Tue, 21 Jun 2016 12:49:49 -0700Weebly
<![CDATA[Check Your Seams]]>
Tue, 24 May 2016 03:28:17 GMT
https://beulahunitedmethodistchurch.org/pastors-blog/check-your-seams
Many years ago I was driving down an old dirt road in Lexington County when I noticed what appeared to be the nose of an old Carolina Jon boat winking at me from underneath a tattered tarpaulin behind a dilapidated outbuilding; so I pulled to the side of the road to take a closer look. Afraid somebody would call the cops if I lingered too long, I made the quick assessment of the boat’s nose and its’ tail, which was sticking out of the other end of the tarp, and headed on down the road. From what I saw the paint was all but gone; the transom was rotten; the bottom had some suspicious cracks in it; the seats were mildewed to within an inch of their lives; and from the evidence at hand, it appeared that a large bird had been nesting in the tree above it. Basically the thing was a lost cause. Nonetheless, being the eternal optimist, I decided then and there that if I could figure out a way to sell the idea to Mary without an excessive amount of shuckin’ and jivin’, I wanted that thing.
As many of you know, in my previous life I was a cabinet maker; and I just knew that if I were to gain that prize I could make it into something. I had dreams of restoring that neglected old boat and once again making it the fine watercraft I knew it to be.
To my surprise Mary didn’t object too much. She figured it would keep me out of the house, I suppose. So the next day I went back and knocked on the door like I owned the place, and when an elderly gentleman came to the door, I made him an offer that he could have easily refused, but didn’t. So for the sum of fifty bucks and a smile, I brought home my prize.
Well, that fifty bucks grew as I began the work, but it was worth it. I turned that fourteen foot disaster area into a thirteen foot beauty. She sported a new transom, new seats, beautifully restored woodwork, and a nice paint job. The bottom was repaired and strengthened with fiberglass. A depth finder, compass and other neat gadgets were installed and the icing on the cake was a brand new Mercury 9.9 outboard motor perched on the new transom.
I stepped back when it was finished and knew that my Grandpa Tharpe would be proud. His imagined pride soon worked its way into my chest, which puffed out a bit, and head which grew a bit; and for a while there, I was a mess.
Finally the day came when I was to take the boat, now christened the “Margaret Jane” after my Granny Tharpe, up to the river to try her out. I headed up to the Little River Landing just past the traffic circle in Saluda County. As I drove in I noticed that heads turned as she passed by, and I was fit to be tied. I was ready to bust, as my Granny would say. You would have thought that boat was the head cheerleader, the homecoming queen and valedictorian combined, I was so proud.
So I strutted in, paid my two dollars, made sure the seats were set right, the trolling motor was secure, the battery was hot and the Pepsis were cold. I backed her in, and she sure was a sight. As she came off of the trailer she sat high in the water as pretty as you please for about thirty seconds and then with the sun glinting off of her bow, she went down like a lead weight.
To my dismay I watched as she quietly settled down into the water. Time tends to slow down at times like that. Your blood turns to molasses in your veins, your feet become lead, your mind struggles to take it in, and you just stand there stunned. My stupor was short lived though for with a muffled thump, a slight grating sound, and a satisfied gurgle or two she settled to the bottom and came to rest.
When the buzzing in my ears subsided, I noticed sounds behind me and as I turned around, I discovered I had an audience. Five or six fellow fishermen were behind me watching the travesty unfold with what appeared to be expressions of detached curiosity on their faces. When they noticed that I had noticed them, however, they being fishermen and boat lovers themselves sprang into action, and within just a few minutes my soggy masterpiece was back on the trailer.
As the water cascaded out of the drain which I had so carefully drilled in the bottom of the transom, a fisherman by the name of Jimmy held up the drain plug and with a pleasant smile informed me that in the future it would be best to plug the drain before I launched the boat. I thanked him and muttering under my breath, headed home.
It has been about fifteen years since that incident but every now and again I run into Jimmy and his sly grin reminds me that pride does indeed come before a fall.
I tell this story to make a simple point. Namely, it doesn’t matter how pretty your boat is, or how proud you are of it, if there is a hole in the bottom, and you don’t plug the hole, trouble will soon follow.
The same holds true for the spiritual life. So check your seams. Is your spirit leaking out and letting the world in to invade your peace and tarnish your joy? If so then shore that leaking life up with prayer and study and doing the things of God. Life is way too short to spend it sitting on the bottom looking up.
