The Rotten Tree

I’m writing this post for my Aunt Louise (Knepp) Schrock.

She’s actually my aunt from both sides of the family. She’s married to my mother’s brother, Lester.

 She’s also my father’s sister so their four boys are our double-first cousins.

Is it any wonder, then, that we are mistaken at times for siblings, considering that we come from the same gene pool? (Here in xangaland you can find one of her boys here.)

Louise suggested that I write about a tree that has stood on the old Schrock homestead for many years. It was a beautiful tree with an immense “wingspan.”

Several years ago I posted this picture of it and now I am so glad I got that when I did because about three weeks ago it split wide open, revealing a rotten core. About half of the tree is now lying on the ground.

Who wudda thot?

Back in 1959 my grandparents bought this farm on Hwy 14 E from Melvin Tony.

Next door neighbors were Shanklin’s and Bankhead’s and Misso’s and Harvey’s.  My grandmother was terrific about neighboring well and created a comforting home for all of her Schrock’s. She had a wonderfully green thumb and her vegetable gardens and flowerbeds were always neat and productive. She could do it without spending much money, too. I remember her going out into the woods in the springtime when the redbud and dogwood trees were blooming, tying white rags around little tree limbs to mark them so in the fall she could go back, dig them up and transplant them in their yard.

Here is a picture of the children that were attending our church in the early ‘60’s.

Left to right: Titus Schrock (my uncle,) my brother Gaylord Knepp, Nelson Lee, my sister Sharon Knepp, David Yoder, a little boy that I don’t recognize (can someone help me?) Allen Schrock (no kin,) my sister Shirlene holding my hand, behind me is Martha Lee, in front of her is Ruth Ann Schrock (Allen’s sister) holding my brother, Philip’s, hand. There’s a little girl standing behind Sharon but we can’t see who that is. I’m guessing it’s one of the Lee girls, maybe Lois or Barbara. 

My memories of Grandpa Schrock’s farm are of golden days, helping Grandma with the gardening or her flowerbeds, or standing at her side as she took hot cookies from the oven. Her cookie sheets had star-burst patterns on the bottoms so all of her cookies had that design on them, too. She’d take them off the cookie sheet very fast and I’d stand and watch, wishing I could work as she did. It seemed everything she did was done in a fast, efficient way.  But then, before she’d finish the pan full of cookies, she’d slide one right in front of my nose and tell me that once it cooled I could have that one. Ahhhh….. I’d like to be that sort of Grandma.

This picture was taken of Grandpa Schrock’s farm from the air. I wouldn’t be surprised if Oscar Bushwaug, a family friend whom we considered to be quite a dare-devil crop duster, took one of my uncles up for a spin. (I have a whole passel of uncles on Mama’s side of the family; eight of them to be exact. There were actually nine but my Uncle Vernon died when I was too small to remember.)

Beside the pasture where the big tree stood was a graveled lane…

… which came in from the road, crossed a little bridge over a shallow creek, and then curved up toward the buildings. It was in that lane that I learned how to ride a bicycle. There was a slight downhill grade from Pop’s mechanic shop to the bridge, which provided the perfect place to learn to ride a bike. I wonder if not most of us Schrock cousins learned there. We could sort of glide slowly to the bridge on our first “solo flights.” I especially liked Louise’s boys’ small, blue bicycle with the cool banana seat. I liked riding Lester’s boys’ bicycle so much better than ours because our bicycle was a huge Western Flyer (am I correct on that brand or was that a little red wagon?) and a boys’ bicycle at that. Uncle Titus used to tease us about going across that bridge because he said blood suckers lived in the creek and if they got on us they’d suck the blood right out of us. He said blood suckers killed George Washington and they could kill us, too. That gave me the zip I needed to keep peddling once I got to the bridge. My six-year-old heart would pound dreadfully if I’d start to wobble when I’d be close to the bridge.  

This is a picture of Lester and Louise’s family taken around the early 1960’s.

And here’s one of my family, taken on the front sidewalk at Pop’s house. 

Left to right: Sharon, Gaylord, me, and Daddy's holding Philip and Mama's holding Shirlene.

Louise’s thoughts on that beautiful, tall, strong looking - but rotten - tree were about a lesson its downfall can teach us. I told her to tell me what to write and this is what she said.

“It’s so easy to look good on the outside but you never really know what’s on the inside of a person until they are tested. You know, that sort of thing. You just fill in the blanks.”

