An Ode to August

You are the grass stained month
Covered in faded greens and sleepy blues
I find you yawning on my porch
To share your melancholy hues
 
Your humidity blankets the rolling hills
But I forgive your oppressive memory
When your whispered wind chills
And kisses the sky with honey
 
Gone are the honeysuckle walks of June
And the firefly nights of mid-July
But here you are with a blue moon
And grass stains on your thigh
 
Nestled between the solstice
And the sunlight from my childhood
You yield your breath to the equinox
Know I would keep you if I could
 
Instead I sit with you as your colors wane
Full of warmth and stormy days
You leave as quickly as you came
And take with you the sun's dying rays

Travel Journal: August 15 - Buery, West Virginia

We hiked to the ruins of Beury, an apt name for such an old, dead town. The town was established in the 1870s as a mining camp for the nearby Echo Mine, but it was abandoned by 1925. We could’ve hiked along the railroad tracks from Thurmond to get there but decided to take a “shortcut” instead. Our original idea was to drive up a rutted gravel road then hike down to Beury along the power lines. Nature had other plans. She had reclaimed the clearing of the power lines with brambles and nettle. Instead, we found a loose semblance of a trail and bushwhacked our way down the mountain. 

The trees revealed the season, their green leaves faded with the summer that has meandered through the mountains. Morning rain turned the West Virginia woods into a jungle of bugs and humidity. We scrambled along deer trails and weaving roads long reclaimed by nature. Had it not been for the flatness of the abandoned road or railway, we never would have seen it in the otherwise steep hillside. 

Finally, after 2 miles and 900 feet of elevation loss, we slid our way down shale and rocks to the ruins of Buery. The roofless company store rose amid the ivy to be the most noticeable structure. An old double fireplace and stone archway were hidden next to a long, moss-covered retaining wall. 

“We’re standing in somebody’s living room,” whispered Daniel as we investigated the ruins. This place was a home, a town. People inhabited these structures, now only haunted by ghosts and ivy. 

Further buried in the hills were two chimneys and a cracked stone floor. At least 100 years old, I thought, now strewn among the creek bed. The fireplace openings were raised at least 8 feet above the creek, indicating the building actually sat above the water. I've now learned this was the remainder of a 23 room mansion, a luxury in this old coal town.

 
We sat at the fireplace, eating our snacks where a family could have broken bread a century ago. A train grinded past on the rails below us, its low rumble sounding like it had broken free of the mountain itself, a sound that would have been a familiar fixture to life in the West Virginia hills as trains transported tons of coal along the River to bigger cities. 

As the sun started to cast long shadows through the leaves of the thick canopy, we decided to begin the journey to our car. Before we left, an unstable rock fell from the crumbling chimneys and hit me. With a hurt wrist and ankle, the flat journey along the railroad tracks back to Thurmond was much less daunting than climbing straight uphill over moss covered rocks. 

Two and a half miles along the tracks we walked, looking like everything a scene from Stand By Me. Another train rolled by, this time full of oil instead of coal. Its whistle echoed through the valley long after the engine was gone. Finally we found ourselves back in Thurmond, another abandoned coal town but in much better shape than the ruins of Buery. 

Trip Summary
A trip to Buery is worth the 2.5 mile trek along the tracks, especially if you can make it on a bicycle. There is room to ride or walk beside the tracks rather than on them. After our long, difficult slide down the mountain, I would not recommend our shortcut.

Park in Thurmond (Google maps should get you there safely, but cell service is limited). Walk along the tracks toward the northwest side of town. After about 2.5 miles, there will be a small opening in the brambles. You should be able to see the stone ruins of the company store from the tracks. The house with the double fireplace will sit behind the company store, up and to the left. From the stone archway, walk toward the creek (directly to the left if you’re looking at the fireplace with your back to the tracks) to find the remains of the mansion that sits above the creek. Metal pales and other small treasures lie scattered about if you look for them. There is a sign that says no artifact hunting, so please be respectful of the area’s heritage. 

