 The Last Bus Off The Mountain - Cali, Colombia Since the passing of the pandemic, I have noticed a subtle hesitation in the Body of Christ. An added caution raises its head these days when we are asked to step to the edge of our faith and look down. The pandemic left lasting scars in many folks, and unearthed latent scars in others, and fear of stepping out is a primary symptom. I contend, however, that life without risk is mere existence, and existing in fear is living in the shadow of life. I say this to myself, for I have noticed this quiet hesitation in myself, and I don’t care for it. In an effort to defeat this timidity, I reread one of my older writings that related to this subject the other day. When I read it, I felt the urge to venture out to places unknown regenerating within my heart. It felt right and good, and I hope it does the same for you.
Steppin’ Out! Angel sat across from me in the old open air passenger jeep as we tore through the streets of Cali, Colombia. The jeep had a brand new coat of candy apple red paint adorning its sides; but try as he might the driver couldn’t hide the battle scars and near misses that traced their way down the fenders and side panels of the old rattletrap. The windshield bore a striking resemblance to a spider web shimmering in the early morning sun, and to say the tires lacked tread would be rather generous; but, gracious, how that thing could move. As my Granny would say, it ran like a scalded dog through the streets, and you had best be prepared for the ride if you knew what was good for you. It was a hold on to your hat, hang on for dear life type of ride, and I loved every minute of it. The fact that the driver was named Christian and his navigator, Angel, seemed strangely comforting to me, but did not appear to have an equal effect on the team’s newbies, if the startled screams and hasty prayers were any indication. The thing was standard transportation for mission work though, so I quietly prayed that the new folks would embrace the adventure and increase their faith to the point of enjoyment. During a brief lull in the excitement, I shouted over to Angel a question. You see, this candy apple red piece of greased lightning we were strapped into had intrigued me a little. For the life of me I couldn’t decide what make it was, so I asked Angel, who had manufactured the thing. He reply was equally intriguing. He said, “What part?” Then he proceeded to give me a brief genealogical history of the vehicle. The engine was an International, the frame was from a Chevy, the body from a Jeep, the transmission was from some Korean company and the tires were Michelins, of course. He proclaimed that last little tidbit with a sarcastic smile. Upon reflection, the hodgepodge we were riding in seemed strangely fitting for mission work to me; but after he had finished, I realized he had missed something, so I asked him who manufactured the back bumper. He said he had no idea. Then I asked him who installed it, and with at smile he thumped his chest and I understood why. As it turns out, Angel spent a great portion of his time standing on that bumper hanging on for dear life as he directed the driver in the way he should go. I reasoned that if I spent my time standing on the back bumper of a jeep as it threatened to go supersonic, I would want to be sure the bumper was secure myself, as well. Personally, I was glad to hear of the quality installation. You see, one of my chief pleasures in life while working in Cali was to stand on that same bumper and hang on for dear life as we careened up and down the mountain. Years ago Christian, that year’s driver, held Angel’s position; and he and I struck up a friendship in the same way that Angel and I had. One morning, a few years back, as we left the city behind and began the dirt road climb up the mountain, Christian tapped me on the shoulder and invited me to share the bumper with him. It was a moment of acceptance and a bit of a test, I believe. So I gladly stepped out into the morning sunshine, and I have refused to relinquish my position from that time to this. A peaceful freedom overtook me when I stepped out onto that bumper that was truly wonderful. The shackles of fear seemed to fall away, and my spirit relaxed within me as my muscles tightened their grip. When I felt the wind on my face, I begin to see the world anew. There is no use in me trying to explain it, it must be experienced. It is an awakening of sorts. This past year the bumper didn’t beckon, the rear seat of a rickety and ramshackle motorbike did as we left Brisis Del Mar and headed for the coast. The motorbike was of the same manufacturer as the jeep, the driver projected the same mixture of peaceful insanity as did Angel and Christian and the ride was a bit more challenging than the mountain, if that is possible. As I tumbled down the hillside with the bike more airborne than earthbound, that same odd since of freedom and peace overtook me again, so I decided to examine it. Where does it come from? Why is it there? It occurred to me that perhaps this particular brand of freedom, this particular brand of spiritual peace, can only be obtained when we step out of bounds a little. Most of us spend our Christian life in a carefully ordered spiritual vacuum of sorts. We are often afraid to color outside of the lines. We live out our Christianity as if we are painting by numbers in fear that should the yellow bleed over into the red, disaster will follow. Well, I contend that if God can make Eden out of chaos, joy out of sorrow and eternal life out of death; then He can make a blessing out of anything done in His name. It seems to me that true blessings seldom occur in a carefully planned sterile environment. God seems to love to work in haphazard and surprising ways. So let the colors run a bit in your life. Relax and bask in the freedom that Christ gives you. Find blessings in all things. Step out onto the bumper of life, careen down a hill or two, cast off your fear of the unknown and know that God is always before you, always behind you and always with you, yearning to bless you. In Christ, Pastor Tony
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 Filipino Church 1993 I suppose my streak had to end sometime. I had managed to avoid preaching on my first two mission trips to the Philippines back in the 80s and early 90s. I wasn’t a preacher back then. I was a homebuilder and a cabinet maker, and I didn’t preach, period. Shoot you’d be hard-pressed to hear me sneeze in front of a congregation, and if I did, I’d turn bright red out of embarrassment. I was what you would call terminally shy. If I had to stand up in front of a crowd and talk, I just knew I was going to die. So for the first two mission trips to the Philippines, I had managed to find a guitar, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, and hide behind it and sing my way through whatever church service had been thrust upon me and to whomever I had been thrust upon; but not this time. This time God ambushed me. This time nobody was supposed to preach but the preacher, so in my ignorance, I was relaxed and comfortable.
