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by | April 29, 2018 · 8:44 pm

Peace in the Valley…

Yeah, though sleep death doth linger in my lungs, I once more find my pathway diverging. Tomorrow holds what it may, so I only know what today has brought thus far.

All around me was silence.

Outside the window, spring had barely begun. The trees were just beginning to blossom forth the tender cusps of leaf. There was the occasional creak of the beautiful wood floor that ran the length of the sanctuary.

The church bell chimed breaking the stillness in the air.

Just a few weeks ago, the Reverend Billy Graham’s body had lain in state just feet away from where I sat in the Chatlos Memorial Chapel. In its place now was a long, low table with an exquisite floral arrangement in the center. It was my time to commune with God. The flower in the middle of that grand table caused me to pause.

My mind drifted back to the little country farmhouse on the edge of New Harmony. My grandma Tron’s dimly lit kitchen was quiet. The fading evening light whispered in through the open window. Outside, the kitchen garden spewed forth all manner of color and aroma. Its bouquet of love poured through the threadbare curtains as they danced in the gentle breeze. There was an uneasy silence in the room, save for the only drop of color to be seen; the single white flower placed with care in the cup in the center of the worn table. Outside, the voices of the family coming in from the main staple garden drifted ahead of their beings. Through Ms. Wolf’s gate, then across the pasture, they would trounce, the little ones dancing ahead, chasing butterflies as they ran. Behind them, the elders would come, either carrying buckets of ripe vegetables or pulling wagon loads of produce ready to be canned. Their return was a time of rejoicing and thankfulness. Before long, the empty room would burst forth with laughter, hands of labor, and conversations of so many thoughts and trials.

The light over the ancient table would come on at the flip of the wall switch, and the room would explode with a golden hue. The sagging would floor, precariously covered with well-worn linoleum, would creak under the weight of those entering; none would notice so known was its sound.

As the work was done, the harvest was stored, the bodies would slowly leave. Once the baths were taken and little ones put to rest, the few older parents remaining would gather around the old kitchen table and slowly say goodnight.

In the end, grandma, the last of our family’s eldest, would pause and open the Bible.  Grandpa had gone on to glory many years before. Now it was just her each evening. There under the dim kitchen light, she would read the scriptures that so vividly etched out her life. Looking up, her tired eyes would rest upon that single budding lily. Even now, I can see her smile.

Outside the window, the whippoorwill call would signal the end of another day. From inside the kitchen, the sweet sounds of grandma gently whistling, “Peace in the Valley,” could be heard, joining the nocturnal call of the bird of night.

Nothing could be more serene.

Once more, I was awakened from my vision by the church chimes reminding me it was time to leave.

My commune with God had come to an end for the moment.

In my heart, there is a feeling that I will return.

Thanks be to God.

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by | September 17, 2017 · 8:36 pm

Stumped…

For days, I had passed over it; the unobtrusive, worn maple stump.

The tires of my tractor occasionally bumped into the hard gray knob, but it was low enough that it didn’t impede the progress of the building site. Back and forth, pushing the soft, red dirt with the front-end loader of my tractor the land began to take shape. The ground was slowly beginning to resemble the start of a foundation for the future out-building.

This wasn’t my first.

I can still hear J.W. Parson’s voice telling me, as he grinned from ear to ear, “Boy, you’re married, right?” We had paused between me trying to play the song on my fiddle he had just shown me and the next few minutes when we would begin the painful process once more. The room in which we sat was lit by one weak bulb hanging down from the ceiling. The string that you pulled to turn it off and on with lay draped across its yellow luminance. Around us implements of killing hogs hung on the walls; saws, knives, and axes. Their clean, sharp edges glowed in the dim light. There was an air of reality in J.W.’s out-building that only aged blood on wooden floors can exude. Reno Sharpe and an elderly friend of mine who had tagged along for the evening’s entertainment sat on an empty upturned five-gallon bucket nearby smiling as he probably already knew what was coming.

“Yes sir,” I replied unsure of where this was going.

“You got you an outbuilding to play in?”

“No, not yet.”

He laughed and winked over at Reno.

“Well, you better git to building yourself one if you want to stay married,” which he followed up with a roaring laugh as he slapped his knee. Reno and I joined in, for it was apparent what he meant.

In a matter of speaking, the lack of having a place to practice as a beginning fiddler was my stump back then. Before I could really go further, that outbuilding had to be built. Yet, to become the fiddler I had hoped would take countless hours of isolated study and practice.

Nothing would come easy.

Not long following that evening’s lesson, I began constructing my studio in the barn where for several years my violin would eventually sound more like that of J.W.’s, but never entirely. In that isolated home-away-from-home, we would find a retreat from which music, art, and writing flowed. It was more than just an out-building; it became our sanctuary of sorts.

