The Most Beautiful Sunrises Come After Storms

For the last three months I have rolled out of my bed somewhere between 4:30am and 4:50am Central Time, navigated the labyrinth that is my room, and with a none too gentle hand; murdered the shrieking demon that is my alarm clock with a flip of that little switch at the top of the box that I have come to believe was manufactured not in Eastern Asia, but Hell itself. It is a short lived victory though because as soon as I slide the switch to the off position, I flip it right back on and there it waits patiently for the next twenty three hours and fifty-nine minutes. Masking itself as an innocent clock, biding the time until it rips me from sleep’s sweet embrace and rudely brings me back into reality. After this battle has ended, I shuffle to the bathroom, turn on the light and begin the typical working Single American Male’s morning routine: Shower, towel off, go to underwear drawer, find it empty, go get underwear out of the dryer, hang towel on shower curtain rod to dry, put contacts in, look for undershirt, go get undershirt out of the dryer, put on dress shirt, put on pants, go to sock drawer, find it empty, go to laundry basket with unfolded socks in it, get two socks (matching is optional), put on socks, put on shoes, tie my tie, fix hair, pack lunch, get briefcase, pour coffee, head to vehicle, commute.

Now for the last semester I have been student teaching at a middle school about thirty minutes down the interstate. Just close enough to Georgia to be on Eastern Time. Hence the 4:30am. For the majority of the semester this morning drive has been boring. I leave early enough that it is still dark, I only get to hear the first segment or two of Rick and Bubba, and there aren’t that many other drivers on the road so it is an easy, uneventful drive. About four weeks ago, something changed though. I drive east on I85 to get to work so I have a full view of the horizon as the sun begins to come up and around the first week of March I began to get to see the sun rise as I was east bound and down.

I’ve always been a fan of seeing sunrises and sunsets. Sunsets though have always been my favorite for a few reasons. Number one: I’ve seen more sunsets. Because I’ve been awake for more sunsets. Before this semester the only way I would see a sunrise would be if I was getting up to go hunt or if I had been out fishing or gigging frogs and didn’t get home until the sun came up. Number two: sunsets carry with them a sense of peace and restfulness for me. When I think about and remember sunsets I always think about sitting on the porch at my parents house as the evening begins to cool off, hearing the creak of the swing moving back and forth, feeling the warmth that the boards of the porch have absorbed from the day on my feet, and seeing the first fireflies take flight as the sun gives its last farewell and slips below the horizon. I think about the sun reflected on the water of the pond as I reel in my line for the last time because I can’t distinguish my orange bobber from the orange shine on the water. I think about the winter day that my brother and I spent hours in the woods, saw nothing, and as we stepped out of the woods into the open field near our house it looked like the world burst into flame and standing there with him and getting to see that made the whole day worth it. So with those things in their favor, sunsets have always been my favorite, and probably will still be my favorite. But not by such a large margin.

On my drive in the sunrise usually reaches its most beautiful point at what I think might be one of the most perfect places on the planet; a cow pasture. This pasture sits in a valley where they have probably been grazing cattle for 150 years. Gone are the pines and flat land that line the majority of the interstate system in south Alabama and in their place are gently rolling grassy hills dotted with grazing cattle, and hardwood trees that stand proud and majestic in their solitude throughout the pasture, except where they cluster at the creek at the bottom of the valley. It is rare to see a creek like this these days. This is not a stream or a ditch, but a real creek. One that flows strong year round, even in the middle of July when everything else has dried up. A creek that you can tell knows where it is going and is in no hurry to be there, because the banks are high from years of erosion and it winds its way through the valley bottom twisting and turning where it pleases and making its own way through the earth. It is here, in this valley with bovines moving across dewy grass, with fog settled on valley floor obscuring the creek from view that I look out across this pasture and see something that tugs at my heart nearly every morning. 

What began simply as a lightening of the sky as I made my way to my truck earlier, hinting at what was coming, has now become an all out declaration of what is to come. The night’s horizon, dead in its deep blue, has disappeared and in its place is something that artists have tried, and failed, to capture with paint, pencil, film, and word. Everything they make is just a copy. How do you describe a work of a master? How can you accurately trap something so original, so unique, as a sunrise? No matter how much talent a person may have, they cannot compare to the One who created the first sunrise. With nothing more than a word. So I won’t even really try, and trying to describe a sunrise isn’t the point of this post.

Something I have discovered, and what caused this entire post to start to in my head, is the thought that the best sunrises come after a storm. Being spring in Alabama, we’ve had our fair share of storms already and can only expect to have more.  There have been a few mornings when I was driving in that the storm clouds were breaking up, the sky was beginning to peek through,  and some of the most spectacular sunrises that I have seen happened. As clouds that brought destruction and damage are being swept away, the sun rises and God uses these clouds to show His majesty. The sun itself and the sky around it are clear and pure at this point, so bright that it is painful to look at. The sullen clouds though, have changed colors ranging from deep purple to the bright gold as the sun’s rays begin the process of cleansing the darkness from the earth and revealing the world as it is supposed to be seen. A reminder that storms aren’t forever, and that God’s beauty will win in the end.

