Tag Archives: Doyle Lawson and Quicksilver Bluegrass Festival

Thank you Doyle Lawson

I awoke this morning from a dream, in a seeming fit of torment, partly from tears of joy and partly from the fact that I had failed to mention something very near and dear to my heart to a person to which I had been speaking.

In my dream, I attended what appeared to be some sort of event. From the appearance of who I was waiting on to speak with in person after the show indicated that it must have been a Bluegrass Festival. The man whom I patiently waited to talk with was Doyle Lawson. Doyle had just announced his retirement from touring the multitude of festivals he and his band, Quick Silver, attended each year. Doyle was a showman. His presence at a festival and his band’s performance on stage were the earmarks of quality and perfection. Someone had posted on social media a photograph thanking Doyle for his contributions to Bluegrass and wishing him well in his retirement. The image showed Doyle walking away from his gold-brown touring bus, rhinestone-studded jacket, and signature cowboy had perched proudly on top of his manicured white hair, at his side, his mandolin case; the image was the icon of his legacy.

As the crowds died away and as the stage workers began taking down the sound system, Doyle lingered speaking to friends and fans, to which he had many. On the side, waiting so that we could be alone, I uncomplainingly waited. The coffee in my white styrofoam cup had long ago lost its warmth. The sips were now more of habit than need which helped pass the time. It wasn’t clear to me what I wanted to say, only that there was a deep, heart-felt gratitude that must be shared – nothing else.

Finally, when my turn came, Doyle came over, and we began talking. There didn’t seem to be words conveyed in the dream, but rather a feeling of sharing of thanks and gratitude. It must have been moving because Doyle began to cry, as had I. A lady came over, who must have been his wife, and joined in our passionate sharing. Eventually, he put his arm around me and thanked me for this fond farewell. He stood by my car as I got in to leave, telling me to be careful and to have a safe journey. We said our goodbyes, and he walked away.

As I got in my car to leave, contemplating the route to take to go home, the stage crew continued their work. Finally, Doyle packed up the last of his own gear and headed off toward the bus with his wife. It was the end of an era, the last of a dying breed. As I drove away, there was a deep sense of finality to it all. But, before my vehicle had traveled very far down the road, the memory of something special, something that had changed the way I thought about Doyle, returned. It was something that I should have shared with Doyle but somehow forgot.

My memory was about something that happened 11 years ago in May when my family and I were attending the Doyle Lawson and Quick Silver Bluegrass Festival at Denton, NC. The week had been a multitude of fun, fellowship, and play. My son Jonathan and I had stayed for the Sunday model church service, where brother Dale Tilley would deliver the sermon. As was the custom, my son and I arrived early so that we could sit up front behind Doyle’s band, who always sat on the left side in the two front rows. There, we patiently waited for the church to fill and finally for Doyle and the boys to make their entrance. Sitting behind them and hearing brother Dale deliver another fiery, enlivened sermon and hearing the most beautiful congregational singing, one couldn’t help to be thankful. But it was toward the end when my son leaned over to me and said that he wanted to stay after and “Be Saved” that my heart melted.

When the time was right, I motioned to brother Dale that my son wanted to speak with him. So, as all the people, including Doyle and the band, filed out, we patiently waited. There in that little model church in Denton, NC., my son gave his life to Christ. It was just he, Dale, and myself. Tears fell from my eyes as I heard Dale walk Jonathan through the texts in Romans 10:9 and to hear my son confess his sins and accept Christ into his life. Brother Dale prayed us out and we rose from our kneeling position off the floor. We walked feeling a renewed sense of life toward the back door, the only exit out of the church. It had been nearly 15-20 minutes. Brother Dale had taken his time to make sure my son was confident and that what he was about to do was something not to take lightly. So, the feeling that we would emerge from the walls of that white clapboard building alone, just us three, was all that I anticipated. However, when we opened the doors to exit, there, lining the steps going down from the front door, stood Doyle and all of his band. Doyle certainly had other destinations to get to and a schedule to maintain, but he stood there at the top, waiting to congratulate my son on his decision. The tears flowed even more.

