What's in Your Hand?

                   What if they do not believe me or listen to me and say, 'The Lord did not appear to you'?" Then the Lord said to him, "What is that in your hand?"   God and Moses, Exodus 4:1-2

It has been as unrelenting as a Plains wind in April. Every week, every day, every hour of every day the bad news pounds our senses. We seek solace and find it not in ordinary places. We need what the old spiritists called "thin places" where the eternal was somehow closer to the temporal and those ancient truths were more readily discovered and felt. Quite often it was on a wild mountain or deep forest or blue ocean a thin place was thought to exist.  But even if you discover the "thin places" there is the call back to daily living and the thick places of war, ISIS, Ebola, poverty, drugs, immorality, and Godlessness weigh us down again.

I want to help. I  really do. I don't know how. I really don't. I pray daily, often through the day and many times during the day for the victims, the abused, the forgotten, the diseased, and the discarded. I pray for those close to me whose names form easily on my lips and are spoken in love to God's heart. I pray for those with no names known to me, whose faces are unfamiliar to me, whose faith or lack of it are different from mine. They are uneasy prayers in that I don't know how God will respond or answer. But I don't know what else to do.

I want to help, to fix this thing. But I have no diplomatic skills, no political clout, not even an army to prevent a war or a madman or a mad religion. Those who supposedly possess these things and are wise in their use have had no success either. The death toll rises, as do the refugee camps. Broken homes, broken families, broken nations, and broken lives mount up.  I would like to help end and prevent war, but I don't know how.

I have no medical, scientific or research skills to end disease and its death. Ebola is the latest scare as it has come to the west and is not respectful of relative wealth, status, influence, facilities, or anything thought protected us. Passports, TSA screening, medical bulletins and tv reports haven't stopped it. In the wrong circumstances it will attack like cancers, Alzheimer's, ALS, the flu, heart failure and a hundred other diseases.  Today we are so much better off than ever before and yet Ebola reminds we have so far to go. I don't know how to stop disease and its pain and its deaths. I want to help. I pray. I give blood. I hope. I just don't know what else to do.

I want to help but I have no legal skills or political office. People are hurting, abused, forgotten, needy, often by no fault of their own. They have physical issues, mental issues, domestic violence issues. They need help. They need justice. They need a fair chance. Some new laws might help. Some lawmakers seeking justice instead of re-election or money for special interests might go along way. There are people that get into the courts and legislatures and battle for justice, on the personal level and institutional (governmental, medical, financial-economic, legal, educational, etc)  level. There are not enough of them. I do not think I am one of them. I pray. I vote, but I still want bananas for 40 cents a pound and I like my shirts cheaper because they are made by cheap labor in Singapore. I don't help like I could.

So I ask myself, 'how do I live in this world where so much needs to be done and I seem so ill-equipped, powerless, too far removed to affect much'? Then I recalled a fugitive shepherd on the far side of the desert, far removed from the capitals and leading cities of his day. His name was Moses. He was called by God to a task he felt ill equipped to handle. Too much baggage, too poorly spoken, too far removed, too many bad memories, too entrenched in today's living...go away God, I can't do it. Even if I did, who would believe me of all people?
Then God asked Moses, "what's in your hand?"  It's the same question He asks all of us, what has he placed in our hands? Answer it. It is an extremely important question, maybe only one other is more important.

'What is in my hand?'  is the same question God asked Moses long ago.  I must answer it myself. What is in my hands? God has placed in my hands a pulpit. It is a place to stand, to proclaim, to question, to correct, to encourage, to bless and share the greatness of God, the salvation of Christ, and the hope of eternity. There may be those present with other things placed in their hands, things that heal, that administer justice, and make peace. Maybe the pulpit is a burning bush with questions about Presence, thin places, and gifts placed in hands needing to be placed in service. I have a pulpit.

I have a pen. I can write, not as well as most, not as prolific as some but maybe my pen strokes the imagination of one who helps one who helps another who brings peace, hope and health to one forgotten or discarded. There may never be a lasting word from my pen but possibly its scribbles drew a line to Christ for someone and their own personal question of what is in their hand was read. I have a pen.

I have a prayer. It is heard. It is considered. It is answered. It is the least I can do. NO! It is the most I can do. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world.  On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds, arguments, and every pretension raised up against the knowledge of God.... II Cor. 10: 5    Prayer is divine power. I don't see it in my hands because I keep reaching for other weapons. But I have divine power to be used! Whatever that implies, I have a  prayer.