The upward angle of my memories reminds me of just how young we are when our brains begin to crinkle; when thoughts, feelings and memories start slipping down into the crooks and crannies; when our consciousness begins filling the crevices of our mind.
I couldn’t have been more than three or four, perhaps younger, as I looked up into Grandma Rowell’s eyes searching for a hint of weakness, a glimmer of hope that she would relent. The old house was large, creaky and cold: fertile ground for a young mind in search of goblins; just the kinda place where a monster could slide under your bed unseen. I had heard one breathing in the night, that soft rasping sound that only a ghoul can make, and fear had gripped me. When the breathing slowed and became rhythmic I figured he was asleep, so I climbed down as a quietly as possible and softly padded my way down the hall to Grandma’s room where the lamplight was warm and inviting as it flowed out from beneath the door.
Grandma did not believe in indulging the whims of a child, but the look in my frightened eyes must have touched something within, for her features softened a bit, and she invited me to climb up into the bed with her for a spell.
There is nothing like a feather bed. For those who have never been cradled in the arms of a hundred geese, I have pity. For those who have, then you understand the consolation that simply laying back and allowing the softness to envelop you can bring. For you see while Grandma did not believe in indulging children, she did from time to time pamper herself, and this bed was her pride and joy.
As I settled in and snuggled down, the familiar smell of wisteria came to my nostrils coupled with the ever present odor of moth balls resting alongside BenGay, added for pungency and zest. Here and ever after, singly or in combination, those odors send me back to that old house, that easy bed, my Grandma Rowell and a story.
As I sidled up beside my Grandma she reached over and switched off the lamp. There was a streetlight somewhere nearby that cast the shadow of magnolia leaves on the wall. As my sleepy eyes watched the shadows dancing on the breeze, Grandma told me the story of the Bullfight for the first time.
Grandma traveled to Mexico as a young girl, and returned with a wanderlust that you could hear in her voice and see in her eyes if you looked close enough, but no one ever did. She yearned to see the world, to visit exotic places and to live life to the fullest, but things happened. Marriage, three children and life and after a time all that remained of her longing was the story of this ancient Bullfight, but Lord have mercy could my Grandma tell a tale. She had a gift for it.
The details have drifted with time, but the images remain. As Grandma painted the story, in my young mind I could hear; I could smell; I could see the crowd working itself into a frenzy. Those pictures painted so long ago remain. As I write this I see the picadors tormenting the poor creature. Through a haze of dust I see the angry snorting bull, pawing; the matador proud with his red cape and his exaggerated machismo heaves and swells as the midday heat rises from the ring. Grandma would always pause when she spoke of the matador, and sigh. First love I suppose. His torn body carried from the field would finish her story. Fresh pain rising, Grandma teared up every time she told it.
A strange bedtime story for a frightened child to be sure, but it suited me fine. I awoke the next morning to the sound of rustling magnolia leaves just outside of Grandma’s bedroom window with a budding wanderlust newly handed down.
To this day the sound of a distant freight train or the sight of a contrail laid out behind a passing 747 awakens a yearning within me to go.
It is amazing and little frightening to realize just how powerful a memory, even one as early as this, can be. It is indeed a bit frightening, especially when you realize that today you are the one creating the memories of tomorrow.
The children are watching. They are listening. Make the memories count. Let them hear of Christ from your lips and see Christ in your life. Such memories will last forever.
In Christ, Pastor Tony
]]>
<![CDATA[Reflections on a Windshield ]]>
Thu, 24 Mar 2016 14:04:09 GMT
https://beulahunitedmethodistchurch.org/pastors-blog/reflections-on-a-windshield
It was out of context, and it bothered me. Miles away from any sign of civilization, it was the last thing I expected to see as I made my way toward an obscure bend in the Congaree River, my goal for the day.
It was early spring, and I had been hiking for several hours through the Congaree Swamp National Park, the last two with no discernible trail under foot. I was relying upon my Magellan Explorist 610 to guide me to a particular spot on the map that had intrigued me. Why the spot interested me, I truly don’t know; exclusive of the fact that it looked like a place where no human had ever set foot, and I was channeling Marco Polo on this particular morning. As I made my way through the tangle of vines, roots, and fallen branches that make up the floor of the swamp, my legs were beginning to tire a bit; and the bottom of my left foot was reminding me of a childhood encounter with a brown recluse. I must admit that it was a relief when I finally broke through the undergrowth to the welcoming sunshine of the river’s edge.
