Tag Archives: Heaven

by | January 31, 2018 · 9:21 pm

Fallen Leaves Upon the Ground…

“But the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.”-1Corinthians 2:14

Lately, there has been an awakening in my heart to the existence of the “Natural Man.” As Paul wrote in Corinthians, the natural man is unable to perceive the things which are of God, for they are foolishness to him.

Tonight, while on the “dreadmill,” the old Porter Wagoner song came on my playlist, “Fallen Leaves.” The beautiful melody began to play as the sunset out the recreation center windows bid the bitter, cold sunset adieu. It was then the voice of one spoke to me, reminding me of a natural man I had once known so long ago, and how his end was very much like those fallen leaves, “All the friends that he once knew are not around.”

It was a gray, windy, bitter-cold day. As I walked to the gravesite carrying my fiddle, I noticed there were but just three or four others walking up the hill toward me from their vehicles parked down below. We were at Oakwood Cemetery in Siler City. Preacher Bob Wachs was walking up with the others, mostly the men and women of the family that had hired the dead man to work for them. I don’t recall how I had been notified, but here I was, to do my part. When it came my time, I began to pull my bow across the frozen strings of my violin making the most awful sound. I had never played before in such bitter, cold temperatures and didn’t realize the impact it had on the tuning of my fiddle. Quickly, with nearly numb fingers, I found the proper place to recall the melody, and soon, the hauntingly fitting strains of Amazing Grace found their way onto our ears. The howling icy winds carried the sound away as quickly as it landed. The tiny funeral procession huddled, shivering against the elements while around us, solemn reminders of those gone on stood watch. Brown, withered leaves danced past as the strings played their mournful sound. The biting cold wind caused my eyes to tear up as I choked back the emotions. It was one of the hardest things I had done up to then.

Here lay in the ground, a man without friends or family to bid him adieu. It was like Porter had known the deceased man before us when he penned the lines, “All the friends that he once knew are not around. They are scattered like the leaves upon the ground.”

And so, I played one last song for my friend Robert, one more song to say goodbye.

Robert Johnson was as humble a human being as I ever knew. He lived in an old abandoned camper, the shell of which hadn’t seen the light of day in nearly half a century, so entombed was it from the dirt of the nearby chicken houses. Like the home in which he inhabited, Robert was usually as filthy from working in the poultry barns. His language was often as foul has his outer body, coloring much of what he said. He worked for a farmer as his hired hand, tending to the commercial chicken houses each day and night. Part of his pay was his housing, which didn’t account for much, but at least it was a dry place to sleep.

Our paths crossed when I began renting land from his boss on which I pastured my cattle. Often, I would pull in to the area where he lived to pick up my tractor to take hay to my cows, and there would be Robert sitting and resting in preparation for his next shift of either picking up dead chickens or checking their feed. The houses in which he worked were not up to the modern standards of today’s houses so that there was much more manual labor involved. Each time I saw him, he’d smile that big broken grin, and wave, “Howdy.” He was missing all of his front teeth. He never shared with me if they were missing from a single punch from someone’s fist or if they had rotted out from neglect. Regardless, his smile was one that you would not soon forget.

The more we spoke, the more Robert opened up and shared with me, no matter where we ran into one another. He would often hang out at the local grocery down in Goldston, sipping coffee, smoking his cigarettes, and just shooting the breeze. He told me of the old days of Siler City and how he had grown up, living on the “hill” as he called it. He would share with me some of the antics he had been known to play on folks back in the day. From looking at him, in his worn, dirty rags, you’d never guess he’d have the heart of a joker, but he did. He recalled how one time he took buckshot to a turkey shoot, and when the proprietors of the event weren’t looking, he loaded his shotgun with the heavy-duty ammo. When they gave the word to fire, Robert’s target disappeared from view, obliterated by the number two shot disintegrating it upon impact. He rolled with laughter at that point. When he told such a story, he would break into laughter, then begin coughing uncontrollably; the years of chain smoking catching up with him. It was always a bitter-sweet moment. When he had recovered, he recomposed himself and said with a smirkish grin, “They didn’t like that none too good,” and then broke into another round of chuckling and coughing.

After my family got to know of Robert, we’d make an extra plate for him on holidays. He didn’t have any family that anyone knew of, so we’d take it down to him at his shell of a home. He was always grateful for the hot plate of food. He’d smile that broken grin and hold the food up to his nose and sniff, “Mighty fine, mighty fine,” he’d exclaim, then he’d squeak out in a long southern drawl, “Thank you, …you didn’t have to do that.”

Once in a while, when I’d catch him taking a break, I’d take my fiddle down and play him a tune or two. He liked old-timey music, so I shared with him when I could. While I played, he’d rear back on an upturned five-gallon bucket in the garage next to his home. He’d close his eyes and take another draw on one of his camels, and then wash it down with a long drink of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. He’d smile that chasm of a grin and exclaim, “Mighty fine, mighty fine.” I would usually close his one-man show with Amazing Grace. He would lean his bucket back down square on the ground and solemnly remark, “That was beautiful, just beautiful.”

Robert was as much a natural man as I had ever known. His world was only that of which he cared to obtain through his flesh; his love of beer and cigarettes. Back in that day, no matter how much I offered up faith to him, he never cared to discuss it in depth. To him, the scriptures were just words written on paper in a book that he didn’t have time to open. He believed in God, but that was about as far as he would go. The natural world was all he knew. He could never break free from the simple pleasure of the flesh, no matter how fleeting their effect. Had he been able to do so, he might have found a new body, a new life, one which elicits awakenings to the glory of God. He would have found a place; a sensation that far exceeds anything here on earth. Yet, like the song, he passed from day to day, paycheck to paycheck, stuck in a life that appeared defeated. His story could easily be summed up in these few lines, “Some folks drift along through life and never thrill, to the feeling that a good deed brings until it’s too late and they are ready to lie down, there beneath the leaves that scattered on the ground.”.

On one of those occasions I pulled into the tractor shed area to pick up something from my tractor, I found Robert sitting on a bucket, looking more worn than usual. His leg had a large bandage around where something had cut through his clothing and into his flesh beneath.

“What happened to you,” I asked, curious to know what had slowed him down?

“Oh, nothing,” he said, “It’s just a cut I got on one of the feeders in the chicken house.” He continued on with something else, not worried about the wound. The thought of cleanliness and infection crossed my mind, but I didn’t give it another thought. Not long afterward, I heard that he had been taken to the hospital after passing out at the chicken house. I was told that he had a pretty serious infection from the leg wound I had seen. He continued on in the hospital for quite some time but eventually was released. I’m not sure if he wasn’t truly healed, for not long after being released he was back at the hospital after collapsing once more.

This time, he never returned alive.

We buried Robert in the cemetery located on the hill where he grew up. It was almost fitting. He had come full circle in his life, seemingly alone, but now united with the world in which he lived; the earth. The memory today matched the next few lines in the song, “Lord let my eyes see every need of every man, make me stop and always lend a helping hand, then when I’m laid beneath that little grassy mound, there’ll be more friends around than leaves upon the ground.”

One more gone that we might have never known but save that he never found a way to rise above his natural being. How much greater a journey he would have found had he not been like those leaves scattered on the ground. How much greater would his eternal life abound, had my friend’s soul been united with our Savior’s grace, and then his soul would have not been gone down, but risen with those on high, to live forever not in, but above the ground.

Tonight, I pray that on that final judgment day, Robert will have been saved by the grace of God and that we shall someday meet again. I know it’s possible, for with Christ all things are. As the scriptures say, “Even unto them that believe on his name,” may become the sons of God.

Believe on His name.

This much I pray.

Thanks be to God.

