 Assessing the situation. “What in Heaven’s Name is That?”
I was hiking the Finley Cane trail up in the Smokies between Townsend, Tennessee and Cades Cove when those words, or a close facsimile thereof, came to my mind. I was working my way up to the West Prong Trail so I could jump over to Schoolhouse Gap and then head back down to the parking lot where Mary was set to pick me up in four or five hours, give or take. As I went along, I was quietly talking to myself, and having a fine conversation, when my eyes went one way and my nose went another. I was several miles up the trail and deep in the woods when my eyes noticed a perfect ninety degree angle at the end of a straight line thirty yards or so to my left. It was sitting down the hill a ways on the forest floor hiding amongst the flora and fauna. Now I know Mother Nature, and perfect ninety degree angles way back in the woods just ain’t her style. She tends to lean toward the Salvador Dali way of doing things more than she does towards Picasso’s Cubism. So my mind whispered in my ear that something wasn’t right. My ear finding nothing amiss, asked my nose to take a look, and my nose quickly noticed that the air had gone from pristine to primordial. There was musk on the air and not the good kind. This musk was mixed with untold other odors that urged lesser creatures than myself to decamp and decamp quickly. As for me, I got curious and followed the foul-smelling odor with my eyes up the mountain to where it ended or rather started. A big, old full grown black bear was about a hundred yards over to my right and heading my way. To my relief I noticed that he wasn’t focused on me, rather he was focused on the aforementioned ninety degree angle and the bear bait nesting within to my left. You see that darn thing was a bear trap, and one of these days I would like to meet the mind that thought putting a bear trap thirty yards from a hiking trail was a sensible notion. Then again, maybe not; it might be better that he or she remains anonymous, for neither the bear nor I thought it a good idea. I will give that old bear this much, he had finely tuned his focusing ability. You see he failed to notice me until he was at about the forty or fifty yard mark where, after a judicious clearing of my throat, he stopped dead in his tracks and regarded me curiously. As it turned out, he didn’t know me from Adam and had no desire to make my acquaintance. Sensing that the feeling was mutual, he preceded to turn tail and casually walk back to his original position on the ridge up above me. From that vantage point, he could assess the situation calmly. As I stood there listening to my heart pound, gathering my thoughts and renewing any vow I had made to the Lord that I could remember, it came to me that the bear’s assessment might lead to an unhealthy forecast; one that wouldn’t bode well for my wellbeing. With that in mind, I proceeded to calmly continue on my way up the mountain. I am afraid I may have left a scent trail for a little while there, but thank God that old bear didn’t want anything to do with this old man. Hiking is like life that way. You never know what’s around the next corner. On this particular hike, the bear and the bear trap story was just the opening salvo of a hike that held much adventure, several curiosities and a lesson or two for me. Just like life. I don’t have the space in this article to do justice to the lost and thirsty exchange students or the bikini clad travelers or even the soggy surgeon and his family that I met that day. Those are for other essays. Kinda tickles the curiosity though doesn’t it? All I know is that if I had not ventured down the trail that day, I would have never experience the exhilaration, the surprise, the laughter, nor the refreshing shower with which I was blessed. I suppose the lesson in this, for me at least, is that life is a gift from God above. What I do with that gift is left up to me. I can fritter my life away in fear, and timidity, or venture out for Christ relying upon His strength and guidance to support me. I vote for adventure. How about you? Love, Pastor Tony
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 Deerpoint Lake (Sunrise) It was so hot that you could feel the sweat trickling down your back. If I had been wearing a shirt, it would have been sticking to me, but I was twelve or so and my wardrobe for the summer consisted of a pair of cut off’s and tennis shoes. On this particular hot July afternoon, my Grandpa Tharpe and I were heading back to the house from Dearpoint Lake. We said we had gone there to fish, but actually we had gone there to get away from my Granny as she prepared for the coming family reunion to be held at her house. Between the cooking and the coming guests, she was nervous as a the proverbial long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and she let it out by being nasty to Grandpa and me from time to time. On account of that, we decided we needed a break, so we took off fishing. Now Dearpoint Lake is really neat. You see, it is situated just a few miles from the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. As a matter of fact, it is separated from Panama City Bay by only a dam. It has one of those dams that has a spillway which is always running, so the water on one side is fresh and on the other it is brackish. That is it's a mixture of fresh and salt water. Now from what I have learned in school and from observation, brackish water is teaming with life. Life that can live nowhere else can live in this