Tag Archives: death

A Bitter, Cold Walk…the Road to Emmaus…

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”

Looking back, I knew there would come a time that we would face the valley of the shadow, the darkest hour always being just before dawn. Although this is not the bottom, the possibilities of falling farther into the abyss are closer than one finds comforting to fathom.

Today has been one of those realizations.

The weather did not help with my anxiety, being too cold to get out and put some distance between us and this place that seems to become our prison, day-by-day. There is not enough money to allow us to take a trip, there isn’t enough money to allow us to splurge on a day of fun, no, there isn’t enough resources to allow us to escape other than a walk in the park, if only the weather would allow. The farm still sits waiting to be sold, tying up vital assets forcing us into a budget that is constantly in the red. Our buffer of cash nearly depleted, we are running on fumes.

Yet, I pray more loudly each day, knowing God is listening; it’s just His timing that I cannot understand.

Despite the single digit wind chill, I took a walk over to the Trail and back, just to retrieve some food products so that we didn’t have to go to the store and spend the last few dollars we have for the day’s budget. Walking past small, old mill homes, there was the feeling that this was a life that I had wanted to avoid, one of want and need. Here people lived on meager incomes in houses built over seventy years ago or more. Most are in disrepair, the owners obviously making due with the best they can. Dogs bark angrily as I pass, their demeanor of fearfulness of others that had done the same, others not so well meaning. These neighborhoods are where some turn to illicit activities to aid in the support of their families and their carnal desires. This is not the side of town you want to call home. I had spent years going to college in order to educate myself so that I wouldn’t have to be in this predicament, yet here I am, walking along a street where people are more suspect on foot than they are to be considered walking for their health.

Like those disciples on the road to Emmaus, I now find thoughts of doubt creeping into my mind, even when I know better. Yes, I have even begun to doubt my decision to follow my calling.roadtoEmmaus

As Cleopas and his friend walked, the stranger approached, joining them in their travel. He listened as they explained their pain and fear of having lost their leader, their savior. Jesus quickly rebuked them, “And He said to them, “What kind of conversation is this that you have with one another as you walk and are sad?” -Luke 24:17

It is hard to keep my humanness behind me. Satan knows if he can gain a foothold, he will win, so I keep the door closed and walk on.

There is so much yet to do in order to make the Trail into the thriving place of inspiration it can be. It will take time. The pace of the visitors is as expected this time of year, as frozen as the weather. There is plenty to doubt, but this is the time of planning and preparation. One cannot lose hope when there is so much fertile ground to plant. Yet, looking at the immediate situation of our own personal finances, there is much to despair. But I have the faith, “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, evidence of things unseen…” When I look to those men on the road to Emmaus, I can easily imagine those that had lost their leader and now faced persecution, there had to be more than sadness. They too were in despair. The immediate situation for them looked worse than bleak. Even the body of Jesus had gone missing, and yet they still didn’t get it.

As Jesus joined the disciples, clearly, he was amazed their unbelief, after all, that he had told them would transpire, they still did not understand. It wasn’t until after they had heard him open the scriptures from the time of Moses, through all the prophets, about what would happen did their hearts burn for the Lord. “And they said to one another, “Did not our heart burn within us while He talked with us on the road, and while He opened the Scriptures to us?”-Luke 24:32 Still unaware, they invited him to stay with them for the night and only after He broke the bread at their table, were their eyes opened to whom their new friend really was, Jesus Christ.

roadtoEmmausBreadWhen I finally reached our tiny abode, thankful to have a warm house, a roof over my head and a place to rest, I set down my groceries and gave thanks to God for allowing me to continue on. As my numb fingers began to thaw, I reflected back on the past few month. I have been a witness to amazing things already in the short time I’ve been here doing His will. There has been life changing testimony, there have been prayers lifted up for many, there have been times the Holy Spirit has dwelt among us and much more. Many have beheld amazing testimony of their own as they have watched the Trail begin to breathe a new breath of life. However, we can’t do it on our own. Each day God is my teacher and each day, my studying of the scriptures and what it is to walk in His way continues to grow.

