Tag Archives: death

by | December 16, 2017 · 10:20 pm

A Mind Numbing Run…

It’s funny how when you are running, the thoughts of past runs or events of those times come back to mind. As it was this evening, as the faint light of winter played through the barren canopy overhead, my thoughts rambled back to another winter, another time. Then, the John’s river wasn’t flowing along my pathway as it was tonight, but rather the busy four-lane road going into Milton Florida.

I had been blessed by the company I worked for, to be able to work remotely for a couple weeks while I stayed with my mother who was in the final stages of terminal cancer. Although my job consisted of working nights, it was a time that gave me moments to sit with her when either I had come in from those long, brutal 3rd shift hours or was preparing to head off for another night. The in-between times, when there was strength, I would go for runs, for no other reason than to clear my head and think. In between runs, we spent her waking moments talking, working on her mailbox (the last project we ever worked on together), and watching Hallmark movies. It was bittersweet. The shell of the vibrant woman I had known all my life was nearly gone, her body withered to almost nothing, the skeletal remains were apparent, but within her the desire to live another day kept her going; that and her unending faith.

Seeing her like that made me want to work on my own physical being, as much as my spiritual. So, when she was sleeping, and I had enough sleep of my own, I would go for a run.

Many years before, when my life was at a different stage, I was allowed to train as a walk-on with the UF Cross Country team. Their training regimen was far more intense than I eventually could manage as a full-time engineering student and part-time lightning research technician. However, those few months that I was afforded the opportunity, I learned and experienced many new things; one of which was the cold bath treatment following those brutal speed workouts. After beating your body to a pulp, when the legs were like lead weights, you went into the bath or sauna room. There large pools of either hot or cold water awaited. The medical intent was to slow the hemorrhaging of your muscles so that they could heal more quickly after being torn to shreds; thus, allowing the recovery to ensue more quickly. This method of alternating between hot and cold pools was an amazing natural treatment.

Yet, in the real world, we rarely, if ever, find such an oasis of specific working out apparatus. At my mother’s home, there was only the winterized swimming pool, which was not heated. However, that winter, my mind was sometimes as numb as my legs following those runs. Again, they weren’t to train for any race or goal, they became my way to cope with what I was witnessing; seeing a parent leave you, one breath at a time. Yet, while it was surely a blessing to be with my mother as she prepared to pass from this life to the next, it was hard, and as such, the pain became the motivation to push my body harder during the runs. Afterward, shattered, tired and worn, I would wade into the nearly frozen pool and relive those college days of the cold tub; the body below my waist would chill to the point I could no longer feel anything. It was as if that part of my body had died, but was still with me. It was then that God was speaking to me, even though I didn’t realize it at the time, that he was telling me this was where I was headed; the separation of the previous life.

In scripture, we find Jesus telling his disciples, over and over again, that to truly follow him, we must leave everything behind. Paul reminded us of this fact when he said that we must die to our former selves, become numb to that previous life. “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.”-2 Corinthians 5:17 After we have repented and received Him, we find things begin to change in our lives. As we progress in the faith, we find that things of this world begin to lose their splendor. The feel, touch, and senses begin to need less. Our desire to satisfy the flesh no longer drives who we are, rather, we are driven by the Holy Spirit within, the one that beckons us to a new life.

If we were to wade into a nearly frozen river, the sting of the icy water around our flesh would at first present our physical being with a shock, but with time, the flesh would numb to the touch, and we would no longer feel the world in which we stood. Much like our walk in faith, as we find our sanctification through Christ, we learn to experience the world in the same manner. The sensual feelings are still there, but they no longer drive us, they no longer determine our path, but rather, our path is determined by Him. We can enjoy those earthly pleasures, but only to the point that we appreciate them being God’s blessing to us, for they are only momentary glimpses of what is to come. C.S Lewis described God’s natural blessings, the world around us, as mere snowdrops of miracles when compared to all that would and could occur in our Christian walk, knowing that someday, we will experience Heaven. In comparing, he wrote about Jesus walking on the water being of the New Creation, “That momentary glimpse was a snowdrop of a miracle. The snowdrops show that we have turned the corner of the year. Summer is coming. But it is a long way off, and snowdrops do not last long.”[1]

Mother is gone now, no longer with us here on earth. Her new home is that of the New Creation, Heaven above, a place where walking on water is allowed, and the senses are awakened to another reality we have yet to know.

My life changed dramatically following that winter. I too would leave everything behind to follow Him. Those nearly frozen, numb legs would be the beginning of my awakening. Eventually, all of me would feel that sensation of no longer needing the satisfaction of this world as my walk with Christ would become a way of life. There would be journeys to places I had never envisioned, experiences that only God could create, and new comprehensions of an ever-changing journey upon which I have chosen. Eventually, my full immersion would occur in that river along which I ran tonight, as I was Baptized in the faith. The circle had been made complete.

It’s odd how running can take you so many places when you really only set out to run just a couple of miles, and you wind up traveling much, much more; through time.

The river continues to flow, as time continues to march on. Each day we are one heartbeat closer to eternity. The questions I must ask, “Are you ready?” “Have you accepted Christ as your Savior?” To find that New Creation, that eternal home on high, we must, “Repent, Receive, and Regenerate into a new being,” as George Whitefield so famously preached, regarding being born again.

It’s not too late, do not wait another day. You never know when today may be your last.

Run while you can, life is short, and eternity with Him awaits.

Thanks be to God.

“Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death: that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life.”-Romans 6:4

[1] C.S. Lewis, “Miracles”, A Preliminary Study, 1947, Harper Collins.

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by | September 16, 2017 · 10:27 pm

Wings Like a Dove…

“And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.” -Psalm 55:6

Sometimes, these have to be told.

As I pulled my car into the Medical Center parking lot, the reason for the appointment wasn’t really on my mind. The modern brick façade was new enough to make you feel as if there was a certain level of unguaranteed trust, whether or not it was warranted. The entrance was as grand and intricately decorated as any five-star hotel. Lush vegetation covered detailed landscaped gardens that lined the building’s edges. As my eyes followed the beauty of the architecture and fauna, I suddenly spied an opening. There were several spots right up front, but it became clear most of them were handicap. Luckily, there was one just next to the last blue stenciled spot. My appointment was not for another hour, so I backed into the space and leaned the seat back; time for a quick nap.

The morning sun had just reached the top of the trees nearby, and soon I was gone.

