Tag Archives: Jeremiah

by | April 10, 2022 · 7:33 pm

Rapping At My Chamber Door

by Timothy W. Tron – April, 2022

C.S. Lewis once wrote, “There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, ‘Thy will be done’ and those to whom God says, in the end, ‘Thy will be done.’ All that are in Hell choose it. Without that self-choice, there could be no Hell. No soul that seriously and constantly desires joy will ever miss it. Those who seek, find. To those who knock, it is opened.”[1]

A long time ago, in what now seems like another life, I spent the summer of 1976 working in a trim shop in Evansville, Indiana, called Vessels. It was the kind of place where people would bring their cars to get their seat covers repaired or replaced with new ones. They also specialized in vinyl roofs and boat covers. It was my first job off the farm, where I had worked most of my teens. This would be the first job where I didn’t receive payment in cash but instead received a real paycheck. My stepdad was the foreman, which was more than comforting because I always had the feeling that someone was looking out for me. That was important because Vessels employed a pretty rough crowd – from Vietnam vets with PTSD to recovering drug addicts and everything in between.

New hires were paired with more experienced employees, so when they put me with Raphael, I didn’t know what to expect. He was a young black man, probably in his late twenties, shorter than me, but had massive biceps and forearms. Rafael kept his hair cut short, and he had a long scar on the side of his face that ran from his cheek to his jaw bone – its existence of which was never mentioned. Rumor was that he boxed on the side, mostly street, bare-knuckle events, and from the looks of it, could handle himself pretty well. Being just a new kid off the farm, it was a very daunting atmosphere. However, it was there that I learned to listen, imitate, and adapt, a trait that would serve me well for the rest of my life.

Raphael and I worked at a large, very worn table grounded to the concrete floor; he on one side, me on the other. There was no air conditioning, only fans that blew the hot summer air around, making for a sultry, fluorescent, dimly lit ambiance. The atmosphere was intoxicating, with odors of fresh vinyl and glue, both ingredients necessary for the work. Raphael and I used hog ring pliers to staple the new seat covers on the frames of the seats after we had removed the old, nasty, torn covers. It was a tedious job, but we were both thankful to have one for our own reasons, so we kept to ourselves mostly. Yet, as one does with anything that challenges your paradigm of life, you slowly learn about the person in the trench next to you, whether you want to or not.

Off and on, Raphael would slowly share glimpses of himself with me in odd ways. We didn’t speak much at first, mostly because he was always whistling. Those melodies he chose were something to which I could relate; old church hymns, songs that I had known all my young life. Yet, instead of my grandma Tron singing God’s praise through pursed lips, it was a young black man. Looking back, he probably knew those were something I could relate to – an unspoken welcome if you will. But my introduction to the world through Raphael didn’t stop there. He would often go into long recantations of literature. At first, they seemed to be mere ramblings of thought, but the more I listened, the more I realized that they were quotes from works of poetry. It wasn’t simply the words he spoke, but more than that, it amazed me at how much he had seemingly memorized. One day, after reciting another lengthy prose, I finally inquired about the piece he had just mentioned. Something about rapping at a door caught my ear.

“The Raven,” he replied, smiling through his thick shadowed mustache. A single gold tooth gleamed from the broad smile. The sweat glistened off of his dark, chiseled forearms.

“Can you teach it to me?”

“Sure, I guess we got plenty of time.” He finished the seat he had just tightened, sitting it up on the table across from me with a loud thump. “Let me get this in that Chevy out there, and we’ll get started.” He dashed off to the parking lot, returning shortly afterward, smiling more than ever. “Now, where do we begin?”

Raphael spent the remainder of the summer sharing various works of poets he liked to memorize with me, but Edgar Allan Poe was by far his favorite. Over and over again, he would work with me learning, line after line, until we could finally repeat them together. “The Raven” seemed to always be our “go-to” piece.

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“ ’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door —

Only this and nothing more.”

To each of us, there was something special about the words we shared. To Raphael, it was the heartache of the man in the tale. The most poignant section of the verse that always stuck with me was the rapping at the door on that bleak, dark night by the raven. In many ways, a broadsword and a door are the same, each having two sides. The blade’s two meanings are as opposing as night and day – one to save lives, the other to take lives.

