Tag Archives: god

by | December 16, 2025 · 10:57 am

Vulnerability

“There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus hath made me free from the law of sin and death.” – Romans 8:1-2

The sheer release, the omnifying conceptualization of the totality of the semester, arrived and, without fanfare or pomposity, passed as a perishable snowflake falling before you – a stark reminder of the beauty and the frailty of the reality that surrounds life. In the moment, you realize that your senses had almost become numb from the constant toil, and you scramble to collect your thoughts, to pull from the void that which keeps your life pursuant to the will of God. With clinched hands, nails dug into the meat of that which is about to be lost, you hold on for fear of losing all that is of value. One by one, you grab them, a snow globe of thoughts shaken, recollecting them, trying to embrace that which had seemingly vanished, and return to their former place. Yet, amid the storm, relevance and positioning had been rearranged as if by chance. But we know better.

To lose oneself in the pursuit of an agenda placed before us – a goal, a resolution, a tacit requirement; whatever it might be, it requires a level of focus that consumes our lives that pushes out everything we call living. Everything but the granite, the resolve that resides within, the flicker of hope, for without, we would be lost, is all that remains. This is how we often find ourselves at the conclusion of a season, a semester, a portion of life that was more than a grind. It was from this shadow that I had recently crawled, beaten, worn, but unfettered to carry on. But once we become free of that which had held us in bondage, we realize that the blessing of life is still there, the purest morning dew, sparkling like a diamond upon the cusp of the precious rose. It is a realization that He is faithful never to leave us, nor forsake us.

Emerging from beneath this boulder, it felt as if I had taken my first breath of life in a long time. And before I knew it, the Lord had placed before me a delectable portion, a reminder of why we do what we do in the service of ministry on a college campus. “The table is set before us in the presence of our enemies. He anointed my head with oil. My cup runneth over.”[1]

But to understand how all this unfolded, we must go back a day or so.

A few moments later, after my final exam, I found myself meeting with a young man who had unexpectedly come into my radar a few days earlier. But to appreciate this meeting, one had to go back to when the story really began.

It happened to be Friday night, one of those evenings when the time was usually taken up by a weekly meeting of the Ratio Christi Leadership team. Ratio Christi (RC), which means “Reason for Christ” in Latin, is a global apologetics organization that meets weekly on campus. On that particular night, the semester ended the day before. The students were embroiled in the first day of finals and preparation for the coming week’s exams. So, without fanfare and with a vague hope of finding at least one student with whom we might have a conversation, an RC colleague and I made our way to the campus dining facility, “Central,” as it’s known by the student body.

Upon landing at a table near the entrance, close to 6 pm, we surveyed the area. It was still early by student standards – they typically eat supper around nine. Settling in, it wasn’t long before we were joined by one of the Ratio Christi student leaders, Josh. Discussions started around plans for the break and the remaining finals. There was a certain feeling of renewed freedom in the air, like a fresh snowfall, an eagerness to partake in the unblemished beauty of that which promised excitement and escape from the tedium. A few minutes later, another leader named Great showed up, and not long after him, two more members joined. Before we knew it, we had a lively discussion underway. God had truly delivered.

But the best was yet to come.

Out of the corner of my eye, Elias sat not far away. Elias, a tall, thin, very well-mannered young man, was an undergrad who had been on our periphery the entire semester. He was the kind of student who always asked challenging questions but kept accepting Christ into his life at arm’s length. Motioning for him to join us, Elias came over, accepting the invitation, but said that he was with his roommate. “Well, invite him over, you both are certainly welcome,” I responded with a sincere gesture. He smiled and nodded, agreeing, and returned shortly with a trim, neat young man named Brent.

The group welcomed Brent, and the common communal questioning began: where are you from, what’s your major, what year are you, and so on. Since he was Elias’s roommate, we all had to know, “Do you have the same reservations as Elias about accepting Christ into your life?” Someone asked the elephant in the room question out loud, perhaps it was me, and Brent quickly responded that yes, he was a believer. There was a collective sigh from the spontaneous gathering. Elias grinned broadly but kept quiet. Then, curious and with some intention of wanting Elias’s itch to be scratched, I asked the young man, now sitting directly across from me, if he had any questions about faith that he might like to ask the group. Hey, we were apologists; we needed a good Friday night challenge. So, in true Godly fashion, he asked a question that more than caught my attention: “How can I become more vulnerable to God?”

He was looking directly at me, his lips twisted in a half-smile, half-grimace, but his eyes never wandered nor wavered in their intensity.

There was dead silence as a momentary lull fell over the table. Behind smiling faces, everyone was scrambling, trying to consider the source and intention of what he said. After what seemed an eternity, someone asked a clarifying question, to which he responded, “How can you become more vulnerable to God?”

