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by Timothy | December 16, 2025 · 10:57 am

Vulnerability

“There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus hath made me free from the law of sin and death.” – Romans 8:1-2

The sheer release, the omnifying conceptualization of the totality of the semester, arrived and, without fanfare or pomposity, passed as a perishable snowflake falling before you – a stark reminder of the beauty and the frailty of the reality that surrounds life. In the moment, you realize that your senses had almost become numb from the constant toil, and you scramble to collect your thoughts, to pull from the void that which keeps your life pursuant to the will of God. With clinched hands, nails dug into the meat of that which is about to be lost, you hold on for fear of losing all that is of value. One by one, you grab them, a snow globe of thoughts shaken, recollecting them, trying to embrace that which had seemingly vanished, and return to their former place. Yet, amid the storm, relevance and positioning had been rearranged as if by chance. But we know better.

To lose oneself in the pursuit of an agenda placed before us – a goal, a resolution, a tacit requirement; whatever it might be, it requires a level of focus that consumes our lives that pushes out everything we call living. Everything but the granite, the resolve that resides within, the flicker of hope, for without, we would be lost, is all that remains. This is how we often find ourselves at the conclusion of a season, a semester, a portion of life that was more than a grind. It was from this shadow that I had recently crawled, beaten, worn, but unfettered to carry on. But once we become free of that which had held us in bondage, we realize that the blessing of life is still there, the purest morning dew, sparkling like a diamond upon the cusp of the precious rose. It is a realization that He is faithful never to leave us, nor forsake us.

Emerging from beneath this boulder, it felt as if I had taken my first breath of life in a long time. And before I knew it, the Lord had placed before me a delectable portion, a reminder of why we do what we do in the service of ministry on a college campus. “The table is set before us in the presence of our enemies. He anointed my head with oil. My cup runneth over.”[1]

But to understand how all this unfolded, we must go back a day or so.

A few moments later, after my final exam, I found myself meeting with a young man who had unexpectedly come into my radar a few days earlier. But to appreciate this meeting, one had to go back to when the story really began.

It happened to be Friday night, one of those evenings when the time was usually taken up by a weekly meeting of the Ratio Christi Leadership team. Ratio Christi (RC), which means “Reason for Christ” in Latin, is a global apologetics organization that meets weekly on campus. On that particular night, the semester ended the day before. The students were embroiled in the first day of finals and preparation for the coming week’s exams. So, without fanfare and with a vague hope of finding at least one student with whom we might have a conversation, an RC colleague and I made our way to the campus dining facility, “Central,” as it’s known by the student body.

Upon landing at a table near the entrance, close to 6 pm, we surveyed the area. It was still early by student standards – they typically eat supper around nine. Settling in, it wasn’t long before we were joined by one of the Ratio Christi student leaders, Josh. Discussions started around plans for the break and the remaining finals. There was a certain feeling of renewed freedom in the air, like a fresh snowfall, an eagerness to partake in the unblemished beauty of that which promised excitement and escape from the tedium. A few minutes later, another leader named Great showed up, and not long after him, two more members joined. Before we knew it, we had a lively discussion underway. God had truly delivered.

But the best was yet to come.

Out of the corner of my eye, Elias sat not far away. Elias, a tall, thin, very well-mannered young man, was an undergrad who had been on our periphery the entire semester. He was the kind of student who always asked challenging questions but kept accepting Christ into his life at arm’s length. Motioning for him to join us, Elias came over, accepting the invitation, but said that he was with his roommate. “Well, invite him over, you both are certainly welcome,” I responded with a sincere gesture. He smiled and nodded, agreeing, and returned shortly with a trim, neat young man named Brent.

The group welcomed Brent, and the common communal questioning began: where are you from, what’s your major, what year are you, and so on. Since he was Elias’s roommate, we all had to know, “Do you have the same reservations as Elias about accepting Christ into your life?” Someone asked the elephant in the room question out loud, perhaps it was me, and Brent quickly responded that yes, he was a believer. There was a collective sigh from the spontaneous gathering. Elias grinned broadly but kept quiet. Then, curious and with some intention of wanting Elias’s itch to be scratched, I asked the young man, now sitting directly across from me, if he had any questions about faith that he might like to ask the group. Hey, we were apologists; we needed a good Friday night challenge. So, in true Godly fashion, he asked a question that more than caught my attention: “How can I become more vulnerable to God?”

He was looking directly at me, his lips twisted in a half-smile, half-grimace, but his eyes never wandered nor wavered in their intensity.

There was dead silence as a momentary lull fell over the table. Behind smiling faces, everyone was scrambling, trying to consider the source and intention of what he said. After what seemed an eternity, someone asked a clarifying question, to which he responded, “How can you become more vulnerable to God?”

From that point forward, the other students jumped in, eager to swim in the river of theological discussions. We had just walked through a semester in a mostly arid, academic desert; there were no more apologetic club meetings, and now, thanks to a more than thought-provoking question, we found ourselves standing on the shore of a beautiful, crystal-clear river flowing with life and love. One by one, we dove in and swam with all our might. The water was more than refreshing – it was exhilarating, the current swift. It felt like it had been an eternity.

Later that night, during prayer, Brent came to mind. The still, small voice said there was a need: someone crying out for help but hesitant to ask. Sometimes thoughts become more than ethereal contemplations, making us say, as Johan Wolfgang von Goethe’s Faust, “Verweile doch, du bist so schoene,” meaning, “Stay for a while, you are so beautiful.” But as fleeting as the snowflakes fall upon one’s lips, they are gone before we can savor their meaning for our lives. However, once in a while, God whispers a gentle reminder, pulling back that ethereal consciousness into the moment, making us aware of the obvious, allowing one to hear the cry for help in a busy world. Like a hand reaching out from the depths of an avalanche, smothered by life, we find them, and thanks be to God, we grab onto that desperate soul who wants to cling to life but heretofore didn’t know how.

Looking back, God’s voice was anything but still. There was a particular urgency to it, so much so that it forced me to immediately reach out to him. Being late on a Friday evening, one might be lucky to get a response from a student on social media by the following Monday, if then. But to my surprise, he quickly responded. It was an obvious sign: a hand reaching up from an avalanche in the snow, grasping for air, for survival, the cry to live.

A weekend and one final later, we sat down, and we quickly got to the heart of the matter – my instincts, and God’s nudge were correct, it was far beyond being vulnerable. It was even beyond the next question, how one could turn away from the sin in their life. As we dug into the answer to question after question, more layers of a life of depravity and isolation emerged, offering insight into the life of a young man who was near a breaking point.

That still small voice turned out to be a megaphone.

