It’s a Southern thing, y’all. We like our double first names.
I’ve got my Aunt Margie Nell and my Aunt Lloydell. We all know Billy Bob, Jerry Jeff, and Peggy Sue.
And then there’s Billy Ray. In the world of Dry Creek Camp, there will always only be one Billy Ray. We seldom used his full name, Billy Ray Franks. Most often, it was Bro. Billy Ray and always said with a sign of respect. Of course, at Dry Creek Camp, it was always Billy Ray and Ramona. They were a DeQuincy couple who directed Dry Creek’s Preteen Camps for a generation. They were, and are, family at Dry Creek.
The Dry Creek Tabernacle
Billy Ray was quiet. Even shy. You had to lean in to hear him.
But when he spoke, we all listened.
Billy Ray Franks died this week. I said my goodbye last week.
Billy Ray Franks was many things, but most of all, he was a soul winner.
Here are my favorite three stories about this unforgettable man:
He was a faithful witness at Vista Refining in Westlake. He once told of sharing with a reluctant co-worker. Billy Ray quoted Jesus in Revelation 3:20: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice, I will come in.” The man wasn’t interested in Jesus. A few weeks later, he changed his mind and told Billy Ray: “After you witnessed to me, I couldn’t get that verse about Jesus standing at the door off my mind. Every time I went through a door at the plant, that verse popped into my mind. I planned my whole day avoiding doorways and you.” The man added with a smile, “But I couldn’t avoid Jesus. Thank you for sharing.”
Once on a trip to Natchitoches, Billy Ray and Ramona were stopped by road construction on La. 117. The road flagger came over and a conversation ensued. Billy Ray asked the young man if he was saved. The flagger’s mouth dropped as he pointed up the road. “Man, five minutes ago, a bolt of lightning nearly struck me up there. You tell me what I need to do to be saved.”
Billy Ray was part of a group of men who faithfully visited Phelps Prison near DeQuincy. Once, while sharing with an inmate, Billy Ray got tongue-tied and had trouble remembering a verse, then got flustered. When he stumbled to the invitation for the inmate to receive Christ, the man excitedly asked Christ into his life. Billy Ray’s witnessing partner shook his head. “I’ve heard you witness for years and never seen you get that messed up, and then the fellow just jumped at your invitation.”
Billy Ray, smiling his shy smile, shrugged. “It just shows it’s not about us. It’s about God’s power and the Gospel.”
Thanks Billy Ray for showing us how it’s done.
I don’t know all about how folks arrive in Heaven.
I’d like to think that a crowd was waiting this week.
They were chanting, “Billy Ray. Billy Ray.”
That crowd had one thing in common. They were in Heaven because of a faithful witness who took Jesus’ command “to make disciples” seriously.
A shy thin country boy from the Sabine swamp who went through life being known simply as Billy Ray.
The famous “God’s rocking chair” at Dry Creek Camp.
I’m a firm believer in having both a Life Song and Life Playlist.
A Life Song is the song that captures your soul and always touches you when you hear it.
My Life Song is “How Firm a Foundation.”
The final verse is my favorite and I’ve leaned on it (and the Jesus it speaks of) for all of my adult life. I’ve found that He is faithful.
“The soul that on Jesus doth lean for repose,
I will not, I will not, desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.”
A Life Playlist is the list of songs that mean the most to your life. Songs you’ve turned to in both the best and worst times of life. A true Life Playlist must fit on one 80 minute CD. Here are the current top songs in my Life Playlist:
Curt’s 2016 Life Playlist Top Songs
Like me, my Life Playlist is ecletic.
I’d love to hear about your Life Song and see a screenshot of your Life Playlist.
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Complete lyrics of “How Firm a Foundation.”
How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in His excellent word!
What more can He say than to you He hath said—
To you who for refuge to Jesus have fled?
“Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by My gracious, omnipotent hand.
“When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow;
For I will be with thee thy trouble to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.
“When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace, all-sufficient, shall be thy supply;
The flame shall not harm thee; I only design
Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.
“The soul that on Jesus doth lean for repose,
I will not, I will not, desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.”
We’re excited about our newest book, Trampled Grass.
Rather than tell you about it, we’re sharing the best photos from the book and its forty short stories.
Scroll down to read a reader favorite, “The Southern Gospel.”
Beautiful Tree near Adjumani, Uganda. This photo served as cover of our recent e-book, Trampled Grass.The Smiles of Africa never leave you.Central Africa is the land of Red Dirt.
My African teachers had reminded me that the things that matter aren’t things.
It’s all about relationships, but isn’t that always true?
Jombu Baptist Church is a rural South Sudanese church.
Eliza Iles, a Southern woman from Dry Creek, Louisiana, in Belgian Congo circa 1922. Aunt Eliza is the second white hat from left. You can read her amazing 1920 journey from New York City to the Belgian Congo at www.creekbank.net/150
Nothing connects with a person quite like truth in their heart language.
It was a church service I’ll always remember. Just like something out of the book of Acts. The worship is in full swing as we are ushered into the thatched roof open sided church. If you’ve never been in an African church, you cannot fully understand full swing.
There’s was a radiant joy in their singing and clapping. In spite of the fact that a sizable number of the worshippers are refugees, the congregants sing joyfully at Faith Baptist Church in Nimule, South Sudan.
The singing ends, and a young pastor begins his sermon. I’m unsure of the language he’s preaching in other than it’s not English or Swahili. After two sentences, he stops.
A lady to his right translates. I have no idea what language she’s using.
As she finishes, a man on the far right speaks. I don’t have a clue.
As another English speaker from the past said, “It’s all Greek to me.”
A fourth person, a young church leader, translates into something I understand—English.
As this quadraphonic sermon continues, we are told that the original speaker is preaching in Madi, the local language.
The woman on his right is translating into Sudanese Arabic. Arabic is widely used as the Lingua Franca or trade language of this region.
