The Wayfaring Stranger Sample Chapters
The Wayfaring Stranger: Louisiana Journey Curt Iles The following post contains the introduction and first two chapters of my upcoming novel. If you enjoy these, additional chapters are being posted weekly at http://awayfaringstranger.blogspot.com . Curt Iles P.S. This is a draft. This means it is still in revision. It also means that your input and ideas are welcome and needed! Introduction: “One day” I’ve now lived for over half a century among the piney woods of Southwestern Louisiana. During these years, I’ve had countless conversations with friends who passionately stated, “If I could go back in time for one day—just one day, I would want to be transported to the 19th century and walk among the virgin longleaf pine forests of Louisiana.” I remember my own great-grandmother, whom we affectionately called “Doten” describing the open pine forests of that time: “Baby, except in the creek bottoms where the oak and beech trees grew, all of the upland areas were covered in large tracts of majestic longleaf pines, or as we called them, ‘yellow pines’ My, my—the had no limbs for the first fifty feet or so and seemed to reach to heaven and their interlocking canopies kept out the sunlight as well as any underbrush. It was clear under the trees as far as you could see in every direction and a man could ride his horse at a gallop and only have to avoid the big trees. Grandma Doten continued, “The carpet of pine straw was so thick under the trees that wagons would roll quietly along on the cushion of needles. Those big pines– they were always ‘singing’ as the wind blew in their tall tops.” Telling this, a far-off longing look in her eyes would seem to be seeing the long-gone virgin pines of her area. Then she would sing a line of the old song, “In the Pines”: “In the pines, in the pines Where the sun never shines, And you shiver when the cold wind blows.” Now, I’ve never fully recovered from her descriptions. Even though I’ll never walk under the virgin pine forests, The Wayfaring Stranger is my attempt to recreate on paper what my mind and heart have visualized since childhood. So come join me as we travel to the Louisiana area called “Ten Mile”—deep in the piney woods of Central Louisiana. In my own journey to recreate this part of mid 19th century Louisiana, I fell in love with another faraway place: the rolling hills, bogs, and friendly people of Ireland. As we travel with Joseph Moore on his journey from treeless Ireland to the heart of the piney woods, I hope you’ll get glimpses of his homeland, the beautiful ‘land of forty shades of green.” Ireland—the land that in spite of its hardships and troubles during the years of this story never faded in the heart of any immigrant who left it behind. I hope The Wayfaring Stranger also takes you to this island nation, the home of multitudes of our ancestors—many of whom traveled to these piney woods and fell in love with them also. Curt Iles Westport, County Mayo Ireland March 2007 Prologue “It is difficulties that show what men are.” -Epictetus A journey is defined as traveling from one place to another—usually taking a rather long time; sometimes we call it a passage, which can mean progress from one stage to another. Normally we consider a journey a trek of physical miles in moving from one place to another. However, the greatest journeys, as well as the greatest struggles, are always those on the inside of a man or woman—in their heart. The Wayfaring Stranger is a journey of all of these components: a physical trip of thousands of miles, an accompanying struggle to overcome great adversity, and finally and most of all: a journey within the heart. It is the story of a man who faces the challenges, difficulties, and obstacles of life. Come join Joseph Moore on this journey… Chapter 1 – The Journey Begins I am a poor Wayfaring Stranger, Traveling through this world below There is no sickness, toil, or danger In that world to which I go. I’m going home to see my Father, I’m going home no more to roam. I am just going over Jordan; I am just going over home. -“The Wayfaring Stranger” Traditional Irish Ballad March 1849 “I knew it would finally end this way—“ That was the thought burning in the mind of Joseph Moore as he lay hidden behind the stone wall. Breathing heavily with his heart pounding wildly, he tried to calm down as he listened for the sound of the tracking dogs. Once again, he felt the wound just below his right knee and withdrew his hand to see blood. He had just run a panic-filled mile frantically trying to escape the baying dogs and shouting men chasing him. The dirt felt cool against his face as he lay on the ground. The sweat from fear and exertion ran down his cheek in a trickle onto the dirt. Wiping his face, Joseph watched nervously through a hole in the rock wall. He could see toward the west as he scanned carefully for any sign of the men and dogs. On a normal day the unique smell of the peaty dirt of western Ireland would have been something he enjoyed. But today was not a normal day. It was a day full of events that would change his life forever – if he survived it. On this day, in the year 1849, Joseph Moore of the village of Westport, County Mayo, Ireland was a young man of sixteen. A tall thin teenager with sandy hair and a pleasant freckled ruddy face, he was dressed in homespun clothes and bare-footed. All in all, he was pretty non-descript among typical Irish teens in this famine-ravaged area. He was pretty typical except for one detail – anyone who met him for the first time always commented on his
Review of The Mockingbird’s Song
The Mockingbird’s Song By Curt Iles A Review by Michelle Williams This book offers a unique glimpse inside the heart of a person who is struggling with depression and winning the battle. Curt Iles opens up his heart and shares the soul searing depths of his clinical depression. He also gives his prescription for hope and healing for those afflicted with this devastating illness. Mr. Iles talks candidly about this very personal and sometimes painful subject. I believe this book will be very important for those are fighting depression or those who are trying to help a loved one who is struggling. I found a great deal of useful and inspiring information in these pages. In his easy storytelling style, Mr. Iles reaches out to the reader and offers his encouragement for those who need it. He uses many literal examples that translate into spiritual truths about how God is personal to each of us and is always there to help, no matter what. This book is a must read and I am deeply honored to recommend it to you. Michelle is a writer/journalist living in Rosepine, LA.
