In the still of the night, the word “Serendipity” came to me. There was no reason for the thought. There had not been any text that I had recently read that included the term. My first inclination was to write it down lest I forget. Unfortunately, I had not placed my journal by the bedside before going to sleep. Assuring myself that it would not leave me, I turned over and went back to sleep.
Of course, when morning came, the expression was gone in the midst, like the vapor of a dream.
Silently, the car made its way up the mountain. The turns in the bends, the fog, and the words of scripture which passed through my lips brought comfort in this predawn hour. Forgetting the day, the course of life, only the moment therein was alive. Suddenly, like a flash of light from the distant horizon, the word returned, “Serendipity!” Putting it in my waking consciousness, I vowed to retain it long enough to get it down on paper – and more importantly, to see what it meant.
[noun]
the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.
“a fortunate stroke of serendipity.”
Sunday Morning, Collettsville General Store
After reading the meaning, the definition didn’t sit well with my soul. A word within its meaning caused me to wince – “chance.” When we walk in faith, when our journey is fully directed by God, there is no chance. It was here, again as a moment paused in time, that the walk to church last Sunday came to mind.
Rounding the bend in the road, there was the continued reminder of mortality. Someone at some point dumped off a deer carcass in the bushes. Time and weather had aged the remains into a stark, ivory remnant that stood out amongst the gray of winter’s last vestiges. It was not the first time I had seen it. Yet, it remained as a tale of life gone on before, the morbidity of the season – bone against a dreary backdrop of one’s demise.
The thoughts of the journey my life had become began to emanate from those bones, as a subtle suggestion of that likewise, time would end for us all – some sooner than later. Yet, there was the continued push to learn, absorb, and become more than I once was. The season of growth had not just begun but had continued since the long journey began, now six years long.
My eye caught the rushing waters of the river and how they pulsated against the rocks, flowing ever more furious downstream, never stopping, never yielding. As my way continued, my direction was upstream, against the river’s current along which I walked. “So much like the life I live,” were the thoughts that seemed to flow into my head. How much easier my life could be if it weren’t constantly going against the tide. Yet, to serve as I have been called to do, there is no time to waste. There is an impetus to strive for that next hill of knowledge, to seek the wisdom that cometh from God only.
These are the times in which my life’s journey has become.
Then there is the comparison of the natural world, the secularism of man, pursuing itself – washing the multitude of humanity with it downstream to the ocean. We who seek God go against this current. Some can barely stand firm without being washed away, like those rocks wherein the water below crashes violently against. As long as they remain, the water, the worldly current complains in the tempest of thrashing white water. Some give way and are tumbled along, not happy with their displacement, eventually finding footing once more to continue their stance, while others never find a way to resist and are washed away with the multitude.
As my path found its way to the porch of the Collettsville General Store, I discovered that my arrival was greeted by a lonely Blue-Tick Hound, likely a hunting dog that had been lost in the night. He welcomed me as if this was his home and treated me to a gratifying pat upon his neck. Soon, we found ourselves sitting side-by-side on that familiar spot. Once before, two dogs, Barney and Otis, had likewise provided companionship when there was none other. As we sat, watching that tide of humanity rush by, like those frantic waters of the John’s River flowing behind us, we sought the peace of God about us.
Once more, the word pursed its impression upon this reflected scene – “Serendipity.”
May you find the peace of the Lord today, no matter how small the token. Embrace what God hath provided and pause for a moment, giving thanks. As my late father would say of moments like these, “The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the grass is green. What else could be better?”
“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you…” – John 14:27
Sitting under the overcast, gray sky, the river rolled past,
heavy from the night’s rain. One could see their breath in the chill of the
air; it was a wet, dampness that encompassed not only the body but the soul as well. Barney and Otis were
my lunch companions, each patiently sitting apart, respectfully waiting without
being imposing. I sat on the aged picnic table facing the Johns River, as it
flowed beneath the bridge in Collettsville.
Once more, my mind sought a rest, something beyond what had
become the daily grind, something that had the
ability to enrich while reaching beyond the surface. Like the turbulent
waters rushing past, time was fleeting. Should we pass from this life to the
next without taking time to appreciate what God has made for us in this life,
we fail to live to the fullness as He intended. Thrusting one’s hand into the
confluence in an attempt to stop its advance was as fruitless as holding water between our fingertips; slipping away
before its sustenance can press upon our parched, dry lips. Rather, it required
an attention of fullness in order to find what it was that would find
its permanence within.