So here I go elaborating on her thoughts.

 Jesus spoke quite often about looking good to others but being full of deceit and wickedness in our heart. He spoke against “praying on street corners,” and “giving of our abundance instead of from our very living,” and being too holy to help others.

He gave us acid tests to determine how genuine we are: “By their fruits ye shall know them.” And He also said, “By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples if ye do whatsoever I command you.” At another time He said nearly the same thing but added, “…if ye have love one for another.”

Nothing spells a heart lacking the grace of God quite as much as a heart that’s cold toward others or a heart that disregards Bible teachings. We may pray like a Christian, go to church, speak in tongues, give all that we have to the poor, dress piously and modestly, say all the Christian things, read our Bibles until we know every word, and do all that’s expected of a Christian, but life in shoe leather is where the rubber meets the road. Blow an icy, north wind over our picture-perfect vegetable gardens, or throw a monkey wrench into our plans, or stand a beggar at our kitchen doorway, or swerve drunk driver into our lane in the road, and we’ll see how the “tree stands or falls.”

I don’t want to be “a whited seplechr full of dead men’s bones,” or “a china teacup that’s clean and beautiful on the outside but dirty on the inside.” I don’t want to be like that beautiful, extraordinary tree that caught the eyes of passersby but inside be rotting and of no good to anyone.

This is my prayer: Ps. 119:92 – “Unless Your laws had been my deepest delight, I would have perished.” (My translation.) That is my heartfelt testimony. I am only too acutely aware of the fact that my life was so nearly destroyed by my own righteousness to bank anything on them, and only by God’s pure Word was I saved – both literally and spiritually. My prayer is that I can be “like a tree, planted by rivers of water (the Word of God) that bringeth forth its fruit in its season. Its leaf also shall not wither and whatsoever it doeth shall prosper.” Ps. 1:3.

 Back to speaking about the old Schrock farm again: I’m not even sure who owns it now. It’s passed through several hands since Pop had it. The old house has been torn down and I’m not sure which, if any, of the original buildings are still there. Now the beautiful tree out by the road is ruined, too, almost as a sad testimony to the rapid passing of time and to the fickleness of beauty.  Like they say, it’s only skin deep. But there are some things, like memories, that never end and are enduringly simple, and what make the memories so golden in the safe places in our minds is the love that was demonstrated by our ancestors and the willingness to obey and honor our Savior with their lives. For some reason that’s important.

Thank you, Aunt Louise, for this timely lesson of “The Rotten Tree.” 

In the past few weeks several older men in our community (Mr. Cecil Flora and Mr. Sam Vernon)  have died, leaving a huge emptiness behind. This summer we attended the funeral of a friend’s mother in Georgia.

She had 12 children (2 have died,) 48 grandchildren (all but three of them are married) and 72 great-grandchildren, and at the time of her passing there were ten more on the way. I loved her very much and her suffering hurt me, especially when I saw her emaciated body and realized just how terrible her illness had been. There are many days now when my mind travels back in time to her sweet face and how she seemed to understand exactly what I felt, even though we didn’t really say it. 

These three were not people who made their marks in the world in terms of monetary gain, political power, or leadership, but they stood head and shoulders above us in terms of humility, servanthood and love. Their deaths have brought a sort of somber thoughtfulness to me. I’ve been trying to evaluate what made these good people so good. When I think of their greatness I think about how simply they lived, how kindly were their mannerisms, how much they loved and supported their respective churches, how responsibly they cared for their families, their businesses, their livestock and all that fell into their care. In observing their lives I’m inspired by them and wonder why we tend to chase after rainbows?

Why do we wish for more and more (and more) things. What is it about politics that tempt us to pull into it to set things aright? What attracts us to the current trends of our culture, the social networking and online shopping, etc. Do any of these things really matter in the eternal scheme of things? The three wonderful people that I mentioned above seemed unusually free from the pressures of our time; almost quaint in their values. It’s a little difficult to actually lay my finger on their qualities that inspired me, but I think it was mostly the simplicity of their lifestyles, beliefs and spirituality, which makes me wonder why we’re fascinated by super-people when it’s really the quiet, salt-of-the-earth folks who inspire us to greatness? Like I said, I’ve been thinking.  

(And now I think I’ll go outside, sit on the porch and watch the stars fall.) 

Do you ever have dumb days? Days when everything you do is sort of dumb? I had one last week.