A Tight Rope
Sample Chapter: The Mockingbird’s Song by Curt Iles To see more, visit http://www.creekbank.net Chapter Eight: A Tight Rope Held by a Tight Friend World Trade Center North Tower New York City September 11, 2001 Stairway 27C of the North Tower of the World Trade Center was a space of both life and death on the morning of September 11, 2001 after the first hijacked plane struck this tower. As terrified office workers, many burned or injured hurried down, courageous firefighters passed by on their way up to the impact zone around the 98th floor. Many of those coming down recalled the faces of two men who were at this stairwell of the 27th floor: Ed Beyea, an employee of Empire Blue Cross and Blue Shield, sat in his motorized wheelchair awaiting the assistance of firefighters or rescuers to carry him down. Beside him stood co-worker and friend Abe Zelmanowitz. Exhausted firefighters, weighed down with heavy equipment and safety clothing, assured the wheelchair-bound man that help was coming up soon. As Ed Beyea patiently waited, he understood that these passing firemen must get to the top to rescue any trapped near the scene of the impact. Later as the unending flow of workers coming down became a trickle, a concerned firefighter, stopping to catch his breath, pulled Abe Zelmanowitz away from standing beside his seated friend and whispered to the office worker, “Why don’t you go?” “No, I’m staying with my friend” was the quiet but sure reply of Abraham Zelmanowitz. Newsom Cabin Bayou Chicot, Louisiana Spring 2002 . . . That type of loyal friendship as shown by Abe toward his friend Ed is what I thought of as I cradled the telephone in my now trembling hands. My hands were shaking and sweaty due to the words of my friend on the other end of the connection. His words were measured and filled with fatigue, “I’m calling to tell you goodbye. I’ve had enough. I’ve hit bottom and I can’t take anymore.” Suddenly the telephone in my hand felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. Here I was, over an hour away and physically unable to help this dear friend who was deep in the darkness of depression. I was staying at a cabin in the woods finishing a book manuscript when his call came. Normally a cell phone wouldn’t pick up here in the woods, but somehow my friend had found me. How do you respond to a person on the telephone who is so deep in depression that suicide seems a possible and plausible answer? I knew my words over the next few minutes might make the difference between life and death. I breathed a prayer and began listening. Because I had been with this friend many times over the last few weeks, I knew he wasn’t kidding or bluffing with his statement about checking out. He had reached the deepest and darkest part in “the valley of the shadow of death.” In no direction could he sense any light or relief. Not behind him, around him, and surely not ahead of him. I knew all of this because I had been there myself only a few short years before. I am a depression survivor. I’ve been to the bottom and come back out of the darkness. My prayer that day at the cabin was: Lord, how can I communicate to my friend that there is light, hope, and gladness ahead if he will just hang on? Listening, I tried to think of what to say. Suddenly an idea came to my mind. Looking back now, I believe it was God who answered my prayer and gave me this question. I asked my friend, “If our roles were reversed and it was me on the phone calling to say goodbye, what would you do?” There was a long silence that seemed even longer than it actually was. My friend replied in a short statement that has been a mantra of my ministry since that day, “Why Curt, I’d tie a rope around you and pull you close so you couldn’t get away.” . And that is exactly what I did with my friend. I’m relieved to say that he came through this difficult time. Instead of ending his life, he decided to stay around and walk through the darkness. As all depression survivors know, there is always light ahead in the darkness if you just keep walking. If you’ve read any of my four previous books, you are probably familiar with the name of Kevin Willis. Kevin is my brother in the Lord, close friend, and hunting partner. He is a big, “larger than life” character who just loves people and the Lord. During my months of being at home sick with depression, Kevin would call every night. He never talked long but simply checked on me and prayed for me. Kevin “tied on the rope” and refused to lose contact with me. That is what we should do to our friends who are hurting. Back to the World Trade Center The soul-touching story of Abe and Ed Beyea is gleaned from the excellent book, 102 Minutes, by Jim Dwyer and Kevin Flynn.[i] 2,749 people died in the New York attacks on September 11, 2001. They each had a story and a life. Large numbers don’t stay with us. But when those numbers were changed into names and faces, each came to mean something personal and emotionally touched us. Let me continue to the story of two of those thousands who were in the Trade Center on that day – one who could not escape – and one who chose not to escape. Ed Beyea was on the 27th floor when the first plane hit his building at 8:46 am. Ed was a quadriplegic who had become paralyzed in a diving accident twenty years earlier. He was escorted to work each day at Empire Blue Cross and Blue Shield by his aide Irma Fuller. She
The Thin Red Ribbon of Hope
The Mockingbird’s Song by Curt Iles Chapter Four: The Thin Red Ribbon of Hope pages 8-15 My first thought was, “Hey, who turned out the lights?” Here I was in the woods between the main campgrounds and “The White House.” The White House is our adult center that is loved by all. It is an old two story white school building. On this particular night I was rolling Mrs. Beverly Crider, seated in her wheelchair, from the Dining Hall, through the woods trail, to The White House. As another lady used a flashlight to illuminate the narrow trail through the darkness, Beverly and I had laughed and talked. She and her late husband, Bob, had been two of Dry Creek’s greatest supporters for over forty years. All four of her children have worked at the camp. She is a very special friend and it was a privilege to escort her back to her lodging. On the other end of the woods trail, headlights shone in from her son Lee’s car. Lee Crider and his wife Missy took Beverly for the next leg of her journey. After we said goodbye and remarked about the wonderful evening it had been, we parted with a warm feeling in our hearts. We had just experienced a wonderful evening session at our yearly Bible Conference. Additionally, I had enjoyed the company of so many special friends like Beverly Crider. All of these warm thoughts were on my mind as I walked back on the woods trail toward the main grounds. Suddenly, the entire world went black. They had turned off the car headlights and the flashlight was in the hands of the other lady who was with Beverly. Instantly I was plunged into total darkness. It was cloudy so there was no moonlight to guide me. I could see the faraway night lights of the camp and nearby grocery store, but where the two-foot wide trail went, I had no idea. I thought back to several years ago when a ladies group, armed with flashlights, had gotten turned around on this same trail. I had gone to check on them and there were twenty beams of flashlights shining in every direction throughout the two-acre heavily wooded area. It looked like giant fireflies were in the woods as lights shone in every direction. Standing by myself in the darkened woods, I didn’t have a flashlight or any lightning bugs, so I knew I must ease along carefully. Off the trail was a boggy area as well as thickly treed and briar-filled areas. As I took small steps, something brushed against my left arm. It had a feel to it that was not a bush or tree. Instinctively, in the black darkness, I touched it. All at once I realized what it was and gladness filled my heart. It was a string of inch wide plastic ribbon. Several months before, someone (probably a camper who’d gotten lost in the dark like I was right now!) had taken red surveying