Tag Archives: tree

by | September 9, 2018 · 4:44 pm

Wisdom from a Tree…

There is a lot to be learned from a tree.

A long time ago, my fourth grade Art teacher, Mrs. Bradshaw, encouraged my choice of subject matter by saying, “Drawing people and trees have a lot in common.” She would go on to nurture my yet to blossom talent into something that, as of yet, may someday come to honor God more fully. But beyond that intended encouragement, her words would stay with me for decades to cross into other patterns of thought.

This past Sunday morning, as part of my weekly walking to church ritual, I stopped once again at the Collettsville General store to pause and take in God’s word. A gentle breeze blew across the picnic table before me, rustling the pages of the Bible, “Whispers of the Holy Spirit,” my mind mused. The unseen hand turned the thin paper until it landed upon a scripture in the gospel of Matthew. Glancing at the words before me, I read, “Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles? Even so, every good tree bringeth forth good fruit but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire.”

No sooner had those lines entered my mind, to my left, the cries of a forlorn hawk echoed off the mountain walls. Turning to see from whence he called, my attention was drawn to a majestic old tree. In the upper reaches of that giant oak sat the raptor. He glanced in my direction as if to say, Good Morning,” Below him, my artistic mind began to trace the tree down to its curious, twisting trunk whereby was entwined about by a massive vine. Its strength is drawn partly from the earth, but ever more, it sucked the life from its host, the oak. Alone, the vine would have weighed more than several men could lift, yet the tree seemed unphased by its presence; healthy and vibrant were its limbs and branches.

“How much greater would this tree have been had it not been encumbered by such a growth,” were the thoughts that rang in my head? “Or better yet, had this vine somehow created the curious twist and turns of that shape that lone it might have never known?”

Now two thoughts were churning about in my mind; the fruit of a tree and the trials of such a growth prohibiting what might be considered a normal existence for said tree.

All our lives, we toil and labor to obtain what is good and right. As we age, we find that what was once important no longer matters. When we come to Christ and are saved, we become a new person, and all that once was gold no longer glitters. We become changed, and with those changes, we can see how the fruits of those once labors of a lost being were misdirected. Now, with a new heart and soul, we can focus on producing fruit that is beneficial not only for our immediate family and friends but far beyond our horizons. We become that good tree of which Jesus spoke.

Yet, many suffer from ailments, both physical and mental, through which they must battle. Their lives are less than perfect. For some, the sin to which they are chained seems as if they may never break free. The vine of Satan’s grasp has them in its hold. They might walk each day in the world appearing to others as if they are quite normal, but beneath the surface, they are in utter turmoil. Their branches may appear healthy, strong, and abundant. Beneath the soil of their flesh, they fight to maintain their integrity. When they go home each night, it seems as if the world around them falls into greater chaos, an entropy if you will. The only fruit they produce only causes strife and ill will to others. With all their might, they strive to make things right, but alone, they cannot right the wrongs. “An evil tree cannot bear good fruit.” Some give up and end their struggles the only way they know how; by escape through alcohol or drugs, or worse, by taking their own life. That evil tree is cast into the fire, and with it, the life that once was is no longer. Sadly, many in our world face this dire ending.

But there is an answer. There is a cure for this darkness.

“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek and ye shall find: Knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.”

Jesus Christ is the answer.

Like a lumberjack, he comes to our call when we ask, wielding a mighty chainsaw, cutting us free from our bonds of sin and strife. “The truth shall set you free,” says the scripture, and like the spinning teeth of the chainsaw blade, the Holy Spirit enters our soul, cutting to the very marrow of our existence, splitting us asunder from that corruption which once held us captive.

When we accept Christ into our lives, we are made a new person. That evil tree is cut down and cast into the fire, but unlike with those that are lost, in the place of this once evil tree, a new tree is planted, one that is good. From henceforth, it begins to grow, unencumbered by the clutches of Satan’s vines of addiction, it begins to flourish. The fruit grows ripe and sweet. The world around them can witness the change, and to them, this metamorphosis becomes a testimony in and of itself.

The breeze turned the page before me one last time. The conclusion became apparent. There before me, God spoke once again.

“Wherefore by their fruits, ye shall know them.”