Once again I was in the Philippines, on my third of four trips there. It was a Sunday, and it was sweltering, as tends to be the case in the Philippines on Sunday mornings. For the life of me, I cannot recall the town. It was a little barrio to the north of Tagaytay city where we were working, that much I know. I can see it just like it was yesterday. It was a little church, open-air of course, no need for windows in that part of the world unless you just want to be fancy. It had old terra-cotta tiles on the floor; you know the reddish-brown ones that you used to see all over the place. They weren’t broken tiles like some folks like to do. They were whole tiles, and the builder in me couldn’t help but notice that the tile man was good. There was nothing too far out of order. There were a bunch of plastic lawn chairs lined up in rows like you tend to find in churches worldwide. They were white, so they contrasted well with the floor. The walls were stuccoed with a greenish, mustard colored mud. Separately it sounds kinda awful; but when you put it all together it was an attractive little church; and this Sunday morning it was filled to the gills with church folks who wanted to see the American who had come to visit. Whereas I may well have been a disappointment to them, they weren’t to me. They were some of the most authentic and gracious people I have ever come across. They folded me into that congregation like I had been a member all my life. About the time I got settled in, a man came over and said he wanted to talk to me. He was a deacon or something of the sort according to his dress and demeanor. He looked at me with concerned anticipation and told me that the preacher had come up ill and wasn’t going to be able to speak that morning. He said the preacher asked him to ask me if I might be willing to say a word or two about the work my teams have been doing over the past few years down in Tagaytay. I remember the old idiom of people having butterflies in their stomach when nervous. Not me. I had a flock of starlings swirling around down there; but what was I supposed to do? My mind said, “Bolt, and be quick about it,” but my mouth, much to my astonishment, said, “Sure” with a little lilt in my voice and a smile on my face. If there was a missionary category at the Oscars, I would’ve been a shoo-in in 1993; but the Lord wasn’t done with me, yet. After some singing, reading and praying, the time came for my trembling knees to drag me up to the pulpit. It was about this time that things got kinda interesting. As I rose to my feet and began to make my way towards the pulpit, a low growl could be heard. The closer I got to that pulpit, the louder and more menacing that low growl became. By the time I had worked my way up beside the pulpit, the growl had intensified to such an extent that the whole room was filled with an ominous quavering. The atmosphere was electric. The congregation was on the edge of their seats, wondering with great anticipation just what might be coming next. As I stepped around and behind the pulpit, their anticipation did not go wanting. There are two things in this world that I have never claimed to be. I’ve never claimed to be a dancer, nor have I ever claimed to be Pentecostal. I am a mild mannered man with two left feet; but as I stepped around that pulpit and the growl became a snarl and that mama dog came barreling out from underneath that pulpit towards me with slathered lips, gapping mouth and eyes filled with murderous rage, I became a world class dancer and a hellfire and brimstone, shouting shoes, jump the altar Pentecostal. My performance must’ve been pretty impressive too, because when I finally came to rest atop that pulpit, I was showered with a combination of heartfelt applause and laughter like never before or since. That whole congregation, save the deacon, appeared to be filled with delight at my physical prowess and comedic timing. As a matter of fact, so was I. So there I was, perched atop that pulpit suspended between a maniacal mama dog and the congregation. At that moment I figured speaking was less dangerous than getting down, so speak I did. By the time I finished speaking, I had effectively anesthetized the dog, so I was able to live to fight another day. Since that time I have improved a bit, I suppose. My starlings have become butterflies, and my fear has become a mild anxiety; but I do know this: When the Lord wants you to do something, He will make it happen. So why resist? I don’t have any idea what the Lord has in mind for you. I do know this, though. The Lord has something in mind for your individual life. As has been true with me and many other people however, all too often we resist. We fight the Lord, and in so doing we miss out on so many blessings and so much joy. Your destiny might be to sweep the floors or to raise the roof. It matters not. The Lord has called you to do great things for the kingdom. Don’t make Him chase you to the top of a pulpit before you say yes. Love, Pastor Tony  If you had to be stuck on the side of the interstate, it was a lovely day for it. It was one of those midsummer days, somewhere near the middle of July. The sky was a beautiful sapphire blue, with the occasional cotton ball floating in it. Behind me there was a meadow filled with buttercups in full bloom swaying seductively in the breeze; and when the wind blew just right, it carried with it their fragrance which filled my nostrils with delight. It was thirty some odd years ago, before the arrival of the smart phone. The accompanying state of frantic motion that appears to have become a societal contagion was only just beginning; so there I was sitting on the new mown grass with my back up against the casket enjoying the day while I quietly watched my newfound friend, who will remain nameless for obvious reasons to come, standing by the side of the road trying to hitch a ride. We were in between Orangeburg and Bowman, South Carolina in the early 1990s; and there wasn’t much to be seen save buttercups, old tobacco barns and fields of half-grown cotton. A few miles back we had passed by an old farmhouse, but it was South Carolina in July and a bit warm, so making the trek back was less than appealing. I had already taken my turn at hitching, with no luck I might add, so it was Jimmy’s turn to do the deed. I guess it’s okay to use his first name, but I will leave his last name out of it. You know it occurs to me I may have gotten the cart before the horse just a little bit in this storytelling. Let me do some explaining. Back in the early 1990s, I was studying to become a preacher, and part of that study involved C.P.E. (Clinical Pastoral Education.) Most of my compadres chose to work in a general hospital somewhere so they could have prayer with the folks before they went into surgery or comfort families who had lost someone, both worthwhile and necessary skills. Now me on the other hand, I was a student preacher and had been on the job for several years and in my ignorance, I figured I didn’t need any more practice in general hospitals. So I chose to work at a branch of the state mental hospital over in northeast Columbia. I was assigned the sixth floor, which