It was indeed a beautiful place. The river rolled away around a bend shimmering in the late morning sunshine, a light breeze carried the sweet smell of wisteria my way from somewhere deep in the forest, and the soft sand of the shore was inviting me to have a seat.
I accepted the invitation and reveled for a time in the peace and quiet of the place. The enchanting feeling of being totally separate from the rest of the world enveloped me as I watched a red tailed hawk come to rest in the high branches of a cypress tree on the opposite shore. The quiet was soon shattered, however by the raucous cries of a flock of crows as they attempted to dislodge the hawk from his perch. There appeared to be no malice in their efforts, just a way to fight off midday boredom, I suppose. Eventually though the hawk tired of their games and took to the air gliding effortlessly down the center of the river toward the aforementioned bend and disappearing into the mist.
As my eyes followed his progress I noticed a glimmer on the shore, well actually back from the shore in the woods about a quarter mile down river from my location. Bored with resting, I arose and walked through the woods to where I estimated the glimmer originated; and much to my surprise, I discovered the windscreen from a Model T Ford leaning against a tree. It was a deep brown from decades of weather and rust. It was hopelessly entangled by years of vine growth, and upon further examination, I noticed that the tree itself had grown around the bottom crosspiece, cracking the glass and forever locking that windshield in time and space.
For reasons unknown to me at the time, the presence of that windscreen bothered me. Oh, it was a fascination to me to be sure, but it had invaded my fanciful idea of being the first to enter this primeval forest. In so doing, it had reminded me that time and space are simply borrowed. It reminded me that we as human beings are living out our lives on a timeline that will eventually end. It left me asking, “I wonder who owned that Ford and if that old windscreen is all that was left behind to indicate that he or she walked the planet.” I tend to get a little bit morose when my fanciful daydreams are disturbed.
Morose or not, it forced me to ask myself what will be left behind after I depart. In years to come will some young man happen upon an old silver bullet of a camper, windows broken, tires flat, grown over with vines, hidden in the woods for decades and ask the same question of me?
That question ran laps in my mind as I made my way back to the trail-head that afternoon. What would I leave behind? What legacy would define who I was and /or am to those who follow? Over and above that I was forced to ask myself, is my name, or my legacy of any importance whatsoever in the scheme of things? Upon reflection I had to conclude that no, my legacy is of little importance.
The name of Anthony S. Rowell will be remembered by a pitiful few when I leave this earth. With that understood, I know without a doubt that while my legacy is of little importance, the legacy of Christ and what I can contribute to that legacy is of vast importance. For while my name will be but a fleeting memory to most, the name of Jesus Christ will live forever. With that in mind I pray that my life adds to the legacy of Christ first and foremost, for there can be no greater calling, no greater purpose, and no greater legacy than that; and I pray the same for you.
Tony Rowell]]>
<![CDATA[A Fleeting Moment]]>
Wed, 24 Feb 2016 18:52:14 GMT
https://beulahunitedmethodistchurch.org/pastors-blog/a-fleeting-moment
I threw my right leg over the motorcycle seat and settled in. Immediately thereafter I began to question a few things, my sanity chief among them. I also wondered if this rickety contrivance which appeared to be held together with baling wire and prayer would actually hold the weight of both me and the driver. Now the driver was a slight fella with a winning smile and nerves of steel, so I knew it would carry him. After all he had come up the hill on it; but when I sat down and heard the springs bottom out under my weight, I felt the rising of a little tickle of apprehension in the middle of my stomach. Shortly thereafter that tickle became a bit more intense as we careened down the mountain toward the Caribbean Sea on a road that appeared more liquid than solid when it appeared at all. Thanks be to God, my driver was skilled and for the most part we remained airborne, but once in a while we would return to earth and on one such occasion we came upon a particularly ambitious hole in the ground. Shortly thereafter my stomach was propelled into my throat while my overactive nerve center moved from my brain to the seat of my pants. That one hurt.
On top of all of this I had nothing much to hold onto. My driver had made it clear from the beginning that hugging him and screaming like a little girl just wasn’t acceptable. So I held on to the back of the seat, watched my life as it flashed before me and kept my audible terror to a minimum.
It was about this time that I risked opening my eyes and what I saw amazed me. Paola, a lovely young Colombian woman, my friend and contact person, was on a similar contraption right in front of me. While I was hanging on for dear life, and wondering about final arrangements; she was doing her hair while watching me and grinning from ear to ear; so much for the fearless, strong and daring team leader facade.
