Creekbank Blog

2009-11-24T01:46:00.000-08:00

The first inside page of A Good Place

2009-11-11T18:11:00.000-08:00

Blog Readers,

We've made a change on the Creekbank blog.

To tie in with our new and updated website at www.creekbank.net, Creekbank blog is now imbedded on the home page of the website.

Our old blog, which you're now on, will continue to be available for reading at http://creekbankblog.blogspot.com

New posts will be featured at www.creekbank.

Click on the www.creekbank.net to see the latest posts including information on my newest novel, A Good Place.

Writing for a Reason,

Curt

2009-11-09T04:26:00.001-08:00

Yesterday while walking, DeDe and I saw a coral snake. It was about 18 inches long.

I thought about this fine snake story printed below. Enjoy!

Red Touch Yellow, Kill a Fellow

From Stories from the Creekbank by Curt Iles copyright 2000 Creekbank Stories

For the fourth time I go back to my seat in the tabernacle. Four hundred and fifty G.A. girls sit in rapt attention as camp pastor Ronnie LaLande does a monologue on Namaan. He is resplendent in a robe, turban, and sandals. Bro. Ronnie has been a G.A. camp fixture for seven summers. When he becomes a Biblical character, it is as if he really is that person.

I’m now getting situated after fixing the last minor emergency. It seems a counselor had a homesick camper and Monday night is the first official night of homesick season. I’m hoping now I’ll get to enjoy the service and see what God is going to do in the lives of these girls.

Just as Namaan gets to the part where he is complaining about how muddy the Jordan River is compared to his crystal clear streams back in Syria, I’m tapped on the shoulder. Turning, I see James Blankenship, our summer staff leader, motioning me outside. I try to hide my disgust as I thread my way out. I think to myself, “I bet it is something he could take care of without me.”

When we get outside the Tabernacle several people are gathered and James points to the flower area by the door. There is a snake. James relates, “I was sitting here on a tree bench when I saw it.”

And it’s not just any snake- but a coral snake. The red, yellow, and black stripes make it easily recognizable. I repeat the saying from my childhood,

“Red touch yellow . . . kill a fellow
Red touch black . . . friend of Jack.”

This snake has the red and yellow stripes touching and the distinctive black nose of the coral snake. He is about two foot long- a good size for a coral snake. As I look around for a stick to kill him, I remember that the coral snake has the strongest venom of any American snake.

By now the campers and counselors on the back row have turned to look out the windows wondering what is going on. They can’t see the snake, which is below their sight line, but they know something interesting is there in the flowers.

With my new found weapon I hit the snake. The only problem is my stick is rotten. It breaks apart as I strike and the coral snake is now stunned and infuriated. He instinctively heads for cover as I frantically hunt another weapon. And here is why I’m frantic: Mr. Coral snake is burrowing furiously under the edge of the Tabernacle wall. Before I can do anything only his tail is sticking out as he disappears under the wall.

Now I’m aware that Namaan is probably on his fifth dip in the Jordan River inside the Tabernacle. I don’t remember any snakes in that river from the book of II Kings, but if I don’t do something quick there’s going to be one in this story, accompanied by more than four hundred screaming girls.

The counselors on the back row are very interested in our rodeo. Recognition of what is out there registers on their face. When I charge in the back doors to make sure the snake hasn’t come under the wall, all of them have their feet tucked under their chins up on the pew. I’ll never forget the look on Davy Funderburk’s face. He is sitting right under the spot where the snake is trying to get in.

To my relief there is no snake inside. The floor plate should keep him out of the Tabernacle. I hurry back outside. Someone brings me a stout stick. But the coral snake is nowhere to be found. We surmise that he has burrowed up under the Tabernacle wall.

Using my stick, I begin probing in the dirt under the wall. I’m joined now by several other brave souls, including James who is standing cautiously back eight feet away. Finally closer to the back door, I see red, yellow, and black in the dirt. He is burrowing in the dirt trying to escape. Using my stick as a rake, I pull him out in the flowerbed. Now he is in the open and determined to elude me. To our horror he heads straight for the Tabernacle door. I’m sure he thinks if he can get under the door he’ll escape the tormenting devil who is hitting him.

I’m willing to do anything to keep him outside so I instinctively use my stick to rake him away from the door. He flies about six feet across the sand and wraps around James’ foot.

... Now before I tell you how this story ends, I must tell you about James. I love James like a son. He is our summer staff director. And he is a city boy. And the last thing he wants is a coral snake wrapped around his leg.

So James begins a dance that is hard to describe. All I can say is not even a boa constrictor could have stayed attached to James’ leg with the moves he was making. One of the guys later said, “He sure got religion when that snake wrapped around his foot.”

The snake hits the ground and I hit him good. It was all over so quickly. The dead coral snake lay there. James stood back still shaking and all of us had a fine laugh at this comedy in errors.

By now Namaan (a.k.a. Bro. Ronnie) has just been cured of his leprosy and was praising God. I could’ve gone in the service but I just didn’t think I could sit still after this.

2009-11-06T13:37:00.001-08:00

Billy Cannon, 1959 Heisman Trophy winner, is still revered as one of Louisiana's greatest sports heroes.

Notice the uncanny resemblance to recent Heisman winner Tim Tebow. They both have that "run through a brick wall" look that great athletes have.

Cannon's life has had plenty of ups and downs.

Read this fine article on his recent life and the redemptive theme. http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/eticket/story?page=091030BillyCannon

A quote from the article, "The people of Louisiana are quick to love," Cannon told the AP guy. "They are also quick to forgive." When the reporter asked the question, Cannon said, "I did the crime and I did the time. I haven't had a speeding ticket since."

And that was it.

2009-11-06T13:20:00.000-08:00

Gwen's Shopping Spree

Lately, I've thought about my friend Gwen. During my years as assistant principal, Gwen Cooley worked very closely with our school. She always cared about our students and was continually doing things to help out.

Her untimely death from cancer over fifteen years ago left a void in her family and our community.

Her husband Russell's death last month reminded me of Gwen's rich life.

I dug out the photo shown below. Under the photo, I'll tell the story.

Here's the story:

The East Beauregard Beta Club sold tickets on a "buggy run." The winning ticket got a two-minute shopping spree at the local Brookshire Bros. supermarket.

Gwen Cooley, being the school supporter she was, bought a ticket and was selected as the winner.

Teacher Sally Heise (shown in the photo with Gwen) was the Beta Sponsor. She told me, "Mrs. Cooley won, and with her age and size I don't think she'll be able to shop too fast. That means we'll make more profit."

I laughed. "Gwen Cooley has worked hard for all of her life and has raised both her children and grandchildren. She knows how to shop. Don't underestimate her."

As the photo so vividly shows, Gwen went straight to the commercial products aisle and started hefting those big cans and containers.

She loaded her cart quickly and expertly. When it was all over, the Beta Club actually lost money on the buggy run fundraising project.

And Gwen left Brookshire's with a trunkload of groceries to feed her large family.

I always smile when I see this photo or share this story.
My friend Gwen. A Sugartown woman with a big heart and a life full of sweet deeds.

2009-11-05T17:54:00.000-08:00

Tertius' Headache

What do you do when the movie ends? Are you one of the first ones out or do you sit and watch the credits roll until the lights come up and the workers pick up the popcorn containers?

I never leave until everything passes on the screen.

It's the way I was brought up at the knee of my Uncle Bill. (He holds the record of watching 233 movies in one year (1959 while working at the Realart Theater in DeRidder.)

Watching a movie beside Uncle Bill was an event. It was serious and no talking or distractions were allowed. Also, we'd sit until the credits rolled by soaking in every last moment of the magic of being in a theater.

I think of that when I get to Romans 16. Paul's classic letter on all things concerning salvation and justification.

Romans 16 are the credits. In this final portion of his letter, Paul sends greetings between the hearers in Rome and his fellow senders in Corinth.

It's easy to skip over this portion of his letter. As I heard one speaker comment, "Romans 16 is like the credits at the end of 'Gone with the Wind'."

However, all scripture is there for a reason, including Romans 16.

My favorite verse in that chapter is verse 22: "I, Tertius, who wrote down this letter, greet you in the Lord." (16:22 NIV)

Paul allows this scribe to add a personal note to the letter. It's a mark of class and grace.

Thinking about this, I penned a short fictional story told by Teritus. I call it "Tertius' Headache."

Enjoy.

Tertius’ Headache

“Honey, I’m home.”

“Well, Tertius how was your day?”

“Whew.”

“A bad day, huh?”

“No, it was… it was wonderful, but I’m whupped.”

“How so?” His wife asked as she stirred a steaming pot.

“I’m taking dictation from the Apostle Paul, you know the evangelist. He’s staying over at Gaius’ house.He’s writing a letter to some folks in Rome. We spent all day on it. And I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“Honey, what’s the letter about?

“Everything. It’s long. My hand is numb. Paul got so excited, talking fast and pacing the room, gesturing. I’d have to slow him down, back up some, and get him to repeat it.

“It’s really Paul’s summation of what he calls the 'gospel.'

The simple, pure gospel—of who Jesus is and what He’s done for us.

"Here, let me read from my notes. Let me find it here. How about this from page 4, 'All have sinned and come short of the glory of God.' "

Tertius thumbed through the papers, dropping several. 'But my favorite here is from, let's see page 9, "The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus."

"That's really nice, Tertius. I like it."

He smiled wearily, “Well, if supper’s ready, let’s eat. I’ll probably be pulling an all-nighter re-writing this. I’ve got to be there early in the morning to start again."

2009-11-05T06:55:00.000-08:00

Release information on our new novel, A Good Place, at http://agoodplaceiles.blogspot.com.

See the front and back cover as well as read chapter 1.*

*Disclaimer: If you read chapter 1, you'll want the book! You have been warned.

