Tag Archives: writing

Book 3 begins…The Ark of Faith

by Timothy W. Tron, Feb. 2022

In the crucible of time, a story is born that rises from the ashes of the fires of torture and anguish. It is within this bitter history that a spirit of faith, hope, and love are revealed; embodied in the true worshippers those who worship Him in spirit and in truth. Return with me, if you will, to those distant, ancient Alpine valleys to a place where God planted his word beginning with the Apostles of Christ. There, the Word of God was nurtured as if it lived within an incubator, growing, and enriching the lives of all that would come to possess it. From these people of the valleys, a movement of belief would arise that would span continents, and plant the seeds of the Reformation. But as with all things of great marvel, there are those who become equally jealous and bitter and seek to destroy what brings this joy.

Follow along as the saga continues as the characters you met in the previous two novels return to once again face trials and tribulations unequivocal to anything we have or will ever know. Rejoice with their momentary raptures, and find solace in seeing how they persevere through the darkest of times.

The rough draft cover of the 3rd book in the series of The Children of the Light.

I hope that you are blessed by this excerpt from Chapter 1, and please feel free to comment on what you think of the story’s beginning.

* * * * *

Lightning crackled in the foreboding sky above, illuminating the darkness in brief flashes of hellish light. His heart kept time as the crashes of thunder rolled across the earth, becoming one with his soul. As he ran up the mountain toward the flock, the tall summer grasses frothed like waves on a sea, their billows creating a feeling of dread. The harder he pushed, the more it seemed as if that distant point to which he strove moved farther away.

The light raced across the darkness as a demonic thread of light rippled like broken ice on winter pool when the foot treads upon its thin surface. A feeling of dread permeated the air like a thick fog. Once more, his eyes strained to see in that instant, up ahead, on the far side of the herd of sheep, stood a figure standing in a black cloak, its hood pulled forward so that the abyss within compelled one to look away for fear of being sucked within. The image silhouetted against the backdrop of the broken sky did not move. Jakob felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, but he continued onward. Something inside him said to turn back, but he felt the urgency to reach his father’s flock before they were hurt. In the brief instant of imagery, he could see that the sheep had all lain down in preparation for the coming storm. Their natural instincts that God-given ability to sense danger, had already driven them to the ground.

Jakob raced onward, driven by something within to save them. Rain began to fall in sheets as the storm engulfed the peak around them. The wind pushed against him, taking his breath. Something was not right. His hand gripped the shepherd staff in his right hand and drove it into the earth, hoping to propel himself forward, but it only sank into the ground as if the soil had become soft like the winter snow.

Lightning pulsed once more.

His breath stuck within his throat as his heart seemed to stop. The dark being had now moved and stood between him and the sheep.

Another ripple screamed through the dark firmament, and once again, the creature had advanced at the moment, now standing but a few feet away. It did not breath, but yet, seemed to suck in the air around it, creating a vacuum of despair.

Jakob tried to scream, but his voice was blocked by his own heartbeat. Nothing moved. With every ounce of his being, he pulled the staff from the earth and tried to lift it to strike this thing, this evil that betrayed his mind, but it seemed frozen, one with the ground. Again, he thought within his own being, seeking an answer to escape. Then, in the deepest recesses of his mind, a voice began to permeate through the evil, “Use what you have been given, my son.”

Suddenly, from the seemingly broken tongue, a song began to illuminate all that had sought to extinguish hope. It began to bubble up from the farthest reaches of his young being until it reached his lips. There, it began to dance upon this tongue, and the melody started to sing forth. The lightning angrily flashed again as if driven by the being before him, its ire incensed by the sound.

Then without warning, there was a current of heat that tore through the night. Its river of fire split the very marrow of his small body. The last thing Jakob remembered was seeing the demon’s figure shadowed face become an abyss of rage, and then it was gone.

As darkness enveloped the mountain as an eerie calm came over him.

