Tag Archives: faith

by | December 31, 2024 · 2:46 pm

Live as it is to Dream

Arising in the morning, as if being cast out into life from beneath the warm covers of shielded dreams, one may find oneself struggling to clear one’s mind through the fog of slumber in a cold, foreign landscape. Yet, to consider one’s salvation and the journey to such a promised land, we can draw a direct correlation between the gentle demeanor of being conspicuously conscious or morbidly asleep; the distinction between the two is a determinate as to how aware we are of our soul’s mortality, whether to live is to die, or to die to oneself is to live. The discernment comes from realizing the truth and awakening to its sunrise of hope for one’s life therein.

“All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come.” – Job 14:14

Struggling through the day-to-day hardships of one’s daily toil, it can seem as if we are on a never-ending merry-go-round, the escape only seen as a demise of career or character. The screenshots flicker as if watching some ancient film projected in black-and-white upon a roughly plastered wall, the cracks and crevices adding to the tumultuous torment. Seen from the future in which we inhabit later in life, we realize that the scope of our focus had been all for naught, had we only strove for those secular things of the world, trying to achieve but never reaching the highest pinnacle of success, waging a war against something we could alone, never defeat. Time, the master of all, eventually sees its victims succumb to the gravity of mortal existence. Meanwhile, each night, we seek to escape through those sparsely recalled dreams in which we fly into other worlds, void of the bondage upon which we have inflicted of our own desires.

How ironic then it is that when we reach the threshold of life’s journey, the sunset begins to shed light upon our pathway, and in reflection, we seek those dreams, to recall them forward in an effort to relieve the peace with which they brought; yet, never granted. In waking, we find that the eternal life we neglected now faces us head-on, a glaring prospect for which we have little preparation. Suddenly, we are not only confounded by our previous stupidity but rather sickened by our neglect of the consideration that was before us all along. We begin to awaken only to see that the eternity we face is the dream in which we shall forever embody, to the point it becomes reality. To seek that which we cannot see, but that which we accept on faith, is in a sense, dreaming while conscious, having hope in something that transcends what we can logically conceive. Herein is the meaning behind what George MacDonald wrote, “It may be notwithstanding, that when most awake, I am only dreaming the more!”[1]

To bring it back to something more perceptible, consider the phrase and what it means, “To live the American Dream.” Herein, we find the earthly essence of finding that perfect career, the perfect home, wife, and children, all in a sweet little package that we can envelop within the comprehension of our minds. To have a life free of persecution, torment, or strife, to not know suffering or pain, these are the idyllic visions we often are taught to impose upon ourselves in this life. Yet, there was never a promise as such granted by anyone or anything. Becoming a Christian does not take away the suffering or pain, nor does it guarantee a life void of persecution. If nothing else, it only promises that those torments will only be assured. If one were to consider the vision aspect, this perception would be more likely to be considered a nightmare than a dream.

Yet, we have drifted away from what it is to dream, meaning that the realities of living the “Dream” aren’t necessarily what we would accept as dreaming any more than one might consider holding one’s breath underwater and consider it breathing as a fish. To awaken from one’s sleep is to come to consciousness – knowing that the world you inhabit is one of concrete realities. But to awaken from the perception of something beyond this world is to awaken into something without form, void of the physical, and herein, we find ourselves awake while dreaming. As Novalis wrote, “Our life is no dream, but it should and will perhaps become one.”[2]

Herein lies the ultimate truth.

To consciously seek that which cannot be seen nor terrestrially found is to live in a state beyond the reality of now and to find hope in something beyond the natural, the eternal. By seeking context in the meaning, we can better understand the purpose of this discussion in the simple word “Salvation.” To know that God became flesh so that he might live as we live, to know the pain and sufferings of this conscious life, then to die an earthly death, to know the torment and anguish, taking upon himself the sins of the world, the one that knew no sin, so that we might be freed of our sin, our secular fleshly desires, if we confess our sins and accept Him into our hearts – that is what it is to awaken from the slumber of discontented pleasures, to understand who He was, and still is. God came to make it known to us that in the state of what may be considered to be dreaming, we, too, can find something beyond what our earthly existence would have us know.

Once finding salvation in the hope of life eternal, we can finally realize what it is to realize we are most awake when we are dreaming all the more.

Thanks be to God.

[1] George MacDonald, Lilith (London: Walter Scott Publishing, 1895)

[2] Novalis, Philosophical Writings, trans. Maurice B. Cramer (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1997)

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by | December 17, 2024 · 10:44 am

When Thyme is Not Enough (Part II)

By Timothy W. Tron, December, 2024

“So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12

[We continue our story from Part I, where we met Griffin, a young twenty-something vibrant young man, and his family, the MacRae clan, living in the Scottish Highlands in the late twelfth century. News of the call for a Third Crusade rallies his clan, among many others, to join the fight. Griffin heeds the call, but not before preemptively marrying his childhood sweetheart, Katelyn Wallace. The tearful scene that follows concluded the previous edition, where we will now begin so that the reader may fully appreciate the costs to which many gave their lives. May your heart be blessed by the story that follows, and may you consider how time, a most precious gift, is spent in your own life.]

As Griffin sat astride his mount, waiting for the orders to move out, he watched as the entire entourage of the MacRae clan came out to bid them farewell – wives, children, and their beloved mother. It was a bitterly cold day, and the first snow of winter had begun to fall. Katelyn rushed to his side, one last kiss, one last tearful goodbye. As she looked up, snowflakes fell on her eyelashes, endearing the angelic face that looked up to him from below. Buoyed by the thought of serving God in striking down the enemy of darkness, Griffin was more composed, but not by much. Trembling with trepidation, Katelyn handed him a small cloth-bound sachet with a leather string attached.

“For you, my love. Wear it and think of me as often as you will.”

“What is it,” he said, bending down to receive the hand-made treasure.

“It’s a locket of love, containing Thyme to make you courageous, no matter where the journey leads, and a strand of my locks to remind you that I will wait for you, as long as it takes.”

He moved the reigns to his other hand and gently, with as much care, received the lasting gift of love from his dearest. Holding the reigns in his teeth, he tied the keepsake securely around his neck with both hands, tucking it into his tunic for safekeeping. He then bent down and kissed her one last time, a long, deep embrace, one that would have to last thousands of miles and what would seem an eternity.  When he pulled away, tears welled in both their eyes – it was almost too much to bear.

As the contingent moved out, Griffin looked back as long as it was feasible before his mother, his beloved, and the rest of the MacRae clan finally disappeared from view – the last embrace, the locket, and her final farewell; images that would have to last him what would seem and might be forever. His heart ached as he had never known, torn between duty and love. The latter gave strength to the former, knowing that this was a voyage for the sake of existence, both physically and spiritually. In the recesses of his heart, he wanted time to stop at that moment, never to advance another measure, but the hoof beats continued, one step in front of the other; as the heart beats for one’s love, there could never be another.

 

The MacRae clan and many other highland clans eventually joined King Richard the Lion-Hearted in the Third Crusades, battling their way back into Jerusalem. In some of the heaviest fighting, Griffin found himself side-by-side with his father and brothers. Each time they encountered the enemy swarms, they would hold their own. It wasn’t until one of the war’s final engagements, where they were battling against overwhelming odds, that the eventual tragedy occurred.

It was under heavy duress, as swords continued to cut through armor, flesh, and bone that they were inundated with a massive barrage of arrows. Angus was struck through the neck as he continued the arc of his blade as it swung, cutting the demon before him in half. Griffin heard the gurgle of the familiar voice as Angus fell, knowing that his heart sank with the man by his side. Yet, he couldn’t afford to turn to look, for at that moment, two assailants were coming at him with battle axes. He adeptly took them down with one swing of this mighty broadsword, only to receive one of the falling blades of death from the sky through the slightest opening in his heavy leather armor, striking a blow from his collarbone to deep inside his chest. As it sliced through flesh and bone, it pierced the string of his beloved locket, severing its tie to his neck. As blood began to flow from the ghastly wound, the precious keepsake fell to the earth with the stains of crimson.

Griffin felt the world fading away as the pain tried to pull him into eternal blackness, but his brother nearby reached for him, lifting him. He continued to fight through the horrific pain until the Islamic forces, even with their superior numbers, were reduced to only a few living beings. Knowing they were defeated, they fled, along with their leaders, across the sea of dunes from whence they came, as a dragon retreating to his lair to recuperate before the next onslaught.

When they finally had time to search for the living among the fallen, all that was left alive of the MacRae clan was Griffin and two of his eldest brothers. Their father and four others had perished in the battle. Griffin was suffering greatly, for the arrow that struck had found its way deep into his chest, settling next to his heart so that there was no way to remove it lest he bleed out. Knowing that time was against them, the remaining brothers buried all but their father, whose last request through his dying breath was to be taken back to the land from whence he came to rest there in eternal repose. So, with heavy hearts and a brother hanging on for dear life, the remnants of the MacRae clan began the long, grim journey back to their beloved Scotland.

Many weeks and miles later, the three men, pulling the litter containing their deceased father, finally reached the lower reaches of their beloved Highlands. Griffin was a shadow of himself; the wound deep inside had only worsened, and the fever that ensued only ensured that the infection was taking a fatal hold. Against the battlefield doctor’s orders, he insisted upon returning. It had been three years since they had left their homeland, and now, it was all he could do to stay in the saddle as they ascended those rocky crags that separated the sparse grasslands known as home.

Before they had sighted the family compound, a shrill blast from the ancient ram’s horn was heard – the signal that riders approaching were friendly. Within a minute or two, heads could be seen bouncing above the distant horizon, running in their direction. Most of the entire MacRae clan descended upon them in a mass of welcoming tears of joy and shouts of glee. They were quickly surrounded and nearly pulled from their mounts as their beloved sought them out, yet there was an immediate change in the demeanor of the group’s celebration when the sled behind the riders became visible. It was then they realized that only three horsemen were returning, and a body lay upon the sled behind. Jubilation turned into mourning as they all learned the cost of the war had been horrific. Their mother’s face told the tale as she eventually caught up with the entourage and stood beside the litter carrying her dear Angus. The weathered lines on her face spoke of worry and strain for all these long years they had been gone – now this.