2009-11-04T20:17:00.000-08:00

Whatever it Takes
La Esperanza, Honduras

From the 2002 Curt Iles book, The Old House. Earlier title: "A Broken Pencil"

I stood in muddy water in the middle of what was now a raging stream. Only an hour ago this spot was the middle of a dirt road on the side of a hill in northwestern Honduras. We’d arrived here at the home of a family to set up our video equipment and screen to show The Jesus Film.

Upon arrival a few hours before dark our team was met by a group of smiling dark Honduran children. Setting up our screen and tarps, we kept an eye on the sky above the surrounding mountains. It was May and that meant the beginning of the rainy season in Central America.

Tonight’s language, of course, Spanish. Randy Pierce sets up the large screen and adjusts the video projector, DVD player, and generator.

As dusk approaches, a small crowd of forty or so has gathered. Most perch on benches in the roadway or sit with us along the ditch bank. Off in the surrounding darkness I can make out the forms of people, mostly men, who will not come closer, but sit at a distance under the trees.

As the film begins, every eye is on the screen. We are miles from any electricity and I wonder if any of these folks have ever seen a movie. The quietly humming generator runs the DVD player as the light of the movie reflects off the rapt faces of the Hondurans.

The movie continues. Just about the time that Jesus stills the storm on the Sea of Galilee, the first raindrops fall. Then a clap of thunder introduces the real rain and the bottom drops out. Everyone runs for cover under the two tarps. Within minutes the road is running inches deep in water. The wind blows rain in on the huddled women, boys, and children.

Finally, after about twenty minutes of raining hard, it slackens. By now Jesus is on His way to Jerusalem. It’s still raining hard but not nearly as hard as it was earlier. I slip to a drier area under the tarp and sit on a log.

On my left side I feel the warmth of another human body. A Honduran woman is sitting beside me. It’s very dark but I can make out her smile and tell her hello, as I return my attention to the film. On the crowded log we are tightly packed and I feel the woman’s body against my shoulder. From her side smacking sounds distract me, and with my eyes now adjusted to the darkness, I see that this Honduran mother is nursing her infant child, oblivious to this embarrassed Yankee seated next to her. My only thought is, “I’m sure a long way from home here!”

Finally, through an hour of steady rain, the film ends. The Jesus Film features a wonderful invitation at the end giving each viewer the opportunity to invite Jesus into their life. Alexis stands in the rain and issues a call for all who’ve made this decision to come forward. From back in the crowd a young boy steps forward. Soon there is a small group of teenage boys who came forward one by one, standing in the pouring rain.

As long as I live I will have the picture in my mind of these seven boys gathered around Alexis as he prays with them. They had made a decision to come to Jesus and were going to do whatever it took to receive him, regardless of the rain or what anyone else thought.

Then I recalled the story of the four men in the second chapter of Mark’s gospel who brought their lame friend to see Jesus. Finding Jesus in a crowded room teaching, they went to the roof and after cutting a hole, lowered their friend to the wonderful Savior. They had a “whatever it takes” attitude to bring their friend to Jesus. Isn’t that exactly what we should have concerning the Savior? There is no distance too great, no weather too bad, no obstacle too large, and no wall too high. Whatever it takes, we need to bring others to Jesus.

This night reminds me of how we in America really don’t know what commitment and sacrifice are about. Here are people who’ve walked miles to see this film. Some of them are willing to stand in the pouring rain to show their desire to follow the amazing Son of God, Jesus. After the film, many will make long walks in the dark and up slippery muddy mountain paths as they trudge homeward. It humbles me as to how I take so many things for granted and often do not really show gratitude for my blessings.

Xtreme Missionary Adventures, led by friend Randy Pierce is a cutting-edge missions ministry that goes to the hard places to share the gospel.

I highly recommend this team of committed outdoorsmen. Learn more at www.xmaonline.com

2009-11-04T20:16:00.001-08:00

Give him the ball and get out of the way.

Once, in the heat of the last minutes of a close NBA playoff game, Boston Celtics coach K.C. Jones looked into the faces of his team during a timeout.

According to those in the huddle, he looked at no. 33, Larry Bird, nodded and said, "Give him the ball and get out of the way." They did, he did, and the Celtics won.

What a fine story. What a good lesson for those of us who follow Jesus. As we face the challenges of life, the best thing we can do is "give him the ball and get out of the way." Surrender our life to him and "let go and let God."

2009-11-02T11:23:00.000-08:00

I'm "manic writing" today, catching up on stories I've had stored in my mind and on my laptop. Being delayed in an airport isn't all bad if you've got something to write or read.

I hope you enjoy this story. I really appreciate all of you who faithfully visit my blog and social networks.

Here's a new story:

Shoplifting at the Crowley Wal Mart: A Story on the "I" word*

The I word: Integrity.

It's bad enough to shoplift anywhere, but the Crowley (Louisiana) Wal Mart is a bad place to offend.

It's a famous store in Wal Mart lore. (The current location is a Supercenter, but the old store was an early small store location.

There are various versions of the following story. (You can learn more with a Google search.)

In the early days of the Crowley Wal Mart, shoplifting (or "shrinkage" as they call it) was a real problem. So management decided to post a worker at the door to discourage shoplifters and check bags.

It just so happens the workers were friendly and also greeted customers by name, since they knew nearly everyone in the small rice-farming town of Crowley.

The rest is history. It was the start of the Wal Mart greeter, a staple of their stores everywhere.
(One story tells of Sam Walton showing up "unannounced at the Crowley store" and being happily greeted. He went back to headquarters and made it a company-wide policy.) Regardless of how it actually happened, it soon became an American fixture and part of our language, "Well, you could be a greeter at Wal Mart.")

Back to shoplifting: Two weekends ago I passed through Crowley late at night returning from the La. Book Festival in Baton Rouge. I made a quick Wal Mart stop. Among the items placed in my cart was a small watch battery. To keep from losing it, I slipped it inside a binder I was buying.

And I walked out of the store (past two greeters) with my shoplifted watch battery among my paid items. At my vehicle, I began looking for the item and couldn't find it. Finally, I remembered where I'd placed it for "safekeeping."

Of course, I also realized I'd not paid for it.

It was late on Saturday night.
I was ready to get home to Dry Creek.
I had a sermon to preach the next morning.

I really didn't want to go back in the store.
One Wal Mart visit per day (or even week) is way more than enough for me.

I looked at the battery, searched my original receipt hoping it had been scanned, and wondered how long the line inside would be.

I told myself, I could just go on. Maybe take care of it next time I'm in a store.

No one would know.

Yes, no one would know.
Except me.
And expect God.
And that second Someone is pretty important.

Sheepishly I re-entered the store.
The clerk was surprised to see me again. She was also surprised at my story. As you can see from the above receipt, it was just $4.00.

But it was an integrity test.

A test to find out what I really believed. My favorite definition of integrity comes from John Maxwell, "Integrity is who you are when no one's looking, and what you'll stand up for even if you're standing alone."

Driving home, I recalled a TV report from another Wal Mart: in New Orleans in the days after Katrina's devastation. A middle-aged man was coming out of a vandalized Wal Mart with an armload of bottled water and food. He approached the TV camera and said, "I want you to know that I'm making a list of everything I have here and will be back the day this store re-opens to pay for every item. I'm only taking what we need to survive."

The man's intense eyes and words told me he was a man of his word. He had integrity. The storm had taken a lot of things from him but hadn't robbed him of his integrity.

I was reminded of F.B. Meyer's words on Joseph (of the Old Testament when Potiphar's wife had pulled his coat off in her aggressive movements to pull him down)

"Although Joseph was stripped of his garment, he wasn't stripped of his integrity."

Integrity. It's a trait that no one can take from a man or woman. It can only be surrendered by an individual.

May God help each of us make up our mind to be possessors of integrity in both small and large ways.

2009-11-02T11:05:00.001-08:00

Starting a new journal

It's not just any journal. It's journal number 49 I'm starting today.

To left Journal 1. Started Dec. 1973 during my senior year of high school.

I have all of these journals, written in over thirty six years on a shelf in my office. They're my most valuable material possession, telling the story of my life. Honestly, telling about the highs and lows.

I write when I'm either very sad or extremely happy (or tickled). There's plenty of both in these journals. That first journal lasted from 1973 through 1977. Now, I usually fill one up in three months.

The note below is Uncle Bill's original note from that first journal. It was good advice then and I'm still following it. Click on note to see clearer/larger version.

2009-11-02T10:57:00.000-08:00

L.A. Freeway

Written last week (Oct. 24)

I’ve been wanting to write this story for a while. Today’s the perfect day. I’m sitting in the Houston airport after driving US 190/La. 12 and I-10 Freeway.

My grandfather was a slow driver. In fact, he Sid Plott did everything slowly. He’d still be eating thirty minutes after all of the other dishes had been washed. His comment was, “I’m not a bird, I don’t have a gizzard. That’s why I eat slow.”

Once on the L.A. Freeway (He was in Los Angeles for the World Horseshoe Championship) he was ticketed by a patrolman for “going too slow.”

Always when I hear the refrain from the Jerry Jeff Walker song, “L.A. Freeway” I think of Grandpa Sid:

“If I can just get off that L.A. Freeway
Without getting killed or caught.”

I also thought of my grandpa last week. An older friend, Gerald Shirley, told of getting “pulled over” on US 190 near Reeves for “going too slow.” The officer said he couldn’t ticket him but warned him "to drive faster so as not to be a danger." (Mr. Shirley said he was “going about 35.”)

To me it was ironic he was stopped on U.S. Highway 190 near Reeves. That section of road is famous for giving speeding tickets. (One summer I polled the summer staffers at Dry Creek on who’d received a ticket near Reeves and nearly everyone raised their hand.)

