Tag Archives: North Carolina

by | June 2, 2016 · 9:11 pm

The Dark Road We Travel…

“Who among you fears the Lord? Who obeys the voice of His Servant? Who walks in darkness And has no light? Let him trust in the name of the Lord And rely upon his God.” – Isaiah 50:10

 

The dark clouds loomed over the mountain as I turned onto the back road, taking the one less traveled. As I made the sharp right turn, I could see the storm brewing ahead. The map had indicated a quicker route to my destination, well below the highlands, so I knew in advance that there would be many twists and turns. Initially, it was nothing more than an overcast scenic drive until rain began to fall lightly. As my little car and I traversed farther and deeper down into the depths of the valley, the light above continued to fade until it was nearly night. To add to the deprivation, rain began to fall harder. I crossed over an ancient bridge and then it was as if I had passed through a time warp. The pavement gave way to a dirt road that was quickly turning into a muddy slush. It was then I noticed that the world around me seemed to slow to a crawl. Instinctively I began to look for signs of life, something to show me that my sense of time warp was only that; just a feeling.darkroad

Suddenly, the darkness became more prevalent and thoughts of horrible movies depicting people of this region as monsters began to surface in my head.

“No, don’t give in,” I told myself as the path ahead began to grow more tortuous, “Trust in God.” The water was now falling in torrents from the sky, and my wipers were doing all they could to splash a path on my windshield big enough for me to catch glimpses of the deteriorating roadway ahead.

The creek that ran alongside the roadbed was swollen and in places, massive rocks stood protruding out from the wall of the mountain. Dark, sullen trees towered above the walls of boulders, all blanketing the road like a tunnel. For a split second, I looked down at my phone, and it was literally dead, no connection, nothing. “If something were to happen to you, it might be weeks before they would ever find your body,” said the voice in my head as I watched a dilapidated shack pass as my little vehicle and I continued on

“Darkness and death surround you. Surely this is the psalmist wrote about,” I mused inwardly.

Around another couple turns it looked as if my sense of time change had been correct. The house that abruptly appeared around the bend seemed to confirm that I had gone back in time several centuries. Its outer shell was weathered, barely clinging to the shards of paint that had one time made it look new; a time long, long ago. Vines and weeds nearly obscured the base of the home from sight making it seem as if it floated in space and time. I carefully made the hairpin turn around the old house and then I noticed her watching. Up in the gable end of the weathered abode was an open window. The rain had abated enough to be able to see the ghostly figure of a person sitting and watching through the thin, threadbare curtain that danced in the breeze. From the whisper of the image of the old woman that sat in the darkness watching me pass I could only imagine the stories that lay hidden; the life left untold. If one were to stop, would they be accepted? If one were to stop, would they ever emerge back into the real world or would they become one with this isolated people? If one were to stop, would their body ever be found? Again and again, darkness kept trying to pull me down, but I fought on.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff comfort me.”

darkhomeAlthough the old house was covered with wooden siding, it caused me think of those stone houses in the pictures of the Cottien Alps. “This could just as easily have been like the valleys from where my ancestors came,” was the next thought. There were places there, like here, where stone structures were tucked back in places where no human would be expected to live, yet there they existed, even today. From there it wasn’t too hard to imagine how those French and Savoy troops marching up into those dark, foreboding valleys to persecute the Waldensians might have felt when they reached gorges and passes deeper and darker than this. The fear that must have run through their minds would have been compounded by the forces who awaited them. God had knowingly put a people in a place where they would be protected. Yet, there I was in the safety of my car but could still sense a hint of fear. How much better would the early settlers of this region of North Carolina and those invaders of the Waldensian valleys, have felt when facing unfriendly natives? Although outnumbered, both those indigenous Alpine mountain people of old and those native Americans would have known their land like the back of their hand granting them a certain advantage. Switchback after switchback, the images only became more and more primitive. It felt as if any moment, I would make one last turn and my headlights would find a solitary figure standing in the middle of the road, waiting for me.

The pathway soon opened up, and I came to a “T” in the road. There was no sign, no GPS, only my memory of the map I had seen earlier. As I paused thinking of which way to turn, my mind again reflected on all the tasks that I had unsettled earlier in the morning before leaving for this trip. There was no way for anyone to get hold of me so if there were a question that needed to be answered, it would have to wait. The whirlwind of duties, tasks, and to-do lists came to a screeching halt.

As the wiper kept time, back and forth, I quietly sat in the car at the empty intersection somewhere in the Blue Ridge Mountains. There was no one coming from behind, no cars passing before me; I was alone in the wilderness. The scriptures tell us when we seek Him, we will find Him, and He will listen. So, as the rain poured down, the rivulets of water washed beneath the tires, I bowed my head and prayed to God.

The raindrops on the rooftop made a calming pitter-patter as my thoughts went to the Lord.

There were so many that needed healing, so many that needed comfort in their hour of loss, and all those things that I had left undone. “God will take care of it all in His time,” I told myself. My prayers were lifted up to Him. Yes, I turned to Him in prayer, seeking Him and found Him and He listened.