The day before, as the gray light of dawn began to lighten
my bedroom, there was a whisper to my heart about something so seemingly insignificant
and frivolous, that at first, it was dismissed. However, it came again, accompanied
by another likewise meaningless idea; wonder if they would ever get checkers
and hot chocolate down at the general store? The thought caused me to chuckle. It
had been over a week since I had stopped in to visit the store down in
Collettsville. As a matter of fact, it had been at least that long since I had
seen Barney and Otis, my four-legged friends who so loved to simply sit by my
side and be petted; an inspiration in and of itself. It became a point of
destination for my walk later in the morning after a sufficient amount of time had been spent encompassed by my studies
and schoolwork. There I soon learned of two new additions to the store. You
guessed it, checkers and hot chocolate.
The thought of the whisper to my heart returned, and it warmed my being. Too often we try to
explain away the voice of God if we would
only listen.
The children of Israel had fallen away once again, and
through the prophet Jeremiah, he was speaking out to them, reminding them of
the errors of their ways. He even gave them direct commands to follow, “Thus, saith the Lord, Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the
old paths, where is the good way, and
walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls. But they said, We will not walk therein.” Unwilling to listen, they went on their own paths
to destruction, disregarding the former and ignoring the law which God hath given
them through Moses. Again, and again,
they would face the wrath of God because of their own choosing. They pushed on,
proving that there would be no rest for the wicked.
Yet, my journey was guided by His
hands as the scripture tells us, “Trust
in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.In
all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”-Prv3:5-6
Once more, guided by that still small voice, I found myself nestling the head of Otis in my lap as he napped, while Barney sat faithfully at my side while we occupied the bench on the porch of the general store. Content to rest and take in the world passing by, like the waters of the Johns River behind us, my thoughts wandered as aimlessly as the twitching leg in the sleeping dog’s dreams. Our repose was interrupted when the son of the store’s owner pulled up, Garrett. The tall, thin young man looked scholarly in his black-rimmed glasses. He was already quickly becoming a good friend, and today would encourage that bond even further. Walking up, he held an armload of vinyl records.
“What you got there,” I asked while continuing to find Barney’s
favorite spot to be scratched.
“Oh, just some old records I found
at a consignment shop.”
“John Prine,” I read out loud. “Wow,
you like the old stuff?”
Smiling broadly, he began to show me the rest of the collection;
names like Cash, Jennings, Daniels, Miller, Nelson, and so on appeared. It was like
a walk back in time. “I even found a Roger Miller Greatest Hits,” he said
holding up the nearly flawless album. My mind flashed back to that eight-track
player my dad kept in the back of the Prowler that sat in the driveway back in
Booneville. The sounds of that album would play continually as long as the power
was turned on. Us kids would play in the driveway to the sounds of, “Dang me,
Dang me, they outta take a rope and hang me,” blaring no-stop, until the word had
been forever etched into our minds.
“That was one of my dad’s
favorites,” I answered, pointing to the Miller album. “You like vinyl?”
“Yeah,” he answered respectfully, “I’ve
been collecting them since middle school.”
“That wasn’t long ago,” I chuckled.
He laughed at that too.
“Do you have a way to play them
here at the store?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a little turntable
I brought to play them on.”
Our conversation continued on, and
we soon found ourselves stepping inside. Garrett pulled out a little portable record
player, one that was a vintage remake, something he had bought at a
Barnes-and-Noble; quite a sharp little unit.
“Got time for a game of checkers,”
I said pointing to the barrel with the board stretched across the top?
“Sure, he said,”
“Want to play a record we can
listen too while we play,” I asked?
“Yeah,” he said, “I was just
thinking the same thing.”
“Got a particular one you want to
hear?”
“I’ve never heard that John Prine 71
album you’ve got there,” I answered, “How
bout that one?”
“Sure.”
“The only one I know on there is
Paradise. It’s a Bluegrass Classic.”
“Yea, I know how to play that one
too,” my young friend replied.
Garrett and Tim playing checkers at Collettsville General Store.
