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by Timothy | December 13, 2020 · 7:16 pm

Don’t Live to Regret It

by Timothy W. Tron, Dec. 2020

An old cliché came to me this morning through the words of a song, “You’ll live to regret it…”

Many will look back on 2020 and realize it was more than the year of unprecedented events, but sadly for many, will become a year of regret. Then there is the introspective thought, “How many things have we passed through in this life to only live long enough to regret them?”

Meriam-Webster defines regret as the following: re·gret | \ ri-ˈgret \ 1a: to mourn the loss or death of, b: to miss very much, sorrow aroused by circumstances beyond one’s control or power to repair, an expression of distressing emotion (such as sorrow).[1]

The corner of studio’s past, when God was not the center of my life. – Chatham County Farm circa. 1999

The longer I ponder on this line, the more corollary aspects of it come into play. For it can mean more than not having appreciated someone or something; can it not? Life is a never-ending journey of choices, and with them, we often face missing an opportunity, albeit good or bad. Like a fork in the road, there is always more than one path that we may take. As the saying goes, the one less traveled is often the one that will enrich our soul all the more. I once had a phrase back in my youth when my ambitions were to pursue the lusts of the flesh, that I was the “Unluckiest, lucky man alive.” In other words, God was watching over me even when I wasn’t seeking him. As much as I tried to run from him, I soon found out there was no place to hide. My life was as the psalmist wrote, “Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.”[2]

The studio that God built – no regrets.
Thanks be to God.

Time and time again, when my path should have led to utter destruction, there was another miraculous occurrence that delivered me safely out of the jaws of the lion. In those many narrow escapes of a poor choice, it was as if I could feel the prayers of my family’s spiritual leaders blanketing me when I was woefully unworthy. They would pray that those early teachings they had sown would someday blossom. Thankfully, those seeds of faith my elders had planted in me took root, and once they began to germinate, God’s plan for me began to come to fruition. But it would take many years and many knocks upon my proverbial door before my hard head would allow him in.

As Christians, is not our pathway more judicious than those who wander like ships tossed upon the sea? “Commit thy way unto the LORD; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.”[3] While we might ponder those many missed opportunities, we should not live in regret. For there was and always is a purpose in the next step we take. While it may seem as if a choice were a mistake when the longer journey reveals the road traveled, when we look back over the dawn of time, we can almost, if not always, see how that passage through which we endured was one in which there could not have been a more perfect plan provided. These are the moments, when we allow them, that magnify the essence of God. “And he shall bring forth they righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday. Rest in the LORD, and wait patiently for him: fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass.“[4]

Take, for instance, just a couple of nights ago, a decision to remain in Boone and run a couple of errands before heading down the mountain cost me in time but could have cost me much more.

Why do I say this? Allow me to explain.

My own “plan,” if you will, was to leave work a little early and run while the snow was still falling. Besides the novelty of running in the snow, there was the hope that I would be able to capture images for future use in devotional postings to social media. The trails that crisscross the Moses Cone Memorial park offer a never-ending vista of God’s creation. With each changing season, so do those familiar spots where the camera’s eye catches one’s attention.

The run was challenging in that the bitterly cold wind bit into my exposed flesh. But as is most often the case, as I continued quoting scriptures, the pain of the outer body diminished until the point it was only a mild nuisance. Thankfully, there were several good scenes from which to choose. The falling snow’s pace was merely a flurry at best by the end of the run, so it didn’t seem unwise to go ahead and stop by a local store to pick up another Christmas gift. While I was in the spirit of getting things done, I also decided to go ahead and run to Lowe’s for a couple of things on my list. While in the store, hunger began to gnaw at my insides. One who has trained long enough or worked in a physical capacity for an extended time knows the difference between a little hunger pang and one of greater magnitude, for that latter one was one that hit me while picking up those supplies. Seeing that there was a greater need than a want, I decided to go ahead and grab an early supper as well. The hot soup and sandwich hit the spot as I sat in the parking lot of Chik-Fil-A and dined alone. Outside the car, the flurries continued as the last vestiges of light faded from the sky. Street lights seemed hazy in the falling snow, but there was nothing at this point that created any sense of dread. The thermometer on the car’s display read 23 degrees.

Driving out of Boone and eventually into Blowing Rock, there was still nothing to indicate that this was nothing more than a beautiful end to a snowy day on the mountain. Christmas lights were already hung in several stores and homes. Their ambiance warming the soul within as my car drove past. Then, as the curve past the last light in Blowing Rock began to fall behind me, there ahead were the seemingly endless line of red tail-lights. An unending line of cars wrapped around the curve ahead and far below the mountain.

There would be no usual drive home that night.

Later, I would find out that a tractor-trailer had jack-knifed one of the icy curves. With it, several cars were also wrecked and maligned across the roadway. So, for the remainder of the evening, for over an hour or so, there I sat.

Looking back, my first thoughts were of regret for having stopped and run those errands. As the evening wore on, sitting there in my little car, thoughts of thanks began to percolate into my head. Earlier that morning, I had stopped for gas; the car was on full. The heater was working well, even though outside it was a frigid 23 degrees; I was warm and dry. My body had forced me to eat supper early, so I was fed. The longer I sat, the more I realized how lucky it was that my drive home was paused in the manner it was, for my fate could have been much different; either crashed or worse, injured – to the point of death.

The night following, Pastor Greer led us through the study of Romans 10 and, in so doing, mentioned the Roman Road to salvation. The term is often used to describe the scriptures in the book of Romans, which are often used to lead someone to Christ. Along this virtual road, one can find eternal salvation if they so choose to make the drive. As some choices in life afford one the ability to know the result ahead of time, and so it is when one takes this route – the Roman road. Eternal life, one in which you would inevitably be able to live long enough to see if there were any regrets, would ironically allow you also to know that there couldn’t have genuinely been any regrets, for the path you took was the one in which God would have planned.

However, if we live being regretful, is this not as bad or worse than not forgiving?

Worse yet, think of what the utmost regret might be? If you think of life in terms of eternity, then you are on the right track. In this vein of thought, one would have to say that the utmost remorse would undoubtedly be dying without choosing the gift of eternal life through Jesus Christ. This choice would culminate after one’s physical life on earth has ended only to only wake up in hell, realizing that, and eternally regretting not having believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God.

There is no going back.

For in the gospel of Luke, the account of the rich man that died and was suddenly thrust into the midst of hell paints a vivid picture of someone who realized too late that he had made the wrong choices. “There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day: And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate, full of sores, And desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s table: moreover the dogs came and licked his sores. And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham’s bosom: the rich man also died, and was buried; And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. And he cried and said, Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame. But Abraham said, Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things: but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented…Then he said, I pray thee therefore, father, that thou wouldest send him to my father’s house: For I have five brethren; that he may testify unto them, lest they also come into this place of torment. Abraham saith unto him, They have Moses and the prophets; let them hear them. And he said, Nay, father Abraham: but if one went unto them from the dead, they will repent. And he said unto him, If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead.”[5]

While it may not be evident to some, the Lazarus in this story is not the same one that Jesus raised from the dead. Yet, the name “Lazarus” is appropriately used in this passage, for in the Hebrew tongue, it translates to, “God has helped.” As the beggar Lazarus suffered his earthly life, God knew his heart. Those Pharisees to whom Jesus spoke had hearts hardened like the rich man. They knew the writings of Moses, they knew the law, and they knew the prophets’ teachings, yet they could not be persuaded. And the last sentence, as in typical Godly-poetic-justice, Jesus says, “though one rose from the dead.” Here he analogizes the Lazarus I this story with the one to whom he raised from the dead. Though the beggar Lazarus had died, he was alive in eternity, as though he had risen from the dead.

