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Open Your Eyes

Having therefore, brethren, boldness to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus, By a new and living way, which he hath consecrated for us, through the veil, that is to say, his flesh;”

 – Heb. 10:19-20

Under the overcast, grey sky, a chilly wind blew across the John’s River. The water, a fluid tepid green, like the lifeblood of the forest, flowed past our church’s parking lot. We were setting up for another “Parking Lot Preaching,” at Rocky Springs Baptist Church. Yet, another one of the new “normals” since the start of the lock-down of social distancing by our State government. Each Sunday since the beginning of this COVID-19 crackdown on social gathering, we have had our church services outside. No two times are ever the same.

Rocky Springs Baptist Church alongside the John’s River, Collettsville, NC.

On the mountainside across from where we stood, the trees were now all springing for the fresh greenery of new leaves. This past month, we’ve been blessed to watch the progression of seasons unfold. As Pastor Joe speaks, my eyes wander through the forest across the narrow body of water. Like the many passages of scripture, each limb, root, and leaf reveal another mystery yet to unfold. Slowly, like the buds giving way to leaves, our outside church has evolved, becoming better each week. Below the fauna, under the shadows of the overhanging undergrowth, a momma wild duck and her brood of ducklings floated past. The signs of spring were showing their bountiful glory even within the unprecedented times in which we were living.

Regardless of what mankind was experiencing, the earth was returning to life.

I awoke this past Sunday morning with the feeling that our outdoor services were like a string of Easter Sunrise services. Typically, once a year, to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ, congregations shed the walls of their church for that of an outdoor sanctuary. Once churches were allowed to provide the safe-distancing option of staying in their cars during preaching, we’ve been hosting the Sunday morning and Wednesday evening services out-of-doors, under the open sky in our parking lot that adjoins the scenic John’s River in Collettsville, NC. Although we’re not hosting the services at dawn, there is always the nostalgic feeling of those pre-dawn preparations for when we did. Probably more than anything, one gets a sense of worshipping God within the element of his creation, the earth. To feel the chill of the crisp morning air upon your countenance brings an absolute reality to the message. The physicalness of holding the page of your Bible down, lest the wind, like a silent hand, turn it for you, reminds us that we are not alone. “The wind bloweth where it may, yet we cannot tell from whence it came, neither where it goeth.”

As we live in the flesh, we experience life through our terrestrial being. We are only capable of understanding what we have seen or learned through what limited abilities with which we are born. To know any more than that requires intellect. Even when Nicodemus inquired to Jesus under the cover darkness how these things could be, Jesus replied with, “Art thou a master of Israel, and knowest not these things? Verily, verily, I say unto thee, We speak that we do know, and testify that we have seen; and ye receive not our witness. If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe, if I tell you of heavenly things?” [1]

It is our innate mental capacity that allows the Holy Spirit to dwell within our human spirit. It is within this spiritual realm that we rise above all other God’s creations. It is because of our ability to read the message given over 2,000 years ago, and through it, that we may receive the divine Spirit of God. When we find ourselves removed from the man-made structures in which we usually spend our Sunday mornings, we are then brought closer to the rest of our Creators magnificent works. Like those meals cooked over the open fire, food seems to always taste better prepared outside. Likewise, the bread of life when received out of doors is more delectable than honey. Yes, the Word of God takes on a whole new perspective when one worships under the canopy of clear blue skies rather than a painted ceiling.

The actor, Jonathan Roumie, who plays Jesus of Nazareth in the YouTube TV series, “The Chosen,” was interviewed about his role and how it affected him as a person. He replied that although he felt comfortable acting the part of the “human side” of Christ, that it was far beyond his abilities to convey the divine side of Jesus. Roumie said that he did his best to fulfill what he perceived of Christ’s human actions, but left it up to God to work through him to allow the viewers to see God through his character. In other words, Roumie could take care of the physical nature of his role of Jesus, but knew it was beyond him to act out what God was doing through the real Jesus Christ; that was up to the Holy Spirit.

Similarly, it was through the death of Christ in the flesh, which took away the curse of Adam upon the world. Through the blood of Christ, the door was opened once again for all of God’s children. Because of the sacrificial lamb upon the cross, we can with, “boldness enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus, By a new and living way, which he hath consecrated for us, through the veil, that is to say, his flesh;”

It was because of Christ’s flesh that we were saved, and it is through our flesh that we experience the temptations to sin. The irony is purely God. When we receive salvation, we are made anew, and we no longer seek those fleshly rewards. When we are changed, we are then more capable of connecting to God’s earthly creation, and to His living word. When we have received Christ into our lives, we can see God’s handiwork more readily, and because of it, we see with new eyes. When you see with open eyes, the world in which we live changes. The colors of the flowers seem brighter, the sounds of the forest birds more animated, and the sunsets appear more grandeur. In some small way, we get a tiny glimpse of heaven on earth.

While we face challenging times like never before, we must know that God has a purpose in everything.  

Embrace that new normal and let God open your eyes to those things which we have taken for granted too long. Seek, and ye shall find Him, knock, and the door shall be opened. Enjoy those outdoor services while you still can and look upon them with a renewed appreciation.

May each day be another sunrise upon the empty tomb.

Rejoice because He lives.

Thanks be to God.


[1] John 3:10-12 KJV

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Make a Way in the Wilderness

The old path had been obliterated by the multitude of floods sweeping through the valley. Over the course of the late winter and early spring, the rains had fallen heavily upon the mountain. The water had nowhere to go but down into the valleys below. Massive logs had been strewn this way and that, like straws spilled on a table, their remains were all that was left, like bones upon the shoreline of a distant war. Now, there were only piles of dark, entangled webs of roots and logs. Their bulk lay wherever the currents had subsided.

John’s River, Collettsville, NC.

One such testament to the disasters of this past season had now blocked the old trail which was once where my weekly crossing of the river would lead. It had been over a year since my last venture. Like a blanket of comfort, vines and forest growth had already claimed their new patron as their own. To once more scale the opposite shore would require finding a new way, a new path; blazing a trail once more through the wilderness. It was as if God was speaking to me this past week when all the events had fallen into place such that there was finally time to seek out this new pathway. Much like many of our lives at this moment, you too might be waiting on that next door to open. You might feel like those prayers you have lifted over and over again are not reaching through your own ceiling. In this time of waiting, there is learning. In this season of pause, we must seek what we have yet to find in our faith.