It wasn’t long before the next thing I knew, I was on a plane returning from where I had come. The flight was overbooked, so finding a seat was difficult. This airline policy was simply, “First come, first served,” so if you find a seat, take it, no matter where it was on the plane. I pushed through the crowd and eventually found a seat near the front. The businessman seated next to me began to ask me questions about the purpose of my trip. Exhausted, I tried my best to give him my undivided attention but soon found myself drifting off once again. The hum of the jet engines melded with the man’s voice and became one.

Yet, once more, I found myself returning to the previous Medical Center parking lot, or at least I thought I was. This time, I reached the place where my car had been earlier, but now it was gone. An immediate slice of panic swept over my mind. “Had my car been towed,” I thought, trying to recall what had transpired since my last visit. There at the end of the marked spot were signs indicating Reserved Spaces, which only those specific numbered decals were allowed to be used. Again, the anxiety of not finding my car raced through my consciousness until the realization of what I was doing became apparent.

There would be no need for the car.

From that point on, I tried to find the elaborate entrance, but it too was missing. My flight path soon took me from one similarly decorated building after another. The complex all seemed to match as did many of the newer office parks these days. Eventually tired of sight-seeing, I glided into a European style restaurant with stucco rock walls, dark wood chair rails, and white tablecloths. The people dining didn’t’ seem to mind me hovering over the tables. Before long I found a waiter that gave me directions to the correct building. Assuring me that I was not totally lost, he said it was simply up the hill and around the corner. Carefully I turned and began floating toward the door. It was more challenging to fly in a restaurant than you might think. Your arms and legs have to be accounted for because they are now at table height instead of at your side or beneath you as when you walk. In my previous flights across fields and trees, there was no fear of bumping into something. Back in those days, it was simply a matter of maintaining altitude. Where your arms and legs were located mattered little. In fact, most of the time, in those days, I was flapping or kicking them to keep going. If one thing had changed, it was definitely the ability to control my aeronautical maneuvers. Never before would it have been possible to fly so steadily indoors, especially in a dining facility without knocking over a whole table of food. We often take for granted what we use in navigating our way through an eating establishment. It’s nice to have an appropriate aisle through which to walk, but flight paths rarely considered. In addition, you just can’t zip up to the ceiling and be on your way. No, there are ceiling fans with which care must also be taken. When I eventually found my way back outside, it was with a great sigh of relief that I quickly flew toward the correct building for which I had previously searched.

There it was, the grand entrance.

Carefully, I made my way through the automatic doors. The hiss of their opening seemed to pull me in; softly and silently. The foyer was as beautiful as the outside. A splendid chandelier hung over the marble floor. The sunlight through the surrounding glass walls gleamed off the floor making it seem almost like the sky opened up below me instead of above. A wide staircase flowed from an upper room down to the glowing floor, along which an intricately woven metal handrail stood.

“We’re so glad you made it back,” the doctor said as he walked down the stairs toward the bottom step. His voice was like many at once, yet saying nothing out loud.  I hadn’t noticed him when I first entered. He was wearing a typical white doctor’s smock that seemed to radiate with light.

I carefully alit in a standing position from my flying position upon the glass-like floor. In the back of my mind, something said, “That was a first.” Never before had I landed on my feet when having taken flight; at least not successfully without waking myself. Usually, there was an ugly near crash and then that moment when you awaken having shaken yourself out of the dream. Yet, this time was different.

Standing there in the glow of the Great Physician, there was a completeness about it all. Somehow, I didn’t fear what he was about to tell me nor did I seem to want for anything; it was as if all was well with anything and everything.

“You are healed,” He said.

A joy came over me like nothing I had ever known before.

The faint glow of the morning sun was just beginning to filter through the bedroom windows when I opened my eyes.

It was Saturday, and there was so much to do. I sat up on the edge of the bed and thought about what had just transpired. There was an incredible longing to return to that place, that feeling. Turning, I looked back at the softness of the pillow, then turned to face the day.

God would welcome me home, just not today.

Thanks be to God.

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by | September 2, 2017 · 10:09 pm

The Rivers We Cross…

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by your name;
You are Mine.
2 When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.
When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,
Nor shall the flame scorch you.
3 For I am the Lord your God,…” – Isaiah 48:1-3

Before me, the mountains lay shrouded in the mist.

Grandfather remains hidden under dark skies. He doesn’t want to be bothered today. The rain had cleared long enough for a short hike, so here I stand watching as clouds like waves on the ocean, crash against the shoreline. In calm, quiet, but formidable stealth, each one smashes against the bulwark of the peaks yet to be engulfed by the coming storms. Somewhere below the mist lay the sleepy little village of Collettsville. Along its main street lined with mill town houses the John’s River flows, clear and cold. Part of my walk had already taken me past its banks confirming that the water was once more, clear of the day’s rains. My mind thought of the recent journeys to church and how for three Sundays in a row I had crossed the river to reach the other side. It became part of my personal challenge. As I explained it to Pastor Joe, it made me appreciate being able to make it to church. In life, we often take for granted the ease with which we worship and all that has made that possible. This summer’s journey had made me more aware of this fact than ever before. So, as part of my weekly walk to Sunday morning preaching, fording the John’s River became my rite of passage, so to speak. Each time I encountered a new twist, a new challenge. Each time, there were the difficulties making it out of the river and up the steep bank on the town side of the water. It made me think of how we often cross our own rivers.

Both my mother and father have gone on. They have both crossed their River of Jordan to reach that far distant shore. Each passed in their own way, but it was my blessing to have had the opportunity to say goodbye to each of them before they stepped into the current and began their journey across; God made that possible. I was not there on the other side to welcome them home, but in some instance, I know they both had steep embankments up which they had to struggle; death did not come easy. So it is for many who have died, and for those times we pray that the Lord give them comfort in their time of crossing. We would want the same. As Christ suffered on the cross for our sins, he too felt the painful anguish of death’s sting, but he was not defeated by it. From life to death we all shall pass, but where we finish is up to us; a choice that must be made here on this side of that beautiful flowing strand.

“A decision many fail to make in time,” I thought to myself, standing there admiring God’s beauty even in the midst of an approaching storm.

The stillness was broken by a shrill snort. Behind me on a tree-covered peak beyond where I stood, a buck huffed irreverently at me; my presence had encroached upon his domain. One couldn’t help to think that perhaps he was as enamored with the scene as was I. The crickets spoke of the coming darkness, so I made my way back down the slope to home leaving the deer to his peace. My thoughts meandered back to the clear flowing waters. Tomorrow I would try once more to find myself wading the waters to reach the sanctuary, challenged but not diminished by what it took to reach that distant shore. The first step is always the hardest.