Lazarus had no regrets, for his reward was everlasting life, unlike the rich man who now felt the full weight of his errors. Wanting to prevent his own family from the same fate, he begged for Abraham to send Lazarus, for him to return from the dead and go to his house to warn his brothers not to fall to the same fate. Like him, Abraham responded that they already knew the answers, but they too were hardened to the truth.

Friend, be not so consumed with your own knowledge that you miss the truth of this story. As Jesus told the Pharisees, “Search the scriptures, for in them ye think ye find eternal life. For they are they which speak of me.” In other words, the answer is in Christ. Seek him, and you will find eternal life.

Let the only regrets in your life be those of the past; whereby, you didn’t spend enough time with loved ones, or you didn’t appreciate those who prayed over you, or that you didn’t stop and pause long enough along the journey to appreciate all that God has done for you. Yes, let those regrets be of the past. Going forward, willingly receive Christ in your life and leave all your future regrets behind.

You only have one earthly life to live. Make it count.

Thanks be to God.

[1] Meriam-Webster Dictionary, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/regret

[2] Psalm 139:7-10 KJV

[3] Psalm 37:5 KJV

[4] Psalm 37:6-7 KJV

[5][5] Luke 16:19-31 KJV

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by Timothy | November 18, 2020 · 10:00 pm

A Gathering to Remember

by Timothy W. Tron, Nov. 2020

As the coming holidays approach, Thanksgiving and Christmas, there seems to be a sense of melancholy that has begun to permeate through the din of the incessant roar of this tumult our society has become. In my mind, there is a desire to reach back in my memories and dwell upon a time when life was simpler when the so-called advances in technology had yet to be developed. Because of the threat of lockdowns restricting these beloved reunions, those distant memories have become even more cherished. One such date that comes to mind coincides with a memory that our family holds dear to their heart.

It was the late 1960’s. Back then, we survived without non-stop news coverage, without updates from our social media accounts, and without the fear of dying from a virus, let alone anything else that existed at the time. It’s not to say there wasn’t death nor dying, for there had yet to be the advances we have today in the fields of heart disease and cancer. Both of these maladies took many lives before their time, and still do today, but not nearly as severely as in those days. No, we feared not because we had a faith that was the bedrock of our existence.

That faith was taught to us through our elders, passed down from one generation to the next – a thread of belief that was built upon an unending truth – Christ is indeed the Savior of the world. So, it is in this vein that once more my heart reaches for a well-worn story that is based on an actual event whose legacy has lasted for many years in our family. It is like the cup of an instant drink, void of the liquid to make it real – once the hot water is added, the story being recalled becomes the sustenance that warms our being. Like that beverage, the Spirit enters into our soul, and we are warmed from within to that which is without. Herein lies the beauty.

Looking back through the shadowy fog of time, those distant memories are like the passing clouds overhead. They are here but for a moment, and then cross over the mountaintops before we realize they are gone. As we near the season of holidays and family gatherings, it seems that those ancient days of yesteryear are ever more treasured. Like the value of a tattered cloth that once was held in the dying grasp of a loved one, its price to most would be nothing, but to those who knew its connection to the soul of the other – it becomes a priceless object.

That year when the snow fell around Christmas would become one such moment in time for me.

The classic event which unfolded is still known to this day, by all that attended, as the Sled Hill Christmas. Of all my childhood holiday experiences, it will forever be the most memorable in my mind. To read the entirety of the original story, you can find it online at https://timothywtron.dreamhosters.com/sled-hill-life-more-abundantly/ But this article looks at that event from a different perspective; one of how the warmth of a loving family and faith carried us through what may have been considered just another dark winter.

Like a revival, a truly epic event can only unfold when it is least expected. So it was that overcast December day so many decades ago. Several of us grandkids were staying at Grandpa and Grandma Tron’s house, there on the outskirts of New Harmony, Indiana. The town itself was in the season of slumber. Farming was still the driving industry, and the fields were now silent in their winter sleep. The hay had all been stored in the barns and the silos were filled to capacity with grains and silage to last until the next growing season began. A feeling of hibernation overtook one’s soul, making those opportunities to warm by the woodstove or to huddle close around a cup of hot chocolate all the more permanent upon the creature within. Gathering with others was the only natural thing to do in a time such as this – it was who we were, it was what we were. In those precious slices of time, we fellowshipped without knowing that’s what it was called. Visiting with others when the work in the fields slowed was just as natural as splitting your firewood by hand – we all did it.

When those first few snowflakes began falling the night before what would become the day to remember, we went to bed not expecting anything more than just a typical Midwest December dusting. When we awoke the next morning to the sounds of someone rattling around downstairs in the kitchen, it was as if Christmas had come early. Jumping from underneath the multiple layers of quilts, which weighed nearly as much as another cousin, we raced down the icy narrow stairs from the unheated upstairs bedrooms down to the kitchen where the pot-belly woodstove in Grandma’s kitchen was already red hot. We shivered and shook the remnants of chill from our bones, as our bare feet fought to find the warmth emanating from the scant linoleum floor by the stove. Excitedly, we peeked through the threadbare kitchen curtains that hung over the sink. The window faced grandma’s kitchen garden. Outside, the world was no longer the muddled gray of winter, but instead, was a brilliant whiteness, even in the pre-dawn, early morning hours.

About the time we had settled down around the table, after getting out of our bedclothes, Grandpa came in from the morning milking. We could hear the creaky old porch door slam behind him as he walked down the long back porch, from the barn end, up to the door of the kitchen, where he paused and took off his boots. The confines of that narrow passage clothed in clear plastic, a feeble attempt to thwart the cold winds of winter. The repurposed material was clouded with age, giving off a soft sheer grayness within the tomb of the veranda’s confines. The oft sound of rippling plastic slapping the screen made thoughts of warm summer nights, fresh tomatoes, and fireflies come to mind. Needless to say, those were but a distant rumor as the snow continued to fall.

With all eyes upon his entry, the vacuum of anticipation cut the air, like the cold wind that followed him inside. Snowflakes fell off his outer coat confirming what we already knew. Before he had time to take note of his unexpected audience, the questions began to roll off our lips.

“How deep is it grandpa?”

“Does it look like more’s coming?

“Where are the sleds?”

“Were the cows cold?”

He turned and smiled, looking toward grandma. Victor Tron never was a man of many words, So, when he replied with, “It looks like it’s gonna be good,” rest assured, that was all we needed to know. Grandma already had his breakfast ready, along with ours, and we sat down for an unusually early start of our day. We all instantly grew silent when grandpa bowed his head and reached his hand over to grandma. She grabbed his outstretched weathered hand with hers and we all joined hands and bowed our heads as grandpa said the blessing for the breakfast meal. In my mind, I can still hear that strained voice, barely above a whisper, thank God for what grandpa said was an abundance of blessings. Before us was a meager meal by worldly standards, but to us, it was Heaven sent. For we knew, even as children that every bit of it was from those two pair of withered hands that grasped one another in a love that never ended, even upon their death.

Grandpa’s first milking was at 3:00 AM and he usually finished up around 5:00 AM. His second milking was at 3:00 PM, every day of his life. He never took a vacation that I could remember. Usually exhausted from rising early, he would routinely drift off to sleep no matter where he sat, so finding time to talk with him was rare. He milked the cows until that night he died peacefully in his sleep, never to milk again. What we didn’t know as children, was how precious those few moments were with him when we were able to visit, especially that snowy morning on a cold December day so many years ago.

