"Transformation of character is to be the testimony to the world of the indwelling love of Christ. The Lord expects His people to show that the redeeming power of grace can work upon the faulty character and cause it to develop in symmetry and abundant fruitfulness."4
Haze filled the quiet valley, the sun had
set behind the mountains, the birds were singing their nocturnal
songs, and the crickets were tuning up for their evening serenade.
George felt a strange attraction to this place, a place he would
never see again. What was it that drew his troubled spirit to
this spot of serenity among a turbulent world? Wars and rumors
of wars were in the headlines of the papers and on the nightly
news but here, at Grandma Baxter’s, no wars intruded or harsh
words were spoken. George realized that during the entire afternoon
he had not uttered a single word of profanity, not one thought
of lust had entered his mind, not one crude gesture that so commonly
characterized his demeanor had spoiled the serenity of the occasion.
Unfathomed springs of repressed emotions
bubbled to the surface. Unwelcome thoughts troubled his conscience.
Thoughts of private moments better left unmentioned, of conversations
soonest forgotten, of discrete rendezvous overlooked. Unwelcome
thoughts, unholy memories long surprised rushed into his mind
and overwhelmed with shame, George forgot to be irritated at Billy.
Could it be that, he, George Ballard, the
successful entrepreneur, the skirt chaser, the boozer, had fallen
in love with the mountains and the simple ways of the mountain
people?
“No,” he said aloud, to Billy’s
surprise. “No, I’m a city boy, born and bread in the
city. This country stuff ain’t for me,” he asserted
firmly. “None of this country stuff for me.”
“What’da say, Daddy,” Billy
sleepily inquired form his corner of the cab.
“Never mind,” George replied.
The coolness of the evening and the shadows
settled around him as he threaded the back country roads. The
freshening breeze was invigorating after the scorching heat of
the afternoon.
For several miles, he was lost in contemplation
of a time forever closed to him. George had to admit it, he was
in love, not in love with a person but in love with a place. This
was such a novel thought that he savored it and turned it about
in his mind. Watching the headlights bouncing along the road momentarily
obscured by wisps of smoke he reveled in the new found joy of
the moment.
He wasn’t a bad man, not bad in the
sense of some of the men who made the news, he thought. He loved
his wife, provided for his two children, met his social responsibilities.
Sure, he occasionally drank too much and his profanity really
was getting out of hand lately, and Sally, he paused in retrospection.
Yes, Sally, she was different and his wife would not understand
his relationship with his secretary. It was natural enough for
both of them to enjoy each others company, a few drinks after
work. She seemed to understand him as his wife never could. She
was pleasant, never nagged him about his swearing, never chided
him about how he mistreated Billy and never asked him why he was
so late getting home every Thursday.
Yes, he mused, Sally would look nice in
a red hat and shiny black boots. He would have to buy a pair for
her when he got home.
He would have continued in this manner of
thought indefinitely, if he hadn’t suddenly realized that
he was lost, again! He cursed the roads and his own ineptitude.
They keep changing directions and branching off when a guy least
expects it. Looking toward Billy, who was sound asleep nestled
in the corner of the cab, George wondered at the ability of children
to sleep at odd times and in odd circumstances. But his sleeping
habits, according to some folks, might seem odd, also.
Billy had removed his seat belt, the better
to relax. Well, George thought, let him alone, there’s no
danger tonight so let him sleep, besides I need a rest from his
incessant yammering.
“But where am I,” he said aloud,
as he slowed, trying to remember where he had gone wrong. And
the thought almost made him laugh. Where, indeed, had he gone
wrong. George Ballard, successful business man with a beautiful
wife and two good children, where had he gone wrong?
Would this road never end? It seemed to
wind back and fourth interminably between increasingly steep hillsides
that encroached closer and closer to the road with each passing
mile. The ever present mountain creek was flowing side by side
with him and the trees were over spreading the gravel road making
the night even darker, if possible, then before. The air had taken
on a coolness that was refreshing but it also carried a stronger
aroma of smoke then before.
“Where am I,” George whispered,
as he watched his headlights glancing off the rocks and trees
on either side of the road. Gripping the steering wheel with both
hands, the better to concentrate, he peered into the head lights
as they danced along the road. Growing narrower, it wound down
a steep incline into a dark valley. No lights were visible and
no sign of habitation could be seen anywhere. The spring-fed creek,
splashing over the rocks in its descent into the valley, grew
closer to the road until it filled a ravine just inches from his
tires.