Memories Taste like Honey in Coffee

I cannot imagine growing up in the city, all concrete and bricks. I come from a place where the people grow old the same way the shadows grow long: slowly, so that you don’t realize the season has changed until the nights grow cold. Here, melancholy drips from rooftops like icicles melting in the springtime. Memories taste like honey in coffee, bittersweet. Nighttime is quiet, save for the sound of a lonesome train whistle echoing off the hills. 

Places like this make it easy to be a writer. Stories flow from the creek beds and from the veins of the people. These stories remind me not to lose myself to the sunrises and sunsets. These stories remind me there is a beautiful in-between to the rising and falling of the sun. It is in the in-betweens where life is lived and memories are forged. Like the hollers between the mountains, it is in the in-betweens where you learn your lessons.

Each season has an in-between. We fail to notice them most times. There are September days where the sun shines warm, but the air carries the scent of autumn on the wind. Leaves cling to the trees in November, but the nights grow colder. In March, green grass tentatively pokes through snow long residing on the mountainside. May brings thunderstorms to new flowers. These moments in-between bring patience, contentedness, and growth. Although the grass poking through ice promises warmth, we must be content in the present cold. If we wish for each season to be the next one, we cease to enjoy the present one for what it is.

I am not sure if this is wisdom or melancholy. Sometimes I cannot tell a difference. Reading through some of my old scribblings, I am nearly drowning in nostalgia. I attribute my constant state of melancholy to my West Virginia heritage, but I am not sure that is solely the culprit. I lost two of my grandparents at a fairly young age. My grandpa, my Best Buddy, as I called him, died when I was only six. Most people have few memories at that age, but I remember Best Buddy so vividly sometimes, I feel like he is actually here. When I came home from school, he would have a tub of cheeseballs waiting on me. He told me the Cheeseball Truck ran that day. During thunderstorms, I still hear his voice telling me thunder is only taters falling out of a wheelbarrow. 

I learned what death was at an early age when I lost him. Earlier than I would have liked. I remember sobbing at his funeral. Any time the preacher would say his name, I would cry even harder. I still cry at night sometimes, missing him, 17 years later. He was only here for one-eighth of my life. That number shrinks with each passing year. Even at six, I knew the memories I had of him were important. Maybe I view them through rose-colored glasses, but that does not negate their importance. I learned what it was like to love someone deeply, to expect to see them every day, to learn about the Cheeseball Truck from them, and then to have all of that cease abruptly. All of this at six years old. That’s when melancholy began to seep into my bones. That’s when I learned it is not the beginning and the end that matter, but the in-betweens. Rather than wishing for the storm to pass, Best Buddy taught me to enjoy the sound of taters falling out of a wheelbarrow. 

My memories taste like honey in coffee. 

Patchwork Heart

We all have our memories. One of my best friends in life says our memories are our soul.  I think he is right.  Our experiences shape who we are, right to our very core.  A soul is not a static place, but a dynamic idea that shifts all the time. One thing I have learned is you leave pieces of yourself everywhere you go.  Every place I have set foot has a piece of my soul.  What’s more, every person I connect with has a little part of my heart.  I have strings from my soul to people and places all over the world.  That’s what life is - breaking yourself down so you can replace the empty pieces with bigger things, new ideas, different cultures, and most importantly, the love of others. If we don’t let pieces of ourselves get lost along the way, new pieces cannot find their way to us. Your soul is a patchwork quilt, a new bit sewn together each day.

The Lord is the ultimate healer and protector of my soul, but a beautiful thing about Him is He created us to build relationships. He Himself is a triune, three people in one, so He created us in His image to love and interact with others. Thus, I believe each soul is a patchwork heart. Pieces of others’ lives are stitched into our hearts, which is sometimes frayed and imperfect, but beautiful in its own right. The Lord created you with His tender hands, leaving room for growth and new life in Him. He will mend the frayed edges and revive the faded colors. Patchwork quilts are woven with care, well-loved by others because each piece tells a story. I know, at least in West Virginia, these quilts are cherished for generations, passed down through gentle and loving hands. Cherish your heart like this. 

