Terry L. Harmon | Updates

TWENTY YEARS GONE (9/8/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Tue, 08 Sep 2026 00:48:38 -0400

Today marks the 20th anniversary of the death of my father – the man I am frequently told I look like…a chip off the old block, as the saying goes. He and I were the same height and had the same shoe size. I turned prematurely gray as he did. I have his scrawny legs and flat feet and am developing his pot belly. While I did not inherit the athleticism he possessed in his younger days, I believe that whatever degrees of creativity, artistry, musicality, and wit I have are results of his share of my DNA.

Daddy died on a Friday morning, five days after announcing to our family that he wanted to stop the kidney dialysis that had kept him alive for four years.

Simply put, Daddy was tired.

He had finished his 30-year teaching career at the age of 52. A few years prior, he had begun having heart problems, and two years post-retirement, he suffered a major heart attack necessitating a quadruple bypass. This was followed by an infection that required the large incision running down his sternum to be reopened, irrigated, and treated over a number of weeks. As the antibiotics took effect, his partially opened chest, little by little, was laced back together until the incision was once more closed and healed.

Later that year, Daddy began having difficulty breathing and was airlifted to a hospital, where he was diagnosed with Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome. Near death, he was placed in the intensive care unit, where he remained for the longest time, but by God’s grace, he ultimately pulled through.

Nearly ten years later, Daddy’s diabetic condition, which had been diagnosed in his late 30s, worsened. Insulin, neuropathy, and impaired eyesight followed. In 2002, his kidneys failed to the point of requiring dialysis. Impaired mobilty led to use of a cane and, ultimately, confinement to a wheelchair.

By early 2006, he began experiencing complications of end stage renal disease. Next came calcified blood vessels, followed by open wounds, infected blisters, and dead skin tissue that led to a wound vacuum, debridements, and partial amputations.

Most of his physicians agreed his life expectancy would not be long, and due to the extensive care he would require, his nephrologist recommended he be sent to a nursing home. But my precious mother was determined to take him home and do her best to care for him there, just as she had on prior occasions. And, indeed, she did it with excellence. In true Proverbs 31 fashion, Daddy’s heart safely trusted in Mama, and she did him good all the days of his life.

By this time, Daddy’s heart bypasses were more than a decade old and beyond the point of his ability to withstand a surgery to replace them. Doctors felt that the healing required by his lower extremities was placing undue stress on his upper body and recommended complete amputation of his feet and legs. Discouraged by this and his poor quality of life, including his inability to walk, his loss of appetite, and the pain he was experiencing, Daddy made his decision.

He was really, really tired.

In light of all of his complications, his nephrologist did not expect him to live more than three to five days. Following Daddy’s announcement of his decision, he was alert for the first couple of those days. Alert enough to discuss his final arrangements and to send me to the cemetery to choose his resting place. Less than a week later, the flowers in the photo accompanying this post would be laid atop his grave.

He slept most of Wednesday in the hospital bed that had been placed in my parents' den, but he rallied that evening. He slept all of Thursday, and when his breathing changed that night, Hospice was called in. The nurse predicted he would pass between 10 AM and 4 PM on Friday. Shortly before 8 AM, he opened his eyes and looked at my mother, his wife for nearly half a century. In a comforting tone, she told him he would be alright soon. After a few last breaths, he took his leave.

I was in my early 40s when Daddy died in his late 60s. I am now in my 60s, and there is something about being close to the age my father was when he passed that gives me sober and reflective pause. In my self-interested opinion, Daddy died way too soon, and I would have treasured more years with him. Still, I am thankful for the ones I had. I realize there are many people who have had less time with their fathers; some never even knew theirs. And so, I am blessed. Still, as with the passing of any loved one, it seems time is never enough.

But for more than a decade, Daddy had a rough go of it, and he was was exhausted.

So, from that perspective, I was and continue to be glad for his deliverance from all his bodily ailments. And the Good Lord, in His immense wisdom and in keeping with His perfect will and timing, knows best, and I trust Him, even in the loss and the grief.

Twenty years are gone, but not for one of those has my father been forgotten.

Rest, Daddy.

Rest in peace.

]]>

A LIFETIME OF DOLLY (8/25/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Sun, 30 Aug 2026 22:32:14 -0400

In the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Into each life some rain must fall.” We’ve certainly had our share of literal rain this past month, but today’s figurative rain came in the form of a text from a friend letting me know that Dolly Parton had died. Somewhat in disbelief, I fact-checked it online and quickly saw the many headlines confirming it. Even though I knew she was 80, it seemed she would be around forever.

It’s hard to articulate why such news seems so personal, but I think most of us who have known of Dolly and have been entertained by her over the decades can relate. I never met or personally knew her, but I feel as if I did. Maybe that's due, in part, to her seeming like one of my people. After all, she was from East Tennessee, just “across the mountain” from us here in western North Carolina. But it's largely due to the fact that I've never known life without her. She was already in show business nearly a decade before I was born. I’m now 61, and she was in the public eye all 61 of those years.

On some level, the entire nation…maybe the whole world…has been affected by Dolly’s passing. I liken it to the death of Elvis Presley forty-nine years ago this month. I didn’t quite understand all the grieving at that time, but I was only twelve years old when Elvis died, and he had not had a major impact on my life. But Dolly…. Now that’s a different story.

My first memory of her is seeing her perform on TV as part of the Porter Wagoner Show. I can recall being in my maternal grandparents’ living room and watching her, along with Porter and Speck Rhodes. My family still talks about my grandpa hollering to my grandma, saying, “Dolly’s on!” And then there were the Porter and Dolly commercials advertising laundry detergent that offered free bath towels as a bonus.

Later, I watched Dolly’s own 1970s TV show, and I was excited when she made “9 to 5” in 1980. I attended the movie as soon as it hit our local theater. Dolly was the main draw for me, and like others, I was interested in seeing how she would transition to the big screen. I watched her 1983 HBO London special more than once, and I went to see her in concert with Kenny Rogers on the heels of their “Islands in the Stream” duet. Sadly, Dolly had to cancel, but I finally saw her in concert in 2004. That’s where I walked up to the stage and took the photo that accompanies this post.

I’ve always loved watching interviews with Dolly and getting a sense of her warmth, humor, sincerity, kindness, and “down-to-earthness.” Behind the glitz and glam and extreme success, she remained grounded and level-headed, never losing sight of where she came from, not “getting above her raising,” and remaining true to herself and her God-given talent. And most importantly, she anchored it all in her faith.

Within the past month, I paused to watch one of Dolly’s TV Christmas movies that I ran across while channel surfing, and I also rewatched “Steel Magnolias” for the umpteenth time. Of all the movies she starred in, I think that was her best performance.

Then, of course, there are the visits over the years to Dollywood, where my favorite thing to do is visit the museum that recounts Dolly’s humble upbringing, her family and faith, and her connectedness to the mountains. And even just yesterday, I was listening to many of her songs that are on my Spotify playlist.

So, it is entirely accurate to say I have been a lifelong fan of Dolly Parton, and I will miss seeing her. She was a rare talent, an exceptionally generous person, and beautiful inside and out. I’m so very glad that our lifetimes intersected. Thank you Dolly, for the positivity and light that you brought into the world. May you rest in peace.

]]>

SIGNED, SEALED, DELIVERED (8/12/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Wed, 12 Aug 2026 22:23:28 -0400

In 1970, Stevie Wonder released Signed, Sealed, Delivered, which became one of his biggest hits and part of our cultural fabric and collective memory. For most of us, when we see that title, our minds play the music and lyrics. Go ahead. Take a moment. I’ll wait on the soundtrack in your head.

I’ve recently been thinking about salvation, and it struck me that, in light of what the Bible teaches us about being saved and sealed by the Holy Spirit for eternity, those Stevie Wonder lyrics take on a spiritual significance.

What does it meaned to be sealed? Well, first off, divest yourselves of the image of Tupperware being "burped" for freshness. Rather, consider the envelope in the image accompanying this post.

When an envelope is sealed, its contents are meant to be kept and protected. And that is what the Holy Spirit does for us. When we are sealed with the Spirit, we are kept and protected until the day of our redemption, which is our ultimate salvation from sin and death and being brought into eternal life and communion with God. In the words of another song, When I Get Where I'm Goin' by Brad Paisley, "I will shed the sins and struggles I have carried all these years.... And [I'll] see my Maker's face. I'll stand forever in the light of His amazing grace."

2 Corinthians 1:21-22 tells us that, if we are in Christ, then God seals us and places His Spirit in our hearts as a guarantee (i.e., a pledge similar to a down payment or security deposit for the future fulfillment of a promise).

But as a guarantee of what? you might ask. A guarantee of the eternal life mentioned in John 3:16: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”

Ephesians 1:13-14 reiterates this, saying that, after we heard the truth of the gospel and trusted in Christ, we “were sealed with the Holy Spirit of promise, who is the guarantee of our inheritance.” What is our inheritance? Again, it is eternal life.

In other words, when we place our faith in the finished work of Jesus on the cross as payment for our sins, we become saved individuals by the grace (i.e., unmerited favor) of God – “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God.” (Ephesians 2:9) And at the moment of our salvation, God’s Holy Spirit indwells us, assuring us that we are His children and guaranteeing that He will make good on His promises of life everlasting and eternal security.

Many years ago, I read Charles Stanley’s book Eternal Security, which asked the question, “Can you be sure?” Many saved individuals struggle with the assurance of their salvation and lack certainty about going to heaven and having eternal life. In his book, Rev. Stanley writes about his father-in-law, who, although he had accepted Christ as his Savior, could never come to a full assurance of his eternity.

But even if someone struggles, it doesn’t change the reality of eternity. The Bible teaches it, not as supposition but as fact. I imagine that many in that camp are pleasantly surprised and relieved when they enter the hereafter and find that everything God promised us in His Word is completely true. It would have been more pleasant for them to have experienced that assurance in this lifetime, but the ultimate fullfillment of it is nonetheless a great blessing.

