“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” – Matthew 5:16
Tonight, as I pray for all those people in my life, both within reach, and those distant, it is as if there is a never-ending list. Yet, as countless as the stars are in the sky, the Lord knows each of them by name. For each soul that finds its way onto my finite list, there are so many more that our Savior knows, and his grace emanates forth like one star shining onto the next until his list to us appears infinite. And in this manner, we are found like the newborn foal in the dewy morning grass, helpless, ambling into an unknown future. Our ship’s sails may be full, but the rudder, the part with which we steer, seems inadequate for the vessel for which we have been endowed. The greater the berth, the more we are expected to manage – yet, even in the best of times, we can be overwhelmed with the blessings upon which we have been bestowed. The cargo for which we carry is that of being someone to whom others can turn, the light which shineth forth as does the natural world, also attracts that of the spiritual. Those with darkened hearts, those with diminished souls cling to us like a life support. We become the flame to the moth, so to speak. We know deep inside this shell of humanity that we are not worthy, and if we are even more abound in our faith, we know that it is He that worketh through us whom they seek.
Night Sky – by Timothy W. Tron, 2020
On a dark night, over 2,000 years ago, the stars above played an integral part of our Messiah’s birth. As part of our Men’s Connection Bible study, this morning we watched the very well written and presented movie, “The Star of Bethlehem.”[1] As we marveled at the details with which the show’s presenter depicted his case, in the back of my mind, there was a little voice wondering about all the other brilliance and imagery to which he did not mention. While science and mathematics can depict with uncanny accuracy the actual account of how the star of Bethlehem came to be, there is another side of the story where man’s intuition can never reach – that of the un-natural, the spiritual, and the Godly. For as Jesus told the Pharisees, “How can ye believe, which receive honour one of another, and seek not the honour that cometh from God only.”[2] There in that night sky, not only was the star of Bethlehem showing the way, but there was another phenomenon taking place. As the shepherds stood with their flocks, there was, as they put it, a multitude of angels that illuminated the sky beyond their ability to describe in human terms. “And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.”[3] As those men in the field would later testify to Luke, not alone, but several eyewitnesses would attest, a luminescence far beyond that of what said star was already providing shone about them. It was so brilliant that it literally wrought their hearts with fear and trembling. We can see this again throughout scripture when man finds himself in the presence of an Almighty being, be it an Angel of the Lord or God himself. But Luke goes on to reveal how much more these shepherds were afforded that precious night. As if heaven had taken pause and the entirety of heaven ascended to earth to witness the birth of God in the flesh, the multitude of angels filled the sky. “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men. And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven,”[4] As those lowly shepherds stook quaking in amidst their flocks, in awe of the presence of something no one before, nor anyone since had ever witnessed, they were given the message of “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.”
If you lived the rest of your life after such an event, that moment, that place in time and those words would surely never leave you. Had those ancient Jews been more mindful of the scriptures and voices of the prophets, they too would have been standing alongside those men in the fields. But alas, as God would intend it to be, their hearts would be hardened, and the image of the Almighty in the form of a helpless child, not the conquering King they had imagined would be the order for all time.
While we often find comfort in science and numerical evidence when it can back up those words that are encased within the covers of the book with the inscription, “Bible,” we must be reminded that this is only a minutia of detail to which we are afforded. The natural order and what man can fully understand are, but an infinitesimal part of all that God can do and provide. When we seek out those stories of old and find the infinite being allowing himself to become finite, the flesh, we for a moment can comprehend what he speaks. But as those Jews of old discovered, there was much more to that earthly mission than what humankind had anticipated.
There amongst those beautiful deep space nebulae from which the Hubble Space Telescope can provide to our vast array of scientific academia, we can find tiny lights that appear to be stars. They are, in fact, billions of other galaxies with billions more stars within them. There seems to be no end to what God’s creation can and will reveal. When we take the time to study the word to which we were given, the Comforter as Jesus told his disciples, we can find traces, vague footprints of angelic beings for which there is no understanding, no mathematical equation that can explain within the scope of human interpretation. It is then, when we realize the limits of our own being that someday our soul may inhabit a place we cannot begin to imagine, that we start to fathom the endless capacity of God. It is then that we understand how faith really works.
He must increase that we may decrease. And when we finally come to understand this, we will then begin to open our eyes to a new realization – we are nothing without Him.
Give thanks for all that you have, my friend, and pray for those whom you know and for those who don’t. From our little lights, we emanate out to others until we eventually become a greater light that makes all the difference in this world. So that someday, we too shall be one with the light of the world.
“For we were once darkness, but now we are light, live as children of the light.”[5]
As the coming holidays approach, Thanksgiving and Christmas, there seems to be a sense of melancholy that has begun to permeate through the din of the incessant roar of this tumult our society has become. In my mind, there is a desire to reach back in my memories and dwell upon a time when life was simpler when the so-called advances in technology had yet to be developed. Because of the threat of lockdowns restricting these beloved reunions, those distant memories have become even more cherished. One such date that comes to mind coincides with a memory that our family holds dear to their heart.
It was the late 1960’s. Back then, we survived without non-stop news coverage, without updates from our social media accounts, and without the fear of dying from a virus, let alone anything else that existed at the time. It’s not to say there wasn’t death nor dying, for there had yet to be the advances we have today in the fields of heart disease and cancer. Both of these maladies took many lives before their time, and still do today, but not nearly as severely as in those days. No, we feared not because we had a faith that was the bedrock of our existence.
That faith was taught to us through our elders, passed down from one generation to the next – a thread of belief that was built upon an unending truth – Christ is indeed the Savior of the world. So, it is in this vein that once more my heart reaches for a well-worn story that is based on an actual event whose legacy has lasted for many years in our family. It is like the cup of an instant drink, void of the liquid to make it real – once the hot water is added, the story being recalled becomes the sustenance that warms our being. Like that beverage, the Spirit enters into our soul, and we are warmed from within to that which is without. Herein lies the beauty.
Looking back through the shadowy fog of time, those distant memories are like the passing clouds overhead. They are here but for a moment, and then cross over the mountaintops before we realize they are gone. As we near the season of holidays and family gatherings, it seems that those ancient days of yesteryear are ever more treasured. Like the value of a tattered cloth that once was held in the dying grasp of a loved one, its price to most would be nothing, but to those who knew its connection to the soul of the other – it becomes a priceless object.
That year when the snow fell around Christmas would become one such moment in time for me.
The classic event which unfolded is still known to this day, by all that attended, as the Sled Hill Christmas. Of all my childhood holiday experiences, it will forever be the most memorable in my mind. To read the entirety of the original story, you can find it online at https://timothywtron.dreamhosters.com/sled-hill-life-more-abundantly/ But this article looks at that event from a different perspective; one of how the warmth of a loving family and faith carried us through what may have been considered just another dark winter.
Like a revival, a truly epic event can only unfold when it is least expected. So it was that overcast December day so many decades ago. Several of us grandkids were staying at Grandpa and Grandma Tron’s house, there on the outskirts of New Harmony, Indiana. The town itself was in the season of slumber. Farming was still the driving industry, and the fields were now silent in their winter sleep. The hay had all been stored in the barns and the silos were filled to capacity with grains and silage to last until the next growing season began. A feeling of hibernation overtook one’s soul, making those opportunities to warm by the woodstove or to huddle close around a cup of hot chocolate all the more permanent upon the creature within. Gathering with others was the only natural thing to do in a time such as this – it was who we were, it was what we were. In those precious slices of time, we fellowshipped without knowing that’s what it was called. Visiting with others when the work in the fields slowed was just as natural as splitting your firewood by hand – we all did it.
Tron House, New Harmony, Indiana.
When those first few snowflakes began falling the night before what would become the day to remember, we went to bed not expecting anything more than just a typical Midwest December dusting. When we awoke the next morning to the sounds of someone rattling around downstairs in the kitchen, it was as if Christmas had come early. Jumping from underneath the multiple layers of quilts, which weighed nearly as much as another cousin, we raced down the icy narrow stairs from the unheated upstairs bedrooms down to the kitchen where the pot-belly woodstove in Grandma’s kitchen was already red hot. We shivered and shook the remnants of chill from our bones, as our bare feet fought to find the warmth emanating from the scant linoleum floor by the stove. Excitedly, we peeked through the threadbare kitchen curtains that hung over the sink. The window faced grandma’s kitchen garden. Outside, the world was no longer the muddled gray of winter, but instead, was a brilliant whiteness, even in the pre-dawn, early morning hours.