strange mixture of waters. If you ever get a chance, go down to the salt marshes on the coast and see what I mean. Unless I am mistaken, Murrell’s Inlet, or at least the marshes that surround it, is made up of brackish water for the most part; and those of you who have been there, know the life it holds. Well, at that time in my life, as it is with most budding young men, I was having some difficulties with my Dad. Nothing big mind you, but I was resentful of him being gone all the time. You see, he worked for General Electric at that time and was gone a lot, but I wanted him near, to play ball and fish and to do all the things that boys love to do with their Dads. In truth, I wanted him to be like my Grandfather who always seemed to have time for me. When I was at Grandpa’s house, he always seemed available. He always seemed near, seldom scolding, seldom correcting. In truth I resented my Father for not being as available and as forgiving as was my Grandpa. So in that my Grandpa and I were very close, I told him about my feelings. Make that, he egged me on until I told him what he already knew. So it was that on the way home from fishing on that July afternoon that he decided to try and explain what fatherhood was to me. Now my Grandpa wasn't much on words. Actions were his usual teaching method, but this time he told me something that stuck. First of all he told me that being a Daddy was like always living in the fresh water. You got to play most of the time. Everything tasted good. As a Daddy you were always able to make everybody happy. You were always there to play ball, to take walks, to do whatever came to mind. Being a Daddy was fun and exciting. Then he told me that being a father was like living in the ocean. The water was salty and difficult to drink. You were forever trying to fight the surf to get things done. Life as a father was seldom fun. It was usually difficult and tiring. Playing ball was forbidden. Walks were scarce, and even though you fought with the current to bring life to your family, the fight was seldom appreciated because they were not out in the water with you. They were waiting on the shore. Life as a Father was difficult, to say the least. Then he told me that life as a Dad was like life in the brackish water. He said that in the brackish water there was a good mixture of the two. There was fun and games and hard work and responsibility. He said that life was to be found in the brackish water. Grandpa told me that when I became a Father I would need to swim for the brackish water as fast as I could. He said that the undertow of the ocean was far greater than that of the fresh water and that if I wasn't careful, I would be overtaken by the responsibilities of fatherhood and neglect what was really important. He told me that if I wasn't careful I would sacrifice life for livelihood. He was quick to point out that both were needed but that maintaining the mixture, while being hard to do, was the essence of life. He continued to explain to me that my Dad was doing his best to raise three children in a world which was constantly changing and that from time to time the ocean would pull my Dad under as it had my Grandpa in a similar time of his life. My Grandpa explained that he was now free of the burdens of many family responsibilities and that was why he was able to do what he knew my Dad so longed to do with me. In that few minutes with my Grandpa, on that sweltering summer’s day, my life was changed. His words of true wisdom changed my life forever. I continued to wish for more time with my Dad, but I at least understood, as much as a twelve-year-old can, the reasons for his absence; and I was therefore able to enjoy his presence all the more. For you Fathers, Daddy’s and Dads out there, I pray often. Fatherhood is no easy job. But our job it is. The little ones are watching you. Don’t let them down. Love, Pastor Tony  Deerpoint Lake (Sunset)  This may sound a little simplistic, but with that being said, I declare here and now that you can determine a great deal about the character of a man simply by watching what he does or does not do with a grocery cart once he has finished with it. I further declare that you can determine the moral health of a nation in the same way. The more grocery carts left to their own devices, the further down the de-evolutionary scale goes the country. It is a fascinating study. I have seen men and women of high degree and other upstanding citizens act like run of the mill lowlifes as they have set their grocery carts free to roam the parking lots of America in search of cars to dent, trucks to scratch and parking places to occupy. It is a shameful thing to witness. Conversely, I have also seen men and women of lesser status rise above their societal constraints as they have diligently deposited their buggies in one of the many cart corrals scattered throughout the lot. Such folks are a tribute to their raising, and humble or not, they are worthy of imitation. The issue at hand, as I see it, is that there is not enough imitation taking place these days. Call me a dinosaur if you wish, and that may well be true, but I believe that there is simply not enough proper raising going on as of late. There is far too much focus on self and not enough on teaching the young ones in our charge the way they should go and how they should be. I mean where are the “yes ma’am’s,’ and the ‘yes sirs” of days gone by? Where is the respect for your elders and what happened to common decency? Where are the simple phrases of