Likewise, when we decide to take our leap of faith and commit our lives to serving the Lord, the first step is the most difficult. Stepping from the safety of the shore into the unknown can be enough to cause us to reconsider our decision. We think it is all our doing, that we’ll have to make it on our own. What we often fail to realize is that once we begin our journey with Him, that is Him, God, that will be there to help make up the differences we cannot fathom. So when we finally realize that we are not alone, we can make that first step.

The freezing water at first is like burning fire, but with time, we become numb to its pain. As we learn to trust in Him, we are able to carry on, pushing forward, becoming numb to our previous fears. The current is strong, and it takes every ounce of strength to take each new step, yet we are not deterred. In our weakness, we become strong in Him. The reward we seek is far greater than the obstacles that try to dissuade us from reaching that distant shore. The cold has lessened the pains; still, we continue on regardless of what others might say or think. Once we find ourselves committed, standing on the brink of the rushing waters, we still struggle to make the crossing. They never said it would be easy. Trial and tribulation buffet us like the coming storms before me this night. Below the surface, rocks make each step painful as our bare feet seek to guide our way. Meanwhile, we are burdened down by the past life; financially and emotionally. The anchor of our self-inflicted burdens become unwanted drag against the current. Breaking free is in some ways as difficult as dying. In essence, we must die to our formers selves so that we made be made anew in Christ. As Paul said, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” We tend to try to bring the past with us, and the problems therein. With persistence, we push on. One by one, we set our burdens free, lightening our load. As we learn to walk in our faith, those restraints that kept us shackled to the past are broken away, and we are set free.

With each step, we find a rhythm to the river’s bottom, and soon, we are beginning to find the nearing distant shore. We know we are on the right path for the current is against us, like those trials through which we persevere, the build our character, and with each one, we become stronger in our faith. Once we make landfall, we wearily climb up out of the river, careful not to slip and fall back in. Looking down from above, we can see from whence we came. There is peace in knowing that you have made it through the storm. There is peace in knowing that with Him, all things are possible, and because of Him, we have that distant shore for which we may strive.
The choice is ours.

Step into the water and begin your journey.

You’ll not turn back, for if it is His will, then it shall be done.

Thanks be to God.

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by | July 3, 2017 · 3:46 am

Day 1: The Sun Rise in Garnier

“The heart is deceitful above all things, And desperately wicked; Who can know it? I, the Lord, search the heart, I test the mind, Even to give every man according to his ways, According to the fruit of his doings.” -Jeremiah 17:9-10

Day 1: The Sun Rises on Garnier: Across a landscape, broken only by the stonework of ancient hands, they work in the coolness of the morning hour. Down the lower reaches of the valley toward Torre Pellice, the sun has not yet risen above the shoulder of yonder mountain. Wildflowers speckle the roadsides, their colors a delicate compliment of their domesticated cousins bountifully arrayed in gardens lining the narrow roadsides, each carefully placed in the precious soil of which there is so little. In the shadowed hour, men work carrying irrigation equipment, placing them where the previous circle of showers has missed. Here the crisp pre-dawn air, one can see their breath. The hayfields they grow have already had their first cutting. These are not expansive pastures as we know them in the U.S.; rather, they are smaller plots, divided up so that once the hay is cut, they become natural intensive grazing lands; everything having a purpose in time. In these Alpine valleys, the growing season is short, so every minute of every day is taken with consideration of the long winter that lay ahead.

The men move quickly, their bodies lean from years of difficult manual labor. Neither of the two I watch are young; one appears to be in his late thirties while the other is at least in his early sixties. They do not seem to tire as they move from one field to the next at a pace that would belie a younger man. In these narrow passages, with sharp precipices falling away below, there isn’t room for mechanized machinery from whence more can be done with less. Here, as in times dating back to antiquity, the work must be done with the toil of one’s back and the sweat of their brow.

From my vantage point, sitting on one of the low rock walls, they see me and smile, waving only briefly before pressing on to the next field. Pencil and paper in hand, my eyes try to convey what my hands cannot feel. Their energy seems to buoy up my own. The expected jet lag seems non existent. My hand races to draw the quickly changing scene. Part of me wants to don my old farm clothes and jump into the fray, yet, there is a realization that cannot be dismissed; they would find my strength and stamina far below what they take for granted. My help may be appreciated but would only slow them down. They have a method to their labor, something which more than a classroom can afford, theirs is a tradition handed down from one generation to the next; a multitude of lifetimes of lessons learned.

The irony of it all.

They willingly devote their lives to living off the land, knowing every nuance necessary to eke out the meager existence from this demanding countryside. In their labors, they take nothing for granted, for years of struggle and toil have taught them well. Yet, in their labor, the body, soul, and spirit are sometimes neglected for the sake of striving to make the reality of life work.

How blessed is the man that understands both; the ability to take nothing for granted, but to worship and fulfill God’s commandment as much as he toils upon the land from whence all creation was given; the internment of time. We reap what we sow. Yet, one can become so consumed with living in faith that he fails to tend to the soil upon which all life is sustained; it is a precarious balance that is not easily maintained. As it says in the Bible, “It rains on the just, and the unjust…”.

Many times, we wish it would just rain.

In our faith, we can be lean and agile in what we do. We can remain close to the Word, living out our lives in Christ-like manner. Striving to be a light to those around us, and in our daily walk alone, we can become a true representation of what it is to be a Christian. Yet, some find this life of daily devotion and devote worship far too difficult. Some even remark it is unrealistic to be so “religious.’ To these naysayers, they must see the results of mankind’s slow erosion of the truth. Around them churches seek to become the center of entertainment, filling the void each day with something, anything, just to get folks in the door. The cumbersome trappings of man’s desires only slow us down. When there aren’t enough reasons to hold a party, they invent meaningful tributes to bygone saints. Over time, well-meaning memorials become tiresome traditions. They weigh our souls and burden the truth with details that are without biblical basis. These become the distractions that often lead many into a world of despair and hopelessness. As Jesus warned, we are saved by Grace, not by the law.

The stone wall upon which I sit, built decades or maybe even centuries before, a testament to the labor of those gone on before. There are no names to remind us of their creator, only the stories passed down from one generation to the next. A legacy can only by as such, if the subsequent generations to come know of it’s history.