From that point forward, the other students jumped in, eager to swim in the river of theological discussions. We had just walked through a semester in a mostly arid, academic desert; there were no more apologetic club meetings, and now, thanks to a more than thought-provoking question, we found ourselves standing on the shore of a beautiful, crystal-clear river flowing with life and love. One by one, we dove in and swam with all our might. The water was more than refreshing – it was exhilarating, the current swift. It felt like it had been an eternity.

Later that night, during prayer, Brent came to mind. The still, small voice said there was a need: someone crying out for help but hesitant to ask. Sometimes thoughts become more than ethereal contemplations, making us say, as Johan Wolfgang von Goethe’s Faust, “Verweile doch, du bist so schoene,” meaning, “Stay for a while, you are so beautiful.” But as fleeting as the snowflakes fall upon one’s lips, they are gone before we can savor their meaning for our lives. However, once in a while, God whispers a gentle reminder, pulling back that ethereal consciousness into the moment, making us aware of the obvious, allowing one to hear the cry for help in a busy world. Like a hand reaching out from the depths of an avalanche, smothered by life, we find them, and thanks be to God, we grab onto that desperate soul who wants to cling to life but heretofore didn’t know how.

Looking back, God’s voice was anything but still. There was a particular urgency to it, so much so that it forced me to immediately reach out to him. Being late on a Friday evening, one might be lucky to get a response from a student on social media by the following Monday, if then. But to my surprise, he quickly responded. It was an obvious sign: a hand reaching up from an avalanche in the snow, grasping for air, for survival, the cry to live.

A weekend and one final later, we sat down, and we quickly got to the heart of the matter – my instincts, and God’s nudge were correct, it was far beyond being vulnerable. It was even beyond the next question, how one could turn away from the sin in their life. As we dug into the answer to question after question, more layers of a life of depravity and isolation emerged, offering insight into the life of a young man who was near a breaking point.

That still small voice turned out to be a megaphone.

We read through Romans 8, and I reassured him that the scripture clearly says there is no condemnation for those who truly follow after Him. Then, feeling as if he needed to know that God was with him, even when he least realized it, we turned to Psalm 139, where I asked him to read it through slowly and methodically, with great care. As I patiently watched and waited, he read the entire Psalm. When he finished, he looked up at me and, with a look of somber reflection, said, “Wow. I never thought of it like that. He’s really with us no matter where we go, no matter how hard we try to flee from him. He is there.”

“Yes, and Amen,” I replied. “Do you think it was just a coincidence that we met in the dining hall Friday night? Do you realize that since Ratio Christi didn’t have a meeting, it was more likely for me to go home than to hang out on campus?”

His smile grew when he said, “Yeah, and I don’t often go with Elias to Central either. That’s crazy!”

“Ain’t it? You know, Brent, God is already there with you, waiting for you to open the door. You being vulnerable is not the question; rather, because of who He is, you can’t help but be vulnerable. All you have to do is open the door.”

We continued to discuss how it is no coincidence that God is ever-present in our lives; we only have to open our eyes and acknowledge his presence. “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten, full of grace and truth.”[2] Beholding him, realizing that He is there, the creator of the universe watching over us – truly, there is no greater sense of vulnerability one might have. If that’s not enough, we only need to turn to the Psalm, “O Lord, You have searched me and known me! You know when I sit down and when I rise up…Where shall I go from Your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from Your presence? If I ascend to heaven, You are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, You are there!…even there Your hand shall lead me, and Your right hand shall hold me.”[3]

As the time passed, we talked about many other topics, and Brent shared his life’s story, and it quickly became apparent that we needed many more of these sit-downs. As a measure of recompense, earlier in the week, I had mentioned to several people the need to regain focus on discipling next semester. And before I knew it, there sitting before me was a young man who badly needed just that. Unbeknownst to me, before we ever sat down, my prayers for God to help me find direction in discipling were answered; God had already had a name for my ever-growing list.

In The Princess and the Goblin, George MacDonald wrote, “the fire did not hurt him; it only purified him,” referring to the character Curdie’s experience of a purifying transformation. Similarly, the trials of life become our spiritual formation, building character, refining us into the person God intends. Once we emerge from those trials of life, the fire, we find the weight lifted, our lives given back to us, but now, the purpose for which we had sought to strive shifted, and suddenly, we find ourselves standing before a great treasure – the opportunity to begin anew.

