An Introduction

When the hour brings stillness, even in the midst of confusion, I think that allot of us, if not all, has a private sanctuary hidden within our conscious being.  Nothing complex or difficult to reach, just a state which we can readily retreat to and sort out the experience of life.  Perhaps for most it is an unnamed region that we find ourselves when deep in thought.  It may be the product of meditation or contemplation or imagination or whatever four or five syllable words you may choose.  But it is real.  It may not be a tangible substance such as wood, stone or iron, but to our spirits it is an anchor to weight us to the realities of our life.  It is, in spite of our hopes and dreams, our escape within us bearing a reality that can carry our hopes and dreams to truth.  It becomes a vision with out the physical eye, which empowers our ability to see beyond which is seen, and view that which can be.  It is the bedrock of faith.  Faith is the immeasurable substance that allows us to know God and to accomplish that which is beyond our reach.  If I have faith, then I can dream.  If I can dream, then I have hope.  If I have hope then I can have life worth living.  My point of refuge then is called Ballengee.  Ballengee, a small community tucked away in the rolling peaks and valleys of my imagination.

Ballengee is the place that my imagination resides.  I realize that you see me here, or hear of me there, but it is in Ballengee that I resolve the question of life.  Perhaps it is a strange state of being my choice to linger there, as Ballengee is a fictional place, but it also is the reality of my imagination.  Ballengee is fashioned not so much by my dreams as it is by the realities of past reflections.  This is just, as all fiction, I believe, is born in the truth.  So I shall simply define Ballengee as the small town my imagination lives within and is manifested to you in the words I have written.

Ballengee is the place that my imagination resides.  I realize that you see me here, or hear of me there, but it is in Ballengee that I resolve the question of life.  Perhaps it is a strange state of being my choice to linger there, as Ballengee is a fictional place, but it also is the reality of my imagination.  Ballengee is fashioned not so much by my dreams as it is by the realities of past reflections.  This is just, as all fiction, I believe, is born in the truth.  So I shall simply define Ballengee as the small town my imagination lives within and is manifested to you in the words I have written.

I once was a truck driver.  A navigator of an eighteen wheeler trekking across the great backyard of America. Throughout the years of my road adventures I made it a practice on Sunday’s to find a church to attend.  I’m basically a non-denominational guy so the major consideration for a church was a large parking lot.  Well that would get me in the door but they had better be preaching the Bible if they wanted me to stay.  It was very interesting visiting all those churches across this great land.

One thing of great interest was found in a small church located in Lodi, CA.  A Baptist church if my memory is correct.  As I was leaving I noticed a phone on the wall of the foyer with a sign beneath which read one thousand dollars a minute.  I inquired with one of the members to learn that this phone was a direct line to God.  To say the least I was impressed.

I have sense then in any churches across the country noticed the same phone with the sign one thousand dollars a minute.  At my inquiry the answer always the same.  “A direct line to God.”  My adventures finally brought me to the Church on the Knoll located in the lovely community of Ballengee, West Virginia, the almost heaven.  They too, even in this small church of only twenty-four members had that phone a direct line to God.  The only difference was that the price was only twenty-five cents.  But as I shared in the worship service the personal testimony and witness of each member further impacted me.  I felt that I had been brought into a sacred family of God.  The Love of each for each was overwhelming.  The welcome I felt was a measure beyond genuine.

I found this to be also true of the whole community of Ballengee. Here with my fellow members numbering only twenty-one hundred, I truly felt apart of each and every life there. Perhaps I enjoy most the simplicity of Ballengee.  It is a place where folks have not strayed far from the moral fiber that binds society together.  There is no question to what is right or wrong.  Our Fathers placed the code in our hearts and we deny them not their wisdom.  The elders here still lead knowing that where there is breath of life, there is duty.  The young are taught early the joys of obedience and the despair of disobedience.  Here the woman loves her man and the man serves his woman.  It may sound as if Ballengee is a perfect little town but in truth it is not.  We do have our imperfections, our misfits and injustice.  Yet the foundations are seldom cracked and love and forgiveness wins the day.  For here in Ballengee the white horse still wins the race. I had then decided to settle down and become a citizen.

Such as it is for Sarah Abrams.  Her life is a witness of overcoming the imperfections that come upon us with seeming injustice.  She is a dear sweet elderly lady who lives in the cellar of Lou’s Five & Dime.  Sarah for most of her years has been deaf and unable to speak.  But it was not always that way.

Sarah was the daughter of a corn farmer named Joseph Abrams.  Sarah the son that Joseph never had after school would work in the fields with her father.  Sarah would help in the harvest, she would gather the stalks, shuck the ears of corn and help her mother can and store the corn.  Sarah was gifted with a beautiful voice and a great ear for music.  Her mother’s hope was that some day Sarah would sing in the opera or become a great gospel singer. 

It has been said to me by many when Sarah would sing in the choir at Grace Baptist Church it was as if an Angel had filled her voice.  It is true that there is a special quality to a youthful voice that is unmatched.  I believe from what others have said that the Angels of Heaven must have paused to listen as Sarah sang here on earth.

Sarah being a child had the fascination of youth to explore the world and stretch her imagination. She loved to go off and run through the fields and meadows around her father’s farm.  I imagine she would sing and dance her way through fields of corn stalks and meadows filled with milkweeds. One time she strayed over the stone fence of Angus Miller’s farm and frolicked in his fields.  I certainly understand the desire to see newer places than where she had been. 

Angus Miller is a cattle farmer and in that field was a large Holstein bull named Bud.  I have heard that bulls care little for flutter about them.  Nervous creatures the cattle with little defense against the fox or panther.  So I suspect when Bud saw Sarah dancing about he became confused and reacted in defense.  Bud charged Sarah and she was caught beneath his hoofs and received a hard hit on her head splitting it open.  Sarah lay there bleeding and unconscious long past dark before Joseph and Angus Miller found her.  They took her to the hospital in Capitol City where the doctors worked to save her fragile life.

Sarah survived but from that day on was unable to speak or hear.  It is said the whole town of Ballengee gathered when Sarah came back from Capitol City and welcomed her home.  It is said that Sarah’s mother was devastated and Joseph was bitter.  But Reba Maxwell told me that Sarah was filled with a smile upon her face once seeing the entire town coming to welcome her back.

I’ve seen people quite for a lot less.  Wrap themselves up in a blanket of self-pity and stop living. As if it was useless now that they had lost so much.  We have a tendency to count only our trials and not our blessings.  Yet I do believe that if anyone were to take a correct inventory they would find the blessings always out number the trials. 

This tragedy has been many more years ago than I have been on this earth and I don’t know the pain and suffering that Sarah must have gone through.  I don’t know if what came about was immediate or was a product of time.  I do know Sarah, as she is a regular at the Church on the Knoll, and blesses us each Sunday.  For Sarah’s talent was not her voice nor her ear but her heart.  Sarah became a great writer of poetry and she wrote often of her greatest love, Jesus.  The uniqueness of her talent was not in the fact that she wrote on paper but embroidered her words upon cloth. 

You can come to Ballengee and buy handkerchiefs with Sarah’s poetry of praise sown upon it.  Or a lampshade, a towel or wash clothes.  In every church in Ballengee there are banners with Sarah’s poetry sown upon it.  Who knows the value of her service to her Lord?  Who knows how many hearts have been swayed or blessed by her words written to Jesus?  I don’t know, but God does and I am sure He shall honor Sarah’s work.  I do know that I have been blessed many times.

It is then the simplicity of Ballengee that we have learned the simple truth of the Kingdom to come. That where God guides He also provides.  It is when we step out of the chosen path the troubles rush in upon us.  But to those of us who muster one seed of faith know that no matter how far we stray the path home is never more than one step away.  Though Sarah stepped out and lost so much of her dream and hope, she stepped back in and found her life.  Here in Ballengee it is never too late, in the almost heaven, to find our way back home, for God is just a local call.

It is another beautiful day here in Ballengee.  The sun is shining its golden rays down upon us from the high perch of the noon.  Shadows no longer lean to the east or the west but fall directly beneath their object of shape.  I myself have just returned from my morning trip to the grocery.  I planned this event to be an early morning thing but I admit that shopping is a chore I dislike.  Mr. Fred Medders, a quite meek man with a permanent smile and words spoken from a compassionate strength, also a faithful member at the Church on the Knoll, runs the local market which we just call Medders Market.  I could go on for quite a spell telling about all the little things that cause my attitude to fail during my shopping adventures, but they are petty when I think about them.  I can not once remember enjoying the experience.  Today though God took the time to remind me that He is everywhere.

During my venture through the check out lane, always an impatient experience for me, I was captured behind a scraggly appareled elderly lady.  She was not dirty nor of a bad aroma but her clothes and person was well worn.  What became interesting to me was what and how she was purchasing.  Cradled on her hip by one arm was a dirty sack full of soda bottles.  Slung on her other fore arm was a large cloth purse and in her hand were two cans of cat food.

Just my luck, as the day was near half spent, and now at the check out counter I have to endure the return of an un-numbered amount of bottles.  It has always pained my understanding as to why grocery stores have multiple check out lanes but only use one.  Her turn came and she slowly extracted the bottles from the dirty paper sack.  There was some Dr. Pepper, Coca-Cola, and UN-Cola and beer bottles, which were not refundable. This assortment of glassware was of the obvious origin of a ditch.  All were dirty and some had dirt, liquid or both inside.  Under the scorn of the check out clerk the money was counted out one nickel at a time. 

This transaction complete brought on the next.  I was not stressed further as I had resigned to the event.  Amazingly the price of the cat food did not exceed the available funds from the bottle return.  Great! I would not have to be faced with the inner debate as to if I should pitch in.  Don’t I pay enough in taxes?  This done the tattered lady opened her purse to place the cat food in.  Who could not realize the condiment sized ketchup packages that near filled her purse?  She noticed my scornful look and meekly said.

“Kitty likes to disguise the taste of the cat food.”

Anticipating my long awaited turn I looked around with eyebrows raised.  Does anyone feel my pain?  It was then that I noticed Fred Medders standing behind me.  Not surprisingly Fred knew the lady by name.

“Miss Andrea how are you today?” Fred inserted into my already long delay.

“Lovely Mr. Medders.  It is a lovely day.” Miss Andrea returned as Fred told her to wait there for just a moment.