Jakob could see his body lying on the grass below as he hovered just above. He didn’t take notice that he was flying until he heard the distant voice of his brother, Jean Paul, crying out his name. Jakob could see his brother running up the slope toward his lifeless body in the driving rain, his tears becoming one with the water that fell from above. Jakob wanted to reach out to him, but as he remained aloft, he began to rise higher into the sky, watching the scene below, becoming more distant with each beat of the distant thunder.

Jean Paul picked up his brother’s body and began stumbling, at first in awkward strides, back down the mountain, toward their humble dwelling. As he progressed, his legs picked up momentum, and soon he was running at full speed. Jean Paul began praying as he ran. His brother’s voice drifted past Jakob in the air as his own spirit, and the prayer seemed to race one another for Heaven above. He wanted to answer, but the valley of space between him and Jean Paul seemed to grow. The entirety of the mountain beneath was within his view. The sheep enduring the storm huddled in mass upon the ground; meanwhile, Jakob continued running for what seemed an eternity back down the mountain, his voice echoing in Jakob’s ears, the storm raging around them both.

Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

To be continued….

Leave a Comment

Filed under Inspirational, Writing

He Who Endures…Shall Be Saved…

Then they will deliver you up to tribulation and kill you, and you will be hated by all nations for My name’s sake.  10 And then many will be offended, will betray one another, and will hate one another.  11 Then many false prophets will rise up and deceive many.  12 And because lawlessness will abound, the love of many will grow cold.  13 But he who endures to the end shall be saved.  14 And this gospel of the kingdom will be preached in all the world as a witness to all the nations, and then the end will come.” – Matthew 24:11-14

I step out, no longer hiding behind the façade of a life that kept me in the shadows. Now, all will know what and who I serve. There is no shame in who I serve, nor why I do this, but there are many that will seek to destroy all we do. Today I took another step closer to the mission for which I was called. One more step toward the evangelistic journey that God continues to lead me toward. From here, I cannot see the future. From here, I cannot tell whether I will walk or crawl to the finish if I’m to ever make it. The only comfort I can find, in this walk toward a darkness that seems to grow deeper with each passing day is that I am not alone. Those of us who seek the truth do so with united purpose. If we hold on until the end, salvation awaits. What we do, we do for Him, so that all the world will know the truth; the whole truth.

This was my first night off in almost a week. The rest was welcome.

In this time repose, I was able to watch a possible distant relative, Valeria Tron, perform on videos recorded in her home country of Italy. A missionary friend had introduced us on FB knowing that we were likely related since she was from the same valley as my ancestors. She had recently awarded a very prestigious honor, none of which I could understand. So, tonight I took some much needed time to watch her perform. There is such a passion and intensity to her singing, although I cannot understand the words, her music is beautiful. I noticed she had like our Tron Family Band page, and then I wondered how he and my own family might sound someday if we were ever able to make music together. From what little I watched, it appears she sings the mournful, soulful traditional folk ballads like I would prefer, even though their rhythm is something new to me; another distant delight to find someday.

I was about to quit out of FB when I noticed our dear friend Jessica Lang had posted a new video of her picking out Salt Creek with some beta strings from D’Addairio. As I watched the talented young lady pick out the melody perfectly, adding her own breaks within the song, I couldn’t be prouder of how much she has grown musically and blossomed into a beautiful young woman.

Yes, time marches on.

Outside a cold rain falls.

It’s that time of year for the Trail where we are open until 9 pm each night thru 12241337_999839180055337_6872093815838088611_nChristmas. We are manning the Christmas Lights at the Trail with help from volunteers, some of which are there now allowing me the time to regroup and fulfill some of my own wishes; to write. There are times I wonder if I will ever pick up a paint brush again. Musically, I’ve been able to add a moment here and there to the schedule. In all, there is little time for the creative juices to flow. Times like these I have to hope there is a reservoir filling, saving up for when there is time to flow.

And time marches on.

The darkness envelopes the world around us as the drops of water fall from the sky, the abyss from above.

As the evening draws to a close, we prepare for tomorrow. Another day, we know not what awaits but we can prepare as we read the Word. For in this book, we can find truth when the world around us seeks to sway us away from the goal, the finish line.

