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Deliverance Through Prayer…

The prisoners had succumbed to the elements long before their hope for survival began to diminish. As hundreds of men died daily, their guards watched in vain as the extreme drought in their region of Georgia dried up all creeks and wells. Livestock were being set free to keep them alive in hopes that they would find some source of sustenance on their own. The war between the states was far away, yet in Andersonville, hell on earth was real. As Union soldiers lay dying, calling out in their last breaths for mother, a few firm believers gathered to seek God in prayer. They asked for His deliverance from the torture and despair, they had nothing left to lose except life itself. In the distance, sounds of what many thoughtprovidencespring were cannons began to rumble later that night. The winds started whipping the sparse flaps of the tent city within the crude walls of the Confederate prison as the rogue storm cell passed over. Suddenly, a crash and roar of thunder rolled many out of their pallets shaking the ground as the bolt of lightning struck just inside the outer prison wall, just inside no-man’s land. At that moment, water began gurgling forth from the ground and by morning, the trickle had become a flowing stream. There as the sunrise began to make a glow on the horizon, grown men sat by the brook crying as they held their withered, parched hands below the life giving fluid and raised it to their blistered lips, soaking in the blessing one gulp at a time.

Many never lived to see that sunrise.

The other evening, I saw where a former colleague of mine had a birthday. Curious as to how he was doing, I reached out to him. He replied and we began catching up. As time passed and we began to share our feelings on life and where we were in our walk with God, I could quickly feel my old self come back through the description of my friend’s words. Trapped in the prison we had created of our own doing, he was as once was I held captive. His chains were a mortgage and a company that literally kept you from escaping from one shift to another; his was as was mine, the dreaded third shift. The fear of leaving it all behind holds you within that cell until eventually you either are terminated against your will or you die without experiencing the life you always wanted to live; his and mine were to serve the Lord. To many, termination was an answer to prayer. Others would find their freedom and escape but at a cost. Many had chosen a journey deeper into the secular world, the price they would pay would be severe. Yet, some would awaken to the fact that the life they were living was void of faith or prevented them from serving God. It was these few who would eventually say, “Enough is enough,” and begin to pray to God for deliverance, as did those prisoners in Andersonville. Miraculously, those prayers would be answered, time and time again.

In the Bible Jesus told us, “For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.”

As every veteran knows, no matter the branch of the military in which you serve, the object of the Drill Sergeant is to break each recruit down, strip them of their identity until they are a shell of a human. Then, once they have stripped them of “who” they are, they begin to refill the void with the soldier they want you to be. In other words, you are programmed to perform in the way in which supports that branch of the military. When we truly give our lives to Christ, we essentially must do the same thing as those young recruits; stripping away our former selves until there is nothing left of our previous inequities to keep us from following him with every ounce of our being.

An elderly man sat next to me in the Paddock Mall one day, back in 1982. We were both waiting for our wives to finish shopping and like most guys, we would rather sit and wait outside the store than stand idly inside. He told me his name was Roy, and before I knew it, he began telling me the story of his survival in a Korean prisoner of war camp. Roy told of how they would strip them naked in the dead of winter and put them in cages like animals and then hose them down with fire hoses. He said there were many times he didn’t remember being dragged from the cell; wet, cold, frozen. Roy talked about how he survived life-threatening injuries. They would put rats in the window sills in order to grow maggots. Once the gruesome larvae were the right size, they would place them into the gaping wound of their fellow prisoners so that they could eat away the dead flesh before gangrene could set in. Roy rolled up his pant leg to show me the indentation from the wound, where once muscle had been before the injury. He continued to share with me how he survived to see their liberation, but barely. He was released from the Army and given all his back pay that had accrued while being a POW. Roy was told by the Army doctor’s that he only had a few months to live, so depleted was his body from the lack of nutrition and injuries. Figuring he was going to die, he left for Florida, bought an old barge and began drifting from one island to the next in the Marathon chain. Roy looked at me and said, “It was then that I talked to God and asked him toimagesE0DYW4ZT do with me what he would. I didn’t care if He called me home or not. Each day I would wake up and catch fish or shrimp and each day I would thank Him for another day.” Roy then shared how eventually, after a year or so, he realized he wasn’t going to die. The day he walked in the front door of the supply shack at the marina instead of the back door where he had always gone before, he knew his life was going to change. The old man that had always waited on him through the rear entry didn’t recognize him at all. Roy had shaved his beard and cut his long hair before stepping inside; he was a new man. God would take Roy down many roads, but there we sat that day as he shared his testimony.

