Tag Archives: Junior Appalachian Muscians

Are You Blessed?

 “Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed”-John 20:29

We stood in a circle. Our right hands made into fists as our arms were extended into the middle of the circle, like the hub of a human wheel, one placed upon the other as each of us bowed our heads in prayer. The boys like to call the configuration the “popcorn prayer,” a term they coined on their own. With the first of the young men that began, the next would continue the prayer until it came around the circle to the last person.

Crossnore Children’s Home

In the past, we would have had a morning devotional before going to breakfast, followed by a closing prayer. But this day was different, it was late Sunday afternoon. Unlike the times before, today they asked that we all pray together before we said our final goodbyes. In unison, they asked that I close us out by saying the last prayer.

It was one of the most poignant moments of my life, humbling to the core; it was their last request.

I had come to say goodbye, a goodwill gesture that was sincerely from the heart. It had been a tumultuous month, one that had left me more than tired. Several weeks earlier, when I had shared with my supervisor that God was leading my life’s journey away from Crossnore, I also asked that if they needed any extra help, I told him that I would be willing to fill in if needed. He thanked me for that offer.

At Crossnore, there is always a need.

And so, after many sleep-deprived and beleaguered days, my footsteps carried me one last time from one end of the Crossnore campus to the other. Those young men had left an undeniable mark upon my heart. For many of the children at Crossnore, their pasts are much like our own, better left behind. Many are at the home because of no fault of their own, and with that, you immediately seek to find the source of the mindset that acts out in ways that are not normal; because if anything, the trauma through which they have survived are anything but normal. It was because of this and much more that I couldn’t leave without at least letting them know that I would miss them.

Along my path that somber Sunday afternoon, the majestic oaks that had at one time provided comforting shade during the hotter months, had now given way to become barren, twisted towering bones, reaching to the azure blue sky above. They too, showed empathy for my departure, like elders who had seen so many come and go, telling me in their own way that they would forever be with me. The chilly winds blew leaves across my path as I made it to the all teen boy’s cottage. Many would prefer another assignment than to have to deal with young men at their age.

My own experience was quite different.

From the outset, once they realized I wasn’t going to be a push-over, we began to connect. One might wonder if it had been the many years of working with the Scouts that allowed me to understand them? Perhaps you might ask, was it because of the time spent working with the Junior Appalachian Musician program? Or, maybe, you might conjecture, it was teaching High School math to teens their age that helped me cope? Whatever the reason one might attribute my connection to those boys, I believe it was the hand of the Lord who had put me there for that season, as short as it may have been. The reason I felt it was God, was because it wasn’t until I asked to share the devotional with them that I could see something new; a change in their demeanor toward my presence. It was when one of the young men-(the one that had been there the longest, over 6 years to be exact)- opened up to me, that their reactions began to make me take notice. They said that because of his years of tenure at the home, he had become so hardened that he would purposely keep you at bay, knowing that before long, you too would fall by the wayside.

Who could blame him?

He had seen so many come and go. And up to that point, he could have just as well said the same thing about me. But when he would purposely make it a point to greet me or go out of his way to tell me to have a nice day, it became apparent that God had moved him, through me, in spite of who I was. All of these thoughts swirled around in my head like the fallen leaves upon the ground that cold, blustery afternoon.

There had been so much to contemplate. For if the walk had been days, there would have been enough recent memories and experiences to occupy my thoughts the full breadth of the journey.

Recently, one of my new colleagues at the college asked, “How are you today?”

I replied, as I so often do these days, “I am blessed, I hope you are?”

He then later asked what I had meant by the word “Blessed.”

The question stopped me in my tracks.

My mind flashed back to the beginning of the summer and the terrible drought, and trials that my life had encountered. Through the loss of a job, loss of income, loss of medical coverage, to the near-fatal illness, to the days of unanswered prayers. The doubts and troubles piled up like logs against the bridge when the river rises. One by one, their pressure building until they either burst through or until they are swept over the bridge by higher waters. My life had become that bridge, inundated by the flooding trials that seemed to come, one after the other, each one building upon the other. At one point, the bad news had become so common that it became laughable. “Just how much more could one take and still survive,” I began to ask? My life began to feel a little like Job in the struggles, and a lot like Joseph at the bottom of the dry well; there was nowhere to go but up.