The next man is speaking Murle, the language of most of the refugees present.
I’m not sure if the English is only for our benefit or others in the crowd. South Sudan’s official language is English.
Madi. Arabic. Murle. And English.
It’s like the Book of Acts. Chapter 2.
Listeners are hearing the Gospel in their heart languages.
Nothing connects with a person quite like truth in their heart language.
My monolingual frustration at only being able to converse in one heart language (English) irritates me.
The sermon in four languages goes on (and on). I always remind my American preacher friends, “Remember that using a translator doubles the length of your sermon.”
In this case, it’s times 4. 4x.
Madi, then Arabic, Murle, and finally English.
Spoken by four South Sudanese.
The Gospel in four languages.
A real Southern Gospel Quartet.
The best kind of all.
I wonder what these folks would think of our American Southern Gospel Quartet music. I wonder what Southern Gospel Music lovers would think of the Full Swing African music I hear and experience each Sunday.
Sudanese proverb: “You can live without love, but you cannot live without water.”
Jerry can line at Refugee Camp borehole.
Refugee scoops water from ditch while borehole is being drilled. Nyumazi Camp, Uganda.
Storm over Jebel Kujur near Juba, South Sudan
What war does: Innocent children have seen and experienced things no one should see.
The Dinka Cattle Culture is a key part of South Sudan.Eric and Margaret pick us up for our home visit. (May 2013 Zambia)At the Market
Bo in the Hole. Bo Smith standing in “Pothole” on South Sudanese African “Highway.” This is during dry season.
Uganda is highlighted on this African map. South Sudan is directly north.
Kakuma Refugee Camp
African sunset
Village HutsA word from Curt: Our refugee camp work in Africa reminded me of the tough days after Katrina and Rita.The road UpCountry is often a trail.
“Pamoja” means together. What a good word. Curt with Sudanese friend, Michael.
Sunset on Lake Victoria near the source of the Nile River.Africa is ancient and modern. Sunset over tukuls (huts) with cell phone tower.Of all the things I learned in Africa, this simple sign is near the top.In addition to learning the new language of Swahili, I drank many cups of chai, the sweetened tea so popular in Kenya. We live in the Highlands where tea growing is a major part of the economy.
Stanley meets Livingstone. Mural from the Nile Resort in Jinja, Uganda
Our priority is getting God’s Word into hands and hearts in both written and oral methods.
DeDe and Abby J. at our tukul (hut). Two of my favorite women.
The Chadian Veggie Man. The people of Chad are so different from those in South Sudan and Uganda.Vervet monkeys look cute, but are always trouble!
JD with fellow worker, Selvin “Georgia Bulldog” Jeremiadoss, and our new friend Sunday. I met Sunday through his shirt!A new borehole for the Dinka Bor at Adjumani, Uganda.
African sunset
Pastor Joseph Anyovi, his wife Jessica, and Desire Grace.Pastor Matthew Dohl and his wife Sara.
It’s about investing in what matters.
Paying attention to what (and who) will outlast us.
II. Life Long Learning I finished a fascinating book this week, Hillbilly Elegy by J.D. Vance. It’s a memoir of the problems the white working poor (aka hillbillies/rednecks/white trash) face. More than that, it’s a love story of the legacy of grandparents who wouldn’t give up on a troubled grandson. Rough language but a must read for anyone studying modern America.
III. A Life-Shaping Quote
I’ve spent a lifetime studying, and writing about, the land and people I come from in the Louisiana Pineywoods. We’re a unique culture of folks who understand a love of the land and resilient living.
IV. A Foundational Scripture Now when they saw the boldness of Peter and John, and perceived that they were uneducated, common men, they were astonished. And they recognized that they had been with Jesus. Acts 4:13
Priority Prayer need: I’ve been struggling with depression recently. Pray that I’ll continue to learn and lean on the Lord. Thanks!
V. A Favorite Picture My first career was as a high school science teacher and coach. My students and players always had fun decorating Fred Skeleton.
Circa 1984 East Beauregard High School
At The Creek, we’re all about stories.
Stories that encourage.
Teach.
Inspire.
Stories that matter.
I’ve seen bad roads back home but nothing to compare with rainy season Africa.
DWW Driving While White
Like all Americans, I’ve been stunned and confused by events of the past few months. Our country is hurting and is extremely divided. It’s easy to deny and ignore it, but that doesn’t make it not so.
As part of a national discussion, we need to sit down and listen to each other. It is a great opportunity for me, as a white man, to sit down and listen to my black friends.
Just listen. Ask questions. And listen. And pray.
I want to do the same thing with my many friends in law enforcement. They and their families are also hurting.
It’s time to listen. Ask questions. And listen. And pray.
In some ways, I have a unique perspective. I’ve just spent three years as a minority in Africa. Whites are pretty scarce once you get out of the cities in Uganda, South Sudan, and Chad. I quickly learned that one of the prices of living in Africa is being guilty of driving while white. We called it DWW.
In no way am I making light of what happened recently in Minnesota, Dallas, Baton Rouge, or Charlotte.
The first time I was pulled over for Driving While White was soon after we’d arrived in Uganda. Traffic police wear white uniforms and stand on the left shoulder (Uganda drives on the UK side of the road). If the officer wants you to pull to the shoulder, he gives a hand signal.
It is often difficult to know if he (or she) is pulling you over or an adjacent vehicle. During my first weeks in country, my hands would be sweaty just seeing the silhouette of the officer.
DeDe and I were traversing the busy road that connects Uganda’s capital, Kampala, to our home in Entebbe near the International Airport. We passed a policeman and I was unsure if he motioned me to the side or not. Looking in my rear view mirror, I saw no reaction from the man, so I continued on.
Within a few kilometers, a police truck with six armed soldiers riding in the bed pulled us over. A policeman leapt out and got in our truck. He began lecturing me about passing up a traffic stop. He threatened to take me back to headquarters where they would impound my vehicle.