When we turn our lives over to God, all things are possible; we too can become new men and women. Roy realized that he had nothing left to lose, giving all he had was easy. Unlike my friend, Roy’s life was at what he thought was its end. The soldier’s in Andersonville also had their backs against the wall to where they too had nothing left to lose, but to seek God. However, when we have so much, so many worldly possessions, it becomes hard for many to seek Him. In that instance, we can find it even harder to walk away from it all. Satan wants us to cling onto the things of this world so our choices become difficult if not impossible; cars, TV’s, houses, beach-front-condos, club memberships, hefty mortgages, and so on become our chains.

As people age, we begin to look around us and ask ourselves what we can offer those we love most when we’re gone. Those things of this world tarnish, age, and rot. The things that matter most are those that continue on long after we’re gone. Those everlasting impressions we make on our children, grand-children, and fellow Christians are what matter most. Those impressions can become the wake-up call so many need to hear, so that someday, they too may make that choice to serve God. Hopefully, they won’t wait until their backs are against the wall.

The Union Army prisoners held in Andersonville prison would name the water from the spring that saved their lives, Providence Springs. The water still flows today inside the memorial park in Andersonville, Georgia; a testament to what is possible when we give it all over to Him.

When we are stripped of everything, either by force or by choice, we can then be free to make the decision that can change our lives and make us new, “For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.”

Today chose to lose your life for His sake, and the life you will find will be eternal.

Do so today, there may not be a tomorrow.

Thanks be to God.

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Deep Dive Discovery…

The work of righteousness will be peace, And the effect of righteousness, quietness and assurance forever.”-Isaiah 32:17

Deep diving into the depths of time. The feeling of finding something left abandoned for centuries, left to its own, quiet repose in the darkness of the ages. The heart quickens with the turn of each page, with the kick of each flipper, deeper and deeper you plunge. The pressure increases as the breath inside tightens against your chest; time is not a luxury here. TextimagesC0RS0RI5 can disappear with time, purposely destroyed by its enemies, crumbling beneath the touch of the finger or simply being lost in vast, dusty repositories, never to be seen again. The moments beneath the surface can seem the same when there are but precious seconds to find a world foreign, fleeting and yet, intriguing. Each mystery calling your inner child to come and follow, so you push on.

We sought the dark holes that were deep enough to challenge us, yet not so deep that their bottom was beyond our grasp. One such place was “Brown Jug” springs, so called because the shape of the cave that surrounded the flow was like a jug, complete with a spout through which you had to pass in order to reach the entry point of the cave where the water poured forth. The water above the spout made a crystal clear pool surrounded by lush, tropical vegetation. In those days, we had explored many of the springs in central Florida while attending college, so I had become pretty good at free diving. However, Brown Jug would test my endurance and strength.

We had no idea of the force of the flow that exited the spout of the jug, so when my friends and I began to try to enter the jug, we soon learned the pressure of the water exploding out of the jug’s mouth was nearly impossible to push through. Adding additional weights to my wetsuit belt, I paused floating on the surface, took the deep breaths that would sustain me as long as possible and dove for the bottom.

I passed the lip of the spout, its depth about six to eight feet, then flipped past the opening into the body of the jug and suddenly the pressure of the flow ceased; I was out of the current and free to explore.

What awaited me was a marvel that I hopefully will never forget, no camera could capture.

There around me was an ancient cave with all manner of column, boulder and rock formations that created a bewildering array of beauty most would never see. Knowing my time was short, I moved around the perimeter finding the source of the flow, another opening from which millions of gallons of water pulsated, blasting out and beyond the spout that was now many feet above. It was a world I will never forget, a place so alien, yet so God-like in its creation. Too soon, the pangs of oxygen deprivation began to remind me, time was of the essence, and I quickly jumped back into the flow, bursting from the cave floor toward the light of the spout above. My body shot through the jug opening and before I knew it, I was back to the surface, drinking in the air as quickly as my lungs could refill.

I could never fully explain the exhilaration I felt at that moment.

risenJesusLooking back, I can only imagine the possible minute similarity of how the women who found Christ not dead, but alive might have felt at the moment of their discovery. What unimaginable exhilaration of joy, their hearts must have felt as they ran with tears flowing to tell the others, “He is risen, He is risen.” There were not enough words, not enough waving of the hands, not enough time to describe the vision of a risen Christ; each would have to see for themselves. Eventually, those who would never see would be forced to have faith in the unseen, “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, evidence of things unseen.”

Today, the diving continues but in another type of exploration, in another medium.

My search is similar in that what I seek, many have never heard, read, nor seen it, yet it is something that has much greater significance than the bottom of a cave; the true Word of God. As I spend countless hours searching ancient documents, archives and repositories for history’s recorded information of how our ancestors kept the Word of God pure for centuries, it is of utmost importance to show how this word found these mountain people. What once was a goal to provide proof that the people of the valleys were directly connected to the Apostles has now become a much greater quest. Now, there is something greater through which God had intended to use them; to preserve the true Word of God so that mankind’s ability to seek Him would not be controlled nor diverted from the original intent or writings.

