Tag Archives: corn

by | February 10, 2018 · 9:01 pm

The Work of Thy Hands…

           “For thou, Lord, hast made me glad through thy work: I will triumph in the works of thy hands.”-Psalm 92:4

The roar of the old feed truck jumped to life. Cobwebs and black smoked coughed from her tailpipe as the deep rumble tickled the boy’s feet.

“C’mon around here and I’ll put you up in the seat.”

The skin of the man was tanned from countless hours toiling in the sun, working the land. His overalls worn threadbare in places; badges of honor to this farmer. He lifted his grandson up and put him on the cracked and frayed leather of the ancient seat. Plumes of dust billowed forth from the sand-colored cushion that peaked through the seams beneath.

“Sit right there now until I get in.”

The boy was barely three years old but yearned for every breath of life to be in the presence of his papaw. The farmer reached the open door of the driver’s side, then swung himself into the seat and slammed the door shut. Dust exploded into the shafts of sunlight that filtered through the clouded window before them. The man began grabbing the long-handled gears, and a deep guttural grinding below them shook the truck into motion. The old ford grain truck began rolling down the bumpy gravel road. In the back, their precious cargo. The sun was just reaching the top of the trees along the fence line that clung to the road. The lad stood on the seat and looked through the tiny back window of the cab. Golden harvest grains of corn radiated in the morning sunlight, like those ancient troves of gold once beheld by the Conquistadors in their New World explorations.

“Turn around here now,” the man growled at the boy pointing to the seat behind him. “I don’t need you bumping out the window.” He grinned over at his only grandchild. Doyle had much to be thankful for on this day. This load of corn was headed to the mill in town. It would be enough to feed his hogs and cattle through the winter. If they were lucky, there would be enough to trade or sell for extra supplies so badly needed. The sense of accomplishment of countless hours of hard work was reflected in every grain. Once the seed had been planted, the work didn’t end. Cultivating, spraying, and detasseling took many hours of hard labor. Working the land seemed to be a never-ending job. Then there were the weeks without rain. The boy could often find his papaw bent over in prayer, asking God to send the much-needed life source so that they may continue their livelihood.

Prayers had been answered in abundance that year.

Then there was his grandson; the pride of his life. Yes, there was much to thankful for that day. Not many months ago, the child had remained in the hospital isolation ward for days. Pneumonia had nearly claimed his young life the previous year, and it had returned in his second year with a vengeance. He had barely survived the second time. His tiny weakened frame was only just now beginning to fill out. It was a blessing to see him radiate, like their load of corn, with happiness as they bumped along.

He nodded at the boy once the tot was seated, then turned and spat a timely squirt of chewing tobacco juice out his own window. His head snapped back to the front maintaining his focus on the winding road. The old green truck rumbled along as the dust behind bellowed up like a rooster tail, dissolving everything from view behind them.

As Doyle’s long arms swung madly back and forth on the expanse of a steering wheel, the fields from which they had recently gleaned their precious cargo passed by the windows. The little boy looked out watching the blur precede by, one fence row after another in a uniformity that soon pulsated into a numbing coalescent hum. He had seemingly forgotten the loneliness of that hospital bed covered in clear plastic. The fields of green washed away those painful memories until all that was left was the glow of joy within. A feeling of warmth and happiness flooded his being until he was sound asleep.

The clouds of dust folded over onto themselves and washed across the fields of time. Nothing remains the same on the surface. Yet, beneath, some things can never be erased.

As the sweat poured down my face, I slowly made another trip up the steep grade of the mountain, carrying one more log to the flatbed trailer. One after another, each tree that was cut was measured, then taken with care to the waiting trailer. Slowly, ever so slowly, the logs began to accumulate until there were as much as the tandem axles could handle. My body was drenched in perspiration. The later days of September were not yet cool even though we were in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. But there was no time to wait. The work had to be done and time was of the essence. Winter would soon be here, and our plans were to at least have the foundation to the new spiritual studio finished before the cold north winds began to blow. As I worked, the clouds began to build, and my mind drifted back to those long-ago days.

As I put the truck into gear and pulled away with my first load, 20 logs, my mind could see that grain truck bouncing down those dusty Pose County roads once more. My harvest had not been one of my own doing, but rather, this one was of God. I had not planted the seeds, but I was here to take in the harvest. Why and how I had come to this place were all a part of His plan. I was merely putting into action the next step in the journey. My harvest wasn’t the golden kernels of corn from my youth, but rather, the sweet, aromatic pines of the Appalachians.