housed criminally insane women over the age of sixty. And yes, I was seldom bored. I’ve got a whole host of stories I would love to tell you, but probably shouldn’t, so let me just tell you about Belle. Now Belle wasn’t her real name, but she was from the Charleston area, so the name Belle is a good fit. Indeed Belle was a fine well-bred Southern lady. Her speech was immaculate, with just enough swallowing of the "ou’s" and blending of the "ar’s" to give her class. I wasn’t privy to the histories of the ladies, and was appreciative of that, so all I know of Belle was what I learned from being with her. As I said, she was a lovely lady of seventy years or so, friendly, a fine companion, and someone with whom I could talk. It was only on occasion that she would drift away, and at times like that, her precise language drifted as well. Whereas many of the ladies would drift into foul and inappropriate language, Belle would drift into preaching; not the quiet, benign Methodist preaching of my youth, mind you, but Church of God Pentecostal, born of the Spirit, washed in the blood, vivacious preaching. You know hellfire and brimstone, proper preaching; and she was good. When Miss Belle finished drifting, everyone in the room had hot feet and could smell the sulfur from hell with which they never wanted to be acquainted. It was in early July when Miss Belle went to be with her Maker. The family wanted to have the funeral down in the Charleston area, and as was the custom, the deceased’s most recent pastor was asked to accompany the remains to the place of burial. It was my privilege to accompany Ms. Belle’s remains to her final resting place. The hospital hired a local funeral home, which will remain nameless for obvious reasons to come, to prepare the body and to provide transportation to Charleston. It was on the way down to Charleston on that lovely July afternoon, that things got interesting. Jimmy was a fine driver, smooth in every aspect, but as a mechanic he was somewhat lacking. In his haste to be on his way that morning, he had neglected to check the engine fluids of the old hearse assigned to us. It was somewhere between Orangeburg and Bowman, South Carolina, that the friction between the pistons and the cylinders increased due to a lack of oil. The resulting heat caused the engine of the hearse to burst into flames. This put both Jimmy and myself in a bit of a predicament. We pulled to the side of the road as the flames began to lick the windshield and bolted, desperately wanting to save our own skins, but remembering that Ms. Belle had specifically requested burial and not cremation, we returned and through herculean effort we removed the casket from the hearse. We carried it about twenty feet or so away and after gently placing it on the verge of the interstate between the aforementioned buttercups and the highway; we turned to see the hearse completely engulfed in flames. Unable to think of anything else to do, I took a seat, and it was there, leaning against the casket, that I was enjoying the lovely day and watching Jimmy at the beginning of this account. It would appear that passersby found the scene a little off-putting and therefore refused to stop, I might add understandably. There must’ve been one good Samaritan among them however, who stopped at a gas station up the road and called the Highway Patrol to either rescue or investigate the two young gentlemen, the casket and the flaming hearse. Within an hour or so, a bemused highway patrolman walked up saying something in the line of “Well, this is something you don’t see every day,” and asked how he could help. Jimmy climbed into his car and they sped away to find a funeral home, I supposed, leaving me to guard the casket. Eventually even buttercups and blue skies become boring so I was a happy young man a couple of hours later when I saw a hearse, a brand-new hearse, coming towards me. We loaded Miss Belle into her new conveyance and headed not to Charleston but to Cane Crossing, on the outskirts of Wando, South Carolina, to the Cane Crossing Church of God Pentecostal. The crowd was small, mainly family, and out of the crowd a fine looking elderly gentleman, who had to be the preacher, walked over to me. We shook hands, and he asked me what had happened. I told him, as gently as I could, and his response was a deep, resonating laugh. What else was he supposed to do? After inviting Jimmy and myself to join them, he gathered his little flock of believers together in that old sanctuary for the service. Following a lovely prayer, he looked up and grinning told them that the service would not be nearly as long as was the wait. Then, barely holding back a laugh, he told them the story of Ms. Belle’s most excellent adventure. Afterwards, disregarding his sermon, he turned to the folks and said, “I think Miss Belle has probably had enough hellfire and brimstone for one day, don’t you? As Jimmy and I drove back to Columbia that night, I remember thinking of and being thankful for Ms. Belle. In the short time I had known her, I had gotten close to her. Actually her preaching convicted me a couple of times. I was truly happy that I had been blessed to be in her presence, as unusual as the setting may have been. Over and above that, I was happy that she was finally free from that confused mind of hers and whatever part of the past it was that plagued her. I was reminded that our God is a God of forgiveness and love and yes, forgetfulness of our wanderings. Thank God for His forgetfulness and His unique sense of humor. Amen? Tony Rowell   This is an older writing of mine; I will admit, however, that for some reason it is one of my favorites. I can’t help but wonder what was in the mind of that teenage girl as she held her Creator in her arms. I have always wondered what Mary pondered. Was it the simple joy of being a new mother, or was it the awesome responsibly that had been placed upon her as the mother of God. I will probably never know what was going through her young mind, but as Mary pondered the birth of Jesus Christ her son, so I have pondered Mary. Those Eyes I will never forget the expression on her face. I wish I could find a way to describe it. It’s been thirty some odd years now, and I can still see her eyes just as plain as if it was yesterday. Black as onyx, filled with young life and yet haunted somehow. Unforgettable, that’s for sure. In all my life, I don’t think I have ever seen anything as lovely or as awful as those eyes. They filled me with hope and dread at the same time. Now how do you do that? She was staring off into space with that newborn on her lap. She looked like she knew something that no one else did. Yeah, I know all new mamas look kinda like that, but there was something else; something that gave her a wonderfully secretive smile; and Lord have mercy did that smile set off the tears in her eyes. Never has there been nor ever will there be anything more beautiful or more tragic than those eyes. I will never forget them. They’ve haunted me for over thirty years now. Oh, I’ve kept up the best I could over the years. I mean it ain’t everyday a bunch of angels tell you where to go. That