I’ve got so much to learn, but knowing that God’s time is not our own, there is a comfort in that feeling that He’s got it all under control; this I must reassure myself over and over.

Once more, I have to die to myself in order so that He may live through me more.

We must open our eyes and realize what has been set before us, what has been divulged to us even while we thought we were alone, and yet we were not. Let us walk our road to Emmaus with opened eyes and a joyful heart, lest we fail to realize the beauty of what lies before and within us.

He maketh me lie down in green pastures, He leadeth me beside still waters, He restoreth my soul, He leadeth me down paths of righteousness for His namesake…”

There is so much to be done, the stone has been rolled away and He is Risen.

Yes, He is Risen indeed.

Thanks be to God

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Seek and You Will Find…

In the distance, the mountains call.

Seek and you will find…”imagesQ53ZSJ8P

The fluid movement of the gulf stream pushes against my will. Below me, the sands swirl in undulating patterns, to and fro, as the current continues to empty the back bay. My air is nearly depleted, but I push on, stretching the limits of my endurance until the forbearance of life thrusts me up, bursting through the surface just as my lungs explode in a forceful exhalation of water and breath, then immediately sucking life back through my snorkel.

I lay there, floating, drifting on the current, waiting.

In the distance, the mountains call.

Knock and it will be opened unto you…”

Replenished, I dive, driving my fins against the current until I glide along the bottom. The world around me is foreign yet intriguing. In the back of my mind, I keep watch for danger; sharks, rays and jellyfish that constantly appear and then disappear like spirits in the night. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, as my heart beats in my ears. There, over in the next bend lies the conch shell I’ve been searching. Just as my fingers grasp the treasure, the pains return. Too soon, the air is gone once again and I must return to the other place.

images0VGE58ZGA silence of beauty awaits me back on the surface. The bounty nestled safely in my dive pouch. Nearby a small tiger shark appears, approaching in a curious manner, then darts away. My hand reaches for the knife strapped to my thigh, more of a comfort than anything, the feeling of the cold hard steel is assuring. I try to relax again.

Drifting effortlessly once more, my breathing is measured but calm. Off in the distance, the sound of a boat motor tilling through waves reaches my ears. The alien noise does not belong. Like myself, we’re intruders in this realm, yet we’ve come nonetheless.

In the distance, the mountains call.

For everyone who asks, receives…”

379274_4161269401680_615774015_nBelow, the clouds obscure the lower reaches of the valleys. From my vantage point, I can see snow capped peaks, jagged, unapproachable and daunting. The air is pure and clean up here. There is no want of breath, no self-depleting pangs of oxygen other than those that consume the body at altitudes beyond your own physical abilities. I look around and my eyes cannot believe the grandeur of this place. My time here is limited, like that below the surface of the Gulf, yet something draws me; a destiny I cannot explain.

The treasure is not below as I once believed; no, it is above.

Somewhere, a mountain calls, somewhere I must go.

Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.” – Matthew 7:7-8

 

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Filed under Nature, Religion

What’s Within…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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For Randy…

Fifty-three.

Those were the years that spanned my friend’s life.12573029_10156478826155083_6433158367040704776_n

Too soon he left us, too soon we had to say our final farewell; at least on this side of heaven.

We have only the moment now in which to live. None of us are guaranteed a tomorrow.

As I reflect back on the few times that I was blessed to be in Randy’s presence, I can recall the joy he shared and how you came away feeling better, no matter the circumstance.

It was very evident early on, Randy was a brother in Christ.

I first met Randall “Randy” Lee Shumaker at the Denton Bluegrass Festival one blustery May. He welcomed me into a circle of pickers and from there our friendship continued to grow. We often sat during late evenings around the campfire sharing stories, or around the table sharing meals; fellowship like none other. I learned that he had been diagnosed with cancer in 2008 and had only been given a few months to live. It seems from that point on, Randy chose to live each day as if it were his last.