When all else falls away in life, when our bodies come to that final resting spot, it is then that those left behind finally take the time to reflect and take note of all that has transpired. The breath of life has left the one they loved, their spirit is gone. All that remains is the legacy of who they were. Those that survive are left wondering what was it all for? What had they done with a life in which they served only one master; themselves? There is nothing left to advance the hope of an eternal life for those that have passed. Yet, when the one that has gone served a higher calling, but still worked the land with regard to being the caretaker for God’s creation, it is then we realize that they had served the real Master. Their final journey not complete, for one day, they too will reach the right hand of God the Father, and then, when the trumpet sounds, they will have all eternity in which to take a respite of their previous life’s toil. When we see a culmination of a life well-served and a life well-lived, we can rejoice in seeing what it is to be one with Christ. In the knowing, there is a peace returned to our soul.

A cool breezed passes before my countenance as I return to the present.  The sprinklers pulsate in a syncopation while in the distance, the roar of the torrent can be heard. It’s a constant reminder of the abundance of refreshing, life-giving fluid that is necessary to sustain everything that lives. There is the feeling of an energy it exudes, just by the very sound of its distant, gentle white noise. An occasional songbird breaks the trance. Above the dark nearby hillsides, the glow of the sunrise begins to brighten the upper reaches of the still snow-covered peaks of the mountain tops. Above their majestic summits, the blue skies show no trace of clouds.

We know not what lies ahead. Nearby the rooster crows as the shadows slowly slip away. God’s creation stands before us and the day is young. What lies beyond the next bend in the road only time will tell.

A beautiful day awaits.

Thanks be to God.

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by | June 22, 2017 · 8:14 pm

Day 6: Costelluzza: A Solemn Reminder

Day 6: Costelluzza

The rocks were damp to the touch, but the coolness and relief from the flies was refreshing. The climb through the forest was intense. All around the sparse trail, plush ferns grew, blanketing the forest floor. Here and there, granite boulders peaked above the greenery, their stillness matching that of the tree trunks that stood towering to the canopy overhead. Only two days before, we had scaled a mountain reaching 9137 feet while watching the world from high above the tall waterfall that cascades down into the Germanasca valley. Today’s climb seemed more intense, more purpose-driven.

Briars ripped at my flesh, exposing streaming trails of blood down my forearms. “Battle wounds,” I mused to myself. As I caught the group that had been dropped off ahead of mine, I was stopped by a very caring, dear, EMT trained student who was traveling with us, Nadine, who insisted she bandage my wounds. Looking back, it was just as if we had fought through enemy lines, and one-by-one, we were taking care of the wounded before we ascended further. Once my dressing was complete, and the remainder of my team arrived, we rushed onward.

Mount Costelluzza, overlooking Torre Pellice, Italy.

As we climbed, it felt as if something were driving us.

There was a sense of urgency to the ascent.

In the back of our minds, the story of the people of the valleys fleeing their persecutors, looking for refuge here on this mountain peak which overlooked their village kept driving us onward. Some may have sought shelter from the cave below, but their attackers followed too closely, so in a sheer panic, they tore at the rock, hands, feet, anything that could grasp. The air emptied from their lungs, as their hearts beat in their ears. Their body’s energy spent, they called upon God to deliver them. Inside, a force from on high lifted them, their pains erased as the chill of the Spirit came over their beings. One by one, they reached the summit only to find that the men below, pushed by the darkness that ruled their world, would not stop their pursuit. There on the edge of the earthly terrain, the chasm opening to the depths below; the drop which plummeted beyond where the eye could follow. Nowhere else to run, they turned to meet their attackers.

Some knelt in prayer, others embraced their loved ones, while some chose to resist, but in vain.

The crime for which they were sought for slaughter was only to worship, possess, and evangelize the Bible. To these Waldensians, as they came to be known, the Word was real. Their scriptures came alive, they became part of who they were. Some might imagine them reading the scriptures as thus, “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld his Glory,” and for this they believed the words written when He said, “ Go therefore[c] and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20 teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” Amen.”

It is written that the blood of the martyrs became the seeds of the Reformation.

Some say over three-thousand were thrown to their deaths that day. John Milton would be so moved, that he would pen the words to the sonnet, “On the Late Massacre in Piedmont.”

“Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold, Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones; Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O’er all th’ Italian fields where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who having learnt thy way Early may fly the Babylonian woe.”

I sat on the cool boulder within the shadows of the cave. Looking out on that solemn stone surface, the edge of the earth disappearing before me, the mist of the sky becoming one with the feeling of sorrow filling my soul. I ate in silence, feeding my body’s need for nourishment. From the protection of the stones, I sat and chewed, trying to absorb the moment. There was no joy in that sustenance, only that it would allow me the strength to descend from this point. Something inside me wanted to hold onto this place. Part of me wanted to keep its memory in me, but fear of feeling that pain of remorse, the depths of which paled in comparison to the heights at which so many fell from when they met their fate on the horrific Easter day so many years ago, it all was so difficult to comprehend.

The sheer tragedy so long ago was still here; its mark forever cast upon the granite, like gravestones of the perished.

They did not all die. For if it were so, I would not be here to tell you of this story today.

Our tale continues.

Yes, the light still continues to shine in the darkness.

The students came, slowly, painfully, but they came. The pestilence of flies flew in clouds about our bodies. Satan himself vying for attention in a place he had claimed his own, its darkness could still not overpower the faith that was shared. As the testimony was called upon, the air seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. His Word was spoken, out loud, freely with no fear.

God wiped his hand across our vestiges, and the darkness subsided; the cloud of flies dispersed. In the distance, thunder rumbled a warning. Not yet fully recuperated, we began racing for the trail to descend. Weary legs were called upon to carry us safely down the rocky path, winding back and forth in a seemingly never-ending drop down the backside of this monolithic reminder of the martyrs that have gone on before.

Our time at the summit was brief, yet the impact of its solemnness will live with us forever.

There is so much more to tell, but the gravity of this journey weighs heavy upon the soul. It will take time for its meaning and purpose to come to fruition in my life, as well as all those that made the journey that day.

I’m thankful beyond measure and blessed beyond belief to have made the trip, for with God, all things are possible. To know the obstacles that stood in the way, would in itself be enough to write about, but there is so much more to the story.

With time, it will come.

In all that we do, let us give thanks.

Thanks be to God.