Yes, that was the day that my previously made image of Doyle Lawson, one of thinking that he was purely a showman and that his faith was simple to make the audience more engaged, was washed away. There outside that little church in a dusty field, a man that spent his life sharing his music with strangers, a man that made it his life to support his family through the difficult challenges of traveling the festival circuit, became a man to me who walked the walk.

That was the feeling that I awoke with, thinking that had I only shared that with Doyle, “Surely it would have made him feel even more blessed about his retirement, that he had done something wonderful for yet another person in his journey of life,” I thought to myself as I realized the sun had yet to rise. So much for all the fanfare, the awards, notoriety. To know that a man made his living around a gift from God, and that along the way, touched people’s lives by quietly sharing his faith, not as a boisterous performance, but as Christ would have done, without pomp and circumstance, but with humility and grace made all the difference in the world.

Yes, this will forever be the real Doyle Lawson to me.

Thanks for all you gave and all that you have done, Doyle. May your retirement be rich with countless blessings from the Lord.

Thanks be to God.

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A Song of Old – The Return to the Denton Bluegrass Festival 2020

by Timothy W. Tron

While the past few days have been a blur, there were many poignant moments upon which to reflect. Gazing out across the fervent green pastures before the light of dawn, the cattle were making their way across the begotten landscape. It felt almost as if I was back on the farm in Chatham, there with my cattle grazing before me. As I sipped my campfire percolated coffee, there was a peace of mind that passeth all understanding. Perhaps it’s only in the blood of someone raised in the country, or perhaps, it’s just knowing pleasures of a simpler life. While this was not my land, nor my farm, it was still a homecoming in many ways. This was my first real trip back not only to a place, not only to an event but more so to a collection of souls that had been part of my life before I crossed over that great river. When that journey began, there was a song that spoke to me when the challenges seemed to be uphill, no matter where I turned. The tune was called, “Wide River to Cross,” performed by the Bluegrass group Balsam Range who hails from Canton, NC. The song goes like this,

photo by Marty Tew

“There’s a sorrow in the wind
Blowing down the road I’ve been
I can hear it cry while shadows steal the sun
But I cannot look back now
I’ve come too far to turn around
And there’s still a race ahead that I must run

I’m only halfway home
I’ve gotta journey on
To where I’ll find the things I have lost
I’ve come a long, long road
Still I’ve got miles to go
I’ve got a wide, wide river to cross”

Once there was a life that was not well lived. The vessel was hollow, but none could tell from the outside. It wasn’t until that day when the decision was made, to cross that great divide – to serve God in all that I do – that life began to change. While we, my family and I, eventually made it across that great divide, the journey never ends until the day we are laid into that final resting place. In essence, we are only halfway home. While that road we have traveled may seem long, we’ve still many miles to go. Yet, once you make that leap of faith, you are reminded that you’ve come too far to turn back. Each day becomes another opportunity to serve Him in all that you do. There is not a day that the scripture from Colossians does not come to mind, “And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men; Knowing that of the Lord ye shall receive the reward of the inheritance: for ye serve the Lord Christ.[1]

When we take that leap of faith, there is no turning back. Yet, those who have been left behind seldom know the reason, but only that someone has left the presence of their life, be it good or bad. Meanwhile, life goes on. The clock ticks, the wrinkles grow like furrows in the cornrow as the setting sun casts its shadows. One by one, the soldier’s fall – Randy Shumaker, Dave Murph, and so many more. Yet, these two were special, especially on this return trip to the Denton Bluegrass Festival. God had placed them in my life for a reason. We had met through our shared experiences of camping at Denton. Randy’s fellow band members and their families, along with other campers on that hill by the cow pasture, became my extended family. He was one of the founding members of the Second Chance Bluegrass Band, was always there, first thing in the morning regardless of how bad his cancer had progressed, and would say to me, “Great is the day the Lord hath made.” The first time he said it to me, I could only smile. At the time, I had only heard the scripture quoted, but didn’t know it well enough to respond to the pause he had purposefully extended on my behalf. Later, I would come to welcome his pre-dawn greetings with a, “Let us be glad and rejoice in it,” reply.