kind of thing sticks in your mind, you know. Not to mention seeing the baby, but it was those eyes, those eyes that captured me somehow. I remember praying for that little girl as I headed home that evening; praying that she could find some peace somewhere, find something to take that terrible sorrow from her eyes. I understand her boy has gotten Himself in some trouble as of late; started speaking the truth. Young’uns, they’ll do that sometimes. It takes a bit of livin’ to understand that the truth makes folks uncomfortable. Heck, it makes ‘em mad. It threatens ‘em more often than not, especially a truth like His; but He was sent to tell them, so tell them He did. I’m just glad I wasn’t there to witness the kangaroo court and the beatings. Just watching them raise up that middle cross and drop it into place from a distance was enough to tear me up. The sound of that cross dropping carried all across the city. It rang out like an angry clap of thunder. It broke my heart, as old as I am. Even the sheep fell silent around me. It rained all that day and on into the evening. About sunset things calmed down a little and by nightfall all was quiet; all but my mind, that is. I couldn’t sleep to save my soul that night. Every time I lay down, my mind would return to those haunted eyes from years before. Only now the smile had faded, and the tears of sorrow and pain were all that lingered. It’s been three days now since they pulled Him off that cross, and I slept pretty good last night. I just got up once or twice. I can tell you this though; I do believe I saw the prettiest sunrise I have ever seen this morning; not a cloud in the sky. I hope His mama was up early enough to see it. Have a blessed Easter. Love, Pastor Tony   Momma and Us Kids. (Circa 1964) When I was thirteen years of age, the Rowell clan lived in a couple of single wide mobile homes way out in the woods a few miles outside of Lexington. The older trailer house was for my brother Mike and me, and the newer trailer was for mom and dad and my little sister, Janie. Mary and I are still on that land living in a cozy little log cabin. Unfortunately, we are no longer country folks; the city has invaded the frontier much to our dismay. Well, back at that time I was a curious sort of kid; and to satisfy my curiosity one day, I was rummaging through some drawers in mom and dad’s trailer when I ran across a pack of cigarettes. My momma was one to smoke on the sly, and I knew it, but I had never found her stash until that day. Now at no time have I ever been accused of being the sharpest tack in the pack, and my first foray into theft did nothing to change the world’s opinion on that matter. You see, I stole one of Mom’s cigarettes; and then instead of walking out into the woods to give it a try, I lit it up in the bathroom of an 8 X 66 foot trailer somehow thinking I wouldn’t get caught. I got caught. When she caught me however, much to my surprise, my momma didn’t get upset at all. What she did was to follow her little brother’s example from years before when he mixed up some buttermilk and Alka-Seltzer and told his four year old nephew, i.e. me, that it was beer and not to tell my momma. I didn’t tell my momma, but I did take a crack at the beer and that was the last alcoholic beverage I have ever tried. Well my momma, like her mother and her brother before her, chose the co-conspirator path to solve her young son’s newfound smoking problem. She invited me to come sit out on the porch with her to have a smoke. She took the cigarette I had away from me because it was hers and only fit for a woman, (her words not mine), and then she went inside to get a real man’s cigarette. Same brand of cigarette, she just cut the filter off. She sat there on an old lawn chair with a nasty little grin on her face puffing away while she watched me smoke that entire thing. To help her cause she would insult my manhood whenever I paused; and after only a short while in her company, I was a beautiful shade of green. I discovered that afternoon that smoke tastes good only on the way down and I have never lit anything up since. My momma arose from a long line of Solomon's when it came to problem solving and young’uns. Like her momma before her, she relished giving you just enough rope with which to hang yourself. I have been searching for a deep hidden meaning in this story. As with most of my stories, I felt compelled to tell it, but for what purpose I’m not sure. Sometimes the Lord does this to me. He gives me a story, usually a real good one, and leaves it at that. In the past I would have tried to manufacture a Godly lesson in all of this, but not this time. I’m going to leave that up to you. Good luck. Love, Pastor Tony  Bobbe Jean  Love is a fascinating thing, isn’t it? We have no idea from where it comes and no idea where it goes, but we all agree that to be twitterpated is to find Nirvana. It’s something that we human beings need to exist. Like breath to the lungs, is love to the heart and soul. I have been privileged to travel the world over my 64 years, and I have noted that there are a few constants that circle the globe. The sky is blue, rain is wet, grass is green, sunsets and sunrises will take your breath wherever you might be, and people are in love. Whether you are in Times Square or Red Square or Tiananmen Square; you will find couples, men and women, old and young alike, strolling side by side with their hands entwined and their hearts strangely coupled. Those yet to be blessed with this gift will tell you that love is chemically no different than binging on Hershey bars, but love is more than that. Love is not just a heart thing. True love, God made love, is a soul thing. It is a spiritual thing, and done right, it is a forever thing. I started writing this thing because this is February, and Valentine’s Day is right around the corner. I always struggle when I know that I need to write about a particular thing. Yes, that’s childish, rebellious, and just a little foolish, all of which describe my psyche fairly well. With that being said, in my life I have been blessed with love. I have been blessed with loving and with being loved, and Lord have mercy, I don’t believe that God has given the human race a greater gift than that. Love sustains us, it strengthens us, it separates us from the beasts, and it is good. Love is from God, and in turn, love is an enigma. Love is the thing that all men want to find, but love is elusive and just a little cagey. Love is indefinable; it’s intangible. You can’t comprehend it nor can you lay hold of it. Oh, you can lay hold of your loved one and be delighted, but you can’t hold love. You can’t find love, it must find you. You can’t create it, or unearth it, because love is otherworldly. It comes from beyond our realm. It enters our hearts through paths unseen. It is my nature to question things, and my inclination was to discuss how we as human beings rely on lesser loves, often to the detriment of true Godly love. These loves in which we traffic are a shadow of the real thing; a mere counterfeit of the true love of God for mankind, but not today. Today I simply want to thank God for the