Jesus told us that it would be obvious to see those who had received Him by how their actions and labors would appear. The twist and turns of that ancient tree would become ever more glorious in that their story, their testimony, would produce a heavenly fruit; the sweet nectar of the Holy Spirit.

Although that massive oak makes a beautiful image with the vine that intertwines amongst its gentle limbs, how much greater might it be should a woodsman happen by with his chainsaw someday and cut it loose? As you go through your work week, watch and listen to those around you. They may appear the picture-perfect co-worker or friend, but don’t be afraid to wield your chainsaw, the Word of God, and be ready to set them free from the vines of this world.

In the end, they will thank you.

And in all we do, let us be thankful for his Holy Word.

Thanks be to God.

“Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.” – Matthew 7:16-20

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by | 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 | September 17, 2017 · 8:36 pm

Stumped…

For days, I had passed over it; the unobtrusive, worn maple stump.

The tires of my tractor occasionally bumped into the hard gray knob, but it was low enough that it didn’t impede the progress of the building site. Back and forth, pushing the soft, red dirt with the front-end loader of my tractor the land began to take shape. The ground was slowly beginning to resemble the start of a foundation for the future out-building.

This wasn’t my first.

I can still hear J.W. Parson’s voice telling me, as he grinned from ear to ear, “Boy, you’re married, right?” We had paused between me trying to play the song on my fiddle he had just shown me and the next few minutes when we would begin the painful process once more. The room in which we sat was lit by one weak bulb hanging down from the ceiling. The string that you pulled to turn it off and on with lay draped across its yellow luminance. Around us implements of killing hogs hung on the walls; saws, knives, and axes. Their clean, sharp edges glowed in the dim light. There was an air of reality in J.W.’s out-building that only aged blood on wooden floors can exude. Reno Sharpe and an elderly friend of mine who had tagged along for the evening’s entertainment sat on an empty upturned five-gallon bucket nearby smiling as he probably already knew what was coming.

“Yes sir,” I replied unsure of where this was going.

“You got you an outbuilding to play in?”

“No, not yet.”

He laughed and winked over at Reno.

“Well, you better git to building yourself one if you want to stay married,” which he followed up with a roaring laugh as he slapped his knee. Reno and I joined in, for it was apparent what he meant.

In a matter of speaking, the lack of having a place to practice as a beginning fiddler was my stump back then. Before I could really go further, that outbuilding had to be built. Yet, to become the fiddler I had hoped would take countless hours of isolated study and practice.

Nothing would come easy.

Not long following that evening’s lesson, I began constructing my studio in the barn where for several years my violin would eventually sound more like that of J.W.’s, but never entirely. In that isolated home-away-from-home, we would find a retreat from which music, art, and writing flowed. It was more than just an out-building; it became our sanctuary of sorts.

To begin, it was necessary to take a step back.

That was then, this is now.

Once more, we are beginning again; starting over; seeking to find that special place where we can feel the hand of our Lord reach and speak through us. What we hope to achieve will not be easy. Yet, there is so much for which to be thankful. In this journey of faith, we are constantly reminded of the world we left behind and how we are made anew.

So, once more, we begin again.

From the forest, the opening was carved. The aged, rotting maple seemed an easy target when the trees were selected to be cut. Its stump remained all through the clearing process, never presenting itself an obstacle other than the occasional bump under the tires. It wasn’t until the land was leveled and the string lines were pulled that it became obvious; the stump had to go. The very foundation could not be set without it being completely removed. What once seemed a trivial matter now halted the entire construction process. It seemed nothing more than a grayish-mud splattered annoyance that would be gone in a matter of minutes.

Then reality struck.

When the blade of the scoop began trying to find the outer edges of the root ball, it quickly became apparent, this was a much bigger problem than first imagined. In essence, I was going to have to take a step back even further than imagined in order to extract the now, unavoidable barrier.

Last week, working with the Christian club students, we found a similar reality check.

There again was the stump; one that at first seemed to have little if no consequence in what we were planning. But as we progressed in what we had hoped to achieve; evangelizing the Word of God to the rest of the student body, it became apparent that there was something daunting sitting in the path of our progress; an unavoidable root ball of sorts; fear.