Embarrassment and terror aside, little did I know that this wonderful death defying act I was in the midst of would lead to one of the most meaningful moments in my life.
As we returned to earth for the final time and the cycle glided to a halt, a wonderful sight lay before me.
There is truly no apt way of describing the wonder of a quiet, secluded Caribbean beach. As your eyes become accustomed to the glare, your mind cannot take in all of the beauty at once. The water, as clear as crystal with just a hint of lime for color, dazzles your senses. The azure sky (I have always wanted to write that), filled with delicate clouds and reflecting off of the waves gives the sea and the sky a turquoise hue. Where they come together is anyone’s guess. Somewhere near the horizon the sea and sky become one.
The lazy breeze traces its way through the palms providing a counterpoint to the crashing waves, and together they sing a soothing melody which beacons the listener to find a seat and rest a while.
I had accepted the invitation and I was doing just that; sitting with Paola on a piece of old driftwood, enjoying the peace of the place and the conversation of a good friend. We watched as the little children from a nearby village played at the water’s edge with the rest of our party. In the midst of our conversation a man of about forty, who appeared as if by magic, caught Paola’s attention. He wanted a word. They spoke for a moment or two after which she came and asked if I would be willing to go with him to offer a prayer for an ailing old man a short way down the beach. A bit aggravated at having my rest disturbed I reluctantly followed him accompanied by Paola, as we walked down the beach toward a little mud sided thatched roof hut in the distance.
I had left my shoes back at the driftwood forgetting the little pieces of broken coral and jagged shells that littered the ground under the palms, so it was slow going for a while there as we picked our way forward. Eventually, however, we arrived at the little home. It had a couple of rooms, no running water or power, no glass in the windows, another gift of the Caribbean, and it held the faint odor of persistent illness and age.
As we walked in the heat was oppressive. Sitting in the hall on a ladder back chair was an old man, desperately trying to catch whatever breeze offered itself through the opened front door. His name was Fernando. He was 90 years of age or so, unable to speak or walk, but he had a wonderful smile and peace about him that was a tonic. His eyes, milky with age, bore no desperation, just a gentle acceptance coupled with the patience that only great age can produce. His wife, whose name escapes me, was leaning in the doorway of the little kitchen. She offered a weary, but genuine smile, and her love for her husband was truly a blessing to observe.
Paola asked her what prayer was needed. She answered nothing specific, just a prayer would do. So with Fernando’s permission, I knelt down beside him and put my hand on his bare shoulder.
There have been instances in my life when I knew that Christ was present, but seldom have I been so blessed as to lay my hand on his shoulder. As I prayed the peace of Christ moved from Fernando to me, and for a moment, for a fleeting moment, I understood the peace that passes all understanding. There was nothing but that little hut, Fernando, Christ and me.
A moment later the breeze moved my hair and cooled my skin, and I came back, but I will never forget that moment in time when all doubt was erased and true peace was found. I pray the same for all of you. In Christ, Pastor Tony ]]>
<![CDATA[Steppin’ Out! ]]>
Tue, 26 Jan 2016 23:01:58 GMT
https://beulahunitedmethodistchurch.org/pastors-blog/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 lightening 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 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 ]]>
<![CDATA[No Excuses]]>
Sun, 27 Dec 2015 05:09:53 GMT
https://beulahunitedmethodistchurch.org/pastors-blog/no-excuses
When I was a young boy and spent much of my time down on the panhandle of Florida with my Granny and Grandpa Tharpe, there was one woman who fascinated me and of whom I was scared half to death. No, it wasn’t my Granny; I was in awe of her. It was Granny’s next door neighbor. Her name was Irene; and she lived in a little house to the left of the Granny’s, if you were facing the place. While Granny’s house was light and airy, Irene’s place was a dark affair. It had live oaks festooned with Spanish moss overhanging the front porch. Wisteria vines clung to the railings and worked their way up the cypress and catawba trees which shaded the rest of the house. Old tar laced roll roofing acted as siding so the house was a motley combination of brown paper and black tar, and the yard was in a perpetual state of disarray.
I don’t know why she scared me so. Perhaps it was the sheer size of the woman, or the evil glare from underneath those seldom washed black bangs of hers, or maybe it was the voice that sounded like a broom should be under it; but one way or the other, I avoided her like the plague. Nonetheless, I was a little boy and apt to be mischievous and a bit restless as most little boys tend to be. In that there were no video games back then to occupy my time and no Ritalin to quell my urges, I tended to get into a bit of trouble from time to time. That being said, I usually had some help.
