Tag Archives: flood

by | July 8, 2019 · 9:38 pm

Make a Way in the Wilderness

The old path had been obliterated by the multitude of floods sweeping through the valley. Over the course of the late winter and early spring, the rains had fallen heavily upon the mountain. The water had nowhere to go but down into the valleys below. Massive logs had been strewn this way and that, like straws spilled on a table, their remains were all that was left, like bones upon the shoreline of a distant war. Now, there were only piles of dark, entangled webs of roots and logs. Their bulk lay wherever the currents had subsided.

John’s River, Collettsville, NC.

One such testament to the disasters of this past season had now blocked the old trail which was once where my weekly crossing of the river would lead. It had been over a year since my last venture. Like a blanket of comfort, vines and forest growth had already claimed their new patron as their own. To once more scale the opposite shore would require finding a new way, a new path; blazing a trail once more through the wilderness. It was as if God was speaking to me this past week when all the events had fallen into place such that there was finally time to seek out this new pathway. Much like many of our lives at this moment, you too might be waiting on that next door to open. You might feel like those prayers you have lifted over and over again are not reaching through your own ceiling. In this time of waiting, there is learning. In this season of pause, we must seek what we have yet to find in our faith.

One might ask, “Is it even worth the effort to reclaim that old path?” or if your congregation has lived through a natural disaster you might ask, “Is it worth the money to rebuild the church after the storm?” To those fallen on even the direst of life’s circumstances, the question may arise, “How can I even go on living?”

God tells us through his prophet Isaiah, when he states, “Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.”

We often cannot see beyond the next hill or bank of the river. God has put before us the opportunity to blaze new pathways, leaving the old behind. When we find our way is blocked by circumstances beyond our control, or have a tragedy strike, we must first seek Him. When we find God, we must then listen, for when we receive him, his indwelling will become our guidepost. When we learn to listen for that still small voice, we shouldn’t be surprised to find guidance and direction, and often in the most unlikely of places.

The afternoon thunderstorms had been heavy, so it was no surprise to find the river was up. The sandbar, covered with all manner of stone, was now under water; it being my gauge as to when it is safe to cross or not. Having already decided that this would be the day to find out if there was a way possible, I went ahead with the plan. A wiser man might have simply passed for another day; not I. The first few footsteps into the murky turbulence proved my intuition was correct, the current was tearing away at my footing. Scarcely had not one step been taken before the next was nearly washed out from underneath. The crossing was not going to be easy. Not to mention, the distant shore, now covered with a network of vines and briars, would be even more daunting. I had just begun, and it seemed as if all was lost. In the back of my mind, the question arose as to, “Why, why are you doing this?”

Many times, when we are in the midst of our trial, even though we may be within the darkness of the valley of the shadow of death, we are not alone; God is with us. As we take that next step, there are those in our lives watching, like the boats surrounding the ship upon which Jesus had fallen asleep. Each small vessel carried passengers who also wondered if this may be their doom, waiting for a sign from the boat upon which Christ had found passage. To their amazement, from a distance, they watched as Jesus rebuked his disciple’s unbelief, and then calmed the raging seas. Those too, who are with us each day, watching our demeanor and response to the hardships through which we travail, are likewise inspired by the sometimes seemingly insignificant details of decisions we make; regardless, if it is something we find as trivial or something as horrific as the loss of a family member through a tragedy, each event elicits a similar revelation.

So, as I fought the raging currents to reach the other shore, it was with admirable satisfaction that when I embarked upon scaling the steep embankment, there was already an opening made by the hand of God. The force of the flood had caused not only trees to be washed away, but also the shape of the briars and vines had been swept into uniform patterns, causing them to lay one upon the other, like matting upon the earth. I easily found footing and barely had to cut back but just a few thorny green briars, here and there, until the paved trail of the Collettsville Park was in sight. All of my apprehension and fear had already been taken care of by the Master’s hand. All that was asked of me was to try, to take that first step into the raging torrent and trust in Him.