As a fleeting glimpse of a golden, mythical sunrise passes, so do those occasions when we are afforded the chance to pour into the life of someone who came close to the precipice of life’s edge. When we ourselves have been refreshed through the purifying fires, gleaning away all that is superfluous, the essence of life becomes much clearer. We become an asset, whether we know it or not, to those around us who need caring voices to guide their lives. If only we would listen to that still small voice.

In this season of new beginnings, listen to those voices around you and be ready to throw a lifeline to someone in need. Pull up your sleeves and get ready.

The fields are truly white with harvest, but the laborers are few.

 

[1] Psalm 23, KJV Bible

[2] John 1:14 KJV Bible

[3] Psalm 139 KJV Bible

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by | March 10, 2025 · 8:35 am

Breathless Etchings of the Soul

When it all comes down to the realization of the evidence to which we have been afforded over possibly a very lengthy portion of our lives, there comes a time to accept or at least to earnestly consider, that a gift, or a multitude of gifts, by which we have been blessed are our purpose through which God expects us to use to His glory. Like the finger upon the keyboard, on a single tap, a note fills the air, and suddenly, our thoughts become transformed into a flowing stream of unending scenes of waterfalls, mountain meadows, and all manner of beautification to which we are drawn by the Spirit into an undulating dance of rapturous bliss and joy. Ann Lamott put it best: “Inspiration comes like a train moving through the landscape. You see it approaching while you’re hanging laundry or doing something mundane, and you have to race inside to catch it before the last car—the caboose—disappears.”[1]

But how does such inspiration manifest itself? Could it be that when we allow ourselves to imbibe of such wonders, we are, as a child, being led by the hand of the Father down a sparsely lit path through a dark and foreboding forest, where alone we would shudder with terror? Yet, as now, the sense of protection, that wall of impenetrable love, envelopes us, for where there is perfect love, there can be no fear and in such a place, we are free to find something planted deep inside; something when acted upon, seems to derive is source from someplace beyond our own conscription of creativity, someplace beyond logic and reason. When the world’s inhibitions are removed, it’s like finding that crystal stream gurgling through the rocks worn smooth with an eternity of time, some laden with the glowing greenness of soft, downy moss – our soul becomes refreshed and renewed, overflowing with more than we can contain. Bursting forth in a flood of breathless etchings, the ethereal becomes substantial as we strive to quickly put it on paper, play it through the keyboard, or splash its essence upon the canvas of life. How fleeting they are, those gracious seconds when in visions the Lord sets before us of His marvelous works slip beyond our grasp.

Today, seek to find that precious gift God has placed inside you, and find a place where you can hear the still, small voice. Give breath to that which begs to come forth, and glorify Him in the process. #thanksbetoGod

[1] Lamott, Anne. 1994. Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. New York: Anchor Books.

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by | March 5, 2025 · 8:23 am

The Taunts of Torrents

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” – Lamentations 3:22-23

A pale grayness peered through the driving rain as the car’s wipers struggled to keep up. Another late night, another early morning; the time between inconsequential except for the desirousness of sleep that beckoned helplessly. Like a maiden that stands on the porch, sheltered from the torrential downpour, bidding her prince, her dearest love, goodbye as he rides off, departing for the calling of the war which awaits beyond the shelter of the nearby mountaintops, so does one leave the warm bed on days like this. The only consolation, that warm mug of bitter brew that awaits at the top of the hill in the cozy coffee shop, and the beloved, worn Bible – God’s word; like an old friend, they await your arrival.

As the car door shuts, the cold, driving rain forces you to step a pace or two quicker beneath the overhang of the shop’s storefront. In the back of your mind, you try to assure yourself that even though the dying car battery has already caused you to brave the elements once, hopefully, there will be enough charge to get you started and off to the next stage of the day’s journey. Settling into the bench amongst the row of singular, small tables with a warm mug in hand, you are reminded that even in the midst of the storms, you have learned to find joy amongst the crashing waves and lightning bolts. Even though the car might fail, even though the roads were covered with water, you made it safely, and now, find comfort in those familiar pages: the shelter, the peace of Christ that passes all understanding.

Yes, there might be ominous skies above, the roads might be washed away, but we can know that there will be joy, even in the darkest of mornings.

#thanksbetoGod

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by | February 23, 2025 · 1:51 pm

B.B. King and a Bald Guy

The grizzly 21 degrees meets you at the door with a cold, frosty mug of contempt as you leave behind the warmth and comfort of that humble abode from whence you call home, which lately has been barely a place where you briefly lay your head to rest. The rapidity with which the hours of a day pass become incredulous, the blur a mind-numbing flurry of people, relationships, and learning, all part of the greater ministry, their incomprehensible parts intertwined in the great dance of perpetuity through which we are traveling, God’s plan for our lives.