In what promised to be more than “just a moment,” but surprisingly just a few, a stock boy appeared with a bag full of groceries.  It had never dawned upon me that the cat food and ketchup combined was Miss Andrea’s diet.  I just thought she had a weird cat.

It does not astound me that I, and many, still wonder the miracles of Jesus.  But here in a moment of time unwillingly given I’ve learned one of the secrets in the feeding of the five thousand.  It’s Jesus working through us that feeds those who hunger.  Jesus blessed the loaves and fishes but it was His disciples who gathered and dispersed them.  Jesus’ blessing upon our work in His will causes His Kingdom to be glorified.

Some distance is traveled here in understanding the identity of Jesus.  Argue this thought then.  Jesus came from the Father as a man and remained as a spirit.  Does He not live in and through us?  So we live because He lives.

Fred performed a great act of human kindness showing compassion, sympathy and a great understanding for empathy.  While I debated the contribution of a few pennies, and only for convince of time, Fred allowed Miss Andrea to do for herself.  He then added to her profit with his blessing.  Fred’s act of kindness is a great example of the work of Jesus. Well, Hey! It was the work of Jesus living through Fred.

It is a hard, if not an impossible thing, to live a Christ like life.  For the most part we stumble and fall each day.  Jesus expects us to live by His example but knows the frailties of our humanity.  Why not? He created us and has endured our experience.  He has made provision for our escape and return to His will.  This is our salvation from sin.  We must be careful that our salvation is not into sin.  One has said, ” Christians that feel they have acquired goodness in their life tend to punctuate the flaws in others.”  We must continuously confess our sins and not that of our neighbors.  None of us will arrive while we stand here in the abyss of the world.  Not while we are still shackled to our flesh and living under the inheritance of our sin nature.  What then is our hope?  Where could we go but to the Lord?

What then is the tie that binds?  Not our love for each other, our love is a flexible thing.  Our love balances between our need and want.  Our love has great moments of strength and disparate moments of weakness.  But this is the verdict of our conviction placed upon us in the garden.  We are only human.  Praise God with great Thanksgiving for the age of grace.

But there is consistency and there is stability in our lives.  When I realize, that those whom I admire the most, all those whom I detest the most, both before now and to come and those of the present, both those whom I know and those I know not and those who remain un-imagined, that the worst of each was placed upon the life of Jesus, the Christ, who assumed the debt of all, then there is nothing left of a soul but the potential for righteousness.   This is very idealistic and not consistent to the reality of our love.  The consistency is found not in our love for God but in His love toward us.

 There are in this world those who are clearly shining lights of His truth.  They know the meaning of love towards one another as they know the meaning of His love in their lives.  Perhaps before we judge one another, we should qualify the righteousness of our own filthy rags.  Perhaps most of all we should remember that we all are seen in the judgment of His piercing light, and forgiven.

It’s Sunday morning and I’ve made my morning trek on that winding county road to the Church on the Knoll.  It’s a pleasant walk in the coolness of an early new day.  I enjoy the adventure, as I live not far from the old church, which sits on a knoll, just above a lazy brook flowing to the mighty sea. I like to go early as I can sit by the brook and enjoy the peaceful sound of nomadic water searching for its destination the sea.  How fitting, I ponder, that a church should be built here.  From tiny brooks great oceans are born and from small churches great congregations are also born.  Such as that great one in the soon to come Kingdom of Heaven. 

The church, along with the grand spirits that attend, is a storybook version of that which authors and musicians have written and sung about.  The church stands elevated upon the knoll with a high steeple pointing toward the heavens.  Interesting to notice, as the steeples shadow travels across the grassy ground, it is, as a sundial to detect the ages.  Painted white with green trim, the old wooden building sports a new red shingled roof, which we all gathered to place upon it last summer.  Inside the one room structure still has an old pot bellied coal burner for heat in the winter.  Hard Oak Pews with Burgundy colored cushions. The church doesn’t have stain glass but a few years back purple colored glass was installed.  We have only about twenty-four members and over the years we’ve become a small family. We all are involved in the victories and sorrows of each.  I don’t suppose it is better or worse than any other congregation but in stormy times the family at the Church on the Knoll is an anchor. 

Sunday Bible class forms in the back of the church with Brother John our teacher.  Brother John is also the elder of our church and full of wisdom from his many years.  The young ones meet in the front with Sister Mary and they share scriptures together, which they have memorized during the previous week.  We don’t have a pastor but once a month, maybe twice; one comes to visit our church and give us God’s message.  Brother Simms gives us the word each Sunday when we have no visiting preacher. I will admit he is not dynamic but he is very inspired by the Word of God.

This Sunday was special. Being the small community we are when a wedding, funeral or baptism comes along it is an event.  Usually calling for a covered dish meal immediately following the service. Caleb Hodge was baptized this Sunday and the whole church family showed up for that. If you knew Caleb you’d understand the significance of this turning point in his life.  Caleb’s business is a very perky moonshine operation in the back hills surrounding Ballengee.  Though a little shine never hurt anyone the lifestyle it generates does not exactly fit in a church congregation. Homer Massy had been working and praying about Caleb for a long time and the Holy Spirit had now began His work.  So this Sunday Caleb, with Homer and Brother Simms at his side, stood before us and gave an account of his journey to the Cross of Salvation. Then we all gathered by the brook and Brother Simms Baptized Caleb in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. It was a marvelous thing to witness and I am glad the Lord blessed me with the witness of Caleb’s Baptism.

After the service we all gathered beneath the trees and enjoyed some of the best cooking to be found in the county.  We ate and we had fellowship and then had an old fashioned Gospel sing, which I being well known for my monotone voice, lip-synced.  The Crawford brothers, Johnny, Willie and Bob, led us while playing the guitar, violin and accordion.  They themselves with their booming voices make a great trio.

With everyone fed, visited and sung out we slowly dispersed and went our way to bask in the Glorious Day the Lord had given each of us.  I found myself back down by the brook sitting on a well-rounded rock musing, as this is my sport. 

Water suits well my musing sport.  Water, we drink it, cook in it, grow our gardens with it, why we even wash ourselves in it.  The very sound of it is a great accomplice to the flow of my thoughts.  I’ve felt its excitement as it gushes across the shallow rocks in the Greenbrier River.  Been moved to power from its pounding along the shore of mighty oceans. I sleep best as it dances across a tin roof. Now it is but a trekking sound, which is much how my thoughts are while pondering Caleb’s Baptism.  Certainly there is more to water than an H and two O’s for today Caleb was baptized in it.

Imagine that, Caleb Hodge, Baptized!  I have been knowing Caleb ever sense. The spirits of the more loving would describe Caleb as just plain quarrelsome. I myself would say just plain mean. Caleb first bumped into me back at Ballengee Elementary School.  He was a bit more than just the school bully because none of the other bullies would mess with him either.  At first I felt sorry and understanding of Caleb.  He didn’t have a Mother or Father.  Caleb lived with his grandmother and she was a sight to see.  I can not remember anything about her except she was always sitting on the porch chewing some Mail Pouch Tobacco. They lived up on Creamery Mountain and I liked going up there but I usually stayed away from the Hodge farm.  Caleb beat me up a couple of times.  Once because I wouldn’t give him my apple out of my lunch bucket.  The other because he wanted to impress my date for the High School Prom.  Actually if Caleb had known the attention I got from her because of that he would have found another target.  But those were the early years and sense we both left the confines of school life our paths parted.

Recently, or the last six or seven years, I knew Caleb best by his dog.  Now Caleb was not the most handsome person though I would not say he was ugly.  He might have even been a reasonably good-looking person if his personality had not always been in the way.  Caleb had also let him self go over the years and his features showed the ware.  But his dog, now that was an ugly creature.  I remember the first time I saw his dog, Mott.  My job at the Lively’s feed store would give me cause from time to time to go to Caleb’s place.  He lived in the same house as when he grew up with his grandmother. But now it was a rundown old wooden shack waiting for a match to set it off.  The wood hadn’t seen paint in many years and some of the boards were rotted away.  The tin on the roof was a rusty red that streaked down onto the concrete slab of the porch.  The front yard had every imaginable antique farm implement rusting away.  In the back of the old house was a mountain of trash that hosted a tribe of cats and raccoons.  Some how I would always picture a lower class of Lil Abner when I would vision in my mind what I had seen.  This picture sat about 100 hundred yards back from an old wooden fence on the top of a hill.  At the gate, with his cement colored hair stood Mott like a gargoyle guarding the passage.  If Mott knew you he would only snarl and bark a few times till a stream of cursing came from the house.  If Mott didn’t know you, well you’d be lucky to escape with out needing some serious medical attention.  Mott was a huge dog.  He was near the size of a calf.  Mott only had one ear, the other torn off in a fight with a panther, and no tail.  The story goes, and I believe it to be true, that Caleb cut Mott’s tail off in a fit of rage and beat him with it. Now I believe it because that sounds exactly like something Caleb would do.  Once when I was at Caleb’s he took a tree branch to Mott and beat him senseless just because Mott was scratching fleas. I would, and maybe should, had came to some sort of rescue but I have not been able to forget the beatings I have received from Caleb.  Besides Mott was no friend of mine but I did feel very sorry for any animal to have to live in that mess at Caleb’s house.  But I guess in a sort of way Mott felt I was a friend because he never attacked me at the gate.  I supposed I should be honored because the first time my boss, Tom Lively, went to Caleb’s he needed stitches at the town clinic.  If it means anything then, at least Mott was more civil than his master Caleb.

Now the events recorded in the Ballengee Record substantiate the following account as told to me by the more reliable gossip channels of our small community.  One evening after a good brewing at the still Caleb came home rather out of physical control from testing his stock.  Apparently he stumbled into bed knocking over the table and passing out on the bed.  Normal enough as we all know except the kerosene lamp went to the floor and lit the place up.  Caleb was to far gone to move and would have surely perished in the fire.  With blazes quickly spreading throughout the house and smoke bellowing out windows and door, Mott charged in and drug Caleb out.  That old shack lit the countryside up for miles around and many folks came to aid in putting out the fire.  Of course by the time anyone arrived there was nothing left to be saved.  What they found was a slightly toasted Caleb down by the creek and a charred Mott lying near by on the ground.  They got Caleb to the Hospital in Capitol City but there was nothing to be done for old Mott.

