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by | February 23, 2020 · 9:03 pm

The Cup of Faith

“Brethren, be followers together of me, and mark them which walk so as ye have us for an ensample.”- Phil 3:17

It was an early Sunday morning. The air had the feeling as if it could snow at any minute. In an uncustomary manner, my morning devotional was actually upon the steps just outside the front door of our church, Rock Springs Baptist. There, I opened my Bible, journal, and thermos, pouring a hot cup of coffee to accompany my communion with the Lord. Before beginning, the steam from the coffee caught my attention. Swirling from the depths of my cup, the vapor rose, swirling as it ascended, like a spirit rising to meet our maker. On my walk, the bone-chilling air had eventually found its way into my very core. Taking a sip of the hot, bitter brew, I could feel the warmth invade my body, slowly recapturing that which had been nearly frozen.

It was then the similarity hit me; the steam; the Spirit, warmth of my body; us accepting Christ into our hearts.

A car passed and broke my focus for a moment. Taking another sip, I closed my eyes and prayed. The sound of the vehicle dissipated, and soon, the voice of the John’s river began to speak, which lay just beyond our church’s parking lot. The soothing sound and the warmth of my coffee began to erase all the toils, and struggles of the week as the hand of the Lord wrapped his arms around my being. As I exhaled, my breath made another pathway of steam into the air. It was then the thought of how much better coffee tasted when you were partaking of it out in the open, especially on a cold, winter morning. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more everything seemed to taste better when eaten or drank in the outdoors, where all that was man-made was removed, and you were one with the elements; purity begets purity.

Then my mind turned toward the devotionals on my Sunday morning hikes to church and how they always seemed more powerful, more meaningful than those of which I partook every morning before heading up the mountain while sitting in my home. It was as if the materials of man’s creation removed, allowing for a purer experience, a cleaner connection to the Almighty if you will.

There, I had done it; allowed myself to find something of God in merely drinking a hot cup of java on the front steps of the church.

Then my mind took a quantum leap, back, many years to my youth.

The ground was covered in snow. It was the dead of winter in Indiana, a place where Boy Scout Troops wouldn’t cancel a camping trip for the weather, regardless of the conditions. Fortunately, the camporee was at a camp where our tents were the heavy canvas permanent type built on wooden floors; surplus from a not so distant war. It was Friday night when we arrived. The routine was that we were to build a fire and then cook our supper while we made camp. From experience, we knew that in this weather, the fire was the key to everything; warmth, food, survival. Yet, everywhere we looked the snow had covered everything; not one stick of firewood was left untouched. Everything was either frozen or soaked with water. Knowing that we might face a challenge for which we may not fair too well, we began to build our wood in preparation for a valiant attempt, nonetheless. By good fortune, one of our patrol members found an old mouse nest in a hole in one of our tents’ floor. Thankfully, we shoved the dry tender in amongst all the other shoots of Sassafras, Cherry, and Pine, knowing that once the moisture burnt off, we would have the start of a roaring fire. One of the patrol leaders went to the cook box to find matches. When he returned, he held open the small cardboard box, with the little drawer, pulled out. The look on his face said it all. With a look of shock and dismay, we all quickly realized, there was just one match left. We gathered round, each of our young faces had a look of fear and anguish. One of the new scouts almost began to cry, “Oh no, we’re going to starve,” he stammered as tears welled up in his eyes.

“No, we’re not,” I bit back, the steam from my mouth shot into the air like a blowtorch. “You have to have faith. We’ve been through tough times before, and if anyone can make a fire with one match, it’s this patrol.” Ricky, the Scout Master’s son, who was also my good friend, stuck up for me at that moment, and reiterated what I had just conveyed.


“You gotta trust us man, if anyone can get a fire going, we can make it happen. We’re going to show them all, with one match, we’ll keep this fire going all weekend.”


There, he had done it; Ricky had unknowingly made the vow that we would all gladly have given our last breath to uphold. It was an unspoken word of truth and honor, nearly as revered as the Scout Law.