Unless I paid him 200,000 shillings.
That’s about $ 80 USD.
DeDe and I had a long trip planned the next day to the border. The thought of losing our vehicle even for a few days worried me deeply.
I asked the officer to allow DeDe and I to talk. He exited and stood, arms folded, talking with the armed soldiers. It was intimidating.
DeDe and I discussed our options.
We made the decision to pay the bribe. Yes, it was a bribe.
It was my first and last time to pay a cash bribe to a policeman or soldier.
But it wasn’t the last time I was stopped for DWW.
If we were out on the road, it was a daily occurrence.
I came to understand that when policeman saw my white face, many times they were going to pull me over. It was a good chance to get money from me.
For the first month or so, I had a knot in the pit of my stomach each time we approached a traffic policeman.
Then I realized it was a game.
And I learned how to play it.
Some of it I figured out on my own.
Most of it, I learned from my co-workers who’d been playing the game much longer.
The first thing I learned was to stay calm.
A white person will never win an argument with an African.
So I made a vow to never be sarcastic or smart.
I made a decision to be compliant.
It’s a word I’ve heard a lot recently in our national conversation.
I had one thing in my favor: my age.
In Africa, I am an Mzee. An elder.
That garners respect, especially if you stay calm.
I learned to ask for mercy/forgiveness/permission “as your father.”
It nearly always worked.
Our record was six traffic stops in one day.
Part of the reason was our mud-covered vehicle. Being a Louisiana redneck, I was proud of being mudded, but learned quickly to keep the lights and blinkers cleaned. That could mean a stop and maybe a ticket.
No trouble finding a parking spot at Wal Mart in Uganda. Photo courtesy of Aaron Mason.
To deal with DWW, we developed several strategies.
One was to remove the key from the ignition. This was especially important in South Sudan, which is a 21st century version of the Wild West. If a policeman grabbed your keys, you were at his mercy. I usually tucked my key under the seat or on the floorboard.
We made copies of all of our papers, permits, and licenses. This included a copy of our passport photo page and driving permits. I proudly had driving permits for Kenya, Uganda, South Sudan, and Chad, plus an International Drivers License.
I would show the policeman a thick stapled sheaf of these permits.
Never would I hand over my original passport or plastic permits. Once again, if the officer got one of those in hand, you were at his mercy.
African policeman have a whole bag of tricks in asking for a bribe. These strategies range from the open threat (like on my initial stop) to the subtle, “We’d like some tea” or “What do you have for the gate?”
We refused to give cash unless they had paperwork and would give us a receipt. Most of the time, they would allow us to pass. They didn’t want a paper trail on their tea money.
One day in South Sudan, we were at a troublesome roadblock. The policeman was determined to milk us. I finally got out of the car, pulled out my receipt book and started writing a receipt to him. “What is your name, Sir?”
He quickly sent us on our way. He wanted money but no record of it.
Most of the time, we happily paid a bribe request with a bottle of cold water, a piece of DeDe’s banana bread, or even a Bible. I loved to watch the reaction of the officer to our payment. The look varied from great disappointment to a weary smile that we’d played the game well.
Knowing road conditions in South Sudan is an essential part of planning and research. Roads can be closed due to rainy conditions or insecurity.
South Sudan, with its confused history had confusing laws. It was against the law (according to officers) to drive with sunglasses or in flip flops. Go figure.
In South Sudanese roundabouts, you must turn on your flashers as you enter the circle. I still do this on the Alexandria Traffic Circle.
Many times humility was all you needed at a traffic stop. “Sir, is there any forgiveness in Uganda” usually worked.
One thing that always taxed my patience was the infamous self-fining ticket.
“You were driving on the shoulder of the road. You must fine yourself.”
It was hard to keep a straight face on that one. Many times this meant the policeman didn’t read or write. I never completed my own ticket but wondered what the reaction would’ve been if I’d fined myself a dollar.
There were other schemes that I could only tip my hat to their creativity:
The famous fire tax in South Sudan. They checked to see if you had a working fire extinguisher, then had you pay a fee for certifying that you were carrying one.
The bad road toll fee. South Sudan only has a few hundred miles of pavement. Everything else is rough. There’d be a road block where the policeman would ask for “a donation” for the community keeping their section of road in good repair. This road tax might be repeated five times in a day’s drive.
Once again, we used the rule. If you give us a receipt, we will pay.
My favorite road story took place in northern Uganda. Four of us Americans were driving two Land Cruisers loaded to the brim with luggage and boxes. The Lanes and Jeremiadoss men were moving their families into a remote part of South Sudan. It was a week long trip I will never forget.
Not far from the border, two Ugandan police pulled us over. One was a woman. I feared female policemen much more than the men.
The woman peered into our vehicle, sadly shaking her head. “I must fine you.”
“For what, Madam?”
“Misuse of vehicle.”
“What?”
“You have the passenger seats filled with luggage. That is misuse. The seating area is only for people.”
I glanced ahead at Robert, who was driving the lead vehicle. His body language as he stood outside his vehicle assured me he was getting the same ticket.
It took all of our persuasive skills to get on the road again, with no ‘misuse of vehicle ticket.
JD Hull at Sankofa Cafe in Gulu, Uganda.
One of the joys of my last year in Africa was mentoring a wonderful young missionary named JD Hull. By the time JD joined our team, I was a veteran at police stops and kind of perversely looked forward to them. I viewed it as a challenge or athletic contest.
We were driving along a new road in Uganda. It was straight, flat, and wide enough to land a big plane. (The Chinese build roads with big shoulders) and JD was driving pretty fast.
An officer flagged us down. He had a radar gun, something we seldom saw in Africa. I thought JD was going to cry as the officer showed him the radar reading. The officer smiled. “Mzungu, you are going a little fast.”
JD gripped the wheel. Speechless.