This should have been a life-changing event for Caleb and it was.  He got even meaner than he was before.  I suppose losing the only friend he had was just more reason for his hated instead of a cause to change his ways.  I being less sensitive felt that, Oh well; you reap what you do.  But Homer Massy is the kind of person that can find value in anyone.  Homer was determined to bring Caleb to account for what he had been and get his life turned around.  Homer would talk about Caleb all the time and would go out and visit Caleb often.  Easier now that Mott no longer guarded the gate.  I don’t think Caleb took to Homer at first.  But Homer wouldn’t give in and kept sharing with him the Gospel of Jesus each and every chance he could.

At first Homer told us that Caleb would get very mad and threaten him.  But as time went on and Homer kept going, Caleb would start to listen.  Then Caleb began to get mad again but not at Homer, more at himself.  Homer believed that is who Caleb has been mad at all along.  First time Homer said that to Caleb, he did throw him out.  But for an old fellow Homer is a toughie too.  Homer would just keep going back and visiting; praying and seeking answers from God.  Finally Caleb snapped and went to his knees and prayed for God’s forgiveness.  Homer said the man shook and truly desires to change his life and follow Jesus.

Now I know that through God all things are possible but I would never have suspected any possible change in Caleb.  I have managed to break a few bad habits and know the difficulty that it is.  But from at least as long as I can remember from those days back in grade school till now Caleb has been just plain mean.  Friends, I am not going to tell you but that is a very long time.  So when I first heard the news I went straight to Homer and asked what finally turned Caleb around.  I know that Homer has solicited the prayers from the church.  I know Homer Massy doesn’t do much with out the guidance of the Holy Spirit.  I believe that if you pray for God to move a mountain it will be done.  I also know it would be easier to move a mountain than Caleb Hodge.  So I said to Homer, “ I know it is the Holy Spirit that changes the hardest of hearts but just what did you say that Caleb hadn’t heard before?”

“Well son,” Homer said to me, “it was Mott.  I asked Caleb how come he treated Mott so poorly. Caleb said he was real sorry bout the way he treated that dog and really did miss him very much.  Caleb said if he had it to do over again he would have treated Mott like a King.  After all, Caleb said, the dog saved his life.  Well I told Caleb what was done was done.  Old Mott loved you in spite of the way you treated him but it is past now and you can’t get that chance back.  Then I told him that Jesus loves him much more than Mott ever could and died to save his life also.  And then I told Caleb that there is a vast difference here.  That Jesus offers him a chance to do it all over again. That Jesus offers forgiveness and a cleansing of the wicked life of the past.  That Jesus offers an abundant life ahead and peace and rest at the end of the journey. Caleb thought about that for a moment and then he broke.  It was an amazing thing to witness son.”

Sitting here on this well-rounded rock by the brook I ponder this event, the Baptism of Caleb.  It is an amazing thing to see such a drastic change and conversion in some one.  Kind of like Paul maybe. Could be one never knows does one.  I do know this and the evidence is clear that there most certainly is a power greater than our own.  There is a master plan not only for our lives but also for that of all life.  That in God’s creation and will all things work for the Glory Of His Name.  What tragedies come our way is mostly of our own doing. But only God can reach down into the dregs of our workings and save us from the fate we so much deserve.  We had better be careful when we judge these things in our own mind.  For all is the working of God’s will.  I know from where this brook comes and I know to where this brook goes and all that it endures along the journey is necessary towards its end. So as it is in life.  Each one is God’s life from which it comes to where it shall return.  It is a cycle in the Will of God, in the constant need of His cleansing water, His filling spirit and the proof of Fire. It is a blessing to us all when one chooses to abide in that truth. Such is Caleb’s Baptism as well as our own.

Oh by the way.  That still of Caleb’s.  He sold his secret recipe to the NHRA.  They are using it as a fuel for them fast cars.  Check it out!

I read in my hometown paper today, The Ballengee Record, a short notice that brought back some treasured memories. It’s a small town paper and after all these years you still can get a subscription for a mere .25 cents per copy The article was posted near the last page, page three to be exact.  After reading I felt that I should like to share it with you.

The story as I have lived over and over again finds a small town boy romping through an innocent childhood with the greatest fears being the darkness of his own bedroom.  That monster beneath the bed, the creak of an old wooden door shifting in the draft of a lonely dark night, stirs the fear with in a child’s imagination.  It is a wonderful time when a young boy does not realize the cares and trials that lay ahead in adulthood.  Also an impressionable time when the spoken words of an adult are accepted as nothing less than truth.  Children are willing beyond sound reason to accept the word of an adult.  Small towns also award greater acceptance for friends. You go with what is offered, as the choices are fewer.  I think this is good, as we learn to accept people as they are and not as we wish them to be.  We also have to be careful in our weaker moments as everyone knows who you are and also who your Father is.  The reputation is a valuable commodity.

Back then only the well to do had a TV and if one was to be seen it was in the window of Lou’s Five & Dime store. The TV was a major curiosity and if taken to town I would have to be dragged from Lou’s Five & Dime store window on Ball Street. Heroes seemed to be of greater dimension.  You read about them and hear others speak of them but the chance to actually see or meet one was extremely rare. I remember once the Governor came to Ballengee.  He was just passing through but everyone lined the streets just to see him pass.  I guess it was a big thing to happen in Ballengee but I was disappointed by it.  Just a long limousine with its license plate that read number one.  I was to small to see inside the car as it passed and didn’t like waiting for what seemed eternity for just a passing car.  I would have rather stood in front of Lou’s Five & Dime store and watched TV.

Early spring one year, even before school had let out for summer, posters were put up all over town announcing the coming of a Billy Graham Crusade.  I had heard of Billy Graham much as I had heard of Billy Sunday.  I thought all traveling preachers were named Billy.  I even thought that maybe they were related perhaps like father and son.  Billy Graham was one of those famous people right up there with the Governor.  All one could hear people talk about was how Billy Graham was coming to Capitol City this summer.  The excitement of going to the Capitol and seeing a real live famous person was as much a dream as I could have at that age.  But there was no way we were going.  Capitol City was 80 miles away and back then that was a journey not to be taken lightly and required resource that we could not afford.  Least that is what my parents said.  I remember my Grandmother going to Capitol City once but that was for medical reasons.

There are five churches in Ballengee.  Saint Joseph’s Catholic Church, First Methodist Church, James Street Presbyterian Church, The Church on the Knoll and Grace Baptist Church.  I had never been to the Catholic Church but had visited the Methodist Church once.  The preacher there was a neighbor but we went to the Presbyterian Church.  Our preacher, Rev. Wheeler, was a kind man who always had a smile and a warm handshake.  It seemed he always went out of his way to speak to everyone each Sunday and always had a word for me.  I liked him very much as most adults didn’t have time for the little people as I was often referred as.  After those Billy Graham posters went up he would talk about going to the Crusade every Sunday.  It would get me excited and Sunday evenings when I went to bed I would dream about going.  I don’t think Rev. Wheeler could get enough people together to go, as he never said how we were going to get there.

My friend Johnny Crawford went to Grace Baptist Church and they had a bus.  He was going and I tried to talk my parents into joining the Baptist Church.  Come on Dad, I would plea, we could go there just for the summer.  But no, we had to go to our church.  As the time drew near Johnny invited me to go with him to the crusade on the Baptist bus.  I was overwhelmed with the excitement of going to Capitol City, the Crusade and actually seeing a famous person like Billy Graham.  My parents were excited also for me and it was all set.  The day we were to leave my Dad gave me Five Dollars to spend.  Five Dollars!  I had never seen so much money before!

When we all loaded on the bus, some folks had to stand.  I wanted to stand but Johnny and I were given seats near the front.  I got to sit by the window.  That was great now I could see all the countryside between Ballengee and Capitol City.  Before we pulled out a man at the front of the bus standing led every one in a prayer.  It was a short prayer asking God to protect us during our journey and bring a great revival in our community.  After the prayer the bus began our trip and the man in front lead us all in some really spunky Gospel songs.  He was a very enthusiastic man and I liked him.  I thought maybe he was part of the crusade and asked Johnny who he was.  Johnny said his name was Brother Ricky D and that he was the youth pastor of his church.  Latter on other people got up and told stories of how God had helped them in their lives and changed them from the bad people they once were.  The stories were really neat to listen to and after each one Brother Ricky D would say a prayer thanking God and lead us in another song.  I had never experienced a long trip before but this was more than I had ever imagined.  I couldn’t wait to see what the world outside of Ballengee looked like and I did look out the window now and then but the excitement inside the bus was of greater attention.

At the crusade I found myself surrounded by more people than I could imagine existed.  Cliff Barrows opened the service with prayer and then a choir the size of the town of Ballengee sang. I felt as if the heavens had opened up and all the Saints were singing at once.  Then some other folk’s spoke about what Jesus was doing all over the world and Cliff Barrows came back.  He spoke awhile and then introduced George Beverly Shea.  Mister Shea sang what has become my favorite gospel song, “How Great Thou Art.”  I had never heard anyone sing with such a powerful voice.  To this day I believe God Himself sang through the voice of George Beverly Shea.  Then at last Billy Graham came to the front and began to speak.

First I was taken in by the fame of this person.  I had heard of Billy Graham all of my life.  I had heard people talk about him, heard him on the radio and read about him in the Ballengee Record.  Now I was in his presence and he became completely real and not just an icon like Roy Rogers or Captain Kangaroo.  Billy Graham became very real and much bigger than the mystic that preceded him. I wanted so much to become a part of what Billy Graham was doing and the powerful God that he was speaking about that it overwhelmed me.  I don’t really remember his message that day but somewhere during it I made the connection that my desire to be apart of his work was the model of the desire that I should have to be apart of God’s.  That through our lives we are given opportunity to hear the Gospel and we should follow Jesus with all our heart.  That someday we will be taken up to see Jesus much like I was now seeing Billy Graham.  That someday our names shall be read as apart of the team.  Oh how sad it will be not to hear our name called.  While dwelling in these thoughts Billy Graham began his invitational at the end of his service.  I felt as if my name was being called right then.  But I was just a kid of ten years lost in a mass of humanity and afraid.  I had doubt that I could find my way.  Suppose everyone left and went back to Ballengee without me.  Yet I wanted to go and meet Billy Graham and his Friend Jesus.