From the darkened corner of Bald Guy Coffee Roastery, my temporary place of repose, the strains of B.B. King waft above the aroma of roasted beans and brew. As with any song, notes like stepping stones of a garden path take one back to another time, another season of life. It was the early nineties; UF had just finished building the beautiful Center for Performing Arts and Art Gallery across the road from our campus housing, University Village South, on the outer realms of the University’s property. Eager to attend, when we heard that B.B. King would be performing, it was the perfect excuse to take a much-needed break from my Engineering studies and enjoy the other side of life’s journey, partaking in something besides the pursuit of academic success. Feeding the soul, nourishing that which is imperceptible, the non-qualitative negotiables which inspire are as important as those honorable goals and accolades, however misguided. One might argue that we should seek to feed solely upon God’s Word, which indeed in itself is of premiere importance, yet God would not want us to travel through this life without finding time to appreciate those things of his creation, even if they from gifts bestowed upon beings within His masterpiece. So, it could be said of music, art, and literature – Man’s participation in His splendidness.

Mankind’s replication of God is never as magnificent as the original piece of work. When hearing a recording of a song, a replication of a beautiful piece of artwork, or the summary of a literary masterpiece, although they may be inspiring and nearly perfect in their copy of the original, they never can compare to hearing, seeing, or reading the original. As the digitized melody mimics B.B.’s course, soulful voice, the memory of that night returns like a fog slowly crawling up the mountain, overflowing into the crevices until it submerges the air in which you stand.

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by | January 22, 2025 · 8:06 am

Seeking Him

“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.”

– Matthew 7:7-8

“And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.”

– Matthew 21:22

 

“And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.”

– Jeremiah 29:13

“In all the ways that I love thee Lord, let me count the ways”

– Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The dim light reflects in the dark mahogany depths of my coffee mug as spirited vapors swirl upward while my hands grasp the warmth of the essence within, encouraging the words that speak to me from the letters on the page written so many centuries before. In them, as with the steam from the cup, there lies a spiritual essence of God speaking to us if only we recognize its presence. For the question that presents itself this morning in so many different ways is this,

“What do we seek in life?” Do we seek God in all things, or does it take a philharmonic orchestra and fireworks to stir us enough to entreat a momentary thought? Or do we take the time to meditate in prayer, listening to that still small voice for discernment? Might we search for the precious crumb of Godliness in the most minute detail of our lives, whether inanimate or alive, not finding Him literally in those things but finding his fingerprints, the forensic remnants of the Master’s hand upon his creation?

Walking amongst the scenic boughs of the forested landscape, it’s easy to encompass one’s thoughts about a Creator, especially when backlit by a vibrant sunrise or sunset. It takes an extra level of focus, however, to find something transcendent in the daily grind we call life. My eyes often grow weary reading code as it scrolls down the screen, one line of numbers and text after another – it can become overwhelmingly hypnotic, to the point you can literally forget to leave your chair for hours. Yet, you must be able to press the brake pedal and sit back, and like the circus juggler spinning multiple pates upon the end of long pool cue-like sticks, for an instant relish in the moment, realizing that through all the multitude of monitors, various automated scrolling windows, and flashing icons all vying for your attention, there is something magnificent at work. From the tiniest beginning of computing, the single bit, to the vastness of the implications of AI, there has to be something working through us, something that drives mankind to pursue the development of technology beyond what we might be able to control. It is in this reflection that we might find, as with the sunrises bursting through the distant tree line, that we are not the masters of our realm any more than the sand crab is of his shell. We exist because He hath made us, and not of ourselves. When we seek Him in all things, we find that there are expanses of vastness while infinitesimally small nanoparticles that keep the brightest scientist challenged to understand. It is as if God unveils one little wrinkle of His infinite being, one minuscule particle at a time. To mankind, they become life-changing discoveries. Meanwhile, you can almost hear God laugh.

Today, take the time to pause and reflect, seeking God in even the most obscure item. Although it might seem elusive, be patient, and perhaps you will find that door upon which to knock, that it might be opened into a deeper love of the Father. God is always there waiting for us to seek Him; all we have to do is awaken to this realization and find a life beyond expectations.

Seek Him with all your heart and soul, and you will be blessed beyond measure.

Thanks be to God.