 

“Fallen leaves that lie scattered on the ground

The birds and flowers that were here now can’t be found

All the friends that he once knew are not around

They are scattered like the leaves upon the ground

Some folks drift along through life and never thrill

To the feeling that a good deed brings until

It’s too late and they are ready to lie down

There beneath the leaves that scattered on the ground

Lord let my eyes see every need of every man

Make me stop and always lend a helping hand

Then when I’m laid beneath that little grassy mound

There’ll be more friends around than leaves upon the ground

To your grave there’s no use taking any gold

You cannot use it when it’s time for hands to fold

When you leave this earth for a better home someday

The only thing you’ll take is what you gave away.”- Porter Wagoner

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by | October 28, 2017 · 8:59 pm

In Memory: Mom, RDHW

The gray, overcast sky hung close to the mountain. The air held a damp chill that threatened to sink into one’s bones, yet he didn’t let it bother him. He stood off to the side, away from the crowd, away from the rest of his team members. The sound of the announcer introducing various dignitaries for the day’s event, the first annual High Country Run/Walk for Breast Cancer, was a distant echo. Like that of when you are about to fall asleep when all the world around you begins to fade. His mind was deep in prayer, for the reason he was really there was more personal than anyone knew.

The vision in his mind was as clear as the sunrise he had seen just minutes before. Her long golden hair floated in the breeze as she walked in the vast garden of vibrant yellow roses, her hands skimming their tops, like floating on the wind. She wore a white linen dress that flowed down to her bare feet; feet that barely touched the pathway upon which she danced. It was his mother in her youth, once again alive and vibrant. The chill in the air wisped across his bare neck, but inside, her warmth made him whole once more.

He remembered those last days, how she insisted they get her mailbox painted. He worked with her on just the right font and color of lettering to use, to the point she made him look through books of fonts she had set aside in some type of craft, but they never found them. He eventually sketched it out for her, and she was satisfied with the result. Then the last thing was to paint a yellow rose, her favorite, on each side. It would be the last thing they would ever do together before she passed. There was that feeling of being alone again, which he tried to push away. Yet, in a way, it felt like she was there.

He didn’t mean for the day to become this.

Moments earlier, inside the hosting facility, all manner of bright pink ribbons, balloons, and decorations brightened the gathering space. Cancer survivors and those participating in the day’s fundraiser warmly and graciously greeted one another. Understanding the nature of the event, he tried to elude the grasp of the thinking of her again, at least not here. As he turned to leave the room before emotion could grab him, there it was, the very thing he was trying to avoid. Near the exit was a wall where someone had placed a small hand-written sign, “In Memory Of.” Without thinking, he grabbed the fluorescent pink sticky note and wrote, “Mom, RDHW,” then peeled it free from the stack and stuck it to the wall. Stepping back and looking at those around it, his eyes couldn’t focus on anything but the one before him. Hurriedly, he walked out, trying not to make eye contact and soon found himself on that distant corner.

Although she had been gone nearly five years, it still seemed like yesterday.

As he sighed Amen in closing, he looked up to the floating pink archway covering the starting line. It had been over 25 years since he last stood at a race starting line. In fact, the year of that last race was the same year his mother had been first diagnosed with her cancer. Countless miles of water under the many bridges had passed since that day.  He thought of how it would feel once more, now that he was no longer the athlete he once was. In truth, he wasn’t really here to race. The real reason he thought he had come was to support the team from his High School, for the courageous fellow-teacher, whom with three children of her own, had been diagnosed with cancer just the year before, Elaine Bishop. The news of her story had struck him so hard, he found himself avoiding the empathy he so often could provide to others. It was someplace he couldn’t go, not yet. Elaine had become a survivor and an encourager to so many. The day she returned to school during their monthly faculty meeting and entered the auditorium he had fought back the tears of emotion; the sting of pain went to the core of his being; yet, here he was.

Moments later, the crowd had amassed at the starting line, and before he knew it, they were off. Before starting, one thing was apparent, he would be running this race for Mom.

“Every time the pain becomes too great,” he thought to himself, “remember the struggles she had endured for the twenty years she fought the disease.”

“When that knot in your stomach from that hill gets to be too great, remember the tumor that grew inside her, pushing aside her organs until the pain became too great to bear,” his mind recalled.

Again, and again, he pulled all that she had suffered into his mind to push away the aching of the moment. He had never raced up a mountain before today. The sting of his lungs pushed his mind to grasp again and again of those final days; the feeling of her slipping away before she had gone, but then she would battle until the end. Before long, he was numb and in agony at the same time.

As he struggled up the last hill toward the finish line, he could hear the screams of those encouraging the runners. The young lad that had passed him in the last half mile was within reach, but there was no sense in catching him. It wasn’t why he was here. In the blink of an eye, the scene of the pink floating balloons passed overhead, and he was done. Body bent double, he gasped for breath as his lungs burnt. “It wasn’t enough, she suffered far more, so much more,” he told himself as he stood there still reeling from the pain.

Gently, as a bird calls from the morning window sill, there was a whisper of voice from beyond, and he looked up to see who spoke. There ahead of him, on the edge of a manicured garden, amongst the myriad of greenery stood a single yellow rose.

For a moment, the warmth of a mother’s love washed over him.

He smiled and thanked the Lord. She had run a good race, she had fought the good fight, and now, her journey’s end was complete; and so was his.

Thanks be to God.

Donate Here Today for High Country Breast Cancer Foundation Support

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by | September 16, 2017 · 10:27 pm

Wings Like a Dove…

“And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.” -Psalm 55:6

Sometimes, these have to be told.

As I pulled my car into the Medical Center parking lot, the reason for the appointment wasn’t really on my mind. The modern brick façade was new enough to make you feel as if there was a certain level of unguaranteed trust, whether or not it was warranted. The entrance was as grand and intricately decorated as any five-star hotel. Lush vegetation covered detailed landscaped gardens that lined the building’s edges. As my eyes followed the beauty of the architecture and fauna, I suddenly spied an opening. There were several spots right up front, but it became clear most of them were handicap. Luckily, there was one just next to the last blue stenciled spot. My appointment was not for another hour, so I backed into the space and leaned the seat back; time for a quick nap.

The morning sun had just reached the top of the trees nearby, and soon I was gone.

It wasn’t long before the next thing I knew, I was on a plane returning from where I had come. The flight was overbooked, so finding a seat was difficult. This airline policy was simply, “First come, first served,” so if you find a seat, take it, no matter where it was on the plane. I pushed through the crowd and eventually found a seat near the front. The businessman seated next to me began to ask me questions about the purpose of my trip. Exhausted, I tried my best to give him my undivided attention but soon found myself drifting off once again. The hum of the jet engines melded with the man’s voice and became one.

Yet, once more, I found myself returning to the previous Medical Center parking lot, or at least I thought I was. This time, I reached the place where my car had been earlier, but now it was gone. An immediate slice of panic swept over my mind. “Had my car been towed,” I thought, trying to recall what had transpired since my last visit. There at the end of the marked spot were signs indicating Reserved Spaces, which only those specific numbered decals were allowed to be used. Again, the anxiety of not finding my car raced through my consciousness until the realization of what I was doing became apparent.

There would be no need for the car.

From that point on, I tried to find the elaborate entrance, but it too was missing. My flight path soon took me from one similarly decorated building after another. The complex all seemed to match as did many of the newer office parks these days. Eventually tired of sight-seeing, I glided into a European style restaurant with stucco rock walls, dark wood chair rails, and white tablecloths. The people dining didn’t’ seem to mind me hovering over the tables. Before long I found a waiter that gave me directions to the correct building. Assuring me that I was not totally lost, he said it was simply up the hill and around the corner. Carefully I turned and began floating toward the door. It was more challenging to fly in a restaurant than you might think. Your arms and legs have to be accounted for because they are now at table height instead of at your side or beneath you as when you walk. In my previous flights across fields and trees, there was no fear of bumping into something. Back in those days, it was simply a matter of maintaining altitude. Where your arms and legs were located mattered little. In fact, most of the time, in those days, I was flapping or kicking them to keep going. If one thing had changed, it was definitely the ability to control my aeronautical maneuvers. Never before would it have been possible to fly so steadily indoors, especially in a dining facility without knocking over a whole table of food. We often take for granted what we use in navigating our way through an eating establishment. It’s nice to have an appropriate aisle through which to walk, but flight paths rarely considered. In addition, you just can’t zip up to the ceiling and be on your way. No, there are ceiling fans with which care must also be taken. When I eventually found my way back outside, it was with a great sigh of relief that I quickly flew toward the correct building for which I had previously searched.