As soon as we were able to clear the table and bundle up, we were headed out the door. Eventually, someone asked if we could check out sled hill. An okay was given and like a herd of young calves heading for new pasture, we bolted out the back gate. Past the woodpile where grandpa’s ax and splitting log were shrouded in snow we raced. Heading for the opening to the lane, we quickly found ourselves wading through the knee-deep snow toward the iconic destination; Sled Hill. Past the milking barn, the bullpen, and Ms. Wolf’s house we trudged. Each one of these structures held a plethora of memories and stories that one could sit for hours and share. Like a life of living, their collections, like the holdings of stockpiled hay for the winter, waiting for one to return and use for the giving.

The bushes along the Labyrinth were blanketed in a sweet frosting of white. Our panted breaths billowed before us and were quickly whisked away in the falling snow. In our rush to find out how well the sledding was going to be, we didn’t realize how hard the snow was continuing to fall. Nor did we realize how deep the snow had already gotten since sunrise. In the overcast grayness of the day, it all seemed like a dream, even when it was live.

As the story, “Sled Hill: Life More Abundantly,” conveys, the rest of the day was a multitude of adventures and excitement. With each passing moment, the tempo of the day’s delight reached a fevered pitch. The enthusiasm of the children soon bubbled over into those of the adults, igniting in them the feelings of youth. Gone were the aches and pains of age. The adrenaline of living purged those boundaries of limitations that had kept them hostage. Soon, parents, Aunts, and Uncles were joining in the merriment of sliding down the hill so aptly named.

As the sky began to darken as night approached, the thrill of the day and the feeling of being one with something greater than ourselves overwhelmed us. Fearing that it would end in darkness, the men created torches on the fly from used old tin cans (which we also used as drinking vessels), nailing them to poles and placing them along the sled run, all the way to the top of the hill. What started out as child’s play quickly turned into a major production. In essence, a cow pasture had turned into our own ski-slope far removed from any mountaintop.

When the last vestiges of daylight gave way to darkness, there along the sled run was a perfect row of home-made flaming lights shedding an ambient glow of warmth. Off to the side, a pile of wood was set afire and a massive bonfire became the gathering spot between runs down the hill. There we regained strength to carry on from food and drink the family had brought in at a moment’s notice. There, the entire family that was able to make it collected. The sentinel image that remains with me to this day was seeing both grandpa and grandma’s faces glowing in the reflection of the firelight. To know that grandpa had a milking coming at 03:00 AM, and yet, he was here foregoing precious sleep, standing alongside us kids around the bonfire said something more that than words could fathom. Even then, the whispers of the children could be heard, “Look, even grandpa and grandma are here.” The statement was a confirmation of the significance of that moment in time, one that made a profound statement on all that were present.

That night, once our bodies had been worn to a frazzle. There was barely enough strength to make it back to the house. As we pulled off our wet, nearly frozen clothing and briefly warmed by the fire, a numbness of exhaustion began to overtake us. The enormous featherbed never looked so welcoming. Shortly thereafter, after our bedtime prayers were said, there was little more than the sweet, “Goodnight children,” from grandma as she tucked us under the pile of quilts before we fell asleep.

For once in a lifetime, there was no sweeter sleep.

As the snow continued to fall outside that night, there was a warmth within that was more than physical – a love that transcends all understanding. There was something created that day that would last forever in the hearts of those who had been privileged to experience it. It became an inexplicable thread of life that would weave its way into our souls which would become part of who we were. The similarity of a feeling such as this can only compare to that of Christ’s disciples.

Like those followers of Jesus who had walked and talked with Christ after his resurrection, they too had a story to share. One that was so inexplicable, so earth-shattering that they would live the rest of their lives pursuing the mission to share it with all that would hear, even unto the point of death. It was who they were.

As we go forward in this holiday season, let us come together as a family, and may the hope of Christ, and Christmas be with you, until the end of time. May it someday become who you are as well.

Thanks be to God.

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by Timothy | February 23, 2020 · 9:03 pm

The Cup of Faith

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nobody breath,” Ricky commanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks be to God.

[1] 1 Corinthians 11:1 KJV

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

[3] John 7:37 KJV

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by Timothy | January 5, 2020 · 9:00 pm

There is Hope in the Storm

Yesterday, as I sat and watched the thick cloud bank slowly envelope Grandfather, I was reminded of incoming tides upon ancient seas. The jetties and rocks of life, like those distant mountain peaks, were soon to be covered by the rising waters of time. Before long, he had vanished, obscured by a billowing blanket of gray, blue, and white. Grandfather Mountain was not gone, this I knew, for I had seen him. It was not necessary to hope for his existence because by seeing, we know that he is still there. Yet, we cannot foretell what the coming storms will unveil. In a manner of hours, or even days, we may see a changed mountain, one blanketed in a snowy, majestic white mantel of winter; this is the wish of many.

With wanted anticipation, some may see the impending storm and look forward to a delay in the upcoming return to school. While others may fear what is to come knowing regardless of the road conditions, they will be expected to be at their posts or jobs. Likewise, those who walk in faith are much like those gladly seeing the possibility of winter storms; the former seeks the hope of life eternal by knowing that regardless of what the storms of life may bring, they have the hope of salvation unto our final dwelling place on high. “For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.”[1]

But just as a child, torn from their home due to circumstances which have created living conditions so dire that the state has to intervene, they seek hope to eventually return home. Yet, what they don’t fully understand is that in order for them to return home, their parents or guardians must change. The addiction or bondage to the sins of the flesh must be broken. The downward spiral of drugs, alcohol, otherworldly lusts has permeated their lives so deeply that they often have lost sight of caring for their family, if not themselves. We’ve all see the posted mug shots of convicted criminals and seen the effects of meth, just to name one, on their physical being. Inside, there remains a remnant of the human being they once were.

Somewhere within, there is a flicker of a soul.

Like those school children looking forward to the coming snowstorm, the Apostle Paul wrote of coming storms and afflictions, “Giving no offence in any thing, that the ministry be not blamed: But in all things approving ourselves as the ministers of God, in much patience, in afflictions, in necessities, in distresses, In stripes, in imprisonments, in tumults, in labours, in watchings, in fastings;”[2] His point being, that those storms of life, the daily challenges and trials, only make us stronger Christians. Meanwhile, those of the world suffer greatly because their faith is nonexistent. There is nothing to embolden. In their despair, they seek earthly means to fill the void. The Apostle Peter wrote about them saying, “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour: Whom resist stedfast in the faith, knowing that the same afflictions are accomplished in your brethren that are in the world.”[3]

Alone, those lost parents cannot conquer the darkness that holds them captive. It is by prayer and the hope of their children, the faith of which they often do not know, that they can be lifted up. These thoughtless parents reckless abandon for life is conveyed by those whose tender young hearts who are willing to still have faith. In their undying hope that their parents will change, unto the day they may return to a new home, those orphaned children never give up. Similarly, we seek faith to eventually return to our heavenly home because this world is not our home. Yet, we are not left as orphans to fend for ourselves, for our heavenly father awaits. “That at that time ye were without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, and strangers from the covenants of promise, having no hope, and without God in the world: But now in Christ Jesus ye who sometimes were far off are made nigh by the blood of Christ.”[4]

Even though the parents of those orphaned children may be so lost in their sin that they don’t even realize the cause of their forced separation, nor do they know how to free themselves from the enslavement of their fleshly additions and afflictions, Christ gives us that answer. Through the power of the blood Jesus Christ shed upon the cross, we may overcome the darkness that seeks to devour our world and flood us with iniquities beyond our comprehension.

