Tag Archives: love

by | March 6, 2013 · 9:46 am

Too Much Thought for a Simple Mind…

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

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

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

Answer: We cannot do it alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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by | March 3, 2013 · 5:31 pm

An Insight to Inspiration

Sometimes I wonder from where or what my next source of inspiration might originate. As was the case in one scene in my recent book, “Bruecke to Heaven”, I had the image appear to me in my mind, a vision if you will. Instead of writing about what I saw, I first drew it out in my little black sketchbook journal that I carry almost everywhere I go. I have included it here along with the passage that it inspired.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so may you find these words be an inspiration.

Enjoy…
2012-01-06 02.32.55-1

An Excerpt from Chapter 31 of “Bruecke to Heaven”: “Last Breath”

Marik stood before an ancient tree, twisted and curved from centuries of exposure to extreme elements, fighting for every ounce of survival. Its bark was nearly gone. It was mostly gray-white flesh of wood, cracked and barren, looking more like old bones than wood. It sat atop the small group of boulders on the high pass like a sentinel, watching, waiting.

The clouds washed overhead, gray, with snow blowing lightly. He could not feel the cold; he could not feel the anguish. He stood numb, watching, looking for any sign of life. There were only a couple small branches on an outstretched limb that contained the remnants of leaves—tiny breaths of color in a stark landscape where life seemed void.

He tried to move toward it but was held captive in his place, by what he could not tell. He again forced movement but could do nothing. He could see the cold. His breath exhaled in small puff s of white that quickly flew from his face, chasing the clouds.

Suddenly trace amounts of moisture started to ooze from the tree, at first appearing as dark stains on the bleached bones. Then there were obvious signs of wetness as the cracks became rivulets of tiny streams running down the face of the tree onto the rocks below.

He watched as the tree wept.

The wind now wailed over the ridge, snow blowing sideways. The wailing became a sob as he could hear the voice of his wife screaming for the pain to stop. He was back in the room, close in the darkness, save for the lamp by the bed that shone upon the sweat-drenched body of the young woman. The birth was near, but her small frame could not handle the delivery. Each push sent her one step closer to the end until the wail became two. Then there was but one.

He felt the helplessness of the moment wash over him again.

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by | February 27, 2013 · 12:00 am

Up and Down the Mountain…

2013-02-23 22.16.51It occurred to me this past weekend as I watched my children repeatedly ski down the mountain how much we try to intentionally incorporate the unknown into our lives of normalcy. We purposely pay others to allow us to throw ourselves into chaotic circumstances from whence we knowingly might emerge unharmed; yet possibly not, thus the thrill.

Sitting in the ski lodge watching people come and go, it soon became apparent as the day wore on, that the flushed haggard faces were from people who had taken risks, forced themselves into the momentary windswept thrill of racing headlong down a mountain, all for the sake of fun; nothing more. There was no reason for their plight, nothing gained, only the momentary pleasure that the rush of adrenaline created. Had it been another place and time, the faces could have easily been of those victims of the many global conflicts, who might have barely escaped being captured by enemy combatants in a war torn region of the world. Or, they could have been people who narrowly escaped death from the onrushing Tsunami that engulfed their home, now running for their lives to higher ground. Or, they could have been people fleeing for their lives from wild fires that had engulfed entire communities this past summer in one of the worst wildfire summers in recent history.

2013-02-23 22.02.51But no, these were weekend warriors; folks who were simply out for the fun of that feeling of whisking along with nothing between you and danger other than your ability to remain upright and the skill it takes to maneuver through a myriad of skiers and collective snowboarders scattered down the mountainside.

I know, I’ve been there too.

Yes, I have to confess; last year I tried my hand at skiing for the first time ever. Up until the point the slopes became too icy for safety’s sake, I was actually having fun tempting fate. I was there to escort my children, who were pretty much escorting me by the end of the night; it was their first time too. However, late into the night with the progressively worsening conditions, I decided to take one last shot down the double black diamond called the “Orchard Run” I realized my luck could have easily run out.