It all started when I called nearly all of my brothers and sisters for their opinions concerning having Mama & Daddy fly to Colorado to visit one of my brothers. (We’re scattered far and wide over the U.S.) When I got to the next to the last one, after having spent over two hours on the phone, I suddenly thought, “What am I doing? I haven’t even talked to Daddy to see if he wants to go.” I’d only talked to Mama the night before, and she’d only made an off-hand remark about how nice it would be if they could, and away I went, in orbit like a night hawk on a mission. So I called Daddy before calling my last sister and found out he didn’t even want to go. I mean – he wanted to go but didn’t think it was wise, considering his weakened health condition.

Oh man. I rubbed my hands over my face and chuckled a little because just how dumb was that? Calling five of my six siblings about something that I didn’t even know anything about?

If only things would have stopped right there. But oh no. When you’re having a dumb day the ball keeps rolling.  It’s sort of like Little Black Sambo who started out chasing tigers around a tree and ended up with butter.

That afternoon I went to town and took Merv’s truck because I needed to get gas for the lawn mower. First I went to the car wash to wash the truck, and because I also wanted to wash out the bed I set the gas can just around the corner of the brick wall so it wouldn’t get wet. After finishing there, I left and was about half way to downtown Macon when I remembered that I’d forgotten the gas can. In a small frantic rush I turned around in the first driveway I could find and scampered in a half-controlled panic back to the car wash and there sat my gas can as safe as can be with people all over the place and no one touching it. I was so proud. (Of them.) And proud that I wouldn’t have to tell Merv what I’d done. On the way back to downtown I suddenly came to realize that I’d just gone past the bank, which was my next stop. So I had to go around the block to go back to it. When I left the bank I turned right instead of left and then I had to go around the block again to get to downtown. By that time I was about scared to go into the drug store. I didn’t know what I’d ask for.

I had just stepped up to the counter when a man who had just bought a car from my daughter came up behind me and said, “Hey Miss Jewel.”

I turned around and said, “Hey. So whatchya up 2?” 

That got my attention off my dumb day, and only to make conversation, I asked how he liked his car. Then (of all things!) he began to complain about what a bad deal he’d gotten and thought she should stand good for it and I was incensed because he had gotten a very good deal and the car was beautiful and I knew that he knew it. But I tried not to get my nose too deep into the situation because it really wasn't any of my business and my daughter is very capable of taking care of herself...

and yet (like a typical Mom) had to stick it in at least far enough to get into trouble.  Before I knew it I was standing on the sidewalk scratching my head and wondering what in the world I’d said while inside at the cash register when I was checking out. It’s really hard telling, considering the day I was having. Of course, I blamed that man for messing me up and went back to the truck and got out of there.

The first thing I knew I was clear on the north end of town before I realized that I had passed my turnoff to go home. Like majorly passed it. This time I blamed it on the stick shift because my left leg was getting tired of clutching.

That evening I told Merv, “This was one day that I wondered if you should be getting my head MRI’d. I mean, I did the dumbest things!”

He wanted to know what kind of dumb things. I could feel the apprehension rising in his body temperature so I quickly calmed him down by saying, “Oh, like driving wrong in town.”

He looked at me with this incredulous look in his eyes, which were growing wider by the second, and said, “In MACON??!!”

Macon is a town with a population of about 2000 people and I’ve lived here for over fifty years. I know this town from one end to the other and couldn’t get lost in it if I was blind.

 I said, ’Yeah. Then I’d have to keep driving around the block.”

Thank goodness, he laughed!

Sometimes I know there’s an angel getting squished between me and trouble.

Judging from the number of comments to my last post I’d say I didn’t do a very good job of communicating my excitement. L Sometimes it’s hard to communicate the really sweet things that go on between yourself and the Lord, but it excited me and filled my thoughts for days and I wanted to share it with someone.  

Something else has excited me and I hope you don’t mind listening to some more of my Cloud Nine stuff. It all began with a Bad Tooth. Then the Bad Tooth led to HEADACHES.

After fifteen days, with eleven of them debilitated with migraines of some sort (a few were migraine equivalents, but most were full-fledged migraines) I humbled myself at prayer meeting and asked for prayer. I went home that evening full of hope that the headaches were behind me. In my mind I was imagining how I would go to church next Wednesday evening and tell the group that I had had eleven bad headaches in fifteen days but after the prayers for me at church they had disappeared.