To begin, it was necessary to take a step back.

That was then, this is now.

Once more, we are beginning again; starting over; seeking to find that special place where we can feel the hand of our Lord reach and speak through us. What we hope to achieve will not be easy. Yet, there is so much for which to be thankful. In this journey of faith, we are constantly reminded of the world we left behind and how we are made anew.

So, once more, we begin again.

From the forest, the opening was carved. The aged, rotting maple seemed an easy target when the trees were selected to be cut. Its stump remained all through the clearing process, never presenting itself an obstacle other than the occasional bump under the tires. It wasn’t until the land was leveled and the string lines were pulled that it became obvious; the stump had to go. The very foundation could not be set without it being completely removed. What once seemed a trivial matter now halted the entire construction process. It seemed nothing more than a grayish-mud splattered annoyance that would be gone in a matter of minutes.

Then reality struck.

When the blade of the scoop began trying to find the outer edges of the root ball, it quickly became apparent, this was a much bigger problem than first imagined. In essence, I was going to have to take a step back even further than imagined in order to extract the now, unavoidable barrier.

Last week, working with the Christian club students, we found a similar reality check.

There again was the stump; one that at first seemed to have little if no consequence in what we were planning. But as we progressed in what we had hoped to achieve; evangelizing the Word of God to the rest of the student body, it became apparent that there was something daunting sitting in the path of our progress; an unavoidable root ball of sorts; fear.

When we began to do more than speak about what we should do as Christians, when we would actually go out and witness to others, it was then that we realized how ill-prepared we really were. The very act of approaching others in order to speak to them about Christ froze our students, stopping their very progression of growth. Like those students, when we try to evangelize to the world around us, some of us quickly find our shortcomings. We hear that voice in the back of our head reminding us, “You are not ready.” It is then obvious, like the tree stump, we must go back to the beginning and start over, learning what we must do to witness as those early disciples.
Digging deep into the earth surrounding the remains of the tree we would begin to hack away at the tenuous arms that held the once massive tree in place. Like membranes of bone, the ancient arms stretched in all directions. Like embedded fears from childhood, our inhibitions to speaking to others about our faith can only be overcome when we remove the restraints we put upon ourselves; our self-imposed root ball. With time, study, and trust in the Lord, our faith will grow until we understand there is no fear in serving Him; for He is with us in all that we do.

The back-breaking work was eventually rewarded this past weekend when the massive root ball gave way. It was an enormous relief. Once the obstruction was gone, the re-leveling of the building site took only a few minutes.
Likewise, the work with the students will take time. It won’t be easy, and at times it will seem as if we can’t win but in the end, the reward we will obtain will be far greater than that of removing even the most stubborn tree stump. Once they have found their confidence, their personal stumps will be gone, leaving the ground from which to build.

Bringing salvation to the lost will be something they, and each of us will never forget, and the heavenly reward will be for all eternity.

Thanks be to God.

“The preparations of the heart in man, and the answer of the tongue, is from the Lord. All the ways of a man are clean in his own eyes; but the Lord weigheth the spirits. Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established. …” – Proverbs 16

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by | September 16, 2017 · 10:27 pm

Wings Like a Dove…

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

Sometimes, these have to be told.

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

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

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

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

There would be no need for the car.

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

There it was, the grand entrance.

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

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

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

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

“You are healed,” He said.

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

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

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

God would welcome me home, just not today.

Thanks be to God.

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by | November 30, 2016 · 9:54 pm

Just a Few Old Memories…

My little body could barely see over the dash of that ancient truck as we rattled across the pasture that cold frosty morning, checking the cows in my grandpa’s herd. Trees stood like stark skeletons along the fence lines guarding against the frozen winds. The ground was covered with a heavy frost that pitter pattered curious mounds of fluffiness from one edge of the field to the next. Below the dusting of white lay grass still green from the summer growing season. It was early winter, and several of the fall calves were struggling with the recent span of bitter weather we’d been having. Grandpa headed the nose of the old Ford slowly into the midst of the herd. As I peered through the side window by breath fogged up the glass causing the cattle beyond to appear as ghostlike images. We were surrounded. The tires made crunching noises on the frozen grass as we carefully pulled ahead. Fearing he might hit one of those massive red and white Hereford bodies, my little hands grabbed the dusty dash bracing myself. To my amazement, the cows parted like clouds passing the peak of a mountain, steady and sure. Mommas with babies in tow, all bemoaning their plight as they slowly moved aside, watched us as we passed. Awestruck with their size, it perplexed me how they could be so easily persuaded to move without any force. Unbeknownst to me, they knew my grandpa and his vehicle well enough that just the sound of him rumbling down the gravel road to the gate would be enough to draw them closer seeking sweet feed or hay. Now, in their midst, surrounding my the heavy breaths seen with each 20140501_181720puff, there was no fear on either side of our consciousness, their or ours.

