Body of Time

Time marches on. The closing Week of this Year continues to move forward. Each Day of Past is represented by a warrior, and thousands of seasoned soldiers of Time congregate outside the walls of 2023. They camp in groups, each bearing the flag of their tribe that graphically depicts their commonality of Days in the Body of Time.

 

At the forefront is the tribe of Destiny, a vibrantly jeweled collection of Days when one travels Time on a certain and defined path into Future. This band of warriors holds a common purpose in their hearts, to overcome any obstacle that lay before them in Time to reach their eternal destination. A strong-willed army, they focus on a vision of triumph, a glory that propels them through the circumstances they encounter to reach the Promised Land, an eternal Utopia void of sorrow, pain and suffering, broken relationships, heartache and death. Their leader, the King of kings, rides the sole white horse and is a visible icon of strength and power to all warriors of Time who will receive Him as their King.

 

The tribe of warriors, positioned behind the crown of Destiny and centered amongst the throng outside the gates of the New Year, is seasoned with Experience. These soldiers are a network of intelligence factors, each contributing a specialty of knowledge and understanding from the daily battles the Body of Time has overcome. Experience communicates to the front lines of battle the strategy of Victory, plans culled and developed from lessons learned from shattered dreams, failed relationships, bankrupt financial ventures, and unhealthy lifestyles. A collection of dos and don’ts amassed from a lifetime of successes and failures, this history provides a road map through the journey into Future.

 

The right wing, the tribe of Strength, contrasts sharply with their neighboring tribe of Experience at the head, for their physique is matched by no other except the left wing, who, like their brothers in Time on the right, protected this nation of Days with their Perseverance. These two tribes work synergistically to protect and hold the body of Days together. They move throughout the body of Time, wherever a battle cry is heard to conquer Despair, the dark enemy of Past. Despair is wily and sly, with its camouflaged team of snipers and sharpshooters that infiltrate the body of Time with guerilla warfare. This cancerous invasion could spread quickly without the fortitude of Strength and Perseverance. 

 

Two columns extend from the amassment of tribes that act as a rear guard protecting the body of Time during their encampment at the gates of the New Year. Composed of Days who previously held rank in the Strength and Perseverance battalions, they are retired from the frontline wings of battle to support the Days with Hope and Faithfulness.

 

During peaceful times, the column of Hope is seen in congregational, intercessory prayer, their swords strapped to their sides while lifting up petitions for the entire body to the Father of Time, pleas for healing and comfort, sustenance and protection, wisdom and discernment. From sunrise to sunset, audible appeals are heard throughout the body. Round the clock, they continue their communion with Father. At dusk, they quiet to silent meditation as Knights of the Great Banquet Table take their positions of the watch and continue the chain of prayer in silence, broken only by their hourly call of “all is well” in unison.

 

Each new Day as the sun crests over the horizon, Faithfulness adds harmony to the prayers of Hope, a chorus of “Hallelujah!” ringing towards Heaven, and praises of worship to their Creator and Provider, the One and Only, the All in All. This band of Days is survivors, honorable comrades wounded in battle, those afflicted with disease and healed, warriors of Yesterday, yet capable with their strength in Faith to overcome the enemy of Despair. The blend of prayer and praise add Spirit to the entire body, their symphony of voices heard by the crown of Angels of Destiny and its jewel, King of kings, at the head of this great nation. 

At the heart of this body of Believers are days of Love. Protected on all sides by Strength and Perseverance, Hope and Faithfulness, guided by Experience, and led by Destiny, this tribe of families, generations long, provide sustenance for the entire nation. Its members circulate life throughout the body, delivering food, clothing, and supplies. They act as a vessel of encouragement, sending letters of requests and praise, testimonies of Father’s faithfulness to provide and protect, and the Good News of grace, mercy, and forgiveness, a message of His Love for all the Days of their lives.

 

The body of Time is not unlike the herds that roam the wild, as the weak, aged, and diseased fall behind and become prey to the enemy---Death---who continually pursues them. Death serves a purpose for the body of Time, a means for eliminating the Days that become useless, Days that completed their roles to develop experience---Days of hate and malice, strife and anger, discontent and frustration, loss and failure, worry and hopelessness.

 

Time marches on. While camped at the gates of 2023, the Days knew that to move forward into the New Year, unhindered by Past, only the seven Days of Destiny and Experience, Strength and Perseverance, Hope and Faithfulness, and Love should pass through. Alas, it is difficult for the body of Time to let go of Days not yet devoured by Death, Days that linger in Past, their usefulness is gone, yet the heart of Love is bound still. 

The King of kings, riding His white horse across the front lines of Destiny, posts the noblest Knights at the gate’s columns and gives the command, “No Day shall pass through this gauntlet of Time that does not bear the name of Destiny, Experience, Strength, Perseverance, Hope, Faithfulness, or Love.” With His staff held high above His flowing white hair, he reigns the white horse on its hind legs and orders the gates of the New Year to open. 