David Murph, the founder and former member of The Gospel Plowboys, was with me through the crossing of that river. He became like my lighthouse to the incoming ship. He assured me that God was using me in a mighty way. In their final days, both men impressed upon those whom they left behind a sense of urgency and a clear understanding of what it looks like to serve the Lord to the end. Both men passed too early for our earthly understanding, but are now with Jesus in that far brighter land. Each of my dear friends are healed and waiting for the day we can walk along God’s golden shores together, laughing and singing as in days of old. God had allowed them a time and place for which the seeds had been planted for many more. From a distance, we hear of their passing, but from that distant home, we can only know that they are waiting for us for that ultimate day of rejoicing.

My time in Denton this past weekend was not without quiet moments. Though the bed be weary, there was a bequeathing of the solstice in the sounds of raindrops falling upon the tarp above my tent. Warm and dry, the night passed into slumber as strains of stringed music wafted across the hollar. As campers hunkered down under canopies from the formidable precipitation, it failed to dampen their spirits. From one hilltop to the next, like waves of promise buoyed upon the breezes of jubilant voices soothed the weary soul. Like sunshine breaking through the storm, there was a rekindling of a consciousness of life. Like the traveler returning from a long, extended journey, my welcome home had been more abundantly received than ever imagined. It was heart-warming, and impactful at the same time, as one after another of my long-lost friends greeted me like a brother. Like, true friends, we picked up where we left off as if there had never been a separation in time. Some had only heard of my return and stopped by to see if it were so. Like a ghostly figure, we too are only a vapor in the midst of time. So with respect to the admiration of one another, there were some things left unsaid – those that had parted this world for the next, for one, were those often silent moments where words had no place. Randy’s daughter, Jessica, stopped by during one of our jam sessions and sought to say hello. There was so much that I wanted to ask and say to her, but at the moment it didn’t seem right. Instead, as she spoke briefly about her life, my thoughts returned to when I could hear her singing along with her daddy, Randy, at those late-night jam sessions. Later, I regretted not stopping and pulling her aside and just taking the time to sit and dwell in the moment. While she said at one point, “I have never missed a festival for the past 14 years, and I’m not going to start now.” In that defiant voice, there was the sound of her father’s tone ringing true. When she said that, my mind could hear Randy say the same thing, and emotion welled up in my throat. Quietly, I choked back what would have sounded contrite in comparison. Too soon, she would move on, but the memory she had invoked would tarry like the sweet aroma of a freshly baked apple pie sitting on the window sill cooling.

Here and there little children would be riding their bicycles past the campsites and the memories of my own children, and those of my friends would return. Their happy, garish voices would echo back in time. Their joy came not like ours but just living in the freedom of the moment, riding on their own up to the country store to buy another soda and slice of hoop-cheese, or wandering down to the pond to go fishing. The safety of the festival’s confines provided them an opportunity to step back into another time, akin to our own. To grow up in a sleepy little town, like New Harmony, where our only limitations were how many bottles you could collect in order to buy a bag of candy from the five-and-dime. Our energy seemed boundless. We never stopped. We were either running in play across fertile green pastures or riding a bicycle around our little village from sun up to sundown. When the evening baths were complete, there was no sleeplessness. As soon as your head hit the pillow, you were waking up to a new day.