This is never so real as it is in our spiritual lives. Because of original sin, we are born into darkness, death, and confusion. But there is hope. Christ has risen. The Son has risen. Once you have come to accept Christ as Lord, there is a change. What once was darkness and despair in your life has now become something beautiful. Christ’s light transforms the clouds of our past into flaming beacons of hope for those that are lost in darkness and looking for answers. As they see the beauty and joy in our lives, they seek the cause, they look for the source of light. They look to the Son. So on this Easter Sunday, this day of hope and triumph, know that the same God who has created a unique sunrise and sunset since He made the very first one, has also created you. Know that He will calm your storms, and use you to lead others through their troubles. Know that all of this was because Christ Himself endured a storm for you and me, that when that storm blew itself out the Son rose, the sun rose, and the world was given an eternal hope that shines in our soul.

I can't draw ,the reason why I'm not supposed to, and one reason why fishing is important

Most of my conversations with God start one way, only to take a turn and end up in a totally different place than I anticipated. This one is no different. So stay in it at the curve and I promise it will straighten out and get you somewhere. Even if it isn't where you expected to go.

I wish I could draw. Really. It is something that I have always wanted, and something I have always been terrible at. I can’t even doodle properly. I’ve always been jealous of people who could draw or paint, I feel like if I could do that then I would have an outlet for creativity. It isn’t that I don’t have ideas or that I can’t picture things in my head. I have great ideas, but my hands refuse to translate that to paper with a pencil. So as I was sitting on my back porch yesterday, spending time with God, I decided I would give it another shot and try to draw a large rock in my back yard. Complete failure. There were just lines on the paper. It had no depth. No life. You know what I’m talking about. A real artist can begin to create something and at some point in their process whatever they are drawing comes to life. It was at this point that I realized that in order to create something you have to know it. So as I sat there talking to God about how much I wish I could draw He told me that I can’t create something about that which I don’t really know. I was looking at this rock. But I hadn’t looked at it up close, touched it, turned it over in my hands, felt its weight, really examined it. It was just a rock to me.

Which is exactly the opposite of how God looks at us. We aren’t the peak of the evolutionary chain, a mutation of some sorts that has no purpose. We are the masterpiece of the Artist of the Universe, created for a purpose and because He created us, He knows us. Far better than we could ever know ourselves. Which is why after my failed attempt at drawing something, and a complaint about not having any talent. God led me to where I actually have a talent I don’t use often enough. Writing. More specifically writing about what I know, what I love, what I’ve done. So with Spring in full force here in Auburn, and my Spring Break coming up next week, I was drawn to think about what Spring Break during my formative years consisted of. And the one event that made Spring official was fishing at my Grandpa’s pond. So here is a look at what I did when I was kid and all my friends went to the beach.

Spring Break. The time when most people head even further south to the Gulf of Mexico to engage in what they call “relaxation.” Obviously the majority of these people have never had the pleasure of slinging a Lazy Ike on the end of a Zebco 33 at 100 mph into the crystalline depths of George Johnston’s cow pond, or else they would be staying home and going fishing. Because that is how you fish when you are 10 years old. Cloud cover, wind, barometric pressure, water temperature, visibility in the water and all other factors that can help you catch fish go out the window. A 10-year-old’s requirements for choosing a fishing lure are as follows: Is it big? Yes. Is it ugly? Yes. Does it have at least 7 treble hooks? Yes. If you lose it will Dad whip your tail? I sure hope not. Then by all means, tie that thing on there, fling it as far as you can into the middle of the pond, and lets see what happens when you pull it in.

You see fishing at this point in a boy’s life isn’t necessarily about catching fish. It is about conquering things. These things may come in the form of a catfish as long as your pre-teen leg, but more often come in other forms. It is about crossing the cow pasture by your self, which just a few years ago you would never have done without Big Brother there with you. It is about learning to fix a back-lashed open-faced reel that your buddy who doesn’t fish much messed up, because you took that rod and reel without dad knowing and again, you don’t want you tail to get torn up. It is about learning not to panic when 3 of the 11 treble hooks on a Black-Cherry-Purple-Susan-Saturday-Night-Top-Water-Tennessee-Poppin-Special get caught in your right hand, and you are too far from the house to get any one to help. Fishing at this point in your life is about lugging two rod and reels, a five-gallon bucket, and a red Plano tackle box with about one third of K-Mart’s fishing aisle crammed in it down the gravel road, through the fence, across the ditch, and up to the one shady spot at the bass pond. Fishing on the bank of a pond is about learning to open up to your best friend as you both talk about the deep parts of your soul while staring at your bobber floating in the water as the sun goes down and the moon comes up, because no man looks another in the eye when speaking about his feelings if he can help it. It is about experiencing the thrill that comes when you have set a hook on a large mouth, and then learning to deal with the heartache that comes when it explodes from the depths to spit your lure out. Because the only feelings of joy and pain that come close to that will happen a few years later when you have set your hook in that first girl only to have her shake loose no matter how you tweak your drag, give her slack, or try to fight her into submission. You see, you don’t learn about life on the beach, toes in the sand, under an umbrella, with 36,000 other people who left everything behind to run away for a few days and not think about their troubles.

