About two-thirds of the way across the south side of the property, the path cuts across diagonally to the west side.  This avoids the wooded, tangled corner we have left that way for the wildlife—at least until all the townies moved out.  That corner used to be a habitat for deer, turkeys, quail, foxes, armadillos, and warrens of rabbits, along with a bobcat or two passing through.  The quail and the foxes have disappeared, the rabbits have thinned out—if you can imagine such a thing—and about all we have left are the occasional turkey and deer.  I suppose nothing will ever rid us of the armadillos and possums.

            On the inside of that section where the cut-off turns north to the driveway, stands four live oaks all growing out of the same spot.  I am not certain if it is one huge tree with four large trunks or four smaller trees that have finally grown into one.  Lucas and Nathan called it “the fort.”  Growing up they played in, on, and around it.  You can climb up between the trees on a sort of ledge that hooks them together, and climb my little guys did. 

          The “fort” was not always a fort.  Sometimes it was a castle, sometimes it was a spaceship, sometimes it was a hideout, but it was always a source of imaginative entertainment for little boys who didn’t have a whole lot else except sticks and roots shaped like pistols, rifles, ray guns, phasers, and bazookas—at least to them.

            This past year Silas and Judah finally reached the age that they could enjoy the fort.  Uncle Lucas got them started, showing them how to turn ordinary bark, sticks, and tree knots into weapons, controls, and push buttons.  Now they clamber all over that same clump of giant oak trees, grown even closer together now that they are older, with even more ledges and platforms to stand on and jump off.  It feels good to walk by that old favorite spot of my boys and know that a new generation is enjoying it too.

            This will probably be the last generation of Wards to know the magic of that special spot.  Neither of the boys is in a position to move back to this acreage and we will probably reach a point where we can no longer take care of it before the new generation even grows to adulthood.  We will need the money it brings to buy us a smaller, easier place to live. 

            Think about that the next time you assemble with your brethren.  I don’t mean think about how the next generation will use the building or whether they will understand the sacrifices made to build it, the men who made it their business to watch over the construction, the women who furnished the classrooms and dolled up the restrooms the way men would never even think to.  Think about what goes on in that building.  When all of the older generation is gone, the ones who fought the battles and stood for truth no matter how unpopular it was, will the younger generation even know what that truth is?  Will they understand the thought processes that produced a generation of faithful men and women?     

          Maybe some other family will someday own our land and figure out what that group of live oaks “really” is even with no one to tell them, but somehow I doubt that a generation so used to the here and now of social media and the pizzazz of loud, splashy entertainment that leaves no room for imagination will even have a clue.  Tell them it’s a spaceship and they will likely look at you like you’re nuts.

          Far more important is to be able to tell the next generation of Christians that “this”—whatever this is at the moment—is truth, and have them comprehend its importance.
 
You then, my child, be strengthened by the grace that is in Christ Jesus, and what you have heard from me in the presence of many witnesses entrust to faithful men who will be able to teach others also. 2Tim 2:1-2
 
Dene Ward

When we hit the corner we turn right along the south fence, just behind the old pigpen.  We haven’t had pigs since the boys left home—it would take the two of us a couple of years to go through a whole pig, but with teen-aged boys we managed easily in just a few months.  Pork chops, ribs, hams, sausage, bacon, bacon, and more bacon.  They grew up pork lovers and are to this day.
Yes, we named our pigs.  We always called the males Hamlet, and the females Baconette, except the year we had two boys and the extra one we named Ribster.  It reminded us from the beginning why we had them, and trust me—by the time a pig is ready for slaughter it isn’t cute any longer.  It is about as disgusting a creature as you can imagine.  Slaughtering it was never a problem.  The boys understood early on that we needed these animals to survive and respected them for it.

          Just across the south fence and past the pigpen stands a live oak grove, a peaceful shady retreat we often wished had been on our property instead of the neighbor’s.  He has built a fire ring surrounded by several chairs, with a wood rack between two trees.  He planned outings with his children and cook-outs with his friends and quiet evenings with his wife.  He planted some Australian cypresses along the fence and now, after nearly ten years, they finally conceal his leafy sanctuary, a sanctuary he rarely visits any longer because his children are grown and living hundreds of miles away with all of his grandchildren.  I doubt he used his beautiful spot more than half a dozen times.  His wife passed unexpectedly several years ago. He has rebuffed friendly overtures and declined invitations to church.  We seldom see him any longer, and there hasn’t been even a lonely fire in the fire ring for three or four years.  So much for great plans.
           