We so often ponder our way past a present opportunity. So many times I have heard the still call of His voice.  Yet I have paused and said I will give this plea some serious thought.  God’s work moves forward and will be done.  We can be apart or we can bend with the wind.  We are His Sheep and know His voice and have no reason to question other than our lack of faith.  Oh how this must hurt Him who gave His full measure of love for us. We shall never know the measure of that which we also deny ourselves.  It is as  incomprehensible as the reward is unimaginable in that glorious day when our name is read aloud in the mass of humanity.  How awesome the joy to hear “Well done Thy Good and Faithful Servant.

A hand rested upon my shoulder and in near tears I looked up the see Brother Ricky D looking down at me. “Will you walk with me?” he asked.  How did he know? Brother Ricky D a man of God already in the Book of Life and serving the Lord would ask me to go forward with him.  He surly didn’t need to go forward yet he wanted me to go with him. 

I wonder how many times we have this thought to reach out to a stranger and ask them to walk to the alter with us.  So many times during an invitational I am drawn to the attention of a twisting and fidgeting soul.  Yet I shamefully admit I ponder my way passed the opportunity.  I have often wondered why an extra verse is sung during the invitational.  Perhaps a patient Father is waiting on some stubborn children?  Another day, hour, minute or second that one should wonder through life lost and in peril of an eternity without God’s Love.  I could have been that tool used by God to Altar that lost one’s future.  I have squandered much of the talent that God has given me.  Someday the Lord shall hold an accounting of that talent.

Yes Brother Ricky D I shall go forward with you for we are sheep of His pasture and sowers of His seed.  For we are instruments of His Holy Spirits work and I shall not deny Him who denied me not upon the cross.

I read in the Ballengee Record today that Brother Ricky D has gone on home now.  He’s there where peace and joy abound.  He’s with His Father now and I feel so very happy about that.  I never met Brother Ricky D after that wonderful day at the Billy Graham Crusade. Our lives never again crossed. But I know we shall again someday meet as I am still walking with him.  I am walking with His master, as He is also mine.  I thank God so much for Brother Ricky D.  In that pivotal moment he shared his courage and walked with me down that wondrous road to Calvary were I found the truth and forever set free.

Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

(John 14:27 KJV)

Last Sunday was Easter Sunday, a special day that holds a reverent image upon the pages of my memory, an anchor in the landscape of my life’s history.  With special days like Easter or Christmas, I gauge the passing of the years. It seems Easter and Christmas holds a special magic upon one’s time, as we stop to pause and inspect upon the memories of those that have passed.  Easter has so much imagery embodying the occurrence that one can not help but fill the soul with it.  A time of renewal both in nature and in man.  A co-existent promise in the higher realm that life is still blooming anew rather than moving to a final gloom of disaster.  The story of Easter itself, that of a higher love, a God which loves His creation so much that He is willing to sacrifice His Son to save it.  For the Kingdom of God finds their hope in this story of salvation and those of ignorance a message is found in need of sharing.  This then, Easter, is a time when Nature and Man comes together in the promise of a new birth of life.  Demonstrated in the bursting blossoms of spring and the exalted spirits of man.

At the Church on the Knoll Brother Simms spoke upon that very thought and I truly wish I could remember every word as to share it with you.  For the life of me, I shamefully admit, I can not even remember the text Brother Simms used from God’s Word.  In Brother Simms homespun way he brought the massage to us in a way that we left the service filled with joy and charged with the desire to follow the true light.  In fact the whole service that day was special.  Special in that I, and I am sure the others, wish every Sunday could be such a fellowship of Blessing.

We gathered at the Church in the morning glow of sunrise with a Prayer of thanksgiving, that on this day so long ago the tomb was found empty.  Brother John led us in Prayer and before the Amen Sister Mary added her praises.  As she finished we all, one by one, added our own praise to glorify our Heavenly Father.  It was a moving event that we, brothers and sisters of the church, should share such personal moments of His presence.  A great start, one I ponder that what a wonderful life this would be if every day started in the same way.  And, why does it not?  Surely in Heaven it shall at the throne of our God and Father.

After the mornings prayer the table was set for a church breakfast.  Now I want to tell you my friends that there is no better food to be found than what was served Easter Morning at the Church on the Knoll.  There was more than I could describe but I certainly devoured more than I should.  A large plate I fixed with four cornbread biscuits spread out as a foundation.  Upon them I laid a heaping layer of country sausage gravy.  On top of the gravy I paced two farm fresh scrambled eggs with cheese melting on them. Around the dripping sides of my plate laid long strips of pork bacon fried real crisp but not burnt.  Slow brewed coffee with real cream thick in butterfat.  Now that is what flavor is folks.  I could not resist, just could not resist, the homemade toasted bread dripping with Martha Lilly’s blackberry preserves.  It is a wonder that I was able to stay awake for the service.  Which may explain why I can’t tell you more of Brother Simms message.

After the service we gathered again in the rear where the children searched for Easter Eggs.  Plastic ones filled with little treats for the youngsters of our church family.  As the laughter and joy of the hunt faded with the scarcity of Easter Eggs, Brother John led us in a parting prayer.  It was my friends an Easter Morning with out comparison.  Least till next year if we are not already at home with our Heavenly Father.

I found myself committed that the rest of the day should be dedicated to complete laziness.  Thus I did, as I do so well, and found myself sitting upon the front porch. Here I sat exercising my ankles motivating the old rocker.  The old rocker is an amazing instrument of slothfulness and certainly one of man’s greatest of inventions.  Mine was rescued from the old cabin I live in.

Behind the old Lively Feed Store where I know find my employment, there is a path. It winds around the hill beneath the Crawford home and faints down the side to a hollow. There a small cow path that I used to follow when I was a kid, which leads to a small creek. Following the creek, as it slowly rises between to tall wooded hills, it opens up into a meadow filled with grass and wild flowers. The creek bares off to the lower side of the meadow and along the perimeter wild raspberries grow. On the backside of the meadow against a hill that shoots near straight up is an old abandoned log cabin. One’s imagination can fill the history of this log cabin at a moment’s glance. Inside it are four rooms. First a living room with the middle of the cabin divided between a bedroom and a dinning room. The back of the cabin is the kitchen still with its old wood burning stove, kitchen counter and a well pipe.  Between the living room and dinning room is a stairway to the two upper bedrooms. Off to the right of the log cabin is the old outhouse for those privet moments of meditation. I so often in those early years at Ballengee dreamed of going back someday and finding that log cabin and just moving in. Life there would be so peaceful. In the years that have passed I have felt I’ve paid my dues. I’ve done my bit and fought my battles. I feel sometimes that I have earned the peace, which abounds in the meadow where that old log cabin stands.

I was fortunate to have been able to purchase this homestead of the Lively family. The old cabin with its roof gone and the porch collapsed and barely a path leading to it. Proudly the old rocker rested upon the collapsed porch coated in a green moss.  On this Easter afternoon I rediscovered it and employed it to my peaceful pace of relaxation.

As I moved back and forth, so to my mind drifted in and out of today and yesterday.  Days gone by and the events that has brought me here and shaped me to who I am, lessons learned and mistakes made.  I’ve had my share of good.  I’ve had my share of bad.  There are times I am not sure about.  Still trying to decide and this is good too.  But of the bad times, well now they don’t seem so bad.  I suppose, as time has moved, the stings of those events have mellowed.  Then maybe knowing how they worked out has made it all right.

Brother John came by and saw me sitting on the porch rocking.  I think he saw the value of spending time this way and stopped and took position on the porch swing.  I know it must have been the call of leisure as Brother John usually found interesting things to converse over.  But he said nothing beyond a greeting and just moved back and forth on the swing.  His presence did interrupt my thoughts as I began to wonder what he was wondering.  I wondered if he was wondering what I was wondering which was wondering what he was wondering.  This became a quagmire for me and I could not escape it.  I suppose I should have asked but did not want to destroy the peace of this Sunday afternoon.

Willie Crawford came by and must have also seen the value of this un-active activity.  Willie too stopped and joined our company.  Willie is not able to be silent and was excited about the baseball game he had attended on Saturday.  It was just a community baseball game. 

Ballengee has a community team, which belongs to the sate league.  I am sorry to report that we seldom make the playoffs but we are not a team to be beaten easily either.  Today we played the Talcott Trojans, which is a very tough team.  As Willie went on to report, they were not tough enough to beat the Ballengee Bobcats.

As Brother John and I sat moving back and forth on the porch, Willie sat on the edge of the porch resting his back against the column.  Willie told us of how the Trojans would get on base and then they’d score a run.  Then the Bobcats would get on base and then they’d score a run.  This went back and forth throughout the game with the result that the Bobcats beat the Trojans by one run.  And Willie said it drove him mad.  Willie was so afraid that the game would end without the Bobcats gaining that one run needed to win.  With a splash of exasperation Willie said that if only he knew how the game would end he might have enjoyed it better.

 I said, Willie that is the point of it.  Not knowing for that is the excitement of the game.  Willie said he knew that was right but still this game was a bit over taking for him.  Now Willie was just all stressed out and was glad to find a peaceful porch to relax on.

Willie sat there and near panted as Brother John and I continued to move back and forth.  I found myself in near agreement with Willie that maybe if we did know the end what we go through would not seem so bad.  Perhaps it is cheating but then we could see the value in the efforts of our trials.  I then discovered that as Brother John and I were moving back and forth that he was wondering the same thing I was wondering.

Brother John, in his quite, forbearing way looked over at Willie and said, “Be not afraid Willie for in life we do know the end.  God has it all planned from the beginning to the glorious end.  All that comes our way Willie works for good to those who love Him.  And the Father sent us His Son that the door to Heaven shall be opened to us if only we follow Him there. For He is the light that we follow and all the trials we go through He is there to sustain us.  He defeated that which we fear the most Willie, death.  He arose from it that we might live through Him.  So we know the ending Willie and we can choose our path unto life or unto death.  You need not worry Willie, be not afraid, for we know our destination through Jesus.  Keep you eyes upon Him Willie, and all we go through is but a moment before an eternity in glory with Jesus.  Amen Willie?”

And Willie said, “Amem”

In the light of a new day I find myself rambling down the path from my little cabin in the meadow. Again it is the time of year when nature reveals her mystery from beneath the ground where the seed has been hidden from us throughout the coldness of the winter. Now as the sun climbs to its morning perch, just above the trees with their new leaves waving a howdy-do in the morning breeze, I am as if it happened just overnight, amazed at the beauty that unfolds around me with each step towards the hidden hamlet of Ballengee.  I am not surprised, as a hint of the coming glory was displayed yesterday in the rose garden around the WW II memorial at the center of the court house yard. There loosely knit rose buds of red and yellow promised to burst open at a second’s notice. Again sharing the marvel of spring passing throughout the peaks and valleys that surround the hidden treasure of Ballengee beside the winding Greenbrier River. It is in that blessing I ponder forth, God’s gift, spring, a rebirth of both nature and the hearts of man, that I once again find myself excited to be alive.

