A Letter for My Dad

My Dear Son Larry,

Greetings from the Realms of Glory. I am writing this letter to you to tell you all of the things that I was never able to tell you when I was with you. I know you were not expecting this and I know that you have been doubting it's validity in your later years, doubted yourself and your salvation. I have watched you through this time and I want you to know that I have seen the man that you grew to be from the boy in McAlester as well as the man you have become since my death and the times you stumbled through life with only questions and no answers. There is so much I want to say to you. I can't wait to wrap my arms around you neck and tell you just how much I've missed you. How proud you have made me with the decision and the risk and sacrifices you have made all throughout your life to raise your boys and beautiful daughter. I am so proud of you that I beam continually with the jewels of you in my crown. Just know that there has not been a time since I arrived here that I have not known all about the things you have done as a pastor, a preacher, a teacher, a husband, a father and a grandfather, and I commend you for them with great respect. I was never the man you are and so it goes that we pass our shortcomings and sin to the next generation. The re-generation is by the Son. Each conceived in his time for a purpose to be completed by the Sheppard. The considerable regret that I had upon leaving you for not conveying this to you in my lifetime, as great as it was, was quickly erased in the light of the glory of the Son. And I do mean all our cares pass rapidly in the face of the Savior.

Your patience and longsuffering for friend and foe, relative and the rejected are the first thing that I want to commend you for. Never cease to believe the Father chose this gift specifically for you to make you an instrument in the hand of the All-Seeing God. Nothing returns to Him without complete accomplishment. No son of yours will soon forget or does not notice the pain of the effort. Your spouse does not lie awake at night but what she thanks her maker for the kindness and thoughtfulness of her husband though recently she forgot to display her appreciation and gratitude. I know and the Son sees each time that His tool is tested and is pleased each time, even if its effects go unrealized on Earth. Your sons also acknowledge and share a deep respect for this attribute of Christ you display even though they are often unable to appreciate it in the moment that is this lifetime. I can't tell you all the work the Father is doing but I kindly remind you that He is. You know that and remember it again with His gentle and often reminders.

Me, I never so much as moved from my wedding house. But not you, you became a nomad like Abraham. By what courage and faith in God did you set out in search of your Judy, back and forth across the country. Then again with your wife and children in tow, searching for that city whose builder and maker was God. The toil and tears sweated out in unfamiliar territory were stored up by the Father to be poured out to the glory of the Son. You will probably not know the benefit the Father has arranged for you daughter and sons by the sacrifice of you service day-in and day-out. You can't quite see the picture our God is painting from your perspective. But, I do. I see it and it is grand, a masterpiece. I watched you and yours 'rounding Bear Mountain. What a mess that trip was, but what a confidence you built in you son by letting him navigate. That memory has followed him through this career in the military. Works set in motion by the Father, seeding the fields of future worshipers. Wow, does He ever know what He is doing. The faith that you have and that we have is a gift from God, not initiated by us dead in sin, but injected by grace into dead bones wrapped in dead flesh. We are quickened of His choosing to receive the salvation that He so freely gives. Be encouraged and feel the love and respect that the Father has placed in your children for you.

Your father and steward in Christ

Everett Glenn

P.S.

Vera and Mickey were a hoot when they saw each other again. I was waiting there with him just to see her reaction. She never let a day go by but what she remembered him. She was so longing to see him, next to Christ. Emsy and Ethel are so young looking and still have the same sense of humor. The meals are about the same and Vera still loves to make the muffins and dips her beans with a coffee cup. Grandpa Glenn was surprised to be here and even used the “much obliged” line on Christ. What fun. I’ll see you again when you finally make it home. There is so much more to see, so much more that the mind can hold.

Bark, Saucers and Barns

I love tree bark. I know, it sounds a little bit like "I love lamp", but I do. (BTW Areli didn't know where "I love lamp" came from. Do you?) I love the texture and with these particular Birch trees (I think that's what it is) you get some very interesting detail and colors. These trees are part of the landscaping at the new Holston Medical Group office building. I was photographing them after I was picking up my hearing test results today and I locked myself out of my car. I called Areli to come pick me up and took some pictures in the mean time. Meanwhile, I am deaf and need hearing aids, but that is another story. I also took the following pictures of the log cabin barn and hub-cap on a fence post (VW).

I am always asking Areli, as we drive around East Tennessee, if she notices this, or knows what that is, or why do they do that. She rarely sees, or notices or knows. I wonder what she is spaced out on while I am driving and why she doesn't possess an adequate knowledge of farm handy craft and methods. But, never-the-less, one day I asked her if she knew why there were coffee cans on top of the wooden fence post we were driving past. She didn't know so I proceeded to tell her it was to keep the rain from running down inside the post and rotting it out. Other methods are to cut the top of the post off at a slant, use a flat rock or cap it by some other means. Today I found a fence post with a Volkswagen hub-cap nailed to the top. I liked this method but it does not seem as economical as a flat rock. I mean, how many Volkswagens were in Tennessee when they were building barns from rough hewn logs in the stile of a log cabin? I also wonder if she really appreciates my practical knowledge or just feels degraded by my feeble attempts to impress her by poking pin-holes in her self esteem. Which leads me to- if you look close you can see my reflection in the edge of the hub-cap. It's like I've been abducted by the alien mother ship and my distorted visage is last thing anyone will ever see of me. The latter is probably my best assessment in this whole paragraph.