There it was, the grand entrance.

Carefully, I made my way through the automatic doors. The hiss of their opening seemed to pull me in; softly and silently. The foyer was as beautiful as the outside. A splendid chandelier hung over the marble floor. The sunlight through the surrounding glass walls gleamed off the floor making it seem almost like the sky opened up below me instead of above. A wide staircase flowed from an upper room down to the glowing floor, along which an intricately woven metal handrail stood.

“We’re so glad you made it back,” the doctor said as he walked down the stairs toward the bottom step. His voice was like many at once, yet saying nothing out loud.  I hadn’t noticed him when I first entered. He was wearing a typical white doctor’s smock that seemed to radiate with light.

I carefully alit in a standing position from my flying position upon the glass-like floor. In the back of my mind, something said, “That was a first.” Never before had I landed on my feet when having taken flight; at least not successfully without waking myself. Usually, there was an ugly near crash and then that moment when you awaken having shaken yourself out of the dream. Yet, this time was different.

Standing there in the glow of the Great Physician, there was a completeness about it all. Somehow, I didn’t fear what he was about to tell me nor did I seem to want for anything; it was as if all was well with anything and everything.

“You are healed,” He said.

A joy came over me like nothing I had ever known before.

The faint glow of the morning sun was just beginning to filter through the bedroom windows when I opened my eyes.

It was Saturday, and there was so much to do. I sat up on the edge of the bed and thought about what had just transpired. There was an incredible longing to return to that place, that feeling. Turning, I looked back at the softness of the pillow, then turned to face the day.

God would welcome me home, just not today.

Thanks be to God.

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by | August 11, 2017 · 8:04 pm

Day 3: Baziglia: A Day Unlike Any Other…

The coolness of the morning still lingered as they pulled into the parking lot. A small, unassuming building built partly of stone with stucco façade shouldered a small sign indicating it was the museum. The structure stood in the shadows of the granite walls nearby, its contents holding memories that were etched into the surrounding mountain. On a dark night, when the wind blows through the recesses of stone, if you listen close, you might hear the screams of the dying; martyrs whose blood became the seeds of the Reformation.

The doors and windows of the little heritage center were still shut, it was obviously closed. There was no disappointment. Nearby, the sound of the crashing water beckoned. History on gallery walls could wait, there was much to see today, much more. The four men spilled out of the van, grabbing their walking gear and backpacks in preparation for what lay ahead. Glancing back across the threshold of the valley, there in the right-hand bend of the river were familiar peaks; the Baziglia stood tallest.  The sun was just beginning to kiss its peak. The mountain’s history was well known to each of the four. They had all studied about the last stand made by Henri Arnaud during the Glorious Return, and the remnants of the thousand-strong fighting force that departed the shores of Lake Geneva on August 16th, 1689.

There on that peak the glowed with the morning sunrise, 300 of the surviving Waldensian warriors resisted the onrushing force of over 24,000 soldiers and Catholic mercenaries. Lasting through the winter on what God had provided when they found potatoes while digging trenches for their ramparts, they withstood an onslaught of firepower from cannons that had literally surrounded the summit. Obliterating their defenses, the soldiers prepared to scale the steep walls the next morning to claim their prize; capturing the heretics and ending their resistance, once and for all. That evening, Arnaud and his men prayed yet again for divine intervention. Within a few hours, a great fog fell upon the mountain top, obscuring the bonfires of the celebrating forces below. The amber glow of the hangman’s gallows faded as the shroud grew thicker, eventually totally erasing any sign of light from the valley beneath. The fog was so thick you could not see your hand in front of your face. Captain Paulat Tron, one of the ten original officers appointed by Arnaud when they left Switzerland, had grown up in the area. He came to Arnaud at that moment and said, “I can lead the men out of here, Lord willing. It was on this mountain that I first learned to walk, and here that God hath delivered me unto this day to save us if it be His will.” Later, that night, Arnaud and his men, led by Captain Tron, crawled on their hands and knees, blindly following the one before the other, as they slipped past the sleeping enemy. Their path was nothing more than goat trails carved into the rock, on precipices that fell thousands of feet away below. One slip would have meant certain death. By the grace of God, they survived, and when the next morning’s sunrise began to light the mountain peak, much like this day, Arnaud and his men were seen crawling along the opposite peak, like ants, safely escaping once again. This was the moment the Duke of Savoy finally realized that the hand of God was with the Waldensians, those people of the valleys that had felt his wrath for so long. It was then that the Duke sent his army to unite with the heretics and resist the Papal authority. It was then, at that moment, the persecutions finally ended, once and for all.

Freedom would come, slowly.

Like newborns learning to walk, they would eventually find a new world of unfettered faith, one that would allow them the freedom to make decisions meant to appeal to their Christian goodness, while forfeiting the strict tenants that had previously kept them separate from the world around them. Choices that seemed minor at the time would eventually affect their heritage for centuries to come. Sadly, their choices would be the very thing that would force many to leave, or give up their ancient faith.

Freedom wasn’t free.

As cramped legs were stretched and arrangements made for the rendezvous later that afternoon, one of the men paused on the bridge that crossed the raging torrent. His mind reflecting upon that memory of the past as he watched the sunrise slowly encompass the rest of the historic peak before him. He himself, another Tron, had only recently learned of his ancestor’s heroic legacy. Its revelation had been another miraculous moment in his life; one that had already been blessed beyond measure. But this day was not intent upon reliving the past, for it was a day of firsts, another day of discovery. United with two traveling companions, they continued their ascent into the Baziglia valley. Passing a fountain tank made of granite slabs, they saw bottles of wine and beer placed by others that had already started their hike earlier in the day; celebratory drinks for the return. Their reason for being there would become clear, but only later that day.

They passed through the small village of ancient stone cottages. Their construction could easily be placed within the first millennium. One might close his eyes and open them thinking he had been transported back to medieval times. Through narrow cart paths, the trail wound until they turned the switch back and quickly realized they had already climbed to a height above the small cluster of homes below. Stone roofs and tiny gardens with boxes of flowers of all colors hailed up at them from beneath. Dark figures of wood and rock made a picturesque background to the bouquet that seemed to grow in abundance wherever one looked. The trail was rocky but lined by tall grasses, some of which had been recently cut and lay upon the hard stone making it slippery in spots. As the foot slipped on stone, the body could feel the strain. The climb already starting to tax leg muscles that would need every ounce of strength this day. Heartbeats increased as did the breathing, each matching the excitement for wanting to see what stood around the next bend. The air was refreshing, even cool, but with the rigors of the climb, tiny beads of perspiration began to find their way along one’s hatband. One of the men that had been there the year before mentioned that they would soon reach a point where the ancient village of Col De Magne would appear as if out of nowhere. Sure enough, before there was time to consider the pace, they came upon a rise in the ground, and there it lay before them, the deserted remains of Col De Magne; an even more ancient village than the one through which they had already passed. It was now uninhabited save for a couple of buildings where shepherds claimed temporary shelter.

The rise in the ground was covered with all manner of wild flowers, interspersed amongst the native grasses. Above it all, the clear blue bird sky breathed life into everything beneath. The rush of the torrent down the hill echoed off the granite walls of Baziglia as the whispers of the past called between stone walls of the abandoned village. Like spirits inviting their guests, the open doors and windows seemed to call to them. They crossed a crystal-clear stream, treading lightly on rocks to keep their feet from getting wet, and walked down the hill in a setting so beautiful it almost seemed surreal. Once upon a time, there were children running along this path, chasing one another in play, enjoying the beauty of the moment, knowing that days like this were few and far between. Nearby, sheep would be grazing on the lush summer grasses. The icy grip of winter would leave them wanting more of the lazy days of plenty, and remind them of the harshness of the world in which they lived. They were well suited for this life, but one couldn’t help to think that once in a while, there was a respite for even the most ardent student of puritanism.