You learn about life as you sit on the bank of the pond with your feet in the water, swatting mosquitoes, getting sunburned, with a tub of rooster livers labeled “NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION” stinking it up next to you and a chunk snagged on the end of Mustad C10289 Ultra Point Big Gun with the pole under your leg, waiting on a big channel cat to take the bait, while you and your buddy talk about why she left, why his momma has cancer, why you can’t seem to figure out where Jesus is leading you, when he is going to finally give her the ring he has had for six months, how he still misses his grandpa after all these years, and how life seems to have just snuck up on you all of a sudden.

So that’s why in a few days I’ll drive a few hours north, rather than south, to keep up my Spring Break tradition and me, Dale, Bent, CK, Bestes, and Trav will go somewhere where the fish don’t bite, the mosquitoes do, and the conversation is more lively than a night crawler on the seat of an aluminum boat in late July. Since it ain’t about catching fish any more, if it ever was, it’s about catching up.

A New Year Already?

I realize that its two weeks since the New Year started… just two weeks? It feels like a month… if life wasn’t sliding by fast enough as it was it is in overdrive now. I’m going to do my best to get a few posts that I have in my head out onto virtual paper as soon as I get my schedule set and make the time. For now though, I’m just going to sling out a few things that are on my mind as the new year begins its sprint towards becoming last year. It’s a new year and:

· I’m still in school

· I still have doubts

· I’m still not perfect

· I’ve had my heart broken again

· I still don’t understand exactly where I’m going

· I’m still struggling with many of the same things I was last year

· I can’t seem to get a hold of some things that seem so easy for other people

· I still can’t seem to grasp God’s purpose for many of the things that have happened/are happening in my life

It’s a new year and:

· God still loves me

· I’m almost done with school

· I know that God has plans for me

· God has healed me in many ways

· God still wants to draw me closer to Him

· My past is washed in the blood of The Lamb

· God holds the pieces of my heart in His hands

· While I don’t know His purpose, I know He has one.

· While I don’t know where I’m going, I know if I keep my eyes on Christ it doesn’t matter where I’m headed

Hunt 'im Shorty!!

Being from the South there are a few things that you grow up doing. One of those is hunting and the other is telling stories. Conveniently enough, these usually go hand in hand. Our family as a whole never has had much, but we've always got a story to tell about something. I even have a story to tell about when I learned how to properly tell a story in the typical Southern fashion. I was around 13 and had killed my first rabbit on my first hunt with beagles. A few days after this happened my grandpa had asked if I killed anything and I told him just one. Then I went on about my business. Later that day Dad asked me what I told Grandpa,

"That I killed a rabbit."

"That's not how you're supposed to tell a huntin' story son. You've got to tell about everything. How long the dogs ran, how cold it was outside, and what happened when the rabbit came out. You have to elaborate."

So if you've heard me tell this story, or any story, in the last 10-11 years this is how I've told it. In true Southern fashion, with plenty of elaboration and more details than necessary. So I here is my first real story that I learned to tell.

I woke up to Daddy shaking my arm. The first thing that I thought was that it was Saturday and I didn't have school. The second thing I thought was that it sure was cold. The third thing that went through my head was that Dad never wakes me up with out a purpose, and early on a Saturday morning 9 times out of 10 his purpose was usually some kind of work. This just happened to be lucky number 10.

"Weasel is outside with his dogs. He wants to know if you boys want to go rabbit hunting this morning. Yes or no?" Dad asked me.

"MmmmmmmmmmmYeaaa." Was my semi-conscious reply.

"Well get up and get some clothes on. Its cold outside, you may want your coveralls."

"MmmmmmmmK."

So I throw back the covers and roll out of bed to brave the cold and begin the first hunt of the day: for my clothes. I find my coveralls. I find two wool socks (extra points because they match). I find my long underwear tops and bottoms, sweat pants, and a long sleeve shirt (like I said, it was cold outside). Then I'm sitting on the edge of my bed trying to get all of this on, in the midst of this process I have to find my socks again because I've set them down somewhere between discovering them and starting to get dressed. Finally, I stomp into my boots and then head to the hall to get my gun. Dad was standing at the gun safe dealing out weapons and ammunition to my big brother, wearing a pair of Carhartt overalls with briar chaps that I swear are the only pair in that style left on this planet and that God awful OD Green helmet liner, that he might or might not have borrowed from the United States Army, with the ear flaps velcroed up over his head. Thomas my brother, I usually called him Tom but would resort to calling him Bubba when I wanted to irritate him, was shooting our Stevens Model 311 12 gauge because he was the older of us and bigger. That and because he shoots left handed or as I like to call it, bass-ackwards. Shooting a side-by-side like the Stevens, he doesn't have to worry about shells hitting him in the face like they would from a semi-automatic or pump shotgun. I on the other hand, shoot like the majority of the population so Dad handed me my pride and joy. Earlier that year on opening day of dove season Dad gave me my great Uncle Tom's Browning A-5 20 gauge semi-automatic shotgun. It was made in Belgium with a gold bead and a gold trigger. I thought it was the best thing that I had ever seen. To this day I still like to take it out of the safe and just look at it. So lets recap. I'm wearing three layers of clothes and a pair of coveralls and boots, I now have a shotgun and have loaded my pockets down with shotguns shells. So at 13 and probably 5'3" with all my combined gear I probably weigh 200lbs. A few years later I will learn that less is more, but right now I'm fired up and ready hunt! So out the door we go to meet up with Weasel and his dogs.