The slopes that night had become increasingly icy and with time, had become more and more difficult to stop. In fact, even the easier slopes were becoming so “fast” that you had to snowplow (turning both toes inward in order to stop your progress downhill) all the way down just to maintain a manageable speed. For some reason, my son and I decided, even with the knowledge of the ice, that we would try one of the most difficult runs at the ski resort we were visiting. We had already successfully made it down this run before, but now unbeknownst to us, it was nothing but a pure sheet of ice. Regardless, we were there to tempt fate, and so we took off from the ski lift with the anticipation of one more adventure; one last run.

The initial section was pretty much as it had been before. My son took a slight spill just after leaving the ski lift, which should have been a sign. Still, we continued on. It was not far from there on the first curve heading down the mountain that I realized I was already going too fast. It was one of those times when you think to yourself, “Now what was I thinking?” It quickly became quite obvious, this was a mistake. As all attempts to halt the increasing speed became apparent, I felt my legs doing everything they could to maintain control and not buckle under the increased force that the speed of flight was creating. The moment I became airborne off of one of the little jumps that I had managed to miss the first time, but due to the increased speed, could not this time, I knew the end was near. As my body prepared for impact, I knew that nothing good was going to come of this. I tried to imagine the pain I would encounter as bone, tendon and muscle became ripped apart from the fateful impact that was about to take place. The first thing that hit was my face, as the rest of my body quickly followed. It was a blinding tumultuous crash that ensued as gravity, speed and ice all combined to continue my unmanned flight down the mountainside, at nearly the same speed I had managed to obtain at the peak of my airborne flight. Seconds later, I lay in a motionless pile of snow, ice and anticipation. I hesitantly began feeling for that first impulse of pain that would lead to the trip to the emergency room; nothing came. I felt my face where I took the initial impact, no blood? As I slowly took inventory as I regained my senses, it became apparent, I had been spared.skiing

I slowly got to my feet and regained my footing, repositioned my helmet and goggles, and with as much dignity as I could manage, headed down the remainder of the slope. My ski trip had just officially ended, and I was thankful to be able to walk away, in one piece. I met up with my son at the bottom of the slope shortly afterward. He made it safely down without incident but was concerned for my well being. He was relieved to see me again, as I was him; both of us none the worse for wear.

As I reflect back on that uneventful plight, I realized that the risk I took was not the kind of enjoyment in life I really wanted. There was no gain, no measure of significant advancement that might cause lasting joy or memory other than knowing I had survived something which wasn’t necessary to survive to start with.

I know what it is to have fun, but then again, I know what it is to take foolish chances.

preachingYet, every day somewhere in the world, someone is performing mission work or preaching the Word where it is forbidden, taking chances to go places to serve others all in the name of God our Father. For these risks, one can be justified in knowing that, “He who is in you is greater than he who is in the world.” – 1 John 4:4 Perhaps, as weekend warriors, we also prepare the path for the day we are called to do greater works, so that we will fear less because of what we have already faced on our own.

I think with age, we come to realize what is more important in life. The fun things become more spiritual in nature, living the thrills to our youth. The old adage, “You’re only as young as you feel,” should have an appendage attached from wisdom that says, “As long as you’ve got feeling left in your body.” No need to risk losing mobility when there is much more life to live.

I believe from now on I’ll take the slow lane; just the ski lift please…nothing more.

.

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by | February 18, 2013 · 11:23 pm

Goliath and the Free Radical

goliathToday I had the feeling my life is becoming a “Free Radical”.

The book definition of a “Free Radical” is this: “Free radicals are a byproduct of normal cell function. When cells create energy, they also produce unstable oxygen molecules. These molecules, called free radicals, have a free electron. This electron makes the molecule highly unstable.” About.com Health: Longevity.

It started when I took the family with me on another God inspired mission as part of my book’s ministry. For some reason, I felt led to put my “Feet on the Pavement” and walk into some of the largest churches in our capitol city of Raleigh today.

Since last Friday my brain seems to have been set on fire. Although I had a good recuperation on Saturday, I seemed to have picked up where it left off starting on Sunday. When Monday rolled around, I was ready to make things happen. I couldn’t wait on those phone calls that weren’t being returned, I couldn’t wait on those emails that weren’t being replied too; something had to give. So, we drove into the “Big” city of Raleigh North Carolina.

