The old outhouse is gone. It used to be right over there resting under that timeworn cypress. I don’t know why its absence struck me so. It isn’t as if I enjoyed using the old outhouse. Use was born of necessity, not desire. Yes, going in there was an adventure in many ways, but I can’t say I was fond of it. I contend that on any given day in mid-July the vapors, were they to be properly concentrated, could be weaponized to good effect. Not to mention the winged inhabitants of the place and the fear of being carried off to who knows where that drifted into a young boy’s mind while he was in there. Lord have mercy, the bees and the yellow jackets and the blow flies and the nameless creatures that lived in that place. It’s strange that there’s pain in its passing, but there it is. I do have a lot of old memories and old stories with that outhouse in the background; perhaps that explains this inward aching. A precious privy; go figure. Well, honestly I never really have had any philosophical fondness for that particular outhouse, any port in a storm you know; but Lord, I do love the memories in which that rickety old place now resides. The hogs have moved on as well. I’ve mentioned them before. They weren’t regular hogs. They were boat landing hogs and they were bred for the purpose. This particular brand of hog, the Willis Landing hog, had a hankering for anything nasty and slightly rotted. They were forever chewing on something that you didn’t want to know about. They were panhandlers and general nuisances as well, with breath like Satan and little beady eyes like a demon from Hell. As a young boy, I quickly learned that boat landing hogs weren’t good company and were best avoided, if you knew what was good for you; and no, I didn’t always know what was good for me. One of these days, I’ll tell you about it. Yeah, those old hogs would spend the heat of the day up underneath the porch over there. They would grunt and squeal and make all sorts of racket. If you got too close they invited you to dinner, but not in a good way. More as a side dish than as a visitor, but they were part of the scene, so you didn’t mind all that much. As long as you watched where you stepped, there was no real harm done. Well goodness gracious, the porch is gone, so is the old store for that matter. I mean there’s nothing left, not even a foundation. There’s just a patch of grass, some tidbits of the past scattered about and one old glass bottle with just the shadow of Old Milwaukee clinging to it. It was way off in the woods. I figure some teenage boy must’ve tossed it over there when mama got too close. Things could get hopping on a Saturday night, or so they said. I wonder how time missed that old bottle; it must’ve gotten distracted somehow looking for some other old man’s memories to mess with. That old store was where I had my first taste of Tupelo Honey. Man, that was some good stuff. With the flood of memories rushing my way my eyes moistened up a bit, but about that time my mind brought back that Tupelo taste to my lips, and I had to smile. It was then that I turned to look at the old river, and it was like coming home. The sorrow of loss and the longing for the way things once were succumbed to the joy of the untouched. Yes, the store has vanished, the outhouse and its kind are all but extinct, the hogs have long since become side meat and sausage; but the river, the river remains the same. Just around that bend to the right, right past that little seductive curve is where Whiskey Slough can be found. Somehow simply knowing that place of my childhood, with its coffee colored water and ever present shade was right over there like always lifted my heart from the doldrums into the morning light of years gone by. What a gift that was. What a blessing. We live in a time that is ever-changing, it seems. As things change around us, as the things of the past are cast aside, as new realities raise their heads, it can be very frightening. As the age old institutions upon which our stability rests are shaken by new generations with new ideas and new beliefs, fear and sorrow can overtake us. As this world changes around us, many have a sense of loss and longing for the way things once were. I number myself with those people; but as a child of God, I must allow my sense of loss and longing to succumb to the joy of knowing the untouched, the unchanged and the unchangeable. Let the world change around me, if it wishes; I will rely upon the steadfast sameness of my God and of His Word, and in so doing, I will find true peace, stability and joy. I pray that you do the same. Rev 1:8 8 "I am the Alpha and the Omega," says the Lord God, "who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty." NIV Love, Pastor Tony (This story was hatched during a short visit Mary and I made to my childhood haunt of Willis Landing. Willis Landing was half way in between Wewahitchka and Port St. Joe on the Panhandle of Florida. The landing has gone, but the memories are faithful.) Tony