The familiarity of each was comforting. Like old friends, we felt at ease with one another.

Inside the warm cab of the truck, the smell of leather, sweat, and accumulated oil-covered, diesel-laden rags made for a memory of its own. When the aroma of the cattle surrounded us, the two melded into one forming a panoramic odor unlike any other. The multitude of riches that embraced the senses were too wonderful to forget, the visual, aromatic, and audible.

Grandpa would point to this or that cow and tell me about them, as if quoting from a playbook of their lives and how he might have to do this or that to one of them, none of which made any sense to a four-year-old. All I could understand was that we were “Working the Cows,” as grandma would say, as she proudly shooed us out the back door of their farmhouse as she began to clean up from breakfast and then began preparing the day’s meals. “You men go work the cows, and I’ll have dinner ready for yuins when you get back.” She spoke “Wabash” as we said of folks in that area of southern Indiana. We would eventually return later in the day to rich, tasty smells of freshly baked bread and cakes, along with delectable foods that only now come back to my memory; blessings long passed.

When grandpa had planting or harvesting that would keep him in the fields for hours and days-on-end, grandma would find ways to entertain us. It wasn’t past her to dig up a few fishing worms, throw them into an old Folgers Coffee can, grab a cane pole and then tell me, “Son, let’s go fishing.” We’d walk together hand-in-hand down the lane in front of that old farmhouse to the big pond at the end of what seemed an endless trail. Together, we’d sit on that old wooden dock, bait the hooks, catch the fish, and then joyfully bring back the same coffee can full of bluegill.

One overly productive fishing expedition, Grandma, said we could eat the fish or feed them to the cats. Our coffee can was overflowing with our catch. I looked around at the plethora of cats. None of the feral beasts had ever allowed me to pet them nor to make friends with them. Now all of a sudden, they seemed so helpless. A voice inside me spoke, and immediately I felt the urge to provide for those poor old hungry barn cats, so we opted for feeding the needy instead of worrying about trying to filet the tiny fish. Before the fish hit the ground, the cats had emerged from their hiding spots, blanketing the catch of the day. Within a couple of minutes, the entire feast was devoured. Not one crumb or scale was left behind. My joy was in that moment, watching those cats savor the morsels we had brought home while having had the fun of catching them. Our work had a purpose, and each action was accounted for in the results that awaited.

Lesson after lesson of life played out before me on that farm.

Years later, on the other side of life’s fence, I can look back and see how God had prepared me for the journey. Each snapshot of those moments was special. They taught me everything from interactions with other beings to the frugality of existence. The sheer isolation made you appreciate anything that came to life either live or inanimate. From the round river rock pebbles that made the gravel road to the tall blades of grass in the pasture that grew like a forest in the summer, there was a world of exploration and fascination to keep a young boy entertained for days on end.

But the fondest of all were the times Grandma would read to my from her Bible, often in the evening after the meal was done. Those precious words and stories made me want to know more about this Son of Man called Jesus. I would beg for more, even as I was being tucked into bed for the night, as Grandma kissed me goodnight. There safe and sound in that warm feather bed, I’d drift off to sleep, like in the warmth of the cab of that truck with Grandpa, all cozy and warm. There was a feeling that God was wrapping his arms around me and that there was nothing at all in the world to fear.

Sleep came easily.

Thanks be to God.

 

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by | June 25, 2016 · 9:03 pm

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by | February 26, 2016 · 10:57 pm

Listening with Open Hearts…

“Listen to counsel and receive instruction, That you may be wise in your latter days.”-Proverbs 19:20

Listening.

Something I seek to do more of these days. images4NIA922Q

Yes, hearing those around us speak and sometimes not speak; sometimes the latter being louder than the former.

This past week there were stories so tragic, so heart wrenching that they brought tears to my eyes as my brethren shared them with me. More than once I found myself biting my lower lip in order to retain my composure, often failing to do so in the end. Each one imprinting upon my soul another unforgettable memory; an indelible mark upon my soul.

As we listen, we allow those who are suffering and mourning to share and heal. Yet, sometimes the empathy we want to evoke is more painful that even our own mental capacities can bear. A young mother of two losing her husband, a firefighter, was just one instance. The incomprehensible phone call at one in the morning describing the name of your son having died in a wreck yet another. Wiping away the horror of the reality of the tragic news not being a dream and then realizing there was more than one person by that name in your family, then being unsure, having to ask the question again and again, “Which one, which one?” Then the unexplainable and unbearably painful task of telling a loved one of their precious loss; to a mother, a daughter and her children.