Delicately, like marooned sailors on a deserted island, we made all the preparations and double-checked each other’s work to make sure that the one match would work. Then, with a shaky hand, someone struck the match. The smell of sulfur and warmth filled the space before us. Immediately, we all gathered around, holding our hands as a shield to prevent any breeze from extinguishing our flame before it could take. Slowly, the flame touched the old mouse bed, and steaming smoke began to spread through our pile of tender.

“Nobody breath,” Ricky commanded.

We all stood, feet in shivering in the snowbank that we had created digging out the fire pit so that it would be clear of any moisture, and watched as the smoke seemed to almost disappear. The skeptical scout almost began to whimper once more. “Have faith,” I breathed again.

Then, as if prayers had been answered in unison, a flame nearly 12 inches tall leaped from the center of our woodpile. Smiles spread across our faces as we older scouts looked and nodded at one another. The younger scouts then realized they were with someone who would take care of them.

That weekend happened to get so cold, below zero, that they made us stay in the chow hall one night, for fear we might freeze to death in our cots. Meanwhile, we had stoked and prepared our fire, so that no matter how long we were gone, it would continue to keep a hot coal bed. We needn’t fear that the fire would spread since the ground was covered in almost a foot of snow. So, unlike other times when we would have to put out a fire when leaving our campsite, that particular weekend we were allowed to keep it going. Memory also recalls that the other patrols had not been so lucky when trying to strike their fires. More than one patrol visited us that weekend to warm themselves because of their own inabilities to keep a fire going. We learned a lot about ourselves in the process, not only that we had possessed a knowledge which provided for our own, but that we were able to pass on this to others while sharing with our neighbors.

I don’t remember anything else about that weekend, other than our parents came to stay with us the night we stayed in the chow hall. But the one thing I do recall, even to this day, was that by the time to pack up Sunday evening to head home, we had a fire that had never gone out. Meanwhile, other patrols had problems just getting theirs started, let alone able to keep them going.

We had struggled through adversity, but already in our young lives, having experienced hardship campouts before the one just mentioned had allowed us to have faith. It is the same in our walk with Christ. Those who are new to the faith struggle with knowing that the Father is with them always. By providing them examples of our own steadfast faith, we can give them the courage to face the struggles in their own walk.

The Apostle Paul had faced many trials and difficulties in his life once he turned to serving God instead of persecuting Christians. He was an encourager to others in the faith, and with confidence, not arrogance, as brother David said this morning, he told his disciples to ““Be ye followers of me, even as I also am of Christ”[1] He had faith enough to know that if they were to become believers, that they would have to have faith in what he said and to know that through believing him, they too would come to know Christ.

Once they had faith, they would find the love of Christ working in them, warming them, imbuing them with the Holy Spirit, lighting the flame within and starting the fire. Like that hot cup of coffee and a cold winter day, God envelopes you with His Spirit and warms your very soul.

Each day, as I begin to climb the mountain, either figuratively or physically, I ask the Lord to help me find my way. Each day, he answers me in the most unexpected ways.

Nearby, the river speaks to me, and a song begins to play in my head:

“Once I stood at the foot of a great high mountain
That I wanted so much to climb
And on top of this mountain was a beautiful fountain
That flows with the water of life

I fell down on my knees at the foot of this mountain
I cried, “O Lord what must I do?
I want to climb this mountain, I want to drink from this fountain
That flows so clear in my view.”

Then I heard a sweet voice from the top of this mountain
Saying, “Child put your hand in mine.”
I started climbing slowly, “Watch your steps at the edges
And take one step at a time.”

I started climbing upward taking one step at a time
The higher I got the harder I climbed

I’m still climbing upward and my journey’s almost ended
I’m nearing the top and you ought to see the view
Oh the water flows freely, there’s enough to make you free
So friend, if you’re thirsty climb this mountain with me.”[2]

In the gospel of John, Jesus said on the last day of the feast, “If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink.”[3]

While these may or may not be my last days, the harder I climb, the more beautiful things I see and reveal, seeing with eyes anew. From walking in faith, although I will never achieve the level of the Apostle Paul, I can, with deep conviction share with others that with faith, all things are possible. In sharing that belief, may it light a spark within their own soul, one that will make within them a desire to seek Him.