As we turned the curve to enter the downtown area, the skyline is visible in a distant view, making it look like “A cardboard cut-out” as my son put it. He thought the scene before him looked “fake” but realized it would soon become quite real. The analogy was the same as I went down my list of churches that I had quickly searched before we left home. There, standing before us once we had found our parking spot, were some of the largest churches in North Carolina; some of them a full city blocks in size. Needless to say, I was beginning to doubt my aspirations. My children were simply in awe of the multi-story office buildings. They have never been to a city larger than Raleigh before, so to them, these were their skyscrapers. I had been in large churches before, but not for a purpose or reason I was searching them out today. It seemed I was David and they were the Goliath.

Before we began, I felt the need to regroup, so we headed to the Museum of History where we all took a brief restroom break and I called the offices of the churches on my list, checking to see if it would be okay for me to just drop in. All the secretaries I spoke with were very kind and welcoming; however, after speaking with them it was apparent, there would be nobody I would meet face-to-face today. I would simply be dropping off a copy of my book. I expected this and was obliged. I realize there are many complexities when running a large corporation-size church and to simply take someone’s book who walked in off the street and distribute it to your congregation is far more complicated than a simple review of said book. There are committee approvals, staff reviews and in some cases, institutional reviews required. In some instances, the church might only allow what is sold through its publishing house; thus are the intricacies of corporate Theology.

I’ve talked to people who’ve gone to such institutions and most of them have described how they felt like a “number” at times since there are so many people in attendance. Surprisingly, most of the time they are happy with that; meaning, they don’t feel like they owe anything beyond what they dropped into the collection plate. That spiritual high they felt last Sunday was all part of the show, and that’s it.

For some reason, I’m not wired to accept that. My electron has been pushing the outer edge of its orbit for some time now.

So when I finally found the open door to these monolithic institutions, it was no surprise when we met the secretaries on duty, they said pretty much what I had expected. The people who made the decisions were either not here or would require a multi-level approval before anything would be considered. I was very thankful to each of them. After all, I was thankful just to be allowed to enter into their offices and leave a copy. If I had tried to email, write or mail a hard copy of my book, I wouldn’t have known whose hands or what department it might have landed in, if at all. So as I left each beautiful sanctuary of faith, I felt somewhat successful.

Yet, there was a new feeling of old I hadn’t expected; an ancient memory.

Here I was, a humble fledgling author, led by God to write a book I had never expected to pen, searching out institutions that had been years, even centuries in the making. Their vast resource libraries and highly educated theological staffs were so much greater than what I represented, in my mind, that I felt as small and irrelevant as did my children walking down the street between buildings that reached high into the blue cloudless sky.

My thoughts raced back to the time of my ancestors and suddenly it hit me.

They too would have had the same sense of being so insignificant when compared to the Holy Roman Catholic church; the same church who forbid them to preach the Gospel on their own. However, unlike them, I was not in fear for my life; I was merely looking at possibly only wasting an afternoon, not losing my life. Yet, the similarity of the massive institution, so large that it had to succumb to legalities, formalities and rites of passage required from years of applied perceptions and beliefs that it could not accept one man’s ministry of its own merit, regardless if it met all biblical teachings and beliefs relevant to the institution for which they represented. Time had come full circle and I was now facing the Goliath of my ancestors.

As we drove home after enjoying a wonderful home-cooked meal from the State Farmer’s Market Restaurant, I reflected on the journey we had just taken. I had but for a fleeting moment experienced a similar feeling as those long ago Waldensians. My experience was only a fraction of what they struggled through for multiple generations, each one passing on to the other the Word of God and their burning desire to evangelize to the world around them. Each passing day, I feel the need to do more, more than is expected. I feel the reigns of the institution I currently call home falling away and my release, my “Free Radical” moment becoming a reality.

Where I am going, if anywhere?

I don’t know. I’m going to leave that to the one who sent me to Raleigh today. After all, he was there when David slew the giant. I know he’ll be there when my day comes as well.

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by | February 17, 2013 · 12:03 am

A Vision, A Meteor

meteprIn the fullness of life, we all hope to know of God’s glory. When he speaks we yearn to hear. Today as I watched the silent snow falling in flakes as large as feathers, I couldn’t help to wonder of the heavenly glory that awaits us all. The quiet precipitation from the skies above, like letters from angels, put into our midst so that we may read their messages; if only we would take the time to do so. This past week, a momentary lapse in time afforded me the opportunity to do just that.

