Tag Archives: Farmer

by | February 10, 2018 · 9:01 pm

The Work of Thy Hands…

           “For thou, Lord, hast made me glad through thy work: I will triumph in the works of thy hands.”-Psalm 92:4

The roar of the old feed truck jumped to life. Cobwebs and black smoked coughed from her tailpipe as the deep rumble tickled the boy’s feet.

“C’mon around here and I’ll put you up in the seat.”

The skin of the man was tanned from countless hours toiling in the sun, working the land. His overalls worn threadbare in places; badges of honor to this farmer. He lifted his grandson up and put him on the cracked and frayed leather of the ancient seat. Plumes of dust billowed forth from the sand-colored cushion that peaked through the seams beneath.

“Sit right there now until I get in.”

The boy was barely three years old but yearned for every breath of life to be in the presence of his papaw. The farmer reached the open door of the driver’s side, then swung himself into the seat and slammed the door shut. Dust exploded into the shafts of sunlight that filtered through the clouded window before them. The man began grabbing the long-handled gears, and a deep guttural grinding below them shook the truck into motion. The old ford grain truck began rolling down the bumpy gravel road. In the back, their precious cargo. The sun was just reaching the top of the trees along the fence line that clung to the road. The lad stood on the seat and looked through the tiny back window of the cab. Golden harvest grains of corn radiated in the morning sunlight, like those ancient troves of gold once beheld by the Conquistadors in their New World explorations.

“Turn around here now,” the man growled at the boy pointing to the seat behind him. “I don’t need you bumping out the window.” He grinned over at his only grandchild. Doyle had much to be thankful for on this day. This load of corn was headed to the mill in town. It would be enough to feed his hogs and cattle through the winter. If they were lucky, there would be enough to trade or sell for extra supplies so badly needed. The sense of accomplishment of countless hours of hard work was reflected in every grain. Once the seed had been planted, the work didn’t end. Cultivating, spraying, and detasseling took many hours of hard labor. Working the land seemed to be a never-ending job. Then there were the weeks without rain. The boy could often find his papaw bent over in prayer, asking God to send the much-needed life source so that they may continue their livelihood.

Prayers had been answered in abundance that year.

Then there was his grandson; the pride of his life. Yes, there was much to thankful for that day. Not many months ago, the child had remained in the hospital isolation ward for days. Pneumonia had nearly claimed his young life the previous year, and it had returned in his second year with a vengeance. He had barely survived the second time. His tiny weakened frame was only just now beginning to fill out. It was a blessing to see him radiate, like their load of corn, with happiness as they bumped along.

He nodded at the boy once the tot was seated, then turned and spat a timely squirt of chewing tobacco juice out his own window. His head snapped back to the front maintaining his focus on the winding road. The old green truck rumbled along as the dust behind bellowed up like a rooster tail, dissolving everything from view behind them.

As Doyle’s long arms swung madly back and forth on the expanse of a steering wheel, the fields from which they had recently gleaned their precious cargo passed by the windows. The little boy looked out watching the blur precede by, one fence row after another in a uniformity that soon pulsated into a numbing coalescent hum. He had seemingly forgotten the loneliness of that hospital bed covered in clear plastic. The fields of green washed away those painful memories until all that was left was the glow of joy within. A feeling of warmth and happiness flooded his being until he was sound asleep.

The clouds of dust folded over onto themselves and washed across the fields of time. Nothing remains the same on the surface. Yet, beneath, some things can never be erased.

As the sweat poured down my face, I slowly made another trip up the steep grade of the mountain, carrying one more log to the flatbed trailer. One after another, each tree that was cut was measured, then taken with care to the waiting trailer. Slowly, ever so slowly, the logs began to accumulate until there were as much as the tandem axles could handle. My body was drenched in perspiration. The later days of September were not yet cool even though we were in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. But there was no time to wait. The work had to be done and time was of the essence. Winter would soon be here, and our plans were to at least have the foundation to the new spiritual studio finished before the cold north winds began to blow. As I worked, the clouds began to build, and my mind drifted back to those long-ago days.