This last week, as I prepared for my visit with a grad student, brother Timothy Makin, whose Master’s thesis was on the Textus Receptus or Received Text. I took one more dive the evening before our meeting, to seek out one more document I had inadvertently left open. The book itself was suspect for consisting of some questionable personal interjections. Yet, it had provided some very solid references. So one more push into that unknown before the day ended was all that I sought. As my fingers found the page where my last search had left off, I opened it and wrote down the last footnote to investigate. The pages listed were 17-18. From countless other searches, I quickly found my reliable archive and like the experienced diver, knew I was close but time was ticking. The document successfully loaded and I raced to pages 17-18 and began to read.

Nothing. I almost headed back to the surface for air and to end this madness, but something, a voice if you will, told me to look again.

There was no matching text from which the document had referred to the footnote. Almost dejected I started to surface and then stopped. “Before I leave,” I thought to myself, “what if they got the numbering system wrong,” I said as I quickly turned to the Roman numerals for 17 and 18, xvii and xviii. My eyes followed the text until the familiar words leapt from the screen.

There it was!

I breathed a sigh of relief and came up for air.

Could this be,” I asked myself. Just to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, I reread the passage and then beyond the point of reference; yes, it was true.

There in the document dedicated to the inquiry of the integrity of the Greek Vulgate or Received Text was the quote that hit me like the exhilaration of that surface experience back at the Brown Jug so many years ago:

This is a supposition, which receives a sufficient confirmation from the fact, that the principal copies that version have been preserved in that diocese, the metropolitan church of which was situated in Milan. The circumstance is at present mentioned, as the author thence formed a hope, that some remains of the primitive Italick version might be imagesCUN5TW2Tfound in the early translations made by the Waldenses, who were lineal descendants of the Italick Church; and who have asserted their independence against the usurpations of the Church of Rome, and have ever enjoyed the free use of the Scriptures. In the search to which these considerations have led the author, his fondest expectations have been fully realized. It has furnished him with the abundant proof on that point to which his Inquiry was chiefly directed; as it has supplied him with the unequivocal testimony of a truly apostolic branch of the primitive church, that the celebrated text of the heavenly witnesses was adopted in the version which prevailed in the Latin Church, previously to the introduction of the modern Vulgate.”-Dr, Fredrick Nolan, 1815, “An Inquiry into the Integrity of the Greek Vulgate or Received Text of the New Testament.

Suddenly, the world became a little brighter and the week’s weariness was gone.

There in his own words, Dr. Nolan had said that the Waldensians were the remains of the original primitive church, a direct lineal descendent of the people who kept and translated the Textus Receptus from the Greek Vulgate.

Wow.

Not only did I have another confirmation of the Apostolic connection, but now there was something much greater sitting before me; a connection also to the true unadulterated Word, the Textus Receptus, or Received Text through which Dr. Nolan had found proof of our ancestral ties to the lineage of the primitive church of the wilderness.

Although I had never met brother Timothy before, the following day’s meeting with him and his colleagues and subsequent sharing of information about what we have researched and discovered were more than abundantly rewarding. His work is a brilliant piece of study, education and research that is verse by verse showing the proof of purity in the Textus Receptus and how it can only be the True Word of God from which all other interpretations should be taken, and nothing less.

There are still many pages to read, still many references to study. My work is far from over, but with each new discovery comes the hope that the work we do will somehow provide others with a firmer foundation and appreciation for the Truth. Perhaps, this truth will become important enough that there will be a reckoning of faith so that those that have strayed may see the need for preserving His Word. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory.” If nothing else, we must realize, the Word is Jesus and to that end, it’s purification must mean something.

My time here is but short, but the journey I travel has so much more meaning now. Those deep dives are becoming more and more rewarding and someday, the glorious reunion with our Heavenly Father will be one from which we shall shout from the mountain tops with exhilaration.

In everything we do, we must exalt Him and he will surely direct our paths.

One dive and one step at a time.

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To Uncle Bill…

Uncle Bill and Aunt NormaEarlier this evening I received word that my Uncle Bill had passed, he was 97.

My first impression from the news was sadness mixed with joy; joy, for knowing that his soul was now with the Lord above and that it could only bring thankfulness and blessings to our memories of him. I could also take comfort that his struggles with his recent medical problems were now over.