The sign on the door is posted by the insurance company offering a one thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of anyone vandalizing this property. The property stands adjacent the new medical building which you can see blurred to the left of the image. Why it is still standing in the first place is probably a matter of historic disposition. I would love to take it apart and restore it in another location... another story. The barn, as you can see, is completely charred on this side, but not on the others, and the door was probably added again after that. I'd say more than ten or fifteen years ago and since the seventies when the Volkswagen Beetle was first popular. Who knows? It was probably in use still around that time and most of the development probably came after, the tools and implements still appear to be inside along with the mummified, now hairless, remains of a rodent, probably a musk rat (I have a picture if you ask). Now only the pasture is used and that for a lone red horse, wet and matted by the recent rain and humidity. It wouldn't come to the fence so I refused to photograph it with my macro lens. In the future, please use this illustration to explain the mechanism of chinking logs the next time the subject comes up with your spouse.

Following Father

We often expect our children to follow us into strange places. Last Saturday, the family and I were out on on of our East Tennessee excursions, following the the narrow mountain roads around hill and dale to see-what-we could see. I guess it is my grown up version of traipsing through the woods that I remember so fondly doing as a boy. I loved to walk in the woods. But, I was never pretentious enough to call it a hike. It was always too unofficial for me and I assumed it required hiking boots and a pack piled high with provisions and paraphernalia. Only lately have I dared to call them hikes, or as Areli like to coin them, "death-hikes". Well, needless to say, no one has ever died on one. Maybe a bug-bite or scrape, but definitely no death.

In fact, they are life to me. They are the life I share with my children. I always see in the future. In this instance I am envisioning Mammaw Hailey laying in bed next to her grand children and telling them fanciful and captivating stories of how her wild and adventurous father led them through timber and train tracks in search of fairy houses and mysterious waterfalls. Wide-eyed the wee ones peer into the darkness of their imagined yester-year when Great-Papa Jon roamed the earth with a whittled walking stick in hand and camera at the ready; packing little Emma on his hip while fishing Abby out of the creek. Then wading with all three in tow, knee-deep into the babbling brook and dare I say it, into the tunnel with the dark slippery mud signed by raccoon and littered with cobble. Listen over-head as the train rumbles down the Clinchfield Rail Line. Great Grandma Areli could be heard laying on the horn as the noise from the train subsides and we ran splashing and slipping in the dark mud, out of the tunnel and up the spring planted weedy banks of the creek to the CRV. "Where have you been? You said five minutes" Great Grandma says. "Sorry, we found a magical water-fall and had to explore it", replies Great-Papa Jon.

Kingsport Greenbelt with Great Blue Heron

Emma Starts Soccer

Should you be allowed to play soccer if the ball comes above your knees? Shoes too big, shirt too big, shorts too big... oh well. Here's Emma's first day of the season and she was doing a great job. She has already developed a "super soccer kick", it's pretty devastating.

Holding Hands by the Nolichucky

This is a picture of Abby and Emma holding hands while hiking by the Nolichucky River at Davey Crockett's birthplace. We were on a picnic and had a great time. They were helping each other over the rocks. They are great hikers and small rock climbers. So proud of them. Thought they were going to fall in the river at time or two.

The Earth sings green the day before Spring

Call Me Jonny Bon

My pappaw called me Jonny Bon. I'm not sure where he got it. I had no idea at the time but I now know that in French "bon" means good. Perhaps it just rhymed. But, oh how I wish I were known by all as "good jonny"; by those close to me, my friends, my family, my wife. I suppose Ode shortened Jonathan to Jonny as a term of endearment. The oldest son of his youngest daughter. He must have thought something of me, fondly. I know I did of him.

I broke more than a few eggs and probably BB-gunned a chicken or two those few weeks in the summer we spent on his farm. Got tangled in the electric fence and herded by the goats gruff that ranged those sassafras few acres of northeast Mississippi. I was fascinated by farm implements and the recycled freezer full of feed corn. The green repainted John Deere tractor that sat in the barn infested with wood-boring wasp was held in high regard by the boy from Oklahoma. On those humid southern days the sultry breeze that drew across the pebbled red-clay soil smelled of cedar, dog dander, and ammonia from the chicken scat in the hen house. And I wandered around, exploring.

During the wet Christmas season I recall the musty dampness of the oil coated triple branched dog lead restraining the stocky beagles eager to hound the swamp rabbits until they returned home only to be greeting by a lead-shot bouquet. The smell of skinned rabbit guts is still familiar to me, not haunting but humorous, as I still use it to describe the fragrance of whoever it was that let one go in the car. I also still carve walking sticks for my would be tom-girls in the fashion that pappaw did for me while we waiting for the rabbit to come back. I noticed and worshipped the out-of-doors skills he had for farming and hunting, breeding and trading.