Hindsight is always twenty-twenty; once we step through those moments in time that were life-changing events, positive or negative, we can then see more clearly what led up to and were subsequent results of those moments. So it was, this past week on my way to work that I now realize there was something greater than I could know weighing on my heart. What I thought was as a sense of depression was probably more of an eminent doom, which again, I could not know at the time.

I often have time to reflect on my life’s journey on my hour long commute to and from work. I sometimes find myself driving through nightfall or the impending dusk. This seemingly eternal darkness can cause even the mildest thoughts of despair to easily become amplified beyond their true nature. Something inside me kept pushing my thoughts toward the “Why” of it all that night, until I was resolute to justify my existence purely for the sake of my children, nothing more. It was then I began to think of ways in which death might greet me.

Sitting at the stop light at the corner of Old Jenks Rd. and Highway 55, I had the sudden image flash into my mind; one of how death could be so sudden, it might seem preposterous. I was the third car in line at the red light, sitting in the left turn lane. Suddenly from above came a brilliant light, then a roaring flame followed by the sound of an explosion as what had been the first car at the light, a small SUV, immediately disappeared from sight as a cloud of smoke and flame erupted. The car directly behind it caught fire as the blast from the meteor’s impact shook all of our cars, igniting the second car. The driver, a man of Asian descent, jumped from his car running away, screaming in a mixed English-Hindi accent, “My God, my car is on fire, somebody help!” Shrapnel from the blast flew into the second car and then into mine. The mirror from the driver’s side of the second car flew into mine, glancing harmlessly off my window, leaving only a slight chip in the glass. The impact from the blast rocked all of our cars. Few pieces of the first car existed beyond the small crater that it had become from the weight of the meteor’s impact.

Stunned yet aware of the magnitude of the moment, I realized there was nothing I could do. “The people or person in the first car should have been me,” was my first thought. Whomever or whoever they were no longer mattered other than those they had left behind could take solace from the fact a death like theirs could have only been heaven sent. The odds of dying from the impact of a meteor are so small; you could certainly consider it a way for God to call you home.

I knew that the first responders would be on the scene soon. The man in the second car who had escaped with only minor injuries now stood off to the side of the road. I could see him standing there talking on his cell phone, illuminated by the glow from his burning car and the street lights that had not been blown out by the blast force of the impact. My car, although shaken, was none the worse for wear. Realizing there wasn’t much I could do at this point, knowing that this place would soon become a media spectacle and anyone remaining might be tied up for hours reliving the horrible experience, I turned my car and began to drive around the disaster scene.

The traffic on Highway 55 was stopped; some people were standing outside of their cars with their cell phones out taking video of the scene while others talked frantically into their devices, all probably sharing the event with others. I easily drove through the light, which was now green, luckily for me. I watched as I pulled away, the smoldering remains of an SUV, a life that was now gone; gone in the blink of an eye. A life that was just living another day, now gone forever; it could have been me, yet it wasn’t; “God doesn’t miss,” I told myself as I continued to drive away, watching from my rearview mirror.

Blue lights began to fill the sky over the horizon, as my car slowly made its way, putting distance between myself and the scene of the disaster that never happened. Nobody would know that I had been there, and then again, it never happened anyhow, so it didn’t matter.

Somehow, my sense of depression felt better.

Later that evening, I recalled the near-miss vision I had with a co-worker. He sat raptly listening to me tell of the scene, with all the detail of a true event. When I was done, it replied that I had quite the imagination.

We left it at that.

A few hours into Friday morning I overheard someone speaking about Russia. We were still tied up with the job we had started earlier in the night and couldn’t break away. It was a few moments later that the co-worker I had told the story to earlier in the night came up to my desk, somewhat shaken, asking me, “Did you just hear the news from Russia?”

“No, what are you talking about,” I asked, watching my computer screen from the corner of my eye; I was hesitant to take my attention away from my task at hand.

He cleared his throat, trying to capture my full attention, which he did, “There was a meteor that hit Russia just a few minutes ago. Nearly 1,000 people have been injured.” He stood there looking at me, as if he had just seen a ghost, or someone that might have known too much before its time. I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath, “my Lord,” was all I could say.