          Chloe and I walk along that line of cypresses, peeking through the limbs sometimes, but usually watching the bottom of the fence line instead.  Up ahead of me as usual, Chloe will occasionally stop and sniff around and when I reach her, sure enough, there is a depression in the ground where something slid under the fence during the night.  Possums, coons, foxes, terrapins, sometimes we come across them during the day, but usually not.  The depressions are well worn and even if we fill up the hole, it will be back with a couple of days, or a new one will show up just a few feet down the fence line.  Interlopers will always find a way, and I can always tell from Chloe’s attention and sniff pattern whether something more dangerous has slunk under or not.

            That’s exactly why God gave us elders, because “fierce wolves will come in among you, not sparing the flock” Acts 20:29.  Peter warns about false teachers who will infiltrate with “destructive heresies” 1 Pet 2:1.  Jesus himself warned about “false prophets who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves” Matt 7:15.  Let me tell you, sheep are just as stupid as pigs are disgusting.  We are too easily led astray, and once they get us away from our shepherds we are just as easily eaten up.

            Our shepherds have a difficult job.  They deserve our respect.  They spend all hours of the day and night protecting us from things we do not even recognize as dangerous.  Like Chloe, they see potential problems we in our ignorance and inexperience miss and all they get for it is accusations about traditionalism, legalism, and cynicism.  We can make their job easier by spending more time in the word so we can recognize false teaching; more time with our brethren so we can share practical knowledge; and more time in safe places instead of hanging around the fence line in the dark of night where the wolves are waiting.
 
Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, for many false prophets have gone out into the world. 1 John 4:1
 
Dene Ward

Keith has mown a path for me, as safe as a path can be for someone with my eyesight, so I can walk Chloe at least one lap every day with the trekking poles for balance and stability.  Elliptical machines are great for low impact aerobics, but you don’t get any fresh air and the scenery never changes.  With this path I get the best of both.  Let me take you for a stroll this morning, and every morning this week, beginning with the east side.

            When I come out and slip on my walking shoes, Chloe, always waiting expectantly under the porch, bounces out and sits impatiently on the steps, her ears tall and her eyes never leaving me.  “Just a minute,” I tell her, and she seems to have grown to recognize those sounds.  She knows I will indeed be outside shortly, but I wonder if her doggy brain wonders about people having to put on their feet before they come outside?  Sometimes she cannot abide the wait, especially if I have to do more than put on my shoes—like spot Keith as he lifts weights on the other end of the porch—so she gives just a tiny little whine, so anxious she shimmies across the boards on her rear end. 

            As soon as I open the door she is halfway through it.  We cannot go anywhere or do anything until she gets a pat on the head.  Then I say, “Let’s go walk,” and she heads toward the morning sun peeking through the woods, dappling the ground where we walk.  Often she has to stop and wait for me to catch up, but as soon as I round that first corner she is off again, inspecting every mound of dirt, every dew-heavy hanging shrub, every disturbed pile of leaves at the fence bottom.

           Occasionally she will stop and stare through the fence to the property on the other side, heavily wooded, vines snaking up and through the oaks, pines, maples, and wild cherries.  Just over the fence lies the run.  We thought it was a creek when we first moved here, a shallow one but water always sat in the bottom, slowly draining to the south.  Then we went through the drought of the nineties and learned differently.  It’s a run.  Whenever rain comes through, the land on all sides of us for at least a half mile in every direction, runs into that narrow, deep channel and heads for the swamp a mile to the south.  After a typical summer afternoon downpour the water will rush loudly, white water at the bends and at every drop, carrying with it leaves and limbs shed by the overhanging branches. 

          You do not realize how powerful water moving downhill can be until you see the aftermath.  We came out one morning to find the trash can washed up against the south fence, the run itself clear of all debris, and the pigs in the southeastern pigpen a pinky white they hadn’t been since they were born.  Only a small circle in the center of their backs remained black and muddy.  Good thing they managed to find a high spot so they could get their noses up out of the rushing water that had gushed through the fence and cut the southeast corner.  We had no idea the water could rise that high.