As the gray light of dawn found its way into the corners of my tent, the raindrops could not silence the lowing of the cattle. Some had stopped their music only a short while before. Many would not rise until long after the sun’s arc had reached midday. It was this time of day, the predawn, that made the recollections of previous festivals drift back into one’s mind. Like Randy’s early morning greetings, there were other familiar sounds, but less obvious. Intently, if one listened, the coffee grumbling at the heat from the fire could be heard, shortly before the burp of percolation began. The crackling fire, like the last vestiges of the whippoorwill, united with the sounds of water still dripping from the trees. Here and there another acorn would fall from the many oak trees that shaded our camping site. There were no more sounds of singing or instruments being played – this was the morning after. Like that return across the river, once you have been to the other side, there is an appreciation for all things now.

While you will never be the same, there is a certain contentment in seeing or hearing how some things will never change; albeit, some may be less industrious than others. While our instruments of choice are the same used by our ancestors’ centuries before, our campsites are lined with tents and RV’s which would have made the cover of Popular Science at one time. Yet, there are still the fires to warm the chilly hands and feet when the darkness of night falls.

It is there, in that moment of time, where the past meets the present; when we are afforded the opportunity to return to a place we once knew, to show others that it can be done – to wade across that wide river and find that far distant shore. There is an inspiration of choice, to which each person is offered. It is when we make that journey, we are changed, and when we are allowed to return, as Moses came down from the Mount, the radiance of his being was too great for those to see – likewise, we are changed. Our light can become that for all to see.

As Delmar, in the movie “Oh Brother Where Art Thou,” waded back from his Baptism to tell the others, “Step into the water boys, there’s plenty of salvation to be had for all.” Let your sins be washed away, and someday, you too can reach that far distant shore. There weren’t just two men who lived their lives serving until the bitter end, but three. Jesus led the way and was an example to all – by the blood of Christ, we are all washed clean of our sins. Randy and Dave would have wanted you to know that this was their calling. Someday, it maybe yours too.

As the campfire fades, the time slips away and soon, it is time to say goodbye once more. But this time, unlike before, it is, “until we meet again.” Whether here on this earth, or on God’s golden shore, we shall meet again, and what a day of rejoicing it will be.

Thanks be to God.


[1] Colossians 3:23-24 KJV

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One Soweth, and Another Reapeth…

Say not ye, There are yet four months, and then cometh harvest? behold, I say unto you, Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest. And he that reapeth receiveth wages, and gathereth fruit unto life eternal: that both he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice together. And herein is that saying true, One soweth, and another reapeth. I sent you to reap that whereon ye bestowed no labour: other men laboured, and ye are entered into their labours.” – John 4:35-38

 

It had been a long day at school, so it was not by choice that I sat waiting for the salesperson to work on our order at the wireless store. I tried to remain positive and tell myself that God had put me there for a purpose. At that present time, it wasn’t obvious; at least not yet.

We had put off switching to a new wireless carrier for some time, but it had finally gotten to the point if we wanted to communicate as needed, we were going to have to use the service that provided the best coverage for the area in which we lived and worked.  The young man that waited on me was very kind and extremely courteous. As he began the process of transferring data from one device to the other, we started talking about where I worked and found that we had mutual connections. It wasn’t long before it became apparent, he was a believer too. In fact, after we shared some personal testimony, he told me that he had given his two weeks’ notice just moments before I stepped foot in the door to answer his calling to become a youth pastor at a nearby church.

It was then I began to feel the presence of the Holy Spirit ripple across my forearms.

Suddenly, his phone rang, and he had to excuse himself from our conversation.

About that time message appeared on my old phone which we had not yet ported over to the new service. The news was from a distant relative, one that I’ve never met in person. A few years back, I had shared with him part of our Waldensian ancestry and how we came to be. He seemed interested, but not beyond just wanting to hear about those ancient names. The story beyond, from whence we came didn’t seem to intrigue him; at least not from my vantage point. Once I provided him the information, we only remained in contact through shared “likes” on social media.  However, from what I saw from his posts, his life once was devoured by pleasures of the flesh. He found his comfort at the end of a bottle, so the pictures said. But the message at that moment that came to me as I sat in the cell phone store in Boone was that God had found a way to reach him.