~May your New Year become a blessing of Days of Destiny and Experience, Strength and Perseverance, Hope and Faithfulness, and Love. As you ponder this metaphor on Time and the Days of your life, consider the Days that should be left behind, holding onto the good of each Day, logging Experience, marshaling Strength, concentrating Perseverance, building Hope, fueling Faithfulness, giving Love, and following Destiny. Have faith in your Savior, Jesus Christ, and allow Destiny to lead you through the New Year. 

 

These words, stellar rhema, were inspired by the Holy Spirit and scribed by Jeff Cambridge. All praise to the King!

© Jeff Cambridge 2010

 

A Kiss Among the Dead -- Jeremiah's Journey -- Scene 7

 

Savannah’s response astonished me, although I didn’t let on. Her brother? What sequence of circumstances caused me to believe that Melanie, who I had just met, was what? Cheating on me. No, but when you first meet someone, and then there is a question of trust, how far do you go with the relationship?

I admit that I overreacted. Savannah suggested I come by the café near closing—Melanie would be locking up.

Would Melanie know?

So, I asked, “If I do, will Melanie be expecting me?”

“Depends on if you say that you will. Melanie likes a man that keeps his word.” Savannah flashed a smile.

Oh, so the twist was on me—could she trust me?

 

So, I met Melanie at closing.

She slowly approached me and slid her arms around me for a gentle hug. I responded in kind, and she nestled her head in the crook of my neck.

No love lost here.

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,” she breathed into my ear, then looked to the floor.

“You looked beautiful in the sun dress, and your home—so inviting to—”

I turned Melanie to face me and planted a kiss to the moon and back that made us both shudder.

“I think I’m—”

“Don’t say it. Too early to tell. I have the same vibes, but to begin exploring these feelings is a destiny for disaster.”

I walked Melanie, hand in hand, out of the café into the full moonlight of a July night. The night light lit the old town street like a stage for a movie set, and I took advantage of it and held her close as we strolled.

“The street dead ends at the cemetery and the trailhead. Unless you’re wanting to—”

“Kiss you amongst the dead? I’ve never experienced that. Let’s do it.”

“You serious?”

“As serious as this.”

I kissed her passionately in front of the cemetery. I swear the tombstones lit up, and dry bones sang. I’d met a mountain woman in God’s country, and for the first time in a decade, I felt alive.

Finding Out the Truth -- Jeremiah's Journey -- Scene 6

 

The blue vintage ’68 Camaro approached, and I looked directly at the driver. Damned if I would be afraid. I put on my meanest-looking Die Hard face and stared through the tinted windshield. Who the hell tints their windshield other than . . . Yeah, you got it— Drug runners. What? Melanie was a safe house for drug smuggling? My imagination was out of control. What was that? A salute wave from the driver?

Back at my coach, I shrugged off the morning. What will be, will be. Something wasn’t right about this picture—finding that Melanie lived within a mile of my camp in a yellow doll house on a private lake, enjoying the speed of a jet ski and the serene solitude of paddling a kayak. The guy in the blue Camaro—Who could he be?

I’d find out in a heartbeat. If Melanie wasn’t operating the espresso machine, Savannah was. I grabbed my keys and remotely started the RAM, its deep throat rumble stoking my endeavor to get to the bottom of what could be a trust issue. Yet, I had just met Melanie. Maybe she wanted to break up with the blue Camaro dude. Did I want to be a ship passing in the night for her to jump onto?

Trail’s End Coffee & Café was at the end of a road, the trailhead for a spur to the Appalachian Trail. I suppose a trailhead and trail’s end can be the same depending on your hiking direction. I pulled up in front of the hitching post. Back in the day, locals would ride their horses and wrap reigns on the rail, or was it here just for nostalgia’s sake? 

Peering through the paned glass windows of the café’s porch, I saw Savannah handling the brass and copper vintage espresso machine. Hmmm. My worries deflated instantly. At least for a reason, Melanie was at her house. But the guy, blue Camaro dude, who was he? Hey, if it seems I’m a bit insecure, well, let me tell you about my past. No, I’m not going there, but only to say I intercepted the messages between my girlfriend and the guy she wanted a rendezvous. He was married and a pastor, no less. Boy, did I create some fireworks after that! She broke up with me the day after.

I opened the door, and Savannah immediately saw me and smiled cautiously.

“I was expecting you,” she said, greeting me at the counter.

“How so? Heard you birthed a colt. How is he or she?”

“A good filly. More for the stallion to mate with.”

“And you were expecting me?”

“Melanie called, quite distressed. I have an explanation.”

“For what?” I played naïve. I wasn’t about to wade into this female drama.

“Uh, she told you that she was opening this morning.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, uh, she didn’t.”

“So, I see.”

“Yeah, I left her a voice mail yesterday that I was able to open this morning. The colt is doing fine, the mare’s bleeding has stopped, and she’s walking. The vet said everything is okay.”