Others believe it is possible to lose one’s salvation, a concept erroneously derived from Galatians 5:6, which discusses “falling from grace.” But that is taken out of context. In that particular passage and its adjoining verses, the Apostle Paul makes a distinction between the old covenant of law that God established with the children of Israel, and the new covenant of grace that Jesus brought. Paul told believers that circumcision (a symbol of the old covenant) was no longer a requirement and that it no longer held any spiritual importance.

Paul encouraged followers of Jesus to be steadfast in the liberty that the new covenant had brought and not to put themselves back into the bondage of having to fulfill the laws and rituals of the old covenant. He told them that, if they clung to the law as the basis of their salvation rather than the work of Christ on the cross, they were estranging themselves from Christ and falling from (i.e., choosing to reject) grace.

While some would debate it, I steadfastly believe in the concept of “once saved, always saved,” and I believe it is biblically sound doctrine. In terms of losing one’s salvation, I did nothing to save myself, so there is nothing I can do to unsave myself. And since God has imparted His Holy Spirit to me as a guarantee of my salvation and eternal destiny, He’s not going to unsave me either. God would not be God if He broke His promises.

So, when I accepted Jesus as my Savior, you might say I signed a covenant with Him. And at that moment, God sealed me with His Holy Spirit. And one day, God will complete my redemption, and I will be delivered into eternal life.

“Signed, sealed, delivered.”

And if we continue with Stevie Wonder’s lyrics, we find that what follows “signed, sealed, delivered,” are the words “I’m yours! You got my future in your hands.”

Never have truer words been written, sung, or spoken that sum up our security in Jesus Christ. We are His, and He has our future in His hands!

I pray this brings comfort and peace to those who read it, and if we struggle with doubt and uncertainty, let us speak the truth of God’s Word to our hearts. As Jesus said in John 8:31-32, if we abide in His Word, we will know the truth, and the truth will set us free.

]]>

GRANDPA WASH (8/9/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Mon, 10 Aug 2026 00:00:59 -0400

George Washington Wallace. That was the full name of one of my great, great, great-grandfathers, who my family has always referred to as “Grandpa Wash.” He and his wife, Grandma Mary, lived in a log house about thirteen miles from my North Carolina home, near a community called Trade, where it’s said the sun first rises in Tennessee. Over the course of nearly two decades, Grandpa Wash and Grandma Mary had ten children – four girls and six boys, two of the latter dying in infancy.

In the spring of 1863, blue-eyed, black-haired Wash enlisted in the 13th Regiment of the Tennessee Volunteer Cavalry. By the following spring, having endured some great hardships and exposure, he was sick with chronic diarrhea, and in the fall of 1864, while retreating at or near Bull’s Gap, Tennessee, he was wounded between his shoulders, near his spine.

Although Grandpa Wash had originally committed to serve the Union Army for three years, he served less than two. He did something contrary to the orders of his commanding officer, and when he heard that the captain was going to punish him, he deserted. Hiding out in caves, he occasionally made it home, where Grandma Mary prepared food for him.

A decade later, in 1874, it was established that Grandpa Wash should have been dishonorably discharged from service, and on that basis, his subsequent pension applications, claiming disability on the basis of rheumatism, kidney disease, and a tumor that resulted from the wound to his back, were rejected. Appeals of those rejections were also denied.

In 1896, the War Department decided that Grandpa Wash’s dishonorable discharge was an error and voided it, while writing, “his final record is that of a deserter.” Undaunted, he continued to apply for a pension until 1917, the year of his death, but without success

Despite any disability, which later included arthritis and a rupture that required him to wear a truss, Grandpa Wash managed to farm corn and wheat, and he grew a little tobacco for chewing. He also raised livestock and tanned leather. Many decades later, I salvaged a few sections of his old, log tanning vat, one of which I had fashioned into a bench that sits on my front porch.

Grandpa Wash also had a chestnut orchard, and he tapped his maple trees each spring. The syrup was boiled into sugar, and Grandma Mary packed it and took it to town to sell. Grandpa Wash also made a bit of liquor, and he and Grandma Mary kept their own jugs, each consuming a dram (a little less than half a teaspoon) every morning. Grandma Mary smoked a long-stemmed, cob pipe, which she lit with a coal from the fireplace, and she also chewed tobacco, preferring the "Brown Mule" commercial brand to homegrown.

Perhaps in keeping with his military desertion, and maybe influenced by his claim that a headless horseman once rode beside him, Grandpa Wash seemed to tend toward cowardice. If he arrived home after dark, he was afraid to take his horse to the barn and would have Grandpa Mary do it because she feared nothing. Grandpa Wash was also afraid to go to the outhouse by himself at night, and Grandma Mary would accompany him.

These dependencies on Grandma Mary may have been why she sometimes lost patience with Grandpa Wash, but even that aside, family members have generally characterized her as grouchy, hard to please, stern, and hateful. Maybe Grandma Mary’s aggravation was exacerbated by Grandpa Wash’s failed pension applications, which did not sit well with her. She tended to be hard on Grandpa Wash and unsympathetic toward him, occasionally cussing him and referring to him as an “old devil.” Eventually, their daughter and son-in-law (my great, great-grandparents) moved in with them to care for them, but mostly for Grandpa Wash’s sake.

When asked how he met Grandma Mary, Grandpa Wash said, "Gentlemens, I'll tell you, it's a long story. When I was working in Kentucky, I had a girlfriend, and she was a BOO-TEE! [beauty]. But when I came back home I met Mare [Mary], and gentlemens, that's when I lost my candy." I’m not quite sure what it means to lose one’s candy, but it seems to me that Grandpa Wash may have been indicating he got a raw deal and ended up with the short end of the stick. He may well have reflected many times through the years on the Kentucky “boo-tee” that he left behind.

Even upon Grandpa Wash’s passing, Grandma Mary seemed not to be grief-stricken. At the funeral, when someone asked how she was doing, she replied, "Gaily as a gal!" Her daughter was upset at such a happy-go-lucky response with Grandpa Wash laying there, but Grandma Mary said he didn't know the difference.

Grandpa Wash may have had character flaws, but don’t we all? And while Grandma Mary seems to have been short on compassion, I would like to give Grandpa Wash some grace, keeping in the forefront of my mind some other details about him.

Remembered as good-hearted, kind, easy-going, and well thought of, Grandpa Wash loved to watch squirrels, and birds responded to his gentle nature by lighting on his shoulders. In the wintertime, he swept snow off his porch and scattered breadcrumbs to feed them.

On Sundays, with a plate of cornbread and a pitcher of buttermilk by his side, he read Bible verses so loudly that folks could hear him quite a distance. And after reading a little while, he would sing a little while, and he could offer a beautiful rendition of "Wayfaring Stranger," which, in retrospect, seems a fitting summation of his life’s hardships, his struggles with fright, and his ultimate faith:

I am a poor wayfaring stranger

While traveling through this world of woe

Yet there’s no sickness, toil or danger

In that bright world to which I go

I’m going there to see my father

I’m going there no more to roam

I’m only going over Jordan

I’m only going over home

I know dark clouds will gather ’round me

I know my way is rough and steep

Yet beauteous fields lie just before me

Where God’s redeemed their vigils keep

I’m going there to see my mother

She said she’d meet me when I come

I’m only going over Jordan

I’m only going over home

Rest in peace, Grandpa Wash.

]]>

FINAL CURTAIN (7/31/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 12:08:51 -0400

Three of the four gospels – Matthew, Mark, and Luke – speak of the curtain of the temple in Jerusalem being torn in two at the same moment Jesus died on the cross.

This was the curtain that separated the larger portion of the temple from the chamber known as “the Holy of Holies,” which contained the Ark of the Covenant and was considered to be the earthly dwelling place of God’s presence. In this sense, the curtain symbolized a barrier of separation between a holy God and sinful humanity.

The covenant that God established with the children of Israel entailed that they obey His laws, including specific instructions for offering sacrifices. The Holy of Holies could only be entered once a year by a priest on the Day of Atonement, when the priest would offer an animal (blood) sacrifice for the sins of the people.

The need for a blood sacrifice is mentioned several times throughout the Old Testament, and as early as the Garden of Eden. When Adam and Eve sinfully disobeyed God’s instruction, they lost their innocence, and in their guilt and shame, they attempted to hide from God. They also tried to cover their nakedness with figs leaves, but God replaced the leaves with animal skins. These actions spoke to the greater truth that human effort to cover sin is futile; only a blood sacrifice could atone for wrongdoing.

Later on, when God tested Abraham’s faithfulness by asking him to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, it was God who ultimately provided a substitutionary blood sacrifice (a ram) instead.

When God intended to deliver the children of Israel from the bondage of Egypt, one of the ways He brought Pharoah to a place of compliance was the tenth and final plague, in which the firstborn of every creature was struck dead. To spare the Israelites from this plague, God instructed them to sacrifice lambs and place the blood on their doorposts. He promised them, “When I see the blood, I will pass over you.”

The book of Leviticus gives us God’s foundational principal of atonement: “For the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have given it to you upon the altar to make atonement for your souls; for it is the blood that makes atonement for the soul.”

Fast forwarding hundreds of years, when God sent His Son Jesus, the need for a blood sacrifice to atone for sin remained. Prophets of the Old Testament foretold of Jesus, including Isaiah, who said the coming Savior would be oppressed and afflicted and led like a lamb to the slaughter.

The New Testament’s four gospels give full accounts of the crucifixion and death of Jesus, and later books inform us of the fuller impact of His sacrifice. 2 Corinthians tells us that, for our sake, God made Jesus (who was without sin) to be sin, so that in Him, we might become the righteousness of God. Ephesians tells us that Jesus loved us and gave Himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. 1 Peter tells us that we were ransomed with the precious blood of Christ, like that of a lamb without blemish or spot. And then Hebrews sums it up so well, telling us that a single offering – the body of Jesus Christ – has sanctified us once for all and no longer requires daily sacrifices by priests.

Returning to the temple curtain, Matthew and Mark provide us with the added detail that it was torn from top to bottom. Keep in mind this was no ordinary curtain. It is believed that it measured roughly 60 feet high (the equivalent height of a 4- to 6-story building) and 30 feet wide, and that it was about as thick as the width of a man’s hand (roughly 4 inches).

In other words, the curtain could not be easily torn, and the fact that it was torn from top to bottom was indicative of a divine act of God rather than human effort. It symbolized that, by virtue of the blood sacrifice of His Son on the cross, God was removing the barrier between Himself and mankind.