I can not help but admire the meadow, as I wonder down the path, how the rhododendrons have taken residence beneath the tress on the lower side of the meadow. They’re colorful flowers of pastel purples, yellows and whites, and the velvety deep red ones that command the bunch. There in the now green grass, waving in the spring breeze, blossoms of violets have rose above to herald their arrival. What meadow would be complete with out the king of weed the Dandy Lions, which now are speckled about with their golden yellow heads standing tall. The air now flavored in the perfume of Honeysuckle, and the bees have come out of their winters hiding, and now busy themselves drinking the sweet nectar of springs generous drink. I do think that spring is a promise from God that life shall go on for a spell longer and that some day we will return to a Garden of Eden.

At work in the feed store I miss the sounds of the children playing in the schoolyard across the street. The screams and laughter as they play volleyball or run about in a game of tag. The school bell ringing to call them into class or an announcement over the loud speaker. They now enjoy the time of spring break and will soon return to finish the year before their summer adventures begin. Some now find themselves along the banks of the Greenbrier with a long pole in their hands hoping to catch a bass or trout. Others sit on the shore and dangle their feet in the cool water dreaming of a soon to come summer romance. Perhaps a meeting of their hearts at the 4-H summer camp where many of the children will spend time during the summer vacation.

For most, the older children at least, find themselves on the farm helping with the plowing and planting of spring. Filling the soil with the seeds of corn, pole beans, cucumbers, tomatoes and melons. Sowing the fields with hay for winter feed of the livestock. I am amused that the very soil we are so quick to wash ourselves from produces the food we need to survive. We bury our seed within the furrows and patiently wait, as we pray for God’s miracle of life to appear. One day soon from the mystery buried beneath our view tiny sprouts arise from the soil to provide us with our substance for the coming year.

Yet in the silence of the playground still Gordy stands at his post, as he does every day of the year except for Sundays. He is faithful to his task in our small community and not once have I noticed him absent from the corner standing next to a stack of newspapers. Every year that my memory shelters finds Gordy standing on that corner selling the Ballengee Record.  One never really appreciates the dependence we have on each other until they are no longer there. Each day from my view at the feed store, I see the same folks stop a buy a paper from Gordy. I wonder what they would do if one day he was not there. In Ballengee I am sure his absence would become a topic of concern, as the balance of our lives here would be tipped. Yet taken for granted his presence causes not a stir but his absence would be the news found in the papers he sells.  Strange as that is, a truth is found that each of us, great and small, are needed while less appreciated.  I too cross the street each day to receive the Ballengee Record, exchanging a greeting with Gordy and wishing him a good day. Where would, I wonder, find a copy of the Ballengee Record if Gordy was not there?

Gordy is a portly fellow of small stature and I imagine that as a boy he was not the handsomest of lads. With his round head and high cheekbones that arch down to support an overbearing round and often red nose. His cheeks are indented I suspect from the loss of teeth to support them. Yet his front teeth are bucked and causes his upper lip to overlap the lower, which is a disturbance to his speech. As a result Gordy is a man of silence with few words that pass through his lips. Gordy is also what we call slow and seems to comprehend well enough but is unable to express that which he has learned. His cloths are as worn as the years that have gathered upon him.  Not many know, but I do, that Gordy lives in the basement of the Ballengee Record in the cold and damp of winter and the stagnate heat of the summer. But Gordy is never dirty and his eyes are always bright.

Children can be the grandest of angles and the worst of devils and have picked up on Gordy as an object for their amusement. At Gordy’s expense he is fun for the children, as they taunt and tease him each morning and afternoon on his corner by the schoolyard. I am sometimes angered that the children have forsaken their manners and have such little regard for Gordy’s feelings, but Gordy never seems to mind. In fact, in a sad way, the children’s abuse is the only attention he receives. It is a sad thing that we as people need the attention of others so much that we even find comfort in their contempt.

This is the existence of Gordy, standing against the elements of nature, the abuse of children, while selling newspapers to very familiar strangers.  I would feel sad for Gordy, angry with the children and annoyed by those familiar strangers who give Gordy no more than fifteen cents for a newspaper, if I did not know Gordy’s secret.

I have, in my own mind, supposed that most of us look about the way the rest of us live. We study their position and determine ours to be better or worse, we strive to have empathy for those of less fortune and admiration for those of greater achievement. A way to gauge our own advancement in life, to extract some pride or shame for that which we have accomplished. In my idealistic mind I believe for the most part we all work to be the best we can at our station along the way. And if we are happy in our labors then we have gained more than many and so I imagine it is this way for Gordy. He has achieved that which he finds satisfaction knowing that he fulfills a position that is important too many. Some how I feel that if Gordy were to live somewhere else than Ballengee, we both, Ballengee and he, would be at a loss.

It may seem out of place to mention Christmas here at the arrival of spring. But it comes to mind, as I watch Gordy in the emptiness of his corner next to the school playground, absent of the children to taunt and tease him. As he stands there selling the Ballengee Record, I see certain loneliness in his stature without the children’s presence.

Each year Ballengee holds a community event that I think is unique to a town of our size. We are small enough that we can all participate without any being left out. There is a price in becoming a city in that we loose the wholeness of community. We become distant fractions of the whole and loose touch with all the members. But here in Ballengee we have been stagnate in growth, as few have moved in and too many have moved away. We remain a family of families living together and have stayed in touch with those that have sought their fortunes on distant ground. At Christmas the families of Ballengee come together to enjoy the gift and sharing we have for each other.

We are entertained with the beautiful music of the Bottoms Gospel Choir, which shares with us all that special music of the Christmas season. Each of the five Churches of Ballengee presents a short interpretation of the true meaning of Christmas. Of course, we feed ourselves well. The women of Ballengee spend the week prior preparing mountains of Christmas treats. Nolan Richardson comes down from his home on Eagles Perch with a dozen wild turkeys stuffed with the best dressing ever devoured by man. We listen to and at times join in with the Bottoms Gospel Choir’s Caroling. Ponder the thoughts and words of our spiritual leaders, enjoy a feast that has no comparison, surround ourselves in the blessings of a community of concern for each other and watch the magic awaken in the hearts of our children.

It is, as all the children know, that somewhere before time to go back to their homes, Santa Clause will make a special visit to see each and every one. I am proud at that; even Saint Nick himself has realized the wonder that can be found here in Ballengee. We have been faithful to hold this event on the same day each year for as many years as I can remember. We should not want a mix up in schedule to cause Santa to miss our gathering. Santa has never missed; he has been faithful as well and has come to visit us each and every year. I remember the wonder of it myself as a child. Being hoisted up upon his knee, sitting there resting in his arm amid the winter smell of evergreen, sharing with him my hopes for the Christmas season And receiving a special gift made of carved wood. One year I received a Wooden Indian, which I treasure more than the other wooden gifts I had received. It has remained with me to this day upon the mantel along with other treasured childhood memories. When I look at it, I remember the joy I felt when Santa gave it to me. That I believe is the real gift that Santa brings, the joy, which is his magic.

All this comes to my mind, Gordy and Christmas, as I watch him selling his papers across the street next to the school playground. Knowing how the children treat him and how others view him. Yet I know him to be a man under appreciated for his gift to our little community here at Ballengee.

Several years’ back Newt Harper, who is the editor of the Ballengee Record, bought a little piece of ground near Barger Springs. Just off the hard road about twenty acres where Newt planned to raise some cattle. It is a nice piece of land tucked away in the woods. A good field of grass in the summer and is easy enough to get to in the winter. Newt came into Lively’s Feed store soon after that to buy some salt blocks and a large tub for a well he had drilled. He asked me to take it to the basement of the Ballengee Record for him, which I did. Junior, who handles the deliveries at the feed store, would need help with that tub so I went along to assist. It was a good opportunity to get out and see the folks about town.

We arrived at the Ballengee Record and carried the salt blocks down to the basement. Then we wrestled the tub down the stairs also and placed it along the back wall near the room that Gordy lived in. Junior rushed back out to get some air while I lingered just to catch my breath. After which I started my journey back to the street, but first discovered a very amazing thing in the room next to Gordy’s. The floor was littered with wood chips and the shelves were filled with wood carved toys. The truth of Gordy came to me quickly in that moment.

We go through our lives and notice those around us, as we do, and yet never really know who they are. We go along way on assumption and prejudice and seem satisfied with a shallow interpretation of those around us. The truth is it takes a lifetime to know a man and perhaps this is why God waits until life here is over before His judgement. We never really know who each of us are until we all have been. Imagine that, Gordy is really Santa Clause.

Here in Ballengee it was another beautiful Sunday morning coming up. It is fall now and the weather has turned chilly and I rose early this morning to build a fire in the old stone fireplace. On these chilly days I like to be curled up by the fireplace listening to the snapping fire giving of its warmth. I remember those cold mornings after Dad had built a fire I would toast and turn until the whole body was warm. As a kid I used to take an empty milk carton and place it in the fire and watch the smoke come out of the open spout. Silly I know but I was amused by it. There is something very captivating by a fire. There are three things that totally capture my attention and rob me away from the activity of that around me. A starlit night, a fire and television, the latter being something I gave up many years ago. This morning I enjoyed the warmth and also created that image with the milk carton for my own children to also remember in the colder moments of their lives.

As the family came into the living room one by one to dust the sand from their eyes and toast and turn themselves by the fire, I had that old milk carton there at the ready. Should anyone wish to find the same amusement I once had but I left no hint for its purpose. Now at the end of the day I set in my chair close to the still burning fire staring at the milk carton. I could not resist but to take it up and place it upon the fire. As the smoke danced out from the spout being captured by the rising heat it was carried away to places unknown to search for its own destiny. Much as we when we were children leaving the nest. Guided by the warmth of family we charge into this world filled with our hope and aspirations bound to build a good life and change the world. Each one who has made the journey and those yet to go have a story to write on the pages if human history. Each a part that must have been played with out which we would not be as we are today.