About the time we had settled down around the table, after getting out of our bedclothes, Grandpa came in from the morning milking. We could hear the creaky old porch door slam behind him as he walked down the long back porch, from the barn end, up to the door of the kitchen, where he paused and took off his boots. The confines of that narrow passage clothed in clear plastic, a feeble attempt to thwart the cold winds of winter. The repurposed material was clouded with age, giving off a soft sheer grayness within the tomb of the veranda’s confines. The oft sound of rippling plastic slapping the screen made thoughts of warm summer nights, fresh tomatoes, and fireflies come to mind. Needless to say, those were but a distant rumor as the snow continued to fall.
With all eyes upon his entry, the vacuum of anticipation cut the air, like the cold wind that followed him inside. Snowflakes fell off his outer coat confirming what we already knew. Before he had time to take note of his unexpected audience, the questions began to roll off our lips.
“How deep is it grandpa?”
“Does it look like more’s coming?
“Where are the sleds?”
“Were the cows cold?”
He turned and smiled, looking toward grandma. Victor Tron never was a man of many words, So, when he replied with, “It looks like it’s gonna be good,” rest assured, that was all we needed to know. Grandma already had his breakfast ready, along with ours, and we sat down for an unusually early start of our day. We all instantly grew silent when grandpa bowed his head and reached his hand over to grandma. She grabbed his outstretched weathered hand with hers and we all joined hands and bowed our heads as grandpa said the blessing for the breakfast meal. In my mind, I can still hear that strained voice, barely above a whisper, thank God for what grandpa said was an abundance of blessings. Before us was a meager meal by worldly standards, but to us, it was Heaven sent. For we knew, even as children that every bit of it was from those two pair of withered hands that grasped one another in a love that never ended, even upon their death.
Victor Tron Sr.
Grandpa’s first milking was at 3:00 AM and he usually finished up around 5:00 AM. His second milking was at 3:00 PM, every day of his life. He never took a vacation that I could remember. Usually exhausted from rising early, he would routinely drift off to sleep no matter where he sat, so finding time to talk with him was rare. He milked the cows until that night he died peacefully in his sleep, never to milk again. What we didn’t know as children, was how precious those few moments were with him when we were able to visit, especially that snowy morning on a cold December day so many years ago.
As soon as we were able to clear the table and bundle up, we were headed out the door. Eventually, someone asked if we could check out sled hill. An okay was given and like a herd of young calves heading for new pasture, we bolted out the back gate. Past the woodpile where grandpa’s ax and splitting log were shrouded in snow we raced. Heading for the opening to the lane, we quickly found ourselves wading through the knee-deep snow toward the iconic destination; Sled Hill. Past the milking barn, the bullpen, and Ms. Wolf’s house we trudged. Each one of these structures held a plethora of memories and stories that one could sit for hours and share. Like a life of living, their collections, like the holdings of stockpiled hay for the winter, waiting for one to return and use for the giving.
The bushes along the Labyrinth were blanketed in a sweet frosting of white. Our panted breaths billowed before us and were quickly whisked away in the falling snow. In our rush to find out how well the sledding was going to be, we didn’t realize how hard the snow was continuing to fall. Nor did we realize how deep the snow had already gotten since sunrise. In the overcast grayness of the day, it all seemed like a dream, even when it was live.
Labyrinth, New Harmony, Indiana
As the story, “Sled Hill: Life More Abundantly,” conveys, the rest of the day was a multitude of adventures and excitement. With each passing moment, the tempo of the day’s delight reached a fevered pitch. The enthusiasm of the children soon bubbled over into those of the adults, igniting in them the feelings of youth. Gone were the aches and pains of age. The adrenaline of living purged those boundaries of limitations that had kept them hostage. Soon, parents, Aunts, and Uncles were joining in the merriment of sliding down the hill so aptly named.
As the sky began to darken as night approached, the thrill of the day and the feeling of being one with something greater than ourselves overwhelmed us. Fearing that it would end in darkness, the men created torches on the fly from used old tin cans (which we also used as drinking vessels), nailing them to poles and placing them along the sled run, all the way to the top of the hill. What started out as child’s play quickly turned into a major production. In essence, a cow pasture had turned into our own ski-slope far removed from any mountaintop.
When the last vestiges of daylight gave way to darkness, there along the sled run was a perfect row of home-made flaming lights shedding an ambient glow of warmth. Off to the side, a pile of wood was set afire and a massive bonfire became the gathering spot between runs down the hill. There we regained strength to carry on from food and drink the family had brought in at a moment’s notice. There, the entire family that was able to make it collected. The sentinel image that remains with me to this day was seeing both grandpa and grandma’s faces glowing in the reflection of the firelight. To know that grandpa had a milking coming at 03:00 AM, and yet, he was here foregoing precious sleep, standing alongside us kids around the bonfire said something more that than words could fathom. Even then, the whispers of the children could be heard, “Look, even grandpa and grandma are here.” The statement was a confirmation of the significance of that moment in time, one that made a profound statement on all that were present.
That night, once our bodies had been worn to a frazzle. There was barely enough strength to make it back to the house. As we pulled off our wet, nearly frozen clothing and briefly warmed by the fire, a numbness of exhaustion began to overtake us. The enormous featherbed never looked so welcoming. Shortly thereafter, after our bedtime prayers were said, there was little more than the sweet, “Goodnight children,” from grandma as she tucked us under the pile of quilts before we fell asleep.
For once in a lifetime, there was no sweeter sleep.
As the snow continued to fall outside that night, there was a warmth within that was more than physical – a love that transcends all understanding. There was something created that day that would last forever in the hearts of those who had been privileged to experience it. It became an inexplicable thread of life that would weave its way into our souls which would become part of who we were. The similarity of a feeling such as this can only compare to that of Christ’s disciples.
Like those followers of Jesus who had walked and talked with Christ after his resurrection, they too had a story to share. One that was so inexplicable, so earth-shattering that they would live the rest of their lives pursuing the mission to share it with all that would hear, even unto the point of death. It was who they were.
As we go forward in this holiday season, let us come together as a family, and may the hope of Christ, and Christmas be with you, until the end of time. May it someday become who you are as well.
It was late September in the highlands. We were camping on the banks of the Johns River. While the leaves had yet to fully change, there were the tale-tale signs of imminent transformation on the horizon. As my feet slid underneath the surface of the cold mountain water, a formidable repercussion burst through my soul. Deeper I waded in until it was a matter of now or never; an immediate submersion momentarily took my breath away. It was my evening bath in the John’s river, yet another first in my life.
Johns River, Collettsville, NC. – photo by Timothy W. Tron
As the due course of washing ensued, the greatly diminished bar of soap I was using slipped from my fingertips and into the brink below. In an instance, there was a fear that gripped my heart. “Oh no, now I won’t be able to get clean,” were the thoughts that raced in my head. “Does it float,” came the question? Before the unspoken whisper was even done, the tiny little bar popped back up. Quickly, my hand scooped it up and cradled it carefully. “No more losing you,” I mused at the careless soap. Looking down the course of the waterway to where that tiny sliver of could have traveled, a shimmering image caught my eye. The rapids below me sparkled in the setting sun. A thousand diamonds reflected the vast spectrum of light back towards me and a radiance illuminated the bend in the river about me. It was as if the Lord had suddenly appeared. The thought of that momentary fear of losing the bar of soap returned and how it made me think of what it might feel like to lose one’s Bible, or even worse, God. For me, in that instance of time, it would have meant that I would be unable to physically cleanse my body. But like the Word, it helps us to cleanse our soul. Through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross, our sins were literally washed away. Like that grime from my flesh, it was purged clean and taken away with the never ending current. Suddenly, standing as I stood in an indescribable realm of illuminated river, a revelation began to form in my being.
By this time, my body had nearly lost feeling. My head fully lathered, I dipped beneath the surface once more. The frigid waters rushed around me and all sound ceased from the surface. There was nothing more than the sound of gurgling flow pulsating past my being. A faint heartbeat sounded in the distant, like a bodhran keeping time to a Celtic song, ancient tomes for which the voices had long since faded into obscurity. My mind flashed to that of the river Jordan and the Apostle John standing over Jesus, who at the moment was also beneath the surface. As Christ looked upward from beneath the cleansing waters of Baptism, he could see the heavens open and the Spirit of the Lord descending. At that moment, John lifted him up. The cold water fell away from his body, his face flush with the exertion of that same shock, now beaming as the multitude of God’s love imbued his being. John saw it appear above Christ’s head, and it slowly fluttered until it appeared to light upon the crown of his head, like a dove descending from heaven.
Likewise, as I rose from beneath the veil of frigid flow, the sky opened above me to a clearness that seemed to take away one’s breath. The feeling of a newness unlike before overwhelmed my soul. Though my body was immersed in the freezing mountain waters, my soul was enveloped in an indescribable comforting warmth.