I leaned toward the officer. “Sir, this young man is new in your country. He was speeding but I, as his spiritual father, am asking forgiveness.”
The officer studied both of us.
I continued. “And I, as your spiritual father also, am asking you to forgive us today. I will stand good for him. He’ll drive slower.”
The officer good-naturedly said, “Mzee, I cannot tell you no. You go with my blessing and make sure young Mzungu drives slower.”
I thought JD was going to get out, hug the man, and kiss him on the lips.
DeDe and I laughed with (and at) him for the next hundred miles.
Which by the way, were driven much slower on Chinese Runway 4S heading to the border at Nimule, South Sudan.
I started this story as a foundation for addressing the chasm we Americans are facing over race relations and law enforcement.
The fact that one of the recent tragedies occurred in Louisiana, the state I proudly call home, has troubled me.
My African DWW experiences gave me empathy for what black men and women face in America. Being pulled over, stopped, or confronted for simply looking different.
They call it Driving While Black.
After Africa, I understand a little more.
Like in America, most policeman in Uganda are honest and helpful. One friend, after hearing me complain about DWW, wisely said, “Just remember that the policeman who stopped you probably has a large family and may not have been paid in two months.”
I tried to remember that as I interacted with an official or officer.
I still refused to pay the cash bribe, but understood more.
And understanding is never a bad thing.
It’s called empathy.
And right now the country that I love could use a big dose of it.
Empathy.
Putting myself in the other man’s shoes.
For a day.
For a mile.
For a moment.
Your comments and feedback are welcome, even if you don’t agree. Use form below.
Thoughts from the Road Less Traveled
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What we’re about in 2016: 1. Staying Curious. 2. Being Amazed. 3. Telling Stories.
It’s Friday, which means it’s time to think about LLL.
That’s Life Long Learning.
It’s the reason I want to stay curious,discover, and share good stories.
I. This week’s word is Gratitude.
Here’s my favorite story on gratitude: Vance Gill, my guitar-playing Dry Creek friend (who I always remind that he’s only one vowel from being famous) shared this: “I was working one Saturday on a busted water line, and it was a mess. I stopped, looked around, got down on my knees and thanked God I had running water.”
That’s gratitude.
And it is an attitude.
And it’s a habit (just like its opposite number, complaining).
II. What I’m listening to: I subscribe to about ten audio Podcasts and listen to them while driving or exercising. It turns the truck or treadmill into a rolling library.
My favorite daily podcast is Garrison Keillor’s The Writer’s Almanac. It’s always less than five minutes, has an overview of famous dates in history, and ends with a short poem.
Book signings this week:
Saturday, October 1 Westside Library Alexandria
Saturday, October 1 Tamp and Grind Coffee Alexandria
Monday, October 3 Hidden Grounds Coffee Pineville
Tuesday, October 4 Jennings Rotary Club
How you can pray for us:
Pray that our new African memoir, Trampled Grass, will find its way into the hands and hearts of readers.
I meet with a group of five men in a mentoring/learning time. Pray that I’ll be a good learner and teacher.
Pray for the Kakwa people group of Uganda/South Sudan/DRC. They are a key group in reaching the West Nile region with the Gospel. Reply to this email with your prayer needs.
Readers are enjoying our new book, Trampled Grass. You can easily order your copy here. We’ll send your autographed book with an invoice.
It’s the 75th anniversary of the Louisiana Maneuvers and America’s entry into World War II. A Spent Bullet (my favorite Creekbank book) tells the unlikely love story in the midst of a memorable time.
Both books are available in print and ebook formats.
Contact Us!
We love to hear from readers at CreekBank Stories!
While making my rounds at the mill, an employee named Harley* enthusiastically stopped me. “Chaplain, do you remember praying with me to get a car?”
Before I could reply, he continued, “My wife and I were riding a motorcycle to work. It was great until it rained, and you know it rains a lot in Louisiana. I asked you to pray with me for a car. A month later, we were riding my bike home from work in a Louisiana thunderstorm. We were soaked and stopped under a convenience store awning to dry off.
A man approached us. ‘Are y’all riding to work on that motorcycle?’
I told him we were saving money for a car. He took me to his house and gave us a good car for an unbelievable low price.”
Harley smiled. “God answered that prayer.”
“You don’t think it was just coincidence?” I asked.
“No way. God took care of that.”
Once again, I stood amazed at a great God who created the universe but still has time to provide a seemingly small but important need in the life of a child of God.
*named changed.
My mission field now includes Roy O Martin’s two mills and forestry crews.
The following is the best deer hunting story I know.
Read and enjoy.
This story was told to me by fellow missionary, Bobby Lane (in photo with his son Shep in South Sudan).
The Deer Hunter
It’s by far and away the best deer-hunting story I’ve heard. My friend Bobby Lane, is a gifted storyteller. He told the story so well that I asked him to tell it to three more people. I enjoyed each re-telling as much as the first time I heard it. I’m passing it on to you.
It began with a call to the manager of game ranch in Georgia. “Sir, do you have any big 8-point bucks I can come shoot?”
“Yes, but most of our clients prefer to get the really big ones on our ranch. We have some of the finest 10 and 12 points in the South.”
The caller, whom we’ll refer to as “The Hunter” said, “Nope. I want an 8-point.”
“Okay, but . . .”
“Look, I’m in Florida and it’s about six hours from your ranch. In fact, I’m on my way as we speak.”
Later in the day, the manager met the hunter at the gate. “Welcome. If you’d like to come in, we’ll get you fixed up and serve a good meal, then we’ll take a look at our animals.”
My lifelong buddy, Richard Morton, with a Dry Creek Swamp buck. Circa 2008
“No sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go straight to the field. Please get in truck with me.”
During their ride through the fields, the manager pointed out some of the prize deer that drew hunters from all over America to. He glanced at the stern-faced hunter, wondering if he knew that killing one of these big boys ran in the $20,000-40,000 range.