This ended the old sacrificial and priestly system and established a new covenant, whereby Jesus Christ, the ultimate and final sacrifice, became our Great High Priest, serving as the mediator between God and man.

I don’t need an earthly priest to access God once a year on my behalf. Because Jesus’ sacrificed Himself for my sins, and because I have accepted Him as my Savior, I can go to God any time, any place, and anywhere. And that’s a beautiful and blessed thing.

I’m thankful that a great big curtain was torn in two by my great big God!

]]>

DO I SURRENDER ALL? (7/27/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 12:06:20 -0400

It’s been quite a while since I’ve read Bible scholar and Christian theologian Charles Ryrie’s book, "So Great Salvation," but one of the chapters that has left an enduring impression on me is titled “Of Course He Is Lord.” In this chapter, Ryrie makes the fascinating distinction between “objective lordship” and “subjective lordship.”

The former speaks to the truth that Jesus Christ is Lord of all, whether anyone chooses to acknowledge it or not; it is simply a fact. The latter refers to the individual believer’s relationship with Jesus, and to what degree he or she submits to His lordship.

Ryrie writes that, while Jesus should be the Lord of our lives, He sometimes is and sometimes is only partly so, depending on what the believer is willing to allow. “The cliché ‘If He is not Lord of all, He is not Lord at all’ is simply that – a cliché and not a biblical or theological truth. He can be Lord of aspects of my life while I withhold other areas of my life from His control.”

According to Ryrie, “Many believers do not settle the matter of the personal, subjective lordship of Christ” for years, and he backs this up by referencing the fact that “New Testament appeals for surrender or dedication are addressed to believers.” In other words, submitting to the lordship of Jesus doesn’t necessarily happen automatically or completely at the time of our salvation. Again, while He is OBJECTIVELY our Lord from the get-go and in the fullest sense, SUBJECTIVE lordship may require the passage of time for its full development, and it can also depend on the makeup of the individual.

Yesterday, I was teaching the adult men’s Sunday School class at my church, and the focus of the lesson was Jonah. Jonah was a prophet of God to the northern Kingdom of Israel, and the first mention of him is in the book of II Kings, which tells us Jonah prophesied to Jeroboam II that God was going to allow him to expand the borders of Israel.

We know from this passage that Jonah was obedient in delivering God’s word to the king, a fellow Jew and Israelite. But when we get to the book of Jonah, and God asks him to carry a message to the people of Ninevah (a city in pagan Assyria, which cruelly oppressed its enemies, including the Jews), Jonah resists and draws a hard line in the sand. In fact, he attempts to run from God, and before he finally submits to the mission God has for him, he forgoes more than one opportunity to repent.

There are many things we can glean from the story of Jonah, but the point I want to focus on here is our degree of willingness to obey God…to fully submit or subject ourselves to His lordship, direction, and instruction.

There are instances in the Bible where God called individuals who immediately, with little to no hesitation, answered that call. In the book of Isaiah, when God asked for someone to carry His message, Isaiah responded, “Here am I. Send me!” And when Jesus was calling His disciples, the Bible tells us they left everything behind and followed Him. While these individuals seem to have more easily submitted themselves, others, like Jonah, were much more hard-headed. In fact, I think we would be hard pressed to find a more stubborn individual than Jonah, who, at one point, would rather have died than do what God was asking of him.

So where do I fall in this continuum? And where do you land? I hope and pray I am not as resistant as Jonah, but I recognize and confess that I am not always as compliant as those who more readily followed Jesus.

Am I truly allowing Jesus to be my Lord in every way? Do I allow Him to conduct the orchestra of my life, or do I snatch the baton from His hands? Is He steering my course, or do I keep grabbing at the wheel? Do I declare Him to be my Lord but then ease off of that declaration when His plans start to contradict my own?

Most of us have likely heard that comparison story about inviting Jesus to be a guest in your house, and you promise Him entrance into every room. But then you begin to say, “Oh, except that room…and that room…and that closet...and the attic. You can go anywhere You like but just don’t go in there.”

What things are we withholding from God? What corners of our hearts or minds are we forbidding Him entrance to? Are there areas of sin that we are clinging to? Do we have talents, gifts, and capacities that God has blessed us with that we are using for our own enrichment or benefit rather than for His glory and the advancement of His Kingdom?

I admit to struggling in some of these ways, and my natural man tends to like calling the shots. Relinquishing control is a learning and growing process, and may the good Lord help me in it.

“Father, thank You for the ongoing sanctification process in which You are continuously molding and shaping me into Your likeness. Help me to me pliable, that I may bend in the directions You would have me go. Break my stubborn will that would choose my way over Yours, for Your Word says that Your thoughts and ways are higher than mine, and that I should not lean on my own understanding of things. Help me to see and appreciate the great benefits of submitting every aspect of my life to Your direction and lordship.”

]]>

THE TENTH MAN (7/20/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 12:07:30 -0400

About a month ago, on my drive home from work, a pickup truck pulling a trailer rounded a sharp curve and crossed the center line. I moved over slightly, but the truck kept moving further into my lane, almost to the point of wiping me out. I was nearly in the ditch line when, in the nick of time, the other driver corrected. I was shaken but relieved there had been no collision, and I thanked God for sparing me.

This morning, I had a similar experience, but this time, I was the one at fault. As I pulled out of my driveway onto the road that runs the length of my “hollar,” I nearly collided with another vehicle. Although it is rare to have traffic on my rural road at that hour, I typically stop and look both ways. But this morning, I was distracted and careless. (I don’t know who was in the small, white car going up my road, but if you are reading this, I sincerely apologize.) As before, I was relieved there was no collision, and my immediate response was, “Thank you, Lord.”

I am glad that, in both of these instances, my mind turned heavenward in expressions of gratitude, but I admit I am not always so quick on the draw with my thanks and praise. In fact, developing an “attitude of gratitude” has been a learning experience and is part of my ongoing, yet-to-be perfected sanctification.

Many times, I have asked God to answer my prayers – to bless me, heal me, provide for me, deliver me – and I’ve also prayed these things on behalf of others. But then, when God answers those prayers and grants that blessing, that healing, that provision, or that deliverance, am I equally faithful in offering Him my thanks?

Luke 17 tells us that Jesus encountered ten men who were lepers. These men cried out to Him, asking for His mercy. Jesus instructed them to show themselves to the priests, and as they went, they were cleansed of their leprosy. But only one of these men, when he saw that he was healed, returned to say thank you. He loudly praised God, fell down at Jesus' feet, and thanked Him for what He had done on his behalf.

And lest we think that our gratitude or lack thereof goes unnoticed, Jesus asked, “Were there not ten cleansed? But where are the nine?” Jesus recognized that only one had returned to give glory to God.

“Father in Heaven, teach me to be a grateful and thankful person. Remind me not to take Your many blessings and provisions for granted, for everything that I am and have comes directly from Your hand. Forgive me when I have been one of the nine. Help me to be the tenth man.”

]]>

VICKSBURG: "I AM AWFUL TIRED OF THIS WAR" (7/16/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Thu, 16 Jul 2026 13:27:24 -0400

One of my 3x great-granduncles was Matt Banner, who, when he inherited a portion of his father’s North Carolina plantation, asked that it be sold so that he might be educated at a school of dentistry in New York City. He subsequently established a thriving dental practice and drugstore in Dalton, Georgia, where he met his future bride, Addie. Aunt Addie was a graduate of the Knoxville Female Seminary in Tennessee and a teacher, and she and Uncle Matt married in 1856. At their wedding, she tripped coming down the stairs and fell into his arms.

In 1862, during the Civil War, Uncle Matt enlisted in the Confederate Army. He first served with the Georgia Volunteer Infantry and subsequently with the 39th Georgia Regiment, and he ultimately held the rank of lieutenant. The following year, he was stationed in Vicksburg, Mississippi during the long siege on that city and witnessed its fall.

Uncle Matt kept in touch with his wife and children via a series of letters, which gave insight into his life during the war. Among the things he wrote her about were his wellness and his diet. With a few exceptions, his health was good, but fever and smallpox threatened the camp, and diarrhea was common. He primarily lived on cornbread, bacon, and molasses. At other times, he had bread, beans, and rice, but he avoided the beef as it was of very poor quality. On one occasion, he was able to go to a local house, where he bought himself breakfast for a dollar.

According to Uncle Matt, Vicksburg, at least for a while, was the worst place he and his fellow soldiers had been in terms of provisions. He wrote of how the men grumbled about the food, and how it ought to be quickly remedied “as men will not make good soldiers if they are not fed.” Some of the men, “swearing they would have meat,” went outside the camp and shot three or four hogs but were arrested afterwards. “Unless the government feeds them better,” Uncle Matt said, “I fear there will be some difficulty as the fare is almost beyond endurance.”

Uncle Matt also expressed his desire for the war to end. In a particular letter from Vicksburg, he shared that spring was on its way. The grass was greening, peach trees were blooming, and frogs were hollering. “Oh, if we could only get peace as soon and sure as spring comes, but alas, I fear we will have many hard battles before we know peace.” He said that newspaper reports of peace had ceased to make an impression on him, and he did not believe a fourth of what he heard.

At other points in time, he wrote, "I am awful tired of this war" and “I see no prospects of the war closing. In fact, if our folks do not conclude to compromise, we will have to be subjugated or killed; for old Abe now has the men and money voted to him to carry on the war for the next eighteen months, unless Providence intervenes in our behalf….”

Regarding the everyday ins and outs of war, Uncle Matt shared in his letters home what he had seen firsthand. “They (The Yanks) are in sight of here. Up the river, their fleet looks like a small city in the distance…. We have no idea when they will attack this place. Nearly every day there is firing going on….” He witnessed the shelling of two gunboats. “’Twas a grand sight,” he said. He saw another gunboat sink, and although some of the “Yanks” onboard got into skiffs or jumped in the river and swam, he was sure many of them drowned. “I could be but sorry for them and invoked God to have mercy on their souls.”