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by | January 21, 2025 · 8:54 am

The Abyss Before You

Standing upon the precipice means one has gained the height by some method of exertion. In the moment of laborious effort, the heart still pounding as the lungs attempt to regain their foothold on sequestering the precious air that spans the depths of the abyss spreading out before you, one cannot help to be taken aback. Suddenly, the breathtaking reality does something quite unnatural and unexpected in that its grandeur is absorbed into the consciousness of one’s soul, permeating that worldly layer of rationality and legalism to become one with the animated spirit within. For once we are afforded a glimpse beyond the veil to which beforehand we were excluded, partly of our own preemptive nature, but solely by God. It wasn’t until the ultimate sacrifice of His only Son that we were afforded access. Some look at that invitation with skeptical ineffability. As one might see the spectacular and dismiss it as just another canyon, others partake of that sustenance of incomprehensible serenity and sup it to the lips as one might communion. One is merely amused, while the other is changed.

So, at that moment, once more, we are given the opportunity to partake in something transcendent of our human nature, to peek into the chasm of eternity, and, if even for a brief second, sense something greater than anything we might imagine of our own accord. In this instance, God’s Word commends this vision as follows, “Do not be deceived. God is not mocked, for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap. For he who sows to his flesh will of the flesh reap corruption, but he who sows to the Spirit will of the Spirit reap everlasting life.”[1]

Thanks be to God.

[1] Galatians 6:7-8 KJV

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by | January 17, 2025 · 8:41 am

Glorified in Glory

“’ God,’ said Pascal, ‘instituted prayer in order to give his creatures the dignity of causality.”[1]

– C.S Lewis quoting Pascal

The thoughts of mortality and the subsequent departure of our soul from this earth came to mind. It wasn’t so much the morbidity of the subject that enticed my thinking to continue in this line of thought, but rather, what wonderous adventures await us in the eternal ethereal of existence. We are offered the image of the risen Christ as an example of the preeminent figure of the glorified body. The transition from this life to the next seems to be the greatest obstacle or fear of that imposed tragedy of situations.

The limitations of the finite mind relegate us to trepidation when considering the passing from one realm of existence into another. How much greater it will be when we are one step closer to our Creator, not as infinite, yet more so once we have shed this shell of decaying flesh and taken on our new body. In that moment of stepping onto the far distant shore, we will not only be changed in the twinkling of an eye, but in the exact moment, a new sense of being will overwhelm what we once saw through the limited perceptions of our finite soul’s blinders into one of trying to look into a blinding light of the realization of the expanse of eternity – the finite finally stepping from the terrestrial into the extraterrestrial.

With squinting vision, whatever that may be, we will peer into the vast illuminated abyss of the heavens, trying to make sense of what appears before us. As one trying to connect the imagery with known context, we’ll struggle to grasp what we find, yet we must also consider that we will not be the same as now. Even as I write this, one must keep reminding oneself that we will not have the same ocular abilities, and the same would hold true for all of the natural senses on which we came to rely on when living upon earth. No, in that heavenly realm, in the glorified body, not only will our ability to sense be changed, but the ability to comprehend will also take on an all-new quality never before imagined. It is here the joy of that which is to come should overtake us in the moment, perhaps making the tingling you feel when something spiritually grabs you and awakens something inherently built within us that allows for a moment, that split second when hit by an epiphany, you finally see the veil lifted and God’s treasure not built by hands, where no moth nor rust can reach, becomes a reality – existing in His presence the greatest gift of all.

[1] C.S. Lewis – The World’s Last Night, pg. 8

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by | January 15, 2025 · 8:12 am

There Will Be Joy in the Morning

The church service was concluding as everyone stood to sing the closing hymn, as the older woman leaned into my earshot and told me of an interesting place to eat that she owned high up in the mountain. “It’s a nice place. It’s really well managed, but those dryers have been such a torment. You’ll have to try it out sometime.”

Why not today? Before I knew it, we, for supposedly the lady that had mentioned the novel eating establishment and hotel was the proprietor, insisted on taking us there and accompanied us on the bus that was now driving us up the mountain. There was an amicable conversation fluttering through the transport as the driver, who didn’t seem to be present, maneuvered the craft on the long gravel road that maintained a continual ascent. As I half listened, my eyes kept ahead through the front glass of the large church van and noticed that the road was becoming ever more steep. In fact, high upon the horizon where the roadway vanished, the top of the mountain appeared as a massive wave, a land tsunami, the crest curling over so that the road itself, should we manage to maintain our current course direction, would take us on an almost inverted path of travel. Meaning, that as we approached, what I feared most began to transpire. Those who weren’t buckled into their seats were now hanging from whatever they could grab onto to keep from being tossed into the roof of the bus, which had suddenly become the floor. We were heading into the tube of the wave, the inversion of reality, myself finding my grip slowly weakening until I knew that if this lasted much longer, I would find myself thrashed about the insides of this vessel, as a stone being tossed about in the tumbler of a stone polishing machine. Trying to see where the non-existent driver was, for now, it became apparent that there was only some spirit in control; I tried to careen my head so that the wave of earth, road, and gravel seemed to be about to thrash our transport into the depths of the valleys below, we remarkably exploded through the crest. We flew through the air, landing with a tremendous bump on the opposite side of the peak, rumbling down the heavily wooded backroad. An instant of thought revealed the map of our destination, or perhaps a screen within the machine that carried us displayed it, one cannot discern. For there before us, was the image of the winding mountain road, through hairpin after hairpin curves threaded tortuously between massive boulders and outcroppings, till it reached an almost magical structure built on the cusp of the mountainside, overlooking the expanse before, as if on the very top of the world.