The village of Reeves has made a good living off giving tickets, especially to Texas drivers coming to the Kinder Casino. In fact, 190 is often called “Casino Road” and the “Texas Highway.” Because Texas is not only bigger (but faster) their drivers are prime candidates for exceeding the 55 MPH speed limit (and 45 through Reeves.)

In the next portion of this blog entry, I’ve printed a story from my third book, Wind in the Pines. It’s a special tale about values as told from this very section of US 190 that I’ve just written about.

Enjoy… and remember that the things that matter aren’t things.

You see, when it’s all said and done, it’s all about people.

Heavenly Treasures on Casino Road

This is a favorite story from my third book, Wind in the Pines. It was written circa 2003 during my memorable years as manager at Dry Creek Camp.

The silver BMW zooms by me as we head west on US 190 outside Reeves, Louisiana. It’s a hot Saturday afternoon in June, and as always, our Louisiana summer humidity is tough to bear, and impossible to enjoy. I’m driving the camp van, loaded with a dozen sweaty and laughing boys, and the AC doesn’t work very well. We’ve got the windows cranked down, but it’s still just plain sweltering inside the vehicle.
But the heat is probably not bothering the two occupants in the sleek BMW. Its darkly tinted windows are tightly shut. As the car speeds around our slow van, I’m not at all surprised to see the Texas license plates above the rear bumper.
US 190 is what we call the “Texas Casino Road.” It is used by the multitudes of Texans who come to our fair state to gamble at the Grand Coushatta Indian Casino, north of Kinder.

This shiny new luxury car is in stark contrast to what I’m driving—a 1978 Ford van. In addition to being hot, this van still bears evidence from yesterday’s canoe trip—the lingering aroma of wet bathing suits and soured towels, and some of the remaining creek sand on the floor is being whipped up by the wind and stinging our eyes.

I’m sure our Texas friends, who’ve just passed us (if they even noticed us at all) thought we were a pretty motley crew. This van has seen many miles, first carrying foreign seaman from the Port of Lake Charles, and now hauling kids to and from camp.

As this luxury car quickly puts great distance between us, I think, “Well, I wonder how they did at the casino? Are they going home happy—with more than they brought—or like most visitors, are they leaving with pockets empty and broken dreams from a weekend which they had hoped would be profitable?”

Then I recall a story. (It seems everything makes me think of another story!) It’s one concerning a Texan who bragged after returning to Houston after a weekend at the casino. “Boys,” he said between puffs on a big cigar, “I went over there in a thirty-thousand dollar car and came back in a three-hundred thousand dollar bus!”

. . .The only part he omitted was that this bus was a Greyhound Bus. This funny story is a sad reminder of the troubling practice as to how casinos will quickly loan you more gambling money in exchange for your vehicle title.

As my mind contemplates this and the silver BMW puts distance between us, one of the boys in the van hollers and my eyes are diverted back to the rear view mirror. It is important to keep a check on these campers I’m taking home to Lake Charles. These are Opportunity Camp boys. They’ve come to camp because their parole officer sent them. Some came to camp as an alternative to juvenile jail time, while others have come because their parents were more than happy to have them gone for three days. Regardless of their reason for attending, they’ve all had a great time and been model campers during the three days of camp.

As I glance again at them in the rear view mirror, I don’t see criminals, or a certain race, or any hate- I simply see young boys who’ve had very little guidance, spiritual or otherwise, in their lives. Boys who need male guidance and involvement. Boys who, most of all, need the life-changing love of Jesus in their lives. I recall how many of them, including most of these six, made first time decisions to follow Jesus as Savior, Lord, and Guide of their lives while at camp.

Returning my attention to the road, I recall a thrilling experience from the last night of camp. After our evening service a camper came up to me. He asked, “Are you a counselor here?” There was an urgency to his question that riveted my attention on his dark brooding eyes.

“No, I’m not really one, but how can I help you?”

“Man, I want Jesus... and I want Him now!” he blurted out. As we went outside and sat at a picnic table, it was my privilege to be there when he asked this Jesus to become real, forgive him, and come into his life. I’ll always remember his simple, crude, heartfelt prayer:
“Jesus, you know I done a lotta wrong in my life, and there’s a whole lot of forgiving I need, but I know you can, and will, save and forgive me.”

I’ve been with many young people when they’ve reached this decision to get to know God’s Son, but I’ve never heard anyone pray more earnestly and passionately, than this young man.

As the van bounces along in the rutted lanes of US 190, I recall other neat stories from these three wonderful days of camp. What a joy it is to be part of God’s life-changing work at Dry Creek Camp!

Looking ahead down the highway, I can barely see our Texas friends in their BMW. They are now only a distant speck. Then the thought hits me and I really believe it is from God: Even if these Texas travelers hit the jackpot and are returning home filthy rich, they aren’t nearly as rich as I am driving this filthy van.

Here’s why: I’m hauling a van full of new Christian young men. Who knows, there might be a preacher sitting behind me, or one of those three sitting in the back seat may mature into the kind of Godly man who will break the cycle of heartbreak and sin that have marked his family for generations.
A verse comes to my mind from Jesus’ words in Matthew 6:

Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. (Matthew 6: 19-21)

You see, the only things going to Heaven are people’s souls! Nothing else will make it, not even one single dollar of all the casino jackpots ever won. I think of the words of Mr. Leonard Spears, “Son, I’ve lived here on the road to the cemetery all of my life, but I’ve yet to see a hearse drive by with a luggage rack.”

Therefore, when we view life with an eternal perspective, we realize our earthly possessions are temporary and will be someday left behind. Therefore, we need to be busy storing up heavenly treasure while we are here on earth- the everlasting treasure of investing in the lives of our greatest resource- young people.

Yes, our business is to be busy about His business. As Jesus said, “I’ve come to seek and save that which was lost.”

Yes, I wouldn’t trade these “heavenly treasures” laughing in the back of the van for anything material this world has to offer. Because in the long run, and the eternal view is always the long run, the things that matter aren’t “things,” but people.

As the popular MasterCard Ads say, “Certain things are priceless.” And being part of God’s life changing work at summer camp is priceless...and eternal... and worth doing whatever it takes to be part of.

What good will is it for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul?
- Jesus as quoted in Matthew 16:26

2009-11-02T10:49:00.000-08:00

Held Hostage in Atlanta Airport

Monday, Nov. 2. Missed my connection to Houston. Killing time in Atlanta Airport.
Below is a story I wrote last week when I was stranded here coming through.

The River of Life flows through Hartsfield Airport

They say Atlanta is the world busiest airport* (the Southern saying: “Whether you’re going to heaven or hell, you’ll have to go through Atlanta.”) Airport is packed as usual. Everyone hurrying from gate to gate. I have three hours to wait and walk, so I “hike” along the concourse.

I see it all. A young marine in dress blues. I wonder where he’s going. The sad girl beside him with her head on his shoulder convinces me he’s on his way away.

A man with a large mountain backpack, shorts, and hiking boots strolls amongst the well-dressed businessmen. I stop him. His face is red and windburned, and his kneecaps are covered in large scabs. He is a wild man. When he speaks, I know he’s from Australia.

He’s returning from the South American Andes and tells of climbing to 18,000 feet. His knees as well as leg muscles attest to his story of biking 2000 kilometers in the two months he’s been down south.

He moves on and I watch a preteen boy led along by a stewardess. He’s evidently traveling alone, and she’s escorting him to his next flight. I know there are parents (and probably grandparents) sitting worriedly someone as their son moves from point A to B.

The river of life pours and overflows all around my spot at Gate C-7. Everyone going somewhere. Every one of them with a story to tell.

* Chicago O’Hare and Atlanta annually vie for this title. My understanding is that London Heathrow is slightly behind them.

2009-11-01T12:37:00.000-08:00

Stories, footprints, and photos from the Trail.
I've just returned from a hike on the Appalachian Trail along the Tennessee/North Carolina border. It was a neat experience. I'm returning tired, wet, and happy.

I looked for Mark Sanford (South Carolina governor) who made every one of us honest hikers look bad with his escapades earlier in the year. (He said he was "hiking the A.T." when he was visiting a girlfriend in Argentina.)

I can say this: as bad as we hikers smell on the Trail, it's not the place to find a girlfriend anyway. (I thank my "girlfriend" of 33 years, DeDe for allowing me to follow my hiking dreams.

On this trip, I often thought of my friend "Mac" Rathburn who hiked the entire 2100 mile trail. Asked about his trip, he said, "I enjoyed every miserable step of it."

I've heard many descriptions of hiking but none better.

In the clouds at Carver's Gap, elevation 5512 feet on Saturday.

Friday night shelter, Roan Knob Shelter. Highest trail shelter on the entire Appalachian Trail. (6200 feet.) I had the shelter to myself. (Just me and the mice.)

Be still and know that I am God. Psalms 46:10

Ladder up into the loft of the shelter. By climbing up there, you're out of bear country. There's a trap door you can close from above.

My bed spot in the loft. It rained and blew all night and reminded me of the night Hurricane Rita struck Dry Creek.

Thru-Hikers "Fleagle" and "Lady Jelly Bean." They've walked 1800 miles south from Maine. Only 400 miles to go to Springer Mtn. Ga.

Thru hikers "Tolstoy" and "Buddy" were my roommates at the Clyde Smith Shelter. They've walked (and trotted) all the way from Maine. Buddy has his own sleeping bag.

Tolstoy (aka Nathaniel Pruitt) is from New Jersey. I enjoyed visiting with him.

More photos and stories later.

Much of my second and third day was spent on the brutal northward climb up Roan Mountain. Next time, I'll hike south where the climb to the summit is much less. The weather turned cloudy and rainy and remained until today.

2009-10-28T06:24:00.000-07:00

Build a bridge and get over it

Forgiveness: what a word!!!

I stood before the thirty summer staffers in the camp dining hall. We had all just returned from a great weekend in Houston. It was now time to return to the world of camp and get ready for 400 campers arriving the next morning.

