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A Silver Lining…

A Silver Lining

by Timothy W. Tron

But the meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace.”-Psalm 37:11

For all that we do, we should seek to share the light within, so that someday we may stand before our creator and answer to what we did with our purpose in life. Somedays there are never-ending, uphill battles. We find ourselves consumed by seeming floods of overwhelming tasks, lists that are never completed, or papers that didn’t get graded. And then one day, out of nowhere, there comes that still small voice with a heart of gold that speaks to you, melting away everything else that has gone on before until it is the barest of essence, the beauty of the truth before you. It is in that instance, you realize God had placed you where you need to be.

It had been the end of a long week. Exams had finally taken place after countless delays due to inclement weather. As my footsteps took me back to my classroom, my mind was still reflecting on the unexpected witnessing that had just transpired. It was another memory for another line of keepsakes to collect, to place upon that shelf of life’s precious moments we someday will take down and hold carefully in the palms of our hands, turning over and over, exploring all the grace it had to offer. Nearing my classroom door, I realized my students had yet to be released after having taken their final exam. They instantly saw me and began telling me how each of them felt they did on the test. We were all relieved to have it over. Before we could finish saying goodbye, the bell rang and the instinct to flee set in. Before I knew it, the room had been fully evacuated save for a few stragglers. We said brief goodbyes, as my focus was on their last assignment to be turned in, one that I had futility reminded them as they barged for the exits, “Don’t forget to turn in your Dragon Flippers.” Part of our final review was a project we called, Dragon Flippers. Each student was given a chance to earn extra credit points toward their grade by completing the flip-page style folder, where we had the theme of the dreaded Math Dragon as part of the cover. The rubric required the cover of the review packet to have the image of a dragon and the words, “Math 2”. The artwork alone was the largest part of the points of the rubric, allowing my more artistic students a chance to finally shine.

Staring down at the small pile, it was obvious many of them hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunity to add more points this semester. There had been that long delay between when we started the review, and many had told me they had literally lost their packet. Yet, the ones that were in my “Turn-in” box were encouraging. Picking them up, it was then I realized I was not alone. Looking up ever so slightly out of the corner of my eye I noticed one last student who had remained behind. My eyes, still looking down at the completed projects in my own hand, followed their image to another one, but in the young man’s hands who now stood next to me.

“Oh, hello,” I said to him, a little surprised at him still being here. He had been one of the bright students from my fourth block class. He often would lag behind the others, never in a hurry, always with a pleasant goodbye. He was one of those whom we always think of when we speak of the ones that can make your day. The hallway was now that empty calm that follows the evacuation of students from school.

“I hope you did well on the exam?”

“Yes, Mr. Tron,” his hands were nervously holding his Dragon Flipper, “me too.” He smiled, looking down at what he held. He then presented his project to me and continued. His demeanor did not depict a sense of joy. There was a troubling mood that seemed to be covering something he wanted to say but was unsure of how to say it out loud. Before I could ask if something were wrong he quietly said it a serious tone, “I wanted to write you a letter, but I didn’t get time.” He handed over the work. Before me was the image of a young man standing with his back to you, looking into a mirror on a dresser before him. In the reflection of the mirror was the picture of the dragon, cleverly drawn looking back at the boy. His artwork was exceptional. As I admired his skill, he continued.

“I wanted to tell you what this meant,” he said, nodding toward the piece of work now in my hands. “You see, you taught me a lot more than math in your class this semester. I learned about life and about myself.”

At that moment, the sounds outside my room diminished to nothing. The world around us seemed to stand still. My eyesight found his staring back at me. As I fought back the rising surge of emotion in my throat he continued, “I followed your writings outside of class and was inspired by all that you said. You helped me understand that I was living not like I should and that the dragon was me.”

Inside, my heart was pounding. I could hear the words he said, but it didn’t make sense. Before me stood the meekest, quietest student, I had ever taught. He worked hard and only spoke up in class when he had questions. His work was never late, and he nearly had an A before he took the final exam, so how could anyone so seemingly perfect on the outside struggle so within? It didn’t add up. At some point, I had handed the packet back to him to explain. He then opened the cover and began to show me how and why. There before me at the top of the page, my eyes instantly fell upon the Bible verse, “Ephesians 6:10-18

Can this get any more precious,” were the thoughts that raced through my head?

“You see, the dragon was me, and I had to learn how to control the beast within.”

In complete awe, my eyes took in the beautiful artwork the young man had carefully created.