He cursed the road, cursed his bad luck
and lack of directional sense and cursed his wife for her faulty
directions but he failed to curse his own stupidity.
George had to slow in order to negotiate
the rapidly descending road. Turns were frequent and unexpected
and so sharp that his head lights did not always give him adequate
warning of the sudden twists. Everything seemed to be closing
in around him as he thrilled with a mounting fear. The branches
were now noticeably lower and the road had taken on the appearance
of two ruts rather then the usual smooth surface indicative of
frequent use.
He felt hemmed in, not just by the road
but by emotions and circumstances he little understood. The rock
of Gibraltar, others called him, regarding George as unflappable,
able to handle any situation that came his way, unmovable, unsinkable,
unflinching. He could stride confidently through a firing range,
bullets whizzing past his head, without flinching or even noticing
the presence of imminent death, nor caring. He was admired for
this quality. Other men assumed it came from an inner strength
of character they envied and desired to posses. Fooled by his
own bravado into thinking himself beyond the common fears and
anxieties of lesser men, George seldom troubled himself with introspection.
Such things were beneath his dignity. Real men needed not silly
sensitivity sessions. He was competent in all situations.
George wanted to turn around but there wasn’t
any place to back up in this uncharted wilderness of trees, bushes,
and gullies. This idea no sooner entered his mind then he was
stabbed in the heart with the novelty of the thought. How often
had he wanted to turn around, to rechart a safer and tranquil
course in life, to start over, but, no, as with this road, he
could not turn around. His life, an uncharted road, would not
allow of such a maneuver. Rock of Gibraltar, he laughed to himself,
as the facade began to crumble before his eyes.
He noticed, with alarm, that the gully,
into which the creek had plunged, was deeper and even closer to
the edge of the road then before. Coming to a slight rise, he
almost panicked, as the road seemed to drop out of sight. Braking
suddenly, he gazed into the inky darkness. He could now hear the
reassuring songs of the crickets and the louder, but pleasant,
babble of the creek.
George practically leaped out of his seat
as a deep jumped across the road. One moment it was there, spotlighted
in his head lights, the next instant it was gone. Merely an ethereal
presence, so quickly had it appeared then vanished. Then another
deer appeared and, as quickly, vanished. Then another and another.
A veritable parade of deer. George had never seen so many wild
animals outside of the zoo and his first sighting, of a live deer,
momentarily thrilled him. Then he realized, as more and more deer
leapt across the road, that this sight wasn’t normal. These
animals were panicked. They would not run in front of his truck,
the symbol of paralyzing fear, if another, far greater fear, wasn’t
pursuing them.
But George couldn’t see or hear anything
except the sound of the crickets and the brook. Even the smoke
had abated and cool, fresh air filled his lungs for the first
time that entire day.
He was jumpy. Stuck on this deserted road,
at the top of a precipitous drop to a dark valley, with no place
to turn around, not knowing where to go or how to return, George
felt lost. For the first time in his life he sensed his helplessness.
But he had to do something. After all the
Rock of Gibraltar was expected to know what to do, wasn’t
he? But he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do so he did
the obvious. Carefully, he eased his truck into gear and gingerly
glided down the sloop that had so unexpectedly appeared only a
moment earlier. He could hear the crunch of gravel beneath the
wheels and feel the incline grab at his tires causing him to swerve
dangerously close to the ravine. Tree roots appeared in the road
and weeds sprouted between the ruts. His headlights danced off
dark shapes of rocks and into the empty void. The mountain seamed
to press close to his right while the ravine pressed even closer
to his left.
Fully alert now, George had never encountered
a more dangerous driving situation. The truck bounced over large
rocks in the road. A branch swiped the aerial. Rounding a curve,
a tire momentarily brushed the edge of the ravine. The piano,
so securely lashed in place by Uncle Angus, made a discordant
sound as he hit an unusually large rock causing him to swerve
and almost bounce off the sheer rock wall.
Slow down George, your driving too fast
for the road conditions, an inner voice warned him. For the first
time in his life, George listened to the voice that had so often
spoken to him before.