Beautiful, straight, tall white pines littered the new land we had purchased, and with them, the perfect location to nestle the new studio that would become a new place of worship. As I worked, I was cautious to only clear enough trees for the new building. Even with being careful not to take down any unnecessary trees, it quickly became obvious that we might have enough to build most of the new building

By the second load, we had 41 logs total taken to the sawmill. Like those golden seeds of corn falling into the collection shaft behind the grain truck at the mill, the massive front-end loader at the sawmill took each load of logs from my trailer like a giant hand of God. The men running the mill told me that it might be a while before they got to them. So, like most things these days, I put it in God’s hands, trusting that when the time was right, they would call.

A few days ago, the sawmill operator called and asked me to stop by on my way home from school. The news sounded promising. When I pulled up, I found Tony, the operator, there waiting for me. Now at this point, to make a long story short, Tony had worked through some challenges, but in the end, God’s hand was in it. There he shared with me his testimony, and once again, I was reminded that no matter what we do, no matter where we go, the Master’s plan is at work. Through our connection, something beautiful had happened in Tony’s own life. He was now back in the graces of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He told me that in a few days, my logs would be finished. Just hearing him share his story with me that evening, I knew that in the end, the harvest was being done, one way or another.

Today, we brought home all those logs. Now not covered in rough bark, but sawn into useable lumber. Tony had masterfully gleaned every ounce of wood from those trees and turned them into a work of art; a massive trailer full of sweet-smelling wood. Their texture painted a golden glow. At that moment, a sense of accomplishment flooded over me, and my papaw’s memory flashed in my head. Yet, this time, the harvest was not just of what lay on the trailer, but also of another that had returned to his faith. The feeling of once more making all the right choices, taking the care needed to bring the harvest to fruition was something that taught a man many things of life. When the crops were ready, you knew. In the journey, you are never alone; God is with you.

Like Jesus telling his disciples, “Say not ye, There are yet four months, and then cometh harvest? behold, I say unto you, Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest.”-John 4:35 Like the patient farmer, Jesus knew his crops were ready. Then as now, we must recognize what we must do to serve. Jesus told them specifically, “Therefore said he unto them, The harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few: pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourers into his harvest.”-Luke 10:2

Like the farmer of old and the lumberjack of recent days, the feeling of one bringing in the bounty of a season of growth can be one of utter satisfaction. We may not be the ones to plant the seed, but when Jesus tells us to go forth and reap the harvest, how much greater joy can there be than to know you are harvesting the Lord’s crops? As Jesus also told his disciples, “Yea are now fishers of men.” We need only take his message to the world and once again, like in days of old, bring in the harvest, for the fields are white for the taking.

Let us not tarry, for time is of the essence.

Let us reap what He has sown.

Time to harvest.

Thanks be to God.

For specialized, custom sawmill work in the Caldwell County area of North Carolina, call master sawmill operator, Tony Moretz, at 828-493-0400 Tell him the Lord sent you, and he’ll know what you mean.

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by | February 10, 2016 · 10:20 pm

Create and Cultivate…

Strength, humbleness, and manhood; these are all the things that come to mind when I walk into a feed store as the complex aroma of seed, fertilizer and feed all confront my senses. To some, its just the smell of a Southern States, a Tractor Supply or a Rural King. To me, it’s the scent of that old mill back on the edge of our sleepy little town that sat on the banks of the Wabash River, New Harmony.imagesZVR5151V

As a small child, I would watch as my maternal grandfather would work to harvest the corn and magically fill the ancient grain truck with the golden, glowing life source that was to be his income and our food source. Sweat, dust, and hours of labor would go into creating that beautiful mound of golden kernels that sat in the back of the old truck as we rattled down the dusty old gravel road toward town. Grandpa never said why, how or what we were doing, other than the actions of loading, hauling, and driving. The gears would grind under his tanned fist that grasped the shift knob, the pattern of gears long ago worn away so that the operator would have to know its image in his mind. Green blurring fields would pass the open window as the hot September air would blast in my face.

Upon finally reaching the grain elevator, we would back up until the man on the loading dock would yell, “Whoa,” and then the truck would lurch to a jarring stop. Grandpa would reach down to another magic lever and the winding of the hydraulic ram would engage lifting the tons of corn in the back of the truck, spilling the contents of our labors into a grate built into the concrete, disappearing from site.

images8EXRP35VWe climbed the stairs onto the wooden platform to watch, wood so old it had been worn smooth from years of boots grinding the dust into its grain. Nails that held it in place had become one with the aged material, turning black and smooth dotting the walkway in a rhythmic pattern. The smell of grain was a sweet elixir. In the mind of a child, we had brought in the pretty grain that now filled the air with its rich perfume, only to be gone into the trench below us; gone forever. Somehow, my grandpa was happy, although he mumbled under his breath something about falling prices, a foreign language to me back then.