Today, we gathered the family and I, for our morning’s journey to the Church on the Knoll in the stunning beauty of the mountains standing in their glory here in the Ballengee countryside. And those mountains! What beauty nature displays with the changing of the seasons. The leaves with their colors of gold, red and orange are a display of nature at her best. The leaves swaying in the autumn breeze against the sharp clear blue sky. A crispness in the air that brings out the comfort of a treasured sweater snugly placed around the body. The breeze nipping at the ear and fingertips awakening the blood and invigorating the body. The faint smell of a wood stove burning off in the distance flavoring the air with a sent from long ago childhood memories. Capturing us in a time of simpler means filled with joyful moments. Oh yes fall, a favored time of the year to be in the mountains.  To hear the voice of the wind as it whispers in the ear through the hollows of the mountains, “I am a mystery for you to explore.” Perchance a hike up the path to a golden meadow beside a chattering brook with the water swirling about the rounded stones as the water fleas skim across the ripples. An opportunity to place the checkered tablecloth and open the famed picnic basket. Oh the gooey peanut butter sandwiches with the apple jelly, which always collects in the corner of the mouth. Not so cold cola with a moon pie for desert or perhaps a cream filled oatmeal cookie. We strolled together each exploring the sight of what an awesome God has given for our pleasure and stewardship.

This Sunday at the Church on the Knoll was special, as brother Simms had relinquished the pulpit to a former preacher form years gone by. This Sunday the word was to be given to us by the Reverend Harvey Banks. I had heard him preach once before several years past down by the river near the bottoms. Now this Sunday Harvey has come to visit us at the Church on the Knoll and I have looked forward to it sense hearing of his visit.

Harvey is retired now and lives in Hilldale a community that sets not far up the river from Ballengee. Hilldale is a small collection of cottages snuggled in a wooded area over looking the Greenbrier River. The folks of Hilldale gather at a small store ran by Junior Dunn each day and discuss the issues that face the leaders of the world. Most folks there are retired and their politics are from an era that if reviewed by them was a simpler time to live. The gray areas between the left and right were less definable and you were either the one side or the other. Harvey was not always a resident in this community filled with statesmen of leisure, as in the days of his work he lived in Abbyville.

Harvey’s days in Abbyville were filled by his commitment to a prison ministry at Stonehouse Prison. Stonehouse a Federal Prison was the whole existence of Abbyville. Stonehouse is the focus of and the substance of Abbyville. It is amazing to me that the twenty five hundred inmates of Stonehouse generated about twice that number living in Abbyville to support them.

At first Harvey concentrated his ministry towards the inmates only but later expanded it to the families of the inmates as well. This expansion caused Harvey to have to travel some and at times he would even have to leave the sate to visit family members. As Harvey’s ministry continued to grow he would have to go and visit inmates that had rejoined the society outside of Stonehouse. As a result of his travels Harvey decided to start a tent revival crusade each time he was drawn away from Abbyville. This came about by Harvey meeting on one such trip a bandleader by the name of Preston Morgan who had a rich baritone voice. The two teamed together and formed the Morgan-Banks Evangelistic Tent Crusade. As the years of this partnership rolled on the popularity of their tent crusades grew until it became a much-anticipated event to have the Morgan-Banks Crusade come to town. It was at one of these tent crusades that I first heard Harvey Banks preach. It was a stirring service and many came to know the truth. I too was moved by the mighty baritone voice of Preston Morgan as he sang that glorious song Amazing Grace and one could feel the power of God from each and every word that left Harvey Banks mouth. I was there with Fred Medders who invited me and is a childhood friend of Harvey. After the service Fred and I spent some time with Harvey and Preston and I was completely taken in by the magnificence of their personalities.

Much has happened sense I last heard Harvey preach and Fred Medders has told his story to me and I share it with you now. Harvey Banks who is now 76 years old several years back had a serious accident, as we call strokes here in Ballengee. It happened while he was in the hospital in Capitol City having surgery to replace a vein in his neck. During the operation a clot broke lose and caused the accident. Harvey was left with out use of his left side and was not able to speak understandably. Harvey also suffered short-term memory loss and was most times disorientated and needed constant aid in staying current. It is admirable that his wife Charlotte never left his bedside during the weeks he was in the hospital. Fred Medders went to Capitol City nearly every other day to check on Harvey that too a task, as it is an eighty mile trip each way. Charlotte and Fred where there to support Harvey but they came from the experience encouraged and Fred has said to me his life has been enriched by Harvey’s trial.

As Fred has described and history has proven, Harvey from the start of his ordeal believed the he would recover and preach again. The doctors said Harvey would make some recovery through therapy and hard work but they would be minimal. Harvey’s chances for walking again where slim and with a walker at best and his speech abilities would not show much improvement. The loss of his tongue would make it difficult to pronounce most words. Also the memory loss may clear up as the mind has the ability to channel different routes. The doctors did not paint a possible picture for Harvey’s dream of returning to the pulpit as a likely reality. So Harvey’s battle began and he fought it with his faith.

Brother John gave me a definition of Faith. Faith is grabbing hold of something that is not there and holding on to it until it is there. This is what Harvey did, he believed that he would once again return to preaching and through his faith in that belief he fought against the odds of the doctors’ prognoses. It was not an easy battle for Harvey and years of physical therapy showed very little progress as time passed on. Many a therapist said this is the best it will be and walked away until all had given their best. Yet Harvey went on with out them working the exercises that he had been taught. Many hours of practicing words over and over again. At first only those who were close could understand and then as the years past others were able to hear what Harvey was speaking. The trials of a step and falling into the supporting arms of Charlotte and Fred or the arms their children who came often to help him. A step then two and three followed by a walk across the room. Fighting one step, one word and one thought at a time. Constantly working on his memory trying to speak a sentence without forgetting its meaning before the end. A phrase, a sentence a paragraph at a time till the mind found new channels of communication. Harvey never lost his faith and refused to be discouraged and those close to him were lifted along with Harvey, as they shared in the celebration of each small victory born of many defeats.

This day, this Sunday amidst the handiwork of a great God we went to the Church on the Knoll to witness another great handy work of God’s that Reverend Harvey Banks would preach His word to us all there.

I must tell you that if I were only one to critique the abilities of Harvey’s oratory I would have said this speaker would have been better to have written his message upon the pages of a book. The message lasted for fifteen minutes and could have been written on one page of a high school notebook. Knowing the story of his trial and that which Harvey Banks had overcome I was absorbed by each and every word Harvey spoke. He wasted not a word nor expression and he delivered his message from Isa. 40 verse 31. “But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”

As I now gaze into the fading flames of the milk carton in the fireplace, the real message of Harvey Banks begins to settle into my mind. Harvey began with an audience that was held captive and in the end captured the audience. A small gratification in tribute to a long and miraculous career in the service of his King. But the real story is found in the measure of Harvey’s faith.

So many of us sit upon the bench of our lives wishing we could play but a bigger part in the whole of this world. We sit there knowing we have a larger part of ourselves to give and that if given the chance we could too make a difference in the outcome of mankind’s history. Yet we fail to see the opportunity and wonder why we are not called. Have we not lived a life in preparation for a grander cause than just getting through this journey here? Is there not more that we have to offer than our labors for food and shelter and what leftovers we can contribute? The answer too often escapes many of us and we remain on the search with the hope that someday our call will come. We are taught that each one is a member of the body and we each have a vital part to perform and sadly we somehow miss that we are to do. I have so much of my time sat upon the pew waiting for my call and wondering is there not a place for me. How sad this is that opportunity constantly knocks upon our door and we never seem to notice.

Harvey knew that accomplishment is not given but is taken and he set out to make his way on nothing more than faith in what he was about to do. Harvey grabbed a hold of a dream and lived as if it had come true. In the end for Harvey his dream did come true.

With an act of faith Harvey believed he could reach the hardest of souls, and he did. With faith Harvey believed he could reach the inmates families, and he did. With faith Harvey believed he could reach whole communities with the gospel, and he did. With faith Harvey believed he could overcome the physical obstacles and return to his life’s work, and he did. If our faith is only in the shallow water where our feet can stand on the ground then we will never know if we can swim. If we are to prove our faith in an Almighty God then we must reach beyond the known capabilities, beyond what is believable and live as if God has answered our prayer. How else can we prove the capabilities of our God and our belief in Him? We are then as the smoke which soars from the mike carton, lifted by the fire of our faith, reaching heights unimaginable seeking His Glory as we go.

It is a lovely Saturday morning coming about here in the quite of Ballengee. I have finished a wonderful breakfast with all the trimmings of a farm fresh countenance. I found myself in an old habit, that I some how wanted to relive the memories of earlier childhood days, and fix a meal equal to the standard of my mother. I am somehow glad that I have missed the mark yet feel confidant that I had come close. I would not want to surpass her ability, as I might then lose the desire to again try to achieve the measure. I had an error in my preparations the day before at Medders Market. In my haste to come home I grabbed what I thought was milk only to latter discover it was buttermilk. I have never cared for the taste of buttermilk and again was reminded this morning of my dislike for it.

There are times these little provocation’s, such as the taste of buttermilk, cause childhood memories to pop into the forefront of my mind.  I suppose this is the way of saying, “Hey! This moment is to be treasured and we do not want it to be forgotten.”  You know as well as I that we consciously forget the majority of our lives.  How many times have you wished you had kept a diary, well maybe you do.  But I have never done so and find myself many times wishing I had.  So I reckon the mind decides what is worth reviewing and brings it up now and again just to be sure the thought doesn’t fade with the years.

In the earlier years here in Ballengee, my family and I lived in a wonderful farmhouse just on the outskirts of town. Today it still remains but has long ago become the residence of another family. I pass by there time and again and look about the home site and wonder what life there is like now. Do the parents have the same joy of working the land as my Father did? Are the children busy each morning with their farm chores? Gathering the eggs or milking the cow. Do they play in the hayloft and explore the wooded areas beyond the lower field? I wonder if they have been curious about the initials carved on the door in the upper bedroom? I have thought maybe I should stop by sometime and introduce myself but never have done so. Why not I wonder, they probably would find it interesting to learn what all went on there so long ago.