There are days in my life that I wonder why God puts the best people in what seems to be harm’s way. Why do the good die young? Why does God allow evil to remain?

I recalled my grandmother’s words at the wake of my dear cousin Michael, only 21 years of age when he died the horrific death of flowerjarelectrocution. As we sat around her kitchen table, somber, mourning and heartbroken, she sat a single flower in a glass of water in the middle of the table. We watched, not knowing, just looking at an action that seemed methodical in nature not realizing there was a purpose. She looked at the flower a moment and then looked up and then at each of us young children and said these words, “Sometimes God has to pick the prettiest flower in the meadow to use in the master’s bouquet.” Somewhere from above, we could feel Michael smiling down upon us at that moment. Suddenly, we felt a little better.

And still, I continued to listen.

There were stories of tragedies so painful that they haunt their keepers years later. A mother recalled how they had rushed to the scene of the incident to find their son passed. The mystery still surrounding the death, the uncertainty and the cause wrapping themselves around the pain until they are nearly impossible to separate. The brother whose soul is tormented by questioning himself, “If only I had been there with him, if only.” The dreams and visions that followed were almost as difficult to hear as the initial loss. With time, one would think the memories would fade, but when the edge of the sword is sharpened through the pain, the lessons learned are not soon forgotten. With each miraculous tale, there was another thread of hope beginning to emerge, as if a light burning from the darkest recesses of our minds.

And still I listened more.

Through one tale after another, I keep an ear open and want to so badly lift the burden from their shoulders, the darkness from their hearts and the despair from their souls. Yet, to try to do it alone is impossible, for there is only One who is capable and to Him we must call in these times of utter anguish and pain. There is only one that is the light unto men, for we were all once darkness, but now we are light.

Time and time again, I hear good people being dragged through the hell of this world until there seems no hope, no reason to carry on. Yet, I try to remind them, the sword cannot be folded on the Master’s anvil without the heat of the forge, burning, searing the metal of our beings until we can withstand the pounding of His hammer as he reshapes us into the new persons we must become. When we give our lives over to Christ, we must die to our former selves and allow ourselves to be remolded, remade in His image. It is never easy, and it will take everything you have within you to make the transformation.

Imagine as Christ died on the cross, the ultimate physical ravages his body underwent before death welcomed Him into the grave. Yes, death was only temporary, for He was lifted up again in resurrection and now sits at the right hand of the Father Almighty, unto which we all may seek if we only accept Him into our lives and confess with our mouths and believe with our hearts that He died for our sins.

If we knock, the door shall open.

If we listen, He shall speak.

Listening with an open heart and mind.

This is what I seek to do.

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by | February 14, 2016 · 8:34 pm

Deep Dive Discovery…

“The work of righteousness will be peace, And the effect of righteousness, quietness and assurance forever.”-Isaiah 32:17

Deep diving into the depths of time. The feeling of finding something left abandoned for centuries, left to its own, quiet repose in the darkness of the ages. The heart quickens with the turn of each page, with the kick of each flipper, deeper and deeper you plunge. The pressure increases as the breath inside tightens against your chest; time is not a luxury here. TextimagesC0RS0RI5 can disappear with time, purposely destroyed by its enemies, crumbling beneath the touch of the finger or simply being lost in vast, dusty repositories, never to be seen again. The moments beneath the surface can seem the same when there are but precious seconds to find a world foreign, fleeting and yet, intriguing. Each mystery calling your inner child to come and follow, so you push on.

We sought the dark holes that were deep enough to challenge us, yet not so deep that their bottom was beyond our grasp. One such place was “Brown Jug” springs, so called because the shape of the cave that surrounded the flow was like a jug, complete with a spout through which you had to pass in order to reach the entry point of the cave where the water poured forth. The water above the spout made a crystal clear pool surrounded by lush, tropical vegetation. In those days, we had explored many of the springs in central Florida while attending college, so I had become pretty good at free diving. However, Brown Jug would test my endurance and strength.

We had no idea of the force of the flow that exited the spout of the jug, so when my friends and I began to try to enter the jug, we soon learned the pressure of the water exploding out of the jug’s mouth was nearly impossible to push through. Adding additional weights to my wetsuit belt, I paused floating on the surface, took the deep breaths that would sustain me as long as possible and dove for the bottom.

I passed the lip of the spout, its depth about six to eight feet, then flipped past the opening into the body of the jug and suddenly the pressure of the flow ceased; I was out of the current and free to explore.

What awaited me was a marvel that I hopefully will never forget, no camera could capture.