ribbon and starting at one end of the wood’s trail and continuing on the trail until the other end, had tied an unbroken red ribbon along the trail. The type of ribbon he or she used is commonly seen along roadways and property lines. Usually it is seen in bright colors such as orange and red. It is a thin tape, but does a great job of flagging areas. When I had first seen the long unbroken red ribbon along the wood’s trail earlier that year, I had wondered how many rolls of flagging it probably took to do this entire trail. It is over 100 yards from one end to the other. Earlier, I had started to tear the ribbon down, roll it into a ball, and throw it away. In my estimate, it looked kind of tacky through this beautiful wooded area. Still, for some reason I had refrained from pulling it down. Standing tonight in total darkness grasping the red ribbon, I was thankful someone had put it up and that I hadn’t torn it down. I knew that this ribbon went onward to the north entrance of the wood’s trail. It was simply a matter of sliding my hand along the long ribbon. When I would come to where the ribbon was attached to a tree or shrub, I would simply feel my way along to the next section of flagging. Doing this, I made my way in the dark back to the main campground. It didn’t take long and I did it by simply grasping the guiding ribbon and following it section by section, step by step. It was later, as I thought about the red ribbon, that a few spiritual principles grabbed me: First, the red ribbon would take me where I needed to go if I would only grasp it. However, I had to “hold on loosely.” If I pulled too hard on the stretched plastic ribbon with its paper-thin thickness, it could easily break. If the taut ribbon broke, each end would have dropped into the woods, and I would have been forced to get on my knees and feel for the ends to find it. So, carefully in the inky blackness of this night, I grasped the red ribbon. I confidently took hold of it but also realized that I must tenderly remain connected with it. Thinking of the past struggles that I’d faced, this long red ribbon came to represent hope. In life we are also guided by the thin, fragile, essential red ribbon of hope. As long as we have hold of a “heart-thing called hope,” we can make it through the darkness. It is simply a matter of carefully and slowly taking it step by step, trusting the ribbon of hope to take us where we need to be. However, if that ribbon snaps and we find ourselves in the darkness, seemingly
The Wayfaring Stranger: Free Sample Chapter
Each week I will be posting a chapter from my upcoming novel, A Wayfaring Stranger. I’m really excited about this historical story of how two characters, Joseph Moore of Ireland and Eliza Clark of Ten Mile, Louisiana came to meet in the mid-19th century. Feel free to follow along each week as I add a chapter. If you like what you read, pass it along to a friend. Because this is a draft, all input and criticism is appreciated! Use the comment section for feedback. Prologue: A Journey is defined as traveling from one place to another, usually taking a rather long time; sometimes we call it a passage, which can mean progress from one stage to another. Normally we consider a journey a trek of physical miles in moving from point A to point B. However, the greatest journeys, as well as the greatest struggles, are always those of the heart. A Wayfaring Stranger is a journey of all of these components: a physical trip of thousands of miles, an accompanying struggle to overcome great adversity, and finally and most of all: a journey of/within the heart. Come join Joseph Moore on this journey…Dedication To my Dad, Clayton Iles, the Wayfaring Stranger. He passed on to me the love of the old music, the woods, and his faith. He would have liked this book. He’s “crossed over Jordan…” he’s gone home. However, he is always with me as I write. “It is difficulties which show what men are.” -Epictetus A Wayfaring Stranger By Curt Iles © 2007 Creekbank Stories http://www.creekbank.net Chapter 1 – The Journey Begins April 1848 I am a poor Wayfaring Stranger, Traveling through this world below There is no sickness, toil, or danger In that world to which I go. -“The Wayfaring Stranger” Traditional Irish Spiritual/Ballad 2/15/07 update April 1848 Joseph Moore, breathing heavily and heart pounding wildly, tried to lay quietly behind the low stone wall next to the freshly plowed field. Once again, he felt the wound just below his right knee and withdrew his hand to see blood. He had just run a panic-filled mile frantically trying to escape the baying dogs and shouting men chasing after him. The dirt felt cool against his face as he lay on the ground. The sweat from his fear and exertion ran down his cheek in a trickle onto the dirt. Wiping his face, Joseph watched nervously through a hole in the rock wall. He could see toward the west as he scanned carefully for any sign of the men and dogs. On a normal day the unique smell of the peaty dirt of western Ireland would have been something he enjoyed. But today was not a normal day. It was a day full of events that would change his life forever – if he survived it. On this day, in the year 1848, Joseph Moore of Westport, Ireland was a young man of nearly sixteen. A tall thin teenager with sandy hair and fair skin dressed in homespun clothes and bare-footed, he was pretty non-descript among typical Irish teens. He was pretty non-descript except for one detail – anyone who met him for the first time always commented on his intense deep green eyes. Those eyes smoldered with a fiery passion that was unforgettable when you looked into them. An older Irish lady had once commented to his mother, “My Lord, those green eyes will either get him killed or make him kill someone. I’ve never seen any quite like his.” Right now those green eyes were peering cautiously over the low stone wall as he heard the howling hounds approaching. Shaking with the rush of adrenaline, he wondered if his life was to end at this young age. In the last three years he had seen plenty of death up close among both adults and many children much younger than him. The failures of the potato crop had caused widespread famine and cost the lives of thousands throughout Ireland. Coupled with the desperate mass emigration of thousands who had left his area of County Mayo, it seemed Ireland was now becoming barren of people. The smell of the dirt beneath his face reminded him of the hundreds of fresh graves at the cemetery. This presence of daily death attested to the ongoing tragedy continuing in the country he loved deeply. Thinking of all of the recent graves of the past three years, he thought: I’ve helped dig many of those graves. I just wonder if f someone will be digging my own grave before this mess is over. Laying at the edge of the potato field, he quickly thought back on the events of the day that had brought him to this terrifying moment. This normal April morning had begun innocently enough. There were always plenty of chores to do on the small Moore farm. What had earlier been a family of seven now consisted of only Joseph and an older married sister. Everyone was gone – his dad’s exile to Australia by the authorities, other family members had emigrated to Liverpool or onto America, and the rest were dead from the fever that had swept through during the worst days of the famine. When the trouble started on this spring morning he had been hoeing away the grass from the potatoes. It seemed as if this year’s early crop might be disease-free. The cool breeze from the west had the smell of the nearby North Atlantic Ocean. He had always loved that salty smell that stung your nostrils and made you feel a little more alive. The ocean smell always made him dream of being on the sea, a huge fantasy for a boy who had never traveled more than twenty miles from home. As he hoed, Joseph was just out of sight of the last possessions of his family farm: their family sheep herd: an old ram, two ewes, and two young lambs. They were grazing in the next field hidden
The Mockingbird’s Song: In Memory of Ricky