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Since the passing of the pandemic, I have noticed a subtle hesitation in the Body of Christ. An added caution raises its head these days when we are asked to step to the edge of our faith and look down. The pandemic left lasting scars in many folks, and unearthed latent scars in others, and fear of stepping out is a primary symptom. I contend, however, that life without risk is mere existence, and existing in fear is living in the shadow of life. I say this to myself, for I have noticed this quiet hesitation in myself, and I don’t care for it. In an effort to defeat this timidity, I reread one of my older writings that related to this subject the other day. When I read it, I felt the urge to venture out to places unknown regenerating within my heart. It felt right and good, and I hope it does the same for you. Steppin’ Out! Angel sat across from me in the old open air passenger jeep as we tore through the streets of Cali, Colombia. The jeep had a brand new coat of candy apple red paint adorning its sides; but try as he might the driver couldn’t hide the battle scars and near misses that traced their way down the fenders and side panels of the old rattletrap. The windshield bore a striking resemblance to a spider web shimmering in the early morning sun, and to say the tires lacked tread would be rather generous; but, gracious, how that thing could move. As my Granny would say, it ran like a scalded dog through the streets, and you had best be prepared for the ride if you knew what was good for you. It was a hold on to your hat, hang on for dear life type of ride, and I loved every minute of it. The fact that the driver was named Christian and his navigator, Angel, seemed strangely comforting to me, but did not appear to have an equal effect on the team’s newbies, if the startled screams and hasty prayers were any indication. The thing was standard transportation for mission work though, so I quietly prayed that the new folks would embrace the adventure and increase their faith to the point of enjoyment. During a brief lull in the excitement, I shouted over to Angel a question. You see, this candy apple red piece of greased lightning we were strapped into had intrigued me a little. For the life of me I couldn’t decide what make it was, so I asked Angel, who had manufactured the thing. He reply was equally intriguing. He said, “What part?” Then he proceeded to give me a brief genealogical history of the vehicle. The engine was an International, the frame was from a Chevy, the body from a Jeep, the transmission was from some Korean company and the tires were Michelins, of course. He proclaimed that last little tidbit with a sarcastic smile. Upon reflection, the hodgepodge we were riding in seemed strangely fitting for mission work to me; but after he had finished, I realized he had missed something, so I asked him who manufactured the back bumper. He said he had no idea. Then I asked him who installed it, and with at smile he thumped his chest and I understood why. As it turns out, Angel spent a great portion of his time standing on that bumper hanging on for dear life as he directed the driver in the way he should go. I reasoned that if I spent my time standing on the back bumper of a jeep as it threatened to go supersonic, I would want to be sure the bumper was secure myself, as well. Personally, I was glad to hear of the quality installation. You see, one of my chief pleasures in life while working in Cali was to stand on that same bumper and hang on for dear life as we careened up and down the mountain. Years ago Christian, that year’s driver, held Angel’s position; and he and I struck up a friendship in the same way that Angel and I had. One morning, a few years back, as we left the city behind and began the dirt road climb up the mountain, Christian tapped me on the shoulder and invited me to share the bumper with him. It was a moment of acceptance and a bit of a test, I believe. So I gladly stepped out into the morning sunshine, and I have refused to relinquish my position from that time to this. A peaceful freedom overtook me when I stepped out onto that bumper that was truly wonderful. The shackles of fear seemed to fall away, and my spirit relaxed within me as my muscles tightened their grip. When I felt the wind on my face, I begin to see the world anew. There is no use in me trying to explain it, it must be experienced. It is an awakening of sorts. This past year the bumper didn’t beckon, the rear seat of a rickety and ramshackle motorbike did as we left Brisis Del Mar and headed for the coast. The motorbike was of the same manufacturer as the jeep, the driver projected the same mixture of peaceful insanity as did Angel and Christian and the ride was a bit more challenging than the mountain, if that is possible. As I tumbled down the hillside with the bike more airborne than earthbound, that same odd since of freedom and peace overtook me again, so I decided to examine it. Where does it come from? Why is it there? It occurred to me that perhaps this particular brand of freedom, this particular brand of spiritual peace, can only be obtained when we step out of bounds a little. Most of us spend our Christian life in a carefully ordered spiritual vacuum of sorts. We are often afraid to color outside of the lines. We live out our Christianity as if we are painting by numbers in fear that should the yellow bleed over into the red, disaster will follow. Well, I contend that if God can make Eden out of chaos, joy out of sorrow and eternal life out of death; then He can make a blessing out of anything done in His name. It seems to me that true blessings seldom occur in a carefully planned sterile environment. God seems to love to work in haphazard and surprising ways. So let the colors run a bit in your life. Relax and bask in the freedom that Christ gives you. Find blessings in all things. Step out onto the bumper of life, careen down a hill or two, cast off your fear of the unknown and know that God is always before you, always behind you and always with you, yearning to bless you. In Christ, Pastor Tony I suppose my streak had to end sometime. I had managed to avoid preaching on my first two mission trips to the Philippines back in the 80s and early 90s. I wasn’t a preacher