{Events described herein were from the recent Mission to R.I.D.E, my first ever, journey to the Waldensian Valleys in the Cottien Region of the Italian Alps. My trip was made possible in part to many wonderful contributors, to whom I cannot thank enough, and to Andrews University, for allowing me to ride along with their inspiring group of young adults, to whom I will forever be thankful. Thanks to Professor Kathy Demsky and her husband Conrad, for being such an inspiration.  My journey would not have been the same without my traveling companion and brother in Christ, Barry Mahorney. Lastly, but not least, I give thanks to God the Father, for all that he has blessed us with, both at home and around the world. Thanks be to God.}

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by | May 4, 2017 · 9:15 pm

Welcome Home, Dave, Welcome Home…

 Another soldier, and brother in Christ was called home today.

Brother Dave Murph went to that far distant shore. The first words he might have heard were, “Welcome home my son, I knew you’d come. Welcome home, you’re here for good. Look around, was it worth the wait? Welcome home, step through the gate.” These were the first few words of the chorus to the song recorded by Dave and the Gospel Plowboys called “Welcome Home”.

Tonight these poignant verses touch my heart deeply. One cannot help to sit and listen to this beautiful rendition of “Welcome Home,” by the Gospel Plowboys and think of Dave.

His passing has touched me in a way I can’t describe in mere words.

To know Dave was to know true faith.

Seeing him and the rest of the Gospel Plowboys for the first time, a few years back, in person at the Denton Bluegrass Festival was a treat in and of itself. I had heard them on recordings and videos on YouTube. I knew that someday our paths would cross. On that peaceful May evening, I heard the band like never before, in person. That is when I came to know the real David Murph and what his calling in life was meant to be. His witness there on stage that evening was nothing fake, no façade of an image for the sake of selling something, it wasn’t an act, it was the real deal. With his hand raised in testimony as he spoke, there was no rush for the need of getting to the show, for the sharing of God’s Word was what he felt in his heart and on his lips. Standing underneath the stage lights, their crisp white shirts stood in stark contrast to the blue of their Pointer Brand denim overalls and red matching ties. There was a statement in what they wore which matched as much who they were as much as what they were about. They were truly living for God.

It was that same moving evening that Dave had found me. It seemed we both had wanted to meet for some time. God had finally put us together, and from there a friendship grew. Our kinship was in Him, and through our personal commitments to follow God’s plan, we had crossed paths, and as such, we had a common goal; to share His Word in all we did; Dave through the music I loved, and myself through my writing. That weekend we met and talked about all that we shared and what Dave had hoped would someday be an article that we would hopefully submit to “Our State” magazine. In my interviews with the band, I learned how they would always pray on stage before starting their show or performance, regardless of where they were. One evening, at a Fiddler’s Convention Contest, they debated whether to pray before their competition. Knowing that they could be disqualified for praying beforehand, Dave told me, “It didn’t matter if we won or not, we were there to lift up God, and that’s just what we did.” That evening, they were never disqualified, never stopped, for after praying, they went on to play the winning songs that they became known for, and never looked back. It was who they were, there to serve Him.

However, that article we worked on that precious weekend was not meant to be. One thing after another kept putting off our editing and publication request. They performed near where we lived at the time at Cumnock Baptist Church. Looking back, I didn’t realize it would be the last time I would get to see Dave. We never know when or where we’ll be called home, but I know in my heart, Dave was ready. A few months later, I called Dave after seeing Rita, his devoted, lovely wife,  post an update on his health; it concerned me. When he answered the phone, we picked up right where we had left off; a friend is a friend no matter the distance or time. He shared with me his battle with his disease and how he knew God would lead him through whatever this world would put in his way. He wanted to know where I was in my life, so I talked with him of my own personal leap of faith. That day I was literally driving down the road on the way to start my new journey as the Director at the Trail of Faith. I told him how he had inspired me to go further in my faith, and for that, I was forever grateful. Once more, my friend was doing what God had intended for him to do, lift up others through his message. Although he was suffering and battling the disease that eventually claimed his life, he was not complaining, nor discouraged. He only wanted to get better so that he could continue the ministry God had placed before him. We said goodbye hoping to meet again soon, but it never happened. Dave went on to get well that particular time and eventually he and the Plowboys would make it to the Outer Banks Bluegrass Festival where I’m certain they found many more to whom they could share the faith. In the meantime, he and the Plowboys went on to record what would be Dave’s final album, titled, “The Gospel Plowboys – Welcome Home.”

The title cut says it all in a prophetic message that cannot be denied.

It wasn’t but just a few days ago that his wife Rita posted how he had become gravely ill. It didn’t seem right to know that a man my own age was so near death. It didn’t seem fair. He had so much more to give. But when the Father calls you home, you do not tarry, you do not delay.

As I walked home from Church last night, I could hear the sound of a lonesome whippoorwill calling. It was almost dark by the time I found the porch steps. The deep woods call of the lonely bird made me think of souls that had gone on and how in their journey to Heaven’s shore happens in the twinkling of an eye, leaving us sorrowful souls behind, alone in the dark to sing praises singularly until we too will one day be called home to sing in that Heavenly choir. Dave and our other bluegrass buddies like Randy Shumaker are surely there, jamming around that campfire along with so many who have already gone on, singing and rejoicing in the glow of God’s graces. They have so much to look forward to, and so much to share with us on the glorious day of reunion.

Somewhere I have the article that we started. I might find it and glean pieces from it that speak about Dave. Perhaps it will inspire me to write something, perhaps not; either way, there’s a wake in his passing that I cannot ignore.

A great man, a loving husband, a dear grandfather, and a brother in Christ has left us, and God has gained another angel.

See you soon Dave, until then, give God the glory and tell Him I said, Thanks.

Please lift up prayers for Rita and the rest of Dave’s family as they struggle through this time of loss and sorrow.

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by | November 19, 2016 · 10:47 pm

What Paradise Lost, Heaven hath Gained…#singforSophie

Alone I walked, contemplating all that had transpired.

The canopy overhead was quickly changing from its autumn wardrobe to the haunting skeleton of winter. In the distance, a cold front approached. A sense of foreboding loomed, causing me to seek my daily walk sooner, than later. I pulled my collar up against the chill and hurried my pace.

A single leaf drifted toward my face as I walked, then danced ahead as if skipping along in thought. I stopped walking and watched the wondrous image to see where it might land. Its flight led my eyes to the rocky cliff along the trail. Granite boulders covered with moss and lichens formed the backdrop that towered far above where I stood. Intertwined in the rock were roots and vines, like the veins of a being, resting for time immemorial. “How long they had been there? How long would they be there after we are gone,” were the thoughts that passed through my head as I pondered at that moment.