We read through Romans 8, and I reassured him that the scripture clearly says there is no condemnation for those who truly follow after Him. Then, feeling as if he needed to know that God was with him, even when he least realized it, we turned to Psalm 139, where I asked him to read it through slowly and methodically, with great care. As I patiently watched and waited, he read the entire Psalm. When he finished, he looked up at me and, with a look of somber reflection, said, “Wow. I never thought of it like that. He’s really with us no matter where we go, no matter how hard we try to flee from him. He is there.”

“Yes, and Amen,” I replied. “Do you think it was just a coincidence that we met in the dining hall Friday night? Do you realize that since Ratio Christi didn’t have a meeting, it was more likely for me to go home than to hang out on campus?”

His smile grew when he said, “Yeah, and I don’t often go with Elias to Central either. That’s crazy!”

“Ain’t it? You know, Brent, God is already there with you, waiting for you to open the door. You being vulnerable is not the question; rather, because of who He is, you can’t help but be vulnerable. All you have to do is open the door.”

We continued to discuss how it is no coincidence that God is ever-present in our lives; we only have to open our eyes and acknowledge his presence. “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten, full of grace and truth.”[2] Beholding him, realizing that He is there, the creator of the universe watching over us – truly, there is no greater sense of vulnerability one might have. If that’s not enough, we only need to turn to the Psalm, “O Lord, You have searched me and known me! You know when I sit down and when I rise up…Where shall I go from Your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from Your presence? If I ascend to heaven, You are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, You are there!…even there Your hand shall lead me, and Your right hand shall hold me.”[3]

As the time passed, we talked about many other topics, and Brent shared his life’s story, and it quickly became apparent that we needed many more of these sit-downs. As a measure of recompense, earlier in the week, I had mentioned to several people the need to regain focus on discipling next semester. And before I knew it, there sitting before me was a young man who badly needed just that. Unbeknownst to me, before we ever sat down, my prayers for God to help me find direction in discipling were answered; God had already had a name for my ever-growing list.

In The Princess and the Goblin, George MacDonald wrote, “the fire did not hurt him; it only purified him,” referring to the character Curdie’s experience of a purifying transformation. Similarly, the trials of life become our spiritual formation, building character, refining us into the person God intends. Once we emerge from those trials of life, the fire, we find the weight lifted, our lives given back to us, but now, the purpose for which we had sought to strive shifted, and suddenly, we find ourselves standing before a great treasure – the opportunity to begin anew.

As a fleeting glimpse of a golden, mythical sunrise passes, so do those occasions when we are afforded the chance to pour into the life of someone who came close to the precipice of life’s edge. When we ourselves have been refreshed through the purifying fires, gleaning away all that is superfluous, the essence of life becomes much clearer. We become an asset, whether we know it or not, to those around us who need caring voices to guide their lives. If only we would listen to that still small voice.

In this season of new beginnings, listen to those voices around you and be ready to throw a lifeline to someone in need. Pull up your sleeves and get ready.

The fields are truly white with harvest, but the laborers are few.

[1] Psalm 23, KJV Bible

[2] John 1:14 KJV Bible

[3] Psalm 139 KJV Bible

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Tagged as 139 psalm, 23 Psalm, appstate, campus, despair, faith, god, God's presence, Hope, isolation, Jesus Christ, love, Ratio Christi, Reason for Christ, spirit, students, vulnerability

by Timothy | February 25, 2024 · 10:38 am

Squeezing the Essence of Life

“The value of the myth is that it takes all the things we know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by “the veil of familiarity”. The child enjoys his gold meat (otherwise dull to him) by pretending it is buffalo, just killed with his own bow and arrow. And the child is wise. The real meat comes back to him more savoury for having been dipped in a story; you might say that only then is it the real meat. If you are tired of the real landscape, look at it in a mirror. By putting bread, gold, horse, apple, or the very roads into a myth, we do not retreat from reality: we rediscover it. As long as the story lingers in our mind, the real things are more themselves.” – C.S. Lewis[1]

Squeezing the essence out of life, clenching between our fists that material by which we are to be enriched, too often we fail to allow room for that which we cannot control by grasp and might to flow as it should. I’ve heard many times of Bible studies, the reading of the entire Bible in ninety days, as more of a corporal punishment than something by which one can be refreshed and filled with the Holy Spirit- rather, it becomes a monotonous lecture of words through which we tire, losing focus on what God is meaning to speak into our lives. We check off the box, saying how much we have accomplished, yet in the grand scheme of things, we’ve only spent time in the Word superficially, leaving the best morsels on the table, thinking that we have bettered ourselves when fooling ourselves was the only success obtained in the struggle.

Finding life in the every day things, the beauty of God’s creation is similar in aspect. When allowed, that which is beyond our comprehension comes into our thoughts as creative decorations, adorning the journal upon the table before us, presenting itself as something more than just a paper and pen, but a pathway into a magical journey through the mystical realm of the mind’s imagination. Squeezing the life of every waking minute of the day shouldn’t be one of tireless pursuit of money or labor to the point we become weary of living. Rather, we should embrace the breath of air in our lungs as another opportunity to find that secret cove beyond the next bend in the forest trail to which we seek – its magical discovery unfolding a world to which we have yet to discover, exhaling the very essence of the Spirit into our soul.

Last night, the dream began with something of a defensive posturing against something unseen, something dark and sinister. We were to dig large holes, much like one might find with a crawdad hole, albeit without the tower of mud, but more like the forty-five-degree angle of the hole in the ground the size that would capture an alligator or animal similar in size. These holes we dug were in water about waste deep. After setting up, we then pulled the craft in which we worked onto shore on a roughly paved landing. It looked like something someone would have done by hand, shaping the pavement in handfuls of tar-covered rocks, then smoothing them with the palm – lumpy, uneven, but useful, in that the traction gained was better than a smooth surface that would become slick with water.

Later, the old general store, or what was left of it, came to mind. From the darkness, I approached a dimly lit counter area. Nothing else was visible, like a beacon on the shoreline, it was all there was. Behind the counter, the shelves stocked with the normal old country store wares. Before the counter, under the shadow of the protruding edge, sat bags of beans and small barrels of smoked fish and crackers. There was a poorly constructed chicken coop built behind and around the counter as if it were the support structure for the loosely wound chicken wire. It appeared it had either been constructed in haste, or by someone ignorant in the methods of building a chicken coop. Predators were a major concern, either by myself or the proprietor in charge. During the day, the chickens were allowed to walk around, in and out the front door, around the store, or wherever they wanted to roam. But when dusk came, we hurriedly sought the poultry to put back into their cage of protection. This anxiety seemed to become the overriding theme of the dream in that when I awoke, there was a feeling of anxiousness – not being able to keep up with mortality induced by foxes, coons, and coyotes.