Now I don't know Weasel's real name. Hell for all I know, it could be Weasel. Odd names abound in North Alabama; Talmadge Napoleon, Valter, Gene Howard, Roger Phillip, Dana Hal and those are just in my family. Anyway, all my life Weasel has been running a pack of beagle dogs and one Doberman Pinscher on our property and the TVA public land behind our house, from about the second week of October all the way through February. Now I don't know why he ran that Doberman, but it was always funny to me to see that long-legged hound dog loping around with a bunch of stumpy beagles.

As I stepped out on the porch I was greeted with slate-gray skies and frost on the ground. Perfect rabbit hunting weather. Weasel was in his old blue Ford with the dog box in the back. Dad told us that Weasel would meet us on our neighbors property and we would turn the dogs loose over near the four-wheeler trail, and that we would walk over there to meet them. At this point I'm beginning to get excited, I'm headed on my first rabbit hunt AND this means we get to cross the big ditch in the middle of the pasture on the way to our neighbors field and I'll get to stomp through the frozen ditch. Nothing thrills a young boy more than the idea to be the first one to break some ice on a mud hole in the winter time.

After successfully defeating several pockets of ice along the way. We meet up with the other hunters in our neighbors pasture. Now Weasel had brought his grandson who was around my brother's age and another man named Dan. I've never learned Dan's last name, but I'll never forget this man as long as I live. Now, it was cold outside. Real cold. Like freeze the end of your nose, keep your hands in your pockets at all times cold. So we were all dressed for it. Coveralls, toboggans (Thats a knitted cap, not a sled for you people not from around here), wool socks, gloves, and heavy boots. Dan on the other hand was not dressed like this at all. He was wearing a regular cap, a flannel shirt opened at the neck and showing ample chest hair with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of jeans and a pair of regular work boots. And he had what could quite possibly be the largest chaw of tobacco I have ever seen in my life in his mouth. Any major leaguer worth their salt would have been impressed with the amount of chew that Dan had crammed in his mouth. I don't know how he spoke without it falling out. I can only assume that he had been chewing tobacco from around age 7 and was simply a pro at it. Dan found out that this was my first hunt with dogs and you would've thought that I had just accepted Jesus as my savior he was so excited to be a part of my first hunt.

"Never hunted with dogs before? WHOOO son, we're gonna get some rabbits today! Kick 'em dogs loose Weasel, lets get to huntin' !"

Have you ever rabbit hunted with dogs before? Its quite a chorus. The dogs are barking, the owners are hollering at the dogs, every one is hollering at each other. Its magic. And it all starts with one phrase that has happened every time I've ever hunted with dogs since.

"HUNT 'IM! HUNT 'IM! HUNT 'IM!"

Then its an all out cacophony of yells from dog owners and hunters alike. Each person has their own call to encourage the dogs. Each owner can distinguish each individual dog's bark the way a parent distinguish their children's voices.

"Talk to 'iiim!"

"Hunt for 'iiim"

"YEA YEA YEA YEA, Get in there!"

"Look fer 'iiim!"

"WHOO WHOO WHOO!!"

Its a few minutes of the dogs wandering around hunting for scent and then they are in the brush and they're talking back to their owners. Names for the dogs? Hah, they've all got names. There's Lucy, Killer, Dale, Tracker, Blue, Red, Banjo, Stonewall Jackson, Clement, Hunter, Stumpy, Shorty, #27, Eight-Ball, Long Shot, P.G.T. Beauregard , Samantha Jane, and Bull. Just to name a few. Each one has its own personality and its own job too. Some dogs have a hot nose, meaning that they are usually the ones that pick up scent first. Some of them are jump dogs, they work the edge of the brush and get the rabbits to run out of the woods and into the field. Others are there to keep the pack moving and cast for scent when the trail goes cold and needs to be picked back up. Some of them make a 'Chuff Chuff Chuff" noise as they move nose to the ground looking for scent, others are talking to each other and sniffing around. Everyone else is hollering at them to get in there. And then it happens. One of them hits a trail and its on.

"BAAAAARPPP!! BAAARRRP!!!"

"Hunt 'im Shortaaaaaaayyyy!!! Hunt 'im!"

As soon as they started I saw something that is burned in my mind and I will hold for ever. Dan took off with his shotgun held in one hand by the action (exactly like they show you not to do in the Hunter's Safety Course) and jumped into the brush like there was no place he would rather be. Now this is the place where we used to cut our firewood so it was awfully grown up on the edge, perfect for rabbits to live in. Not perfect to walk in. Dan was in and through this stuff like a fish in water. After he made it about 10 feet in (One Long-Legged Jump it seemed like) he turned around to me and said "Come on son! You ain't gonna shoot any rabbits back there. Stick with me and we'll find you one." Briars pulled at me, my coveralls were too long, and I kept banging my gun against trees. I couldn't have been having a better time.