You may give some patches of yourself to others, sharing memories and experiences with them before you realize what is happening. In the best situations, they return the favor, adding more quilt squares to your soul than you ever thought possible. Sometimes people take beautiful parts of you and trash them, tearing your seams for no good reason. When this brokenness threatens to overtake you, seek the ultimate Mender and those people who help shape you into the beautiful soul you are. You will return to the beloved person you were created to be. 

Realize your soul a beautiful heritage, telling stories of those who have come before you and those you have met along your journey. The bright colors mingled among the dark hues of hard times are the unique patchwork that makes you who you are. Know the warmth hidden in your depths can be a comfort to those surrounding you. Even the frayed edges caused by those experiences that left you a little worse for wear bring character to your soul. Others can see those holes and know you struggled through something, but are still the colorful comfort they find on cold winter nights. Your soul is as unique as these quilts. Do not worry too much about your frayed edges. Live your life gathering and giving as many colors and patterns as possible.

Omnes Domum Reduent

Everyone Returns Home.  That's what the title means in Latin.

I have been very aware of the notion of home lately.  I have blogs written about leaving your comfort zone and having the courage to walk away from home.  Now I want to focus on the joy that is home.

You know the simplicity of childhood?  How lovely it was that your only worry was how to make your blanket fort bigger? That’s the feeling I experience with Jesus.  When I truly rest in His presence and His grace, my worries just disappear.  It is not a complicated love.  It is a love like childhood - a love of innocence, of purity, of laughter, of joy, of ice cream on the porch.  People try to make religion a complicated institution, when in reality, it is a simple relationship with Jesus Christ.  He loves you like his child.  He wraps you in his arms, twirling your hair with his nail scarred hands. 

My favorite story in the Bible is the homecoming of the prodigal son.  The son decides he wants an extravagant life, but it ends up leading him to squalor.  He comes home, yearning for the simple life he once knew, even if it means being a servant.  But when he comes home, his father greets him with open arms.  His father doesn’t care what he has done, he simply wants to love and take care of him again.  This paints a beautiful picture of our Heavenly Father.  He does not see our miserable selves, but an innocent child who needs love. We run away from Him, from our true home, to see what the world can offer us.  We eventually realize nothing can beat the comfort of home.  We come running back to find our Father on the front porch, arms wide open.  Nothing is sweeter.

In a literal sense, this is how I feel coming home from school.  I can feel the worries of the world leave me as I walk through my front door.  More often than not, I come home and fall asleep on the couch because I do not have to worry about anything.  I am safe and warm with the people I love most.  That is what the simple love of Jesus gives us - a home.

I am not saying the entire life of a Christian is easy or comfortable.  But I am saying the gentle call of the Lord whispering, “Come home, daughter, just come home, and let me love you” makes it all worth it.

Country Roads Always Lead Home

As I sit on my back porch in the heart of the Appalachian mountains, I can't help but be thankful for my West Virginia heritage.  I have written numerous papers and blogs about my love for the mountain state.  Today, on Mountain Mama's birthday, I continue to fall in love with this state.  Honestly, I think if everyone had a little bit of West Virginia in their blood, the world would be a better place.

In West Virginia, we swing life away on porches.  We chat with our neighbors for hours and share a glass of lemonade with strangers.  Summer days are spent barefoot in the creek chasing the shadows and minnows in the cool water.  Summer evenings are best enjoyed making lanterns with lightning bugs caught under the moon.  Autumn strolls by on ball fields and campfires.  The hills are ignited in color, creating an aroma of melancholy and beauty unmatched by anything else.  Winter wriggles into our lungs as the boney fingers of trees are covered in a blanket of pure white snow.  Giggles intertwine with the steam of hot chocolate shared after a day of tracing our way down hills on sleds. Spring reminds us of the grace of God as the hills come alive in a cacophony of bird songs and redbuds.  We all catch spring fever and once again spend our days barefoot in the grass, even if there's still a little snow in the shady places.