I finally closed with an Amen and began to drive off in the direction that felt right, the path that He said to take.

So I listened and obeyed. I vowed to trust in the Lord and to let Him work out all the details.

“He’s delaying you on purpose,” I told myself, “slowly, surely, and certainly in His time, it will shall be done.”

As I finally reached a semblance of civilization farther down the mountain, the phone began to reconnect to its communication signals and a flood of updates arrived. One of the updates was about an unsettled problem that I had left undone, the one that I had left it up to God to work out; it had actually been resolved due to a cancellation which allowed my request to be entered. It needed a miracle to happen. In Godly fashion, He prevailed once more.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of our lives and hopefully, yes, hopefully if we listen and choose correctly, someday we shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Thanks be to God

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by | March 27, 2016 · 9:28 pm

Graveyard Calling…

It seems a lifetime has passed in the past week.IMG_20160322_193649

Only a week ago today, we had the showing for my father’s funeral.

A gray overcast sky remained above us all day; it fit our mood perfectly. I began my morning long before the sunrise. Through the night rain had fallen, so with trepidation, I faced the coming dawn. Dad had passed Friday and we were there in New Harmony preparing to take his body on its final journey.

The day before, Saturday, had been a long one with my drive beginning in darkness as I headed over the Blue Ridge to meet up with my sister and her family in Lenoir City. Driving over the mountains through the pre-dawn mist I reflected on my dad’s life. In many ways, my mind was like a snowstorm of memories and thoughts all flying about overhead. It was as if I was in a giant snow globe and someone had shaken my world, subsequently scattering all ideas into a blizzard of recollections. All I had to do in order to recall one was simply to stick out my tongue and catch the nearest falling snowflake.

Among the myriad of remembrances, I wondered if he was listening. “God would surely give me a sign if he was,” I thought to myself.

Outside my little car’s windows passed ancient mountain tops who had witnessed countless lives. My passing was nothing more than a blink of an eye in their time. The road descended downward toward the bridge ahead that spanned the deep ravine below, connecting the interstate to the other mountainside. Around me the clouds hung like blankets of silence, the glowing dawn just beginning to bring color to the blue-gray landscape. It was then, just past mile marker 445, a magnificent bald eagle soared over the roadway ahead. I had never seen a bald eagle in the mountains before and as the sun rose behind me, a gentle glow was painting the tops of the peaks before me and like a spotlight, the great raptor was illuminated. He flew from my right to left and soon our ways parted but the memory lingered in my mind.

“Was that from him,” I hesitated to believe? “Would that be it?’

Trying not to awaken anyone else in the house, I quietly sipped my bitter brew and studied the scriptures in the dimly lit kitchen I couldn’t help think of the scene from the day before, the eagle so close, so beautiful. We had stayed up late visiting the night before but here I sat. The others were still asleep, which allowed my solitary bleakness to compound upon itself. Alone, the darkness was bigger and our losses tend to be magnified; so it was with me. Outside the warm weather, the week before had been replaced by a bitterly cold rain. The bleakness of missing dad overwhelmed my thoughts again and again until I could only do one thing; go for a walk, regardless of the weather.

I slipped on my jean jacket and gloves then headed out. I wondered if they would be enough, but I had no choice; I had to go. Stepping outside, I was thankful the rain had at least paused for the moment. The air was crisp and fresh. The morning light was just beginning to fill the cloud filled skies above. Lights inside warm, cozy houses greeted me along my path, my destination not yet determined. Something called me toward the old homestead, the remains of the farm we once called home on the edge of town. Through the park where we played as children, the dark, ominous trees stood, vestiges of a time when the park was new; now giants towering above. Past the old farm I walked. It was nothing more than a pasture with the images of the home and outbuildings remaining in my mind, forever etched in place.

I kept heading south, the cold wind at my back.

The graveyard called.

Just past the house that was once Ms. Wolf’s, I heard the rooster crow. The sun had not yet found the horizon and already the cock was crowing. “Would this be my sign today,” I thought, ‘Would this be it?” My mind slipped back to the passages of Peter denying Christ. How painful it must have been for him to realize Christ’s own prophecy was fulfilled by the sound of the rooster crowing at the coming dawn. These were still fresh in my head as I made the turn at the gates of Maple Hill Cemetery.

There before me stood the daunting scene of weathered tombstones scattering the tree covered hillside. The sound of water rushing from the recent rains gurgled by the roadside as I began my ascent up the hill to the top, following the crude graveyard road. At the top, I turned left heading toward our family’s grave sites. All around me massive oaks still dark from their winter slumber stood watch. Their barren branches, like bony fingers reaching for my soul, made an eeriness about this place.  It was then I heard the hoot owls ahead of me, beyond the cemetery boundaries in the direction of the Old Dam.

“Was this my sign, was this it,” came the thought again?

Continuing on, I eventually reached the end of the cemetery and soon found myself standing looking down at grandpa and grandma Tron’s headstone; Victor and Mildred Tron. Their lives and memories are a part of who I am and will always be. I gently pulled the weeds away from their dates, then gently wiped off the face of the cold granite stone. Around me, the world was alive with birds of all manner singing the praises of the coming dawn. The hoot owls called again and the rooster crowed once more.