Then, like once before in my life when it seemed as if all hope was lost, God answered. I don’t recall the exact day or time, but there was a sense that only a few may know or understand. Like a warm wave cascading over your soul, the feeling of things that are about to change washes over you, and it is then that you know deep in your heart that it is going to be okay. It’s moments like that when Hebrews 11:1 makes perfect sense, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

My sweet co-teacher, Mrs. Rush, said it best last year when she was trying to comfort me about having to leave the school when she said, “God is going to answer your prayers in a way that is going to be far greater than your wildest expectations.” She continued, “The answer won’t come soon, but rather, it will probably be at the last moment when you feel like all hope is gone. It is then that He will finally give you an answer.”

She was as prophetic as anyone I have ever known. Was God speaking through her? I don’t know, but to this day, I have to believe he was.

To answer my colleague, my mind dug through those countless days of anguish and despair, and the words began to form. They had to pass through the filter of that prayer with those boys in the Cottage as we all stood around in the circle and prayed. The memory of what happened during that prayer still lingered in my soul.

From the bottom of my feet, the sensation began. As God poured the words through my lips, the Holy Spirit began to fill my body like a pitcher is filled from the bottom up. The electricity began to rise through my legs, torso, and eventually put my arm into the pile of hands. The words continued to speak as my entire body began to tremble. Attempting to retain my composure, I pressed on, asking God for this moment to never end. “They have to feel this,” my mind reflected while scriptures began to flow from my heart and out my mouth. The warmth of tears streaming down my face began to mix with the emotions in my voice until we finally said, “Amen.”

As I stepped back, wiping the tears from my eyes, the emotional toll was not just my own, for it was apparent in their eyes as well. My head was spinning as I tried to find a way to say goodbye. Once more, there was yet another reason to never forget, as they asked for a hug. In my heart, the pain of saying goodbye was a burden that must have shown. One of the boys raced to his room and brought out one of his most cherished items, a UNC flag. In the spur of the moment, I asked if we could have them all sign it, “As a memento,” I said. They all happily agreed, and each one took great care to make sure their name was visible. In a way, it was as if they wanted to make that indelible mark upon my heart; one, like the permanent marker upon the flag, that would never fade away.

Those multitudes of thoughts swirled around in my head as my colleague must have wondered why it was so difficult to answer a simple question about what I meant by being ‘Blessed.’ It was as Jesus had said to Thomas at that moment when he finally realized that he as standing in the presence of our risen Savoir. After putting his hand through the hole in Jesus’ side, his head suddenly became faint. The room began to spin. Stepping back, trying to regain his balance, he stared in awe at Son of Man, God in the flesh, who had now defeated death. He was speechless. Jesus said to him, “Because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”

Yes, blessed are we that have not seen and yet have believed. But this was only one part of being blessed to which Christ spoke The sermon on the mount was full of blessings, enough to know that when we walk with Him, when we realize we have found our path only because He has led us upon it, it is then we truly know that we are blessed.

To my colleague, I finally said that one should be thankful for being in a place to which they had never realized they would be in life, by no cause or fault of their own.

He respectfully nodded in response.

To live or die is gain, and to know Him, Christ, our Savior, is to be blessed beyond measure.

To all things we should be grateful, and most importantly,

Thanks be to God.

And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him:

And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.

Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.

Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.”-Matthew 5:1-11

Leave a Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Let the Rabbits Run: A Tribute to J.W. Parsons

As they sat in the little out-building dimly lit by a single incandescent bulb overhead, J.W. leaned back in the old metal legged kitchen chair smiling broadly as the student before him began pulling the first few strains of sound from the instrument under his chin. It would be the first of nearly a dozen lessons. His now white hair protruded boldly from beneath the cap on his head. As he listened to the young man play, he talked to the elder sitting next to him on the upturned white 5-gallon bucket. Reno Sharpe had come along this evening with the young man, a friendly escort of sorts. They talked of old friends and days gone by while the student would painfully try to repeat what the master fiddler had just shown him. There were no music books, no sheets from which to read; no, this was learning as in the old days, by ear.

John Wesley Parsons was his full name, but everyone knew him simply as J.W. It was said that he could fix anything with strings on it; from fishing poles to rehairing a bow. The room around them that night doubled as a slaughterhouse. J.W. raised hogs on the side, along with a host of other jobs. In the summertime, he sold minnows and watermelon. There were butcher saws and knives gleaming in the shadowy room. It was appropriate for the beginner fiddler, so badly were the sounds coming from his bow, akin to killing a song if you will, and not in a good way, that J.W. would remark, “Boy, are you married?”

“Yes-sir,” he stopped making the painful sounds to look up from his violin to answer.

“You gotta out-building you can practice in?”

“No sir, but I’m starting to work on one now.”

“Well, you better gitter built if you wanna stayed married.”

To that, both he and Reno laughed heartily. The young man joined in knowing full well what they meant.

It was just one of many evenings the three would spend together over the course of several weeks that fall.

J.W. was quick to tell the two men that night that he literally taught Charlie Daniels how to play the fiddle. It was a true story, yet it is doubtful that Mr. Daniels would ever attest to it. To J.W., that was his claim to fame. In truth, his real legacy would come later, but not through a single entity such as Mr. Daniels. J.W.’s legacy would be a gift to many.

One evening, J.W. brought his guitar along. The student had now progressed enough that he was able to follow along to the rhythm of the guitar. The master fiddler was slowly working his prodigy into someone that would benefit from this experience for a lifetime. J.W.’s own background was from years of mastery learned through countless hours of sawing the bow across the strings. In wartime, he played with bands that would tour all over the Far East; Japan, Korea, and other Pacific Rim islands. J.W. would eventually come home to settle back down on the farm and raise a family. There he found like many old-time fiddlers, they could earn more money playing for Pea Pickin’s or Corn Shuckin’s on the weekend than they could at a regular paying job. That being the case, and money being tight, he became known far and wide for being a master fiddler.

As he sat his fiddle down that evening, he said to the two men, now his tiny audience, as he picked up the old Martin guitar beside him, “You always want a good guitar player backing you up. And when you get one, make him stand right beside you. You got to have him right beside ya like he was’n a glued to your side. Otherwise, you won’t be able to hear em. If you get off, it makes the whole band get off, and that’s a bad, bad thang.”

The student would reflect back on the many things learned in that tiny studio. Not all of the things taught were just from the notes flowing through the wood and strings, but rather, from the knowledge of the elder passing onto the student the lessons of life and what it was to live in a time when the music of this sort was in much greater demand and appreciation. In today’s education, too often the human aspect of the interaction between student and teacher is overlooked. Sitting around the hearth on cold winter nights, the old-timer’s in the Appalachians would pass down not only the songs but the stories and traditions of the culture that made them distinct from others. It made the music they made all that more special.

On that memorable evening, J.W. sat down all four legs of his chair and began tuning his guitar. His large fingers adeptly turned the tuning pegs as he bent his head to listen. There was no tuner needed so well adapted were his ears to the sounds of the instruments in his hands. To try to watch his fingers position themselves on the tiny neck of the fiddle, it was sometimes impossible to discern which string he was actually playing. Because of his large working hands, the fingers were nearly always positioned to cover two strings, which made his double stops (purposely playing two strings at once) perfect. Even though the fiddle looked out of place in those rough, hewn hands, the beautiful strains of his waltzes were some of the sweetest melodies many had ever known.

That particular evening, his mood seemed different.

Before continuing, he told the two men in a solemn tone, “What I’m about to play you I don’t want you telling anyone about. I don’t normally sing in front of people,” he would go on to say.