The hunter waved off the suggestion that he take one of these trophy deer. “Sir, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m looking for a certain eight point buck.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want.”
They drove for the next forty-five minutes with the hunter carefully studying each 8-point before saying, “Nope. That’s not the one.”
Finally, he stopped. “There’s the one. I want that one there.”
The manager nodded and the hunter braced himself against the hood of the truck and took the buck down. They loaded it in the truck bed and headed back to the ranch headquarters.
“Sir, we’ll drop your deep off at the station and the boys will clean it, cut up your meat, and prepare the head for mounting.
“If it’s all the same with you, I’ll just take it with me as it is. Now, how much do I owe you.”?
“That deer is $5500.”
The hunter pulled out his checkbook and scratched out the check, quickly handing it to the rancher. “Thank you so much.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay? Our steaks in the chow hall are famous near and far.”
Fellow East Beauregard Trojan Keith Hooper with a recent monster buck.
The hunter nodded. “Thanks, but no thanks.” He offered his hand. “I appreciate you helping me.”
The manager, who’d been at the lodge for years, stared after the truck until it disappeared into the Georgia woods. He’d never had a client quite like this Florida man.
* * *
For the next three days, the manager couldn’t get this strange hunter off his mind. Finally, getting the hunter’s phone number off his check, he made a call.
After identifying himself, he apologized. “Sir, I know it’s none of my business, but it’s driving me crazy. Could you explain to me what happened?”
“No problem. In fact I can now tell you the full story.”
The manager detected a smile in the hunter’s voice, very different from the man’s stern visit three days ago.
“I’ve hunted for years on a lease with a group of guys. Earlier in the season, I began seeing game camera photos of the finest deer I’d ever seen in a lifetime of hunting in Florida.
“Getting this deer became an obsession. I was on my stand early in the mornings and most afternoons. I was missing my kid’s ballgames and coming in late to work, but never seeing the big 8-point. It was affecting my life, I was losing sleep and my wife would hardly speak to me. I was totally consumed with bagging this big buck and each new view on the game camera made it worse.
“Late yesterday I went to check my camera and there the big buck was again. However, as I scanned through the photos, there were shots of a birthday party for my best friend’s youngest child.”
The hunter chuckled. “That’s why I called you early the next morning and made the twelve hour round trip to harvest your 8 point. I took the deer back to my hunting spot, dragged it through the woods, and draped it over a log. Then I took an arrow and jobbed it through the bullet hole before sticking it in the ground.
I went to my stand, climbed up and called my hunting buddies on my cell. “You guys have got to come see this. I finally got him. I got the big one.”
“You see, each year I make a deer hunt to west Texas. It costs me about $5000. I won’t be going this year but that’s all right. I got the last word on my buddies and don’t plan to ever reveal the real story. They’ve been absolutely miserable trying to figure it out.
Most Fridays, we’ll be sending out this brief story letter with a simple purpose: pushing all of us to be a LLL.
That’s Life Long Learner.
I’m 60 and have never been more excited about learning new things. To hold myself accountable (and encourage you), I’ll be sharing a weekly quote, an insight on how God is working in my life, what I’m reading/viewing, and links to new stories, blogs, as well as our books.
It’ll also be an opportunity to hear from you. I want to know what’s on your mind, how you’re growing, what your struggles are.
All right. Here we go. Life Long Learners of the World Unite!
I. I have a weekly word to live by.
This week’s word is Pamoja. It’s a Swahili word that denotes teamwork. A reminder that we can always do more when we do it together.
I once saw this quote in a business:
“I have to do this myself, and I cannot do it alone.”
This quote reminds us that our responsibility is to do our best but always rely on others to help complete the task.
My daily job is writing stories. They don’t write themselves. I have to get up, put my seat in the seat, and start pecking.
However, I cannot write and publish a book without a team.
I’m re-reading Shelby Foote’s The Civil War collection. I’m stunned by Foote’s ability to weave stories and people into his narrative. I’m using Audible/Whisper Sync to read and listen to this massive work.
This is my Kindle reading list:
Some of my current reading list books.
What’s the best book you’ve read in 2016?
III. The quote that’s shaping my life right now:
Once again, a reminder that we are all Life Long Learners, regardless of how many Super Bowl rings we have.
I’m teaching a college-age Bible study on the book of Acts. Continuing the pamoja/together theme, I’m fascinated with the unity of the early church as found in Acts 2:44: “All the believers were together and had everything in common.”
What book of the Bible are you currently studying?
V. My favorite recent photos
The one and only Jack Iles with his coonskin cap. He wore it golfing later in the day.
Loblolly Pine adjacent to my Mom’s house. It took a lightning strike last week.
A passionate witness for Jesus at the Sturgis Biker Rally
25 Great Quotes on Passion
Written by Travis McAshan | Posted on Monday, April 11th, 2011 | Categories: Inspired Thoughts
In a nutshell… here’s a collection of quotes on passion and enthusiasm to keep your fire burning bright.
At the end of the day we all need to remember to keep going. However, just making it another day doesn’t get us where we truly want to be. We must move with vigor, passion, and fixed determination to achieve our goals.