You see, I have a second cousin by the name of Scott, and back then he had a gift for coming up with devious things to do and having someone else do them; and in that I enjoyed his company, the role of someone else often fell to me.
One late summer Sunday afternoon while the old folks were sitting around visiting, Scott and I were playing in Granny’s backyard. As the afternoon wore on interest in our normal pursuits began to fade, and we started looking for some adventure. After a while Scott’s gaze fell on the enchanted house next door and through a double dare and the dreaded phrase “What are you scared of?” he convinced me to sneak over to Irene’s house, knock on the door and run. Being young and stupid, at least one thing has changed since then, I decided to give it a try. So with a stealth that would make a sniper proud, I slithered through the forest of old pots, rusted car parts, and unkempt weeds without making a sound to her back door and knocked, not just once, but three times to prove I was immune to fear.
When I heard her heavy footsteps coming in my direction, my immunity vanished and I turned tail and ran as fast as I could; but in the midst of my terror I somehow lost my footing, tripped over my feet and fell head long into her flowerbed. Laying there with a face full of forget-me-nots, I heard the back door open, caught just a whiff of sulfur on the air and heard those hobnailed boots coming my way. My life, short as it was, flashed before my eyes.
It was then that I discovered three things. First of all a two hundred and fifty pound woman can be surprisingly swift on her feet, secondly a seven year old boy can’t get much traction with newly watered forget-me-nots under his feet and finally my second cousin could disappear faster than anybody before or since on two feet.
I will dispense with the nasty details, but I soon found myself being held by the scruff of my neck in my Granny’s living room while a bunch of old ladies examined me. Most were just a bit shocked at my appearance, or maybe it was Irene’s. My Granny, however, just looked at me sternly with a slight grin, and I think a little gleam of admiration in her eye. She then asked for an explanation. I told her that Scott made me do it.
I will never forget her reaction. From under her grin her teeth appeared, and then from behind the teeth came a glorious belly laugh. When she finally caught her breath, she simply said “Scott who?” I said “You know, Scott, my cousin.” Then she lost her smile and said “The only Scott I see is Anthony Scott Rowell.” Somehow I had forgotten that Scott was my middle name.
I spent the rest of that day breaking the Sabbath by cleaning Irene’s house from top to bottom to pay for the flowers I had destroyed, and on Monday I replanted the garden, cleaned the backyard and mowed the grass or what passed for grass. Scott, my cousin Scott, on the other hand, headed off to the Chipola River and spent the day fishing.
I tell this story for a couple of reasons. First and foremost I simply enjoy reliving days gone by when things seemed to be a bit simpler, and secondly I tell it as a bit of a warning to those of us who tend to try to cast off personal responsibility for our actions. Remember, if the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, the road to nowhere is paved with excuses.
All too often the human tendency is to cast about for something or someone to blame when things don’t go our way. My challenge to all of us is to look upward and inward for solutions to the challenges we face in life.
The possibilities are endless. Who knows what God has planned for your life? My prayer for you is that you allow Christ to set the agenda. With Christ at the wheel and the Holy Spirit filling your sails, you can have no excuse for anything other than a blessed life.
Love,
Pastor Tony
]]>
<![CDATA[Marvel]]>
Sun, 06 Dec 2015 02:37:16 GMT
https://beulahunitedmethodistchurch.org/pastors-blog/marvel
I will never forget my first Christmas as a married man. Mary and I were living in an 8 x 36 foot trailer in Lexington at the time. I had lived in that thing with a cat named Charlie all the way through college and it was just the right size for the cat. Nonetheless we were happy as two bugs in a rug, as they say. We got ourselves a Christmas tree, piled some furniture up on top of itself so we would have a place to put it; and then we realized that we had no ornaments, no lights, and no money whatsoever. The being said, we determined that reality aside, one way or the other we were going to get that tree decked out right even if it killed us. So we found a couple of pennies to rub together down in between the cushions of the sofa and headed to the first Kroger store that ever came to Columbia; the one over there on Bush River road in a building that has since housed the Burlington coat factory, and lots of other business. I believe that building has been torn down now and replaced with a Wal-Mart. Time marches on I suppose.
Well, we both were as excited as can be. After all we were little more than kids ourselves. Mary had just turned 21 and I was only six months ahead of her.
First of all we got a couple of strands of lights, and then we took a look at the ornaments.