It was almost too much to pass, as the three men were inspired around each turn. The distance ahead seemed to be negligible, nor matter.

We find in life, we are much like this time as well. In our youth, we are intrigued by the beauty of the world. The nature that surrounds us is almost too appealing to deny its existence, so we chase one scenic vista after another, failing to realize as life passes by, we are taking in what lies on the surface without revealing the truth behind what is beneath. We linger in places momentarily when we should consider them with more resolution; instead, we admire them only in passing. If we were to look deeper, we would find what awaits us in those higher realms of consciousness are far greater than what we first consider the greatest spectacle in our time.

One of the men, realizing there was too much to dismiss, stayed behind to capture more of the lost village. Meanwhile, the other two continued on, pushed by something within. Like drifting leaves upon the wind, they passed the tiny hamlet to the next bend in the valley. Each traveling separate, they found themselves exploring one rock outpost after another. Seemingly, without trying, they found themselves reunited and began their climb together again. As they walked, they shared in the Glory of God on this day and how it was so inspiring to see all that they had already seen, not even thinking of what lay ahead.

As the pair crested a small ridge, the ice pack of the winter still lay frozen before them, like a giant glacier. Azure blue water swirled in a pool below the waterfall that flowed beneath the white layer of ice above. Beneath the still water, they took a drink, refreshing themselves with the bounty God had provided. The twenty-third Psalm came to mind, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside still waters…” They paused to drink from the pool, sipping from the life-giving fluid and refreshing their tiring bodies. They pushed on, for each new turn brought more amazing revelations.

Not long after, they closed in at the base of the last, and tallest climb, they gave pause. High above where they stood, tiny figures climbed toward the peak. “The bottles in the trough must be theirs,” one of the men said to the other. “Yep,” the other nodded in reply. As their eyes followed the trail between the climbing party above them and to where they stood, they reflected upon the daunting task. Looking high into the sky overhead they thought out loud, “Could they do it,” they asked each other? The waterfalls that now surrounded them whispered back, “Go tell it on the Mountain.”

“Yes, let’s do it,” they told one another.

When we finally awaken to what matters most in life, for some, it is too late. There are many that would never make it beyond the still water. There would be many that would never make it to the deserted village. So many become distracted and lost in life that they give up before they even get started. We see them wandering in a world in which they cannot escape. When we try to reach out to them, it is as if they can’t understand the words we say to them, so foreign is the concept of what awaits them in the eternal life, so caught up are they now in this worldly life. When Jesus found the two men on the road to Emmaus, he opened their minds so that they could comprehend all he had to tell them, and so it is with us.

When the men pushed onward, it is like when we are finally conscious of what we must do to reach that heavenly land we all seek to find in the life hereafter. The fortunate ones accept Christ and find that they too can become one with our maker, and when we do, the mountain top is only just the beginning. Climbing the ascent, their lungs ached for more breathe as their legs burnt like fire, but they pushed onward. No great triumph ever comes without a sacrifice, and so the same can be said of our salvation; each has a price to be paid. Christ gave all so that we might have life eternal, and so likewise, the men pushed on through the pain, knowing that what awaited would be worth the momentary strains that momentarily pressed upon their bodies.

Push, pant, pause, breath; push, pant, pause, breath; slowly, they ascend the mountain, slowly, the valley below grows more and more distant.

Yet, when the goal seemed so close, there was one last raging torrent. Unlike any seen before, this one’s ferocity seemed unmatched by the others. It roared within massive boulders seemingly uncut by the eroding forces of nature. Frothing through the gap between them and the reachable summit, there seemed no easy way. “Would they have to try to cross this maddening force?”

“There must be a way,” one of the men said to the other.

“If it’s the Lord’s will, then yes, there surely is,” replied the other.

“Let me descend this ridge and see, and I’ll let you know,” he said, disappearing below the other.

The man left behind watching his companion vanish below the brilliant pasture grasses. His legs were beginning to feel the strain of the climb. “There’s not much gas left in the tank,” he thought to himself. “If nothing else, we have already achieved more this day than I had ever asked. If it is God’s will, then we will find our way to that nearing summit, but if not, I’m content to end my journey here.” He breathed a sigh and leaned on his walking stick, drinking in the beauty that enveloped everything around him.

His thoughts were soon interrupted.

“There’s a bridge,” came the cry from below.

“Serious”

“Yeah, come on, we can make it.”

Finally, when there seems to be nothing left in the legs, they reach the peak, one last torrent crossed, they achingly climb that last ridge, and there before them a vista that seems to stretch to the ends of the earth. There were no words, no pictures that could capture what lay at their feet; all of God’s creation spread out before them.

Standing there in that place, they could only think of Jesus and the scene of Satan’s temptation on the mountain. “Then the devil, taking Him up on a high mountain, showed Him[d] all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time. 6 And the devil said to Him, “All this authority I will give You, and their glory; for this has been delivered to me, and I give it to whomever I wish. 7 Therefore, if You will worship before me, all will be Yours. 8 And Jesus answered and said to him, “Get behind Me, Satan![e] For[f] it is written, ‘You shall worship the Lord your God, and Him only you shall serve.’ ””” – Luke 4:5-8

There before them, lay all of God’s creation, a beautiful, magnificent display of the grandeur of our Heavenly Father; and only Him shall we worship.

The men sit and eat, as raptors soar before them, like dancers putting on a show for their guests. On the distant peaks, in snow covered shadows, mountain goats play, romping back and forth in the white and brown terrain. Not far from them, ferrets chase one another. The green grasses full of vibrant wild flowers laugh as the world up there seems so close to Heaven. The men feel the hand of God upon them and soon realize, their time there is nearly spent. The precious memory that this place would put upon their minds would be cherished for years to come. The inspiration alone would come back to them, again and again, whenever the world would seem too much.

For a just a few minutes that day, two men found themselves closer than ever before to God. If only for a brief moment, God had revealed to them the glory that awaits each of us when we reach our heavenly home.

A mere blink of an eye in the realm of eternal time, a glimpse of what can be ours when we choose the path of righteousness. A picnic with God for two sojourners who never imagined nor expected that they would find themselves on top of a mountain dining with their Heavenly Father that day, but yet, there they were.

And for just a few minutes, on a day unlike any other, they were all the more blessed.

Thanks be to God.

Watch a video of their experience by clicking here: God’s Grandeur

 

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by | June 30, 2017 · 9:44 am

Misty Mountains…

“Land that drinks in the rain often falling on it and that produces a crop useful to those for whom it is farmed receive the blessing of God. But land that produces thorns and thistles is worthless and is in danger of being cursed. In the end it will be burned.” – Hebrews 6:7-8

This morning we awoke to a gentle rain falling outside our window. The birds call to one another as they bustle to and fro, carrying on as if nothing changes, their nests protected as they have built them to withstand far greater storms. The water, our life-giving source, soaks into the earth; grass and plants drinking in the coolness, their colors being revived.

Standing looking down at the reflection in the pools of water below the bridge, the clear blue sky of yesterday reflected back. Below the surface boulders, dark crevices, and fissures of time lay hidden. The medium, water, danced about, laughing against the rocks, its voice playing a melody to the ears, a chorus written by only the Master’s hand. Like the presence of God, water, our life source, can take may forms.

Our footsteps walked along well-worn paths, crisscrossed by a network of root, vines, and stones; constantly reaching upward, our climb was an ascent on a nearby peak. Walking in the surroundings of antiquity, time only passes to our awareness, a brief instant to our audience, the granite artifacts of eons gone by. Water has eroded their sharpness, smoothing them to a pleasing shape; soft and gentle. Along the stone surface, cracks and fissures are made; the footholds in time. Generations of life hath searched out the multitude of instances from which their web of limbs and root may find sustenance amongst the precious soil, so sparsely found here on the mountain.

