrived, either tending to their own gardens or just stopping by to view the plots therein. As I made my way to the gate to leave, one of those couples hailed me, “Hey, would you like some cucumbers or zucchini? We have plenty.”
“Sure, I would love some,” came my reply. “I work full-time, so I just don’t have time to plant a garden.”
“Well, we’d be happy to share. They’re just on the other side of the fence.”
“Ok, I was just headed that way.”
We met at the exit gate and exchanged greetings, shaking hands, the husband and wife. They looked to be around my age and very fit. Evidently, life had treated them well. We shared where we lived, each not knowing exactly where that was, seeing as the size and scope of the neighborhood.
We talked briefly about gardening as they pointed to the vegetables arrayed on the ground. I shared with them how much we missed growing a garden since leaving the farm back in Chatham County. They handed me one item after another until my bucket was nearly overflowing. It was then I realized what had happened. The Lord had shown again his ability to provide even when there was no thought nor request for sustenance. “Give us this day our daily bread” came to mind as they eagerly shared their hard work and graciousness. Before leaving, I thanked them repeatedly, ending with, “The Lord told me to bring a bigger bucket today. Now I know why.”
They smiled in return, and we said our goodbyes.
As I walked home along the trail of tranquility, the peace of Christ that passes all understanding blanketed my heart with sweet joys. The burning in my arms from carrying the great reward was a blessing, not only because of what was shared but knowing that God had again provided over and above all that was expected.
I was not worthy, yet he sent his Son to take the wrath for my sins on the cross so that a sinner like myself could have eternal life.
Yes, a prayer was answered even when it wasn’t mentioned.
“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, 2 looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” – Hebrews 12:1-2
The air is fresh and clean, but a welcoming blanket of humidity greets us today. The thunderstorms that rolled through the area overnight left in their wake an overcast dawn. Outside, the forest before me likewise slowly awakens, reminding me of my home in the holler of the enchanted wood back in North Carolina. Unlike there, the chorus of birds here only before me, not surrounding me as in my wooded home. Here, it is as if a stage is set before me in some grand theater as I sit on the edge of the woods. Birds of all varieties perform their best songs, every one of them a perfect rendition of the voice their creator bestowed upon them. Here and there, in the sings of this great state, domesticated avian crow their morning greetings – the reminder that this performance hall sits amongst a conflicted countryside, torn between the bucolic world it once was to that of the coal mines and growing suburban retreats, each a necessity of the other. A gentle breeze passes by, caressing the hair on my arm, causing my writing to pause and allowing one the momentary respite – acknowledging again God’s refreshing reminder that we are not alone.
Going out each day, seeking those with whom we can share God’s word, should be as purposeful as setting significant goals in our life – those that affect our long-term existence on earth, for we are continually surrounded by, as Hebrews tells us, a great cloud of witnesses. The challenge is to find them that are willing to allow us into their personal space. It isn’t easy to talk to a total stranger regarding breaking through without inciting some sort of defensive barrier. In order to make such a connection, one has to be portrayed as someone that exudes a personality of a loving, compassionate soul. To this end, when we walk in our faith, not promoting self-righteousness, but rather a humble, kind humility, we can then bridge those gaps of suspicion, allowing the stranger to open up and bare their innermost thoughts.
However, it is never easy to walk as Christ, emanating that radiant light from within. There are burdens in our life that are often difficult to overcome – the weight of life that besets us. They become our stumbling blocks, so much so that they become excuses we easily fall back on when the challenge before us causes us to hesitate. This is the enemy’s desire that we should falter in our effort to reach others. Interjecting our love of self, the one that is the very thing we are warned about, we become fearful of tarnishing that self-image. Our pride then overwhelms our purpose, the sin that clings so closely, and we cave into the feeling of either embarrassment or, worse, the belief we are incapable of acting in such an honorable manner. But as Paul writes in Hebrews, we must run this race with endurance. Our work toward perfecting our life’s mission is neither easy nor a sprint. The sanctification is a marathon – lasting the rest of your life. There will be hills and valleys. There will be challenges and setbacks. But through it all, we are to place our eye upon the prize, Christ – the perfecter and finisher of our faith.
Today looks to be a very full day – my plate is full. Yet, even on such busy times as this, we should pray that the Lord gives us the discernment to know when to pause, and drink it all in, allowing us to set this moment in time into one’s collective memory. For someday, it will be that place to which your mind returns, to once more be comforted through God’s grace. Yes, step out into the forest, and welcome the song of the woods, for each gentle breeze is a story in life’s journey. Make today one that lasts for that lifetime.
Driving in the predawn hours along the winding road that leads through the mountains, the cold gray light of dawn ages everything. Outbuildings and barns appear centuries old, if not close to it in reality. Then the aged fence row, that corner where the rusted barbed-wire is intertwined with honeysuckle vines, comes into view. The wood of the posts, rough-hewn from trees long forgotten, now cracks long furrowed brows of age, leaning one against the other for bracing or sheer moral support. To the passerby, the entirety of the corner is a jumble of vines, rusty wire, and weathered wood. But if one were to stop and breathe in the scene, they would find something much more profound.
Having sweated and bled over many a length of ancient wire such as this in my farming days, corners like this one were all too familiar. There, in that forgotten end of the pasture, a strength from nature’s own would begin to recompense into another form – honeysuckle and briars would interweave themselves into that ancient wood making a formidable foe, one relying upon the other for support. In this scene of decay and unfettered growth, one could find a sense of need, a feeling of caring for those that need us to be there for them, day in and day out.
Fencerow on the Blueridge Parkway
As the campus begins to breathe new life, students returning with parents in tow, each seeking a new future, there again is that feeling – a dependency of need, one for the other. Yet, beyond that wild vine growing unabated, there is the aged support. We can all look in the mirror and realize we aren’t the spring chicken we once were. Those lines, those furrowed brows tell a story of worry and woe, some far greater than others. Although they show signs of wear, even if there is strength in their core, the façade is one that we cannot deny. No amount of makeup or plastic surgery can dismiss the truth. Time does not lie. So, as the youth’s vibrancy evolves from a sleeping landscape into a living being, those with memories of yore become the support for those entering this new world.
In the eyes of the young, thoughts of gray hair and being old are only distant shores, places to cross in some far-off future. For now, they are immortal in their youthful minds. To mention the mere thought of eternity or mortality becomes simply a nuance, a fairytale from whence more exuberant adventure stories can evolve. For in their gaming worlds, you might die, but you quickly regenerate, return to life once again through some superpower. Unlike those weathered locust posts on our fence line, whose demise is slow but perpetual, the young adult only knows of a never-ending repeating cycle of death and regeneration in their make-believe worlds of social media and online games. Their bodies try to mimic this feat, with some pushing the boundaries beyond what is mortal. In the end, their fate can be predicted by those who recognize such patterns of ill-advised decisions. Yet, for one to believe, one must almost always find out first-hand.
As Jesus spoke to his disciples, they listened and heard every word. Yet, again, for one to believe, sometimes a person must feel the pain of reality before learning sinks in. But like those unruly briars, those disciples’ paths were not retaining the preaching of the Christ, but rather, went off into directions that were inconsequential, of no use. It wasn’t until that day when their leader finally hung on an aged, weathered cross, its furrows deep from years of persisting in the elements, now filling with the blood of Christ. Like the veins of a new being, the wood comes alive as the slain Savior above slowly dies a painful death. His life ebbs as the tree now part of an unbelievable, unfathomable, cataclysmic event unfolds before the eyes of the multitude of haters. Those who persecuted Jesus could not understand how God could come to earth in the flesh as a man. God incarnate was against their law. They despised him from the beginning and sought to take his life only because he spoke the truth. “Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God: therefore the world knoweth us not, because it knew him not.”
As those disciples watched in horror as their Savior, the Son of God, died on the cross, they felt their support slowly eroding, being torn from their grasp. It was too late to turn back and rescind any doubts. It was too late to take back those moments when they questioned his deity. As the bracing of that ancient corner of the pasture was being ripped out, those sweet-smelling vines shredded from the grasp of that olden wood; likewise, their hearts wept bitter tears of pain as his leaving was becoming a reality.
In the darkest, coldest, bitter nights on a college campus in the lonely corner of a dormitory, often near the latter stages of a semester, students begin to realize how they had mistaken that loving support of their parents or caretakers. Those helpful suggestions from that caring professor come back to haunt them as they face the magnitude of their decisions. Suddenly gone are all those bravado moments of fleeting joy, the inescapable memories of ridiculous expectations of what they thought they were in the light of what they really would become. Those pleasures of the flesh have vanished, and with them, their supposed friends.