It is not uncommon at bluegrass festivals to hear a jam session last until the sun begins to rise. Randy jammed long and hard the first few years at the festival, long past my bedtime. I would rise early and find Randy up ahead of me, trying to catch the first rays of the sunrise coming up over a nearby pond. Sometimes, I’d awake to find him already returning from the fishing hole or up and gone, never wasting a minute of his day. I was also aware as time progressed, so did his cancer and so did his fervent attempt to ward off the inevitable.

Randy and I kept in touch off and on apart from the bluegrass festival. He was a devoted father and grandfather. He was part of the Second Chance Bluegrass Band and had written a beautiful song, Bend in the Road, which had been inspired by another band member that had died of cancer and a book of the same name by Dr. David Jeremiah. Randy and the band performed it at a contest held at the festival one year and one first place. As I watched the video once more after his passing, I couldn’t help feel that Randy knew that someday, we’d be watching him sing about himself. During that day’s performance, they also sang a inspiring version of, “There is a God.” As I sat and listened again and again, part of me felt Randy was already there watching and smiling in acknowledgment; yes, there certainly is.

God gives gifts to some of us; some more than others. What we choose to do with those are up to us, but sometimes you find someone that shares them and themselves so openly, so warmly that you can’t help feel good about knowing them; this was by brother in Christ.

I remember vividly one bright morning at the festival. Randy had been through a rough night. Sleep was difficult, even in his own bed at home, but the camper bed was making life miserable. However, he chose not to dwell on the negative but rather pushed on, through the pain. When I met him that morning, he was up early, demanding more of what might be his last trip. He greeted me cheerfully with a “Great is the day the Lord hath made,” to which we both replied, “Let us be glad and rejoice in it.” We both laughed and shook hands.

He shared with me that he had debated coming that year but knew there might not be another.

Sadly, my family and I weren’t able to return this past year. Sadly, I didn’t get to see my friend one last time, at least not on this side of Glory.

From a distance, I watched as time progressed and he began to weaken. The final days were hardest of all to watch. There was a poignant moment when a post arrived on FB. His son Caleb was sworn in by the local Police department, in Randy’s own home complete with the mayor and police chief in attendance, something that obviously took a lot of planning and change of procedures, but then again, this was for a man that touched so many lives in a positive way that it was not unimaginable; this was the Randy I knew. This was just more confirmation of what so many already had realized.

Randy taught me many things but one thing he shared most of all, live each day to its fullest in your walk with God.

Too soon my friend, too soon.

Warm up the band, get that mansion for Ms. Kelly ready, for someday we’ll meet you just inside the Eastern gate.

Love you brother.

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Filed under Inspirational, Music

Ten Men…

imagesFU13VDH0

“Faith is the substance of things hoped for, evidence of things not seen.” – Hebrews 11:1

They had come to visit, the entire team of ten men, all my former GENBAND Emergency Recovery teammates. For whatever reason, I was somewhat nervous and just as they pulled into the parking lot of the rental cabin, nature called. Quickly, I dashed into the bathroom and prepared to sit but found that someone had not flushed the commode. Disgusted, I pushed the handle and carefully found my seat. Soon after, again to my disgust, I found the previous occupant did not replace the toilet paper roll. My guests soon heard my pleas for help upon entering the house and promptly delivered a roll through a hole in the door where the handle should have been; yes, this was a dream and all things were seemingly possible.

The next scene found us sitting around the table sharing with one another supposedly over a meal. Each man had a new haircut and each man, in unison, agreed that they were all going to be in a wreck that very day. Remember, this is a dream. Apparently, each of them had also had a dream of such and were all totally convinced it would be true.

Yes, dreaming within a dream is okay…I guess.

Inwardly I dismissed it. I shook my head as they conveyed their fears and as they did, I attempted to alleviate them by stating it would probably be nothing more than a parking lot fender-bender. In my mind, I could see me inadvertently driving my car into their rental van just to satisfy their mysticism.

The conversation returned to idle chatter and my mind drifted off.