Imagine my bitter disappointment to awaken around 1:30 a.m. to another splitting headache. I stumbled to the bathroom where I took 2 pain pills, then shuffled almost blindly to the kitchen to find some stomach medicine because I was already quite nauseated. When I curled up in bed again with a heating pad on top of my head I began to cry. Sometimes tears roll down my cheeks from migraines when I’m not crying, but this time I was really crying. I was so disappointed to have finally asked for prayer and then to wake up so soon with another headache. I was ashamed to be crying like a little girl but, crying I was.

I said, “Lord, I know that you’ve given me a formula to conquer pain and it begins with being thankful, but right now I cannot for the life of me do it. I want to be thankful for this headache but it is impossible. I NEED you to help me.”

 Immediately, even while I was still praying, the thought entered my mind that it had been a blessing to have heard the brethren pray for my headaches at church and it had also been a good lesson in humility for me, both very Biblical teachings – “Humble thyself in the sight of the Lord and He will lift you up,” and “Bear ye one another’s burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ.”

In that same second I felt something going on between my spirit, soul and body. I had touched the hem of the Master’s garment and felt His healing power go into me. I felt it! I knew right away that the healing process had begun and you can imagine those tears soaking into the sheets changed from tears of disappointment to tears of JOY! I was so elated that I wanted to shout, “He touched me! He touched me! Hey, listen everybody! He touched me!”

As I write, I still have a headache but I am filled with peace because these headaches have been God’s messenger of hope for me, reminding me that I am not my own, I’ve been bought with a PRICE and that price was paid so that Jesus can touch me right now and give me joy everlasting when my head is crushed with so much pain I can hardly open my eyes to see.

Without JOY to encourage us, how would we ever make it through this world of pain and suffering, of headaches and disappointments? It humbles me greatly to think of that PRICE.    

I LOVE Him, don’t you?

 I’ve had something on my mind for several weeks now and finally decided to share it. I almost find it hard to put into words because it’s kind of what we call “deep” and xangaland isn’t so deep.

 For the most part it’s better to keep posts short, to the point and “entertaining.” But this one won’t be short, for one thing, nor to the point and certainly not entertaining, so if you want off the wagon you’re free to jump off at any time.

This has to do with the tabernacle in the Old Testament. I won’t go into detail concerning its types and shadows of Jesus Christ, because it is too lengthy, and if you’re still with me, I don’t want to lose you. Several weeks ago I read a short essay outlining this concept of the earthly tabernacle coming to the end of its time at Jesus’ death when the curtain between the Holy Place and the Holy of Holies was ripped open from top to bottom, and a new spiritual tabernacle took its place. That got me to thinking and it has dominated my thoughts ever since.

For background information concerning the tabernacle please consult a Bible handbook or a book on types and shadows of the Old Testament tabernacle. In my opinion, it was a glorious and amazing structure that was built “out of nothing.” Actually, not out of nothing, but out of the provisions in the wilderness, which you know, appeared to be nothing.

According to the Scriptures Jesus’ death on the cross ended the utility of the earthly tabernacle in the life of the Jews, and, using the very same pattern, He installed the spiritual tabernacle in the life of the Church. Within one hundred years after Jesus’ death, resurrection and ascension, all types of the furniture in the earthly tabernacle were fulfilled in the new spiritual one. Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross fulfilled the type of the Brazen Altar where animals were sacrificed for the sins of the people. The completed compilation of the Word of God fulfilled the type of the Laver, from which the priests dipped water for cleansing. (Re: “the washing of the water by the Word.” And, “…His voice (was) as the sound of many waters…” Rev. 1:15) The Holy Ghost came to indwell every believer, fulfilling the type of the golden Candlestick. The believers were enjoying personal fellowship with God through the atoning power of Jesus Christ, fulfilling the type of the Table of Shewbread. The fledgling Church was vibrant with power through personal and organized prayer, fulfilling the type of the Altar of Incense. Christian believers were allowed direct communication with God through Jesus Christ as our mediator, fulfilling the type of the Mercy Seat that was situated on top of the Ark of the Covenant, which was the type of Jesus’ Personhood, (who was made flesh and dwelt among us.) He had been here – right here on this earth.

For the first few centuries following the birth of the Church age, the new spiritual tabernacle functioned as God intended, but by the middle of the second millennium, it had all but disappeared. Penitence had given way to penance. Spirit-led worship had given way to meaningless rituals. The Word of God was minced to the people in bits and pieces, mostly impossible to comprehend. Personal fellowship with Christ was looked upon as the work of the priests, not the experience of common folk. Prayers were recitations by rote instead of spontaneous expressions of the heart. The mercy and grace of Jesus Christ was all but ignored. Works became the salvation of the people. Faith was only for a few elite ones.