“You just told me your crazy story, and now this,” he replied, as if repeating it might somehow make it disconnect.

“What are the odds of that,” I asked, somewhat rhetorically?

We both stared in awed silence as our minds tried to grasp the reality of what was.

Even tonight as I write this story, to retell the events of Friday morning, I still cannot help to feel that when God speaks, and if we listen, there are endless possibilities. How we react to them is up to us. Sometimes, if we are fortunate enough, we listen and act.

Friday was mostly a blur of activity after that event. I was already short of sleep before Friday, but after hearing of the news from Russia, my mind was on fire. I would not sleep again until late Friday night. There was so much I had to do, to see and to discuss. It was as if a real meteor had struck in my own life and the spirit of the Lord was on fire within me.

I don’t know what will happen, what will change or what might be altered from all the wonderful things I experienced Friday but one thing I know for sure.

It all started with a vision at a stop light…and I listened.

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by | January 11, 2013 · 3:45 pm

What We Least Expect Sometimes is the Greatest Reward…

ToddNC2Most of the time I feel like the least of the writers in our writing group, the Inkspot’s of GUMC, not that I expect to be great from being the least, as Jesus was saying in the scripture of Luke. Rather, I feel like the least qualified to be writing in a room filled with such wonderful authors.

This past week we took turns reading from our recent writings and everyone seemed to be absolutely wonderful, save for mine.

Thomas read from two book reviews he is doing as part of his PhD studies. Both of the books he was required to read, “Pastoral Theology” and “Open Secrets,” he had the good fortune of having the authors as professors while attending Duke Divinity College. I was impressed to hear as he read aloud at the depth of knowledge he had acquired over time both from not only constantly reading and studying the Word of God, but also from his literary skills as a writer. More than once I had to take notes from what I heard. We learned of the pressures of the daily grind of pastoral work which was exemplified by the statement when he labored over being human when he was supposed to appear as he put it, “Cloaked in a mystery of divinity.” We also learned of Wesley’s Quadrilateral philosophy of scripture, tradition, experience and reason. Wesley believed scripture was the most important but as Thomas pointed out, today we are finding people more inclined to use experience as their base instead of scripture. In all, it was very enlightening and educational.
>ToddNC
Next, Sherry Thornburg read from a story she had written about living in Todd, NC. I believe she called it, “The House Across the Creek.” It was quite a heart-warming story, which took you back in time. At first hearing the name of the story I was taken to Cross Creek Florida, but then that is another story.
Sherry told the story of how she grew up in a four room house in Todd next to Elk Creek. As she read her story, I closed my eyes and could see myself growing up alongside her there in Todd. She talked of how they played house, play acted and even performed on the foot log that spanned Elk creek from their home side to the general store side of the creek. The bridge was their stage and the creek was their audience. A large buckeye tree anchored one side of the foot bridge with a log chain, which kept it from washing away when the creek would get up. Sitting there listening to her read her story I was taken back in time growing up in New Harmony, Indiana at my grandma Tron’s house. There, we too played in the yard and around the farm in similar fashion. We never had a beautiful rushing stream flowing by our front porch as did Sherry, but we had lush green pastures rolling by instead, against the backdrop of the hills that made up the vast forest that bordered the Wabash river which ran past our little town of New Harmony.

Although we were worlds apart in distance, we shared the similar experience of a Spartan existence in our rural lives, cherishing the fond memories of a time gone by when life moved at a different pace, one we too often fail to recognize in our hurriedly rushing lives today.

As she closed, the words she spoke from the pages she had written brought forth emotions, the heart strings that make us who we are. The stories within when spoken often become stronger than we had imagined without forming the words through our lips to be spoken. Once their sounds escape and come back to us through our own ears, we sometimes are overwhelmed with the magnification of feelings previously thought insignificant.
farmhouse
After Sherry read it was Laverne’s turn. He never ceases to impress us with stories from his past, all bringing forth similar recollections as did Sherry’s story; taking us all back in time. However, unlike usual, Laverne had written a poem. It wasn’t limerick in nature, rather, more of a prose, but the story it told was so rich with imagery it couldn’t help but touch your heart.