kindness hiding? You know: “Let me get that for you.” “Ladies first.” and “Please excuse me.” While I am venting, what has happened to having concern for the others around you? I mean walking through Walmart these days often resembles a four letter word cage match from which you can’t escape, and I’m talking about the children’s section. Dinner at a fine restaurant was once accompanied by soft music and quiet conversation. Now there are cell phones buzzing and loud one sided conversations all around. I will spare you my opinion on answering your cell phone during a funeral or talking full voice during a movie or concert. I know that I may be overstating things a bit. For there are sanctuaries of civility left, mostly down South, I dare say. Hyperbole aside however, such places are becoming increasingly scarce every day, even in the land of gentility and decorum. Old times there have been forgotten by many, it would appear. So what can be done about it? The horse is already out of the barn it seems. Well, the best way I can think of to help the current situation correct itself is simply by declining to participate. Refuse to be rude. Be polite. Respect your elders. Help those in need. Don’t complain, and teach others, especially the young ones following in your footsteps, to do all of the above. At the risk of sounding like a preacher, “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” In other words put your buggy up when you’re finished, and if some wayward clergyman has rudely set his buggy free to roam, do him a favor and put his buggy in the paddock as well, and then send a prayer his way. Love, Pastor Tony   It seems that in every generation there are some who truly believe that we are living in the end times; that the latest tyrant is the long awaited anti-Christ; that in no time Christ will come down riding on a cloud from the East and set things right on this planet. Yet, we are still here; left to deal with the wars and the rumors of wars, and left to wonder when the Lord will have had enough and bring down the curtain. We speculate when, and in some minds, if, the Lord will finally show Himself and prove that He is the God we think He claims to be. Often blinded by the reality in which we live, we become restive. We forget that we are the Quick, not the Dead, and so we are limited in our knowledge of God and His ways and His love that reaches far beyond our understanding. We chafe at the thought that our God is the ultimate optimist. We are secretly annoyed in our knowing that God’s love yearns to reach even into the tyrant’s heart. We want action now, but God has the patience to wait for the miracle, for that wonderful transformation from child of wrath into child of God. We prefer wrath to be met with wrath, yet God meets the tyrant with love, and so our impatient irritation grows. We want revenge, while our God desires repentance. We want the Ninevites punished, while our God desires their forgiveness.[i] Easter has been observed by Christians for two millennia now and for sixty-three years by yours truly. Yet I often wonder at our, at my, limited understanding of what took place on that glorious Resurrection Day. When Christ emerged from that darkened tomb and walked into the brilliant sunlight on His Resurrection Morning, He brought with Him a healing balm for all of creation. From the holiest of saints to the most loathsome of sinners, Christ makes no distinction. His love, His offer of forgiveness, rebirth and eternal life is for all who would believe in Him. [ii] The balm of His forgiveness is available to everyone. As Easter approaches, let me suggest that you consider those for whom you may hold ill will in the light of Christ. Consider them travel worn and sin sick in need of rest and healing. Offer them the salve of your forgiveness. As Christ has forgiven you, forgive them. Pray not for their demolition, rather pray for their salvation. By doing so, you will walk in the Savior’s footsteps and find peaceful rest in your Savior’s shadow. Happy Easter Pastor Tony [i] See the book of “Jonah” chapters 3 & 4 [ii] John 3:16   Cades Cove - Methodist Church In my opinion, there is one place this side of the Mississippi River that should be on everyone’s bucket list to visit before they die. That place would be Cades Cove up on the Tennessee side of the Smoky Mountains. If you have never been there, I recommend that you go. There is just something cathartic about the place. It soothes the soul. It’s strikingly beautiful with deer, turkey and bear abounding and in spite of the multitude of cars and trucks that make the loop every day, it is strangely peaceful. However, if true inner peace is what you seek, then you must go beyond the ordinary and hike the surrounding mountains up above the Cove. That is when the place is downright magical. When you get lost in the quiet, a peace descends upon you like nothing you have ever experienced. My family went there many times when I was a child, and my memories of the Cove are crowded with laughter and joy; and in my desire to share, I have taken my family up there more times than I can remember. I have lots of stories from the place, some of which I have already told you, but one of my favorites happened when I was a boy, nine years of age or so. Mom, Dad, Mike, Janie and I were finishing up the loop. It was twilight and we had made it into the pine forest near the end of the trail. It had been raining off and on all day, so there was a mist in the air that gave the forest a haunting, haunted, look. When