“When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.”-Isaiah 43:2

When we find ourselves in these times of trial and waiting, we must forge new forays into God’s Word, turning pages we might have never sought before. We are often taken aback at how direct the word may speak to us. Who hasn’t sought an answer from God, and in so doing, opened the Bible at random and found the very text to which your eye had cast upon answering you? But even in our doubt and struggle with waiting, we must keep every present in our mind that He will not leave us in our struggle. The wrath of destruction through which we survive, be it spiritual or physical, is not unnoticed by our Heavenly Father. When we pass through the storm, we will be blessed with the most loving promise, “Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies;”

In the silence, God is working on answering your prayers.

Be ever vigilant and patient. It takes time, at least from our humanly perspective, for rivers to emerge from deserts. From the driest and most arid of the human soul can the fruit of the Holy Spirit spring forth, bubbling up unto the presence for all to see; a testimony of having battled through hell and survived by the Grace of God to tell the story.

Step into that torrent, blaze that trail once more and never give up. Christ didn’t die for your sins for you to throw away your life.

You can make it. You have His promise.

Thanks be to God.

“Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies;”-Psalm 103:4

“When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.”-Isaiah 43:2

“Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.”-Isaiah 43:19

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by | December 12, 2017 · 7:04 pm

Lord Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise

Lord Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise

By Timothy W. Tron

“The expression “…the creek don’t rise” is an American slang expression implying strong intentions subject to complete frustration by uncommon but not unforeseeable events. It presumably evokes occasional and unpredictably extreme rainfall in Appalachia, that has historically isolated one rural neighborhood or another temporarily inaccessible on several or many occasions.” -Wikipedia definition for “The creek don’t rise.”

The rains fell heavy throughout the previous night. When he awoke to overcast skies, it was no surprise. Quietly he pondered over the morning scriptures. He poured the customary tankard of black brew that he carried with him. Once he crossed the divide, he recompensed upon the bench in front of the little town’s only store. His routine was not yet chiseled into time long enough to be considered a “tradition”, yet he was sticking to the pretense as closely as his busy schedule would allow. The weather apps on his device kept warning of areal flooding. In the back of his mind he knew this meant that his normal route for Sunday worship may be altered, but not if he could help it. The air was one of those moist, damp chills, the kind that sunk below the flesh and lingered in the bones. Donning his cap and grabbing his trusty walking stick, he set out, bare legged and sandals for the eventual challenge, the crossing of the river.

As he rounded the curve in the road toward the river’s edge, he could see the water was well above its normal course. “How much more so,” he thought to himself as he tried to find a marker, a log, anything that might convey the true depth. There at his usual crossing, the stone sand-bar was nonexistent. The greenish, brown fluid rolled angrily past as he vied for any familiarity; there was nothing. Knowing the vantage point from whence he usually sought, he stepped into the ice-cold brink. The bottom kept going as he began to sink deep into the mud. There seemed to be no bottom and before he could recover, he was chest deep. Stinging cold chased him back to the bank where he fought back his disgust. Looking back, the water seemed to laugh back at him. “I will not be turned away,” he silently told himself, “I can do all thing through Christ who strengthens me,” he spoke through his teeth as he charged back in, this time at the point where he knew the bottom was more solid, yet normally deeper. Contact to the stones below was a welcome relief compared to the episode second earlier; however, the battle against the roaring current of the torrent quickly ensued. Driving his walking stick into the river bed, each step carefully taken. The force of the water ripping at his legs, his body being pushed against its will. One foot, one planting of the cane, another step closer to that distant shore. The rhythm of his course began to match his heartbeat. The struggle was all his own, nothing more than the determination to prove nothing to no one. In his mind, there was a greater purpose for which he sought to serve, and someday, sometime, he might be called to answer that calling. This was his personal boot camp for the Lord; the preparation for what may be required someday to serve in the army of God. Nothing of this world that could render flesh numb could stop his progress as he finally reached the calm waters at the edge of the distant shore. Climbing out, he looked back at the raging torrent below. Another Sunday, another journey through the abyss that would not keep him from his worship.

They would amusingly question him, some in disbelief that anyone would be so detached from the normalcy of life to put themselves through something so arduous, but here he was once more, wading the river, even at near flood stage capacity.