First things we found were some of those glass balls ornaments; you know the blue ones, the silver and the red ones. Cheap yea, but we still have a couple of them thirty seven years later. Of course the paint is about gone from them, and the springy things have sprung, but we just can’t bring ourselves to part with them.
After that first box of bobbles was purchased, we went treasure hunting. What we found were four blue bells with silver sparkles on them. We had to have them. They were the things of which heirlooms were made. So we decided that beans would be ok for a week or so and bought them. When we hung them on that tree they glistened and were just about the prettiest things we had ever seen.
When Christmas morning came that year, I do not remember a thing I received. I do remember those bells however and to this day as we continue the tradition of hanging those bells on our tree; I remember the innocence and the joy of that first Christmas with Mary. I remember all of the Christmases since; and I thank God for the joy of it all. I thank him for the gift He has given me of a godly woman, three wonderful children and seven beautiful grandchildren. I am amazed at His generosity to a man who gives so little in return. God is good, isn’t He?
I will also never forget my first Christmas as a father. Sarah was all of four months old and Mary and I were both still a bit scared of her; but we were going to do it right you know.
We were living in Gilbert by that time in an old house that we were in the process of fixing up. Well, actually at that time we were in the process of making it habitable. Habitable or not it was ours, and we didn’t have to turn sideways to pass one another in the hall anymore, which is a strangely satisfying blessing if you have ever been there.
It was a really cold winter that year, and in that we had no heat but a woodstove it was a bit chilly in the house; but it was Christmas, we were young and in love and the weather meant nothing to us. We were living in just one room of the house, because the stove would only heat that room. Yes, it was a bit cramped, but it was ours and we had just been given a wonderful gift, the gift of life and family.
Christmas morning dawned, and Sarah kept on sleeping. I don’t know why but I figured a kid, even a four month old kid, would know it was Christmas and come a running; but she just kept sleeping. Finally Mary woke her up and sat her by the tree. She just sat there staring at the lights and the presents, as few as they were, marveling; and once again I thanked God for my life, my family and His love.
Since that time I have had first Christmases nine more times, and each and every time the kid just sits there and marvels; and I know how they feel.
When I think of Christmas and its true meaning, I mean when I truly think of what happened on that starlit night, of the gift that was given; I am left speechless and amazed, and all I can do is marvel.
As this Christmas season dawns, make sure you take the time to marvel as well.
Merry Christmas!!
Love,
Pastor Tony
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<![CDATA[Happy Now?]]>
Thu, 22 Oct 2015 04:23:30 GMT
https://beulahunitedmethodistchurch.org/pastors-blog/happy-now
Back when I was a boy, I loved to go fishing with my grandparents down in the panhandle of Florida. They are long since gone now, but the memories, the love and the lessons remain deep in my heart.
I have told you about them before. Granny and Grandpa Tharpe were the perfect grandparents for a little boy. Grandpa was a milkman. He was manly as manly could be, strong as an ox, weather beaten and the second best fisherman to ever grace the planet. He was second only to his bride, a fisher-woman by the name of Margaret Jane Jenkins Tharpe, Maggie to those who knew her. That woman could catch a fish in a dry river bed.
When asked about it, she would simply say that the secret was in how you held your tongue and whether or not you chewed your bait long enough before putting it on the hook. Whatever her secret was, it worked. Nobody could out fish her.
Now Granny was just about as tough and weather beaten as Grandpa. She had a lot of Creek & Cherokee in her which made her tough and dark, and those native born roots of hers seemed to give her a very unique way of teaching lessons to her grandson.
From time to time the old peach tree switch was used, but for the most part she simply said what needed to be said, and that was that; but trust me, once she taught a lesson you had better get it. Once was it, after that you paid a price for forgetting. I learned very quickly under her tutelage.
For the most part the lessons she taught me have been retained by me and have held me in good stead over the years. There is one lesson that she taught that tends to be a bit troubling however, because for the life of me, if I’m not careful, I will forget it; and just as she predicted, I will pay the price of a heavy spirit.
One day while my Granny and Grandpa, and my brother Mike and I were down on the Chipola River at my favorite fishing spot, Whiskey Slough, I learned that lesson.
It was one of those lazy summer days when the heat turns your thoughts to shade trees and the humming of the dragonflies invite a nap. My brother Mike was in a boat with Grandpa, and I was in another one with Granny. We rented the old wooden Jon boats from a fella at Willis Landing just up the river. They came complete with paddles, leaks and bailing buckets. Actually the owner just provided an odd assortment of coffee cans for bailing, while the courage to venture out was provided by the customer.