The farmhouse was a log home built by Robert Ballengee’s son William back in the 1850′s. It was built upon ground that slopped off to the East, with the house facing the North. I remember how we could sit on the front porch and watch the suns light travel from one side of the front yard to the other as it crossed the sky.  Many a day started watching the sunrise and ended watching the sun set from the rocking chairs on the front porch.  Now do not think this is all we did, as each day was filled with plenty to do.  The ground to the east sloped down to a large field.  I spent many a day in that field hoisting bails of hay onto the wagon and then taking it to the barn.  To the back of the house was the chicken coop and hog pin.  Farther down was the shed that had all the farm equipment.  In the center was the outhouse and behind that was a woodpile.  On the West side was a grape vineyard, which to the far side of was the garden.  To the North the ground rose just beyond the hard road to a barnyard.  To the right stood a large barn where the hay was stored for winter feed.  On the left was an old school house where William Ballengee used to teach.  In the middle was where an old Jersey cow named Ruby grazed.

In the earlier years my mornings would always start following my father around feeding the chickens in the coop behind the hog pen and the one a ways down the hill. After feeding the chickens, pumping water into the troths for the cows and making sure there was salt blocks out for them, we’d go back to the house for breakfast.  After breakfast Dad would gather the farm hands and plan the chores for the day. Sometimes Dad would take me with him to plow a field or out to the upper farm where our cattle grazed.  If it were bailing time I’d be on the ground tossing the bails onto the wagon to be transported to the barn across from the house.  I might find myself picking beans or shucking corn and various other duties that a boy could do. Other times I’d go with my mother to milk Ruby.  She tried and tried to teach me how to milk Ruby but I expect that cow didn’t like strange hands.  I never could get more than a squirt and once I was doing good but Ruby kicked the bucket over just so no one would know I had actually gotten any milk from her.  To this day it is a task I have never mastered.  She was a good milk cow and we’d get a bucket full every day.  I remember the first time I tasted milk from Ruby and I thought it tasted terrible.  Mom would secretly skim the butterfat off and tell me it was store bought.  For many years I never guessed. 

Some of the milk form Ruby mom would pour into a large churn and let set till Saturday.  Saturday was her day for churning the milk.  It would sit there all week and just curdle up and smell horrible.  I couldn’t believe how good the butter tasted after she was through churning.  She’d also get buttermilk that no way would I ever drink but Dad and the other hands loved it.  There is nothing like the taste of real butter but the buttermilk tasted just like I thought it should coming from that old smelly churn. I could never figure how such a good tasting butter could come from it.  There was nothing better than sitting down to a meal with real cornbread soaking in real butter.  That and red beans with ham hocks, snap beans, fried tomatoes and sweet corn on the cob was lunch and held us up to the big feed at supper.

But today it is the butter that comes to mind as that mouth full of buttermilk jolted my mind back to those days on the farm.  I remember how right before mom churned she’d take the cloth off the top of the churn.  Why the smell that came out of it would chase even the flies away.  She’d start churning pulling the stick, which had a flat surface with holes in it, up and down.  She’d get to going and the whole porch would bounce right along with her.  Every now and then she would stop and wipe her fore head and holler “Whew boy”, throw in a pinch of salt and some sugar and go again.  When she was done she’d dip out the golden butter and form it into separate mounds on plates and put it in the ice box.  Then some of it was thick looking stuff that was buttermilk.  The rest a thin white yucky looking mess she’d throw out.  Now and then she’d let me have a lick of butter and it was all so good.

I now find myself here to muse how something so good could come from that old smelly churn.  You couldn’t get me close to that churn and when I watched her sometimes it would splash on me and I’d run for the rain barrel to wash it off.  It was to me as bad as stepping on a fresh cow chip.  But still it never kept me from enjoying the butter that would come from it. 

I think maybe there is a secret here in the workings of life.  As we travel down the road to our destiny we will have troubles in our life.  Some we bring upon our self and others are handed to us.  Perhaps this is needed.  A churning, a test of fire and faith, a discipline of preparation for the golden heavenly bodies we some day shall be.  For in My Father’s House we are all prodigals.  Yet at home where His light is there is a place for each of us.  But the road back is not an easy one as nothing of value is free.  Along the way we endure the churning of our trials here through life. In the temperance of the churn for those who hold fast to their faith the victory will be won.  Is this not love?  Does a Father give his child all that he wants or does he teach his child how to obtain all that he needed. Which of these is the sweetness of love and which is just the sour taste of buttermilk?

The snow fell throughout the day here in Ballengee.  We usually dream of a white Christmas and this day it appears that our dream will come true.  When it snows here it is mostly just a dusting but the flakes came down thick and heavy.  Early on the flakes melted as soon as they hit the ground but as the day wore on the snow began to stick.  As the light of day faded into dusk, a beautiful blanket of snow covered the landscape.  It was very peaceful in appearance as if we had been cleansed of the past season and now were ready for the coming new season.

Christmas being a benchmark in the measure of memory by which we gage the events of our lives has always been one of my favorites.  Yes there are other moments in the year, which hold this distinction.  Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Easter, New Years and tax deadlines but it is Christmas that holds the most excitement.  As a child Christmas is unequaled by any other event throughout the year.  Christmas is even greater than the last day of school just before summer vacation.  Oh those seemingly sleepless nights of Christmas Eve that I laid awake with great anticipation.  Then it was hard to decide which the greater joy, the giving or the receiving.  Now as I think back I do believe giving carries the more lasting satisfaction in my memory. 

The events surrounding Christmas are no less of an enjoyment.  Going out caroling with the church group and seeing the look of joy come across the elderly faces of those who stood by the door and listened to our surely angelic voices.  Checking the lights and trimming the Christmas tree with ornaments that as the years past became old friends each with their own special worth.  This ornament which Grandma always placed on her tree, this one that Uncle Jack made himself and the star which Mother made in the early years out of tin foil, water colors and ceramics.  The tree itself became a monument of our family history.  How we labored to place each tinsel in the proper place and the excitement when Dad plugged the lights in and they all came on.  Filling the room, the house, filling our lives yet again with the warmth of family love and the hope of peace and joy throughout all the years to come.  Christmas comes but once a year but each one adds to a life time of warmest moments shared with family, friends and those of the world we live in, each a new page to be read over again the next time Christmas arrives.

Christmas has came again to this little community of Ballengee, as the years have made their marks upon me, I see it not through the eyes of a child’s anticipation but through the eyes of a seasoned child’s appreciation.  I must say here that I have been blessed with much to be joyful about.  The meaning now of Christmas is far deeper than the joys of giving and receiving but more in accepting of the greatest gift ever received. As I look back upon each page of Christmas’s past and take from each the personal pleasure that each gives, I have come to understand the bases of tradition and their importance.  It is then that I want each of my children to have the same wonderful times now and in their memories also.  How empty the future would be if we allowed the future of our children to drift away from the root of the Christmas season.  I remind myself each year with question, that if it not were the birth of the Christ we celebrate then what is it we are about this season?  I have been blessed that in our family Christ has always been the reason but what of those who have not a clue?  Yet I think they do and still harbor the curiosity for it, as the world has yet to escape the truth of Christmas.

This night I gathered my sons and daughter, who are not such little ones anymore, and we went out to enjoy the season as we have over the years we’ve spent growing together.  It has become for us, and many in Ballengee, a tradition to walk down Maxwell Street and admire the lights.

Maxwell Street is not the longest of streets here, having only seventeen homes, but it is in the exclusive part of town.  Maxwell street is perhaps one of, if not, the oldest street in Ballengee.  The oldest families live there.  All but one of the founding fathers of Ballengee lived there.  Today most of our community leaders live or are from Maxwell Street.  That being who they are found it a commitment to giving the fullest of measure in keeping the tradition of each passing season.  Christmas being certainly the greatest opportunity for all on Maxwell Street to put on their show of ability in keeping with the season.  It has then become a marvelous sight to see as the residence of Maxwell street attempt to equal and out do themselves with the lights and Christmas declarations.  So most of us here in Ballengee make an annual trek to Maxwell Street to admire the result of their effort there.

We go there to admire that which we have seen there in the past and to see that which has been added for this Christmas season.  It is an evolving process as each year new features are added to the individual displays.  I have found myself wondering each year what more can be done and have been amazed that the creativity of Maxwell Street has seemingly no end.  So it is something old and something new each and every Christmas season.  It has become an event here amongst the masses of Ballengee as we the town folks stroll down Maxwell Street. 

Though we are a very tight nit town and most folks here no each by name still some how I hate to see venders setting up their stands on Maxwell street. As we pass down I hold my displeasure, as they are my friends from many years gone by.  John Crawford, perhaps the one whom I have known the longest of any, has set up a stand filled with delights from his restaurant the Kountry Kitchen.  Betty Mae who runs the local Tastee Freeze has an Ice Cream stand.  Imagine that on a snowy evening my oldest boy would stop for an ice cream cone.  That last minute gift can also be purchased on Maxwell Street from Lou’s Five and Dime.  But it’s not that much an annoyance and mostly just a personal displeasure of mine and more or less tolerated by the community and even participated by they who speak against it.  But I do not allow this distraction to displace my attraction to the extraordinary glitter I have come to see.

We pass by each house, each display, which now blend into each other, in astonishment of their individual and yet coordinated creation.  I am amazed not only by the uniqueness, creativeness and effort of this monument, but that it has remained and changed throughout my whole life here.  I think as I walk that my children somewhere into the future will be having the same thoughts as I now have.  Yes I say to myself that it is important to have anchors in life such as this to bind our lives together throughout the generations. 

I am particularly impressed by Judge Stone’s display this year.  He had taken a garden hose and lined it atop of the gutters of his house.  Turning it on and allowing Ice sickles to form.  He then placed small colored lights that blink behind the sickles and the effect is awesome.  Not to be out done John Thomas built a wooden frame in the shape of a Christmas tree and with the same principal built an Ice Christmas tree with lights embedded in the ice.  The ice melted around the bulbs placing them inside little cavities, which reflected the colors magnificently.  Each year the residences of Maxwell Street never cease to create something never before seen. 

Maxwell Street ends in a hook at the base of higher ground known as Laurels Peak.  Here stands the oldest know structure in the county.  It is an exquisite Victorian home built in late 1750 buy a man named Landon Maxwell.  He came here directly from England to establish his own lordship in the New World of the Americas.  It was he and his assembly that settled this part of the country, which then was the Far Western frontier of the New World. At first they battled and then befriended the Shawnee Indians.  London’s son Brent turned against his Father and sided with the revolutionaries in the war for independence.  He was banded from the estate but in view of the war’s outcome returned to claim the family leadership at his Father’s death.  Brent’s grandson Chester Maxwell rebelled against the Government of Virginia and the Maxwell home became the headquarters for Union Gen. William Averell in securing the area from the Confederates.  A few small battles were fought near by and he was successful in forcing the army of Confederate Gen. John Echols into Virginia.  Droop Mountain the largest Civil War battle fought on West Virginia soil was directed from the Maxwell home. 