Through that momentary elation, the question returned, “How sorrowful would it be to have known God, and then to lose Him?” Simply asking the question to myself made me appreciate what I had all the more. One who has never known the love of God cannot comprehend what it is to imagine losing him. Like that inanimate bar of soap, while it is easily replaced, how unlike it is to the spirit within us. Once we receive Christ into our lives, there is a newness of living. Like emerging from those frozen depths of the mountain river, we are torn free from those previous fleshly burdens. We are given the greatest gift of all; freedom from sin. We are washed clean by the proverbial, never-ending bar of soap; the blood Jesus shed for all mankind on the cross.
Still yet, the profound symbolism of losing that bar for but a second, and the feeling of that lost translated into miniscule slice of what it might be like to lose one’s faith. So too, we who believe, would find ourselves in a despair unrivaled with any known heretofore if we were to knowingly lose our faith – to have it torn asunder like a child from a mother’s bosom. There could be no greater loss of hope, freedom, and truth. Yet, throughout history, people have been tortured because of their faith, and many times told to escape the torture or death, that they must abjure their faith – to give it up. Many died for this faith. Untold numbers were tortured through some of the most unimaginable gruesome deaths. Yet, there were a few that gave in. Sadly, their torture would have been less to have died, for the remainder of their lives, they would be haunted in a life of anguish knowing that they had turned their backs on the one thing that gave them hope, gave them life eternal – their faith.
We are living in some of the most distressing times in our country. While we are facing a growing evil, there is and always will be hope. It is now that we, those who are called, must boldly wade into that torrent of bone-chilling water of life and reach out to those who drowning in the depths of despair and heartache. Like the bar of soap, they are tossed about, unable save themselves. Without a hand to reach out and lift it up, it would have certainly been taken away downstream. Likewise, without God, we too are lost. But we can be the lifeline through which the giver of eternal life can reach them. As the gospel hymn goes, “When my Savior reached down for me, I was lost and undone without God or His Son. When He reached down His hand for me.”[1]
You may not be able to immediately see those who need your help. But stay the course, and continue to walk in the light. In time, they will come to you, or their presence will be made known. It is then, that you can save them from falling beneath the rushing waters of this world’s darkness and lift them up. You were made for a time such as this. “The fields are white ready to harvest,” Jesus told his disciples. “One reapeth and another soweth, I sent yea to reap wherein yea bestowed no labor. Others labored and yea entered into their labors.”[2]
There will always be a Comforter there by our side. Step into the water, and the Lord will take you the rest of the way.
Screams of the dying fall upon deaf ears until one begins to wonder if all sanctity of life has been lost. These are the thoughts in my head of those that suffer from the disease that permeates our world. One can only sit and wonder what their final moments of time feel like as the soul within extinguishes from this world. The feeling is that of being held captive within a body that is fighting for its life. Hours pass like clouds rolling through a thunderstorm, each heavy with the pressure of the coming torment. One after another, thoughts of where this is going tend to flash like bolts of distant lightning – threatening but not close enough to scare.
Tonight, there are more stories of fear, death, and evil working its way into our society, until a friend of mine said, “The news hurts.”
photo FoxNews: Beirut, Lebanon
We’ve had torrential rain each day. It is as if we are living in a tropical rainforest. The forest and fauna drink it in, like a drunken sailor of old, notwithstanding having to report to duty, washing away the pain of knowing anguish of deadly seas. One tries to focus on what makes life worth living. Some have nowhere to turn – yet, there is a well of hope for which most forget in troubled times; the life-giving water that quenches all thirst – the Holy Scriptures. You can hear it in their voices – the despair. The whispers of calamity that rip across the crests of raging seas, tell them they are doomed.
Last night, as another thunderhead rolled through the valley, I sat on the porch listening to the roar of the water as it fell from the sky. The streams were no longer cute little trickles of water. They had turned into angry torrents, bursting from their timid banks, engulfing everything in their path. The limbs of the trees, heavy with foliage, groaned under the weight of the flood from above. The air was like a mighty wave, washing over the deck of the ship, pulsating and mad with fury. Here and there, bolts of electricity shot to the ground as the earth erupted in moans of travail.
It was as if the earth had joined in man’s anguish.
Tonight, here in the Retreat, my little ship in the sea of life, there is still the echoes of the stream, still swollen, like red-eyes after a weary ordeal that one has escaped. There are brushes of clouds in the setting sky, some pink, some pale orange, all bequeathing a surrealness to the sullen mood. For every star in the night sky, there is a soul that has been undone. There are too many to count. Feverish frivolities are all that some have found in this life. Their zeal for pleasures has only accounted for an emptiness that now supplies nothing more than deep, hollow caverns of no end. They cling to anything that allows them to remove their pity – even to the point of pursuing another to deprive them of their momentary joy – covering that blue sky with the stain of hate and dread.
We must rise above that which seeks to pull us under.
When Jesus told Peter to come out of the boat, he knew that alone Peter was not capable. Alone, we are nothing. With God, all things are possible. As Peter hesitated, he knew in the natural realm of this world, he could not walk on water, but yet, there before him stood Christ, clearly upon the fluid sea that floated the boat from where he stood. To confirm his fears, he needed Jesus to command him to walk upon the water. “Jesus said to them, “Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.”
And Peter answered him and said, “Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.”
And he said, “Come.” And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus.”[1]
Alone, we cannot survive in this world of evil. Christ knows our every weakness. If we wait for him to tell us to come to him, we are admitting our frailty of belief. Just as Peter found that once he began, he soon was buffeted by the storm around him. The same beleaguered typhoon we endure each day as we are buffeted on all sides by every form of media, device, laws, societal shame – there is no escape. Is it any wonder we are easily distracted – it’s all part of Satan’s plan.
And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. “But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, “Lord, save me.”
And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him…”[2]
They say the darkest hour is just before dawn. It seems that we are all waking up before dawn in these perilous times. Although the predawn hours are for many the hardest, we must take comfort in knowing that there will be another day. Remember, Jesus didn’t let Peter drown.
“And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him…”
He is there for you, no matter how difficult the circumstance you face. As the world seems to consume you until it hurts to even hear the news, like the wind and waves becoming boisterous to the point you feel you are going to go under, remember he is waiting for you. All you have to do is ask.
All it takes are three simple words, “Lord save me.”
He is there to catch you before you perish beneath the waves.
“God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, so that whosoever believeth in him, shall not perish, but have everlasting life.”[3]
We must rise above that which seeks to pull us under, yes, you are not alone.
Seek Him with all your might…it is not too late. His hand is outstretched and waiting…
The feeling of being stuck in the doldrums has slowly washed over me lately.
My body floated in the water effortlessly. Like a being upon the sea, only the clear blue morning skies above. Here and there were wisps of clouds barely enough moisture to collect to form a whiteness, yet they were there. It was as if time had stopped. My mind drifted to those ancient mariners who relied on the ocean winds to propel their sailing ships. A calm day was not a blessing. A robust sea with gathering storm clouds and gusts of ocean spray were signs of life.
Likewise, our walk-in faith is like those ancient sailing vessels. When we are facing a headwind, we know we are going in the right direction. “Many are the afflictions of the righteous: but the Lord delivereth him out of them all.”[1] As the Apostle Paul would remind us, “Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you: But rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ’s sufferings; that, when his glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad also with exceeding joy.”[2]It is when the winds cease, those opposing forces suddenly stop, that we should be concerned. For it is then, when you are no longer finding the world against you, that you should take stock and see if you are not going along with the whims and will of the evils that surround you. “And be not conformed to this world:..”[3] “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour:”[4]
Floating there in the pool, my mind’s eye could see the glistening mirrors of glass surrounding their vessel as the sun beat down on them like a mighty drum. This absolute stillness was their valley of death. The very breath of life hung in the balance. The maritime sailors of old, even in their mighty sailing ships, were at the mercy of the prevailing winds. It was as if without the hand of God pushing them, they were helpless. Their vessels might sit for days or even weeks in the area known today as the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ). It stretches from 5 degrees above to 5 degrees below the equator. As the broiling heat beat down upon them, their sails hung limp, lifeless – mirroring the direction their lives seemed to be heading.
When there is nothing to occupy the mind, it becomes like a fertile field where our sinful fleshly desires and thoughts begin to take root. We’ve all heard the phrase, “An idle mind is the devil’s playground.” It is here, in the empty void of life that our wanton, wayward thoughts begin to fill the space where once an occupation, a job, or a study once filled. The news media, if we allow it, is happy to provide us more than enough constant chatter to overwhelm even the most ardent theologian. Then there is the social media, where a thread of distrust can become the next great conspiracy to add to the overflowing closet of skeletons in our mind. Those empty, lifeless ocean experiences were not only deadly because of the physical limitations. Here where the mind became one’s worst enemy, the mutinies were formed and men began to doubt not only themselves but their creator as well.