One might ask, “Is it even worth the effort to reclaim that old path?” or if your congregation has lived through a natural disaster you might ask, “Is it worth the money to rebuild the church after the storm?” To those fallen on even the direst of life’s circumstances, the question may arise, “How can I even go on living?”

God tells us through his prophet Isaiah, when he states, “Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.”

We often cannot see beyond the next hill or bank of the river. God has put before us the opportunity to blaze new pathways, leaving the old behind. When we find our way is blocked by circumstances beyond our control, or have a tragedy strike, we must first seek Him. When we find God, we must then listen, for when we receive him, his indwelling will become our guidepost. When we learn to listen for that still small voice, we shouldn’t be surprised to find guidance and direction, and often in the most unlikely of places.

The afternoon thunderstorms had been heavy, so it was no surprise to find the river was up. The sandbar, covered with all manner of stone, was now under water; it being my gauge as to when it is safe to cross or not. Having already decided that this would be the day to find out if there was a way possible, I went ahead with the plan. A wiser man might have simply passed for another day; not I. The first few footsteps into the murky turbulence proved my intuition was correct, the current was tearing away at my footing. Scarcely had not one step been taken before the next was nearly washed out from underneath. The crossing was not going to be easy. Not to mention, the distant shore, now covered with a network of vines and briars, would be even more daunting. I had just begun, and it seemed as if all was lost. In the back of my mind, the question arose as to, “Why, why are you doing this?”

Many times, when we are in the midst of our trial, even though we may be within the darkness of the valley of the shadow of death, we are not alone; God is with us. As we take that next step, there are those in our lives watching, like the boats surrounding the ship upon which Jesus had fallen asleep. Each small vessel carried passengers who also wondered if this may be their doom, waiting for a sign from the boat upon which Christ had found passage. To their amazement, from a distance, they watched as Jesus rebuked his disciple’s unbelief, and then calmed the raging seas. Those too, who are with us each day, watching our demeanor and response to the hardships through which we travail, are likewise inspired by the sometimes seemingly insignificant details of decisions we make; regardless, if it is something we find as trivial or something as horrific as the loss of a family member through a tragedy, each event elicits a similar revelation.

So, as I fought the raging currents to reach the other shore, it was with admirable satisfaction that when I embarked upon scaling the steep embankment, there was already an opening made by the hand of God. The force of the flood had caused not only trees to be washed away, but also the shape of the briars and vines had been swept into uniform patterns, causing them to lay one upon the other, like matting upon the earth. I easily found footing and barely had to cut back but just a few thorny green briars, here and there, until the paved trail of the Collettsville Park was in sight. All of my apprehension and fear had already been taken care of by the Master’s hand. All that was asked of me was to try, to take that first step into the raging torrent and trust in Him.

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.”-Isaiah 43:2

When we find ourselves in these times of trial and waiting, we must forge new forays into God’s Word, turning pages we might have never sought before. We are often taken aback at how direct the word may speak to us. Who hasn’t sought an answer from God, and in so doing, opened the Bible at random and found the very text to which your eye had cast upon answering you? But even in our doubt and struggle with waiting, we must keep every present in our mind that He will not leave us in our struggle. The wrath of destruction through which we survive, be it spiritual or physical, is not unnoticed by our Heavenly Father. When we pass through the storm, we will be blessed with the most loving promise, “Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies;”

In the silence, God is working on answering your prayers.

Be ever vigilant and patient. It takes time, at least from our humanly perspective, for rivers to emerge from deserts. From the driest and most arid of the human soul can the fruit of the Holy Spirit spring forth, bubbling up unto the presence for all to see; a testimony of having battled through hell and survived by the Grace of God to tell the story.

Step into that torrent, blaze that trail once more and never give up. Christ didn’t die for your sins for you to throw away your life.

You can make it. You have His promise.

Thanks be to God.

Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies;”-Psalm 103:4

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.”-Isaiah 43:2

Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.”-Isaiah 43:19

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An Affliction of Conviction

by Timothy W. Tron

The cold gray light of dawn had yet to reach the brink of my window sill. Somewhere over the mountain, the light had yet to reach this side of the morn. Like waves crashing upon the rocks of a distant shore, I could hear, but I could not hear. The words of the young man from the day before returned; thoughts of music and farming combining as one. As he spoke, my mind reflected on the scripture references: ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as we are one with the earth from whence, we came.

I placed my materials at the judge’s table well in advance of the start of the days Fiddler’s Convention. As I returned with a fresh cup of coffee, a young man settled into my left, he too being a judge for the morning’s event.

“William Ritter,” he said as we shook hands.

11th Annual Appalachian State Fiddler’s Convention

To his left, another judge began to sit down. They had known one another from other encounters and began to strike up a conversation of coming events, dances, and such. I casually listened as I watched folks of all ages filtering into the Lynnville Falls ballroom of the Plemmons Student Center at Appalachian State University where we were part of the 11th annual Fiddler’s Convention. Our morning was to start with the youth guitar competition. Voices filled the chamber as I serenely sipped the bitter brew. Eventually, the keywords struck my ear that seemed to be a bit at odds, “Heirloom seeds and music.”

“Did I hear you correctly,” my attention now turned fully to the bearded young man sitting next to me?

During the course of their conversation, I had come to understand that they had connections through Warren Wilson College, where sustainable agriculture was taught and practiced. William had mentioned speaking at one of the events they had been talking about on the subject of heirloom seeds, music, and their connection.

“Tell me more,” I asked, now fully vested in understanding his perspective; my own had already been retrieved and ready to compare. He shared how we too often take for granted those seeds that which are passed down from one generation to the next, and how much richer and sweeter those fruits and vegetables taste when compared to generic, run of the mill seeds purchased at your local farm supply store.

Nodding my head in agreement, I fully understood where he was going. He went on to say how old-time music is much the same, how society doesn’t appreciate the traditional music and how it is passed down from one generation to the next; it too having a much richer and sweeter disposition upon the soul than other forms of music.

“It is our affliction,” I said to him. He paused in reflection, thinking deeply about what I had said. You could tell he wanted to dig deeper, but before we could embark further, the emcee for our judging event called the program into order, and the participants began to perform, one after another. In our short, but rewarding time together, William and I found a common thread and bond.

Reflecting back to that moment, there had been so much more to convey that had sprung forth from that beginning. Like a seed being planted, those purposeful words of heirloom seeds and music, so too was our faith passed down from one generation to the next. Either one of which, that may be dropped, perpetuates a loss to the coming generations; their ancestral ties to the truth become endangered. Someone once said, “We are one generation away from apostasy.”