I want to help. I really do. I have a pulpit. I have a pen. I have a prayer. It is what God has placed in my hands. The question, 'what is in your hand?' is important to Kingdom living in a hurting, warring, diseased, and broken world. There is, however, one more important. What's in your heart? The hands will go no farther than the heart directs.

What's in your hands?
Cos

Harvest Time

       Jesus said, "Behold, I say to you, lift up your eyes and look on the fields, that they are white for harvest."  John 4:35  NAS

It is cotton harvest time in north central Texas. It is still probably early for west Texas cotton, although the harvest time varies from year to year. The cotton harvest can occur from September to December depending on the region, climate, rainfall, and heat of the summer. For most people these days, the cotton harvest is not noticed. Oh, they know they have underwear, a shirt and jeans and these came from cotton but the process is not noted by folks unless they live in rural areas and see it. Or unless you lived it as a kid.

I lived it. My dad and mom were cotton farmers as were their parents and their parents. Cotton was king in Texas for a time and my people served the king for generations.

Christmas was not the most important time of the year on the farm, neither was New Year's, back to school or any sale or season. Life was about the harvest. Yes, life had its other important parts, but none like the harvest. The ground was prepared in the winter, seeded in the spring. The new plants were "chopped" for weeds and sprayed for insects in the summer. It was hard work but so much of farming success was out of your hands. This country in the blackland prairie is dry-land cotton, no irrigation but by rainfall. So rain, heat, flood, drought and bug infestations could not be predicted very well and only the insects could be mitigated somewhat with costly chemicals. Some say farming is a big gamble, truth is it was more of an investment that paid off some years, and not so much in others. Everything done was done in anticipation of the harvest. Every year it was pretty much make or break. And although it was never stated, you just knew that harvest time was what everything done from January on was all about. It was only as important as eating, electricity, clothes, gasoline and hope that you could do it again next year.

Activity and anticipation would pick up as the cotton bolls opened and revealed the fluffy white fiber. All the hoeing, spraying, cultivating was done. My dad busied himself preparing the tractors, cotton stripper, and other equipment for the two or three weeks of hard labor it was about to endure. Weather forecasts were monitored early morning, noon, at six and ten PM watching for unwanted rain and moisture even from gulf hurricanes. (Not that you could do anything about it, but if the forecast was clear that was one less stressor.) Trailers were readied to transport the cotton to the gin. The markets were watched with worried eyes if you had contracted the crop early hoping you made a good deal. They were watched even more carefully if you weren't under contract in hopes the current price was right. It was harvest time, that said much on many levels.

On the way home from visiting my parents recently, I saw the "fields white unto the harvest" and stopped to snap a couple of pics. The harvesting process is different now, different equipment, but the same cotton. One big difference I noticed was the smell. In mom and dad's day, at least until the last ten years or so, the cotton around their area was "stripped" off the plant and the bolls and fibers were separated in the ginning. In order to make the stripper (harvester) work efficiently , the large, green leaves of the plant had to be killed with a defoliant. The defoliant had a very pungent smell. It was an acrid, acid-ey smell. Imagine farm after farm, dozens of farms all defoliating cotton and the smell that arose. It hung in the air for what seemed like a week or two. With farmhouses located next to or in the middle of cotton fields there was no escaping the smell of defoliant. (think Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now) But you knew for certain the harvest was soon, very soon.  The leaves of the cotton would die and crumble, the cotton bolls exposed and ready to harvest. The plant would die but the economy would live as would the Cosby's for another season.

The pace of harvesting was grueling for my parents and other farm families during harvest. Rising early to tend the equipment, greasing, gasing, adjusting and positioning trailers. Early runs to the gin to fetch the now empty trailers from last evening's haul to the gin. Then, about mid-morning when the dew was gone, it began. The old John Deere tractor with it's two-row stripper lumbered into the field pulling a two bale trailer. It had the feel of a conquering Roman general marching through the battlefield. The cotton was gathered in by the paddles and rollers, carried up a chute and blown into the trailer behind and "stacked" by a hired hand with a pitchfork. Hour after hour, through the day with a thirty or forty-five minute break for lunch and refueling the harvesting progressed. At the end of the day it was impossible to tell the black laborer in the trailer from my  father on the tractor such was the dust, dirt, and grime of the harvest. All were exhausted, shaken, sore, stiff,  and wheezing with lungs choked from the harvest. And all would do it again in a few more hours.