One description held by nautical experts is as follows, “Doldrums holds a distinct place in maritime history, having developed a reputation as a potentially deadly zone which could strand ships for weeks on end, causing them to run out of food and drinking water. In those days, with supplies running low, and scurvy setting in, delirium, starvation, and cabin fever could all set in – and getting through this mysterious patch of Atlantic Ocean quickly wasn’t just a matter of first or last place, but life and death.”[5]
Today, we seem to be in a similar predicament. Many of your friends, neighbors, and even family are facing perils that remain hidden until it’s too late. The isolation created by this perceived pandemic has in a sense, made us all drift into the doldrums – some say, the effect being more deadly than the cause. The ship in our world can take on various forms: our country, our daily lives, and even our soul.
Our nation has become mired in turmoil and panic, held captive by those that want to seemingly halt our way of life using the foil of a pandemic with which to incite fear – cause it to stall until the point it falters, and some might even say, fail. In this epic of ever-growing restrictions and confinements, the feeling of being held captive in our own society begins to seep into our psyche. With each growing day, we find a new restriction dictated by “science” forcing us to obey or else. We find fear beginning to seep into the most educated minds to the point they seem consumed to follow the rules, whereas; heretofore, they were some of the most liberal types seeking rebellion of societal norms at every turn. Those that are held in esteemed positions begin to spread the fear in their implication of pursuing the “science” while disregarding those who might find a different mindset all together; one of fearing not. For many, they do not know what it is to find comfort in the arms of a Savior. Their lives, like so many who remain lost until the day of judgment, find themselves glued to the media, like a junkie waiting for the next hit, looking for the next “aha sound bite” that will send shockwaves through our culture, sending yet another wave of fear over our nation.
It is in these moments of doom and gloom we should seek the calm and peacefulness of the Comforter, the Word of God. Sadly, many find the darkness growing stronger rather than the day of jubilation when Christ’s return sounds the final trumpet. The torment permeates their being until it becomes real.
The dread doesn’t stop there, at the curb of society, rather it penetrates our very nature.
The imposed isolation has revealed cracks in even the most perceived solid of relationships. Some may feel that they are trapped in marriages whereby they have no recourse. For whatever reason, the days of intimacy have evaporated like those prevailing winds on the ocean. They quit counting the days of quarantine – the novelty lost at sea. Now, their relationship is distant, cold, and anything but bliss. For some, these are the “worse” parts of the vow. Unrelenting to yield to divorce, praying that God will find a way to replace their spouse’s heart of stone, they remain – trapped and disheartened – their life has become nothing more than a dead sea, upon which no breath of wind dare cast a ripple of hope.
Afflictions of the flesh can come in all shapes and sizes – drugs, alcohol, or sex. Each person has their own inner struggles. Once, when there was a society of normalcy, one might compare their daily grind to others. Yet, now, kept to themselves, the questions begin to creep inside the dark confines of the heart. The darkness feeds upon these. Allowed to grow, they become more than thoughts. They begin to manifest themselves into actions that might otherwise have abated had the flow of life been allow to continue. It is in the trials that we discover who we really are. For those without faith, it is as if all hope is lost. If we allow Satan to enter in, giving in to temptations, we deepen the despair by which those afflictions feed – like sharks circling our languishing ship, watching, waiting to whom they may devour, so is the devil.
Others find that their spiritual lives have become stagnate as if God is not listening. They pray and seek Him day after day, but it’s as if they’ve been abandoned. What they miss is from where they are praying. Rather than fully relying on God, they are seeking help from the very thing that they have given into, “Ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss, that ye may consume it upon your lusts.”[6]
When there is no answer we must wait. Yet, there is learning in the waiting. While we seek immediate answers, God’s timing is not our own. In the trials and tribulations, we are made stronger in our faith, whether we like it or not. It is much like when a baby chick is born. When it first begins to pip out of the shell, it is difficult to sit and watch. When you can’t take it any longer and begin to help the newborn by pulling the shell away. You suddenly find a wet, damp miserable little creature. Although your instinct was to simply help, part of the birthing process is to make it struggle through the shell which creates the muscles that it will need later to survive. Meanwhile, the chick you just “saved” begins to weaken, and in most cases, will die from fatigue for lack of muscle tissue. If we are left to never struggle in life, our spiritual muscle will become atrophied to the point, it is unable to support our being – it is then we too find a spiritual weakening unto the point of death.
When mankind faces the end, as in being distraught within the doldrums, it is then most often they finally seek God – when it is too late. Life passes before one’s eye in the blink of an eye. While an eternity may seem to pass when the flesh is suffering, it is a mere momentary heartbeat when the end arrives. The once seemingly immortality of youth gives way to the reality of age, and with it, time begins to race. As the heart yearns for those days of youth, that are gone forever, it is then too late many realize their choices were in vain. The rust and tarnished life has led them only to a bitter end to where they cannot escape. It is then they realize, their doldrums began long before any pandemic started.
Yet, we can find hope beyond the ITCZ, and this time of COVID.
Our hope is in the one that gives us spiritual strength. Our hope is in the one that gives light to the darkness. Our hope is in the one that can free us from all earthly desires and shackles of the flesh. Yes, our hope is in Jesus Christ, our Lord, and Savior.
Where once there was delirium and despair, there can be life once more. The breath of life, the winds of change are coming and soon, the trumpet will sound. Soon the creaking of the ancient ship’s masts will begin to bend under the gales that will take us to that far distant shore.
“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you…”[7]
The
flap of the wings belied the size of the animal, as the wild turkey left its
roost from the night. They stand a little over three feet tall on average when
strutting on the ground. Their wingspan is just over four feet. The sound
thereof beating the air with such great force that I could hear it from where I
sat on my porch made me wonder just how much more would that of an Angel’s
wings sound? And since I had not seen the bird leave its night’s perch, it was
my assumption, based on what my senses told me, that it was indeed air being
moved by a winged creature. So too, wouldn’t I be able to discern a more
exceptional being than this should it be in my presence? The thought of an
angelic being visiting me came to mind. Just the idea of such a moment caused
the hairs on the back of my neck to stand, being in the presence of one of
God’s messengers. “Thou shalt see heaven open and the angels of the Lord
ascending and descending on the Son of Man,”[1] Jesus told Nathaniel. Yes, what a scene
it would be.
All of
these thoughts ran through my mind as the dawn’s early light began to glow upon
the pages of my Bible. Before me lay the gospel of John, which was part of
today’s morning devotional.
The
sound of the wind, not that we can see it, but rather we know from the effect
it has upon the things which we can see, allows us to know it is there. We see
the branches of the trees move, the summer grasses dance to and fro. When we
seek shelter in the shade during a long, hot summer’s day, we pray for its
caress upon our skin. Our natural senses allow us to perceive its existence. We
never see it, but we know it is there. Yet, unlike the wind, it is our spirit
that senses the Holy Spirit of God. It is this innate ability which we are
creator has endowed us with, that allows us to worship him in Spirit. As Jesus
told the Samaritan woman at the well, “God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit
and in truth.”[2]
It was
then the verse of scripture came to mind. Jesus had a late-night visitor,
Nicodemus, who questioned what it was to be born again. Jesus told him not to
marvel at what he said, that a man must be born again to enter into the kingdom
of heaven. “That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born
of the Spirit is spirit. Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born
again.”[3] And then he went on to compare knowing
the Spirit to knowing there is a wind, and that we cannot see it, but we hear
the sound thereof and know it exists. “The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof,
but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that
is born of the Spirit.”[4]
Suddenly,
there came upon my continence a profound statement made at the wedding in Cana
of Galilee to which Jesus had attended. There was an inexplicable connection
that I had never noticed before; a paradox of divine nature.
When
they had run out of wine, we all know the miracle that happened when Jesus
turned the water in the water pots to wine. When the servants drew the
water-turned-wine out of the pots and bear it to the governor of the feast, he
knew not whence it came, but they did. It was this “knowing” of the
servants versus that of the ruler of the feast that gave the moment an irony I
had missed before.
Here
we have the man of stature, reigning over the wedding feast. He obviously has a
position of authority in their daily lives, and as such, has probably tasted
some of the most excellent wines mankind had produced. Yet, when the drink was
given to him, he was impressed by that the family of the bride had kept the
good wine until now. His perception was that of what our earthly desires are
aware; that which our senses allow us to understand from the world around us;
the obvious.