In the next moment, I was driving down a country road through the mountains. Our vehicle was headed up a steep grade, nothing out of the ordinary when suddenly out of the blue, a motorcycle rider passed. His speed was beyond what you might consider safe, especially since we were nearing a peak. When driving in unknown areas on winding roads, it behooves you to have some idea of which way the roadway will turn, especially at the crest of a hill. You don’t want to be caught airborne without being able to turn. So, as we neared the top of the ridge, I held my breath as I watched the motorcyclists go airborne, then he disappeared. I sped up to follow, flooring the van as we too approached the peak. That’s when the world around me immediately transformed into a vista of beauty. An expanse of mountain ranges spread out before us. Beautiful blue-green peaks and valleys lay before us. Our altitude had increased to that of a low-flying aircraft; yes, our mountain had grown.

Far ahead, the lone madman on the motorcycle sped farther and farther away, disappearing momentarily through the clouds below us as he approached the valley floor.

As we headed down the mountainside, I pushed on the accelerator even more. My own speed accelerated until the trees passing out the side windows became a blur. Somehow it didn’t matter; fear was not within me. Way up ahead, the road passed through a valley and over a small river.

A small river with no bridge.

Somehow, the lack of surface over the water didn’t matter. At the speed we were traveling, we would easily clear the ravine. Just then, on the other side of the river, deer began crossing the highway; first one, then another. As I watched more and more came, deer, then zebras then odd colored beasts of the field, all crossing and leaping hesitantly on the road and then jumping the nearby roadside and running off into the nearby woods.

By now, the road below me was a blur and my speed was beyond understanding. There was no fear, only my focus of the impending potential impact of the animals ahead.

From here, I realized the motorcyclist had jumped the river and cleared the crossing animals and was well as I could see him as he vanished over on the next ridge. He was gone, but the impending danger had not. The animals crossing the road ahead beyond the river was an immediate disaster waiting to happen; the river, no bridge, the animals in the road; bad, all bad.

I could sense the feeling of trepidation as I closed my eyes just before we hit the edge of the river. It was then, in disbelief, I realized the vehicle in which I was traveling had left the ground and was now attempting to clear the watery grave below. It was as if I was watching a scene from the Duke’s of Hazard as the General Lee flew mysteriously through the air each episode. From a vantage point outside the van, I could see that the river had greatly swollen and was beyond flood stage. In an instant, it had gone from a simple lazy waterway into a burgeoning fury of rushing, muddy water.

I realized we were in trouble.

The bank on the opposite side had been washed away and exposed massive boulders lining the bank. It was obvious our flying van was not going to clear the abyss below. From a distance I watched as we were about to crash and just before impact, I was back in the seat, behind the wheel.

Then nothing.

God had been in control. I had given it all over to Him and then at the last minute, I panicked and hesitated. Thoughts of Peter on the water and Jesus calling to him to just believe came to mind.  So He said, “Come.” And when Peter had come down out of the boat, he walked on the water to go to Jesus. 30 But when he saw that the wind was boisterous,[a] he was afraid; and beginning to sink he cried out, saying, “Lord, save me!”” My human-ness had blinded me to the beauty of what is possible when we allow God to drive.

Yet, the dream wasn’t over, there was more.

After the impact, the next thing I realized, I was overhearing an elderly lady talking in the next aisle over from me about the wreck and how it was amazing that they had survived. It appeared I was standing in a pharmacy waiting on something. The lady carried on about the flooded river and how it had never before gone to that level of flood stage. Her conversation prattled on in the background as the pharmacist walked up to me. He was dressed in the typical white smock. His hair was dark, but badly thinning on top revealing his balding head. Through his glasses, he was perusing through the stack of papers in his hand. As he spoke to me while still looking down at his disheveled paperwork, he was saying that he would need ten signatures. I shook my head to clear out the cobwebs.

He looked up from his papers. “Are you okay,” he asked?

“Uh, yea…sure,” I responded trying to understand what was happening.

“The insurance requires you to initial each prescription for the men in your party.”

My eyes followed the tiny print on the prescription form, a piece of paper about the size of an index card. There was the line for initials, so I began to sign. “They must be okay,” I thought as I signed the forms, “otherwise, I wouldn’t be signing their prescriptions?”

It was about then the alarm for 0600 hrs went off beside my bed.

Darkness all around me as I sat up in bed.

“Good morning,” I whispered and began my day.