all of a sudden brake lights flashed up in front of us and all the cars stopped dead in their tracks, and then the folks started piling out of their vehicles and wildly running toward something up ahead of us. It would appear that a bear had been spotted and all the folks who didn’t know any better and a few that did had decided to take a closer look. Well, the bear took offense at having his evening constitutional disturbed; so he decided to find a quieter path somewhere else, and the race was on. Now being a nine year old boy, I wanted to join that frantic mob and see what was going on; but Momma being older and wiser stopped me and said, “Just wait.” A minute or two later she started laughing, that breathless laugh of hers, and pointed up in front of us. Coming at us at breakneck speed was that same brave and daring mob that had faced their fears and the elements to chase their quarry just a few minutes before. Only now they were in a frenzy, tripping over one another and themselves, screaming in terror and looking for all the world like they were about to throw up in unison. It appears that the bear had just been funning with those folks. Either that or it had gotten fed up with the game and turned on the crowd. One way or the other, like a school of herring, the crowd panicked as one, forgot all dignity and generally made fools of themselves right there in front of God and everybody. In the midst of it all, over and above the commotion, and mom’s derisive laughter, I swear to this day that somewhere off in the forest I heard a deep satisfied chuckle echoing amongst the trees. Right before the traffic started to move again, Mom tapped my Dad on the shoulder and pointed to an older man, wearing a worn-out backpack, with a nice camera hanging off of his left shoulder and a walking stick in his hand. The old man was meandering out of the same woods from which the crowd had so unceremoniously departed. He wasn’t running like all the rest. He was at peace and his pace bore witness to that peace. With admiration in her voice, Mom said, “He’s probably the only one in the crowd who truly appreciated what he saw.” I think that was probably where my love of the outdoors, of hiking and of photography started. The reverence in her voice and the dignity she afforded that old man struck a deep chord in me. I don’t know why he impressed her so, nor do I know why I was so impressed by her words, but it was so. I have been pondering that story for the last little while. The Lord brought it back to my mind for a reason, and while I am no soothsayer, I may have an inkling as to why. We, as the children of God, have been called upon by our Lord to be examples to the lost sheep that surround us. We are called to lead them from fear and chaos into the light and peace of a relationship with Jesus Christ. Over the past few years, I question what kind of job we have done. No offense intended, of course, but I fear that many of us have not been the best of examples. I have watched as some Christian leaders reacted in fear and panic instead of faith to the dangers surrounding them, and in turn, those being led by them are fearful and plagued by a faltering faith. We, as Christians, are called upon to rise above the crowd in faith so that others might see that faith and be heartened by it. Fear is contagious and destructive and many will follow their fear into hiding; but when one faithful follower defeats fear through faith, others will follow as well. Be that person. Be the Christian that leads others from fear and chaos to the peace of Christ. Be the light in their darkness. Love, Pastor Tony.  Cades Cove - Momma's Favorite Field Photos - Copywrite - A.S. Rowell
 She didn’t have the money. I knew she didn’t have the money, and she knew she didn’t have it, but she was bored. It was Wednesday afternoon, and it was raining at Granny’s house. Worst still, it was raining down at Wewa and Willis landing and the Dead Lakes dam.
Wednesday was our fishing day so Granny and I were bored and more than a little depressed. Cabin fever settles down quickly on a ten year old boy and his antsy Grandma. So since Granny couldn’t dangle a fish on the end of her line on account of the rain, she figured the Kirby Vacuum Cleaner salesman at the backdoor would have to do. So she invited him in. After all, he promised her a free doodad if she would just let him talk for a spell. She said “Okay, but she didn’t know what she was in for. Lord have mercy, that man could talk up a blue streak. After he dragged in his demonstration Kirby, shining like a brand new silver dollar, and a couple of bags of dirt for demonstration purposes, he took off. I was just learning how to play harmonica back then, and I remember thinking that you could keep a tune going without stopping for breath on a harp by blowing out and sucking in; but I had never seen it done while talking. He never paused. He just went on, and on, and on. Well, after an hour or so, the fella finally paused for effect and asked Granny what she thought of his fine machine. She told him she didn’t think too much of it. It was way too heavy for her taste, and it was way too expensive on top of that and while she appreciated his time, she would stick with what she had. That didn’t go over well. He was incredulous when he asked “Are you serious, ma’am?” Granny assured him that she was, and after that he started looking at the house like it was filled to the gills with roaches, ants and other creepy crawlies; but he didn’t stop. Nothing could get him off