He could feel the piano beginning to shift
despite the strong ropes holding it in place. He realized that
it posed a threat for should it break loose on this steep slope
it could cause him to loose control and careen off the road into
the ravine.
George sighed. The road seemed to level
off and the ravine grew less precipitous. Trees began to replace
the steep mountains and the whole vista, such as he could see,
began to open. Rounding another curve, he slammed on the breaks.
Right in front of him, in the very center of the road, was a tree.
No, not one tree, but many. The forest had at last reclaimed the
road.
Getting out of the truck, he reached behind
the front seat for his flashlight. Finding it in the tool box,
he began a slow, methodical survey of the area to his right and
left while cursing under his breath and sensing his inadequacies.
“Nothing,” he snorted in disgust.
He couldn’t believe it. The road just ended. No warning,
no side roads, no nothing.
Careful not to awaken Billy, George vainly
endeavored to turn the truck around in the confined space between
the trees but it was too dark to see what he was doing.
He swore so violently, that Billy woke up.
Rubbing his eyes, he inquired, “are we home, Daddy?”
“No, we’re not home,” George
swore in exasperation.
Pointing to a black and white striped animal
waddling in front of the truck, Billy squealed with enthusiasm,
“Look, Daddy, a pussy cat. Can I play with him?”
“Billy, that’s not a cat, its
a skunk and he doesn’t like to play with small boys.”
“O,” Billy replied, somewhat disappointed.
“What are we doing here, Daddy,”
was his next, not altogether, illogical question?
“We’re going to play cowboys and
Indians,” his father replied sarcastically.
“Yippy, Yippy,” Billy yelled,
startling some birds in a near by tree, as he jumped out of the
truck. “Can I be Daniel Boon and sneak up on the Indians.
Can I Daddy, can I Daddy,” he demanded? Jumping up and down
with anticipation over this new game while he searched for a stick
to use as rifle.
George removed a toothpick from his shirt
pocket, sticking it between his clenched teeth, he began chewing
it. “That might not be a bad idea,” he said more to
himself, then to Billy.
But Billy heard the comment which only sent
him into a frenzy of running, jumping, yellowing, shooting at
imaginary Indians and bears. Tugging at his father’s sleeve
demanding to know when they could start.
George knew he had a problem and needed
some immediate answers if they were to get home tonight. He didn’t
relish spending the evening sleeping in the truck and besides
Grace would worry about them if they failed to arrive when expected,
not that her anxiety bothered him. When they did get home she
would scold him for not following her directions. He didn’t
need her scolding, now, or later.
If I can climb one of these hills, I might
see a farm house and call for help he reasoned while the toothpick
slide from side to side of his mouth. It was certain that the
way back up the mountain was unprofitable. It had been at least
seven to ten miles since he had last seen a lighted window.
Looking about him, he could see nothing
beyond the beam of his flashlight or the head lamps of the truck.
I need to see the sky in order to orient myself in this wilderness.
Reaching into the cab, he switched off the head lights, then the
motor.
Billy was delighted by the sudden darkness.
Crouching low behind the front fender, he aimed a stick, pretending
it was a long rifle. “I think there’s a bear over there,”
he whispered. “I’ll get him, Dad, and we can have bear
meat for supper. Mom, can fix it for us.”
George had to chuckle over the idea of his
wife fixing bear meat for supper. He wasn’t certain she even
knew that meat actually came from animals instead of the grocery
store.
Needing his night vision, George switched
off his flashlight. Instantly they were plunged into total darkness.
George was now acutely aware of the forest sounds all around him,
as well as Billy’s whimpering.
This wasn’t fun any more, Billy thought,
as he grasped his father’s hand in his small one. “Daddy,”
he said, “I’m afraid of the dark.”
This remark made his father even more irritated,
for, truth to tell, he was afraid of the dark, also, but for other
reasons. A guy could get hurt out here and terribly lost.
Some spark of humanity over came him at
that moment and rather then refusing Billy’s hand, as was
his usual custom, he clasped it tightly and reassuringly.
“Come on Billy,” he said more
softly then usual, “us men will find the Indian camp and
report back to the fort.”
Recovering his night vision George gazed
at the sky hoping to see something but only the darkness of a
mired tree branches greeted his gaze.
Billy wasn’t quite certain he wanted
to play Cowboys and Indians without any light.