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Filed under Inspirational, Religious Experience, Visions

In Memory of the Herd…

The newborn calf lay before me, its body still wet from its mother licking her, doing 1013088_10201316525421013_897357306_nanything she could to revive the nearly dead infant. The heat was oppressive as I wiped the sweat from my eyes, trying to figure out what to do next. Something was dreadfully wrong. Colleen, the calf’s mother, had never had problems calving and was one of my best and oldest brood cows. Yet, she was stressed to her breaking point and the stretch of hottest days this summer didn’t help. I had been away from the farm during her birth and was just now coming upon the scene. The neighbors had called to alert me to the fact there was something wrong; the growing flock of buzzards was their omen. As I approached the baby, buzzards advanced with me setting Colleen into a frenzy of protective moves trying her best to keep them at bay. As I knelt to pet the calf and feel for life, there was still warmth to the body, just barely. As I examined her, the problem became painfully obvious; she was blind. The eyes were clouded over with a milky film which had prevented her from being able to leave the shelter of the scrub brush in which she was trapped.

The death birds had an uncanny ability to sense death’s door even before it opened. They were sometimes known to assist the animal’s end by beginning to dig out the soft pockets of flesh, a torment of unrealistic thought, something Satan himself might prescribe. Thus, as I tried to help bring the calf to safety, the vultures tried to impede our progress by lurching within reach of the precious cargo I tried to carry through the thick underbrush. Thankfully, Colleen was nearby and provided the additional protection we needed in order to escape. It was then I realized her lower udders had been ripped from some ancient barbed wire that was in the thicket from where we had just emerged; another problem and probable cause to the calf not nursing. Time was not on our side; I had multiple problems and things were not getting any easier.

Looking back, it was a touch and go prospect from the very beginning. The lack of colostrum in the calf’s system was the first and immediate setback, not to mention the extreme dehydration that had nearly killed it. Then the fact that the triple digit heat was wearing us all thin, physically and emotionally. I immediately prepared a mixture of colostrum and Gatorade to feed her, hoping to quickly replace her lost fluids, it was all we could do at that point. Nearby in the pasture, Colleen paced back and forth on the fence line trying to keep an eye on her newborn.

Had this happened a few years before, I certainly would have lost her. However, the good Lord prepares with each step along the way, teaching, strengthening and guiding us so that we may become who we need to be at the right moment in time. This was most certainly the case because it took every bit of animal husbandry I had learned, every ounce of stamina and all the faith I could muster to believe in what I knew. I would give her every vitamin shot, antibiotic, and extra energy supplements I could find in addition to helping feed her since her mother was still wounded and in pain from the fencing injury. Meanwhile, I had to try to doctor Colleen’s ripped udder sack. So many problems persisted that I could have just easily given up, walked away and let nature takes its course, but that wasn’t my way. I scoured every incident I could find online and spoke to fellow farmers and vets who knew of similar cases. She had evidently been born while either she or her mother had a fever, possibly from a flu-like illness, thus the blindness. After the virus had passed, it was a matter of keeping infection at bay. The good news was that sometimes the blindness was only temporary. To help heal her eyes, I would rub the antibiotic directly into them, like washing away the clouds.

More than once I would go out to where I had penned mother and calf to find a near lifeless body and once more, vultures close enough to take the precious being before her time. Each time I would chase them off and to my best to doctor the needs of the young animal. Toward the end of the third day of round the clock care, I had done everything that could possibly be done for her. By then I had named her Helen, after the other famous blind person I had learned about so many years before. It was then I realized I had done all I could do and God would have to take it from here. Early the next morning on the fourth day, I checked on mother and calf to find she had finally nursed on her own; thank you, Lord! The wounds on Colleen had finally healed enough so that she could feed her baby.

From then on, both calf and cow improved and before long, it was just a distant memory.

936431_10201386352046635_1598802811_nHelen grew to be a fine brood cow in her own right, taking after her mother. Her eyesight eventually returned to normal and you would have never known she had once been blind. Colleen would have other calves after that summer without any problems. Some might say it was time for her to go to the sale, “Put wheels on her,” they would add. When you raise a herd from the beginning and know the animals like the back of your hand, there are times you know deep down that there is more to the story than meets the eye; as was the case that beleaguered summer of Helen’s birth.

