I Once Was Lost

Image Prompt Contest:  Prompt 3

The path led to nowhere, or so it seemed.  It meandered through the thick woods snaking its leafy back around oaks and sycamores.  It was occasionally littered with fallen leaves.  Even in the hottest summer, the shade provided by the canopy of boughs made it a lovely place to seek refuge. 
I had noticed the lane many times on trips to and from work, since relocating to Savannah.  I am sure the property belonged to someone, but no “posted” signs littered its entrance, no mailbox was prevalent, and I never saw a single indication of anyone either coming or going down it.  Yet, it always remained the same. 

I asked around to see if I could find out any information.  I wanted to walk the trail, but didn’t want to “trespass” if it might cause problems.  None of the locals seemed to know anything about it.  So, one Saturday in early September, I got up the nerve to take a walk, and the walk changed my life forever.
It started out normally enough.  A fresh breeze rustled the leaves and caressed my face, inviting me further, and granting all the permission I felt I needed to continue.  Such a lovely afternoon, it was.  Cloudless.  Though September in Southeast Georgia can be quite fickle, this was a beautiful day.  The temperature was perfect for exploring.  It was warm, but not the oppressive, stifling heat of the summer just passed.    It had been a while since I had done any kind of exercise.  I began to walk.

An hour had raced by!  I was completely enthralled with nature.  I brought with me my bird watching journal and had penned several entries.  There was a pilated woodpecker busy hammering out tidbits for his afternoon snack.  Tiny hummingbirds chased one another over late wildflower gardens.  An old barn owl sitting high in a pine, questioned whoooooooo was daring to disturb his tranquility.  I had heard rustling in the mulch just off the pathway, and decided not to investigate.  Just ahead was a clearing.  I thought I would sit for a while.

The clearing was home to what appeared to be a campground of sorts.  It opened onto a creek.  Picnic tables in need of repair dotted the grassy opening.  It was an idyllic scene.  Herons strutted at the edge of the water.  A pair of Canada geese honked as they swam in the gentle glassy water.  I rested for several minutes, and then moved on.

The creek continued along as my companion.  I would catch glimpses of it now and again through the tree line.  I could hear its waters rolling lazily to their new destination.  I was content with the company.  An hour or so more passed.  I knew that it was time for me to start back, but there was a curve in the pathway just ahead, and I wanted to see where it would take me.

The curve turned out to be several twists and turns.  It looked as though my journey was ending, because the trail ended.  There, just ahead of me was a small, white stucco building.  It was old, but well cared for.  A church that had seen many Septembers was nestled there among the trees and Spanish moss at the end of this pathway.  The church grounds were recently mown and in back were several headstones.

There was a plaque near the front door that gave the names of the founders and the dates.  I stepped onto the old planks that formed the portico to read the information there.  Beth’el, it read. The church had been founded in 1792.  The walls of the whitewashed building had bits and pieces of ancient oyster shells embedded.  It had withstood many trials on this ground, yet had held firm.

I thought about my own life.  I, too, had seen many trials, but rather than stand my ground, I often ran from my problems and my responsibilities.  That was the reason for my being in Savannah.  My problems had become too many to bear, so I had requested a transfer on my job.  The transfer helped some, but the problems continued.  The responsibilities of a home and a family were just too great for me, so I left.  I left my wife of ten years, and my children to fend for themselves.  I could not take it any longer!  There was never enough of anything—no money, no time, no fun, no parties.  Nothing but groceries, bills, nagging and whining!  I had started to drink in my teens, but about eight years ago, the alcohol was the only thing left that gave me any peace.  My nights were drowned in a haze of “how about another one” and “let’s drink to that”.  My wife had begged me to stop.  I guess you could say that was where the nagging started. 

She and the kids went to church.  She was always nagging me to go with them.  I never did.  I had attended church as a child.  I hadn’t lost anything there.  The people there were a bunch of pious old hypocrites.  They were forever praying about this one and that one.  They were all the same.  Why would I want to go to church, when I could sit in my easy chair with a “cool one” and kick back and watch some TV after a long days work?  I was glad to have them out of the house for a few hours each Sunday and Wednesday, and any other time when something was going on at their church.
Since the transfer, I found that I did miss them.  I wondered what the kids were doing; how school was going; whether or not my wife missed me.  I hadn’t called them.  I did tell them where I was, and I sent money to help with the bills. It wasn’t enough, but then, it never was. 

The door to the church opened.  It startled me!  I had thought I was alone out here.  I looked around to see if a car had come up while I had been deep in thought.  No, I didn’t see one. 

