Cybercolumn By John Duncan: Thinking of Carolina
Posted: 9/15/06
CYBER COLUMN:
Thinking of Carolina
By John Duncan
I’m sitting here under the old oak tree, thinking of the mountains of North Carolina. My family roots are there from way back, and I just went to visit two aunts in their eighties. I love the mountains and North Carolina, and on some days I may suddenly break out in song, James Taylor’s Carolina in My Mind.
Today I have Carolina in my mind. My grandfather served as a foreman in the mining industry. I imagine the business is much today like it was, with dump trucks and tractors with huge front end loaders and conveyor belts and blasting techniques, with dynamite and guys wearing hard hats and taking lunches to work in steel pales, and dust, grit and grime. My grandfather, best I can tell, was a man of the earth. He also lived as a man of heaven: Sunday school superintendent at Pine Branch Baptist Church in Spruce Pine, N.C.
| John Duncan |
My grandmother, Ruth, passed away on July 7, 1997. Her middle name was Easter, and if your middle name is Easter, because she was born on Easter in 1904, then you can pretty well decide that she was a spiritual person. She drank of Christ’s living water and began drinking it, like most of us do, early on. Legend has it that her mother, Ibbie Wilson, prayed every night in a house with the window open while the curtains blew in the cool mountain breeze. I never met her, but my great-grandmother prayed the devil out of things. From all I can tell, she took the Apostle Paul’s admonition to pray without ceasing seriously.
Alfred Lord Tennyson once wrote about prayer: “I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn and sob, battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer, have mercy, Lord and take away my sin.” They say Ibbie Wilson prayed by the window, and you could hear her praying in the meadow below. She battered heaven with storms of prayer. I pray you have some dear soul in your life who prays and one dear soul who prays for you.
On my recent trip to North Carolina, I visited Pine Branch Baptist Church and its adjoining graveyard, a place where the relatives of yesterday have been given a place of rest.
I love the church, not just Pine Branch, but any church where the cross is lifted up and Jesus is glorified. Eugene Peterson once commented that what he liked about church was “the mess,” a conglomeration of people serving Christ that only Christ could make clean. Barbara Brown Taylor says the church, people, “need each other, to save us from self-righteousness,” and “we also need each other to keep us in shape for God.” We cannot go at it alone! We need God and each other. Frederick Buechner says the “visible church is all the people who get together from time to time in God’s name.” I think church is the body of Christ, alive, vibrant, human, divine, messy and clean all at the same time. Christ and his name form the common bond. Christ is the super glue.
I picture that mountain church like the church used to be, the center of God’s work, the center of the action, the focus of the gathering of people, the ones who smoked on the steps before church and the little babies who cried when the preacher screamed and the teenagers passing notes and shooting spit wads on the back row and the saints praying and amening and shouting and singing Amazing Grace and Give Me that Old Time Religion and Kum Ba Yah. I know church used to be where the community gathered and prayed and laughed over fried chicken and homemade biscuits and mashed potatoes and corn and green beans out of the garden on the annual church homecoming picnic while the children played. Problem is, that’s all changed, the Internet and all and Palm pilots and day planners and busy schedules and restaurants open on Sunday and cable TV and people working on Sundays to make a living and people finding rest in the graveyard near the front door of the church and mobility, and things aren’t the way they used to be anyway. Life changes, and I am not saying it is bad thing because, I must admit, I do like my iPod and I like to eat out on Sunday after church, but it’s just the way things go sometimes.
Oh, as I was saying, there was a time when the church used to be the center of community and God, for that matter, but now it’s the workplace and money at the center of most communities.
With Carolina in my mind, that red-brick mountain church and manicured graveyard brought back memories—of Preacher Joe Pitmann, who foamed at the mouth when he spoke, took long gasping breaths, and yelled when he preached the word of God because it’s the only way he knew to preach and yet people still talk about him like he’s a saint because he loved his flock like kids love candy; of Adam Duncan, who led the music one arm at a time and checked on our relatives and took them popcorn some nights and opened the church and closed it for years, so much so that when he died of cancer it left a big hole in the church; of other relatives and folks, too, people you called aunt and uncle even if you never knew how you were related to them. Then there was “Uncle” Faye.
I should tell you Faye was not really my uncle. Nor was Faye my aunt. She was a relative, for sure, and a woman who always came to visit when we arrived in the mountains. She had a dog, liked to sit on her porch and watch the TV with the volume on “loud” and talked of prayer and had this unique ability to blow on the wounds of life. Once I skinned my knee playing baseball or jumping over the boxwood bushes in the front yard of the house my grandfather built in the ’30s, I am not really sure. I cried. I moaned. I held my knee. I sat on the porch, and Faye calmed me and blew on the wound. If I were preaching, it makes for a great illustration, you know, something like “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people” from Isaiah 40:1 or Hebrews 4:12, where it says that Jesus is our high priest whom we can trust and call on to find grace and mercy just in the nick of time. If I were preaching, I would tell that story of my Uncle Faye, who was not really my uncle and say that Jesus is like that; he blows on the wound and soothes our broken hearts. He heals. But since I am not preaching, I must tell you that my Uncle Faye could blow on a wound and heal like no nobody’s business. You are fortunate if you have a healer who blows on the wounds of your life. And you are blessed beyond measure if you let Jesus blow on the wounds of your life, too.
So here I am under the old oak tree. The space shuttle has launched. Scientists talk about an explosion of light. The Friday night lights, Texas football on Friday nights, has started up again, the parents cheering, the teenagers hanging out, and stars being born on fields of green. Church is in full swing. Fall is in the air. And Carolina is in my mind. And Jesus, well, he has you on his mind.
John Duncan is pastor of Lakeside Baptist Church in Granbury, Texas, and the writer of numerous articles in various journals and magazines. You can respond to his column by e-mailing him at jduncan@lakesidebc.org.