Meanwhile,
the servants, knowing that Christ had turned the water into wine, bore their
gift to the governor with shaky hands. At this point, we wonder, “Had they
tasted the water-turned-wine or were they blindly taking a substance that had
simply changed color to the governor of the feast, fearing what he would
do?” Because the scripture states, “but
the servants which drew the water knew,”[5] we must consider the former, that they
had tasted it and realized the miraculous nature of the drink. Containing their
joy of seeing the miracle before it had been revealed to the world, their minds
had already been blown away. Here now, they realized they stood in the presence
of someone that commanded extraordinary powers, if nothing else, able to change
six stone waterpots full of water into wine – not one, not two, but all of them
at the same time. As one carried the drink, the others watched, all-knowing
from whence it came. Their perception was not of the actual beverage, but the
fact that it was not of this world – something far beyond what mankind could
ever produce.
Both
parties had reality and the supernatural united when the ruler demanded that
the family had kept the best wine until last, which was not of the custom. The
disciples who were with Jesus at the wedding were assuredly aware once the announcement
had been made by the ruler, if not before. We are left to wonder if the governor of the feast ever
realized the blessing from on high that he tasted that evening. If only he had known
the truth, how much greater would have been his reward? All we can do is speculate.
We might compare the ruler of the feast to the rich young ruler whom Jesus told
to sell everything he owned and to follow him. He left saddened at what Christ
had told him. We are never told what happened beyond that moment, and here too,
we are left to wonder.
Like
the water turned into wine, the written Word of God to the unbeliever is
nothing more than letters of ink written upon a page. Purposeful to them
possibly at best in that they are wise sayings passed on from a time when their
usefulness had long ago expired. To the believer, they are more than just words
on a page; they are the Comforter to which Christ said he would send. Those
words speak to us through the power of the Holy Spirit, lifting our own spirit,
teaching, leading, and inspiring to all those who believe. Their taste surpasses
any of the finest wines man can produce. The scriptures are from the fruit of
the vine given by inspiration to man, so that we may continue in his footsteps
long after the ascension of Jesus, to sit now at the right hand of God.
Sadly, there are many that will ever only understand the scriptures from the context of knowledge. Even the learned scholars, some who are preachers and teachers, will never fully realize the magnitude of the gift they behold when reading the words on the pages of the Bible. Some spend their lifetime seeking something before them, not realizing that the Spirit is found through the Word, not upon its literal writings. Many wander this life lost, unaware of the fruit of the Spirit, even when it is placed in a cup on a table before them. It is not until they receive the gift of salvation, by the Grace of God, that they will fully comprehend the depth of scripture, and the real purpose behind God’s Word.
Yes,
we cannot see it, but the beating of its wings, we can sense when our senses
are awakened to our new selves, a new world when we become one with Christ.
“Let not your heart be troubled, for if it were not so, I would not have told you so,” Christ said, but even more important, is what he didn’t say, but rather, allowed the Spirit to speak in his silence.
Therein
lies the beauty of the irony, for which we can be even more thankful.
Thanks
be to God.
“And he saith unto them, Draw out now, and bear unto the
governor of the feast. And they bare it. When the ruler of the feast had tasted
the water that was made wine, and knew not whence it was: (but the servants
which drew the water knew;)…” – Jn. 2:8-9
The rain was lightly falling today when I happened upon the
display of the 2020 WHS graduating class posted in front of the Boone Post
Office. In my mind, I had made a promise that if I found them displayed, that I
would go see them one last time. As is often the case, God answered my prayer
before I knew I had prayed.
One placard after the other, faces of the students who had
become part of my life, now part of this virtual graduation. Part of me wanted
to cry, while another wanted to laugh. One after another their smiling, proud photos
brought back hundreds of memories. In many of the Professional Developments
(PD), they teach and encourage new teachers to get to know the person behind
the desk. For me, it was the only way to understand how a child was relating to
the material. As a Math teacher, you quickly come to understand that most of
your pupils are only there because they are required to take the class. So, for
the most part, you must know where they are coming from in order to better
reach them, and in that hope, plant the seeds of education for what curriculum
you represent. I took it to heart.
In my journey, learning the person behind the face not only
became part of my job, it became part of my mission. Each day during the pledge
of Allegiance, at the end of the short ceremony, I would breathe the silent
prayer, “Lord give me strength, guidance, and wisdom.” Each time, when I would
open my eyes, there before me was the purpose behind the path upon which God
had placed me.
There were all manner of days to deal with, from the unforgettable,
to the horrific. From the jokesters, who at times stretched my patience beyond
boundaries I knew existed, to the sweetest personalities that could melt a heart
of stone, they were all there. This was not the first class of graduating
seniors who had passed through my classroom. But these were the first that
seemed like we never got to say goodbye, for more reasons than one. In essence,
their moment of shining before all to see had been taken away thanks to an unseen
enemy. Now, without them knowing, we were saying goodbye in a one-way tribute.
Sweet Ms. Carol Brown told me before my first day of
teaching at Watauga, that I would find a different kind of student on the
mountain, any unlike I had met before. She and her late husband Horace had
grandchildren up in that area. They were never more right. Ironically, before
learning that I would become a Math teacher, I had read the story of Crossnore
and how Dr. Sloop and his wife, Dr. Mary Martin Sloop, had struggled with the
indigenous peoples, particularly with keeping them in class when they were
needed on the farm. The stories Mrs. Sloop recalled gave one an insight into the
mind of those mountain families who inhabited the deep hollars of the Blueridge.
From their work, the Crossnore Children’s home would come to be. And yes,
eventually my life’s pathway would lead through there as well, but another story
for another time.
My life’s journey had taken a detour from Watauga before this year’s classes began. God’s plan is never our own. And wherever he says to go, I must follow. So as painful as it was, I was able to tell those who had me on the last semester goodbye in 2019. But today, with the pictures of them in their graduation robes and hats, it seemed more final. Here before me was the entire class of 2020. For a year, I had not seen them, and most were still the same, those faces of innocence only the parent of teens can appreciate. While others had changed so much that it was not until my second pass that I realized who they were. As my feet traveled down the damp sidewalk, it was as if God was allowing me to review those three years, as if to say, “It was all worth it.” There were some who made me laugh out loud, while others made me stop and say, “Thanks be to God, they made it.” There were those who had made an impact on me in ways that were never expected. One day, on my way to the school, a song came on the radio by Casting Crown, “Only Jesus.” In it, the lyrics remind us that our life should not be about us, but rather, should point toward Christ. We shouldn’t strive to leave a legacy about us, but instead, point all we are to Him. From that day forward, my purpose became to have them not remember me, but only Him. So, in all that I did, I tried to be someone that would bring the light into their life, even if they didn’t realize it.
One can only hope that we plant the seeds of hope, and the
truth for their generation instead of taking it away. A virus may have ended
their “true” senior year before it was allowed to culminate, but my prayer is
that they will make something of themselves far beyond what the limitations of
this physical world will bring.
Yes, today I walked for them because they could not.
“Brethren,
be followers together of me, and mark them which walk so as ye have us for an
ensample.”- Phil 3:17
It was an
early Sunday morning. The air had the feeling as if it could snow at any
minute. In an uncustomary manner, my morning devotional was actually upon the
steps just outside the front door of our church, Rock Springs Baptist. There, I
opened my Bible, journal, and thermos, pouring a hot cup of coffee to accompany
my communion with the Lord. Before beginning, the steam from the coffee caught
my attention. Swirling from the depths of my cup, the vapor rose, swirling as
it ascended, like a spirit rising to meet our maker. On my walk, the
bone-chilling air had eventually found its way into my very core. Taking a sip
of the hot, bitter brew, I could feel the warmth invade my body, slowly
recapturing that which had been nearly frozen.
It was
then the similarity hit me; the steam; the Spirit, warmth of my body; us
accepting Christ into our hearts.
A car
passed and broke my focus for a moment. Taking another sip, I closed my eyes
and prayed. The sound of the vehicle dissipated, and soon, the voice of the
John’s river began to speak, which lay just beyond our church’s parking lot.
The soothing sound and the warmth of my coffee began to erase all the toils,
and struggles of the week as the hand of the Lord wrapped his arms around my
being. As I exhaled, my breath made another pathway of steam into the air. It
was then the thought of how much better coffee tasted when you were partaking
of it out in the open, especially on a cold, winter morning. In fact, the more
I thought about it, the more everything seemed to taste better when eaten or
drank in the outdoors, where all that was man-made was removed, and you were
one with the elements; purity begets purity.
Then my
mind turned toward the devotionals on my Sunday morning hikes to church and how
they always seemed more powerful, more meaningful than those of which I partook
every morning before heading up the mountain while sitting in my home. It was
as if the materials of man’s creation removed, allowing for a purer experience,
a cleaner connection to the Almighty if you will.
There, I
had done it; allowed myself to find something of God in merely drinking a hot
cup of java on the front steps of the church.
Then my
mind took a quantum leap, back, many years to my youth.