Compelled to spend more time here, I sat down on steps nearby where I could overlook Victor and Mildred. Farther down the hill by the old cedar was my cousin Michael; death called him home too soon. Beyond him was Uncle Bill; a saint to our family. I was there, sitting and reflecting while their souls had been gone for some time. In my solitude, I felt a calming peace come over me.

Then the sound of a woodpecker rang from behind me, over my left shoulder. The rooster and hoot owls called again as if to respond.

Serenity can come in the oddest of places and at the most unexpected times.

As I sat reflecting on the well-being of the rest of the family, my thoughts were interrupted by yet one more woodpecker tapping on a distant tree but in a different pitch than the first. Then oddly enough, the first woodpecker responded. The hoot owls called and the rooster crowed. All around the plethora of birds tweeted and sang. A smile began to creep across my countenance.

As I sat in the lonely graveyard, I listened as woodpecker after woodpecker joined the chorus, each adding their tap at alternating pitches, each as if playing their own notes. It was as if I sat in the middle of a flock of woodpeckers. The tapping began to ring true in my mind as another ringing of a similar sound returned from my childhood.

When I was a young lad, my dad worked in the main telephone office in Booneville, also known as the Central Office (CO). In that day, there was no digital switching equipment; everything was analog. When the phone lines would ring, the relays would chatter, making the sound that would be unique to that line. The chattering of those ancient relays sounded just like the woodpeckers that surrounded me. Phone line after phone line around me began to ring that morning.

It was at that moment I realized, dad was ringing the phones.

A smile came across my face as a tear ran down my cheek while I listened to the miracle taking place.

Yes, there was a calming like I had never known at that moment as the peace of knowing he was still with me. The thought overshadowed even the bitter cold that numbed by fingers.

Walking back to town, into the freezing north wind, I was never farther from being cold while my hands lost their feeling. Deep inside, my heart was overflowing with the warmth and the joy of the life eternal.

In my heart and in my mind, there was finally the answer, “That was it.”

Thanks be to God.

“In God is my salvation and my glory; The rock of my strength, And my refuge, is in God.” -Psalm 62:7

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by | October 11, 2015 · 10:09 pm

Are You Alone…?

images6CHV0EBS“Then he said to me, “Do not fear, Daniel, for from the first day that you set your heart to understand and to humble yourself before your God, your words were heard; and I have come because of your words.  13 But the prince of the kingdom of Persia withstood me twenty-one days; and behold, Michael, one of the chief princes, came to help me, for I had been left alone there with the kings of Persia.  14 Now I have come to make you understand what will happen to your people in the latter days, for the vision refers to many days yet to come.”” –Daniel 10:12-14

I often ask God for strength lately, it’s just something I need now more than ever. However, when I ask that he help me to remain humble before the sight of God and others, I rarely expect to see Michael appear, as did Daniel. But when you pray, you never know for sure how your prayers might be answered, and so it goes.

It had been another grueling, physically challenging week. I had pushed my body beyond anything I could have imagined once again. Up before dawn each day, working well past dark until the late hour of each night trying to do all humanly possible to take the old farm to a level comparable to which it is worthy in order to be sold. Squeezing all this into a week already packed with an upturn in events at the Trail made for a culmination of exhaustion that could be felt down in my bones by early Saturday afternoon.

The day before, Friday, we had our first large school group, in which we had two new tour guides and several new volunteers joining our ranks along with a volunteer cancellation which left me to run the sawmill instead of being able to solely supervise as I had hoped. It was also the first time we had served bread to a large tour, so we literally had all hands on deck. There was a special satisfaction at the end of their tour, seeing so many children playing bocci, munching on fresh hot bread from the community oven, playing games on the field and just enjoying life. Everyone had performed exceedingly well; it was a moment to be proud of.

It was as if a new spirit was being reborn at the Trail.

However, I could feel a physical strain by the end of the day Friday. Yet, we had our first ever yard sale planned for Saturday, so I had to set my alarm for 4:30 am to wake up in time to get everything in order. Needless to say, the alarm never went off since I was awake well beforehand. Even though it was a light rain all morning, we still set up our sale, moving everything inside the Trail’s visitor center. All of our vendors that had planned to sell cancelled leaving only us as the sole provider. Even so, we still had lots of visitors and first-time guests at the Trail which allowed us to share our story with many that would have never stopped; another day, another first at the Trail.

As we began cleaning up, there were more souvenir blocks to be cut, so one of the volunteers and myself drove to the gas station to get more fuel for the sawmill. On the way, I could feel a weariness wash over me that drove a sensation utterly to my bones. I felt that I was only minutes away from needing to collapse on my bed or else lose consciousness. About that time my phone rang. It was my wife telling me there was a special group of visitors at the Trail and that I might want to hurry back and consider giving them a guided tour. I replied, “I can’t give a tour, I’m physically unable…I’m just too exhausted.” She replied, “I know, I know, but you’ve got to meet these people and try, you might not know what will come of it.” I groaned back into the phone and said I’d do my best, and hung up. I knew that she would have not suggested this unless there was indeed something special about them, so we obtained our petrol and rushed back, unaware of what we were about to encounter.