Dedication: To Ricky, My Friend for Life Writing a book about the dark times of one’s life is difficult. It is in our human nature to shy away from revealing the depths of our soul, especially when the subject matter is painful. This book of essays concerning my struggle with depression has been hard to write. Rather, let me rephrase that: the writing has not been the difficult part, but the revealing has been the difficult aspect. The reason why is because it is very personal and reveals deep emotions that are even now, over six years later, still tender and not easily shared. The easiest thing to do with these stories would be to store them away and let no one else read them. That is the safe way. But my journey has taught me about the rewards of being a guide for others on this same journey. It is a large responsibility and one that I cannot, and will not, shirk. So share these stories I must! The great British writer C.S. Lewis, who went through many struggles himself, states this truth of “helpful empathy” so wonderfully well: “Think of me as a fellow-patient in the same hospital who, having been admitted a little earlier, could give some helpful advice.” However, the real courage to write and then publish The Mockingbird’s Song occurred several years ago. The event was the soul-rending death of my lifelong friend, Ricky Gallien. Ricky, who died at age 43, was a man loved and admired by his wonderful family and thousands of friends who had been touched by his life as a coach, principal, pastor, and most of all, Godly man. Even now, nearly four years since his death, the shadow of his influence continues to stretch far and wide. Ricky’s death, at his own hands, will never be fully understood by any of us. Although deep questions remain, we must go on, as well as carry on. Ricky’s rich life and sudden death have both been motivators for all of us to look for, as well as care for, others who are hurting. Being Ricky’s friend and knowing his heart, he would be pleased with that. Over the years, I heard many excellent sermons by Ricky. He was a tremendous speaker with an intelligent mind and a heart in tune with God. While reading my Bible a few weeks after he died, I came across notes from a sermon Ricky had preached. He had shared an illustration from the 1986 explosion of the space shuttle Challenger. According to his illustration, the last recorded words on the Shuttle before transmissions ceased were the calm voice of the flight commander Francis Scobee saying, “Give me your hand.” Scobee’s words were spoken calmly and without panic. In my mind, I will always see this man reaching out to his pilot, Michael J. Smith, as they lived the final seconds of their lives. Simply said, “Give me your hand.” Not with terror or hysteria, but with courage and compassion. I firmly believe those are the same four words Ricky heard as his life ended. The words of the Savior he served throughout his life – The words of the Son of God who said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” The same Jesus who promised, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die” (John 11:25). As I share my own journey through depression, my prayer is that others will hear this same voice of Jesus saying, “Here I am, give me your hand.” Jesus said, “Come unto me all you that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. . .” (Matthew 11:28). He does not wish that anyone would suffer alone in the dark. He is as close as your next breath and your whispered heart-felt prayer. One of Ricky’s last requests was that I speak at his funeral. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I honestly did not think my legs would work or my mouth speak when it came time to stand and share. Standing before the huge crowd of friends, family, and students gathered, I simply shared something I’d read concerning another untimely death. I held up a card with 99.99 % on one side and 0.01 % on the other. I shared that we would all be tempted to remember that terrible Saturday morning of September 7, 2002 as the defining moment of Ricky’s life. However, it was important that we remember, and celebrate, the 99.99 % of such a rich and beautiful life. Ricky’s daughter, Kristi Gallien Watkins, whom he loved so deeply, shared these words: I for one had no concept of what depression was, or how serious it is, until my dad lost his battle with it. Depression hit my dad out of what seemed like nowhere. He was the strongest and most wonderful man I’ve ever known. So it was a step outside of reality to see him down and depressed to the point of being suicidal. I could have never imagined that I would have lost my dad that way . . . My prayer is that those who are struggling with depression will know that not only is it OK to ask for help, but it is necessary. God will put people around you that will love, support, and pray for you. To others I say: Reach out to those around you. Love them and care for them. You never know who is hurting and who needs to see the love and hope of God through you. . . . There is hope for those with depression. Never ever forget that. Never ever give up. So I dedicate the words of this book of essays and stories to the memory of Kristi’s dad, my lifelong friend and encourager, Ricky Gallien. As Kristi shared, may we all be
The Challenge: Why I Wrote The Mockingbird’s Song
The Challenge… The lady stood over me with her hands strategically placed on her hips as I sat at a table in the camp dining hall with her hands on her hips and a wrinkled scowl on her face. My earlier years from being a high school principal had given me a sixth sense of when a good eating out was coming from a parent. The sudden sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I put my hot dog down and looked at her let me know that she was not happy. It was during the last meal of girl’s camp at the church camp where I served as manager. I was innocently trying to quickly finish my hot dog, chips, and brownie before the final service started in a few minutes. It was in the middle of this wolfed-down meal that the lady stood over me. In an emotional and passionate voice she started, “Mr. Iles, when are you going to finish that book you’re writing on depression? There are people out there dying waiting for your book!” I felt a lump in my throat and it definitely wasn’t from the hot dog. I looked up and a middle-aged church counselor from a north Louisiana church was squinting into my eyes through her glasses as she wagged a finger at me. I felt as if I was back in third grade and had been caught putting glue on the classroom door handle. My “teacher” continued, “Now, I’m serious about this. What you’ve written can save lives. People need it.” She then pointed across several tables to a younger lady, “That girl there lost her daddy when he jumped from the high Red River Bridge several months ago and they’ve never yet found his body.” The younger woman walked over and joined our conversation. With hesitation she began, “I’ve had such a hard time getting closure on his death – body to bury – so many unanswered questions.” We talked a long while before she turned and silently went out the door. My appetite was gone. What could I do but accept this lady’s blunt challenge to finally put this book into print! The book you now hold I’ve had in manuscript form for several years. I’ve made copies and mailed it out to folks all over America. It has been part of my ministry as a depression sufferer and survivor. However, I’ve hesitated about putting it into true book form until now. It may or may not be a big seller, but I know it will touch lives because I’ve seen it happen over and over in these past few years. People and families in the relentless grip of depression need help and encouragement. Yes, they need medical help, counseling, medications, prayer, and countless other aids. But oftentimes what they most need initially is the voice, guidance, and hand of someone who has traveled this road and come out on the other side -back into the light and joy of life. That is my job and calling. Because I’ve been as deeply depressed as you can get and still survive. Now, I’m living walking proof that you will make it through. Recently a friend from another community