track. He took a bag of dirt and without so much as a “With your permission ma’am,” he just poured it all out on Granny’s living room carpet. It was about that time that the rain clouds started moving from the outside to the inside of the house. I knew a storm was brewing, so my interest, which had waned a little, picked back up again. Well, his machine did a fine job of cleaning up his mess, but he wasn’t satisfied with letting the machine talk for itself. His mistake came when he pointed out that the spot where he had vacuumed looked a lot cleaner than the rest of the place. When without warning, he poured out the second bag of dirt on the kitchen linoleum, Granny politely excused herself and went into her bedroom. Now I knew that she kept a broom handle and a twelve gauge shotgun in the bedroom closet just in case somebody broke into the house. My only question was, which one she would choose? As I was carefully backing away from the scene, I fully expected to see her come barreling out of there with all guns a blazing, but instead she came out with her three hundred year old Electrolux following behind her for all the world like a little wiener dog. She plugged it in gingerly as it tended to spark a bit, and sucked up the dirt that had been so unceremoniously spilled on her floor. Then she re-vacuumed that place on the carpet where he had made the first mess and took obvious pride as she listened to the dirt rattling and ringing its way up the old metal hose and into the canister. Finally, without apology she kicked him out of her house and told him he could keep his doodad. He mumbled something under his breath, but something in Granny’s eye made him keep whatever it was to himself. I have to admit to being taken back a little, so I asked Granny why in the world she was rude to the poor fella. He was just trying to make a living. She said “I wasn’t being rude. I was just giving back what I got.” She continued, “Had he asked me my name when he came in, I would have been a little nicer; but he never did. If he had taken no for an answer when I gave it I might have considered what he had to offer, but he wouldn’t. He just drove on through all the stop signs, and on top of everything else, he wasn’t just rude, he smelled to high heaven. The least he could do was to take a bath once in a while, or is it just me?” It wasn’t just her. I am often amazed at what the Lord sends me when I start writing. I wanted to write a nice, quiet lovey-dovey article about February, Valentine’s Day and stuff like that. I didn’t want any rabblerousing or controversy. I wanted puppies and petunias, sugar cookies and kittens; but with that being said, I have no doubt that the Lord wanted this story told. So why would that be? Well, the obvious lesson I see in all of this is the simple reminder that a bar of Ivory soap and a Tic Tac just might be two of your most effective evangelistic tools; but I do believe there is something more here. If you haven’t noticed politeness, decorum and simply acting right has gone out of style as of late, even, dare I say, in the South. From social media and cell phones to politics, I could blame many things for the recent decline in good manners and the like; but the truth is such things simply act as avenues and catalysts for our bad behavior. They are simply tools used by countless folks to hide behind while they act like jerks. I love that word. It encompasses so much. With that being said, according to our Savior you and I, as the Children of God, are called upon to be the light of the world; and we are to let nothing stand between the light of Christ in our life and the world we are call upon to serve. So buck the system, be polite, be well mannered and let your light shine. Love, Pastor Tony “I don’t know about you,” said the older man with the crow’s feet around the eyes and the gray feathering its way through his temples, “But I am about as tired as I can be of the morals flaming out around me. It seems to me that no matter where I turn, the rights and wrongs have gotten all twisted up. I mean, when I was a chap none of this catting around would be put up with, especially not in the high places; but now it seems that nobody cares anymore about anything or anybody but themselves. “If it don’t bother me, who cares?” That’s what they say. “Darn fools.” He shifted a bit in his seat to keep this part or that from falling asleep, and then dove back into his attack. “I think I know what the problem is. I think I know why we’re in such a fix, and I think I know how to cure it. You see it’s like this. We are all alone out there. We sit around, side by side, and don’t even talk to each other. We fuss that the morals of this great country are headin’ south, and nobody’s listening. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times, “Those politicians and judges are taking my morals and my God and throwing Him and them in the trashcan, and I don’t know what to do about it. I try to raise my kids right, but the schools and the T.V. try to raise ‘em wrong and win most of the time. What’s a fella to do?’ That’s what I hear, and I think I know where we’re going wrong.” “You see, it’s like this. Back in my day, just before the Great War, we were all doing pretty well. Yea, we heard about the war in Europe and all, but that wasn’t us. That was them, and what were we supposed to do about it? Now some among us had kin over there, and they would cry out that their kinfolk were being killed, and we needed to do something to help. Now we weren’t about to go get ourselves killed for their kinfolk. They weren’t our kinfolks. They were their kinfolk, so let them go die for them, not us. But one day, December 7th as I recall, the Japanese flew into Pearl Harbor and bombed our boys. They killed our people. They attacked us. Now it wasn’t their kinfolk, it was our kinfolk being killed, and we had to do something about it. On account of that horrible day though, something strange and wonderful happened. Because of Pearl we came to life. There weren’t no more blacks, or whites, or men or women. There was just us, and we had to do something to protect our nation and our people. In the flash of a torpedo we turned from a nation of “I” into a nation of “we.” It wasn’t "I" have had it with Hitler and his crowd,’ it was "we" have had it,’ and after that we knew we were going to win. After the “I” became “we,” we had them. Multiply that "we" a million times and there was no stopping us.” “Now we haven’t had a Hitler to deal with for a while now, and like men have always done, we’ve fallen to our old ways. We are once again a nation of “I.” I want my rights. I want my way. I want to do whatever I darn well please thank you, and I don’t care what you, or God or anybody for that matter has to say about it. But, friend, my God and my morals are under attack just as sure as Pearl was and so are yours. And unless we come together, not as black men and women or white men and women, but simply as men and women all created in the image of God to fight the forces of evil which have the upper hand in this great nation of ours, it appears the United States of America will sink just as sure as did the Arizona.” “It’s high time that we stop letting the forces which rule the airways and the government tear at the fabric of our nation and at our God." “When they take prayer out of my school, they take it out of yours. When they say that the murder of infants is ok in my town, they say it is ok in yours. When they attack me and my beliefs, they attack you and yours and until we come together as one, to stand up to the evil forces that try to divide us, the destruction will continue. Until we can stand side by side as one, against the forces of selfish desire and immorality, such things will continue to flourish. Until we link hearts and minds and proclaim in one voice, ‘We have had enough,’ this great nation of ours will continue to decay until there is nothing left but the aftermath of evil.” For a moment, he looked a bit bewildered, then he shifted in his seat once more to relieve this part or that, and with tired eyes he stared out across the crowded Applebee’s and sighed a sigh of resignation with the shadow of fear and longing crossing his weatherworn face. That old man and I sat next to one another waiting on a table in Applebee’s way back in 1998. twenty-two years ago. I had never met him before; but he asked me what I did for a living, and when the word “preacher” came out of my mouth, his bomb-bay doors opened and out came his story. I feel sure that he is long gone now, but the truth of his words remains. I don’t know about you, but I love this country. To quote Merle Haggard, “If you’re putting down my country, man, you’re walking on the fighting side of me.” You see, I have been blessed, as many of you have, to see a great deal of the rest of the world; and trust me, there is no place I would rather live than right here in the good old U.S. of A. It is truly the greatest nation to ever grace the planet, but we are in danger. As love of God and country is being and in many cases has been replaced with love of self, the decay has indeed continued. As we near the tipping point, it is time that we as brothers and sisters in Christ and fellow Americans, stand shoulder to shoulder against the forces that would destroy this wonderful country of ours. So, wear the red, white and blue proudly. Sing the anthem with enthusiasm and pride. Pray for our wonderful country and those who lead it, and do so in public. Let the world see that you are unashamedly Christian, and that you are proud of the nation in which you live. I am amazed when I think that simply writing these words of God and country will be considered radical by some; when to me they are just good old ordinary common sense: (A rare commodity these days).   My momma was a lovely Southern Belle born and bred in the backwater of the Florida panhandle. She was beautiful in a country girl sort of way. With her emerald green eyes, jet black hair and lithe form, she could turn a head or two with no effort at all. I will never forget the light that came into her eyes when she spoke of those glorious days of youth when to be pursued by the local beaus was a matter of course. She was the talk of the town, what town there was, and the belle of the ball; and she loved every minute of it. Like most of the Southern Belles I have been blessed to meet and marry over the years she was a lovely combination of gentility and don’t mess with me. Like her mother before her, she had a heart of gold, a backbone of cast iron, the temper and tenacity of an irate bobcat and a smile that could disarm any number of desperados. The definition of a Southern Belle was my momma, and the southern heritage in her veins rang true; but like the Liberty Bell before her, my momma was a little cracked. She hid it well, but once in a while a discordant note would sound and the family would know that mom was in a mood; and that at the very least, something unique and perhaps, dare I say, disturbing was about to happen. Christmas