"A mansion, Just over the hilltop”

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

“Don't think me poor or deserted or lonely
I'm not discouraged I'm heaven bound
I'm just a pilgrim in search of the city
I want a mansion, a harp and a crown

I've got a mansion just over the hilltop
In that bright land where we'll never grow old
And some day yonder we'll never more wander
But walk on streets that are purest gold” 

“A lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.”

The trail crossed a low, fern-covered, boggy area, and then the dense foliage opened up at the creeks edge.  Along the creek to the east was a long, narrow gravel bar, filled to capacity with about seventy-five shivering pilgrims, beaming ear to ear, with hymnals in hand. At our approach the preacher and two deacons slipped off their shoes, stepped ever so gingerly across the gravel bar, and then clothes and all, they waded cautiously into that icy brook till they were about waist deep.  The preacher took a deep but tentative breath and read an appropriate scripture until his lips turned blue and his teeth began to chatter, and then he handed the Good Book to one of the deacons and motioned for Mariah and me.   Mariah sucked in a big breath of cold morning air, took a tight, trembling grip on my hand, and the cold and nervousness sent us each into a shudder and a synchronized pee chill.  I forced a smile and we waded slowly out. 

By the time we’d waded out to the preacher, the water was chest deep on me and almost up to Mariah’s quivering chin.  I stood beside the deacons as the preacher took Mariah’s hand and quoted several lines of scripture. I could hear Mariah’s teeth chattering, and her eyes were wide as fruit jar lids!  It took every bit of her determination, and she never took her eyes off mine, but she repeated that scripture line for line, held a hanky against her face, and the preacher plunged her head and all, into that swirling torrent!

Mariah was still fighting desperately to catch her breath and part her drenched hair from her eyes when the preacher turned to me.  By now we were all near the point of hypothermia, and the preacher abbreviated the process considerably.  He was still a tad long winded for my taste, but he was a preacher after all, and you had to admire his sagacity.  My teeth were chattering till I couldn’t hear a thing he said, but when it came to my part, he nodded, I nodded, and he plunged me backwards into that arctic bath.

I hadn’t had very high expectations for this experience.  I’m not really certain what I expected.  There were neither doves nor angels, but somehow a load was lifted, and something deep inside was changed for good.  It wasn’t that my path seemed clear, but I knew which steps felt right and which steps didn’t, and I was brimming with the boundless exuberance, which comes of a youthful faith.  Mr. Mac Gregor played his bagpipes as we headed for the shore; the sun came out and the whole crowd joined in song. We didn’t loiter long on the banks; everyone was frozen half to death!   I can’t really explain it, but as we trudged up that hill, hugging, slipping and shivering, with those Baptists praising God, I experienced a peace down deep in my heart that would temper the rest of my life.  Obie's Quest        

Favorite Season

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

Vibrant foliage,

Brilliant hues,

Sullen skies

Of china blues,

Favorite season,

Quickly past,

All too short,

And fading fast;

Here but brief,

But long recalled,

Leaves us reinforced,

Enthralled,

Celebrating what has been,

And braced against the winter wind.

11-07-11

STC

Ozark Autumn

Ozark Autumn, 2011

October passes quietly in a flourish of pastels.

Its brightest days are as special as they are brief.

Its touch is deep and long-lasting,

And its passing leaves us, as it does all of nature,

Grey, exposed and vulnerable.

When November comes the trees have dropped their leaves;

The sun is sluggish with the cold, and rides atop a sullen mist,

Just above the oak tops, to the south.

The breezes, like rowdy children, toss the leaves in each other’s faces.

The rustling and the rattling is their laughter,

And the memory of their laughter is our joy. 

STC

Leaves on; leaves off...

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

Leaves on, leaves off; leaves on, leaves off;

Seasons come and go, 

Decades indifferent to fences; 

Centuries, impervious and slow. 

STC  

Indian Summer Folds It's Tent

I hope no one is offended by the Indian reference. My family is fortunate to share some Native American ancestry, and we're proud to celebrate it. In regard to Indian summer folding it's tent, fact is, the leaves are falling and we're getting a glimpse of winter's toothy grin, or snarling grimace, as the case may be.

Reminiscences

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

When our hopes and dreams grow faded,

And we miss the friends who cared;

When old times are consecrated

By the golden hours we’ve shared,

When the streets we tread so long ago

Come back to haunt our dreams,

And we treasure those we used to know,     

And conjure up old schemes;  

When old associates fill our heart, 

And refresh our weary mind,

And we feel as one, those miles apart,

And old woes now seem sublime,

When our flesh, at best, contains us

And we’re far from hearth and friend,

May fond memories then sustain us,

Till we meet, at last, again.

STC

For my Facebook friends.