There around me was an ancient cave with all manner of column, boulder and rock formations that created a bewildering array of beauty most would never see. Knowing my time was short, I moved around the perimeter finding the source of the flow, another opening from which millions of gallons of water pulsated, blasting out and beyond the spout that was now many feet above. It was a world I will never forget, a place so alien, yet so God-like in its creation. Too soon, the pangs of oxygen deprivation began to remind me, time was of the essence, and I quickly jumped back into the flow, bursting from the cave floor toward the light of the spout above. My body shot through the jug opening and before I knew it, I was back to the surface, drinking in the air as quickly as my lungs could refill.

I could never fully explain the exhilaration I felt at that moment.

risenJesusLooking back, I can only imagine the possible minute similarity of how the women who found Christ not dead, but alive might have felt at the moment of their discovery. What unimaginable exhilaration of joy, their hearts must have felt as they ran with tears flowing to tell the others, “He is risen, He is risen.” There were not enough words, not enough waving of the hands, not enough time to describe the vision of a risen Christ; each would have to see for themselves. Eventually, those who would never see would be forced to have faith in the unseen, “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, evidence of things unseen.”

Today, the diving continues but in another type of exploration, in another medium.

My search is similar in that what I seek, many have never heard, read, nor seen it, yet it is something that has much greater significance than the bottom of a cave; the true Word of God. As I spend countless hours searching ancient documents, archives and repositories for history’s recorded information of how our ancestors kept the Word of God pure for centuries, it is of utmost importance to show how this word found these mountain people. What once was a goal to provide proof that the people of the valleys were directly connected to the Apostles has now become a much greater quest. Now, there is something greater through which God had intended to use them; to preserve the true Word of God so that mankind’s ability to seek Him would not be controlled nor diverted from the original intent or writings.

This last week, as I prepared for my visit with a grad student, brother Timothy Makin, whose Master’s thesis was on the Textus Receptus or Received Text. I took one more dive the evening before our meeting, to seek out one more document I had inadvertently left open. The book itself was suspect for consisting of some questionable personal interjections. Yet, it had provided some very solid references. So one more push into that unknown before the day ended was all that I sought. As my fingers found the page where my last search had left off, I opened it and wrote down the last footnote to investigate. The pages listed were 17-18. From countless other searches, I quickly found my reliable archive and like the experienced diver, knew I was close but time was ticking. The document successfully loaded and I raced to pages 17-18 and began to read.

Nothing. I almost headed back to the surface for air and to end this madness, but something, a voice if you will, told me to look again.

There was no matching text from which the document had referred to the footnote. Almost dejected I started to surface and then stopped. “Before I leave,” I thought to myself, “what if they got the numbering system wrong,” I said as I quickly turned to the Roman numerals for 17 and 18, xvii and xviii. My eyes followed the text until the familiar words leapt from the screen.

There it was!

I breathed a sigh of relief and came up for air.

“Could this be,” I asked myself. Just to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, I reread the passage and then beyond the point of reference; yes, it was true.

There in the document dedicated to the inquiry of the integrity of the Greek Vulgate or Received Text was the quote that hit me like the exhilaration of that surface experience back at the Brown Jug so many years ago:

“This is a supposition, which receives a sufficient confirmation from the fact, that the principal copies that version have been preserved in that diocese, the metropolitan church of which was situated in Milan. The circumstance is at present mentioned, as the author thence formed a hope, that some remains of the primitive Italick version might be imagesCUN5TW2Tfound in the early translations made by the Waldenses, who were lineal descendants of the Italick Church; and who have asserted their independence against the usurpations of the Church of Rome, and have ever enjoyed the free use of the Scriptures. In the search to which these considerations have led the author, his fondest expectations have been fully realized. It has furnished him with the abundant proof on that point to which his Inquiry was chiefly directed; as it has supplied him with the unequivocal testimony of a truly apostolic branch of the primitive church, that the celebrated text of the heavenly witnesses was adopted in the version which prevailed in the Latin Church, previously to the introduction of the modern Vulgate.”-Dr, Fredrick Nolan, 1815, “An Inquiry into the Integrity of the Greek Vulgate or Received Text of the New Testament.”

Suddenly, the world became a little brighter and the week’s weariness was gone.

There in his own words, Dr. Nolan had said that the Waldensians were the remains of the original primitive church, a direct lineal descendent of the people who kept and translated the Textus Receptus from the Greek Vulgate.

Wow.

Not only did I have another confirmation of the Apostolic connection, but now there was something much greater sitting before me; a connection also to the true unadulterated Word, the Textus Receptus, or Received Text through which Dr. Nolan had found proof of our ancestral ties to the lineage of the primitive church of the wilderness.

Although I had never met brother Timothy before, the following day’s meeting with him and his colleagues and subsequent sharing of information about what we have researched and discovered were more than abundantly rewarding. His work is a brilliant piece of study, education and research that is verse by verse showing the proof of purity in the Textus Receptus and how it can only be the True Word of God from which all other interpretations should be taken, and nothing less.