“Oh.” I paused to assemble the new information and said, “I was hoping to see her here.”

Savannah looked curious, like she couldn’t sort out the situation.

“But . . . she . . . saw you . . . Well, maybe it wasn’t you.”

Now, I felt like the doofus. I was caught in my own lie, acting like I expected to see Melanie here when I had seen her at her house but not knowing that she had seen and recognized me. What about the blue Camaro man? Who was he?

“Uh . . . So, where is she?”

“At home.”

The silence between us was like a gorge; no way to bridge the gap. She knew; I knew, but we didn’t know what we didn’t know.

“I knew her brother was coming into town, and as soon as I knew that mare and colt were in the clear, I called her.”

Brother? Blue Camaro man was her brother? I quickly recoiled. “Yeah, that’s wonderful that everyone is alright.” Including me. I feel just alright, right now. “I’ll have a double cappuccino, wet . . . very wet if you know what I mean.”

“Gotcha.”

Was Savannah flirting with me?

Little Yellow Houses for You and Me -- Jeremiah's Journey -- Scene 5.2

 

The screen door opened, and I froze. Caught in the act of trespassing can be a dangerous encounter, especially if protected by a man with a rifle in hand.

But men aren’t dressed in sundresses, and yellow chiffon isn’t a man’s favorite cake frosting color. Her reddish-brunette straight hair graced the top of her shoulders as she headed away from me down the porch with a watering jug in hand. The porch was lined with decorative rail planters with an abundance of peppermint phlox and mixed-colored dahlias. Now, at the corner of the porch, her profile looked familiar. Melanie? 

She was supposed to be at her coffee shop subbing for Savannah. Why was she dressed up? She had worn shorts and a tank top when I had first met her. And her hair was a bloom of curls. What to do? Turn around and walk away. I would undoubtedly be seen as she continued her plant watering. What the  . . . ? Melanie lived behind where I was camped? No way. I must be hallucinating. I turned and walked away, too flabbergasted about the scenario. She didn’t call after me, and I didn’t look back. She’d probably find it creepy that I’d found her house. Found it by accident, or was it luck. I continued walking, faster now, my heart racing. I had to process, recalibrate, and decompress.

A vintage blue Camaro rounded the bend that I approached. For real? I’m on a private road that leads to Melanie’s house and a . . . Yes, it was a ’68 SS, and its 350 V8 rumbled as it crawled down the drive. Okay, I’m a cooked goose. The dude in the Camaro must be her boyfriend . . . or was she married? Visions of squashed sugar plums danced in my head; my head pummeled to a pulp because . . . I was trespassing, not just on property, but this dude’s private property— his babe. But I was innocent. Yeah, explain that to the jury. What was that saying? “Curiosity killed the cat.”

—

From the chronicles of Jeremiah’s Journey, follow Jeremy beginning with Scene 1 – Mountain Woman, listed in the right sidebar Blog Archive under 2022 June.

Wispy Mountain Morning -- Jeremiah's Journey -- Scene 5.1

Nestled in the valley of the Eastern Continental Divide at Mountain City, Georgia, is a camp with a creek that crosses through it, so named Cross Creek Campground. The climate has Oceanic characteristics due to its high elevation of 2,156 ft, generally featuring mild summers relative to their latitude and cool but not freezing winters, with a relatively narrow annual temperature range and few temperature extremes. The average July temp is 75 degrees.

As I stepped down from my coach this morning, I was greeted by a cool mountain breeze and a mild temp of 69. Wisps of fog rose from the mountainside forest to gather with the low-hanging cloud that shrouded the Appalachian peak of Black Rock Mountain. Yesterday, I hiked solo to its 3,640 ft peak.

Mountain City is in the northeastern corner of Georgia’s Rabun County, a settlement of 904 people just six miles south of the North Carolina border and 30 minutes to a crossing of the Appalachian Trail. It is an outdoor enthusiast’s heaven on earth, God’s country at its finest.

Clayton, Georgia, the county seat of Rabun, is home to 2003 residents, with a stoplight at the highway crossing and one in town that divides Main Street, which is well-preserved and historic. A solitary road named “Warwoman” cuts through the valley east, ten miles to Pine Mountain bordering the South Carolina border. The rugged terrain of the jagged valley could only be settled by a woman at war with herself, conflicted about whether to go north or south.

So, what is the attraction? “The mountains are calling, and I must go.” Hiking, backpacking, kayaking, white water rafting, waterfalls, scenic drives, exquisite dining, local wine and spirits, shopping, and forested land valued at $15,000 per acre, no more than a 6-acre Brown County wooded lot listing for $95,000.

These thoughts percolated in my mind as I tried to wind down and chill after the barefooted hoedown with Melanie. After a tender goodnight kiss with a fond hug, she politely excused herself, explaining that awakening before sunrise was not her natural biorhythm. Still, since she was covering for Savannah, the buck stopped with her as the Trail’s End Coffee & Café owner.