          The power of water is a constant theme in the Bible.  We completely misunderstand 1 Pet 3:20,21, especially when we read the newer translations that make water not something that saves, but something to be saved from.  Leave your new version a moment and look at the old ASV translation:   …the longsuffering of God waited in the days of Noah, while the ark was a preparing, wherein few, that is, eight souls, were saved through water: which also after a true likeness doth now save you, even baptism…  The waters of the flood saved Noah by bringing him and his family safely out of a world of sin, into a new world, one that was washed pure and clean.  Baptism does the same for us.  It saves us from the world of sin we live in, raising us to a new life free from sin—a chance to start over, this time with help from above.  It also washes away the detritus of our old lives, if we let it, if we are willing to let go of the baggage and surrender all to the Lord.

           Water had saved the Israelites in a similar way.  They were “baptized” in the cloud and in the sea, walls of water on the side, a roof of vapor overhead. And then with a whoosh of water, God destroyed their enemies and set them in a new world, one where He and they were to enjoy a covenant relationship, 1 Cor 10:1ff.
         
          Amos uses water to symbolize the power found in justice and righteousness.  Israel thought that multiplying sacrifices and feasts and other religious observances was all that mattered.  God would be pleased, especially if the prescribed rites were even more elaborate than commanded.  Then their lives during the rest of the week wouldn’t count against them.  The prophet told them differently, “Let justice roll down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream,” 5:24.
          That is just a small sample of the passages using water as a symbol.  Spend some time today, as I did on my walk with Chloe, meditating on the simplest drink known to man.
 
Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and will not be afraid; for Jehovah, even Jehovah, is my strength and song; and he is become my salvation. Therefore with joy shall ye draw water out of the wells of salvation. And in that day shall ye say, Give thanks unto Jehovah…Isa 12:2-4
 
Dene Ward

Keith was having a religious discussion with someone once, a brother as I remember, but one he disagreed with.  I had come upon a pertinent scripture in my own study a few days earlier and gave him the passage.  “Here’s some more ammunition,” I said.

            That word came naturally to me.  Keith was a certified firearms instructor for the state.  He taught probation officers, and prison guards how to shoot.  As a probation officer he carried his own weapon, having to qualify every year.  He taught me how to shoot well enough to dispose of a dozen poisonous snakes over the years and he taught the boys too.  So the word “ammunition” came naturally.

            However, it nagged at me enough that over the next few days I began wondering if we don’t have that mindset much too often,  Yes, we are in a battle.  Yes, the scriptures talk about our “weapons,” weapons God Himself supplied for our warfare.  And yes, our fight is not just with Satan, but with his ministers as well.  But look at this passage:

            As for me, I have not hastened from being a shepherd after you; neither have I desired the woeful day; you know: that which came out of my lips was before your face, Jer 17:16

            Jeremiah was NOT happy about Judah’s coming destruction—he did not “desire” the evil day.

            There’s an old story about a man who was converted after thirty years of different preachers telling him he was lost.

            “Why now?” someone asked him.  “Why listen to this preacher?”

            “Because,” the old man said, “he really sounded like he was sad about it.”

            Is that our problem?  Do we get too much pleasure out of the fight?  Are we just a bunch of gung-ho cowboys in our zeal?  Are we more interested in winning arguments than in winning souls?

            God gave Jeremiah plenty of ammunition, and he used it well enough that he was thrown into prison for it.  But he never enjoyed the job.  In fact, a good many of the prophets disliked their mission.  “I went in the bitterness of soul,” Ezekiel said.  In his confrontation with the priest of Bethel, Amos as much as said, “This wasn’t my idea.” 

            That’s a far different attitude than I have seen in some brethren, who delight in slinging bandoliers over their shoulders and spraying automatic fire in a drive-by.

            We’re supposed to be saving souls, not murdering them.  Let’s take stock of our attitudes when we go out to battle today.
 
​Give glory to the LORD your God before he brings darkness, before your feet stumble on the twilight mountains, and while you look for light he turns it into gloom and makes it deep darkness. But if you will not listen, my soul will weep in secret for your pride; my eyes will weep bitterly and run down with tears, because the LORD's flock has been taken captive, Jer 13:16-17.
 