Knowing that the F3 group would be at Local Lion, which was my initial destination for the day, taking up the majority if not all of the parking spaces, my drive was intentionally slowed by my own intentions, giving the F3 gang time to disperse. Taking my time, the commute was much more enjoyable. Along the way, the concept of allowing the story to dwell within the reality before me added to the beauty of the coming dawn – giving life to those inanimate structures that we see day after day. Their stories allow for richer perceptions to flow, and with that, something greater than the superficial observation begins to surface. As Lewis put it, “the veil of familiarity,” when removed, allows for the richness of the essence of significance something once had to return to its former glory, penetrating through the persistent glaze of rust brought on by daily wear. Finding the will to perceive that concept is not easy. Alone, we are incapable of doing such, or at best, vaguely successful. Some turn to exterior inspiration in a drink or otherworldly narcotics that supposedly enlighten one’s soul. Yet, in the end, their reputation exceeds their benefit causing their partaker to faulter. Had they only found the source of true spiritual rejuvenation, they would have known that the world cannot save them nor provide for them in ways that seem to bring out the creativity they seek. It is only when we find Him, and imbibe of His Spirit, do we truly find the well from within that sates those inspirational draughts, reviving our spirit with His.

As long as the story, so to speak as Lewis wrote, dwells within us, those majestic peaks of that morning drive become even more supernatural. Their heights become legendary, and their impressive veil reflecting the coming sunrise only speak more of what we have in store that awaits, should we continue to keep Him in our heart. The day is young, and the story has yet to unfold; answer when he asks, “Whom shall I send,” with, “Send me,” and so it shall be.

The journey awaits.

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Tagged as creation, Creator, essence, god, Holy Spirit, Life, Local Lion, love, mountains, richness, spirit, story, sunrise

by Timothy | January 5, 2023 · 7:52 am

Strings of Soul

In a corner of the Spiritual Retreat is an instrument wall – a place where my stringed instruments hang from hooks made specifically for each type of instrument. They are kept there for ease of access, for one never knows when the “mood” might strike when that feeling of creativity and inspiration combine into a single thread wanting to intertwine into a melody.

While these pieces of wood and wire are built to make beautiful music, my budget for said devices has never been of the highest priority. That being said, they are worth far more in sentimental value than anything else. One does one’s best to maintain them though, but with time, things age and dry out. So, it was the other day that that “mood” had struck and as the fiddle was taken down it quickly became apparent that the strings had loosened. With a violin, that is to be expected. Of all the instruments, it is held together by opposing forces. The tension of the strings holds up the bridge, which is supported from within by the sound post. If one of these components weakens and gives out, the entire function of the devices is compromised. In this alone, there is a lesson, but for another day.

So, as I looked over the old “Ole Bull” it was quickly discovered to have all but one string was greatly out of tune. Working through the pattern J.W. Parsons taught me so long ago, I began to tighten each of the four strings. When it came to the “G” string, the lowest of the four, the tuning peg made an odd sound as it was being turned. The wooden peg began to crack and disintegrate as it was turned, literally crumbling in my fingertips – it was gone, useless to hold a string taunt. Distraught but not overwhelmed, my original song of inspiration had long ago escaped my thoughts. Now, there was a new challenge. What songs could be played on only three strings? From there, the fiddle and I walked down memory lane discovering what could and could not be found upon the limited number of wire strands. My fingertips were forced to find comforting notes in places they had seldom touched. It wasn’t pretty.

This morning, as my mind reflected back upon yesterday’s encounter, it occurred to me how life and aging emulate the strings on my old violin.

The aging aspect comes from the memory of that entry-level Electrical Engineering class I took back at the University of Florida so many years ago. Dr. O’Malley, a tall, thin white-haired elderly gentleman, then well past retirement age, walked in and began the first day’s intro quite unlike any that I had heard heretofore. “You will start today with 100 points,” he told the class looking over his wire glasses at a lecture hall full of beginning students. “From this point on, you will only lose points, it is up to you how many you lose. You will never gain them back,” he continued. In his eyes, you could almost tell there was more he wanted to say. Something about time, about a life lived. His words really hit hard. It was a thought that was truthful yet profound, and like it, life in the natural world was so much a parallel.

There are many times in this journey that we find we are faced with a potential game-ending dilemma – either give up or adapt. Sometimes these are forces that are not of our doing. Illness, age, or accidents just to name a few can take away our ability to function as we once were capable. Like that fiddle with now only three strings, we learn that if we are to go on, we must learn new ways to play that old song. Those finger positions once foreign we are now forced to learn. A broken arm or hand of your favored limb makes writing almost impossible. But almost always, those who suffer learn to adapt and begin writing, albeit barely legible at first, and overcome their setback.

Likewise, when we step out of our comfort zone in faith, going to places or mission fields that we once thought foreign, test our ability to adapt and grow. Jesus never told his disciples to stay put in Capernaum and make each other feel good. No, he told them to go out and spread the good news. “and he sent them out to preach the kingdom of God and to heal the sick. He told them: “Take nothing for the journey–no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra tunic. Whatever house you enter, stay there until you leave that town.”[1] It was painful. Not only were they trying to cope without bringing bedding and food, they also suddenly had to remember what they had, in some cases, only recently learned. Jesus knew this would test them, but in the end, it would force them to grow stronger in their faith. Scripture tells us that through life’s trials we will only become stronger and persevere, “My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.”[2] “…But we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope…”[3]

There are those who once they’ve learned to play beautifully on just the three strings suddenly find that another is taken away, leaving only two. It is then, the more challenged we become, the more we must not lean on our own understanding. Many give in to the feeling of being overwhelmed. They never knew Jesus as their Savior, so life, when it becomes unbearable, feels hopelessly lost. They seek answers in the life around them, but there is nothing that can ease that feeling of emptiness and despair that is of this world – no bottle is deep enough, no drug strong enough, and no emotional escape capable of breaking that spiral of death. It is only when the distraught and lost truly seek God is when they find hope.

Eventually, in some cases, those broken strings are restored. After that soul had learned to dance upon the instrument with fewer strings finds that restored octave or more, their appreciation for what once was becomes all the greater. So, it is with those who are reborn in Christ Jesus – their appreciation for things of God’s creation is from a new perspective. Their soul is restored. They learned in that absence, in that trial, through the fires of tribulation how much more they were capable. Their strength and faith is renewed. They become a new creature. “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.”[4] What was once uncomfortable, or unknown becomes possible all because there was something that caused us to have to lean not on our own understanding.

Many return from mission fields, whether abroad or local, and find something about the world around them is not the same. Call it an awakening, or a new awareness. Either way, when we learn to seek Him, we too find these peeling away of layer, after layer of blindness to what we once could not see. We are able to understand something about God a little more. With each step, we learn. With each blunder or mistake, we learn. It is through those painful endeavors that we feel we cannot survive, when we find we grow the most.