Laverne talked about past loves and a large Sycamore tree under which he had spent many hours as a youth. Being small in size, he often had prayed for God to either make him large or to give him courage. The latter, he found, was eventually how he was blessed. Over time, sitting under his Sycamore tree there in the middle of the pasture, he had carved the names of many a girlfriend while spending hours looking up at the heavens wondering how his life would someday turn out. Recently when recovering from heart surgery, he was lying in the hospital bed and reflecting back on his life and somewhat bothered about how it might all end. He realized he was becoming agitated, so he tried to find a way to calm himself. His Sycamore tree came to mind and the shade of the great labyrinth of limb and leaf began to shelter him once more. In his mind he was once more seeing the great trunk of the tree, the carved names, the beauty of the place he knew so well, comforting him and relaxing him to the point he realized he had nothing to worry about; it was all in God’s hands. I can imagine sitting under Laverne’s tree, which is no longer there, looking out at the fields spreading away from you, reaching to the tree-lined horizon. There is a certain calming affect one can take away from such a place; a refuge, a place to reflect and gather oneself before marching boldly off into the future. Yes, God gave Laverne courage, but it was not the only gift the good Lord had bestowed upon my dear friend; humility of spirit and love of life are some of his greater gifts.

Cindy went next, reading from a story she had written about the birth of her recent grandson. She called her story, “It’s alright I’ve got this”. She shared with us a touching story of a young woman expecting her third child and deciding to have a “water birth”. The eventuality of the story that struck me most was how as parents we sometimes have to let go and allow our children to be themselves, as was the case in this story. Her daughter was evidently determined to have the birth her way, but in the end, it was as God had intended, and yet in a way she was still able to be proud of; a home birth. In the end, mother and daughter came to a deeper understanding and respect for one another, each finding a strength from the other formed by the bond of unconditional love.

After Cindy, then her daughter Savannah shared with us her ideas for an upcoming novel she would like to write. I won’t share those thoughts at this time for sake of her privacy of subject matter, but suffice it to say, we have a wide spectrum of age in our talented group, one which might help us continue long into the future. To hear Savannah talk it was refreshing to hear the youth of our time alive and excited to create stories. We have much to be thankful for.

Finally, after I had read, the leader of our writer’s group, Sims Poindexter, took her turn. She read from emails she had sent out over Christmas. Sims had spent several days in the hospital, some of which was humorous, but sitting there listen to her tell her story, it was obvious to me, we are very blessed to still have her with us after all she had been through. The feeling of thankfulness was soon rewarded with a revealing story she shared in her final email. It was one she wrote after returning home after her hospital stay, and after all the family had left to return to their own homes following their Christmas visit. She told of simply looking around the room and the moving stories behind each little nuance or reminder left behind by those who would have no idea they had left their impression, albeit from a rock left on the piano, to an overturned ornament under the tree. She had seen or could tell the story behind every essence of actuality which had transpired. Her love for all was revealed in her appreciation for them, even down to the touch of inanimate object remaining long after they were gone.

Each story, each prose I heard that evening was so thought provoking, that in a matter of two hours, we got up to leave feeling as if we had just arrived. Personally, I felt left behind after all I had heard. My story seemed to pale in comparison, at least in my own mind. What I was able to take away was a feeling of being blessed to be in the company of people willing to openly share and support one another in something that is, in most instances, from the heart.
Yes, I feel I am the least with regard to my writing when compared to the others, but I feel most grateful in the reward of being blessed by such wonderful acquaintances and friends, such that it makes my appreciation far beyond the least; for this I am greatly blessed.

“and said to them, “Whoever receives this little child in My name receives Me; and whoever receives Me receives Him who sent Me. For he who is least among you all will be great.”
– Luke 9:48

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by | January 7, 2013 · 3:37 am

Ancient Past of Being Foretold…

There are times like now that my soul feels as ancient as there is time.

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I don’t know if it’s a sound in a melody I hear or if it’s a recollection to another place that falls upon my heart, yet I can sense its being. I yearn for that ancient place, to return to its simple existence, its firm timbers of form, with solid bedrock foundations. I don’t know where this place is; yet, when I reach higher terrestrial altitudes on earthly planes, I can feel a connection, as if a place I belong is calling.

To some, this may be more than a mere rambling thought while to others, it’s a sign of early senility. I prefer to think of the former; a clarity of mind that pre-exists all other.