We cannot achieve this freedom alone.

In Hebrews 11:1, we are reminded that “…faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Having held true to my faith in these recent months, I can tell you from personal experience, the harder the clouds of turmoil flooded my soul, the harder I fell to my knees. There were no immediate replies. There was no blinding light that threw me off my horse and into the road. There were often days of silence. Nothingness.

“But nothing worth having is ever easy,” – Theodore Roosevelt

As the scripture tells us, “But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.” From having seen prayers answered, it is then when we start to understand how one can have “evidence of things unseen.” Prayer is one of our most powerful spiritual tools. Daniel prayed five times a day. When his enemies learned of his daily practice, they used it to entrap him which landed him in the den of lions. Daniel didn’t fear but resorted to what he knew best, prayer. His hope of release from the expected doom was his answer to faithful prayer.

As we approach a future that sometimes appears, if anything but bright, we can be reminded that there is “hope.” As we awoke this morning and the clouds had departed, Grandfather was there as the sunlight began to cast its golden rays upon his face. His crown, a mantel of snowy white, now proudly unveiled for all to see.

The storm had been weathered.

There will always be the dawning of a new day. Don’t let the darkness of the light consume you. Although it may feel as the darkest hour is just before dawn, don’t let fear overwhelm you like the storm clouds smothering Grandfather. Let the light of Christ shine upon your life, and through you, such that those around you are enlightened by the Holy Spirit within your own. Choose to be the light in a dark world, like the beautiful snow-covered peaks of Grandfather this morning, their light reflecting the sunrise, like golden shields of hope.

Tomorrow is a new day. Rise with hope in your heart and let your light shine for all to see.

Thanks be to God.

[1] Romans 8:24-25 (KJV)

[2] 2 Corinthians 6:3-5 (KJV)

[3] 1 Peter 5:8-9 (KJV)

[4] Ephesians 2:12 (KJV)

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by Timothy | October 22, 2018 · 8:15 pm

The LORD Is My Shepherd

The crisp cool air hit his flesh, biting into the fingertips that grasped the walking stick. The wind on the peaks had yet to cause anything more than a stirring of the fading leaves here in the holler through which he trod. A fateful night of harsh wins left the trail littered with pine cones and limbs. Up ahead, a fallen flock of trees lay across the path, like obstacles in a steeplechase, over which he must straddle. Onward, like the current in the stream that flowed nearby, his body moved; silent and steady. In his mind, the words of the 23^rd Psalm swirled like falling leaves upon the gentle breeze. Their parallel to the model prayer of which Jesus taught his disciples teased his curiosity. Lost in thought, he ambled on, as memories as clear as the crystal waters that gurgled in his ears echoed their distant reply.

“The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

“Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”

The air that day had been as crisp, with a matching breeze. The brilliance of the sky was only enhanced by the majestic snow-capped peaks which reached to heights of which he had never seen; at least not from the foot of the mountain. With a small satchel upon his back, he began his unknowing ascent upon the footpath that had been well worn from centuries of pedestrian traffic. To be in the presence of such imagery caused him to pause often and stand in awe. Likewise, the reverence for which he watched became increasingly intense with each footstep upward. Like climbing to the Father, our approach to God the Father, each new day living in Christ, we come nearer to Him. In that manner, we humbly enter into his glory, and by his Grace, we are saved. It is at that point we can boldly say, He is my shepherd.

The burdens of the week began to drift back into the man’s train of thought. Instinctively, he began to prioritize the list, then stopped. “I shall not want,” he said to himself, “God’s got this.” He reminded himself once again that he was trying to do it all. “I must decrease so that He may increase,” he whispered into the chilly air, his breath drifting ahead of his pace.

Once we are aware, the awakening of our spirit allows to know him and He us. In that manner, we can then know that He will care for us as a shepherd to his flock. There shall no need of want. No worries shall cause our brow to cross. All we will ever need will be provided if we only trust in Him.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, He leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul.”

Give us this day our daily bread.

As the man returned to his journey up the Germanesca Valley, he recalled standing along the rushing waters of the mighty torrent that tore through the rocks. Like the sound of a roaring freight train, the angry waters thundered past into each falling abyss below. Thirsty, he longed for a drink. Around the next bend in the terrain, a waterfall fell from up above into the pearl blue basin. There, in the foreground of that thundering cascade swirled a beautiful pool of still waters. They beckoned him to come and sup. Bending down, the reflection of a bearded image stared back. He was not the young man he often thought of; rather, this man was aged, but his features showed an internal strength. Cupping his hands, he pulled up toward his face the fresh ice, cold water from the colorless liquid. He drank deeply, as the sweet water poured down his throat, overflowing his chin, it began quenching the deepest desires. He felt a fullness at that point, unlike ever before. The words came to mind, “He who drinks of this water will never thirst again.” The chill of the frigid water touched the core of his body as if his soul had drunk from the well; his spirit was likewise fed; “Restoreth my soul,” he said.

“He leads me down paths of righteousness for his namesake.”

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.

It was at this point that the man ran into another traveling companion that had ventured upon the same trail. His name was Stanley. He was the Pastor at a church in the Michigan area. He too was here with the same group with which the man was traveling. “Are you thinking about going further,” he asked.

Looking up at the distant peak, they both questioned the challenge that intrigued them both.

“Yes, but you know that the bus leaves at 4:00 pm,” the man replied. They both looked back up at the seemingly impossible climb.

Deep down inside, each man could hear the voice of one calling.

“How about we set ourselves a time limit, and when we reach that point, we have to agree to turn around; regardless,” the man said to the younger traveling companion.

“Okay,” Stanley quickly replied, “you got it.”

“We have to both agree that no matter what, no matter how beautiful it gets, we can’t keep going.”

“Agreed, the young pastor smiled broadly.”

Shaking hands, they took off and began the arduous climb.

Each winding turn in the goat trail that led upward kept turning back pages of scripture. It was as if God were rewinding each page of his life with the turn of each fragile page of the Word of God. Hand in hand he had lived his life with God watching over him, sometimes unknowing, other times purposeful; always led by the hand of the Lord. He literally had been led down God’s path of righteousness, but not of his own accord.

“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 they comfort me.”

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

When the two men had finally reached the peak. There was little time to commune with God. Sitting down, they both knew that this may the only time in this life that they might have the opportunity to reach this point on earth. Praying, they both sought His Majesties presence such that they would feel the Master’s place at their table. Around them, a gentle breeze blew, as raptors soared before them, floating effortlessly upon the unseen currents, slowly drifting past where they sat. Like a parade of God’s creatures great and small, the display of His creation came alive. Not far from their vantage point, wild mountain goats pranced in the snow, while nearby mountain ferrets chased one another in play.

Once they caught their breath, turning, their eyes followed the long dark chasm from which they had emerged. From this valley that had climbed. Below, in the shadows of the massive peaks upon which they now sat, the farthest reaches of the sunlight strained to find the earth. Where there was light, there was no darkness. Yet, even in the light of the midday sun, there were shadows upon the land. Like stains of memories returned, so many countless lives lost; blood scattered upon those very valley floors from whence they trod. Now, far beneath the soil, their memories not forgotten as the word from which the men quoted had remained alive; preserved by those martyrs of ancient times; the ancient Waldensians.