Our lives often seem fleeting as the fallen leaves when compared to those of stone walls.

The Word tells us that we are nothing more than like the grass of the field, the flowers will fade away, and the grass will surely die. “…because, All flesh is as grass, And all the glory of man[b] as the flower of the grass. The grass withers, And its flower falls away,25 But the word of the Lord endures forever.” – 1Peter 1:24-25

The flowers of the field are a beauty to behold, but nothing can prepare us for when those precious blooms are picked before their prime.

Even though the distance is far, the thought is ever present of one such precious bloom being picked; a recent tragic loss of life.

Last week, an automobile accident in Indiana saw three generations of the one family perish. The Reinhart family, in one fatal night, lost their father David, grandmother, Ruth Ann, and daughter, Sophie. I had heard about this tragedy through my cousin Jeff, who had not only been friends with the father since childhood but likewise, his daughters had been close friends with Jeff’s. Sophie was a star of the Castle High School marching band and school choral group, “The Castle Sensations.” They had been returning late from a band competition in Indianapolis when the Reinhart’s car hit a deer. Fearing the car might not make it any farther, David pulled off the road to assess the damage. The next thing was the sound of squealing tires, lights, and the explosion of the impact.  A drunk driver crashed into their car, in what became a multi-car pileup on the interstate; a horrific tragedy, and an unbelievable loss to the small communities of Paradise, Newburgh and the surrounding area of Indiana.

We never want to hear the news, nor get that phone call of events like this, yet it happens.

Many ask, “Why does God allow things like this happen to good people?”

Often, the answer that sometimes helps is, “Because it strengthens those who are left behind.” But there are times when that answer just doesn’t seem justifiable, especially when there is one too young to carry the burden remaining.

When my cousin Mike passed, we had all gathered around grandma’s kitchen table and were struggling to make sense of it all. Mike had just turned 21 and was a more than just a towering figure to the rest of us kids, but he was also someone we looked up to as our leader, our rock to whom we could turn. Now, there we all sat, trying to understand the how and why of it all. Her hand emerged from behind the crowd surrounding that ancient kitchen table, leaning into the center and placed a yellow lily sitting in a clear glass of water into the middle. My cousin Peggy asked, “What is that for grandma?” We all turned to look at her. There was but a shimmer of a tear in her eyes as she replied solemnly, “When you walk into a field of flowers, don’t you always pick the prettiest one?”

“Yes,” Peggy replied, in a hesitant, wondering tone.

“God needed another beautiful flower for the Master’s bouquet.”

All of our eyes turned toward the new single centerpiece of that table and thought of all the fond memories of Michael. It was a moment I will never forget. It was as if she had asked God to speak to each of us, comforting us each by our own memories; peace enveloped that tiny kitchen so long ago as Jesus helped us through another dark time. Grandma prayed over us all as Jesus touched our hearts.

In all of the sorrow of that horrific wreck on that dark, lonely road in Indiana, there was a single shining light. One flicker of hope for the family that had in an instant suffered so greatly, a lone survivor. Dave’s other daughter who was riding with them miraculously endured the disaster with only minor injuries. In the coming days, weeks, and years, that young daughter’s faith, as well as the rest of the family, will be tested. They will have to learn what substance is hoped for, in the evidence of the things that cannot be seen. The surviving daughter will relive that night for the rest of her life, that night where in the blink of an eye, her world became a living nightmare. They will have to lean on the everlasting cross, for in Him, they will find the strength and comfort to carry on.

“Faith is the substance of things hoped for, evidence of things unseen.”- Hebrews 11:1

All of this turns through my mind as my trail twists and turns through the ever-changing forest. “Why God, do you not let me walk in peace,” I asked, looking into the clear blue skies? A flurry of leaves swirl above me, then rush ahead disappearing into the darkness. 

A child, her sister, and their mother are left to carry on in a world that’s been altered from what seemed like the path that God had chosen. Ripped from its foundation, their very existence has been skewed so that now, they have to face a reality that seems anything but real.

My pathway passes the rapids on the Johns River where I stop to pause once more.

Then came the voice, “What Paradise has lost, Heaven has gained.”

God calls us home at the most unexpected times. Those that heard the beautiful, gracious young lady sing in person can easily see Sophie joining the angelic choir as her father and grandmother proudly look on; it has to be, it just does.

The heaviness for those mourning the loss of loved ones is felt in my heart as I watch the water pass over the rocks in gushing, white torrents.

Life is like the river.

Time is constantly passing like the current, with moments of upheaval and dire consequences when the world collides against those granite edifices creating chaos. In theses chaotic moments, we find our faith with both hands and embrace it tightly to our chests. When they slowly ebb back to normal, we return to the gentle currents where we seemingly pass from day-to-day unthinking; yet, constantly, time is passing on, like the current. Around a bend the water finds a swirling pool where the rush of life comes to a halt, peace and calmness follow. God’s purpose even in the time of great upheaval can find serenity and healing. Eventually, the water and life continue, time passing on, as the current flows onward.

What we lose on earth, heaven finds as a reward. We can find comfort in knowing that there is an even greater joy when we reach that golden shore. There waiting for us will be an angel dressed in white singing for all the ages.

These things we can only pray, for all those affected, for all those hurting; God is there for each of you.

These things we pray in God’s Holy Name,

Amen.

“Let not your heart be troubled; you believe in God, believe also in Me. 2 In My Father’s house are many mansions;[a] if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.[b] 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also. 4 And where I go you know, and the way you know.” -John 14:1-4

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by | November 9, 2016 · 8:00 am

Full Circle…

“that in the dispensation of the fullness of the times He might gather together in one all things in Christ, both[a] which are in heaven and which are on earth—in Him.” -Ephesians 1:10

All I can remember was the journey, the trip back in time.

The farther we traveled, the more mountainous became the terrain until it was obvious we had mountaingraveyard2reached a point high above the tree line. My guide was a younger man whose demeanor evoked a strength no mortal could match, but yet, he carried himself in such a manner that I felt more than comfortable in his presence. His clothes were those of an ancient warrior, tunic across his broad, massive chest, with a leather strap around his waist that could have held a broadsword at one time. His hair was long and black blowing in the high-altitude winds lapping at his shoulders. If I didn’t know better, I could sense him being something more than human, something of a higher power, yet not willing to use that force unless called upon.