Happily, we climbed back into our rusty old machine and the gears once again grinded into action propelling us into a slow movement forward, pulling away from the mill.

“Are you hungry, boy,” Grandpa would ask smiling down at me, his jaw protruding with his tobacco chaw pulling his skin tight as he smiled a crooked grin.

My little buzz-cut head would nod yes, as I smiled ear to ear.

“You think you can eat a man’s portion today,” he’d say, smiling broadly. The old truck rumbled down the sleepy streets toward the downtown area.

Again, I would nod agreeing, not knowing what that meant other than it sounded like a lot of food.

After leaving the truck parked out front of the row of antique buildings that lined Main Street, we’d walk into the diner, the old door creaking as we entered and the rich smell of home cooked vittles would envelop your stomach, instantly reminding you of the hunger you had not realized had been there before. Ceiling fans circled quietly overhead, as a slight refreshing breeze caressed our sweat laden brows. Grandpa would find his favorite table and pull us up a chair, and put his arm around me.

“Whose this little man,” the waitress would come up smiling, pulling the pencil from behind her ear, preparing to write our order? Another waitress stopped by setting glasses of ice water on our table and smiling over the other’s shoulder as she looked at me like I was a puppy in the pet store window.

“This is my grandson,” Grandpa would reply, now minus the chaw in his jaw, once more smiling proudly.

“A cutie,” She’d say, smiling looking at my grandpa, winking an eye. Most people in town knew who I was and the story behind my mother and father, so for me to show up with my grandpa in town was just another whisper to pass between gossiping mouths.

“We’re going to have two of the specials today. Make them both the man’s meal.”

“You sure he can eat all that?”

He’d look down at me and wink, “Oh yeah, I know he can,” he’d say patting my shoulder,

“He’s my little man.”

The waitress would return soon enough with two plates of equal portion, setting the one before me and smiling, “I hope your hungry sweetie,” she’d say as she’d slide the check under my grandfather’s plate before leaving.

Then I’d dig in.

I’d eat and eat until I could barely move, but I would always eat all that had been set before me. Between my grandpa carrying on and the waitress exclaiming she’d never seen a little fellow eat so much before, I felt like a king.

As we climbed back into that old truck, the heat. The smell of grease and ages of dust would engulf the cab. Weary from the ride to town and the huge meal, I would fall asleep curled up on the threadbare seat before we hit the edge of town, as we rode the old grain truck back out to the farm.

Creating and cultivating began early in my life with knowing that the same place that we left our grain was the same place we bought our seeds. There was a certain well-being in knowing that the old mill was someplace that allowed us to use the earth from which God had created man, to plant the seeds of sustenance, the life-giving bread by which we could survive. Heaven would provide the sunlight and water if we would only be the caretakers of His domain. It was up to us to harvest the bounty and return once more with our precious golden cargo to begin the cycle all over.

Our job as farmers was to use what he gave us to the best of our abilities and to prepare what we could and then pray for sunshine and rain in due time.

Today, the old mill is gone. The vestiges of life that had its cycle of prosperity once and then faded, like the passing of time. Those were simpler times when everything stripped away revealed the barren nature of what it was to be a man, what it was to support your family and what it meant to work hard and reap the rewards. Being the man of the house meant something.

Today, we are constantly being bombarded with messages that try to erase our memories of what it takes to be the leader, the father, the man of the house. Yet, like those days of old, we must strip away all the noise and search for what is within.

We must plow our fields and prepare for the planting.

Yes, the good Lord created us all and it is up to us to cultivate His fields.

“Then God blessed them, and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and subdue it; have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over every living thing that moves on the earth. And God said, “See, I have given you every herb that yields seed which is on the face of all the earth, and every tree whose fruit yields seed; to you it shall be for food. 30 Also, to every beast of the earth, to every bird of the air, and to everything that creeps on the earth, in which there is life, I have given every green herb for food”; and it was so.” -GEN. 1:28-29

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by | July 13, 2013 · 1:44 pm

And the Thunder Rolled…

My daughter and I were just about to finish our run yesterday evening when there came the low rumble of thunder from off in the distant. Dark storm clouds had been brewing and rain was falling off and on all throughout the day, so we had caught an opportunity to get a couple miles in before the next downpour began. I thought about our safety and knew that if there was thunder, then somewhere there was lightning. It was this thought that made me hear the words again, “Would you please pass the corn,” ring in my ears once more.stormclouds