As I drove back, I said a prayer under my breath, asking God for strength. From past experience, I knew that being physically tired put a horrible strain on my presentation and that to do justice to any tour, I needed as much of my stamina in place as possible; this was going to need more than I had to give. “God, please be with me, and speak through me in spite of myself,” I prayed, “and Lord, be with us as I do your will.”

There are times when we reach levels of spiritual comprehension that appear to us in forms we cannot understand; angels unaware if you will.

As I walked into the visitor’s center, it was obvious immediately that she had been correct in calling me back. There I met a former Burke County high school teacher and his family, who were all visiting and having a reunion of sorts, having not seen one another for over 40 years. I learned that he was fluent in all European languages and had once worked with the late Fred Cranford’s wife, Betsy, at Freedom High School. We had an immediate connection as he spoke German to me and I understood every word. He then began to speak French to me and oddly enough, I understood most of what he was saying even though I had not taken French. My mind began to wonder if the exhaustion was playing tricks on my brain, and quickly dismissed it. As we moved past our introductions, we moved into the beginning phase of the tour, but not after getting a hot cup of coffee; I was going to need every bit of help I could find.

As the tour began, it seemed to take a while to start warming up to the guests but as we moved from one exhibit to the next, something began to change them; the Trail does that to many. It wasn’t until after we had left the cave that I noticed we lost a member of our group. He later joined us but seemed transformed. We contined on, but there was something beginning to work on our group, something I couldn’t comprehend, something beyond my understanding. As we moved further along the tour, something again was working among my tour guests. It was then that the gentlemen that had stayed behind revealed to me the growing presence of another was with us, one that he had witnessed while standing in the cave. He showed me a video he had taken and there before my eyes I saw something did not make sense, something that words could not adequately describe.

A saying the Waldensians use is “Lux Lucet in Tenebris”, “The Light Shines in the Darkness”.

There in the video, before my unbelieving eyes, I watched sources of light move about, in front of the camera screen, as if angels had interceded on our behalf and were either fighting off demons to protect us or were simply there to dance and behold His glory before us, so that this little group would be changed. The gentlemen had confirmed his test to make sure there were no insects before the camera and no dust particles that could have been affecting the video, taking it over and over again with the same result.

We continued on the tour, the thought of not being alone nagging at the back of our minds, the shadow of light we couldn’t understand eating at our rational understanding of reality.

I worked the sawmill for them, showing them how we had cut the wood to build the first homes in Valdese, and again, the spirit moved through us as more connections were made. An elderly lady was made young again as she shared about growing up across the street from a sawmill where her family worked and she carried water to them for five cents a day. I watched as her eyes lit up and she was child-like once more.

We next moved into the Refour house, a part of the tour that is a testament to the beautiful Alpine-like homes first built in Valdese. Here in the Refour House, we rarely do nothing more than observe the wonderful furnished décor and upgrade in housing from the first homes. But this was already an uncommon tour and was about to take another unexpected turn.

Usually guests stay on the first level of the living quarters but this group wanted to look upstairs also, which was perfectly fine. After a short pause, the teacher came back down and asked that I go upstairs where the gentlemen with the video camera was filming; they had something else for me to see. As I approached, he began by telling me he didn’t believe in heaven or hell, but that he did believe in spirits and that there was something alive in this place, like we had witnessed in the cave, but now he was shaking. As we again watched the video, there were once more light sources moving about, as if angelic beings were there with us, drifting around us in the room.

It was then, there in the dusk of the day that I noticed he was having trouble trying to speak.

He began to weep as he described what they meant to him. It was a moving moment for us both. I then said I believed there was indeed a heaven and a hell and that there had to be angels in heaven who had come to be with us. I can’t explain the rush of spirituality that came over us as I witnessed to him the salvation that awaits us all when Christ becomes part our lives. As we stood there, reveling in their glory, I couldn’t help think that without their help, this tour would have never reached this point; I was unable alone, yet we weren’t.

We ended the tour becoming so moved by our experience that we all knew God had worked in our lives.

The mere fact that the teacher had been by this place so many times and never stopped. The fact that I was even available to lead instead of home sleeping which I had so badly wanted to do, to the fact that we weren’t alone during the tour, that someone had intervend on our behalf. There were so many coincideces about this day that in total, it was impossible to believe that they were anything of the sort.

God is with us, if only we ask, we shall receive.

A revival is coming, are you ready?

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by | October 3, 2015 · 8:31 pm

One Raindrop Fell Into the River…

The circle of life spins around us, our world never ceasing to exist, yet we remain unaware until we are shaken from our slumber.

Rain pelted the pavement outside in cold sheets as we sat inside looking out at the gray blanket that covered our world. It had rained for days already, so what was one more. As I sat visiting with Jeannette and Ray, the little silver car pulled up quickly into the parking lot and two ladies hurriedly made their way into the visitor’s center out of the unwelcome atmosphere outside. I welcomed them and as I began checking them in for a self-guided tour, I heard the words, “Walldorf Germany” and knew we were going to have an interesting visit.