We pulled up to the wrap-around front porch of the darkly wood-siding structure our hostess called the utopia of mountains. Like bewildered cats trying to stand after having been tossed about in some pet carrier, we exited the bus, wobbly, hair and clothing disheveled, each being wondering where we had landed. The wide front steps reached a welcoming, extensive porch lined with rocking chairs and an abundant amount of comfortable seating. Staff, both from the institution, who wore golf shirts with the emblem of the hotel embroidered on the left chest of their shirts, that managed the obscure resort, but folks from Cracker Barrel scurried about, each intent upon serving their guests, many of whom were seated at random tables or chairs accompanied with smaller end tables on the porch and inside the massive, log complex.

“Make yourselves at home,” our hostess shouted as she quickly disappeared into the depths of the establishment, barking orders to staff as she passed.

Following her orders, I found myself wandering from room to room. I happened upon some remote alcove in which a Middle Eastern man, well dressed, with clothing as manicured as his hair, was fretting over the condition of the dryer in which he had placed his clothes. “It’s just now drying,” he retorted, confounded by the diabolical machine. I walked up and immediately noticed lent stuck around some stem, like a lever that was to be opened if need be. I haphazardly reached up and pulled the knob outward, and immediately there was a rush of hot air spewing dryer lent out as if gasping for breath; whereupon, the sound of the tumbler tossing his clothes inside seemed to take on a normal hum of proper operation. Perhaps a green led lit that had previously been red. His face glowed with relief. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine.

“My pleasure. Where are you from,” I asked, noticing a lot of international guests rambling about.

“I’m from Iran,” he said, smiling with a broad white toothy grin. “We come here because this place is known far and wide for its hospitality and tranquility – closer to God if you will.”

Then I awoke, realizing another dream, maybe not flying this time, nonetheless, the disheveled feeling of having been tossed about. Sitting my feet on the floor, my thoughts turned to prayers as the comforting feeling of being loved unconditionally by a Father who would share with me the excitement of adventure, if only in sleep, and was there for me to lead me through the day. His covenant is to love us even if we fail to love Him.

Sometimes, it takes an inverted bus ride up a tsunami of a mountain to get our attention, making us aware that the life we lead can easily be turned inside out, leaving us in despair and confusion. Trusting in our heavenly Father to lead us, we can rest in the assurance that everything will be set right in the end, even if we must pass through what seem insurmountable odds, through the darkest canyons of cancer and suffering. There will be joy in the morning.

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by | January 7, 2025 · 8:58 am

Repose in a Snow Globe

The slow advance of the day’s light finds me sitting inside the warmth of the coffee shop while outside, the snow blows sideways, adding to the night’s accumulation of winter. The coming semester looms over one’s thoughts as preparations for the horde of students returning to campus are just around the corner. The inclement weather had forced me to remain home, hunkering down by the fireplace, trying to stay warm. In the solitude, there was the sense of finding a footing on the being God created within me. Too often, we get caught up in the hustle of the world, chasing after those elusive goals and dreams, only to find we become lost in their deceptive approval of our existence. It’s not until we, either of our own will or it is forced upon us by some natural phenomena, step aside for a moment and let the snowflakes fall in the snow globe of life, settling where they may and then peering upon the landscape so beautifully adorned by her mantle of white.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.”

May you find time to ponder life’s journey somewhere in God’s word and be patient as he restores your soul. If possible, find a nice warm fire to repose by as you read a good book in the leisure of your own blessings and succumb to knowing that you are wonderfully made – may you ponder those things in your heart for the remainder of this snowy day.

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by | December 17, 2024 · 10:24 am

When Thyme is Not Enough (Part I)

By Timothy W. Tron, Dec. 2024

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

The young man, his vibrant young twenty-something body, bent over his work, methodically applying the mortar to the stone, an act that was as much second nature as it was from the knowledge of masonry. His family had been masons for as long as memory could recall. The few years of his labor in the field of stonemasonry had brought with it not only the wisdom of the traditioned craft but also the appealing nature of broad shoulders, with a predominant abundance of muscle throughout his body. His long auburn hair was kept in check with a strand of leather pulled behind, not for aesthetics but purely for functional reasons. The crisp autumn air couldn’t keep the sweat from his bare arms glistening in the late afternoon sun.