When the mood strikes, seek for that thing which allows you to revel in your soul’s ability to thank God. When you find that a string is missing, press on toward the mark and let it not hinder your pursuit of the way, the truth, and the life.

Thanks be to God.

[1] Luke 9 NIV

[2] James 1:2-4 KJV

[3] Romans 5:3-4 KJV

[4] 2 Corinthians 5:17 KJV

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by Timothy | June 26, 2020 · 8:04 pm

In Spirit and in Truth

The flap of the wings belied the size of the animal, as the wild turkey left its roost from the night. They stand a little over three feet tall on average when strutting on the ground. Their wingspan is just over four feet. The sound thereof beating the air with such great force that I could hear it from where I sat on my porch made me wonder just how much more would that of an Angel’s wings sound? And since I had not seen the bird leave its night’s perch, it was my assumption, based on what my senses told me, that it was indeed air being moved by a winged creature. So too, wouldn’t I be able to discern a more exceptional being than this should it be in my presence? The thought of an angelic being visiting me came to mind. Just the idea of such a moment caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand, being in the presence of one of God’s messengers. “Thou shalt see heaven open and the angels of the Lord ascending and descending on the Son of Man,”[1] Jesus told Nathaniel. Yes, what a scene it would be.

All of these thoughts ran through my mind as the dawn’s early light began to glow upon the pages of my Bible. Before me lay the gospel of John, which was part of today’s morning devotional.

The sound of the wind, not that we can see it, but rather we know from the effect it has upon the things which we can see, allows us to know it is there. We see the branches of the trees move, the summer grasses dance to and fro. When we seek shelter in the shade during a long, hot summer’s day, we pray for its caress upon our skin. Our natural senses allow us to perceive its existence. We never see it, but we know it is there. Yet, unlike the wind, it is our spirit that senses the Holy Spirit of God. It is this innate ability which we are creator has endowed us with, that allows us to worship him in Spirit. As Jesus told the Samaritan woman at the well, “God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.”[2]

It was then the verse of scripture came to mind. Jesus had a late-night visitor, Nicodemus, who questioned what it was to be born again. Jesus told him not to marvel at what he said, that a man must be born again to enter into the kingdom of heaven. “That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit. Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again.”[3] And then he went on to compare knowing the Spirit to knowing there is a wind, and that we cannot see it, but we hear the sound thereof and know it exists. “The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.”[4]

Suddenly, there came upon my continence a profound statement made at the wedding in Cana of Galilee to which Jesus had attended. There was an inexplicable connection that I had never noticed before; a paradox of divine nature.

When they had run out of wine, we all know the miracle that happened when Jesus turned the water in the water pots to wine. When the servants drew the water-turned-wine out of the pots and bear it to the governor of the feast, he knew not whence it came, but they did. It was this “knowing” of the servants versus that of the ruler of the feast that gave the moment an irony I had missed before.

Here we have the man of stature, reigning over the wedding feast. He obviously has a position of authority in their daily lives, and as such, has probably tasted some of the most excellent wines mankind had produced. Yet, when the drink was given to him, he was impressed by that the family of the bride had kept the good wine until now. His perception was that of what our earthly desires are aware; that which our senses allow us to understand from the world around us; the obvious.

Meanwhile, the servants, knowing that Christ had turned the water into wine, bore their gift to the governor with shaky hands. At this point, we wonder, “Had they tasted the water-turned-wine or were they blindly taking a substance that had simply changed color to the governor of the feast, fearing what he would do?” Because the scripture states, “but the servants which drew the water knew,”[5] we must consider the former, that they had tasted it and realized the miraculous nature of the drink. Containing their joy of seeing the miracle before it had been revealed to the world, their minds had already been blown away. Here now, they realized they stood in the presence of someone that commanded extraordinary powers, if nothing else, able to change six stone waterpots full of water into wine – not one, not two, but all of them at the same time. As one carried the drink, the others watched, all-knowing from whence it came. Their perception was not of the actual beverage, but the fact that it was not of this world – something far beyond what mankind could ever produce.

Both parties had reality and the supernatural united when the ruler demanded that the family had kept the best wine until last, which was not of the custom. The disciples who were with Jesus at the wedding were assuredly aware once the announcement had been made by the ruler, if not before. We are left to wonder if the governor of the feast ever realized the blessing from on high that he tasted that evening. If only he had known the truth, how much greater would have been his reward? All we can do is speculate. We might compare the ruler of the feast to the rich young ruler whom Jesus told to sell everything he owned and to follow him. He left saddened at what Christ had told him. We are never told what happened beyond that moment, and here too, we are left to wonder.

Like the water turned into wine, the written Word of God to the unbeliever is nothing more than letters of ink written upon a page. Purposeful to them possibly at best in that they are wise sayings passed on from a time when their usefulness had long ago expired. To the believer, they are more than just words on a page; they are the Comforter to which Christ said he would send. Those words speak to us through the power of the Holy Spirit, lifting our own spirit, teaching, leading, and inspiring to all those who believe. Their taste surpasses any of the finest wines man can produce. The scriptures are from the fruit of the vine given by inspiration to man, so that we may continue in his footsteps long after the ascension of Jesus, to sit now at the right hand of God.

Sadly, there are many that will ever only understand the scriptures from the context of knowledge. Even the learned scholars, some who are preachers and teachers, will never fully realize the magnitude of the gift they behold when reading the words on the pages of the Bible. Some spend their lifetime seeking something before them, not realizing that the Spirit is found through the Word, not upon its literal writings. Many wander this life lost, unaware of the fruit of the Spirit, even when it is placed in a cup on a table before them. It is not until they receive the gift of salvation, by the Grace of God, that they will fully comprehend the depth of scripture, and the real purpose behind God’s Word.

Yes, we cannot see it, but the beating of its wings, we can sense when our senses are awakened to our new selves, a new world when we become one with Christ.

“Let not your heart be troubled, for if it were not so, I would not have told you so,” Christ said, but even more important, is what he didn’t say, but rather, allowed the Spirit to speak in his silence.

Therein lies the beauty of the irony, for which we can be even more thankful.

Thanks be to God.

“And he saith unto them, Draw out now, and bear unto the governor of the feast. And they bare it. When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and knew not whence it was: (but the servants which drew the water knew;)…” – Jn. 2:8-9

[1] John 1:51 KJV

[2] John 4:24 KJV

[3] John 3:7 KJV

[4] John 3:8 KJV

[5] John 2:9 KJV

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by Timothy | March 22, 2020 · 7:31 pm

The Voice of Melody

The voices of the distant past return.