I remember too his anger, how he let me know his thoughts the times I broke the eggs or ground wood on the bench grinder, or when he was upset with Mammaw Ritter. I heard the stories of how he once beat a dog to death. I heard my dad speak of his meanness and saw it too at times. Once when our family visit ended abruptly, upsetting Mammaw, I think I recall him slapping her to get her to calm down.

Guess what. I can whittle a walking stick in no time. I can plant a garden full of yellow squash and a bumper crop full of tomatoes. I can make useful things out of leather and wood and I can be mean and hateful. Terrifying is the word Areli used last week to describe my correction of my six and eight year old daughters. I was flattered but mostly I was just described by what she had said. And the fact is, that's not how I want to be. But it is and I can't seem to help it when I want to the most. And when I miss it I'm sorry and all I want is for some one to call me good. Say, "hey Jonny Bon, what to help me feed the goats? I'll let you scoop the feed." Where has Jonny Bon gone? How can he get back?

The Riches I Have

The riches I have were not mine one day,

One day, previous in my life

The riches I have were not claimed by me

By me knowing nothing but strife

The riches I have were not mine until

I realized God, source of light

The riches I have, they were given to me

To me, undeserving, un-right

The riches I have were not mine, and yet

By decision I married, made right

The riches I have are a gift, healing me

Redemption from heaven, my wife

-Jonathan Glenn

13 May, 2005

Cinta A Sonnet

Cinta, Cinta,

Quite contrary.

Waits for something more.

But while she waits, anticipates

She found herself a bore.

And so she sought to pedigree

Become what others proffer.

But what she found was something less

Than what she had to offer.

Oh bother, my brother, my captain, no poet;

Why cater with words so of dread,

Why prescribe a sonnet without something on it

And verse so un-apropos said?

A life misread and dreams unreal, expectations unrequited.

I found instead of the husband I wed, a hero yet unknighted.

Jonathan A. Glenn

These poems are past items that I have written for Areli until I get into the habit of posting original stuff daily. Please read and enjoy.

Found Art

Found Art

July 17, 2006

To Areli

my love

-SHMILY

Jonathan

There is a fine thing in Italia

That I constant quest to see

Over the Alps and down the far side;

Just short of mountained Tuscany.

Stay west of Venezia, oh, just a bit

Now back to Verona for only a stint

In Veneto husbanded

Rare beauty vine sweet

The object of my longing…

Not frank Mona Lisa

Nor leaning to please

Or led via Roma bound way

More classic than Peter’s square

Perfection approaching

Like marble’s smooth face beauty fair.

I find there my favored love…

Three times I asked her

Three times she replied

And multiplied blessings

Appeared at her side

Like columns of wonder

And faces of grace

I find in my quiver

She fills up my place

Each valley and hilltop

Exploring I go

Determining subtleties

Inspecting each rose

From auburn crown down

To her rare freckled face

Across each inch marking

My lips gently trace

And lingering softly

To whisper her name

I call her my lover

She breaths out the same

Without hesitation

I take my sweet time

Each moment made sweeter

As her thoughts mingle mine

Her museum perusing

A masterpiece made

Each portal I open

Reveals unrivaled fame

Soft, wait; what creation

Did I pass too soon?

I return to my pleasure

Round shoulder to groom.

This road leads to valleys

A curve and a bone

Her cheek follows gently

To where kisses call home.

Stay here for a while

Tasting honey and skin

Take a dew flavored petal

Spiral soft, subtle in.

The season, it changes

Like bird on the wing

Chase summer in autumn

South; warm climates bring

Enjoy vista’s journey

Scenes marvelous view

Creation God Sculpted

Delight for the Two

Trace over perfection

With feather soft touch

Enlighten, encircle

Soul hungry for such

Remain here for pleasure

Remain here for tone

Remain here forever

Raw senses to hone

And now can I leave

For points much further on

I’ll stay if you ask me

List’ to your faint song

Now exhausted my touring

The wonder I’ve met

The art that I’ve found here

Is the best I’ve found yet.

Upon A Hill

A long walk on far distant hill,

I started up, but against my will.

I wouldn't see what crowned the top,

What lay ahead made my heart stop.

A pretty girl fit just for me,

With hands of wonder, eyes that see.

Her eyes they looked in my direction.

My heart and soul they soon affected.

Captured by her grace and beauty,

Unfounded love that she gave to me.

Why do you give so much, not due me?

For I deserved much less than she.

She waved my doubt away with words,

And said I had always been hers.

I found in her, my eyes did see,

In she, no cause to disagree.

So I grew up and she with me,

Taught well with love's sincerity.

I soon believed that I would die,

If she did from my reaching fly.

By Grace she found a place, fit in.

My Abigail, to quit my sin.

Why, I don't know, God favored me.

To send my wife, redeeming me.

I love you, Areli

Love, your husband

Jonathan Glenn