I poured bourbon over an ice ball and settled on the couch, propping my feet up, my back braced with soft pillows. My next awareness was that of the stiff body of a mountain climber who had been sedentary for too long at sea level. I peeled myself from the couch and crashed on my king-size bed, hugging the king-size pillow I wished was a queen-sized mountain woman named Melanie.

For a change, I was cleared-headed this morning, having crashed hard from the mountain climb and dancing. I woke to silvery dawn viewed through the unshaded bedroom windows. I cautiously stepped down from the bedroom to the coach’s spacious 18 x 14 ft living quarters with a kitchen, dining, TV-theater reclining, couching, and fireplace watching experience.

Outside, I stretched while the water heated to make coffee. I wanted to explore the area, so I filled my YETI with roasted espresso and headed across the Cross Creek bridge. I was on an old asphalt road that led into the woods in a minute. As I rounded the bend, sunlight reflected off a small lake, a gem in the foothills of the red clay of Blue Ridge.

Across the lake, a large deck extended over the water, a jet ski moored at the pier, and two kayaks stood anchored against a garage wall. Further up, a quaint cottage, painted yellow with white trim, was built into the forested hillside.

Scanning the shoreline, I noticed no other establishments. Private lake? This must have cost a pretty penny. Probably inherited. The road wrapped around the lake and disappeared into the woods after crossing in front of the cottage.

You’ve probably heard the expression “curiosity killed the cat.” Yet fewer know the second half of this English proverb— “but satisfaction brought it back.” You’ve also heard that cats have nine lives. I stopped counting after nine. I’m one of those cats willing to take a calculated risk to satisfy my curiosity. I believe I will return to health if the danger has its way with me.

In most cases, I encounter friends rather than foes. Not that walking alongside this lake was dangerous, but most would turn around, not wanting to trespass. If I encountered a contender, I’d say, “I beg your forgiveness. I must have looked the other way when I passed that ‘No Trespassing’ sign. By the way, do you know for certain that you’re going to heaven?”

As I neared the cottage, I noticed white wicker furniture appointed the porch and tubular wind chimes, one low-toned and one high, resounded in the breeze, a welcoming introduction to the well-groomed garden with deep blue hydrangea, orange begonia, and a butterfly bush projecting lavender, pink and magenta blooms. This cottage was certainly cared for by a woman.

The screen door opened, and I froze. Caught in the act of trespassing can be dangerous, especially if protected by a man with a rifle in hand.

— 

From the chronicles of Jeremiah’s Journey, follow Jeremy beginning with Scene 1 – Mountain Woman, listed in the right sidebar under June 2022.

Barefoot Kiss -- Jeremiah's Journey -- Scene 4

There must have been a sign above my head that read “celebrity” as I approached the hostess stand at “Hush” Cuban Kitchen and Bar. I requested the outdoor setting of the porch and was immediately ushered to a table, although the party of four who checked in before me were told there was a 15-minute wait. 

I had no less sat down, and a cute girl with wavy black hair approached the table and said, “May I get you something cold to drink?”

I quickly scanned the menu and found the local craft beer— “Hop Dang,” a southern-inspired IPA.

“I was told to get your order right away. What would you like?” 

Geez, did they know I was coming?

I’m writing this journal entry as a scene for Jeremiah’s Journey, the saga of a wandering nomad cruising in a RAM 2500 BIGHORN with a Cummins diesel, a point of interest for those who live in Indiana, and more specifically, in Columbus, where they are built. I’m towing a 13,000-pound fifth-wheel coach, my house on wheels with accommodations that best a studio apartment.

I climbed a mountain today. Well, I reached the peak of Black Rock Mountain within the Georgia State Park of the same name. This hike was moderate to break me in after being sedentary for four weeks in the Mississippi sauna of what the Bama locals name—the mud puddle. Not only was I sedentary but also so close to sea level—250 ft—that I felt the humidity weigh like wearing a leather Harley Davidson jacket on the beach.

Mountain woman—Melanie—What became of her?

She was busy subbing as a barista at her coffee shop for Savannah, who was tending to the birth of a colt from the legendary quarter-horse barrel champion, “Sleuth.” I asked about the origin of the filly’s name. 

“Her underbelly is pink, and her snout is shorter and wider than typical.”

No doubt, the Pink Panther.

I’m observing the couples seated near me. I suppose that two people could exhaust any point to further converse about—anything. Yet, I could write a chapter with the dialogue that runs through my mind.