So too, those disciples began to retrace all the words which Jesus had said to them. Those many parables and warnings of his imminent death suddenly roared back like a tidal wave of humility and soul-sucking regret until they ran from the scene of Golgotha. Their hearts were breaking as their chests pounded from lack of oxygen, racing down the mountain hoping to flee all that had transpired. But too soon, as do those students who come to college for all the wrong reasons, all find that there is a day of reckoning.
But Jesus told his followers that even though he would leave them, he would send a comforter. “And I will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for ever.”
As those students often forget, when they leave home, they sometimes try to leave everything, including all they had been taught in growing up, there is an answer to their darkness. Like those disciples that ran and hid, there would be an answer. Although it wouldn’t be there the following day, the answer would begin to manifest itself three days later when Christ would arise from the dead. However, it wasn’t until he ascended to heaven that what he had predicted came true. For there in that upper room in Jerusalem where they hid from authorities, they finally received the gift of the Holy Spirit. Christ had finally been glorified, the mission had been completed, and now, the Comforter had been sent to be with them until their dying days.
Likewise, those who find darkness overpowering their world don’t have to give up. While their academic or perceived future may have to be redirected or cut short, it is not the end. Those dark, lonely nights when the realization hits home, it is then that we pray somewhere, somehow, they either remember those lessons learned from their childhood in Sunday School, or that somehow, they have heard there is hope in Christ Jesus. Although it may seem as if life is over when those grades begin to slip and those grandiose aspirations begin to fade, all is not lost. There is something much more precious in life that awaits if only we seek it. For God doesn’t make us love him but instead wants us to choose him. It is our option, not our mandate. We can carry on living our lives trying to make it on our own, but in the end, we can never work our way into heaven. It is by God’s grace that we don’t receive what we are due, an eternity in hell. It is by His saving Grace, through the sacrifice of the blood of the pure lamb of God, his only begotten Son, Jesus Christ, that we can have the hope of life eternal.
For now, the fence row sits in the shadow of the mountain. That corner continues to stand as the ivy and honeysuckle continue to weave their network of hope around those ancient weathered beams of support. Like the threads of our existence, that rusted wire slowly erodes, but together, wire, wood, and vine continue to withstand the forces of this world as long as possible. The bend of the fence row stood long before my time and will likely continue to do so long after I’m gone. We are only here for a brief moment in time when compared to eternity. It is up to us to share the gospel of Jesus Christ. For as old as the story may be, its truth is more vital today than ever before, for it is not of our own hopes and desires but comes from the ultimate woven being, God, the Father, and the Holy Spirit.
Seek God, search him with all your heart, and you will find Him. Knock, and the door shall be opened. For it is by His saving grace that we have the hope of life eternal.
Early one morning, as my car’s headlights weaved around one mountain curve after another, a song on the radio caught my attention. The pleasing melody, like the pre-dawn somberness, melded together, finding its way into my soul. As I listened, the words began to speak to me.
They were fishermen, ordinary simple men. A lot like you, a lot like me. They were fishermen; Jesus chose to follow him Go cast your nets out on the sea. Go cast your nets out on the sea.
Men of few possessions, not men of wealth or fame. Had no education, no titles by their name. Yet it was they who answered and left to go with him When Jesus said, I call you to be fishers of men.
Arriving early on campus, there is a calming tranquility that permeates the early morning darkness. Students sparsely ramble about, some seeking food from the dining hall, others are trying to make it back to their dorms after pulling an all-nighter before that 8:00 AM class. The only sounds are from the facility’s crews that prepare each day like the day before – utility and garbage trucks making their rounds. To be here before the sun rises adds another sense of peace to a place that becomes a pulsating, vibrant community by mid-afternoon on warm sunny days. In this time of respite, there is room to breathe, air to think. Here, the ponderings of living begin to percolate into the consciousness, and the Lord begins to speak.
Once more, in this life, I find myself a college student (albeit part-time). There is a purpose for why I’m here. God’s plans are never our own. The thought of how and why seldom seem to leave the cusp of my thoughts. In so doing, I make it a point to remind myself of the “why.” At my age, one might be looking forward to retirement. But for some reason, God has made me different. I look at the short time I have remaining on this earth and feel the urgency to strive ever more to fulfill His purpose in the path He has set before me.
Appalachian State University, 2021
As a college student striving to fulfill one’s purpose, every day is an unending stream of information, tests, and trials through which one must struggle. We all should strive every day to make the most of whatever we do as if we are serving God and not those who write our paycheck or grading our tests. “And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men; Knowing that of the Lord ye shall receive the reward of the inheritance: for ye serve the Lord Christ.” So it is with this in mind that I seek not to complain, not to panic when I feel inadequately prepared for an upcoming quiz, nor to worry about grades. No, my goal is to learn as much as possible with an eye to returning to the classroom, to someday teach once again – for that purpose, to be there for these students is what drives me onward. Those short three years when I served at the High School were a never-ending stream of caring, loving, and nurturing the students who had been placed into my care. Some of them still keep in touch, which warms my heart with each distant hello.
A career of working in the computer/network-based industry had provided me the basis for obtaining my current career position. The landing of that position was as much a testimony as to all the others before it – a story for another time. But before being the System Administrator here at App’s Computer Science department, there were many years in which my career interfaced with technologies and applications that are usually the end-point for someone attending college. My journey has somewhat physically been the reverse. Over time, all of those various computer architectures, operating systems, and protocol languages created in me a wealth of information – knowingly or not.
However, unlike those beginning disciples to whom Jesus called, my slate is not empty. Similarly, the students around me don’t have to wade through years of industry knowledge and similar-sounding acronyms, which now I’m being taught stand for something new. As those fishermen left their nets behind, they had an open mind and weren’t clouded by the teachings and intense studies, as were their counterparts who persecuted Jesus, the Pharisees. No, these were simple men. They were ordinary men who worked day-to-day to feed their families and provide for their community. They had no preconceived interpretations as did their counterparts but were open to the words which Jesus spoke.
In the Air Force Basic Training, we were taught to shoot an M16, the rifle of choice in the early ’80s. As the Training Instructor (TI) was going over the presentation, he clearly stated, “Raise your hand if you have ever hunted or learned to shoot a weapon at home.” Of course, over half the class raised their hands. He then continued, “Those of you who raised your hands will most likely not make Marksman.” Now, the word “Marksman” was a badge of honor to a young man. It meant that, even though you were merely an Air Force serviceman, you would have something to say to the world, “Hey, look at me, I’m a good shot with an M16.” Ribbons, which were the badges of honor to the entry-level airman, were much-coveted, so the more you could earn, the prouder your chest became.
The Sergeant went on to explain why he made such a deflating comment. “You see, when you learn to shoot at home, you develop your own style, your own habits begin to form. When we get out there on that shooting range, those old habits will be hard to break. Although we’ll show you the right way, those preconceived practices will hinder your ability to follow through with the new instruction, and as such, you will fail.” As much as I tried to listen and obey, I too fell short and missed Marksman by a few points. It was the same concept with those disciples whom Jesus had chosen. They were not encumbered with the wealth of knowledge that prevented the Pharisees from seeing who he was. Even if the Pharisees wanted to believe, they could not clear their minds enough to accept the mind-altering concepts Jesus delivered.
Take Nicodemus, for one. He was an esteemed leader of the Jews and one of the Sanhedrin, one of the highest orders of the Jewish Rabbinical Judges. He sought out Jesus at least one recorded evening after dark. Some speculate this was to protect himself from being caught with Christ so as not to tarnish his reputation. Others believe that it was because that most scholars of that time did most of their intense study after dark when the surrounding communities would become quieter and the air was cooler. Here, under the cover of night, the ruler of the Jews met with Jesus and struggled to understand how he, an old man, could be born again. “How can these things be,” Nicodemus asked Christ. Jesus responded with, “Art thou a master of Israel, and knowest not these things? Verily, verily, I say unto thee, We speak that we do know, and testify that we have seen; and ye receive not our witness. If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe, if I tell you of heavenly things?” Nicodemus never became a disciple, but we know that he never gave up following the life of Jesus. He was even credited with contributing to the burial of Christ about a hundred pounds of myrrh and aloes, demonstrating a verifiable act of love toward the Savior.