dinner was often accompanied by such a discordant note. You see my mother had a unique, and to me at least, a startling take on Christmas dinner sometimes. Whereas most of the civilized world, that would be the South, had settled on ham or turkey for the entrée with mashed potatoes, butter beans, creamed corn, candied yams and the like for the sides; it would appear that my mother had attended the Andy Warhol School for the Culinary Arts and had other opinions. I kid you not, over the years we as a family enjoyed, or in my particular case endured, a vegetarian Christmas Dinner, a Mexican Christmas dinner, a broiled fish Christmas dinner, a cocktail weenie Christmas dinner and the crème de la crème of Christmas dinners, a steamed oyster Christmas dinner with a side of raw oysters for the, quote, “regular folks.” Now I can take a lot. I can; but when I entered mom’s house that Christmas morning for the annual Rowell family Christmas expecting to be greeted by the savory smells of roast beast and figgy pudding, only to be met with the pungent odor of oysters on the half shell enjoying a nice steam, my reaction was predictable if not pleasant. You see, I am very consistent in a few things. I don’t like change, and I have no love for oysters, raw or otherwise. To me they are gooey and creepy, squishy and grey. As a foodstuff, they are a sorry substitute for turkey and dressing, trust me. At the time of this surfside Christmas dinner, I was old enough to know better than to make a scene. After all I was a seminarian and student preacher and to fuss and cuss and fume just wouldn’t do. So I did the next best thing. I found a chair off by itself, sat down and pouted like a three year old. My momma, God rest her soul, spied her melancholy middle child, pulled up a chair across from me and shamelessly laughed at me. When she finally caught her breath she said with a grin, “You haven’t learned much in that seminary of yours have you?” I said “M’am?” Then momma looked deeply into my eyes and said: “Christmas isn’t about you Tone. You of all people should know that.” Later when she brought out the fried chicken that she had prepared for my Christmas dinner, I had to fight off the rest of the family like they were a pack of wild dogs. No matter though, it was nice to know that I wasn’t alone. A few years later, just before Christmas, my momma passed away, leaving the family lost and alone and rudderless for a while; and leaving her melancholy middle child heartbroken even to this day. Jane, my sister, and I were with momma when she passed; and as I felt her body relax beneath my touch, I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for the mother with whom I had been blessed. Odd as she could be at times, I could not have asked for better. Christmas can be a difficult time for some of us. I will forever be reminded of my mother’s passing as Christmas approaches. I am reminded as well of the poignant words of my mother all those years ago reminding me that Christmas isn’t about me; Christmas is about the amazing love that our Creator holds in His heart for each of us. So whether its turkey and dressing or steamed oysters, celebrate the Christ child this coming Christmas and rejoice in the love that your Lord has for you. Bon Appétit and Merry Christmas! Pastor Tony   I will forever have a picture in my mind of my older brother, Mike, sitting outside of Granny Tharpe’s laundry room on a hot summer’s afternoon, looking dejected, angry and slightly indignant with a bar of soap sticking out of his mouth. I don’t recall the brand of soap, but it was a nice shell white, or maybe it was antique white; I could never tell the two apart, but color aside, from the expression on Mike’s face, it wasn’t particularly tasty. Now, Mike hadn’t talked back, or been rude to Granny in any way. He knew better than that. The issue at hand lay in the fact that Granny had heard him use the word, dare I say it, darn, in casual conversation through the kitchen window. Quickly thereafter she proceeded to grab him by the hair of the head, give him a good tongue lashing and after that she gave him a good tongue washing right there in front of God and everybody. Lord have mercy, can you imagine what folks today would say about such a thing? I can tell you this though, Granny wouldn’t care one lick what they thought or said. Granny didn’t even call momma to ask permission to discipline her darling little boy. She didn’t fear the DSS or any other governmental agency. Heck, (I hope she didn’t hear that), but heck, she didn’t fear God Himself when it came to raising children, because she knew His book and was following that Book as closely as she knew how. You see, Granny wanted her grandchildren to grow up to be good citizens and decent, godly people and teaching them to watch their mouths was just part of the training. As Mike’s younger brother I watched closely. I listened and I learned and from then on I did my darning well out of earshot; but there was one thing I never did in earshot or out. I never talked back, and I was never rude or disrespectful to my Granny. First of all, that was because I loved her and would never want to hurt her. Secondly, it was because I had been taught to respect my elders by my momma and my daddy. Besides all of that, if I had talked back or been rude or disrespectful to my loving Granny, she would have knocked me clean back to the antebellum days and I would have deserved every last bit of it and more. Lord, have mercy, where have all the Grannies gone? If the