Then it was over. Ten days, two weeks, depending on how good the crop was and how big the farm, it was finished. The bales ginned. The seeds extracted. The dirt settled. The air clear again. The harvest was over. The farmer could breathe. The farmer could pay his bills. The wife could shop a little. The farmer could rest--for a day or two anyway.

I know that many in the Kingdom of God are tired. There is much work done and more to be done for Christ. It is exhausting. It can be frightening. There is much sin, meanness, hatred, fear, and death being faced in our world right now.  Keep up the good fight.  Can you sense the anticipation, the harvest is coming. The Eternal Farmer knows when the time is right. The harvest is plentiful. Join Him in the harvest. So many are unaware that the harvest is coming. Pray for more workers in the fields.  Yes, you will be shaken, sore, stiff, breathless, and oh, so tired. But the harvest is worth it.  It means life.  Soon, as the Farmer measures time, the harvest will be over, then comes the rest, then comes the rest, but now the harvest. 

Cos

Stumbling Toward Righteousness

                                                  Stumbling Toward Righteousness


I have driven myself crazy trying to find it. Yes, that's a short trip for me. But I can't find who wrote or spoke the quote I want to use. I am tempted to take credit for it but it seems too profound for me to have come up with it. I have carried it in my mind for a long time. I read or heard it somewhere--college, seminary, a lecture, a sermon, a bad dream--I just don't know for sure.

I've looked in my books--too many to go through. I've read through a few old sermons--too dusty to sift through. So I tried Dr. Google, she's like a first wife, she knows everything. I type the quote in and even Dr. Google is stumped. I thought for years that G.K. Chesterton from the early 20th century said it. I went through a few books of his I've read---no luck. Oh, I guess by now you are wondering what quote I have carried all these years but can't find its author. Okay, here goes:

    "When my days are completed and come to an end, may it be said by those who look back on my life, that he stumbled in the general direction righteousness."

Well, I can tell by that look on your face that your are disappointed. I never said it was a great quote or even a good one, just a profound one. I like it. For me it fits like an old pair of jeans or that soft, thin shirt at the back of the closet. Your wife won't let you wear it in public anymore but it feels good around the house or yard where the dogs don't care what it looks like.

Why do I like it so well? I guess because I know how to stumble. When I was young I thought I could fly. I could soar above the church battles and other war zones, drop truth in sermons and lessons on folks to help their lives and make the world a better place. But, the truth is, I couldn't fly.

With a little aging and maturing I thought I could run. I would run through this world and all its troubles, stopping long enough to give the answers it needed on how to get to heaven and get better. But I couldn't run, at least not far.

As the aging and maturation process continued I thought I could walk. I did a little. I was better at walking. It was slower but surer. But at the walking pace what I was sure to see were the faces, the eyes of the world. The world both shrinks and expands when you walk. It expands as you can take more in to your senses and your heart at the slower pace. It shrinks, too, for at the slower pace you see more intently the eyes of hunger, the pain of divorce, the brokenness of poverty, the hell of war, and the hopelessness of lives without Christ. You remember all the teachings and the sermons and the visits you made telling "how to" do something, fix something, know something, feel something, change something but you flew too high and the truths blew off in the wind and never landed. Or you ran too fast and the help you offered was just a blur. Now you walk for a while and you see, feel and know the issues, the problems, the pains are just too deep for a mere man to handle no matter how high he flies, how fast he runs, or how steady he walks.

But I know how to stumble. I have stumbled as a kid, as a student, as an athlete, as a husband, father, friend, pastor, and a human. There is no area where honesty's light touches that I haven't stumbled. And yet...