As surely as I awoke this morning, I knew in my heart that God had planted me next to William Ritter for a purpose yesterday. Inside of me, there was a renewed sense of being and what the Lord had called me to do. The words, “Afflicted to be Convicted,” came to mind. I sat up in bed, searching for pen and paper in the dark before the words left me.

My life had been one of working the land, while soothing music reconnected my spirit to God. A vision of the past began to take hold. In it, there stood a figure in the cold light of day, there were no shadows, only the gray, bleakness of late winter. The boy picked up a handful of the dark earth and crumbled the rich soil through his fingertips. As tiny remnants of dirt slipped through his hand, he pulled his fist close to his face and inhaled, smelling the deep aroma of rich humus. His mind drifted back to the garden just outside Grandma Tron’s tiny kitchen window.

It was early spring, and it was the dark of the moon. Easter was near. The family had been called in for the celebration of Good Friday. The cherry trees would soon be blossoming at the Roofless Church. Whenever the family gathered, they also came to work together. A Tron was not content to just sit; they had to keep busy. It was time for putting in the potato sets for the year’s garden, and Grandma had the troops fully deployed. Most of the blooms on the trees and bushes had yet to come forth; summer was still a distant thought, but we knew if Grandma had said it was time to plant, then it was time to plant. The dirt was cool to the touch as his hands dug one hole after another, placing the sets carefully so that the eyes were facing up. Behind him, a cousin was following, laying straw into the bed, covering the seedlings, as yet, another cousin followed the other, pulling the soil back over both, tucking them into bed for their eventual resurrection. Grandma worked alongside us, whistling old hymns in the sweetest refrains. We often tried to mimic her, but our lips could never sustain the sweetness to which she carried her melodies. One after another, their gentle refrains blessed our ears, calming our youthful spirits. It was back-breaking work, but the reward, spending time with grandma, and then to be rewarded with a fresh plate of her fried potatoes, was well worth any toil.

He looked at his dirt-stained hands, the soil blackened beneath his nails; the sense of accomplishment and family; a feeling he would not soon release. The unnamed melodies forever planted within his soul; the bond of earth and song were inseparable. The two were in his blood forever part of who he was.

God had created man from the earth, breathing life into his nostrils, so that he could have life. “And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed.”-Gen.2:7-8 After the sin, man was cursed to work the land, by sweat and toil; yet, again, it was who he was. “And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life;18 Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field;19 In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”-Gen.3:17-19

God had intended for us to work the land from that point forward, but not only the land, our humanity as well. His only Son provided us with the path to eternal life through our salvation, but only such that we had been entrusted with the planting of those seeds of faith. Without them, the future generations would be lost to sin, and eternal death. It is our conviction of purpose to plant those seeds. Although we as sowers may never reap the harvest, it is up to us to carry on the Word of God unto the world, for these were Christ’s own words, “18 And Jesus came and spoke unto them, saying, “All power is given unto Me in Heaven and on earth.19 Go ye therefore and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,20 teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you. And lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” Amen.”-Mat.28:18-20

Chatham County JAM Students performing on stage at Reno Sharpe’s Store, Chatham County, NC. May, 2010.

As my fingertips glide across the keys, music connects me to another realm whereby God speaks through me in spite of me. The connection is undeniable. “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom; teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your hearts to the Lord.”-Col.3:16

Like that feeling of dark soil slipping through our fingertips, its smell reaching our senses, reminding us of our irrefutable connection to the earth, and God’s love. “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” Seeds of faith, the far-reaching ability to touch our hearts through music, and the ground upon which we trod; we are never far from the graces of God.

Long ago, the seeds of faith were planted in my soul. Grandma gently watered them with beautiful melodies of faith, which to this day, bring grace to my heart. We may pass from this life to the next one day, but until we do, we too shall break the ground and plant the seeds for those to come; lest they fall to the wayside and darkness prevail.

Preserve those heirloom seeds, music, and faith, if not for yourself, do it for those you love.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Let our affliction become our conviction in all that we do.

Thanks be to God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That particular evening, his mood seemed different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every year the hillsides get harder to climb.

Seems like the autumn turns too quickly into winter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead of sleeping over in the corner by the fireplace,

That old dog would run and hunt all day.

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

Making the memories that are on my mind today.

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

Every year the hillsides get harder to climb.

Seems like the autumn turns too quickly into winter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That young man, of course, would be me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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One Stone Upon the Next

One Stone Upon the Next

By Timothy W. Tron

 

Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock. And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.” – Matthew 7:24

Block upon block, stone upon stone, the process can be extremely laborious when working with masonry. It would be all the more easy to throw up a building built with any other foundation, like a pole barn for example. But for a long-lasting, secure underpinning, one must work with the bedrock of building materials. It can be very taxing upon the body, especially when you don’t lay block or stone for a living. Slowly, one block, one brick at a time, the wall begins to take shape. As I step back and wonder if it will ever get done, a message from the past floods into my mind. It’s the voice of my father speaking in my ear, “Once you get it down, you’re done, and you’ll never have to do it again. It may take a while, but you’ll get there.”

Walking in faith is likewise never easy. One step at a time, another scripture memorized, another theological lesson learned and soon, like a stone wall, your pathway begins to take shape. We are continually and will forever be tempted in our earthly bodies by the world in which we live. Yet, we can stand firm, like that rock wall, withstanding the floods and winds of storms that crash against us.

Many years ago, there was another time when I worked with masonry. Then, as now, the feel of the mud, the right consistency, the flow of buttering the stone, then finding it in place, all come back like something ingrained in who I am. The more I worked with it, the more it felt natural. Eventually, I would learn that it was more than just a feeling, it was part of my heritage.

It was no wonder that our ancestors from the Waldensian Valleys where renowned masons. The word Waldensian simply meant, “People of the Valleys.” The valleys consisted of a 25 square mile area of the northwest corner of Italy, known today as the Cottien Alps.  Living at an altitude where there was always more stone that timber, the natural selection for building material became stone. The ancient villages with the slate rooftops and stone walls speak to a life of living in hardships but being prepared for them as well. The harsh winters required a dwelling place that could withstand the rigors of months of snow and freezing cold temperatures.

Waldensian Community Oven, Trail of Faith, Valdese, NC.