His purpose, not for anyone other than himself and God, was slowly becoming a light to those around him. Around him the chatter of the moment was growing ever more lively, for there was something other than to focus their weekly attention on, other than their usual family calamities and concerns. There was something that captured their imaginations and ran with them, diving into that flowing abyss beyond the church.

Meanwhile, he sat on the bench, seeking the warmth inside that only God could provide. His mind drifted back to the hardship of climbing that mountain. Those mountain rivers in the Germanesca Valley that flowed so icily in the summer air would now be slicing, bitter cold, humanly impassable torrents. For these there would be a day, but not until this simple flow in which he had just crossed could be mastered.

The training would continue, one river, one step, one verse after another until the day the Master calls.

In His time, his will be done.

Thanks be to God.

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by | December 26, 2015 · 11:01 pm

Swirling Water…

The muddy waters of the Catawba river swirled beneath us, traveling in inundating pools of ferocity, twisting and BOB%20FLOODS%20OHOP%20CREEK%20DIRT%20in%20WATER%20(OP)%20NOV.%207,%2006%20020turning past trees never before submerged, now victims of the flood; torrential rains having overrun the banks of the river, now consuming all in its path. Massive logs lay helpless against bridge abutments, caught, unable to escape the pressure from the onslaught. Above, we watch the mighty power of untold strength battling mammoth structures of nature, each winning in their own way; some immediately while others eroding those of greater magnitude until they too become victim to the constant force. As we ride along the pathway, safe above the brown waters below, my mind drifts back to another time, another flood; more brown swirling waters.

My tiny feet couldn’t reach the water below, yet it called to me. “Down” I would say in my mind to my father has he held me safely above the darkness below us. The banks of the Wabash had once again overflowed near our hometown of New Harmony. For some reason, even though I was not yet two I can still recall the memory. Eventually, I would squirm and fight enough to allow him to let me wade in the cold darkness. The chill would run through my body and soon afterward, the fever would begin. They say that memories which last far into our past are those etched into our core through trauma. Soon after, I would come down with double pneumonia. Later I would learn of having the sickness both at one and two years of age, seemingly a year apart. This was probably the latter since the hospital memories correspond with what I would have experienced as mobility, or the lack thereof. The most difficult time would have nothing to do with the illness, but rather the solitary isolation; loneliness.

Hours upon hours, I could recall sitting in the subdued green hospital room in my oxygen tent, waiting; waiting for anyone to walk in and speak to me. In between waking and sleeping, the time seemed to crawl. The most vivid memory I have from that experience was that one day a nurse must have felt sorry for me and took me from the room and into the common room where there was one black and white TV playing. Folks were sitting around watching the TV when I was rolled into the room in my wheelchair. “Now you stay here and watch some TV and don’t get out of this chair,” she said ever so sweetly. I was beside myself; free from that room and around other people. I must have seemed overjoyed. The nurse had evidently tied me in with a towel or sheet, because when she left the room, another little boy nearby came and asked if I wanted to play with him on the floor. I must have smiled broadly at this request because before I knew it he disappeared behind my chair and I was suddenly set free. We were on the floor playing with his toys when I heard the voice of the nurse, “How in the world did you get out of that chair,” she would ask, the sweetness had evaporated from her voice and sterness I feared was in its place. Knowing the culprit was likely my new found friend, she quickly placed me back in my wheelchair and I was rolled back to my room, back to the confines of the clear plastic prison. “Life has to be better than this,” I must have thought. Back into the realm of dreams and fantastic tales I would be forced to go, as the artist in me was painfully being born. By the grace of God, I would survive.