television and the politicians and the folks down at Walmart and Best Buy are any indication, there hasn’t been enough soap in enough mouths for a long time now. Now before you get all high and mighty and proud of yourself, your mouth just might be one in need of a little soap itself. Eph 4:29 29 Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. NIV So how are you doing on that account? Personally, I plan on pleading the fifth and probably eating a little heavenly Lifebuoy in the long run. Luke 6:45 45 The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks. NIV Love, Pastor Tony   I loved my Granny and Grandpa Tharpe’s old house. It had everything a little boy could want or need. It had Granny and Grandpa for loving, lizards and toads for chasing, worms and crickets for fishing, chinaberry trees for climbing and live oaks for shading. It had grits and gravy for eating, ‘nana pudding for sweetening, homemade biscuits for sopping and with that I’m a stopping, because that should be more than enough to satisfy. It was just a little rectangle of a house with asbestos siding, and jalousie windows covering the front porch so the kids could sleep outside, out of sight and out of mind. It had an old carport hanging off the back with a laundry room attached filled with all kinds of sundry stuff. It couldn’t have been much more than 1200 square feet at the most, carport included. It sat on the corner of West 17th Street and Drake Avenue smack dab in the middle of the working man’s section of Panama City, Florida. In my memory it still sits in a place and time when men were men and women were women, and children knew their place. The roles were well established back then. Grandpa worked for as long as it took to put food on the table and a roof overhead and Granny raised the kids and cooked some of the best Southern fried meals that ever came off a stove. Late in the evening when nothing but a whippoorwill or two stirred, if you listened closely you could actually hear the comforting sound of arteries hardening all around you. Crisco was the queen of Drake Avenue and cholesterol her king. When I was a kid, Drake Avenue was a dirt road. Teenage boys drove their GTO’s as fast as conscience would allow down Drake Avenue just to see how high the dust would rise in their wake. They were hoping against hope that a young girl would notice and somehow be attracted to that rolling rooster tail of theirs and come take a look; and in one of those mysteries of the human psyche, sometimes it worked. After a little rain to settle the dust, you could make the best dirt clods to clobber your brother with from that road. It seems that most of my memories, at least the pleasant ones, before the age of fifteen when I met Mary of course, were born and raised in that little memory box of a house. I was feeling a little nostalgic the other night. I wanted to go home you know. So I decided to head down to Panama City to see how the old house was faring. I jumped on that modern day magic carpet ride called Google Earth and typed that old familiar address into the search thingamabob, and before long I felt like superman. Faster than a speeding bullet, I watched as I was transported to my summer childhood home and all of those warm and lovely memories. I clicked on the little man in upper right hand corner. Set him down on that blue lined street and after an adjustment or two, I was standing in the middle of West 17th street looking at Granny’s old house and boy was I disappointed. It didn’t glow. It didn’t reach out to greet me. It just sat there looking kinda sorry, run down and small. It was just an old asbestos box. It contained no memories of good times. It contained nothing. Then I got to marveling about how I was feeling, because I was feeling a little lost; and for some reason, I was fighting back tears. Lord, how I wanted to see Granny in that kitchen window and Grandpa sitting under that old carport on a rickety lawn chair smoking a Pall Mall. The red glow at the end of that cigarette always made me feel safe and secure. I can still close my eyes and see that glow and smell the pungent peace and contentment on the air to this very day. With Granny and Grandpa in it, that house was a warm oasis filled with love and peace; but without them, it was just a bunch of organized sticks, a glove missing a hand. My mind was sinking pretty deep into disappointment and melancholy when I heard a familiar voice reminding me that it was about 10:30 and time for a backrub and foot rub. Backrub number 15,510, and foot rub number 31,020 give or take a few, if my math is correct. At the sound of that well-loved voice all of my mental wanderings faded away and I was reminded that home is not a house. It is not a dwelling. Home is a presence, the presence of the ones you love and especially of the ones who love you. Anywhere else is just a place, a location, a dot on a map, but home is where memories are born and raised to adulthood. Home is where love never fades; it only mellows and sweetens with age. Home is where your heart can rest and your soul can find peace and quiet. No theological breakthroughs or veins of wisdom in this one. Just a reminder of what is important in a world that seeks to distract and destroy. Family is a gift of incalculable value given by God. Protect it and cherish it and never take it for granted, for life is shorter than you think. Love, Pastor Tony.  |
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December 2024
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