For centuries, they continued to build their homes, barns, and landscaping using the stone that God had provided. Likewise, their faith was based upon the granite bedrock from which they drew strength. They had received the word of God from the Apostles, and as such, held it dear to their hearts. They had become known as the “People of the Bible,” because of their memorization of scripture. Families would commit entire books to memory so that when a community came together, they could recite the entire Bible by heart. For nearly a thousand years, they had been persecuted by the Holy Roman Catholic Church. Their crime was sharing the gospels outside the church walls and possessing the Word of God. For to know the Word to the point it is within you, there is nothing else you can do but to do as the Bible says, “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

Yet, they never wavered. The people of the valleys kept the light of Christ alive until the day would come that they could build the bridge that would carry it beyond the valleys into the rest of the world. Their evangelism would spread to all of Europe. From there, and over many centuries, until the Reformers would pick up the mantle and carry forward from that point.

When these Waldensians came to America, where they founded what would become known as Valdese, North Carolina,  they brought with them their inherent talents, one of which was being natural masons. At first, they seemed turned away from who they were in more ways than one. Having no longer been persecuted, it was easy for many of them to eventually join a denomination that didn’t demand the same attention to faith as their ancestors that had died by the sword. So too were they eager to leave behind the toil of working with stone, and instead, tried to build homes made only of wood. Before long, when they finally had time to regroup and reflect more on who and what they were, many went back to working with stone. From there, many churches and WPA projects in and around Burke County were either built or enhanced by these ancient stone smiths from the valleys. But even more dramatic was that some would return to that ancient faith and find more compatible churches to attend. Like myself finding an inherent talent that I didn’t know existed, these Christians of old would return to what felt natural, as they had always done, worshipping God based on the spirit and truth, the Word of God.

Abernathy Methodist Church, Rutherford College, NC.

It was this worshipping God as Christ had asked that determined their course in destiny. “Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock.”

The Waldensians place in the history of Christianity was that of an Ark, of sorts, for the Word of God, a place where God prepared a people in a place that would allow them to protect this word and preserve it until a time when the rest of the world was ready to receive it.

When Andrew took his brother Simon to see Jesus, the first thing Jesus said to him was, “Thou art Simon, son of Jonah, that shall be called Cephas.” The Greek word for Cephas meant stone, or even more precise, a little stone. It was this little stone that Christ would build his church upon, which he himself was the cornerstone; one stone upon the next.

It would seem a bitter irony that a man from Lyon France, a wealthy merchant, would sell everything he had to turn to an Apostolic way of life after hearing a traveling troubadour sing about a people from the valleys who lived out their faith as in Apostolic times. Once he heard this tale, he was determined to live and preach the word of God from that point forward. Yet, if he had used his real name, his family would have been persecuted and killed, again because it was against the law of the church-state to do so. So, to hide his identity, he became “Peter Waldo.” The name simply meant a little stone from the valleys. This “Peter of the valleys,” would go on to lead many in Lyon to Christ and would eventually have to flee to safety to the same valleys from which he took his name. Some historians would tell you that this was the beginning of the Waldensians, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Knowing that they could not destroy the people of the valleys by force, for they had tried and failed so many times, eventually, the Catholic Church would use the Peter Waldo tale to sway people away from the truth. When Satan gets a foot in the door, he not only takes an inch but will always take a mile.

Sadly, the story is perpetuated even unto today; some by people who are ignorant of the truth while others purposely continue the lie to diminish the true connection of those ancient people of the valleys to the disciples. Without a doubt, the ancient Waldensians can be traced back to the time of the Apostles, even though their persecutors tried to eliminate or destroy any proof thereof. A good starting point for anyone wanting to research the truth can be found in Ted Alexander’s book, “The Waldenses, of Whom the World Was Not Worthy.” Even with the persecutor’s attempts to hide and slander the truth, one can still search into ancient documents today and find clear evidence of Apostolic ties.

It is no wonder that with the ancient Waldenses connection to the Apostles, many denominations seek them out as their forefathers of faith. The Peter Waldo story was and is still today created to perpetuate a false story which is to diminish this fact, that the ancient Waldensians were the link to the original word of God having received it from the Apostles. If it were not so, the Catholic Church could, and does claim to be the sole inheritor of these rights. Ironically, what the Catholic Church tried to kill never died. Their persecutions of these simple valley people became the voice of martyrs, whose blood planted the seeds of the Reformation.

As we have seen, and hopefully now you too can understand, how those ancient people of the valleys persevered for centuries when they held their faith close to their heart. When the flames of persecution lessened, so did their vigilance. Today, we face the same lessons. When we give in to the world around us, we weaken our diligence to fight the devil. We must not fall away from our focus on the word, for as it is written in Ephesians 6:12, “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

We can never forget the past, should we be tempted to repeat it. To diminish the truth is to void Christ of all that he did to be the salvation for all mankind. It is up to us to carry on the truth, for it is written, “The father seeketh those who worship him in spirit and in truth.”

Do not let the light of Christ go out. Carry on the work of those distant forefathers and speak boldly to others.

Remember, one stone upon the next is all it takes.

Their salvation is in your hands.

Lux Lucet in Tenebris. The light shines in the darkness.

Thanks be to God.

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Fallen Leaves Upon the Ground…

But the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.”-1Corinthians 2:14

Lately, there has been an awakening in my heart to the existence of the “Natural Man.” As Paul wrote in Corinthians, the natural man is unable to perceive the things which are of God, for they are foolishness to him.

Tonight, while on the “dreadmill,” the old Porter Wagoner song came on my playlist, “Fallen Leaves.” The beautiful melody began to play as the sunset out the recreation center windows bid the bitter, cold sunset adieu. It was then the voice of one spoke to me, reminding me of a natural man I had once known so long ago, and how his end was very much like those fallen leaves, “All the friends that he once knew are not around.”

It was a gray, windy, bitter-cold day. As I walked to the gravesite carrying my fiddle, I noticed there were but just three or four others walking up the hill toward me from their vehicles parked down below. We were at Oakwood Cemetery in Siler City. Preacher Bob Wachs was walking up with the others, mostly the men and women of the family that had hired the dead man to work for them. I don’t recall how I had been notified, but here I was, to do my part. When it came my time, I began to pull my bow across the frozen strings of my violin making the most awful sound. I had never played before in such bitter, cold temperatures and didn’t realize the impact it had on the tuning of my fiddle. Quickly, with nearly numb fingers, I found the proper place to recall the melody, and soon, the hauntingly fitting strains of Amazing Grace found their way onto our ears. The howling icy winds carried the sound away as quickly as it landed. The tiny funeral procession huddled, shivering against the elements while around us, solemn reminders of those gone on stood watch. Brown, withered leaves danced past as the strings played their mournful sound. The biting cold wind caused my eyes to tear up as I choked back the emotions. It was one of the hardest things I had done up to then.