called me outside at a meeting we were both attending. He put his hand on my shoulder and looked deeply into my eyes. His question was short but piercing: “Curt, will I ever get my joy back?” The answer in this simple book is “Yes.” There is joy ahead. There is light in spite of the darkness you are in. This book is my testimony. My statement is that there is joy awaiting you. Depression sufferer, you didn’t get where you are overnight. Therefore, you cannot expect depression to leave you instantly. Some days it will be two steps forward and one back. On other days it may seem as if you slide two back as you reach for one step up. But you will get there! Yes, this book is my story… of how there is victory over depression. It is a collection of essays written from my heart. Hopefully these inspiring stories will connect with your heart. Others, while sad, carry a message of hope that others need to hear. Some are written from the days of the depth of my depression, while many are written looking back at this dark time from the perspective of months and years. Webster’s [i] defines an essay as a “literary composition dealing with a subject from a limited or personal point of view.” That is exactly what this book is- a collection of essays written from my heart. They are very personal and intimate. I have chosen to share them to help others. Many times we can identify with someone who has earlier walked where we are walking. It is told that the Native Americans had a unique approach to the treating of the victim of a poisonous snakebite. In addition to the potions and liquids they would administer to a bitten tribe member, they would bring in the local “snake man or woman.” This was a member of the tribe who had survived an earlier, serious snakebite. This snakebite veteran would simply sit with the afflicted person and stay with them, all the while assuring them that they too would survive this dangerous condition. Hopefully, that is what The Mockingbird’s Song will be for you – a companion and guidebook to sit with you through the dark time you may be in. Reading these essays, you will detect a common thread: Getting through depression and overcoming it was a spiritual experience for me. I cannot, nor would I wish to, separate my faith in God from these difficult times. I am very sure I survived because of the strength of God and prayers and support of my Christian friends. Being lost in the darkness of clinical depression tested everything I’d ever believed about God and life. But those days,
The Tsunami
From: Hearts across the Water by Curt Iles The Tsunami December 26, 2004 It was a typical sunny tropical morning along the coast of Sumatra, Indonesia’s northernmost and third largest island. Being a Muslim nation, the days around Christmas were nothing to be noticed or celebrated, especially here in the Islamic area known as “The Porch of Mecca.” Even though it was Sunday morning in Sumatra, in America it was still Christmas night. Thirteen hours behind in the Central time zone found many Louisianians still enjoying a day of eating, opening presents, and being among family. Back in the Sumatran capital of Banda Aceh it was just before 8:00 am when the first shaking and rumbling began. Earthquakes are common in this part of the world where a great fault line lies under the mountainous island, which is why many of the most active volcanoes in the world are on this island. Off the western coast is where two giant plates of the earth’s crust meet. Due to these geologic features Indonesia has always been a land of earthquakes and volcanic activity. But the earthquake on the morning of December 26, 2004 was not just any earthquake. Measured at 9.0 on the Richter scale, it was the fourth largest recorded quake since 1900. Most earthquakes last a few seconds, but this one shook for ten minutes. The entire planet even vibrated a few centimeters back and forth. The epicenter of this earthquake was in the Indian Ocean, just north of Simeulue Island off the western coast of Northern Sumatra, Indonesia. The center was about 150 miles southwest of Banda Aceh. This earthquake was the result of the slipping of one of the two great land mass plates under the ocean. This sudden upward surge of a land plate nearly one hundred miles long created a huge amount of seismic energy. This energy lifted up an enormous amount of sea water that began traveling outward as a seismic sea wave, or tsunami. As the people along the coasts of Indonesia came outside their homes to view the damage caused by the strong tremors, little did they know that within minutes, a much deadlier force was moving toward them — A killer tsunami wave. Simeulue Island The small Indonesian island of Simeulue (Pronounced Sim-ah-LOO) sits about 150 miles off the coast of Sumatra surrounded by the Indian Ocean. It was the closest land to the great earthquake on the morning of December 26. Despite its proximity to the earthquake and subsequent tsunami waves, surprisingly only seven people died that morning. The minimal loss of life there, and the reason for it, is an amazing story. But first I must tell a much sadder story from the nearby coast of Sumatra. Lampuuk (pronounced Lom-Pook) is a coastal village on the western shore of Sumatra. On the morning of December 26 it was the home of about 10,000 people. The village sits in a valley between two small mountain ranges. Thirty kilometers through this valley is the large seaport capital of Banda Aceh. Because of its ocean setting, Lampuuk is a village of fishermen. The aqua-colored Indian Ocean is the source of life and labor for the village. Many of the fishermen were already on the ocean on the morning when the earthquake occurred. That morning, the residents of Lampuuk ran outside during the first tremors of the earthquake. They knew it was safer outside and everyone wanted to see what was occurring. Within a few minutes of the tremors, shouting started down near the beach. Word quickly spread that the sea had receded a long way back exposing a large area that had been underwater a few seconds earlier. The excited shouting told that flopping fish were everywhere on the newly uncovered beach areas. Villagers, especially children, ran hurriedly to catch the fish. They grabbed buckets, nets, and even plastic bags. It was a field day of squirming fish and laughing children. The women of Lampuuk followed their children down to the beach. Anxiety showed on their faces as they wondered about their fishermen husbands out on the strangely behaving ocean. Men who were still on the sea after the earthquake felt the first wave come under their boats. These tsunami waves were traveling over 500 miles per hour out on the open sea. The waves were only a few feet high as they went past the boats. As the first wave began nearing land it slowed down considerably. However, the sloping continental shelf caused the wave to stack up on itself similar to what happens with a hurricane storm surge. In the village of Lampuuk and along its beaches, everyone was unaware of the coming tragedy. A field day of fish-catching was soon to become a killing field on this beach. Everyone was unaware except for one woman. This woman was not a Lampuuk native. She had grown up on the nearby island of Simeulue. The strong quake coupled with the shouts about the water receding caused a jolt in her memory. As a girl she’d heard the oral history of a great tsunami of 1907 on Simeulue in which thousands died. She’d been told by older family members that an earthquake followed by the ocean’s receding were the ominous signs of an incoming tsunami. This woman grabbed her children and ran screaming in the streets of Lampuuk of the coming tsunami. Even her husband, a Lampuuk policeman, ignored her pleading and screaming as he went toward the beach. This woman’s anguished warnings were ignored by all that morning. As you can guess, the same cries were going out throughout the coastal areas of Simeulue Island. By the time the tsunami arrived there, the coastal areas had been evacuated to the nearby higher ground. That is why only seven people died there that same morning. The story of Lampuuk, sadly, is much different.