When you stumble, you're not too high to see or be seen, too fast to catch, or too concerned with much anything else but the next step. You just stumble, trip, weave, go in the direction of the greatest pull. When your body stumbles, gravity pulls you where your weight is centered, most often down. When you soul stumbles and you belong to Jesus, His righteousness pulls you toward Him. You can stumble and unseen hands reach out to steady you and keep you upright as you move ever bumbling toward Him.  Truly, there are times he lets us fly, bids us run, keeps us walking. I always thought the progression of Isaiah 40:31 was interesting. but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk, and not faint."  You would have expected the opposite progression would be true, first we walk, then we run, then we soar. But I know now that is not the order. And this too I know, I still have some stumbling left to do. But God is faithful to me and my fellow stumblers. "If the Lord delights in a man's way, he makes his steps firm; though he stumble, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand. "  Psalm 37:24

One day I will stumble no more. On that day, when stumbling ends, I will fall, and by God's grace it will be at the feet of Jesus to worship. In the meantime, by that same grace, may I stumble in the direction of His righteousness.

Cos

A Bridge Too Far

Getting to our church has become a bit more complicated since one of the main bridges into the housing development has eroded and is closed. A  roundabout detour has been opened and folks will just have to deal with it until it is fixed. Since the church I pastor is an interdenominational church, which I highly recommend, the bridge outage and repair has highlighted some opposing ways to handle the situation based on the different faith backgrounds we have in the chapel. I am having to remind all the folks that all mindsets are to be respected and all methods offered are to be given courtesy even if they are off the wall.

Here are some of the ideas and suggestions put forth to handle the bridge situation:

The Episcopalians have called their congressman and are organizing a fund raiser for bridge relief.
The Lutherans have called several of their engineer friends to draw up a new, reformed bridge design that will last longer than the old bridge.
The Methodists have organized relief efforts for those stranded on the island and to promote unity among those otherwise impacted by the fall of bridge.
The Baptists are calling for a series of evangelistic meetings down by the bridge around the theme, "Jesus is Our Bridge Over Troubled Waters."
Our Charismatic friends are asking me to lead a healing service and lay hands on the bridge.
The Presbyterians said the bridge was predestined to collapse and our calling is now to live faithfully.
The Bible Church folks are having a detailed, brick by brick study of the history of bridge decay and are investigating to see if this is a sign of the apocalypse.
The Catholic faithful assess no blame, have offered forgiveness to the bridge, and will hold a bridge blessing service when the new one is installed.

The pastor at the chapel highly endorses each effort (the secret to pastoring 8 different denominations).

Cos

Rock of Ages

                                                   Rock of Ages


Ok, so I shot myself with a cannon ball. It is true. No, Iwas not hurt seriously. Due to my superior reflexes and athletic ability I was able to minimize the damage. It would take more than a mere cannon ball to get the Cos.

Still, how did a 16 lb. cannon ball end up attacking me? It was simple, I was gardening. What, you don't garden with a 16 lb. shot put? Why not? It only makes sense. I live on a rock. There is a song in most hymnals about where I live: The Solid Rock. Except for the big tree in front of the house there was no vegetation on the lot on which we built. Plants, at least pretty ones, don't like to grow on rock. Some soil was brought in for a yard but about six inches down you hit rock. So every plant, shrub, flower, and tree I have planted has to have rock displaced to put it in the ground. Most of the vegetation we planted goes to the front yard. There is not much else to do in the front except offer yearly $50-$60  sacrifices to the gardening gods with annuals that last a month and perennials that last two months. The back yard is pretty bare.

So the wife decides we need something more back there, some color, some texture, some interest, something else for the dogs to pee on and something to die a slow agonizing death on the rock. We found a crepe myrtle that matched the type in the front yard. We picked a place along the back fence. I begin to dig.
The hole will be about 18 inches around. It will need to be about 18 inches deep for this crepe myrtle. The 18 inches around are a cinch, easy. I'm not even sweating. The first four inches down are just as easy and then it happens. I hit rock. A friend calls it "chunk" rock. It comes out in chunks. I've come prepared. Hammer, nail pry bar, and shovel. The shovel is finished at six inches. I hit a large solid rock at 8. I hammer, pry, dig, curse, dig, pry, cry--nothing. Time for the shot. I find my 16 lb. shot from college that I have carried with every move we've made through the years. Only my wife has moved as much and been more faithful.