There drawn as the rubric had asked, were the various armaments described in the scripture passage of Ephesians, “The breastplate of righteousness, the helmet of salvation, the shield of faith, the sword of the Word (or Spirit as he had written), and the belt of truth.” To him, these were all the implements of war that he had used to rage against the demon within his own being. Through my tear-rimmed eyes, he shared with me the remainder of the project. There was little I could add, nor could say at the moment, so choked up was I with compassion for the young man. In many respects, he was me at his age; yet, he seemed so much more advanced and in control of his destiny than I had been. The questions still poured out of my head faster than I could grasp.

“I also wanted to tell you goodbye. I will not be returning to school next semester. My family will be leaving the area, so this will be the last time I see you.”

I was speechless. The dragon within, the scripture of Ephesians, he had been inspired beyond my classroom; it was all so much to take in. I could feel the hand of God upon us both at that moment.

The meek surely shall inherit the earth, for peace is upon his soul,” came the words to my mind.

Through my choked voice, all I could squeak out was, “You’ll have to stay in touch, you’ll just have to stay in touch.”

He pulled his backpack closer around his shoulders, then reached out his hand. We shook goodbye, and he walked out the door of room 3212 for the last time. With him, my prayers followed.

My mind was numb with the grace of God.

In teaching, we yearn for those, too few, precious moments when it has all come to fruition; those tender scenes when we receive thanks in ways we had never imagined. Knowing that as with any position of servitude, we aren’t here for the monetary gains. With each day that passes, we seek to find that cloud with the silver lining in a world of ever-increasing clouds.

Somedays, we find that perfect cloud, and like those fleeing images above, for a moment we find God’s grace among us.

In all that we do, may we continue to give God thanks.

Thanks be to God.

Wherefore take unto you the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness; And your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace; Above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God: Praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit, and watching thereunto with all perseverance and supplication for all saints; And for me, that utterance may be given unto me, that I may open my mouth boldly, to make known the mystery of the gospel,
”-Ephesians 6:13-19

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The Hand of the Lord Upon Us….

Now, Lord, look on their threats, and grant to Your servants that with all boldness they may speak Your word,”- Acts 4:29

He told my sister and me to follow him, that there was something strange he had to show us. Wetornado made our way down into a room that faced a large rectangular shaft in the stone wall. There was no grate covering the opening, which was about shoulder height tall. The hole spanned six feet across with an aperture large enough for a good size man to squeeze through. The outer lip of the hole was lined with rough shaped stones. Their surfaces facing the interior of the hole were worn smooth as if this once was a source of water or fluid that slowly eroded the ancient surface.

Our guide explained to us that this was where onlookers could stand and safely watch the demons emerge, without fear of being pulled into the hole. There was a convenient mark on the floor where he stood.

“You don’t want to go beyond this point,” he said stretching a crooked finger toward the crack in the stone floor where the toe of his sandaled foot stopped. “Don’t step one inch closer than this,” he demanded, with a glare in his eye. That stare caught my attention. “They can’t pull you back into the hole from here. If you go past this line, then your soul becomes theirs.”

Something about his gaze felt comforting as if we had been acquainted before.

Our focus returned toward the shaft as a soft breeze brushed past my cheek. A chill filled the room, and my skin began to crawl. Something was coming; …the darkness approached.

My thought’s returned to our guide as goosebumps rose on my arm. The man’s voice sounded so familiar. My mind couldn’t let it go.

Yet, the darkness crept closer still.

Turning my gaze from the abyss back to the man pointing out the dangers, I suddenly realized the stranger, was no stranger at all.

He was our late father.

My heart leaped.

The last time we were together, I kissed him goodbye and walked out of the hospital leaving him to God’s care. We were to meet again on heaven’s shore. I wanted to rejoice and hug him in that moment, but that’s not why we were there. The euphoria was quickly replaced with that of sounds emanating from the shaft that caused the hair to stand up on the back of my neck.  Haunting screams of horror jerked my focus back to the gaping hole. There wasn’t a feeling of reunion in our meeting, but rather, a sense of warning instead. There was no time for pleasantries. Just as he had finished speaking, as if on cue, shadows begin to ebb from the orifice, like hands stretching out for someone to hold, they sought our grasp, reaching, enticing, calling us closer. My sister’s eyes widened in horror as the ghoulish images played out before us as if they were taunting us to move closer. Their macabre dance continue for only a brief time then slowly the beasts of hell slithered back into the darkness from whence they came. Their cries of anguish echoed in the hollow of the space from where they had disappeared.

We stood frozen as we listened in horror to their voices retreat.

Darkness, echoes and then silence.

Something inside me suddenly told me to go after them.

There was no sense of fear, no foreboding of danger in my being. Without hesitation, I walked over and began to climb into the opening of the tomb.

“What are you doing,” my sister screamed!