After stomping through the brush with Dan for a while, Dad decided to put me on the four-wheeler trail. Now, Cotaco Creek runs through the TVA land behind our house and it was well past flood stage on this day, which makes for perfect rabbit hunting because the water pushes them up out of the water. So I'm set up on the four-wheeler trail about half way between the field where we started and the water of the creek. Now I'm 13 so after about 6 minutes of me standing there, I'm starting to get bored. Then I hear some rustling in the pine thicket behind me. Turning my head I see a rabbit has made its way out into the trail... and I'm facing the other way. So using all of the stealth that a 13 year old in too many clothes with boots about a half size too big can muster, I ease around and snick the safety off of my shotgun. The rabbit sees me and jumps around to bolt back into the trees. So I up with my shotgun and because it holds three shots, my 13 year old logic tells me I need to use all three so I cut loose and don't stop until I run empty. Then comes the moment of truth, I go to see if I've made the shot or missed.

Sure enough, I made the shot. The next thing I realize is that this rabbit is HUGE. I've never seen one this big. I pick it up by its back legs and its ears touch the ground. Now I'm not tall by any means, but this thing is monstrous. Dad had heard me shoot and came to check on me so clutching my prize, and grinning like only a true southern boy with his first kill can, we head back to where everyone else is so that I can show off my trophy. I think Ol' Dan was happier than I was about me getting this rabbit. He was flat tickled that I had killed my first rabbit on my first hunt. Dad showed me how to field dress a kill, and then we headed back to the woods to see if any more will jump up.

We didn't see any more that day I think word got out that the Rabbit Slayer was in town and they all found a hole, but I didn't care. I'd been on my first rabbit hunt and it was a highlight of my life.

See you when I see you

-- Ryan

It would've been right around harvest time.

(This is my re-telling of an account that my grandfather J.V. Wade told us last Christmas about his

time in Germany during World War II)

Riding in the back of that deuce and a half was always bumpy and the recent rains had just made the roads that much worse. Ruts and potholes were every where. It was like riding across a field that had just been plowed. I guess thats what happens when you follow behind tanks on dirt roads. Looking out across the wheat fields I could see them beginning to turn to liquid gold in the late afternoon sun. If it hadn't been for the war, it would have been right around harvest time. Men would have been cutting and stacking bundles, sending bundles to the mill to be threshed and ground. Now all that wheat was going to go to waste since all the men were gone off to fight. And here I was, a country boy from Somerville, Alabama. Thousands of miles away from my home and my new wife. Fighting a war because sometimes wars need to be fought and when your country says go, you go. Germany was just a place I had heard of on the radio before a few months ago. Now I was smack dab in the middle of it, going from town to town fighting with Hitler's boys and trying to roust them out of local areas.

As we were headed into the next town that was some name I couldn't understand, much less pronounce, some deer burst from the field nearest the truck and sprinted for the nearby woods. Now rations weren't exactly scarce but anything could help and Cookie being a backwoods boy from Arkansas said if we could knock one down that he would skin it and make a meal out of it. So me and some of the other boys cracked off a few shots to no avail. Now I'm not saying that we missed, but if we hit any of them it wasn't in a vital enough area to put one down for the count.

It was just a few more minutes before we got to the edge of that town, but it felt like 10 miles because we had to go so slow to make it over that terrible road. As we got there Sarge hollered at me to get around the back side of the town so I could watch for any of the enemy that tried to sneak away from us through the hedge row that was around the back of the town. So I high tailed it around through that wheat field and set up to keep an eye out for anything that might come my way.

After a little while of seeing nothing and twiddling my thumbs I got the bright idea that I would clean my M1 so I wouldn't have it to do that night before I went to bed and could get a few extra minutes of sleep. So I took my handkerchief out and spread it on the ground and on my knees broke my rifle down into its individual parts and began to clean it up, thinking only of how good it was going to be to see the look on the faces of my buddies when I got to go to sleep before they did that night.

Now the M1 is not an easy weapon to take apart and put back together. It takes a few minutes to get it apart and you are not going to get it back together in a hurry so when I heard some movement through the wheat I hoped it was the deer that were coming back to graze and not any Germans trying to escape from the town the rest of the company had just started searching.

After a minute or two of trying to convince myself that it was just the wind, I heard voices speaking German and knew I was either in trouble or about to be. Well I chanced a glance up from where I was crouched. My quick look showed me good news and bad news. The good news was that they weren't headed towards me and that if they kept walking the same way they were now they would probably miss me and never even know I was there. The bad news was that not only were they German soldiers, but I could see by their uniforms insignia that they were SS. Hitler's elite special forces. They had warned us about these soldiers and everything we had heard about them made them seem like each one of them was 7 feet tall and indestructible, so the very last thing I wanted to do was tie it on with one of these boys, much less two of them.