“He preparest a table before me in the presence of thine enemies.”

“And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.”

Death was merely a shadow, and as such, they feared it not, for to live as Christ was as death, each a gain either way. The rod and staff of God had provided for them even in the darkest of times. When the soldiers came to eradicate them from their homes, they fled to this point, there where the two men sat, and beyond. To the upper reaches of the earth, where if not for safety, to be closer to my God and thee. There the angels carried many to their final resting place.

The pair sat solemn silence. The awe-inspiring scene before the two men left them speechless. Here, the closeness to God was unmistakable. As they dined on the meager fare from which they carried, clouds chased their images upon the nearby snow-capped peaks as the multitude of waterfalls spoke in hushed whispers.

The vantage point from above, so close to Him, so far from that terrestrial countenance that resided in the shadows of the peaks from which they had now climbed. Their apex but merely temporary achievement, but for that which they truly awaited was one far above this point.

There was nothing more one could say, so divine was the beauty before them.

“He anointest my head with oil. My cup runneth over.”

Each man finished and sat in repose; their thoughts inward and upward.

“Stanley,” the man said turning to his newfound traveling companion, “we may never make it here again. This may be the only time in our earthly life that we see the world from this vantage point. Let us give thanks to God for all that we have and for this opportunity to share our meal in his presence.” Stanley nodded in agreement. It was then they both knelt in prayer and praised His holy name as one.

Silently and stoically they stood, walking back to the direction from whence they came. Back down to the lower reaches of that distant valley. There was little to say at that point. No words could encompass what they had just felt.

The man rounded the bend in the road, to the place where he had crossed the river many times. The water today was gray and angry. Its reflection was cold and forbidding. Inside, his heart he had been warmed by the memory of that journey now so seemingly far away. For a moment he wondered about Stanley and where it might be in life. Like strangers upon the road who travel along for a while, their union would become a memory for life; a shared point in time. Until that day when we shall all be called to Glory, then we shall reunite with those momentary acquaintances once more and dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Yes, as the psalmist wrote, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.”

“For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen”

Matthew 6:9-13, The Model Prayer

“Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.

¹⁰Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.

¹¹Give us this day our daily bread.

¹²And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

¹³And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.”

23^rd Psalm

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

²He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

³He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

⁴Yea, 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 they comfort me.

⁵Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

⁶Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”

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by Timothy | December 25, 2016 · 9:10 pm

The Tail of a Tale…

Along many trails and paths, I have crossed in my time. Along each trek, there is a special anticipation of what is just around the next bend, a longing to push onward. Someone once said to me that you could only see as far as the next point on the horizon, and once you make it to that point, you can see a little bit farther, to the next point if you will. Some days are like that, finding myself having reached a point that was once a distant speck from that far away vantage point. In that instance, seeing and knowing become one.

Today, our family cat whom we call “Sky,” journeyed along with me on my walk. Unlike the day before, he was more reluctant than usual. Before we had come to the point of leaving the forest into the first opening of the trail he stopped and decided to stay behind. Knowing I was going at a faster pace than the previous day, I was fine with that and figured since I was returning on the same trail, that I would catch him on the way home.

Overhead, the clouds loomed low obscuring the distant peaks of Grandfather, shrouding him in a blanket of white. All around me, the drops of rain danced on the fallen leaves which abound on the forest floor. My breath was labored, and I soon found that I had not healed from the recent chest cold as my progress slowed to a crawl. It was much later than I had planned by the time I returned to the point Sky and I had parted ways.

He was nowhere to be found.

“He’s a cat,” I told myself, “and he will surely find his way back home.”

So I slowly and weakly made my way up the trail and back to the house, sweating and breathing much too heavily for what was my normal routine. Sitting heavily, but thankfully in the porch chair, I began to remove my boots, grateful to be back home. But there was someone missing; Sky was still not home.

“He’ll find his way,” again I reassured myself.

My thoughts flashed back to another time on a winter’s day. We had been blasted with a wave of blizzards in the Midwest. The landscape looked like the frozen tundra, not southern Indiana. It became an adventure just to go out and walk the fence rows, and ditch banks, places that were once of little interest took on a whole new image as giant fissures and massive snow banks turned a once boring landscape into a winter play land. On one such day, I took out with the family dog, Missy, on an afternoon exploration. We had gone over a mile along fence rows and ditches, exploring tunnels and all manner of ice formations when we happened upon a bubbling creek. Missy was a beautiful Collie-Shepherd mix that loved to explore as much as her owner, so we were having the time of our lives when suddenly are adventure took a turn for the worse. The snap of the steel on her leg scared me as much as it did her. I hadn’t realized the creek we were wading in was also the trapping line for the local farmer who was also collecting pelts to help subsidize his income. My dog’s screams and yelps tore through my heart as I raced to free her from the pain.

Again, my mind flashed back to another time in my life when I was much younger and caught in a similar predicament. It was the back alley of our little town of New Harmony. I had befriended a stray dog, and I was throwing a ball for him in the alleyway behind my grandparents family diner, The Heritage Trail Restaurant. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the dog began screaming for help. His back leg had gotten caught in the street drain. Unthinking, I reached for him wanting to help pull him out. The dog acted on instinct and reached for anything that he could use to leverage his body from the clutches of steel; my hand. The shredding of my pinky was instantaneous and blinding in pain. The dog bolted around the corner leaving me shaken and scared. Blood immediately began running down my arm as I tried to wrap it up in my sweatshirt. Fearful I would get in trouble for playing with a stray, I never told anyone. I snuck in the back door of the restaurant and cleaned up the wound in the abandoned dish sink. It was late afternoon, and everyone was on break and away from their posts, which is why I wasn’t found out. I was lucky I never contracted rabies or any other disease. God once again watched over me when I needed Him most.

All that flashed through my head as I headed toward Missy trying to soothe her before I reached to her with my hands, even if they were gloved. Fortunately, having learned my lesson, I first reached toward her with a stick. She was nothing like the stray and wanted only for me to help her leg as she stopped and stood still as if she knew what had to be done. Pulling the jaws of steel apart long enough for her to retract her injured limb, it was in the blink of an eye, and she was free. Sadly I watched as she limped on three legs, trying to hold the injured limb above the snow and hop. Knowing we had a long way to get back home, I couldn’t let her go on that way and picked her up. She weighed at least 50lbs. at the time. I wasn’t much more and maybe weighed all of 100lbs myself. Slowly and painfully, I carried that dog until my arms were like lead. We had traveled within 100 yards of the house when I finally collapsed from exhaustion. Missy sat for a minute with me in the snow, me panting and her curious. She licked my face and then much to my amazement, jumped up and ran the rest of the way back to the house ahead of me. There was no sign of any injury or hurt leg after all. I had been hornswoggled by a dog.

This evening, as darkness began to creep up the holler, there was still no Sky back at the house. Others became worried and urged me to please find him.

Fearful that he might not make it home before dark, I headed back down the trail calling for him as I went. The light of day was fading quickly. My path made it all the way to the stables and back, but still no cat. Slowly as I passed our initial point of separation, I began calling and listening. My mind remembered Missy and how I had been humorously tricked before but now it seemed the cat was truly missing. A few more steps and calling I saw the white blur in the darkness before me dash in my direction; it was Sky. My heart warmed at his sight.

He was still not far from where we had been earlier in the day, and he was more than happy to have me pick him up and hold him close.

I carried him all the way back to the house and gladly placed him on top of his little home on our porch.

We were both happy to be back.