As I put the truck into gear and pulled away with my first load, 20 logs, my mind could see that grain truck bouncing down those dusty Pose County roads once more. My harvest had not been one of my own doing, but rather, this one was of God. I had not planted the seeds, but I was here to take in the harvest. Why and how I had come to this place were all a part of His plan. I was merely putting into action the next step in the journey. My harvest wasn’t the golden kernels of corn from my youth, but rather, the sweet, aromatic pines of the Appalachians.

Beautiful, straight, tall white pines littered the new land we had purchased, and with them, the perfect location to nestle the new studio that would become a new place of worship. As I worked, I was cautious to only clear enough trees for the new building. Even with being careful not to take down any unnecessary trees, it quickly became obvious that we might have enough to build most of the new building

By the second load, we had 41 logs total taken to the sawmill. Like those golden seeds of corn falling into the collection shaft behind the grain truck at the mill, the massive front-end loader at the sawmill took each load of logs from my trailer like a giant hand of God. The men running the mill told me that it might be a while before they got to them. So, like most things these days, I put it in God’s hands, trusting that when the time was right, they would call.

A few days ago, the sawmill operator called and asked me to stop by on my way home from school. The news sounded promising. When I pulled up, I found Tony, the operator, there waiting for me. Now at this point, to make a long story short, Tony had worked through some challenges, but in the end, God’s hand was in it. There he shared with me his testimony, and once again, I was reminded that no matter what we do, no matter where we go, the Master’s plan is at work. Through our connection, something beautiful had happened in Tony’s own life. He was now back in the graces of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He told me that in a few days, my logs would be finished. Just hearing him share his story with me that evening, I knew that in the end, the harvest was being done, one way or another.

Today, we brought home all those logs. Now not covered in rough bark, but sawn into useable lumber. Tony had masterfully gleaned every ounce of wood from those trees and turned them into a work of art; a massive trailer full of sweet-smelling wood. Their texture painted a golden glow. At that moment, a sense of accomplishment flooded over me, and my papaw’s memory flashed in my head. Yet, this time, the harvest was not just of what lay on the trailer, but also of another that had returned to his faith. The feeling of once more making all the right choices, taking the care needed to bring the harvest to fruition was something that taught a man many things of life. When the crops were ready, you knew. In the journey, you are never alone; God is with you.

Like Jesus telling his disciples, “Say not ye, There are yet four months, and then cometh harvest? behold, I say unto you, Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest.”-John 4:35 Like the patient farmer, Jesus knew his crops were ready. Then as now, we must recognize what we must do to serve. Jesus told them specifically, “Therefore said he unto them, The harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few: pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourers into his harvest.”-Luke 10:2

Like the farmer of old and the lumberjack of recent days, the feeling of one bringing in the bounty of a season of growth can be one of utter satisfaction. We may not be the ones to plant the seed, but when Jesus tells us to go forth and reap the harvest, how much greater joy can there be than to know you are harvesting the Lord’s crops? As Jesus also told his disciples, “Yea are now fishers of men.” We need only take his message to the world and once again, like in days of old, bring in the harvest, for the fields are white for the taking.

Let us not tarry, for time is of the essence.

Let us reap what He has sown.

Time to harvest.

Thanks be to God.

For specialized, custom sawmill work in the Caldwell County area of North Carolina, call master sawmill operator, Tony Moretz, at 828-493-0400 Tell him the Lord sent you, and he’ll know what you mean.

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by | April 21, 2017 · 9:04 pm

The Walk to Church…

The gentle rain begins to fall around where I sit, perched high above the forest floor below in our screened in porch. In the distance, Grandfather Mountain sleeps under a blanket of clouds. Today, there is a certain “farmer” comfort to my being. When the soil has been properly prepared and the seed planted in its bed, it is then the farmer works hand-in-hand with his Creator, knowing the rains will come; all in God’s time. Once the skies open, it is like a sigh of relief for the earth below and the soul within; and so it is this evening.

In reflection of this past week, there is indeed a particular comfort to many more things than just the soft shower from above.    Our Spring Break has been a much-needed regeneration of mind and body.

