Week of January 31
It is June and time for our annual family reunion camping along the banks of the Raven Fork River. Only this one will change the course of my life.
On the drive from Florida to Cherokee, North Carolina my wife and I talk about the offer made by the pastor of our community church in Sarasota. He wants me to serve as Interim Children’s Director on a six-month trial basis. I have served the children’s ministry as a volunteer for several years while my paying position is managing a restaurant for a national chain. My heart is with the children but my head and my wife are saying it would be financially irresponsible to take an interim position for six months while a committee searches for a director. Besides, I would have to take a pay cut and with a wife and two children to support that would be financial stupidity.
We arrive at the campsite in a steady drizzle. Most of the families are gathered under a large tent fly. After lunch I decide to go fishing and thinking. The Raven has eight-foot banks opposite the campground and is relatively shallow ranging in dept from calf deep to waist deep. I put on waders and rain gear and proceed into the calm water. Most of the adults
are playing cards under the tent fly while Pete, my brother-in-law, watches me fish from the bank.
I was so engrossed in fishing that I didn’t notice what was happening around me. I should have known if it is raining here it is pouring up river in the mountains. Within minutes the river rises from waist deep to chest deep and the water turns brown. Finally I realize what is happening and I turn toward the near bank. This is a big mistake. The river is deeper on this side and my waders quickly fill with water and drag me under like a sinker. My waders hold me down while the rushing river pushes me downstream. I am struggling to regain my footing and get to the surface. Suddenly I hit a rock with such force that it pops me upright like a bobber. I stand there, breathing heavily and deliberately leaning forward with the water pushing against my chest. I am unable to move. This is serious.
My brother-in-law is frantically yelling for the other men who soon appear on the bank above me. They lower an inflated tube with a rope tied to it but it doesn’t reach. me.
Next they throw the inner tube but it blows past me and is punctured downstream when it hits a sharp rock or pointed stump. Someone finds another piece of rope and ties it to the first rope. The men lower a
now deflated tube tied on the longer rope. After a couple of attempts this one reaches me and I wrap the rope around my hand. When the men pull on the rope I am immediately projected prone in the water and with the river pushing me and with my extra weight my rescuers are nearly pulled in on top of me. It takes all the strength of those ten men and older boys to hold me against the current. Gradually they ease me to the bank, which is terraced with rocks held in place by a wire mesh. I am able to grab a tree growing out of the bank and I hold on while some men crawl gingerly down the bank and help me out of the river.
Later standing on top of the embankment several of us watched logs, branches and other debris being propelled down river by the rushing water. A large log shot right over where I had been standing helpless against the river. That could have been fatal. I learned first hand the power of water and how fast things can change. I see now
how people can be caught in a flash flood.
Pete interrupts my musings.
“Chris you have to see this,” he says holding the rope in his hands, “this is how close we came to losing you.” What had been my lifeline is frayed so badly that the rope in one spot is down to a single strand that my brother-in-law proceeded to snap with his fingers.
On reflection I think God was testing me that afternoon. I could easily have drowned if I hadn’t hit that rock, which stood me up providing time for others to help me in my distress. As I thought about my life ending in that river I asked myself, did I want to be just a restaurant manager or did I want to be a teacher of God’s children? I decided to take the position of Interim Director of Children’s Ministry.
Chris Cahill
Bradenton, Florida.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
A Glass of Wine
Week of January 23
A pastor was telling me that he and his wife were dinning out with her best friend and her atheist husband who was also a cynic.
The waiter came to their table and asked for their drink order. The skeptic orders a class of the house wine. When the waiter leaves the man says, “Reverend too bad Jesus isn’t here, he could turn my cheap glass of wine into the best vino.”The pastor says to himself, I’m not going there. He ignores the comment and the ladies engage in a conversation.
The waiter returns with the beverages and says to the man,“ I’m sorry sir but we are out of our house wine. My manager apologizes and said to give you a glass of our best wine with his compliments.”
“Answer a fool as his folly deserves, that he isn’t wise in his own eyes.” Proverbs 26:5
A pastor was telling me that he and his wife were dinning out with her best friend and her atheist husband who was also a cynic.