Which ventures me back to the waterfall hike with Melanie—I hear Faith Hill’s “This Kiss” in the back of my mind:

You can kiss me in the moonlight

On the rooftop under the sky, or

You can kiss me with the windows open

While the rain comes pouring inside

Kiss me in sweet slow motion

Let’s let everything slide

You got me floating, you got me flying

The return hike to the trailhead was filled with a synoptic history of why I selected Mountain City as a destination—for a month, no doubt. I had an agenda. What did I want to accomplish? Her questions kept me continually talking. When we reached the trailhead, I shared with her a cold libation that always capped a hike—a craft brew—so we popped the cans of Black Warrior Brewing Company’s “New England IPA” from the bar of the same name in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

The brew was a quick refreshment, only enough to whet our appetite for spending more time together. Although we had soaked our second skin at the waterfall, our quick-dry hiking apparel was refreshed. We decided to wear the look of a couple coming off the mountain, hiking boots and all. Melanie recommended the “White Horse,” a venue featuring local mountain music.

The only problem was when we both looked at each other and said, “Let’s dance,” as the band hit the chords of Alabama’s “Mountain Music.” We stood and grabbed hands, but as we did two steps to the dance floor, our “clod-hoopers” thudded the floor. We guffawed, and I said, “What do we do?”

“Strip ’em off. The boots, that is. I’d dance with you naked, but my daughter plays the fiddle on stage.”

I glanced and received a smirk from a cute young lady with long, wavy hair split down the middle, covering most of her face—except those eyes flashing blue like her mother’s. Blue eyes stand out. Their translucence draws me to look deeper within.

Quickly we unlaced and were on the dance floor barefooted to swing with the hoe-down with Alabama playing—

You see that mountain over there? Yeah?

One of these days, I’m going to climb that mountain.

Oh, play me some mountain music

Like grandma and grandpa used to play

Then I’ll float on down the river

To a Cajun hideaway

After the finale, she stood on my feet, reaching with her tiptoes to pop a kiss that caught her daughter’s eye, who mouthed to me, Don’t break her heart.

I pondered her daughter’s warning after I dropped Melanie off at the coffee shop, the beginning and end of our sunrise to midnight day.

— 

From the chronicles of Jeremiah’s Journey, follow Jeremy beginning with Scene 1 – Mountain Woman, listed in the right sidebar under June 2022.

Waterfall Pelts -- Jeremiah's Journey -- Scene 3

 

I approached the bar at Black Warrior Brewing Company, and the pigtailed blonde waitress dressed in a Crimson Ale T-Town Brewed T-shirt acknowledged me. “Would you like a beer?”

They had nothing to offer but beer, so the question seemed bland. Nonetheless, I looked at the chalkboard listing of their fourteen brews. A greeting like, “How can I spice up your day would have kicked my enthusiasm into a higher gear. Today had been one of those to say good night to and dream into the next.

“I’d like a refreshing IPA. What do you recommend?”

“The red-bearded guy in an auto-service uniform, hands that spoke of the grit of turning tires, standing next to me immediately responded with “Blood Orange.”

Pigtail shook her head no.

“Well, if you want a local’s opinion, I’ve had three of ’em, but she’s much prettier than me, so go with her choice.”

“I’d go with the River Fog.”

A New England IPA brewed in the South. Wouldn’t it be a Southern IPA? I had crossed the Black Warrior River to enter the Tuscaloosa City Limits. A deep river with a dense forest border. I imagined the fog of a misty morning following a dewy night.

Yesterday’s waterfall trail hike with Melanie went well beyond my expectations. She wasn’t joking when she said she wanted to shower in the falls, a 125-foot stream of pelting drops. We ditched our hydration packs, socks, and boots. I stripped off my Patagonia dry-fit shirt, now soaking wet with perspiration. Melanie hadn’t broken a sweat; my face was beaded and hot. I needed to lose that extra ten pounds that settled in my gut after sitting in a recliner—a mental workout for sure—enduring four weeks of Mississippi sauna heat wave in the comfort of my coach’s A/C.

She stepped into the waterfall and looked up, her mouth agape, tasting the crystal-clear mountain spring water. She was soaked in a cool minute, her shirt a second skin molded to her curves and protrusions. She was all woman at that moment, even though she bested me in the boulder scramble to the top.

I just stared. The sunlight streamed through a break in the forest canopy onto her face glistening with the refreshment from the fifty-degree pressurized cave water. Then, she looked at me. A gaze that sliced my heart in two. Sliced. Not ripped. Sliced is like filleting it wide open. Exposed.

I approached Melanie in the waterfall. The footing was slippery, mossy on black rock. Almost goosed it, but I made it look like a purposeful dance towards her. Yeah, I bet she thought that, too. She smiled, though, relieving the tension within me. She exuded power in a good way. Like a magnet, I closed in.

The shock of the cold subterranean water caused me to shout, “Yeee Haaa!” I instantly relaxed into my natural persona of chill.

She looked down; I’m not sure why. Was she embarrassed that I could see through her wet skin shirt? She turned to face away, her muscular back to me. I wouldn’t typically describe a woman’s back as muscular, but she looked strong, not big-boned, just lean and ripped. A mountain woman.