Another minute, that felt like an hour, went by and I chanced another look; my luck looked like it had run out, they had changed direction and were headed right for me. Well I started doing some thinking. I couldn't run. If I did, they'd shoot me in the back for sure. I couldn't put my rifle back together in time to use it. Looked like my only option was my bayonet. So I put the bolt of my gun back in and rolled the rest of the pieces up in my handkerchief. I put my bayonet on the end of my gun, put my hand over the bolt so it wouldn't fall out, and got ready to do what I had to do. They had their rifles on their shoulder so I knew I could get one of them and if the other one got me in turn, Sarge knew where I was so they wouldn't leave me over here.

So with nothing else in front of me and these Germans getting closer to stumbling on to me sooner and sooner I jumped up out of that wheat and yelled at the top of my lungs for them to stop. Standing face to face with those SS boys, I realized something. They looked as scared as I did. Both of them stuck their hands up in the air and didn't move. So I motioned with my rifle for them to turn around and start walking back to the town. Following them back into town, I had to holler at them a few times to stop talking and keep their hands up. I don't know if they understood me or not, but they would put their hands back up and hush.

I marched them back into town with their hands in the air and me with a rifle with no bullets. Sarge told me that I had done a good job and to get back out there in case I any more Germans tried to sneak out. So I went back, but the first thing I did was stop and put my rifle back together faster than I had ever done before.

I've got a plan. The good news is: So does God and His is better.

(So I should be studying for a final, but I've got some stuff thats been sitting on my heart and mind for a few weeks and I need to get it out so I can really concentrate. So here it goes.)

( P.S. I'm going to be real, honest and open during this post. So brace yourself.)

Three years ago this past January I moved to Auburn, Alabama to go to school (to be closer to my girlfriend). You see, three years ago I had a plan. It was a great plan. It was the perfect plan. I was going to go to school, finish up in about two and a half years, get a job somewhere close to the Birmingham area, marry my girlfriend and work while she went to med-school. Good plan right? It makes sense, right? It made sense to me and I was ok with it. Life= planned. Problems= solved. I'm coasting for the next few years. Boom.

Problem #1: I was 20 years old. 20. 2.0. You want to know how many 20 year olds on this planet can plan their life and have it turn out the way that they want it to? About 3. And by 3 I really mean 0. There isn't a 20 year old on this rock that we call home that knows exactly how they are going to get to where they want to be. Now, I know plenty of 20 year olds who have spent enough time with to God to know what it is that they want to do or what they are called to. I firmly believe that God will pull you towards something when you spend enough time with Him. But no one, especially a 20 year old, knows what is going to happen between discovering what they are called to do and when they are finally given the opportunity to do that.

Problem #2: I wasn't walking with God like we are called to do. At this time, I was a steady member at First Mattress Springs of Lee Road 952. Most Sundays I slept in. On days that I did grace a church with my presence I went to one of the larger churches in Auburn that we affectionately called Six Flags over Jesus due to its massive parking lot. What appealed to me about this church? Not the worship. Not the welcoming church family that I met. Not the heart wrenching messages that were given. No. What appealed to me about this church was the stair case. You see this place had a stair case on the outside that went straight to the balcony of the sanctuary. I could go up the stairs, nod to the person handing out bulletins, ease into a seat, and then after the message was over be out in the time it took for me to get to the car. Total cost? One and a half smiles and and an occasional "good mornin'." No conversation required. No intimacy with anyone. No accountability. And I could tell mom that I had gone to church when I talked to her during the week. I don't remember a single sermon that I heard there.

Problem #3: (This problem was directly related to Problem #2.) What I wanted was not what God had intended for me to have. If I had been walking with Him like we are called to do. I would have known this. I would have recognized that things were not good. I would have seen that what I had was complacency and comfort. Two things that aren't part of a walk with Christ.

So with all of this going on, God did what He does best. And wrecked my world. I'm talking about an all out demolition of everything that I held on to in my life began to slip away in May of 2008. Steady girlfriend of 2+ years? Gone. Home, where I am most comfortable? Not this summer, you're working in East Texas with 900 other people that you don't know. My closest friends, who can help me through anything? They're back home. So hear I am, adrift in the middle of an ocean with no way for me to get my bearings. What I didn't know was that the ocean I was floating in was Grace, and God had a plan.

I spent that summer at Pine Cove Christian camps and not only was I able to survive. I came out of the other side of this situation closer to God than I had ever been before. Distractions? Gone, I don't have a girlfriend so all I can concentrate on is me. Comfortable? Nope I'm in East Texas so I'm far away from home sleeping on a mattress that is .34” thick and is on the floor. AND I'm spiritually broken. Friends who have always been there? They are still there. In the mean time I've added about 40 new people who are not only walking with God, but aren't close enough friends with me to want to avoid calling me out. So I’m being held accountable like never before. It was amazing and as I look back I see God working in my life, molding me into what I am today.