During our Houston weekend I'd shared mini-devotions on Joseph. After returning to the camp and observing the happy but tired faces of these teens and college students, I had hesitated to continue these studies on the attributes. But in my heart I felt God tugging telling me to share.

The subject of tonight’s devotion was forgiveness. As we reviewed the long laundry list of injustices brought down on Joseph in Genesis 37-50, I was once again amazed at how this story touches listeners of all ages.

As we shared about the importance and necessity of forgiveness, I noticed one of our counselors, Ashley. She was sitting on the front row weeping quietly. I wondered as to what had been said that upset her. For the rest of the devotion she cried with her head down.

It was later that evening that I learned from her about why she was crying. She related a sad tale of being sexually abused as a young preteen. The fact that it was a trusted family friend and nothing had been done to bring about closure or justice only added to her pain as she cried.

Ashley told how she had been the cabin counselor in last week’s camp. Under her care was a group of girls who had just been part of a terrible sexual molestation situation in their church. As Ashley began to minister to these girls, many "deep below the surface feelings" began to bubble to the surface of her consciousness.

And Sunday’s night devotion on forgiveness brought these deep emotional hurts to her heart where they came out as tears.

That week, and in the remaining weeks of camp, Ashley taught me a great deal about forgiveness. I was reminded that of all the human actions/reactions/emotions- the ability to forgive may be the greatest.

It is true that to err is human, but to forgive is divine. Who else but the powerful hand of God can move a human heart to forgive a terrible sin?

It was during these weeks of August that I came to, for the first time, truly realize what forgiveness is: It is not forgetting….

God gave us a wonderful gift called the human mind. It is created to remember. That is both good and bad. But he also gave our human heart an equally amazing gift- the ability to forgive and move on.

God taught me a lesson through Ashley: We are to build a bridge of forgiveness and “get over it.” By that I mean, the bridge of forgiveness allows us to walk away from the bitterness.

To get over it. Both literally and figuratively.

You see, forgiveness is not forgetting. It is reaching the point where you say, “It doesn’t really matter.”

When you can state that, the healing power of forgiveness sweeps over us.

On our hero, Joseph: I believe it is when he saw God’s hand working in, and around him.

How many nights did he look up at the night sky and stars and wonder why his brothers had done this to him?

How many nights did he stare up at the blank ceiling in Potiphar’s house and wonder where God was and why he had allowed this to happen?

Forgiveness is a process. Not overnight
It starts when you can pray for the offender by name (and not pray that God will strike him down)

For two years in the dirty prison as he waited day by day for the King’s cupbearer to return and free him, did he silently want to curse that man, Potiphar, the wicked woman, and maybe even God?

However, that same God who helped Joseph is standing ready to help you forgive.

His Son Jesus, who cried out, "Father forgive them, they know not what they do" stands ready to help you.

2009-10-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

What causes depression?

I'm often asked, "What causes a person to become depressed?"

My answer is often, "No one knows."

One of my wise doctors, a psychiatrist, once said, "Curt, we don't understand as much as we'd like about exactly how the brain, and its chemicals, work."

That being said, I think there are Biblical examples of depression that give us a peek. (Normally in the traditional versions, depression is often called "despair.")

Moses showed signs of it during the 40 years in the wilderness. It was due to being overwhelmed and the daily pressures of a huge number of people pressing on him for their every need.

David definitely was a person who understood about the highs and lows. His depression was related both to his sin (Bathsheba/Uriah) the sin of others (Absalom) grief (the loss of a child)
and oppression (Being hunted like a dog by his many enemies.)

Elijah in I Kings 19 shows classic depression caused by exhaustion. He was physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted from three years of battle with Ahab and Jezebel, running hard for God, and after the greatest victory in his ministry, the cookout at Mt. Carmel where God showed up to vindicated Himself as well as Elijah's ministry.

Often, depression and low times slips up on us after our greatest victories. Beth Moore, in her book Praying God's Word, speaks of depression being a challenge for her after finishing a large project or book.

Once again, sin can cause depression. Judas' betrayal brings on despair and suicide in the life of a disciple.

A good question here is: "Is depression a sin?"

No, depression is not a sin.

Can sin cause depression? Sure, being out of God's will and the resulting sin can cause depression. I've given you examples above.

But the dark times of Moses and Elijah, two great men of God who were in the center of God's will, reveal that depression can have all types of causes and backgrounds.

However, at the time of Jesus' greatest challenge: preparation for the cross, Moses and Elijah were sent by God to encourage and comfort Jesus. (on the Mount of Transfiguration)
These two men who'd been through the fire and found faithful were sent for this heavenly pep talk to the very Son of God.

After my precious friend, Ricky Gallien's death by suicide, I was asked repeatedly, "How could this happen to a great man of God?"

Ricky was (and is still rightly remembered as) a great man of God, a committed pastor, successful high school principal, committed father and husband. Depression and its results can happen to any person, including steady Christians and gifted leaders.

Don't believe it? Look at the Biblical examples above.
Study the lives of great Christian leaders like Martin Luther and Charles H. Spurgeon.
Read the biographies of legends like Lincoln and Churchill.

They all dealt with the "black dog of depression."
But with the help of God, they overcame it to lead strong lives that still call out to us.

May the same be said of each of us.

2009-10-26T08:01:00.001-07:00

A good game plan

Once, in the heat of the last minutes of a close NBA playoff game, Boston Celtics coach K.C. Jones looked into the faces of his team during a timeout. According to those in the huddle, he looked at no. 33, Larry Bird, nodded and said, "Give him the ball and get out of the way." They did, he did, and the Celtics won.

What a fine story. What a good lesson for those of us who follow Jesus. As we face the challenges of life, the best thing we can do is "give him the ball and get out of the way." Surrender our life to him and "let go and let God."

2009-10-26T07:33:00.000-07:00

Under the Broom Tree with Elijah

Tonight in revival, I'm speaking from I Kings 19:1-18, specifically verse 4, "He (Elijah) came to a broom tree, sat down under it and prayed that he might die."

Elijah, after the greatest victory in his life (the BBQ on Mt. Carmel where God "showed up and showed out) is running in fear for his life. He goes to the desert sits under a broom (juniper tee) and asks God to 'kill him.'

I understand this story.
I've been under the broom tree and wished to die.
I've been out in the desert where it's dry, life seems dead, and one feels completely alone.
It's called depression. It's one of the "D words" and travels along in a pack with its cousins, discouragement, despair, disillusionment, defeat, disgust, dejection, and distortion.

A Middle Eastern Broom Tree

Under the broom tree, you can't seem to hear God's voice and your prayers seem to bounce off the ceiling, or in Elijah's case, off the limbs of the broom tree.

You feel that God is a million miles away, even though he's as close as your heartbeat. It's a matter of perception.

Depression, or despair as the Bible often calls it, does that: it clouds and blurs one's perception.

I call it "The Great Liar." It tells you lots of things that aren't true: there is no hope, life will never be good or happy again. No one cares, including God. You'd be better off dead. Everyone else would be better off with you gone.

These are all lies, and I believe they come (especially "you'd be better off dead) directly from "The Father of Liars," Satan. Jesus said "The thief comes to kill, steal, and destroy."* He was referring to Satan. *John 10:10

Depression not only tells your mind lies, but it clouds the truth. Wonderful truths of hope: God is for you, not against you; He is carrying you through this time; (The wonderful poem, "Footprints" sustained me during my dark days.) You will get better and the joy of life will return.

I'll be adding thoughts and stories on this subject throughout the coming days.

Hoping.
Looking up.

Curt Iles

2009-10-23T04:24:00.000-07:00

Whatever it Takes

La Esperanza, Honduras

From the book by Curt Iles, The Old House copyright 2002

I stood in muddy water in the middle of what was now a raging stream. Only an hour ago this spot was the middle of a dirt road on the side of a hill in northwestern Honduras. We’d arrived here at the home of a family to set up our video equipment and screen to show The Jesus Film.

Upon arrival a few hours before dark our team was met by a group of smiling dark Honduran children. Setting up our screen and tarps, we kept an eye on the sky above the surrounding mountains. It was May and that meant the beginning of the rainy season in Central America.

Tonight’s language, of course, Spanish. Randy Pierce sets up the large screen and adjusts the video projector, DVD player, and generator.

As dusk approaches, a small crowd of forty or so has gathered. Most perch on benches in the roadway or sit with us along the ditch bank. Off in the surrounding darkness I can make out the forms of people, mostly men, who will not come closer, but sit at a distance under the trees.

As the film begins, every eye is on the screen. We are miles from any electricity and I wonder if any of these folks have ever seen a movie. The quietly humming generator runs the DVD player as the light of the movie reflects off the rapt faces of the Hondurans.

The movie continues. Just about the time that Jesus stills the storm on the Sea of Galilee, the first raindrops fall. Then a clap of thunder introduces the real rain and the bottom drops out. Everyone runs for cover under the two tarps. Within minutes the road is running inches deep in water. The wind blows rain in on the huddled women, boys, and children.

Finally, after about twenty minutes of raining hard, it slackens. By now Jesus is on His way to Jerusalem. It’s still raining hard but not nearly as hard as it was earlier. I slip to a drier area under the tarp and sit on a log.

On my left side I feel the warmth of another human body. A Honduran woman is sitting beside me. It’s very dark but I can make out her smile and tell her hello, as I return my attention to the film. On the crowded log we are tightly packed and I feel the woman’s body against my shoulder. From her side smacking sounds distract me, and with my eyes now adjusted to the darkness, I see that this Honduran mother is nursing her infant child, oblivious to this embarrassed Yankee seated next to her. My only thought is, “I’m sure a long way from home here!”