back then. I was a homebuilder and a cabinet maker, and I didn’t preach, period. Shoot you’d be hard-pressed to hear me sneeze in front of a congregation, and if I did, I’d turn bright red out of embarrassment. I was what you would call terminally shy. If I had to stand up in front of a crowd and talk, I just knew I was going to die. So for the first two mission trips to the Philippines, I had managed to find a guitar, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, and hide behind it and sing my way through whatever church service had been thrust upon me and to whomever I had been thrust upon; but not this time. This time God ambushed me. This time nobody was supposed to preach but the preacher, so in my ignorance, I was relaxed and comfortable. Once again I was in the Philippines, on my third of four trips there. It was a Sunday, and it was sweltering, as tends to be the case in the Philippines on Sunday mornings. For the life of me, I cannot recall the town. It was a little barrio to the north of Tagaytay city where we were working, that much I know. I can see it just like it was yesterday. It was a little church, open-air of course, no need for windows in that part of the world unless you just want to be fancy. It had old terra-cotta tiles on the floor; you know the reddish-brown ones that you used to see all over the place. They weren’t broken tiles like some folks like to do. They were whole tiles, and the builder in me couldn’t help but notice that the tile man was good. There was nothing too far out of order. There were a bunch of plastic lawn chairs lined up in rows like you tend to find in churches worldwide. They were white, so they contrasted well with the floor. The walls were stuccoed with a greenish, mustard colored mud. Separately it sounds kinda awful; but when you put it all together it was an attractive little church; and this Sunday morning it was filled to the gills with church folks who wanted to see the American who had come to visit. Whereas I may well have been a disappointment to them, they weren’t to me. They were some of the most authentic and gracious people I have ever come across. They folded me into that congregation like I had been a member all my life. About the time I got settled in, a man came over and said he wanted to talk to me. He was a deacon or something of the sort according to his dress and demeanor. He looked at me with concerned anticipation and told me that the preacher had come up ill and wasn’t going to be able to speak that morning. He said the preacher asked him to ask me if I might be willing to say a word or two about the work my teams have been doing over the past few years down in Tagaytay. I remember the old idiom of people having butterflies in their stomach when nervous. Not me. I had a flock of starlings swirling around down there; but what was I supposed to do? My mind said, “Bolt, and be quick about it,” but my mouth, much to my astonishment, said, “Sure” with a little lilt in my voice and a smile on my face. If there was a missionary category at the Oscars, I would’ve been a shoo-in in 1993; but the Lord wasn’t done with me, yet. After some singing, reading and praying, the time came for my trembling knees to drag me up to the pulpit. It was about this time that things got kinda interesting. As I rose to my feet and began to make my way towards the pulpit, a low growl could be heard. The closer I got to that pulpit, the louder and more menacing that low growl became. By the time I had worked my way up beside the pulpit, the growl had intensified to such an extent that the whole room was filled with an ominous quavering. The atmosphere was electric. The congregation was on the edge of their seats, wondering with great anticipation just what might be coming next. As I stepped around and behind the pulpit, their anticipation did not go wanting. There are two things in this world that I have never claimed to be. I’ve never claimed to be a dancer, nor have I ever claimed to be Pentecostal. I am a mild mannered man with two left feet; but as I stepped around that pulpit and the growl became a snarl and that mama dog came barreling out from underneath that pulpit towards me with slathered lips, gapping mouth and eyes filled with murderous rage, I became a world class dancer and a hellfire and brimstone, shouting shoes, jump the altar Pentecostal. My performance must’ve been pretty impressive too, because when I finally came to rest atop that pulpit, I was showered with a combination of heartfelt applause and laughter like never before or since. That whole congregation, save the deacon, appeared to be filled with delight at my physical prowess and comedic timing. As a matter of fact, so was I. So there I was, perched atop that pulpit suspended between a maniacal mama dog and the congregation. At that moment I figured speaking was less dangerous than getting down, so speak I did. By the time I finished speaking, I had effectively anesthetized the dog, so I was able to live to fight another day. Since that time I have improved a bit, I suppose. My starlings have become butterflies, and my fear has become a mild anxiety; but I do know this: When the Lord wants you to do something, He will make it happen. So why resist? I don’t have any idea what the Lord has in mind for you. I do know this, though. The Lord has something in mind for your individual life. As has been true with me and many other people however, all too often we resist. We fight the Lord, and in so doing we miss out on so many blessings and so much joy. Your destiny might be to sweep the floors or to raise the roof. It matters not. The Lord has called you to do