Like haunted echoes through the canyon walls, their cries of mourning and anguish retell the story of old. There in the northwest corner of Italy, they were forced into isolation. They were hunted like animals, labeled as heretics: their crime, merely sharing and evangelizing the Word of God. In that foregone time, the troops could be seen coming from afar. Standing on the abyss of the mountain tops, the faithful ancient Waldensians, or people of the valleys, knew their only hope of survival, other than having faith, was to retreat to the upper mountain passes; to the places where even Angels feared to tread. There, in those high, Alpine meadows and caves, they survived. Their legacy, the very Word of God. For through their faithfulness, they had planted the seeds of the reformation.

Today, those voices are once again crying out. Unlike before, their torment is not from man, but rather, from an unseen enemy, a virus. The sickness has permeated their region to the point that the government has called for a total lockdown; nobody can be on the streets without justification. Even vending machine use is forbidden. Again, the people of the valleys, the descendants of the ancient Waldensians, face a darkness that slowly invades their land. Like armies of death marching to seek and destroy, they find once more their hope of survival is that of finding refuge in those high, solitary lands. The remote valleys once more become the perfect setting for isolation and self-quarantine. Having lived through past invasions, plagues, and economic strife, their heritage has taught them to be complacent with impoverished life. Yet, we must decrease so that he may increase, as the Apostle Paul would say.

Forced isolation caused those ancient people to learn how to cope with less. While eeking out a meager existence just to survive, they turned inward to find solace in the scriptures, and in those pages, found hope. Their fears had been diminished by knowing that their trials were only preparing them for a more magnificent journey someday. In those dimly lit stone caverns, they found comfort in the gifts that their Creator had bestowed upon them. Using these blessings, they would use them to pass on their faith, culture, and heritage. Today, one can find a more significant percentage of those ancient Waldensian descendants with all manner of creative talents than in typical societies. It is no wonder that their time in isolation had proved beneficial in not only keeping them alive but also it afforded them the time to enrich their souls.

Last night, as we passed the time in our own home, thousands of miles from those battling to survive in Northern Italy, I was reminded of how when we turn our thoughts to our brethren, our real gifts begin to be seen for what they were intended; to lift those up around us and to be the light for our world. As my eyes scanned through various social media platforms, a message began to emerge.

Musical artists of all ages began to stream live free music. From the stage of the Grand Ole Opry, Marty Stuart, Vince Gill, and Brad Paisley played and sang to an empty Ryman Auditorium. Meanwhile, across our country, various bands played in front of phone cameras to professional-grade videography. In some cases, husband and wife duets performed for the world after having put their children to bed. It was an evening of sharing and uplifting songs. As the performers played, they all spoke in like tone; prayers for our country and for those people facing the uncertainty of tomorrow. Unlike traditional performances, the platform of social media allowed people to give instant feedback to their entertainers. Those of us watching could see a much-needed catharsis taking place as people would praise the singers and lift family members up in prayer.

In all my years, I had never witnessed anything like it.

But it didn’t stop with music. Poets were reading their works to the public to enlighten others. Individuals were sharing inspirational words of encouragement and scriptures. It was as if the world of social media had turned off the news and found themselves once more.

Then, this morning, after I had begun my morning coffee and finished my devotional, I once more wondered what the rest of the world was doing for Sunday morning worship. Once more, scanning through the pages of social media, I was once again blessed to find all manner of preachers, congregations, and individuals finding creative ways to share the Word of God. In my heart, there was a renewed feeling of hope. Gone was the negativity of the new media, and in its place, the true spirit of our country began to emerge, a voice of love, faith, and determination.

Today, as my own family found time for a walk together with the newest family member, Bear the puppy, a sense of purpose, a restoration of hope began to return. In my mind, I tried to drink in the moment. Just being in their presence was enough.

Sadly, there are those in our world that don’t have the ability to receive help from all of those bands on social media. Some have no family with which they can find solace. Many sit alone in the solitary confines of a dark room waiting, listening to the sound of their own heartbeat. Some wishing that it would end.

Reading over the scriptures this evening, I asked God to send a message; to show me the scripture that would help to give hope to the world. It was then the voice said to look upon Isaiah. It was then the words over the recreation of the Church at Ciabas on the Trail of Faith came to me. The inscription reads, “Le Petit de Sion,” meaning, “God will surely find comfort on Zion,” taken from Isaiah 51:3.

Turning to the scriptures, I read once more, “Hearken ye to me, ye that follow after righteousness, ye that seek the LORD; look unto the rock whence ye were hewn, and to the hole from the pit whence ye are digged…For the LORD shall comfort Zion: he will comfort all her waste places: and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the LORD; o and gladness shall be found therein thanking, and the voice of melody.”

I was reminded of those ancient people of the valleys. They didn’t allow their solitude to destroy their faith. Their heartiness, their ability to live and survive at high altitudes of long periods, as if hewn from the granite upon which they trod, came to mind. Much like the spirit of the American people today, beneath the ambiguity and divisiveness that some would want to portray, we are a hearty people. When we are pushed into a corner, the true American spirit begins to return; one of faith, hope, and charity. Satan wants nothing better than to see us fight over rolls of toilet paper and to hate our neighbor. The fear and despair that Satan preaches can only be spread by those who have no hope of tomorrow. It is up to us who know the truth, those of us who share a belief that God has a purpose in all that we do, to share our faith and hope of tomorrow with those around us. We must be reminded that although we face an unseen enemy, it is no different than any other day we face the same enemy, except it usually isn’t called a virus, it is called sin.

This next week, I urge each of us to lift up your family, your brethren, and your neighbor. Seek to use the gifts God has bestowed upon you to bring light to someone’s dark world. Make someone’s wilderness an Eden; their desert a garden of the Lord. There, when you share with those souls abandoned to dark rooms of despair, you will find hearts floating in the air, and the smile of gratitude spread across their faces. In that moment, when the happiness begins to shine in their hearts once more, listen for the voice of melody, and you will know God has spoken through you.

Yes, gladness, thanksgiving, and the voice of melody will return.

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 | March 30, 2019 · 9:47 pm

Resurrection of my soul…

Like the rock being rolled away from the tomb, this weekend has felt like the resurrection of my own soul.

From whence the countless days of study my mind hath prevailed, it felt as if there would never be an end to the grinding, arduous task of pushing my faculties to complete one more problem; one more page; one more concept of Mathematical computation from which there was seemingly no end.

This was just the final chapter in three years of study. Coming into the field of education as a Lateral Entry Teacher, there were the required Education Classes to be taken that my Engineering degree never afforded. This in conjunction with the learning curve of applying the pedagogy real-time was my learning curve which became a daily experience. But, yet, God in all his wondrous glory, finally answered the prayers for wisdom. So that this weekend, the first, since having recovered from another round of illness the previous, has set me free to pursue the path the Lord hath prepared well in advance.