Years later, my wife and friends would find ourselves swimming in Ginny Springs, near High Falls Florida. The water in the individual springs was crystal clear and beautiful to experience. However, in order to save time from getting from one spring to another, we chose to float down the Santa Fe River. What we didn’t realize at the time was that the river was above flood stage. In that part of Florida, the water takes on an almost coffee color from the tannic acid it extracts from the trees it passes through. As we swam into the flow of the Santa Fe, we literally couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces. The current was too strong to turn back once we had entered the flow, so we stuck to the surface for safety, allowing the current to carry us along. These waters were also home to alligators, so our fears were not without merit. We soon reached the entry point of the next spring and quickly crossed the barrier which helped keep the darkness out of the crystal clear spring waters. Looking back, it might have been foolish to take such a risk, but it was something you didn’t think about until it was over. Thankfully, none of us on that journey were injured or maimed for life. Thankfully we had a brief encounter with the unknown, the darkness beyond the safety of our realm of existence. This time, there was no detrimental consequences; nothing more than a distant memory of wading in dirty water as a kid. However, like those experiences as a child, one innocent event leads to another until we are forever changed by the results of our actions, either immediately or slowly, painfully afterward.

Today as we rode along the muddy, raging torrent below, I was thankful yet again for the chance to be alive to see God’s hand at work, either immediately or slowly.

His time; God’s time, is not our own. The mysteries of His universe we will never know, but we can be thankful for what we do know and how he has molded us into the person we are today; either immediately or painfully slow.

Thanks be to God.

“And He said, “To you it has been given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of God, but to the rest it is given in parables, that ‘Seeing they may not see, And hearing they may not understand.’” – Luke 8:10

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by | October 3, 2015 · 8:31 pm

One Raindrop Fell Into the River…

The circle of life spins around us, our world never ceasing to exist, yet we remain unaware until we are shaken from our slumber.

Rain pelted the pavement outside in cold sheets as we sat inside looking out at the gray blanket that covered our world. It had rained for days already, so what was one more. As I sat visiting with Jeannette and Ray, the little silver car pulled up quickly into the parking lot and two ladies hurriedly made their way into the visitor’s center out of the unwelcome atmosphere outside. I welcomed them and as I began checking them in for a self-guided tour, I heard the words, “Walldorf Germany” and knew we were going to have an interesting visit.

As we edged our way over to the map, I began to hear more familiar words; Posey county, southern Indiana and again, Walldorf. It was then I began to realize our visitors were more than people who happened off the street, more than the occasional curious passerby; these people had a vested interest in being here, like my own. Little did I know I was about to come face-to-face with someone that had made my journey to this point possible by something she had done nearly forty years earlier. Standing before me was the descendant of the Jourdan family, members related to my own, people that had survived some of the same ordeals and trials as my own family, yet like me, they had yet to hear the rest of the story.

The name Jourdan was more than a familiarity to me. It had been the name of one of the major characters in my book, taking the name of Albert Jourdan. Not only had these people been part of my families history in reality, but the name had also lived with me in the fictional world. Now, standing there in front of the map of the Cottien Alps, was another family member waiting to hear the rest of the story, the one we had never known or been told.

Like our lives in that quiet end-of-the-world place known as southern Indiana, we had lived in total obscurity to how and why we were even alive; survivors of a holocaust most will never know. Yet, we had been drawn to a place by the same power, the same faith to which we held dear. Now, far, far away from the Midwestern place, we were once again together, again drawn by that same presence, force and story. As I shared with them, I kept finding us being drawn from the history into the story of our own lives, each intertwined with the threads of finding out who and what we were. Each time, we kept pulling ourselves back to the story of the Trail, each time digressing into another thread of what and how we had learned of the truth.

Time passed without us knowing it. As we shared our story, we went to the beginning, the genealogy research that Barbara had started when she was a tender-aged thirteen years. I later found she lost her father when he passed from this world, far too young, at 46 years of age. I had to wonder later if that what drove her to research the family history at such a young age. Regardless, her high-school aged trip to Walldorf in the late seventies proved to be a valuable asset to the research that Jeanne Miller would later create, the same work from which my Aunt June would draw in order to create the genealogy gift she would later give me in 1995, the same one that would lead me to start my own journey to Walldorf Germany, totally unaware of what or who it was to be called, “Waldensian”. There on page 79 of Jeanne’s self-published, invaluable work read the words that gave credit to Barbara Norman (of the Jourdan family) and noting her valuable contribution to Jeanne’s own research. I had read this volume many times and never realized of the additional contributor, nor did I even realize there had been someone to Walldorf, from Posey county prior to Jeanne’s own trip. Yet, here she was, standing with me, showing me the exact pages, turning to them as if she knew exactly where they were to be found, which she did.