The plan is to propel the shot with great force into the hole, strike the rock a mighty blow, crack the rock,  use the hammer to fragment the rock, and pull the dislodged pieces of the rock out of the hole. With the first heave into the rock I have some success but find I have two large rocks in there, not one. I go to work with shot, hammer, bar, fingers and after 45 minutes have the right side of the hole cleared of the big rock to a depth of 12 inches. Now the left side rock or the rock that's left, if you will. It is bigger, deeper. I lift the shot high over head and bring it down with such force that as I propel it into the hole my feet are lifted off the ground. Thud! Nothing. No cracks, chunks, no movement. Different angle. Thud! Same results. Move around the hole. Rare back. Dead aim on the center of the rock and swhoosh.....THUD! The shot bounces off the dead center of the rock and comes out of the hole faster than it went in. I know from physics that this is impossible but you don't know this rock. It flies out zeroing in on my knee which I am able with my cat-like reflexes to turn just slightly so the projectile glances off the outside of my knee.

Lamentations. I am defeated. Wife administers Gatorade, cold towels and Aleve. I channel Douglas MacArthur or Gregory Peck,"I shall return."

Retiring the shot, I employ new hardware next evening.  A long "rock" bar with a wedge end is used with  some success. After an hour of pounding, hammering, prying, crying and cursing, the large rock is out. The hole for the crepe myrtle is now sixteen inches deep and eighteen inches wide. It is lined with garden soil mixed with what dirt I could dust off the extracted rocks. The myrtle is planted. It will live this year but it has no promise of a long, tall future. It's future may not blossom but if plants have a soul, then it will know of the supreme effort made to give it life.

Sitting exhausted in the grass, I figure about four-man hours of labor was put into one small hole in order for me to kill an $18 plant. Then it dawns on me...how many hours, nay eons, did Jesus invest to break through the hardness of human hearts to  plant the seed of the gospel? The Rock of Ages busting through the rock of hardened hearts. It brings life, promised, guaranteed, and delivered. I see the crepe myrtle and am pleased. How much more the Lord when He sees His truth growing well in hearts of faith.  Our hope is built on nothing less.

Rock Gardening,
Cos

Though

PastorCos has had it pretty quiet as of late. Unless, you count the church members with cancer, the traffic accidents, a friend's son going to Afghanistan, the church having its first Sunday contemporary service (and no one got hurt!), running out of communion cups during the Lord's Supper, shooting myself  in the knee with a cannon ball, discovering my summer visitation list went from 25 to 65, people continually asking questions about mass shootings, war, radical Islam, politics and a harder group to pastor being the ones who don't question such things, all in all a pretty easy stretch (tongue in cheek). Then disturbing news came from around the corner, literally.

The bridge close around the corner from our chapel, the one that connects the back half of our community to the front half and the rest of the world, is collapsing. A temporary fix keeps us out of the creek and going to the grocery store but what happens next? Questions fly. When will it be fixed? How long will it take? How do we get out when its being repaired? Will they pave the county gravel road we will have to use while the bridge is being repaired (no!) Who will pay for it? Will our maintenance fees go up? How will I get to the new course for my 8:40 tee time?

Meanwhile, a fissure developed along one of the cliffs in our development overlooking beautiful Lake Whitney and the cliff is falling into the lake. Oh, yeah, its taking a house with it. Its all over the news and the house is over the cliff. I feel sorry for the homeowners, they hadn't owned the home too long.  Somebody's probably going to get sued and I have no idea how all that will turn out since the only one who actually knew how everything would end up was God.

Oh, maybe that's a good point, the only One who really knows is God. Now I don't know if He answers questions about when your house will fall into the lake but maybe He gives geologists, engineers, and builders science and skills to predict such things. Maybe He doesn't tell us everytime we are going to have a wreck or get cancer but surely He knows how to help us navigate through such things. Maybe in the inconveniences of life when man-made things break or erode, He reminds us of how spoiled we are and how to look not to temporal things nor to store up treasures on earth where moth and rust (and fissures) destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy and where thieves do not break in and steal. (Matt 6:19-20)

As I looked back over all the troubles going on all over the place, both near and far, I remembered a Psalm. It is one of those Psalms that sadly are too often relegated to funerals. It fits there but it fits even more when applied to living. It is Psalm 46. Listen to verse 2: "Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way and the mountains fall into the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging."

Bridges give way, cliffs give way, health gives way and one day life in this body will itself give way and we are told not to fear. Why? How can we not fear when so much falls in or apart?  Because "there is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy place where the most High dwells. God is within her, she will not fall."  The best, safest, most secure place will not ultimately be on this earth. The earth will melt (Ps. 46:6; II Peter 3:10-13.) The best place where you cannot be touched in a harmful way for all eternity is in God's city, in God's house, in God's heart.