Finally, through an hour of steady rain, the film ends. The Jesus Film features a wonderful invitation at the end giving each viewer the opportunity to invite Jesus into their life. Alexis stands in the rain and issues a call for all who’ve made this decision to come forward. From back in the crowd a young boy steps forward. Soon there is a small group of teenage boys who came forward one by one, standing in the pouring rain.

As long as I live I will have the picture in my mind of these seven boys gathered around Alexis as he prays with them. They had made a decision to come to Jesus and were going to do whatever it took to receive him, regardless of the rain or what anyone else thought.

Then I recalled the story of the four men in the second chapter of Mark’s gospel who brought their lame friend to see Jesus. Finding Jesus in a crowded room teaching, they went to the roof and after cutting a hole, lowered their friend to the wonderful Savior. They had a “whatever it takes” attitude to bring their friend to Jesus. Isn’t that exactly what we should have concerning the Savior? There is no distance too great, no weather too bad, no obstacle too large, and no wall too high. Whatever it takes, we need to bring others to Jesus.

This night reminds me of how we in America really don’t know what commitment and sacrifice are about. Here are people who’ve walked miles to see this film. Some of them are willing to stand in the pouring rain to show their desire to follow the amazing Son of God, Jesus. After the film, many will make long walks in the dark and up slippery muddy mountain paths as they trudge homeward. It humbles me as to how I take so many things for granted and often do not really show gratitude for my blessings.

2009-10-23T04:03:00.001-07:00

Across the Pea Patch: A story on my hero, Don Hunt

I often write about traveling to far off places to share the good news of Jesus. Whether it’s Africa or Honduras, I always feel privileged to “go and tell.” Acts 1:8 tells us to “go to the ends of the earth.”

However, the greatest mission and ministry opportunities are right where we are. In the same verse in Acts, Jesus called it “Jerusalem.”

It’s the place we are.
Where we live.
Where we already know the culture, don’t have to learn a new language, get immunizations or a passport.

I was reminded of this today as I talked to Don Hunt.

Don Hunt is one of the people I admire most. He was my pastor for ten years, but he is much more than that.

He is my friend.
He’s also one of my heroes.

He refreshed my memory about this story I’m sharing. It’s a “Jerusalem” story. In this case, Jerusalem is a purple hull pea patch in Dry Creek.

When Bro. Don became our pastor in 1992, he began doing what he does best: building relationships. After he’d been in Dry Creek for a few weeks, he walked across the adjacent field to meet his neighbor, Arthur Crow.

Mr. Arthur’s wife, Annie Mae, was already a member of our congregation at Dry Creek Baptist Church. Mr. Arthur, now retired from driving the road grader for the police juror, was not a church-going man. He was a good man, but seemingly had no interest in church or outward spiritual things.

When Bro. Don walked over, Mrs. Annie Mae directed him to the pea patch where her husband was working. Don Hunt introduced himself and they visited as Mr. Crow said, “Let’s walk to the end of the row here.”

It was there that our pastor asked, “Mr. Arthur, I’ve just come to introduce myself and share Jesus with you.”

“I’m ready for Jesus. You just need to tell me what I need to do.”

There between the rows of peas Arthur Crow, in simple faith, turned his life and heart over to Jesus. He asked for forgiveness of his sins and “a new start.”

And that’s just what he got. He became a new man. It was evident to everywhere. He had a quiet joy in the Lord and became a faithful member of our church.

When Mr. Arthur was buried this week, Don Hunt couldn’t be there. He’s battling cancer and has been sick. *See photo below.

I called Bro. Don this morning and listened as he joyfully told me what I’m now sharing with you. I reminded him, “Arthur Crow is in heaven because of your witness.”

His reply was, “I just arrived at the right time. He was ready due to a lifetime of praying by his family and church.”

I know he’s right on that, but Don Hunt had the courage and love to step across the field to share with his neighbor. And on that day, a man was ready for new life and new birth.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s easier to fly to Africa to share about Jesus than to walk across the pea patch to a neighbor. It shouldn’t be, but it can be.

However, it’s no excuse for me not to.
Jesus talks about it in Acts 1:8 Jerusalem, Judea (our area), Samaria (anywhere where it’s difficult), the ends of the Earth.

It’s not a multiple-choice quiz. He calls us to be involved in some form in each area.
It may be the bush of Liberia or a piney woods pea patch.

Either way, it’s a privilege.
It’s also a responsibility.

July 5, 2009 Don and Ginny Hunt prays with the Liberian team as they leave for Africa.
M.D. Anderson Hospital Houston, TX
(L to R) DeDe, Curt, Gordy Glaser,
Mrs. Ginny, Colleen Iles Glaser.
Pray for Bro. Don. He has leg surgery on Oct. 27.

2009-10-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

Curt in one of his "offices" Thur. Oct. 22
Lake Charles, LA

A Day in the Life of a Writer

I am so privileged to write for a living. It is my calling, but I try to never forget what a joy and honor it is to write. You see, I'm "writing for a reason."

My reason to write is to honor God and connect to the hearts of readers. To all of you who read my blogs and encourage me, I say thank you!

This morning (Thur. Oct. 22) I'm writing from one of "my offices": the lobby of the Best Western Richmond Suites Hotel in Lake Charles. When I'm here in town (one hour from Dry Creek) I stop in to write and catch up on paperwork. As you can see from the above photo, I have a corner (notice it's near the Community Coffee urn) where I can write in glorious seclusion.

It's more than ironic that yesterday I wrote in the woods: on the porch of "The Old House" in Dry Creek, slapping at mosquitoes as I typed away on A Spent Bullet my current "WIP" (Work in Progress).

Back to the Richmond Suites: It's located at the intersection of Hwy 171 and I-10. It has a lovely lobby and friendly staff.

In the past I always parked my truck in the front parking lot. Once while here, my wife DeDe called on my cell, "What are you doing at the Best Western Suites?"

I could hear several of her teaching friends giggling in the background. They were returning from a teacher's meeting and saw my iconic truck (Tan 2001 Dodge Dakota) in the parking lot.
Fortunately, I'd told DeDe before that I sometimes used the hotel lobby as my office.

Her friends got a kick out of it. DeDe made me promise to "park around back where the whole world won't be talking."

It's raining hard here today with a tornado watch until the afternoon. I have four meetings later in the day (I'll keep you posted) I've sitting here writing as the rain pours outside. Soul music is playing over the lobby sound system. (They have two CD's. I've memorized most of the songs from days in the corner.)

Write on.
I'm thankful.

Curt

2009-10-21T19:43:00.000-07:00

A Tale of Two Caps... a story on racial understanding.

I cringed when the national news last Friday led on a story, "From Louisiana, a justice of the peace has enraged... " I knew it was going to be something that put my beloved home state in a bad light... and it did.

I'm not going to even dignify that man's prejudice and insensitivity. I'm going to talk about how far we come (even while realizing how far there is to go, but it's doable.)

I grew up in a home where my parents never judged people by the color of their skin or the money in their bank account. My dad and mom taught us, by word and example, to deal with all people with respect.

Even though I grew up in an all-white community, my parents taught us how to respect others. I never heard my parents use any racial slur.

When the first black family came to our school, I sat by one of them, Wilford Goodley, at lunch and received taunts from prejudiced classmates. It only made me more determined.

The story below, A Tale of Two Caps, shares about a racially divisive issue we dealt with at Dry Creek Camp. I thought this would be a good time to pull out this old story about dealing with an old problem.

It's a story about understanding and flexibility.
It's about putting yourself in another man's shoes, or in the case of this story, another man's cap.

A Tale of Two Caps

Eight years as a high school assistant principal come in handy at summer camp. From dealing with discipline and roaming the hallways of a school, I developed a sense of “smelling trouble” just by walking past a group of teens. You can often sense that tempers are hot and trouble is brewing. Most of the time, if you can walk the potential combatants away from the crowd, most fights can be averted.

Now this “school fighting resume” is told to illustrate this: a disciplinarian, even at church camp, can often smell trouble brewing. That was the case on a recent night of summer youth camp.

The evening service had just ended and campers roamed the area around the snack shack and main road. There was a large group of about twenty-five campers near the road. I could tell something was up. Tension could be felt just walking past this group.

I walked over and tried to say politely, “Hey guys, what’s going on here?” The crowd parted slightly, but no one was willing to tell me anything. Then I saw Randall and figured he was the person everyone was gathered around.

I’ve always liked Randall. I had gotten to know him better the previous summer when we made a late night emergency room visit.

Randall is what I call a “man-child.” Although only fourteen at the time, he was a big boy-- about six-foot-two and a good 250 pounds. He had the look and size of a high school football lineman. I pulled him to the side and said, “Now Randall, I know something is going on. Tell me what the trouble is.” He hesitated but finally began, “Brother Curt, I’ve had trouble with some of those boys in cabin 7 and they won’t leave me alone.”

Looking at Randall and then thinking of what groups were in cabin 7, I knew what the trouble was probably about. Randall was wearing a cap with the Confederate flag on it. One of our groups in cabin 7 was an inner city youth group from the Alexandria area. This group, which had had a great time this week, was composed entirely of black teens.

I turned to Randall and said, “Hey, let’s go over here where we can talk.” I told him to take off his cap and put it in his pocket. “Randall, does this trouble have anything to do with your cap?” He kind of mumbled a denial but I now knew at least part of the basis of this problem.

I sat him in one of our outdoor pavilions and went over to cabin 7. Outside, the campers were still milling around and talking. I tried to think of how to defuse this situation. That was the exact moment when I spotted the solution to this problem—it was a young man named Ty. He was the oldest and tallest camper from this inner city group. I’d spoken to him several times this week and he had responded with a quiet nod and a shy smile. I just had a feeling that he could help solve this problem.

I walked over and spoke to the guys. Then I called Ty over and asked him if he could help me. Ty looked at me suspiciously as we walked away. I told him that we had a problem that I could use his help on. He cautiously said that he would try, but still seemed non-committal about getting involved.