My thoughts rambled on to how we need to sit down sometime and just pick together. “This young man just continues to impress me the more I get to know him,” were my thoughts at that moment.
Not long after that, we settled into and began playing that ancient board game.
In the background, the hiss and pop of the needle finding the groove in the
record only added to the nostalgia of the moment. It was only fitting. The new
owners had spent countless hours and dollars to remodel the store to resemble
an old fashion country store, complete with hardwood floors, and ship-lap
siding bare wood walls. Our checkerboard sat atop a seasoned antique wooden
barrel, like one that might have held crackers in one of the old Carolina style
general stores. As our play lengthened, we shared stories about places, times,
and events in our lives. It wasn’t so much the game we were intent upon, but
rather, the fellowship through its activity. Like those old days sitting on the
porch at Sharpe’s Store back in Chatham, it wasn’t about why you came, but
rather, what you learned through the fellowship of being there, and pausing
long enough to take in life.
Daily, in my classroom, I watch as children try to keep up with the light-speed pace of the world around them; memes, social media, snapchat, viral videos, ad nauseam; many becoming frustrated and exacerbated by the feeling of being left behind. Their peers challenge them to keep pace, and if not, face ridicule if they don’t. Too few have any idea from whence they came beyond what the textbooks have told them. However, once in a while, you will find an old soul, an outcast of their own choosing; one who finds shelter in the old songs, old traditions, or ways of the past. Their upbringing often reflected in their manners.
The young man that spent time playing
checkers; this past Saturday was just
that, an old soul in a young man’s body. His upbringing has been well done, to
which his parents should be congratulated. But even better, he shared with me
his devout faith. Like a youth after my own heart, he plays music for his
church and shares the gospel through the gifts by which God has endowed upon
him. “If only there were more Garretts in
today’s world,” I thought to myself as I pulled away from the store later
on.
Yes, the whispers of frivolous
things, as they appeared to me at that time, led to greater things than had
been possible to imagine. Hot chocolate and checkers would find a way to
replenish and refresh a weary soul.
“When I was a child my family would travel
Down to Western Kentucky where my parents were born
And there’s a backwards old town
that’s often remembered
So many times that my memories are worn.”
That afternoon, we took time to
step out of the torrent of the day-to-day grind
and paused. There, a young man and an old friend stopped to step back in time,
allowing their souls to rest. Like those moments of repose upon the bench with
my friends Otis and Barney, Garrett and I chose to take the path God had intended,
the old paths, the old ways.
Yes, there is hope for the next
generation. It is up to us to pause long enough to spend time with them to
share where we’ve been, and how God has helped us to get where we are. Like
reaching into the roaring confluence of time, we can’t stop it, but we can grasp
just enough to spill a few drops that may inspire those tender hearts who have
yet to live.
Allow yourself to spend time alone
with God and listen to that still small voice. What you might hear may sound
insignificant and frivolous at first. But if you follow his call, the path you
take may turn into some far more glorious and precious than you could have
imagined. “Faith is the substance of
things hoped for, evidence of things not seen.”-Heb.12:1
Along many trails and paths, I have crossed in my time. Along each trek, there is a special anticipation of what is just around the next bend, a longing to push onward. Someone once said to me that you could only see as far as the next point on the horizon, and once you make it to that point, you can see a little bit farther, to the next point if you will. Some days are like that, finding myself having reached a point that was once a distant speck from that far away vantage point. In that instance, seeing and knowing become one.
Today, our family cat whom we call “Sky,” journeyed along with me on my walk. Unlike the day before, he was more reluctant than usual. Before we had come to the point of leaving the forest into the first opening of the trail he stopped and decided to stay behind. Knowing I was going at a faster pace than the previous day, I was fine with that and figured since I was returning on the same trail, that I would catch him on the way home.
Overhead, the clouds loomed low obscuring the distant peaks of Grandfather, shrouding him in a blanket of white. All around me, the drops of rain danced on the fallen leaves which abound on the forest floor. My breath was labored, and I soon found that I had not healed from the recent chest cold as my progress slowed to a crawl. It was much later than I had planned by the time I returned to the point Sky and I had parted ways.
He was nowhere to be found.
“He’s a cat,” I told myself, “and he will surely find his way back home.”