With one spark, a fire can be built, and with it, the light of life can begin

That particular campout of which I shared earlier was one where our parents were invited to come spend a night camping with us. It was one of only two times that a parent of mine came to a campout. My mom, of all people, came to stay Saturday night. She, along with the other parents, stayed in the chow hall with the rest of our troop. Looking back, I wish I had done more to interact with her, but it was a treat just to hear her voice talking to the other adults and to know that someone who loved me was present. Now that she is gone, those few glimpses of the past are ever more precious.

She, along with the other parents, more than likely had no idea of our fire struggles, but rather, took it in stride that we had learned how to survive and were doing well enough. I don’t remember anything else about that weekend, but the one thing I do recall, even to this day, was that by the time to pack up Sunday evening to head home, we had a fire that had never gone out.

From all of this, we can surmise that we are a constant work in faith. We may never achieve the level of faith of an Apostle Paul, but we can share our testimony with others, and with that, provide them the knowledge that they are not alone. Through our faith, shall we lift up others, and in the end, give them hope of the Father.

Like steam from the coffee cup, the Holy Spirit will warm us through and through, and our walk of faith will continue to grow as we climb that final mountain and drink from the eternal fountain.

Thanks be to God.

[1] 1 Corinthians 11:1 KJV

[2] Ralph Stanley, Great High Mountain, lyrics © Bug Music, Z77ss, Z77ss Music

[3] John 7:37 KJV

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by | September 2, 2017 · 10:09 pm

The Rivers We Cross…

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by your name;
You are Mine.
2 When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.
When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,
Nor shall the flame scorch you.
3 For I am the Lord your God,…” – Isaiah 48:1-3

Before me, the mountains lay shrouded in the mist.

Grandfather remains hidden under dark skies. He doesn’t want to be bothered today. The rain had cleared long enough for a short hike, so here I stand watching as clouds like waves on the ocean, crash against the shoreline. In calm, quiet, but formidable stealth, each one smashes against the bulwark of the peaks yet to be engulfed by the coming storms. Somewhere below the mist lay the sleepy little village of Collettsville. Along its main street lined with mill town houses the John’s River flows, clear and cold. Part of my walk had already taken me past its banks confirming that the water was once more, clear of the day’s rains. My mind thought of the recent journeys to church and how for three Sundays in a row I had crossed the river to reach the other side. It became part of my personal challenge. As I explained it to Pastor Joe, it made me appreciate being able to make it to church. In life, we often take for granted the ease with which we worship and all that has made that possible. This summer’s journey had made me more aware of this fact than ever before. So, as part of my weekly walk to Sunday morning preaching, fording the John’s River became my rite of passage, so to speak. Each time I encountered a new twist, a new challenge. Each time, there were the difficulties making it out of the river and up the steep bank on the town side of the water. It made me think of how we often cross our own rivers.

Both my mother and father have gone on. They have both crossed their River of Jordan to reach that far distant shore. Each passed in their own way, but it was my blessing to have had the opportunity to say goodbye to each of them before they stepped into the current and began their journey across; God made that possible. I was not there on the other side to welcome them home, but in some instance, I know they both had steep embankments up which they had to struggle; death did not come easy. So it is for many who have died, and for those times we pray that the Lord give them comfort in their time of crossing. We would want the same. As Christ suffered on the cross for our sins, he too felt the painful anguish of death’s sting, but he was not defeated by it. From life to death we all shall pass, but where we finish is up to us; a choice that must be made here on this side of that beautiful flowing strand.

“A decision many fail to make in time,” I thought to myself, standing there admiring God’s beauty even in the midst of an approaching storm.

The stillness was broken by a shrill snort. Behind me on a tree-covered peak beyond where I stood, a buck huffed irreverently at me; my presence had encroached upon his domain. One couldn’t help to think that perhaps he was as enamored with the scene as was I. The crickets spoke of the coming darkness, so I made my way back down the slope to home leaving the deer to his peace. My thoughts meandered back to the clear flowing waters. Tomorrow I would try once more to find myself wading the waters to reach the sanctuary, challenged but not diminished by what it took to reach that distant shore. The first step is always the hardest.

