The Tumult

Isaiah 33:2-6
















At the noise of the tumult the people fled: at the lifting up of thyself the nations were scattered.

Today the journey admist the tumult continues. Arising in the calm,still quiet of morning.
"Is what you have to say more interesting than silence?"

In my chatter, in my loud thoughts, vanity prevails. Thoughts of things material. Thoughts of things physical,carnal.
To quiet the mind, to lessen the endless words. Today I venture forth and practice the presence of stillness. Waiting upon the strong arm to deliver in the morning, my salvation in the time of trouble.

May your day find you seeking the still, small voice.

An offering in righteousness

Malachi 3:3

And he shall sit as a refiner and purifer of silver: and he shall purify the sons of Levi, and purge them as gold and silver, that they may offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness.

As predicted, the first days upon the journey will be most difficult. Determining to arise before day, I overslept and woke with just enough time to prepare for work. On the twenty-mile ride this evening, a hard pace was sought. In the first miles from home, the body, not used to the effort, strained to keep pace with the intention. By the final miles with dusk fading into the darkness, the pace quickened and the body found the effort less taxing. Yet, compared to the years of yore, a far cry.

The ride of silence was a continual prayer. A prayer to refine this body of sin, to purge the dross, the dregs. My only offering an offering that I cannot even produce. Righteousness. Thus, my efforts to offer to Him my life, my time, my talents, all but foul smelling stench.
My righteousness vain. Nothing can I bring. Nothing can I boast. Resting quietly in the hands of one who shall refine, who shall supply, who shall provide the offering in righteousness.

I shall simply leave you with another hymn from the old Methodist Hymnal, page 33.

All beautiful the march of days
Francis Wile 1878-1939

All beautiful the march of days
As seasons come and go;
The hand that shaped the rose hath wrought
The crystal of the snow,
Hath sent the hoary frost of heaven,
The flowing waters sealed,
And laid a silent lovliness
On hill and wood and field.

O'er white expanses sparkling pure
The radiant morns unfold;
The solemn splendors of the night
Burn brighter through the cold,
Life mounts every throbbing vein,
Love deepens round the hearh,
And clearer sounds the angel hymn,
"Good will to men on earth."

O thou from whose unfathomed law
The year in beauty flows,
Thyself the vision passing by
In crystal and in rose,
Day unto day doth utter speech
And night to night proclaim,
In ever changing words of light,
The wonder of thy name.
Amen.

Stand Forth

Stand Forth
Mark 3:3
Upon the first light of mornglown we met. The first day of the resurrection from the darkness. The first day of the journey. Leaving the darkness of the cemetery, the withered hand finding restoration. This first day found us meditating upon Psalm 33. The poetry of Isaac Watts on Psalm 33 from the old 1858 Watts and Select Hymns was read. The first half went thus:
Rejoice, ye righteous in the Lord,
This work belongs to you;
Sing of his name, his ways, his word,
How holy, just and true!

His mercy and his righteousness
Let heaven and earth proclaim;
His works of nature and of grace
Reveal his wondrous name.

His wisdom and almighty word
The heavenly arches spread;
And by the Spirit of the Lord,
Their shining hosts were made.

He bade the liquid waters flow
To their appointed deep;
The flowing seas their limits know,
And their own stations keep.

Ye tenants of the spacious earth,
With fear before him stand;
He spake, and nature took its birth,
And rests on his command.

He scorns the nations rage,
And breaks their vain designs;
His counsel stands through every age,
And in full glory shines.

After meditating and in a continual state of prayer, I journeyed down to the little Price Creek Cemetery and awaited the morning light.
I felt compelled to visit this location and photograph the entrance gate with the giant oak in the background. From there, I returned home and went to work until six pm. The first days of any journey are the most difficult. We fret over things we forgot, things we should not have taken, not sure of our route, the cares of life. For this journey, I am as a man undertaking a journey having been sent with nothing more than the grave cloths in which he was laid. It will be a journey that shall find me clothed entirely in His righteousness by the end of days. The first week shall find me weak, the temptations will abound, the call to return to the coolness of the cemetery will beckon.
Walk along in prayer for my family in our journey for only by grace shall we make it.

Journey to Thirty Three

Exodus 33:3
Unto a land flowing with milk and honey.

In the next thirty-three days, we shall undertake the journey to thirty-three. A thirty-three day journey to recovery.
A thirty-three day seeking the spiritual land flowing with milk and honey. This time last year, this journey began. It began with my heart stent and then pacemaker. The journey continued into October and Melanie contracting H1N1. The loss of my job, her job. The financial loss, the loss of health insurance, the dipping into retirement funds, the leaning on the everlasting arms deeply.
In a recent post on Facebook, I wrote the heartfelt quote:
"God, I am giving you my too weak notice."
Through a year spent upon the floor prostrate looking up, I have grown weary in the spirit and the flesh.
Thus, for the next thirty-three or however many days it does take, I am going to journey back to the persistent,fervent state of being that existed when Melanie lay upon her hospital bed in Orlando upon death's door.
There, while in daily prayer, the death angel hovered as a buzzard, but never was allowed to enter.
As then,the journey will not be easy. The flesh is woefully weak. The obstacles many. Darkness does not relish the seeking of the light.
The theme of thirty-three was chosen, as for me, thirty-three was the physical age that Jesus was resurrected from the dead.
Thirty-three was my age when Melanie and I married. The number three has always been an important number to me. The scriptures used will relate to the number three. I invite you to journey with me the next thirty-three days and believe for a recovery to financial stability, for a spiritual stability, for an entrance into the land that flows with milk and honey.