So I slowly and weakly made my way up the trail and back to the house, sweating and breathing much too heavily for what was my normal routine. Sitting heavily, but thankfully in the porch chair, I began to remove my boots, grateful to be back home. But there was someone missing; Sky was still not home.
“He’ll find his way,” again I reassured myself.
My thoughts flashed back to another time on a winter’s day. We had been blasted with a wave of blizzards in the Midwest. The landscape looked like the frozen tundra, not southern Indiana. It became an adventure just to go out and walk the fence rows, and ditch banks, places that were once of little interest took on a whole new image as giant fissures and massive snow banks turned a once boring landscape into a winter play land. On one such day, I took out with the family dog, Missy, on an afternoon exploration. We had gone over a mile along fence rows and ditches, exploring tunnels and all manner of ice formations when we happened upon a bubbling creek. Missy was a beautiful Collie-Shepherd mix that loved to explore as much as her owner, so we were having the time of our lives when suddenly are adventure took a turn for the worse. The snap of the steel on her leg scared me as much as it did her. I hadn’t realized the creek we were wading in was also the trapping line for the local farmer who was also collecting pelts to help subsidize his income. My dog’s screams and yelps tore through my heart as I raced to free her from the pain.
Again, my mind flashed back to another time in my life when I was much younger and caught in a similar predicament. It was the back alley of our little town of New Harmony. I had befriended a stray dog, and I was throwing a ball for him in the alleyway behind my grandparents family diner, The Heritage Trail Restaurant. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the dog began screaming for help. His back leg had gotten caught in the street drain. Unthinking, I reached for him wanting to help pull him out. The dog acted on instinct and reached for anything that he could use to leverage his body from the clutches of steel; my hand. The shredding of my pinky was instantaneous and blinding in pain. The dog bolted around the corner leaving me shaken and scared. Blood immediately began running down my arm as I tried to wrap it up in my sweatshirt. Fearful I would get in trouble for playing with a stray, I never told anyone. I snuck in the back door of the restaurant and cleaned up the wound in the abandoned dish sink. It was late afternoon, and everyone was on break and away from their posts, which is why I wasn’t found out. I was lucky I never contracted rabies or any other disease. God once again watched over me when I needed Him most.
All that flashed through my head as I headed toward Missy trying to soothe her before I reached to her with my hands, even if they were gloved. Fortunately, having learned my lesson, I first reached toward her with a stick. She was nothing like the stray and wanted only for me to help her leg as she stopped and stood still as if she knew what had to be done. Pulling the jaws of steel apart long enough for her to retract her injured limb, it was in the blink of an eye, and she was free. Sadly I watched as she limped on three legs, trying to hold the injured limb above the snow and hop. Knowing we had a long way to get back home, I couldn’t let her go on that way and picked her up. She weighed at least 50lbs. at the time. I wasn’t much more and maybe weighed all of 100lbs myself. Slowly and painfully, I carried that dog until my arms were like lead. We had traveled within 100 yards of the house when I finally collapsed from exhaustion. Missy sat for a minute with me in the snow, me panting and her curious. She licked my face and then much to my amazement, jumped up and ran the rest of the way back to the house ahead of me. There was no sign of any injury or hurt leg after all. I had been hornswoggled by a dog.
This evening, as darkness began to creep up the holler, there was still no Sky back at the house. Others became worried and urged me to please find him.
Fearful that he might not make it home before dark, I headed back down the trail calling for him as I went. The light of day was fading quickly. My path made it all the way to the stables and back, but still no cat. Slowly as I passed our initial point of separation, I began calling and listening. My mind remembered Missy and how I had been humorously tricked before but now it seemed the cat was truly missing. A few more steps and calling I saw the white blur in the darkness before me dash in my direction; it was Sky. My heart warmed at his sight.
He was still not far from where we had been earlier in the day, and he was more than happy to have me pick him up and hold him close.
I carried him all the way back to the house and gladly placed him on top of his little home on our porch.
We were both happy to be back.
I had seen once before and now, knew from the past what to expect. Yes, I had gone farther in many aspects, but knowing from whence we came is just as important. In all that we do, we are never alone; God is with certainly with us, watching and smiling.
As darkness surrounded our little home in the mountains, Sky gladly curled up in his house, and I in mine, safe and sound for another day.