Likewise, when we decide to take our leap of faith and commit our lives to serving the Lord, the first step is the most difficult. Stepping from the safety of the shore into the unknown can be enough to cause us to reconsider our decision. We think it is all our doing, that we’ll have to make it on our own. What we often fail to realize is that once we begin our journey with Him, that is Him, God, that will be there to help make up the differences we cannot fathom. So when we finally realize that we are not alone, we can make that first step.

The freezing water at first is like burning fire, but with time, we become numb to its pain. As we learn to trust in Him, we are able to carry on, pushing forward, becoming numb to our previous fears. The current is strong, and it takes every ounce of strength to take each new step, yet we are not deterred. In our weakness, we become strong in Him. The reward we seek is far greater than the obstacles that try to dissuade us from reaching that distant shore. The cold has lessened the pains; still, we continue on regardless of what others might say or think. Once we find ourselves committed, standing on the brink of the rushing waters, we still struggle to make the crossing. They never said it would be easy. Trial and tribulation buffet us like the coming storms before me this night. Below the surface, rocks make each step painful as our bare feet seek to guide our way. Meanwhile, we are burdened down by the past life; financially and emotionally. The anchor of our self-inflicted burdens become unwanted drag against the current. Breaking free is in some ways as difficult as dying. In essence, we must die to our formers selves so that we made be made anew in Christ. As Paul said, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” We tend to try to bring the past with us, and the problems therein. With persistence, we push on. One by one, we set our burdens free, lightening our load. As we learn to walk in our faith, those restraints that kept us shackled to the past are broken away, and we are set free.

With each step, we find a rhythm to the river’s bottom, and soon, we are beginning to find the nearing distant shore. We know we are on the right path for the current is against us, like those trials through which we persevere, the build our character, and with each one, we become stronger in our faith. Once we make landfall, we wearily climb up out of the river, careful not to slip and fall back in. Looking down from above, we can see from whence we came. There is peace in knowing that you have made it through the storm. There is peace in knowing that with Him, all things are possible, and because of Him, we have that distant shore for which we may strive.
The choice is ours.

Step into the water and begin your journey.

You’ll not turn back, for if it is His will, then it shall be done.

Thanks be to God.

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by | May 24, 2016 · 8:57 pm

The Lost Soul and the Rose…

“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. 12 Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. 13 And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart.” – Jeremiah 29:11-13

My mother’s favorite was yellow.20160524_193631

Tonight, while in prayer asking God for guidance, the image of the rose came to mind.

“Then you will go call upon Me, and go pray to Me, and I will listen to you…”

In many ways, our walk with God is a lot like a rose. We start off in our budding faith, not yet blossomed and soon, once we grow, the beauty begins to unfold, one petal at a time.

Sipping on my morning coffee, I was still trying to clear the cobwebs from my head when I reached the end of the driveway and turned left toward the eastern sunrise. The note had read, “We need Milk!,” so I was off to the grocery for a pre-Church Sunday morning run. The birds were cheerfully greeting the new dawn, and the chill was refreshing.

It was then I noticed him, suddenly appearing before me.

“Morning,” came my voice, more of a reaction to my surprise than an actual greeting.

“Morning,” he replied as we both turned toward the rising sun, each now walking in the same direction, but on opposite sides of the street.

My first instinct was to turn around and start over. “No, that will just show fear,” came the voice from inside. So I stayed the course. It was not yet 7:00 AM and the street was as barren as my thoughts at that moment. In his right hand, he carried a burgundy Members only jacket, wadded up in a roll as if it had been his pillow from the night before. In his left, he prodded each step with what appeared to be a five-foot long quarter inch piece of white PVC pipe; his makeshift walking stick.

“Visiting family,” I asked, wondering why he had appeared from behind my neighbor’s house.

“You might say that,” he nodded.

The folds of my mind wandered along each petal as I sought beauty when there was none. “Surely he had seen me before I saw him. He’ll be asking for something next,” my mind fought the urge to question but gave in once again.