The ground
was covered in snow. It was the dead of winter in Indiana, a place where Boy
Scout Troops wouldn’t cancel a camping trip for the weather, regardless of the
conditions. Fortunately, the camporee was at a camp where our tents were the
heavy canvas permanent type built on wooden floors; surplus from a not so distant
war. It was Friday night when we arrived. The routine was that we were to build
a fire and then cook our supper while we made camp. From experience, we knew
that in this weather, the fire was the key to everything; warmth, food,
survival. Yet, everywhere we looked the snow had covered everything; not one
stick of firewood was left untouched. Everything was either frozen or soaked
with water. Knowing that we might face a challenge for which we may not fair
too well, we began to build our wood in preparation for a valiant attempt,
nonetheless. By good fortune, one of our patrol members found an old mouse nest
in a hole in one of our tents’ floor. Thankfully, we shoved the dry tender in
amongst all the other shoots of Sassafras, Cherry, and Pine, knowing that once
the moisture burnt off, we would have the start of a roaring fire. One of the
patrol leaders went to the cook box to find matches. When he returned, he held
open the small cardboard box, with the little drawer, pulled out. The look on
his face said it all. With a look of shock and dismay, we all quickly realized,
there was just one match left. We gathered round, each of our young faces had a
look of fear and anguish. One of the new scouts almost began to cry, “Oh no,
we’re going to starve,” he stammered as tears welled up in his eyes.
“No, we’re
not,” I bit back, the steam from my mouth shot into the air like a blowtorch.
“You have to have faith. We’ve been through tough times before, and if anyone
can make a fire with one match, it’s this patrol.” Ricky, the Scout Master’s
son, who was also my good friend, stuck up for me at that moment, and reiterated
what I had just conveyed.
“You gotta trust us man, if anyone can get a fire going, we can make it happen.
We’re going to show them all, with one match, we’ll keep this fire going all
weekend.”
There, he had done it; Ricky had unknowingly made the vow that we would all gladly
have given our last breath to uphold. It was an unspoken word of truth and
honor, nearly as revered as the Scout Law.
Delicately,
like marooned sailors on a deserted island, we made all the preparations and
double-checked each other’s work to make sure that the one match would work.
Then, with a shaky hand, someone struck the match. The smell of sulfur and
warmth filled the space before us. Immediately, we all gathered around, holding
our hands as a shield to prevent any breeze from extinguishing our flame before
it could take. Slowly, the flame touched the old mouse bed, and steaming smoke
began to spread through our pile of tender.
“Nobody
breath,” Ricky commanded.
We all
stood, feet in shivering in the snowbank that we had created digging out the
fire pit so that it would be clear of any moisture, and watched as the smoke
seemed to almost disappear. The skeptical scout almost began to whimper once
more. “Have faith,” I breathed again.
Then, as
if prayers had been answered in unison, a flame nearly 12 inches tall leaped
from the center of our woodpile. Smiles spread across our faces as we older
scouts looked and nodded at one another. The younger scouts then realized they
were with someone who would take care of them.
That
weekend happened to get so cold, below zero, that they made us stay in the chow
hall one night, for fear we might freeze to death in our cots. Meanwhile, we
had stoked and prepared our fire, so that no matter how long we were gone, it
would continue to keep a hot coal bed. We needn’t fear that the fire would
spread since the ground was covered in almost a foot of snow. So, unlike other
times when we would have to put out a fire when leaving our campsite, that
particular weekend we were allowed to keep it going. Memory also recalls that the
other patrols had not been so lucky when trying to strike their fires. More
than one patrol visited us that weekend to warm themselves because of their own
inabilities to keep a fire going. We learned a lot about ourselves in the
process, not only that we had possessed a knowledge which provided for our own,
but that we were able to pass on this to others while sharing with our neighbors.
I don’t remember
anything else about that weekend, other than our parents came to stay with us
the night we stayed in the chow hall. But the one thing I do recall, even to
this day, was that by the time to pack up Sunday evening to head home, we had a
fire that had never gone out. Meanwhile, other patrols had problems just
getting theirs started, let alone able to keep them going.
We had
struggled through adversity, but already in our young lives, having experienced
hardship campouts before the one just mentioned had allowed us to have faith.
It is the same in our walk with Christ. Those who are new to the faith struggle
with knowing that the Father is with them always. By providing them examples of
our own steadfast faith, we can give them the courage to face the struggles in
their own walk.
The
Apostle Paul had faced many trials and difficulties in his life once he turned
to serving God instead of persecuting Christians. He was an encourager to
others in the faith, and with confidence, not arrogance, as brother David said
this morning, he told his disciples to ““Be ye followers of me, even as I
also am of Christ”[1]
He had faith enough to know that if they were to become believers, that they
would have to have faith in what he said and to know that through believing
him, they too would come to know Christ.
Once they
had faith, they would find the love of Christ working in them, warming them, imbuing
them with the Holy Spirit, lighting the flame within and starting the fire.
Like that hot cup of coffee and a cold winter day, God envelopes you with His
Spirit and warms your very soul.
Each day,
as I begin to climb the mountain, either figuratively or physically, I ask the
Lord to help me find my way. Each day, he answers me in the most unexpected
ways.
Nearby,
the river speaks to me, and a song begins to play in my head:
“Once I
stood at the foot of a great high mountain
That I wanted so much to climb
And on top of this mountain was a beautiful fountain
That flows with the water of life
I fell
down on my knees at the foot of this mountain
I cried, “O Lord what must I do?
I want to climb this mountain, I want to drink from this fountain
That flows so clear in my view.”
Then I
heard a sweet voice from the top of this mountain
Saying, “Child put your hand in mine.”
I started climbing slowly, “Watch your steps at the edges
And take one step at a time.”
I started
climbing upward taking one step at a time
The higher I got the harder I climbed
I’m still
climbing upward and my journey’s almost ended
I’m nearing the top and you ought to see the view
Oh the water flows freely, there’s enough to make you free
So friend, if you’re thirsty climb this mountain with me.”[2]
In the
gospel of John, Jesus said on the last day of the feast, “If any man thirst,
let him come unto me, and drink.”[3]
While these
may or may not be my last days, the harder I climb, the more beautiful things I
see and reveal, seeing with eyes anew. From walking in faith, although I will
never achieve the level of the Apostle Paul, I can, with deep conviction share
with others that with faith, all things are possible. In sharing that belief,
may it light a spark within their own soul, one that will make within them a desire
to seek Him.
With one
spark, a fire can be built, and with it, the light of life can begin
That
particular campout of which I shared earlier was one where our parents were
invited to come spend a night camping with us. It was one of only two times
that a parent of mine came to a campout. My mom, of all people, came to stay
Saturday night. She, along with the other parents, stayed in the chow hall with
the rest of our troop. Looking back, I wish I had done more to interact with her,
but it was a treat just to hear her voice talking to the other adults and to
know that someone who loved me was present. Now that she is gone, those few
glimpses of the past are ever more precious.
She, along
with the other parents, more than likely had no idea of our fire struggles, but
rather, took it in stride that we had learned how to survive and were doing
well enough. I don’t remember anything else about that weekend, but the one
thing I do recall, even to this day, was that by the time to pack up Sunday
evening to head home, we had a fire that had never gone out.
From all
of this, we can surmise that we are a constant work in faith. We may never
achieve the level of faith of an Apostle Paul, but we can share our testimony
with others, and with that, provide them the knowledge that they are not alone.
Through our faith, shall we lift up others, and in the end, give them hope of
the Father.
Like steam
from the coffee cup, the Holy Spirit will warm us through and through, and our
walk of faith will continue to grow as we climb that final mountain and drink
from the eternal fountain.
Each time he returned from the mountain,
his life was changed. Another nuance of who he had become was revealed. He was
forever changing into the new person to which he had sought his entire life to
become. There was no tablet in his arms as he descended from the heights above;
no law; no antiquated precept for which to behold; rather, there were pathways
to distant memories that had once been buried, now unearthed to become the
inspiration for going forward. They had returned as ghosts from his past to
help others around him see the light; that which is the true light. He was not
that light but was there only to help those, through him, believe. Those scars
of life’s experiences became a therapeutic source, something he never
anticipated. Through the catharsis of healing, he could now better understand
his purpose for which God had intended. Through the new journey, there was more
than just the apparent nature of healing spiritually, but physically as well.
Where the spirit is weak, so is the
body. One cannot exist without the other.
Each day as the sun arose, the
scriptures spoke of new hope, new promises to be found.
Each day, the healing within and without
continued.
