Tag Archives: sweat

by | July 3, 2017 · 3:46 am

Day 1: The Sun Rise in Garnier

“The heart is deceitful above all things, And desperately wicked; Who can know it? I, the Lord, search the heart, I test the mind, Even to give every man according to his ways, According to the fruit of his doings.” -Jeremiah 17:9-10

Day 1: The Sun Rises on Garnier: Across a landscape, broken only by the stonework of ancient hands, they work in the coolness of the morning hour. Down the lower reaches of the valley toward Torre Pellice, the sun has not yet risen above the shoulder of yonder mountain. Wildflowers speckle the roadsides, their colors a delicate compliment of their domesticated cousins bountifully arrayed in gardens lining the narrow roadsides, each carefully placed in the precious soil of which there is so little. In the shadowed hour, men work carrying irrigation equipment, placing them where the previous circle of showers has missed. Here the crisp pre-dawn air, one can see their breath. The hayfields they grow have already had their first cutting. These are not expansive pastures as we know them in the U.S.; rather, they are smaller plots, divided up so that once the hay is cut, they become natural intensive grazing lands; everything having a purpose in time. In these Alpine valleys, the growing season is short, so every minute of every day is taken with consideration of the long winter that lay ahead.

The men move quickly, their bodies lean from years of difficult manual labor. Neither of the two I watch are young; one appears to be in his late thirties while the other is at least in his early sixties. They do not seem to tire as they move from one field to the next at a pace that would belie a younger man. In these narrow passages, with sharp precipices falling away below, there isn’t room for mechanized machinery from whence more can be done with less. Here, as in times dating back to antiquity, the work must be done with the toil of one’s back and the sweat of their brow.

From my vantage point, sitting on one of the low rock walls, they see me and smile, waving only briefly before pressing on to the next field. Pencil and paper in hand, my eyes try to convey what my hands cannot feel. Their energy seems to buoy up my own. The expected jet lag seems non existent. My hand races to draw the quickly changing scene. Part of me wants to don my old farm clothes and jump into the fray, yet, there is a realization that cannot be dismissed; they would find my strength and stamina far below what they take for granted. My help may be appreciated but would only slow them down. They have a method to their labor, something which more than a classroom can afford, theirs is a tradition handed down from one generation to the next; a multitude of lifetimes of lessons learned.

The irony of it all.

They willingly devote their lives to living off the land, knowing every nuance necessary to eke out the meager existence from this demanding countryside. In their labors, they take nothing for granted, for years of struggle and toil have taught them well. Yet, in their labor, the body, soul, and spirit are sometimes neglected for the sake of striving to make the reality of life work.

How blessed is the man that understands both; the ability to take nothing for granted, but to worship and fulfill God’s commandment as much as he toils upon the land from whence all creation was given; the internment of time. We reap what we sow. Yet, one can become so consumed with living in faith that he fails to tend to the soil upon which all life is sustained; it is a precarious balance that is not easily maintained. As it says in the Bible, “It rains on the just, and the unjust…”.

Many times, we wish it would just rain.

In our faith, we can be lean and agile in what we do. We can remain close to the Word, living out our lives in Christ-like manner. Striving to be a light to those around us, and in our daily walk alone, we can become a true representation of what it is to be a Christian. Yet, some find this life of daily devotion and devote worship far too difficult. Some even remark it is unrealistic to be so “religious.’ To these naysayers, they must see the results of mankind’s slow erosion of the truth. Around them churches seek to become the center of entertainment, filling the void each day with something, anything, just to get folks in the door. The cumbersome trappings of man’s desires only slow us down. When there aren’t enough reasons to hold a party, they invent meaningful tributes to bygone saints. Over time, well-meaning memorials become tiresome traditions. They weigh our souls and burden the truth with details that are without biblical basis. These become the distractions that often lead many into a world of despair and hopelessness. As Jesus warned, we are saved by Grace, not by the law.

The stone wall upon which I sit, built decades or maybe even centuries before, a testament to the labor of those gone on before. There are no names to remind us of their creator, only the stories passed down from one generation to the next. A legacy can only by as such, if the subsequent generations to come know of it’s history.