Well, as the day progressed, everyone was catching fish: bream, shell-cracker and the occasional channel-cat. Everyone was catching fish, but me, that is.
I was about six years of age or so and the injustice of the whole thing just got the best of me, so I was fussing and fuming and giving my Granny no rest.
Of course that didn’t move her from her spot. She was catching fish, and I was not about to be allowed to horn in on the deal. Fishing edict cannot be sacrificed, family member or no family member.
As the day lengthened, I caught a fish or two. Actually it was more than that, but far less than anybody else, and I just wouldn’t let up.
I griped about Mike catching more than me. I griped about Grandpa catching more than me, and I griped about my boat-mate’s lack of caring or concern for her poor disheveled, disconsolate grandson onto whom fate had placed such a heavy burden.
It was somewhere in the midst of one of my more colorful diatribes when Granny decided it was time to teach me a lesson. As I marched on with my litany of injustices, Granny reached down and untied my stringer from the gunnel. After that she took what few fish I had caught and slowly and methodically removed them from the stringer and dropped them over the side of the boat back into the coffee colored water of Whiskey Slough, all the while humming some unrecognizable, but very pleasant tune.
In so doing she managed to shut me up. Actually, I was speechless. How could she have done this? Had she lost all reason? It was during this lull in my verbal pity party that Granny looked over at her poor, astonished grandson and said, “Are you happy now? Your stringer isn’t half empty anymore.”
Looking back, my Granny did me a favor of grand proportions that day. Please note it took me a while to appreciate it; but she taught me that being happy with what you have is a lot better than lamenting over what you have don’t have. In other words, rejoicing over a stringer that is half full is much better than crying over a stringer that is half empty or as was true in this case, empty all together.
Love, Pastor Tony
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<![CDATA[What Would Granny Say?]]>
Wed, 30 Sep 2015 04:24:53 GMT
https://beulahunitedmethodistchurch.org/pastors-blog/what-would-granny-say
My Granny Tharpe was not what one might consider proper in the way society defines proper. She was a bit gruff and a bit tough and altogether one of the neatest people I have ever known. She was such an odd combination of tenderness and toughness, of kindness and strictness, of femininity and don’t mess with me, that figuring out what she was going to do next was not the easiest thing to do; but in certain instances there was no doubt what she would do.
When I was a kid and we were down at the Dead Lakes helplessly watched as three young men drowned in a whirlpool; or when my brother’s appendix ruptured and came very close to killing him; or when the day was particularly pretty; or when the mood just hit her; at such times she would rush into action and pray.
I don’t recall her being particularly religious, strictly speaking. Yea, she would go to the Saint Andrews Methodist Church every Sunday, with the express purpose of sitting behind my Grandmother Rowell and pestering her; but aside from that she wasn’t one to attend circle meetings or serve on committees. She was what I call a blue collar Christian, living the simple life of loving her family and her God. When the need arose however, she would pray and she didn’t care who was around or what anyone, and I mean anyone, thought about it. Granny was for lack of a better term, unwavering in all she did.
Now the Bible was not often read aloud at Granny’s house, but to the best of my recollection it was never dusty either. In the privacy of her time with God, Granny read His word and knew what He expected; and through the eyes of a loving grandson, she didn’t appear to disappoint Him all that often. As I have watched the world go from bad to worse since Granny’s passing, I have wondered what my Granny would have thought about the current state of affairs.
I can’t say she ever had much use for the government to begin with, but when our government started attacking God in schools, on the city square and over the airwaves, Granny got angry. Granny lived with my mom and dad for a year of so before her death; and during that time, she and I talked about such things and she was, to say the least, appalled. Now with the escalation of the attacks on the Christian faith, I wonder what she would say to you and me. What advice would she give to help fit us for battle?
As I thought about it, it came to me what her first response would be. Her first response, I have little doubt, would be a simple question directed at those of us who claim Christ as our Lord and Savior. She would look each and every one of us in the eye and without a hint of self-consciousness she would ask:
“So tell me, what are you doing at home?
Are you reading the Bible or the T.V. guide? Are you praying at anytime other than the few well-rehearsed words you say over your meals? Do you offer anything other than lip service to God? Where is God in your life?
How can you expect your children to pray in school or at a ball game or anywhere else for that matter, when you have not taught them how to pray in their own home?