Dene Ward

We live in a rural county.  We have no garbage pickup.  Instead we have dumpsites at several places with recycling bins and a dumpster for household garbage.  We have to haul our own trash.  Ask yourself how much trash and garbage your family generates in a day.  How many garbage cans do you have outside and how many times can you empty the trash indoors before your outside can is full?  Now, how often would you like to drive several miles to dump your trash, and how many of those big trash cans will fit in your car?  You now know one reason most of the folks out here have a pickup truck!
            But this also explains the burn barrel.  We keep two receptacles in the house—one for wet garbage and one for burnable trash.  The more we can burn, the less often we have to cart garbage cans down the highway.  We put everything we possibly can in that box of trash—junk mail, out-of-date documents, bills, and receipts, cardboard boxes, empty plastic containers and lids, plastic bottles and bags, old rags, irreparable clothes—everything that will burn, or melt and then burn.  Don’t talk to me about recycling.  We recycle in several other ways, and this practice saves gas.
            But let me ask you this. Would you ever put anything important in a burn barrel?  Of course not.  Do you know what God thinks of this world?  He has his own burn barrel, and this world is what He plans to throw in it.
            We need to remember that.  Too often we become enamored of the very things God will ultimately destroy.  Some of our favorite things in life are sitting in God’s burn barrel.  Even when we think we have our priorities straight, we often do not.
            I remember telling my little boys that one day we would take a month long camping trip out west.  We would show them all those beautiful national parks they had only heard about.  They could look across the Grand Canyon, watch Old Faithful erupt, and stand in a place where the mountains rose peak after peak after peak with no signs of modern man—no power lines, no sounds of traffic, not even a tangled skein of contrail in the perfect blue sky--a place where a thousand years before some native had stood and enjoyed the same view.  It never happened.  We never had the money or the time.  They are grown now and can understand the pressures of life, making a living, paying the bills, meeting one’s responsibilities to others, but I have always felt bad about missing that trip.  We managed one or two other things while they were still at home, but never that one.
            But remember this, no matter how good a plan it was, how good the values we were trying to instill with an appreciation of God as the Creator of all that majestic beauty, God Himself doesn’t think that much of it.  It’s temporary.  He plans to destroy it all.  The things God meant for me to teach those boys were things I could teach any time, any place, no matter how much money we did or didn’t have. 
The Bible is full of people who did not have the right priorities—Esau for one, who sold a birthright for one meal.  The Hebrew writer calls him “profane” (Heb 12:16).  Paul talks about having a “mind of the spirit” rather than a “mind of the flesh” (Rom 8:4).  And why?  Because Jesus’ kingdom is “not of this world” (John 18:36).  It is “not meat and drink” (Rom 14:17).  So many things we allow ourselves to become upset about simply do not matter.  Traffic jams?  Noisy neighbors?  Pet peeves?  Even the trials of life—precisely because it is this life we are becoming distracted with.
            For many walk, of whom I told you often, and now tell you even weeping, that they are the enemies of the cross of Christ: whose end is perdition, whose god is their belly, and whose glory is in their shame, who mind earthly things. For our citizenship is in heaven; whence also we wait for a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, Phil 3:18-20.  Yes, Paul says that when I let things of this life upset me to the point of distraction that my “god is my belly.”  I am not supposed to be minding those earthly things.
            So today, think about God’s burn barrel.  He has a place for the things He plans to destroy, just like I do, one that gets too full too fast.  God’s burn barrel holds things like wealth, possessions, awards, careers, opinions, irritations, Jimmy Choo shoes, stock portfolios, time shares on the beach, cabins in the mountains, camping trips out west—even this earthly tabernacle that so many try to keep looking young.  They all go in the barrel at the end of the Day.  And God will light the fire Himself.
 
But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a roar, and the heavenly bodies will be burned up and dissolved, and the earth and the works that are done on it will be exposed…Since all these things are thus to be dissolved, what sort of people ought you to be in lives of holiness and godliness, waiting for and hastening the coming of the day of God, because of which the heavens will be set on fire and dissolved, and the heavenly bodies will melt as they burn! But according to his promise we are waiting for new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells. Therefore, beloved, since you are waiting for these, be diligent to be found by him without spot or blemish, and at peace, 2Pet 3:10-14.
 
Dene Ward

Yesterday I stepped onto the curb outside my supermarket and the scent instantly sent me back to my childhood, when artificial Christmas trees were unheard of, and the whole house smelled of fir, spruce, pine, or whatever evergreen we found at the local lot that happened to fit that special spot in the living room for those few weeks every year.  Funny how a smell can bring back so many memories.