Similarly, the door has a dual purpose, the inner and the outer. From each side, one can have a different perspective from the one standing on the other side. From whence you stand makes all the difference in the world. Alone, the man in the poem is distraught over his love, and one can surmise that he is slowly drifting into insanity. But who wouldn’t find a knock on the door of one’s house in the middle of the night a bit more compelling than just a curious tap? The same rapping upon the chamber door in the middle of the day is far easier to accept; the other is a sense of impending doom.

Yet, are we not to be prepared for the Lord’s return at any time? As Jesus told his disciples, “For yourselves know perfectly that the day of the Lord so cometh as a thief in the night.”[2] It is this proverbial rapping at our chamber door, deep into the night, which we most dread. For, it is not the known that beckons our fears, but the unknown. Likewise, unless we have the foresight to know who is on the opposite side of that last bastion of barrier between us and the world beyond, we cannot know to whom calls upon us.

Trepidation awaits if we allow it. Yet, when we truly know in our hearts that we can be called upon at any time, therein itself lies a comfort, erasing the mysticism of the unknown. “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.”[3]

But there is the other side, the portion from which we are the ones to be the caller. It is when we seek God that we are requesting permission to enter into his presence. Before Jesus, only certain priests were allowed to enter into the holiest of holies, and then only at specific times of the year. When Christ shed his blood on the cross, the veil that separated the holiest of holies from the world was torn from top to bottom. It was then, if we have requested permission that we were finally allowed to enter into God’s presence; a gift from God to those whom he loved enough to give the life of his only Son. “Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you.13 And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.”[4]

But as clear as the Bible is on seeking Him. But sadly, many will never listen. Their own will, earthly desires, and self-purpose will prove stronger than their desire to know God. Jesus made it perfectly clear when asked about how many will be saved, “Strive to enter in at the strait gate: for many, I say unto you, will seek to enter in, and shall not be able. When once the master of the house is risen up, and hath shut to the door, and ye begin to stand without, and to knock at the door, saying, Lord, Lord, open unto us; and he shall answer and say unto you, I know you not whence ye are: Then shall ye begin to say, We have eaten and drunk in thy presence, and thou hast taught in our streets.27 But he shall say, I tell you, I know you not whence ye are; depart from me, all ye workers of iniquity.28 There shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth, when ye shall see Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, and all the prophets, in the kingdom of God, and you yourselves thrust out.”[5]

The summer of 76 eventually ended, and with it, my time at the trim shop. School was about to start up my full-time summer job had concluded. I never saw Raphael again. It is sometimes odd to think of God working in us, even when we knew him the least. So often, in times of torment and persecution, when we go to God in prayer, we feel him with us, but oddly enough, it is the times we least expect him that he is with us the most. So, it was in my youth.

Time has passed, and like all memories, one wonders how the other acquaintances in their lives faired. God’s path for us is never expected, and through it, when we look back, was there for a purpose. Such is the case for me. For in the shade of the shop lights, in a hot July summer, a young white kid just off the farm and a street-savvy young black man formed a bond over the most unlikely of poets, sharing the words penned some 100 years before them both. Through it, I learned how others, unlike me in so many ways, had riches to share with me that would enhance my journey through life.

Even a secular poem can remind us to seek God, to knock upon his door. When we enter into His presence, we are then within him and He within us – inside God’s dwelling place. From there, we can then perceive the knock from within – the call to serve. So, when that gentle rapping comes at your door, don’t hesitate to open it. “Many are the called, but few are chosen.” So, when your time comes, be prepared to answer, “Yes, Lord, it is I, take me.”

Live your life so that when your judgment day comes, it won’t be your will that had been done, but rather His.

Yes, then you will know you are finally home.

Thanks be to God.

[1] The Great Divorce. Copyright © 1946, C. S Lewis Pte. Ltd. Copyright renewed 1973 C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. All rights reserved. Used with permission of HarperCollins Publishers. Words to Live By: A Guide for the Merely Christian. Copyright © 2007 by C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. All rights reserved. Used with permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

[2] 1 Thessalonians 5:2 KJV

[3] Revelation 3:30 KJV

[4] Jeremiah 29:12-13 KJV

[5] Luke 13:23-30 KJV

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by | March 9, 2019 · 11:06 pm

A Step Back in Time

Sitting under the overcast, gray sky, the river rolled past, heavy from the night’s rain. One could see their breath in the chill of the air; it was a wet, dampness that encompassed not only the body but the soul as well. Barney and Otis were my lunch companions, each patiently sitting apart, respectfully waiting without being imposing. I sat on the aged picnic table facing the Johns River, as it flowed beneath the bridge in Collettsville.