It was nearly forty years ago when we had been gathered at my paternal grandparent’s house for an afternoon dinner and were all gathered around the table. My grandparents didn’t have a fancy dining room, rather the large extended table sat in the kitchen, just an arms length away from the sink. Rain had been falling off and on throughout the day, much like yesterday, so we had decided to make it an afternoon spent indoors. The windows and doors were open as the sweet smell of grandma’s garden just outside the kitchen window wafted fragrances of ripening vegetables that would soon bless our table. Grace had just been performed and the passing of the food around the table had begun. Someone had missed out on the corn and obviously didn’t want to lose any ground so they asked out loud, “Would you please pass the c…?” Before they got the whole word out, there came a blast from above that shook the house, rang our ears and lit up the room all simultaneously.

Somewhat stunned we sat in awe of the power of God.

Before anyone could speak, my two female cousins who had been sitting a few feet away in the front room, came running into the kitchen telling us they had been hit by a blue ball of light that came out of the T.V. They had been watching the television when the lightning struck. They excitedly described that when it blew out the T.V., there came a ball of blue light rolling out of the set, directly toward them. Someone tried to rest their fears by saying it was probably like when someone took your picture and you would still see that bright light in your eyes for a short time afterward. They both adamantly denied this and once again reiterated the blue ball scene. They went on to tell us that the younger cousin had been sitting on the lap of the other and how the ball came straight for them and then passed through their stomachs. We all shook our heads in disbelief but disdained from further questioning in honor of their sanity. Years later, I would learn of this phenomenon known as “St. Elmo’s Fire” and how pilots would often see this happen in aircraft that would take a direct lighting strike while in flight. Often times, the blue ball would dance around the cockpit before finding a ground source to dissipate into. That day, however, we simply disbelievingly questioned the description of those who experienced the event.

The blue ball story had barely ended when someone returned from the front porch and exclaimed to all, “You ought to see the mess on the front porch.” We all leapt from our seats around the table and crowded around the front door, peering out into the scene before us. Thankfully nobody had been sitting outside when the bolt hit. Just a few feet off the front porch stood a giant majestic Sycamore tree. The side of the tree facing the house was now bare and the bark from it had been blasted all over the porch and surrounding yard. Upon further inspection, one of my uncles who had examined the house for any signs of damage explained how one of the guide wires from the T.V. antennae that stood next to the house was grounded to the Sycamore, which was probably one of the reasons it had been hit. Amazed and still somewhat in shock, we slowly made our way back to the kitchen table where our meal still sat, frozen in time, as if on pause. After everyone had made it back, we began in unison to continue where we left off. However, before getting very far someone speculated, as all had heard, that we shouldn’t ask for the, “Shhh,” someone said, “Don’t repeat it, we might take another hit and this one might be worse.” Then a discussion began about was it “corn” or was it “squash” that did it. The final consensus was the “corn” did it. So for the rest of the meal, just to be safe, we asked, “Would you please pass that,” and then would point to the appropriate dish even though corn was very touchy at that point.

rain_on_the_eaveWhile the meal resumed where it had left off, the rain began to come down again and the streams of droplets poured in tiny waterfalls. It added a tranquil sound to the talk around the table where we sat and ate fresh vegetables and other dishes grown or raised on the farm. Unlike today, we were in touch with the world around us, either feeling its effects through the atmosphere or by ingesting the food created therein.

Yesterday, after we finished our run, we took time to cool down, taking off our shoes and socks, letting our feet breathe before finally going inside to shower in the air-conditioned house. Nowadays, with all the windows shut tight and the man-made climate, we are losing touch with our world. The long hot summer days giving way to the cool crisp days of autumn have less significance. On the farm, back in those days with open windows, the summer months were hot even in the shadowed confines of the ancient home, so we moved a little slower, but the fall brought a new time; harvesting and gathering. With the change in season, we began to prepare for the cold winter months. Today in our, “have it now” world, we take less time in preparation from one season to the next. The only similarity is winter, where we are once again confined to the warmth of indoors.

The farther we move away from our connection to the earth, the farther we move away from who we are. Those who control our world would do well to step back in time and live for a short time outside of the man-made world. Maybe then their decisions would have little more foresight into what is truly important.

Today as I sit here writing the rain drops are falling on the skylights above me.

I thank God for rain and thunderstorms for they give us time to pause and reflect on life and days gone by.

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