I followed him past large dark foreboding boulders whose shadows gave me a chill and then onward past cliff faces where the depths beyond their fragile edges were bottomless blue vistas of certain death. Yet, as we traveled this pathway of terror, I did not fear for anything as he comforted me in a way his countenance embodied that of an angelic being. Effortlessly up the steep climb we hiked until we rounded a turn in the trail that came upon a cleared but hilly pasture. The ground was punctuated with objects strewn all around us. At a glance, I thought them to be large rocks. In this field stood a woman of later years, dressed as the warrior, in an ancient wardrobe unlike any I’d ever seen. Her age could not contain the inner beauty which shone through the physical years; yet when she spoke, her beauty was matched only by her wisdom. Although she evoked a loveliness, her face was shadowed from the sun so that I could never get a clear view; shrouded as if in secrecy.

My escort introduced me to her and then left us, vanishing before I could thank him for his efforts. 2014-05-06 20.31.20The woman then began to explain to me why I was here and what it was we were to do. It was then I realized the rocky cleft of a field was littered not with rocks but with aged tombstones, all wrapped in cloth, as if ready to be shipped away. The lady then explained that we were transporting all of these back to where I had come from, to return them to the present; this was my mission. She explained that we would be loading each of the headstones into a trailer. Then she asked what seemed to me to be an odd question. She wanted to know if I thought we should use a closed trailer, sealed off from the air or if I thought an open trailer, one that could breathe and have air flow through it would be better; for some reason, I chose the latter, unbeknownst to me why. She smiled and agreed that I had chosen well.

There were others there, yet they never became bright enough to shine more than mere shadows. These beings helped us load the heavy stones into the tractor trailer, and when we had finished, I too climbed in. Before I departed in the trailer with the tombstones, the woman spoke to me and said, “You are the first to have come full circle; thus, you’ve been chosen as their escort back in time,” and with that, the trailer was off, flying through the air. The clouds and sky shone below the wire mesh floor upon which I stood, speeding past as we flew. Above me, through the wire mesh ceiling, I could see more sky, filled with deep shades of Prussian blue dotted with the sparkling lights of distant stars. How long we flew and where or if we landed I don’t know.

I awoke and turned to look at the clock; too soon, too soon.

My life has become a passage in time where the clock becomes merely an observation, not a limitation. To understand it all, or to even attempt to grasp the reality from whence we have come to now is an attempt to grab the wisp of a cloud in the distant sunset; futile. The only thing that belies a steady keel of comfort is the Word and the truth therein.

As fall gently slips into winter, I sip from my mug the bitter, dark brew each morning by the light of the fire and embrace every sentence with reverent awe. Coming full circle in life at times with the voices of those gone on before is the sweetness for my drink.

These are my days as we walk down this new path. Every step another page in the journey.

My paradigm shift has brought me back to so many beginnings that only the recognition of God’s hand at work can fathom the interworking of this story.

Someday, when we are gathered around His throne, we’ll be able to understand the how and why. For now, we should not tarry but carry on, His mission for us is yet to be fulfilled.

These and many more blessings are just a few of things for which we can be thankful this November.

And as always, Thanks, Be to God!

 

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by | September 12, 2016 · 9:34 pm

A Tree, A River, and the Word…

treebyriver

““Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, And whose hope is the Lord. 8 For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters, Which spreads out its roots by the river, And will not fear when heat comes; But its leaf will be green, And will not be anxious in the year of drought, Nor will cease from yielding fruit.”-Jeremiah 17:7-8

There are the long spells of time when all is well with my soul, and nothing seems to cause me to take pause. But then out of the blue, it’s as if I’ve been woken up from a long sleep, and suddenly there’s the sinking feeling that there is a looming appointment that’s been forgotten; panic and dread begin to well up inside like a cauldron of hopelessness. These anxious moments are my days and nights lately. Like a lone survivor of a shipwreck looking for the matches to light the signal fire, I scramble to find comfort in the Word. The Bible is closer now than ever before and the scriptures more significant. When those days of fighting between despair and trust come to a close, the trails near our new home have become my bastion of solitude.

There is a peacefulness to the forest.

I can recall my youth, growing up amongst the cornfields of Indiana, looking out my window knowing there was another place that beckoned; a place where mountains and dark wooded vistas wrapped themselves around clear flowing brooks. Back then I didn’t understand or know why I felt the calling. All I could see then was a sea of green cornstalks, occasionally broken by a tree line. The flatness was so apparent it now takes my breath away just to think of it. Sullenly, on my last visit for my father’s funeral, my heart ached as I watched the gray, dormant land pass by the windows of the car. There was an endless feeling of loss that panged me then, but it came not just from the loved one dying, but more than that, it was from knowing that I had spent a childhood amongst this. Part of me had known death before it was ever realized. A vast somber landscape that forces one to search for hope, and escape, any way you can to be saved from something so overpoweringly sad that it makes you wonder how you ever survived to this day. In that place, the most insignificant speck of color became the focus; your pleasure was measured by simple things. To that extent, you are made aware of beauty when it is placed before you, and you soaked it in like one drinking from the well for the first time.

From the somber landscape of Indiana to the mountains here in North Carolina, my life has been a journey I could have never imagined. This is my world now; beauty like Eden, so precious and stirring you cannot help to be moved. Yet, like the bends in the river, my life has taken a turn that we never expected once again.

We could dwell on the why, the how, or the what of it all. But like Lott and his family, the angels told them not to look back lest they become pillars of salt. So we force ourselves to go onward, measuring our steps ever so painfully. Again, reaching for the Word can provide comfort when there is none, allowing for the eyes to look up and see the world around instead of looking down and pondering our fate.

Making scripture come alive was something I had found so pleasing in this past year. So with that in mind, I sought the tree mentioned in Jeremiah, the one that stands beside the stream. My strength comes from Him, like the living water through which the tree survives even in the hardest times. Back to the forest and trails that have become my comforter, I returned once more.

On the days when nobody at home wants to go with me, I then seek out my friend and hiking buddy next door, Leroy. Like a child again, I wander up to the door of his house seeking out my brother in Christ. I knock and jokingly greet his wife Annette with, “Can Leroy come out to play?”

“Sure, ‘c’mon in and I’ll get them,” she replies with that big wide Texas grin as she swings the door open. “Yes, he can come out to play,” she laughs.

With a sheepish grin, he emerges around the corner grabbing his walking staff and hat, “Where too,” he quips?

“Wherever the good Lord takes us,” I smile in reply. “Today we have to hurry, I want to catch the river before the light is gone,” I say pointing to my sketchbook in hand. “I’ve got a tree in mind that matches scripture that has been on my mind a lot lately.”