gifts He gives us and the greatest of these gifts is His love for us, and as an extension, the love He gives us towards one another. To that end I want to say thank you to my God above and say a prayer for those who have yet to be blessed with His love. My prayer is that they will offer their hearts to the Lord fully and completely, so that He might fill them to overflowing with His perfect love, and their lives might be complete. Love, Pastor Tony   Grandpa Tharpe Many, many years ago, before the gray hair, before the weathered lines, before the yellowing teeth and the bad knees and shoulders, I was a boy; and one of the things that amazes me as I grow older is how many memories of my boyhood remain untarnished and vigorous in my mind. Most of them come from the time I spent with my Granny and Grandpa Tharpe, down in Panama City, Florida. You see, I spent my summers with them and they were special, I mean truly special people. I was one generation removed from them, my Mama being their firstborn, and the times I had with them, and the lessons I learned from them I cherish more than silver or gold. For good or for bad, the man I am today, has a lot to do with the gentle and sometimes not so gentle raising of both my Mama and myself by that gracious couple. When I was a boy, up until about twelve or thirteen, my family moved every couple years or so as a result of my father’s job as an engineer with General Electric. By 1970, my twelfth year, when we finally settled in Lexington, South Carolina, we had moved seven times. One result of such wandering is the inability of putting down much of a taproot in any of the places where we lived. In my personal opinion, for a child to grow up strong and steady, roots are necessary. With that philosophy in mind, I was blessed to spend my summers in the well-tended soil found on the corner of Drake Avenue and West 17th Street in the blue-collar section of Panama City. Maggie and Clayton Tharpe lived there, and I can think of no better place for a young boy to be when putting down roots. One of the countless memories I have of those times took place on an Indian summer afternoon. It was hot, I mean devil’s breath hot, but that didn’t keep me from hunting mullet off of the Dead Lakes dam just outside of Wewahitchka; but let me hold that thought for a second. I’m overrunning my shadow a bit. Let me back up a little. On that particular day Granny and Grandpa had awakened me at 4:00 a.m. to go fishing down at the dam. Back then I didn’t mind such foolishness. I was ten or eleven years old and I lived for Wednesdays, early morning or otherwise. You see on Wednesdays we would always go somewhere fishing, weather permitting of course. Grandpa was a milkman for the Borden Dairy company, had been all his life, and Wednesday was his day off. Well, actually he had Sunday and Wednesday off, but Granny reserved Sunday for church in the morning, and dressing up to no end in the afternoon so we could wander all over the countryside visiting this cousin and that cousin and this aunt and that uncle. It was enough to drive a young boy to distraction with boredom. Ask Grandpa; he’d agree. It did the same for an old man. But Sundays aside, Wednesday was a different matter altogether. On Wednesday we would always head out in search of fish and quiet. On this particular day, we were headed for the dam. The best I can recall, we arrived at the dam just before the crack of dawn. Granny always liked to out run everybody else. You see she had a favorite spot down by the spillway at the end of the dam, where the water whirled around a little bit and made sort of an eddy. She would settle down there with a couple of poles out, one with a cricket and one with a worm. During Catawba worm season she’d set out three poles, and when the mayflies came around she would set out four. What she was doing was trying to figure out what the fish were in the mood for on that particular morning. When she figured it out, she set out no less than four poles pointing in all directions with the anointed bait. And heaven knows that woman could fish. If she didn’t catch anything, you may as well go home. Now my Grandpa was a little antsy, and in turn wasn’t one to sit and watch a cork all day long, especially if there were largemouth bass around. Well, sometimes if we were down near Willis landing sitting on a Jon boat out on the Four Brother’s River, he would put a couple of poles out, but he would always be casting over them on the off chance that there might be a big old bass lurking under a log close by. On this particular day Grandpa was in the mood to wander so he grabbed his rod and reel and headed off down the dam, casting over the side and running a jig just over the spillway and a little past the riprap where the water was always restive. He said that was the place the big ones like to stay; and just like Granny, if Grandpa didn’t catch a bass or two, you may as well forget it. Well, all things have to come to an end and around sundown Grandpa brought me the bad news that we had to go. I was at the far end of the dam when he found me, and as we were walking to the other end and back to the car, he asked me to carry his rod for him, which I gladly did. It was like carrying Arthur’s Excalibur to me. As we walked, I screwed up the courage to ask him if I could try his jig for a minute. He thought for a second and with a little smile he said, “Sure.” And I had no sooner cast that thing into those uneasy waters when a six-pound bass grabbed it and took off for home, scaring me to death. It took a struggle, I mean a world class wrestling match, but finally I got that monster on the shore. To a ten year old boy, a six-pound bass is a monster. I will never forget the feelings of triumph and pure unadulterated joy catching that fish brought me, but that is not what I remember the most from that day. What I remember most are the words of my Grandpa on the way back home. After we had piled into the old Plymouth with me settling down on the back seat to sleep, we headed down that long straight road to Panama City. I was worn to a frazzle and just before my lids closed for the third time and I went under, I saw Grandpa look over at Granny and say, “I was really proud of that boy today. For a minute there I thought he was gonna give up, but he didn’t. He kept at it and got it done. I think we might make a fisherman out of him yet.” Now I know that simple statement might not seem like much to you, but to a ten year old boy, who loved and admired his Grandpa more than any man alive, before or since, that passing sentiment of acceptance and appreciation was nothing less than a blessing. Those words spoken in that quiet loving voice became part of the fabric of my being, a part which has held firm to this day. Simple lesson here: Let’s build one another up with our words in the coming year. We live in a harsh world filled with unforgiving and sometimes malicious, hateful rhetoric. As the children of God we are called upon to be the alternative to this world and its ways. If we speak to one another in love we will be a balm to this world; and the Lord knows that this world could use it. If we give into our lesser selves, we will simply blend in with the destructive din and become part of the problem. The power of words to build us up is as great, as is the power of words to destroy us. We, the children of God, are called to build. So as my Granny would say, “Let’s be sure to watch our mouths in 2023.” Love, Pastor Tony  Aunt Carolyn, Grandma Rowell, & Momma - 1950's  Schoolhouse Gap Trail I half expected to find Neptune when I got to the bottom of the trail. It had been raining so long and so hard I was no longer hiking. I was swimming. