Tag Archives: hiking

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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The Last Piece of Bread…

“30 Now it came to pass, as He sat at the table with them, that He took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. 31 Then their eyes were opened and they knew Him; and He vanished from their sight.”-Luke 24:30

Sometimes we find ourselves rushing through this world, missing the blessings that exist before our very eyes. Then sometimes, we are lucky enough to catch that glimpse of something that appears to us which we seemingly cannot believe.

This past Thursday evening, I had just finished a day of testing my students in the last unit before Spring Break. The next day at school would be filled with fun activities that required very little in preparation. Outside the window, the sunshine and blue skies had beckoned all the day long. When my car finally pulled into our driveway, and I opened the door, the fresh air and sound of the woods enveloped me. There was something calling me. So as quickly as I could eat a bite, I found my walking stick, hat, and hiking shoes and set out the back door into the forest beyond.

My anticipation quickened my heartbeat matching those of my footsteps below.

When Mary reported back to the disciples that she had seen something at the tomb, Peter and John rushed out the door, their hearts beating nearly out of their chests. Their minds were ablaze with the impossibility; was He truly alive? Could Mary have been seeing things? Her fervent testimony left no doubt, so they ran onward. Their anticipation drove them faster. As they raced, memories of His teaching drifted back into their consciousness.

As my footsteps traveled along the cool, shadowed pathway, my mind wandered back to the previous week where a walk like this was a strain. I had been fighting a serious head cold, and it was nearly all I could do then to walk the new trail my friend Leroy wanted to show me. It was a wonderful walk along a continual waterfall that ran parallel to us. Opposite to the stream was a grove of Poplar trees. As we walked along, I couldn’t help trying to spy to see if there were any morels along the way. The undergrowth on the forest floor was nearly non-existent, which meant there was little hope of finding any of the precious little mushrooms during that day. From my experience hunting the elusive forest food, I knew that the lack of greenery usually meant it was too early I the season. Usually, they only grow in certain soils in particular weather just about this time each year. In other words, they are difficult to find.

Here I was a week later with the sun slowly setting. Time was running out. I hesitantly put the hopes of finding any morels this season to rest. It was more likely that it would be another year before we might be lucky enough to find them in the new area we call home; that’s just the way it would be.

John literally outran Peter, reaching the edge of the tomb. As he leaned against the round boulder that had the previous day covered the entrance to the crypt, he could smell the dampness of the inner chamber. His legs quivered with fear and excitement. “Was his Savior inside?” There was something that kept him from entering. Around the bend, he could hear the footsteps of Peter coming, yet he could not move. Was it fearing to find the brutally ravaged body of Christ that he dreaded to see once more? Was it the fear of a spirit he hastened to witness? It wasn’t until Peter rounded that curve and came into sight did his courage return.

Like so many of us that go into the world today to witness for Him, we fearfully stand outside the realm of those who need our words the most. We fall short of speaking to others the very thing they need most, the Truth. We cannot go it alone.

Onward I pushed, happy to be out in the sunshine and finally feeling more like myself. As I walked, I began lifting up prayers to God. Before long, I was being filled with his Holy Spirit. He was filling my mind with a multitude of things of which I couldn’t keep track. My cup was surely overflowing.

As the two disciples walked along the road to Emmaus, they were met with a stranger who joined them. They began speaking with him, and he opened their minds to all the scriptures. Even so doing, they did not realize it was Christ who was with them. They reached a point where they were to part with this new-found friend. Yet, so moved were they by his testimony that they kept him as the scriptures described, “But they constrained Him, saying, “Abide with us, for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent.” And He went in to stay with them.”

Just as their minds were overflowing with the words of Jesus, they had yet to fully realize the implications of what they were experiencing.

As my feet trod, one in front of the other, I was nearly singing His praises when I rounded the bend and began an uphill trek. Raindrops started to fall. There had been mention of a possible shower, but not today. I looked toward the distant mountain tops and saw scattered dark clouds. I hastened my footsteps yet again. As my focused changed from spirituality to the now, I realized the darkness growing about me.