Throughout the solemn reception, Griffin had kept a vigilant eye out for his dearest Katelyn, but there was no sign. His already wounded heart began to pang for her when someone said she was busy back at the lodge finishing the afternoon meal with a few others. As painful as it was, Griffin spurred his horse ahead of the throng and soon found himself pulling alongside the grand old MacRae lodge. Once more, the exertion took its toll as he nearly passed out, the tunnel of blackness closing in. Leaning forward to push back against losing consciousness, he didn’t see the young woman exit the side door and come up behind him.

With his sunken, gaunt face and beard that had grown long, along with his unkept hair, Katelyn was unsure of whom she looked upon as she hesitantly approached the injured rider. It wasn’t until she heard him hoarsely whispering her name that she finally realized it was her beloved Griffin. She dropped the axe she had brought for protection and quickly began calling his name, “Griffin, my dearest, Griffin, is that you?”

It seemed as if he had descended into a dream as her voice sounded more real than any of the recent fitful, fever-laden dreams he had succumbed to upon their return journey. Fading in strength, he slid from the saddle and fell to the ground, landing on his back. The shock sent a tremor through his body as the pain was renewed, the arrow driving itself closer to its mark. With tearful eyes, he looked up into the angelic face and whispered, “I’m home, I’m home.” Before day faded to night, the last thing he remembered was the tiny face that came into view, joining Katelyn’s. What seemed to be a spirit stood there, her beautiful little blonde curls hanging down upon her tiny shoulders, the face of an angel—a miniature Katelyn.

“She’s your baby, sweetheart. She’s our baby.”

It was then the pain overwhelmed him, and he slid into that deep abyss, but as he fell, there was a warmth that overtook the depths of despair, one of hope for a future beyond what this time would allow. It was then Griffin realized he was home at last.

Through all the battles and death, even though the tiny locket of love and Thyme was there to protect him, Griffin found that the only thing that truly brought him peace was knowing that God was at his side.

It was never so true when he finally awoke to the smell of bread baking in the lodge oven that he realized he was still on this earth. In the few days that followed, they provided Griffin with as much comfort as his mortal wound would allow. He came to know his precious baby girl, Lillith, whom he never knew, and as much as his debilitated state would allow, played with her sparingly. The more he encompassed in his return, the greater the dread of his inevitable departure fell upon his demeanor. He shared as much of the stories of their journey as his breath would allow until he succumbed to the grave injury, forcing him to remain in bed as the wound slowly took its toll.

The amber afternoon sun gently shone through a nearby window, offering a tribute to the fallen warrior and father as Katelyn, his mother, and others had gathered around Griffin’s bed. Partly through the delirium of the fever and partly through the pain, Griffin began to speak,  “How precious is the little bit of time we have here on earth? As Father once read from the treasured Bible he brought from his own first crusade, he told us, “I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happened to them all. For man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them.”

We didn’t know it then, but he was prophetically telling us what had happened to him and what would happen to us in that quest to rid the Holy Lands of the scourge that had been placed upon her.” Here, he paused, asking for a cool drink of water before continuing, his strength fading.

“One of the most precious gifts we are given,” closing his eyes now, as if speaking from a dream, Katelyn laid her head upon his shoulder as he continued, “We often treat it as if we can, by some miraculous power, create it of our own accord. When we are caught up in the moment, it flies past. When we reflect upon all that we’ve been through, we can see a correlation to when the past begins to fade, the feeling that time is slipping away, like the grains of sand between our outstretched fingertips.

As if reacting to this feeling, we clench our fists to abate the flow. Still, the time cataract continues to run until there are but a few specks of the multitude remaining. Tiny crystals sparkle back at us as we look at our opened palm – the remnants of what was once an abundance. We are left with mere fragments. In the sudden realization of the truth, it is then that we, with utter, catastrophic horror, find there is no way to recover all that has transpired. Only those few precious memories, the singular grains, are all that linger. With fervent passion, we cling to that which remains, finally succumbing to the understanding of what was taken for granted all along.

Now, I realize that those tiny grains become crystals of great value—my precious Lillith, my dearest Katelyn, they are all the world to me. But even more remarkable than these is that God is with us to comfort us even in our darkest hour, deepest despair, and most sorrowful woes. For when He is with us, we are never alone. We can be together with him in eternity.

While my locket of Thyme, which I so greatly cherished, was lost on the battlefield, it wasn’t the time I truly desired. I will cherish this final memory of all of you.” Pausing this last, he said through squinted eyelids, the moisture gathering in tiny beads as it ran down his cheeks, and with a weakened breath, “As long as my soul will hold its vision, for on this earth, there is never enough time. To the land of the living in eternity is now where I go. Meet me there if you will…”

His mother and many of the wives of the fallen brothers assisted Katelyn, trying to make Griffin’s final days as comfortable as possible. He never spoke again after those final words. Eventually, the wound that pierced his armor that fateful day would finally take his life.

They laid him to rest on the grassy knoll that overlooked their compound next to his father. Their eternal rest was assured, for as the Father knew Christ, so did the son. Together, they found their new home on the other side of Glory.

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by | · 10:09 am

Dark Bondage (Part III)

Continued from last month’s story…

We find Stephen, a young man who has suffered his whole life with a chronic illness, seemingly lost in the wilderness. Yet, from the moment the vessel where he found comfort was released from the shore, it was as if Stephen was being released from the bondage that had held him captive. The battle with addictions has all but consumed his life, yet now he faces the greatest challenge of his existence: the battle for his mortal soul. In his journey, he is not alone. A force is leading him, guiding him, even though he doesn’t believe in such things.

Stephen has stumbled upon a remote stone cottage shrouded in early morning darkness. Before he arrives, we meet Sozu and his pet wolf, Aphiemi. Together, they form a curious bond. Yet, when Stephen eventually reaches the doorstep of the mysterious dwelling, he’s greeted not by the mountain man within but rather by someone he never expected – his late grandmother Mildred. Stunned beyond reason, Stephen is rocked to his core – physically, emotionally, and spiritually. In the process, he experiences an epiphany, a dramatic conversion to Christianity. Yet, when he awakens the next day, something is amiss. Has it all been a dream? Was the change real? He has so many questions, but the one he seeks is not who he thinks – there are just so many questions. Will this be the end of his journey or the beginning of something new?

That is for you to discover, seek, and ye shall find…

* * * *

“ The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain: And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it. The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field:  The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever.”

– Isaiah 40: 3-8

The next morning, Stephen awoke to the smell of bacon frying. He smiled as he stretched beneath the covers. The usual pain that accompanied most mornings was gone. He felt fresh, renewed. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was inside someone else’s body, definitely not the one he had come to know in recent years. Then, he remembered the events of the previous day. “Could it be true?” he asked himself.

He eagerly arose, dressed, and started climbing down below to continue the wonderful dream come true. But as he grasped the top of the ladder to begin his descent, his heart froze. Something was wrong. Once more, he was about to find his preconceived notions of the world before him were about to be challenged in ways he could not know.

Seated at the hearth, before a suspended flat cast-iron griddle full of sizzling bacon over the fire, was what looked like a mountain man, attentively attending to the meal cooking before him.  Stephen turned, surveying the area below. The room had changed, and it was no longer the kitchen from his childhood; instead, it was an ancient hunting lodge. Near the fire, a wolf lay on a pallet, raising its head. Stephen, confused, began to withdraw in fear, his presence still undetected by the fierce warrior by the fire. But the wolf began to growl, a hushed warning to the man, who then turned, looking in the direction of the wolf’s gaze. Frightened for his safety, Stephen started withdrawing back to the bed for fear of the beast when the man spoke, “No need to fear Aphiemi, she’s as harmless as a dove,” he said, turning to face Stephen.

The stranger had a weathered face, covered by a long grayish-white beard that matched his full head of hair, which was pulled behind and kept with a leather tie. He wore pants and a shirt of matching buckskins embroidered with curious symbols Stephen didn’t understand.

“Who are you, and where’s my grandma?”

“She had to leave but told me to tell you that she loved being able to see you again and that she’ll see you again someday soon.”

“Where did she go? Did you do something to her?”

“No, of course not; I would never harm her. But where she went, that is a conversation for another time, my friend, but first, let me introduce myself; I am Suzo, your faithful servant of God.”

“Then, I’m assuming you are a friend of my grandmother?”

“Oh, yes, most definitely,” he said with a chuckle, turning back to the griddle and turning over a spatula full of bacon.

“Why should I believe you? You could have killed her and drug her body into the forest. What can you tell me that would make me believe you are her friend?”

Suzo turned, his face now seriously grave, “First of all, I’m a servant of God, and secondly, your grandmother knew you would have questions, so she gave me this.” From amongst the necklace of bearclaws around his neck, he fished out a tiny wooden cross and held it up in his direction. “Here, does this look familiar? You carved this for her when you were just a teenager living with her. It was probably the most loving thing you did for anyone besides yourself in your entire life.”

The stranger’s words cut to the core of his heart, and he knew what he said was true – that it was the only loving thing he had ever done for anyone else. His defensive posture was melted away as Sozu turned back to attend to the meal cooking before him.

“Okay, only she would have known that, and for her to tell you and for her to give you that cross would mean that she knew I would question who you were. So, yes, I’ll believe you for now. But why did she have to leave? And why are you here in her house?”

“Oh, my, you have so many questions,” he said, chuckling, still looking at the pan of frying meat before him. “I tell you what, you come down here so we can get better acquainted, and I’ll fill you in on everything?” At this last, he turned, smiling at Stephen, giving him a wink.

Stephen felt obliged and tentatively made his way down the ladder to the rough-hewn log table. His grandma’s kitchen chairs were replaced with hand-hewn wood chairs made from branches from the nearby forest. The wolf lay her head back down, momentarily suspending Stephen’s fear of his proximity to such a large, threatening wild animal.