I’ve been around cattle most of my life. Growing up in southern Indiana, both my paternal and maternal grandparents had cows; dairy and beef, respectively. So it was nothing new when my dad raised one or two for sustenance. However, when the size of the herd gets smaller, the contact becomes more personal, almost too personal. I can recall the time my dad described taking the steer we named “Bull” off to market. As he looked back in the rearview mirror, he could see an animal that had been nothing but trouble. Bull was always getting into some sort of mischief or another. One time, in particular, I can vividly remember seeing him walk up below me as I sat on the roof of the barn, nailing on the new tin. He picked up a bag of roofing nails I had left on the ground and began to shake them like a dog shakes a toy. Nails flew from one end of the barnyard to the other. Yet, through all that, you might think my father would be glad to take him to slaughter, yet here he was looking back with tears in his eyes. That’s the moment you realize the animal you raise is more than just another meal, but a member of the family.

So, this past summer when I had to sell off my herd, it was more than just simply cattle in bloomstaking animals to market; it was saying goodbye to a family that I had grown for the past 18 years. Each momma cow had her own characteristics, traits and look that I knew without having to use numbers or brands. Their calving seasons were as predictable as the coming dawn. There was a comfort knowing that if all else failed, we still would have a reserve of food and resources if needed; yes, my cattle were in a sense, my farm bank, my life’s work.

There was recently a sign that was going around for a Christmas gift that said something like, “Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy cows, and that’s pretty much the same thing.”

Many won’t get it, but for those few who’ve ever owned cattle, we do.

“Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” –Matthew 11:28

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Filed under Farming, Uncategorized

Swirling Water…

The muddy waters of the Catawba river swirled beneath us, traveling in inundating pools of ferocity, twisting and BOB%20FLOODS%20OHOP%20CREEK%20DIRT%20in%20WATER%20(OP)%20NOV.%207,%2006%20020turning past trees never before submerged, now victims of the flood; torrential rains having overrun the banks of the river, now consuming all in its path. Massive logs lay helpless against bridge abutments, caught, unable to escape the pressure from the onslaught. Above, we watch the mighty power of untold strength battling mammoth structures of nature, each winning in their own way; some immediately while others eroding those of greater magnitude until they too become victim to the constant force. As we ride along the pathway, safe above the brown waters below, my mind drifts back to another time, another flood; more brown swirling waters.

My tiny feet couldn’t reach the water below, yet it called to me. “Down” I would say in my mind to my father has he held me safely above the darkness below us. The banks of the Wabash had once again overflowed near our hometown of New Harmony. For some reason, even though I was not yet two I can still recall the memory. Eventually, I would squirm and fight enough to allow him to let me wade in the cold darkness. The chill would run through my body and soon afterward, the fever would begin. They say that memories which last far into our past are those etched into our core through trauma. Soon after, I would come down with double pneumonia. Later I would learn of having the sickness both at one and two years of age, seemingly a year apart. This was probably the latter since the hospital memories correspond with what I would have experienced as mobility, or the lack thereof. The most difficult time would have nothing to do with the illness, but rather the solitary isolation; loneliness.

Hours upon hours, I could recall sitting in the subdued green hospital room in my oxygen tent, waiting; waiting for anyone to walk in and speak to me. In between waking and sleeping, the time seemed to crawl. The most vivid memory I have from that experience was that one day a nurse must have felt sorry for me and took me from the room and into the common room where there was one black and white TV playing. Folks were sitting around watching the TV when I was rolled into the room in my wheelchair. “Now you stay here and watch some TV and don’t get out of this chair,” she said ever so sweetly. I was beside myself; free from that room and around other people. I must have seemed overjoyed. The nurse had evidently tied me in with a towel or sheet, because when she left the room, another little boy nearby came and asked if I wanted to play with him on the floor. I must have smiled broadly at this request because before I knew it he disappeared behind my chair and I was suddenly set free. We were on the floor playing with his toys when I heard the voice of the nurse, “How in the world did you get out of that chair,” she would ask, the sweetness had evaporated from her voice and sterness I feared was in its place. Knowing the culprit was likely my new found friend, she quickly placed me back in my wheelchair and I was rolled back to my room, back to the confines of the clear plastic prison. “Life has to be better than this,” I must have thought. Back into the realm of dreams and fantastic tales I would be forced to go, as the artist in me was painfully being born. By the grace of God, I would survive.