Here lay in the ground, a man without friends or family to bid him adieu. It was like Porter had known the deceased man before us when he penned the lines, “All the friends that he once knew are not around. They are scattered like the leaves upon the ground.”

And so, I played one last song for my friend Robert, one more song to say goodbye.

Robert Johnson was as humble a human being as I ever knew. He lived in an old abandoned camper, the shell of which hadn’t seen the light of day in nearly half a century, so entombed was it from the dirt of the nearby chicken houses. Like the home in which he inhabited, Robert was usually as filthy from working in the poultry barns. His language was often as foul has his outer body, coloring much of what he said. He worked for a farmer as his hired hand, tending to the commercial chicken houses each day and night. Part of his pay was his housing, which didn’t account for much, but at least it was a dry place to sleep.

Our paths crossed when I began renting land from his boss on which I pastured my cattle. Often, I would pull in to the area where he lived to pick up my tractor to take hay to my cows, and there would be Robert sitting and resting in preparation for his next shift of either picking up dead chickens or checking their feed. The houses in which he worked were not up to the modern standards of today’s houses so that there was much more manual labor involved. Each time I saw him, he’d smile that big broken grin, and wave, “Howdy.” He was missing all of his front teeth. He never shared with me if they were missing from a single punch from someone’s fist or if they had rotted out from neglect. Regardless, his smile was one that you would not soon forget.

The more we spoke, the more Robert opened up and shared with me, no matter where we ran into one another. He would often hang out at the local grocery down in Goldston, sipping coffee, smoking his cigarettes, and just shooting the breeze. He told me of the old days of Siler City and how he had grown up, living on the “hill” as he called it. He would share with me some of the antics he had been known to play on folks back in the day. From looking at him, in his worn, dirty rags, you’d never guess he’d have the heart of a joker, but he did. He recalled how one time he took buckshot to a turkey shoot, and when the proprietors of the event weren’t looking, he loaded his shotgun with the heavy-duty ammo. When they gave the word to fire, Robert’s target disappeared from view, obliterated by the number two shot disintegrating it upon impact. He rolled with laughter at that point. When he told such a story, he would break into laughter, then begin coughing uncontrollably; the years of chain smoking catching up with him. It was always a bitter-sweet moment. When he had recovered, he recomposed himself and said with a smirkish grin, “They didn’t like that none too good,” and then broke into another round of chuckling and coughing.

After my family got to know of Robert, we’d make an extra plate for him on holidays. He didn’t have any family that anyone knew of, so we’d take it down to him at his shell of a home. He was always grateful for the hot plate of food. He’d smile that broken grin and hold the food up to his nose and sniff, “Mighty fine, mighty fine,” he’d exclaim, then he’d squeak out in a long southern drawl, “Thank you, …you didn’t have to do that.”

Once in a while, when I’d catch him taking a break, I’d take my fiddle down and play him a tune or two. He liked old-timey music, so I shared with him when I could. While I played, he’d rear back on an upturned five-gallon bucket in the garage next to his home. He’d close his eyes and take another draw on one of his camels, and then wash it down with a long drink of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. He’d smile that chasm of a grin and exclaim, “Mighty fine, mighty fine.” I would usually close his one-man show with Amazing Grace. He would lean his bucket back down square on the ground and solemnly remark, “That was beautiful, just beautiful.”

Robert was as much a natural man as I had ever known. His world was only that of which he cared to obtain through his flesh; his love of beer and cigarettes. Back in that day, no matter how much I offered up faith to him, he never cared to discuss it in depth. To him, the scriptures were just words written on paper in a book that he didn’t have time to open. He believed in God, but that was about as far as he would go. The natural world was all he knew. He could never break free from the simple pleasure of the flesh, no matter how fleeting their effect. Had he been able to do so, he might have found a new body, a new life, one which elicits awakenings to the glory of God. He would have found a place; a sensation that far exceeds anything here on earth. Yet, like the song, he passed from day to day, paycheck to paycheck, stuck in a life that appeared defeated. His story could easily be summed up in these few lines, “Some folks drift along through life and never thrill, to the feeling that a good deed brings until it’s too late and they are ready to lie down, there beneath the leaves that scattered on the ground.”.

On one of those occasions I pulled into the tractor shed area to pick up something from my tractor, I found Robert sitting on a bucket, looking more worn than usual. His leg had a large bandage around where something had cut through his clothing and into his flesh beneath.

“What happened to you,” I asked, curious to know what had slowed him down?

“Oh, nothing,” he said, “It’s just a cut I got on one of the feeders in the chicken house.” He continued on with something else, not worried about the wound. The thought of cleanliness and infection crossed my mind, but I didn’t give it another thought. Not long afterward, I heard that he had been taken to the hospital after passing out at the chicken house. I was told that he had a pretty serious infection from the leg wound I had seen. He continued on in the hospital for quite some time but eventually was released. I’m not sure if he wasn’t truly healed, for not long after being released he was back at the hospital after collapsing once more.

This time, he never returned alive.

We buried Robert in the cemetery located on the hill where he grew up. It was almost fitting. He had come full circle in his life, seemingly alone, but now united with the world in which he lived; the earth. The memory today matched the next few lines in the song, “Lord let my eyes see every need of every man, make me stop and always lend a helping hand, then when I’m laid beneath that little grassy mound, there’ll be more friends around than leaves upon the ground.”

One more gone that we might have never known but save that he never found a way to rise above his natural being. How much greater a journey he would have found had he not been like those leaves scattered on the ground. How much greater would his eternal life abound, had my friend’s soul been united with our Savior’s grace, and then his soul would have not been gone down, but risen with those on high, to live forever not in, but above the ground.

Tonight, I pray that on that final judgment day, Robert will have been saved by the grace of God and that we shall someday meet again. I know it’s possible, for with Christ all things are. As the scriptures say, “Even unto them that believe on his name,” may become the sons of God.

Believe on His name.

This much I pray.

Thanks be to God.