What I wasn't prepared for was having to face life after I got back from camp. All of a sudden I had distractions. I had to go to class. I had to decide whether I wanted to spend time in the word. I had to deal with living in the same city as my ex-girlfriend and trying to figure out what our relationship was now. Turns out that if you aren't really good friends before you get into a relationship that is too intimate, it’s real hard to be friends after that relationship ends. So by the end of that semester I am ready to move home. I'm done. I've got a hole that I don't know how to fill. I'm hurting and don't know why. I'm trying to fill this hole with anything and everything: pornography, lifting weights, TV, food, etc. I'm looking for anything but Jesus to fill this up. So when December rolls around, I'm in dire straights. Thankfully God is faithful beyond what I can see or know. A few weeks before I'm headed home for Christmas break, I meet up with some guys about a group called BYX, Brothers Under Christ, which I heard about in Texas. Turns out that they just started a chapter at Auburn and are looking for members. God is faithful. I knew what I needed; I just needed a nudge in the right direction. Looking back at how and why I got to Auburn, I see now that I'm about to be in the middle of what God called me to do here. (Turns out God's plan was about more than me being close to a girl)

Flash forward a few years to just couple of weeks ago and through BYX I've made a solid group of friends who all love Jesus and hold me accountable. I've found a church that is amazing and I'm involved in. I'm walking closer to God than I ever have before in my life. I've met a beautiful and amazing girl who loves Jesus more than she loves me and we are in a relationship. Oh! and I have a plan. ( You would think I knew better by now. But I am a human. And a male. So it takes repetition for things to really sink in.) I'm going to do my student teaching in the spring, be home by May, start farming with some friends, hunt a job and in a few years be ready to build my own home and get married... I've really got to stop laying out my life in my head. Can you guess what happens? If you guessed everything works out like Ryan planned, you'd be wrong. In steps God again and messes up my plans. So here is what my thought process looked like a few weeks ago as I sat in my room and wondered why this had happened again.

But I was different this time. I did things right. I prayed about this relationship like I've never prayed about anything. I told her I loved her and I meant it. Not like most boys who just say it so that they can sleep with a girl. I meant it. I was completely focused on her <-- right about here is where God began to speak truth to my soul. It went something like this.

Me: ...I was completely focused on her.

God: wait, What?

Me: I was focused on her.

God: Why?

Me: Because she was everything that I wanted. She was smart and funny and pretty and she likes me for me and she loves you. She comforted me. She completed part of me that has been hurting and I didn't even know it was there. She made me want only her. She made me want to completely cleanse myself from all this sexual crap I've been dealing with since my last relationship. No more thinking about other girls, no more pornography. Just her. I wanted to be clean for her. She is everything that I wanted. Everything that I have prayed for. And you took her away.

God: Alright Wade (He calls me Wade) just stop. I'm going to lay this out for you in bullet points so it will be easier for you to grasp.

1. She was never and never will be "yours" to lose. She is mine, and she always will be. Just like the woman that I will eventually put in your life to be you wife will be mine. I will simply be trusting you to steward and guide her to know ME better on this earth.

2. She was everything that you wanted. Not everything that you needed. You don’t know what you need. I do. And what you need in this part of your life is healing and Me.

3. She didn’t complete you. She won’t complete you. And she can’t complete you. No woman will. Only I can do that.

4. You were focused only on her. You are supposed to be focused only on me.

5. All this sexual crap you are dealing with? I’ve been trying to get your attention about for about three years. I had to get drastic to pull you out of it. You should want to be clean because you are mine. Not because of a girl. No matter how wonderful I have made her. This was just the best way to get your attention.

6. She may be the one. But that is for me to reveal to you when I decide. Until then I’m the one you should focus your affection on. You made her an Idol, and that isn’t ok.

7. I love you for you. Let me be your comfort.

Me: … Oh… I hadn’t thought of it like that.

God: I know. That’s why I’m here.

Me: Thank you.

God: You are welcome. I love you son and I just want what is best for you.

I hadn’t grasped the depth that I had been wounded from my previous relationships. I had no idea that I had been seeking my comfort elsewhere. I didn't know that I struggled with letting God love me, so in turn I struggled with letting some one else love me. That because of this, I felt like I had to do something to make me lovable. That the reason I kept going back to pornography for so long even though I hated it and the reason that I have elevated women in my life to a point of idolatry was because I was seeking God. For so long I had let satan tell me that the reason I was like this was just because I was wired that way. That’s just the way a guy is. That this was what life was about. John Eldredge asked the question in Wild at Heart that rang like a bell in my soul. “… if this (pornography, women, Whatever you are putting in front of and above God) is the water that you are truly thirsty for, then why do you remain thirsty after you’ve had a drink? It’s the wrong well.” It turns out that I am not wired that way. I was before Christ. But now I’m a new creation. I have a new name and a new heart. I have been made for and called to holiness that is an intimate relationship with God the father through His son Jesus, and in that everything that I desire can be fulfilled. I began to realize that God loves me for me and doesn't want me to be anything other than what he has created me to be.

So now that I’ve spent some time walking you through the more depressing parts of my life, here are some good things that have come out of this. First among these is that Ash and I were really good friends before we started dating and we are still really good friends. Next is that I am continually growing closer to God in my walk, and have made a lot of progress over the last few weeks. And last is that I have done exactly what satan doesn’t want any of us to do which is to recognize our wounds for what they are, to open them up and to give them to Jesus to be healed. I don’t know how long it is going to take for this part of me to be healed, but I know that its not my job to heal it and Christ doesn’t expect me to do it on my own. Some other good news is that because I was involved in a Christian organization and in a really good church, I had people to turn to. I wasn’t walking this maze of emotion alone.