I had seen once before and now, knew from the past what to expect. Yes, I had gone farther in many aspects, but knowing from whence we came is just as important. In all that we do, we are never alone; God is with certainly with us, watching and smiling.

As darkness surrounded our little home in the mountains, Sky gladly curled up in his house, and I in mine, safe and sound for another day.

Thanks be to God.

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by Timothy | March 28, 2016 · 9:29 pm

Tiny Petals of Wisdom…

“He who comes from above is above all; he who is of the earth is earthly and speaks of the earth. He who comes from heaven is above all.” -John 3:31

Sometimes when I look to the sky above there is an infinity of space that goes beyond our terrestrial realm; a blue so unbelievable that it’s limit must be only be bound by Heaven itself. It’s days like today that take your breath away when you look skyward. Part of me wondered if it was like another time in my life when the illusion of what was before me was really there.

It was the first time I had ever dove into an egg-shaped swimming pool and looked up to the surface from the bottom. For a moment, as I stood on the bottom of the hotel pool, my heart raced as the opening above me appeared tiny compared to what I had expected. Instinctively, I pushed off and raced for the safety of the surface only to find the optical illusion had created an unwarranted panic attack. However, unlike that day in the pool, today the feeling was quite the opposite; a sense of peace and calmness washed over my countenance.

All about me, tiny white petals floated to the earth as the soft breeze gently lifted them aloft. The warming rays of the sun illuminated their thin, frail figures as they drifted on currents of unseen tides, wave after wave until portions of the ground were like that of new fallen snow. Robins flitted too and fro seeking their early morning breakfast, some landing on the crisp green grass, unconcerned by my presence.

When asked how his day was going, dad would often respond, “The sky is blue, the grass is green and the birds are a singin’.” The sound of his voice still echoed in my mind as the beauty of the morning unfolded before me.

I sat alone, yet I wasn’t.

While dad was still with us, he was physically unable to travel very far due to his medical condition. That meant that he would never be able to visit the Trail. He would never again be able to sit on my porch and sip coffee while we watched the morning sun rise. It pained my heart to know that we would never have those moments together even while he was still with us here on earth.

Yet, today, unlike ever before, I felt comfort in knowing that in some way he was here.

Time, like the tides, rolls on. Each day another nuance that awakens something in us not realized before. Sometimes we understand that awakening; other times we brush it off as just something else to disregard. God feeds us in tiny portions so that we may comprehend all that there is to fathom. For us to push it aside is to fail to grasp the message he provides, if only we will listen.

Time passes and eventually so do we. As we walk in faith, our ability to hear His wisdom becomes like those loved ones speaking to us and at times, they become one.

He who comes from above is certainly above all and someday, if we have accepted Jesus Christ as our Savior, we can trust that we will be there as well.

Blessed be the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit…Amen.

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by Timothy | March 5, 2016 · 10:01 pm

Go Gentle Into the Frozen Abyss…

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”-Joshua 1:9

There are days in our lives that have a way of becoming memorable. Those days that make an indelible impression upon our beings; building character and proving to ourselves just what is possible when we are pushed to a point of no return.

Yesterday was one of those days that it seemed as if everything that could go wrong did.

It began early on when I found that the bitterly cold weather we had a few weeks back had weakened a below-ground valve behind the Refour House. As I rounded the corner of the building, water was shooting three feet out of the recessed fixture into the yard. “Great,” I thought, “so much for spreading the new pile of compost today.”

That was number one: the leaking valve.

I eventually found the main valve for the leaking line in the large underground control vault. There, nearly six feet below the surface were a myriad of valves and pipes, none of which were labeled. In addition, there was nearly a foot of water already in the bottom of the vault. “Odd,” I questioned, “hopefully this isn’t a sign of something else.” Next, it was a matter of finding out which valve shut off the line to the leak. So, methodically I began turning off one valve after another. Whether it was a premonition of things to come or not, the handle of the first valve I grabbed crumbled in by grasp. It had corroded into red, rusty dust. It was not a good feeling. As I continued working my way down the maze of plumbing one of the main line brass fixtures hissed and squirted water, but then stopped. “Oh great, what else could go wrong,” I silently mused to myself. I cautiously continued on until I happened upon the correct valve and turned off the water to the leaking line. In order to speed up things, I figured I’d jump on the golf cart and zip down to the far end of the Trail. When I opened up the garage and turned on the golf cart, I noticed the battery level was nearly dead. Knowing I had put it on the charger the night before, there was definitely something wrong. I plugged the charger back into the slot on the cart; nothing.

Great, this would be number two: the golf cart was not charging.

A few hours later after returning from the hardware store where I found everything I needed to fix the water issue, my wife arrived, “This must be the day for bad news,” she chuckled.

“Great, what now,” I said, my shoulders sinking as I felt the weight of the day growing.

“We’ve had a death or two at the chicken coop,” she replied in a solemn tone, “possibly as many as three.”

I shook my head and headed out for the valve issue, “One thing at a time,” I silently said beneath my breath.

We were now up to bad thing number three; dead chickens.

“Bad things come in threes, right,” my mind concluded as I began repairing the broken water line.

Well, one thing and then another and soon I had a water line repaired. The battery charger confirmed good at the golf cart shop. Finally, some confidence began to return. However, life had taught me many lessons and one very important lesson was that one should never become too over confident. Call it Lutheranism, call it Midwestern, I almost felt a little guilty at my slight joy of success.

Lessons are often learned for a reason.

The next day, after allowing the glue on the valve fitting to dry over night, I climbed down into the vault for one last time, or so I had hoped and turned the water line back on. There was the sound of rushing water within the pipes and soon it was silent. No further leaks or drips in the vault, all seemed well.

“So far so good,” I said under my breath, as I headed back down to the opposite end of the trail to check the valve for any signs of water; nothing, all clear.

“Not bad,” I smiled inwardly. “Time for a quick cup of coffee and then back to my compost pile,” my thoughts confirmed.

After my brief respite, I headed back out. The weather on the horizon looked daunting. Dark clouds were forming in the mountains and headed our way. The air had the feel of icy precipitation to it. There were already reports of snow in Asheville. As I rounded the corner of the building, my mind froze on the image before me. The vault, the main control room for the entire Trail was no overflowing with a river of water.

“It can’t be,” I thought, trying to force the image out of my consciousness. “The hiss, the water in the bottom, the signs were all there,” I thought as I ran back inside emptying my pockets as I ran. I reached the office door where my wife was working and yelled, “Quick, come with me, we’ve got an emergency.”

“What now she responded,” as she jumped up to follow.

We both raced outside and once again met the torrent pouring out of the underground vault.

“What in the world,” she screamed in disbelief. “How do we turn it off?”

“There is only one place I know of,” I replied, “down there,” I said pointing into the swirling, muddy abyss.

In many ways, it is easy to become dismayed and overwhelmed, drowning in our own self-doubt and anxiety. But when we meet the challenge without giving our actions a second thought, when we tackle the obstacle that is impeding our progress head on without reluctance, we overcome those insecurities and become one with our destiny.

So, without hesitation, I stepped down into the icy water. As I moved deeper into the frigid liquid, I prayed to God to give me strength and protection. It was as if I was suddenly enveloped in a protective layer of skin. I could sense the freezing water, I knew that time was of the essence, yet there was a certain calm.

Around me was a world of browns, grays and earth tones. Death was everywhere as the landscape had yet to come back to life from its winter slumber.