As we edged our way over to the map, I began to hear more familiar words; Posey county, southern Indiana and again, Walldorf. It was then I began to realize our visitors were more than people who happened off the street, more than the occasional curious passerby; these people had a vested interest in being here, like my own. Little did I know I was about to come face-to-face with someone that had made my journey to this point possible by something she had done nearly forty years earlier. Standing before me was the descendant of the Jourdan family, members related to my own, people that had survived some of the same ordeals and trials as my own family, yet like me, they had yet to hear the rest of the story.

The name Jourdan was more than a familiarity to me. It had been the name of one of the major characters in my book, taking the name of Albert Jourdan. Not only had these people been part of my families history in reality, but the name had also lived with me in the fictional world. Now, standing there in front of the map of the Cottien Alps, was another family member waiting to hear the rest of the story, the one we had never known or been told.

Like our lives in that quiet end-of-the-world place known as southern Indiana, we had lived in total obscurity to how and why we were even alive; survivors of a holocaust most will never know. Yet, we had been drawn to a place by the same power, the same faith to which we held dear. Now, far, far away from the Midwestern place, we were once again together, again drawn by that same presence, force and story. As I shared with them, I kept finding us being drawn from the history into the story of our own lives, each intertwined with the threads of finding out who and what we were. Each time, we kept pulling ourselves back to the story of the Trail, each time digressing into another thread of what and how we had learned of the truth.

Time passed without us knowing it. As we shared our story, we went to the beginning, the genealogy research that Barbara had started when she was a tender-aged thirteen years. I later found she lost her father when he passed from this world, far too young, at 46 years of age. I had to wonder later if that what drove her to research the family history at such a young age. Regardless, her high-school aged trip to Walldorf in the late seventies proved to be a valuable asset to the research that Jeanne Miller would later create, the same work from which my Aunt June would draw in order to create the genealogy gift she would later give me in 1995, the same one that would lead me to start my own journey to Walldorf Germany, totally unaware of what or who it was to be called, “Waldensian”. There on page 79 of Jeanne’s self-published, invaluable work read the words that gave credit to Barbara Norman (of the Jourdan family) and noting her valuable contribution to Jeanne’s own research. I had read this volume many times and never realized of the additional contributor, nor did I even realize there had been someone to Walldorf, from Posey county prior to Jeanne’s own trip. Yet, here she was, standing with me, showing me the exact pages, turning to them as if she knew exactly where they were to be found, which she did.

Looking back at the pictures we quickly snapped, I didn’t realize the tears of joy that had been shed. I knew myself, more than once, I had to fight back emotions as I shared with them the stories of the journey of our people and my own.

There are few rewards in one’s life greater than the fulfillment of finding others that have unknowing joined your cause, your mission or your journey. Who am I to not think that it may just have been as rewarding for her to realize that someone was so influenced by her work that they followed a calling from the history she too helped write. In other words, the beauty of the story can be seen from both sides of the river of life. The view from one shore to the other can be the same, the reflections in the water are of the same mountain peaks beyond, the only difference is the people we see on the opposite shore.

Again and again, we found confirmation in growing up not knowing, but yet sensing there was another influence in our lives greater than our own. We both sensed a gravity of faith so profound, so solid, so real that we honestly felt our elders had a belief grounded somewhere beyond what our communities around us would allow; yet we knew nothing. Growing up feeling these emotions yet unable to confirm them led us to want to go beyond the horizon, searching “what else”, “what for” and “why” far beyond those comfortable confines of our little towns.

I don’t know if we will ever meet again. I felt as if in one single morning I found a new family, yet ancient family, one that I could easily revisit and explore for a much longer time than today’s short visit allowed. Before she left, I asked her to search for a couple of key things; The village from where we came and why, yes, why we were never told that we were Waldensian. She replied the former would be possible, the latter she doubted. We both knew that for all we had learned, there was yet something we might never know.

God often prepares us and sends things into our lives for which we are not expecting; today was no exception. I don’t know if we will ever know the “why” but we can come closer to the where today. What does it all mean, if anything? I don’t know.

This journey began with the question as to, “Why?”

Sometimes, we have to succumb to the realization that there are some things that we may never fully understand with concrete proof; these are the things for which we have to have faith. In many instances, the statement, “Our Faith is All We Had,” is never more true. Today, faith in knowing from where we came, faith in who we are and faith is what brought us to this point is all that we know.

I yearn to return to Jakob, Arktos, Jean Paul, Marik, Kristoff and many others. The world in which they live is one that seems to grow closer to mine with each passing day. Their struggles are much greater than those I face, yet through them, I can see with eyes that would otherwise know nothing about how it would feel to suffer to that extent. I don’t say this in hopes to feel that level of pain, rather, I say this for the simple fact that this helps me to learn, to grow and to prepare for what may lie ahead.

Outside, the rain continues to fall in the darkness as night has fallen.

Each day I pray for strength, guidance and God’s will to work in our lives; today was no different.

Each day, the Lord shows me another way and another path I had never envisioned.