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but there was a lot of water and no escaping it. In an odd twist, I had to laugh when I realized that my bikini-clad friends whom I left up on the mountain were more appropriately dressed than I was for the current situation. I was weighed down with soaking wet jeans, a drenched backpack and boots filled to the brim with God’s bounty; while they were dancing in the rain, free as a bird, not weighed down by anything. Ah, to be young, and dumb again. As I recall, I mentioned a young family of a momma and daddy and two young boys sitting on a rock in the rain looking miserable and just a bit lost in my last writing. As I passed them by, I asked the dad how they were doing. He said “Oh we’re fine, we’re just waiting for the rain to stop so we can call for a ride.” I didn’t think much about that statement at the time, but it was a hint of things to come. I worked my way up into the woods beyond the parking lot to find a little shelter from the rain and wait for Mary to pick me up, and I didn’t give what he said a second thought. After Mary arrived and I had deposited my muddy carcass in my nice new Ford pick-up, I realized that the family had vanished. Good, I thought. At least they were out of the rain. I assumed they had been rescued; but you know what they say about assuming. As it turned out they had made the ill-conceived decision to try and walk home. For those of you who have been up in the Smokey Mountains, you probably know that to walk on the side of a mountain road on a sunny day is not a sign of high intelligence; but to walk on the side of that same road in the pouring rain is well, dumb or desperate or both. You’ve got cars and campers and trucks and everything else going around those curves willy-nilly, and the possibility of being knocked off the mountain by an Oldsmobile is greater than you might think. If any of you had a dad like mine then you know what I’m talking about. My father was a law abiding, measured man not given to panic or overreaction, but put him behind the wheel of a Rambler station wagon in the Smokey Mountains and he transformed into a middle-aged Richard Petty with a slight potbelly, a receding hairline, and a maniacal look in his eye that scared the wits out of his wife, and thrilled his sons no end. When a particularly sharp curved loomed and my mama hollered out “Bill!,” her tone was the oddest combination of sheer terror and begrudging admiration I have ever heard. Well, I’m in danger of sliding off the mountain myself if I keep this up. So let me get back at it. To continue the story, as Mary and I were driving down the hill towards Townsend, we came across this family strung out on the other side of the road walking, with Dad in front and mom bringing up the rear. Taking in their bedraggled appearance, the pouring rain and the desperate looks on their faces, Mary’s maternal juices began to flow; so she pulled over to the side of the road, a daring act in and of itself, and offered them a ride. While earlier in the day I had been mistaken for a messiah by a few young men wearing flip-flops simply because I carried a trail map; this entire family looked at Mary as if she was the Mother Mary herself. They were so happy and relieved at their rescue and grateful to she who rescued them. No matter how much Mary and I insisted otherwise, the family refused to come inside the truck and instead they all piled into the back, rain notwithstanding. So with the soggy family behind us and Townsend and home before us, we commenced. I’ll give the family this much, they were a stalwart crew. Every time I looked back to check on them, they gave me some agonized smiles and a whole host of thumbs up. You see, the rain had not abated one bit, so they were being pelted from every direction pretty good. When after seven miles we finally arrived at Townsend, we stopped at a little store so they could dry off a bit, and it was then that we found out that they weren’t headed for Townsend. They were headed for Walland, another ten miles or so down the road. By this time my curiosity got the best of me. So I asked the father where they were from, and he told me they were from Ocala, Florida. To further the conversation I asked him what he did for a living. He said he was an orthopedic surgeon. He then volunteered that he and the family had never been to the Smokey Mountains before. While appreciated, that was one question I didn’t need to ask. Finally I had to ask him how he and his family had gotten in such a pickle, and this is what he told me. They had arrived the night before at the airport up in Maryville. After they arrived he called an Uber to drive him and his family to the outskirts of Walland and the air B&B that they had rented. Everything went south the next morning when he called an Uber to take them to the trailhead of the Schoolhouse Gap Trail. Dad had gotten a little trail map of some sort, and it told him that the Schoolhouse Gap Trail was a breeze. It isn’t. Well, one side of the road is, but on the other side of the road it isn’t. He and his flatlander family chose the other side of the road. They made it about a mile or so up and turned back around. After a spell they once again arrived at the parking lot only to discover that there is no cell phone reception in the mountains to speak of, and their pickle was born. It would appear that this poor family had hired a sadistic Uber driver, or they had hired a goober driver, but one way or the other they were in a fix. To bring the story to a close, they all piled in the back of the truck once again and, rain or no, we drove the ten miles to Walland where we deposited the whole lot in the nice little air B&B they had rented. To borrow a line from the great Tom T. Hall, “Lord if I judge ‘em let me give ‘em lots of room.” They just didn’t know any better. I’ve been searching for a meaning, a deep meaning in this story. The Lord had me tell it, so I know it’s there. All I can say is this, beware of the confidence that ignorance brings. Whether it’s heading up the trail in flip-flops and cutoffs with no map and no compass, or heading up that same trail in bikinis and tennis shoes searching for an imaginary sign, or calling an Uber to take you up the mountain with no way back, or quoting heresy as if it were truth, the responsibility to get it right is yours and yours only. Many folks these days are quoting supposed ‘theologians’ as if their words are a pathway to truth. Before you venture out on the progressive limb, or the conservative limb for that matter, do your homework. Read the Word of God. Read the