Then came the revolution. In the early years of the sixteenth century,  the outspoken Martin Luther called the Church back to the basis of their salvation, (“…the just shall live by his faith.” Habakkuk 2:4.) and the truth of his message resonated throughout the world. It was a clarion call to appreciate the price of redemption Jesus paid that sealed off our use of the Brazen Altar forever.

Shortly thereafter, the printing press was invented and the original texts of the Bible were translated to versions that were more easily understood. The common people began to have access to the Scriptures and thus, the type of the Laver was reinstated. In the eighteenth century the Wesley brothers preached sanctification through Jesus Christ and further clarified the “washing of the water by the Word.”

In the early 1900’s the Pentecostal movement ignited and ignited the flames on the Candlestick again. This movement encouraged revival once again and moved believers from the outer court of the tabernacle into the inner court and then even further into inner room, known as the Holy Place. Many felt as though they had attained the ultimate experience in fellowship with Christ, but there was much more that God wanted to reinstate.

Shortly after WWII ended many fundamental churches, including some Catholic and Mennonite churches, (possibly the more ritualistic denominations) were rejuvenated as they gathered in non-denominational conferences and spiritual retreats with Methodists, Baptists, Episcopalians, Pentecostals, Presbyterians, hippies, and countless others to worship the One True God, Who made Heaven and earth, sent His only begotten Son to die for the sins of all mankind so He could enjoy our fellowship as we  gathered around the Table of Shewbread with Him again.

At about this same time, while the western hemisphere was becoming distracted with economic and political success, the Church that was living under suppressed governments and in poor and undeveloped Third World countries was on its knees at the Altar of Incense, reinstating the fragrance of peace before the Throne of Grace.  As their tears washed Jesus’ feet their prayers moved Heaven’s gates to open wide for the hundreds of thousands of new believers that came to the faith and accepted the wondrous plan of salvation that Jesus offers.

Many were tortured and killed for their faith in Christ but instead of suppressing the spiritual revival it only fanned it into a roaring flame of joy and peace that could not be stopped.

 In America, after experiencing unprecedented economic growth and affluence, a revolt against materialism took place during the 1960’s. We called them hippies. Some of them found Christ and began The Jesus Movement. In spite of its “salt-of-the-earth,” “feel-good” philosophies, the movement pointed our eyes back to the Mercy Seat, reminding us that without our intercessor, Jesus Christ, we are nothing and have nothing. In unconventional style, believers often sat on the floor, with candles flickering and prayers ascending and the Holy of Holies was filled with the Shekinah Glory once more.

Now, here we are, awaiting the return of the Ark of the Covenant, our God-in-Person, Jesus Christ, Who will completely finish the reestablishment of the spiritual tabernacle of God.

Do you see how slowly this reinstatement of the spiritual tabernacle began, but the entire process has quickened and is now coming together very rapidly? There doesn’t seem to be much time left. One of these days, the Ark of the Covenant will return to take its honored place in the Holy of Holies and when that happens, no one will be able to hold us down! We’ll be gone, folks! Gone to that everlasting tabernacle in the sky!

Disclaimer: By no means is this essay authoritative in its concept of church history. I am merely stating what I, personally, view as the coming together of the Church over the ages. I have not even consulted history books on all of it, but related what I perceive from study and observation in my long and sometimes controversial life on this imperfect earth.

For Scriptures to verify the types and shadows of the tabernacle that I mentioned, please write and I’ll gladly give them to you. They are merely too numerous to include in the essay.

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Let me show you some recent pictures:

This was my Sunday School class this past year. Yesterday was my last time to act as their "teacher." On Saturday I took them to a pottery place where we each made something memorable. We also shopped at a thrift store and just had a great time. I will miss them, but three of them are now going to either go into instruction for baptism classes or move up to the Youth Sunday School class.

I babysat my Granddog, Ribsy, this weekend.

Here we are having a great time, too.

(If trying to get a puppy to pose for the camera is great.)

Some more of my GRANDS:

This is the granddaughter who lives 2500 miles away

Her adoption appears to be moving along on schedule.

This is the grandbaby who lives 2400 miles away.

This picture was sent to me via our cell phones.

She found Nanna's toys for the first time.