Once more, my mind sought a rest, something beyond what had become the daily grind, something that had the ability to enrich while reaching beyond the surface. Like the turbulent waters rushing past, time was fleeting. Should we pass from this life to the next without taking time to appreciate what God has made for us in this life, we fail to live to the fullness as He intended. Thrusting one’s hand into the confluence in an attempt to stop its advance was as fruitless as holding water between our fingertips; slipping away before its sustenance can press upon our parched, dry lips. Rather, it required an attention of fullness in order to find what it was that would find its permanence within.

The day before, as the gray light of dawn began to lighten my bedroom, there was a whisper to my heart about something so seemingly insignificant and frivolous, that at first, it was dismissed. However, it came again, accompanied by another likewise meaningless idea; wonder if they would ever get checkers and hot chocolate down at the general store? The thought caused me to chuckle. It had been over a week since I had stopped in to visit the store down in Collettsville. As a matter of fact, it had been at least that long since I had seen Barney and Otis, my four-legged friends who so loved to simply sit by my side and be petted; an inspiration in and of itself. It became a point of destination for my walk later in the morning after a sufficient amount of time had been spent encompassed by my studies and schoolwork. There I soon learned of two new additions to the store. You guessed it, checkers and hot chocolate.

The thought of the whisper to my heart returned, and it warmed my being. Too often we try to explain away the voice of God if we would only listen.

The children of Israel had fallen away once again, and through the prophet Jeremiah, he was speaking out to them, reminding them of the errors of their ways. He even gave them direct commands to follow, “Thus, saith the Lord, Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls. But they said, We will not walk therein.” Unwilling to listen, they went on their own paths to destruction, disregarding the former and ignoring the law which God hath given them through Moses. Again, and again, they would face the wrath of God because of their own choosing. They pushed on, proving that there would be no rest for the wicked.

Yet, my journey was guided by His hands as the scripture tells us, “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”-Prv3:5-6

Once more, guided by that still small voice, I found myself nestling the head of Otis in my lap as he napped, while Barney sat faithfully at my side while we occupied the bench on the porch of the general store. Content to rest and take in the world passing by, like the waters of the Johns River behind us, my thoughts wandered as aimlessly as the twitching leg in the sleeping dog’s dreams. Our repose was interrupted when the son of the store’s owner pulled up, Garrett. The tall, thin young man looked scholarly in his black-rimmed glasses. He was already quickly becoming a good friend, and today would encourage that bond even further. Walking up, he held an armload of vinyl records.

“What you got there,” I asked while continuing to find Barney’s favorite spot to be scratched.

“Oh, just some old records I found at a consignment shop.”

“John Prine,” I read out loud. “Wow, you like the old stuff?”

Smiling broadly, he began to show me the rest of the collection; names like Cash, Jennings, Daniels, Miller, Nelson, and so on appeared. It was like a walk back in time. “I even found a Roger Miller Greatest Hits,” he said holding up the nearly flawless album. My mind flashed back to that eight-track player my dad kept in the back of the Prowler that sat in the driveway back in Booneville. The sounds of that album would play continually as long as the power was turned on. Us kids would play in the driveway to the sounds of, “Dang me, Dang me, they outta take a rope and hang me,” blaring no-stop, until the word had been forever etched into our minds.

“That was one of my dad’s favorites,” I answered, pointing to the Miller album. “You like vinyl?”

“Yeah,” he answered respectfully, “I’ve been collecting them since middle school.”

“That wasn’t long ago,” I chuckled. He laughed at that too.

“Do you have a way to play them here at the store?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a little turntable I brought to play them on.”

Our conversation continued on, and we soon found ourselves stepping inside. Garrett pulled out a little portable record player, one that was a vintage remake, something he had bought at a Barnes-and-Noble; quite a sharp little unit.

“Got time for a game of checkers,” I said pointing to the barrel with the board stretched across the top?

“Sure, he said,”

“Want to play a record we can listen too while we play,” I asked?

“Yeah,” he said, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Got a particular one you want to hear?”

“I’ve never heard that John Prine 71 album you’ve got there,” I answered,  “How bout that one?”

“Sure.”

“The only one I know on there is Paradise. It’s a Bluegrass Classic.”

“Yea, I know how to play that one too,” my young friend replied.


Garrett and Tim playing checkers at Collettsville General Store.

My thoughts rambled on to how we need to sit down sometime and just pick together. “This young man just continues to impress me the more I get to know him,” were my thoughts at that moment.