 

Fallen leaves that lie scattered on the ground

The birds and flowers that were here now can’t be found

All the friends that he once knew are not around

They are scattered like the leaves upon the ground

Some folks drift along through life and never thrill

To the feeling that a good deed brings until

It’s too late and they are ready to lie down

There beneath the leaves that scattered on the ground

Lord let my eyes see every need of every man

Make me stop and always lend a helping hand

Then when I’m laid beneath that little grassy mound

There’ll be more friends around than leaves upon the ground

To your grave there’s no use taking any gold

You cannot use it when it’s time for hands to fold

When you leave this earth for a better home someday

The only thing you’ll take is what you gave away.”- Porter Wagoner

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God-Chance with the Wilderness Scouts

Once again, the crisp cool morning was a welcome respite. The weather has been quite welcoming these latter days of June, once more reminding me of the high altitude climate of those distant valleys of my recent travels. So it was this past Monday morning, when other than the Statistics classwork, the only other items on my to-do list were to meet a buyer for some of our furniture at the storage unit and to drop by some friends house to return a book and to share a new one. In the meantime, I thought it would be nice to drop by the Trail where the rest of the family was meeting for lunch, and spend some time together.

If nothing else, it was a beautiful day just to be out.

The early morning passed quickly, as did the chill that had been so refreshing. Soon I found myself on the road and focusing on the tasks at hand. Before long, my car pulled into the parking lot of the Trail to find a van full of students and teachers already unloaded and heading into the Visitor’s Center. The first thing that stood out was that they were dressed much like the rural people of the valleys from where I had just been, with the women wearing long skirts and head scarfs. It was nice to see something that crossed the decades of time and oceans which were a physical reminder of the past. Making my way into the office, past the bustling activity of the visitors preparing for their tour, I settled down for my meal. About that time my wife whispered in my ear, “Would you have time to give them a guided tour if they want to take one?” With almost no thought I replied, “Sure, I can make time.”

In the other room, the group decided to eat lunch first, so without knowing it, our timing would be in sync for what was to come. From the other room I overheard a marvelous tale. As they ate, one of the leaders read a story to the group of a young Waldensian girl and her mother. The story told of how Piedmontese soldiers showed up one day to search their house for any trace of a Bible. They had just been reading scriptures while mixing the dough for the daily bread. Owning or possessing a Bible during this timeframe was punishable by death. Knowing the dire circumstances, the woman had to act quickly. Before the child knew it, her mother had hidden the family Bible in the dough she had been kneading at the time of their arrival and shoved it into the hearth to bake. The mother answered the angry knocks at the door, allowing the men to enter and search as they wanted. Not soon enough, they left, as rudely and briskly as they had entered. They were none the wiser.

“Where did you hide our Bible,” asked the little girl?

“Soon you will see,” she smiled.

Not long after the mother pulled the finished bread from the oven. The mother smiled and nodded toward the loaf sitting before her. The child’s eyebrows raised at the thought.

“You put it in the bread,” she questioned, unbelievably?

“Yes, where else could I have put it?”

The story was a perfect preface for their visit. I hadn’t heard it before and wondered to myself where they had found it. My mental deliberations were momentarily broken when I heard my wife asking them if they might like a guided tour instead of just taking the self-guided tour, “We actually have one of our guides here today,” she was happy to convey. After a short discussion, the group leader replied, “Yes, we’d love to if it is possible.”

Quickly swallowing the last of my sandwich, I found an extra Trail T-Shirt in the closet and donned my uniform for the afternoon.

I was back at the Trail.

Like most tours, we started at the relief map, where we describe the valleys. However, something was much more real to me than before. Looking down at the man-made mountain tops, I now knew where and how these valleys flowed. Although one could spend a lifetime trying to learn every crag and valley path, my journey had allowed me a perspective unique to anything previously thought. As I pointed to the various places, I pulled out my device and opened the gallery, then with pictures displaying in hand, I waved above those points relative to the pictures to bring alive the crude landscape below; it was amazing.

“You need to make that part of the display,” exclaimed one of the leaders.

As we stood watching, one by one, we saw the valleys come to life even before we left the Visitor’s Center.

From there, my previous script for presenting the Trail began to change. The reality from which the exhibits on the Trail were created now had new meaning and purpose. Beyond what was before us, the story behind the story became more concrete, more vivid. From ages of third grade to adult, our tour group listened intently at each new scene before them. Their questions kept bringing to light, additional details that were too important to leave out. What once seemed relevant, and meaningful seemed to diminish in what really was at stake; sharing how the Word was protected, preserved, and evangelized so that all might come to know the one true, living God.

Having been in the real cave with a communion, I was worried that there would be a fakeness to the Trail’s cave which might deter feelings I had once experienced almost every tour. When the group began to sing “Holy, Holy, Holy,” the fear quickly disappeared. The tiny little voices mixed with those of the adults made a chorus that was heaven divine. My faith was restored once more.

As we passed through the doors of the church, my mind once more wondered how this too might change. Would it seem less than before? We would soon know.

While sharing the story of the Ciabas and the history behind it, everything seemed the same, up until one of the leaders asked how I had found out I was Waldensian. That’s when things changed once again.

Standing in front of little ones, I was worried about the length of time it might take to share my personal story. Yet, as I began, my eyes kept searching for signs of boredom, idleness, or sleep; there were none. It was as if they were rapt with the moment, so I kept going. Before long, my heart was overflowing as the Holy Spirit poured forth. As my eyes filled with tears of emotion, there was not much more one could say, other than, “Thanks be to God.”

On a beautiful, clear Carolina day, a sweet group of children and adults found their way to a place where a man once called his job, although it really wasn’t a job, because that is something you do for work. If you love what you do, you’ll never work another day; and so it was. But God had plans to push us further than we often think we can go, and usually more than we think we can handle. We may never know where and how He is using us. On this one particular day in June, God’s pathway put us together, where the Lord led us all to the Trail of Faith. He united a wonderful group called the “Wilderness Scouts,” with a former Director and tour guide, who now is simply a servant of the Lord. The result from this servant’s perspective was Godly.

For we were once darkness, but now we are light, live as children of the light…”

As one of the leaders expressed as they were about to leave, “It was another God-chance.”

And to that, all one can say is, “Amen.”

Thanks be to God.

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Another Door Opens…

Truly my soul silently waits for God; From Him comes my salvation.” – Psalm 62:1

Sometimes it’s hard to know where to begin.