Knowing or not, the young man had always brought along his video recorder in order to tape each lesson. From those he would practice the week, carrying the master with him as a manner of speaking. This night was no different. Instead of interrupting, he let J.W. continue so as not to stop what they were about to see. “If it was really something to be kept secret, he could always go back and erase it if necessary,” he thought to himself.

“This here’s a song about an old man and his dog. I call it the Rabbit Song.”

He began playing and singing like we had not seen before. His voice was a good as any country singer they had known on the radio. The song was from the heart. As he played and sang, J.W. closed his eyes as of if he was being transported to another place and time.

These hills have been my home, come eighty years next Monday,

Since sixty-five it’s just been this old dog and me.

My woman was called home to be with the Lord in Glory.

My life has been a good one but my journey’s end I see.

Seems like the rabbits run much faster than they used too.

Every year the hillsides get harder to climb.

Seems like the autumn turns too quickly into winter.

Won’t be long and me and this old dog will say goodbye.”

The same young man sat in the cozy little barbershop behind Max’s house. It was Thursday night, and Max was open for business. Earlier in the week, Max had found the young man had an old fiddle on display in his house. It was one his wife had bought at an auction back when they were in college. It was merely intended for decoration since neither one of them could play it. That evening Max, curious as he was about most things couldn’t take it any longer when he paused clipping away with the scissors, and gently touching his customer’s shoulder, and leaning in to say, “I happened to see a fiddle sitting in your dining room at your house last week when I was doing that work for you. Do you play?”

“No sir, that was something my wife bought a long time ago at an auction when we were in college. It’s broken up on the neck and can’t be tuned unless it can be repaired,” he replied. Then the next few words he was about to speak would alter the course of the young man’s life, “But I’ve always wanted to learn how to play a stringed instrument.”

It was almost as if Max had been waiting to hear those exact words. Before he had barely got the words out of his mouth, Max had an answer. “I know a man that can repair your fiddle and teach you how to play it too.”

“Really,” the young man said in almost disbelief?

Grabbing the local phone directory, he opened it up to the ‘P’s, “Yep, sure do, his name is J.W. Parsons.”

Pointing to the J.W.’s name, they wrote down the number. Then the conversation turned to all the music that had been a part of Max’s life and how he and J.W. had made music so many times. Those were precious memories. The world began to spin seemingly out of control for the young man that night, as so many things that could have been began to become possibilities. It is sometimes said that truth is stranger than fiction. It seemed that night as if the young man had stepped back into time, hearing about lives from another century.

As J.W. played for the audience of two that night, his student and Reno, he sang to them a song that was nearly as prophetic as it was sad.

Instead of sleeping over in the corner by the fireplace,

That old dog would run and hunt all day.

Not too long ago, we were out amongst the corn rows,

Making the memories that are on my mind today.

Seems like the rabbits run much faster than they used too.

Every year the hillsides get harder to climb.

Seems like the autumn turns too quickly into winter.

Won’t be long and me and this old dog will say goodbye.”

He ended the song and solemnly sat down the guitar at his side as the two men cheered his beautiful rendition. His humbleness overwhelming them as he repeated, “Now don’t tell no one I ever sang that, you hear.” They shook their heads in disbelief and approved. It was the gentlemen’s agreement; they had given their word.

From there, J.W. would eventually introduce the young man to other venues and people, whereby eventually, those off-key notes would form melodies that would entertain crowds of enthusiastic onlookers, but never to the same level of the master’s hand. The style of which he had learned from the old Pea Pickin’ fiddler, J.W. Parson, was one of a kind; a mix of bluegrass with a hint of old-time mountain music. From that point forward, the legacy of J.W. Parsons would be passed down as that young man would go on to become the first Director of the Chatham County Junior Appalachian Musician’s Program (JAM). There, he and many others would teach young children from the ages of 8 to 16, how to play the songs and instruments of the old-time music. The method used in the program was exactly the same J.W. would use, sharing the sounds of the music along with the stories that made it special; and learning by ear.