Not long after that, we settled into and began playing that ancient board game. In the background, the hiss and pop of the needle finding the groove in the record only added to the nostalgia of the moment. It was only fitting. The new owners had spent countless hours and dollars to remodel the store to resemble an old fashion country store, complete with hardwood floors, and ship-lap siding bare wood walls. Our checkerboard sat atop a seasoned antique wooden barrel, like one that might have held crackers in one of the old Carolina style general stores. As our play lengthened, we shared stories about places, times, and events in our lives. It wasn’t so much the game we were intent upon, but rather, the fellowship through its activity. Like those old days sitting on the porch at Sharpe’s Store back in Chatham, it wasn’t about why you came, but rather, what you learned through the fellowship of being there, and pausing long enough to take in life.

Daily, in my classroom, I watch as children try to keep up with the light-speed pace of the world around them; memes, social media, snapchat, viral videos, ad nauseam; many becoming frustrated and exacerbated by the feeling of being left behind. Their peers challenge them to keep pace, and if not, face ridicule if they don’t. Too few have any idea from whence they came beyond what the textbooks have told them. However, once in a while, you will find an old soul, an outcast of their own choosing; one who finds shelter in the old songs, old traditions, or ways of the past. Their upbringing often reflected in their manners.

The young man that spent time playing checkers; this past Saturday was just that, an old soul in a young man’s body. His upbringing has been well done, to which his parents should be congratulated. But even better, he shared with me his devout faith. Like a youth after my own heart, he plays music for his church and shares the gospel through the gifts by which God has endowed upon him. “If only there were more Garretts in today’s world,” I thought to myself as I pulled away from the store later on.

Yes, the whispers of frivolous things, as they appeared to me at that time, led to greater things than had been possible to imagine. Hot chocolate and checkers would find a way to replenish and refresh a weary soul.

“When I was a child my family would travel
Down to Western Kentucky where my parents were born
And there’s a backwards old town that’s often remembered
So many times that my memories are worn.”

That afternoon, we took time to step out of the torrent of the day-to-day grind and paused. There, a young man and an old friend stopped to step back in time, allowing their souls to rest. Like those moments of repose upon the bench with my friends Otis and Barney, Garrett and I chose to take the path God had intended, the old paths, the old ways.

Yes, there is hope for the next generation. It is up to us to pause long enough to spend time with them to share where we’ve been, and how God has helped us to get where we are. Like reaching into the roaring confluence of time, we can’t stop it, but we can grasp just enough to spill a few drops that may inspire those tender hearts who have yet to live.

Allow yourself to spend time alone with God and listen to that still small voice. What you might hear may sound insignificant and frivolous at first. But if you follow his call, the path you take may turn into some far more glorious and precious than you could have imagined. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, evidence of things not seen.”-Heb.12:1

Thanks be to God.

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by | September 12, 2016 · 9:34 pm

A Tree, A River, and the Word…

treebyriver

““Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, And whose hope is the Lord. 8 For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters, Which spreads out its roots by the river, And will not fear when heat comes; But its leaf will be green, And will not be anxious in the year of drought, Nor will cease from yielding fruit.”-Jeremiah 17:7-8

There are the long spells of time when all is well with my soul, and nothing seems to cause me to take pause. But then out of the blue, it’s as if I’ve been woken up from a long sleep, and suddenly there’s the sinking feeling that there is a looming appointment that’s been forgotten; panic and dread begin to well up inside like a cauldron of hopelessness. These anxious moments are my days and nights lately. Like a lone survivor of a shipwreck looking for the matches to light the signal fire, I scramble to find comfort in the Word. The Bible is closer now than ever before and the scriptures more significant. When those days of fighting between despair and trust come to a close, the trails near our new home have become my bastion of solitude.

There is a peacefulness to the forest.

I can recall my youth, growing up amongst the cornfields of Indiana, looking out my window knowing there was another place that beckoned; a place where mountains and dark wooded vistas wrapped themselves around clear flowing brooks. Back then I didn’t understand or know why I felt the calling. All I could see then was a sea of green cornstalks, occasionally broken by a tree line. The flatness was so apparent it now takes my breath away just to think of it. Sullenly, on my last visit for my father’s funeral, my heart ached as I watched the gray, dormant land pass by the windows of the car. There was an endless feeling of loss that panged me then, but it came not just from the loved one dying, but more than that, it was from knowing that I had spent a childhood amongst this. Part of me had known death before it was ever realized. A vast somber landscape that forces one to search for hope, and escape, any way you can to be saved from something so overpoweringly sad that it makes you wonder how you ever survived to this day. In that place, the most insignificant speck of color became the focus; your pleasure was measured by simple things. To that extent, you are made aware of beauty when it is placed before you, and you soaked it in like one drinking from the well for the first time.