Another turn, another bend, and then suddenly, there it was.

As those travelers on the road to Emmaus sat around the table with Jesus, talking and sharing, they still didn’t realize what was before them until their focus was brought to the “Here and Now,” when Jesus broke the bread. Now it came to pass, as He sat at the table with them, that He took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. 31 Then their eyes were opened and they knew Him; and He vanished from their sight.”-

Once the bread was broken, their bodies, predictably hungry from their days walk, pushed aside for the moment, their amazement of what that had heard and spoke about during their miraculous journey. It was then, they suddenly realized in whose presence they were, and had been for the majority of their day.

There, in the middle of the rocky trail, barely covered by any soil, stood a single morel.

I shouted out loud, “THANK YOU LORD JESUS!”

Those seated around the table that evening, when he broke the bread and blessed it, were about to witness the unbelievable. When He handed each of them their own piece of bread, their eyes were opened as had their minds been earlier in the day. It was then they realized who He was, and in that instant, He vanished before their eyes.

Did they shout, “THANK YOU LORD JESUS?”

Did they pause as they held the very bread of which Christ had handed them?

There before me was something that grew in such a rare occurrence, it could be said to be Heaven sent. No, it was not Christ, and no, it was not something miraculous, but it was a blessing so unexpected, it took my breath away.

I hesitated before bending down to pick up the precious morsel, then looked to Heavens. The rain had paused, and a shaft of sunlight shone down through the canopy above. “Thank you, Lord, for this blessing,” I whispered out loud.  I know in my heart that at that very moment those disciples too felt the urge to call out to God and thank Him for His Son.

We are all so very blessed.

One can only imagine that moment, that very minute when those disciples were handed that piece of food, and then to have Him seated before them.

Manna was sent from God to keep His children alive as they wandered those long years through the desert. That manna became their bread of life. Jesus died for our sins, so that we may have eternal life. He became our bread of life so that we may have eternal life, if only we accept Him into our hearts. We confess with our mouths our sins we believe with our hearts. When we consume the bread of life, we are taking that which is perishable which represents that which is not, Christ.

A morel, in a way, is like manna from Heaven. It is something that we might eat, sustaining our bodies while allowing us to give thanks to Him for providing something that is so uniquely special, it can only be a gift from God.

One morel, one last piece of bread from the hand of God, each one a blessing to those who receive.

This Easter, let us be thankful for a God, who gave His Only Son so that we might have salvation and eternal life. We need only recognize Him, and accept Him into our hearts when we confess our sins.

Blessed be Thy Name,

Thanks Be to God.

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Adventures: The Least Expected Opportunities

This past week seemed to last forever and was suddenly over, all at the same time.

One thing that struck me as profound was how fast life changes and then it’s gone. My children, now young teens, no longer look for the same adventures at the amusement park rides, yet on the open trails of the forests, we are all children once more. I can still keep up with them, and for the most part, still able to go farther and faster, but that too soon will change. Like the manmade technologies in their lives, they understand, master and manipulate all too easily. Meanwhile, the things of life, the real world around us are still perplexing and often beyond comprehension.

I found myself looking at the outside of a tiny radio station when we drove up to WKXV in Knoxville, TN. Knowing radio stations these days can be virtually anywhere, I knew in advance not to expect anything WKXVelaborate with regard to studio size and structure. With the advances in technology, a tiny station like WKXV can broadcast around the world without a transmitting tower anywhere near their station. So it was, when we arrived outside the older brick home, now turned into a radio station, I was reminded of how humble we are and that this was as much or more air time than we should receive in the great big world of media. When we unloaded the van and stepped inside, we found our host and owner, Ted Lowe, greeting us at the door. Shane, the DJ for the afternoon, was already in the middle of a broadcast. The interior of the studio was filled with multiple rooms where live recordings are and evidently have been done quite often; this would be our first.