Ty was also wearing a type of cap, but it sure wasn’t a rebel cap. It was a thin black nylon stocking cap that many black teens wear.

Bringing these two guys together under the pavilion, I looked at both boys and their caps - Ty’s black cap on his head and Randall’s confederate cap sticking out of his back pocket. There was a wide chasm that these two caps represented and I knew my work was cut out for me.

We sat down in the pavilion and I introduced the boys to each other by name. They had probably spent most of this day glaring at each other. Now they were no longer nameless but instead were sitting by each other in the darkness on an old church pew. I asked them about their problem but neither guy was willing to say much.

I turned to Ty and asked, “Ty, does Randall’s hat bother you?” After a brief silence, his reply was slow and measured, “Well it doesn’t bother me too much, but there are some of the guys in our group that are pretty hot and upset by him wearing it.”

I asked Randall if he knew why this rebel flag cap bothered these guys from Alexandria. He kind of hemmed and hawed before shrugging, “Well, I just don’t think it ought to bother those guys.” I shared with him how the same flag that meant freedom and Southern pride to him meant something completely different to a black man. To them it was a symbol of slavery, oppression, and prejudice.

With that I switched on my flashlight and turned to I Corinthians 8. In this passage the Apostle Paul addressed the problem in Corinth of eating meat that had been sacrificed to idols. Paul clearly stated that the actual eating of the meat was in no ways a sin, but he added a passage of wisdom that is still a good rule of thumb two millenniums later. In verse thirteen, he states,
“Therefore if what I eat causes my brother to fall into sin, I will never eat meat again, so that I will not cause him to fall.”
Two chapters later Paul adds,
“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God. Do not cause anyone to stumble, whether Jews, Greeks, or the church of God.”

I turned to Randall and asked, “Do you see any correlation between your rebel hat and this passage in Corinthians?” Reluctantly he agreed with Paul’s wisdom on not being a stumbling block with our actions.

I told Randall of what God had done in my life on this same issue. I am a true son of the South. My great great great grandfather, the first in our line to settle in Dry Creek, joined the Confederate army and later died near Opelousas. All of my life I’d proudly displayed the stars and bars. Then about ten years ago this changed when the realization came that this same flag, which I took such pride in, offended my black friends.

Sitting there in the dark with these two boys, I told how I had made a personal pledge not to display the rebel flag out of respect for others who might be offended. No flag or symbol is more important than people.

I shared with these boys a story I read while visiting Appomattox Courthouse in central Virginia. This crossroads village is where the Civil War ended. Being a lover of history, it was a great day to visit there and walk into the room where Generals Lee and Grant sat down to end our country’s bloody four year war.

The story I read was beneath a torn and tattered rebel battle flag. The day after the signing of the surrender, the Southern soldiers were under orders by General Lee to march in, stack and surrender their weapons as well as turn in all battle flags and regimental colors.

On this spring day in 1865, thousands of Union soldiers lined the picket fences along the narrow road through this village. General Grant had sternly ordered that nothing detrimental or disrespectful be spoken toward the defeated Rebels. Standing there at this museum in front of the framed Confederate flag, I could look out the museum window and see the long curving road where these men had marched on that fateful day.

The story in the museum told of how the Southern soldiers quietly stacked their weapons as the Union soldiers stood silently at attention.

As the regimental colors and battle flags were folded and placed on top of the rifles, Southern men wept openly. One soldier lovingly patted the flag and stepped away. As tears flowed down his gunpowder-stained face, he turned toward the Union soldiers and pointed to a United States flag blowing in the wind. Commenting to men of both armies within earshot he said,

“Men, you see that flag there. That’s my flag now.
Yes, sir—that’s my flag again.”

I’m not sure Randall fully appreciated my sermon/lecture/history lesson, but he did nod his head several times in assent. Then I asked Randall, “I’d appreciate you not wearing that cap again at Dry Creek Camp. I’d like to take it and keep it for you until the end of the week.”

Randall sat quietly for a few moments and said, “If you’ll let me keep it, I promise it will not be seen or worn again.” I told him that he needed to promise that to Ty, not me. He reached out his big hand and promised as he shook Ty’s hand.

However, Randall wasn’t quite through. He turned to me and added as he pointed directly at Ty, “There is one thing about those guys that bothers me.”

Had I been closer I would have kicked Randall in the shin as hard as I could. He continued, “It bothers us that we can’t wear our hats in the Tabernacle, but these guys can wear their black nylon caps.”

I turned to Ty who was listening intently. I asked him, “Ty, Randall has a good point. Could you take care of that for me?” Ty quickly answered, “That is no problem at all. I’ll take care of it.”
With that we stood in a circle as I prayed for them and all our campers.

I share the tale of the two caps not to make a political or racial statement, but to remind myself that no flag, symbol, or statement, is more important than the feelings of another person.
If I’m living right and have the right attitude, I’ll be careful not to insist on my own rights but think about the other fellow.

Randall and Ty both had a good week for the rest of camp. The two caps were not seen again. The heat from this situation was cooled simply by two young men looking into each other’s eyes, shaking hands, and having a willingness to look out for someone else’s best interests.

May the same be said of all of us…

When I became manager at Dry Creek Camp, I set the goal of attracting black churches in the Lake Charles area to come for weekend retreats. Even as I developed friendships among the churches and their pastors, no one would come.

Finally, one of the pastors said, "We'd like to come, but we're just worried about bringing our folks up in your area. We've heard stories."

I understood this very well but promised them that we'd take good care of them.

Finally, a brave ladies group came to Dry Creek for a weekend. I remember the pastor calling me on Friday afternoon still concerned if they were going to be all right.

That was the first group, but they weren't the last.

We quickly found that the most gracious and kind guests we ever had came from our sister churches in Lake Charles. Our staff just fell in love with them and they fell in love with the Dry Creek experience.

Last weekend I drove by and saw that our black friends from Progressive Baptist Church in Lafayette were staying in Dry Creek's "White House." (There is some irony there.) Their couples come yearly and have a great retreat in what was once Dry Creek High School. The members of this church have become members of our Dry Creek family.

Monday as I was thinking about the Justice of the Peace disaster, I had an eye appointment in DeRidder. As I sat in the waiting room, a young military couple with two beautiful children sat across from me. Next to them was a couple about my age.

One of the couples was white and the other was black.
It doesn't matter which was which.
What matters is what happened.
The older woman, who obviously had a great love for children, took the oldest child on her lap and played with her for thirty minutes. There was a bond between the families that was cemented by their love of these children.

When the older couple left for their appointment, another woman my age came in. Soon, she had the child on her lap, showing the same kind of love.

I saw a deep love that was not hindered by race, pedigree, background, class, caste, financial status, education, or status.

The kind of deep love I see daily in the community I live and love.
A place called Beauregard Parish. No, it's not perfect, but it's my home and I'm proud to call it and Louisiana my home.

For every ignorant person who makes the national news in my home state, there's a thousand more who are getting along and making where they live better.

2009-10-20T17:43:00.000-07:00

As promised, here is a light-hearted cemetery story about the fear we all have: someone being buried in the wrong grave.

“Six Foot Deep” in Trouble

One of my ministries is to work with people in selecting their grave sites at Dry Creek Cemetery. I’ve found that this is a time when we can really help people. I call it the “open window of opportunity.” Whether it’s a kind word, a hand on the shoulder, or a whispered prayer, people are always open to help during their time of grief.

The openness of people to being helped is because the loss of a loved one, and the accompanying grief, brings forth such strong emotions. These emotions may vary from tears, regret, anger, and sometimes-even laughter. Because the emotions at this time are so raw and close to the surface, anything that creates extra stress can really affect people.

For many years my partner in grave marking was Mr. Jay Miller. He took me under his wing and taught me how to find the corners of a families’ grave plot and reminded me of how families were kin to each other and where they should be buried. Last November, Mr. Jay was buried in the very cemetery he loved so greatly.

He had died in a way that touched everyone who knew and loved him. Early on the morning of his death, he went deer hunting with his daughter and pastor. After putting each of them on a stand, he was walking to his deer stand when he fell dead. I heard several men in Dry Creek say, “I can’t think of a better way to go than how Mr. Jay did.” He was healthy at eighty-three, with the ones he loved, and able to be still doing what he enjoyed most.

I miss him, especially when it comes time to mark a grave. I depended on him for his experience and wisdom in handling touchy matters at the cemetery. However, most of all I miss his friendship. I still look for his red truck to pull up at the post office like clockwork each morning at precisely 8:30.

Mr. Jay’s grandson, Mark, has taken his job as the grave marker. Mark is great and we’ll enjoy working together on this, but we both know that so much knowledge of this cemetery left us last November.

Probably because of that, we’ve both been concerned to get each grave in the right spot. We have a deep fear of messing up. And if you mess up on the placing of a grave, real trouble and pain can result for the families involved. So, these anxious thoughts came to me last Thursday when I was called on to mark not one, but two graves. Both of these burials were to be on Saturday, with both being handled by the same funeral home, Labby Memorial of DeRidder.

The thought hit me that it was essential to get each grave marked clearly so there could be no confusion. In the back of my mind, I imagined what it would be like if they got confused and put one of the deceased in the wrong spot. It was not a pretty thought to entertain as I imagined the chaos and chagrin that would result from a mistake like this.

I used special care in marking each grave. After driving the markers down, I put flagging on each one with the family names on each one. To be sure everything was right, I called Mrs. Labby and explained to her exactly where each grave was located. She said Roy, their usual gravedigger, was off work on Saturday. She informed me that Roy’s helper, Willie, would be coming.

It’s a country tradition that normally they don’t “open a grave” (that’s what they call the process of digging a grave) until the morning of the funeral. This is to avoid problems in the event of rain. I think it’s also to avoid all of those stories about people falling in open graves.

