Bittersweet Farm

Bittersweet Farm

Johnny Cash and June Carter-Cash

Filed Under: Current Thoughts

This sketch of Johnny Cash is by Brian Falk

Music Appreciation 101

How do you feel about the music of Johnny Cash? I never got it. It always puzzled me that he became so popular and successful without always singing on-key. He even talked on records some. Growing up we never listened to country music, southern gospel music, or bluegrass music in our home. My parents encouraged me to spend a lot of time and money to learn to sing with vibrato and get every hint of nasal tones out of my singing voice. In Bluegrass singing nasal tones are preferred and vibrato is verboten. So there was no Bluegrass on my playlist.

Then I met Lois. She was born in Kentucky. Soon I followed her way back into the mountains and met her people. In that hilly land I was exposed to Bill Monroe and a world of wonderful music that has it’s roots in the Bluegrass State. Bluegrass has a way of growing on you. If you haven’t discovered Ricky Skaggs and Kentucky Thunder you are in for a world of enlightenment and enjoyment. Still I didn’t get Johnny Cash. I had no appreciation for him until the Knox County Fair.

Johnny and his wife, June Carter Cash came to the Knox County Fair. For the simple price of admission we could now enjoy a cultural enlightenment. Lois insisted that we go hear them. The moment they took the stage I understood the appeal of Johnny Cash and his lively wife. They were bursting with life and wired to entertain. Their personal charisma was obvious. I think there was something more, too. Though they had both made painful mistakes in their past, God had done and deep and merciful work in their lives and they were devoted to making him known. The memory of Johnny’s music and June’s antics on the stage that night linger.

A New Friend

Last week I spoke in Nashville for a couple days. I met a delightful elderly lady there. She was a petite woman about five feet tall with long, strait gray hair down to her waist. She reminded me of June Carter Cash. She was just full of life and energy and funny. Every time I saw her said the same thing: “Remember Jesus was the happiest man on earth.”

Every time she said that I said; “You are right. The Bible says Jesus was; “…anointed with the oil of gladness above all of his companions.”

When you are filled with him you are filled with joy, not matter how much sadness and hurt and guilt and shame filled your life before. To be filled with Christ is to be filled with gladness.

Worthwhile Stuff!

Filed Under: Current Thoughts, Discernment, Village Parson

Our good brothers over at Detroit Baptist Theological Seminary are blogging as a team. Good stuff. When you get a chance surf over to learn and dialog. There is an active comment stream.

Dave Doran has had a worthwhile blog for a while, but this is a team-effort with open comments. Pastor Doran also contributes to this blog. I hope they keep it up. Students, like us need Scholars like them. Thanks, DBTS for this service to us.

The Perfect Summer

Filed Under: What I'm Reading

Edgar DeWitt Jones.gif

Edgar DeWitt Jones

Edgar DeWitt Jones caught my attention from the opening paragraph of his book, The Royalty of the Pulpit.

“I shall long remember the summer of 1948 at Pentwater Michigan, where I summered with my family. To be sure, one cannot easily forget the wonder of “the million-dollar sunsets” that we were privileged to see from our cottage daily, nor the whispering of the wind in the pine trees that nightly soothed us to sleep; but the circumstance that made this particular summer so unforgettable was the fact that I took sixty-seven volumes of the Lyman Beecher Lectures on Preaching with me and read them, every one, in preparation for this book.”

I’ve been to Pentwater. It’s a lovely little West Coast of Michigan town. Mr. Jones and his family summered in beautiful Pentwater Michigan on Snug Harbor almost sixty years ago. They walked the dog in the evening. They watched sunsets over Lake Michigan. They lay still at night and listened to the wind in the pines. In that context Mr. Jones read over sixty-books on preaching. Each book contained a set of annual lectures on preaching given at Yale. Then he wrote The Royalty of the Pulpit.

What is your idea of the ideal way to spend a summer or a part of a summer? I have an active imagination so I can think of almost unlimited ways. I could hike Pictured Rocks or Isle Royal with my sons and take in wide views of Lake Superior. I could tour Scotland and relive the stories of the brave Covenanters. I could take my daughters to Prince Edward Island. I could bike around Mackinac Island in the company of my wife. These, of course, assume that I have unlimited time and financial resources. When I think of good ways to spend a summer it is hard for me to imagine a way to improve on the way Mr. Jones spent the summer of 1948.

Now you know a little something more about me.

Payday

Filed Under: Faith and Family

Scene One: Early April.

In a little town in the Midwest. It doesn’t matter where. A young man hits fly balls to a couple boys in a field out behind the house. The field is littered with baseballs.

The sky is slate gray and spitting snow. The wind is cold. Determination is etched in the features of the young man. This is not the first time the boys have come here with their dad. They have been here every day for weeks. The young man hits the ball in the air and calls out 37. He hits another ball and calls out 37. Over and over again he tosses a ball in the air and hits it to one of the boys calling out a number every time.

Halfway between the boys and their dad and little girl in mittens picks up the balls the boys have thrown in and relays them to her Dad. He keeps hitting and the boys keep catching until each of them has caught 100 fly balls. While they gather the balls the back door of the house opens and their mother calls them in for supper.

They will be back again tomorrow and every day Monday through Saturday for weeks. They will not miss a single day.

Scene Two: Late in June.

It’s evening in the park and lovers stroll by the lagoon. Fireflies will begin to flicker over the grass within an hour. The sun is low in the sky and their air is cool.

Lights come on over the baseball diamond. The game is down to the final out. Families are all gathered around. Grandmas in lawn chairs. Moms talking to each other. Dad’s pacing the fence calling out advice.