There are still many pages to read, still many references to study. My work is far from over, but with each new discovery comes the hope that the work we do will somehow provide others with a firmer foundation and appreciation for the Truth. Perhaps, this truth will become important enough that there will be a reckoning of faith so that those that have strayed may see the need for preserving His Word. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory.” If nothing else, we must realize, the Word is Jesus and to that end, it’s purification must mean something.

My time here is but short, but the journey I travel has so much more meaning now. Those deep dives are becoming more and more rewarding and someday, the glorious reunion with our Heavenly Father will be one from which we shall shout from the mountain tops with exhilaration.

In everything we do, we must exalt Him and he will surely direct our paths.

One dive and one step at a time.

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by | January 18, 2016 · 10:00 pm

What’s Within…

We’ve hunkered down for the long cold spell ahead, or at least for the next couple images4DDAQKHDweeks. We are facing some of the harshest weather we’ll likely see all winter. Instinctively, we find comfort in the minute details, the planning, research and review of the past and future events.  Today, my daughter and I spent most of the day in the tiny office of the Trail doing just that. Sheltered by the warmth of the heater nearby, we worked independently of one another on separate projects. Every now and then we’d come up for air and share in the moment, sometimes joking, sometimes peeking at the other’s work.

Outside, the wind chill made the air feel like single digit temperatures.

Many places around the world share these cold, bone-chilling climates, we are not alone.

This time of year, in Triberg Germany, the ancient customs of long, bitter winters have created a global niche; the Coo-Coo Clock capital of the world. Forced to remain indoors for long periods of time in their tiny mountain chalets, the woodworkers of old would turn their talents inward, creating tiny cogs, wheels, and artifacts that would make amazingly entertaining timepieces. Through their one-of-a-kind artistry, their mountain traits, customs, and lifestyles would be portrayed in what they produced; all because they sought to stay warm within their remote mountaintop homes.

Outside I could see the wind blowing the tree branches. Part of me could almost feel the chill run up my spine. I shivered inwardly and returned to my work.

Inside, there was more than the physical warmth, it was a feeling of being with someone you loved, as any parent knows, the unconditional love of a father for his son or daughter. For a few moments today, we were back in the studio of my barn, painting, and drawing on our own artwork. Nearby, the old woodstove provided the woodsy aroma of fire along with the heat that kept the freezing winds outside at bay. My favorite painting music would be softly playing in the background; Alan Jackson, Gibson Brothers, Balsam Range, Mountain Heart, Dailey and Vincent and many more. Outside, in the barnyard, the cows would be working on the latest hay bale, and then finding a warm, comfortable spot to lie down and ruminate. A rooster would crow now and then to remind us of the world beyond as the wind might rattle a loose piece of tin to confirm.

Up in the studio, we’d lost track of time until either our stomachs would remind us of the hour or the day would turn into twilight and we’d have to find the lamps to turn in order to see. Someone would grab another log and pitch into the stove, maintaining the red-hot furnace in the corner of the room. We’d take little breaks and warm our backsides to the heat, waiting until you couldn’t stand it any longer then jumping away before your skin caught fire; a warmth that would reach down into your bones.

There was a gentleness to those memories; too far and few between to come to expect.  Rather, those were once in a great while treasures that were separated by long painful stretches of third shift work that tore my body and mind to pieces, leaving shards of my being along the rocky path. Sometimes, the mere thought of those precious memories were all that kept me going.

Thankfully, the long, arduous, painful stretches of third-shift are over. Once again, we are slowly finding time to be together to revisit those almost forgotten feelings of kindred spirit. Once again, I’m able to be the father that I almost wasn’t.

The Bible speaks of how we are to teach our children in the way, “You shall teach them to your children, speaking of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way when you lie down, and when you rise up.” -Deut. 11:19 But if when we are absent, they are left to seek Him of their own accord. Too many times, they become the victims of our best intentions; to make more money so that we can shower them with all their needs.

Sadly, we lose sight of what they need most, which is precisely what we fail to give them; ourselves.

We still await the sale of that farm and our precious studio loft in the barn.

Meanwhile, we take with us the most precious piece of that experience, …ourselves.

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by | January 17, 2016 · 11:07 pm

For Randy…

Fifty-three.

Those were the years that spanned my friend’s life.12573029_10156478826155083_6433158367040704776_n

Too soon he left us, too soon we had to say our final farewell; at least on this side of heaven.

We have only the moment now in which to live. None of us are guaranteed a tomorrow.

As I reflect back on the few times that I was blessed to be in Randy’s presence, I can recall the joy he shared and how you came away feeling better, no matter the circumstance.