Ted showed us to what was once a garage area, now turned into what looked like a small church sanctuary. The pulpit was on a raised platform with several folding chairs setting out for the congregational audience to observe while the broadcasts were being aired. This is where my sister and wife sat, while they watched us sing the couple songs we had time to perform following my interview. Later I was painfully reminded, after the show was already taped, that one should always perform a sound check. Unfortunately, the recording taken had the pulpit mic turned way up, making my daughter’s singing much louder than the other mic  which my son and I shared. Regardless of the results, the experience for my family and I was one of unexpected adventure and surprise; this would always be our first live radio broadcast, one we will share for many years to come.

Like the rest of the week, it was the unexpected events that will stick with us the longest.

We took a couple days to go to Dollywood, which we took at a casual pace, enjoying as much of the scenery in the park as we did the rides. Each morning, we would go for a short run, and then head out to the park. Each 2013-07-26 13.56.30day the drive to and from Pigeon Forge was as enjoyable as was the ultimate destination. With each twist and turn in the windy mountain roads, we found more and more to store away in our minds for future visits.

One such destination was to be Cade’s Cove. However, part of our plan was to go bike riding but upon further inspection, we found that the only days this was feasible were not possible, so we had to scrap our biking excursion and go for the hike we had looked forward too. Originally, we were going to drive around Cade’s Cove and hike from the rest stops along the way. When the day came, we had enough driving for the week and wanted to do more hiking, so we chose the Laurel Falls trail, which was on the road that led into Gatlinburg; another destination we had 2013-07-26 14.12.21hoped to achieve on this trip. The trail up to Laurel Falls was 1.3 miles; straight up. The warning signs posted at the entrance warn of potential death from falling and bears. Needless to say, we were fairly warned.

The hike to the top was moderately strenuous. Many times we had to work our way around elderly or handicapped people whom were struggling to reach the summit. The laurelfallseventual trail’s end landed on the falls, where the cold water was more than refreshing. You could almost feel the ions in the air from the 2013-07-26 14.14.23water splashing and cascading down the mountain. We took extra time to enjoy the coolness of the water while my wife headed on back down the mountain, hoping to gain a little distance on us before we too descended. What she didn’t count on was the surprise she found as she rounded one of the curves in the trail; a family of black bears. From what she retold of her adventures, people began to get all crazy with fear when the bears approached, some nearly falling off the trail in their mad rush to escape the approaching beast.

My wife boldly stood her ground.

As the bear approached, grown men crouched behind my wife, taking pictures. Instead of backing away like the rest of the crowd, she stepped forward, becoming the aggressor. The bear soon left the trail and went off into the woods. We knew none of this was going on as we made our descent down the slope; yet as we drew closer, people told us of there still being bears on the trail below. I guess all those years of dealing with my stubbornness, she wasn’t about to let a bear stop her.

Finally, we reached the mile marker where they had told us of the encounter. My wife was nowhere to be found, but the bears were still in the woods nearby, which we were able to observe. The excitement of the moment was brief, but the remainder of the walk down, we made our best blackbear1bear-calls, often causing oncoming hikers to stop and look for bears up or below the trail. Along with our bear sounds, we continued our “Hoop-laaaa” calls from night before, when we took a late night run to Krispy Kreme donuts. We were in that sugar frenzied state and yelling “Hoop-laaaa” out the window only made sense. Some people even began to echo back our crazy calls; it was a blast.

We were a bit tired, but excited from the adventure when we finally reached the base of the mountain. From there, we drove on into Gatlinburg. Famished, we found a quick bite to eat, and then waited for the afternoon storms to pass before we broke out the instruments and did a little buskin’ on the streets. One Asian gentlemen from Georgia wrote us a $25 check right there on the spot; that was another first; buskin’ for checks. We ended the evening with a late supper at Chik-Fil-A on the ride home.

2013-07-26 14.07.00The following day we slept in, resting from the previous day’s adventure and the final planned major event and part of the reason for our trip; the book signing at the B&N in Knoxville.