When the bad times hit, when they come, begin your next sentence with Though and end it with I am in Jesus' heart. Anything that comes in between those points you will survive.

Cos

Carry the Load

                                                        Carry the Load


When he read the story of Clint Bruce and how Carry the Load was started, he knew what he had to do. His experience was similar. As a combat vet with three rotations in Afghanistan he had seen the same thing Bruce had seen. Memorial Day had become just another party time, a day off, a beginning of summer. For Jake it was  more. He had buddies killed in those far off places. He found it hard to party on Memorial Day so he decided to walk instead. He couldn't go to Washington and walk to Dallas, but he could meet them there. So he joined the organization, got some pledges, got a  Carry the Load tee shirt for the remembrance in Dallas, laced up his boots, filled up a pack and started down FM 422 from Seymour toward Archer City. He was carrying Danny Horsch. Jake called him 'Shoe" as in "Horsch-Shoe."

Jake took two days of vacation plus the weekend to make the 165 mile trip. He planned to actually walk about half of it and ride with friends the other half.  He had been getting ready for it with long hikes after work and weekends. He didn't have to go by himself, he wanted to. He could have gone down Hwy 114 but instead he wanted the solitude of the old  farm to market road. Day 1 would be the hardest and the easiest both. Hard because he planned to go the whole distance, 38 miles to Archer City, in one day. Easier because he could start early, was fresh and he had a good friend he would spend the night with in Archer. Jake figured a little between ten and eleven hours of walking would get him there. Walk ten miles, rest half an hour and eat. Walk ten miles, rest one hour and eat. Walk ten miles, rest and eat. Then eight miles to finish at Rusty's house around 8:30 if all went well.

About 15 miles out of Archer City Jake needed another break. All had gone well. The thinking, the remembering, the outburst of laughter at something goofy Horseshoe did or said, the miles of not thinking and not remembering. It was good. A few people on that road had stopped, offering rides and hearing a quick version of what he was doing, support, then drove on. It was good but now it was pretty hot. Jake had made good time and figured he could work in a short break in some shade if he could find any. Right about the Parkey Lake turnoff Jake saw a convenience\ bait store. He didn't remember seeing it there before. But it being there was a sight for sore feet.  A cold Dr Pepper, some cold water and a shady side of the building were just what he needed. Perfect.

Jake went in and tried to purchase the drinks. The clerk heard what he was doing and wouldn't let him pay for them. "Take 'em and whatever else you need, son."  These west Texas folks, can't beat 'em. Jake slumped down in the shade of the building and put his pack under his head. He must have dozed off for just a few minutes. When he looked up, he had company. A few feet down the side of the building was a long, lean stranger resting in the shade.  He looked kind of hard, tough even. "Who are you carrying?'' he asked. His voice had an aire of knowing, of sensing, maybe he was carrying someone too. "Danny Horsch. We called him 'Shoe.'"
 "Your squad?"
 "Yeah, but he was killed a couple of months after I left. IED got him. I told myself  not to get close to the new guys since I knew I was leaving soon. With Horseshoe I couldn't help it. He was goofy, funny, sad, pitiful, dumb, and occasionally brilliant.  One minute you wanted to strangle him, the next he had you laughing 'till your stomach ached. He had a sad background. Busted up family...learning disabilities, not too good with school stuff,  surprised he got in the Army... but the Army was about all he had. So I'm walking for Shoe. Can't help but miss the little bug.  You carrying?"
"Yeah Jake, I've got quite a few names I'm carrying. Been at it quite a while. In fact, I'd better get going. Thanks for the shade. Don't worry, Danny's okay. He had a long talk with the chaplain about a week before the blast.  Thanks for your service and care. It won't be forgotten. With your permission, I'll add you to my list."

He held out his hand to shake and then the stranger got up and moved to the front of the building. Jake was too stunned to talk.  "That was odd. Did I tell him my name? How'd he know about Horse-shoe and the chaplain? " Jake picked up his pack and loaded it on his back. He moved around to the front to ask the stranger his name and how he knew these things. He was gone. As Jake moved out to the road to push on to Archer City, he glanced back. Looking back west he thought he saw the stranger moving on down the road carrying....what? what is that? A cross? Jake blinked and saw nothing. "I guess the sun got to me."

Or maybe the Son did.

Cos
Memorial Day Weekend 2014