If you are blessed enough to reach advancing years in age, you can be afforded the opportunity to look back and marvel at the journey. In this reminiscent vein, you can see how God has often used not only yourself but also those around you. Myself, being a child from an impoverished farming family, there were never any dreams that could have manifested themselves into the life I now lead.
How many of you would have ever envisioned yourself being where you are now in life?
My family never lacked for anything, but we were not rich by Wall Street’s standards. Our bountiful living came from God’s providence, his creation, and the devotion that endured for generations. From that bedrock faith of my youth to the uncharted waters my footsteps find themselves upon today, there has and will always be that guiding light. As He has spoken to many so many times before, “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you, that ye should go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain: that whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in my name, he may give it you.”
We are all made different. Our paths to life eternal are never the same. But we can take comfort in knowing that we don’t have to have credentials behind our name. We don’t have to have an extensive portfolio nor earthly wealth and fame to have a relationship with the Lord. All it takes is that we step down from our pedestals and open our minds so that we can receive the truth and the way to life eternal. In other words, we must wipe our slates clean and humble ourselves in the sight of the Lord. It is written in scripture, “If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.”
Jesus wasn’t looking for supermen when he found his disciples; he was only looking for one thing – simple men who would become fishers of men.
Yes, Jesus chose fishermen; they were a lot like you and a lot like me.
As the coming holidays approach, Thanksgiving and Christmas, there seems to be a sense of melancholy that has begun to permeate through the din of the incessant roar of this tumult our society has become. In my mind, there is a desire to reach back in my memories and dwell upon a time when life was simpler when the so-called advances in technology had yet to be developed. Because of the threat of lockdowns restricting these beloved reunions, those distant memories have become even more cherished. One such date that comes to mind coincides with a memory that our family holds dear to their heart.
It was the late 1960’s. Back then, we survived without non-stop news coverage, without updates from our social media accounts, and without the fear of dying from a virus, let alone anything else that existed at the time. It’s not to say there wasn’t death nor dying, for there had yet to be the advances we have today in the fields of heart disease and cancer. Both of these maladies took many lives before their time, and still do today, but not nearly as severely as in those days. No, we feared not because we had a faith that was the bedrock of our existence.
That faith was taught to us through our elders, passed down from one generation to the next – a thread of belief that was built upon an unending truth – Christ is indeed the Savior of the world. So, it is in this vein that once more my heart reaches for a well-worn story that is based on an actual event whose legacy has lasted for many years in our family. It is like the cup of an instant drink, void of the liquid to make it real – once the hot water is added, the story being recalled becomes the sustenance that warms our being. Like that beverage, the Spirit enters into our soul, and we are warmed from within to that which is without. Herein lies the beauty.
Looking back through the shadowy fog of time, those distant memories are like the passing clouds overhead. They are here but for a moment, and then cross over the mountaintops before we realize they are gone. As we near the season of holidays and family gatherings, it seems that those ancient days of yesteryear are ever more treasured. Like the value of a tattered cloth that once was held in the dying grasp of a loved one, its price to most would be nothing, but to those who knew its connection to the soul of the other – it becomes a priceless object.
That year when the snow fell around Christmas would become one such moment in time for me.
The classic event which unfolded is still known to this day, by all that attended, as the Sled Hill Christmas. Of all my childhood holiday experiences, it will forever be the most memorable in my mind. To read the entirety of the original story, you can find it online at https://timothywtron.dreamhosters.com/sled-hill-life-more-abundantly/ But this article looks at that event from a different perspective; one of how the warmth of a loving family and faith carried us through what may have been considered just another dark winter.
Like a revival, a truly epic event can only unfold when it is least expected. So it was that overcast December day so many decades ago. Several of us grandkids were staying at Grandpa and Grandma Tron’s house, there on the outskirts of New Harmony, Indiana. The town itself was in the season of slumber. Farming was still the driving industry, and the fields were now silent in their winter sleep. The hay had all been stored in the barns and the silos were filled to capacity with grains and silage to last until the next growing season began. A feeling of hibernation overtook one’s soul, making those opportunities to warm by the woodstove or to huddle close around a cup of hot chocolate all the more permanent upon the creature within. Gathering with others was the only natural thing to do in a time such as this – it was who we were, it was what we were. In those precious slices of time, we fellowshipped without knowing that’s what it was called. Visiting with others when the work in the fields slowed was just as natural as splitting your firewood by hand – we all did it.
Tron House, New Harmony, Indiana.
When those first few snowflakes began falling the night before what would become the day to remember, we went to bed not expecting anything more than just a typical Midwest December dusting. When we awoke the next morning to the sounds of someone rattling around downstairs in the kitchen, it was as if Christmas had come early. Jumping from underneath the multiple layers of quilts, which weighed nearly as much as another cousin, we raced down the icy narrow stairs from the unheated upstairs bedrooms down to the kitchen where the pot-belly woodstove in Grandma’s kitchen was already red hot. We shivered and shook the remnants of chill from our bones, as our bare feet fought to find the warmth emanating from the scant linoleum floor by the stove. Excitedly, we peeked through the threadbare kitchen curtains that hung over the sink. The window faced grandma’s kitchen garden. Outside, the world was no longer the muddled gray of winter, but instead, was a brilliant whiteness, even in the pre-dawn, early morning hours.
About the time we had settled down around the table, after getting out of our bedclothes, Grandpa came in from the morning milking. We could hear the creaky old porch door slam behind him as he walked down the long back porch, from the barn end, up to the door of the kitchen, where he paused and took off his boots. The confines of that narrow passage clothed in clear plastic, a feeble attempt to thwart the cold winds of winter. The repurposed material was clouded with age, giving off a soft sheer grayness within the tomb of the veranda’s confines. The oft sound of rippling plastic slapping the screen made thoughts of warm summer nights, fresh tomatoes, and fireflies come to mind. Needless to say, those were but a distant rumor as the snow continued to fall.
With all eyes upon his entry, the vacuum of anticipation cut the air, like the cold wind that followed him inside. Snowflakes fell off his outer coat confirming what we already knew. Before he had time to take note of his unexpected audience, the questions began to roll off our lips.
“How deep is it grandpa?”
“Does it look like more’s coming?
“Where are the sleds?”
“Were the cows cold?”
He turned and smiled, looking toward grandma. Victor Tron never was a man of many words, So, when he replied with, “It looks like it’s gonna be good,” rest assured, that was all we needed to know. Grandma already had his breakfast ready, along with ours, and we sat down for an unusually early start of our day. We all instantly grew silent when grandpa bowed his head and reached his hand over to grandma. She grabbed his outstretched weathered hand with hers and we all joined hands and bowed our heads as grandpa said the blessing for the breakfast meal. In my mind, I can still hear that strained voice, barely above a whisper, thank God for what grandpa said was an abundance of blessings. Before us was a meager meal by worldly standards, but to us, it was Heaven sent. For we knew, even as children that every bit of it was from those two pair of withered hands that grasped one another in a love that never ended, even upon their death.
Victor Tron Sr.
Grandpa’s first milking was at 3:00 AM and he usually finished up around 5:00 AM. His second milking was at 3:00 PM, every day of his life. He never took a vacation that I could remember. Usually exhausted from rising early, he would routinely drift off to sleep no matter where he sat, so finding time to talk with him was rare. He milked the cows until that night he died peacefully in his sleep, never to milk again. What we didn’t know as children, was how precious those few moments were with him when we were able to visit, especially that snowy morning on a cold December day so many years ago.
As soon as we were able to clear the table and bundle up, we were headed out the door. Eventually, someone asked if we could check out sled hill. An okay was given and like a herd of young calves heading for new pasture, we bolted out the back gate. Past the woodpile where grandpa’s ax and splitting log were shrouded in snow we raced. Heading for the opening to the lane, we quickly found ourselves wading through the knee-deep snow toward the iconic destination; Sled Hill. Past the milking barn, the bullpen, and Ms. Wolf’s house we trudged. Each one of these structures held a plethora of memories and stories that one could sit for hours and share. Like a life of living, their collections, like the holdings of stockpiled hay for the winter, waiting for one to return and use for the giving.
The bushes along the Labyrinth were blanketed in a sweet frosting of white. Our panted breaths billowed before us and were quickly whisked away in the falling snow. In our rush to find out how well the sledding was going to be, we didn’t realize how hard the snow was continuing to fall. Nor did we realize how deep the snow had already gotten since sunrise. In the overcast grayness of the day, it all seemed like a dream, even when it was live.