The past year or so had been difficult for him and the family with his health issues. It seemed his age had finally caught up with him and that he was finally susceptible to the medical problems that face most elderly people. Up to then, he had led an abundantly healthy life. As long as I could recall, he and my Aunt Norma would walk every day. This was as much of their daily routine as was their morning devotional and prayer. Like Grandma and Grandpa Tron, they would rise early before dawn and sit at the kitchen table reading God’s Word and praying together, a scene as beautiful as life itself.

Unfortunately, we never got to see enough of him and Aunt Norma.

I could never recall them living close, rather always far away. When they would come home to New Harmony for visits, the family would all come into Grandpa and Grandma’s house to fellowship with our distant family. I could recall how my dad would seem to straighten up a bit more and our acts of foolishness would be less tolerated, for after all, Aunt Norma and Uncle Bill were coming. I could probably tell you without knowing they were coming to visit, just based on how everyone seemed to primp, tidy and prepare as if we were being inspected. The irony of it all was that neither Uncle Bill or Aunt Norma were at all bothered by what they saw and could care less how well we dressed or straight we sat at the table, rather, they looked at us to see within ourselves for who we were and what our souls had to say about us. Yes, they were probably the first people I had known that exhibited the characteristic of what it is to be truly Christian, for they carried themselves as such. Their devotion to their faith was not only lip service, it was factual. The adherence to the Sabbath was strict and obedient. In essence, if there were anything that caused us to walk taller and tighten our belts was their straight and narrow path upon which they walked, which caused us to want to do the same. Whenever a Sunday school lesson would ask, “Who in your life would you say are your Christian mentors,” Aunt Norma and Uncle Bill would be the first people to come to mind; that was their legacy. I can safely say that many in our family feel the same way.

So, for many years as my life continued on, I would occasionally hear of them moving to this place or that, but eventually they finally settled down and retired in Florida.

As my own life’s travels carried me from one place to another, I eventually found myself living on the outside looking in, having also moved away from New Harmony, something I would have never have imagined as a child.

Now I too had become a distant relative.

As life’s journey carried on, I was eventually able to begin attending classes at the University of Florida in Gainesville. An added benefit to my school location was that I finally found myself living within easy traveling distance to Aunt Norma and Uncle Bill’s house. So, when time allowed, I would stop by and visit them in Punta Gorda on my journeys to and from college. On our visits, we would always withdraw to the back of the house, in their Florida room, where we would sit and look out at the beautiful lake behind their home. Like some folks sit around the TV and visit, we would sit idly admiring the living scenery before us as a tranquility of peacefulness would settle upon our hearts. The soft-spoken voice of Uncle Bill would add to the passive serenity before us as we sat and discussed the myriad of tales life had presented since our last visit. Uncle Bill would always take the time to listen to my current plights and struggles and would offer gentle advice while Aunt Norma would listen and agree as we talked. I always found myself inspired from our visits, no matter how much confusion was in my life. In all my journeys, I still cherish those visits knowing they are now part of my collective memory.

On one of my trips, I spent the night and had more time to visit than normal. By chance, I reviewed the items in the bookshelf in the room in which I was staying. Besides numerous Bibles, I also found countless volumes of quarterly Bible study guides with important verses and sayings underlined or highlighted. I was struck by the depth of devotion and intensity of worship the notes in these pamphlets represented. Again, I was reminded of the sincerity of my Aunt and Uncle’s faith and how deeply compassionate their lives had been being devoted to God and the work to which they were called. During that same visit, they took me by their church where they had worked tirelessly for many years creating a food bank and clothes exchange for the less fortunate in their area. Their travels away from home were limited in part due to their commitment to the church. I recall once when I asked about them visiting New Harmony and their daughter who lived in the northeast they replied that they had trouble getting away from the food bank since it was hard to find enough volunteers to man the store while they were away. I was confounded at this but realized they were so devoted to their belief that it was unthinkable for them to leave something they felt called to lead. Once again, I had to admire them for their obligation.

Ninety-seven years is a long, prosperous life to live. I know my cousins, Sarita and Robert, will miss their father. I know Aunt Norma will never be the same without Uncle Bill by her side. For all of these family members and more I ask the Lord to look over them and provide them the comfort they will need in the coming days and weeks ahead. I am very remiss about not writing that letter to Uncle Bill before he passed. He wasn’t one to read emails, so I had planned to write him a letter and print it out then mail it the old fashioned way. Just this past weekend I thought of it again and realized time was quickly passing for us all. Yet, now I know he knows all I had to tell and more and again, for that I am grateful.

So this evening, as I reflect over the far too few times in life we had to spend together, I realize that my Uncle Bill was more than an elder of the family, he was our spiritual leader as well. His and Aunt Norma’s legacy will live on through the rest of us and for that I know we will always be thankful.

May God bless you and keep you Uncle Bill; till we meet again at the Eastern Gate,

– love your nephew, Timothy.

 

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