Word and listen to the Holy Spirit, not the countless voices of the world. Take the time to study the map before you head out on the trail. Love, Pastor Tony   Smoky Mountain Rain So where was I? Oh I remember now, I was heading down the Schoolhouse Gap Trail up in the Smoky Mountains desperately trying to outrun an impending thunderstorm and failing miserably. I think that’s where I left off last time. Wasn’t it? With a raindrop hitting me smack on top of the head while the thunder rolled off towards Townsend. Yep, that was it. I have often wondered how weathermen sleep at night. I mean some of this has to be intentional. I had been promised a beautiful day, with no chance of rain, just blue skies with a white puffy cloud here and there, and what did I get? An Appalachian Armageddon is what I got. I mean I have heard of being caught out in the rain before, but this was ridiculous. Within a few seconds, my peaceful trek through the woods turned to chaos with a brass band above, a river below, and a soggy sap who forgot his poncho stuck in the middle. Well, I didn’t exactly forget it. I left it, thinking I wouldn’t need it. You would think, however, that after 64 years a man would know who to trust and who to question. I suppose I’m just a romantic at heart, still believing in miracles. All whining and enrichment aside though, it was what my Granny would call a frog strangler, and it never seemed to let up. I was able to keep the camera dry but that was it; even my boots were full of water by the time I finally made it down the trail to the parking lot an hour or so later. There were compensations along the way, though. About halfway down the mountain I decided to seek shelter under the lee of a big poplar that overhung the trail. It didn’t offer much protection, but it tried. As I was sitting there on a rock, listening to the rain batter my head and shoulders and questioning my recreational choices, three girls, college-age I would guess, came around the bend just below my position, heading up the mountain. They were soaked to the skin like me, but what caught my attention was the fact that all three were wearing bikinis and tennis shoes; nothing else, just bikinis and tennis shoes. They had no backpacks, no canteens, no maps, no gear whatsoever, just bikinis and tennis shoes. Now I have been hiking the Smokies for over 45 years, and I have seen some interesting things up in the mountains. I’ve seen black bears a plenty, bobcats, birds of every size and shape, and tree huggers of all ages. I’ve seen white tailed deer and elk. I’ve seen snakes enough to fill a bushel basket and the occasional coyote to boot, but for the life of me I had never seen three girls wearing nothing but bikinis and tennis shoes. At least not to the best of my recollection; and I might be gettin’ a little long in the tooth, but it seems to me that I would recall something like that. Well, back to the story. Once I determined that these girls weren’t something that my waterlogged imagination had cooked up, I asked them where they were going. Actually I just yelled the question because the rain was coming down pretty hot and heavy at the time. I knew the answer, but I had to ask anyway. They hollered back that they were going to backcountry campsite number nine on the Anthony Creek Trail. Truthfully I was impressed; at least they knew what trail the campsite was on. That was more information than their flip flop wearing forerunners had to offer when I asked them the same question an hour or so before. Out of curiosity and courtesy, I asked them if they knew the way. They told me that somebody said there was supposed to be a sign up here somewhere. I had to tell them that there wasn’t; but to ease their distress, I took out my trusty old trail map and showed them the way. Worried because of the confused expressions on their faces, I gave them the map and once again showed them which way to go. The map was old anyway, as a matter of fact, the poor thing was more dishrag than map by that time, so it was no big loss. My suggestion that they turn around and go back to where they started from and try another day fell on deaf ears. Whatever was happening at backcountry campsite number nine on the Anthony Creek Trail appeared to have some gravity to it. So I bid them farewell, said a prayer for their safe travels, and waited for my next adventure. It didn’t take long. Not being firmly convinced that what I had just experienced wasn’t a Vienna sausage fueled delirium, I recommended to myself that I head on down that mountain just as quickly as my feet could carry me. So fearing for my mental state and hoping to ward off pneumonia, I stepped out into the torrent once again, and headed downstream. I won’t go into the details of the rest of my trek; it was just endless rain, mud and muck, with a little humiliation thrown in for flavor. I did keep to the shadows the rest of the way down, however, for fear that the odd ephemeral weatherman might see me and gain some sadistic glee from my difficulties. It isn’t often that a hiker relishes the sound of tires on wet pavement, but in this instance I did. As I rounded that final curve, I heard that distinctive sound and my mind said, “Hallelujah I’m almost home.” Then I looked at my watch and realized I was home thirty-five minutes early; and the rain showed no signs of stopping. Now to the best of my recollection, backwoods campsite number nine on the Anthony Creek Trail had a shelter or two built so that the Appalachian Trail hikers could have a nice place to sleep the night. Well, the parking lot had no such shelters. I crossed the highway and said “Hi” to a young family, looking all wet and miserable as they sat on a rock, and then I walked into the woods seeking shelter. I found none. I sat down under the lee of a big old Eastern Hemlock tree that offered little protection and didn’t even try to improve my situation. I closed my eyes and dreamed of dryer times and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. Mary had anticipated my rapid dissent and arrived about 10 minutes later. Seldom have I seen a more welcome sight. As I threw my gear in the bed of the truck and waded into the cab, I noticed that the young family on the rock had vanished. In my current state, I had to wonder if they’d been a figment of my overactive imagination, and that starts my next adventure; but that’s for another day. Well, you might be wondering, why in heaven’s name did the preacher tell that story? Good question. Well, to begin with, I simply wanted to chronicle one of the oddest hikes I have ever experienced. Starting with the old bear, then the flip-flop wanderers, followed by the bikini-clad college girls and finally the sodden surgeon who we haven’t gotten to as of yet, it was one weird walk; but I have noticed a refrain and a reason perhaps that the Lord wanted me to tell you this story. During this hike I had two opportunities to lead seven people to their destination, safely I pray. I had my trail map which I knew by heart, thank goodness. I had my knowledge, and the Lord put me at the right place at the right time. This might be a stretch, but I wonder how many times