I reached for shutoff valves and their handles that were unfortunately beyond my grasp. They were deeper than I could reach while keeping my head above water. My breath was growing short and I could barely stand, let alone function much more. I had to emerge from the bitterly cold water and take a break before going any further.

As I stood gasping for breath while leaning against the wall of the building, tiny snowflakes began to fall around us. My body was numb as I watched the deluge of water continue unabated.

“Is there another place we can turn it off,” my concerned wife said, now frantic as she watched my body begin to shiver uncontrollably.

“No, this is it.”

I headed back toward the vault, “I’ve…got… to to try again,” I shuddered as I sank back down.

As I submerged back down and once more tried to find a valve within reach. The pressure of the intense cold water soon had me crawling back out.

Pausing, my mind raced back to the previous day and to the location of the pipe that had hissed at me. There below that point was the main valve, but it was nearly at the bottom of the vault.

I only had one choice at this point.

When I was in high school, we decided one day to dive in the old rock pits south of Ft. Myers. There was a hole so deep that when you swam over its untold depth, it was almost a blue-black. Many had tried to reach the bottom unsuccessfully. However, after a few days of practice, we had finally built up our courage and strength to feel that we might finally be able to achieve the impossible. I remember the four of us taking those last few breaths before going down.

None of us knew the dangers of deep water diving.

Not one of us had any clue as to what we faced.

So with that last hyperventilating gulp, we dove into the dark abyss. I can recall one by one, my friends peeled off and headed back up, unable to continue down. Unwavering in my quest, I continued to kick. My legs were strong and my lungs at their peak. Running countless miles had prepared my body for this moment.

“Go gentle into that good night,” my mind whispered as the darkness seemed endless. I reached my hand before me not knowing what lay ahead.

Just before reaching the bottom, my lungs began to quiver for air. There wasn’t much time left. It was then I hit the white sandy bottom. There have submerged in the sand was an ancient beer bottle. I turned, hit the bottom with my legs, and shoved off for the surface kicking with everything I had. Before breaking the surface, I had already begun to go into oxygen debt convulsions. It was just as I burst through the top that I had no choice but to suck in. Thanks be to God that it was air and not water.

Thankfully, whether we realized it or not that day, God was with us.

“To be strong and of courage, for He is with us always,” is often hard to remember when disaster faces us head on. So many years ago, there was no urgency in that day, there was no dire threat of impending doom, there was only a choice I had made to take a risk in order to explore a forbidden depth; a place we feared as much as we wondered about. Once again, unwelcome, dark water awaited me, but unlike before, this was no choice in this matter.

Back down into the black hole, I climbed. I looked to my wife once more and before going under said, “Call someone if I don’t come back up.”

“Could something down there suck you under,” she questioned scared and frantic?

“I won’t’ know until I’m down there,” I replied and took one last breath then dove.

There have been times that I’ve snorkeled in muddy, disgusting water, but never had I been in water that was trying to suck the air out of my lungs through my body. As my hands frantically reached for the pipes and followed them like a blind person reading Braille, my mind worked out the image before me. Continuing to pray as I worked, there was a calmness about me I cannot explain.

Down, down I went, feeling pipes and valves as I along the way toward the ultimate goal, the main valve. The air in my chest didn’t seem to matter anymore as a special numbness began to overwhelm my consciousness.

“Go gentle into that good night,” my mind whispered once again, an echo from the past.

Water rushed past my frozen fingers; turned the handle.

Water still rushing.

Followed the pipe further; turned another handle; nothing.

My hands walked along the plumbing trying to make sense of the maze of fixtures. Somewhere a voice said, “Stop, there, now.” My nearly frozen digits had discovered a handle. “Turn it,” the voice said, and I did.

The water stopped flowing.

“Must find the surface.”

I don’t recall taking the first breath of air.

I don’t recall how I got my legs up and out of the hole in the metal plate that covered the vault.

All I can remember is crawling onto the cold, wet ground and collapsing. There was no cold, no numbness, only swirling white feathers falling down from heaven.

Slowly, my faculties returned, as did the pain of exposure to my limbs and digits. My wife and I worked quickly as a team to strip the wet clothing and to find towels enough to get my body dry and warm before hypothermia set in.

The numbers of all the things that had gone wrong seemed to disappear as warmth reclaimed my soul.

There are days that make impressions upon our minds that we will take with us the rest of our lives. There are places we once feared to tread, but nevermore shall we when we go fearlessly into that dark night.

Yes, rage, rage against the dying of the light, and go fearlessly into that dark night.

“Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” -Dylan Thomas

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Tagged as abyss, Asheville, chicken coop, death, deep water diving, Dylan Thomas, faith, freezing water, Ft. Myers, god, golf cart, ice, icy, Joshua, Lutheranism, Midwestern, NC., plumbing, polar bear plunge, Refour House, snow, Trail of Faith, Valdese, valve, vault, water

by Timothy | January 18, 2016 · 10:00 pm

What’s Within…

We’ve hunkered down for the long cold spell ahead, or at least for the next couple weeks. We are facing some of the harshest weather we’ll likely see all winter. Instinctively, we find comfort in the minute details, the planning, research and review of the past and future events. Today, my daughter and I spent most of the day in the tiny office of the Trail doing just that. Sheltered by the warmth of the heater nearby, we worked independently of one another on separate projects. Every now and then we’d come up for air and share in the moment, sometimes joking, sometimes peeking at the other’s work.

Outside, the wind chill made the air feel like single digit temperatures.

Many places around the world share these cold, bone-chilling climates, we are not alone.

This time of year, in Triberg Germany, the ancient customs of long, bitter winters have created a global niche; the Coo-Coo Clock capital of the world. Forced to remain indoors for long periods of time in their tiny mountain chalets, the woodworkers of old would turn their talents inward, creating tiny cogs, wheels, and artifacts that would make amazingly entertaining timepieces. Through their one-of-a-kind artistry, their mountain traits, customs, and lifestyles would be portrayed in what they produced; all because they sought to stay warm within their remote mountaintop homes.

Outside I could see the wind blowing the tree branches. Part of me could almost feel the chill run up my spine. I shivered inwardly and returned to my work.

Inside, there was more than the physical warmth, it was a feeling of being with someone you loved, as any parent knows, the unconditional love of a father for his son or daughter. For a few moments today, we were back in the studio of my barn, painting, and drawing on our own artwork. Nearby, the old woodstove provided the woodsy aroma of fire along with the heat that kept the freezing winds outside at bay. My favorite painting music would be softly playing in the background; Alan Jackson, Gibson Brothers, Balsam Range, Mountain Heart, Dailey and Vincent and many more. Outside, in the barnyard, the cows would be working on the latest hay bale, and then finding a warm, comfortable spot to lie down and ruminate. A rooster would crow now and then to remind us of the world beyond as the wind might rattle a loose piece of tin to confirm.

Up in the studio, we’d lost track of time until either our stomachs would remind us of the hour or the day would turn into twilight and we’d have to find the lamps to turn in order to see. Someone would grab another log and pitch into the stove, maintaining the red-hot furnace in the corner of the room. We’d take little breaks and warm our backsides to the heat, waiting until you couldn’t stand it any longer then jumping away before your skin caught fire; a warmth that would reach down into your bones.

There was a gentleness to those memories; too far and few between to come to expect. Rather, those were once in a great while treasures that were separated by long painful stretches of third shift work that tore my body and mind to pieces, leaving shards of my being along the rocky path. Sometimes, the mere thought of those precious memories were all that kept me going.

Thankfully, the long, arduous, painful stretches of third-shift are over. Once again, we are slowly finding time to be together to revisit those almost forgotten feelings of kindred spirit. Once again, I’m able to be the father that I almost wasn’t.