We all need more West Virginia in our blood.  Our heritage is hard work and family.  This state was formed straight from the mountains, where we foster love and hospitality.  The road has not always been easy for us.  We are still made fun of for our backwards ways and bare feet.  But every time someone sneers at me when I reply "West Virginia" to their question of where I am from, I smile because I know the secrets of the mountains.  I know the values fostered in this state, which they may never experience.

Maybe our secret is barefoot days and lightning bug nights.  Maybe it is the beauty we have always found in the simple things.  Maybe it is our value of God and family (and here, everyone is family).  Grass stains and muddy toes are not a burden to us, but a reminder of a day well spent.  Conversations are not an inconvenience, but a blessing that intertwines all our stories.  Food is not just a necessity to our health because a meal of beans and taters shared with the ones you love is laughter and prayers cherished for a lifetime.  The world would be a better place if we all made those things our priorities.

There's something about this place that makes it home to everyone, not just the ones born here.  When you breathe in the mountain air, it finds its way deep into your bones and refuses to leave.  Always remember where you're from.  Cherish your accent because there is a culture all its own in y'alls and hollers.  Even if you move away, find a creek and take off your shoes.  West Virginia is the perfect mixture of mountains, love, and simplicity.  So happy birthday, Mountain Mama. You are the closest to heaven we will get on this side of eternity. I am blessed to always call you home.

An Apology

In a time of political turmoil, there are so many blogs and "open letters" of various kinds with the writer's opinion on a certain matter.  There are so many arguments out there, I have a hard time keeping them straight.  I honestly am on the fence about so many issues that I am not even going to attempt to address any of these things.  There is nothing in the Bible about whether we should support Bernie or Trump, or boycott stores because of a bathroom policy.  There are two things, though, that the Bible clearly states.  These two things are what I am clinging to in the time of political upheaval in our country.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.  The second is this: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.  There is no other commandment greater than these." - Mark 12:30-31

Could Jesus be any more clear?  He specifically and radically calls us to do one thing: love.  First, love God, because He is the ultimate Creator and is worthy of our love.  Additionally, when you love Christ, it is easier to love others.  When you realize we are all equally cherished and desired by the God who hung the moon, loving others seems a natural response.  If he can love me in my wretchedness, I can certainly love others in theirs.

I understand both sides of nearly every controversy out there, or I at least try to.  I also try to look at these issues through a Biblical lense.  There usually isn't a clear cut path in the scriptures regarding who I should vote for or what store I should support.  But every time I look in the Bible, Jesus clearly states our need to love those around us.

As believers, this is our doorway into showing other the love of Christ, which is so much greater than anything the world can give them.   God does not need our help judging anyone - He's got that covered.  He calls us out of our comfort to love and be His body on earth.  To me, it seems rather difficult for a non-believer to draw Christ's love out of all the slander thrown their direction.  I hold tight to these verses because there is no greater feeling than love.  That is what we all strive for on this earth, but instead, we are surrounded by hatred and negativity.

I am not saying one view is more right than the other.  I am also not degrading the fact that everyone has an opinion.  I am just saying that there are a lot better things to do with our short lives than to hate on other people.  Christ calls us to love on others so the world may see Him.

If you are reading this as a person who does not believe in a god, or Jesus, please know that I love you.  I may not agree with everything you do, but I love you just the same.  More than that, though, Jesus does.  You may have experienced hatred from people who claim the name of Christ, and for that I am deeply sorry.  I just want you to know that there is a God who loves you more than you can imagine.