He wrote of attending the execution of one of three soldiers who had deserted and gone over to “the Yanks.” “It was a sad! sad! sad! sight to me.” The soldier, dressed in a Federal uniform and a white shroud and being attended to by a minister, was brought out in a wagon, riding in his own coffin. He was then tied to a stake and blindfolded. After his sentence was read, a guard of twelve men stepped forward and fired into his breast, “and his soul was launched into eternity.”

On Easter morning, 1863, Uncle Matt, near his camp on a high bluff overlooking Chickasaw Bayou outside of Vicksburg, wrote another letter to his “ever dear wife.” He told of the tremendous view from that vantage point of the smokestacks of Yankee gun boats ascending the Yazoo and Mississippi Rivers. If any of them attempted to run the Confederate blockade, he wrote, “we would have some grand music here.”

Early on, Uncle Matt shared that “writing and reading my Bible are the only pleasures I have,” but those seem to have gradually expanded as he later wrote of a favorite spot, where he could wander off to himself and enjoy the sweet singing of a large number of birds, including English Mockingbirds. He noted that, “all nature seems joyful this morning, save man.” Even later, he told of finishing Tannhäuser, a lengthy poem grappling with the tension between earthly desire and spiritual devotion.

At times, he stood in need of clothing, and he wrote his wife, asking that items be sent to him – a coat, two pairs of socks, and two shirts made from any good, strong cloth that could be found. He once acknowledged receipt of a letter from home, wrapped in a pair of drawers – an added bonus for which he was sincerely grateful. At another point, he wrote, “I am needing my shirts very much – am nearly naked.”

During the month of April, there was much anticipation concerning Union forces attacking Vicksburg. Uncle Matt was anxious for a battle and confident in the Confederate troops. “I think we will whip them.” He wrote that the “Yanks” were threatening the city, but “they will lose every boat, for we can sink them all in a very few minutes…. I have no fear of their ever taking the place…they are too smart to attack…. And if they cannot take this place in the course of two months, they will have to leave.”

In May 1863, Gen. Ulysses S. Grant’s forces began to surround the city. They assaulted it on May 19 and 22 but were repulsed and suffered the loss of more than 4,000 men. Realizing that the city could not be taken by storm, artillery batteries were set up around it, and the formal siege began to starve it into submission. By the end of June, the Confederates had little hope of relief and no chance of breaking through the Federal lines.

In the midst of the siege, Uncle Matt again wrote home: “Through the providence of God, I am yet safe, but how long I will remain so, I am unable to say. We have held this city against a large force of the Federals now for thirty-five days on one-third rations. And now I hear the distant booming of cannon. My heart is elated with hope that it is the long expected [Gen. Joseph E.] Johnston coming to our relief. Oh! That God will give us a great victory here. That it may speedily bring about a peace for our distracted country.”

But victory was not to belong to the Confederates, and on July 4, 1863, 49 days since they began fighting, they submitted their stronghold and their garrison of 32,000 to Grant and his forces. For seven weeks, Vicksburg had held out while being shelled day and night. The citizens huddled in basements and caves, eventually having to subsist on mule meat and rats. Uncle Matt wrote, “Our rations ran out today…. Yesterday, the 3rd, was the first day that we had mule beef issued to us I have not yet tasted it but fear I shall have to do so in a day or two. There is some talk of our cutting out through the Federal lines, but I hope our Generals have more sense than to attempt such a sacrifice of the men as they have been kept in the trenches so long and on one-third rations that they are not able now to walk five miles….”

A week and a half later, Uncle Matt wrote, “I am once more outside of the Yankee lines…. I thank God I came out safe though the balls and shells were falling around me thick and fast for 47 days and nights…” He was soon after furloughed at Enterprise, Mississippi. His regiment was exchanged and assigned to the Army of Tennessee where he served till the war’s end and participated in many major East Tennessee battles, including the November 1863 “Battle above the Clouds” at Lookout Mountain near Chattanooga. He was wounded in that battle, and in all, he was wounded three times during the war. In one instance, a Minié ball was stopped when it hit a coat button and a New Testament in his shirt pocket. It bruised his lung causing a hemorrhage, and he was carried off the field for dead.

On April 12, 1865, three days after General Robert E. Lee surrendered at Appomattox, Virginia, Uncle Matt was discharged from the Army of Tennessee when his regiment was consolidated with others. He soon wrote Aunt Addie: “The war is about over, and I thank God for it.”

In March 1863, Uncle Matt had received word from Aunt Addie that their home in Georgia had been burned. During much of the last two years of the war, it was necessary for Aunt Addie and their children to return to her hometown of Charleston, Tennessee where her family could assist them. Although Aunt Addie had serious eye problems and was very frail, she dedicated her life to her family, church, community, and the many children she taught. In Charleston, teaching school enabled her to find refuge from her worries.

When Uncle Matt and Aunt Addie returned to Georgia with their family, they found their Dalton home and business in ruins. Even their water well was filled with stone and brick. Uncle Matt’s health was very poor, the result of the wounds and exposure he suffered during the war, and he practiced little dentistry as a result. Despite financial difficulties and the loss of his earthly possessions, he kept his hope and faith. The war years had been difficult, but neither Uncle Matt nor Aunt Addie dwelled on their hardships.

Uncle Matt’s physician eventually recommended that he move to the mountains, and in 1872, he relocated his family to Banner Elk, North Carolina, where his brothers assisted him in every way possible, and where he and Aunt Addie soon made many new friends. They welcomed neighborhood youth into their home as well as boarders – professors, artists, fishermen, and businessmen among them. Aunt Addie started Banner Elk’s first school for general education, and she organized the community’s first Sunday School.

At one point during his residence at Banner Elk, Uncle Matt went to Texas to drive one hundred branded Texas ponies to Banner Elk. Author Shepherd Monroe Dugger gave a humorous account of the event: “The people [of Banner Elk] were looking with impatience to see him come in with the road full of fat, slick, nickering, prancing inhabitants of the prairie, but when he arrived they were reduced to seventy-five and they were lean from hard traveling and the difficulty of getting food on the long trip. Some people remarked that hats could be hung on their hip-bones, so high did they stick up by the shrinkage of flesh around them. All this gave Dr. Banner’s brother, Anthony, a great field for his unscrupulous wit. He accounted for his brother’s shortage on ponies as follows: ‘When he crossed the Tennessee River the ponies had to swim, and a woman washing clothes on the farther side saw them coming and taking them for a gang of rats, killed twenty-five with the battling stick before she discovered her mistake.’ Some of the ponies died in the Doctor’s meadow after they arrived and Anthony told that his brother, being a dentist, extracted their teeth to use in their profession. Out of this material he put in a set of teeth for Uncle Jacob von Cannon, and the teeth having been used to grass when in the ponies’ mouth, now influenced Uncle Jacob to walk on his hands and knees and graze so lively as to make a milk famine for lack of pasturage for the cows.”

In 1880, Uncle Matt was again advised by a doctor to relocate, this time to a drier climate to escape the severe winters and the dampness of the mountains, and he and Aunt Addie followed their son to Texas. In 1881, they permanently settled in Jacksboro, where the climate relieved the frequent attacks of hemorrhaging that Uncle Matt experienced from war wounds. His improved health enabled him to resume his dental practice, and he became the first dentist in Jacksboro. Aunt Addie again pioneered in her field, teaching school under the crudest circumstances without complaint but with the same enthusiasm and energy she had always exhibited.

In Jacksboro, Uncle Matt and Aunt Addie became leaders in educational and religious affairs. They often held church services in their home, with or without a minister. Following many years of illness, Aunt Addie died in 1905, and Uncle Matt had inscribed on her stone, “She hath done what she could.” A newspaper memorial described her as one of America’s “uncrowned queens.”

Uncle Matt remained active in the church and continued to read from his prayer book at each Sunday service until his death in 1911, just shy of his 85th birthday. One of Jacksboro’s publications proclaimed that “No man stood higher than Dr. Banner in our town…he was loved and honored by all who knew him as a gentleman and citizen.” At his funeral, fourteen of his comrades from the Confederate Army acted as an honor guard.

]]>

BUT GOD (7/11/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Thu, 16 Jul 2026 13:25:21 -0400

About a week ago, I wrote about “a door of hope” that is mentioned in the biblical book of Hosea, and I want to continue some thoughts along that theme.

As a recap, God instructed the prophet Hosea to take a prostitute named Gomer as his wife. They would have three children – Jezreel (meaning “to sow/scatter”), Lo-Ruhamah (meaning “no pity/mercy”), and Lo-Ammi (meaning “not my people”). In the midst of these events, Gomer would be unfaithful to Hosea by committing adultery.

These dysfunctional family dynamics were to be a reflection of God’s broken relationship with the northern kingdom of Israel. Like an adulteress, Israel had forsaken God for idols, and God was using Hosea and his dismal home life to tell Israel of His impending judgment upon them. He would scatter their kingdom, have no mercy on them, and no longer recognize them as His people.

But then, just when it seemed all hope was lost, the story shifted, and God gave some glimmers of hope. He removed the “Lo” from Lo-Ruhama and Lo-Ammi, indicating that, following His judgments, which were necessary consequences of Israel’s disobedience and sin, He would be merciful and once more claim them as His people. He told Israel their children would be numbered as the sand of the sea, and He called them sons of the living God.

When God dropped the prefix “Lo” (meaning “no or “not”), everything changed. He removed something negative and changed it into a positive. And that’s exactly what God does for us when we enter into a relationship with Him through His Son Jesus Christ. He changes our status by taking away the negative consequences of our sin and adds positivity to our lives. Our conditions are transformed.

In Ephesians 2, Paul writes about this transformation in a mighty way: “You were dead in your trespasses and sins, in which you once walked according to the course of this world…. BUT GOD, who is rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ….”

Returning to Gomer, she had abandoned her husband and children and gone back to the streets and her old profession, walking according to the course of the world, BUT GOD instructed Hosea to bring her home and once more love her as his wife. By the time he found her, she was a slave in the marketplace, and she was so used up that the monetary value placed on her by her owner was only half that of a regular slave.

In the Greek, Hosea was told to “exagorazo” Gomer. “Ex” means “out of,” and “agorazo” refers to the marketplace, which is where people in ancient Greece went to conduct business and buy things, including slaves. Simply put, God was telling Hosea to buy Gomer out of the marketplace, but in a fuller sense, He was telling him to ransom her from slavery…to completely redeem her.