great things for the kingdom. Don’t make Him chase you to the top of a pulpit before you say yes. Love, Pastor Tony If you had to be stuck on the side of the interstate, it was a lovely day for it. It was one of those midsummer days, somewhere near the middle of July. The sky was a beautiful sapphire blue, with the occasional cotton ball floating in it. Behind me there was a meadow filled with buttercups in full bloom swaying seductively in the breeze; and when the wind blew just right, it carried with it their fragrance which filled my nostrils with delight. It was thirty some odd years ago, before the arrival of the smart phone. The accompanying state of frantic motion that appears to have become a societal contagion was only just beginning; so there I was sitting on the new mown grass with my back up against the casket enjoying the day while I quietly watched my newfound friend, who will remain nameless for obvious reasons to come, standing by the side of the road trying to hitch a ride. We were in between Orangeburg and Bowman, South Carolina in the early 1990s; and there wasn’t much to be seen save buttercups, old tobacco barns and fields of half-grown cotton. A few miles back we had passed by an old farmhouse, but it was South Carolina in July and a bit warm, so making the trek back was less than appealing. I had already taken my turn at hitching, with no luck I might add, so it was Jimmy’s turn to do the deed. I guess it’s okay to use his first name, but I will leave his last name out of it. You know it occurs to me I may have gotten the cart before the horse just a little bit in this storytelling. Let me do some explaining. Back in the early 1990s, I was studying to become a preacher, and part of that study involved C.P.E. (Clinical Pastoral Education.) Most of my compadres chose to work in a general hospital somewhere so they could have prayer with the folks before they went into surgery or comfort families who had lost someone, both worthwhile and necessary skills. Now me on the other hand, I was a student preacher and had been on the job for several years and in my ignorance, I figured I didn’t need any more practice in general hospitals. So I chose to work at a branch of the state mental hospital over in northeast Columbia. I was assigned the sixth floor, which housed criminally insane women over the age of sixty. And yes, I was seldom bored. I’ve got a whole host of stories I would love to tell you, but probably shouldn’t, so let me just tell you about Belle. Now Belle wasn’t her real name, but she was from the Charleston area, so the name Belle is a good fit. Indeed Belle was a fine well-bred Southern lady. Her speech was immaculate, with just enough swallowing of the "ou’s" and blending of the "ar’s" to give her class. I wasn’t privy to the histories of the ladies, and was appreciative of that, so all I know of Belle was what I learned from being with her. As I said, she was a lovely lady of seventy years or so, friendly, a fine companion, and someone with whom I could talk. It was only on occasion that she would drift away, and at times like that, her precise language drifted as well. Whereas many of the ladies would drift into foul and inappropriate language, Belle would drift into preaching; not the quiet, benign Methodist preaching of my youth, mind you, but Church of God Pentecostal, born of the Spirit, washed in the blood, vivacious preaching. You know hellfire and brimstone, proper preaching; and she was good. When Miss Belle finished drifting, everyone in the room had hot feet and could smell the sulfur from hell with which they never wanted to be acquainted. It was in early July when Miss Belle went to be with her Maker. The family wanted to have the funeral down in the Charleston area, and as was the custom, the deceased’s most recent pastor was asked to accompany the remains to the place of burial. It was my privilege to accompany Ms. Belle’s remains to her final resting place. The hospital hired a local funeral home, which will remain nameless for obvious reasons to come, to prepare the body and to provide transportation to Charleston. It was on the way down to Charleston on that lovely July afternoon, that things got interesting. Jimmy was a fine driver, smooth in every aspect, but as a mechanic he was somewhat lacking. In his haste to be on his way that morning, he had neglected to check the engine fluids of the old hearse assigned to us. It was somewhere between Orangeburg and Bowman, South Carolina, that the friction between the pistons and the cylinders increased due to a lack of oil. The resulting heat caused the engine of the hearse to burst into flames. This put both Jimmy and myself in a bit of a predicament. We pulled to the side of the road as the flames began to lick the windshield and bolted, desperately wanting to save our own skins, but remembering that Ms. Belle had specifically requested burial and not cremation, we returned and through herculean effort we removed the casket from the hearse. We carried it about twenty feet or so away and after gently placing it on the verge of the interstate between the aforementioned buttercups and the highway; we turned to see the hearse completely engulfed in flames. Unable to think of anything else to do, I took a seat, and it was there, leaning against the casket, that I was enjoying the lovely day and watching Jimmy at the beginning of this account. It would appear that passersby found the scene a little off-putting and therefore refused to stop, I might add understandably. There must’ve been one good Samaritan among them however, who stopped at a gas station up the road and called the Highway Patrol