A fictional story has always been told of a village which had a shortcut path through the local cemetery. One evening, just at dusk, an elderly farmer was walking this path just as night fell. In the gathering darkness, he got off the path and fell right into a freshly dug grave. After much effort, he realized he couldn’t get out of the six-foot deep hole. Finally he gave up, sat down, and waited for daylight and rescue.

Eventually a second man, the town drunk, staggered along this same cemetery path and he fell into the same grave. In the darkness on this moonless night, the drunk struggled with all of his might to get a toehold and climb out. Finally, exhausted, he also sat down to wait for help the next morning. It was at this precise moment the old farmer put his hand on the drunk’s shoulder in comfort and said, “There’s no use trying, neither one of us can get out of here.”

Yet, the farmer was wrong, because the drunken man, fueled by both fear and adrenaline, climbed right out of the grave and ran for his life as he stumbled over headstones and markers. I smile slightly as I remember this story. It is one more good reason not to dig these two graves until Saturday, the day of the funeral.

On Friday, the day before the two funerals, I go to the cemetery just to check the markers. Everything is just exactly as I’ve marked it. Just to be sure, I call the funeral home one more time and double check ensuring that we are all on the same page.

It is at this point I make my biggest mistake- I relax and tell myself that it’s all straight and taken care of. With all of my calls and clear markings at the cemetery, there is no way they can get it confused. Therefore, I don’t feel I need to be present for the grave digging the next morning.

That Saturday dawns as one of the prettiest days of the year. March always has some of the best weather in Louisiana. The dogwoods and azaleas are in full bloom. On this day, the sky is a perfect blue and a cool pleasant wind blows.

At the Camp where I work, we are hosting a Deacons Conference. It’s an event I’ve really been excited about having. After breakfast I join the men for the morning’s first session. It is a wonderful time as these men share and pray together.

It’s about mid-morning when Linda Farmer, one of our cooks, calls me out of the meeting. I think to myself, “Now what in the world could be so important right now?” Linda’s words shock me and send a literal chill down my spine: “They’re on the phone from the funeral home. They think their man has dug the grave in the wrong spot.”

My son Clint has my truck today, so I’m on foot. I quickly borrow Linda’s van, grab my cemetery map from the office, and rush the two miles to the cemetery. As I glance at my watch it is already 10:45. The first funeral, at a church about thirty miles away, starts in fifteen minutes.

As I approach the cemetery, the first thing I see is the bright orange grave marker and the opened grave, and instantly I can see it’s been dug in the wrong spot. The grave has been dug one row to the south from the spot I originally marked it. There, right next to the grave of my Papa’s best friend, Luther Spears, is a yawning six-foot deep by seven-foot long grave. It’s dug right in the spot where my beloved first grade teacher, Mrs. Ora Spears, will one day be laid to rest next to her husband.

On the other side of the grave is a three-foot high pile of sticky red clay. I’m thinking to myself that we’ve got a lot of work to do to get out of this mess.

The gravedigger, Willie, an older black man, is standing right beside the grave. He is nervously jumping from foot to foot as if he is standing on hot coals. Next to Willie is a younger man who is leaning on a shovel. Willie, sweating profusely, begins explaining how the marker was placed right against the Spears headstone. To prove my point, I show him where I had originally placed the marker.

Over and over he repeats himself, “I just dug it right where the marker was!” I answer back with, “Well, it’s sure not where I marked it!” Quickly I realize that we’ve got to stop arguing, think fast, and work together. Looking at my watch, I’m shocked to see it is now after 11:00. The first funeral has started. Mentally I try to estimate the time needed for the service, family time, and twenty-mile trip to the cemetery.

I put my hand on Willie’s shoulder and say, “Look, it’s neither one of our faults this grave is in the wrong spot, but we’ve got to work together to get it in the right spot. You need to start digging the grave in the right spot. We’ll fill in the other hole. Do you think we can get it ready?”

Willie shakes his head doubtfully. “I’m not sure there’s enough time. And then I’ve still got to dig that second grave.”

I try to comfort Willie by saying, “Look, I read in the obituaries where the 11:00 funeral was going to be led by four preachers. I’ve been around preachers enough to know it’ll be a while before they get here. We’ve got plenty of time to straighten out this mess if we work together. Then, the second funeral is not until 3:00 anyway. We’ve got time.”

I think to myself, “I’m sure going to be here when you start on that second grave over in the northwest corner.”

Then I say to Willie, “Let’s pray about this.” There right by the open grave we pray. Willie holds his hat in his hands and passionately “amens” every sentence of my intercessory prayer for these two families and our task in front of us. Then we go to work.

Willie gets back on the backhoe and pushes some of the red clay back into the open hole and quickly moves to begin the new grave site. I get the other worker to help me and we begin filling in the first grave with our shovels. Over in the other corner of the cemetery two of the caretaker’s sons are weed eating around graves. I call for them to come help us. Gladly, these two strapping Mennonite boys come over, grab a shovel and go to work with us.

I can’t help but occasionally look up to check on Willie. He really is an artist with the backhoe. He expertly maneuvers the scoop up and down until a deep rectangular grave begins to emerge.

Willie is still sweating heavily, and it’s not really a warm day. Every once in a while, above the noise of the backhoe, I hear Willie saying, “Help me Jesus. Lord, help me Jesus.”

From time to time he nervously takes a sideways glance toward the entrance road. I know he is fully expecting a big black hearse and a line of cars to come around the curve at any moment.

The other worker keeps the sides of the grave straight. He puts his shovel handle into the grave to mark its correct depth. Soon the grave is finished. We all help move the funeral home tent and they begin setting up the equipment and boards for the coffin to lay on.

Willie moves his backhoe across the cemetery to the 3:00 grave site. I stand under the tent and sincerely thank God as to how this mess got straightened out before either family arrived. My head hurts just thinking of the chaos there would have been if they had arrived and found a grave in the wrong spot.

Right there I came up with a plan. From now on, in addition to the marker, I will use a can of spray paint to outline a grave on the exact spot where the grave is to go. In addition, I’ll write the name of the family inside the rectangle so no miscommunication can take place.

Seeing that Willie is now happily digging the second, or if you want to be exact, third grave of the day at Dry Creek Cemetery, I’m satisfied that this day of calamity is going to turn out all right in the end. Finally, after watching Willie long enough to feel comfortable, I leave.

I drive back to work in my “stolen” van. Back at the camp I don’t even think they even noticed I was gone. I’d like to slip back into the deacon’s meeting, but I have to go to the kitchen to tell Linda and the other cooks this story. Some things, especially those embarrassing to you, need to be shared so everyone can enjoy it. It’s so important for us to laugh at ourselves, because everyone else is already laughing at us anyway.

That afternoon, the funeral procession from the 11:00 service doesn’t get to the cemetery until 3:00 PM. Someone told me it was a wonderful service celebrating a rich life lived for God. Instead of four preachers speaking, there were eleven speakers!

The second burial took place at about four o’clock without a hitch. Neither family even knew about our close call with calamity, and that is all right with me.

The next day, Sunday, I woke up with my head hurting. I’m not talking about a headache. I’m talking about the pain of what I quickly realized was sunburn. Right on the top of my head, where I once had hair, was badly sunburned. I asked myself, “Now, how did my head get sunburned?” Then I realized that yesterday in my dash to the cemetery, I had left my trusty baseball cap behind. Even though I was not in the sun more than two hours, it was enough for a hairless scalp to burn pretty bad.

As I dressed for church, I looked in the mirror at the sunburned top of my head. I thought to myself, “I’ll never hear the end of it about my sunburn when I get to church.” The thought of Sharon Swisher, one of our deacon’s wives, made me cringe. Every Sunday morning she greets every one of the bald men in our church with a lipstick-smeared kiss on the peak of their head On this particular Sunday, I don’t want anyone touching or kissing my painful crown.

Going out the door, I looked in the hallway mirror for one last inspection. I
realized that my head and face was really pretty red. However, they weren’t nearly as red as if
we’d buried someone in the wrong grave...on that beautiful spring day at Dry Creek
Cemetery when we were... “Six foot deep” in trouble.

This story is from The Old House by Curt Iles Copyright 2002 Creekbank Stories

2009-10-20T06:33:00.000-07:00

The Evergreen Cedar Tree

This story, from my second book, The Old House, tells about a sacred place in our community: Dry Creek Cemetery.

Later in the story, I share the touching and heroic tale of my friend and neighbor, Arlean Crow Courmier. Yesterday, we buried her father, Arthur Crow, beside Arlean's grave. As we stood by his grave, several folks pointed out the old cedar tree that is the touchstone of the following story.

In the next day or so, I plan on sharing a hilarious story from the cemetery. Today's story is much more serious.

I tell it in honor and memory of Arthur and Annie Mae Crow, married for nearly 66 years. He was a WWII airman from Idaho. He met Mrs. Annie Mae while stationed at the Alexandria Air Force Base, married her, and never left Dry Creek after the war's end.

The Evergreen Cedar Tree

I was born in a small town.
And I can breathe in a small town.
Gonna die in a small town,
That’s probably where they’ll bury me.
- John Mellencamp, “Small Town”

Driving through the fog of an October morning, it is hard to see very far down the narrow paved road. My truck windshield fights a losing battle with the Louisiana fog and humidity. As I near my destination, Dry Creek Cemetery, I can barely make out figures walking in the cemetery amidst the thick fog, but I know Mr. Leonard Spears is out there.

Today is the second Sunday in October, which is always an important day in Dry Creek. On this date the annual Dry Creek Cemetery memorial service is held. Hundreds of people will travel from as far away as California or Florida to be present for this special day. Today, I'll see folks whom I only see once a year when they return on this day to their Dry Creek roots. However, most of those here today will be like me—country people who've never flown far from the nest in Beauregard and Allen Parish.