Christmas Jelly
Christmas Jelly This story from my first book, Stories from the Creekbank, is one of the favorites of readers of all ages. I hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas -Curt Of all my Christmas memories and traditions, Christmas jelly is one of my favorites. Each year I receive this special gift from a very special lady in my life. Before I share what Christmas jelly is, let me share about the special person who gives it to me each year. Eleanor Andrews is my neighbor in Dry Creek. For all of my life she has lived in the same house along Highway 113. Her house is easy to spot across the highway from the camp. It has the prettiest yard in our community. Her beautiful garden, flowers, and shrubs are examples of her love of gardening. But Mrs. Andrews is more than just my neighbor and a lover of flowers. She is also my all-time favorite teacher. Mrs. Andrews taught fifth grade at Dry Creek High School and later at East Beauregard High. She taught practically every young person in Dry Creek for a period of a quarter century. Now Eleanor Andrews was from the “Old School.” She was stern and took no gruff or lip off any student. Everything was rigid and “down the line” in her classroom. In her class there was no doubt that she was captain of the ship. She possessed a stare (made complete with her tongue tucked firmly in her cheek) that would stop a charging grizzly bear in its tracks. Her reputation preceded her; And she was just as strict as the older kids on the bus had described her to be when I sat in her fifth grade class. But I also saw something else: Beneath that gruff exterior were warm smiling eyes. She loved watching students learn and leading young people to new knowledge. During that year, 1967, she became my favorite teacher. And now thirty years later, she still is. Now let me get back to that Christmas jelly- Eleanor Andrews has been retired for many years and is much older and frailer than when she ruled the fifth grade at East Beauregard. Because of her health she doesn’t venture out much anymore. She lives alone in her house surrounded by her flowers and memories of a life filled with teaching and touching lives. Each year a few weeks before Christmas I receive a phone call from Mrs. Andrews. She tells me “to drop by her house.” I know that the best Christmas present of the season is now complete- Christmas jelly is ready. Before going I cut one of the Christmas trees from my farm. I’ve already tagged it weeks earlier. I have carefully chosen one that will meet her exacting standards. After loading this tree in my truck, I nervously drive to her home. I hope she will approve of my tree. Once again I feel as if I’m in the fifth grade waiting to hand in an important assignment. As I enter her living room, she greets me with that special smile I’ve known over the years. Always when I’m in her presence she makes me feel as if I’m the most important person in the world- That’s why she’s always been my favorite teacher. Into my arms she thrusts a basket of eight jars- all filled with homemade jelly. There are all of my favorites- muscadine, mayhall, even crabapple. Included are several jars of hot pepper jelly, and to top it all off, a Ziploc bag of chocolate “Martha Washington’s” sits on top of the basket. I look at this assortment of homemade jelly and my mouth waters thinking about all the biscuits it will top off during the coming year. Oh, the joys of homemade jelly. As Mrs. Andrews happily examines her Christmas tree, she insists on paying for it. Laughing I say, “No way, the best deal I ever make each year is trading a tree for the best home- made jelly in Dry Creek.” After we visit for a while, I leave with my arm load of jelly jars. As I get in my truck, I think about the art of giving. Emerson said it well when he stated, “The only true gift is a portion of yourself.” As I look at the colorful decorated jars of jelly, I’m once again reminded of what Christmas is truly about. It is all about giving- Giving of ourselves and sharing what we have. I’m so glad to live in a place where gifts such as Christmas jelly abound.
Catfish Lies: Straight from the Delta
“Catfish Lies” When is the truth a lie? We talk about “little white lies” and half-truths. Is there such a thing? Here is one of my favorite stories. You decide for yourself if the parties involved told the truth or a lie: American catfish farmers of the South are having a hard time economically. As is true in so many other fields, foreign products are selling much cheaper and undermining the American market. About five years ago, this problem came home to catfish farming. A large influx of imported catfish hit the market and this glut depressed domestic catfish sales. The “new catfish” was packaged and labelled “Delta raised catfish.” To any catfish connoisseur, which every Southerner considers himself, Delta catfish means raised on farms in the Mississippi Delta region of Louisiana/Mississippi. Research and reading the fine print on this new Delta catfish revealed that it was truly Delta-raised. it came straight from the Mekong Delta of Vietnam! Secondly, it is not the same type of catfish we are used to eating. It is a species called basa, a very distant cousin of our catfish. About this same time I traveled to Vietnam and rode in boats along the Mekong River. It is an amazing river, alive with river traffic of every size and shape. The Mekong catfish farmers live on the river in small houseboats. They have floating wooden cages where they deposit small basa fish they’d caught in nets. As they feed them, the “catfish” grow and soon become marketable… and exportable; much of it to the U.S. And it ends up in the Southern U.S. labeled as “Delta catfish.” Once again, “truth in labelling” can mean many things! It is a reminder to me, as a follower of Jesus, that I am to speak the truth in all things. Not some of the truth, but the total truth. As the oath administered in court states, “To tell the truth, and nothing but the truth.” So I have a new definition: let’s call it “Catfish Lies”: It seems the truth, but it’s not.