As a raindrop falls from the sky, it doesn’t know where it will land, yet it has no other recourse than to fall, pulled by the gravity of the earth, a force known only to God. When the drop of moisture finally impacts the surface below, its force alone is negligible, yet with time, many others falling upon the same location can become a factor so great, so mighty that mountains can literally be moved, oceans created and entire populations erased. The same can be said for our lives and how we choose to use them in this world. We can be that tiny droplet, landing harmlessly and evaporating before it has a chance to be followed by others, causing no change other than the tell-tale sign of moisture, or we can be an impact on something greater than ourselves, falling where those who have gone before, creating at first, a trickle of truth that slowly turns into a flowing stream which continues to grow with time until it becomes a raging torrent rushing headlong to the sea, an ocean of change for which we have combined with the forces before us until we are something to be reckoned.

This is who we must be, regarding our past as something more than an oddity to be admired with precipitous contempt, but rather, learn and grow adding to the flow so that those lives given for the cause are not lost, give up in vain as the lone droplet, but rather, as those culminated drops of precipitation that combine repeatedly until there is something unmistakably greater than anything anyone being could have ever imagined.

This is why I continue on, without knowing …why.

“Thus says the Lord: “Behold, waters rise out of the north, And shall be an overflowing flood; They shall overflow the land and all that is in it, The city and those who dwell within; Then the men shall cry, And all the inhabitants of the land shall wail.” -Jeremiah 47:2

 

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by | September 8, 2014 · 11:57 pm

A Runner’s Eutopia

The rain that began as a gentle patter upon the roof of the car had become a steady driving rain by the time Pastor David pulled up imagesFAZ8NPIKin his little red truck.

“You sure you want to do this,’ he said with a challenging grin as we both emerged from the warm, dry vehicles dressed to run?

“Sure, why not,” I replied, “I’ve can remember running in worse.” And it was true; like the rain pouring down from the gray sky, so too did the flood of memories come roaring into my head while I had waited for him to arrive.

It was all good.

My first recollections took me back to when I was just a toddler. The brown water swirled beneath my father’s legs as he waded through the flooded waters of the Wabash River in southern Indiana on the outskirts of the little town of New Harmony. Due to heavy rains and ground already saturated by melting snows, the river had spilled over its banks and into the lower pastures of K.D. Owen’s farm, where my paternal grandfather lived and managed. I watched in amazement at the fluid patterns passed beneath us, me safely on dad’s shoulders. I begged and squirmed to get down, wanting to become one with the moment, but he refused; the water was too deep at this point. It wasn’t until we had reached higher ground that he gave in and allowed me the chance to set my feet down into the cold, frigid chocolate-colored water. I held his hand as we trudged together under a gray sky, much like today. I would later come down with double pneumonia, my second time in as many years of my young life. The time in the hospital is another story, another chapter. Looking back, I’m not positive if the cold, wet feet preempted my illness, but it was evident that the event was significant enough to register a memory so distant, so deep that it came to mind today.

As we started off, the gravel road was covered in standing water which caused us to look for carefully chosen footholds of higher ground. The standing water reminded me of mud-filled trenches covered with barbed wire. My mind flashed back to basic training at Lackland AFB in Texas, nearly 30 years earlier. Another overcast day, another deluge that buried the obstacle course we were imagesZ2OJWIWKscheduled to run that morning in several inches of water. Our Drill Instructor, the epitome of being “Gung Ho”, Sgt. Smith, whipped his troops into a fury and with the spirit of Rough Riders charging San Juan Hill he roared a rebel yell and cut us lose as we attacked the course through the driving rain; our only enemy, the weather. My government issue horn-rimmed glassed, also known as “BC” which was short for Birth Control, referring to how much attraction you could expect from the ladies when you wore them, immediately began fogging up to the point they were useless. Trying to wipe them clear was futile, so I stuck them in my pant pockets and charged onward. Being nearsighted, the obstacle course immediately became ten-fold more difficult; especially considering the fact I could no longer discern distances. This became evident when the leaping from one slick horizontal telephone pole to the other found me planted firmly upon my groin, a severe pain to which any man can attest and the crack of the BC’s snapping in my pocket; despair one can only imagine. From there, the course only got worse. The image came to mind again of crawling face down under barbed wire, through a rain soaked trench filled to the brim with water the color of the contents of a newborn’s diaper. Needless to say, holding your breath and forgetting how cold and nasty you felt were the only options to passing this most uncomfortable part of the course. Compared to other branches of the armed forces, I’m sure this is quite humorous, but at the time it seemed quite unnecessary; but then again, we had Sgt. Gung Ho leading the way, and so it was.

But I was back, and we were now well on our way down the American Tobacco Trail, enjoying the day, regardless of the weather that continued to fall from the sky. “Hey, at least we weren’t crawling through the mud puddles'” I thought to myself.