Years later, my wife and friends would find ourselves swimming in Ginny Springs, near High Falls Florida. The water in the individual springs was crystal clear and beautiful to experience. However, in order to save time from getting from one spring to another, we chose to float down the Santa Fe River. What we didn’t realize at the time was that the river was above flood stage. In that part of Florida, the water takes on an almost coffee color from the tannic acid it extracts from the trees it passes through. As we swam into the flow of the Santa Fe, we literally couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces. The current was too strong to turn back once we had entered the flow, so we stuck to the surface for safety, allowing the current to carry us along. These waters were also home to alligators, so our fears were not without merit. We soon reached the entry point of the next spring and quickly crossed the barrier which helped keep the darkness out of the crystal clear spring waters. Looking back, it might have been foolish to take such a risk, but it was something you didn’t think about until it was over. Thankfully, none of us on that journey were injured or maimed for life. Thankfully we had a brief encounter with the unknown, the darkness beyond the safety of our realm of existence. This time, there was no detrimental consequences; nothing more than a distant memory of wading in dirty water as a kid. However, like those experiences as a child, one innocent event leads to another until we are forever changed by the results of our actions, either immediately or slowly, painfully afterward.

Today as we rode along the muddy, raging torrent below, I was thankful yet again for the chance to be alive to see God’s hand at work, either immediately or slowly.

His time; God’s time, is not our own. The mysteries of His universe we will never know, but we can be thankful for what we do know and how he has molded us into the person we are today; either immediately or painfully slow.

Thanks be to God.

And He said, “To you it has been given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of God, but to the rest it is given in parables, that ‘Seeing they may not see, And hearing they may not understand.’” – Luke 8:10

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A Shadow in the Mist

images281A76P4What I am about to tell you is totally true, beyond a shadow of a doubt and undeniably without any thread of exaggeration.

I was on the last leg of my Sunday morning run; the sun had just managed to reach the horizon while I had still yet to see its morning glow. The air was thick with humidity and any trace of coolness had long ago evaporated into the sweat that now poured off my tiring body. I turned the last corner of the gravel road, the last mile of my run and was about to head into the thickest part of the forest which made the road upon which I ran a living tunnel. Overhead trees draped across the lane, blotting out the sky above. The recesses of the darkness seemed to go on forever, the air cooler, whispered voices of beings therein. I was well within this domain when the thought of coyotes came to mind. Just as the thought entered a small dark figure of a squirrel raced across the road ahead of me, momentarily causing my heart to jump. I went back to the idea of the wolf-like creature and wondered how I might have reacted had the carnivorous being I had imagined actually passed before me. “Where they watching me even now,” I asked myself, my eyes searching as I ran the inner depths of the forest that lay to my left. The blur of vegetation passed as a movie as my body moved forward, one foot plodding before the other, the taste of salt on my lips. Not long afterward, I turned my focus forward again as I emerged from the wooded section of the road and came out into the growing brightness of the morning, running past the pond and up the last hill of my run, soon to put the images of primeval forest behind me.

After my brief cool down, I found myself on the back porch, looking out upon the pond and road from which I had just emerged. My glass of water in hand, I sat down upon the rocking chair and allowed my bare feet to breath in the cool morning air. I leaned back and closed my eyes, the air, my body becoming one with the world around me, drinking in the moment, blood pumping, my breathing relaxed, all was good.

The sounds of the earth serenaded my soul.wolfinmist

Then suddenly, from the depths of the darkness came the bark and howl of a lone coyote: its voice so close, so clear; so haunting.

My eyes flashed open and noticed the horses standing below where I sat on the porch, their images visible in the gray pasture shadows. Their actions confirming the sound I had just heard; their ears perked and alert as they turned to face the dark woods from which I had just passed moments earlier on my run.