From the somber landscape of Indiana to the mountains here in North Carolina, my life has been a journey I could have never imagined. This is my world now; beauty like Eden, so precious and stirring you cannot help to be moved. Yet, like the bends in the river, my life has taken a turn that we never expected once again.

We could dwell on the why, the how, or the what of it all. But like Lott and his family, the angels told them not to look back lest they become pillars of salt. So we force ourselves to go onward, measuring our steps ever so painfully. Again, reaching for the Word can provide comfort when there is none, allowing for the eyes to look up and see the world around instead of looking down and pondering our fate.

Making scripture come alive was something I had found so pleasing in this past year. So with that in mind, I sought the tree mentioned in Jeremiah, the one that stands beside the stream. My strength comes from Him, like the living water through which the tree survives even in the hardest times. Back to the forest and trails that have become my comforter, I returned once more.

On the days when nobody at home wants to go with me, I then seek out my friend and hiking buddy next door, Leroy. Like a child again, I wander up to the door of his house seeking out my brother in Christ. I knock and jokingly greet his wife Annette with, “Can Leroy come out to play?”

“Sure, ‘c’mon in and I’ll get them,” she replies with that big wide Texas grin as she swings the door open. “Yes, he can come out to play,” she laughs.

With a sheepish grin, he emerges around the corner grabbing his walking staff and hat, “Where too,” he quips?

“Wherever the good Lord takes us,” I smile in reply. “Today we have to hurry, I want to catch the river before the light is gone,” I say pointing to my sketchbook in hand. “I’ve got a tree in mind that matches scripture that has been on my mind a lot lately.”

“Great, let’s get going then,” he responds, and with that, we were off to the nearest trailhead as we wave goodbye to Annette.

As our feet find the path below, we quickly jump into the day’s events and happenings. Before we know it, we’re standing on the banks as the golden light of the sunset begins to paint the river a copper glow, as Leroy described it. The trees are standing firm overhead as the shadows start to overwhelm the forest beyond. Over and over again, the scripture from Jeremiah had been resurfacing in my mind as my recent job loss has created a turmoil in my life like never before.

As we scanned the scene before us, we both saw it at the same time and realized, there it is; the one that spreads its roots out by the river, the one that will not fear when the heat comes, the one whose leaves will remain green and not be anxious when the dry weather comes.

Two artists standing in admiration of God’s beauty, and knowing His word was with us, makes me even now feel blessed in so many ways. The Lord puts us in places with people for reasons we cannot fathom or understand. We are asked only to do His will and obey. When we do, we will be rewarded with innumerable sanctifications.

In awe and silence, I quickly sketched and captured as much of the image as possible before the light of day was gone. Leroy and I had shared once more the feeling of the Holy Spirit coming alive as the Word became truth before our eyes. We shall not be anxious in times of drought, for we will find sustenance in Him, and we will continue to be fruitful in all that we do.

Another walk, another trail, and the journey continues.

These are the Words of the Lord. Thanks be to God.

“I will lift up my eyes to the hills— From whence comes my help? My help comes from the Lord, Who made heaven and earth.”-Psalm 121:1-2

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by | May 24, 2016 · 8:57 pm

The Lost Soul and the Rose…

“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. 12 Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. 13 And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart.” – Jeremiah 29:11-13

My mother’s favorite was yellow.20160524_193631

Tonight, while in prayer asking God for guidance, the image of the rose came to mind.

“Then you will go call upon Me, and go pray to Me, and I will listen to you…”

In many ways, our walk with God is a lot like a rose. We start off in our budding faith, not yet blossomed and soon, once we grow, the beauty begins to unfold, one petal at a time.

Sipping on my morning coffee, I was still trying to clear the cobwebs from my head when I reached the end of the driveway and turned left toward the eastern sunrise. The note had read, “We need Milk!,” so I was off to the grocery for a pre-Church Sunday morning run. The birds were cheerfully greeting the new dawn, and the chill was refreshing.

It was then I noticed him, suddenly appearing before me.

“Morning,” came my voice, more of a reaction to my surprise than an actual greeting.