“And you will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart…”

We continued to walk uphill toward the tree line at the end of the road where the trail began, each man walking along his own side of the road, each man as distant in life but both now walking the same path.

“Are you from the area?”

“You might say that,” he reflected in a distant voice. Then he surprised me by leading the next question, “By the way, my name’s Jeremy.”

“My name’s Timothy…as in first and second,” I said, now humbled by his demeanor. For some reason, I felt a little less threatened. Yet, just a few steps ahead stood the dark passage of the narrow trail only wide enough for one person at a time.

I momentarily looked toward the sunrise and breathed a silent prayer, “Lord, please be with me, comfort me and shield me from all evil.”

“I know the thoughts I think toward you, thoughts of peace and not of evil…”

“Do you smoke,” he asked next.

“Here it comes,” I thought, “the begging for money to buy cigarettes.”

“No, never have,” I replied boldly.

There was no further question. The silence that followed allowed the flood of negative thoughts to come rolling back into my head. In the uneasy moment, I spoke before he might ask the question I expected, “You know, Jeremiah is one of my favorite books of the Bible.”

In fact, the verse had recently resurfaced to my consciousness when Mark, the leader of the Waldensian Church Men’s Breakfast Bible study, had mentioned it in his presentation. A few years before, my friend and pastor, Thomas Simpson had given it to me as a guiding principle for what I was going through at the time; it became my hope, my future.

“Jeremy is short for Jeremiah, which is my real name,” he replied.

“You know what,” somewhat relieved. “In fact, Jeremiah 29:11 is one of my favorite verses.”

We both stopped and looked at one another. Before us, the darkness of the night still hung in the air under the dark trees that stood along the pathway.

“The moment of truth,” I whispered under my breath, as I ducked my head under the first branch and led the way. I envisioned the feeling of pain across the back of my neck as he would soon swing the PVC pipe against my head. With a crack, my skull would be split open, and my body would be found lying upon the exposed roots of the forest floor later that morning. Once more I thought of God’s protection and waited for whatever was to come.

The misty drops of the morning dew gathered along the rim of the precious rose, it’s succulent image played in my mind as we two strangers trod upon the darkened forest floor. The path as tortuous as the edge of the delicate flower.

“How does it go,” came the voice from behind.

The fear of the unknown vanished as quickly as the imagery of doubt and along with it, the scripture for which I had just referenced. In vain my mind stretched from one end of the spectrum to the next in an attempt to revive the words; nothing.

We both emerged from the woods onto the pavement next to the grocery store. The sunlight caused us to squint as we emerged from the darkness.

“I…I…can’t get it,” was my struggled reply.

“Give me a start,” he begged.

Again, my mind raced, but all I could grasp was simply the meaning, like the fragrance of the rose to the unseen eyes.

“I apologize, but I just can’t recall it at the moment.” My heart was broken, for once again I felt I had failed God. Once more, my chance to witness to another soul in need had been lost, but I didn’t give in. Digging deep into the recess of the innermost parts of the roses beauty I found the essence for what it stood, “I can’t start it, but it goes something like this…” As I summarized the scripture, he listened in rapt attention. His journey had been momentarily lifted by the flawed but persistent believer. I explained its overall meaning that if we follow God faithfully with all our heart and soul that we would be rewarded.

“Like with riches and gold,” he smiled.

“No, not quite,” I replied, “but you’ve got the idea.”

I turned to go my way as did he. As I began to walk away, I glanced back, and he had vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Like the rose, our opportunities to witness to those in need are like the rose’s beauty; fleeting and momentary. If we truly want to admire the grandeur of the Master’s hand, we must exalt His name on high and praise Him together in all that we do.

Yellow was her favorite, but a rose is a beauty to behold as the witness is to the lost soul, regardless of color.

Thanks be to God.

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by | May 8, 2016 · 10:07 pm

Letting Go…

Letting go is sometimes harder than we ever imagined.

Mother’s Day without your mother is one thing. There were many years that mom and I couldn’t be together for special days like today; that’s when the phone call would suffice. But when they are finally gone; gone on to heaven, part of you misses them while the other part knows they are with you more than before.