We seek the finish, for, in the end, we know our salvation awaits.

For now, we must take one cherished moment whenever we find them.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Inspirational, Religion

The Comforting Soul of the Barn Studio…

2013-01-03 21.17.25-1It pretty much started back when the late John W. Parsons said to me, “Do you have an out building you can practice in?”

J.W., we called him for short, was referring to me learning how to play the fiddle and that it would be best if I had somewhere to practice, lest I drive my wife crazy with the horrible sounds of a beginner fiddle player in the house.

“No,” I respectfully replied.

“Well, you better build one or you won’t be married long,” he said, and laughed before refocusing on where we had left off in our lesson that evening.

As a matter of fact, I had already begun adding onto the original section of barn I had built years before, unsure of how it might be used. I now had a reason to make part of the new addition somewhere I could get out of the weather and perhaps practice my newfound instrument. So with the purpose of creating a room to play music in, the studio in the barn began to take shape. I purchased ship-lapped poplar from Foster Rives, who had cut it from local lumber and planed it in his own sawmill just down the road from the farm. I installed it after putting up the walls, roof and outer shell of the barn, completing what would be a welcome retreat. Over time, the poplar becamed naturally aged to the golden hue it displays today. The wood stove came later, moved up from the old cabin, making the studio complete.

IMG_20140101_084557The cold rainy days when the farm work had to be put on hold, I would eagerly retreat to the studio. There I would build a fire in the woodstove and soon, the beautiful aromas of coffee brewing in the old percolator pot mixing with that of the hickory in the fire blending with the faint smells of the sweet hay in the hayloft just outside the studio door combined to make an ambiance that would start my creative juices flowing. There in the studio, I once more revisited old talents I had unintentionally left behind; starting to paint once again after years of leaving my paint brushes in the closet. It was here that I also rediscovered my writing, after years of leaving the pen lie dormant, with the occasional story that might rise to the surface, perculating like the coffee in the pot on top of the wood stove. And, of course, I would practice my fiddle, alone and away from ears that might be bothered by the slowly diminishing sour notes that had once been produced in abundance in my early days of learning.

Inside the upstairs room in the barn, strains of music wafted from the CD player. Songs were played according to the activity I was performing which accompanied my subconscious as I worked either on portraits, landscapes, stories for my book or just playing along on the fiddle. This was my home-away-from-home. Outside the windows, the world would present itself as the farm around me lived out its daily routine, regardless of the elements. As the rain pitter-pattered down, the cows might lie lazily underneath the cover of the trees that stood near the chicken coop. The chickens would cluck and crow, scratching the ground paying no mind to the nearby bovine neighbors as they walked about their runs, safe from the world and uncaring of the weather. Their only cares being that they might find a morsel of protein wiggling about in the dark earth.

Inside the comfort of the studio, I watched the seasons pass; winter, spring, summer and fall, safe from their temperature extremes, yet thankful that each were tranquil in their own right. Eventually, when my children were old enough, they would join me in the room up in the barn to paint, play music or just warm themselves by the woodstove if the opportunity presented itself. At times, I would cook meals in the cast iron skillet on the stove top, making the room come alive with smells of fried sausage or bacon. To me, there aren’t any restaurants to which I am aware that can compare to a home cooked meal on an old wood stove. As I would sit back in the easy chair and savor the delectable morsels of food, the air would still linger with the soothing smell of fresh cooked food, wood smoke and hot fresh coffee still bubbling up in the percolator.

Yes, the barn studio is someplace I will miss once we move. It is someplace that the kids will undoubtedly never forget, knowing that it too became a retreat to which they could go to reinvent themselves and become one with their inner person. We all need a place to go where life can be left at the door, where we may once again turn our thoughts inward and be at peace with our soul; giving ourselves to the gifts with which God has blessed us.

May we never forget our studio in the barn.

See how this studio can become a welcome retreat for you by clicking here.

1 Comment

Filed under Art, Farming, Inspirational, Writing

Music of the Soul…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a beautiful week and Blessings to all.

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


Leave a Comment

Filed under Inspirational, Music, Writing