It was very evident early on, Randy was a brother in Christ.

I first met Randall “Randy” Lee Shumaker at the Denton Bluegrass Festival one blustery May. He welcomed me into a circle of pickers and from there our friendship continued to grow. We often sat during late evenings around the campfire sharing stories, or around the table sharing meals; fellowship like none other. I learned that he had been diagnosed with cancer in 2008 and had only been given a few months to live. It seems from that point on, Randy chose to live each day as if it were his last.

It is not uncommon at bluegrass festivals to hear a jam session last until the sun begins to rise. Randy jammed long and hard the first few years at the festival, long past my bedtime. I would rise early and find Randy up ahead of me, trying to catch the first rays of the sunrise coming up over a nearby pond. Sometimes, I’d awake to find him already returning from the fishing hole or up and gone, never wasting a minute of his day. I was also aware as time progressed, so did his cancer and so did his fervent attempt to ward off the inevitable.

Randy and I kept in touch off and on apart from the bluegrass festival. He was a devoted father and grandfather. He was part of the Second Chance Bluegrass Band and had written a beautiful song, Bend in the Road, which had been inspired by another band member that had died of cancer and a book of the same name by Dr. David Jeremiah. Randy and the band performed it at a contest held at the festival one year and one first place. As I watched the video once more after his passing, I couldn’t help feel that Randy knew that someday, we’d be watching him sing about himself. During that day’s performance, they also sang a inspiring version of, “There is a God.” As I sat and listened again and again, part of me felt Randy was already there watching and smiling in acknowledgment; yes, there certainly is.

God gives gifts to some of us; some more than others. What we choose to do with those are up to us, but sometimes you find someone that shares them and themselves so openly, so warmly that you can’t help feel good about knowing them; this was by brother in Christ.

I remember vividly one bright morning at the festival. Randy had been through a rough night. Sleep was difficult, even in his own bed at home, but the camper bed was making life miserable. However, he chose not to dwell on the negative but rather pushed on, through the pain. When I met him that morning, he was up early, demanding more of what might be his last trip. He greeted me cheerfully with a “Great is the day the Lord hath made,” to which we both replied, “Let us be glad and rejoice in it.” We both laughed and shook hands.

He shared with me that he had debated coming that year but knew there might not be another.

Sadly, my family and I weren’t able to return this past year. Sadly, I didn’t get to see my friend one last time, at least not on this side of Glory.

From a distance, I watched as time progressed and he began to weaken. The final days were hardest of all to watch. There was a poignant moment when a post arrived on FB. His son Caleb was sworn in by the local Police department, in Randy’s own home complete with the mayor and police chief in attendance, something that obviously took a lot of planning and change of procedures, but then again, this was for a man that touched so many lives in a positive way that it was not unimaginable; this was the Randy I knew. This was just more confirmation of what so many already had realized.

Randy taught me many things but one thing he shared most of all, live each day to its fullest in your walk with God.

Too soon my friend, too soon.

Warm up the band, get that mansion for Ms. Kelly ready, for someday we’ll meet you just inside the Eastern gate.

Love you brother.

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by | January 11, 2016 · 8:34 pm

In Our Midst…

Another day of sharing, growing and belief in all that we do.jesus

There was barely time to reflect on the previous week when another one began. There is no greater joy in ministry than when you get time to fellowship with others of like minds. Yes, there are other times when you are helping others different than ourselves, those who need our help to know the way, the truth and the light; they are important. But then there are times when you can speak as freely and deeply as you want with others and for a few moments, life passes by more quickly than is necessary.

Today was another one of those.

However, before I can expound upon today, let me share with you something of note that happened last week, something that was yet another one of those God-moments.

We had planned on working as a group taking down Christmas lights early on in the week but due to weather and illnesses, most of our staff was unable to be there. As foul weather rolled in, we hunkered down and worked on the things we had put off until this time of year. Like the old time settlers, we turn our focus inward taking on tasks that make us grow mentally and prepare for the future. I had begun working on a proof paper, something that I could take and share with those who may question our ability to reference our Waldensian connection back to the time of the Apostles. The research and study are as much fun as they are challenging. Not only do I get to dig back into archives centuries old, but I also get to reference points in scripture that correlate to those ancient events; a win, win either way. The investigative research and study hours flew by and before I realized it, Thursday was staring us in the face.

Yes, it was time once more to get back to taking down and putting away the lights.

However, many of our volunteers were still down with ailments. So, when Thursday morning arrived, there was only going to be three of us able to perform the work necessary for at least four grown men. Desperate for help, a thought came to mind of a young man that had contacted me on FB about possibly being part of the Trail when he graduated college. Knowing he had just graduated and moved back to the area, I messaged him with a plea for assistance early Thursday morning and sent up a small prayer for help; I had nothing to lose.