Her back to me was not an afront. Instead, I took it to be an invitation— Come to me.

And so, I did. I stepped to her and placed my arms around her torso. She melted into my chest, her neck nestling against mine, cool skin against the heat within me.

— 

From the chronicles of Jeremiah’s Journey, follow Jeremy beginning with Scene 1 – Mountain Woman, listed in the right sidebar under June 2022.

The Intimacy of Trust -- Jeremiah's Journey -- Scene 2

“So, what brings you to the mountains?” Melanie asked as we left the trailhead. We were at ground zero, meaning we started from the valley where Mountain City was established, truly a passerby town without a single stoplight along the highway that split the settlement in two. A wide path led into Nantahala Forest’s thick canopy.

“Well, I’m on a journey that began April 1^st—no foolin’. I sold my real estate, gave away anything of value to family and friends, and donated furniture, clothes, and housewares to the mission. All I kept was what I needed in the coach, a storage unit with enough furniture for a studio apartment, and another to store stuff that might be handy and, of course, my personal memorabilia. It was quite a purge, and I feel relieved and free to travel anywhere that fancies me. A month in the swampy heat of Mississippi is enough to keep me from ever returning to the Deep South, although I am wintering in Alabama. I checked out the site, a straight, 45-minute shot to Gulf Shores with historic Foley in between. With its 120 restaurants, I should find my fill of southern cuisine, and with the tourist bars along the coast, I hope to find entertainment.”

“Entertainment, like pickin’ up a woman at a bar? Sounds like you’ve got the rest of your life planned out.”

“That’s a joke. Not my life, but I never know what tomorrow will bring. The woman part is tricky. Most women are looking for steadiness and security. I’m a nomad, a rolling stone, wherever I park my rig is my home, and I love spontaneity. To have everything planned out doesn’t leave room for God to guide me.”

“Unless He’s guiding your planning.”

“True. And He has done that. I plan to secure monthly sites because the parks are booked on weekends during the summer with the local crowd—State Park mania.

“I hear ya. I prefer the solitude of a weekday hike. No one will likely be where we’re going, which is a good thing because I like the shower of the fall and the pool to bathe in. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind what? Seeing you naked?”

“Ha! I meant I hope you don’t mind giving me some privacy.”

“Oh. Sorry I was presumptuous.”

“Security has its downside.”

“What do you mean?”

“Picture a hot air balloon tethered to the ground. The balloon is filled and ready to soar, but it can’t until the security lines are cut.”

“Yeah, precisely the reason I left the quaint and beautiful town of Lil’ Nashville and the surroundings of a beautiful park and a National Forest.”

“That doesn’t sound like a reason to leave.”

“I meant that I had to cut what tied me down to find freedom. Everyone knows everyone’s business, and there wasn’t anyone new to find. Imagine a western town that is settled by the families that responded to the cry, ‘Westward, Ho!’. Imagine that you and your husband willingly uprooted from the comforts of established colonies to live your dream to stake a claim for a homestead and the freedom it offered. But . . .” I paused for her to reflect. “Your husband was killed by a rampaging Injun, and you were left alone. Being independent, you established a business as a seamstress and had endless orders from the ladies that wanted new dresses. There was no Sears catalog back then.”

“So, you’re sayin’ when two people have the same dream, there is security in holding that dream together, but on my own, unless I also have an independent spirit, I’m doomed to take whatever scraps of a man are left for the pickin’.”

“Same goes for a man looking for a woman. He doesn’t want an empty, two-liter bottle from the recycle bin.”

“Two-liter meanin’ she’s the size of two?”

“Yep. Lonely women eat a lot of comfort food.”

“So, what’s your comfort seeing that you live a life alone.”

“Well, for starters, I’m not alone and find my comfort in His garden of Eden.”

“I get it. I so relate to God when I am doing what we’re doing right now, in the beauty of His creation that was not created by happenstance or some Big Bang.”

“So, you do have a relationship with God. Not some high-in-the-sky deity that’s like vapor in the wind or a statue or symbol that you venerate.”

“Knowing Jesus made the difference. When  I was in college, I blew off any need for a god in my life. I was the one to determine my destiny and to figure out the best way to get there as if it was some goal with an endpoint, a winning touchdown. But with a series of decisions of fumbles, intercepted passes, and runs blocked, I sensed something missing in my life. So, I searched with a passion for the man that would complete me, you know, two pieces of a puzzle that make you whole.”

“Been there, done that.”

“How long ago?”

“Twelve. No, thirteen. I don’t keep track anymore.”

“No way! Same here. The dirty dozen. I thought I was the only one that hadn’t found a mate.”

“Mating isn’t the point. Partnering is. Partners depend on each other to do what cannot be done alone. That includes having a mate, but much more. I like to plan, but not the administration of the details. I’m big picture.”

“It’s the details that determine the success of the plan, and I focus on those. It’s a daily process.”

“Your right, and once the plan unfolds, I’m thinking about the next phase.”