After Stephen found a place at the table, he sat, turned to face the man and his wolf companion, and continued, “So, again, why are…”

Before he could finish, Sozu interrupted, “I’m here to serve God by searching for lost sheep, and in so doing, was summonsed to be here for one, such as yourself. Then you, unaware of what was leading you, found your way to this doorstep. Does that ring a bell?”

“Sheep, lost? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Have you not heard of when Jesus told his disciples that it was more important to leave the ninety-nine and to go save the one lost sheep than to remain with the ninety-nine?”

“Uh, maybe,” Stephen said, shrugging his shoulders, knowing full well that he had no idea what the man was saying, “But what does that have to do with me? Did my grandma tell you stuff about me before she left?

“Maybe, and maybe not,” Suzo turned back to the bacon, turning another group of slices over. The pan hissed angrily as the smoke from the griddle was drawn into the flu, along with the smoke from the fire below. The smell was driving Stephen’s stomach mad with hunger.

“So, did she tell you what happened to me yesterday, how I fell apart when I saw her?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that you fell apart; rather, I’d like to look at it as if you were falling together.”

Suzo turned from the fire and stood facing Stephen. He looked larger now that he stood up, indeed a mountain of a man. “My friend, and I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, but what you experienced yesterday was comparable to what the Apostle Paul experienced on the road to Damascus—a radical conversion, if you will.”

“So, she DID tell you about what happened!”

“Perhaps, but just because it happened yesterday doesn’t mean it isn’t still true today.”

“What?”

“Do you feel like you were in a dream yesterday?”

“Sort of…”

“Well, I can guarantee you that the Holy Spirit’s conviction that you experienced was the real thing.”

“How do you know that, and how will I know that? How will I know that it’s still true today as much as it felt yesterday? How will I know that I didn’t just dream it all,” Stephen began pulling his dirty blonde hair back from his face, trying to make sense of it all. His head began to swim,  “This is insane.”

“Salvation isn’t a feeling, Stephen; it’s a change of one’s heart and soul. The former things are passed away, and you become a new person. The things of old, those sinful things in your life that ruled your spirit, will become loathsome, turning your stomach. When you forget and mess up, and yes, that’s going to happen, you will become convicted by the Holy Spirit. Although those things wouldn’t have bothered you in the past, now they will, to the point you will become nauseated having done them, and in the future, you will learn to turn from them. Pleasing God will become the focal point of your life. Slowly, with time, you will become more sanctified, which is a fancy word for becoming more Christ-like.

Yes, sometimes, along with that salvation comes the healing of the body and the spirit. Case in point: When you awoke this morning, wasn’t there something different, …like how you physically felt?”

“Uhhh,…yes, but how did you know that?”

“How I know doesn’t matter. What matters is that because of the inward change, it has already affected your body. Like a light shining within, it has outwardly permeated that darkness from inside you. Most people don’t experience that aspect of their salvation until years later in their walk of faith, if ever. You were blessed in a remarkable way. The cleansing of your spirit has allowed your body to heal immediately. Like the man at the pool of Bethesda, Jesus said to him, ‘Take up your bed and walk,’ and immediately, the man was made whole. At that point, he believed the man before him was the Christ, the Son of God, and that He alone could make him whole. Being whole meant that he wasn’t only physically restored but spiritually as well. In that instance, the man who had been afflicted for thirty-eight years was immediately, inwardly, and outwardly made new.”

Stephen knew in his heart that everything Suzo was saying was true. It all seemed so simple, yet so complicated.

Suzo could see the struggle in Stephen’s eyebrows as he worked through the understanding of all that had transpired in the last few hours. “I tell you what,” Suzo spoke as he carefully removed the bacon from the fire placing it on a plate nearby, “Lets finish breakfast and then go for a walk. We can continue to talk about all this, you can ask any question you want, and maybe by the time were done, you will have less doubts and more confidence.”

Stephen nodded in agreement.

Later that morning, as Suzo and Stephen were walking along a stream that flowed just a few hundred yards from the cabin, Suzo paused. Beside them, the rocks created an eddy, making a pool of still water. “You’ve heard me speak all about the change in you, how you will now have a conviction, how God will not only be your focus but your guiding light, right,” Suzo said as he sat down leaning his walking stick against the rock upon which he sat. Stephen sat next to him, finding the coolness of the rock comforting. The wolf came near, quietly sitting by his side.

“Yes.”

“And you asked about how you know it’s true, and what does it mean, yes?”

“Correct, again.”

“But what if someone could show you what true love, agape love, the love of God was, would it help?”

“Yeah, sure. But what does that have to do with it?”

“Let’s see,” Suzo said, pointing to the water. There, amongst the reflection of white clouds nestled against the backdrop of a cornflower blue sky, a light beneath the surface began to show. Underneath, like thoughts dwelling within the distant portals of his mind, swam a cloud of swirling minnows, a scene began to unfold. Stephen could see his grandmother’s kitchen once again, where he had spent so many memorable moments of his childhood. There, at the bench at the end of the table, his spot, was the little boy. It was the same child he had seen the day before in the cottage. As Stephen watched the story, he watched as, time after time, people came and went in the child’s life, always leaving him behind. He had been essentially abandoned by his parents, leaving his grandparents to raise him. In the vision, Mildred cared for the child as her own, but with an even greater affection knowing that this poor little one had been unwanted, left to fend for himself in a scary, big world. She always tended to his needs, but as he came and went, it became apparent that she was there for more than to address his physical needs; she was there as a beacon of hope, of an unconditional love unlike any he had ever known. As Stephen watched the story play before him, he felt a knot in his stomach grow as he became painfully aware, the little boy was him. It was then that he not only remembered the love of his grandma, but he felt the love wash over him like the combination of a loving quilt, a fresh loaf of bread, or an endearing sunrise – all at once, and yet, even more. It was at that moment that Stephen realized, if only for a moment that he did know the love of God, that it had been there all along, emanating through his grandmother’s love. He had just never realized it.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he sat watching the mirage, knowing in his heart that he was not alone. There was a father in his life, not the one that had left him abandoned, but one that had been with him all along. It was through the love of his grandmother that God spoke to him.

“Now, do you see, my friend?”

Stephen nodded, unable to speak. As he watched the story of his life play out in the depths of the water before him, he felt a nudge against his leg as Aphiemi leaned against his leg. Instinctively, he patted the top of the great animal’s head.

“You see Stephen, God commended his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, being now justified by his blood, we shall be saved from the wrath through him. For if, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, being reconciled, we shall be saved by his life. This is the true love of God. That he loved us so much, that he would send his only Son to die for our us, so that we may have eternal life.”

“Yes, I get it, I really get it now,” Stephen said now, looking up from the vision in the pool. “But where do I go from here?”

“Ahh, yes, that’s the beauty of it all,” Suzo said, smiling broadly. “From here, seek Him daily in prayer, in study, and in the discernment of where you should go in everything that you do.”

“Can you show me how that all works?”

“Yes, my friend, I was only hoping you would ask.”

From that day forward, Stephen studied under Sozu, becoming more knowledgeable in the Lord, and growing in his faith. Eventually, Stephen would go into the nearby villages with Sozu, seeking the lost, afflicted, and troubled souls of the world. He never again doubted his faith, nor looked back to the desires of the world. He found his new life in Christ and wanted nothing less, forever more.

Thanks be to God.

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by | · 9:48 am

Dark Bondage (Part II)

Continued from last month’s story…

We find Stephen, a young man who has suffered his whole life with a chronic illness, seemingly lost in the wilderness. Yet, from the moment the vessel where he found comfort was released from the shore, it was as if Stephen was being released from the bondage that had held him captive. The battle with addictions had all but consumed his life, yet now he faces the greatest challenge of his existence: the battle for his mortal soul. In his journey, he is not alone. A force is leading him, guiding him, even though he claims not to believe in such things.

Our story resumes as Stephen happens upon a stone cottage still shrouded in early morning darkness. Inside, an old soul and his pet wolf have long prepared for such a day. They are there for a purpose, but for what?

That is for you to discover…

* * * *

Standing at the outer edge of the realm of darkness, just beyond the emanating lamplight from within, Stephen considered his next move. The dwelling looked as if it had been built in an ancient time; the slate roof reflected the coming dawn as the glow from the windows painted the stone walls a buttery hue, a delicious glow that beckoned him all the more. Still, not knowing the demeanor of the inhabitants within, Stephen groveled deep within his soul – should he dare knock, or should he go on? Like a man wrestling with a power greater than his own, he eventually succumbed to the pressure and moved forward. He stepped upon the stone porch and raised the heavy iron handle of the door knocker, pausing, questioning why he was even here and what he was about to do.

Then he dropped the metal handle, which fell with a loud thud on the massive wooden door.

From within, the sounds of footsteps shuffling toward him could be heard – then a pause. Stephen momentarily swallowed a hard gulp of air, asking for protection in a silent thought – to whom he didn’t know.

Then, the creak of the lock.

When the door opened, a swoosh of warmth and a welcoming light from within flooded the porch, embracing Stephen. What he saw before him caused his heart to pause. For a moment, his senses could not contain the overwhelming tumult of thoughts that ran through his mind. He was speechless, yet he felt something he had not known in many years or possibly ever. He stepped backward, catching the edge of the step with the toe of his boot, nearly tumbling to the ground before he caught himself.

The light emanating from behind the figure made it difficult to see clearly, but it was enough of the image for Stephen to recognize the familiar shape and dress of his dear grandma, Mildred. With one hand, she held the door open while the other was gently sitting on top of a small child’s head, a little boy, perhaps four or five years of age.

“Stephen, is that you?”

He tried to speak, but the words could not get past the lump of emotion in his throat.

She opened the door a little wider, allowing more of the lamplight to shine upon her countenance, absolving all doubt. To further remove any uncertainty, around her neck hung his gift from so long ago: the tiny wooden cross—”first the tree in the meadow, now this?”

Breaking the trance, Mildred welcoming called out to him, “Come on in here before you catch a chill.”