When all else falls away in life, when our bodies come to that final resting spot, it is then that those left behind finally take the time to reflect and take note of all that has transpired. The breath of life has left the one they loved, their spirit is gone. All that remains is the legacy of who they were. Those that survive are left wondering what was it all for? What had they done with a life in which they served only one master; themselves? There is nothing left to advance the hope of an eternal life for those that have passed. Yet, when the one that has gone served a higher calling, but still worked the land with regard to being the caretaker for God’s creation, it is then we realize that they had served the real Master. Their final journey not complete, for one day, they too will reach the right hand of God the Father, and then, when the trumpet sounds, they will have all eternity in which to take a respite of their previous life’s toil. When we see a culmination of a life well-served and a life well-lived, we can rejoice in seeing what it is to be one with Christ. In the knowing, there is a peace returned to our soul.

A cool breezed passes before my countenance as I return to the present.  The sprinklers pulsate in a syncopation while in the distance, the roar of the torrent can be heard. It’s a constant reminder of the abundance of refreshing, life-giving fluid that is necessary to sustain everything that lives. There is the feeling of an energy it exudes, just by the very sound of its distant, gentle white noise. An occasional songbird breaks the trance. Above the dark nearby hillsides, the glow of the sunrise begins to brighten the upper reaches of the still snow-covered peaks of the mountain tops. Above their majestic summits, the blue skies show no trace of clouds.

We know not what lies ahead. Nearby the rooster crows as the shadows slowly slip away. God’s creation stands before us and the day is young. What lies beyond the next bend in the road only time will tell.

A beautiful day awaits.

Thanks be to God.

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by | February 10, 2016 · 10:20 pm

Create and Cultivate…

Strength, humbleness, and manhood; these are all the things that come to mind when I walk into a feed store as the complex aroma of seed, fertilizer and feed all confront my senses. To some, its just the smell of a Southern States, a Tractor Supply or a Rural King. To me, it’s the scent of that old mill back on the edge of our sleepy little town that sat on the banks of the Wabash River, New Harmony.imagesZVR5151V

As a small child, I would watch as my maternal grandfather would work to harvest the corn and magically fill the ancient grain truck with the golden, glowing life source that was to be his income and our food source. Sweat, dust, and hours of labor would go into creating that beautiful mound of golden kernels that sat in the back of the old truck as we rattled down the dusty old gravel road toward town. Grandpa never said why, how or what we were doing, other than the actions of loading, hauling, and driving. The gears would grind under his tanned fist that grasped the shift knob, the pattern of gears long ago worn away so that the operator would have to know its image in his mind. Green blurring fields would pass the open window as the hot September air would blast in my face.

Upon finally reaching the grain elevator, we would back up until the man on the loading dock would yell, “Whoa,” and then the truck would lurch to a jarring stop. Grandpa would reach down to another magic lever and the winding of the hydraulic ram would engage lifting the tons of corn in the back of the truck, spilling the contents of our labors into a grate built into the concrete, disappearing from site.

images8EXRP35VWe climbed the stairs onto the wooden platform to watch, wood so old it had been worn smooth from years of boots grinding the dust into its grain. Nails that held it in place had become one with the aged material, turning black and smooth dotting the walkway in a rhythmic pattern. The smell of grain was a sweet elixir. In the mind of a child, we had brought in the pretty grain that now filled the air with its rich perfume, only to be gone into the trench below us; gone forever. Somehow, my grandpa was happy, although he mumbled under his breath something about falling prices, a foreign language to me back then.

Happily, we climbed back into our rusty old machine and the gears once again grinded into action propelling us into a slow movement forward, pulling away from the mill.

“Are you hungry, boy,” Grandpa would ask smiling down at me, his jaw protruding with his tobacco chaw pulling his skin tight as he smiled a crooked grin.

My little buzz-cut head would nod yes, as I smiled ear to ear.

“You think you can eat a man’s portion today,” he’d say, smiling broadly. The old truck rumbled down the sleepy streets toward the downtown area.

Again, I would nod agreeing, not knowing what that meant other than it sounded like a lot of food.

After leaving the truck parked out front of the row of antique buildings that lined Main Street, we’d walk into the diner, the old door creaking as we entered and the rich smell of home cooked vittles would envelop your stomach, instantly reminding you of the hunger you had not realized had been there before. Ceiling fans circled quietly overhead, as a slight refreshing breeze caressed our sweat laden brows. Grandpa would find his favorite table and pull us up a chair, and put his arm around me.

“Whose this little man,” the waitress would come up smiling, pulling the pencil from behind her ear, preparing to write our order? Another waitress stopped by setting glasses of ice water on our table and smiling over the other’s shoulder as she looked at me like I was a puppy in the pet store window.

“This is my grandson,” Grandpa would reply, now minus the chaw in his jaw, once more smiling proudly.