The waiter came to their table and asked for their drink order. The skeptic orders a class of the house wine. When the waiter leaves the man says, “Reverend too bad Jesus isn’t here, he could turn my cheap glass of wine into the best vino.”The pastor says to himself, I’m not going there. He ignores the comment and the ladies engage in a conversation.
The waiter returns with the beverages and says to the man,“ I’m sorry sir but we are out of our house wine. My manager apologizes and said to give you a glass of our best wine with his compliments.”
“Answer a fool as his folly deserves, that he isn’t wise in his own eyes.” Proverbs 26:5
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Sylvia's Fire
The house seemed quieter than usual. Michael, my seventeen year old, had just left in the car for the store to return some soda cans and my mother, who lives with us, was away visiting my sister.
It was “Maddy” and I relaxing in the living room in the glow of the candlelight. “Maddy,” our miniature Schnauzer, was sprawled on the rug where he usually is when I’m in the room. I had no clue how this tranquil evening was about to change.
It was about nine on a work night so I decided to take my shower and get ready for bed.I normally take long showers but on this night I cut it short. I don’t know why but it is a good thing I did. As soon as I turned off the shower I heard the smoke alarms screaming and the dog scratching frantically at the bathroom door. I put on a pair of slacks, grabbed a towel and without thinking flung open the bathroom door. A thick wall of black smoke rushed in and I instinctively gasped—mistake. I choked, fell backward s and fainted.
I don’t know what happened in the next minute or so. My first recollection is I’m standing outside, still
wrapped in a towel staring at my house that is completely engulfed in flames. Maddy is with me barking frantically but I have no idea how either of us escaped that overpowering smoke. I rushed to my neighbor’s house and Marcel took one look at the inferno behind me and called 911.
Michael had just left the store when he heard the sirens of the fire trucks. He pulled his car over to let the fire engines pass and as is his habit he raised his hand and offered a little prayer for those in distress. Little did he know that he was praying for his mother and his own house?
When the fireman arrived it seemed half the town was right behind them. The fire fighters did everything they could but the house was too far-gone. I never saw anything burn so quickly. Like many New England homes built in the 19th century the walls had been stuffed with newspapers and hay to provide insulation. Our old colonial went up like a tinderbox. All we could do was stand helplessly and watch our home burn.
A school friend of Mike’s pointed out an eerie sight. Framed in the window of an upstairs bedroom was the velvet portrait of Jesus hanging on the wall over Michael’s bed and illuminated by the flickering flames below.
We learned latter that the fire was started probably when the dog knocked over a candle on a table by the window that fell igniting a phone book left on the ataman. The window curtain caught on fire and the flames literally raced through the walls.
The next day, after spending a short night at my friend’s house, Michael and I returned to the ruins. There was only one wall standing. We found only two things not completely destroyed by the fire. One was a blanket my mother had crocheted although it reeked of smoke. The other was the framed portrait of Jesus that was still hanging on the one remaining wall.
When we took the portrait down there was no evidence of the fire. It didn’t even have a smoky smell to it. How do you explain that?
Sylvia Jarvis
Sturbridge, Massachusetts
It was “Maddy” and I relaxing in the living room in the glow of the candlelight. “Maddy,” our miniature Schnauzer, was sprawled on the rug where he usually is when I’m in the room. I had no clue how this tranquil evening was about to change.
It was about nine on a work night so I decided to take my shower and get ready for bed.I normally take long showers but on this night I cut it short. I don’t know why but it is a good thing I did. As soon as I turned off the shower I heard the smoke alarms screaming and the dog scratching frantically at the bathroom door. I put on a pair of slacks, grabbed a towel and without thinking flung open the bathroom door. A thick wall of black smoke rushed in and I instinctively gasped—mistake. I choked, fell backward s and fainted.
I don’t know what happened in the next minute or so. My first recollection is I’m standing outside, still
wrapped in a towel staring at my house that is completely engulfed in flames. Maddy is with me barking frantically but I have no idea how either of us escaped that overpowering smoke. I rushed to my neighbor’s house and Marcel took one look at the inferno behind me and called 911.
Michael had just left the store when he heard the sirens of the fire trucks. He pulled his car over to let the fire engines pass and as is his habit he raised his hand and offered a little prayer for those in distress. Little did he know that he was praying for his mother and his own house?