to either rescue or investigate the two young gentlemen, the casket and the flaming hearse. Within an hour or so, a bemused highway patrolman walked up saying something in the line of “Well, this is something you don’t see every day,” and asked how he could help. Jimmy climbed into his car and they sped away to find a funeral home, I supposed, leaving me to guard the casket. Eventually even buttercups and blue skies become boring so I was a happy young man a couple of hours later when I saw a hearse, a brand-new hearse, coming towards me. We loaded Miss Belle into her new conveyance and headed not to Charleston but to Cane Crossing, on the outskirts of Wando, South Carolina, to the Cane Crossing Church of God Pentecostal. The crowd was small, mainly family, and out of the crowd a fine looking elderly gentleman, who had to be the preacher, walked over to me. We shook hands, and he asked me what had happened. I told him, as gently as I could, and his response was a deep, resonating laugh. What else was he supposed to do? After inviting Jimmy and myself to join them, he gathered his little flock of believers together in that old sanctuary for the service. Following a lovely prayer, he looked up and grinning told them that the service would not be nearly as long as was the wait. Then, barely holding back a laugh, he told them the story of Ms. Belle’s most excellent adventure. Afterwards, disregarding his sermon, he turned to the folks and said, “I think Miss Belle has probably had enough hellfire and brimstone for one day, don’t you? As Jimmy and I drove back to Columbia that night, I remember thinking of and being thankful for Ms. Belle. In the short time I had known her, I had gotten close to her. Actually her preaching convicted me a couple of times. I was truly happy that I had been blessed to be in her presence, as unusual as the setting may have been. Over and above that, I was happy that she was finally free from that confused mind of hers and whatever part of the past it was that plagued her. I was reminded that our God is a God of forgiveness and love and yes, forgetfulness of our wanderings. Thank God for His forgetfulness and His unique sense of humor. Amen? Tony Rowell This is an older writing of mine; I will admit, however, that for some reason it is one of my favorites. I can’t help but wonder what was in the mind of that teenage girl as she held her Creator in her arms. I have always wondered what Mary pondered. Was it the simple joy of being a new mother, or was it the awesome responsibly that had been placed upon her as the mother of God. I will probably never know what was going through her young mind, but as Mary pondered the birth of Jesus Christ her son, so I have pondered Mary. Those Eyes I will never forget the expression on her face. I wish I could find a way to describe it. It’s been thirty some odd years now, and I can still see her eyes just as plain as if it was yesterday. Black as onyx, filled with young life and yet haunted somehow. Unforgettable, that’s for sure. In all my life, I don’t think I have ever seen anything as lovely or as awful as those eyes. They filled me with hope and dread at the same time. Now how do you do that? She was staring off into space with that newborn on her lap. She looked like she knew something that no one else did. Yeah, I know all new mamas look kinda like that, but there was something else; something that gave her a wonderfully secretive smile; and Lord have mercy did that smile set off the tears in her eyes. Never has there been nor ever will there be anything more beautiful or more tragic than those eyes. I will never forget them. They’ve haunted me for over thirty years now. Oh, I’ve kept up the best I could over the years. I mean it ain’t everyday a bunch of angels tell you where to go. That kind of thing sticks in your mind, you know. Not to mention seeing the baby, but it was those eyes, those eyes that captured me somehow. I remember praying for that little girl as I headed home that evening; praying that she could find some peace somewhere, find something to take that terrible sorrow from her eyes. I understand her boy has gotten Himself in some trouble as of late; started speaking the truth. Young’uns, they’ll do that sometimes. It takes a bit of livin’ to understand that the truth makes folks uncomfortable. Heck, it makes ‘em mad. It threatens ‘em more often than not, especially a truth like His; but He was sent to tell them, so tell them He did. I’m just glad I wasn’t there to witness the kangaroo court and the beatings. Just watching them raise up that middle cross and drop it into place from a distance was enough to tear me up. The sound of that cross dropping carried all across the city. It rang out like an angry clap of thunder. It broke my heart, as old as I am. Even the sheep fell silent around me. It rained all that day and on into the evening. About sunset things calmed down a little and by nightfall all was quiet; all but my mind, that is. I couldn’t sleep to save my soul that night. Every time I lay down, my mind would return to those haunted eyes from years before. Only now the smile had faded, and the tears of sorrow and pain were all that lingered. It’s been three days now since they pulled Him off that cross, and I slept pretty good last night. I just got up once or twice. I can tell you this though; I do believe I saw the prettiest sunrise I have ever seen this morning; not a cloud in the sky. I hope His mama was up early enough to see it. Have a blessed Easter. Love, Pastor Tony |
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March 2024
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