Deep within my being, there was an awareness of His hands upon the pages of events which would unfold.

Weeks before, the singing engagement for the New Hope SDA Church in Valdese had to be postponed because I had contracted the flu. Too sick to make it out of bed, it had to be delayed; which just so happen to be this weekend.

Then, out of the blue, another church, one we had been members of before leaving our farm and previous life, Cumnock Union UMC, called asking if I would be interested in returning to sing and speak. Miraculously, it was the same weekend. This all happened before the upcoming test that was scheduled for March 22^nd.

In my heart, it felt as if God was telling me, that this would be it; this would be the final attempt, the one in which I would pass. He was preparing the pathway of the future because it was time to move on.

I didn’t realize it then, but those words would be more prophetic than one might realize.

Adding to the feeling of culmination, the weekend before the test, my laptop decided that it had enough and was going to finally die. Contrary to my disbelief, I asked God to again give me the wisdom, and through a few more attempts of using the education from my previous career, something inside me clicked again; the feeling of confirmation. A voice whispered, “Before you leave this afternoon, the sign of things to come will be that your laptop will be working better than ever before.” Within an hour of that voice, after an upload, a couple restarts, and driver addition or two, suddenly, the old laptop finally responded. It wasn’t just fixed from the current problem, but as He has predicted, it suddenly began working better than it had in almost two years; Divine IT Guidance at its best!

From that point forward, there was a feeling of God’s hand upon each new day.

Yet, He wasn’t going to let it be easy. A new cold began to overtake me so that by the morning of the test, Friday, March 22nd, I literally debated going or not. Shaking my head in disbelief, I struggled to the cupboard and took enough cold medicine to hold me through the duration of the exam.

“This can’t be happening,” I thought to myself.

A couple of hours later, in a cloud of medication, I walked into the testing facility, unsure of how much it might affect my ability to focus. Once more, God wasn’t through with me. When I met the test administrator, after handing me the sign-in sheet, unlike previous tests when I either had to ask for or was never close enough to obtain it, I was given my favorite locker number: God’s number in my mind, #3. (God the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit). Then to add to the feeling of confirmation, unlike before, I was also given light colored paper; something I had complained about in previous attempts since the paper was so dark it was hard to see the marks of a pencil.

As I sat down at desk #3 in the testing lab, my body began to tingle with the power of God surging through me. The first few questions were a cloud of foggy, cold-medicine induced confusion, but once the surge of energy fully kicked in, I went back and corrected those and then began pushing onward.

Before I knew it, the 2-1/2 hours was nearly up.

Again, unlike before, at the end of the test, after having fully completed the test and had time to go back over questions that I was unsure of or needed more time to solve, I sat and saw 30 seconds remaining. I bowed my head in prayer and when I said, “Amen,” the clock showed three seconds remaining. When the timer ended, and my hand clicked onto the next page, tears began to fill my eyes.

There on the screen was the answer to three years of night classes, almost 10 months of study for just one test, isolation, withdrawal from the world, and diligent obedience to my newfound career; A Passing Score!

It was one of the most surreal moments of my life; here I wanted to shout, but I was so sick I could barely breathe.

Throughout the ordeal, I had vowed to celebrate with a cinnamon roll and coffee whenever the day came that I might pass. Instead, the reward that morning was to drive back home and go back to bed and try to recover from the illness that had overcome days earlier.

I would remain sick in bed the rest of that weekend, while outside the warmth of spring tapped at my window sill. Sunlight sparkling through the closed slats of my bedroom windows, taunting my fever-racked body.

Eventual, healing would begin. This weekend became even more precious as the days of this last week counted down. By Friday I was like a student ready for the end of the school year. My energy level was off the charts.

When Saturday morning broke, I was as a child waking before the dawn in anticipation of opening gifts under the Christmas tree, it was long before the light of day when the bed couldn’t contain my eagerness any longer. Jumping from beneath the covers, the anticipation of the joy of the day’s events kept gurgling up into my heart, like the overabundant rapture, frothing to the surface; the Spring in my soul had returned.

“Today, the new journey begins,” my mind said.

From the moment the fellowship and sharing began at New Hope, the blessings only increased.

There was so much to be thankful for and yet, so much more to come.

Later, when the rear tire blew out going down the Interstate at 70mph, I was unfazed. For in my mind I had already contemplated getting off at the next exit to get gas. This was God’s way of saying, “Yes you will!” Within an hour, there were two new tires on the back of the car, and I was once more off to my destination for the second half of my weekend; God was with me each step of the way.

Resurrected like our Lord and Savior, my spirit has been revived. Like Jesus, the grave could not contain him; God defeated Death, and from its dark domain, Light will forever be in the world.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

Thanks be to God.

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by Timothy | March 24, 2018 · 9:45 pm

Winter of our Content

“Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord,
And whose hope is the Lord.
8 For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters,
Which spreads out its roots by the river,
And will not fear[b] when heat comes;
But its leaf will be green,
And will not be anxious in the year of drought,
Nor will cease from yielding fruit.” – Jeremiah 17:7-9

Sitting on the bank of the river, below me swirls the cold waters of winter. The fluid motion spins by, never stopping, never ceasing its continual movement. Like time passing, there but for a moment then gone. Around where I sit there is only the stark, gray reminder of winter. Life has not yet returned to the branches of yonder bough; death in slumber.

It has been a long week.

My mind ponders as the countless days pass, from one seeming earthly struggle to the next, one never ceasing, nor stopping to give pause. All around me, others seem to be facing similar earthly challenges and trials; cancer, sickness, and stress. Like the tributary before me, they come in waves, sometimes flooding all that we are. We become overwhelmed with what we must do in order to survive from day to day until there is nothing left of who we are. All that was the light seems all but extinguished. Too often, in our weakness, we feel we must carry it all on our own. It is in these moments, we as Christians must remind ourselves and those around us, we are not alone. As the Apostle Paul wrote to the church in Corinth, “We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; 9 persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed…” Yes, we are not alone, if only we will allow the Holy Spirit to walk with us.

As these thoughts flow through my head, there passes within the never-ending stream, a dark figure; a solitary oak leaf. It tumbles helplessly along. Its greenery long since faded into the bitter winds of autumn. Now, caught in the chaotic turbulence, it is helpless to choose its path; rather, the substance of which it is now part controls its destiny.

Sometimes, in my moments of weakness, I feel like the leaf.

There was a time when it too was part of the greenness of life; that of the tree that stood beside the stream. There, the life was good. It had no worries, but the waters below beckoned. Knowing not what it missed, the solitary leaf yearned for the mystery of what flowed beneath. On the tree, the leaf had sustenance from the roots that supped the life-giving force. There was no fear in the time of draught, no fear of the world around it. But as we often find in our youth, we are not content with the sanctuary in which we were raised. Like a taboo darkness, the leaf wanted to be free of this safety of which it was reared. When the strong storm winds blew, the leaf wished for its release so that it might be free. One night, when the flashes of lightning thrashed around the sturdy tree, the leaf was finally granted the sole desire; it was set free.