Still unsure if he was dreaming or if this was real, he couldn’t resist the call to join his beloved grandmother once again. He stepped back up on the porch and walked past the threshold of the stone walls. Immediately, once inside, he felt a powerful emotion come over him. The familiar smells of his childhood enveloped his senses, wrapping around his heart like a comforting blanket. As she closed the door behind him, she continued, “We’re so glad you have finally come home. We’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

Those words, “You have finally come home,” resounded like thunderclaps in his heart. It had been many years since he last saw his grandmother and the thought that he was always welcome in her home touched the essence of his soul. Yet, this feeling was more than that—something unearthly in the welcoming—something far more eternal.

As he stepped past her, she reached for his coat of fur, “Let me help you with that,” she said, gently removing his outer garment and hanging it behind the door on a hook. “Now, come here, and let me give you a hug.” She then wrapped her loving arms around him, embracing him as only his grandma could. Then, as if wanting to size him up, she held him at arm’s length, looking him over. Her long silver hair was braided and pulled back behind her head in the customary bun Stephen had always known. She proudly exclaimed, “We had almost given up on you, child.” The words pierced his heart of stone, resonating deep within.

Suddenly, Stephen was overcome with a sense of guilt for the sin in his life that percolated to the surface – there was no hiding. It was as if she could see through him and into his very soul. Unclean, he wanted to be free of it all, shed the past, erase the memory of addiction, the hate, and the vile mouth that had hurt so many. He saw himself as he was and was disgusted beyond reproach.  A spirit of repentance came over Stephen, unlike anything he had ever known nor sought to know. It was like the power of a mighty waterfall, crashing into the depths of his blackened soul, began to engulf his being. The years of suffering, pain, and anguish all seemed to be suddenly washed away. Falling to his knees, he couldn’t stop the tsunami of regret; Stephen began weeping uncontrollably, gasping for air through the torrent of recompense. The little child sat at his side as Mildred came near him, kneeling and lovingly placing her arm across his shoulders, not speaking, just comforting as only a grandmother could.

Streams of tears and mucus ran from his nose in embarrassing pools upon the floor beneath where he knelt. He tried to speak, but the only words that would escape his convulsing lungs were, “Please forgive me.” All the while, the love of the one who knew him best poured into his emptying soul. Faster than the evil could leave, the agape poured within.

Time stood still as the young man, in the presence of something greater than himself, began to slowly regain control of his bodily emotions. Each time he looked up at the one knelt beside him, the tears would well up into his eyes. Each time, that loving face would embrace him again and whisper in his ear, “You were never alone, my son; you were never alone.” Stephen looked in the other direction, and there, the little child sat cross-legged on the floor, smiling ear-to-ear, acknowledging the triumph of the Spirit before him. The child never said a word, but his face, one that seemed oddly familiar, spoke volumes.

When he had finally collected himself, Mildred helped him over to the kitchen table, where a freshly cooked apple pie, his favorite, awaited. Stephen felt different; something was missing. He couldn’t put his finger on it but was distracted when the little boy joined them, sitting at the end of the table on one end of a well-worn bench. Suddenly, Stephen realized something that shook him to his core. That bench, that spot where the child now sat, had once been his favorite in his grandma’s kitchen. His head began to spin again, yet the well was dry; there was no more emotion from which to claim.

Finally, sometime later, when he was once more able to regain his composure, he timidly said, “Can I ask a question, Grandma? And please, please, don’t think me rude, for I would not trade this experience for anything in the world. But why am I here? Where are we? Is this a dream?”

“That sounds like more than one question, my dear,” she said with that old familiar mischievous twinkle in her eye. She went to the cupboard, pulled out three small plates and forks, and reached beneath the sink to grab three tin cups, setting them all on the table.

Stephen laughed, “Okay, okay, yes, I did ask too many questions, but you have to understand this,” he pointed to the room and then to his grandma, “This is just all so much for me to take in. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, my son, yes, I get it.” She was now carefully, while continuing to listen, began setting the table with the meager tableware.

“But I heard your voice in the dream when I was still in the canoe and thought that that would have been wonderful enough. But now this, here with you,” he had to pause for the knot in his throat was growing again. “And to feel love like I had never remembered, or possibly ever known. It’s as if something has removed all the darkness from inside me, as if…” Again, he had to pause, waiting for the chorus of heartbeats to abate in his ears, “How is any of this possible?”

While he spoke, Mildred cut the pie and placed a slice on each plate, then put them before each of them, Stephen and the little boy, and the last for herself.

“You are asking a lot of outstanding questions.” She took her place at the head of the table nearest the wood stove, slowly sitting into the well-worn kitchen chair. “But to answer your questions, we first must ask, what is it you seek?” She paused as she was about to take a bite of the pie, “What have you sought but never found the answer?”

Stephen thought back to the last few years and the hopelessness of his life – the chronic pain, the prescription drugs, the alcohol, and then the emptiness it all left within his soul. He knew there was something else, but he had forgotten the things she had taught him as a child. As he pondered over these bewildering memories, one returned, like the welcoming dawn of a new day after the darkest storm – it was Jesus.

The color washed from Stephen’s face as he sat in stunned silence. “How could he have forgotten,” he thought silently. His mind raced back to the convulsions of rebirth just moments before, and the image of Christ on the cross came to mind, dying for his sins, the anguish, pain, and suffering – the bleeding drops of red falling from his Savior’s body onto the earth below, the ground crying out to the heavens above. Unlike Cain slaying Able, the scene at Calvary was to become a victory over death so that by Jesus’ sacrifice, we might have eternal life. Again, a flood of emotion, of thankfulness, enveloped his mind as he fought back the tears.

Then, out of the blue, another revelation came, “There’s no more pain,” he said under his breath.

“I see from the look on your face that you do remember something?”

Stephen nodded his head, yes, still unable to speak as the mixed emotions spun around in his head, the snow globe of memory, redemption, and turmoil all spinning out of control.

“My son, when you seek Him, Jesus, to come into your heart, you will become a new man. The old will die away, and you will be made new. The old man is gone. Your sins have been forgiven. As you have just experienced, the sins of this world, those lusts of your flesh, have been washed away. You have been healed by the power of the Holy Spirit, and by Christ’s sacrifice on the cross, you are now given a new spirit, an eternal life with Him.”

Stephen sat dumbfounded. It was true. He had just realized the significance of the moment, yet he could not understand how he got here or where “here” actually was. His head spun with the relevance of all that was happening.

“Now eat up, Stephen, your pie is getting cold.”

He smiled and obliged, tasting the succulence of his favorite dessert melt in his mouth. They continued talking for a long time, sharing memories – of faith and hope. The child eventually got up and went to lie on a pallet by the fireplace, falling asleep. As the day turned to night, Stephen’s eyelids grew heavy.

“My son, you are tired, and the day has been long. You need to rest.”

Stephen nodded, barely able to hold up his head.

“I’ve prepared a place for you in the loft,” she said, pointing to the room above the kitchen. Climb up the ladder there, and you’ll find everything you need. We’ll continue our conversation in the morning.”

Happy to rest, Stephen found his way up to the loft, where he fell asleep before his head touched the downy softness of the pillow on his grandma’s feather bed.

The next morning, Stephen awoke to the smell of bacon frying. He smiled as he stretched beneath the covers. The usual pain that accompanied most mornings was gone. He felt fresh and renewed. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was inside a new body, definitely not the one he had come to know in recent years. Then, he remembered the events of the previous day. “Could it be true?” he asked himself.

He arose, got dressed, and started to climb down below to continue to the beautiful dream. But as he grasped the top of the ladder to begin his descent, his heart froze. Once more, he was about to find his preconceived notions of the world before him were about to be challenged in ways he could not know.

To be continued…

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by | March 29, 2024 · 10:32 am

The Seen and Unseen

“Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear.” – Hebrews 11:3

Oh, how much more beautiful are those things before us when we consider the hands that hath made them? To know that there is a loving creator, one who formed a Universe such that it would provide for our lives upon the tiny orb, the spec in the grand abyss of space, to which everything is set in perfect alignment so that we may have life, should give us a sense of comfort and awe simultaneously. Not only are we a magnificent work of the Father, but we are also part of the Master’s plan. As we commute to our daily labor, we should take notice of the world in which we live – the beauty, the grandeur, the utter magnificence of everything that unfolds before us – the visibly seen.

Yet, as much as appears, there is all the more that is unseen: the subatomic, the ethereal, and lastly, the spiritual. The more science uncovers in its inexhaustive search for the truth, the more we can see the hand of God. Time and time again, the revelations point to the supernatural, that which is beyond the measure of analytical approach. In the end, we are led to have all the more confidence in our faith in one that we have never seen, yet who we know exists.

However, as much as one considers all the proof, some find themselves doubting, even when they have once fully believed. How is this possible? From my limited but careful observation, I find that there are many reasons, but seemingly, in each, there is an element of sin, however small, that comes between knowing God and his will for our lives. Unlike the grain of sand in the oyster shell, which eventually becomes a pearl, this agitation is quite the opposite, resulting in a darkness that can consume its host. From relational disappointments to desires of the flesh, there are a multitude of methods in which the enemy can interject the seed of doubt, casting believers into a season of utter despair and misery.

But how do we cope with this season of doubt, of feeling lost? How does one crawl out from beneath the massive granite boulder of depression and guilt? There is no one set answer for all, but the underlying path is to seek God where you found him in the beginning if there was one. Where was that? Hopefully, it was in the Word, in prayer, in supplication, and in the fellowship of other believers. But if not, that would be a solid place to start.

“Yeah, ok, that sounds great and all, but how does that remove the doubt,” you ask? To eliminate that which draws you away from Him, you must first identify what it is that has made the separation. Then, once that cause has been identified, one should search for the reason that pulled you away from His divine nature. Was it church? Was it a concept? Was it a person? There are endless possibilities, but for the sake of time, let’s focus on one – the person.