Looking back at the pictures we quickly snapped, I didn’t realize the tears of joy that had been shed. I knew myself, more than once, I had to fight back emotions as I shared with them the stories of the journey of our people and my own.

There are few rewards in one’s life greater than the fulfillment of finding others that have unknowing joined your cause, your mission or your journey. Who am I to not think that it may just have been as rewarding for her to realize that someone was so influenced by her work that they followed a calling from the history she too helped write. In other words, the beauty of the story can be seen from both sides of the river of life. The view from one shore to the other can be the same, the reflections in the water are of the same mountain peaks beyond, the only difference is the people we see on the opposite shore.

Again and again, we found confirmation in growing up not knowing, but yet sensing there was another influence in our lives greater than our own. We both sensed a gravity of faith so profound, so solid, so real that we honestly felt our elders had a belief grounded somewhere beyond what our communities around us would allow; yet we knew nothing. Growing up feeling these emotions yet unable to confirm them led us to want to go beyond the horizon, searching “what else”, “what for” and “why” far beyond those comfortable confines of our little towns.

I don’t know if we will ever meet again. I felt as if in one single morning I found a new family, yet ancient family, one that I could easily revisit and explore for a much longer time than today’s short visit allowed. Before she left, I asked her to search for a couple of key things; The village from where we came and why, yes, why we were never told that we were Waldensian. She replied the former would be possible, the latter she doubted. We both knew that for all we had learned, there was yet something we might never know.

God often prepares us and sends things into our lives for which we are not expecting; today was no exception. I don’t know if we will ever know the “why” but we can come closer to the where today. What does it all mean, if anything? I don’t know.

This journey began with the question as to, “Why?”

Sometimes, we have to succumb to the realization that there are some things that we may never fully understand with concrete proof; these are the things for which we have to have faith. In many instances, the statement, “Our Faith is All We Had,” is never more true. Today, faith in knowing from where we came, faith in who we are and faith is what brought us to this point is all that we know.

I yearn to return to Jakob, Arktos, Jean Paul, Marik, Kristoff and many others. The world in which they live is one that seems to grow closer to mine with each passing day. Their struggles are much greater than those I face, yet through them, I can see with eyes that would otherwise know nothing about how it would feel to suffer to that extent. I don’t say this in hopes to feel that level of pain, rather, I say this for the simple fact that this helps me to learn, to grow and to prepare for what may lie ahead.

Outside, the rain continues to fall in the darkness as night has fallen.

Each day I pray for strength, guidance and God’s will to work in our lives; today was no different.

Each day, the Lord shows me another way and another path I had never envisioned.

As a raindrop falls from the sky, it doesn’t know where it will land, yet it has no other recourse than to fall, pulled by the gravity of the earth, a force known only to God. When the drop of moisture finally impacts the surface below, its force alone is negligible, yet with time, many others falling upon the same location can become a factor so great, so mighty that mountains can literally be moved, oceans created and entire populations erased. The same can be said for our lives and how we choose to use them in this world. We can be that tiny droplet, landing harmlessly and evaporating before it has a chance to be followed by others, causing no change other than the tell-tale sign of moisture, or we can be an impact on something greater than ourselves, falling where those who have gone before, creating at first, a trickle of truth that slowly turns into a flowing stream which continues to grow with time until it becomes a raging torrent rushing headlong to the sea, an ocean of change for which we have combined with the forces before us until we are something to be reckoned.

This is who we must be, regarding our past as something more than an oddity to be admired with precipitous contempt, but rather, learn and grow adding to the flow so that those lives given for the cause are not lost, give up in vain as the lone droplet, but rather, as those culminated drops of precipitation that combine repeatedly until there is something unmistakably greater than anything anyone being could have ever imagined.

This is why I continue on, without knowing …why.