As I walk along the river on my trail that leads to Church, I oft wonder how many others would also love this route I take. Indeed, I could just as easily jump in the car and be at the doors of our sanctuary within five minutes, but there is something more spiritual about that thirty-minute journey that makes me want to walk instead.  There is something healing in that journey. The majority of my pathway winds alongside the John’s River. There, the waters speak to me in various tones. In those voices, I find comfort and thoughts of distance times. From the seclusion of the forest to the dwellings of those in the tiny hamlet of Collettsville, there is a reminder that not all that goes on in this fast-paced world is good. There is a need in each of us for something slower, something to which the inner being can grasp onto and embrace. In the whirlwind of life, we often feel as if we are being swept off our feet. When we feel like there is no control, we must find a place to where we can be grounded, a place where the scriptures come alive and their meaning take root in the world before us, not in a distant place that is seemingly imaginary. As I walk along, the sounds, the images, the taste, and the smells of life abundant explode into my thoughts as one vision after another dance in and out of what I attempt in vain to attend. There is almost an inner tumult that cannot be explained, only embraced. For the quiet about, turns what cannot be controlled into calm, and the inner self that had been abandoned is allowed to awaken, one taking the place of another until there is hope once again of hearing what He has to say; that still small voice can once more be heard.

Each trip enraptures another nuance that heretofore, had been forgotten.

The root-laden path through the forest, like Jesus, walk into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, is alive with the multitude of nature’s chorus singing praises,  lifting the spirit. The palm branches replaced by leaves and twigs, like a carpet of love from above. The spring that flows alongside which will eventually become one with the river takes its time, pausing here and there to take wonder before slipping silently into the waterway below. Around the next curve, tiny waterfalls play the melody to the tune of those beyond the greenery in the canopy above. Before I ere reach that blissful sound, my soul is already on fire.

A short jaunt through the vineyard and the miracle of Jesus at the wedding floods my consciousness. Their leaves just now budding, soon will become the fruit for which they were intended to bear. Like so many Christians I know, who have just stepped into their faith, but take time to grow and flourish so that they too might know Him in His fullness. Newness is the foundation of opportunity, and a faithful spirit is indeed a blessing to behold.

Before I can recollect my intellect, the rapids rush into my earshot. Purposefully, I switch my Bible from one hand to the next, its minimal weight barely being felt, but more so, the feeling of protection from the violent water below causes the motion. A multitude of echoes within the rocks and eddies, as often described when hearing the voice of God, like a thousand waterfalls; these white-water wonders below thrash about. Even so, there is a calming effect they have, through their anger, through their violent nature, there is something that says all is right within.

I sigh, and  again I think of how many of my friends would love to journey this same path with me. How I could wish so many could take every trip to Church like this. How much more rewarding would those words spoken by the Pastor be received once the soul has been properly prepared by God’s handiwork? Like the soil of the seedbed, all is ready, now let us receive His Holy Spirit.

Thunder rolls through the valley just now. Its magnitude reaches up through my feet as mountains are one with the sky. Another thunder clap reminds me that I’m nearly in the elements, so care must still be taken even if I’m caught up in the moment in the story.

Yet, one cannot be without the other.

As my footsteps carry me eventually along the river into the little town of Collettsville, I find houses next to the river, well within its floodplain, apparently  , victims of previous floods. The smell of ancient Earth reminds me of another place much like this, back where I grew up in New Harmony, along the banks of the Wabash River. There too, were places that all knew well which were potential  casualties for when the water would rise. The earth smelled the same, a dark, damp musty-ness of antiquity. The houses were similar as well, modest dwellings with sparse décor. Humbleness overflowed onto the porches, where comfort overrode fashion. A place where the set of my favorite TV Show, “Andy Griffith,” might have been filmed. The little homes, each peculiar within themselves, had their own story to tell. The waning light of day made the soft incandescence of the lamplights within mirror the heartbeat of their inhabitants, warm and glowing. Slowly, one-by-one, I’m learning their names, but that will be for another story, another time.

Interspersed between homes, little kitchen gardens, as grandma called them, displayed a variety of early crops; cabbage, taters, onions, and broccoli. Here and there a brave soul had put out a few tomato vines obviously wanting to get the jump on their neighbors. The aroma of newly turned soil and fresh cut lawns wafted through the air. A sweetness that seemed almost enchanting.