Those are the days that are sometimes hard to let go.20160508_152134

Then there was today.

As our little blue Honda made it around curve after curve, mountains and valleys below passed by; a never ending change of scenery of green, blues and vistas that stretched as far as the eye could see. Sometimes the guard rail provided a slight comfort while other times there was nothing but an abyss of trees and rocks below. My grip was firm upon the handle above the window as I tried not to show any anxiety. I didn’t want to take away any of her confidence in doing what I knew she could do. My feet firmly planted in the floorboard on the passenger side; meanwhile, my daughter, Mary, having just achieved her learner’s permit, was behind the wheel.

The countless miles that I had behind the wheel along these same mountain passes, often wishing I had the opportunity to gaze out the window as the beautiful panorama unfolded just outside our vehicle, now was at hand; yet, it wasn’t quite what I had envisioned. She was very cautious and patient, heeding my gentle instructions as we glided along on the winding downhills. The squeal of tires only caused me to remember a time my friend Gil and I had tried to see how many times we could squeal the tires around the switchbacks that led to Helen Georgia, causing our wives in the backseat to nearly lose their lunch. In that moment of reflection, I calmly advised her that she might want to slow down.

As our old car moaned going up the steep grades, she patiently urged the engine on. We had stopped once and already overheated on the first climb up through the Linville Gorge area. So, she was overly fearful from that point on of us possibly breaking down. Then to add more angst to our journey, one of the break pads decided to begin rubbing making an annoying whine off and on. Needless to say, we felt as if we were holding our collective breaths by the time we reached the sanctity of Valle Crucis, one of our destinations. We pulled into the shady parking spot behind the Mast General Store and quickly exited the car. I knelt to the ground and thanked God for safe delivery. An elderly man standing nearby walking his dog began laughing, apparently aware of the scene taking place before him; the teenager getting out of the driver’s seat and the relieved father kneeling in prayer.

As the tension of the drive wore off, we each found our place of repose where we could enjoy our cold drinks and snacks, mine being the porch swing at the back of the old store. Sitting there, swaying back and forth, I closed my eyes and reflected back upon the recent days.

There was a lot to be thankful for.

We had made another successful moving/mowing run back to the farm. For some reason, mom was on my mind a lot during the drive back. In fact, at one point I found myself asking God why he had decided to take both my parents. My own children never got to know them, yet there was so little opportunity for them to even come visit.

So much seemed so unfair.

I tried to push the negative thoughts aside, knowing that God had a plan. Besides, they both were in a much better place than they had left; that was at least the comfort I tried to find in their passing.

As we faced the setting sun driving west down I40, there was definitely the peace of mind knowing she no longer suffered. Mary was sitting in the front passenger seat not paying any attention when we began to pass a white SUV. The arms of the driver held the steering wheel with both hands; hands that in fact looked a lot like moms. As we edged on by her, I glanced over just as we were side-by-side and for a brief moment, there she was; mom. She was smiling facing the sunset happily driving to her next destination. I blinked and couldn’t believe my eyes. I tried to say something to my daughter, but the words wouldn’t come. Before I knew it, the little white car was quickly falling behind us, as we were being pushed by the quicker traffic in the fast lane. I so badly wanted to get over and slow back to her position to get one more look but with the trailer behind us in tow, it was impossible. As I watched her car slowly fade into the line of traffic behind us through my rearview mirror, the thought of thanks came to mind.

Yes, I was thankful to have had the chance to see her smiling face once more, if even for a split second.

The old swing creaked, the birds sang their songs and the green grass swayed in the gentle breeze. I took another sip of my cold A&W Root Beer and smiled as I looked out upon the valley below the clear blue sky.

God was with us and for that, there was a peace of mind that wrapped around me like the comfort of that well-worn quilt I so loved to use on cold winter nights.

There are times to let go, and then there are times we must savor the letting go.

These are the moments we cherish forever.

Thanks be to God.

“Walk in wisdom toward those who are outside, redeeming the time. Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how you ought to answer each one.” – Colossians 4:5-6

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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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