“Morning,” he replied as we both turned toward the rising sun, each now walking in the same direction, but on opposite sides of the street.

My first instinct was to turn around and start over. “No, that will just show fear,” came the voice from inside. So I stayed the course. It was not yet 7:00 AM and the street was as barren as my thoughts at that moment. In his right hand, he carried a burgundy Members only jacket, wadded up in a roll as if it had been his pillow from the night before. In his left, he prodded each step with what appeared to be a five-foot long quarter inch piece of white PVC pipe; his makeshift walking stick.

“Visiting family,” I asked, wondering why he had appeared from behind my neighbor’s house.

“You might say that,” he nodded.

The folds of my mind wandered along each petal as I sought beauty when there was none. “Surely he had seen me before I saw him. He’ll be asking for something next,” my mind fought the urge to question but gave in once again.

“And you will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart…”

We continued to walk uphill toward the tree line at the end of the road where the trail began, each man walking along his own side of the road, each man as distant in life but both now walking the same path.

“Are you from the area?”

“You might say that,” he reflected in a distant voice. Then he surprised me by leading the next question, “By the way, my name’s Jeremy.”

“My name’s Timothy…as in first and second,” I said, now humbled by his demeanor. For some reason, I felt a little less threatened. Yet, just a few steps ahead stood the dark passage of the narrow trail only wide enough for one person at a time.

I momentarily looked toward the sunrise and breathed a silent prayer, “Lord, please be with me, comfort me and shield me from all evil.”

“I know the thoughts I think toward you, thoughts of peace and not of evil…”

“Do you smoke,” he asked next.

“Here it comes,” I thought, “the begging for money to buy cigarettes.”

“No, never have,” I replied boldly.

There was no further question. The silence that followed allowed the flood of negative thoughts to come rolling back into my head. In the uneasy moment, I spoke before he might ask the question I expected, “You know, Jeremiah is one of my favorite books of the Bible.”

In fact, the verse had recently resurfaced to my consciousness when Mark, the leader of the Waldensian Church Men’s Breakfast Bible study, had mentioned it in his presentation. A few years before, my friend and pastor, Thomas Simpson had given it to me as a guiding principle for what I was going through at the time; it became my hope, my future.

“Jeremy is short for Jeremiah, which is my real name,” he replied.

“You know what,” somewhat relieved. “In fact, Jeremiah 29:11 is one of my favorite verses.”

We both stopped and looked at one another. Before us, the darkness of the night still hung in the air under the dark trees that stood along the pathway.

“The moment of truth,” I whispered under my breath, as I ducked my head under the first branch and led the way. I envisioned the feeling of pain across the back of my neck as he would soon swing the PVC pipe against my head. With a crack, my skull would be split open, and my body would be found lying upon the exposed roots of the forest floor later that morning. Once more I thought of God’s protection and waited for whatever was to come.

The misty drops of the morning dew gathered along the rim of the precious rose, it’s succulent image played in my mind as we two strangers trod upon the darkened forest floor. The path as tortuous as the edge of the delicate flower.

“How does it go,” came the voice from behind.

The fear of the unknown vanished as quickly as the imagery of doubt and along with it, the scripture for which I had just referenced. In vain my mind stretched from one end of the spectrum to the next in an attempt to revive the words; nothing.

We both emerged from the woods onto the pavement next to the grocery store. The sunlight caused us to squint as we emerged from the darkness.

“I…I…can’t get it,” was my struggled reply.

“Give me a start,” he begged.

Again, my mind raced, but all I could grasp was simply the meaning, like the fragrance of the rose to the unseen eyes.

“I apologize, but I just can’t recall it at the moment.” My heart was broken, for once again I felt I had failed God. Once more, my chance to witness to another soul in need had been lost, but I didn’t give in. Digging deep into the recess of the innermost parts of the roses beauty I found the essence for what it stood, “I can’t start it, but it goes something like this…” As I summarized the scripture, he listened in rapt attention. His journey had been momentarily lifted by the flawed but persistent believer. I explained its overall meaning that if we follow God faithfully with all our heart and soul that we would be rewarded.

“Like with riches and gold,” he smiled.

“No, not quite,” I replied, “but you’ve got the idea.”

I turned to go my way as did he. As I began to walk away, I glanced back, and he had vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Like the rose, our opportunities to witness to those in need are like the rose’s beauty; fleeting and momentary. If we truly want to admire the grandeur of the Master’s hand, we must exalt His name on high and praise Him together in all that we do.