For those of us who have personally experienced God’s redemption, the parallels cannot be lost on us. Like Gomer, we also were in bondage, shackled by sin and in need of a Savior. It is no accident that, in Hebrew, Hosea’s name is derived from “yasha,” meaning “salvation” or “deliverance.” In that sense, he is a foreshadowing or a type of Jesus ("Yeshua" in Hebrew and Aramaic), whose name means “Yahweh is salvation” or “God saves,” and translates into “Savior.”

Just as Hosea purchased Gomer and rescued her out of her slavery, so Jesus has purchased us and rescued us out of our slavery. While Hosea spent fifteen shekels of silver and a homer and a half of barley for Gomer’s deliverance, the price Jesus paid for our deliverance was much more costly – His own blood, shed for us on the Cross. I Peter 1:18-19 tells us that we were not redeemed with things like silver and gold, “but with the precious blood of Christ.”

So, in the book of Hosea we find the overarching and recurring theme of the Bible – the great love story – the gospel, the Good News – of God’s redemption and restoration. And how many times have we personally seen this demonstrated?

Things were dragging me down, BUT GOD…

I was heading in a wrong direction, BUT GOD…

Things looked really hopeless, BUT GOD…

I used to be a certain type of person, BUT GOD…

(Fill in the blank), BUT GOD…

Those changes, those shifts, those redirections, those about faces that God has accomplished in our lives and circumstances are what comprise our individual testimonies of His grace, mercy, forgiveness, and salvation. May we be faithful to share those testimonies with others, particularly those who are in need of one of their own.

]]>

PASTIMES OF A COUNTRY BOY (7/9/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Thu, 09 Jul 2026 00:02:19 -0400

When my grandpa, Iris Harmon, was a boy in the 1920s, he lived in a rural community in northwestern North Carolina. Life for him and his brothers and other boys like them in that neck of the woods pretty much consisted of helping on their family farms, but whenever they had the chance, they looked for ways to have fun.

One outlet was baseball, but because weekdays were workdays, their games had to wait until Saturdays. That never seemed enough, so in order to be able to practice throughout the week, they came together and helped hoe each other’s corn. Fortunately, that chore would not have to be repeated for another three weeks, and the extra time was theirs to spend as they wished.

Swimming was another recreational diversion from farm life. The Harmon brothers dammed up a portion of a large creek near their home to make a pond to play in. After staying there a while, they moved downstream and found a better place. A little later, they moved again until they found another choice spot. Practicing in these various manmade ponds, they laid on their bellies and supplemented their buoyancy with long boards that kept them from sinking. They paddled around until they were comfortable trying on their own, and by the time they reached the river, they were pretty good swimmers.

At one point in time, the Harmon brothers got heavily involved with building themselves wooden bicycles. Resources were scarce, so they used the same nails over and over again until a head formed on each end. Their associates, who were neighbor boys from down the road, stole their daddy’s axle grease in order to keep their bikes lubricated, and they ultimately stole the collar pads that he used around his horses’ necks and cut them up to make seats so their bikes wouldn’t ride so rough. The boys pushed their bikes uphill and coasted back down. With no brakes, the only ways to stop them were to run them into a bank or, like Fred Flintstone, put their feet to the ground.

Hunting was also a favorite activity, and the Harmon boys always kept a good rabbit dog. Iris’s cousin had two dogs, one of which was a well-trained, black-spotted hound that was about five years old and named “Gunner.” One night, as his cousin prepared to embark on a hunting excursion, Iris took a shine to Gunner and wanted to buy him. His cousin wouldn’t take less than fifteen dollars because he was such a good dog and would run anything. If you wanted to hunt rabbits in the daytime, Gunner would hunt rabbits. If you wanted to hunt for groundhogs, he would hunt groundhogs and never bother a rabbit. And at night, he couldn’t be beat for possums and polecats. After making the sale to Iris, his cousin said he may as well head home because Gunner was gone and his other dog wasn’t worth a dime.

These are just some of the ways that my grandpa and other young men from his time and place – long before TV and Xbox – entertained themselves. These fellows were, by no means, monetarily wealthy, but they were rich in companionship, imagination, and innovation. And when these converged, good times followed.

So, here’s to these country boys and their pastimes, from swimming holes to hound dogs!

]]>

"GLAD" (7/7/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Tue, 07 Jul 2026 23:54:08 -0400

Yesterday, I mentioned that my gladioluses are in bloom.

For some time, I have known the proper spelling of this flower is “gladiolus” rather than “gladiola,” but I admit to not having been sure what to call multiples of them. According to Merriam-Webster, the plural of gladiolus can be “gladioluses” or “gladioli.”

Upon further reading, I learned that “gladiola” and “gladiolas” are the informal, Anglicized, singular and plural versions of the word. These versions are also referred to as “common,” which I think may just be a snooty, looking down your nose way of saying that only stupid, lazy English speakers say “gladiola(s).”

I admit to sometimes being stupid and lazy, and while I don’t know for sure where I fall on the intelligence bell curve, it’s a proven fact that 50% of all people have less than average intelligence. I suspect I may be classified as at least a mid-wit. And so, when I write, I often have to look up words that I think I understand so that I can ensure I am spelling or using them correctly.

In another example from yesterday, when I mentioned being able to identify the Big Dipper, I originally stated that my “astrological” knowledge was weak. But then I realized that “astrological” refers to astrology, and what I was really speaking of was astronomy. I double checked myself on the “interweb” and then made the edit lest I left anyone wondering if I care whether Virgo is rising or my moon is in its Seventh House.

But I digress. Back to gladioluses. Oftentimes, their long rows of successive blooms become top-heavy and outweigh the support of their stems. This evening, I used some twine and a porch post to lift a stem from the ground back to an upright position. And therein lies a lesson about things that weigh us down.

Hebrews 12:1 talks, in part, about laying aside every weight. Certainly, sin can be one of those weights, and this verse specifically addresses how troubling sin is to us.

But things other than sin can also weigh us down, even things that are fundamentally good and beautiful – just like gladiolus blossoms. For example, responsibility can be a good and beautiful thing – responsibility for our families, our friends, our homes, our jobs. But this can also become heavy at times and drag our “stems” to the ground.

The Apostle Paul discusses burdens in Galatians 6, and if we’re not careful, we can conclude that what he says in verse 5 contradicts what he says in verse 2. In verse 5, he writes, “For every man shall bear his own burden,” whereas in verse 2, he writes, “Bear one another’s burdens."

Regarding verse 5, I believe it tells us that we each need to assume responsibility and pull our own weight without becoming inordinately dependent on others. At times, though, as indicated in verse 2, the weight of our responsibilities can become too heavy and burdensome for us to handle individually. During certain intervals of life, we all need a helping hand – someone to come along, lift us from the ground, and bolster us with some “twine and a porch post.”

(The recesses of my mind have now begun cueing some accompanying background music. Think “Lean On Me” followed by “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and “You’ve Got A Friend.”)

We’re all tasked with handling our own affairs, but we need to be simultaneously in tune with the struggles of those around us and offer them our support. And when things become too heavy for us, we should not hesitate to receive assistance from others. It’s all a part of loving our neighbor as ourselves, and it’s often our ministrations to one another that Jesus uses to demonstrate His love and meet our needs.

To avoid the debate of “gladiolus” versus “gladiola,” some folks have simply reduced the word to “glad.” And as I share these thoughts, an additional meaning of that word is not lost on me. I am glad that God often uses the simplest things of life – even a flower – to teach us deeper things.

“Therefore, my heart is glad….” (Psalm 16:9)

]]>

PEACE IN THE VALLEY (7/6/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Mon, 06 Jul 2026 23:57:59 -0400

In recent weeks, daily emphasis on an appreciation of God’s creation has become a priority for me. It’s not that I’ve never previously appreciated it, but both quantitatively and qualitatively speaking, it has been sporadic and lackluster at best. My communal time with God within the “walls” of His natural sanctuary has been inconsistent and interspersed with long periods of taking His handiwork for granted.

Several factors and recent influences have converged to renew this appreciation within me, including my current station of life. I’m now in my early sixties and pondering my remaining days. Who will I be and what shall I do with the time I have left?

I sometimes think about life as a three-act play consisting of thirty years per act. With that view in mind, if I’m blessed to live to ninety, it’s accurate to say I have already embarked upon my third and final act. The curtain is lifted, and I’ve walked onto the stage, if not for the benefit of a full house, at least for an audience of One, and it’s His opinion that matters most.

During this last act, I desire to be as fully awake and engaged as possible. Still, I realize any number of things threaten to thwart that ambition, including the inevitable debility of my body and perhaps my mind as well. Gracious Lord, may that come later than sooner.

For me, part of being in tune and in touch is to take some portion of each day to observe my natural surroundings and direct my thoughts Godward. Even if it’s just for a moment, it is of great benefit, but if I can give it additional time, the regenerative effects are invaluable. As Romans 1:20 tells us, through our observation of creation, we can clearly see and understand the invisible attributes of the Creator, including His eternal power and Godhead.

This past week, I took some vacation days, which afforded me prolonged moments to shut off the clamor of the world and its beleaguering electronic distractions. I had time to sit on the porch and close my eyes and really listen, not only to the general chorus of the birds around me, but to actually distinguish their individual voices. I heard the wind in the trees, and when rain brought relief from the firecracker heat we’ve had leading up to Independence Day, the showers were refreshing to every part of me – my skin, my soul, my senses.

“I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses, and the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the Son of God discloses. And He walks with me, and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own, and the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known.”

This evening brought additional rain, and in its aftermath, thick clouds of fog rolled into the crevices separating the variously blue-hued mountains that comprise my valley view down the holler from my home. But then, the fog began to rise and drift and shift, and as dark clouds parted the sky above, rays of light played upon the green hillsides.

As I made these observations, the song “Peace in the Valley” was impressed upon me. The chorus of this well-known hymn says, “There will be peace in the valley for me some day,” and while I know there will be peace for me in the hereafter, I was experiencing it in real time, in the here and now. Though it may be cliché, that is a blessing that comes from taking time to “stop and smell the roses.” In John 10:10, Jesus tells us He has come that we might have life, and that we might have it more abundantly. I claim this not only for our eternity but also for our present.