Never, never, never give up.” – Winston Churchill,
British Statesman
A person can succeed at almost anything for which they have unlimited enthusiasm.” – Charles M. Schwab,
American Steel Magnate
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”” – Jack Kerouac,
Author
I have no special talents. I am only passionately curious.” – Albert Einstein,
Theoretical Physicist
Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping… waiting… and though unwanted… unbidden… it will stir… open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us… guides us… passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love… the clarity of hatred… and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace… but we would be hollow… Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we’d be truly dead.” – Joss Whedon,
Screenwriter and Director
A great leader’s courage to fulfill his vision comes from passion, not position.” – John Maxwell,
Author and Speaker
Courage is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm.” – Winston Churchill,
British Politician
There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life.” – Federico Fellini,
Italian Film Director
Nothing great in the world has been accomplished without passion.” – Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel,
German Philosopher
Rest in reason; move in passion.” – Khalil Gibran,
Artist, Poet and Writer
Passion is the genesis of genius.” – Anthony Robbins,
Speaker and Author
If passion drives you, let reason hold the reins.” – Benjamin Franklin,
American Statesman
Don’t ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” – Howard Thurman,
Author and Philosopher
Renew your passions daily.” – Terri Guillemets,
Quotation Anthologist
The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.” – Ferdinand Foch,
French Military Strategist
There is no greatness without a passion to be great, whether it’s the aspiration of an athlete or an artist, a scientist, a parent, or a businessperson.” – Anthony Robbins,
Speaker and Author
Enthusiasm is one of the most powerful engines of success. When you do a thing, do it with all your might. Put your whole soul into it. Stamp it with your own personality. Be active, be energetic and faithful, and you will accomplish your object. Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson,
American Philosopher
If there is no passion in your life, then have you really lived? Find your passion, whatever it may be. Become it, and let it become you and you will find great things happen FOR you, TO you and BECAUSE of you.” – T. Alan Armstrong,
Author and Writer
Passion and purpose go hand in hand. When you discover your purpose, you will normally find it’s something you’re tremendously passionate about.” – Steve Pavlina,
Blogger and Author
Never underestimate the power of passion.” – Eve Sawyer,
Author and Writer
Only passions, great passions, can elevate the soul to great things.” – Denis Diderot,
French Philosopher
When you set yourself on fire, people love to come and see you burn.” – John Wesley,
Christian Theologian
One person with passion is better than forty people merely interested.” – E. M. Forster,
English Novelist
Purpose may point you in the right direction but it’s passion propels you.” – Travis McAshan,
Entrepreneur and Web Strategist
Enthusiasm is nothing more or less than faith in action.” – Henry Chester,
Australian Politician
I come from Dry Creek, Louisiana: a land of tall pines and good people.
A word from Curt: Emotion
The best stories elicit emotion.
Sometimes tears.
Other times laughter.
Even anger or sadness.
A good story creates emotion.
Today’s blog is a funny story from an unlikely location, Dry Creek Cemetery.
Enjoy.
Laugh.
Retell.
“Six Foot Deep” in Trouble
One of my ministries is to work with people in selecting their grave sites at Dry Creek Cemetery. I’ve found that this is a time when we can really help people. I call it the “open window of opportunity.” Whether it’s a kind word, a hand on the shoulder, or a whispered prayer, people are always open for help during their time of grief.
The openness of people to being helped is because the loss of a loved one, and the accompanying grief, brings forth such strong emotions. These emotions may vary from tears, regret, anger, and sometimes, even laughter. Because the emotions at this time are so raw and close to the surface, anything that creates extra stress can really affect people.
For many years my partner in grave marking was Mr. Jay Miller. He took me under his wing and taught me how to find the corners of a families’ grave plot and reminded me of how families were kin to each other and where they should be buried. Last November, Mr. Jay was buried in the very cemetery he loved so greatly.
Last November, Mr. Jay was buried in the very cemetery he loved so greatly. He had died in a way that touched everyone who knew and loved him. Early on the morning of his death, he went deer hunting with his daughter and pastor. After putting each of them on a stand, he was walking to his deer stand when he fell dead. I heard several men in Dry Creek say, “I can’t think of a better way to go than how Mr. Jay did.” He was healthy at eighty-three, with the ones he loved, and able to be still do what he enjoyed most.
I miss him, especially when it comes time to mark a grave. I depended on him for his experience and wisdom in handling touchy matters at the cemetery. Most of all, I miss his friendship.
Mr. Jay’s grandson, Mark, has taken his job as the grave marker. Mark is great and we’ll enjoy working together on this, but we both know that so much knowledge of this cemetery left us last November.
Probably because of that, we’ve both been concerned to get each grave in the right spot. We have a deep fear of messing up. And if you mess up on the placing of a grave, real trouble and pain can result.
So, these anxious thoughts came to me last Thursday when I was called on to mark not one, but two graves. Both of these burials were to be on Saturday, with both being handled by the same funeral home, Labby Memorial of DeRidder.
The thought hit me that it was essential to get each grave marked clearly so there could be no confusion. In the back of my mind, I imagined what it would be like if they got confused and put the deceased in the wrong spot. It was not a pretty thought to entertain.
I used special care in marking each grave. After driving the markers down, I put flagging on each one with the family names. To ensure everything was right, I called Mrs. Labby and explained to her exactly where each grave was located. She said their Roy, their usual gravedigger, was off work on Saturday. She informed me that Roy’s helper, Willie, would be coming.
It’s a country tradition that normally they don’t “open a grave” (that’s what they call the process of digging a grave) until the morning of the funeral. This is to avoid problems in the event of rain.
I think it’s also to avoid all of those stories about people falling into open graves.*
On Friday, the day before the two funerals, I go to the cemetery just to check the markers. Everything is just exactly as I’ve marked it. Just to be sure, I call the funeral home one more time and double–check, ensuring that we are all on the same page.
It is at this point I make my biggest mistake—I relax. With all of my calls and clear markings at the cemetery, there is no way they can get it confused. Therefore, I don’t feel I need to be present for the grave digging the next morning.
That Saturday dawns as one of the prettiest days of the year. March always has some of the best weather in Louisiana. The dogwoods and azaleas are in full bloom. On this day, the sky is a perfect blue and a cool pleasant wind blows.
At the Camp where I work, we are hosting a Deacons Conference. After breakfast I join the men for the morning’s first session. It’s about mid-morning when Linda Farmer, one of our cooks, calls me out of the meeting. I think to myself, “Now what in the world could be so important right now?” Linda’s words shock me and send a literal chill down my spine: “They’re on the phone from the funeral home. They think their man has dug the grave in the wrong spot.”