The Bible speaks of how we are to teach our children in the way, “You shall teach them to your children, speaking of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way when you lie down, and when you rise up.” -Deut. 11:19 But if when we are absent, they are left to seek Him of their own accord. Too many times, they become the victims of our best intentions; to make more money so that we can shower them with all their needs.

Sadly, we lose sight of what they need most, which is precisely what we fail to give them; ourselves.

We still await the sale of that farm and our precious studio loft in the barn.

Meanwhile, we take with us the most precious piece of that experience, …ourselves.

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Tagged as Alan Jackson, art, artistry, Balsam Range, barn, bone chilling, chickens, cold, Coo Coo Clocks, cows, Dailey and Vincent, death, Deuteronomy, fire, freezing, Germany, Gibson Brothers, god, hell, love, mountain, rooster, snow, studio, third shift, Trail of Faith, Triberg, Valdese, wind chill, winter, woodstove

by Timothy | December 11, 2013 · 2:14 am

Sled Hill

“The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.”-John 10:10

As a child, I never understood why standing on top of Sled Hill and overlooking the trees, rooftops, and steeples in the tiny town of New Harmony made me feel as if I were somewhere else; somewhere in another place and time. Life would eventually lead me on a journey, led by the Master’s hand, to mountain tops beyond my wildest dreams, back to a beginning that no one knew. In those places, the grandeur of God’s majesty would take my breath away as He would open my mind to the Truth. It was as if back then, He was preparing me for the future, but it was beyond my comprehension, as it so often is. But before those magnificent peaks and that walk of faith came a humble beginning. Yet, even now in my mind’s eye, I can still see that view on a sunny day as clouds whisked overhead, throwing shadows that raced across the lush green pastures below that were sewn into a patchwork of squares that bordered the edge of town on the farm we knew as home. It was here on this hill, which to us was a mountain in those days, that the event of a lifetime would occur on a snowy day; quite unlike that bright sunny day, yet so full of wonder and awe that it would take a multitude of memories to contain it all.

Christmas was just around the corner, so everyone was anxious for our first snowfall of the season. The weather on that winter morn was gray and dull with clouds hanging so low it felt like you could reach up and touch them. The forecast was for a few inches of snow, but by noon, there was already a blanket of white so deep it covered everything around that old farmhouse there on the edge of town that sat just below Sled Hill. As the snowflakes fell like giant goose-down feathers, more and more family began to gather until the house couldn’t contain us all and at the suggestion of grandma, we lit out for Sled Hill with anything we could find that might act as a sled, including one real working sled. At that point, it was just us kids, out on an exploratory expedition. Looking back, grandma’s suggestion for us to go explore the sledding conditions were a perfect way to quiet the house and make more room for the adult family who had come to visit. For us kids, it was the perfect excuse to play in the snow. Either way, it would become soon become the stuff of legends.

I don’t know which of us tried to go down first, but by the time we reached halfway up the famous hill, the snow was so deep you couldn’t slide down easily without first making a trough. The initial attempts all met with crashes. It wasn’t until someone made a run nearly to the bottom of the hill that our luck began to change. It wasn’t long before the runs were stretching out into unbelievable lengths. Soon it was apparent that a report back to home base was necessary; this was going to be the sledding event of the century; Christmas had come early!

We went up and down that hill so many times that afternoon that we eventually became wore out and had to return back to the house for warmth and recuperation. If you knew us kids, you knew that for us to have to stop doing something that much fun was a clear indication of our exhaustion. As we retold of the excitement while sipping hot chocolate and eating grandma’s hot fresh homemade cookies, some of the adults had to go check it out for themselves. A few of us escorted them back to the hill, which was a good hike that went past the tractor barn, up the long lane that passed the garden at Ms. Wolfe’s house, past the backside of the Labyrinth, past the bullpens and eventually to the pasture gate at the far end. All along the lane were huge Catalpa trees that would provide an unending supply of fishing bait in the summertime from the worms that would fall off their leaves but now stood barren and dark as ominous figures that loomed overhead which stood as bulwarks against the snowstorm; one side becoming white as they too became part of the ever-increasing snow-scape. Once you reached the pasture gate, you had a good quarter mile to reach the base of the hill, that now stood silent and foreboding as the snow-covered sled run loomed white disappearing into the snowfall from above, becoming one in their obscurity of eyesight.

The report from our adult led expedition told of some of the best sledding conditions that they had ever seen in their lifetime. Our eyes nearly popped out of our heads at this exclamation. The wheels were soon put into motion for preparations for a night sled, something we children had never heard of nor thought of before. Grown men began to brainstorm, and the idea of putting torches along the sled run was thrown out. “And why not,” came a reply which soon put some of the creative minds in the family to work to build the home-made torches that soon lined the sled path before darkness had set in putting off a warming glow to the gleaming white ice that had begun to form on the trail to the top of the hill. I don’t know what we ate, nor when we ate, all I can recall to this day was sledding and sliding down the hill that loomed like a monolithic icicle in the night sky. The hill became so slick that the only way to get back to the top was to find footsteps on the side of the run that had been made before; otherwise, you’d find yourself sledding without a sled. By the end of the night, only the brave or fool hearty would slide from the top of the hill, so fast and slick was the ice. Those who did try found themselves becoming human torpedoes flying down the hill as their sleds raced ahead.

While we kids were climbing up and down the hill, a giant bonfire began to grow, where we would find ourselves warming our frozen extremities and finding hot dogs or other fire baked goodies to satisfy our hunger that had grown without our knowledge. As the faces of family and friends gathered around the blaze, we realized that when grandpa and grandma were also there gathered around that giant fire, this was the event of a lifetime. Grandpa would rarely venture out this time of night especially when he had the 3:00 AM milking coming, but this was no ordinary day or night. We continued on that night until arms and legs would no longer move and slowly we all left the snowfall and ice-covered hill behind. As the embers of the fire began to glow in the darkness, the last snowflakes fell into its warmth with a hiss. A tiny puff of smoke escaped and drifted above into the night sky, like our memories that drifted off with our sleep as soon as our heads hit the pillows that night.

In the event of a lifetime, a memory was made that affected so many its recollection brings forth memories from so many that if we were all gathered together, you might mistake our ages as children once again and hear the crunch of snow underfoot as our minds race down that hill once more.

There have been many Christmas seasons that have come and gone since that day. Many of those adults have gone on home to be with the Lord while others have grown and moved away. The old farmhouse was torn down and the farm drastically altered to adapt to changing times. The old milk barn is still there, but now it is the offices and warehouse for a flower farm. While one can stand at the road that once went by the house and look back to where the old front porch used to sit, it is only then, in the mind’s eye can we see from whence we came. Time is the thief that comes to steal and destroy, but we cannot allow it all to slip away.

Life is about living, our past and our mutual experiences and sometimes, those all combine into the unforgettable.

A life lived abundantly.

So it was and always shall be with our “Sled Hill.” Somewhere in your life, you too have had or will have a “Sled Hill.” When you do, or if you have, embrace those memories or that time with all you can, for it sometimes only comes around once in a lifetime.

Again, live life abundantly, and strive to make the most of every opportunity.

Thanks be to God.

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Tagged as bonfire, bruecke to heaven, churches, cookies, family, farm, grandma, grandpa, ice, icicle, Indiana, Labryinth, memories, New Harmony, Sled Hill, sledding, snow, Timothy W. Tron, torches, town

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