Yellow was her favorite, but a rose is a beauty to behold as the witness is to the lost soul, regardless of color.

Thanks be to God.

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by | March 6, 2016 · 9:23 pm

WWII: Painful Memories Everlasting…

Today I met an elderly lady that was another lost treasure of history and memories long forgotten by many; Gretchen was her name. Although approaching 80 years of age, she was as spry and energetic as anyone. Her mind was clear and sharp and her enthusiasm to share was overpowering.

Her family had survived the carpet bombings of the Allied Forces in the city of Dresden dresdenGermany in WWII. Like so many others on both sides of the war, they had lost everything they owned.

War is hell; any war.

When Gretchen and her family returned to the surface from their fallout shelter, there was nothing left of their home. Strewn before them was a maze of rubble and shattered memories. All they had left were the clothes on their backs and their lives. Neighbors and friends, all perished in a matter of minutes.

Knowing that the bombings would continue, they had to flee to safety. Their plan was to head north to a families farm near Juelich. They found a friend with a car and drove to the other side of the city where her Aunt, Uncle and their children lived. Her father told them to wait in the car, he would be right back as he dashed into a small grocery to find the rest of the family. The store stood in a row of buildings common to many older parts of German cities. As they sat patiently waiting in the car, the slow wail of the air-raid siren began to wail. As she retold the story, she imitated the sound. Her pitch and voice perfectly echoed the mournful sound of the alarms. She explained to us that the slow siren meant they had time to seek shelter. When the siren began to increase its cadence, the bombers would be nearly overhead.

“Wooooooooo-eeeeeeeeeew,” she moaned, her eyes glossing over as she spoke. There was an eerie echo in her voice and for a second, I could hear them too. Death was approaching once more.

Before they could unload from the car, the siren went into the fast pace wail of impending doom. They scurried for the store, but there was no time; the bombers were already overhead. They dove for the nearest shelter in the store where her father had disappeared moments earlier in search of his brother and the rest of their family.

Germans had wisely made the shelters beneath the buildings connected in case one was bombed, there would still be a way out. These connecting portals were blocked off with wood partitions in order to protect one from the other. She described how they had just reached the safety of the basement below the grocery and someone was already talking to her Uncle through the partition. Yes, they had found them. For a brief moment, she felt joy in knowing they were also safe. In the next moment, she described the excruciating sound of the impact of the bomb that literally threw them to the ground and extinguished the candles.

For what seemed an eternity, she could not hear. Only the smell of smoke and the vibration of other bombs exploding resonated through their bodies as they lay helpless to the death that fell from the sky. Slowly, the sound of cries of anguish began to melt back into her consciousness. Everyone in their part of the basement would be safe. Sadly, there were no more voices from the other side of the partition; only the distant drone of planes as they flew away.

Her father had never reached his brother nor their extended family. He would lead the rescue team as they dug out the destroyed building next to the grocery to try to save anyone that had still lived. They found her Uncle and the rest of the family all next to the partition, trickles of crimson drool leaked from the corners of each of their mouths as they sat in their deathly slumber; all had perished. Had the partition not been there, the force of the blast would have certainly killed Gretchen and the rest of her family. Gretchen and the rest of her family emerged from the rubble finding their escape car demolished. Their hope of safety was in Juelich, which was over 30 miles away.

With no other choice of survival, Ruth, her mother, and three sisters set off on foot. Her father remained behind to help in the rescue effort like so many other men who weren’t selected to serve in the army for one reason or other. They became the hope of survival for so many buried beneath their own homes and businesses.

She couldn’t recall the entire journey except for an accident that occurred, which caused her to fall and break her nose. She recalled the pain and being unable to breathe that night. Fear of dying surrounded them like the darkness that enveloped the destroyed landscape. She recalled her fear of dying being an everyday occurrence. They finally found a doctor who came and cleaned up her injury enough that she could once again breathe freely. They continued on foot for a couple more days and then got a ride from a kind farmer who was headed in the same direction. They eventually made it to safety and their grandparents home. Her father would join them later upon his return from the hell that Cologne had become.

She finished and looked up. Tear rimmed eyes still portrayed the pain from so long ago.

“There is so much more, but it was so long ago,” she swallowed before continuing on, “You see, God was our only hope.”

No matter when, how or why we find suffering in our lives, it is part of who we are. If we have faith, we know that God uses these to make us stronger. But when suffering becomes more than we can bear, we must call on the Lord. He is our hope, our salvation and our life eternal.