“Get him out of there,” my father called, as they both grabbed at my feet trying to stop my advance into the chamber beyond. Before they could obtain a firm hold, I was submerged into the blackness beyond. All feeling of dread had left me. It was almost as if my fear had been replaced by a rage that repelled the demonic force within the tomb. But it was more than a rage; it was if there was a hand on my soul protecting me. As my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit corridor, I could sense the shadows retreating, fearful of my presence. Feeling empowered by the force within, I continued onward. The ceiling was only a couple feet from the surface that my body scooted along, which then eventually opened up into a taller hallway. Cobwebs and dust portrayed an abandoned dwelling left to decay. Looking for a way out, my eyes caught the rays of muted light passing through cracks in the boards along one wall. Pushing my way through the brittle wood, a large room opened up in front of me. Carefully, I stepped down onto what looked like a rooftop, covered only with tar paper.

“Hmm, no roofing shingles,” came the thought as I timidly walked out far enough that I could look back from where I had come. It was then the realization hit me from where I had just emerged; the old farmhouse of my paternal grandparents, Victor and Mildred Tron. It never occurred to me that there had been a room on this side of the house, yet here I stood, looking back. The black surface of the floor had no dimension. It was as if my footsteps walked upon a void that reflected no light, only absorbed it or trapped it below its surface, held prisoner for all of eternity. The groans of those trapped below caused a vibration that pulsated into the soles of my shoes, sending shivers up my spine.

This is no normal floor,” I thought to myself, “am I standing on hell?”

“God,” I called out turning my gaze to heaven, “Why have you brought me here?”

Overhead there was a sparse rafter system, one that didn’t look strong enough to hold much of a snow, let alone a windstorm. The pieces of wood of that upper framework were pieced together in a haphazard fashion, fastened together at odd angles forming a peculiar dome shaped visage. Had I been in my right mind, I would have been fearful of the entire room’s collapse or being devoured from below by the inequities which I walked upon. Again there was still no sense of doom, no feeling of pending disaster; nothing but a feeling of confidence.

Before I could make sense of where or why I was there, my body was suddenly transported into an RV park in another place and time. Once again danger loomed as neighbors screamed pointing in the direction of the trailer where I had appeared. A massive black funnel cloud as far as my eyes could see, from one end of the horizon to the other, bore down upon us. Those who were faint-hearted were frozen with fear and couldn’t move but rather collapsed into heaps of angst and gnashing of teeth.

Panic was in the air.

Once more, there was a power within that drove the fear from me as the smoke is driven from the fire. One man who had been running from the cloud of death stopped for a moment beside me. He was bent over gasping for breath with his hands on his knees. As the color began to return to his face, he looked up at me with a puzzled face.

“Why aren’t you getting out of here mister? Don’t you know if you stay you will die?”

“No, I’m not,” I calmly replied.

“What the hell do you mean,” his face squinted in question, “can’t you see that,” his weary arm stretched out behind him as if he didn’t even want to face it.

“It’s not coming this way.”

“Like hell it’s not,” he screamed, “all the reports have it coming this way and if you can’t see that,” he now stood and turned pointing with both arms, “Then something must be wrong with you.” He shook his head in utter disbelief and slowly took off, joining the river of people that flowed past on the street next to me.

I turned to face the bleak reality of what he had feared and saw the dark cloud, yet there was still no urgency in my being.

“There is nothing to fear,” I said speaking to the treacherous, twisting serpent cloud roaring in the near distance. “You are not coming here, for He has told me so.”

As I stood watching, the cloud didn’t approach any closer, but rather, continued to swirl and pound the earth in the distance. The deafening roar shook the earth like a thundering herd of wild horses. Furniture, pieces of homes, and shreds of all manner of life spun about in the futile darkness and slowly, ever so slowly crept away, like a scolded dog that had been chastised for misbehaving.

As I watched it fade, the boldness within continued to comfort me.

When I awoke the next morning, there was a serene sense of security, a calmness of being.

That morning my scripture lesson began with the book of Ezekiel, and there before me were the words that said it all. Like Ezekiel before his vision, God placed his hand upon him, and comforted him-“ and the hand of the Lord was upon him there.”

Yes, it was perfectly clear now.

His message was pure and simple; be bold and fear not, for I am with you always.

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Phil 4: 13

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Harrican’ Frank

From this past weekend at the Surry Fiddler’s Convention at Surry Community College in Dobson, NC.

A song I wrote titled, “Harrican’ Frank”.

The song was inspired by a rooster I once owned who I named Frank, for reasons that would become apparent in the following video. Thanks to Dean Lang for filming the video and for being there with his family. We had a wonderful weekend.

Enjoy,

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