Time being the present, there was no fear of what the world might bring, there was a silence only broken by the sound of the river running past.

Somewhere on the mountain beyond the river, in the darkness of the forest, a night bird called.

Somewhere near me, the thunder rolled once more.

To each there is a moment in time when we realize all that we do, we must do for a purpose in this life. Eternity, that time for which awaits, for which we must knowingly prepare, must not escape who we are now. All around us we are given the opportunity to awe in His wonder. Is it any wonder then how much more beautiful that which is to come shall be? There is only one thing that separates us from that, and that is simply that we accept what God has provided and allow Him to enter into our lives.

The thunder echoes through the valley, and I’m thankful for all that is.

Thanks be to God.

You can learn more about God’s plan for my journey at Mission to Ride.

“For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even His eternal power and Godhead, so that they are without excuse,…”-Romans 1:20

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by | November 19, 2016 · 10:47 pm

What Paradise Lost, Heaven hath Gained…#singforSophie

Alone I walked, contemplating all that had transpired.

The canopy overhead was quickly changing from its autumn wardrobe to the haunting skeleton of winter. In the distance, a cold front approached. A sense of foreboding loomed, causing me to seek my daily walk sooner, than later. I pulled my collar up against the chill and hurried my pace.

A single leaf drifted toward my face as I walked, then danced ahead as if skipping along in thought. I stopped walking and watched the wondrous image to see where it might land. Its flight led my eyes to the rocky cliff along the trail. Granite boulders covered with moss and lichens formed the backdrop that towered far above where I stood. Intertwined in the rock were roots and vines, like the veins of a being, resting for time immemorial. “How long they had been there? How long would they be there after we are gone,” were the thoughts that passed through my head as I pondered at that moment.

Our lives often seem fleeting as the fallen leaves when compared to those of stone walls.

The Word tells us that we are nothing more than like the grass of the field, the flowers will fade away, and the grass will surely die. “…because, All flesh is as grass, And all the glory of man[b] as the flower of the grass. The grass withers, And its flower falls away,25 But the word of the Lord endures forever.” – 1Peter 1:24-25

The flowers of the field are a beauty to behold, but nothing can prepare us for when those precious blooms are picked before their prime.

Even though the distance is far, the thought is ever present of one such precious bloom being picked; a recent tragic loss of life.

Last week, an automobile accident in Indiana saw three generations of the one family perish. The Reinhart family, in one fatal night, lost their father David, grandmother, Ruth Ann, and daughter, Sophie. I had heard about this tragedy through my cousin Jeff, who had not only been friends with the father since childhood but likewise, his daughters had been close friends with Jeff’s. Sophie was a star of the Castle High School marching band and school choral group, “The Castle Sensations.” They had been returning late from a band competition in Indianapolis when the Reinhart’s car hit a deer. Fearing the car might not make it any farther, David pulled off the road to assess the damage. The next thing was the sound of squealing tires, lights, and the explosion of the impact.  A drunk driver crashed into their car, in what became a multi-car pileup on the interstate; a horrific tragedy, and an unbelievable loss to the small communities of Paradise, Newburgh and the surrounding area of Indiana.

We never want to hear the news, nor get that phone call of events like this, yet it happens.

Many ask, “Why does God allow things like this happen to good people?”

Often, the answer that sometimes helps is, “Because it strengthens those who are left behind.” But there are times when that answer just doesn’t seem justifiable, especially when there is one too young to carry the burden remaining.

When my cousin Mike passed, we had all gathered around grandma’s kitchen table and were struggling to make sense of it all. Mike had just turned 21 and was a more than just a towering figure to the rest of us kids, but he was also someone we looked up to as our leader, our rock to whom we could turn. Now, there we all sat, trying to understand the how and why of it all. Her hand emerged from behind the crowd surrounding that ancient kitchen table, leaning into the center and placed a yellow lily sitting in a clear glass of water into the middle. My cousin Peggy asked, “What is that for grandma?” We all turned to look at her. There was but a shimmer of a tear in her eyes as she replied solemnly, “When you walk into a field of flowers, don’t you always pick the prettiest one?”