“You said you were spontaneous, but you sound like you need to chart your course.”

“Plan, let it unfold, and be spontaneous with the details. Decide only when you must decide. That gives God room to work in your life. Rigidity restricts, flexibility flows.”

“Hey, you ready to do some scramblin’?” Melanie and I looked up at the boulders stacked for as far as I could see.

“Looks tight. One slip and—”

“I know the route. Trust me. I wouldn’t have brought you along if it was unsafe. You said that the outdoors is your playground.”

“No prob. I climbed sheer rock faces back in the day.” I paused for a beat, thinking about how best to continue. “I relied on my climbing partner to lead the way. So, lead on.”

Some say that sex is the closest you can get to a person. I think “some say” is wrong. The deepest intimacy between two people occurs when a bond of trust forms that cannot be broken. A Christian marriage has the theme of a third bond—Christ—as the head of the relationship. Consider this wise saying in the Holy Bible by none other than the wisest man to ever live, King Solomon, “A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer. Three are even better, for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken” Ecclesiastes 4:12 NLT.

— 

From the chronicles of Jeremiah’s Journey, follow Jeremy beginning with Scene 1 – Mountain Woman, listed in the right sidebar under June 2022.

 

Mountain Woman -- Jeremiah's Journey -- Scenes 1.1 and 1.2

 

Mountain Woman

I saw her down the trail, a young woman and her dog, a Bluetick Coonhound known for its skill to tree a raccoon. It's not age that determines if you're young. Instead, youthfulness embraces a desire for adventure, fearlessly trying new excursions, and a willingness to fail to become stronger and more skilled. You're not afraid to camp alone or solo summit a mountain, and adventuring with a dog that looks like it could protect you is a good thing. Bluetick gave me a reason to say something as she neared me on the trail.

"Wow. Dig those blue eyes." I looked at the hound, a crystalline blue that gave it a human likeness. I glanced up to acknowledge her, and surprisingly, her eyes were a translucent blue that drew my gaze to peer deeper. It may have been just several seconds, but our eyes were like magnets that did not want to look away. She eventually looked down at the black-spotted, bluish-gray, well-muscled, sleek, racy hound whose tail wagged back and forth with excitement. Its owner's vibe that animals can sense indicated that I was friendly.

"Yeah, we match."

I could have commented on her eyes, but that seemed too personal, so I chose a softer route to the conversation. "You from around here?"

"Yep. Born and raised. We hike this mountain once a week."

This peak—Black Rock Mountain—was the tallest in this area of the Appalachians in northern Georgia. Living near the Mississippi coast for six weeks, I'd yet to adjust to the altitude, having arrived just the day before. I would probably need a day off to recoup, but with the vigor of her reply, I would gladly hike it once a week just to pick up on the energy she exuded.

"Ah, a Georgia girl."

"Nah. North Carolina. Just six minutes to the border. Born in Franklin, hiker's heaven and a rafter's rendezvous. Have you hiked the trail?"

I had yet to put it all together, what nature's paradise had to offer here. I had read about Nantahala Forest, but I was so consumed with finishing my first book manuscript that my brain was like quicksand, every thought drowning in thick muck.

"Which trail?"

"The AT."

It still didn't register. Possibly brain fog from the bottle of Cab I sipped into the night. Then the image of my favorite coffee cup came to mind. "Ah, the Appalachian Trail."

"Well, I can tell you're not from around here. Most aren't that I meet on the trail. Where ya from."

"Born and raised in Indiana, but my home now is the traveling type. I had slipped into that mountain drawl, not hick like Kentuck, not tight-throated like a Tennessean, but rather the mellow and chill of living in the forest of the mountains. Sold my real estate and bought a fifth-wheel and a diesel to pull' er with. A RAM towing Sanibel."

"That was a bold move. Ya don't look old enough to be retired—unless yer rich and retired early." She gave me a curly one-sided smile.

"Not hardly. Rich, that is. Don't feel old enough to be called 'retired.' I'm still very active in hiking and mountain biking. Still, I've been sittin' for over a month—working on finishing my book manuscript for too long. As if I had to title myself to make my writing sound official. I'm an author."

"What kinda books ya write?"

"Transformational. You won't be the same after reading the story."

"What? Like what sort of transformation?"

"Some of us live in the dark side or have a lot of darkness within. Most of us live in the gray, the shadows where we think our behavior can be hidden. But light penetrates the darkness, and where there is light, there is no darkness at all. Some of us shine our light, the radiance within that people are attracted to."

"Hey, I'm meeting friends at the Trailhead for lunch, so I best be heading down. You still have an hour to the top. We start early. A great coffee shop a block from the Trailhead, mostly a local hangout. We should meet next Wednesday, and I'll show you a magnificent waterfall. Midweek is the best time to hike the popular routes. Sometimes I have it all to myself. Nice talking with ya. How long did you say you're stayin'?"