As we ran along, talking and sharing stories, it became quickly apparent to me my running partner was in much better shape, since he was able to breathe and talk while I felt as if I was turning blue. My lungs gasped for air and my legs sought redemption, but my mind pushed onward. Drifting off again, I was once more training with the Southern Indian cross country team, myself soon to be only a junior in High School. It was a privilege our coach, Steve Edwardson had arranged to help get his team in better shape. During the summer, before the season started, we were allowed to run with the college team at SIU. Although their endurance and strength surpassed my own, it didn’t stop me from trying to stay with them. They joked, laughed and told all sorts of tales while they ran. They explained to me that if you could converse while running, then you were running at a good long distance pace; one that wouldn’t overtax your body. Today, it didn’t seem to take long for my old body to quickly become overtaxed. To be totally honest, the 13 hours of working the night before and the five miles from the day before on two hours sleep was just a little much; but to forego the chance to run with another person was too great a reward to surpass, so here we were.

Onward we splashed.

By the turn around point, I knew I was getting tired when I no longer avoided the puddles; plowing straight through them now, taking the most direct route without care of how deep or cold the wetness felt on my backside. Comfort had giving way to efficiency.

As we ran, Pastor David and I talked and discussed topics close to the heart and we shared stories that I will carry with me forever. Those thoughts becoming one with the past, the places my running had taken me before.

It was then I began to rekindle the spirit of the wind.

The flood of memories were non-stop now: the forests of ages ago, the dog by my side, running as one; each watching out for the other passed through my head; struggling across the steel swinging bridge on the Isle of Palms into a freezing cold rain, as we fought to return on our long run the day of the Boston Marathon, 1983; countless quarters of pain around the track at the Citadel in Charleston SC; hot-steamy long runs down the middle of McGregor in Ft. Myers, FL., reveling in the smooth road and royal palms micanopythat lined the grand boulevard; those first few runs with my children on the beach at Oak Island, as if we could run forever, their little feet whirring as quickly as they could go, me floating alongside, as if in a dream; then those countless runs, when at ten miles, I could no longer feel my legs as I floated on the air of the earth as if tides of unknown seas, racing logging trucks down back roads of uncharted forests; tree lined oaks of Micanopy draping over the road as we trained in a runner’s heaven on earth.

Yes, they all came back and more.

I shall return to those long vaunted trails where spirits join and the past becomes one with the now.

And yes, it was most definitely a good run.

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by | August 17, 2014 · 10:44 pm

A Message in the Clouds…

Clouds tell us a lot.

This morning as my son and I went out for our morning run, we had just passed a particularly challenging uphill section of our route and as I gasped for breath, I looked up to the sky and notice a nondescript cumulus hovering overhead. It made me think back to how many more times I had done the same, looked heavenward while running. The act of looking skyward in some instances was from a need for silent prayer to get me through the day or at least to the end of the run, but in this case it was simply to enjoy the beautiful day that God had made.

Then the thought came to me, “How many times had I had passed this point of exhaustion in my younger days, only to have no idea that someday I would be performing the same feat, but with a son at my side?”

I listened to our rhythm of footsteps, his matching mine even though his stride could easily be half as great as my own. He now stands six foot tall and his loping pace seems too easy for his slender frame. He barely breathes as I struggle to gasp in anything that would ease my burning lungs. Yet, as we continue onward, we move as one; father and son under a pale blue sky, the sunrise at our backs. In my earlier days, I would push the pace when running with someone so that we might achieve a greater return from our workout, yet this morning I neither desired to push the pace nor shorten our time together; this was more than just exercise.

As we trotted along, we talked of many things. My mind ran parallel, looking down at the two images flowing along the green backdrop of countryside. My own father never dreamed of running with me, or at least if he had, he never said so. One summer when I was in high school I began increasing my long runs. On one of the first attempts, I asked my dad to check on me while I tried running an 18 miler. He agreed and became my support vehicle of sorts. He would drive by in the old Chevy Suburban while drinking a beer. He even offered me a drink, realizing I was probably in need of fluids, and then he was off, driving away in a cloud of dust down the gravel road as I plodded onward. Those were solitary runs, something I became to understand were part of the territory. Having someone accompany you was a treat, as was today. We had by now turned and were on the return leg of our run with the sunrise now facing us, as ominous clouds blocked its rays; precursor to potential rain I told my son. He nodded; the pace was finally catching up with him.

The last mile of our run is up the hill to our home; one of the most challenging climbs I’ve known in all the years of my running. As we approached it, I kept talking, sharing not realizing the strain the incline was taking upon my body. Not until we nearly reached the summit did I have to stop speaking and search for oxygen to feed my starving limbs. The scene of cross-country runners passing the finish line and bending double to catch their breath came to mind, hands on hips, heaving chests. One young man from Oregon had joined our high school team, a boy who could have doubled for the late Steve Prefontaine. He walked up to me and told me putting my hands on my hips was cheating, that it was making it easier for my body to recover, not allowing my chest cavity to build strength which was part of the training. I dropped my arms at the time, trying to achieve the effort my teammate mentioned. Today, I hugged my hips and sucked in air, thinking of whatever happened to the young man and where he might be today, if alive at all. The greenness of the shade we had reached at the peak of the hill made me think of Oregon and what running in that place might have been like in Pre’s time; magical for sure.prefontaine

The whinny of Sugar, Mary’s pony broke my dreamlike state as we walked through the front gate and into the inner yard. Sugar stood waiting for her breakfast, which we soon took care of as we walked our cool-down to the barn. Kittens danced and spun in the early morning light; happy to see us approach knowing breakfast was soon to be served for them as well.