The Pine Knot Pile: Earthly Treasures
The Pine Knot Pile: A Lesson on Earthly Treasures All of a sudden, the February wind picked up and turned out of the south. Instantly what had been a small controlled fire in my back field became a raging monster. The flames spread rapidly through the dead knee high grass – as fast I as I could, I ran ahead with my faithful firefighting weapon – a wet grass sack. But no one person, nor any wet sack, was going to curtail this fire. It seemed to have a malicious mind of its own as it raced northward. DeDe and the boys came running out of the house. Armed with brooms, buckets, and a shovel, they ran to join me but were also driven back by the raging racing fire. All five of us knew exactly where the fire was going – right toward one of my most precious possessions: my pine knot pile. Now before coming back to the fire, let me clue you in on what a pine knot pike is. Southwestern Louisiana was naturally populated with Yellow Pine, or as we now call it, Longleaf Pine. Every area of upland was covered with these slow-growing but stately pines. During the late 19th and early 20th centuries, all of the virgin pine forests were clear-cut by large timber companies. Where huge tracts of pines had once towered only open fields of stumps now stood. The timber companies came in, cleared large areas for miles, and then moved on. These Yellow Pines had many great qualities. Prime among them was the tree’s large heart, or inner core. This resiny heart, instead of rotting, turned into a rich, sappy wood. These remains of pine stumps were called “rich lighter” or “fat pine.” Due to its thick rosin, lighter pine would burn easily and has always been the preferred method of starting fires in cook stoves and fireplaces for generations. In the 1940’s, Crosby Chemical Company of Picayune, Mississippi moved into Beauregard Parish and began harvesting the remaining stumps for their turpentine mill. Turpentine is the syrupy liquid in these pine stumps. It can be used for many commercial purposes. In addition to these industrial uses, country people gathered all of the rich pine they could for their personal use. Every older home had a large pine pile in the backyard or near the barn. Every home proudly considered their pine supply a great prize. Fires were the method of keeping warm and cooking. During the winter a fire was usually burning in either the fireplace or cook stove around the clock. However, over the years as propane and electricity became part of our rural culture, cook stoves and cooking in the fireplace became lost arts. In spite of these modern improvements, most people kept their fireplaces going. There is no substitute for sitting cozily by a popping and crackling fire as the cold wind moans and the rain blows against the house. Because of the proliferation of fireplaces, nearly every country home continued to have a pine knot pile. When DeDe and I bought our Dry Creek home in 1985, I was excited to also inherit a huge pine knot pile in the corner of our back field. The land on which we now live had been a second growth forest until it was cleared for soybean farming in the 1960’s. This was during a time when the price of soybeans skyrocketed and many residents cut and cleared their pine forests to plant beans. As they cleared the land I now live on, the pine stumps and knots were placed in an impressive pile in the corner of the field. This pile reached head high and was twenty feet wide. I inherited this lifetime supply of pine when I purchased our home and the surrounding acreage. With pride I pointed this treasure pile out to my family and friends. I could feel the envy of men as they commented on this vast and valuable pile. There was enough here to easily last a lifetime and more. Starting a fire in our fireplace was easy with the pine splinters cut from these stumps. I tried not to be completely selfish with this abundant supply. I shared wheelbarrow loads with my dad, family, and neighbors. Even after ten years of use, I hadn’t even made a good dent in my pine pile. However, this hot runaway fire in my back field, started by me, was approaching my pine knot pile, and was going to make more than a dent in it. As suddenly as the brush fire got to the pine pile, it was completely engulfed in flames. The fire and thick choking black smoke billowed high into the sky. If it’d been anything but my pine knot pile, it would have been enjoyable to watch …But it was my “lifetime supply” of pine literally going up in smoke as we stood and watched helplessly. DeDe went inside and called the fire tower to inform them as to the source of the thick black smoke. The tower observer replied to her, “Ma’am, go easy on your husband; It’s a tough thing on a man to lose his pine knot pile.” It had all happened so quickly and was over in a matter of minutes. There, where fifteen minutes earlier my huge pine knot pile had towered, was now only charred ashes and smoking chunks of wood. I think back to my precious pine knot pile when I read Jesus’ words in Matthew 6. He reminds us that all earthly treasures someday will rust, corrode, rot, become moth-eaten, be discarded and abandoned, or as in my case – burn up. When you see someone driving a new car off the sales lot, remember that one day the new and shiny car, will be junked, smashed, and melted down. Jesus told us to hoard heavenly treasures – the things that really last: eternal things. The only things I’ve seen that really last are
92 Dry Holes
92 Dry Holes A story on perseverance and resolve Several weeks ago DeDe and I visited Ft. Worth, Texas where our son Clay, his wife Robin, and our grandson Noah live. Among the places they took us was the Amon Carter Museum of Art. It featured wonderful examples of Western Art, especially the sculptures and painting of Frederic Remington and Charles Russell. Our tour guide told a story that impressed me as much as any of the art: Amon Carter was a West Texas oil wildcatter. Mr. Carter drilled 92 dry holes before he struck the gusher that made him a very rich and famous man. He later started American Airlines, owned a professional sports team, and amassed a vast collection of art and antiques. However, his first fortune was made in drilling oil wells. 92 dry holes… that is a lot of failure! I wonder on what dry hole most of us would have stopped trying? Would we have made it to 40… or maybe 56? Surely, very few of us would continue on to 75… or past 90. But Amon Carter kept drilling until he hit pay dirt and became instantly wealthy. However, let me re-phrase that: There was nothing instant about his wealth and success. It was the result of much hard work, sacrifice, investment, and persistence. There is that word again: persistence. It is the dogged determination to never give up. It is gripped by having the grit to stay with the job. The resolve to not turn back until your goals are met. Call it persistence, determination, grit, or resolve… Amon Carter had it. I wonder how many oilmen had the same goals and dreams as Carter? How many potential oil millionaires quit on number 92… just before success? They went to their graves still dreaming of that gusher. Amon Carter just kept drilling. I wonder how many more he would have drilled had number 93 been dry also! Once again, I write this as a reminder to myself that success in life is in large part simply refusing to quit, showing up every day, pushing, sweating, and working hard. Resolve: It is defined as “to act with determination…. steadfast and faithful.” It’s a word I like. I want to learn more about it. Join me on this blog as we continue to share stories on resolve. If you have a comment or a story, feel free to share it. This is your blog too! Resolved, Curt Iles “92 Dry Holes” comes from the Curt Iles book, Deep Roots