Never forget that change starts at home. Fighting for prayer in school, a nativity scene on the courthouse lawn and the like is all well and good, but praying at home has always been available and seldom is it exercised.
God’s Word is available, I dare say, in every household where this writing has found rest; and yet I’ll bet you that the majority of the Bibles are left dusty and forgotten. Just ask yourself, “When was the last time I opened God’s Word at home?” Ask yourself, “When was the last time I opened the Word of God?”
Fight for prayer at school and at ball games and anywhere else where the freedom of religion is threatened; but remember this: before you can go into the world and fight for God, you must first fight for Him in your own home.
I believe that is what Granny would say, or near abouts at least. I can hear her voice and see her weather worn face right now in my mind’s eye. I can see those black eyes staring into mine. I can sense the years and the wisdom in her stare, and I can feel the shame welling up in me as I thank God that she is not present to hear my answer. How about you?
Pastor Tony
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<![CDATA["A Sow's Song"]]>
Sat, 22 Aug 2015 05:44:08 GMT
https://beulahunitedmethodistchurch.org/pastors-blog/a-sows-song
Brisas del Mar
“Vibraphone, that’s it. I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember the name of that thing. Now who was it that played the fire out of it? Old dude, couple of generations back old, Frank Sinatra old. Goodman? Armstrong? no, maybe it was Rich? No, that’s not him, Buddy kept the rhythm. Rich, Richie, Lionel Richie, noooo, that’s way wrong, too young and way too syrupy; but the Lionel is on track. Lionel, Lionel, hotel, Lionel, hotel, Lionel, Fairfield Inn hotel, no, Hampton Inn, Lionel Hampton; GOT IT.”
I don’t know, but I may have been a little dehydrated when I came across that sow. She was laying on her side happy as the proverbial ‘pig in slop” with no less than twelve squirming piglets vying for position. It was breakfast time in Brisas del Mar and something about that gross of porcine posteriors all lined up in a row reminded me of the vibes[i] and sent my sleep deprived, dried-up up brain off the rails for a bit. The above interior conversation was the result of that derailment.
It was a mighty pretty scene though, in an organic sort of way. All those little pink piggies bellied up to the bar with their momma singing her low throaty song of love and contentment. Maybe it was the song that reminded me of the vibes and Hampton.
I seem to recall that Hampton[ii] couldn’t contain a slightly off key growl of sorts as he played the instrument he was created to play. His joy at being right where he was supposed to be, doing what he was made to, just could not be contained. It had to come out some way, and I think the growl, just like the sow’s song was an unbridled prayer of joy and thanksgiving at having discovered his purpose in this life.
I understood that, and tearing myself away from the scene, I found myself whistling in the early morning mist as I headed back for breakfast with my team. I felt refreshed and new and ready to take on anything.
You see, about a week or so before my piggy epiphany, I stepped out of the hustle and bustle of everyday twenty-first century life and into the pages of a National Geographic magazine.
We were working in Brisas del Mar: a little village eighty or so miles south and a century or two away from Cartagena, Colombia.
Brisas del Mar is a little piece of Heaven, even if it is hot enough to give Satan pause.
Mud homes with thatched roofs line the pitted dirt roads. Laughing children, and gracious how many there are, crowd the doorways and sheepishly wave, or hide behind their mother’s skirts in faux shyness. At dusk the air is filled with the sounds of laughter and the aroma of a hundred cooking pots with a hundred culinary delights therein, and beneath it all the burros and roosters hold sway with their supporting chorus.
It is the peace of the place however, as well as many others like it I been blessed to visit over the years, that brings a certain yearning to my soul. For that peace is not to be found in the glorious cacophony of sight, sound and smell, but it is to be found in my heart and in my soul.
For me at least, in my life, the peace of Christ, the promised rest of the Creator is found in working with my brothers and sisters, wherever they may be, for the Kingdom of God in a hands-on, dirt way up under your fingernails sort of way.
My prayer for you is that you find that place of peace and of rest in your life, wherever it may be; but never forget it takes courage, faith and fortitude, for you must seek to find.
Remember the promise?
Matt 7:7-8
7 "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. 8 For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.
Love,
Pastor Tony
[i] Vibes is an abbreviated name for the vibraphone, usually employed by jazz musicians when referring to the instrument.
[ii] I recommend that you follow the link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_rTICMVXQQ and enjoy Lionel Hampton’s rendition of Flying Home.
Brisas del Mar