“Great, let’s get going then,” he responds, and with that, we were off to the nearest trailhead as we wave goodbye to Annette.

As our feet find the path below, we quickly jump into the day’s events and happenings. Before we know it, we’re standing on the banks as the golden light of the sunset begins to paint the river a copper glow, as Leroy described it. The trees are standing firm overhead as the shadows start to overwhelm the forest beyond. Over and over again, the scripture from Jeremiah had been resurfacing in my mind as my recent job loss has created a turmoil in my life like never before.

As we scanned the scene before us, we both saw it at the same time and realized, there it is; the one that spreads its roots out by the river, the one that will not fear when the heat comes, the one whose leaves will remain green and not be anxious when the dry weather comes.

Two artists standing in admiration of God’s beauty, and knowing His word was with us, makes me even now feel blessed in so many ways. The Lord puts us in places with people for reasons we cannot fathom or understand. We are asked only to do His will and obey. When we do, we will be rewarded with innumerable sanctifications.

In awe and silence, I quickly sketched and captured as much of the image as possible before the light of day was gone. Leroy and I had shared once more the feeling of the Holy Spirit coming alive as the Word became truth before our eyes. We shall not be anxious in times of drought, for we will find sustenance in Him, and we will continue to be fruitful in all that we do.

Another walk, another trail, and the journey continues.

These are the Words of the Lord. Thanks be to God.

“I will lift up my eyes to the hills— From whence comes my help? My help comes from the Lord, Who made heaven and earth.”-Psalm 121:1-2

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by | July 25, 2016 · 9:45 pm

The Sound of Silence…

“…A time to keep silence, And a time to speak;…” – Ecclesiastes 3:7

The words hit me like the stark, blank-pastel green wall of the hospital room opposite my bed. It was 1963, and my bedroom was the ICU unit of the Deaconess Hospital. My playground was underneath the shelter of the clear plastic oxygen tent, reserved for children with pneumonia; mine the second in as many years as I was old. Later I would learn of my near death encounters with double pneumonia. There was no fear in my life back then. The concerns on the faces of the adults who came to see me only lit up when they saw my smile from behind the veiled curtain of fractured light. Even at that tender age, there was a lesson in leaving as my heart would break each time the goodbyes came. I didn’t understand why so often my visitor’s would leave, turning their heads, wiping something from their faces as they left my room, always as I watched their backsides leave through the door, my heart would sink.

The silence would return; silence that would feel like the weight of the world held it shut.

From the foot of my bed, the pump of the oxygen tank hissed, the only reminder of life beyond my own body. There was a lot of time for my toddler mind to wander, yet there was always a presence there with me; call him my guardian angel. He would sit with me and warm me when the room would turn bitter cold, he would dry the tears from my eyes as I often recalled those faces from my short span of life that would come to mind. Again and again, I would try to replay the sunshine and laughter from what little memories life had taught me to this point. He would console me without words, but just the loving grace of God that would flow about us, like the words from the Bible floating in and around us, kissing our lips and blessing our spirits. There would come an awareness of beauty, one that I still cherish to this day, one that would inspire.

The silence became my teacher.

Many a long, lonely isolated day was spend in my early youth on the farms in and around New Harmony. The pastures, cows, hogs, and chickens became my companions since there were no other children around. Extended periods of solitary exploration taught my mind to create a world that would entertain me. We would speak to the animals and in a sense, they would understand. From that came an instinctual connection from which farming would become my second nature. My youthful heart ached for other children. On days there was an announcement of someone coming to visit, I would sit by the window facing the gravel road for hours at a time, waiting,…watching,…looking for the dust cloud to boil as a car or truck might approach. My heart would race as a vehicle would appear, and I would then dart for the back porch, running as fast as my little legs would carry me to the edge of the front yard, lined by the might oaks. There as the old farm truck would rumble past, a hand would shoot up from within the dark cab, waving hello. There my slim, tiny figure would stand like a statue, numb to the emptiness that filled my life. Sadly, I would only watch as the dust cloud would envelop my minuscule frame, turning my body one color; ashen. Grandma would call me back inside, realizing I had once more left the house. She was my caretaker, my keeper. Having survived Tuberculosis, she understood my condition required time to heal. So, back inside, back into the safety of the house; at least until I could find a way to slip past her watchful eye and back out into the barnyard.

Silence would return, and my soul would ache.

In all of that time of waiting and listening, a vast sea of words continued to grow within. Like a silo of summer grain filled to the brim, I desperately wanted to speak, yet it was not my time.

Grandma Mary had an old manual typewriter sitting in her spare bedroom. Occasionally, I would hear her pecking typewriteraway on it. Her experience working as a secretary at IBM made her an expert so that the sound was intoxicating to my musical ear. One day, after my begging her to put paper in it so I could learn to type real words too, she finally obliged me. After a very short lesson on where to place my hands, I began. Happily, my fingers started to type the syncopated rhythm I had heard her perform. Certain of my masterpiece, I then pleaded with her to read what I had written. Being the loving lady she was, she happily attempted to translate what a three-year old’s random, incomprehensible attempt to type might say. If there had been such a thing as video in that day, it surely would have made it viral as we rolled on the floor at the words that came from her mouth; precious memories.

There on that farm, beyond the reaches of anything human, other than my maternal grandparents, my world was formed. The companion from my hospital bed would walk with me and together, we would explore the world. The fresh air and countless hours of playing outside allowed my weak lungs to strengthen. Bit by bit, my color returned until one day, my grandmother would remark at how much better I looked. The comment returns to me even now, as if she was amazed at the turn around from the sickly, near-death child, to the vibrant, healthy, young lad that I was slowly becoming. There must have been enough doubt in her mind that she was amazed by what she saw. God was surely with us.

It wasn’t much longer after that, when I felt alive and full of spirit, that my friend, the guardian angel, left. Now I don’t mean he fully left, but rather, the feeling of his presence weakened to the point, that I knew he had gone. He would be there, time and again, when there would be a breach in my soul or some other near tragedy would affect my life. No longer would we walk together on the sunny pastures, but it was okay. I knew I wasn’t alone.

The silence had taught me well.

Someday, it would be my time to speak. Yes, someday there would be a time and place.

“A time to gain,     And a time to lose; A time to keep,     And a time to throw away; 7 A time to tear,     And a time to sew; A time to keep silence,     And a time to speak; 8 A time to love,     And a time to hate; A time of war,     And a time of peace”- Ecclesiastes 3:6-8

Thanks be to God.

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