Years would go by, and like pages on a well-worn book, the edges of recollection would begin to fade. Sadly, in his later years, J.W.’s memory would begin to slip. It was painful to watch the master fiddler slowly lose the precious gift he had known most of his life. Around him, especially his loved ones, people watched the man they loved and called Papa, slowly fade from them. His friends would fight back the tears as they would see him one more time and know this was only the shell of the man they had once known.

One might attribute the loss of his memory to the accident that took his loving wife, “Mara-Lou,” as he called her. They had been in a wreck and gone to the hospital afterward, but the doctors told her everything had checked out. They went home, even though she was still in pain. Sadly, she passed away during the night from her injuries. J.W. was never quite the same afterward.

The Bible tells us in Philippians, 3:13 “Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before,” One could say, God, moved J.W. past the painful loss of his beloved, comforting him in his final years with a sense of peace. Looking back, it was as if God knew the pain he suffered from losing his life-long partner. In taking away his memory, he might have lost his musical talent, but he was also afforded a few years of peaceful grace before he left this world. We often only comprehend what we can see. Beneath that placid façade of bleakness, we witnessed, who’s to say J.W. couldn’t already see the joy that would fill his soul on that beautiful reunion day when he and Mara-Lou would meet again on the far distant shore of Jordan?

The memory of the Rabbit Song would return to that young man J.W. taught so long ago every time he saw him in those final years.

That young man, of course, would be me.

As he had asked, I never mentioned the song or that it had been played. Reno passed long before J.W., so it was a memory only I carried with me.

Not many years after J.W.’s passing, I mentioned to Wendy about the song. It was the first time I had told anyone. She replied, “I’d like to get a copy of that from you someday.”

Someday will come. My walk in faith has buried so many things in storage. Unlike the things we carry, the memory of that special evening has not been lost.

As time goes by, the children from that JAM program are growing up and moving onto other parts of their own lives. Many of them had heard the story of the Rabbit Song, but few know the rest of the story. As they grow up and continue playing the music learned from the student of J.W., it is as if a part of J.W. Parsons continues on. His legacy still surviving into the next generation beyond our own. Those students are now becoming teachers as well, carrying on the tradition of learning by ear, playing in the old-time way.

Yes, the rabbits seem to run much faster than they used too. These Blueridge mountains seem harder to climb.In the corner sits my fiddle, lovingly signed on the back by J.W. Parsons.

As the weather turns cooler, it takes me back to that little old shack behind J.W.’s home where we sat underneath the light of that autumn moon. It’s time to rosin up the bow and play that fiddle hard, cause J.W.’s memory will not be lost, his legacy will linger on.

2 Comments

Filed under Inspirational, Music

The T-120 Thread…

weboflifeI sometimes wonder how many threads of life can be unwoven if we take the time to consider all the possibilities?

Yesterday I had tried to return a phone call to a radio station that I am trying to make connections with in order to start my book ministry for “Bruecke to Heaven”. I had called them earlier in the day and left a message on their recording device. Unfortunately, they tried to call me back after I had already layed down to try to get some sleep for my next night-shift. Once I got up, after not sleeping nearly enough, I tried returning their call. I kept getting a fast busy signal, meaning either their phone was off the hook or there were transmission problems with the phone connection. As I drove toward Goldston, heading for our Thursday JAM classes, after having just attempted to call the station for the fourth time, it was apparent the fast busy was not going away and that I was not going to get through; at least not today. When these road-blocks get in my way, I look at them as God intended; meaning, there is a higher purpose as to why I’m not able to do what I’m attempting to do.

For fun, I began to look at how the fast busy could have been God-created.