The old man introduced himself as “Deacon Jones”.  He was the caretaker for the church, and had just been doing some cleaning.  He asked me if would like “to come in and sit a spell”.  I followed him into the ancient building.  He looked almost as ancient as the church!

The inside of the building was sparsely decorated, but immaculate.  Wooden plank benches provided the seating.  The altar table and pulpit were fashioned out of the same stucco and seashell mixture that made up the outer walls.  An old wooden cross hung over a mural of Jesus walking on the water, although this crude rendition didn’t look like the event took place on the Red Sea, but rather the creek that ran near the church’s grounds.  The floors, too, were cement, and were worn down in places.  It was evident that the builders of the church did not possess great construction skills.  Overall, the church was a peaceful place that had been lovingly cared for, well over two hundred years.  It felt welcoming in spite of its antiquity.  No musty smells, like you found in so many buildings its age.

Deacon Jones was a relic.  His speech was of another age, and he talked with the patois of the barrier islands strung up and down the coastline of the southeastern Atlantic.  Nonetheless, he was a pleasant old soul.  He was an expert at interviewing. I found myself telling him about my life in more detail than I had ever shared with anyone. 

He listened as I told him of my drinking, and my indisgressions.  I told him about my wife and my children.  Patiently, like a kindly grandfather, he slowly shook his head.  When I was through, he took a worn, leather-bound Bible from underneath the podium.  He asked me if I had ever read it.  I muttered an affirmation that years ago, as a child, I had attended Vacation Bible School, and I came to know the Lord that summer.  I had spent the next few years attending the church down the street from my home.  It was a Bible teaching, fire and brimstone preaching church.  The trouble was that the people there didn’t seem to believe what I was reading in the pages of the Good Book. 

They talked the talk when I saw them there on Sunday mornings, but they sure didn’t walk the walk. I heard them gossiping about one another when they thought no one was listening. They never noticed a kid on his bike when they were entering the liquor stores, hotels, bars and back rooms of the video stores where the “adult” movies were kept.  You know the old saying about your life being the only Bible some people will ever see.  Well that saying rang so true for me.  Those people taught me what I thought church was all about. 

He opened the Bible, and began to read to me from Romans and Corinthians, and then from Ephesians 5: 22-33. That particular passage brought tears to my eyes.  As he read the soothing words, I knew all the wrongs I had done.  I knew also what I needed to do.  Deacon Jones knew it, too.  He asked if he could pray with me.  He placed his wrinkled hands on my head, and prayed.  His words were so eloquent.  As he prayed, I cried.  I wept for sins of commission and sins of omission that I knew I had committed.  I prayed for forgiveness and for healing not only to rid my body of my dependency on alcohol, but for the healing of my marriage and the restoration of my family.  It seemed that only minutes had passed, but it was dark outside.  I fell asleep with the Deacon’s voice in my ears and God’s words in my heart.  For the first time in a very long time, I cried myself to sleep.

Morning broke the eastern sky. Sunlight streamed through the open roof waking me from a sound sleep.  Dew had set on my clothes, and I felt a slight chill in the morning breeze.  Disoriented, I stirred.  Where was I?  The events of the previous afternoon and evening came flooding back to me.  But this could not be!  The church of yesterday was intact. What had happened?  I now stood in the ruins of that place.  The roof was collapsed. You could see a portion of what had been a mural on the wall, and the altar and podium were crumbling.

I stood.  Still puzzled, I walked outside to the graveyard. I must be having some sort of break down, or maybe the alcohol has finally succeeded in pickling what was left of my brain.  But, then the words and wisdom of Deacon Jones came back to me.  It couldn’t have been a dream.  I could almost feel his kind hands as they touched my head while he prayed.  How?

Near the back wall of the building was an old headstone.  The writing was fading but legible:

                                                                                Jedidiah Jones                                                                                                     
                                                                                      Born 1823
                                                                            Departed this earth 1924
                                                  This man of God, no more will trod this troubled earthly shore,                                                                          
                                                  But will sing God’s praise for all his days, in Heaven, evermore.                                                                             
                                                                              His faith was strong
                                                                                  He lingered long
                                                                              At Beth'el, House of God
                                                        Many lost souls he led to Christ, to live forevermore
                                                And we shall see him waiting there, when we cross over to that shore.

I left the House of God with a new outlook on life;  one that I will carrry with me the rest of my days.  I returned home to my wife and children, and became the husband, father and Christian that I should have been.  I have no explanation for my trip down the pathway that changed my life.  Suffice it to say, I have changed.


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