At the crack of the bat everyone looks to see the ball arch out to right field. Beneath, on the outfield grass a boy turns and runs back three steps to his left. He settles under the ball. He pats his glove. He looks into the air raises his glove. With a “spat” the ball lodges in the glove. He jogs in. The game is over.

His dad tousles his hair and puts his arm around his shoulder. They walk slowly toward the car. There is a light in the boy’s eyes and a smile is on his face. The game ball is tucked away in his glove and in his heart is tucked away a memory of hard earned success. Payday for a lot of hard work. It will be the first of many.

Baseball Shoes

Filed Under: Faith and Family, Fireside Academy

In the spring of the year my heart goes to baseball like a needle points north. I can almost smell the leather of the baseball glove, I can hear the crack of the bat, and I can feel the laces on the ball. The outfield takes on the emerald green of spring and little boys begin to sleep with their ball gloves under their pillow.

When we lived in Ohio we spent ten years building a church. They were wonderful times but they were lean. We did family things that didn’t cost much. We made use of the public library—an unusually good one in a little village called Chesterville. The boys played baseball. The whole family watched every game. It was free.

One spring the boys were both eager to play baseball but they were growing out of their clothes before they were wearing them out. They didn’t have baseball shoes and we couldn’t afford them. They were embarrassed and didn’t feel like they could play well in tennis shoes.

I told them that we just couldn’t afford cleats in time for baseball season.

I said, “When I was your age I never had cleats. I played in tennis shoes. Had a great time.”

They reminded me that I had told them that I was really not that good at baseball and maybe if I had had cleats it would have helped.

“Boys,” I said, “If you want baseball shoes you are going to have to pray for them. We just don’t have the money. The Lord can give you baseball shoes if He wants you to have them.”

That night when they were ready for bed they knelt to pray. We asked the Lord to supply baseball shoes in time for opening day. We prayed for many nights in the row.

Just a few days before the opening of the season a parcel came from Aunt Jean in Kentucky. She was faithful to send used clothes three for four times a year or more. Once in a while she would put some candy in the top of the box so the children were always eager dig into the box when at arrived.

This time they got a surprise. There was no candy in the box, but there were two pair of name-brand, lightly-used baseball cleats and both pair perfectly fit the boys’ feet. Aunt Jean did not know they were praying. She did not take time to measure the shoes. I think she had special help that day picking out those shoes.

I cherish a picture of the boys standing out in the front yard in their baseball uniforms with their ball gloves, wearing baseball shoes sent directly from God. Those boys are all grown up now and they both have dedicated their lives to helping people get to know the God who answers the prayers of little boys. Both of them are pastors today.

Ken Pierpont
Granville Cottage
Riverview, Michigan
March 22, 2010

My First Ball Glove

Filed Under: Circuit-Riding, Faith and Family

A classic re-post from 2002

Every time we pass the Meijer Department Store on 28th Street in Grand Rapids I say; “That’s where I got my first ball glove.” And the family groans. Sometimes I don’t think they appreciate tradition like I do.

I get to Grand Rapids about three to five times a month to make hospital calls. A couple of times on a spring day I’ve gone out of my way to Francis Street to drive slow past a house where we used to live. It was the house we lived in when Dad was in Vietnam. The people who live there now have widened the driveway I used to shovel for a dime. The new driveway is over a little strip of grass where my Dad taught we to catch a baseball on a gentle evening years ago.

My dad was busy. He was a seminary student and worked at a grocery. He was not yet thirty. One spring evening he said; “You need your own ball glove.” We got in the car and drove to Meijer’s Thrifty Acres. I remember it well, because the roof line of the building forms an arch.

We walked back the aisles and chose a nice leather glove. Inside the palm the price was written with a marker pen. “5.95” On the way home Dad gave me a little talk about caring for the glove and breaking it in. He is a frugal man who takes care of things. He said; “If you take care of a good ball glove like that one, it wall last you for years. Some people have one ball glove all their life.” I took care of it and kept it for at least twenty-five years. It never wore out. Dad never had to buy me another glove.

After dinner my Mom and sister did the dishes and Dad and I went out beside the driveway on a little strip of grass under a Maple, and it was there he taught me to catch a baseball. I was an eager student and I will never be able to explain it but there is something about the exchange of a baseball between a father and son. I can still hear his instruction and encouragement. Sometimes he would get a little frustrated because I could not make the ball go where I wanted it to go. To encourage care, he sometimes had me chase the ball.

“Use your meat hand, son. Don’t throw wild. Take your time with the throw. Aim for the glove. O.K. you run for that one, buddy. Watch for cars, now. There you go. Try again. Nice throw. That one was almost too hot to handle.”

Back and forth in a low arch the ball passes. Pop, pop. Pop, pop. Pop, pop. “Use your backhand, now. There you go. Good catch. You’re getting the hang now.”

The sun got low in the sky and when we couldn’t see to throw any more. I went in and got ready for bed. We prayed and I put my new ball glove under my pillow. I put it under there because my dad bought it for me and I didn’t want to lose it. I thought it might help break it in and I liked the smell of the leather.

It was a great ball glove. I used it all through Little League, and even for softball in college. It must have been one of the best investments my Dad ever made. How can you put a price tag on a memory like standing under the shade of a leafy Maple on a summer evening and listening to the pop of the glove and smelling cut grass and leather and lilac all mixed together. I would still have it today, but somehow it was misplaced and lost. I think it got mixed in with some clothes that were taken to the Goodwill. I like to imagine it’s under some little fella’s pillow tonight — but then I have an imagination as wild as my throwing arm.

Sometimes the wisest investment of time is to put down the paper and pick up your ball glove or get out your bike. Maybe years from now your child will drive down your street and her heart will be flooded with sweet memories of times you spent together.

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