When the fireman arrived it seemed half the town was right behind them. The fire fighters did everything they could but the house was too far-gone. I never saw anything burn so quickly. Like many New England homes built in the 19th century the walls had been stuffed with newspapers and hay to provide insulation. Our old colonial went up like a tinderbox. All we could do was stand helplessly and watch our home burn.
A school friend of Mike’s pointed out an eerie sight. Framed in the window of an upstairs bedroom was the velvet portrait of Jesus hanging on the wall over Michael’s bed and illuminated by the flickering flames below.
We learned latter that the fire was started probably when the dog knocked over a candle on a table by the window that fell igniting a phone book left on the ataman. The window curtain caught on fire and the flames literally raced through the walls.
The next day, after spending a short night at my friend’s house, Michael and I returned to the ruins. There was only one wall standing. We found only two things not completely destroyed by the fire. One was a blanket my mother had crocheted although it reeked of smoke. The other was the framed portrait of Jesus that was still hanging on the one remaining wall.
When we took the portrait down there was no evidence of the fire. It didn’t even have a smoky smell to it. How do you explain that?
Sylvia Jarvis
Sturbridge, Massachusetts
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Mr. Clarke
Week of January 9
There are some things that just defy logical explanations. This is one of those for me. I was a mother with a small boy at home. About once a month a Mr. Clarke would stop by, usually late morning, with a suitcase full of small household items for sale. Mr. Clarke, I never knew his first name and always addressed me as Mrs.Marr. He was an older gentleman of retirement age who was trying to augment his income by going door-to-door selling whatever he could. I felt sorry for him and would always buy something, even if only a pair of shoe strings, so he wouldn’t leave without having sold something.
Mainly we would just chat about the weather or something in the news that week while my little boy played with blocks or some other toy on the living room floor. After several minutes of friendly conversation he would open his suitcase and point out some new item. I would listen to whatever he was promoting and politely say I didn’t think I needed that right now but what we really needed was a box of bandages. I would purchase the item and he was always most gracious as he packed his wares and left.
This went on for about a year and then one month passed and he hadn’t stopped by. Several months passed and no Mr. Clarke. There was a knock at the door one morning and I opened it to find a thin pleasant looking woman.
“Are you Mrs. Marr,” she asked? I nodded.
“I’m Mrs. Clarke, You were a customer of my husband. He passed on you know.”
“I’m sorry, I wondered what happened to him.”
“I’ve been talking with him and last night he gave me a message for you,” she said.
Before I could collect myself to say anything sensible she must have read the expression of bewilderment and shock on my face and she continued talking.
“Oh yes. I talk with him frequently and last night he was very clear that I bring a message to you. He said, ‘tell Mrs. Marr there is going to be an explosion.’ That’s it, that’s all he said. I can’t tell you what it means, just what he said.”
She wouldn’t come in, apologized for upsetting me in any way and thanked me for being kind to her husband and she walked away. I was dumbfounded.
I thought of a hundred questions I wanted to ask her but she had gone. I didn’t know how to get in touch with her, or where she lived and I still didn’t know Mr. Clarke’s first name.
An explosion! What to do? My husband worked at an oil refinery and I impulsively called his office. As the call was going through I thought what on earth will I say to him, that a woman I’ve never met before told me her dead husband gave her a message last night to warn me that there was going to be an explosion…
“Hello.”
“Hi Dear, how are you?”
“I’m fine, what’s up?”
I couldn’t tell him at least not now over the phone while he was at work. I would tell him when he got home tonight, besides he would be asking me a ton of questions to which I had no answers. The rest of our conversation was strained and awkward especially on my end. I tried to determine what the rest of his day was like without tipping my hand. I was trying to ascertain that he was going to be right at his desk and not out by the fuel storage tanks or down on the docks where the tankers unloaded. I sensed he was getting curious about my new-found
interest in his day. Then he asked the question I was dreading.
“ Tell me is there something on your mind that prompted this call?”
“Oh,” I laughed nervously, “ Could you pick up a dozen eggs on your way home?”
When he came home with the eggs I came clean. I was relieved that he was home and we both had a laugh over our cat and mouse phone conversation. He didn’t know what to make of Mrs. Clarke’s message anymore than I did. So we returned to our routine and switched on the evening news.
The lead story was “A Northwest Airliner Exploded Over Lake Michigan Today Killing All On Board.”