My footsteps echoed down the hallway as I made my way to the classroom. The sun had just begun to warm the horizon of the nearby mountain top as my key turned the lock to my new office; my home away from home. The thought rolled over in my mind like the key in the lock, “Could I have ever imagined being here a year ago?”

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Back then, my mindset was one of total commitment to the Trail in order to serve the Lord, acting as the Director at the Trail of Faith. It was more than a simple adjustment to a new career. It was a total change of life, giving it all over to God. Yet, doors open, and doors close; so it was with the Trail.

Sometimes we are called to serve, not once but again and again, like the refining of a precious metal.

God was not content for me to remain at the Trail, for it was only a stepping stone in this life’s journey.

Through the days of job searching, the scriptures kept reinforcing my faith. As I silently waited for God to answer prayer, I knew it was only a matter of time before His salvation would be at hand. The morning I received the scripture and message from brother Bill Neal reading, “Many are the afflictions of the righteous: but the Lord delivereth him out of them all.” -Psalm 34:19 and his timely word, “Your challenge is about to end,” it was clear, God was working diligently beyond what mere mortal eyes could see. That morning I prayed that if today was the day, let their be a sign, a message, anything that would confirm that mornings Word.

I prayed and patiently waited.

That same afternoon I received a phone call to be interviewed for the position of Math teacher at Watauga High School.

It was my first interview after nearly three weeks of searching.

One thing after another kept trying to derail the opportunity, but with each delay, there was the sense that God was working it out. In the end, nothing could stand in His way.

He never fails to provide for His children.

My workplace is now a room with 32 other desks, all facing mine. Every day, it is my job to educate over seventy students at Watauga High School in the fundamentals of Math. Each day I stand before over seventy young people who need more than just another adult telling them what to do; rather, they need a shining light to guide them through this difficult age. Yes, where one door closed, God had already planned another one to open. The Emergency Hire for my position was no coincidence, no happen-chance circumstance; God had a plan.

Each day before I begin, I pray that the Lord give not only myself but also all of the staff at our school, strength, guidance, and wisdom; in this, I am not alone.

Now, more than ever before, the image I present, not necessarily just the words I speak, are ever more significant. As we learn about the nuts and bolts of mathematics, I interject stories of life and lessons learned, hoping to add something much greater than just a lesson about numbers.

This is my new calling to continue to serve.

This is my new home.

Thanks be to God.

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New Sacred Ground…

In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread Till you return to the ground, For out of it you were taken; For dust you are, And to dust you shall return.”- Genesis 3:19

They come for many reasons.

For each person, the journey is different as the unique story which made their life.

Today was unlike any other I’ve known to date at the Trail. The call came in while we were still in route back 20151012_090530from the farm yesterday. Our trip had been shortened by events that caused us to return earlier than expected. I was thankful in a way. The work had been hot, non-stop, grueling, and dirty; cleaning out twenty plus years of accumulation in our farm’s barn. In addition, we mowed, bush hogged and weedeated to add to the toil. So when we piled into the sweltering truck (yes, there was no working A/C) we were somewhat thankful to be returning. It wasn’t with complete satisfaction that we were leaving, still knowing there was much more to be done, but we would be back in a couple days to try to finish. Nobody ever said God’s work was easy.

The request had been from guests staying at the B&B in Glen Alpine if they could spread the ashes of their family members who were of Waldensian ancestry at the Trail of Faith. We were honored to be able to accommodate their wishes for their loved ones. It had been as the founding fathers of the Trail had one day hoped, that their creation of a place that would someday become more than a history lesson; that it would someday be a place people would consider sacred enough to connect it to the real valleys. Today was another one of those confirming moments.

When I pulled up to the closed front gate with a couple minutes to spare, the family was already parked and patiently waiting. Some had already begun searching for suitable places where to present their final resting place for their beloved. The skies overhead appeared threatening. They had called for rain, but for now, it waited. God was surely with us.

As I began unlocking and opening up various parts of the exhibits, they began sharing with me the history and story behind those who had passed. The photograph of the deceased they showed me was like so many taken in the days of black and white film. Both of the parents were dressed in their Sunday finest. They looked at me from that distant past, as if to say, “We’re gone, but with you even now.”

There were a son and daughter with their respective families in attendance. Each had a unique perspective and what was even more enlightening, was that they had been to the very valleys where their families had lived. As they shared with me the tales of travel and touring, I couldn’t help think of brother Barry and his wife Sharyn, who were there at this very moment walking those same trails and high peaks that this family was now conveying with me from their memory. As we moved from one exhibit to the next, their voices would speak of the exact place that existed and what they experienced during those visits. Through their voices, in my minds eye I could feel our altitude extend to those of the Alps and in my mind, we were there. The overcast sky added to the feeling of being in another place and time.

Each day I live vicariously through Sharyn’s email updates but my hunger to be there in those Waldensian valleys grows with each passing moment Today’s visitors only added to that fever to travel. It was almost as if God was telling me how much more there was yet to come after the ordeal of our current move. But the parallel goes beyond a relocation of a terrestrial homestead; yes, there is so much more to come in that Heavenly home. In all that we do, there is so much to learn so that when we are of the moment, we can drink in ever more so that the precious time allowed becomes amplified. Yes, there is so much more to come after this life. In many ways, it is precisely how our faith develops with our walk with Christ. The more we understand, the more we can comprehend not only in the Word but from every experience in our journey. Our hunger for God’s word should be just as fervent

They thanked me for the time and faith with which I shared, but the day’s blessing was when I told them how I wasn’t even supposed to be there if my itinerary had gone as planned. It was another Godly moment, and another one of His plans come to fruition in more ways than we could ever imagine. Yes, in many respects, their visit was a confirmation but in more than one aspect. They had found a resting place suitable for their loved ones, but what is more, we found a special connection to a place so very far away, to a place that I have yet to trod upon that sacred ground. Now, from this day forward, as each day awaits me at the Trail, I can feel as if part of that real valley is with me through the new ground spread from the ashes of a life well lived in a place that I can only hope to someday see in person.

One step at a time, one day at a time, we continue on. When our time is right, the Master calls us home but until then, if we follow Him, our pathway will be lit by His lamp and with that light, our lives become so much greater and brighter.

Tomorrow, we continue on our path to reach a new home.

One step and one leap of faith we carry on.

Prayers for strength, wisdom, traveling mercies, good health, and guidance in the days to come.

Thanks be to God.