Like those plants seeking life, we often find ourselves seeking the truth. Hidden amid the overload of worldly information, like the solid, formidable stone edifices we pass, our hands touching briefly the cool, firmness; a reality; a truth; we seek out this permanence in life. Yet, many cannot find their way. They have become blinded by the incessant tirade of the information with which we are flooded in each waking moment. The progress of mankind is measured by one’s ability to grasp the technology of the day. We place flat panels of information in every room. In the back of our minds, there has been placed a fear of losing touch, a fear of missing the headlines of the moment. We carry with us devices with which we can remain engaged, even when we cannot be near those screens of connectivity. Can we not live without this constant feeding of noise? Can we not leave it behind, and for once, return to the truth that lies before us since the creation? “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and I will bring you back from captivity…” “Knock, and the door shall be opened.”

Sitting upon the monolithic granite peak, we look out at the vastness that lay before us. In the nearby distance, the mountain they call Grandfather stands; close, dark, and vigilant. We can almost reach out and touch him, his closeness comforting. Before we can think, the scene before us begins to change. Around us, the void between fills with the fluidness of life. Clouds roll through, a mist of the life source we watched and listened to only minutes before now takes flight and passes us by; its destination unknown to us, directed by the Master’s touch. Wisps of whiteness, cool refreshing to our skin, blankets the world below. Closing your eyes, you can soak in the bliss. The whisper of sound surrounds us and tells us to release those burdens we have left behind. Blinkingly, we open our eyes to a new reality. Where once stood the solid image of Grandfather, there is nothingness; he is gone, obscured by the cloud in which we now sit. Surrounded by the whiteness of truth, we are closer to God’s face than before, treading where only Angels tread.

Sound, like the images before us, is gone.

Here there are no voices from man’s world to disrupt our blessing, only the closeness of Him.

There is only so much we can understand and which we can absorb through the senses with which we were given. Our comprehension is as it was intended. We are presented with the world from which we came, as ashes, we have been born, the breath of life given to us through our nostrils, the Spirit. We live as one with that which we are born to live, on God’s earth. Here we are only passing through so that someday, we shall share the heavenly abode with Him. Here, we are only temporary guests in a world in which He created.

In tiny glimpses, in what we can relate, we are shown the majesty of what awaits beyond. Moment by moment, we become more aware of what will await us in eternity, should we choose to do so. It is all up to us. We were given the free will with which to choose.

We can seek the truth, or allow the world to tell us what is granite stone and what is not.

The choice is ours.

Like water that can reflect a clear blue sky, or suddenly take the form of a white mist, shrouding even the most majestic mountain, His magnificence is beyond our human comprehension, as is our ability to know what lieth beyond heaven’s gates. We need not fear Him if we come to know Him, and in the end, it is up to us to choose.

Seek him with all your heart, knock and the door to eternity shall be opened.

Thanks be to God.

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by | May 4, 2017 · 9:15 pm

Welcome Home, Dave, Welcome Home…

 Another soldier, and brother in Christ was called home today.

Brother Dave Murph went to that far distant shore. The first words he might have heard were, “Welcome home my son, I knew you’d come. Welcome home, you’re here for good. Look around, was it worth the wait? Welcome home, step through the gate.” These were the first few words of the chorus to the song recorded by Dave and the Gospel Plowboys called “Welcome Home”.

Tonight these poignant verses touch my heart deeply. One cannot help to sit and listen to this beautiful rendition of “Welcome Home,” by the Gospel Plowboys and think of Dave.

His passing has touched me in a way I can’t describe in mere words.

To know Dave was to know true faith.

Seeing him and the rest of the Gospel Plowboys for the first time, a few years back, in person at the Denton Bluegrass Festival was a treat in and of itself. I had heard them on recordings and videos on YouTube. I knew that someday our paths would cross. On that peaceful May evening, I heard the band like never before, in person. That is when I came to know the real David Murph and what his calling in life was meant to be. His witness there on stage that evening was nothing fake, no façade of an image for the sake of selling something, it wasn’t an act, it was the real deal. With his hand raised in testimony as he spoke, there was no rush for the need of getting to the show, for the sharing of God’s Word was what he felt in his heart and on his lips. Standing underneath the stage lights, their crisp white shirts stood in stark contrast to the blue of their Pointer Brand denim overalls and red matching ties. There was a statement in what they wore which matched as much who they were as much as what they were about. They were truly living for God.

It was that same moving evening that Dave had found me. It seemed we both had wanted to meet for some time. God had finally put us together, and from there a friendship grew. Our kinship was in Him, and through our personal commitments to follow God’s plan, we had crossed paths, and as such, we had a common goal; to share His Word in all we did; Dave through the music I loved, and myself through my writing. That weekend we met and talked about all that we shared and what Dave had hoped would someday be an article that we would hopefully submit to “Our State” magazine. In my interviews with the band, I learned how they would always pray on stage before starting their show or performance, regardless of where they were. One evening, at a Fiddler’s Convention Contest, they debated whether to pray before their competition. Knowing that they could be disqualified for praying beforehand, Dave told me, “It didn’t matter if we won or not, we were there to lift up God, and that’s just what we did.” That evening, they were never disqualified, never stopped, for after praying, they went on to play the winning songs that they became known for, and never looked back. It was who they were, there to serve Him.

However, that article we worked on that precious weekend was not meant to be. One thing after another kept putting off our editing and publication request. They performed near where we lived at the time at Cumnock Baptist Church. Looking back, I didn’t realize it would be the last time I would get to see Dave. We never know when or where we’ll be called home, but I know in my heart, Dave was ready. A few months later, I called Dave after seeing Rita, his devoted, lovely wife,  post an update on his health; it concerned me. When he answered the phone, we picked up right where we had left off; a friend is a friend no matter the distance or time. He shared with me his battle with his disease and how he knew God would lead him through whatever this world would put in his way. He wanted to know where I was in my life, so I talked with him of my own personal leap of faith. That day I was literally driving down the road on the way to start my new journey as the Director at the Trail of Faith. I told him how he had inspired me to go further in my faith, and for that, I was forever grateful. Once more, my friend was doing what God had intended for him to do, lift up others through his message. Although he was suffering and battling the disease that eventually claimed his life, he was not complaining, nor discouraged. He only wanted to get better so that he could continue the ministry God had placed before him. We said goodbye hoping to meet again soon, but it never happened. Dave went on to get well that particular time and eventually he and the Plowboys would make it to the Outer Banks Bluegrass Festival where I’m certain they found many more to whom they could share the faith. In the meantime, he and the Plowboys went on to record what would be Dave’s final album, titled, “The Gospel Plowboys – Welcome Home.”

The title cut says it all in a prophetic message that cannot be denied.

It wasn’t but just a few days ago that his wife Rita posted how he had become gravely ill. It didn’t seem right to know that a man my own age was so near death. It didn’t seem fair. He had so much more to give. But when the Father calls you home, you do not tarry, you do not delay.

As I walked home from Church last night, I could hear the sound of a lonesome whippoorwill calling. It was almost dark by the time I found the porch steps. The deep woods call of the lonely bird made me think of souls that had gone on and how in their journey to Heaven’s shore happens in the twinkling of an eye, leaving us sorrowful souls behind, alone in the dark to sing praises singularly until we too will one day be called home to sing in that Heavenly choir. Dave and our other bluegrass buddies like Randy Shumaker are surely there, jamming around that campfire along with so many who have already gone on, singing and rejoicing in the glow of God’s graces. They have so much to look forward to, and so much to share with us on the glorious day of reunion.

Somewhere I have the article that we started. I might find it and glean pieces from it that speak about Dave. Perhaps it will inspire me to write something, perhaps not; either way, there’s a wake in his passing that I cannot ignore.

A great man, a loving husband, a dear grandfather, and a brother in Christ has left us, and God has gained another angel.

See you soon Dave, until then, give God the glory and tell Him I said, Thanks.

Please lift up prayers for Rita and the rest of Dave’s family as they struggle through this time of loss and sorrow.