Labyrinth, New Harmony, Indiana
As the story, “Sled Hill: Life More Abundantly,” conveys, the rest of the day was a multitude of adventures and excitement. With each passing moment, the tempo of the day’s delight reached a fevered pitch. The enthusiasm of the children soon bubbled over into those of the adults, igniting in them the feelings of youth. Gone were the aches and pains of age. The adrenaline of living purged those boundaries of limitations that had kept them hostage. Soon, parents, Aunts, and Uncles were joining in the merriment of sliding down the hill so aptly named.
As the sky began to darken as night approached, the thrill of the day and the feeling of being one with something greater than ourselves overwhelmed us. Fearing that it would end in darkness, the men created torches on the fly from used old tin cans (which we also used as drinking vessels), nailing them to poles and placing them along the sled run, all the way to the top of the hill. What started out as child’s play quickly turned into a major production. In essence, a cow pasture had turned into our own ski-slope far removed from any mountaintop.
When the last vestiges of daylight gave way to darkness, there along the sled run was a perfect row of home-made flaming lights shedding an ambient glow of warmth. Off to the side, a pile of wood was set afire and a massive bonfire became the gathering spot between runs down the hill. There we regained strength to carry on from food and drink the family had brought in at a moment’s notice. There, the entire family that was able to make it collected. The sentinel image that remains with me to this day was seeing both grandpa and grandma’s faces glowing in the reflection of the firelight. To know that grandpa had a milking coming at 03:00 AM, and yet, he was here foregoing precious sleep, standing alongside us kids around the bonfire said something more that than words could fathom. Even then, the whispers of the children could be heard, “Look, even grandpa and grandma are here.” The statement was a confirmation of the significance of that moment in time, one that made a profound statement on all that were present.
That night, once our bodies had been worn to a frazzle. There was barely enough strength to make it back to the house. As we pulled off our wet, nearly frozen clothing and briefly warmed by the fire, a numbness of exhaustion began to overtake us. The enormous featherbed never looked so welcoming. Shortly thereafter, after our bedtime prayers were said, there was little more than the sweet, “Goodnight children,” from grandma as she tucked us under the pile of quilts before we fell asleep.
For once in a lifetime, there was no sweeter sleep.
As the snow continued to fall outside that night, there was a warmth within that was more than physical – a love that transcends all understanding. There was something created that day that would last forever in the hearts of those who had been privileged to experience it. It became an inexplicable thread of life that would weave its way into our souls which would become part of who we were. The similarity of a feeling such as this can only compare to that of Christ’s disciples.
Like those followers of Jesus who had walked and talked with Christ after his resurrection, they too had a story to share. One that was so inexplicable, so earth-shattering that they would live the rest of their lives pursuing the mission to share it with all that would hear, even unto the point of death. It was who they were.
As we go forward in this holiday season, let us come together as a family, and may the hope of Christ, and Christmas be with you, until the end of time. May it someday become who you are as well.
Dawn
had just awakened in the mountains. Walking down the forest’s path, I paused
but for a moment. Turning around, I peered into the darkness broken by shafts
of light filtering through the canopy above. A sullen mist hung close to the
ground. My breath, visibly seen, became one with the morning dew which clung to
the ferns that bountifully lay along the pathway from which I had come. As my
eyes followed the trail from the light into the depths of darkness beyond,
there was so much to reflect upon.
A
couple days ago, I met a young man who went by the name Wallace. It was after
the culmination of a tour that I had led at the Trail of Faith that we had time
to sit down while breaking bread together. Wallace had been mostly silent
during the course of the tour. But now, pulled aside from the crowd, he began
to open up and share. Wallace leaned in toward me and asked that I pray for
him. “What shall I pray for,” I questioned.
“I
want to come closer to God. I can’t get enough of Him,” he said with a grimace.
“I want to go to that next level of faith,” Wallace pleaded in all sincerity.
He had the look in his eyes of someone that sought after something of which
they could not find. As his question settled in my mind like the dust on a
gravel road, I thought of how each of us, at least those who are believers,
yearn for the same thing. Wallace’s eagerness seemed to paint him as if he were
a new believer, someone who had not yet realized that the journey is not a
sprint but rather a marathon. “Sanctification lasts a lifetime,” I told him.
And I then went to great lengths to comfort his worries, in that he wasn’t
alone: With each new day, a believer awakens to the creation of God, becoming
more aware of God’s handiwork and able to hear his voice through the written
word. With each new day, our mind is opened a little more to the understanding
of the veritas (truth). “No one comes to the father but through me, I am the
way, the truth, and the light,” Jesus would tell his disciples. As I paused to
allow the words to sink in, he exclaimed, “Man, you are so cool.”
“No,
no, please, no,” I said shaking my head. “It’s God speaking through me that you
are hearing.”
It
was then the scripture from John 1 came to mind, as I shared with this young
man who sought after God with a passion I had not seen in a long, long time.
“When Jesus saw
Nathanael approaching, he said of him, “Here truly is an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.”
“How do you know
me?” Nathanael asked.
Jesus answered, “I saw you while you were still under the
fig tree before Philip called you.”
Then Nathanael
declared, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God; you are the king of Israel.”
Jesus said, “You believebecause I told you
I saw you under the fig tree. You will see greater things than that.” He then added, “Very truly I tell you,youwill see ‘heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending on’the Son of Man.”[1]
The thoughts of
Wallace were with me the next day as I climbed the trail to the top of Rough
Ridge. Again, the question returned, “How do we get closer to God?” The
rocky crags cut deep into my heart, leaving nothing untouched. From up there,
the world below seemed so distant, nothing to fear. Sitting on the edge of the
earth, the thoughts roll across one’s mind like the clouds across the broad
landscape below.
As I stood in front
of the washing machine the other night waiting for the spin cycle to end, the
time showed four minutes remaining. Then, for some unknown reason, the question
arose in my head, “What if you only had four minutes left in your life. What
would you think of? What would your final thoughts be about?” I closed my
eyes and lifted my head toward heaven and waited. Instantly I was taken back to
that old run-down farm house on the edge of New Harmony, Indiana. There, my
paternal grandparents had carved out an existence in a life that had been
anything but easy. My view was from within the kitchen seated at the head of
the table. There on that worn formica countertop my grandparents had seen all
manner of life pass. From the earliest times I could remember my grandpa Tron
seated in the position of admiration, the head of the table. He was our
patriarch. Grandma sat to at his right hand. When grandpa passed, she would
move to his seat. It was there in my mind that my journey of what my last four
minutes of life began.
“You’ve got to
be kidding me,” I thought to myself, “The last four minutes and I’m
stuck in the old kitchen,” as I chuckled silently. But as I sat there, a
feeling of reverence washed over me, calming my anticipation. Time slowed. A
flood of memories of a lifetime began to pass before me. In those moments, my
grandmother’s soft-spoken manner again, and again, warmed my heart. As she
spoke, the words she said emanated from where she lived, in God’s word. It was
then I realized why it was here my journey began. The words from Peter told of who
she was to our family and why my story could not be told without her as its
beginning, “Feed the flock of God
which is among you, taking the oversight thereof, not by constraint, but
willingly; not for filthy lucre, but of a ready mind; Neither
as being lords over God’s heritage, but being examples to the flock. And when
the chief Shepherd shall appear, ye shall receive a crown of glory that fadeth
not away.”[2]
Before I could
finish that thought, I was whisked away and was now standing at the top of Sled
Hill, the highest point anyone could find in our flat landscape of southern
Indiana. Geologists say that at one time, glaciers pushed the earth ahead of
them as they grew into North America. When they retreated, the soil that they
left behind became the hills and hollars of exploration of my youth. Those
rolling hills, covered in hardwood forests, bordered the Wabash River, creating
a utopia for the weary. The rest of the state had been bulldozed flat by those
massive goliaths of their time. So, as I stood on this highest vantage point
around, my eyes beheld once more the view of our little village from above.
Below me, the rooftops and spires of the church’s reached above the trees that
lined the streets beyond our little farmhouse that was home. It was then another
feeling came over me, one that I had not remembered since the first time my
eyes rested upon that scene – The feeling of standing on a mountain struck a
chord within my child’s mind. It was as if a light had been turned on. My
destiny began at that moment. Little did I know that a calling to return to our
ancestry would be driven by the desire to reach for the mountains. None of us
knew at that time, but deep within my soul, there was a beckoning to return to
a place that I didn’t even know. Even though there overlooking New Harmony, I
was barely above the tree-line, the words to the song, “Nearer My God to Thee,”
never resonated more.