            It happens with the change of every season.  Right now the cold air carries the smell of wood fires from all the hearths in the neighbors’ houses.  And isn’t it odd that on winter mornings the aroma of bacon can travel for hundreds of yards when it won’t any other time of year?  Soon the smells will change to jasmine, gardenia, and other heavily scented tropical flowers, and the air, while still cool, will gain a little weight in the morning from fog.  Then summer will carry the smell of new-mown grass, afternoon rain blowing in on humid breezes from the west, and all too often the chicken farm a mile down the highway.  Finally, the air will begin to crisp and the fires will come from leaf piles and field burns, a less pleasant odor than the wood fires, which will once again permeate the air soon after.

            Aromas mean a lot to God as well.  He told his people several times that when they offered acceptable sacrifices the “sweet savor” of their offerings pleased him (e.g., Ex 29:18; Lev 1:9;Ezra 6:10).  Ezekiel told them that God would “accept them as a sweet savor” when they returned from exile, a penitent and purified nation, (Ezek 20:39-44).  On the other hand, He used a reeking garbage dump in the valley of Hinnom, where even the bodies of the dead were often thrown, to symbolize the punishment He had in store for the faithless (Isa 66:24; Jer 7:31-34).

            They say that certain smells can energize you, calm you, lift your spirits, ease your tensions, and just about anything else you can imagine.  God has used our sense of smell and the power it has to conjure up thoughts to symbolize the pleasure He has in our gifts to Him, the fear we should have in displeasing Him, and the grace He offers to such weak, sinful creatures as us, who deserve nothing but His disapproval.  Take a good whiff and see what you can smell this morning.
 
 Be ye therefore imitators of God, as beloved children; and walk in love, even as Christ also loved you, and gave himself up for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God for an odor of a sweet smell, Eph 5:1,2.
 
 Dene Ward

            Summer thunderstorms are nothing unusual in Florida.  Even when we don’t have a hurricane, we can count on dark skies, roiling clouds, strong winds, and heavy downpours almost every afternoon from June through September.  This summer seems to have been worse than usual.

            Just in the past four days we have had two storms that knocked the power out for a total of seven hours, with two plus inches falling in an hour’s time.  In fact, this last time we had an inch and a half in thirty minutes flat.  The water ran down from the top of the hill in a river around the house and down to the creek just past the boundary fence.  The wind blew the rain in vertical sheets, leaving standing water an inch deep on the covered carport, and the screened porch floor wet to the wall of the house.  The wind blew in gusts that twisted fifteen foot long pine limbs off the trees—green limbs, not rotten ones.  Smaller limbs flew by as we watched, almost as thick as the rainwater.  The lightning was loud and close and almost constant.  When I stepped inside and saw the power was out I was not really surprised.  This was one angry storm.

            And suddenly I thought, “This was the kind of rain Noah lived through.”  God was angry.  He would not have sent a gentle patter of raindrops on that gopher wood roof.  His wrath would have been obvious in the gusty winds tearing roofs off houses and branches off trees.  He would have vented his anger in the boom of thunder rolling over the hills, hills that slowly and inevitably disappeared under the waves.  That last storm we had scared me just a little; I bet the one Noah endured for forty days was terrifying.

            And we need to be terrified too.  An angry God is not the God we want to face on judgment day.  Do not let the world, and sometimes even the brethren, blur your view of an irate God who cannot countenance sin.  You need that picture to keep you straight sometimes, and so do I.  It’s too easy to think, “This is no big deal; God won’t mind this once; God is a God of mercy,” and forget the God of wrath and vengeance.  Don’t let anyone turn “fear” into nothing more than respect.  You can love someone and fear them too.  Anyone who had a godly father knows that.  Don’t let them lie to you and steal your soul by telling you otherwise.

            By the end of summer I am ready for a calm fall.  I want sunny days and gentle breezes.  I am sure that’s what we want from God too, but just as those storms do good for this land—replenishing the water table and keeping the tropical plants green—remembering the stormy wrath of God can do your soul good too.  Don’t forget it.

Therefore thus says the Lord GOD: I will make a stormy wind break out in my wrath, and there shall be a deluge of rain in my anger, and great hailstones in wrath to make a full end, Ezek 13:13.

But sexual immorality and all impurity or covetousness must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints. Let there be no filthiness nor foolish talk nor crude joking, which are out of place, but instead let there be thanksgiving. For you may be sure of this, that everyone who is sexually immoral or impure, or who is covetous ( that is, an idolater), has no inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God. Let no one deceive you with empty words, for because of these things the wrath of God comes upon the sons of disobedience, Eph 5:3-6.

Dene Ward