The blaze of the midday sun on the cool autumn days brings about the crispness of eager ambitions, yet to befall upon weakened limbs. I trust these days are mere inclinations of predisposed actions yet to be fulfilled, yet I cannot dissuade their options of mind. I will undoubtedly bring myself to the steps of this endeavor, however great or futile it might be. Fate is only afforded those who attempt to step beyond the limitations of now. This is something that has never prevented my path before, and yet as now, will not stop me now.

Hindrance of thought cannot pull me down like the boat anchor to the soul, for it is merely something that is but of a side note. There was more than enough reasons to go boldly, something that spoke to me from beyond, yet in my mere limited ability to conjure on the process, it will be beyond what I know or can conceive of the future which is why it was done; something yet to be foretold. I must carry on in the hopes that this was more than anything I could have imagined, and yet, was led by a higher power, greater than the singularity of self could know.

The chorus of voices that sing of praise, his name exalted upon high, cannot be faint of heart. Like cascading water droplets on the torrent of waterfall from the precipice of God’s heavenly abode, they fall down to the earth enriching the soul of any who look skyward to their life rewarding embrace, falling upon risen faces, glowing and flowing into the life rewarding embrace they create. Love of God, life and the way toward the light. In these things we search…all of our lives, all of our being, all of our existence upon this we seek.

The drifting soul, gentle breeze of spirit, effortlessly wafting as the butterfly on the wind, carried from one moment to the next. We light upon the cusped of the rose petal, tenderly, ever so gently, and then move along as the light of an angel’s wing glows upon the air. Speaketh not of wanted muses, for today we dance as one with those gone before. Nothing carries us forward or back, nothing lifts us rather we walk on channels of energy that emanate from unseen sources beyond our knowing.

Warmth of enveloping love wrapped around the person, touching caring finger to hushed lip as the voice is quieted to speak not, yet watch as forever longing is removed. No more searching for what cannot be quenched. A spirit of fulfillment overflows so that no more hunger can ache in the stomach, no longer can the fainted breath of longing quicken the heart to reach too soon for the stinging touch of earthly realm. Beyond the pain, beyond the hurt, to no longer feel the reminder of the daily toil. This is where the Godly meets the life forsaken no more; Christ lives within. All is now sated…forevermore.

Recollection of recent dream…

The dream was of a mountain home, where there were two elderly people. I didn’t know who they were or even if they were related, but my visit was one of either research or investigation.

They were intent on showing me all the “old ways”. Everything from how to prepare for the cold mountain winters to how food would be best stored in root cellars. Then there was the mixing of herbal ingredients to be used in a tea elixir or as a snuff of sorts, both intent on curing ailments or providing for better health. I can recall the first being some sort of golden flower, which was cut into some type of tree bark tea. It was bitter but very good for you as a medicinal substitute. The second was a ground snuff, golden flaked in color that gave you a quick pick me up and provided for advanced seeing abilities.

I was so taken with these natural gifts that I went out to my vehicle and obtained two of my books that I signed and gave to these individuals, obviously assuming that they could read. There was a younger one, possibly an offspring of one of the two who was there with us. I also had a host who was there showing me around, introducing me to these people, but the further the dream advanced, the less this person or being became obvious until they were no more.

Toward the end of the dream, a large truck carrying equipment to a nearby bluegrass festival, lost a wheel off of their load. I wasn’t sure if it was from the truck carrying the load or from something on the truck, but it was a large tire, the size of a tractor tire, that came rolling off the back of the vehicle as it flew by the curve above the cabin in which we were sitting. I could see it come off even though we were still inside, and I immediatly warned the others. The wheel came crashing down the mountainside from the roadway, but nobody or anything else was damaged, strangely as it may seem. I could distinctly see the canvas covered load go by, missing the wheel as it sped on, with the driver unknowing to his loss. This was shortly after receiving the golden flaked powder from the two mixing it in the nearby old time store. I guess it worked, for it saved us somehow…of course this was about the time I had to say goodbye, and of course shortly before I woke up.

Unlike other dreams though, this one I knew was coming to an end…I was preparing for it to stop, packing up, and getting ready to go. Strange I know, but it was unlike most dreams which end abruptly either in death, tragedy or arousing surprise.