“Did Daniel Boone hunt Indians in the
dark,” Billy tentatively inquired of his father as they started
climbing?
“Of course he did,” his father
replied with little enthusiasm as he switched on the flashlight,
shining the beam at a near by hillside. “That’s the
best time to hunt bear and Indians. Catch them sleeping that way
and they can’t scalp you.”
At the mention of sleeping, Billy thought
of his little warm bed at home and the night light Mother always
turned on after kissing him good night.
George and Billy cautiously made their way
up a gradual slope threading through and around the numerous trees
and accessional vines.
“How far is it to the Indian camp,”
Billy wanted to know.
“Just over this hill,” his father
confidently replied.
As they walked up the slope, George gained
some modicum of night vision, being careful not to look directly
into the reflected beam of the flash light. Now he could see the
sky, slightly lighter then the surrounding trees and even an occasional
star. He was immensely relieved. He had expected to see an orange
glow but all he could discern were the eternal clear sky and stars
shining brightly over his path.
One less thing to worry about, he said to
himself, as they climbed steadily higher and higher.
Billy wasn’t sure he wanted to play
this game any more. It was hard being a Cowboy and chase Indians,
especially up hill. “How far now, Daddy,” he asked,
as he twisted his small body around a tree then slipped through
a space between two others that was to narrow for his father.
George was puffing so hard, he couldn’t
answer. Stopping for a moment, he finally managed to say, “Just
over the top of this hill.” If he didn’t loose ten pounds
tonight he would be surprised. This business of climbing mountains
was foolishness. Wouldn’t the guys at the factory laugh if
they could see him now, huffing and puffing like this.
His flashlight caught the outline of a barbed
wire fence just a few feet ahead of them. “Great,” George
huffed. “If I’m not careful, I’ll tear my shirt.”
Carefully, he lifted the bottom strand of
rusty wire so Billy could slither underneath. Holding the wire
between two barbs, he eased his bulk to the ground and followed
his son with much grunting and cursing, his boots scraping the
ground.
Rising, he released the wire and brushed
off his shirt and pants from their accumulated load of dirt and
leaves. “Great! This is supposed to be fun?” He couldn’t
help but laugh at himself as he and Billy stumbled higher and
higher. Now they had to hang unto trees to support themselves
on the steep slope. Both of them began to pant as they neared
the top of the mountain.
A moment later, Billy stooped. “Daddy,
my shoe is untied.”
Grateful for the rest, George forgot, for
once, to curse his son’s ineptitude. Sitting on the ground
he placed Billy on his lap and bent to the task of tying the errant
laces. His tired lungs gratefully gulped large mouthfuls of air
as his sides heaved from the exertion of the climb. Only now did
he become aware of the pain in his side. Tightening the laces,
he eased Billy off his lap and stretched his aching legs and messaged
his painful side.
“Lets get his over with,” he said,
as he grasped Billy’s hand again.
He could see the trees beginning to thin
out and the ground was definitely leveling off but they climbed
on and on in silence, Billy’s hand firmly clutched by his
father. Stumbling and falling, out of breath, dirty and bruised
from falling against trees they continued painfully upward.
George discovered something interesting
about mountains that night, at least the mountains in that part
of east Tennessee, they didn’t seem to have a summit but
gradually leveled off until one could look outward instead of
upward.
But, approaching them, slowly and imperceptibly,
seemed to be a clearing, of sorts. Perhaps now, George fervently
wished, he could see something instead of these accursed trees
with their branches which were forever slapping him in the face.
“It won’t be long now, Billy,”
he reassured his son, who was perceptibly lagging behind.
The clearing drew nearer and promised an
excellent view of the surrounding country. The sky was clear,
the stars shown brightly, but the breeze, which had been absent
during the climb adding to the misery of the adventure by allowing
rivulets of sweat to pour off George’s face, was beginning
to freshen.
“At last the top,” he groaned.”
The clearing was not actually at the summit
of the mountain but a little lower down then George thought. About
fifty feet across, it was surrounded on all sides by a phalanx
of trees but it did afford a view of something altogether unexpected
and frightening. Cresting the last rise, rounding one more tree,
George and Billy stared directly into the face of hell. Coming
up the opposite slope, with the speed of a whirlwind, was a two
hundred foot wall of orange red flame and smoke.