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by | October 7, 2016 · 9:18 pm

The Hand of the Lord Upon Us….

“Now, Lord, look on their threats, and grant to Your servants that with all boldness they may speak Your word,”- Acts 4:29

He told my sister and me to follow him, that there was something strange he had to show us. Wetornado made our way down into a room that faced a large rectangular shaft in the stone wall. There was no grate covering the opening, which was about shoulder height tall. The hole spanned six feet across with an aperture large enough for a good size man to squeeze through. The outer lip of the hole was lined with rough shaped stones. Their surfaces facing the interior of the hole were worn smooth as if this once was a source of water or fluid that slowly eroded the ancient surface.

Our guide explained to us that this was where onlookers could stand and safely watch the demons emerge, without fear of being pulled into the hole. There was a convenient mark on the floor where he stood.

“You don’t want to go beyond this point,” he said stretching a crooked finger toward the crack in the stone floor where the toe of his sandaled foot stopped. “Don’t step one inch closer than this,” he demanded, with a glare in his eye. That stare caught my attention. “They can’t pull you back into the hole from here. If you go past this line, then your soul becomes theirs.”

Something about his gaze felt comforting as if we had been acquainted before.

Our focus returned toward the shaft as a soft breeze brushed past my cheek. A chill filled the room, and my skin began to crawl. Something was coming; …the darkness approached.

My thought’s returned to our guide as goosebumps rose on my arm. The man’s voice sounded so familiar. My mind couldn’t let it go.

Yet, the darkness crept closer still.

Turning my gaze from the abyss back to the man pointing out the dangers, I suddenly realized the stranger, was no stranger at all.

He was our late father.

My heart leaped.

The last time we were together, I kissed him goodbye and walked out of the hospital leaving him to God’s care. We were to meet again on heaven’s shore. I wanted to rejoice and hug him in that moment, but that’s not why we were there. The euphoria was quickly replaced with that of sounds emanating from the shaft that caused the hair to stand up on the back of my neck.  Haunting screams of horror jerked my focus back to the gaping hole. There wasn’t a feeling of reunion in our meeting, but rather, a sense of warning instead. There was no time for pleasantries. Just as he had finished speaking, as if on cue, shadows begin to ebb from the orifice, like hands stretching out for someone to hold, they sought our grasp, reaching, enticing, calling us closer. My sister’s eyes widened in horror as the ghoulish images played out before us as if they were taunting us to move closer. Their macabre dance continue for only a brief time then slowly the beasts of hell slithered back into the darkness from whence they came. Their cries of anguish echoed in the hollow of the space from where they had disappeared.

We stood frozen as we listened in horror to their voices retreat.

Darkness, echoes and then silence.

Something inside me suddenly told me to go after them.

There was no sense of fear, no foreboding of danger in my being. Without hesitation, I walked over and began to climb into the opening of the tomb.

“What are you doing,” my sister screamed!

“Get him out of there,” my father called, as they both grabbed at my feet trying to stop my advance into the chamber beyond. Before they could obtain a firm hold, I was submerged into the blackness beyond. All feeling of dread had left me. It was almost as if my fear had been replaced by a rage that repelled the demonic force within the tomb. But it was more than a rage; it was if there was a hand on my soul protecting me. As my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit corridor, I could sense the shadows retreating, fearful of my presence. Feeling empowered by the force within, I continued onward. The ceiling was only a couple feet from the surface that my body scooted along, which then eventually opened up into a taller hallway. Cobwebs and dust portrayed an abandoned dwelling left to decay. Looking for a way out, my eyes caught the rays of muted light passing through cracks in the boards along one wall. Pushing my way through the brittle wood, a large room opened up in front of me. Carefully, I stepped down onto what looked like a rooftop, covered only with tar paper.

“Hmm, no roofing shingles,” came the thought as I timidly walked out far enough that I could look back from where I had come. It was then the realization hit me from where I had just emerged; the old farmhouse of my paternal grandparents, Victor and Mildred Tron. It never occurred to me that there had been a room on this side of the house, yet here I stood, looking back. The black surface of the floor had no dimension. It was as if my footsteps walked upon a void that reflected no light, only absorbed it or trapped it below its surface, held prisoner for all of eternity. The groans of those trapped below caused a vibration that pulsated into the soles of my shoes, sending shivers up my spine.

“This is no normal floor,” I thought to myself, “am I standing on hell?”

“God,” I called out turning my gaze to heaven, “Why have you brought me here?”

Overhead there was a sparse rafter system, one that didn’t look strong enough to hold much of a snow, let alone a windstorm. The pieces of wood of that upper framework were pieced together in a haphazard fashion, fastened together at odd angles forming a peculiar dome shaped visage. Had I been in my right mind, I would have been fearful of the entire room’s collapse or being devoured from below by the inequities which I walked upon. Again there was still no sense of doom, no feeling of pending disaster; nothing but a feeling of confidence.

Before I could make sense of where or why I was there, my body was suddenly transported into an RV park in another place and time. Once again danger loomed as neighbors screamed pointing in the direction of the trailer where I had appeared. A massive black funnel cloud as far as my eyes could see, from one end of the horizon to the other, bore down upon us. Those who were faint-hearted were frozen with fear and couldn’t move but rather collapsed into heaps of angst and gnashing of teeth.

Panic was in the air.

Once more, there was a power within that drove the fear from me as the smoke is driven from the fire. One man who had been running from the cloud of death stopped for a moment beside me. He was bent over gasping for breath with his hands on his knees. As the color began to return to his face, he looked up at me with a puzzled face.

“Why aren’t you getting out of here mister? Don’t you know if you stay you will die?”

“No, I’m not,” I calmly replied.

“What the hell do you mean,” his face squinted in question, “can’t you see that,” his weary arm stretched out behind him as if he didn’t even want to face it.

“It’s not coming this way.”

“Like hell it’s not,” he screamed, “all the reports have it coming this way and if you can’t see that,” he now stood and turned pointing with both arms, “Then something must be wrong with you.” He shook his head in utter disbelief and slowly took off, joining the river of people that flowed past on the street next to me.

I turned to face the bleak reality of what he had feared and saw the dark cloud, yet there was still no urgency in my being.

“There is nothing to fear,” I said speaking to the treacherous, twisting serpent cloud roaring in the near distance. “You are not coming here, for He has told me so.”

As I stood watching, the cloud didn’t approach any closer, but rather, continued to swirl and pound the earth in the distance. The deafening roar shook the earth like a thundering herd of wild horses. Furniture, pieces of homes, and shreds of all manner of life spun about in the futile darkness and slowly, ever so slowly crept away, like a scolded dog that had been chastised for misbehaving.

As I watched it fade, the boldness within continued to comfort me.

When I awoke the next morning, there was a serene sense of security, a calmness of being.

That morning my scripture lesson began with the book of Ezekiel, and there before me were the words that said it all. Like Ezekiel before his vision, God placed his hand upon him, and comforted him-“ and the hand of the Lord was upon him there.”

Yes, it was perfectly clear now.

His message was pure and simple; be bold and fear not, for I am with you always.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Phil 4: 13

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by | July 23, 2016 · 10:09 pm

The Heart of a Child…

“But Jesus said, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”-Matthew 19:14

For some of us, it takes a lifetime to find our place, and then we have but only a short time with to share with those around us; or beloved, our children. We waste our youth chasing foolish dreams of riches and pleasures of this world only to eventually realize what mattered most have gone before us. As we seek to make the world a better place for everyone, it is our narrow view of the grand picture from where we operate. Only with time and age do we sometimes find that slender vision expands and encompasses a world far greater in scale than we could have ever imagined in our wildest youthful dreams.