When we began to do more than speak about what we should do as Christians, when we would actually go out and witness to others, it was then that we realized how ill-prepared we really were. The very act of approaching others in order to speak to them about Christ froze our students, stopping their very progression of growth. Like those students, when we try to evangelize to the world around us, some of us quickly find our shortcomings. We hear that voice in the back of our head reminding us, “You are not ready.” It is then obvious, like the tree stump, we must go back to the beginning and start over, learning what we must do to witness as those early disciples.
Digging deep into the earth surrounding the remains of the tree we would begin to hack away at the tenuous arms that held the once massive tree in place. Like membranes of bone, the ancient arms stretched in all directions. Like embedded fears from childhood, our inhibitions to speaking to others about our faith can only be overcome when we remove the restraints we put upon ourselves; our self-imposed root ball. With time, study, and trust in the Lord, our faith will grow until we understand there is no fear in serving Him; for He is with us in all that we do.

The back-breaking work was eventually rewarded this past weekend when the massive root ball gave way. It was an enormous relief. Once the obstruction was gone, the re-leveling of the building site took only a few minutes.
Likewise, the work with the students will take time. It won’t be easy, and at times it will seem as if we can’t win but in the end, the reward we will obtain will be far greater than that of removing even the most stubborn tree stump. Once they have found their confidence, their personal stumps will be gone, leaving the ground from which to build.

Bringing salvation to the lost will be something they, and each of us will never forget, and the heavenly reward will be for all eternity.

Thanks be to God.

“The preparations of the heart in man, and the answer of the tongue, is from the Lord. All the ways of a man are clean in his own eyes; but the Lord weigheth the spirits. Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established. …” – Proverbs 16

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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…
2012-01-06 02.32.55-1

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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by | January 11, 2013 · 3:45 pm

What We Least Expect Sometimes is the Greatest Reward…

ToddNC2Most of the time I feel like the least of the writers in our writing group, the Inkspot’s of GUMC, not that I expect to be great from being the least, as Jesus was saying in the scripture of Luke. Rather, I feel like the least qualified to be writing in a room filled with such wonderful authors.

This past week we took turns reading from our recent writings and everyone seemed to be absolutely wonderful, save for mine.

Thomas read from two book reviews he is doing as part of his PhD studies. Both of the books he was required to read, “Pastoral Theology” and “Open Secrets,” he had the good fortune of having the authors as professors while attending Duke Divinity College. I was impressed to hear as he read aloud at the depth of knowledge he had acquired over time both from not only constantly reading and studying the Word of God, but also from his literary skills as a writer. More than once I had to take notes from what I heard. We learned of the pressures of the daily grind of pastoral work which was exemplified by the statement when he labored over being human when he was supposed to appear as he put it, “Cloaked in a mystery of divinity.” We also learned of Wesley’s Quadrilateral philosophy of scripture, tradition, experience and reason. Wesley believed scripture was the most important but as Thomas pointed out, today we are finding people more inclined to use experience as their base instead of scripture. In all, it was very enlightening and educational.
>ToddNC
Next, Sherry Thornburg read from a story she had written about living in Todd, NC. I believe she called it, “The House Across the Creek.” It was quite a heart-warming story, which took you back in time. At first hearing the name of the story I was taken to Cross Creek Florida, but then that is another story.
Sherry told the story of how she grew up in a four room house in Todd next to Elk Creek. As she read her story, I closed my eyes and could see myself growing up alongside her there in Todd. She talked of how they played house, play acted and even performed on the foot log that spanned Elk creek from their home side to the general store side of the creek. The bridge was their stage and the creek was their audience. A large buckeye tree anchored one side of the foot bridge with a log chain, which kept it from washing away when the creek would get up. Sitting there listening to her read her story I was taken back in time growing up in New Harmony, Indiana at my grandma Tron’s house. There, we too played in the yard and around the farm in similar fashion. We never had a beautiful rushing stream flowing by our front porch as did Sherry, but we had lush green pastures rolling by instead, against the backdrop of the hills that made up the vast forest that bordered the Wabash river which ran past our little town of New Harmony.

Although we were worlds apart in distance, we shared the similar experience of a Spartan existence in our rural lives, cherishing the fond memories of a time gone by when life moved at a different pace, one we too often fail to recognize in our hurriedly rushing lives today.