Likewise, when we
accept Christ into our lives, an awakening, a light is turned on and suddenly
we find ourselves longing for a home we have never seen – a place where we can spend eternity in the
beautiful, blessed arms of our Savior. When we become Christians, it is then we
realize this earth is not our home. We are only passing through.
The last four
minutes slowly washed away into a flight like the raptors who soar above in the
azure blue skies over those granite peaks. Time, like the tiny rivulets of
water that trickle down the pathway after the summer showers, passes without
hesitation. We cannot stop it, for if we try, it only dams up into a pool from
which we can peer within. Our reflections are all that we see. Letting go, the
fluidness continues on as it had before we paused its journey. Onward down the
mountain it falls, joining tiny stream after another until they become greater
torrents of fluidness. Like the many lives of others, we have met, our
experiences becoming one.
The flight
continued onward and upward until there was no more ceiling, only heaven above.
Time had expired,
but life had not. Once we pass from this world to the next, be it in four
minutes, or be it four decades, we will realize that all that we did in this
life was a witness to our faith. Whether we realize it or not our journey was
seen by those who watched, even when we knew not. If we lived according to God’s
word, our life would have been an example, a wonderful testimony, which
hopefully would have led another soul to Christ. How great the scene when, “the chief Shepherd shall appear, ye shall receive a crown
of glory that fadeth not away.”
Like a new believer, may we seek to
draw closer to God every day. To do so, we must not just read the Word, we must
become one with it. When we are saved, we leave our old self behind becoming a
new person. In the vacuum of the old self departing, we must fill the empty
space with God. To become absorbed with the Bible’s knowledge is one thing, but
by taking it to heart, we receive its blessing, and with it the Comforter, the
Holy Spirit.
The journey of faith, once we accept
Him into our life, takes a lifetime. A diamond is not formed from a lump of
coal in a day.
Yet, when we have run the race, and
fought the good fight, not yielding to temptations of this world and pressing
always toward the mark, we shall have finally been the light to those around
us. It is then we might expect to hear
those fateful words, “Well done, good and faithful son, well done.”
This evening, the news of a famous retired basketball player
dying in a helicopter crash has caused many in our nation to take pause. He was
only 41. His life, one of a truly, gifted and amazing athlete, was followed by
wealth and fame. Sadly, it is now all gone. What will remain are the memories
and legacies to which he may have imparted; be they good or bad, as a two-edged
sword, we may never know.
Each morning we awaken, we are afforded another precious
gift; another day of life. We should never take one of them for granted, for we
never know when this may be our last.
Today I was afforded the blessing of meeting a friend at a
church on the mountain, one that he was looking at possibly joining in the future.
As I drove along the winding road, there was much to reflect upon. Overhead,
the skies were a crystalline clear as the John’s river’s icy waters. Their reflection
of earth’s outer sphere, like a deep cerulean blue, gave the rising sun
something with which to compete for the beauty and majesty. As my car drove up
the mountain, the sunrise cast long shadows behind me, forcing darkness in
pockets upon the eastward facing slopes; behind them, the veil of white lay
waiting. As I made the crest of the mountaintop, the morning’s first light made
the snow-covered forest come alive. Like a multitude of angels at Jesus’ birth,
so too were the trees enshrouded by the luminescence of an untold number of
diamond-like snowflakes.
Here and there around each bend, chimneys spewed forth slender
columns of woodsmoke, each rising like tendrils into that azure blueness above.
Each a signal of life within. Inside the humble cabins, the morning coffee had begun
to percolate as the fire cracked and popped. Somewhere nearby, bacon sizzled in
a cast-iron skillet. Some would be preparing for church while others would
simply be rising to live another day of life, one with the hope of a tomorrow
and the other just wishing there was one.
For every portion of living, there is a double-edged sword
with which we must contend. One side of the blade, as my friend put it, is
Mercy; the other side Justice. Life cannot have one without the other. Justice
without mercy is a formidable and a fearsome judgment to any who have received
it. Mercy without justice is like giving freedom without having any fear of retribution;
there is nothing for which to be freed if there is nothing for which to fear.
Yet, God hath given us a sword for which the balance between justice and mercy is
perfectly balanced. In fact, on the traditional broadsword, the center of the sword
is slightly raised, giving height to the intersection of the two opposing sides,
taking the high road, if you will.
Through God’s love for us, we are afforded the perfect
balance of Justice and Mercy. For with each gradual trial we weather, by His
Grace, we grow stronger in our faith. For if we find ourselves facing the
proverbial headwinds in our daily walk with Christ, we must know that we are
going in the right direction. For faith without trials is a faith untested. “Beloved,
think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though
some strange thing happened unto you: But rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers
of Christ’s sufferings; that, when his glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad
also with exceeding joy.”[1]
Just as each edge of the blade could be considered to stand
for justice and mercy, so too could they stand for Thoughts and Intent of the human
soul. “For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged
sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the
joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.”[2]
Just as the word of God is quick and powerful, so too are
its intention. Like a playbook on how to live life, its instructions are clear,
succinct, and powerful. Yet, to the unbeliever, the words are only that, just
printing on the page. As God spoke through the prophet Jeremiah, “For I know
the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and
not of evil, to give you an expected end.”[3] He gave us Christ, with whom
we were spared eternal damnation and the expected end we deserved, with that
ultimate justice; his death was the punishment for our sins.
To the unbeliever, the Bible is nothing more than theory;
conjecture of good intentions.
As I was speaking to one of our department’s professors this
week, the difference between theory and application came to mind. While we are
immersed in the pursuit of education at our institutions of higher learning,
most of what we achieve is theory. It is not until we go out into the “Real”
world, get jobs, and start careers that we actually apply that theory. That application
becomes the tools of whatever industry we pursue, sometimes for the rest of our
lives. However, God has allowed me to return to the place from whence I began
so long ago. As I listened to the very well-meaning professor describe the
course layout, I found my mind jumping from the theory he was describing to the
applications I had used in my nearly two decades of working in the industry. From
that life of experience, from the applying of theory, I once more made the jump
back to the present and was able to interpret his descriptions, but far from
the conventional line of thought to which he was used to instructing.
For those of you who have learned or are trying to learn to
speak a foreign language, you can relate. You at first have to think of the foreign
word’s meaning in your mother tongue and then speak the foreign word. Slowly,
as you become more proficient, eventually, you can skip the literal translation
because you just know the foreign word, has finally become one of your own, no
longer foreign. So too is the word of God. Like many who are lost and haven’t
come to know or accept Christ into their lives, the words in the Bible are only
that; words. But Jesus told his followers that they would not be alone; that he
would send a Comforter. He also said that he would never leave us nor forsake
us. That Comforter, that being with whom he spoke, was to be the Holy Spirit.
Through the Holy Spirit, we are made anew, “And that he
died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves,
but unto him which died for them, and rose again. Wherefore henceforth know we
no man after the flesh: yea, though we have known Christ after the flesh, yet
now henceforth know we him no more. Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a
new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new. And
all things are of God, who hath reconciled us to himself by Jesus Christ, and
hath given to us the ministry of reconciliation; To wit, that God was in
Christ, reconciling the world unto himself, not imputing their trespasses unto
them; and hath committed unto us the word of reconciliation. Now then we are
ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us: we pray you in
Christ’s stead, be ye reconciled to God.”[4]
From whence we came, is to which we shall return. For once
we have walked in the way, we are made anew, and from there, we can speak to
those who have yet to find the way, the truth, and the light. From our
experience in the application of the word, we have become wiser, and with this wisdom,
we are then able to help those who are lost. “If any of you lack wisdom, let
him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and unbraideth not; and it
shall be given him.”[5]From theory, as some may say, to become one with the Father through the
power of the Holy Spirit, we are changed. Walking in Christ, we are no longer
living in theory, but rather, in the application of what it was meant to be,
where Justice and Mercy meet in that high rounded middle of the blade, to which
nothing can prevail; neither spirit nor soul.
As the finger-like wafts of smoke rise into the morning sky
from their hand-hewn stone chimneys below, so soar the spirits of many who have
breathed their last. Don’t go another day without seeking out that friend, that
neighbor, or even that family member who might be lost. Seek them with all your
heart.
And remember, for, by the Grace of God, we go.
We are all but a heartbeat away from eternity.
Live each day as if it were the most precious gift. You
never know when it will be your last.