“Yes,” Peggy replied, in a hesitant, wondering tone.

“God needed another beautiful flower for the Master’s bouquet.”

All of our eyes turned toward the new single centerpiece of that table and thought of all the fond memories of Michael. It was a moment I will never forget. It was as if she had asked God to speak to each of us, comforting us each by our own memories; peace enveloped that tiny kitchen so long ago as Jesus helped us through another dark time. Grandma prayed over us all as Jesus touched our hearts.

In all of the sorrow of that horrific wreck on that dark, lonely road in Indiana, there was a single shining light. One flicker of hope for the family that had in an instant suffered so greatly, a lone survivor. Dave’s other daughter who was riding with them miraculously endured the disaster with only minor injuries. In the coming days, weeks, and years, that young daughter’s faith, as well as the rest of the family, will be tested. They will have to learn what substance is hoped for, in the evidence of the things that cannot be seen. The surviving daughter will relive that night for the rest of her life, that night where in the blink of an eye, her world became a living nightmare. They will have to lean on the everlasting cross, for in Him, they will find the strength and comfort to carry on.

“Faith is the substance of things hoped for, evidence of things unseen.”- Hebrews 11:1

All of this turns through my mind as my trail twists and turns through the ever-changing forest. “Why God, do you not let me walk in peace,” I asked, looking into the clear blue skies? A flurry of leaves swirl above me, then rush ahead disappearing into the darkness. 

A child, her sister, and their mother are left to carry on in a world that’s been altered from what seemed like the path that God had chosen. Ripped from its foundation, their very existence has been skewed so that now, they have to face a reality that seems anything but real.

My pathway passes the rapids on the Johns River where I stop to pause once more.

Then came the voice, “What Paradise has lost, Heaven has gained.”

God calls us home at the most unexpected times. Those that heard the beautiful, gracious young lady sing in person can easily see Sophie joining the angelic choir as her father and grandmother proudly look on; it has to be, it just does.

The heaviness for those mourning the loss of loved ones is felt in my heart as I watch the water pass over the rocks in gushing, white torrents.

Life is like the river.

Time is constantly passing like the current, with moments of upheaval and dire consequences when the world collides against those granite edifices creating chaos. In theses chaotic moments, we find our faith with both hands and embrace it tightly to our chests. When they slowly ebb back to normal, we return to the gentle currents where we seemingly pass from day-to-day unthinking; yet, constantly, time is passing on, like the current. Around a bend the water finds a swirling pool where the rush of life comes to a halt, peace and calmness follow. God’s purpose even in the time of great upheaval can find serenity and healing. Eventually, the water and life continue, time passing on, as the current flows onward.

What we lose on earth, heaven finds as a reward. We can find comfort in knowing that there is an even greater joy when we reach that golden shore. There waiting for us will be an angel dressed in white singing for all the ages.

These things we can only pray, for all those affected, for all those hurting; God is there for each of you.

These things we pray in God’s Holy Name,

Amen.

“Let not your heart be troubled; you believe in God, believe also in Me. 2 In My Father’s house are many mansions;[a] if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.[b] 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also. 4 And where I go you know, and the way you know.” -John 14:1-4

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by | April 25, 2013 · 12:02 am

Confluence of Me…

[Disclaimer: This is meant to be a humorous look at a sleep deprived perspective of life. Enjoy…]mental_dstruction_350

Today as I loaded the car, I had to think about all the various parts of my mind that needed to get it together in order to pull off tonight’s speaking engagement. It wasn’t so much what I was speaking about; rather, it was just the fact that I was going to perform a song that I wrote, speak about a book that I’d written and then present a slide show to back up the research that I’d done in order to write the book. In other words, I had to get all the confluences of thought streaming into the same direction.

I realized all this when I fortunately remembered to grab the binder full of genealogy research my Aunt June had given me. It then dawned on me; we needed to get all of me into the car and go.