However, there are a few who find that grander purpose long before their time. Jesus knew that some would seek lampuntomyfeethim, and when they did, he wanted any, and all obstacles removed from their path, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them…,” Some unknowingly seek His face without ever knowing Him, as God directs them. From their hospital beds in wards full of other children, they lie in wait for the most insignificant touch, the mere glimpse of a smile, anything to brighten their gloom; they seek Him without having to be told, as only the most precious can, “for of such, is the kingdom of heaven…”. An innocence so pure of heart, not even the whitest of white snows can compare. Their hearts commune with the Father, as the touch of angels wings, brush the tears from their tiny, rose colored cheeks. If they are lucky, the image of His presence will remain into adulthood, beyond all the worldly experiences that face them should they eventually live to walk from that supposed place of healing. Then, their path becomes one of God’s will, should they choose it.

Yet, as we face our own mortal ends, the question often arises, am I ready?

Jesus shared with his disciples what the soul of man would be like once he obtained that eternal home when he compared heaven’s inhabitants to the heart of the child when he said, “…For of such, is the kingdom of heaven.” No longer will the earthly bounds, pleasures, and hatreds confine the spirit. No longer will the pangs of hunger distract you from being one with the Father. No more pains and sorrows to burden your being, so that your spirit will soar with the angels on high. There is nothing less magnificent than the picture of a heavenly home of child-like hearted people, all free to be themselves without fears of attack, reprisals, darkness or gloom; it will be heaven for sure.

She rattled on from one topic to the next, a nervous rant. The child was from a severely broken family, so much so, that she was staying in a foster home for the weekend until things could settle down. She sat with me at the oven while we waited for the bread to bake for the tour that was making its way down the Trail. Her foster mother had brought her along for the afternoon, if nothing else, just to get her out of the house. God had a purpose for her visit, this much I knew. As she talked, there was no mention of faith anywhere in her life. From one family member to the next, the child described those that had a positive influence, and those that had not. As she became more comfortable, she began to share the darkest moments in her life; her father’s death four years ago at the age of 37. “He died on July 21,…I was only ten years old,” she said looking down, as she pulled her hair back away from her face with one hand. “His four-year death anniversary was just two days ago.”

“That must be hard,” I replied.

“He died in my arms,” she said, “something I’ll never forget.”

“You’re not supposed to,” I tried to say in a comforting tone. “God want’s you to remember and use it on your journey through life.”

“Oh, I will, …never forget,” she said quickly, as she tried to perk up not allowing herself to go down into that dark abyss.

“Do you know David Smith,” she asked.

“No.”

“He’s my therapist.”

It was then I realized she had been down much farther than I imagined, and to what extent I had no idea. This shattered broken young woman was doing the best she knew how to pull her life together. “Comfort her with the Word,” came the voice.

“You know, there’s a scripture not far from 7, 21?”

Her attention returned from mourning, “Huh,?”

“John 7:37, On the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried out, saying, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. 38 He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.”

“Wow, how do you do that, memorize all those scriptures.”

“Not nearly enough,” I responded. “You know something, I lost my father too.”

She turned and looked.

“Do you know the scripture, John 3:16,” I asked before continuing?

“I just learned it the other day,” she quipped.

“Tell me.”

She stood now, looking down at me in a puzzled face.

Trying to encourage her I began, “For God so loved the…”

She continued to look with a blank stare, unable to retrieve the words. “the world, that He gave His only begotten Son so that whosoever believeth in Him may not perish, but have everlasting life.”

“Oh yeah, that one.” She responded when I had finished.

“My dad died almost two verses later.”

That made no sense, as she wrinkled up her nose.

“His name was John, and he died on 3, 18.” I then quoted John 3:18 for her. “You see, if you believe, you won’t be condemned, but if you choose not to, you are condemned already.”

About that time, the tour group was heading our way, and we were running out of time.

“Oh, I do know one….a scripture,” she said proudly as she sat back down. “It’s the one about the light and the lamp unto my feet. I think it’s like, Psalm 119 something.”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” I said, scanning the Bible app on my phone. Shortly after, I found Psalm 119; 105 and read it aloud to her, “Your word is a lamp to my feet And a light to my path.”

“Very good,” I exclaimed proudly. “There is hope,” I thought silently.

“I don’t know all of those like you,” she replied.

“But you’ve got a great start,” I smiled as my heart panged for her.

She smiled back, as the spirit of a child emerged. The tour group was now turning the corner, and our sharing was over. As I looked back on the evenings events, my thoughts turned to all those that are seeking. There are so many who need our prayers. Many are hurting either physically or spiritually, but we must be even more vigilant to lift those children up who are fighting to find a pathway in this world; a world so broken and bleak, there is little hope for them unless they are shown the way, the truth, and the light.

“May the Word be the lamp unto their feet and a light for all their paths,” this much I pray.

Thanks be to God.

 

 

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by | April 30, 2016 · 8:39 pm

The Weight of the Mind…

“When wisdom enters your heart, And knowledge is pleasant to your soul, 11 Discretion will preserve you; Understanding will keep you, 12 To deliver you from the way of evil…”

– Proverbs 2:10-12booksbooksbooks

Sweat drained down my face as each arm carried the burden down three flights of stairs. Their weight was not as exhausting as was the repeated climb to-and-from the attic as I slowly emptied years of accumulation into the moving trailer. My current load was books that at one time occupied my library. They had been stored away for safe keeping until the day came that my study would once again be restored; that day had not yet come. They varied from works of fiction to technical manuals. The piles had been placed as they had been evacuated from their respective shelves, into shopping bags which I now used to transport them once again. “How many more times will I continue to move books that are already in my head,” I thought to myself as I panted down the steps.

The intrepid fear of losing memory instantly came to mind as my excuse. We spend more and more money in this modern day and time to backup our precious pictures, documents, and writings; memories. The mere thought of losing one’s lifelong collection of photos is enough to cause a shudder to run up and down your spine. A friend of mine once exclaimed how they had lost everything in a house fire when she was young. They, the family, had all survived, but she said of all the worldly things they lost and missed the most were their family photos; something that could never be replaced. It is no wonder that the ambiguous cloud is one of the fastest growing industries today and has become a sanctuary of safe keeping.

“Never fear, keep your memory safe and back it up to the cloud,” adds tell us as they promise safe and secure storage for all manner of devices and computers. But how much is enough and what do we really need to keep?

“Can I afford to toss some of these antiquated manuals and books from college,” I thought out silently. Several years and thousands of dollars were spent studying in several of those books that allowed me to invest 23 years of my life into the telecom industry. Then there was the box of notes with which were used to study; many more hours of time spent pouring over equation after equation in order to train my mind to think a certain way. “No, I cannot,” I told myself, “besides,” my mind continued to reason, “one day my children might find it interesting or at least entertaining to see what I went through to build the world in which they lived for their first 15 years of their lives.”

So, I trudged on carrying the heavy load. “Be real,” I told myself, “you’re just carrying this boat anchor around. When are you going to realize it and set yourself free?”

As I strained, my mind continued to wrap around the recent understanding of a Biblical principal I had so long overlooked; our soul and what it encompassed. One aspect of our soul is our minds, our ability to learn, reason and understand. Proverbs 2:10-12 describes how we gain wisdom, and it pleases our soul. The thoughts continued to swirl around in my head as I thought of my ancestors and their ability to memorize so much of the Bible. Their physical burdens of that precious text were small since so much of it was within, deep inside their soul. They had learned that the only safe place was inside their hearts, not on their backs, nor in the cloud of today’s world. Instead, their cloud was a place beyond the limitations of mankind, far above our terrestrial abode. Their storage capacity was limited only by their ability to take it in, as is ours today. They used their God-given gifts to increase their storage capacity until it is nearly beyond our belief today.

I placed the cargo inside the trailer and looked down at the accumulating pile of books. So many stories that had led me to this point in my life. Tales of death and mourning, stories of adventure and might and whimsical journeys of fantasy, all fun yet seldom endeavoring to affect the person I was to become. Had I studied the Bible to the degree that I had poured over these countless volumes, how much more different my life might have already been. Yet, God has a plan, and it is not for us to try to understand.

“You must learn to let go,” the voice said, “be free.”