With each application of mortar, the bond between the rocks, came a gradual satisfaction, knowing that once this was finished and dried, one would never have to do it again. From there, it would last at least his lifetime, if not far beyond those who might come after. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost upon his thoughts as he considered the fleeting, temporary nature of the one applying the mud as to that upon which he acted, being all the more permanent. Although the act of laying the stone was momentary, the remnants of its condition would last well beyond the mere minutes of what it took to build whatever structure was under construction. In a sense, it was as if masonry provided for, at least from the mason’s perspective, a bank whereby time could be collected, however painful its labor might be. The verse from the ninetieth psalm came to mind, “And let the beauty of the LORD our God be upon us; and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.”[1]

While he worked, he thought of the years of his not-so-distant youth; the time flew like the water that rushed over the nearby cataracts, plummeting with a roar into the basins of boulders below, forever gone, eventually flowing unto the vast expanse of the sea. How he wished he could retrieve one of those many carefree days when he and his childhood sweetheart, Katelyn Wallace, raced about the many dales and enchanted forests of their mountain refuge. There was wont for nothing, and the highlands of their Scottish homeland was their never-ending playground. Now, in his father’s apprenticeship, Angus MacRae, he was fully restrained to the daily grind. The few hours afforded to freedom were usually severely hampered by the physical exhaustion from the day’s work, although the MacRae clan was known to revel in merriment as hard as they labored in the field. Yet, every evening, no matter how long the day’s work had been, there was always time for practicing swordsmanship with his brothers, something their father held esteemed as high as the calling to be a mason – of course, all being one step below serving God. The senior Angus’ skill with the broadsword, a gift from God, he would exclaim, was another part of the reason he was still alive, and his teaching was sought after from all parts of the region.

Rapt in his work, Griffin didn’t hear the riders emerge below the knoll where he and his brother’s toiled. It was the late twelfth century, 1187, and turmoil plagued the Middle East. Men from the nearby village had brought troubling news from afar. Yosuf Ibn Ayyub, known to the West as Saladin, had captured Jerusalem and, with it, the relic of the True Cross. In so doing, he converted all Christian Churches into Mosques except for the Holy Sepulcher. There was a call from the church leaders, such as Pope Gregory the Eighth and Pope Clement the Third, for men of fighting age to join in yet another Crusade – this would be the third such ordeal. Angus had survived the Second such, but many of his fellow countrymen weren’t so fortunate. Their lives ended before they had begun.

Later that evening, after the men had washed up after their swordplay, Angus, seated at the head of the long lodge table, looked at his wife Fiona at the opposite end. There was an air of satisfaction in his broad bearded grin that reflected the gentle spirit of his beloved. Around him, his family were seated, seven boys and five girls, now all grown, most with their own families. The men mostly favored their father in his wildly reddish hair, although his beard had slowly been infiltrated with swaths of age, adding to the wizened words he often spoke. The ladies were as virtuous as their fair-skinned mother, who, like their father, had hints of auburn amongst the golden hair most kept in long, intricate braids.

Many things troubled Angus before the family members began to congregate around the dinner table that evening. By God’s divine providence, he had survived the Second Crusade, for he was the only member of his clan who had fought to return alive. This was not the first time God had smiled upon his life’s journey. For, while abroad, traveling through foreign lands toward Jerusalem, he felt God telling him to slow down, to take time to find more to this journey than the brutal fighting and killing he would find on the battlefield. While he stopped to reflect on what God meant by this, he met and befriended a holy man known only as the Prophet of Tarsus. The elderly sage took the young Angus under his wing, teaching him for over a year to read and write the ancient Greek and Hebrew texts, as well as sharing passages from his most precious and cherished book, the Bible. The elder prayed over Angus, that he would survive the battles, and that he would return to visit him upon his return. Angus, knowing that it was God’s hand that had kept him alive, made sure he passed by the home of the Prophet, only to find that he had passed. However, before his death, he had bequeathed his most treasured belonging to the young Celt, whom God had assured him would someday return, his Bible.

That particular evening, Angus MacRae felt obliged, considering the recent news, to read from that beloved, ancient text once more. With great care, he opened the parchment with the hand-scribed letters across its weathered pages and began to read from the book of Ecclesiastes, “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 favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth 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.”[2]

“Let us pray,” the elder concluded as he gently closed the book, bowing his head as others followed.