“A cutie,” She’d say, smiling looking at my grandpa, winking an eye. Most people in town knew who I was and the story behind my mother and father, so for me to show up with my grandpa in town was just another whisper to pass between gossiping mouths.

“We’re going to have two of the specials today. Make them both the man’s meal.”

“You sure he can eat all that?”

He’d look down at me and wink, “Oh yeah, I know he can,” he’d say patting my shoulder,

“He’s my little man.”

The waitress would return soon enough with two plates of equal portion, setting the one before me and smiling, “I hope your hungry sweetie,” she’d say as she’d slide the check under my grandfather’s plate before leaving.

Then I’d dig in.

I’d eat and eat until I could barely move, but I would always eat all that had been set before me. Between my grandpa carrying on and the waitress exclaiming she’d never seen a little fellow eat so much before, I felt like a king.

As we climbed back into that old truck, the heat. The smell of grease and ages of dust would engulf the cab. Weary from the ride to town and the huge meal, I would fall asleep curled up on the threadbare seat before we hit the edge of town, as we rode the old grain truck back out to the farm.

Creating and cultivating began early in my life with knowing that the same place that we left our grain was the same place we bought our seeds. There was a certain well-being in knowing that the old mill was someplace that allowed us to use the earth from which God had created man, to plant the seeds of sustenance, the life-giving bread by which we could survive. Heaven would provide the sunlight and water if we would only be the caretakers of His domain. It was up to us to harvest the bounty and return once more with our precious golden cargo to begin the cycle all over.

Our job as farmers was to use what he gave us to the best of our abilities and to prepare what we could and then pray for sunshine and rain in due time.

Today, the old mill is gone. The vestiges of life that had its cycle of prosperity once and then faded, like the passing of time. Those were simpler times when everything stripped away revealed the barren nature of what it was to be a man, what it was to support your family and what it meant to work hard and reap the rewards. Being the man of the house meant something.

Today, we are constantly being bombarded with messages that try to erase our memories of what it takes to be the leader, the father, the man of the house. Yet, like those days of old, we must strip away all the noise and search for what is within.

We must plow our fields and prepare for the planting.

Yes, the good Lord created us all and it is up to us to cultivate His fields.

“Then God blessed them, and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and subdue it; have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over every living thing that moves on the earth. And God said, “See, I have given you every herb that yields seed which is on the face of all the earth, and every tree whose fruit yields seed; to you it shall be for food. 30 Also, to every beast of the earth, to every bird of the air, and to everything that creeps on the earth, in which there is life, I have given every green herb for food”; and it was so.” -GEN. 1:28-29

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by | March 3, 2013 · 5:31 pm

An Insight to Inspiration

Sometimes I wonder from where or what my next source of inspiration might originate. As was the case in one scene in my recent book, “Bruecke to Heaven”, I had the image appear to me in my mind, a vision if you will. Instead of writing about what I saw, I first drew it out in my little black sketchbook journal that I carry almost everywhere I go. I have included it here along with the passage that it inspired.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so may you find these words be an inspiration.

Enjoy…
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An Excerpt from Chapter 31 of “Bruecke to Heaven”: “Last Breath”

Marik stood before an ancient tree, twisted and curved from centuries of exposure to extreme elements, fighting for every ounce of survival. Its bark was nearly gone. It was mostly gray-white flesh of wood, cracked and barren, looking more like old bones than wood. It sat atop the small group of boulders on the high pass like a sentinel, watching, waiting.

The clouds washed overhead, gray, with snow blowing lightly. He could not feel the cold; he could not feel the anguish. He stood numb, watching, looking for any sign of life. There were only a couple small branches on an outstretched limb that contained the remnants of leaves—tiny breaths of color in a stark landscape where life seemed void.

He tried to move toward it but was held captive in his place, by what he could not tell. He again forced movement but could do nothing. He could see the cold. His breath exhaled in small puff s of white that quickly flew from his face, chasing the clouds.

Suddenly trace amounts of moisture started to ooze from the tree, at first appearing as dark stains on the bleached bones. Then there were obvious signs of wetness as the cracks became rivulets of tiny streams running down the face of the tree onto the rocks below.

He watched as the tree wept.

The wind now wailed over the ridge, snow blowing sideways. The wailing became a sob as he could hear the voice of his wife screaming for the pain to stop. He was back in the room, close in the darkness, save for the lamp by the bed that shone upon the sweat-drenched body of the young woman. The birth was near, but her small frame could not handle the delivery. Each push sent her one step closer to the end until the wail became two. Then there was but one.

He felt the helplessness of the moment wash over him again.

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