Torn from what seemed like its bondage, it was loosed into the world.

From whence it came it departed and was never to return. Soon the leaf too late realized that without the nourishment of the father tree, there was no hope, no life eternal. Lost, the foliage joined the others who also were blown as the gusts of unseen forces tossed them to and fro. His greenery soon turned to a golden hue, brilliant as the sun; the last rays of hope escaping. In his mistaken glory, he pranced about joyously celebrating the new life of earthly gratification. However, after a couple days, brown stains began to appear on his body. Before he knew it, the leaf’s brown spots connected. To his horror, his flesh had turned to the color of the soil. The countless days of life abundant, those living in the home that taught the precepts of faith now were gone, forgotten as the lost ones ran from all that they had known seeking the fleshly desires of the earth. For it is written, “That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit.” The leaf too late found, like those around him, had been mistaken and given up on what that had been promised. Lost in their sin, they now gave up and scattered neither knowing whence they were going, nor whence they came. In their desire to be of the earth, they had unknowingly succumbed to the desires of their flesh. “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; Who can know it?” Many of the leaf’s friends, those that had joined in his revelries had now succumbed to the earth, lying in repose as their bodies began to decay, becoming one with the earth from which they came; ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Yet, the lone leaf had not forgotten the bidding, that it had wished so long ago.

Haplessly, the leaf was finally blown one morning into the waters below the tree from which it once called home. At first, the leaf fought to remain afloat, fearing to sink below the surface. But eventually, its dried skin became full of the cold wetness and began to sink. As he floated down, the world above began to fade, and he could feel his life beginning to pass. As that former life began to ebb, the water began to swirl him around. The light of the sun sparkled upon the waters, casting colors of every hue about him as the current pushed him on. Suddenly, he was no longer alone, but part of a greater body of being than ever before. There was a renewed sense of hope, a life-force from within, the fluidness of the spirit, began to flow. As the leaf became one with the water, he was made anew. Together, the leaf and the crystal waters were made one. His Baptism had been complete, and now, he was one with the Father. As he floated along, he no longer cared to whence he may go, only that he may do the will of the Father who hath sent him. For once, the leaf had found the glory for which he had so long ago sought but could not know; truly to be one with the Father.

And so there he was, passing before me as I sat that evening, as the sun slowly sat beyond the Blue Ridge Mountains. The leaf eventually tumbled and tossed along in the current until it faded from my view into the shadowed bend of the yon waters.

Somewhere in the distance a night bird called.

Soon spring would come, but for now, the winter of our content has arrived.

Thanks be to God.

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by Timothy | December 19, 2013 · 2:57 am

Flames of the Spirit…

It’s not often that dreams stay with me after I wake up but I had one recently that was so vivid and profound that even a couple days later I am still able to recall most of it with clarity. The parts that especially have stayed with me involved a celebration and someone I met; for some reason, I had stepped back in time.

The first part of the dream had something to do with an outdoor event where people dressed in long robes and dresses that one might call, “Sack Cloths”. They had gathered as a multitude upon a tree-lined grassy lawn. The congregation was celebrating some event with songs and praises. I was encouraged to come closer and join in, so I did. Shortly afterward, out of nowhere, from over our heads came a large light beige colored canopy that began to descend over the throng. I got the feeling of being inside an enormous tepee, where the sheet wrapped completely around the crowd, but angled up toward the center as if suspended by a hand from above. Folds of the canopy lay upon the grass and completely enclosed us all from the outside. The material was light enough I could still see the sunlight filtering through it.

It was at this point that I became aware of there being two factions of belief in the crowd; those who accepted faith and our ancestry unconditionally and those who believed but had difficulty accepting everything and felt obligated to track the past one brutal line for line, word for word, tracing it back through time upon part of the canopy that now hovered overhead. The non-accepting partisans had their section of cloth partitioned off into an oblong section of the strange cloth where all of their precious writings were kept. They obviously knew what was coming and had their cloth cut out from the other material, but yet it was still held in place from where it had been cut. The separated cloth was suspended by a large hoop that the cloth was stretched over and was held in place in the massive overhead canopy by leather lashes which were stitched into the main cover. It made their special cloth appear like a door stitched into the floating canopy that was sewn shut.

All believers, accepting and non-accepting began to shout and hold their hands aloft, singing praises and worshipping aloud, their voices becoming one. The noise became so strong that the cloth overhead began to rise off the ground. I could see light from underneath the bottom of the great sheet as our shouts lifted it higher. Suddenly, there appeared flames above us, flames that soon caught the overhead canopy on fire and it began to burn. The flames were mostly clear but flickers of yellow and blue sporadically appeared on the edges of the cloth being burnt. Blue sky could be seen through the holes where the fire had burnt and before long the flames had entirely consumed the cloth, allowing the sun and sky to shine on us once more. The oblong cloth stretched over the hoop had been unharmed by the flames and fell gently upon the green lawn below, where it was immediately examined and found to be safe from harm. A chorus of elated voices followed as everyone was overjoyed to find the history had been preserved. It was odd, but those who had been accepting and those who hadn’t had suddenly become one in spirit; the sensation of being divided had vanished like the cloth overhead. I had an urge to share with them how amazing this was but then a strange feeling came over me: I became aware that there was a reason I was here but that I wasn’t to tell anyone what I knew. For some reason I realized my knowledge would only cause trouble and change the course of history; a tragedy for all. So I kept quiet and continued to take it all in.

From this courtyard of celebration I was led past several small buildings until we reached the yard of a humble dwelling; its functionality greatly outweighed its aesthetics. In front of the home was an elder seated at a table made of roughhewn wooden slats. His white hair was bushy but shoulder length with a smattering of gray streaks throughout. At first he looked as if he had black bushy eyebrows but once my eyes became accustom to the light, I realized he wore thick black rimmed glasses. His face was clean shaven but the lines of age had etched their mark leaving the corners of his mouth in a permanent frown. He motioned for me to join him and my guests soon left us. He introduced himself, but I didn’t catch his name. I only understood him to be an ancient relative whose message to me was of grave importance. He proceeded to tell me that it was vital for me to understand that monetary things of this world could not be taken with us to the other side. He explained that it was our duty to make what was left behind not easily accessible to those who might be considered our heirs lest it corrupt them and cause anguish. Rather, we had to invest our wealth in things that would continue to grow over time and would enrich the lives of those loved ones we left behind. Their ability to cash out these investments must be made unreachable and only the maturity of our investment be realized from something other than worldly possessions.