We began our work and were just about to try to tackle the most difficult part with one man down when suddenly, into the drive pulled the new grad, Chilo. I thanked the Lord for answering prayer. As Chilo walked up, I thanked him for coming and shook his hand. He replied, “Good to see you once more.” We were in the heat of battle, so to speak, so I let the comment go without question as we rushed to our positions and began lowering the heavy towers. From there, we worked as a team, as if we had known one another for many years, and continued to fellowship as we went. Lunchtime arrived and our stomachs were yelling for attention, so Chilo and I took our reprieve at the local pizza parlor. As we sated our hunger, Chilo asked what brought me to the Trail of Faith. I asked had he not heard the testimony, “No,” he replied. So I began sharing the story of prayers answered, the trail of faith of my own, one that began with the spiritual awakening. As I watched the clock, I realized we would have to get back to the Trail, so we reconvened the story while we continued to work on bringing down more archways along the pathway of the Trail. There I began to share with him the point of the story where I had begun to evangelize through my book. In the back of my mind, I had still continued to search for the “why” or “how” of his initial statement of, “Glad to see you once more.” As if we needed confirmation, there suddenly in the parking lot looking lost was stood a young man. I paused our conversation and walked toward him to ask him if I might help him. He had not driven up, like I said, he had just appeared. As I approached him, he turned toward me and I somehow felt I knew him from someplace before. He said he was just looking around and thought he’d stop in. I asked him if we had met before. He looked at me with a puzzled face and then smiled, “Why yes,” he replied, “at the book signing you had at the library here in town two years ago.

My mind raced back and recalled the young man. He had asked many questions as if he was searching that day for something greater than just the story I shared. At this point, most people are asked to enter through the visitor center and encouraged to take the guided or self-guided tour. However, there was a feeling of this moment, this person, this exact time in my testimony he had appeared as if on cue.

God doesn’t mess around.

Knowing how the Trail has become a calling for many, some without knowing, I began to ask him if he had ever seen the inside of the church. As we all walked toward the temple, I began to ask him if he might need prayer today. He nodded that he might. I unlocked the doors and then began to share a bit of what the church and our ancient faith was about. We took our seats in the front of the church. I explained to him how there was something missing and asked him to look around and see what it might be. Both he and Chilo searched and then realized, there was no cross. I then began to explain what the most important thing to those ancient people of the valleys, yes, the very thing they lived and died to protect; the Word of God.

I then looked at our visitor and asked him if there was anything troubling him, anything in his life that might need prayer. He began to choke up as he began speaking in a hushed tone about his mother who was ailing. He had lost his job and was forced to move back in with his parents. It was obvious God had sent him for a purpose this day. We then combined together to say a prayer, all three of us, who a mere 24 hours before would have no idea we would be there in the church this day, praying together in unison.

We closed our prayer and walked out of the church, saying our goodbyes, but welcoming him back whenever he felt the need.

Suddenly the afternoon took on a whole new light.

It was then, the question of why Chilo had introduced himself as saying, “Good to see you once more,” came back to mind. I asked him, how he could say that and where we might have met. He replied that it was during the Waldensian festival three years ago when I had been evangelizing through my book.

Sometimes you know God is watching and then sometimes you know he is surely in our midst; yes, it was one of those moments. Both men had been with me at a point in my life exactly when we had been interrupted in my testimony, by not only one but two witnesses to my story.

Yes, we serve an awesome God!

From there on, it was if Chilo and I had found an ancient tie, one that distance, space or ancestry could not break; our faith in Jesus Christ. While we may not have agreed 100% on all things, we felt a common bond and by the end of the afternoon, I found I kept having to urge him to keep track of his time for fear he was forgetting as did I, for I had a doctor’s appointment that I nearly forgot had it not been for my dear wife calling to remind me.

Yes, time evaporated, leaving us with only memories of our existence with one another.

Today, the fellowship was the same. I met pastor McDevitt of Morganton First Church of God for lunch and it was one of those experiences where you become so wrapped in the conversation that the food’s importance in front of you diminishes to the point it becomes an obstacle. I love those times with brothers and sisters in Christ that allow your heart to open up and something is moved, ideas are formed and future bonds are created. It’s a walk I’ve come to be blessed with more and more.

Godly fellowship can make time disappear, yet our faith is emboldened and we grow together in our walk with God. I am eternally thankful for the position the Lord has placed me and know that time will pass, but as we grow and age, there are many things that build character and strengthen our faith; these are the things we must continue to embrace and lift up each day, sharing with those around us as much as our lives will allow.

Another day, another walk on the Trail.

Thanks be to God in all that we do.

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