In a By Gone Era

This evening we made a return journey to the Columbia
County town of Lulu. Lulu is located approximately seven miles from Lake City on SR100. If you ever traveled through Lulu, on your way to Lake Butler, about a quarter of a mile past the Lulu General Store, on the North side of 100, you may have noticed the Mt.Zion Slaves Cemetery sign.
In all the years that I have traveled past this sign, I never stopped. I do remember in years past seeing this elderly gentleman working in the cemetery, raking and keeping the weeds in check. That man was the Rev. Joseph Anthony Sr. who now rests from his labors. It was said at Rev. Anthony's funeral in Oct of 2000, his casket was carried from his house approximately four miles south of Lulu on CR241, all through the streets of Lulu, so Joe could see his beloved Lulu one last time. It appears his wife Lenoria died in January of 2009 and is now buried next to him.
The old rake I am sure he used to keep the grounds now rests on his grave. With no one to maintain the cemetery with the care he did, it is difficult to now see any slaves graves, if any indeed, are located here.
The sign read: Mt Zion Slaves Cemetary. Established 1910. Erected:1996.
In memory of Joseph Anthony's relatives and friends who lived and picked cotton for their livlihood. In a by gone era. Columbia Co. Lulu, Fl.

Linorias Rest

Dark Angels

Keeper of the Cemetary

Slave Cemetary Lulu, Florida

Rattling Timbers

The usual sixteen mile bicycle ride into the Osceola National Forest. This evening, on McClosky Avenue, Formerly Still Road, I pass these three non English speaking souls. Their minivan is stuck in the woods. They do not know who to call. One of the ladies hands me her cell phone. I call the LCPolice Dept, they tell me this is out of their jurisdiction. They patch me through to CCSheriff dept. I tell them, two ladies and a male Mexican are stuck out of McClosky Road, can you send out a tow truck? The dispatcher does not know where this road is, which is about a mile from the Sheriff Department. After finally getting through to her where this location was, she said she would send a deputy out. Good thing this was no emergency.
I told the three non English speaking souls that help was on the way. As I made my way toward US90, this nearly four foot Timber Rattler slithered onto the side of the road. I stopped and got as close as I could, taking this photograph with the three non English speaking souls in the background.
The Timber Rattler had the cold, white beaded eyes that said, Don't tread on Me! This English speaking male needed no translator to understand the universal language of the Timber Rattler.

To Trinidad Forever

Yesterday I received a sad message from Karen Marian Watson, daughter of Steve and Kathleen Crawford. Karen wrote saying that on Sunday, August 8th, "mummy" died at the New Hanover Regional Medical Center, Wilmington, North Carolina. The previous Wednesday she had a stent put into her kidney and was on the verge on dialysis, which the stent would have stalled for awhile. Her death at age 77 was fully unexpected and a great loss.
I came to briefly know Steve "Steups" Crawford and Kathleen during the time last year Melanie was at Orlando Regional Medical Center battling H1N1. Kathleen was also in the hospital, recovering from having a stent placed in her heart.
Steve was staying in the Hubbard House along with his daughter Karen and her daughter from Chesire, England. I felt an immediate kinship with Steve, as in his British accent he would speak in such a loving manner of his Kitty. I would walk with him over to the hospital and try to be of any assistance I could to him.
Steve and Kitty spent many of their early years living in Trinidad, and this Tuesday, the family is taking Kitty's ashes to spread on the waters there. The following is a poem I wrote for Steve and Kitty while at Orlando. It was the same poem I reworked and used for the last testimony service Melanie and I did at Romona Park Church recently.

Come Away

Walking upon the grassy meadows of the highlands,
From the mists comes Kathleen and takes the hand.

The tempest loud, in land of the brave we dwell.
Armies and empires cannot this fiery love quell.

Come away my Kitty, come away my fair maiden,
From these walls of mourn so heavy laden.

The flowing locks of black, freely flying fast,
Give chase, come! We climb the Moorlands vast.

Come away my love, come away my little dear,
Without my Kitty, this warrior sees a weary drear.

Recall the days spent on Trinidads Pigeon Point,
Our cares so few, a growing love the only want.

O come away, mend this tender heart my prayer,
Let these Coulin locks on high flow for 'er!

Let this Salty fish clasp my Kathleen's soft felt hand,
Stand fast and bravely face our fade from this land.

Come away, Come away, our love will live this day,
On grassy meadow the memory to n'er fade away!

Leaf of Gold

It had been a long day. It was a three hour drive to Orlando in the morning, and a three hour return trip. It was a journey Melanie and I had wanted to take since last year. The journey to visit the nurses and doctors who helped save her life as she battled an acute case of H1N1. From Lake City this past October she journeyed to Orlando via an ambulance, to the only room available prepared for her by the mercies of God. She never remembered being in Orlando through Thanksgiving and thus she was excited to meet these wonderful people.
Returning home after six, it was my desire to do nothing more than rest. But, nearing 7PM, the sky promised a grand sunset, so I loaded up the kayak and drove the five miles to Watertown Lake. Arriving, the winds were strong, the clouds few and I almost returned home.
I put in at the ramp, paddled into the wind and through the chop, heading past the dock with four fishermen and on over towards the dead pines in the water. About that time, the winds ceased, the clouds returned and the sun came into view, low and below the clouds. It was a race at this point to position myself to catch the fleeting rays. Each rapid stroke bought me closer to my destination. Finally arriving, I sat and beheld the wonderful scene unfolding before me on the Watertown Lake.
As I photographed, I comtemplated the day and the blessings we have experienced through all the turmoil. The calm upon the waters, the single fragile leaf afloat, reminded me of our tenuous, fleeting time upon the waters of this life. I thought of the Lord calling to the waves, peace be still. It did not matter at this moment if the photographs were not up to my exacting standards. On this lake alone, the leaf and I drifted into the fading light, aglow with the peace that passes understanding.