At the risk of painting this scene with a saccharine brush or making it too Disney-esque, my view of the mountains was enhanced by a young deer in the foreground, grazing grass in an adjacent field, a small rabbit sitting in my yard, and birds, including a number of hopping robins, hunting for worms after the rain. To top it off with some living color, my geraniums are in full bloom, the gladioluses have blossomed, and the Turks-cap lilies are not far behind.

Then when night falls, and “the birds hush their singing,” I am often afforded a cloudless sky that exposes an array of stars across the firmament. My astrological knowledge is weak, but I can usually manage to pick out the Big Dipper.

And this time of year, fireflies abound. I mean, how remarkable are fireflies? They spotlight God’s whimsical genius in His invention of an insect that lights up at night. I can only imagine what delight He took in creating all the amazing variations of species that we find in nature. Yet, again, how often have I taken it all for granted?

So, my advice to me is my advice to you. Get outside. Take a walk. Look around. Be still before the Creator, and rejoice in Him.

“Oh, Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder consider all the worlds Thy hands have made, I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder, Thy power throughout the universe displayed. Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee, how great Thou art, how great Thou art!”

]]>

THE BOY (7/5/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Sun, 05 Jul 2026 23:40:36 -0400

The boy was born in the Blue Ridge Mountains of rural North Carolina on the tail end of the Great Depression. He entered the world in an old cheese factory that had been converted into a dwelling. His mother had a terribly difficult delivery, and it was so traumatic that the boy would be an only child.

Within the following year, the boy and his parents moved into a small wooden shack, and a month after the boy’s first birthday, a devasting flood hit their region. The mountains became so saturated with rain that “bust outs” occurred in the hills surrounding them and destroyed much of their cabbage crop.

The following fall, the boy’s father acquired a heavily wooded piece of land. Cutting trees, pulling stumps, and clearing brush, he managed to chop out enough space to build their family a new home. The boy’s parents planted a small patch of corn and beans in the new ground, and the boy’s father traded his labor in order to borrow a team to plow with.

Around this same time, the boy’s father registered for selective service. World War II was looming, and when the United States was drawn into the fray, he was constantly worried he would be drafted. But his job – helping cut government timber – afforded him successive deferments.

Toward the close of the war, when the boy was around five years old, the family temporarily moved to an adjacent county, where they rented a house and where the boy’s father continued his sawmill work. About a year later, when the boy reached school age, they returned to their former home.

Times were hard for the boy’s parents. His father didn’t earn much money, and he often worked for a dollar a day. For years, it was difficult for them to save a dime. On numerous occasions, the boy’s father borrowed money from people in the community, and he often bought items on store credit. In his spare time, he was able to build a house for a neighbor and was paid with a Chevrolet pickup, the first truck he ever owned.

The family raised their own hogs and chickens. About every weekend, the boy’s mother would kill a chicken for Sunday dinner. She also canned chicken, and, during hog killing time, she scraped the hogs and ground sausage.

Meanwhile, the boy and his cousins would raid their grandmother’s cupboard for leftover biscuits and cornbread and would break into her canned preserves. According to the grandmother, “They’d go out there and open my cans and eat what they wanted and then just close ‘em back up. Well, they’d sour and spoil. I didn’t know what had happened to my cans till after they was married and gone. They let it slip out what they’d done.”

The boy’s parents didn’t need many store-bought goods, but when it was necessary, many of the items were thankfully affordable. Fatback was three cents a pound and sugar about the same. Flour and corn meal were cheap, and gas was fifteen cents a gallon. For fifty cents, folks could buy a pair of overalls, and a good pair of shoes cost two dollars.

The boy was a pretty good kid, although he could be a little lazy, a little spoiled, and a lot stubborn. Although his mother often threatened to whip him, she rarely made good on those threats. On one occasion, though, the boy’s father followed through and punished him for ruining his brand new, white, Sunday shoes while playing in the mud in some swampy woods. On another occasion, the boy got a whipping when he threw his cap into the yard and stubbornly refused to obey his father’s instruction to pick it up.

On yet another occasion, the boy neglected to complete some promised work for his grandfather. When his grandfather asked him about it, the boy made a sassy remark that he didn’t think his grandfather heard. But the grandfather had better hearing than the boy imagined, and the boy ended up going home with more than hurt feelings!

The boy sometimes declared he was running away from home. One time, when his father was away, the boy got mad at his mother over something, and he swore he was leaving. His mother went on with the milking, but she watched him as he went up on the hill and sat on a stump. She knew he wasn’t about to leave home, and in a little while he came back to the house.

When the boy was about seven or eight years old, his father borrowed a stump puller. He was still in the multi-year process of clearing the land around their home and was removing the stumps left by all the trees he had cut down. The more stubborn stumps required blasting with dynamite, and the boy’s father gave instruction for the boy to be kept inside. One stump was particularly large, and the boy’s father heavily packed dynamite around it. Unbeknownst to him, the dynamite was defective, and when it went off, the sound of it was inordinately loud and was heard for miles around. The boom captured the boy’s attention and, leaving his mother churning butter in the kitchen, he went into the yard to see what had happened.

About that time, pieces of stump were flying through the air, and a big chunk caught the boy in his back. The impact caused him to swallow the wad of chewing gum he had in his mouth, and it knocked the breath out of him. The boy’s father ran toward the house and, finding the boy with blood running out of his mouth, thought he had been killed. The boy was rushed to a hospital, and after throwing up some blood, his breathing returned to normal. Remarkably, he only spent one night in the hospital, and by the next afternoon, he returned to school.

Despite never seeming to bring a book home from school, the boy always made pretty good grades. He liked to sketch and doodle, and his fifth grade geography book reflected that with scribbles such as:

“Love is a thing shaped like a lizard

That raps its tail around your heart and nibbles at your gizzard”

“Apples are good

Peaches are better

If you love me, answer my letter”

“Do not steal this book my little lad

For 42 cents it cost my dad”

The boy enjoyed being rough and tumble in the great outdoors, and on a couple of occasions, he rode tires down a hill and skinned his face up. For the longest while, he came home every evening with a patch of hide torn off somewhere. The boy’s father finally told him if he came home skinned up again, he was going to take a switch to him. The very next evening, as the boy’s father was cleaning up some new ground, the boy came walking home. The father glanced at the boy and saw that his entire nose was skinned but never let on that he had seen him. The boy eased near and sat quietly on a log. In a little while, he sheepishly said, “Ho Dad.” The boy’s father finally acknowledged him but didn’t have the heart to punish him.

The boy and his younger uncle were great pals, and the boy’s father built them a one-window cabin in the woods, replete with bunk beds, straw tick mattresses, a small stove, a kerosene lamp, and a table. It was stocked with Louis L’Amour westerns, and the boys enjoyed spending carefree days in the cabin reading, eating, playing “cowboys and Indians,” and listening to the scary night sounds of the surrounding woods.

When the two were around the ages of ten and twelve, and whenever they weren’t busy helping with the family’s bean and cabbage crops, they focused their attention on baseball, hitting rocks with bats for hours on end and imagining themselves to be Duke Snider or Mickey Mantle. They got so good at the sport that hardly any ground or fly balls got past their defenses. The boy’s father started taking them to games, and at about age thirteen, the boy became a first string shortstop. Soon, he was traveling and playing baseball over a three-county area.

This has been an account of the boy’s life through his grade school years, and for now this will suffice. More can and probably will be told by me about the boy…the boy who would become my father.

]]>

GIVE ME LIBERTY, OR I'LL GIVE YOU THE LUNCHBOX (7/3/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Sun, 05 Jul 2026 19:09:36 -0400

In light of our nation’s 250th birthday, my mind drifts back to 1976, when, as a grade school student, I was the proud owner of a bicentennial lunchbox, exactly like the one pictured here.

As a history nerd, I preferred the Founding Fathers to “The Fonz,” Donny and Marie, and Evel Knievel. Rather than Marvel superheroes, the various sides of my cool lunchbox featured George Washington, Paul Revere, Betsy Ross, Valley Forge soldiers, and Boston Tea Partiers.

Not only did this lunchbox serve a utilitarian purpose (i.e., carrying my daily provision of grilled cheese sandwiches – a story for another day), it also afforded me an opportunity to showcase my patriotism.

Soon, however, I discovered an additional use of said lunchbox. It would become the equivalent of a defensive flintlock musket.

For a little context, bullying has been around at least since King George III provoked the colonies, and in 1976, I found myself being bullied on Bus 39.

As Thomas Paine wrote, “These are the times that try men’s souls,” and after some days of victimization, I had reached my limits.

One particular morning, I announced to my mother that, if the harassment continued that day, I would proceed to hit my adversary in the head with my lunchbox.

Now, my mother is not a condoner of violence, and in her defense, she was busy grilling my cheese sandwiches (again, a story for another day) in the midst of other activities. My declaration of war was, no doubt, lost within her multitasking.

Later that afternoon, I boarded the bus for my return ride home. My nemesis sat directly behind me. The picking began before the bus left the parking lot, and my fingers tightened around the handle of my lunchbox.

Then, with the immediacy of a minuteman, and the courage and strength of a true Son of Liberty, I turned and swung at my oppressor’s head. The lunchbox’s metal edge caught the corner of the Redcoat’s eye, and it immediately began to turn blue.

“No taxation without representation!” I declared with righteous indignation. “Don’t tread on me!” I exclaimed. “I have not yet begun to fight!” I shouted.

Okay, that is not what I said. In fact, I remained completely silent while I shared in my antagonist’s shock. This Loyalist Tory was dumbfounded at having been slammed with my lunchbox, and I was equally speechless at having actually carried out that morning’s promise.

Our bus driver had witnessed the altercation, and she made her way back to the battleground. Halfway regretting my violent outburst and halfway knowing I was in trouble, I burst into tears. The driver, while trying to address the confrontation in a serious manner, was simultaneously suppressing a smile at my meltdown.