Like the rest of the week, the book signing was known but the people and stories told and heard during the event were as welcome and unexpected as everything else that had transpired during the week up to that point. On our journey home the following day, we were stopped for two hours on the interstate and had plenty of time to reflect on it all; it was a good feeling and a great journey we had been left with, regardless if we expected it or not. In a way, it made our eventual return home all the more welcome.

Those adventures we most cherish often come from the least expected opportunities; if only we choose to rise to meet them, this is our destiny.

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Physicality of Reality…

[From our recent trip to Stone Mountain State Park NC]

This is us, full of energy as we search for the trail that is supposed to go to the top of the mountain. Eventually we just followed a game trail to the top. We even found bear scat along the way.

This is us, full of energy as we search for the trail that is supposed to go to the top of the mountain. Eventually we just followed a game trail to the top. We even found bear scat along the way.

This morning we awoke to mountain lightly dusted with snow; like powdered sugar atop a muffin. For the most part, it didn’t last long except in those deep dark ravines; there it remained all day as a reminder of winter’s vestiges that refuse to release their icy grip. As we hiked along Widow Creek Falls the snow continued to fall in light flurries. It made it seem all the more dreamlike; the air crisp with little white flakes of angels wings drifting around us as we labored to ascend the summit of some unknown mountaintop. From a distance we could see Stone Mountain with its patches of smooth barren rock. These bare areas made it stand out in the amber light of the morning glow. Those patches shone brightly as their surfaces glistened from the icy moisture that ran in rivulets down their cold granite faces.

Our hill, entirely tree covered, was thick with leaves and dark loamy soil which padded our footsteps; this was ever more appreciated on the downward descent we would later take. Our summit, although tree covered, was seemingly taller than those around us. We gasped the crisp cold air in large gulps as our hearts beat madly in our chests; meanwhile, our eyes beheld a beauty only God could create.

As we sat on a log recovering from our fast pace ascent, I thought of the ancestors, those who had marched out of the Alps in the dead of winter, with -waist deep snow to trudge through while carrying all their belongings. They had been told to leave or die; this was their ultimatum. So they left to become refugees in Germany where they settled a town they called Walldorf. These were our Waldensian ancestors who inspired me to write the book, “Bruecke to Heaven”. They not only had to endure altitudes much higher than what we were experiencing, but they also had to survive a brutal winter march for hundreds of miles. Our hike up this

This is us after the grueling hike, glad that we only had one mountain to climb.

This is us after the grueling hike, glad that we only had one mountain to climb.

unknown mountain was labeled on our park map as six miles. I could tell you it felt like six miles straight up. I could not imagine having to sustain a march like the one we took for fun for hundreds of miles, in harsher weather and climatic conditions. I have to admit, that at times, I had to stop and take a break along with my children. We are all in pretty good shape, so if you know us,

you understand that we had taken a very aggressive patch up this slope. As the pounding of our heartbeats throbbed in our ears and the snowflakes gently fell, I had to amaze again at the sheer magnificence of those people who fought and struggled so heartily to survive. After all, I would not be here today if it weren’t for them.

As somebody said when I told them of our experience, they exclaimed that those ancient people definitely did something miraculous. That of course was nothing compared to what they had already done before their winter march, and for that, I had write the book.

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The Frailty of Existence….

Saturday we met first-hand the sheer thin line between life and death we tread upon each day.

One moment we are living, breathing, pulsating exuberances; then in one fatal step, an acorn underfoot on a cliff’s precipice, we are looking back at our lives during the last few seconds of consciousness as we plummet to our deaths. The finality only matches the youthful feeling of immortality where the two intertwine momentarily, one ripping the life’s breath from one’s chest leaving a void of unexpected helplessness to be all too quickly replaced with the dread and fear of dying.

As I sat watching monarch butterflies ride the thermals in the clear blue sky, effortlessly floating overhead on a river of air currents unseen to the eye, I couldn’t know the peril that lurked below. There on the place of granite summit upon which we sat, a blue azure sky glowed as the artist’s hand dotted its glory with bright spots of joy that moved with a fluidness of the gentle breeze.  In a previous trip here, the sky was filled with black vultures circling the stench of death below. Today, death was preparing to make a grand entrance, forsaking all the man-made festivities, bringing with it, its own purpose, little caring that it carries life-altering physicality as well as simple memories of the ever so slight onlooker; thus, the gravity of the morbid self, this death.