Too often, we unknowingly put others on a pedestal, propping them up in our minds. The danger in this is that those other people are human too, capable of sin as easily as you are, no matter their stature or importance on the world stage. We’ve all heard of the demise of church leaders and evangelists. Their corruption becomes like a wave of disease that spreads across their congregations and followers. When they fall or fail to exhibit those Godly characteristics to which we were first attracted to them, we suddenly become hurt – it’s as if a piece of our heart has been deceived, leaving a hole within. In those instances, one can begin to question if they genuinely believed, having seen the one whom they held in such high esteem become a mere mortal once again. We ask ourselves, “Were their teachings truly espousing the Word of God, or was I deceived,” we might ask? “Can I trust my salvation if it were based upon someone who had secretly been sinning all along?” These questions are valid, yet should not be the final answer to where you leave your faith. One must press on, turning to the scriptures yourself, not waiting to be fed, seeking Him on your own. Then, once you have found Him once more, find a community that supports you, both spiritually and fundamentally. The restoration process can be long, but in the end, the results are so much more glorious, for then, you will have achieved a testimony of your own.

We live in a dark, sinister world that seeks to devour us and our faith. We must be ever vigilant, seeking Him in all things—both visible and invisible. We serve a mighty God.

If you have a testimony, share it with others. There are so many that are hurting, that have doubts, and those who just need someone to talk with who truly cares about them in a loving manner.

As you go forth today, be a light to the world around you and always know that whether we can see Him or not, He is with you always – until the end of time.

Thanks be to God.

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by | December 8, 2022 · 2:38 pm

A Christmas Prayer

The small child lay pale and cold beneath the covers. The color all but washed from her face; she brought tears to her father’s eyes as he sat patiently beside the bed holding her tiny little hand. She was the youngest of seven children that he and his dear wife had brought into this world. But this one, little Mary, was more precious than all the others. To see her suffer was almost more than he could bare. A few months earlier, the darkness descended upon his life when he lost his Molly in childbirth. Now, helpless to do anything, he watched the last part of Molly seemingly slipping from his grasp – a feeling of despair unlike any other.

One hand lay upon the infant’s bed, while the other was across the well-worn pages of the family Bible on his lap. Michael could barely read, but the words that his fingers now caressed spoke into his heart, “But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.“[1]

Outside their meager cabin on the edge of Beech Mountain, the snow continued to fall. Only a couple of days before Christmas, it had been weeks since the temperature had dipped below freezing and remained. Michael Trivette’s livelihood was working the timber. He was a lumberjack by trade, but since the ice had been on the trees, there had been no work. Without income, he was slowly watching the cupboard diminish. The other children, some old enough to help out, were all aware of their father’s broken spirit. Doing their best, they continued the farm chores, but without the primary source of family sustenance, all were beginning to realize something had to be done. Patiently and with as much care as possible, the eldest son, Seth, came to his father’s side. Gently putting his arm around him, he tried rousing him to no avail.

“Pa.” There was no response. The empty green eyes stared back at him. He grabbed both shoulders, gently turning him so he could look into his eyes, and softly shook him as if trying to ease one back from a deep sleep.

“Pa, come back to us,” the eyes blinked once, twice, and then again. Then, finally, a focus slowly returned, and his expression changed. Michael realized his son’s concern and was now thankful that he was aware of his presence.

“I… I’m sorry, son, it’s just that….” The words choked off deep in his throat as moisture gathered in his red, swollen eyes.

“It’s okay. We all understand.”

Michael’s countenance fell, his head bowed down, facing the rough wood floor. By then, a couple more of Seth’s sisters, two of the oldest, joined him by his side, Evelyn and Annabelle. They had their mother’s auburn hair, which fell across their shoulders, one in braids, the other in natural ringlets. They nodded in agreement with their brother, smiling sheepishly, but crossed eyebrows implied a deep concern.

“You need to rest, Pa,” Evelyn said, “We can take care of Mary. You haven’t slept in days. We can’t afford to lose you too.” The last she said as she placed her hand upon his shoulder.

Realizing the gravity of her statement, Michael understood and, with their help, being weak from exhaustion, made it to his bed. The last thing he remembered was seeing his eldest daughter pulling the covers up to his bearded chin and kissing him gently on the forehead. “Sleep well, pa, we love you,” Annabelle said with a voice that beckoned from her mother. Then as he slept, she knelt beside his bed and prayed over him. “Dear God, we are but a poor, humble family. We ain’t got much in this world, but God, we know our momma is up there with you looking down on us all. We miss her more than we could have ever imagined.” There was a pause as the tears began to arise in her throat. Then, as the tiny bits of moisture ran down her rose-colored cheeks, the words continued, “We ask you, Father, to heal our little sister Mary. Pa can’t stand to see her suffer, and we’re afraid he will fall into the grave with her should she die. So, God, please heal her and give us back our pa, for we will all surely die without him.” A hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up to see Seth standing over her, head also bowed in prayer.

“Go on, sis.”

She turned back toward the bed and continued, “In Jesus Holy name we pray,” Their voices spoke in unison, “Amen.”

Later that night, by the light of a full moon, Eustace Sloop was awakened by a loud knock at his cabin door. The howling winds foretold of a coming storm, but the light from the window cast a brilliant blue radiance across the floor. It was not uncommon. Too often, someone with a grave illness would arrive at his door at the most uncommon hours. Eustace and his wife, Mary, had settled in this little mountain village only a year before. Word quickly spread of their welcoming demeanor, serving the community as healers and educators. Their door was always open. The bitter winds that blew outside only spoke of another desperate soul seeking his medical attention. Mary lay sound asleep. The noise had yet to wake her.

The knock came again before he could grab the nearest lantern and make his way to the door.
“I’m on my way,” he spoke softly, hoping not to wake his wife before it was necessary. As the door opened, the yellow lamp light fell upon the bundled-up figure of Seth Trivette, almost unrecognizable if it were not for his radiant red hair that fell from beneath his woodman’s hat.

“Dr. Sloop, we need you badly. Baby Mary is dying.”

“Come in, my boy, come in,” Martin Sloop said, gesturing the boy inside. The wind gusted, almost taking the light with it, as snow blew in, remnants of all which remained on the ground from previous storms. “Step into the kitchen area, and let’s get you a hot cup of coffee.”

As Seth sat at the table, his hands shaking from the freezing temperatures outside, he told of how Mary had started to come down with the chills and then gone into a deep sleep. Listening intently to the boy’s description, it was clear to Doc Sloop that the child needed his immediate care. “And Doc, don’t think we ain’t got the means to pay.” At this, the boy pulled around the pack he had carried in with him and pulled out a bundle. The outer wrappings were burlap tied with cotton string bindings. He opened the package and revealed a beautifully hand-stitched quilt with a note attached that he gently lay upon the kitchen table before them. We ain’t got no money, but this is the most valuable thing my family owns. It was the last quilt my momma sewed. She was going to give it to my pa this Christmas. He don’t know nothing about it cause she died before she could give it to him. So us kids were keeping it a secret for him. But..” His voice trailed off as he choked back emotions. Eustace put his hand on the boy’s shoulder as tears rose in the young man’s eyes.

“Don’t worry, my boy, don’t you worry,” he said as he draped his arm around the lad’s strong, firm shoulders. Already at a young age, Seth was nearly a grown man. The struggles of the mountain folk made them a hard people, and early on, they would be forced into adulthood long before their childhood had ended. “God will surely provide, but first, let’s get you warmed up before we head out.”

Hours later, in the dead of night, the fury of the winter storm was fully upon them. Closing the cabin door behind him, Doc Sloop had done all that was humanly possible. The rest was up to God.

The snow was coming down in sheets as he pulled up his overcoat around his neck. He knew the Elk River would be up, making it difficult, if not treacherous, to cross at this hour. The pale light from the cabin window barely penetrated the wall of white fury before him. To Eustace, Mary’s advanced stage of pneumonia was evident. He had applied the salve, then bound her snuggly in the crib where she lay. At such a tender age, no medicine was available to treat her condition safely. The antiserum was too risky for an infant. As a medically trained physician, he feared the worse. As he tried to prepare to step into the squall, the door opened behind him. Annabelle emerged.

“Doc, we want to thank you for coming out in such dreadful weather. We can’t ever repay you for what you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” he thought to himself. The whisper of his fear crept back into his mind. He knew only by God’s will that little Mary would live or die. With all the strength to keep his voice from cracking from the emotion, he responded with, “My child, it is why I’m here.”

“I wanted to pray for you before you leave.”

“Sure,” he paused, removing his wide-brimmed hat.

As Annabelle lifted up Eustace in prayer, the lights from the lantern inside flickered. The wind calmed ever slightly, and as the doctor mounted his horse, barely visible in the gale of blinding whiteness, nobody on this side of Glory knew what would become of the deathly ill babe inside.

Just after midnight, in the wee hours of the morning, Mary Sloop realized Eustace had not come home. Outside in the darkness, the snow was already a foot or more. Bundled up, she made her way by lantern light to the barn to see if the horse was in the stall. To her surprise, the horse was there as she suspected but with Eustace still mounted, sound asleep. His feet were still frozen in the stirrups. He had passed out from exhaustion. Lovingly and with as much care as possible, she freed him from his frozen prison and helped him inside. As she gently helped Eustace into the warm bed, his hand on her shoulder for balance, he whispered in a strained voice, “Mary, please…please pray for the little Trivette baby and the family. It doesn’t look good for the child. But we know it’s all in God’s hands.”

“No worries, my dear, I’ve already done the likes, and for you as well.” He smiled at this, looking into her bright eyes.

“And here, I almost forgot. Get this note to Preacher McCrae as soon as possible. He will know what to do.” Eustace pulled the small slip of folded paper from his shirt pocket, placing it in Mary’s palm.

“Don’t you fret. Now you lay yourself down and get some rest. These mountain folk need their good doctor. It’s your turn to get some pampering. Besides, we got to take care of that frostbite. How will you perform surgery if you don’t have any fingers to work with?”