Something from a repressed memory of an ancient time reached my consciousness, something unbelievably real, yet unbelieving in its existence.

Had I known of their presence while through yonder dark woods I hath traveled,” came the voice in my head? “Surely it was just coincidence,” I replied, “or was it?”

I waited to see if there were another call but none came; only the sounds of predawn chorus continued.

My eyes scanned the lower horizon, watching for any signs of movement, but there was nothing.

The padded paw left no trace, its breath a mist upon the morning air and then vanished like the beast from whence it came; nothing left behind but the memory of its passing. A shadow in the mist.

Then I began to wonder to myself, “Was this the way we suppress so many other things in our world, things we recognize but then dismiss when they our outside the realm of our belief?” If nothing more than a physical image can be brushed aside, then what else is there that we understand as truth yet knowingly pass on its belief until we form the space in which we can comfortably exist, one we know and are familiar with, yet one that scares the hell out of us should we venture beyond its borders; the howl of the wolf, the connection to a world beyond our control, one where we are no longer the masters. The padded paw of silence follows us waiting for our minds to stray from the path, ready to pounce upon our unbelieving weaknesses and use them against us before we recover and scamper back to the safety of our predefined borders. How many without faith find themselves in this predicament everyday as they succumb to the evils of the world in which we live, finding themselves trapped in a darkness they cannot control or emerge; lost to the clutches of its demonic fanged breath.

Without the armor of light to protect us, the Word of God, we are mere babes in the woods. It is up to those of us who know better to prepare those who are without; salvation through God’s grace and thus become children of the light. Otherwise, we leave them to become prey to the claws of the world’s clutches.

How many only wish it were just a dream from which they could emerge, or a morning’s run through the early morning mist? How many can we reach before the fangs of this world pull them asunder?

What will you do to escape, what will you do?

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The Light before the Dawn…

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My mind was racing well before the dawn.

Unable to sleep, I arose and began the day well in advance of the culmination of months planning and practicing for the Festival of Faith. The vision to bring the story of hope, salvation and redemption to the world will not be without uncertainty as the threat of inclement weather looms large. Yet, it would not be without adversity that we struggle to keep the story alive.

Somewhere in another country far away, once again Christians struggle to survive; surrounded by Muslim extremists, their fate dependent upon faith and prayer. Today I read in the paper that our country has sent relief in the form of food and water, air dropped to the mountain top where they hold out. Their adversaries wait for them to come down to seek food and water, only to take their lives at every opportunity. I’m sure their prayers were answered when those resources fell from the sky; manna from heaven as in the day of the Israelites and their time in the desert.

Today, we move the program to a new location, with a new format but return with the same story, one told for generations of the people that kept the faith alive, the truth, the Word; the Waldensians. Our numbers are small, we face many obstacles to bring our message, yet we do not face the tests of our brethren in that far away land; the face of death. Here, we merely struggle with the ignorance and greed of others that turn away from what made their country and cities great, the faith in our Lord Jesus Christ. Tonight, I will lead children of the Lord on a journey that began a year ago, in a church recreated to the image of one back in the Cottien Alps, a place where death has visited one too many times; the Ciabas on the Trail of Faith. Although last year our audience was small, the response was too great to let the program die there within the walls of the wonderful church. Like the world in which we live, we too often find comfort within the walls of our house of worship; we must go beyond, out to the masses that need to hear our voices. As fishers of men, we must go where we can find the fish.

So, in less than 12 hours, we will have finished the story, the performance will have been completed.

Will we bring hope, joy and inspiration to others; only the Lord knows, only He knows.

“Wake up Sleeper, rise from the dead and let the light of the Lord shine on you.” – Eph. 5:14

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Premonition of Forelorn…

goldenshore

The beckoned flight, My soul doth seek,

Yet spirited wings, Are clipped beneath.

The journey’s path, Mere footsteps trod,

While Heaven’s gate, O’re yonder calls.

Each day we breathe, A breath once more,

And exhale our last, On God’s golden shore.

– T. Tron

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