I was confused by his words and pondered it at great length. He realized my frustration and then confirmed the feeling I had felt moments earlier when he said, “You are here for a reason and cannot tell anyone, lest you cause great harm. Go and continue your journey and continue to share your story as before.”

I awoke and felt as if I had visited someone very dear, but his face was as unknown to me as was his name. I got up began to go about my day as normal and kept reflecting back on the dream. As the hours passed only certain aspects of the dream began to slip away yet the celebration, the face of the elder and his message stayed with me.

I began to think of the dream in context after hearing another family member talk about loved ones coming back to visit us after they had died and then it dawned on me what the dream had been about. I was no longer perplexed but thankful for the vision and realized the power of the Holy spirit like that of fire, consuming all that tries to smother it, eventually overwhelming all that attempt to block out it’s light revealing the truth and uniting our faith as one.

I might not ever know for sure who the elder was in the dream, but I have a pretty good idea…Lux Lucet in Tenebris.

What do you think?

“And again, when God brings his firstborn into the world, he says, “Let all God’s angels worship him.”^[a] ⁷In speaking of the angels he says, “He makes his angels spirits, and his servants flames of fire.”^[b] ⁸But about the Son he says, “Your throne, O God, will last for ever and ever; a scepter of justice will be the scepter of your kingdom.” – Hebrews 1:6-8

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Filed under Inspirational, Religious Experience

Tagged as ancestry, baptism, belief, cloth, dream, elder, fire, flames, god, Jesus, Lux Lucet in Tenebris, sack cloth, spirit, Waldensian

by Timothy | April 25, 2013 · 12:02 am

Confluence of Me…

[Disclaimer: This is meant to be a humorous look at a sleep deprived perspective of life. Enjoy…]

Today as I loaded the car, I had to think about all the various parts of my mind that needed to get it together in order to pull off tonight’s speaking engagement. It wasn’t so much what I was speaking about; rather, it was just the fact that I was going to perform a song that I wrote, speak about a book that I’d written and then present a slide show to back up the research that I’d done in order to write the book. In other words, I had to get all the confluences of thought streaming into the same direction.

I realized all this when I fortunately remembered to grab the binder full of genealogy research my Aunt June had given me. It then dawned on me; we needed to get all of me into the car and go.

As we backed out of the garage into the brilliant sunlit day, I had to laugh to myself at all the various thoughts that were attempting to run through my head simultaneously; Artist, Writer, Musician, Engineer, Farmer and Preacher of sorts. Artist wanted to behold the loveliness of the day, the beautiful blooming trees and flowers with the green grass strong and vibrant in the pastures. Writer agreed with the Artist and wanted to recall the splendor on paper, to describe all of the magnificence the Artist was seeing, but in words. Musician, full of the exuberance of the moment could only think of how it all made him want to sing, but one look at Engineer glaring back at him quickly dissipated any further melodies that tried to emerge.

All of this talk of glorious beauty only annoyed the Engineer, who now decided it best that he sit on the hood of the car facing us as we drove, so that he could make sure we kept ourselves on track and didn’t wander off into no-man’s land mentally and forget to turn when we needed to do so. At the moment, Engineer simply glared at Musician who wished someone would at least turn on the radio.

Meanwhile, the Farmer, who had quietly and patiently listened to the Artist and Writer describe the scenes around them as they rode, could only think of how well the green grass was growing and that the weeds could use one more spraying of herbicide. It comforted the Farmer to know the cattle would be well sated today and that there would be little fear of them pushing the fence lines. All the while, the Engineer kept reminding us as we drove, that he wanted to make sure we stopped by the church to pick up the projector that we would need to run the slide show which was to be part of tonight’s presentation.

The Preacher, concerned for the well-being of everyone, simply wanted the Engineer to be safe out there on the hood of the car, yet realized that someone had to make sure we paid attention and kept us on time, so he prayed for us all, especially Engineer.

It was apparent, all of us were dependent upon one that had little to no personality at all; our body, the Animal. Yes, Animal instincts and needs overcame any other personality simply because the body in which they lived had to be maintained. So it was today, that as we drove down the road toward Goldston to the church, Animal began to let everyone know that he was beginning to get hungry. After all, we had not eaten anything of sustenance since early the previous morning. It was now nearing six o’clock in the evening, a good twelve hours since the last meal. So it was only fair that he send a sharp stabbing pain to our stomach which indicated his conviction to getting his way while sending a throbbing pulse to our temples warning of a potential headache lest he get his way. Yet, there was no time, said the Engineer, who was still keeping track of time.

I quickly grabbed the water bottle sitting in the console. It was warm to the touch from having been in the shut-up car all day, and drank down several gulps of hot water. Artist, Writer and Musician all noted the lack of pleasure from drinking warm water and all yearned for a cool sip instead. Farmer quickly let them know, any water, hot or cold was better than no water; they all concurred. The pain subsided briefly, diluted enough so that Animal could wait a little longer to eat.

Meanwhile, Writer was secretly thinking of how funny this would all be if he were to make all of this into a story.

Engineer, who continued to watch us all from outside on the hood, soon caught wind of Writer’s plan and realized he had to regain control from the Writer lest we miss our turn. He broke in; reminding us all that we had to make sure we got all the parts for the projector so that we didn’t get there and find something missing. Engineer again reminded us of the turn into the church parking lot, where we finally arrived. Preacher got out and opened the door for us as we quickly found the projector and easily loaded it into the car with all the parts included, which was confirmed by Engineer.

Then, we were off again…boy were we ever.

As we drove down the road there broke out a huge argument over who, what and how the presentation should go. Preacher tried to calm everyone and told us that if we didn’t work together, we would all fail, yes, all of us. It seemed music was needed to help calm ourselves, so Preacher found the Rhonda Vincent CD and put it into the car’s CD player. Almost immediately the Artist and Writer came back together, reuniting in spirit, joining the Musician who had finally achieved his only wish. Engineer realized the collective result of the action and approved, but remained on the hood, just to be safe. Preacher and Farmer also felt at peace with the beautiful strains of Rhonda singing “Old Rugged Cross” and like the others became one in spirit. Animal, now seeing all the others fulfilled thought of how in times of difficulty it was often better to go into battle hungry rather than full and he too lay down for a brief respite, allowing us all too finally relax.

As we traveled down the road to our destination in the little blue car with Rhonda Vincent singing sweet melody after melody to us, everyone was finally at peace with one another and all was well …with all of us.

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Filed under Pure Fiction

Tagged as Animal, Artist, beauty, Engineer, Farmer, genealogy, god, Goldston, Goldston NC, Historical, instinct, Lee County Genealogical, magnificant, Musician, Preacher, Renaissance, Society, soul, spirit, Writer

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