My son Clint has my truck today, so I’m on foot. I quickly borrow Linda’s van, grab my cemetery map from the office, and rush the two miles to the cemetery. As I glance at my watch it is already 10:45. The first funeral, at a church about thirty miles away, starts in fifteen minutes.
Approaching the cemetery, I see is the bright orange grave marker and the opened grave, and instantly see it’s been dug in the wrong spot. The grave is one row south from the spot I originally marked it. There, right next to the grave of my Papa’s best friend, Luther Spears, is a yawning six-foot-deep by seven-foot-long grave. It’s dug right in the spot where my beloved first grade teacher, Mrs. Ora Spears, will one day be laid to rest next to her husband.
On the other side of the grave is a three-foot high pile of sticky red clay. I’m thinking to myself that we’ve got a lot of work to do to get out of this mess.
The gravedigger, Willie, an older black man, is standing right beside the grave. He is nervously jumping from foot to foot as if standing on hot coals. Next to Willie is a younger man leaning on a shovel. Willie, sweating profusely, begins explaining how the marker was placed right against the Spears headstone. To prove my point, I show him where I had originally placed the marker.
Over and over he repeats himself, “I just dug it right where the marker was!” I answer back with, “Well, it’s sure not where I marked it!” Finally, I realize that we’ve got to stop arguing, think fast, and work together. Looking at my watch, I’m shocked to see it is now after 11:00. The first funeral has started. Mentally I try to estimate the time needed for the service, family time, and twenty-mile trip to the cemetery.
I put my hand on Willie’s shoulder and say, “Look, it’s neither one of our faults this grave is in the wrong spot, but we’ve got to work together to get it in the right spot. You need to start digging the grave in the right spot. We’ll fill in the other hole. Do you think we can get it ready?”
Willie shakes his head doubtfully. “I’m not sure there’s enough time. And then I’ve still got to dig that second grave.”
I try to comfort Willie. “Look, I read in the obituaries where the 11:00 funeral was going to be led by four preachers. I’ve been around preachers enough to know it’ll be a while before they get here. We’ve got plenty of time to straighten out this mess if we work together. Then, the second funeral is not until 3:00 anyway. We’ve got time.”
I think to myself, I’m sure going to be here when you start on that second grave over in the northwest corner.
Then I say to Willie, “Let’s pray about this.” There right by the open grave we pray. Willie holds his hat in his hands and passionately “amens” every sentence of my intercessory prayer for these two families and our task in front of us.
Then we go to work. Willie gets back on the backhoe and pushes some of the red clay back into the open hole and quickly moves to begin the new gravesite. The shovel man and I begin filling in the first grave. Over in the other corner of the cemetery two of the caretaker’s sons are weed-eating around graves. I call for them to come help us. Gladly, these two strapping Mennonite boys come over, grab shovels, and go to work with us.
I can’t help but occasionally look up to check on Willie. He really is an artist with the backhoe. He expertly maneuvers the scoop up and down until a deep rectangular grave begins to emerge. Willie is still sweating heavily, and it’s not really a warm day. Every once in a while, above the noise of the backhoe, I hear Willie saying, “Help me Jesus. Lord, help me Jesus.”
From time to time he nervously takes a sideways glance toward the entrance road. I know he is fully expecting a big black hearse and a line of cars to come around the curve at any moment.
The other worker keeps the sides of the grave straight. He puts his shovel handle into the grave to mark its correct depth. Soon the grave is finished. We all help move the funeral home tent and they begin setting up the equipment and boards for the coffin to lay on.
Willie moves his backhoe across the cemetery to the 3:00 gravesite. I stand under the tent and sincerely thank God as to how this mess got straightened out before either family arrived. My head hurts just thinking of the chaos there would have been if they had arrived and found a grave in the wrong spot.
Right there I came up with a plan. From now on, in addition to the marker, I will use a can of spray paint to outline a grave on the exact spot where the grave is to go. In addition, I’ll write the name of the family inside the rectangle so no miscommunication can take place.
Seeing that Willie is now happily digging the second, or if you want to be exact, third grave of the day at Dry Creek Cemetery, I’m satisfied that this day of calamity is going to turn out all right. Finally, after watching Willie long enough to feel comfortable, I leave.
I drive back to work in my “stolen” van. Back at the camp I don’t even think they even noticed I was gone. I’d like to slip back into the deacon’s meeting, but I have to go to the kitchen to tell Linda and the other cooks this story. Some things, especially those embarrassing to you, need to be shared so everyone can enjoy it. It’s so important for us to laugh at ourselves, because everyone else is already laughing at us anyway.
That afternoon, the funeral procession from the 11:00 service doesn’t get to the cemetery until 3:00 PM. Someone told me it was a wonderful service, celebrating a rich life lived for God. Instead of four preachers, there were eleven speakers!
The second burial took place at about four o’clock without a hitch. Neither family even knew about our close call with calamity, and that is all right with me.
The next day, Sunday, I woke up with my head hurting. I’m not talking about a headache. I’m talking about the pain of what I quickly realized was sunburn. The top of my head, where I once had hair, is badly sunburned. I ask myself, “Now, how did my head get sunburned?” Then I realized that yesterday in my dash to the cemetery, I had left my trusty baseball cap behind. Even though I was not in the sun more than two hours, it was enough for a hairless scalp to burn pretty badly.
As I dressed for church, I looked in the mirror at the sunburned top of my head. I thought to myself, “I’ll never hear the end of it about my sunburn when I get to church.” The thought of Sharon Swisher, one of our deacon’s wives, made me cringe. Every Sunday morning she greets every one of the bald men in our church with a lipstick-smeared kiss on the peak of their head. On this particular Sunday, I don’t want anyone touching, or kissing, my painful crown.