I feel like I’ve walked you through a lot, and kind of rambled through most of it in a round about way, but I said I was going to try and be honest with this so you get what you get. Who knew that me moving to Auburn was going to be God’s way of exposing my wounds and showing me that He loves me in a way that I can’t even really begin to grasp yet? 20 year old me, sure didn’t know that, he had it all planned out. And 23 year old me wasn’t expecting it either. It’s a good thing that God’s plans are better than mine.

I know this was a lot and I hope it made sense, so if you have some issues with anything I’ve said, you just want clarification, you just want to talk, or you are in a similar situation and you want me to pray for you, feel free to email me: rmw0008@auburn.edu

See you when I see you,

Ryan

Farther Along

Farther Along we'll know all about it

Farther Along we'll understand why

Cheer-up my brother, live in the sunshine

We'll understand it all by and by

I don't know where I was the first time I heard those words, but I can take two pretty good guesses and probably be right. I was either in a Methodist Church in Somerville, Alabama on Center Springs Road, you know the one. You turn off Highway 67 at THE Caution Light, take all 14 feet of Main Street (Go past The Baptist Church) to THE 4-Way Stop, turn Right onto Center Springs Road and its on your left. Brick Building, sign out front where if you took the time and were careful enough you could scrape the paint off the bottom and get pastor's names all the way back to about 1913 because this sign does its job and why fix something that ain't broke? Inside you have 25 wooden pews (For the younger generation reading this or those of you who have never had the uncomfortable pleasure of sitting through a 14 hour revival meeting, these are benches with a "cushion" in them that come in a wide variety of colors as long as it is red and were comfortable for about .32 seconds of sitting on), choir loft, a pulpit, altar, and that board on the wall with the slide in numbers that tell you what Sunday School Attendance was last week (no one seems to ever notice that the number hasn't been changed since 1979). Now if you change the directions a little (mainly turning right out of my drive way and driving 4 miles instead of turning left out of my drive way and driving 5 miles), make the church building white, and add a sign out front with slide in letters you have the other location at which I could have heard this song for the first time.

I don't remember learning this song either. Being from the Rural North Alabama I sometimes feel like I have the first, second and last verses of 2/3 of the United Methodist Hymnal programmed into my DNA. I just know certain songs. If you were to ask me the title of many of these songs, I probably couldn't tell you. You play the opening bars on a slightly out of tune Sears and Roebuck upright piano and I've got you covered on the low part. Unlike having to guess on where I was the first time that I heard that song, I can tell you exactly who the first person I heard sing it was. She stands about 5'3", blonde hair, a face that is quick to laugh and has a Soprano voice that any self-respecting seraphim would be jealous of. Her name? Mom. I can guarantee you that the first voice I heard sing this song was her, I was probably in her arms when I heard it the first time. Heck I was probably in the womb.

I say all of that to say that it is these hymns that I go back to when I seek comfort. The safety and comfort that they bring to me is something that much of the modern worship songs don't give me. Don't get me wrong I love Crowder, Tomlin, Fee, Agnew, Redman, Hall, Stanfill, Gungor and all of the talented artists that are in the main stream of Christian Music today. I praise when I hear alot of their songs, but they aren't where I go when I need comfort. Basically they are missing one thing. Home. So when all hell breaks loose and everything that I thought I had a handle on seems to disappear, I go home. If not physically, at least in my heart and in my mind I'm back in a church that is too hot in the summer time because all of the older people cover the air vents with hymnals to block the air blowing on them (they know all of the songs anyway), a church that is too hot in the winter time because the only setting that seems to exist on the heater's thermostat is "Shadrach, Meshach, and Abendigo", a church where almost all the men and some of the women step outside between Sunday School and Church to smoke Winston cigarettes and chew Redman out of the green pouch, where a pair of new Liberty overalls and a starched white shirt is acceptable Sunday morning attire, where there is that one old man who has Werther's original hard candy in his pocket for all the kids (His name is J.V. but I get to call him Grandpa), where the kids' only thought in the summer time is getting outside so they can play in the creek, and where I first heard about the love of God and His mercy.

This is where I went in my heart and my mind this past weekend. You see, five days ago I had everything figured out. I had a plan. Then something happened late Friday night (thats a post in and of itself) and suddenly things weren't working out like I had planned. So what did I do? I went home. When I woke up Saturday morning my Pandora went to the "Traditional Country Hymns" station and I opened my bible and journal and I let God take me home for a little while. Because while those hymns take me home, God's Word is what brings me Home. His voice and His promises are what will heal me. The music just reminds me of a simpler time and place and gets my heart ready to hear His voice.

Looking back now, I see God's hand at work in what happened. I have peace about it. I have assurance that this is part of His plan and that everything is going to work out. I don't like it, yet. I'm not particularly happy, yet. I'm still hurting from what happened, but this pain is nothing compared to what it could have been if God hadn't intervened. It is nothing compared to what Christ experienced on our behalf. It will subside. In the mean time, I'm going to walk a little closer to Jesus and lean on His everlasting arms until I understand it all by and by.

See you when I see you,

RW