The group of boys, dressed in a myriad of assorted pants but all in matching red t-shirts, we first met gathered around the chimney on the trail to the summit of Stone Mountain. They were being lectured to by a bearded leader and taking group photos, pictures that would soon become snapshots of a better time. As we passed them we greeted one another in cordial, “Good morning,” and soon went on our way.

Shortly afterward, upon reaching the first stone-face overlook, we took a brief rest. I sat down in a shady spot while Jonathan and Mary went to investigate an area they had visited before with the Scouts from Troop 900 when we ventured here on a previous trip. Not long after, while we were still taking pictures of our own, the boys in red came blaring onto the scene. Their voices were heard well before they were actually seen. They were as loud and boisterous as any group I’d ever met on a hike, screaming, making animal noises, and have a grand time. Forsaking our own personal solace, which had long ago vanished, we left and planned to hurriedly create as much a buffer between us and these Scouts as possible lest our peaceful hike be ruined by someone else’s party. At least we might gain a few minutes of solitude at the summit if we could arrive ahead of the herd.

For the next few minutes, we took as many strenuous short cuts as we could physically afford, while remaining in the bounds of safety to reach the summit in record time. What seemed like a victory in time only bought us a few precious minutes. Not long after reaching the peak and finding ourselves a familiar shady spot, they were soon on us; again their shouts of joy greatly preceded their arrival.

The first few arrived proudly, led by an older Scout who quickly caught my attention just from the way he was dressed. He wore the matching red shirt like the others, but in addition he wore desert fatigues with a matching desert fatigue day-pack, boots and hat. I didn’t expect to see a Scout dressed to the hilt in military attire, yet he was apparently dressed for the adventure of a lifetime I pondered, and left it at that. The military youth and his acorn throwing buddies quickly went to the ridge ahead of us and disappeared over it ascending down the other side, out of sight and sound. There was a momentary pause in the noise as more Scouts arrived, all filtering down toward where the others had just disappeared. Overhead the butterflies wafted, floating down toward where the boys had vanished.

Not far from where the Scouts were disappearing sat a young couple. They had their moment interrupted as well and were watching the parade of boys filter past. I later spoke with them and they said the desert-storm-wearing Scout was jumping in lunges sideways down the mountain. They had no idea as to what had transpired since they had left shortly after we did. Over the ridge that appears to gently slope down forever,  it becomes increasingly steep until it reaches a point of no-return and becomes a sheer cliff face. We met the couple later on the trail below the mountain on the way to the homestead where we had just come from. There at homestead’s cabin, we met the elderly gentlemen who told us of hearing the sound of the body falling. He said “It was a sound like firewood coming down the mountain, but I knew better…I’ll never get that sound out of my head.”  It was then the reality of death began to weigh upon us. We had tried to outrun the joy, but the dread weighed upon us all like the shadow of the mountain under which we sat.

Yet, the weightless colors of the rainbow flutter above, making a joyful scenic beauty only soon to be matched by the dark ness that would encompass this dome. As the body of the boy lay at the foot of the cliff face, the dark figures of the vultures returned overhead replacing the wafting beauty with the dread reality of the cold vein of granite stone that weaves its thread through our collective souls.

In one moment we can be alive and a vibrant living being…the next…walking with God.

It’s the frailty of life…

The 911 call came in a 12:01…

“And it shall come to pass in that day,” says the Lord God,
“That I will make the sun go down at noon,
And I will darken the earth in broad daylight;
10 I will turn your feasts into mourning,
And all your songs into lamentation;
I will bring sackcloth on every waist,
And baldness on every head;
I will make it like mourning for an only son,
And its end like a bitter day.

–                                                      Amos 8:9-10

Please keep the family of Christopher Overcash and Troop 128 in your prayers.

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