Yesterday, as I sat and watched the thick cloud bank slowly envelope Grandfather, I was reminded of incoming tides upon ancient seas. The jetties and rocks of life, like those distant mountain peaks, were soon to be covered by the rising waters of time. Before long, he had vanished, obscured by a billowing blanket of gray, blue, and white. Grandfather Mountain was not gone, this I knew, for I had seen him. It was not necessary to hope for his existence because by seeing, we know that he is still there. Yet, we cannot foretell what the coming storms will unveil. In a manner of hours, or even days, we may see a changed mountain, one blanketed in a snowy, majestic white mantel of winter; this is the wish of many.
painting by Timothy W. Tron
With
wanted anticipation, some may see the impending storm and look forward to a
delay in the upcoming return to school. While others may fear what is to come
knowing regardless of the road conditions, they will be expected to be at their
posts or jobs. Likewise, those who walk in faith are much like those gladly
seeing the possibility of winter storms; the former seeks the hope of life
eternal by knowing that regardless of what the storms of life may bring, they
have the hope of salvation unto our final dwelling place on high. “For we
are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why
doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with
patience wait for it.”[1]
But
just as a child, torn from their home due to circumstances which have created
living conditions so dire that the state has to intervene, they seek hope to
eventually return home. Yet, what they don’t fully understand is that in order
for them to return home, their parents or guardians must change. The addiction
or bondage to the sins of the flesh must be broken. The downward spiral of
drugs, alcohol, otherworldly lusts has permeated their lives so deeply that
they often have lost sight of caring for their family, if not themselves. We’ve
all see the posted mug shots of convicted criminals and seen the effects of
meth, just to name one, on their physical being. Inside, there remains a
remnant of the human being they once were.
Somewhere
within, there is a flicker of a soul.
Like
those school children looking forward to the coming snowstorm, the Apostle Paul wrote of coming storms and
afflictions, “Giving no offence in any thing, that the ministry be not
blamed: But in all things approving ourselves as the ministers of God, in much
patience, in afflictions, in necessities, in distresses, In stripes, in
imprisonments, in tumults, in labours, in watchings, in fastings;”[2]His point being, that those storms of life, the daily challenges and trials,
only make us stronger Christians. Meanwhile, those of the world suffer greatly because
their faith is nonexistent. There is nothing to embolden. In their despair,
they seek earthly means to fill the void. The Apostle Peter wrote about them saying,
“Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion,
walketh about, seeking whom he may devour: Whom resist stedfast in the
faith, knowing that the same afflictions are accomplished in your brethren that
are in the world.”[3]
Alone,
those lost parents cannot conquer the darkness that holds them captive. It is
by prayer and the hope of their children, the faith of which they often do not
know, that they can be lifted up. These thoughtless parents reckless abandon for
life is conveyed by those whose tender young hearts who are willing to still
have faith. In their undying hope that their parents will change, unto the day
they may return to a new home, those orphaned children never give up.
Similarly, we seek faith to eventually return to our heavenly home because this
world is not our home. Yet, we are not left as orphans to fend for ourselves,
for our heavenly father awaits. “That
at that time ye were without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of
Israel, and strangers from the covenants of promise, having no hope, and
without God in the world: But now in Christ Jesus ye who sometimes were far off
are made nigh by the blood of Christ.”[4]
Even
though the parents of those orphaned children may be so lost in their sin that
they don’t even realize the cause of their forced separation, nor do they know
how to free themselves from the enslavement of their fleshly additions and
afflictions, Christ gives us that answer. Through the power of the blood Jesus
Christ shed upon the cross, we may overcome the darkness that seeks to devour
our world and flood us with iniquities beyond our comprehension.
We
cannot achieve this freedom alone.
In
Hebrews 11:1, we are reminded that “…faith is the substance of things hoped
for, the evidence of things not seen.” Having held true to my faith in
these recent months, I can tell you from personal experience, the harder the
clouds of turmoil flooded my soul, the harder I fell to my knees. There were no
immediate replies. There was no blinding light that threw me off my horse and
into the road. There were often days of silence. Nothingness.
“But
nothing worth having is ever easy,” – Theodore Roosevelt
As
the scripture tells us, “But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with
patience wait for it.” From having seen prayers answered, it is then when
we start to understand how one can have “evidence of things unseen.”
Prayer is one of our most powerful spiritual tools. Daniel prayed five times a
day. When his enemies learned of his daily practice, they used it to entrap him
which landed him in the den of lions. Daniel didn’t fear but resorted to what
he knew best, prayer. His hope of release from the expected doom was his answer
to faithful prayer.
As
we approach a future that sometimes appears, if anything but bright, we can be
reminded that there is “hope.” As we awoke this morning and the clouds had
departed, Grandfather was there as the sunlight began to cast its golden rays
upon his face. His crown, a mantel of snowy white, now proudly unveiled for all
to see.
The
storm had been weathered.
There
will always be the dawning of a new day. Don’t let the darkness of the light
consume you. Although it may feel as the darkest hour is just before dawn,
don’t let fear overwhelm you like the storm clouds smothering Grandfather. Let
the light of Christ shine upon your life, and through you, such that those
around you are enlightened by the Holy Spirit within your own. Choose to be the
light in a dark world, like the beautiful snow-covered peaks of Grandfather
this morning, their light reflecting the sunrise, like golden shields of hope.
Tomorrow
is a new day. Rise with hope in your heart
and let your light shine for all to see.
We stood in a
circle. Our right hands made into fists as our arms were extended into the
middle of the circle, like the hub of a human wheel, one placed upon the other
as each of us bowed our heads in prayer. The boys like to call the
configuration the “popcorn prayer,” a term they coined on their own. With the
first of the young men that began, the next would continue the prayer until it
came around the circle to the last person.
Crossnore Children’s Home
In the past, we
would have had a morning devotional before going to breakfast, followed by a
closing prayer. But this day was different, it was late Sunday afternoon. Unlike
the times before, today they asked that we all pray together before we said our
final goodbyes. In unison, they asked that I close us out by saying the last prayer.
It was one of the
most poignant moments of my life, humbling to the core; it was their last
request.
I had come to say
goodbye, a goodwill gesture that was sincerely from the heart. It had been a
tumultuous month, one that had left me more than tired. Several weeks earlier,
when I had shared with my supervisor that God was leading my life’s journey
away from Crossnore, I also asked that if they needed any extra help, I told
him that I would be willing to fill in if needed. He thanked me for that offer.
At Crossnore,
there is always a need.
And so, after many
sleep-deprived and beleaguered days, my footsteps carried me one last time from
one end of the Crossnore campus to the other. Those young men had left an
undeniable mark upon my heart. For many of the children at Crossnore, their
pasts are much like our own, better left behind. Many are at the home because
of no fault of their own, and with that, you immediately seek to find the
source of the mindset that acts out in ways that are not normal; because if
anything, the trauma through which they have survived are anything but normal.
It was because of this and much more that I couldn’t leave without at least
letting them know that I would miss them.
Along my path
that somber Sunday afternoon, the majestic oaks that had at one time provided
comforting shade during the hotter months, had now given way to become barren,
twisted towering bones, reaching to the azure blue sky above. They too, showed
empathy for my departure, like elders who had seen so many come and go, telling
me in their own way that they would forever be with me. The chilly winds blew
leaves across my path as I made it to the all teen boy’s cottage. Many would
prefer another assignment than to have to deal with young men at their age.
My own experience
was quite different.
From the outset,
once they realized I wasn’t going to be a push-over, we began to connect. One
might wonder if it had been the many years of working with the Scouts that
allowed me to understand them? Perhaps you might ask, was it because of the
time spent working with the Junior Appalachian Musician program? Or, maybe, you
might conjecture, it was teaching High School math to teens their age that
helped me cope? Whatever the reason one might attribute my connection to those
boys, I believe it was the hand of the Lord who had put me there for that
season, as short as it may have been. The reason I felt it was God, was because
it wasn’t until I asked to share the devotional with them that I could see
something new; a change in their demeanor toward my presence. It was when one
of the young men-(the one that had been there the longest, over 6 years to be
exact)- opened up to me, that their reactions began to make me take notice.
They said that because of his years of tenure at the home, he had become so
hardened that he would purposely keep you at bay, knowing that before long, you
too would fall by the wayside.
Who could blame
him?
He had seen so
many come and go. And up to that point, he could have just as well said the
same thing about me. But when he would purposely make it a point to greet me or
go out of his way to tell me to have a nice day, it became apparent that God
had moved him, through me, in spite of who I was. All of these thoughts swirled
around in my head like the fallen leaves upon the ground that cold, blustery
afternoon.