As I read with eyes of joy, he told a friend who had inquired about his post, “I haven’t touched a drop in over a year.” He then went on to say how he was regularly attending a church in his community. My heart leaped for joy, and I stood up, rejoicing out loud. The questions raced through my mind, “Had I somehow planted a seed?” “Did God use that seemingly insignificant contact years ago to begin working on my distant cousin?” Those and many more rushed through my mind as my new friend got off the phone smiling at my exuberant demeanor.

“I guess that was good news,” he said pointing at my phone.

“Oh, yes, more than I can explain,” pausing to gain understanding of what had all just transpired.

Then the words of Jesus came rushing in, “And herein is that saying true, One soweth, and another reapeth.”

In all things, no matter how small, nor how insignificant, God has a purpose. As I stood there in that small store, I had found another soul that had recently taken another leap of faith. As we talked the thought of another time and place when my just being somewhere was God using me, and again, it felt the same. Yet, now as I stood there, another soul had found something greater than that which is in the world.

With each tiny seed we plant, we may not reap the harvest, but it is God that will bring the crop to fruition. It is not us that will change that being. It is not our doing that will cause another to turn to Christ; it is God, and God alone.

In all that we do, there is a purpose.

Last Saturday, as we sat watching the Western Piedmont Community College graduates ascend the short stairway to the stage, the feeling of a proud parent swelled our chests. In what seemed like yesterday, I was holding him in my arms for the first time, watching the helpless lifeform, totally dependent upon his mother and father to survive. Our son now stood in his graduation regalia receiving his diploma, then leaving the stage, returned to his seat. His independence is a culmination of 18 years of love, care, and patience. What God hath given life unto us, we have taken that responsibility and nurtured him into adulthood. “For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required,” reads Luke 12:48 And so with eyes brimming with moisture, we know that soon he will leave us. It is only natural.

We had planted the seed. It is up to him to continue to allow it to grow. But the seed had begun to ripen much earlier.

For those many years of his life, we have taught him how to live in faith. At the tender age of 10 years, he found Christ. His salvation came in a little model Church at the Denton Bluegrass Festival. Every year, Doyle Lawson would offer those who wanted to attend, a church service at the close of his festival. One of his good friends, brother Dale Tilley, would most often be the preacher. And so it was this Mother’s Day weekend when we sat in the row just behind Doyle’s band, that we heard brother Tilley bring another spirit-filled sermon to a weary group of bluegrass campers. After brother Dale Tilley had nearly finished his altar call, my weekend was just about to get even better. Without any idea what was about to happen, my boy leaned over to me and whispered the words into my ear that I will never forget, “I want to be saved.”

My heart leaped for joy.

Upon his request to wait until everyone had left, I motioned to brother Tilley that we needed to talk, and as everyone ushered themselves out, the door closed and we were alone. Brother Tilley directed us through the process as we knelt in prayer and supplication. There on that ancient wooden floor of the little white clapboard country church, my son spoke the words and prayed the prayer to ask Christ to come into his life. With tears in my eyes, we stood up to leave. It was just brother Tilley, my son and I. As we reached the back doors of the church, we opened them to find that we were not alone. There under a clear, blue Carolina sky stood Doyle Lawson and his entire band.  The entire entourage was still standing in a row on the steps of the church, they had paused from their busy schedule, waiting to celebrate my son’s decision.

The tears ran down my cheeks as I watched entertainers turned Christians welcome another one into their fold.

It is a day I will never forget.

The seed had been planted, but another reaped the harvest, but we rejoiced together.

God has a purpose in everything we do. What will become of the young man at the cell phone store? I may never know, but it really doesn’t matter; God knows.

One day, when we reach that far distant shore, there will be a welcoming into the fold. We’ll find the angels of the Lord standing in a row, pausing for each of us, ushering us into those heavenly gates. On that day, the answers to the questions we never knew will become obvious.

What a day it will be.

Thanks be to God.

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