As I slowly closed the door, I realized that there was still so much to learn. My arms trembled from exhaustion. I sat down on the porch and took a long drink from the water bottle, realizing my clothes were drenched with sweat. I could feel my heartbeat in my temples as I closed my eyes to find coolness in the air around me. My heart was finding a new pathway to walk, a new way to think.

There was so much to consider.

The cloud might protect my writings, but my real sanctuary lay within Jesus Christ. When we truly can turn it all over to Him, our spirit within becomes fed from the Holy Spirit so that our soul can then reach its potential we never imagined. We then become capable of doing things we never realized were possible.

Letting go is never easy.

All we have to do is release our burdens to Him and accept him into our hearts.

Once we are set free, moving never became so easy.

Thanks be to God.

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by | October 11, 2015 · 10:09 pm

Are You Alone…?

images6CHV0EBS“Then he said to me, “Do not fear, Daniel, for from the first day that you set your heart to understand and to humble yourself before your God, your words were heard; and I have come because of your words.  13 But the prince of the kingdom of Persia withstood me twenty-one days; and behold, Michael, one of the chief princes, came to help me, for I had been left alone there with the kings of Persia.  14 Now I have come to make you understand what will happen to your people in the latter days, for the vision refers to many days yet to come.”” –Daniel 10:12-14

I often ask God for strength lately, it’s just something I need now more than ever. However, when I ask that he help me to remain humble before the sight of God and others, I rarely expect to see Michael appear, as did Daniel. But when you pray, you never know for sure how your prayers might be answered, and so it goes.

It had been another grueling, physically challenging week. I had pushed my body beyond anything I could have imagined once again. Up before dawn each day, working well past dark until the late hour of each night trying to do all humanly possible to take the old farm to a level comparable to which it is worthy in order to be sold. Squeezing all this into a week already packed with an upturn in events at the Trail made for a culmination of exhaustion that could be felt down in my bones by early Saturday afternoon.

The day before, Friday, we had our first large school group, in which we had two new tour guides and several new volunteers joining our ranks along with a volunteer cancellation which left me to run the sawmill instead of being able to solely supervise as I had hoped. It was also the first time we had served bread to a large tour, so we literally had all hands on deck. There was a special satisfaction at the end of their tour, seeing so many children playing bocci, munching on fresh hot bread from the community oven, playing games on the field and just enjoying life. Everyone had performed exceedingly well; it was a moment to be proud of.

It was as if a new spirit was being reborn at the Trail.

However, I could feel a physical strain by the end of the day Friday. Yet, we had our first ever yard sale planned for Saturday, so I had to set my alarm for 4:30 am to wake up in time to get everything in order. Needless to say, the alarm never went off since I was awake well beforehand. Even though it was a light rain all morning, we still set up our sale, moving everything inside the Trail’s visitor center. All of our vendors that had planned to sell cancelled leaving only us as the sole provider. Even so, we still had lots of visitors and first-time guests at the Trail which allowed us to share our story with many that would have never stopped; another day, another first at the Trail.

As we began cleaning up, there were more souvenir blocks to be cut, so one of the volunteers and myself drove to the gas station to get more fuel for the sawmill. On the way, I could feel a weariness wash over me that drove a sensation utterly to my bones. I felt that I was only minutes away from needing to collapse on my bed or else lose consciousness. About that time my phone rang. It was my wife telling me there was a special group of visitors at the Trail and that I might want to hurry back and consider giving them a guided tour. I replied, “I can’t give a tour, I’m physically unable…I’m just too exhausted.” She replied, “I know, I know, but you’ve got to meet these people and try, you might not know what will come of it.” I groaned back into the phone and said I’d do my best, and hung up. I knew that she would have not suggested this unless there was indeed something special about them, so we obtained our petrol and rushed back, unaware of what we were about to encounter.

As I drove back, I said a prayer under my breath, asking God for strength. From past experience, I knew that being physically tired put a horrible strain on my presentation and that to do justice to any tour, I needed as much of my stamina in place as possible; this was going to need more than I had to give. “God, please be with me, and speak through me in spite of myself,” I prayed, “and Lord, be with us as I do your will.”

There are times when we reach levels of spiritual comprehension that appear to us in forms we cannot understand; angels unaware if you will.

As I walked into the visitor’s center, it was obvious immediately that she had been correct in calling me back. There I met a former Burke County high school teacher and his family, who were all visiting and having a reunion of sorts, having not seen one another for over 40 years. I learned that he was fluent in all European languages and had once worked with the late Fred Cranford’s wife, Betsy, at Freedom High School. We had an immediate connection as he spoke German to me and I understood every word. He then began to speak French to me and oddly enough, I understood most of what he was saying even though I had not taken French. My mind began to wonder if the exhaustion was playing tricks on my brain, and quickly dismissed it. As we moved past our introductions, we moved into the beginning phase of the tour, but not after getting a hot cup of coffee; I was going to need every bit of help I could find.

As the tour began, it seemed to take a while to start warming up to the guests but as we moved from one exhibit to the next, something began to change them; the Trail does that to many. It wasn’t until after we had left the cave that I noticed we lost a member of our group. He later joined us but seemed transformed. We contined on, but there was something beginning to work on our group, something I couldn’t comprehend, something beyond my understanding. As we moved further along the tour, something again was working among my tour guests. It was then that the gentlemen that had stayed behind revealed to me the growing presence of another was with us, one that he had witnessed while standing in the cave. He showed me a video he had taken and there before my eyes I saw something did not make sense, something that words could not adequately describe.

A saying the Waldensians use is “Lux Lucet in Tenebris”, “The Light Shines in the Darkness”.

There in the video, before my unbelieving eyes, I watched sources of light move about, in front of the camera screen, as if angels had interceded on our behalf and were either fighting off demons to protect us or were simply there to dance and behold His glory before us, so that this little group would be changed. The gentlemen had confirmed his test to make sure there were no insects before the camera and no dust particles that could have been affecting the video, taking it over and over again with the same result.

We continued on the tour, the thought of not being alone nagging at the back of our minds, the shadow of light we couldn’t understand eating at our rational understanding of reality.

I worked the sawmill for them, showing them how we had cut the wood to build the first homes in Valdese, and again, the spirit moved through us as more connections were made. An elderly lady was made young again as she shared about growing up across the street from a sawmill where her family worked and she carried water to them for five cents a day. I watched as her eyes lit up and she was child-like once more.

We next moved into the Refour house, a part of the tour that is a testament to the beautiful Alpine-like homes first built in Valdese. Here in the Refour House, we rarely do nothing more than observe the wonderful furnished décor and upgrade in housing from the first homes. But this was already an uncommon tour and was about to take another unexpected turn.

Usually guests stay on the first level of the living quarters but this group wanted to look upstairs also, which was perfectly fine. After a short pause, the teacher came back down and asked that I go upstairs where the gentlemen with the video camera was filming; they had something else for me to see. As I approached, he began by telling me he didn’t believe in heaven or hell, but that he did believe in spirits and that there was something alive in this place, like we had witnessed in the cave, but now he was shaking. As we again watched the video, there were once more light sources moving about, as if angelic beings were there with us, drifting around us in the room.

It was then, there in the dusk of the day that I noticed he was having trouble trying to speak.

He began to weep as he described what they meant to him. It was a moving moment for us both. I then said I believed there was indeed a heaven and a hell and that there had to be angels in heaven who had come to be with us. I can’t explain the rush of spirituality that came over us as I witnessed to him the salvation that awaits us all when Christ becomes part our lives. As we stood there, reveling in their glory, I couldn’t help think that without their help, this tour would have never reached this point; I was unable alone, yet we weren’t.

We ended the tour becoming so moved by our experience that we all knew God had worked in our lives.

The mere fact that the teacher had been by this place so many times and never stopped. The fact that I was even available to lead instead of home sleeping which I had so badly wanted to do, to the fact that we weren’t alone during the tour, that someone had intervend on our behalf. There were so many coincideces about this day that in total, it was impossible to believe that they were anything of the sort.

God is with us, if only we ask, we shall receive.

A revival is coming, are you ready?

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