There had been so
much to contemplate. For if the walk had been days, there would have been
enough recent memories and experiences to occupy my thoughts the full breadth
of the journey.
Recently, one of
my new colleagues at the college asked, “How are you today?”
I replied, as I
so often do these days, “I am blessed, I hope you are?”
He then later
asked what I had meant by the word “Blessed.”
The question
stopped me in my tracks.
My mind flashed
back to the beginning of the summer and the terrible drought, and trials that
my life had encountered. Through the loss of a job, loss of income, loss of
medical coverage, to the near-fatal illness, to the days of unanswered prayers.
The doubts and troubles piled up like logs against the bridge when the river
rises. One by one, their pressure building until they either burst through or
until they are swept over the bridge by higher waters. My life had become that
bridge, inundated by the flooding trials that seemed to come, one after the
other, each one building upon the other. At one point, the bad news had become
so common that it became laughable. “Just how much more could one take and
still survive,” I began to ask? My life began to feel a little like Job in the
struggles, and a lot like Joseph at the bottom of the dry well; there was nowhere
to go but up.
Then, like once
before in my life when it seemed as if all hope was lost, God answered. I don’t
recall the exact day or time, but there was a sense that only a few may know or
understand. Like a warm wave cascading over your soul, the feeling of things
that are about to change washes over you, and it is then that you know deep in
your heart that it is going to be okay. It’s moments like that when Hebrews 11:1
makes perfect sense, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the
evidence of things not seen.”
My sweet
co-teacher, Mrs. Rush, said it best last year when she was trying to comfort me
about having to leave the school when she said, “God is going to answer your
prayers in a way that is going to be far greater than your wildest
expectations.” She continued, “The answer won’t come soon, but rather, it will
probably be at the last moment when you feel like all hope is gone. It is then
that He will finally give you an answer.”
She was as
prophetic as anyone I have ever known. Was God speaking through her? I don’t
know, but to this day, I have to believe he was.
To answer my
colleague, my mind dug through those countless days of anguish and despair, and
the words began to form. They had to pass through the filter of that prayer
with those boys in the Cottage as we all stood around in the circle and prayed.
The memory of what happened during that prayer still lingered in my soul.
From the bottom
of my feet, the sensation began. As God poured the words through my lips, the
Holy Spirit began to fill my body like a pitcher is filled from the bottom up.
The electricity began to rise through my legs, torso, and eventually put my arm
into the pile of hands. The words continued to speak as my entire body began to
tremble. Attempting to retain my composure, I pressed on, asking God for this
moment to never end. “They have to feel this,” my mind reflected while
scriptures began to flow from my heart and out my mouth. The warmth of tears
streaming down my face began to mix with the emotions in my voice until we
finally said, “Amen.”
As I stepped
back, wiping the tears from my eyes, the emotional toll was not just my own,
for it was apparent in their eyes as well. My head was spinning as I tried to
find a way to say goodbye. Once more, there was yet another reason to never
forget, as they asked for a hug. In my heart, the pain of saying goodbye was a
burden that must have shown. One of the boys raced to his room and brought out
one of his most cherished items, a UNC flag. In the spur of the moment, I asked
if we could have them all sign it, “As a memento,” I said. They all happily
agreed, and each one took great care to make sure their name was visible. In a
way, it was as if they wanted to make that indelible mark upon my heart; one,
like the permanent marker upon the flag, that would never fade away.
Those multitudes
of thoughts swirled around in my head as my colleague must have wondered why it
was so difficult to answer a simple question about what I meant by being ‘Blessed.’
It was as Jesus had said to Thomas at that moment when he finally realized that
he as standing in the presence of our risen Savoir. After putting his hand
through the hole in Jesus’ side, his head suddenly became faint. The room began
to spin. Stepping back, trying to regain his balance, he stared in awe at Son
of Man, God in the flesh, who had now defeated death. He was speechless. Jesus
said to him, “Because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are
they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”
Yes, blessed are we
that have not seen and yet have believed. But this was only one part of being
blessed to which Christ spoke The sermon on the mount was full of blessings,
enough to know that when we walk with Him, when we realize we have found our
path only because He has led us upon it, it is then we truly know that we are
blessed.
To my colleague,
I finally said that one should be thankful for being in a place to which they
had never realized they would be in life, by no cause or fault of their own.
He respectfully
nodded in response.
To live or die is
gain, and to know Him, Christ, our Savior, is to be blessed beyond measure.
To all things we
should be grateful, and most importantly,
Thanks be to God.
“And
seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his
disciples came unto him:
And he
opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,
Blessed
are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed
are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed
are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed
are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be
filled.
Blessed
are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed
are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed
are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed
are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the
kingdom of heaven.
Blessed
are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner
of evil against you falsely, for my sake.”-Matthew 5:1-11
Each time he returned from the mountain,
his life was changed. Another nuance of who he had become was revealed. He was
forever changing into the new person to which he had sought his entire life to
become. There was no tablet in his arms as he descended from the heights above;
no law; no antiquated precept for which to behold; rather, there were pathways
to distant memories that had once been buried, now unearthed to become the
inspiration for going forward. They had returned as ghosts from his past to
help others around him see the light; that which is the true light. He was not
that light but was there only to help those, through him, believe. Those scars
of life’s experiences became a therapeutic source, something he never
anticipated. Through the catharsis of healing, he could now better understand
his purpose for which God had intended. Through the new journey, there was more
than just the apparent nature of healing spiritually, but physically as well.
Where the spirit is weak, so is the
body. One cannot exist without the other.
Each day as the sun arose, the
scriptures spoke of new hope, new promises to be found.
Each day, the healing within and without
continued.
Jacob, a good friend of mine, had only recently found himself able to once more confidently be himself. His world had seemed to fall apart, one seemingly unbelievable event after another. It was as if anything that could go wrong would. From one loss to the next, it seemed as if bad news were the only guarantee in his life. The stress of so many unanswered prayers continually compounded themselves; dark waves crashing against the bedrock of his soul, one upon the next, until it seemed his heart would break. Pushing it all aside, using every ounce of faith he could contain, he forged onward. “Press on toward the mark,” he could hear the Apostle Paul saying. Every morning he arose, making himself pretend there was a consistency in chaos. The work of the building kept his mind occupied while he communed with the Lord. The blistering heat swayed not his determination. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. When it appeared as if all detrimental events had subsided, a new, more deadly attack came.
Looking back, Jacob could see where the
sultry summer solstice had merely turned out to be the calm before the storm.
Out of nowhere, an insect-borne illness struck.
Jacob was bedridden for days. The excruciating pain, fever, and chills were like
nothing he had known to this point in his life. The doctors were initially dumbfounded
by the test results. Eventually, the prognosis became clearer, and medication
was finally prescribed; but not after Jacob had seemed to hit rock bottom. At
one point, the pain was so intense, the darkness so great, he had prayed God to
take him home. There was nothing more he wanted than to be free of his earthly
body. Broken and shattered, he lay in the pool of sweat as his body felt
frozen. He felt as if he had now found the deepest darkest valley as he lay in
the shadow of death.
The painful hours passed, and Jacob contemplated
if he would ever be able to reach the top of the mountain again. “The deeper
the valley, the higher the peak,” he kept telling himself, through one exacerbating
breath after another.
In the course of searching for answers
to Jacob’s malady, there was another discover; one that had not been anticipated
initially. Jacob’s heart was not functioning as expected. Upon further
investigation, there was a concern of the erratic nature of the heart’s beat,
to the point he was sent to a Cardiologist. Later, the insect-borne disease he
had contracted was found to attack the heart in a way that it would affect the
beating. However, God always has a purpose, even when we think we know why we
are on a particular path, God’s plan may often be something unexpected,
something never imagined.
Eventually, the Cardiologist would find
it necessary to perform a heart catheterization on Jacob. In disbelief, he sat
listening. “What next,” he thought to himself as the doctor shared with
him what to expect. It seemed as if the summer, which he at one time had hoped
to be spent on a whirlwind, inspirational mission trip, had turned into the
summer of incomprehensible horror. A darkness of the most profound evil had
besieged him and his family. In the darkest moments of the storm, he had
continued to cling to the only thing that gave him comfort, the Word of God. He
placed his mind in the shadow of Christ as he continued to listen and felt his
savior envelop him in his arms.
“We might have to put in a stint, should
we find enough blockage, which is what I suspect,” espoused the doctor smiling
with the best intentions.
Jacob’s mind wandered back again, back
to another place and time to another one of those scars in his life.