As she closed, the words she spoke from the pages she had written brought forth emotions, the heart strings that make us who we are. The stories within when spoken often become stronger than we had imagined without forming the words through our lips to be spoken. Once their sounds escape and come back to us through our own ears, we sometimes are overwhelmed with the magnification of feelings previously thought insignificant.
farmhouse
After Sherry read it was Laverne’s turn. He never ceases to impress us with stories from his past, all bringing forth similar recollections as did Sherry’s story; taking us all back in time. However, unlike usual, Laverne had written a poem. It wasn’t limerick in nature, rather, more of a prose, but the story it told was so rich with imagery it couldn’t help but touch your heart.

Laverne talked about past loves and a large Sycamore tree under which he had spent many hours as a youth. Being small in size, he often had prayed for God to either make him large or to give him courage. The latter, he found, was eventually how he was blessed. Over time, sitting under his Sycamore tree there in the middle of the pasture, he had carved the names of many a girlfriend while spending hours looking up at the heavens wondering how his life would someday turn out. Recently when recovering from heart surgery, he was lying in the hospital bed and reflecting back on his life and somewhat bothered about how it might all end. He realized he was becoming agitated, so he tried to find a way to calm himself. His Sycamore tree came to mind and the shade of the great labyrinth of limb and leaf began to shelter him once more. In his mind he was once more seeing the great trunk of the tree, the carved names, the beauty of the place he knew so well, comforting him and relaxing him to the point he realized he had nothing to worry about; it was all in God’s hands. I can imagine sitting under Laverne’s tree, which is no longer there, looking out at the fields spreading away from you, reaching to the tree-lined horizon. There is a certain calming affect one can take away from such a place; a refuge, a place to reflect and gather oneself before marching boldly off into the future. Yes, God gave Laverne courage, but it was not the only gift the good Lord had bestowed upon my dear friend; humility of spirit and love of life are some of his greater gifts.

Cindy went next, reading from a story she had written about the birth of her recent grandson. She called her story, “It’s alright I’ve got this”. She shared with us a touching story of a young woman expecting her third child and deciding to have a “water birth”. The eventuality of the story that struck me most was how as parents we sometimes have to let go and allow our children to be themselves, as was the case in this story. Her daughter was evidently determined to have the birth her way, but in the end, it was as God had intended, and yet in a way she was still able to be proud of; a home birth. In the end, mother and daughter came to a deeper understanding and respect for one another, each finding a strength from the other formed by the bond of unconditional love.

After Cindy, then her daughter Savannah shared with us her ideas for an upcoming novel she would like to write. I won’t share those thoughts at this time for sake of her privacy of subject matter, but suffice it to say, we have a wide spectrum of age in our talented group, one which might help us continue long into the future. To hear Savannah talk it was refreshing to hear the youth of our time alive and excited to create stories. We have much to be thankful for.

Finally, after I had read, the leader of our writer’s group, Sims Poindexter, took her turn. She read from emails she had sent out over Christmas. Sims had spent several days in the hospital, some of which was humorous, but sitting there listen to her tell her story, it was obvious to me, we are very blessed to still have her with us after all she had been through. The feeling of thankfulness was soon rewarded with a revealing story she shared in her final email. It was one she wrote after returning home after her hospital stay, and after all the family had left to return to their own homes following their Christmas visit. She told of simply looking around the room and the moving stories behind each little nuance or reminder left behind by those who would have no idea they had left their impression, albeit from a rock left on the piano, to an overturned ornament under the tree. She had seen or could tell the story behind every essence of actuality which had transpired. Her love for all was revealed in her appreciation for them, even down to the touch of inanimate object remaining long after they were gone.

Each story, each prose I heard that evening was so thought provoking, that in a matter of two hours, we got up to leave feeling as if we had just arrived. Personally, I felt left behind after all I had heard. My story seemed to pale in comparison, at least in my own mind. What I was able to take away was a feeling of being blessed to be in the company of people willing to openly share and support one another in something that is, in most instances, from the heart.
Yes, I feel I am the least with regard to my writing when compared to the others, but I feel most grateful in the reward of being blessed by such wonderful acquaintances and friends, such that it makes my appreciation far beyond the least; for this I am greatly blessed.

“and said to them, “Whoever receives this little child in My name receives Me; and whoever receives Me receives Him who sent Me. For he who is least among you all will be great.”
– Luke 9:48

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