He grinned broadly at this as she left the room, softly pulling the door behind her. She was so direct sometimes, but her truth was as light to his soul. The last thing he could see as his mind succumbed to the fatigue that overtook his body was the precious face of that tiny baby girl. Her countenance was so pure, so innocent. Eustace then realized it had been as if he had looked upon the face of an angel. The words to his favorite Psalm came to mind as he drifted off, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth….”[2]

As the gray light of dawn was still finding its way into the deep crevices of the mountains the next day, Christmas morning, Michael Trivette was in a far distant land. The battle raged around him. Helplessly he watched; his brothers-in-arms lay about him. Their corpses lay as logs in the woods, fallen, grey and cold. He was on his knees, his body too weak to continue. The armored warrior stood before him, sword in hand, ready to make the last swing that would sever his head from his body. Just as the demon lifted its blade to make the momentous arc downward, it stopped. With the demon’s helmet shield open, Michael could see the expression of surprise and fear written on his tormentor’s face as the last vestiges of life passed from its lips. As the dark force fell to the ground, he could clearly see who had saved his life – standing before him was the image of his Lord and Savior. His face shone like radiance, too bright to look upon. With his outstretched arms, he beckoned Michael to rise. As he did, he felt a renewed strength surge through his body. A sense of peace so warm, so loving, it made his heart begin to weep.

Michael awoke with tears running down his cheeks as his second youngest, little Micah, tugged at his bed shirt.

“Pa Pa,” she said with a huge smile as her other brothers and sisters stood behind her. “Pa, Pa, come look. Jesus has come.”

Michael rose from the bed. No longer saddened, he felt renewed, even if it was just a dream. The children took him over to the crib of little Mary. There smiling, looking back up at them, was his precious baby girl. Reaching down, he picked her up, still wrapped in the blanket that Doc Sloop had wrapped her in. Crying in the embrace, a note silently slipped, almost unnoticed, from between the folds of the material and fell at Michael’s feet. “Look, Pa, a note fell out of the blanket,” little Micah exclaimed as she reached down, picking it up, and handing it to her pa.

“You got to read it to us, …please?”

“What, what’s this,” Michael said, carrying Mary and the note over to the rocking chair beside the hearth. The fire felt warm already. Seth knelt, feeding more wood into it as he watched his pa pause, looking solemnly at the note.

He began reading “Dearest Michael.” The children watched, their hearts matching their father’s, his lips trembling as he slowly rocked the baby in his arms. Then, looking back at the note, he continued, “I know we don’t have much in this world but each other.” He stopped rocking and looked up at the ceiling. Then after a long pause continued, “I hope this quilt will keep us as warm together as our hearts are for each other until the end of time. Love your dearest, Molly.”

Michael looked up from the note at his young family. Tears streamed down his face, but he didn’t mind. He had suddenly realized the blanket wrapped around his little Mary was a gift around a gift, the beauty therein too precious to behold. The children, then knowing the time was right, gathered around their dear father and embraced as one. For a moment, the ice on the trees, the lack of food on the table, or even the loss of their momma seemed to hurt a little less. They could have remained in that huddle of love forever had it not been interrupted by the sound of a horse whinnying and hoofbeats tearing away.

Seth bounded toward the door, grabbed the rifle, and threw on his coat in almost one motion. He threw open the door and froze. A burst of cold air and snow blew in as he stood staring.

“What is it, son,” Michael said from beside the fireplace, having stood with Mary still in his arms.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then when he could finally bring the words forth, they were cracked and muted with emotion. “There, there’s stuff all over the porch.”

“What stuff, son?” “Snow?”

They all hurried over to the now-ajar door and peeked out.

There, covering the entire porch, were crates and feed bags full of food, preserves, dried beans, pintos, taters, and more. In addition, a sizeable smoked ham hung from a rope around the beam on the porch, with a big red bow tied across it. A note hung from the ham with the words “Merry Christmas” written in big letters.

Michael looked down at Mary, the quilt, then back at the porch. There weren’t words to describe the moment. But he knew in his heart that somehow the Lord had provided. Before closing the door, he looked up to the heavens, smiled, and mouthed a silent, “Thank you, Jesus.”

As the little Trivette family drifted off to a peaceful sleep later that evening, their thoughts would turn to gratitude. None of them would ever forget the Christmas when God answered their prayers and gave them back little Mary and their Pa. Their mother’s quilt would become a treasured family heirloom. After everyone was put to bed, Michael lay just looking up at the ceiling for a long time, but his thoughts were far beyond those rough-hewn rafters. He couldn’t help but think God had been there for them through it all. He thought of dear Molly one more time, and before he slipped into a peaceful slumber, he softly spoke the words, “Thanks be to God.”.

[1] Hebrews 11:6 KJV

[2] Psalm 121:1 KJV

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by | June 8, 2022 · 6:22 am

A Moment in Time

C.S. Lewis wrote about the holy spirit, “It is quite right that you should feel that “something terrific” has happened to you (It has) and be “all glowy.” Accept these sensations with thankfulness as birthday cards from God, but remember that they are only greetings, not the real gift. I mean, it is not the sensations that are the real thing. The real thing is the gift of the Holy Spirit which can’t usually be—perhaps not ever—experienced as a sensation or emotion. The sensations are merely the response of your nervous system. Don’t depend on them. Otherwise, when they go and you are once more emotionally flat (as you certainly will be quite soon), you might think that the real thing had gone too. But it won’t. It will be there when you can’t feel it. May even be most operative when you can feel it least.”

But to those that receive it, “And these are they which are sown on good ground; such as hear the word, and receive it, and bring forth fruit, some thirtyfold, some sixty, and some an hundred. And he said unto them, Is a candle brought to be put under a bushel, or under a bed? and not to be set on a candlestick?For there is nothing hid, which shall not be manifested; neither was any thing kept secret, but that it should come abroad.”[1]

If we were to interpret the holy spirit as a sensation, then it would quickly dissipate. Jesus even explained the action like this, “And he said unto them, Take heed what ye hear: with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you: and unto you that hear shall more be given. For he that hath, to him shall be given: and he that hath not, from him shall be taken even that which he hath.” While some say this is speaking of the gospel’s truth, it can easily be seen how it also applies to the receiving of the holy spirit and, with it, the truth. For one cannot have one without the other.

Considering these scriptures and words from Lewis, a thought, or rather, more of a question, began to form in my mind. How to encapsulate a testimony in so few words that it could be conveyed to a stranger passing on a twisty, root-covered mountain trail? That is the question.

Reno Sharpe’s Store jam, in Chatham County, NC. – around 2005

The struggle of this thought was fully born the other night when my wife and I went to our favorite local ice cream shop for a treat. As we sat on our favorite bench across from said shop, watching humanity pass before us, a young man and his daughter walked by. The father was dressed in familiar bib overalls, something that is second nature to my heart in clothing. A pair of worn but serviceable bibs with a t-shirt underneath is probably as close to heaven’s robes that I will know on this side of glory. That was the first thing that caught my attention. The other was his intentional stare. It seemed that he noticed something about me that also drew him in. As he slowed to get a better look, our eyes locked, and it was then I realized I knew him from somewhere. My mind raced through the fog of mental cobwebs trying to place him. It was as if we were in a duel, seeking the past. Finally, the young father stopped walking. He had proceeded so far past our point of rest that he had to turn his head to continue staring. Then, as if neither one of us could not take the not knowing anymore, he smiled and said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” The little girl with him turned around and came back toward us, wondering who her daddy had found in a town so far away from home that he knew.

“Sharpe’s Store,” I replied in question, “at the music?”

He grinned a little bigger and turned to face us. “That’s right. It’s been a couple Sundays since then.”

“I’ll say.”

 “Are you still playing music,” he questioned, still trying to put the pieces back together.

“Some, in fact, they have a jam up here on Saturday mornings that I go to sometimes.”

Reno Sharpe’s Store, Chatham County, NC. – around 2005

My mind was trying to recover names or faces that he might know, but it was as if my head’s fuel tank had run dry, and nothing would come. He seemed to be doing the same when he brought up a couple names or instruments that they played. But nothing seemed to trigger the right neurons, and so we left it at that and started talking about what brought him to town. He was obviously there on vacation, so we went over the usual suspects of destinations. He was leaving to go back to Bonlee the next day. By this time, my mind was frantically trying to pause time. As I looked upon him, it was apparent that he hadn’t physically changed much at all. He was still slim and clean-shaven. His children, whom I didn’t know he had any, were now old enough to enjoy walking with their daddy down main street in Blowing Rock. While I was still trying to drink it all in, he said, as if to reinforce my look of doubt, “The last time I saw you, you said you were starting to write a book.”

That last statement sent my head reeling into dates so long ago that it seemed multiple rivers had flowed beneath my proverbial bridge. It was over twelve years ago that something like that might have been uttered from my lips.

So much had transpired. It was challenging to put into words how much had changed, to the point, that it was impossible to tell him that he was looking at the new me. What he didn’t know, nor do most people in my life, was that the writing of that book changed my perspective on life and my walk with God. It placed upon my heart an urgency, an impetus of motivation.

Seven years ago, it had become too much. There was a frustration level in my soul that couldn’t be quenched by serving God just part-time. It was time to take the step off the cliff and devote all of me to Him. It was an immersion that would take my family and I hundreds of miles away from the only home my children had ever known – our Chatham county farm. My instincts were drawn to the mountains, both physically and spiritually – to a higher calling, if you will. The first year was one that I felt would break us, both financially and emotionally. It was our Israelite forty years in the desert phase. We learned to do without and to suffer. But we learned something much greater through all of those trials – that we couldn’t do it alone. We needed God even more than ever before. But how could I convey this to Matthew, a person who had almost entirely been lost in my memory?

But there, in those precious few seconds, there wasn’t enough time to tell the whole of the story. There weren’t enough seconds to convey what God had done in not only my life but in the life of those around me. Suddenly, as if the breath of life were about to be removed from my chest, an urgency came upon me. If it weren’t for this chance encounter, this momentary pause in time, we would have never seen one another again. There was an instant of longing to want to find a way to spend time with him and his family, but he said they would be leaving on the morrow. There was no way to reach out to him technically because, like so many where he came from, they have spurned those so-called advances, and for many good reasons. It was a finality of a missed opportunity that stung the most. There was so much to show him and his family they would have missed.