He and his wife had visited his
hometown. It was nothing more than an opportunity to share with her the place
he grew up. Having left it behind so many years ago, it was as if they were
both discovering it anew once again. During that trip, they met with family
members for supper at a small country diner. In the group was Jacob’s most honored
family member, Uncle Markus. Markus was one that Jacob had looked up too and
admired for all that he had accomplished in his life. His Uncle had also become
the beloved spiritual leader of their family; the outpost of faith since Grandpa
and Grandma had passed. His Uncle Markus had been one of the first men of the
family to obtain a college degree and then went on to become a high school teacher,
and eventually, a college professor. Markus was there along with his wife, Rose,
and two sons. It would be the last time Jacob would see his Uncle Markus and Aunt
Rose alive.
Looking back, that evening in the St. Joseph’s
Diner so many years ago, those in attendance were just a tiny portion of Jacob’s
father’s family. There had been seven siblings total in the paternal family;
five boys and two girls. Likewise, they were a tiny fragment of the fun-filled,
rollicking antics so often characterized by his paternal family. He recalled
how he had bought some cast rubber replicas of morels from Wilson’s Furniture
Store earlier in the day. They were unusual in that they had suction cups at
the bottom. He had guessed at the time they might be fun to stick on the dash
of the truck the next time they went morel hunting. Without thinking, he stuck
them in his pocket that morning for safekeeping. Hunting morels was a favorite outdoor
event that the entire family looked forward to every year. Morels are a type of
mushroom that only come up in certain soils at a specific time of the year.
Because of their precarious growing season and climate, they are difficult to
find. But because of their delicious flavor, when they are discovered, you feel
like you are receiving manna from heaven. So, as the course of the evening’s
meal ensued; somehow, the topic of morel hunting came up. When someone was
describing their prowess at finding the elusive mushroom, Jacob remembered the
rubber replicas in his pocket. Quietly, and without garnering attention, he
bent his head down and fastened the suction cups to the lens of his glasses.
Then when the moment was right, he looked up and said, as the rubber morels
goggled before his spectacles, “I would say, that I would be the best Morel
hunter around simply because of my superior morel vision.” The entire table, and
the rest of the restaurant who couldn’t help to overhear broke out into laughter.
The establishment had in a way, become their surrogate kitchen that evening,
and everyone shared in the raucous laughter. That memory, along with the
fateful journey of his Uncle Markus reverberated in his soul once more; afresh
and new, like the recovery of an ancient treasure that blesses the very spirit
within.
Not long afterward, his Uncle Markus was
told by doctors that they had found blockages in his heart, but there was no
dire concern because they had a new way of relieving the life-threatening condition
through a new procedure using stints. The family was very much relieved, yet
apprehensive when it came time for the surgery. The operation went well, and Markus
was to stay overnight for observation, just as the doctor had told Jacob.
However, Markus’s surgery was forty years prior, the new miracle cure had only
just begun being used. Markus had been warned not to move around, but as was
the case, he got up simply to use the restroom during the night, harmless as
that may sound. The doctors would later surmise that plaque had broken loose in
the artery where the stint was inserted, which found its way to Markus’s brain.
Uncle Markus died long before his time. Yet, it was God’s time, not our own.
Jacob’s mind panged once more for his Uncle
and knew that God had used the stint to call him home. It didn’t make the
memory any less painful, nor did it comfort him knowing that medical advances in
the past forty years had made the procedure much less treacherous. In the back
of his mind, he couldn’t eliminate the thought of possibly facing the same fate.
Feelings of the recent trials and
struggles haunted him in the hours leading up to the operation. “Had he done
all that he needed to prepare for leaving this life,” he thought to himself?
“Had he done all that he could do to help his family financially once he was
gone?” Then the formidable realization of their salvation bore upon him, “Had
he done all that he could do to prepare them for life eternal?” He felt in
his soul that his work was not over, but if God was calling him home, he was
ready either way.
“The Lord would provide,” he told
himself, again and again.
Yet, he was never alone.
Friends and family had encouraged Jacob
on his journey, and many had prayed for him. As the Bible tells us, “Wherefore
seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us
lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us
run with patience the race that is set before us.” All his life, there were
those praying for him even when they had lost contact with him physically;
those faithful prayer warriors that lift us up even when we are the least
worthy.
Jacob never forgot this, that many had
lifted him up in prayer, as the day for the surgery came. As the lights,
needles, and monitors flickered and beeped through the operating room, his mind
rested peacefully as he felt the hand of God warm him in that cold, foreign
place; prayers were being answered. Before he knew it, the medical staff and
the lead doctor were wrapping up.
“You’re all done,” the Cardiologist
proclaimed proudly.
“Your heart had a major blockage,” he
relayed without remorse, as he held his personal device over Jacob’s head.
“But, as you can see,” he said through
his operating mask, “Your heart has healed itself by making its own bypass. Better
than I could have done,” he said, pointing his purple glove finger toward the
miniature screen.
“It’s just beautiful,” the doctor
continued, admiring the tiny image before Jacob, as he turned to look at it
himself one more time. “You won’t need any stints either, your heart is
perfectly clear other than that one blockage which has miraculously healed
itself.”
Jacob couldn’t believe what he was
hearing. Through the fog of medication necessary for the operation, he
struggled to understand all that the doctor had just said.
“Miracle,” was all that he could
think, “God had performed a miracle. I should be dead,” he whispered to
himself.
Prayers had once more been answered;
like a thunderbolt, their presence was felt. Warm tears filled Jacob’s eyes as
the gurney was wheeled out of the operating room and back to recovery.
As the cloud of the sedative began to wear
off, Jacob continued to feel buoyed by the very nature of the miracle that had transpired;
unaware, unexpectedly, God had cured him of the life-threatening blockage. Not
only that, he had cleared every other debilitating possible blockage so that
his heart was like new. “With time, your heart will grow stronger,” the nurse
conveyed, as she heard Jacob speak of the revelation in the recovery room.
A gleam of joy shone into his now
healing heart.
The next couple of days were spent
resting and allowing the medication from the surgery to wear off. But once Jacob
was able to get outside, he took a short walk along the ridge where he lived.
In the distant, the blue peaks stood majestically; proud and stoic. Never so
bright were the flowers. Never so blue was the heavenly blue azure sky above.
The trees sounded as if they were singing the praises of the noonday sun. The
joyous memory of that evening in the St. Joe Diner sparkled once more in his
mind. The flicker of life revived, of happiness and laughter. The old spirit of
rejoicing with gladness the moments in life afforded us, no matter the setting,
no matter the circumstance had been rekindled. The old spirit had reunited with
the new Spirit; together, their energy was more than enough to uplift the weary
soul; they gave new life to the body within.
Jacob’s life had been a culmination of
learning and finding the way through failure and loss. The sins of his life had
kept him shackled to the world of the flesh, and because of it, had prevented
him from being to that which he was called. Subtlety, and without any
instantaneous change, Jacob found himself seeking direction from something beyond
the temporal world around him. Once he did, God began to work through him in inexplicable
ways. Some say that God works in mysterious ways, but when one walks through
the valley of the shadow of death and someday finds themselves on the mountain
top of that remorseful valley below, it is then that they can finally
appreciate what it is to receive Christ into their lives.
Yes, my brothers and sisters, God is
waiting for you to answer your call. He is ready for you to take him into your
life. Not only will your spirit be renewed, but your body will be blessed
beyond measure.
Look to the horizon and climb the
nearest mountain, leaving that valley below. When you reach the summit, allow
all that you experience to fill your cup to overflowing. Allow yourself to be
changed. Sup from the spring of God’s mercy while you can for the peaks of our
lives never last forever. May He annointest thy head with oil. Share the testimonies
and miracles in your life, for you may be the inspiration that someone needed
to hear.
Someday, you will descend into another valley,
and when you do, take with you the precious gift of God’s grace. By our scars,
we can be healed, and by Christ’s scars we can be reborn. Be the light for all,
no matter where you are; whether if you are on the highest mountain top, or in the
deepest, darkest abyss, let your light shine for all to see.
As Paul said, “For to me to live is
Christ.”
So, my friend, live as if living is
Christ, and goodness and mercy will follow you all the days of your life.
On Saturday, my wife said that she had read on the Cove’s forum that blueberries were ready to pick down at the community garden and asked if I could pick some for her. Wanting to be a good husband and knowing from years of training that the two best words a man can utter are, “Yes, dear,” I replied that Sunday would be a better day to do her bidding.