A Word Called Resolve
A Word Called Resolve It is one of my five favorite words.* It is the word resolve. There are several uses of the word, but I love the definition that speaks of persistence and grit. Webster’s defines it as “to act with determination, boldness. To be steadfast and faithful.” Resolve is a trait found in the lives of all great leaders and difference makers. It is that willingness to carry on no matter the cost. It is the fixed and focused intention to achieve a desired end/result. We see resolve in the life of Jesus. In the ninth chapter of Luke, Jesus (who is in Galilee) has turned His face and feet toward Jerusalem. It is time for Him to begin His final journey to the cross. As he begins this journey, the disciples believe they are going to a crowning… a coronation of the Messiah. But for Jesus Christ, it is a death march. He is moving toward the cross, not a kingly coronation. No golden crown is waiting – only a crown of thorns that will cut his head and draw blood. So Luke 9:51 is a great verse to examine the resolve of my Jesus. It states: “As the time drew near when Jesus would be taken up to heaven, he made up his mind and set out on his way to Jerusalem.” (NIV). Listen to the same verse from The Message: “When it came close to time for his ascension, he gathered up his courage and steeled himself for the journey to Jerusalem.” The NKJV says, “… He resolutely set His face to go to Jerusalem.” I can see the jaw of Jesus clinched tightly. There is purpose in every step as He begins the journey southward. I can imagine His eyes taking on a deeper focus and intensity. Jesus in now ready to do what He was born to do. He was born to die – to die for the sins of all mankind, including you and me. When we need resolve and determination to take on a tough job… or to finish a difficult task, there is a place to turn for strength, understanding, and guidance. We can turn to this same Jesus who set His jaw, gathered up His courage, made up His mind, and started the long, lonely journey to Jerusalem He will give you the resolve you need. Ask Him. He is faithful. In coming blogs this week, we’ll continue to look at stories of resolve, persistence, and determination. Tomorrow’s Blog (Wed. October 25): 92 Reasons not to Quit If you’ve enjoyed this blog entry, feel free to copy it and pass on to a friend. * I’ll share my 5 favorite words in a future blog. In the meantime, be compiling a list of your own and we’ll compare notes.
The Rich Life of Carl Ford
The Rich Life of Carl Ford Sunday, October 15, 2006 They buried one of my heroes today. In a steady rain, Carl Ford was laid to rest by an Air Force honor guard at Shiloh Cemetery. The 21 gun salute and playing of taps both echoed off the pine trees and emotionally touched everyone present. Carl, a retired Air Force serviceman, was given a worthy and honorable send-off for a hero. A member of the honor guard gave the folded flag to his wife Sugar as she sat between her children, Mike and Pam. However, the fact that Carl Ford was my hero was due to something else beside his honorable service to our country. He became my hero during my teenage years. Here is the story: When I first began to drive (legally) in Dry Creek community, the place I most wanted to go was the Sugar Bowl Skating Rink at Wye, Louisiana. It was the main hangout for teens in the East Beauregard area (Dry Creek and Sugartown) as well as the surrounding communities of Fairview, DeRidder, and Pitkin. The Sugar Bowl (also known as Morel’s) had been run by the Morel family for years. When I first started going there, it had just been taken over by Carl Ford and his wife, Chaery “Sugar” Morel Ford. Carl had just retired from the Air Force and he and Sugar had returned home to run the skating rink. The Sugar Bowl could be a rough place. As with every teen hangout, there were constant problems and challenges, many dealing with alcohol. My mom’s parting words on going to the Sugar Bowl were always, “You park your car on the south side of the highway close to the rink. I’d better not hear about you being across the highway.” Needless to say, ‘across the highway” was the parking area where most trouble took place. Being pretty square, I stayed away from there. I didn’t go to The Sugar Bowl to fight, get in trouble, or get drunk – I went to skate, laugh, shoot pool, and be among my friends. Carl and Sugar Ford ran the skating rink in a way that made me respect and love them both. That is when both of them became my heroes. This couple made the perfect team. Sugar was so sweet (she is the most aptly named person I’ve ever known.) Her positive personality made her loved by all the teens. No one wanted to disappoint her or cause her problems. Because of that, most everyone behaved well. Carl was respected for a whole different reason. He just had the aura of the kind of man you did not want to mess with. He had a strong jaw, a quiet manner, and a friendly but cautious manner. Because of these qualities, even the most onery teen boys wisely chose not to cross or disobey Carl Ford. He was well-liked by all as well as slightly feared by the rural teen boys who frequented The Sugar Bowl. I never remember him having to get rough with anyone. His quiet words and manner defused problems before they escalated. Carl Ford reminded me of several men from that era- the hero of the Westerns: whether it was Matt Dillon keeping Dodge City safe or John Wayne cleaning up a cattle town, this quiet yet powerful manner of addressing problems made an impression on me that lives on to this day. I learned this not from the stars of the screen or television but from Carl Ford at The Sugar Bowl skating rink in 1972… and 1973… and 1974. Carl and Sugar ran the skating rink in a way that prevented most problems. They modeled for me how to deal with teenagers. For my entire adult life, I’ve worked with teenagers. I firmly believe the Fords helped shape me during those impressionable years. Thinking back: Even now I can hear the screen door slamming behind me as I enter the loud skating rink on a Saturday night. Smoke on the Water (by Deep Purple) or Linda on my Mind (by Conway Twitty) booms from the jukebox. Jimmy Garner and my other friends lean over the pool table enjoying a game. In the next room you can hear the skates colliding with the hardwood floor of the rink. Behind the counter stands Sugar Ford. She is flipping those famous Morel’s burgers on the grill. That wonderful burger smell permeates the whole area. Her husband Carl, always working hard, walks briskly from the kitchen to check out another pair of skates, then back to unjam the pool table that has jammed and taken someone’s quarter. Over the next thirty-five years of my life, I worked with Sugar Ford for years in our school and community. I always enjoyed visiting with Carl whenever our paths would cross. He continued to be my friend, and probably unknowing to him, my hero. Yes, Carl Ford. Always my hero.