It took me a bit to digest the change in the direction of our conversation. I was heading into the story to talk about Jeremy, and . . . Did she just invite me to meet her for coffee? Hike together?

"Sure."

"Sure what? That yer stayin'?"

"Sure thing, I'll meet you for coffee and then walk to the waterfall. I have no other plans beyond here, but I'm committed for a month. Staying at Cross Creek in Mountain City."

"At the bottom of the rock. I know the place, right off the highway on the way south out of town. Oh, the waterfall is a tucked-away gem. It doesn't get much traffic; rocky terrain, some scrambling, so wear your hikin' boots."

She strode off, Bluetick scampering to take the lead. She had rounded the bend before I realized I didn't ask what time to meet or the name of the coffee hangout. Guess I'll go exploring this afternoon and check out the town . . . and arrive at the coffee shop at the opening. I wasn't going to miss this opportunity. What did she say her name was? . . .

She didn't.

—

So, I'm meeting a mystery mountain woman at a no-name coffee shop at sunrise. I arrived fifteen minutes after six, the mountain rim on fire with a line of orange etching the forested ridge. I was their first customer and was greeted by a sleepy-looking college-age girl. It's July, so wherever she went to school was not around here, the nearest metro area in Atlanta, an hour southwest. I don't know why I assumed she was collegiate—She looked smart? I just figured that a twenty-something couldn't survive on a barista's wage and tips. Real estate wasn't developed in the area to provide rentals, so she must be living at home.

Here I am profiling people at sunrise before my first cup of coffee. That's what authors do; they make up characters in their minds to brew a story. Develop characters first, then the story. Yeah, there's a story thread that authors weave through their characters, creating scenes like a painter with a palette, brush stroking a background, penciling the structure, then adding the color to make it pop, the stage on which the actors perform.

The barista gave me a peculiar look. Do I have a booger dangling from my nose? I instinctively brushed the tip of my nose with the back of my hand, then realized that it must have looked gross. If I did have a booger on my nose, now it's on the back of my hand. I brushed the top of my hand alongside my hiking shorts, never taking my eyes off hers, daring her to look at my hand to see if there was one.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to stare. You reminded me of someone . . . Yeah, Bruce Willis."

I smiled, thinking of Die Hard, and if I looked that macho, I would have a tail of girls following me up the mountain.

"He looks sooo cute when he smiles," the collegiate girl with a dainty nose ring said.

My ego deflated—macho was far from cute.

"You're not from around here."

Was I wearing a badge that said, "Foreigner"? "Waiting For a Girl Like You" began to play, and my mind tripped back to my college days—a 1981 power ballad that described my romantic life in the now— "I've been looking too hard, I've been waiting too long."

Yes, I had waited too long; the barista girl was younger than my daughter, way younger. Okay, I sucked up my deflated ego and replied, "Hiking the AT," assuming that would suffice for why I didn't appear "local," whatever that looked like.

"Oh. Just passing through. What would you like?" She pointed to the chalkboard behind her that described coffee a dozen ways. She then motioned to the display cabinet of muffins, quiche, and cookies the size of my hand.

"Actually, I'm meeting someone here. We're going to hike to the waterfall."

"Which one?"

"She didn't say."

"What's her name?"

"I didn't ask?"

"When is she meeting you?"

"Don't know."

"Are ya dreamin' dude, or is this chick for real?"

She had a point there. 

"I know, it sounds like a fantasy like I . . . sometimes I don't know what I will find."

"It's only a matter of time."

"Until what?"

"Until she shows up."

"Who."

"The owner."

I was thoroughly confused. I needed some coffee. Maybe I was still sleeping; this conversation seemed surreal.

"Uh, double cappuccino dry."

"What size?"

The dinging of the door's bell broke my concentration, as though determining the volume of coffee I needed took serious thought. “Uh . . .” I was struggling to remember what Starbucks calls a large coffee. "Venti," I blurted out.

"This is Appalachia, not Atlanta. I think you need the largest we've got."

"Yeah. Top it off with lots of froth. I need it wet."

A lick on the back of my hand startled me, and I looked down to see blue-tick. There must have been a booger there. I noticed movement at the end of the bakery display. Looking up, mountain woman reached in to pull out a muffin. She hadn't seen me. While the espresso machine dispensed and the barista frothed, the mountain woman slid the slice into the micro. She seemed absorbed in thought. The micro dinged, and she removed the muffin and walked into a small office off to the side.

"Hey, Savannah. I'm meeting some young dude for a waterfall climb this morning. Don't know if or when he'll show. Hope he does. An Indiana boy. Eyes as blue as mine. Ha ha! And he noticed Frankie's first!"

I took this in as Savannah finished topping my espresso with creamy foam. Young. Boy. Frankie. She must be referring to Sinatra. Young and old are relative terms that compare yourself to someone else.

"Well, Melanie, I have Die Hard standing right here in front of me."

—