you and I have been given such opportunities to lead others to Jesus Christ; and I wonder how often we felt inadequate in our knowledge and perhaps our faith to take the lead. I know I have. My take away from this story is not unlike my take away from the story of the flip-flop wanderers. It’s a call for you and me to increase our knowledge of the Lord by reading and studying His word, so that when a lost wanderer comes around the bend, we can guide them to the top of the mountain where their Savior awaits. Love, Pastor Tony   Finley Cane Trail (Smoky Mountains National Park)  I left the old bear to his musings and continued on up the mountain. It was an absolutely lovely day. The sun was playing hide and seek behind some clouds every now and again; but on the whole, it was beautiful with just enough sun to bring warmth and enough shade to provide some counter–coolness. There are times when being on the trail up in the Smokies is enchanting. This was one of those days. After a couple of miles you start thinking you have the whole world to yourself. Traffic noise is gone with nothing left but the underlying sound the wood offers that is indescribable, a little disconcerting, and yet comforting at the same time. With the old bear out of my nostrils, I was left to enjoy the fragrance of the early autumn hills. It’s an odd mixture of leaf litter, late blooming flowers, and a freshness that you just don’t find anywhere else. The seacoast has its sweet salty breezes and the mountain has this distinctive freshness. Both are lovely in their own right, but I have to admit to being partial to the mountain’s freshness, myself. The mountain air seems to reach deep inside and refresh my well of peace somehow. As I continued on my way, I was just beginning to truly appreciate the particular joy that solitude brings, when I sensed that something was out of order. I stopped and listened carefully, and in a moment I heard it; the thing that a true hiker hates to hear more than anything else. I heard voices. Not the quiet subdued voice of experience, but the loud obnoxious voice of the young and uninitiated. There is an interesting phenomenon that takes place in the mountains. Often sound seems to appear and disappear as if by magic. As sound travels across the expanse of a valley and ricochets off of the surrounding mountain sides, sometimes it gets lost in the ether only to return from a different direction. On top of that, sound in the mountains is mysterious, with an eerie reverb added by the many echoes and the many directions from which they come. So it was with the voices that I heard. At first they reverberated through the trees that surrounded me as if they were coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Then they disappeared altogether. After a moment or two, I chuckled to myself. “Perhaps prayers are answered,” I said. “Maybe those weren’t voices at all. Maybe they were just audio apparitions of morons past.” Well, with the beauty of the day and the joy of hiking, I soon forgot those voices and continued making my way up the mountain. I won’t go into the joy of solitude in this writing. Just know it exists and is a treasure when it’s found, and on this day the treasure was mine. Eventually I made my way to the intersection of the Finley Cane Trail, the Bote Mountain Trail, and the West Pronged Trail. There was a nice sign there telling me where I was and that I was at an elevation of about 2200 feet. As it turns out, I was perched on the ridge of Bote Mountain. Some Good Samaritan, in days gone by, had blazed a rough side trail beginning just behind the sign and ending in a little meadow with a nice view of the valleys beyond. On top of that they had provided a nice log upon which you could sit and eat your lunch. By this time in my travels, I was a bit peckish, so I sat down and ate my lunch. Some misguided people, who are less advanced gastronomically than myself, may disagree with this statement, but in my mind there is no meal more satisfying to the body and soul than a can or two of Vienna sausages, accompanied by a banana, or an apple, all washed down with some lukewarm water from a canteen; as Andy would say “It’s Mm, Mm Good.” I was finishing up my meal and carefully watching a particularly ominous looking bank of black clouds work its way over the valleys before me when I heard it again. The voices were back and not just in my head this time. This time they were behind me on the trail, and they were confused. It would appear that they were not quite certain of where they were headed. Well, I figured that since a good Samaritan had helped me out with a nice log to sit on, the least I could do was go see if I could help these folks. To say I was surprised at what I saw when I came back out onto the trail would be an understatement. There were five college-age folks arguing over which way they needed to turn. They were dressed in cutoffs and T-shirts, with various colored flip-flops finishing their ensembles. There wasn’t a pack, or a canteen, or a map amongst them. I never thought of myself as a messiah before, but they sure looked at me as if I was one. After we talked for a while, I found out that they were looking for backcountry campsite number nine. I took out my trusty old map and told them they needed to go three point seven miles down the Bote Mountain Trail and then turn right on the Anthony Creek Trail. After that a walk of about one quarter of a mile at the most should do it, and they would be there. I told them I would be praying for them as they traveled because there was a big old bear wandering around hereabouts. They looked a little startled, so to calm them down I asked them who the slowest runner amongst them was. Four of them pointed to one of them, so I told the four that they had no reason to worry. After that I headed down the trail whistling, secure in the knowledge that my newfound friends would get to their destination sooner rather than later. After they had been gone five or ten minutes, and I was working my way back down the trail the rumbling above started. When I pause to take a look back up the trail, a streak of lightning hit the top of the ridge that I had just left. Then a big old raindrop hit me right smack on top of the head, and that starts the next chapter in this journey. Hopefully I’ll have time to tell you about the bikini-clad travelers and the sodden surgeon I met on the trail next time, but for now that is all the time I have. Being a preacher I can usually find an allegory in a Campbell soup commercial, and I have found one in this story. There are a lot of lost people wandering around on this planet. Most of whom are ill prepared for this life much less the next. As I worked my way back down the trail that rainy afternoon, I kept asking myself a question. I wondered if I was as prepared and as confident in my preparations to guide someone to their heavenly home as I had been to guide those misplaced college kids to campsite number nine. I didn’t like the answer. How about you? Love, Pastor Tony  |
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December 2024
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