But then, if we are true to our faith, isn’t this a feeling that should possess us every day?

The feeling that we sometimes only have a moment in passing a person on the trail, walking past someone on the street, or even meeting someone only briefly in our daily life, to reach out to them to share with them the gospel of Jesus Christ. The sense that time would slip by before we could tell them how their salvation depends on the way, the truth, and the light of Christ descended on my heart mightily. This spirit of urgency began to drive me to seek wisdom and direction from the Word. And with it, a determination to seek out those who are lost, not by their own accord but through lack of hearing.

It was in this mindset of fleeting chance encounters that lingered when the sunrise beckoned, and it was time to go to the Bible Study on Tuesday morning. Dan, our teacher for the day, walked us through 1 Timothy 4. He was enlightening as always, and for that, we were grateful. But the moment which is always desired but rarely seen happened after the meeting had concluded. My friend Richard and I had planned to go hiking and were about to head out after all the bustling of departures had ended. But in my heart, that lingering pause, that feeling that we should rush out just yet lest we miss something, seemed to loom over my earnestness to depart.

The chance encounter occurred when one of the elderly men, named Jim, came over to my table and began to share with me the enjoyment of reading that book Matthew had alluded to the night before, “Bruecke to Heaven.” He started to ask questions, and as is usual, they brought back the flood of memories, emotions, and spiritual awakening that had transpired through its writing. As we talked, another friend of mine, Richard, joined us. It was just us three in the restaurant’s dining area at that point.

Jim began to open up about his own personal walk and how that very morning, his dear wife had shared with him her point in life when she came to Christ. She told him that he needed to know it because it was something often mentioned at funerals, how the believer came to know Jesus. Tears began to well up in his eyes as we could feel our own heartstrings being pulled.

As he continued to share, his own emotions began to flow down his cheeks. He then said he wasn’t sure if he had ever truly received Christ into his life. We both could hear the despair in his voice. Then, without warning, he continued. The tears of sorrow flowed from his eyes like rivers of relief as my friend, and I felt that moment open, like the clouds after the rainstorm parting and the sun breaking through.

“Do you want to come to Christ right now,” Richard asked.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s do this,” and Richard began to pray over Jim, asking God to come into his life and give him the gift of eternal life through the salvation of his Son, Jesus Christ. When Richard was finished praying, he then, with head still bowed, said, “Jim,” as if to say, “take it away, you know what to do.”

With head bowed and heart in deep contrition, I was blessed beyond measure to hear our friend Jim pray to God, seeking his forgiveness, thanking him for his Son, and asking him to fully come into his life, once and for all. He battled through his flood of emotions so much that we began to embrace him through his change. The Holy Spirit began to flow, and that shaft of sunlight seemed to illuminate that little room until all three of our hearts would almost burst with joy. For a moment, time stood still, and the love of Jesus Christ filled us to overflowing.

Grace for grace became our measure.

As I sit here this morning, the day after, still reflecting on all that transpired in the past couple of days, it is with profound, heartfelt sincerity that I want to share how important it is that we seek those chance encounters. In those brief moments of time, we must find a way to stop time and speak into another’s life. Be always prepared to succinctly and as abundantly tell someone about the gospel of salvation, the story of Jesus Christ. And even more importantly, allow them time to come to Him in their own words.

It is truly a matter of life and death.

Thanks be to God.

[1] Mark 4:20-22 KJV

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by | May 20, 2022 · 10:28 pm

Just A Pair of Leaves…

by Timothy W. Tron, May 2022

The pair stood on the bridge and watched the clear mountain river flow beneath – one the elder to the other. A chill was in the air, it was still early May, but the night air still lingered in the valleys. As they stood watching, a pair of birch leaves floated past. At first, the leaves stayed side by side, as if walking and talking along a trail or ridgeline. It appeared as if they reflected the demeanor of the two friends that morning. Then, as if time sped up for one, a swifter current navigated past rocks, tiny splashes of white water told of the increased flow, and the one leaf went ahead of the other. Meanwhile, the leaf that stayed behind kept its course, steady and true.

The elder was still talking as the other watched the leaves but didn’t say anything. It felt as if God was telling him something silently so his friend wouldn’t be interrupted by what he was saying. In his mind, he knew that time with his friend would be like the leaves. Their walks and talks together were only for a short while. Before long, his friend, long in the years, would soon leave this world behind. Or was it himself? Whatever the case, each man was well aware of life’s end approaching, but it was something that only came up in conversation when there was little else to ponder. Both knew that the day would come for each of them. Like the current speeding up for one, the Spirit shall quicken within our mortal bodies so that we should then rise from our sleep to meet our creator. It was his pleasure to make us, and when we are reunited in heaven, we shall all be given new, glorified bodies – what a day it will be. “And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with him, that we may be also glorified together.” – Romans 8:17

Yet, as one would become part of eternity, the other would remain behind, steady and true to carry on the faith. It was with this in mind as they found a bench along the river and sat, listening to the songbirds sing of brighter days as the breeze blew the wildflowers that grew in abundance nearby, that the younger of the two mentioned the leaves. After sharing the scene, they both sat for some time. They had found a coffee shack nearby and were both sipping on a hot brew of their choice. It seemed so appropriate. They savored their drinks and, for a moment, sat in silence, relishing in the beauty of God’s creation and discernment.

God created all things for our pleasure. It is up to us to pause long enough to enjoy them. Some moments we wish could last forever, but time flows onward like these mountain streams, and with it, we too will someday pass. It’s not what we leave behind that matters, but hopefully, what others will remember of us will cause them to think of Him, of only Jesus, and for that, we should all proudly say, “Thanks be to God.”

“ Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honour and power: for thou hast created all things, and for thy pleasure they are and were created.” – Revelation 4:11

“But if the Spirit of him that raised up Jesus from the dead dwell in you, he that raised up Christ from the dead shall also quicken your mortal bodies by his Spirit that dwelleth in you.” – Romans 8:11

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by | May 19, 2022 · 9:57 pm

Only Not to be Lonely

by Timothy W. Tron, May, 2022

A petite young boy, barely four years old, stood just within the entrance to the pasture. His tiny frame had easily crawled between the bars of the tube gate that was shut to keep the herd of cattle confined within. The firmament overhead was an azure blue, clear as far as the eye could see. Before him stood stalks of green, as tall as trees. The sun felt warm on his demure frame. He was smaller than most children his age. To know him, one would understand why. He was lucky to be alive.

For two years, at the tender age of one and then again, at two, he had contracted double pneumonia. Each time, he barely survived extended stays in the hospital, camping beneath a clear plastic tent as oxygen was pumped into its confines. Many prayed for and over the child. Most feared that he would succumb to the illness, but God had other plans. Like the countless stalks before him, a multitude of prayers had been lifted up in his name, supporting, strengthening, abiding in one another until they found their mark. He eventually healed, but his body suffered the ravages, growing more slowly than other children his age. So, as the sap began to flow in the trees, he felt a renewed strength start to flow through his veins. There seemed to be something that beckoned him to leave the old farmhouse and to wander out behind the tractor shed. Something beyond those palisades of fencing and outbuildings – an openness that smelled of freedom from the bondage of death.

 The white cotton shirt beneath the little overalls wasn’t enough to remove the chill of the breeze that wafted the tops of the grasses that swayed before him. A deep, rich aroma permeated the air – it spoke of earth and nature. Earlier that morning, he heard his grandmother speak of prayers being answered for him and how God was great. She went on to share how millions of prayers were being lifted up for their country, seeing as something called the Vietnam conflict was being fought. He didn’t understand the words “prayer” or “war” or what a “world away” meant. It sounded scary. She saw his countenance drop and quickly comforting saying, “nothing to be bothered with, my son. It’s far, far away.” She explained that prayers were people’s way of speaking to God, “like you and I talking now.” But the word “million” made no sense at all. Like the blades of grass before him, too numerous to count, a million was a number that was beyond his comprehension. It was only an entity unto itself, like a living organism, something through which he could only understand if it was tactile. The boy wandered deeper into the tall grass.

A childlike faith, dread of nothing, guided his path as he made his way through the forest of green. Cows making their way had unknowingly prepared his path. A baby cannot know sin, just as there is no reason to Baptize such. So, it is with fear. The child only felt the hand of the comforter. It wasn’t a stranger to him. He had been with him before – like the long empty days when he was held captive in the hospital bed. There were times when he would look to the foot of his bed and see the shadow of one that watched over him, and those suffocating feelings of abandonment would drift away – a love unseen would flood his soul, and sleep would come once more. He was there now, the comforter, walking, holding his hand, watching over him once more. They continued on. The boy followed wherever the trail of grasses led. Surviving the illness had instilled in him a sense of hope, knowing that with each new day, each fresh breath of life, there was always something to look forward to. The Apostle Paul put it like this, “And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.”[1]

To understand a faith like this, one must erase all the preconceived notions that cling to us as we traverse through life. It takes an unfettered faith, one that clings to God as a drowning man does to the one trying to save him. As Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”[2] This faith, the belief in something unknown, but yet, it was known, that guided the little child. For each new turn, every new wrinkle of light gave hope, a tantalizing offer of something else to come. For a child, heaven is as believable as the friend that talks to them when no one is there. Anything is possible when you can dispense with what we come to know as the natural realm of reality. Matthew describes Jesus calling the little children unto him, saying, “He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”[3]  This faith, this pure belief, guided the little farm boy past the herd of gentle Herefords to the small brook that ran past the farm.