“Thus says the Lord: “Behold, waters rise out of the north, And shall be an overflowing flood; They shall overflow the land and all that is in it, The city and those who dwell within; Then the men shall cry, And all the inhabitants of the land shall wail.” -Jeremiah 47:2

 

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by | December 23, 2013 · 11:03 pm

The Birth of Hope…

imagesCANET9ZXThis past Sunday I had the privilege of filling for Tom Lee during the part of the service where he normally delivers what is called the, “Children’s Message”. Tom and his wife were blessed to be called away that morning to the birth of a new grandson named Jacob. Ironically, my message involved the birth of another child, yet this would not be the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as you might be expecting. No, this was not a Christmas story you might come to anticipate this time of year, so first allow me to explain why I was lead to share this story.

Earlier in the week I had a unique dream which I wrote about in a previous blog, “Flames of the Spirit”. To summarize; in the dream I went back in time and met people rejoicing in the spirit and met an ancient being who told me that we had to carry on the special gift we’ve been given, passing it on from one generation to the next. To some degree I was perplexed by what the elder I met in the dream meant by his words, but the more the week went by, the more I understood what he had been telling me. Then a couple days later I saw a trailer for a movie to be released in 2014 and it all became clearer. The movie is called, “Noah” and stars Russell Crowe and Emma Watson.

Here is a link to the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OSaJE2rqxU

We all know the story of Noah, but not until recently did I understand how Noah fit into the family lineage of Enoch. Enoch as you may recall is only one of two people that were taken to Heaven without dying, Elijah being the other. Enoch was afforded a view of Heaven before leaving and was allowed to return to earth for 30 days in order to tell his son Methuselah what he learned so that mankind could record the events of the past, present and future. I’ve been studying the books of Enoch as part of the references I am using in my sequel to “Bruecke to Heaven”. As I mentioned earlier, this story had to do with another birth but this was not the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, but rather the birth of Noah.

So unusual and strange was Noah at birth that his father Lamech was alarmed, as were all that saw the imagesCAK6UHLKnewborn child. His skin was as white as snow and as red as a rose; his hair was as white as a white lamb’s wool. His eyes were the like sun’s rays that lit up the room and his face beamed as something from another world. The nursemaid held him up to show everyone and as she did, the newborn baby levitated from her hands into the air. Everyone was scared and afraid of the infant and cried out. Lamech was so bothered by the condition of the child that he immediately went to his father Methuselah and pleaded with him to go to his father Enoch and ask him if there had been any tampering or foul play by angels with his wife to cause this calamity.

You have to understand that this was a time when angels were known to visit earthlings and copulate with them, creating giants (Nephilim) and other creatures which began to defile mankind. So adamant was Lamech about it that Methuselah agreed and went to the ends of the earth and called out for his father, who by then was already in Heaven permanently. Remarkably, Enoch heard his son’s cries and answered him. He assured him that the baby was indeed the son of Lamech and his wife and that there was no interaction or tampering from angels to be worried about. However, he told him that the child was indeed special and chosen by God and that his name would be Noah. He went on to tell him that mankind had become so full of sin and unrighteousness that God had no choice but to destroy the world with a great flood; all would die except for Noah and his family.

Methuselah returned and told Lamech of the words of his father and how Enoch had said that from now until the end of time, even after the great flood, that mankind would continue to become more and more unrighteous until one day, there would finally come a generation that would arise up and defeat all sin and darkness.

Yes, eventually a generation would rise up and defeat all sin and darkness, halting the unrighteousness.

It was upon reading this that my dream came back to me and how the elder had been so clear about the wealth we possessed and how it was imperative that it be passed from one generation to the next without it being allowed to expire.

Then like a light switch turning on, it finally dawned on me that the wealth, treasure and inheritance the elder was speaking of was right in front of me; The Word of God and the story of his love for us all. For there to be that future generation, we have to pass on our inheritance and educate our children so that they too can carry on when we are gone, keeping the Word of God alive; our hope is our future just as is the birth of a new life.

untitledYes, it is the season of birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus, through whom we all inherit eternal life, if we only choose to accept him into our lives and continue to share the story and to continue to have hope of life eternal.

After all, it is most undoubtedly the best Christmas gift of all.

Merry Christmas.

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