As we backed out of the garage into the brilliant sunlit day, I had to laugh to myself at all the various thoughts that were attempting to run through my head simultaneously; Artist, Writer, Musician, Engineer, Farmer and Preacher of sorts. Artist wanted to behold the loveliness of the day, the beautiful blooming trees and flowers with the green grass strong and vibrant in the pastures. Writer agreed with the Artist and wanted to recall the splendor on paper, to describe all of the magnificence the Artist was seeing, but in words.  Musician, full of the exuberance of the moment could only think of how it all made him want to sing, but one look at Engineer glaring back at him quickly dissipated any further melodies that tried to emerge.

All of this talk of glorious beauty only annoyed the Engineer, who now decided it best that he sit on the hood of the car facing us as we drove, so that he could make sure we kept ourselves on track and didn’t wander off into no-man’s land mentally and forget to turn when we needed to do so. At the moment, Engineer simply glared at Musician who wished someone would at least turn on the radio.

Meanwhile, the Farmer, who had quietly and patiently listened to the Artist and Writer describe the scenes around them as they rode, could only think of how well the green grass was growing and that the weeds could use one more spraying of herbicide. It comforted the Farmer to know the cattle would be well sated today and that there would be little fear of them pushing the fence lines. All the while, the Engineer kept reminding us as we drove, that he wanted to make sure we stopped by the church to pick up the projector that we would need to run the slide show which was to be part of tonight’s presentation.

The Preacher, concerned for the well-being of everyone, simply wanted the Engineer to be safe out there on the hood of the car, yet realized that someone had to make sure we paid attention and kept us on time, so he prayed for us all, especially Engineer.

It was apparent, all of us were dependent upon one that had little to no personality at all; our body, the Animal. Yes, Animal instincts and needs overcame any other personality simply because the body in which they lived had to be maintained. So it was today, that as we drove down the road toward Goldston to the church, Animal began to let everyone know that he was beginning to get hungry. After all, we had not eaten anything of sustenance since early the previous morning. It was now nearing six o’clock in the evening, a good twelve hours since the last meal. So it was only fair that he send a sharp stabbing pain to our stomach which indicated his conviction to getting his way while sending a throbbing pulse to our temples warning of a potential headache lest he get his way. Yet, there was no time, said the Engineer, who was still keeping track of time.

I quickly grabbed the water bottle sitting in the console.  It was warm to the touch from having been in the shut-up car all day, and drank down several gulps of hot water. Artist, Writer and Musician all noted the lack of pleasure from drinking warm water and all yearned for a cool sip instead. Farmer quickly let them know, any water, hot or cold was better than no water; they all concurred. The pain subsided briefly, diluted enough so that Animal could wait a little longer to eat.

Meanwhile, Writer was secretly thinking of how funny this would all be if he were to make all of this into a story.

Engineer, who continued to watch us all from outside on the hood, soon caught wind of Writer’s plan and realized he had to regain control from the Writer lest we miss our turn. He broke in; reminding us all that we had to make sure we got all the parts for the projector so that we didn’t get there and find something missing. Engineer again reminded us of the turn into the church parking lot, where we finally arrived. Preacher got out and opened the door for us as we quickly found the projector and easily loaded it into the car with all the parts included, which was confirmed by Engineer.

Then, we were off again…boy were we ever.

As we drove down the road there broke out a huge argument over who, what and how the presentation should go. Preacher tried to calm everyone and told us that if we didn’t work together, we would all fail, yes, all of us. It seemed music was needed to help calm ourselves, so Preacher found the Rhonda Vincent CD and put it into the car’s CD player. Almost immediately the Artist and Writer came back together, reuniting in spirit, joining the Musician who had finally achieved his only wish. Engineer realized the collective result of the action and approved, but remained on the hood, just to be safe. Preacher and Farmer also felt at peace with the beautiful strains of Rhonda singing “Old Rugged Cross” and like the others became one in spirit. Animal, now seeing all the others fulfilled thought of how in times of difficulty it was often better to go into battle hungry rather than full and he too lay down for a brief respite, allowing us all too finally relax.

As we traveled down the road to our destination in the little blue car with Rhonda Vincent singing sweet melody after melody to us, everyone was finally at peace with one another and all was well …with all of us.

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