I fainted. Our daughter was a flight attendant for Northwest. Bob, after assisting me, called the airline. They wouldn’t give out any information at this time. Our next call was to the Providence Journal. After talking to a few people an editor said he would make inquiries. He did and called us back with the information that our daughter was not on that flight.
We found out later that she was scheduled for that flight but took sick and her roommate had taken her
place. It was a sad day for our family and many others.
What about Mrs. Clarke’s message and its source? Was it just coincidence? I wonder? As I said, I have no logical explanation for this.
Caroline Marr
East Providence, Rhode Island
There are some things that just defy logical explanations. This is one of those for me. I was a mother with a small boy at home. About once a month a Mr. Clarke would stop by, usually late morning, with a suitcase full of small household items for sale. Mr. Clarke, I never knew his first name and always addressed me as Mrs.Marr. He was an older gentleman of retirement age who was trying to augment his income by going door-to-door selling whatever he could. I felt sorry for him and would always buy something, even if only a pair of shoe strings, so he wouldn’t leave without having sold something.
Mainly we would just chat about the weather or something in the news that week while my little boy played with blocks or some other toy on the living room floor. After several minutes of friendly conversation he would open his suitcase and point out some new item. I would listen to whatever he was promoting and politely say I didn’t think I needed that right now but what we really needed was a box of bandages. I would purchase the item and he was always most gracious as he packed his wares and left.
This went on for about a year and then one month passed and he hadn’t stopped by. Several months passed and no Mr. Clarke. There was a knock at the door one morning and I opened it to find a thin pleasant looking woman.
“Are you Mrs. Marr,” she asked? I nodded.
“I’m Mrs. Clarke, You were a customer of my husband. He passed on you know.”
“I’m sorry, I wondered what happened to him.”
“I’ve been talking with him and last night he gave me a message for you,” she said.
Before I could collect myself to say anything sensible she must have read the expression of bewilderment and shock on my face and she continued talking.
“Oh yes. I talk with him frequently and last night he was very clear that I bring a message to you. He said, ‘tell Mrs. Marr there is going to be an explosion.’ That’s it, that’s all he said. I can’t tell you what it means, just what he said.”
She wouldn’t come in, apologized for upsetting me in any way and thanked me for being kind to her husband and she walked away. I was dumbfounded.
I thought of a hundred questions I wanted to ask her but she had gone. I didn’t know how to get in touch with her, or where she lived and I still didn’t know Mr. Clarke’s first name.
An explosion! What to do? My husband worked at an oil refinery and I impulsively called his office. As the call was going through I thought what on earth will I say to him, that a woman I’ve never met before told me her dead husband gave her a message last night to warn me that there was going to be an explosion…
“Hello.”
“Hi Dear, how are you?”
“I’m fine, what’s up?”
I couldn’t tell him at least not now over the phone while he was at work. I would tell him when he got home tonight, besides he would be asking me a ton of questions to which I had no answers. The rest of our conversation was strained and awkward especially on my end. I tried to determine what the rest of his day was like without tipping my hand. I was trying to ascertain that he was going to be right at his desk and not out by the fuel storage tanks or down on the docks where the tankers unloaded. I sensed he was getting curious about my new-found
interest in his day. Then he asked the question I was dreading.
“ Tell me is there something on your mind that prompted this call?”
“Oh,” I laughed nervously, “ Could you pick up a dozen eggs on your way home?”
When he came home with the eggs I came clean. I was relieved that he was home and we both had a laugh over our cat and mouse phone conversation. He didn’t know what to make of Mrs. Clarke’s message anymore than I did. So we returned to our routine and switched on the evening news.
The lead story was “A Northwest Airliner Exploded Over Lake Michigan Today Killing All On Board.”
I fainted. Our daughter was a flight attendant for Northwest. Bob, after assisting me, called the airline. They wouldn’t give out any information at this time. Our next call was to the Providence Journal. After talking to a few people an editor said he would make inquiries. He did and called us back with the information that our daughter was not on that flight.
We found out later that she was scheduled for that flight but took sick and her roommate had taken her
place. It was a sad day for our family and many others.
What about Mrs. Clarke’s message and its source? Was it just coincidence? I wonder? As I said, I have no logical explanation for this.
Caroline Marr
East Providence, Rhode Island
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