Going out the door, I looked in the hallway mirror for one last inspection. I realized that my head and face are really red. However, they weren’t nearly as red as if we’d buried someone in the wrong grave . . . on that beautiful spring day at Dry Creek Cemetery when we were . . . “Six-foot deep” in trouble.
The Old House is our second book.
A fictional story has always been told of a village which had a shortcut path through the local cemetery. One evening, just at dusk, an elderly farmer was walking this path just as night fell. In the gathering darkness, he got off the path and fell right into a freshly dug grave. After much effort, he realized he couldn’t get out of the six-foot-deep hole. Finally he gave up, sat down, and waited for daylight and rescue. Eventually a second man, the town drunk, staggered along this same cemetery path and he fell into the same grave. In the darkness on this moonless night, the drunk struggled with all of his might to get a toehold and climb out. Finally, exhausted, he also sat down to wait for help the next morning. It was at this precise moment the old farmer put his hand on the drunk’s shoulder in comfort and said, “There’s no use trying, neither one of us can get out of here.” Yet, the farmer was wrong, because the drunken man, fueled by both fear and adrenaline, climbed right out of the grave and ran for his life as he stumbled over headstones and markers.
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I struggle with it because I get so wrapped up in my life and problems,
zooming from one chore to another.
Lord, teach me to pray. Amen.
Reading this story (again) reminded me of the importance of prayer.
“Pray One for Another” comes from our second book, The Old House.
Pray One for Another
“. . .And pray one for another.” (James 5:16)
The power of prayer is strong.
The more I learn, the more I believe the awesome power of God is unleashed when we pray.
Over and over, I’ve seen God do what can only be described as miracles in the lives of people—whether at the camp, through our church, or in the event of our everyday lives. Some folks would call these events, “coincidences,” but I’m convinced it’s due to God’s people praying diligently that He acts in such unique ways.
A big part of our prayer life should be what is called intercessory prayer. Very simply, intercessory prayer is praying to God for people and their needs.
Formerly, I was often guilty of making this statement to folks experiencing tragedy, tough times, or trials, “Well, all I can do is pray for you.”
I’ve since learned that the greatest thing we can do is pray. This wonderful quote from Henri
This wonderful quote from Henri Noewen says it much better than I ever could:
“There is nothing we can do better than praying by name to God for others.
Nothing unleashes the power of God like the prayer of His people.”
Or as Christian writer, S. D. Gordon, shares, “The greatest thing anyone can do for God and man is pray. It is not the only thing; but it is the chief thing. The great people of the earth today are the people who pray. I do not mean those who talk about prayer; nor those who say they believe in prayer; nor yet those who can explain about prayer; but I mean those people who take time to pray.
One of my favorite stories concerning prayer is told by Della Mercer, who faithfully taught the preschoolers at our church for years. Once at the end of a lesson on prayer, she wanted to finish the lesson by having the children pray. Della stated to the five-year-old class, who were sitting in a circle, “Now, we are going to go around the circle and pray for each other.”
Once at the end of a lesson on prayer, she wanted to finish the lesson by having the children pray. Della stated to the five-year-old class sitting in a circle, “Now, we are going to go around the circle and pray for each other.”
Her plan was to let the child on her right begin and allow each child around the circle to utter a short “sentence prayer.”
The first child to her right was Charlie Taylor. Instead of sitting in his chair and saying a short prayer, he got up and began going to each child seated in the circle. As he would put his hand on their shoulder, he then prayed with, and for, each child.
As Della watched in amusement, Charlie “went around the circle” praying for each one by name. Della said it was the most beautiful illustration of caring and praying she’d ever seen. Charlie physically did what we should be doing: going to others, showing them we care by putting a hand on their shoulder, and praying with them.
God has taught me, and is continuing to teach me, a great deal about this. So often folks come to us and say, “Will you pray for me about something?” As they share their burden, we promise to pray for them. However, if we aren’t careful, in the midst of our busy lives, we tend to forget about them and their problem or needs.
God has convicted me about this. What I am learning to do is to simply stop right there and pray with them. This ministers to them, and God always honors heart-felt prayer.
I’ll never forget meeting a Dry Creek neighbor in front of the Post Office. As we made small talk, this rough-edged man who seemingly had no room for God in his life, began sharing the heartache he’d recently experienced with a rebellious teenage daughter. His hardened, weathered face showed the pain he was dealing with. The windows to the soul, his eyes, were filled with tears. I did the only thing I knew to do, I said, “Do you mind if we just pray together right here?”
He said, “I wish you would.” So there in the Post Office parking lot, as people came and went, we stood beside his beat–up, old truck and prayed. He wept openly and even my voice was choked. I’ll never forget the look on his tear-streaked face when we finished. He simply said, “Thank you so much,” and slowly got in his truck.
He simply said, “Thank you so much,” and slowly got in his truck.
That parking lot encounter was the beginning of my journey praying with people. It really doesn’t matter the location, or even if we are on the phone, or when it is, God both hears and honors prayer.
My challenge to myself, and to you, is to let God use you as an active intercessory “pray-er.” Hurting people are always waiting to know someone cares. They are waiting to hear the good news that God loves them and can forgive them through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.
And the fire for God that is waiting to begin burning in their hearts can be lit by a single “match” of intercessory prayer from you. Let’s follow Charlie Taylor’s example by getting up, going to others, showing them we care, and most importantly—praying with, and for, them. . . .
“. . . and pray one for another (James 5:16).
P.S. About twenty years after this story, I helped with the funeral of Charlie Taylor. I told this story to his family and friends.
This morning I encountered a desk worker whose mother has been placed on hospice. I felt led of the Lord to pray with her. She seemed surpised at this.
It was a privilege.
Lord, help me to be sensitive to pray for folks as I make my journey today.
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It’s all about relationships, but isn’t that always true?
Sudanese proverb: “You can live without love, but you cannot live without water.”
These are my subscribed podcasts from my iPad.