Today the Maxwell home stands as a monument to the history of this area.  We don’t call it the Maxwell home but that of the three sisters.  They are the direct decedents of Landon Maxwell and the last of his family.  The sisters, Reba, Rose and Mary never married and have lived their whole lives from birth in the upper bedrooms until this day in the Maxwell home.  They, the Maxwell Sisters, when in town or out in the country, are treated as the royalty from which they have come.  Most of the land that Ballengee rests upon once was the property of their family and for that we seemingly still remain in gratitude.  Number seventeen Maxwell Street then is the last stop along our walk.

At number seventeen, the home of the three sisters, is perhaps the grandest of all the displays to be found here.  If none other along the journey moved the soul of men the display at number seventeen shall.  Here stands, as has in all the years of my own memory, one illustration of the season.  Not overcome in lights or ornaments but standing uniquely upon its own merit.  A stall filled with a straw floor and nothing more than a manger with a child resting in it.  In the corners of the stall candles flickered in the crisp night air.  Behind the manger stood the three sisters, Reba with an accordion, Rose with an acoustic mandolin and Mary holding a carol book.  They played their instruments and sang carols to the newborn king.  Their voices, reflecting the many years they had shared with us, lifted high into the heavens with honest heartfelt praise.  It was as if the angles themselves had given them voice on loan from God just for this season.  As they sang O Holy Night the earth stood still and bowed to the greatest gift that man has ever received.  Here at the end of Maxwell Street all who had traveled stopped and remained in awe of this glorious occurrence.

As the kids and I stood there along with the masses in silence while the three sisters sang, I couldn’t help but marvel at the reality of the moment.  I couldn’t help but take in the truth of the moment and that of this Christmas season.  This moment, this day, this season, our lives here on earth are all enameled here at this connection on Maxwell Street.  It is, as we travel down the road of our lives, that all the glitter that man has added to this world shall distract and hold us for the while.  But as we reach the end it shall be the truth found in the manger that shall capture our consideration and that which we must adjudicate toward our end.  For we all shall make this journey and we all shall reach this end.  Let us hope, let us pray, that along the way we lose not that of our purpose.  As neither the wise men had nor the Shepherd’s of the field, that we have come to worship the new born King.

With each snap and crackle of the flames, sparks shoot upward as missiles into the chimney of the fireplace. The sound of which adds to the comfort of warmth radiating across my chilled body.  For it is a cold evening here on this Eve before Christmas in Ballengee.  With only a slight ache in the knees from bending to form a resting perch, I enjoy the captivity of the fire. It powers the engine of my amazement.  It is of the same effect as gazing into a star filled sky at night, the dancing flames of the fire enmesh the thoughts of ones process.  It has always been a wonder to me, a fire, capturing my attention and holding it until all thoughts from prior season have been sorted to their proper page.  I think it is appropriate for one to find these moments and allow them to do their work.  So often we allow life to go un-organized with-in and deny ourselves time just with ourselves. With the importance of the time we share with others, we should not refuse that same privilege for ourselves, the time we hold just for us and He who created us.  I feel closest to Him when in the presence of the star filled heavens, as well, as the warm glow of a cackling fire.

Amid the warm glow of the fire, and with-in my heart, I relive the blessings of the day and prepare for the challenges of the morrow.  The wife and the tots have taken themselves to bed in hopes that sleep will shorten the time of waiting.  Waiting for that magical moment when we gather at the Christmas Tree and share the blessings of the year past by giving a portion of that to each.  It is a materialistic moment, which expresses the spiritual desire of our hearts.  A desire to show our love for each in the giving of our rewards and the acceptance not of the gift, as much as the giver.  A time-out taken from our worldly obligation to pay attention to those whom we hold dearest.  I myself, also, have that can’t wait feeling, but have chosen to tough it out in the pleasant anticipation of the moment, here in the temper of the fire.  I amaze myself that this radiant transfer of warming light began with just a match, and has grown to such an abundance of flame.

I spent my day wondering the streets of Ballengee in search of those last minute gifts, provisions for the coming feast and that one special thing I have reserved for myself.  Though in my own fickleness was unable to find it.  Moving along the crowded streets, along with the other procrastinators of this season, with bags of stocking stuffers and mint jelly, I found myself in the enjoyment of Lester and Fonda’s Bottoms Gospel Choir.  The visit of the Bottoms Gospel Choir was the main event of the towns activity for the past two weeks and to some a great annoyance, but to most of us a great blessing.  Though they did create a snarl in movement, for those of us who afforded the time, we received a blessing.

Lester, and his wife Fonda, I would have to list in the record as mighty un-sung heroes of Ballengee and the surrounding community.  They have been apart of us now for what seems always, but their story began in the not so long ago at the bottoms of our community here in Ballengee.

Ballengee rests along the banks of the Greenbrier River and in the earlier days blossomed when the C&O Railroad laid its tracks through the area and built a maintenance facility.  The railroad followed the rivers course through the mountains and its right of way widened at Ballengee to allow two tracks for the station and maintenance facility.  Ballengee has, and to this day, been a farming community.  The C&O created a short-lived boom in our community and perhaps it is the old money of those days, which still sustains us.  The Greenbrier flows southwest and elbows at Ballengee into a more Southern course.  The railroad cut its corner sharper than the river leaving a patch of ground along the bank unsettled with the rest of the town.  Sliced from the town by the rails, this area became known as the bottoms and remained undeveloped for a time.  In the early 1940′s a large lodge was built at the pinnacle of the elbow.  The Greenbrier Lodge became a resort of leisure for those seeking a place of peace from the pandemonium of larger cities.  It caused some development in transportation and utilities along the bottoms and the area flourished for a period of time.  Late in the 1950′s the C&O closed its operations in Ballengee and the area of the bottoms quickly died with it.  The Greenbrier Lodge closed and the bottoms was abandoned.

The charming summer cottages, long lawns of green grass, paved streets, small marinas and the Greenbrier Lodge itself quickly became dilapidated. The summer cottages became rundown shanties and housed the elderly, the poor and the helpless.  The green lawns became patches of overgrown weeds and the streets nothing more than a collection of potholes.  The marinas rotted and collapsed into the river and floated away into the abyss of the Mississippi and the Lodge began to sag beneath the burden of better days gone by.  The bottoms began to breed discontent and if there was crime in Ballengee the town constable new the culprit could be found in the bottoms.  This section of our community that once was the crown of our glory now had become an open wound with out healing and an embarrassment to us at the front door of our town.

Eventually Lester and Fonda Richardson bought the old Greenbrier Lodge.  There was speculation that they would try to revive the Lodge and restore it to the days of its glory.  They did make needed repair but made no effort to improve upon it or use it as it had once been.  We then felt them to be eccentrics who felt the need for a very large dwelling. Shortly after Lester and Fonda came to the bottoms, subtle changes began to occur in the bottoms that at first none noticed neither appreciated.

Lester gathered the elderly and sick of the bottoms and moved them into the lodge.  He enlisted the unmotivated women who slumbered upon broken porches by day to care for the elderly and sick at the lodge.  At first they endeavored it as a burden to their slothfulness but soon realized the joy of caring for others and the satisfaction of being cared about.  They found purpose for their lives and began to improve upon their newfound purpose.  The men found themselves, at the insistence of the women, cleaning up the trash and debris around the bottoms.

Lester went around to the lumberyard and offered to haul away the shorts and salvages of wood that would normally be discarded.  He went to the hardware stores and obtained unwanted paint, broken un-sellable tools and materials.  Lester enlisted the men of the bottoms to repair or rebuild the shanties.  To give them a fresh coat of paint and clean up the yards.  Soon the whole appearance of the bottoms improved as folks became happier with the cleaner appearance of the bottoms.

Lester went around to all the farms and convinced them he could provide a Farmers Market at the bottoms and could sell their produce for a portion in return.  At first only a few of the farmers would participate but soon all joined in.  Lester took the donated building materials and built a market place with booths, had the children of the bottoms man the booths and sold the farmers produce.  With their portion earned he fed the folks in the lodge and those of the bottoms. 

Lester invited the pastor’s of all the churches to come and visit with the folks of the bottoms.  Each responded and shared visitation duties to minister to the people of the bottoms.  The largest church, Grace Baptist, also sent their choir director, the First Methodist sent their youth director also and Brother Simms, of our own Church on the Knoll, holds a prayer service every Thursday.  But it was Fonda herself, blessed with great musical ability, and with the help of Grace Baptist, and the Three Sisters, formed the Bottoms Gospel Choir, which performs each and every Saturday evening at the lodge.  Surprisingly, they pack the house.

So it was they, the Bottoms Gospel Choir, that I found great enjoyment in this last crowded day in Ballengee before Christmas.  Standing alone it was one of those great blessings that are given to us now and then, but knowing the history it becomes one of those miracles that some think never happen anymore.  As I sit here at the fireplace it is hard to distinguish the greater warmth, that of the fire or that of the folks at the bottoms and Lester and Fonda.

For those who think that one can not make a difference I say, Bah!  As one man and his wife moved into our community, with nothing more than a faith that all things are possible within God’s Will, found that which was lost and discarded in the bottoms, and changed it into a foundation for our community.  Because of Lester’s faith, determination and refusal to leave a door closed and locked, those souls found along the bottoms, who came into his presence, now live another way.

The truth is that what has been apart of us now for what seems always, but again may have began in the not so long ago, that on another cold December day such as this one, Jesus came into this world to seek that which was lost and discarded in the bottoms. With that spark of Light found through Him, warmth has gone out into the world to fill the souls of men.  That through Him we have found our hope and we have received His peace.  By His lead we have felt the joy of caring and the security of being cared for.  Because of Jesus life has become abundant by His purpose living through us.  It is that as we had chained ourselves to living for a passing world, now we have gone another way to living for an eternal world beyond this.  I ask, as we celebrate His birth, God’s gift, are we still mired in the trappings of this world?   Are we content with that which has failed us and shall continue?  There is hope, purpose, there is the greatest love, as the Wise Men sought, and those of us who have embraced His presence have learned, we find it impossible not to depart to our eternal home another way.