Then my son asked, “Dad, did you notice there wasn’t one car?”

I thought and he was right, we hadn’t seen one car on our entire time out.

“No, you’re right,” I said in response.

“Is it always like this in the morning?”

“Well, if you get up early enough on Sunday morning it can be,” I replied, “but if you go far enough, there will eventually be at least a couple cars.”

He nodded.

I would save the stories of countless miles I had once run on the logging roads in the Weyerhaeuser forests of South Carolina and not seen one human during an entire summer.

Today was about us, not about the past.

Later, after our cool-down, I sat on the porch sipping my morning coffee and noticed the sky a perfect blue. All the clouds had vanished and the pasture grasses before me echoed a richness of plush moisture. My son walked up to the porch after having checked the chickens and I noticed he looked as if hadn’t even broken a sweat. I told him to come on up and take off his shoes and socks so his feet could breath. He obliged and we sat side by side, once more sharing and watching the world before us come alive with the days dawning, our bare feet cooling in the breeze.

Off in the distance, clouds began to loom once again as a hummingbird flitted by.

angelcloudThat afternoon on our way home from church, I looked up in the sky and saw a cloud with the perfect face of an angel looking down. The image was so perfect, it looked almost appeared man-made. The angel had wide outstretched wings and seemed to be floating across the sky, a vision of comfort and peace from above. I felt a certain confirmation inside, knowing that we were being watched from above and that somehow, someway, no matter what life had in store, God would see us through; so said the image in the cloud.

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by | August 1, 2014 · 2:02 am

Anglers Dream…

2014-08-01 01.51.23 This was written after we took an early morning fishing expedition out onto Jordan Lake a couple weeks ago. I can still hear the cries of the Bald Eagles as the fog enveloped our craft.

Enjoy..

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by | March 31, 2014 · 3:31 pm

Music of the Soul…

Tron Family performing at Camel Back Bridge Park, Cumnock NC.

Tron Family performing at Camel Back Bridge Park, Cumnock NC.

This past week I’ve been reminded of the importance of music in my life.

When times seem to close in, painting life into a corner, it’s when I’m usually forgetting to revisit my old friend and love; music.

Music for me does several things; calms my nerves when I’m tense, connects my thoughts into a fluid stream of story and allows the spirit of the Lord to flow through me speaking the words my lips cannot find.

The most obvious use of music is relaxation. There are times when events in life can be spinning out of control, but the moment a favorite song or melody comes on, all the sharp edges of reality are quickly softened and soon forgotten. These silent trips down the road, recollections through family albums, or simply watching the clouds pass over the landscape out a nearby window, all take on a different level of perspective when the right song plays in the background. Suddenly the inanimate object takes on a life of its own, living and breathing into the moment of one’s existence.

Then there are the times when I write, sitting at the keyboard listening to epic movie soundtrack instrumentals. In these quiet reflective moments, the songs become the soundtrack to the story I’m putting into words for the first time, floating over the characters as they spell out the tale on the screen. Their crescendos and monumental waves of symphony heighten the dramatic imagination in which exists; living and breathing in the moment of the saga I am creating. I can begin to write and when the song turns to the dark minor keys, my story takes a turn of unexpected tragedy, mirroring the sounds in my ears. To this extent, writing to the music is like riding a bike down the mountain road with no hands; a thrilling rush, where and how you end up is only up to the twist and turns in the road of the tale being told. I can only trust my Lord has the hand on the wheel as my pen guides us through the winding pathways ahead.

Then there are the times when my mind wants to say so much, yet the stage finds me muted to the point of anger; mad at myself for not being the natural orator I am in my own mind. In many ways, music is the bridge between what I want to say and cannot, finding the connection to an audience that might otherwise go without. When I find myself in predicaments like this, a guitar and a song for the moment break through this barrier, allowing the flood of thoughts and words to come cascading out. There is no better feeling to know you have connected with someone either with speaking or singing something from a message that God has placed upon your heart. To know He can speak and play through us in spite of ourselves is probably the most common phrase I know and use when it comes to calming nerves, for if I know it’s from Him; then I also know it is for Him, not of myself; failure, in this case, is no longer a factor.

All this being said, I was reminded of the need for music in my life as we drove back from the fiddler’s convention this past weekend. I realized that the connection to another part of my soul is only attainable from this gift. It is from using the ability to “make music” that I can reach out to the side of me that sometimes lies silent, waiting and watching the world around; the creative side. Only when the music reaches across the divide within do the juices of creativity begin to burst forth once more. So it was this week, and even more today as we performed at church this morning, again reconfirming my belief that to use our gifts only awakens the more within, the others that lie waiting for those before to be lifted off so that they too may be discovered and shined upon.

May God bless anyone who seeks to enrich the lives of others from any blessing God has given you; never let these gifts lie asleep and do all you can to awaken them each and every day.

Have a beautiful week and Blessings to all.

“Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord;” – Eph. 5:19

 

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