Jacob, a good friend of mine, had only recently found himself able to once more confidently be himself. His world had seemed to fall apart, one seemingly unbelievable event after another. It was as if anything that could go wrong would. From one loss to the next, it seemed as if bad news were the only guarantee in his life. The stress of so many unanswered prayers continually compounded themselves; dark waves crashing against the bedrock of his soul, one upon the next, until it seemed his heart would break. Pushing it all aside, using every ounce of faith he could contain, he forged onward. “Press on toward the mark,” he could hear the Apostle Paul saying. Every morning he arose, making himself pretend there was a consistency in chaos. The work of the building kept his mind occupied while he communed with the Lord. The blistering heat swayed not his determination. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. When it appeared as if all detrimental events had subsided, a new, more deadly attack came.
Looking back, Jacob could see where the
sultry summer solstice had merely turned out to be the calm before the storm.
Out of nowhere, an insect-borne illness struck.
Jacob was bedridden for days. The excruciating pain, fever, and chills were like
nothing he had known to this point in his life. The doctors were initially dumbfounded
by the test results. Eventually, the prognosis became clearer, and medication
was finally prescribed; but not after Jacob had seemed to hit rock bottom. At
one point, the pain was so intense, the darkness so great, he had prayed God to
take him home. There was nothing more he wanted than to be free of his earthly
body. Broken and shattered, he lay in the pool of sweat as his body felt
frozen. He felt as if he had now found the deepest darkest valley as he lay in
the shadow of death.
The painful hours passed, and Jacob contemplated
if he would ever be able to reach the top of the mountain again. “The deeper
the valley, the higher the peak,” he kept telling himself, through one exacerbating
breath after another.
In the course of searching for answers
to Jacob’s malady, there was another discover; one that had not been anticipated
initially. Jacob’s heart was not functioning as expected. Upon further
investigation, there was a concern of the erratic nature of the heart’s beat,
to the point he was sent to a Cardiologist. Later, the insect-borne disease he
had contracted was found to attack the heart in a way that it would affect the
beating. However, God always has a purpose, even when we think we know why we
are on a particular path, God’s plan may often be something unexpected,
something never imagined.
Eventually, the Cardiologist would find
it necessary to perform a heart catheterization on Jacob. In disbelief, he sat
listening. “What next,” he thought to himself as the doctor shared with
him what to expect. It seemed as if the summer, which he at one time had hoped
to be spent on a whirlwind, inspirational mission trip, had turned into the
summer of incomprehensible horror. A darkness of the most profound evil had
besieged him and his family. In the darkest moments of the storm, he had
continued to cling to the only thing that gave him comfort, the Word of God. He
placed his mind in the shadow of Christ as he continued to listen and felt his
savior envelop him in his arms.
“We might have to put in a stint, should
we find enough blockage, which is what I suspect,” espoused the doctor smiling
with the best intentions.
Jacob’s mind wandered back again, back
to another place and time to another one of those scars in his life.
He and his wife had visited his
hometown. It was nothing more than an opportunity to share with her the place
he grew up. Having left it behind so many years ago, it was as if they were
both discovering it anew once again. During that trip, they met with family
members for supper at a small country diner. In the group was Jacob’s most honored
family member, Uncle Markus. Markus was one that Jacob had looked up too and
admired for all that he had accomplished in his life. His Uncle had also become
the beloved spiritual leader of their family; the outpost of faith since Grandpa
and Grandma had passed. His Uncle Markus had been one of the first men of the
family to obtain a college degree and then went on to become a high school teacher,
and eventually, a college professor. Markus was there along with his wife, Rose,
and two sons. It would be the last time Jacob would see his Uncle Markus and Aunt
Rose alive.
Looking back, that evening in the St. Joseph’s
Diner so many years ago, those in attendance were just a tiny portion of Jacob’s
father’s family. There had been seven siblings total in the paternal family;
five boys and two girls. Likewise, they were a tiny fragment of the fun-filled,
rollicking antics so often characterized by his paternal family. He recalled
how he had bought some cast rubber replicas of morels from Wilson’s Furniture
Store earlier in the day. They were unusual in that they had suction cups at
the bottom. He had guessed at the time they might be fun to stick on the dash
of the truck the next time they went morel hunting. Without thinking, he stuck
them in his pocket that morning for safekeeping. Hunting morels was a favorite outdoor
event that the entire family looked forward to every year. Morels are a type of
mushroom that only come up in certain soils at a specific time of the year.
Because of their precarious growing season and climate, they are difficult to
find. But because of their delicious flavor, when they are discovered, you feel
like you are receiving manna from heaven. So, as the course of the evening’s
meal ensued; somehow, the topic of morel hunting came up. When someone was
describing their prowess at finding the elusive mushroom, Jacob remembered the
rubber replicas in his pocket. Quietly, and without garnering attention, he
bent his head down and fastened the suction cups to the lens of his glasses.
Then when the moment was right, he looked up and said, as the rubber morels
goggled before his spectacles, “I would say, that I would be the best Morel
hunter around simply because of my superior morel vision.” The entire table, and
the rest of the restaurant who couldn’t help to overhear broke out into laughter.
The establishment had in a way, become their surrogate kitchen that evening,
and everyone shared in the raucous laughter. That memory, along with the
fateful journey of his Uncle Markus reverberated in his soul once more; afresh
and new, like the recovery of an ancient treasure that blesses the very spirit
within.
Not long afterward, his Uncle Markus was
told by doctors that they had found blockages in his heart, but there was no
dire concern because they had a new way of relieving the life-threatening condition
through a new procedure using stints. The family was very much relieved, yet
apprehensive when it came time for the surgery. The operation went well, and Markus
was to stay overnight for observation, just as the doctor had told Jacob.
However, Markus’s surgery was forty years prior, the new miracle cure had only
just begun being used. Markus had been warned not to move around, but as was
the case, he got up simply to use the restroom during the night, harmless as
that may sound. The doctors would later surmise that plaque had broken loose in
the artery where the stint was inserted, which found its way to Markus’s brain.
Uncle Markus died long before his time. Yet, it was God’s time, not our own.
Jacob’s mind panged once more for his Uncle
and knew that God had used the stint to call him home. It didn’t make the
memory any less painful, nor did it comfort him knowing that medical advances in
the past forty years had made the procedure much less treacherous. In the back
of his mind, he couldn’t eliminate the thought of possibly facing the same fate.
Feelings of the recent trials and
struggles haunted him in the hours leading up to the operation. “Had he done
all that he needed to prepare for leaving this life,” he thought to himself?
“Had he done all that he could do to help his family financially once he was
gone?” Then the formidable realization of their salvation bore upon him, “Had
he done all that he could do to prepare them for life eternal?” He felt in
his soul that his work was not over, but if God was calling him home, he was
ready either way.
“The Lord would provide,” he told
himself, again and again.
Yet, he was never alone.
Friends and family had encouraged Jacob
on his journey, and many had prayed for him. As the Bible tells us, “Wherefore
seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us
lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us
run with patience the race that is set before us.” All his life, there were
those praying for him even when they had lost contact with him physically;
those faithful prayer warriors that lift us up even when we are the least
worthy.
Jacob never forgot this, that many had
lifted him up in prayer, as the day for the surgery came. As the lights,
needles, and monitors flickered and beeped through the operating room, his mind
rested peacefully as he felt the hand of God warm him in that cold, foreign
place; prayers were being answered. Before he knew it, the medical staff and
the lead doctor were wrapping up.
“You’re all done,” the Cardiologist
proclaimed proudly.
“Your heart had a major blockage,” he
relayed without remorse, as he held his personal device over Jacob’s head.
“But, as you can see,” he said through
his operating mask, “Your heart has healed itself by making its own bypass. Better
than I could have done,” he said, pointing his purple glove finger toward the
miniature screen.
“It’s just beautiful,” the doctor
continued, admiring the tiny image before Jacob, as he turned to look at it
himself one more time. “You won’t need any stints either, your heart is
perfectly clear other than that one blockage which has miraculously healed
itself.”
Jacob couldn’t believe what he was
hearing. Through the fog of medication necessary for the operation, he
struggled to understand all that the doctor had just said.
“Miracle,” was all that he could
think, “God had performed a miracle. I should be dead,” he whispered to
himself.
Prayers had once more been answered;
like a thunderbolt, their presence was felt. Warm tears filled Jacob’s eyes as
the gurney was wheeled out of the operating room and back to recovery.
As the cloud of the sedative began to wear
off, Jacob continued to feel buoyed by the very nature of the miracle that had transpired;
unaware, unexpectedly, God had cured him of the life-threatening blockage. Not
only that, he had cleared every other debilitating possible blockage so that
his heart was like new. “With time, your heart will grow stronger,” the nurse
conveyed, as she heard Jacob speak of the revelation in the recovery room.
A gleam of joy shone into his now
healing heart.
The next couple of days were spent
resting and allowing the medication from the surgery to wear off. But once Jacob
was able to get outside, he took a short walk along the ridge where he lived.