We only have to seek Him.

No matter the hell you are going through, there is hope. Like Gretchen, seek God and He will listen to your pleas.

“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart.” -Jeremiah 29:11-13

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by | October 3, 2015 · 8:31 pm

One Raindrop Fell Into the River…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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by | March 6, 2013 · 9:46 am

Too Much Thought for a Simple Mind…

As I watched a portion of the documentary film about the annual TED conference yesterday  http://www.ted.com/ (albeit old news now that it was filmed in 2007), I got the feeling that as much as we try, we often are like waterrunners, sprinting as fast as we can go,  but our legs are submerged in water, impeding our progress, slowing are real abilities.  It was invigorating to see various speakers who ranged from Rick Warren to Larry Brilliant, all with ideas and visions that exceeded what they could do locally, taking these thoughts to the global scale; the God-scale.  They were all interviewed either before or after they spoke and described having the similar feeling, as if they couldn’t do enough on their own to achieve their goals or visions which was part of the reason why they were there at the TED conference.

TED stands for Technology, Entertainment and Design and was created as a platform to bring together diverse thought and ideas from around the globe in order to concentrate the human capacity for each of the three aspects in hopes to achieve a higher degree of psyche as a global community.

I  began to think about the scope of what we do daily in our own lives and how little if any that affects the outcome of what goes on in the world. That is the fallacy we face.  Yes, we  put our time in for charitable purposes, telling ourselves, “Every little bit helps.” Then we turn around and second guess ourselves, thinking inwardly, “How can this really matter when there are thousands more children who will go hungry, people without adequate housing or enough clean water for entire towns?”  However, in reality, it does take thousands, even millions of tiny inputs to make dreams come true.

Answer: We cannot do it alone.

Each TED prize winner was asked before they left the stage if they would tell the world, if they could have one dream answered, what would it be. Each of the speakers or audience members, many were  entrepreneurs of significant industries or inventions that have transformed our world, were  interviewed in the documentary and realized either before, during or after the conference that those dreams were only capable because of the financial, intellectual and inspirational collective whole in attendance or connected to the conference in some manner.  In other words, it took the world to make changes on a global scale. Granted, there might be the occasional oddity that might take off on its own and become something without little or no input. But the real game changers, the ideas that could make an impact either by, for example,  preventing a global pandemic to creating sustainable housing anywhere in the world, were only going to be possible with the creative minds of the world working in unison.

A global consciousness is what began to emerge as a theme for the movie; a consciousness that seemed to be taking something for granted. This is where it began to bother me, the fact that many of the most brilliant minds were quite full of themselves, egotistical if  you will. Only when they were placed on a global scale did they feel small and insignificant; thus they had for a second stepped into God’s shoes. It was here, they realized they were incapable of the daunting task that would be required to achieve their dream. It was here they realized they needed help.

Now, few of them, if any, gave pause to reflect on the spirituality of what they were creating as a whole. Again, I have to stress here that it is and was exciting to hear and see all of these brilliant minds present their thoughts and visions. While I may not agree with some of them or adhere to their tenants, it was more than inspiring to learn all they had to tell. When I stopped watching, my mind was on fire. I was ready to jump up and do something,..anything, yet here I was getting ready to go to work; another night shift, another proverbial shift in the salt mines.

It was here that the feeling of, “So much to do, but so little time to get it done,” came back. Yes, we might feel as if we are running in place, or submerged in water feeling as if we can’t do enough to make something happen, but what we have to realize is that we cannot do it alone. And if we really think about it, we cannot do it without God. Leaving faith out of the equation is a mistake mankind has made before, when it comes to giving God the credit for what we are capable of acheiving.  When we don’t give credit where credit is due, we will soon find that we will falter and become mislead in what we seek to achieve. We have seen it time and time again in the Old Testament, when the Children of Israel forgot who they were and what they were there for. They sought to build grand temples, only to have them destroyed, again and again, when they would become misguided and wander down the wrong path.

Let us go forward, seeking to make the world a better place, but be cognizant of the fact that we are not alone, neither in our effort nor in our abilities, which were given to us by the creator; God the Father. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves and think we know more than he who hath made all things, great and small.

Let us do great things on a global scale for noble causes, but keep it all in perspective  and may God bless us all.

“O Lord, the hope of Israel, All who forsake You shall be ashamed. “Those who depart from Me Shall be written in the earth, Because they have forsaken the Lord, The fountain of living waters.” – Jeremiah 17:13

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