Our principal subsequently applied a wooden paddle to my rebel “aspirations,” and this was accompanied by an admonishment that I could have put an eye out. (FYI, my indiscretion would later serve as a warning for a movie character named Ralphie in “A Christmas Story,” and my lunchbox would be translated into a Red Ryder BB gun.)

Although that paddle “bit me right in the but-tocks” (just for fun, read that in the voice of Forrest Gump), it was worth it. Victory and independence had been won. My provoker never bothered me again.

I don’t recall what happened to my bicentennial lunchbox. Maybe it was impounded as evidence. Maybe it was sold in a yard sale. Maybe it’s actually the one pictured here, the image of which I came across on Facebook Marketplace.

But I’d like to believe it’s in a museum somewhere, commemorating a Patriot underdog’s stance against the tyranny of bullies in the pivotal Battle of Bus 39, and next to it is a small brass plaque engraved with:

“Give me liberty, or I’ll give you the lunchbox.”

]]>

A DOOR OF HOPE (6/30/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Wed, 01 Jul 2026 00:58:10 -0400

As I was reading in the book of Hosea today, a short but beautiful phrase caught my attention:

“A DOOR OF HOPE”

In the preceding verses, God had portrayed the idolatrous Kingdom of Israel as an unfaithful wife and the Valley of Achor as a place for her judgement. To symbolize the strained relationship between God and Israel, God instructed the prophet Hosea to marry an adulterous woman, and among their children were Lo-ruhamah and Lo-ammi. “Lo” being the Hebrew word for “no” or “not,” the translations of these children’s names are “no mercy” and “not mine,” which reflected God’s judgement upon and disassociation with Israel.

But then the story takes a turn. Suddenly, Lo-ammi becomes Ammi (“mine”), and Lo-ruhamah becomes Ruhamah (“mercy’), and we see the judgement of God give way to His loving character and redemptive purpose. And in the midst of the Valley of Achor (recognizing that valleys signify low points), He offers a door of hope.

But hope for what?

Although this passage is specifically painting a picture of hope for a restored relationship between Israel and God, we are afforded one of those tremendous moments when scripture can be applied to any number of situations in our own lives.

What low point are you presently needing a door of hope for?

Hope in light of the bad medical news you recently received?

Hope for that job you desperately need?

Hope for deliverance from something that has a chokehold on your life and steals your joy?

Hope for better relationships with your family?

Hope for brighter days ahead?

Hope for something to fill that gnawing emptiness in your soul?

I’m thankful that God is rich in love and mercy and graciously provides us with a door of hope in response to our needs. In fact, the Bible tells us that door is not just some inanimate thing; it is a Person. Jesus says, “I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved….” It is in Jesus that our ultimate door of hope for any circumstance of life is found.

But a paraphrased reminder from pastor and author Paul Tripp regarding our hopeful expectations:

The Word of God promises us that, when we hope in the Lord, we will not be disappointed. That does not mean God will submit to our timelines or always deliver what we hope for in the way we expect, but He will always care for those who trust in Him. He will give us everything He has promised us, and He will generously provide what is best for us. Many of us may struggle with questions about God’s goodness, faithfulness, and love, not because He has failed to keep His promises, but because we have different agendas than He does. We may have an idea or expectation that a good God should give us a life that is comfortable and pleasurable and absent of suffering, but God is not working to deliver our personal definition of happiness. If that is what we are hoping for, we will be disappointed with God, and we are going to wonder if He loves us. But the difficulties we face are not signs that God has turned His back on us. God is after something better: our holiness — that is, the final completion of His redemptive work in us, which includes deep and abiding happiness in Him despite our circumstances.

The English minister Edward Mote beautifully expressed biblical hope in these verses of a very familiar hymn:

“My hope is built on nothing less

than Jesus' blood and righteousness;

I dare not trust the sweetest frame,

but wholly lean on Jesus' name.

“His oath, his covenant, his blood,

support me in the whelming flood;

when all around my soul gives way,

He then is all my hope and stay.”

Whatever you may be facing, remember that God loves you and has provided a door of hope. Look for it, for it most certainly may be found. And when you have found it, enter into its promises.

]]>

SETTLING FOR MUD PIES (6/28/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 22:25:01 -0400

C. S. Lewis once stated that, when we are offered the infinite joy that accompanies the promises of God, we are “like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea.”

This has made a lasting impression on me, and I think about it regularly.

Throughout my life, I have often had tightly held ideas of what my life should look like and consist of. I have frequently pursued goals without committing them to prayer, and in my self-reliance, I have failed to ask God for His opinion and wise guidance.

In response to the question “Do you have any regrets?” I sometimes hear people say, “No, I wouldn’t change a thing because everything I have done, good or bad, has made me the person I am today.” Although I understand the point they are making, I certainly have regrets. There are LOTS of things I would change if I could. Many times, I have thought, said, and done things I later regretted. Some of it was outright sin that, in contrition, I needed to ask God’s forgiveness for.

What’s interesting about making choices is that God never forces His will upon us. While He desires that we seek Him and promises blessings for doing so, He gives us free will. In a sense, that’s what is particularly disconcerting because I can’t fully trust myself. Even though there are ways that seem right to us, our human wisdom, in light of our sin nature, is faulty at best.

And while some of our choices and pursuits may not be inherently bad, they also might not be the best. This gives me pause and causes me to ask myself how many times have I settled for something less than what God has purposed and desired for me?

So, my prayer is that I will seek God’s leadership in all things, and that I will submit to His Lordship, so that I might be in perfect step with His will for my life and experience the infinitely better things that accompany trusting and obeying Him.

Father in Heaven, please help me not to settle for mud pies when You desire to give me a holiday at the sea. Don’t let me miss Your very best for me.

]]>

BROTHERHOOD OF THE WOODCHUCKERS (6/27/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Sat, 27 Jun 2026 21:17:00 -0400

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

I can’t say for sure, but I do know that, when you get a group of Baptist men together for a few hours with a handful of chainsaws and axes and a couple of wood splitters, it’s enough to fill two small dump trucks. The old adage doesn’t lie: Many hands make light work.

That was what happened this morning, when nearly twenty men from our church gathered at our pastor’s place to cut up wood for the benefit of a fellow member.

We were to begin at 7:30 AM, and I arrived on the dot, but after years of knowing these men, some of whom consider rising with the sun next to godliness, I shouldn’t have been surprised to find most of them already gathered and hard at work.

Every man found his station. Some sawed, some chopped, some split, some stacked. The buzzing of the chainsaws kept conversation to a minimum, although we occasionally chatted and laughed in the midst of our labor.

What stands out most in my observation, though, was how seamlessly we worked together, almost as if we belonged to some beautifully choreographed troupe. But we know each other well and have worked together before, so our ability to move in rhythmic unison is not altogether surprising.

What ultimately unites us, though, is our brotherhood, which is rooted in our shared faith and our love for one another. We have worshipped and fellowshipped together, prayed and studied God’s Word together, and laughed and cried together. We have borne one another’s burdens and rejoiced in one another’s victories. We have loved one another because of the One who first loved us.

Our world is increasingly isolationist, divisive, and lonely, and we are too often told to put ourselves before others or that it’s every man for himself. But I call bluff on that. In reality, and in God’s economy, we need each other, and the unity of believers is especially of value.

It’s a great blessing and comfort to know that, when I am downtrodden or sick or in need, I can count on my local church body to encourage and help me…to be the hands and feet of Jesus in my life. It’s a joy to know that I have others who can be a “scotch” for me when the wheels of life would otherwise run me over. As Ecclesiastes 4 teaches us, “Two are better than one because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow….”

And you can’t beat that with a stick of wood.

]]>

SUMMER READING CAMP (6/26/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 22:25:09 -0400

This morning, I spoke to around a dozen kids at a summer reading camp. Although once upon a time, as a student teacher, I taught middle schoolers, kids are not my typical audience, particularly over the course of the past few years of being invited to speak about a true crime book I wrote. Still, I accepted the invitation with equal measures of curiosity and slight trepidation. Kids can be a tough audience in that they are super discerning and can see straight through you if you’re not on top of your game.

At their reading camp, these kids had been studying about fairy tales, fables, and tall tales, and I was asked to briefly share about the Jack Tales. Although I have long been familiar with the Jack Tales, my admission to the inviting teacher that I had never told a Jack Tale did not dissuade her. The invitation stood and I was committed to appear.

My local readers are also likely acquainted with the Jack Tales, but for those who are not, these are southern Appalachian folk tales believed to have originated in England and brought to the colonies by early settlers who, by way of oral tradition, passed them down to subsequent generations.

The Jack Tales follow the adventures of a clever, albeit sometimes lazy, young boy named Jack, who often finds himself in precarious situations, but in the end, he typically uses his wits to outsmart giants, kings, witches, and magical creatures. Think “Jack and the Beanstalk” a la Tom Sawyer's savvy and Jethro Bodine's backwoods naivete.

Upon entering the classroom, I found the kids sitting around a long table, and they turned their heads to give their visiting stranger a once over. I waited as they completed their current exercise – a version of Wheel of Fortune in which they took turns suggesting letters to fill in the blanks. Ultimately, sans Vanna White, “THE LAST DAY OF READING CAMP” was revealed on the whiteboard. Not only was I appearing to them on the last day of camp, but now I had the added pressure of being a parting impression.

When my turn came, I began by introducing myself, and a cherub-like blonde-headed girl asked the first question. “Do you know Daniel Boone?” I told her I never knew him personally, but I did know of him - he who was the namesake of our town, and she proceeded to tell me how many greats of an uncle he was to her. I was impressed that one so young had such an understanding of her family tree – a genealogical kindred soul. I told her that Daniel was my uncle as well, so she and I must be cousins. That seemed to please her, and she smiled sweetly in response.

I told my young audience I was a native of Boone, and, sensing a hesitancy of understanding of the word “native,” I explained that that meant I was born in Boone. This immediately led to the next question. “How old are you?” I challenged them to guess, which resulted in answers ranging from 57 to 82.