In the distant, the blue peaks stood majestically; proud and stoic. Never so
bright were the flowers. Never so blue was the heavenly blue azure sky above.
The trees sounded as if they were singing the praises of the noonday sun. The
joyous memory of that evening in the St. Joe Diner sparkled once more in his
mind. The flicker of life revived, of happiness and laughter. The old spirit of
rejoicing with gladness the moments in life afforded us, no matter the setting,
no matter the circumstance had been rekindled. The old spirit had reunited with
the new Spirit; together, their energy was more than enough to uplift the weary
soul; they gave new life to the body within.
Jacob’s life had been a culmination of
learning and finding the way through failure and loss. The sins of his life had
kept him shackled to the world of the flesh, and because of it, had prevented
him from being to that which he was called. Subtlety, and without any
instantaneous change, Jacob found himself seeking direction from something beyond
the temporal world around him. Once he did, God began to work through him in inexplicable
ways. Some say that God works in mysterious ways, but when one walks through
the valley of the shadow of death and someday finds themselves on the mountain
top of that remorseful valley below, it is then that they can finally
appreciate what it is to receive Christ into their lives.
Yes, my brothers and sisters, God is
waiting for you to answer your call. He is ready for you to take him into your
life. Not only will your spirit be renewed, but your body will be blessed
beyond measure.
Look to the horizon and climb the
nearest mountain, leaving that valley below. When you reach the summit, allow
all that you experience to fill your cup to overflowing. Allow yourself to be
changed. Sup from the spring of God’s mercy while you can for the peaks of our
lives never last forever. May He annointest thy head with oil. Share the testimonies
and miracles in your life, for you may be the inspiration that someone needed
to hear.
Someday, you will descend into another valley,
and when you do, take with you the precious gift of God’s grace. By our scars,
we can be healed, and by Christ’s scars we can be reborn. Be the light for all,
no matter where you are; whether if you are on the highest mountain top, or in the
deepest, darkest abyss, let your light shine for all to see.
As Paul said, “For to me to live is
Christ.”
So, my friend, live as if living is
Christ, and goodness and mercy will follow you all the days of your life.
We awoke this morning to a
blissful 64 degrees here in the foothills of the Blueridge Mountains. It was
indeed a long-awaited respite from the summer’s toils. Although the sky was
overcast, the soothing temperatures allowed for a more leisurely feel to the
walk to church. Along the way, the bountiful colors of the wildflowers began to
catch my attention. “Had they been there all summer and I just missed them
amid the turmoil of heat and fatigue,” I pondered as my walking stick continued
to make the rhythmic knock upon the trail? At first the red of the Cardinal
flower caught my eye, but the farther I walked and became aware, the more
colors that began to reveal themselves until the full spectrum of the rainbow
was pulsating within view; the Vincas, Violas, Orchids, and Lilies of all shapes,
sizes, and varieties. Pausing to catch my mental breath, my mind began to drift
back to another hike in a far distant land. The place where the 23rd
Psalm seemed to come alive; the Germanesca Valley in Italy.
My heart began to race as my
thoughts returned to the life-changing scenery we had experienced on our Alpine
journey.
Like a wounded warrior returning
from battle, my body fought to keep the path of descent. In our unencumbered ascent
up the mountain, we had seen with beholding eyes unspeakable beauty, flowers of
every color of the visible spectrum. We had just scaled up the Germanesca
Valley in the Cottien Alps to a point not far from the summit of Col-du-Pis.
The altitude was challenging alone, reaching slightly above 9,000 feet in elevation.
The thin air caused us to breathe while we walked as if we were running at full
speed. Each new turn in the trail unfolded
another revelation of God’s creation, one that we had heretofore never
witnessed. But in our haste and unimagined divine adventure, we had not
accounted for the human element which so often detains us, shackling us to man’s
law; time. From unimaginable heights we now scurried, our bodies weakened by
the lack of oxygen battled to keep pace with the spirit within. In our haste,
we pressed the pace around another massive boulder only to find a spectacle
beyond comprehension. Looking back, had we not been suffering from the
consequences of poor planning, or rather, spontaneously inspired destinations,
we might have taken the moment we were about to encounter more slowly, more
diligently. We are often reminded in those fleeting few seconds before death
that events you thought could never be captured return in one glorious review.
What was thought lost returns with a voracious message of what was most
important.
How many times had the disciples
asked themselves the same thing? Had they only taken more time to appreciate
the precious little time they were allotted to spend with the Son of Man, Jesus
Christ, how much more would they have understood? Jesus had tried to make them
realize again and again.
“Jesus replied, “You do not
realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand…. I am telling you
now before it happens, so that when it does happen you will believe that I am
who I am.” – John 13:7,19.
How many more questions they could
have asked? How much more faith they might have found had they only known?
“Why weren’t they warned,” you
ask?
Jesus foretold his death and
resurrection on more than one occasion. “Now
Jesus was going up to Jerusalem. On the way, he took the Twelve aside and said
to them, “We are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be delivered
over to the chief priests and the teachers of the law. They will condemn him to
death and will hand him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and
crucified. On the third day he will be raised to life!” – Matthew 20:17-19
Yet, they too were so pressed for
time of this world, trying to make it day-to-day in circumstances under which
they had little to no control. Albeit they were in the presence of Jesus, they
too found it difficult, seeing so many miracles and hearing so much, that there
was little time to take it all in and absorb it fully. After a while, their
human bodies began to tire. The weariness of the journey was more than many
could physically take; the emotional and spiritual strain alone of having one’s
mind stretched beyond belief each day would be enough to cause a mental breakdown.
Yet, Christ afforded them through his divine power the ability to
understand, as he opened their minds as only God could do. “Who hath ears to
hear, let him hear.And the disciples came, and said
unto him, Why speakest thou unto them in parables? He answered and said unto
them, Because it is given unto you to know the mysteries of the kingdom of
heaven, but to them it is not given.”-Matthew 13:9-11
Enthralling scenes that no human
could imagine took the disciples breaths away; again and again. They could
never dream of what was just around the bend.
Just beyond the shadows of the granite edifice from around the curve in the path lay a patch of grasses covered with wildflowers, colors as vivid as the cloudless azure blue sky above. Yet, unlike anything we had yet to discover this day of miraculous discovery on the mountain, there was something unreal; something that pulsated from this patch of living color. As we neared, our shadows ran before us, touching the breathing spectrum of life. Without warning, the colors began to rise in place, as one. Our mere mortal eyes couldn’t understand what we were seeing; yet, we saw something beyond explanation. We inched closer and soon realized the cloud of flowers were hundreds of tiny butterflies, each matching the fauna of their selected petals below. As if their spirit could sense our breathlessness, before we could capture the image for all to see, the cloud of cuspid elegance dispersed into nothingness in a cloudburst of flight. Pausing, my traveling companion and I simply looked at one another in awe of God’s unending magnificence.
Numb from our weakened physical condition,
we shook our heads and pressed on. Had we been less hurried, less concerned
about our fear of missing the bus, would we have been able to capture the
magnificent event? Would we have found the moment more impressive at that
instant than we had otherwise seemed to feel considering our weariness and exhausted
conditions? Each of us had witnessed something that would forever be part of
something special, something that would allow us to forever change our perspective
of life.
It would take many months for the
scene to return to our minds in as an epiphany of revelation.
How do you describe the
indescribable to someone?
How do you share a vision or
testimony to someone that hasn’t shared the same path as yourself or has walked
in a field of wildflowers?
More than likely, your answer is
that it is nearly impossible. If the person you are sharing with has never had
a similar experience in life or has never found themselves able to question
their own spirituality, then they probably will not understand how to relate to
what you are describing. Just as Jesus fought to make his disciples aware,
against even the most obvious, in-your-face statements, they continued to be
confused. Up until the very day of his capture and eventual crucifixion, they
had yet to come to the understanding of all that he had said. It was until
after his death and resurrection did they finally begin to fathom the trail of
clues their Master had provided during their earthly time together.
Likewise, we must be aware of
those around us that are either knew in faith are or those who have yet to
accept Christ at all. They will look at you with ears unable to hear, with eyes
unable to see, and with hearts often hardened from years of hearing the very
words you might say to them. It isn’t until they have walked the trail of
wildflowers and seen the cloud of flowers burst open into a prolific spectrum
of colorful butterflies will they finally be able to comprehend your words. In
the end, it isn’t us that can come into their hearts and minds, but Christ who
must be the one. Alone we are only mouthpieces. It isn’t until Christ speaks
through us in spite of us can we reach the lost souls of our world.
Yes, we can never do it alone, nor
are we ever alone.
Open that back door and take a
walk down the nearest trail and search for God in all that you do.
You will never be disappointed,
and most importantly, you may find a miraculous beauty made by our Lord that
will forever change who you are.