Having worked in telecommunications for many years, I know the technical aspects of what it takes to create the fast busy signal we hear on the phone when our call is not able to connect. The particular signal I was hearing was not a “Busy” signal, but rather, it was what we call in the industry a T-120, which means there is a network blockage or tranmission problem. As I thought about this, my mind continued to follow the thread, and how some poor engineer had possibly made a mistake and either entered the wrong information into the network equipment or made some other mistake and inadvertently caused the outage. In the industry, that’s a big deal since lots of revenue can be lost; time is money. In some cases, if the error is great enough, the engineer could lose their job.

In my thread, the error had cost the poor guy his job and he had been dismissed early from work. Disheartened and afraid to go home and tell his family that he was without a job, he headed for the local pub to drown his sorrows. A few hours later, he emerged and began to make another poor judgement and decided to drive himself home. Eventually, after swerving and running off the road since leaving the pub, he crashed headlong into a telephone pole, destroying the transformer that fed half the Tinytown, the little town in which he lived. The power instantly went off in hundreds of homes and the Tinytown elementary school.

Ms. Jones had been diligently working on her dissertation for her Masters degree in education. She had nearly completed the paper and was about to hit the “Save” button when the power went off. Her class had been taking a test while she worked and now there could be heard a collective sigh of relief from the students as the power died, darkening their classroom. Ms. Jone, overcome with frustration, stood up scooting her chair back loudly, startling some of the students who had been nearly in a trance-like state during the test. Some of the students even seemed as if they had nearly fallen asleep in the warm room. It was not uncommon for Ms. Jones to keep her room heated. She was originally from Texas and loved to keep her thermostat near 80 degrees. Today, she had the room furnace cranked up to keep the chilly spring air from freezing her feet. In addition to fighting fatigue, all of her students unknowingly had slight headaches which they believed to be from too much thinking.

“OK class,” she said with a bit of anger in her voice which was not directed at the students as much as it was at her own recent loss of effort, “Lets all put down your pencils and turn over your tests.”

There was a rustle of papers and clicks of the sounds of pencils being placed on the desks at her command. Still standing she looked outside for signs of storms or weather and only saw the brigh sunshine. “Hmmm,” she thought,”Another day of power interruption in Tinytown,” she scoffed. Ms. Jones wasn’t one to dwell upon the negative though and since it appeared the power wasn’t about to come back on anytime soon, she realized an opportunity to enjoy some beautiful spring weather and decided to take her class outside for an early recess. The students were more than overjoyed to hear of their early break and all eagerly lined up and quickly exited, following Ms. Jones out the door.

Little did they know, as they left, there had been a slow gas leak in the room. It was discovered afterward that the sluggishness and dazed feeling the students had experienced during their test time was not from the overwhelmed thought processes of testing but rather, the gas slowing poisoning their bodies. The janitor stopped by Ms. Jones room shortly after they had gone outside to catch up on some housekeeping and unfortunately created a spark when he touched a metal bucket in the closet, having shuffled his feet along the carpet to reach the door inside the classroom. The fireball that followed created an explosion that could be heard clear across Tinytown. The firestation nearby quickly dispatched trucks to the school as the remainder of the schools population, all unharmed, quickly evacuated the school to join their other classmates in a joyful afternoon long recess.

The engineer who experienced the car wreck was airlifted by Life Flight from the scene to the nearby big city hospital The chopper would quickly return to pick up the janitor who was also taken to the same emergency center. Both the engineer and janitor would survive, both with life debilating injuries. The janitor, who was also a deacon at the Tinytown Baptist church, would get to know the engineer while in the emergency room and both would share the same hospital room, each becoming life long friends. The engineer would find salvation through the janitor and his life would turn around when he began to find strength in the Lord and no longer through the bottle. Each man, the janitor and the engineer would come to realize that their lives, previously separate, had become intertwined and that both of them had inadvertently saved the lives of many others who unknowingly had been caught up in the same thread of time.

And so it goes…God weaves the thread of our lives, whether we want to believe or not.

The radio station returned my call today and I was able to answer. God once again has answered my prayers and we take another step forward in the journey.

So the thread continues…

For as many as are led by the Spirit of God, these are sons of God.
– Romans 8:14

1 Comment

Filed under Pure Fiction