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You Never Know…

They come for many reasons.20160426_084100

Their paths are as varied as there are stars in the night sky.

He passed me as I walked along the road, picking up debris and clutter. It was early afternoon on a crystal clear April day, warmer than usual. He sat up high in his navy-blue Jeep Cherokee, a master of his vessel. The bulk of belongings stowed upon his roof where hidden from view by the royal blue tarp that flapped in the wind catching my attention as he drove by. Something said to me there was a story there; the voice couldn’t have been more prophetic.

As I rounded the corner and began my descent down the stairs to the Visitor Center, I heard the car door shut. From where I was walking, I didn’t see anyone pull in. “It has to be him,” the voice said. Sure enough, by the time I got to the bottom of the stairs and the corner of the building, he was almost at the front door. His small, stout body topped with a thick head of creamy white hair was eager to get started.

“Are you open,” he asked, smiling broadly as we approached the front door.

“Why sure,” I replied, opening the door to invite him in.

“Well, you’re about the only one in town, he joked, “must be a Monday thing around here.”

“Yes, it does seem to be that way sometimes,” I chuckled, thinking of the two places that came to mind.

He began his introduction by telling me his name, Fred Greene. He told me how he had just been through Greensboro and how his great grandfather was part of its founding, although they hadn’t used the “E” at the end of the town’s name in so doing. “They at least had a Greene Street,” he continued, “with the “E” on the end.”

I nodded and waited. I could tell there was more to come; there was something about him that looked weathered and traveled. His skin was deeply tanned from countless hours exposed to the sun. His vessel, the jeep, was just about as dry and aged in its appearance. There had been a day wax once existed on its paint, but that was a distant memory.

“I was traveling down the interstate on my way from Greensboro and saw your sign. I had never heard of the Trail of Faith, so I thought I would stop and see what you were all about.”

“That’s great,” I quickly replied.

“God leads me every day, and I never know where I will end up.”

I soon learned that he didn’t want to tour the Trail, but only wanted to hear what we were about; a scouting mission of sorts. I began to share with him a brief introduction to hopefully entice him into further discussion. He drank in everything I had to say and was wholefully accepting of every word.

We hadn’t gone far into the story of the Waldensian people when I could tell nature was calling.

“Is there a bathroom here I could use?”

“Sure, down the hall and to the left,” I pointed.

“Great, I’ll be right back,” he said before scurrying off.

Seconds later I could hear the door shut and knew he had found his immediate relief. Thinking he might be thirsty, I poured us a couple of cups of water, one for each of us. Not long after he emerged from the restroom. I offered him his cup of cold water, but he declined to say he had water in the jeep.

It had been a slow day, to say the least. There was enough time for me to begin touching up the sign at the entrance that morning. So when we sat down at the table, seated so I could keep watch of any incoming visitors, Fred began to share with me who he was and what he was about. I was interested to hear the rest of his story.

Every day at the Trail there seems to be another tale of life and inspiration that seems to find its way to us.

As he spoke, the elderly man before me could have easily stepped out of the Bible. His knowledge of scriptures was unbelievable as was his delivery. He used the words I had just spoke to tie in his own beliefs, and his endeavor to win people to Christ. As we talked about how the world had strayed from the truths within the Word, he continued to bring up a certain preacher, someone I had never heard of before. I kept listening and marveling at his ability to quote from memory, long passages of the Bible, feeding his story, one that at times felt somewhat practiced as if he had told many more people than just myself.

Later that day, I would speak to a pastor friend of mine about the visit and he reminded me that we can never be sure that we don’t entertain angels unaware, regardless if they appear sane or not.

When we finally got to the point of his delivery that I was supposed to be moved by the Holy Spirit, something seemed to fall flat. It was then he handed me the cards that displayed the face of the man he had been referring, over and over again, Reverend William Brandham. For a moment, my heart plummeted, like the free falling rock from the cliff’s edge as one’s foot slips. For a split second, your heart races and fear shoots through you to the point your breath is taken away. This was different, in that my heart was sickened at the same pace. Here was a man, knowledgeable, wise and every bit a Biblical scholar who followed someone that was to him, the prophet Elijah incarnate.

My wife would later tell me that maybe that was how those ancient Jews felt when they heard Jesus speak about another way to believe, a gospel they had never heard. It was beyond their ability to grasp this revolutionary way of thinking.

Fred went on to tell me about the miraculous healings and prophecies of Brandham during his lifetime. Later, after I was finally able to peel myself away from Fred, I would learn more about Brandham and his movement that eventually would become a near cult following. Brandham would die in a car crash in 1965 at the age of 56.

For some reason, I don’t think he saw that coming. Of course, I could be wrong.

Now don’t get me wrong, there could have been some truth in all of those wonderful healings that Brandham was purportedly performed. There may have been truth to some of the prophecies he would be attributed to having told. Yet, standing there that day and listening to Fred show me a picture of what was supposed to have been seven angels descending from heaven as reported in Time magazine, I couldn’t help feel a loss for someone that could have totally blown me away had he stuck to the truth, the true Word of God.

I didn’t need healing, prophecies nor miraculous performances by a long passed preacher to bring me to Christ. All I needed to hear were the words that Jesus spoke so long ago, “Knock and the door shall be opened, …ask and ye shall receive.

Fred was another one of the blessings God sends to me every day at the Trail; one of those sweets from God’s box of chocolates. He may not have shared with me the gospel in the context in which I was accustomed, but he also taught me more valuable lessons than I could have ever found on my own.

This morning, at dawn, I went out looking for Fred. He had left the Trail yesterday heading down toward the falls to find a place to stay for the night. I found him parked by the Valdese Fire Department dispatch tower sound asleep. I felt bad that I had no place to offer him to stay. I wasn’t far from living in a jeep myself. When I found him, sleeping like a baby, I quietly placed a note on his windshield to join us for our Tuesday morning prayer breakfast at McDonalds.

Fred never showed.

Later in the day I saw him parked at McDonalds, seated outside at a table sharing his story and gospel with a couple of ladies.

Fred continues to follow God sharing his gospel the only way he knows. I can appreciate his servitude and am thankful to have crossed his path in life. Fred showed me what genuine commitment to giving it all away and following Christ really means, and for that I am thankful.

Fred was inspired long ago by a man many felt was a modern day prophet. So great was Fred’s conviction, he gave his life to serving as a fellow Christian; for that I am grateful.

In all we do, let us not forget, Thanks be to God.

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