The breeze gently blew the leaves overhead as the little one found his way to the gurgling waters. Before him flowed a small tree-lined creek. Large river birches and pin oaks shaded the oasis below. The bank was worn away where the cows had trod to reach the life-giving sustenance. The little boy sat down on a rock, resting as he wondered about the beasts that soon followed him to the watering hole. He was at home with the herd of cattle as he was with being alone. The animals sensed a purity, a being so gentle, they couldn’t help to wonder. They didn’t speak but gathered, at first hesitantly, realizing the child wasn’t a threat. Then, one by one, they meandered on down to the water and began to drink. Calves followed their mothers, some sniffing at the little boy, their muzzles tickling his neck, causing him to laugh aloud with a cherub-like voice. The sound would cause them to jump, skittering a step away, but continuing on as accepting the tiny human’s presence. He did not know how long they gathered, only that as they departed, he followed like one of the herd. A rumble within his tummy soon reminded him that the grass that the cows were eating wouldn’t suffice, that he needed to return to grandma’s kitchen where the pleasant aroma of something good cooking surely awaited.

Like an old friend, he motioned goodbye to his newfound friends, the cows, and climbed back through the gate’s bars. Somewhere off in the distance, a Redwing chirped as it headed to the pond nearby. A tiny puff of a cloud whisked past as the little boy kicked at a dirt clod in the trail leading back to the house. The dust drifted onward, like his feelings, from one happy sugar cube of thought to the next. His days were filled with what some might call loneliness, but to him, it was just another day in the life he had been given. It was there, alone in those oceans of grass that loneliness and isolation were supplanted by imagination. It would become a voice within that would carry him through all the days of his life. There was nothing for which to compare, and as it was, he was glad to be alive.

Thanks be to God.

[1] Romans 5:5 KJV

[2] Matthew 19:14 NIV

[3] Matthew 18:2-3 NIV

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by | March 22, 2022 · 6:01 am

The Blood of the Martyrs

“For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places. All these are the beginning of sorrows. Then shall they deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you: and ye shall be hated of all nations for my name’s sake. And then shall many be offended, and shall betray one another, and shall hate one another. And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many. And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold. But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved. And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come.” – Mt. 24:7-14

Visar Kryeziu/APVisar Kryeziu/AP
A father hugs his daughter as the family reunite after fleeing conflict in Ukraine, at the Medyka border crossing, in Poland, Feb. 27, 2022.

What you are about to read is based on a true story. The name of the mission and its members have been changed or omitted for safeties sake. May the Lord speak to you through this message.

The men walked with their families, wives, children, and the elderly. Some held hands with their loved ones. Others carried babes in arms, cherishing the last moments that would forever be etched into their hearts. As they approached the border crossing into Poland, they could see up ahead the checkpoints created to secure those passages to freedom, to safety, a place beyond the horror of war that they had just escaped. Yosef could feel the lump in his throat grow as he watched those with him become ever more anxious. Everyone knew that when they reached the border, Yosef would have to return to their village, leaving them, possibly forever.

Each able body man was asked to return from escorting their family to the border to fight for their country, their freedom, their lives. Yosef was no different. He knew that he could not escape with the women and children, that he and the other survivors of his village would do all they could to defend their country, their homeland, and their faith. Standing up for what is right was easy back in their town when they still had a home. But now, the shelling and destruction forced them to abandon all they knew and loved. It seemed that all they had left of their former life was their faith, for everything else had been stripped away.

Yosef and his brother Caleb had both worked with missionaries from America, training to become evangelists in Ukraine. Their work was to seek out others and share the gospel of Jesus Christ. Although they had worked regular jobs during the day, their eventual goal was to become full-time evangelists traveling around their country and becoming missionaries in their own way. But weeks before Russia attacked Ukraine, the American mission teams were asked to leave for safety’s sake. The missionary leaders and their families were as heartbroken as were their trainees, but everyone knew it was for the best. Besides, it would just be a precaution, and they would all be back together continuing their ministry before they knew it.

That was over a month ago. For Yosef, it seemed like an eternity.

It was Friday morning, the day before Sabbath, and Yosef could remember getting ready to go to work. The small hospital where he and his brother worked continued treating patients even though the attack on their country had begun. Yosef and Caleb were only orderlies, but due to the recent influx of war injuries, they were asked to help bandage and care for the less severe wounds. He was just about to go out the door when his daughter rushed up to him and begged him to come back and help her put on her boots for school. “Mommy’s busy with little brother,” she said, pointing to the back room of their small but modest home, “I need you to help me, Papa.” Yosef knew his wife, Evette, was busy with their newborn son, so he was happy to oblige.

“It’s okay, baby. Papa’s got you covered.”

She smiled as he knelt down to the ground, pulling the boots up as she pressed her little feet into the pink unicorn galoshes. Her hand rested on his back, and he could feel the tender touch of her sweet disposition, warming him through and through. When he finished, he lifted her up and gave her a big hug as she wrapped her little arms around his neck, returning the embrace.

“Now, I am off to do God’s work. You be a good little girl and have fun at school. You hear me?”

“Yes, Papa,” she smiled ear to ear, waving as he turned to walk out the door. Across the street, near the newly constructed apartment complex, Caleb waited in his car. He and Yosef always rode together, and today was like any other. Although Caleb was always there, always on time, he hated being late. So, when he saw Yosef emerging a second time from the house, he waved toward him as if to say, “C’mon, we’re going to be late.”

Yosef smiled and waved back. It was all too funny. His brother could never relax, even when they were witnessing to others. He seemed to never be content with just learning the verses their mentors had asked them to memorize. No, Caleb had to push himself, learning entire chapters that contained those verses. He was always driven to give his all. It was just who he was. It was this thought of his dear brother that remained when the flash of light suddenly erupted before him.

Out of nowhere, a sound like thunder ripped through the air. The ground folded under itself as the rumble of the earth shook Yosef to his core. One minute, Yosef was waving at Caleb, the next, he was blown backward, his feet trailing behind him as he watched his body being lifted up by the force of the blast. All Yosef could see was the image of his brother, smiling and waving, and then it was as if the screen on the television had gone blank, and the silhouette of the ghostly image of Caleb remained. His brother’s soul was burnt into his eyes.

Clouds of smoke, dust, and debris began raining down. The light was broken, and darkness had prevailed. Somewhere a dog barked as car alarms started blaring. Yosef didn’t know how long he had been unconscious, nor where he was, when he finally sat up. People ran before him in all directions. There was no sound in this landscape of destruction, just the images running through the fog of silence, interspersed with mouths that had no voice. Across the street, the entire structure of the apartment complex that once stood was now gone. The road beside it was a crater. The cars there were now either blown to pieces or burning embers. Yosef realized that Caleb would not be waiting anymore.

Painfully, he turned to look at his own house. The entire front of his home and all the others on their side of the street were caved in. People poured out, frantic, screaming, yet their lips were muted by the searing pain that shot through Yosef’s head. It was as if the world had gone insane, and nothing made sense. Softly, and gently, from behind him, he felt the touch of a little hand. He turned to see his daughter, still wearing her little pink unicorn boots. Her eyes were rimmed with fear as tears fell down her rosy cheeks.

“Papa, papa,” she sobbed. Yosef’s hearing began to return like a wave of emotion as he reached for his baby girl wrapping her in his arms as she sat on his lap. Soon, Evette emerged with their son in her arms, weeping and crying. There they sat amid the rubble as the world around them spun out of control. It was then Yosef realized he only had one thing left he could do and began to pray. His heart poured out to the Lord as the tears fell down his face.

From that day forward, their lives were never the same. It seemed that each day, more lives were lost, more arbitrary destruction, none of it made sense. Finally, when the shelling became so dire, they realized to stay would mean certain death for everyone, so Yosef did what all the others in their village had decided, to take the women, children, and elderly to the border then return to fight, until the end.

Yet, each day, since they had begun their painful march to exile, they felt the hand of God on them, protecting them, delivering them from harm. Yosef knew that had he not listened to the voice of his daughter that fateful morning when Caleb was killed in the bombing that he too would have died. It was as if God had spared his life for a reason. God had spoken through a child to save his life. How much more could he do to return the favor? Each day, Yosef could feel the faith inside him growing. Evette seemed to sense it as well and encouraged him by reading from their tiny Bible she had brought along. The scriptures spoke to them more and more each day.

Reaching the crossing, Yosef turned and embraced Evette. He didn’t want to let go, for he knew when he did, it would be the last time. “Yosef, you will make a difference. Don’t forget who you are, and take this,” she passed the little Bible into his palm as she leaned into him; close now, face to face, “You’re going to need this more than ever before,” she whispered as they kissed goodbye.

Down by his side, he could feel the tiny hands holding onto his pant leg. As he bent down, his heart began to melt. The tears filled his eyes, and he realized this would be their last time.

 “Papa, you are going to do God’s work, right,” the little voice said, sincerely and without fear?

“Yes baby, yes, papa will…,” and he stopped, choking back the flood of emotion.

He hugged one last time and turned to leave.

It was his time. This would be the end.

He would not look back.

The Bible in his hand reminded him that this was all that made sense. So, mustering every ounce of strength he could find in his weeping soul, Yosef silently began to pray. As his voice lifted up to the heavens, a tingling sensation began to rise from the earth, pouring through his legs, up through his spine, until it reached the top of his head. It was an energy that made him want to shout, Amen! It was a sense of urgency, a sense of purpose. It was something that finally made sense.

It was time to do God’s work.

Unexpectedly, those strained, war-weary faces became the pulpit, their souls became the fields white ready to harvest, and his voice began speaking words of faith and encouragement. The voice of God began speaking through Yosef like a runaway freight train. He was a man on fire for the Lord. If he were to die, he would go out doing what he was meant to do. There was nothing to lose and everything to gain.

From the corner of his eye, as he made his way through the crowd, loving, praying, and finally evangelizing like he always hoped he and his brother would do someday, the flash of a familiar color caught his eye. A tiny flame of hope. The diminutive form in the bright pink unicorn boots was waving her encouragement from the top of the steps of the train station.

Like a man in the middle of battle, he paused, and he returned the motion. The little face smiled and gave a thumbs-up gesture and turned to leave. His heart melted in two. In the pause of the moment, Yosef heard a voice from somewhere up above saying, “It is the spirit that quickeneth; the flesh profiteth nothing: the words that I speak unto you, they are spirit, and they are life.”

And onward he pressed…until the end.

Pray for Ukraine, Pray for the World.

Thanks be to God.

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