Tag Archives: Morganton

Swirling Water…

The muddy waters of the Catawba river swirled beneath us, traveling in inundating pools of ferocity, twisting and BOB%20FLOODS%20OHOP%20CREEK%20DIRT%20in%20WATER%20(OP)%20NOV.%207,%2006%20020turning past trees never before submerged, now victims of the flood; torrential rains having overrun the banks of the river, now consuming all in its path. Massive logs lay helpless against bridge abutments, caught, unable to escape the pressure from the onslaught. Above, we watch the mighty power of untold strength battling mammoth structures of nature, each winning in their own way; some immediately while others eroding those of greater magnitude until they too become victim to the constant force. As we ride along the pathway, safe above the brown waters below, my mind drifts back to another time, another flood; more brown swirling waters.

My tiny feet couldn’t reach the water below, yet it called to me. “Down” I would say in my mind to my father has he held me safely above the darkness below us. The banks of the Wabash had once again overflowed near our hometown of New Harmony. For some reason, even though I was not yet two I can still recall the memory. Eventually, I would squirm and fight enough to allow him to let me wade in the cold darkness. The chill would run through my body and soon afterward, the fever would begin. They say that memories which last far into our past are those etched into our core through trauma. Soon after, I would come down with double pneumonia. Later I would learn of having the sickness both at one and two years of age, seemingly a year apart. This was probably the latter since the hospital memories correspond with what I would have experienced as mobility, or the lack thereof. The most difficult time would have nothing to do with the illness, but rather the solitary isolation; loneliness.

Hours upon hours, I could recall sitting in the subdued green hospital room in my oxygen tent, waiting; waiting for anyone to walk in and speak to me. In between waking and sleeping, the time seemed to crawl. The most vivid memory I have from that experience was that one day a nurse must have felt sorry for me and took me from the room and into the common room where there was one black and white TV playing. Folks were sitting around watching the TV when I was rolled into the room in my wheelchair. “Now you stay here and watch some TV and don’t get out of this chair,” she said ever so sweetly. I was beside myself; free from that room and around other people. I must have seemed overjoyed. The nurse had evidently tied me in with a towel or sheet, because when she left the room, another little boy nearby came and asked if I wanted to play with him on the floor. I must have smiled broadly at this request because before I knew it he disappeared behind my chair and I was suddenly set free. We were on the floor playing with his toys when I heard the voice of the nurse, “How in the world did you get out of that chair,” she would ask, the sweetness had evaporated from her voice and sterness I feared was in its place. Knowing the culprit was likely my new found friend, she quickly placed me back in my wheelchair and I was rolled back to my room, back to the confines of the clear plastic prison. “Life has to be better than this,” I must have thought. Back into the realm of dreams and fantastic tales I would be forced to go, as the artist in me was painfully being born. By the grace of God, I would survive.

Years later, my wife and friends would find ourselves swimming in Ginny Springs, near High Falls Florida. The water in the individual springs was crystal clear and beautiful to experience. However, in order to save time from getting from one spring to another, we chose to float down the Santa Fe River. What we didn’t realize at the time was that the river was above flood stage. In that part of Florida, the water takes on an almost coffee color from the tannic acid it extracts from the trees it passes through. As we swam into the flow of the Santa Fe, we literally couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces. The current was too strong to turn back once we had entered the flow, so we stuck to the surface for safety, allowing the current to carry us along. These waters were also home to alligators, so our fears were not without merit. We soon reached the entry point of the next spring and quickly crossed the barrier which helped keep the darkness out of the crystal clear spring waters. Looking back, it might have been foolish to take such a risk, but it was something you didn’t think about until it was over. Thankfully, none of us on that journey were injured or maimed for life. Thankfully we had a brief encounter with the unknown, the darkness beyond the safety of our realm of existence. This time, there was no detrimental consequences; nothing more than a distant memory of wading in dirty water as a kid. However, like those experiences as a child, one innocent event leads to another until we are forever changed by the results of our actions, either immediately or slowly, painfully afterward.