I really liked this place, its aged timelessness; ancient dwellings where I felt very much at home. This was a trip of preparation, I could feel it.

Was this the place a long for, the ancient place of my feelings, my yearning desires that I cannot place?

Perhaps….time will tell.

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by | October 7, 2012 · 11:51 pm

Feet Bound By Leather Souls…

The image of hundreds of feet, dressed in fancy footwear, walking in some marbled concourse flashed upon the television screen the other day. Possibly the scene from some commercial, I’m not sure because I didn’t have the sound turned on; I rarely watch T.V. But in that brief instant, for some reason, the thought of how perhaps some of those feet, if not most, might not have ever known the touch of bare skin to soil. Some may have never known the fresh earthly embrace of the coolness when bare feet are allowed to explore the world around them. “Could it be possible?” I thought to myself. Then the verse below came to mind;

“The feet bound by leather souls feel not the humbleness of the sod. They carry the person without knowing the terrain below upon which they frequent trod.”

The whirlwind of life sometimes seems to put you on your heels, trying all the while to maintain your balance. When these times become too hectic, one place I find comfort is outside, on the farm. It seems whether it’s working with the cattle or in the garden, there’s an earthly grounding solace to it all. The smell of new turned soil, the feel of dirt under your nails all lend to a particular satisfaction of oneself you come to realize out here; working the land.

Recently, it was a long time overdue, I had to plow under the summer garden, or rather what was left that the weeds had not claimed as their own conquest. Knowing my neglect of visitation had led to this jungle of overgrowth, I gladly hooked the single blade plow up to my tractor to turn it all asunder. However, before I could begin I had to inspect the one recognizable item still growing therein; there was one beautiful cucumber vine that had volunteered itself to grow amongst the angry vegetation. It provided two of the sweetest little cucumbers which were quite rewarding since there had been none since the last vestiges of the spring garden had given up their sumptuous fruit. However, the vine being where it lay, in the dead center middle of the plot, I had no choice but to plow it along with the serpentine pestilence of weeds that surrounded it; another case of all or nothing in a world where singularity of beauty is often forsaken in order to succumb to the needs of the masses.

Once the soil was turned multiple times, the land was a dark, rich earthly aroma laying in rolled rows of earthen loaves. Then, with the disc attached to the tractor, we folded the land again, disking it into finer particles of dirt until it was a smooth precious tender bed ready for seed in which to impart. The growing storm clouds on the southwestern horizon made the project all the more satisfying, knowing the newly sewn seeds would be watered by the master’s hand. All that was left to do was to wait, for the new garden was all but done. One last item was needed, and that the good Lord would provide.

The gentle sound of rain on the rooftop later that evening provided a comforting knowledge of a job well done. Timing is everything in farming and when it all comes together, there is no better feeling. As I scraped vestiges of soil from underneath my grateful fingernails. The smell of earth was still with me…washed down the sink, but forever in mind and spirit.

Then returned the thought of all those dress shoes walking hurriedly to some destination…

“The feet bound by leather souls feel not the humbleness of the sod. They carry the person without knowing the terrain below upon which they frequent trod.”

Then again, it’s likely they never had the chance to even put their hands into that same sod, working the land with bare hands. Earthen soil pushed tightly under the fingernail, some easily knocked free with thumb or forefinger, other requiring the sharp edge of blade to remove. No matter the effort, there still remains a dark reminder of the hand that tills the soil, toils the land and reaps the harvest. No man knoweth like anything more than through what he has struggled or toiled, sweat laden brow, stinging eyes, weary aching backs that seem to lock in place only never to be bent back into their original youthful form. These toilsome folk only know the pain of unending labor to never sit at the master’s table until the very end. While the ones wearing the thick soles, who upon humble earth trod, insulated, cushioned from the realities of the torment by which they so freely live each day, take for granted so much. No thought, no pause given to the flick of the switch, a simple phone call, ordered food prepared by another unknown, then on to pursue frolicking enjoyment with mostly little or no care as to the wake they leave in their path. Then comes Monday morning when it’s back to the cubicled-office they return…wearing the patent leather loafers of life.

Perhaps one day, they too will find the satisfaction of a good days work in the soil upon which they trod, before it’s too late…in this we can only hope…

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