When I asked what holiday was approaching, they answered “July the Fourth.” One boy knew we would be celebrating our country’s 250th birthday this year. Most understood it to be an acknowledgement of our independence, but there was some haziness as to which country we had gained that independence from. One girl offered China, which, in retrospect, may have revealed a deeper wisdom than was evident on the surface. In fact, she may not be far off the mark in terms of a futuristic independence to be won. I can envision it now…disgruntled consumers throwing imported Chinese goods – smart phones, laptops, gaming consoles, fireworks, and artificial Christmas trees – into Boston Harbor. A Boston Temu Party, if you will.

I told the kids how immigrants to our country brought their ways of life with them to America – their ways of speaking, their clothing and food, customs and traditions, their music and even the stories they told, one example being the Jack Tales. I shared with them how, in North Carolina, the Jack Tales were told in the 1800s by my great, great, great-granduncle, Council Harmon, to his children and grandchildren.

After this brief introduction, I “commenced to tellin’” the two Jack Tales I had selected – one being a variation of “Jack and the King’s Daughter” and the other being “Jack and the Robbers.” The kids were quietly attentive and seemed to thoughtfully process the tales. One boy astutely concluded that Jack could not be faulted for some of his missteps because the instructions his mother had given him were not particularly clear. This solidarity among youngsters – between this boy and Jack – reminded me of Opie on an episode of The Andy Griffith Show:

Opie: "Is Arnold going to get spanked, Pa?"

Andy: "Don't you think he deserves it?"

Opie: "I don't want to say. After all, he is one of my own kind."

My time with these short folks was over in half an hour, and although brief, I enjoyed it. I don’t often have the opportunity to interact with kids and I have none of my own, but I was reminded how truly precious they are – curious, hopeful, innocent – qualities that regrettably often diminish as we become older (like, say, between the ages of 57 and 82) and as we become allegedly wiser. These kids are also eager learners, another thing we often tend to lose in adulthood. Maybe we get a little lethargic, or maybe we think we know it all, but some have said when we stop learning, we stop living.

I admire these kids, who could have been doing any number of other activities on this beautiful summer day, yet chose to attend reading camp. When I was a kid, I enjoyed perusing the dictionary, learning the pronunciations and meanings of words, and I liked reading encyclopedias. I also enjoyed buying books at my school’s periodic book fairs and borrowing books from the Bookmobile that made summer rounds in my neighborhood – the closest thing I had to a summer reading camp - but I was never a voracious reader.

During my high school years, I often wrote papers based on books that had been made into movies I had seen or on dust jacket book summaries, and I was a huge fan and consumer of Cliff’s Notes. All these years later, and especially in light of my writing aspirations and the fact that it’s said the best writers are readers, I recognize how I shortchanged myself.

So, kudos to these kids who love to read. One girl said in parting, “I don’t like that this is the last day of reading camp.” But I have no doubt that these kids’ love of books will continue throughout the summer and beyond, and it gives me hope.

]]>

FATHER'S DAY (6/21/26)

Terry L. Harmon — Sat, 20 Jun 2026 22:48:58 -0400

This Father’s Day marks my 20th year without mine. It’s hard to believe two decades have passed since I last saw him and heard his voice. Still, I was blessed to have him in my life for 41 years, and with the realization that not everyone is that fortunate, I don’t take those decades with my dad for granted nor the many wonderful memories I have of him.

For thirty years, he was a high school business teacher, and in the summertime, in addition to tending his yard and garden, he helped his own dad build houses. For a while, he raised pine trees, and when I was a youngster, he grew small patches of burley tobacco to earn money to buy us Christmas presents.

Daddy loved sports, coached Little League, and enjoyed watching baseball, basketball, and football, both live and on television. Although I was very young when he was actively playing ball himself, I know he was a good athlete in his own right and a good shortstop in particular.

Daddy was also creative and artistic. He could draw and enjoyed making various items in his woodworking shop. He could even tole paint and once crocheted an entire afghan.

And he was funny. He could “spin a yarn” and entertain us with funny faces and imitations of people he knew from his childhood. He could wiggle one ear at a time. He used Consort men’s hairspray, and we laughed when he accidentally bought himself a can of Afro Sheen.

He was a voracious reader of westerns, particularly Louis L’Amour novels. He enjoyed history and country music. As a kid, he sang in a gospel quartet with his uncle and cousins, and as an adult, he liked to travel with my mother and their friends to hear live music. He aspired, albeit unsuccessfully, to play the banjo.

Daddy liked country cooking and could make a meal on cornbread and milk. He enjoyed country ham and biscuits and gravy, preferred his fried potatoes sliced rather than cubed, and sometimes wanted cracklings in his cornbread. He loved old timey “stack cake” from his boyhood onward. On top of these “health foods,” he smoked a lot of cigarettes through the years – Kent Menthol 100s, as I recall.

Years ago, the semi-circle road we lived on was highly popular with Trick or Treaters. Prior to the first ring of our doorbell, Daddy would be complaining about the impending influx, but deep down, he loved it and handed out most of the candy himself. And with the first appearance of some cute witch or princess, monster or superhero, he was calling us to the door to see them.

At Christmas time, he signed, addressed, stamped, and mailed dozens of Christmas cards. And he was a master gift-wrapper. I can still see him at the kitchen table with scissors, Scotch tape, and rolls of wrapping paper, perfectly creasing each folded edge. Throughout the winter, he would often attach a blade to whatever “machine” (Cub Cadet, Ford, or Kubota) he had throughout the years and plow neighbors’ driveways as well as our own.

Daddy owned several vehicles through the years, and in the late 80s and early 90s, he went through a conversion van phase. He had local artists paint cardinals and dogwood flowers (our state bird and flower) on the rear, spare wheel covers. And so, we traveled in comfort and style, all the while exhibiting our North Carolina pride.

He was a good homework helper, particularly with math problems, and he supported me and my brother and sister in our endeavors, whether in our studies or our individual hobbies and interests. I recall when he encouraged me to enter a local radio contest that required entrants to write about what Thanksgiving meant to them. He told me I wrote well (which still encourages me to this day), so I entered…and I won.

Daddy was not a perfect man by any means. He had moments (as we all do) when his faults and imperfections were made manifest and spotlighted, but he loved his family and was a hard worker and a good provider. We were not wealthy people, but we had a good life. We never went without the things we needed, and we were rich in the things that mattered most.

So, on this annual commemorative day, twenty years after his earthly departure, I remain thankful for the role my father played in my upbringing and how it helped shaped the trajectory of my life and my character. I am also thankful that I still retain these memories and more of him. May it ever be so.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.

I love and miss you.

]]>

LESSONS FROM THE WEED PATCH (6/15/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 15:54:11 -0400

This past weekend, I completed a task I had been avoiding all spring. I pulled weeds. My prolonged neglect of them had resulted in their spread and multiplication, but since I live alone and seldom have visitors, I had convinced myself that addressing them was not a matter of urgency.

Who cares? They’re not bothering anyone. Nobody’s around to see them but me. But my mama and daddy raised me right, and I like things to look neat and well kept. I saw them, I cared, and ultimately, they bothered me.

Weeding has never been a relished chore of mine, but despite my initial dread, it surprisingly turned out to be a rewarding experience. Not only was I rid of the unsightly weeds, but in the solitude of the task, I also learned some lessons.

I live in a rural holler, where I often only hear birds and the rustling of the wind through the trees. It is pure bliss, although, in the midst of other busyness, including TV-watching, laptopping, and scrolling through social media on my phone, I often fail to appreciate it...and to my own detriment, I might add.

Having set aside those time-draining distractions in order to be outdoors on a beautiful day with warm sunshine and a gentle breeze, I was afforded much-needed space to think and pray – things that, like the weeds, I often neglect or, at the very least, delay giving my attention to.

Isn’t it curious how that works? When we’re still, we can know things. We can become awake and aware and in touch. We can see and hear and understand things more clearly.

It was in the midst of this very quietude, with the weed patch as my classroom, that I began to draw insights from the task at hand. Here are a few of them.

Weed Lesson One:

The more you put off tending to weeds, the more invasive they become. The wheelbarrow load of weeds I hauled off bore witness to that. And so it is with life. When I fail to address the negativity and cares of this world that overwhelm me, choking out my joy, creativity, and mental health, it only gets worse with the passage of time. It’s much better (and easier) to keep things in check on a regular basis…to pull weeds now, while they are small, versus having to machete your way through a jungle later.

This is also true of my spiritual life and walk with the Lord, and I believe what God’s Word teaches us about our sin natures. In Romans 7, Paul writes of our propensity to sin and the internal wrestling match that is ongoing between our natural flesh and our new “creature-ness,” which we have in Christ. In the weed patch of life, my “sin weeds” thwart my usefulness and fruitfulness for the Lord,

I’ve often heard it said that keeping a short account with God is advisable, and that’s where regular use of the weed killers known as “confession” and “repentance” come into play. Roundup is not going to help in this situation, but if I confess my sins, God is faithful and just to forgive me and to cleanse me from all unrighteousness (1 John 1:9). And when I do an about face, turning from my sin and turning to the Lord, I find that He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness. (Joel 2:13).

Weed Lesson Two:

I’ve also learned that some weeds, although they may look daunting, are unexpectedly easy to pull, and I thank God that some of the things that bedevil us can be dealt with before they have a chance to develop deep root systems and strongholds in our lives.

Other weeds will resist you. These are the ones that are firmly entrenched in the ground or fight back with prickly stems, daring you to touch them. In these instances, when we struggle with more formidable opponents, I thank God that His Spirit strengthens us and helps us to overcome them. “For nothing is impossible with God.” (Luke 1:37).

Weed Lesson Three:

Finally, I was reminded of Romans 8:26, which tells us there are times when we don’t know how to pray or what to pray for, but the Spirit helps us in our infirmity and intercedes on our behalf, making expressions for us that are too deep for words. I can just imagine that Jesus, as our intercessor and advocate with God, pulls the weeds (i.e., our weak thoughts, our lack of words, our requests that don’t align with God’s will and purpose) from our prayers and then presents those prayers to our Heavenly Father in the form of a beautiful, fragrant, and pleasing bouquet.

And so, I say thank You, Jesus, for the revelation of Yourself to me in the midst of stillness. Thank You for Your love and forgiveness. Thank You for Your strength and intercession. Thank You for lessons learned from something as simple and bothersome as weeds. And thank You for being the Master Gardener of my life.
See less

]]>