Today as we rode along the muddy, raging torrent below, I was thankful yet again for the chance to be alive to see God’s hand at work, either immediately or slowly.

His time; God’s time, is not our own. The mysteries of His universe we will never know, but we can be thankful for what we do know and how he has molded us into the person we are today; either immediately or painfully slow.

Thanks be to God.

And He said, “To you it has been given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of God, but to the rest it is given in parables, that ‘Seeing they may not see, And hearing they may not understand.’” – Luke 8:10

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Just A Trim Please…

But you are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, His own special people, that you may proclaim the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His marvelous light” – 1 Peter 2:9

Many days I walk onward not knowing the absolution of what is to come any more than where the next raindrop will fall. Many seek answers to questions they cannot. Yet, as we may, we must remain steadfast and true, forsaking all the distractions that pull us away from our course.

Today, as I sat in Sain’s barber shop watching as my son received a much-needed hair cut, I gently picked out a song on the mandolin theysains keep hanging on the wall for just such an occasion. “Leaning On the Everlasting Arms” was somehow fitting for the day. Outside, men shuffled in and out of the shop from the chilly rain, each shaking off the weather as they entered. Across from me four barbers were busy working, a sight not often seen in many places I’ve been. Many barbershops barely have one active chair, let alone two, so the feeling of being alive was a welcomed sight. Not long after the first few stanzas of “Leaning”, another good old standby began to work its way from within, “I”’ll Fly Away” came drifting softly from within. From the distant corner, some talk show was in progress on the large screen TV that occupied the space. Most gave it no attention as voices from the chairs both those waiting and those in the progress of getting their trims conversed.

imagesF86VDAT8The memories of Max’s barber shop came back. The little building out behind his house where he cut hair on Thursday nights. Many from the area of Bear Creek would stop by for their $5 haircuts. There were many stories shared and news passed on in that little place. Seldom would you enter without learning something of either the neighborhood or the history of that neck of the woods. Max eventually got a TV with satellite hooked up which most of the time was on but without the sound turned up; talk was much more important. Then there was Reid’s shop, down in Siler City, where Dennis and Ried cut hair, another duo, where most of the time it was just Dennis. It was a step up from Max’s place, but not by far. There were no fancy TVs hanging on the wall, no mandolin’s to pick, but again, there was often intense conversations that would both enlighten and inspire. In all of these places, there were the same familiar smells of the old-timey barber shop. In each of these, the hot lather would follow the cut, the welcome end to the buzzing and clipping all so close to the ears. Hot, warm lather soothing the skin, to be scraped away with the fine edge of the straight razor. The cleanliness that followed was like a breath of fresh air; akin to new ground being planted, waiting for the seed.

As the sounds and smells around me blended together, I momentarily closed my eyes and watched the notes drift across the span of time, barberthinking of all the places a mandolin and I have met. This was another first, but for my time, it was nothing more than something to keep me occupied while I waited. I opened my eyes in time to see one barber motioning for me to take my turn in the chair, but I shook my head “no” since I had just been there the week before. The next customer looked to me for approval as I nodded, keeping time to the strings that continued to move beneath the pick, the one the lead barber had offered me to borrow. It was comforting to see the honor system was alive and well here too, another confirmation.

Before I knew it, my son was up, shaking off the loose hairs, looking much better than before. Somehow he had aged before my eyes. That shaggy scruff was gone and a sharp looking young man stood before me. Another song moved into my head, but there was no time now. I stood to pay and thanked the barber for the use of his pick. He, in turn, thanked me for the music and asked for us to return again.

As we walked from the barber shop back out into the drizzle the strains of “Blessed Assurance”, returned and I couldn’t help think how blessed I truly was.

There are days where we cannot help ourselves to wonder if all that we do is enough. Have we offered hope to those who seek affirmation from beyond their own front doors? Have we provided the path to salvation that many need, yet we wander in our own shadows, following the winds of change as they blow us from our destination, our goals, our calling.

Today, so many places that were in the past came calling again and we met, together in one place and walked out welcome to be one with Him. Once again called out of the dark into the light, I was once more reassured of that path, yes, the one less traveled.

It was a good day.

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