While his father prayed, Griffin’s mind was racing through a torrent of thoughts within. What was his father trying to say with this scripture? Was the next Crusade the next chance that was going to happen to them all? What evil net was about to be cast upon them? While pondering all these words, he couldn’t help thinking of his bride-to-be, his childhood sweetheart, Katelyn. Had she heard of the news of war? Their family lived a couple of ridges over from theirs and seemed to always be the last to hear of any outside reports. Griffin, the youngest of the seven brothers, was the last single sibling. The others lived in the compound with their families, as in most ancient patriarchal Celtic societies.

Angus closed the prayer with, “And all God’s people say it,” everyone responded with, “Amen!”

As the plates of meat and bread were passed around, Griffin knew that he had to get to Katelyn as soon as possible. He had so many questions, and time was of the essence. There was talk of leaving on the fortnight should the men resolve to go and fight. Being pressed for time, Griffin hurriedly shoved as much food into his mouth, swallowing nearly whole bites without chewing and washing it down with gulps of water. Finishing well before the others, he asked to be excused. His father, knowing the pressing engagement and his son’s youth, acknowledged his quick departure but reminded him before approving, “Be ever mindful of thy betrothment, and know that if you decide to move its date to sooner than later, I can stand in for the priest until such time as one can be obtained when we return, that is, if it is God’s will, we shall return.”

Griffin nodded and was gone before the lamplight had time to catch up with his disappearance.

Picking the fastest horse from the corral, he lit upon the beast and rode it as hard as the wind would allow, mud and rock flying from beneath the steed’s hooves in a flurry of youthful exuberance and tormented heart. The full moon overhead lit the trace of a road as one might have seen a specter flying down its course that night. He pulled upon the main lodge of the Wallace clan just as they were winding down their evening meal. Katelyn was helping the other womenfolk clean up the table when Griffin slid in the side room door, hoping to catch her eye without others noticing. He remained in the shadows until she came close enough to grab her harm. At first, startled by the hand reaching from the darkness, she started to scream, but Griffin quickly showed his face and pulled her to him. She sat down the bucket she had been carrying as he pulled her to him, both embracing with a deep, passionate kiss. It had only been two days since they had last seen one another, but it seemed an eternity in a young love’s timeframe.

They continued their visit outside the lodge, where there would be more privacy and fewer questions. Like true lovers, they walked hand in hand as Griffin shared with her the news of the unrest in the Holy Land and how his family was making plans to go, or at least some of them. How it was to all play out, he didn’t know. She was concerned, as was to be expected, but how would they continue with their planned wedding in the spring?

“When are they planning on leaving?” she asked with a furrowed brow, which made her beauty all the more lovable.

“On the fortnight, if not sooner,” he responded with a tightness in his throat that threatened to overcome.

“Then, we shan’t be wed?” Moisture began to form around the bottoms of her eyes as tiny rivulets began to run. “What shall we do?”

“Oh yes, yes, we shall, if your father approves. My own having said that he would be willing to preside over the ceremony, standing in for the priest until we should return.” Here he purposely left out the part his father spoke, upon their return being if the Lord allowed. Her countenance immediately brightened as she drew him to her bosom and enveloped his lips in hers, knowing that time was not on their side.

In the days that followed, a whirlwind of activity, both in preparation for the wedding and the departure of the warriors, was all too much for one to conceive in and of itself. No sooner had they said, “I do,” it seemed as if they were mounting their horses for the long journey to the Holy Lands. Griffin and Katelyn had several days to be one, knowing as they did that they may never see one another again; it made their short time as husband and wife all the more remarkably precious.

It was a bitterly cold day, and the first snow of winter had begun to fall.  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. Fiona made it a point to speak with each of the brothers, one by one, as each would dismount and give her a long, heartfelt hug goodbye. She worked her way down the line, saving Griffin for the last. He dismounted to receive his mother’s comforting words and to ease her fears as if the others had not already tried. But to his surprise, she was more at ease than anticipated. “God will surely watch over you, my son,” she said with a voice of assurance. “Take care of your father, and I will be waiting for you when you return, Lord Willing. And remember, I love you.” At the last, she smiled and hugged him warmly. From there, she moved on to Angus, who patiently waited, knowing the importance of being the last.

Griffin climbed back into the saddle as he watched his parents speak in hushed tones from a distance. He had seen them sitting off alone together many times, but at the moment, their actions seemed ever more solemn and deliberate – an endearing picture of true love. Something about it warmed his heart to know that the bond they shared was priceless. In his heart, he hoped that he and Katelyn would someday share the same. Before he could begin to imagine such things, 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.

 

(To Be Continued…)

[1] Psalm 90:17 KJV

[2] Ecclesiastes 9:11-12 KJV

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