Of all the people who will make this a special occasion, there is no one this day means more to than Leonard Spears. Here’s why:

Dry Creek Cemetery was originally called Spears Cemetery. The land on which our cemetery now sits was owned by Mr. Leonard Spears’ grandfather, Leonard “Len” Daniel Spears. This plot of land, located near the forks of two streams, Bundick Creek and Dry Creek, became a cemetery through a long ago heart-breaking event linked with an act of kindness.

During the nineteenth century, the settlement of Dry Creek was on the main road used by many early settlers as they traveled between the cities of Lake Charles and Alexandria. About twenty years after the Civil War ended, a migrant family headed west to Texas, stopped their wagon in our area due to a very young daughter. While camped here, this child died. Mr. Len Spears went to this family and offered to let them bury her in a corner of his field. Because no permanent headstone was available, a small cedar tree was planted by the wooden grave marker. That old and gnarled tree, now over a century old, still stands today in the center of what is today called Dry Creek Cemetery.

The grave of this pioneer child became the first of many, in what originally became known as Spears Cemetery. It soon became the primary burial spot in our community. Years later, its name was changed to Dry Creek Cemetery.

It is a special and sacred place for those who have buried the bodies of loved ones here. Just last week some volunteers at the camp from Minnesota drove to the cemetery. Upon returning, they told me, “I’ve never seen a more well-kept cemetery than the one in your community.”

So on this October morning, it is with pride and deep reverence that I approach the cemetery. In the fog, I can barely make out the farthest tombstones and the background of pines and oaks beyond the south fence line. Through this mist, I can barely make out the huge cedar tree standing among the oldest graves in the cemetery. Its limbs are now twisted and the bark shows the signs of surviving years of storms and weather extremes. Yet, despite the toll of the years, it stands nobly as a silent reminder of a rich history.

This big cedar tree seems to be saying, “I’ve been here a long time and I’ve seen a great deal. Yes, I’ve lost many limbs and may look decrepit, but I’m still standing.”

In the South, most old cemeteries have a cedar tree growing in the area near where the earliest graves are. The early settlers, very familiar with death, would plant a cedar tree to symbolize everlasting life. With its year round green needles, the cedar tree bore stark testimony to the belief of life after death.

This cedar at Dry Creek Cemetery has survived the changing seasons, droughts, storms, and sits in the middle of an increasing number of surrounding tombstones. It serves as a reminder to each visitor here of how death is not the end- death is only the end of life as we know it. This tree seemed to be saying, “Look at me. Look at my evergreen needles. What you are looking at around you, these graves, are not the end, but only the beginning.”

About two years ago, a fast-moving spring storm blew through our community. The strongest winds were in the cemetery area, where numerous large trees were blown down. Someone called and said that one of the largest limbs on the old cedar had broken off and fell right on about a dozen old graves.

In mind I imagined broken headstones all over that area of the cemetery. Arriving, I was shocked at how large the broken limb was. On the upper trunk of the cedar, you could see where it had broken off. The loss of the large limb left the tree looking lopsided. As reported, it had fallen right on a large number of tombstones.

To our amazement, not one marker was broken by this huge twenty-foot long limb. Several headstones were pushed over, but none were broken. If was as if the old tree had carefully lay down its lost limb among the graves.

Within a week, the limb had been cut up and the area cleaned. The only reminder of what had occurred was the fresh wound down the cedar’s trunk. There was some talk of cutting down the tree before other limbs fell. However, our cemetery board decided to leave the tree as it was for now.

Today, on memorial day, as I stand under the cedar and look around at the hundreds of graves in every direction, I’m so glad the old cedar was given a reprieve from the chainsaw. I know one day it will fall and the cemetery will seem bare without it, but its demise will once again be a reminder of the temporary nature of our lives.

I’m reminded of how our former pastor, Logan Skiles, referred to cemeteries as “the city of the dead.” As I look at the markers of various sizes, heights, and ages, it really does resemble a city. There are passageways like streets, and the markers from a distance line up like the tall buildings of a large city.

My primary job at the cemetery is to help families pick out their gravesites. It is both a labor of love and a ministry for me. It is humbling and sobering to stand with a family as they grieve and make final plans on the resting place of a loved one. Thinking of this, my mind immediately goes back to my friend, Arlean.

Arlean is ten years older than I am. We grew up together in Dry Creek. Arlean’s grandmother, Aunt Annie Mercer, cooked in the camp kitchen during my young teenage years. Aunt Annie took me under her wing and just loved on me, and for that I will always be grateful.

Arlean and her husband, Jerry, live just down the road from my house. They are my neighbors and friends. One day, Arlean phoned me with the call I’d been dreading. She was ready to go to the cemetery and pick out her spot.

So on this day, I found myself standing with Arlean in Dry Creek Cemetery. But we aren’t alone- Jerry is with his wife. Also present was their daughter Dana and Arlean’s pride and joy, her granddaughter, Olivia. Arlean’s parents, Arthur and Annie Mae Crow, stood to the side as we gathered in the southeast corner of the cemetery.

Arlean had battled cancer enduring a long and heroic fight. She had inspired everyone as we saw how tough, resilient, and positive she had been in this fight. She was aided in this by her family, church, and her deep faith in God.

Standing there today, we all make small talk, but everyone knows the reason we are here. One by one, each family member points out their requested spot as I record it in the record book. Annie Mae Crow wants to be placed next to her mother, and the rest of the family selects spots close by. Arlean walks to the place where her baby, who died in childbirth, is buried. She tenderly stands near that small tombstone and simply points to this spot beside her child.

As we silently stand there, it’s evident this trip has exhausted Arlean, so the Crow and Courmier families get in their vehicles to leave. I walk over the truck window and look into Arlean’s eyes. There is a look of peace in her eyes that says more than words could ever describe. I put my hand on her hand and we smile. To me, this is one of those moments where reverent quietness speaks loudest. Words are not appropriate, nor needed, right now.
Everyone waves as four generations of the Crow family drive back to their homes. I am left alone among the hundreds of surrounding tombstones- each one a silent and mute testimony to the life of a human.
# # #

Two weeks later Arlean died at home with dignity and peace. The next day I met the gravediggers at the cemetery and pointed out the spot for Arlean’s burial. Her funeral, held two days later at our church, was a beautiful celebration of her life and love of family. I chose not to go to the cemetery for her burial later that afternoon. I knew the recent time we had spent there together was much more important.

A week later, I went to the cemetery. The first thing I noticed as I walked
to Arlean’s spot was not the flowers, or the fresh dirt on her grave, or the nearby graves of my beloved grandparents, or the even the open area where I will one day be laid to rest, but my gaze was fixed on something else.

My eyes were riveted to only one thing there in the cemetery- the bright green limbs of a stately old evergreen cedar tree, standing proudly in the middle of Dry Creek Cemetery.

Historical information from the "History of Dry Creek Cemetery" by Juanita Miller Brumley

2009-10-19T09:06:00.001-07:00

A Spent Bullet

Readers: This blog contains a three-page synopsis (0verview) of my current work in progress. I've looked at it until my eyes are crossing. I'd appreciate any and all reader feedback for improvements before it begins its journey to publishers.

I'm looking for grammatical as well as plot ideas, weaknesses, or confusion.

WARNING: If reading the entire plot of a book keeps you from enjoying the book (like people who tell you the ending of a movie) don't read this.

SECOND WARNING: The final book will probably be completely different from this synopsis. That is one of the joys of fiction: a book "writes itself" and characters will often do things you didn't expect (or even want) them to!

Synopsis of proposed book by Curt Iles, Working Title: A Spent Bullet

A Spent Bullet is a love story, but it’s a love story that takes place during an important but largely forgotten event in American history.

Setting and Background

A Spent Bullet is an historical novel taking place in Central Louisiana during the 1941 Army Maneuvers. With Europe and the Pacific embroiled in war, America’s leaders plan a series of large-scale war games to prepare for war.

Officers choose western Louisiana for several reasons: plenty of government-owned land, a low civilian population, and difficult terrain with few good roads. This latter asset will allow the military brass to settle a contentious debate: can modern mechanized forces defeat a traditional foe where there are few good roads?

In late summer of 1941, a half-million soldiers converge for the testing of men, officers, and equipment. Divided into “Blue” and “Red” armies, the unscripted battles soon rage up and down the Louisiana/Texas border.

Brilliant officers unknown at the time—such as Colonel Dwight Eisenhower and General George Patton—make names for themselves during these battles.

A Spent Bullet is not only a history of the Louisiana Maneuvers, but details a personal love story between a soldier and rural schoolteacher that draws the reader into the plot.

Synopsis:

A Spent Bullet uses the 1941 Army Maneuvers to tell the story of an unlikely love between a rural Louisiana schoolteacher, ELIZABETH REED, and a Wisconsin soldier, PVT. HARRY MILLER.

The story begins with a chance encounter on September 1, 1941. As a convoy of military vehicles travels through a dusty small town, a note stuffed into an empty M-1 cartridge lands at Elizabeth’s feet as a soldier yells, “Write me. You’re beautiful.”

Elizabeth, a twenty-year-old schoolteacher, is standing on the corner with her ten-year-old brother, BEN. She has no interest in soldiers or tossed bullets and ignores both, but Ben, who will be a key player in this story, slips back and retrieves the bullet.

In the next chapter, we meet Harry Miller, and it is clear how he detests everything about army life. He is from a wealthy Milwaukee family and is not a soldier by choice. An arrest back in Wisconsin resulted in Harry joining the National Guard in lieu of a prison sentence. Shortly after his enlistment, all Guard units were nationalized, and Harry found himself in Louisiana as a full-time soldier.

Through the scheming of Ben and Elizabeth’s grandmother, a written correspondence begins between Elizabeth (with the grandmother writing “for her”) and Harry.
It was actually one of his “friends” who wrote and tossed the bullet with Harry’s address on it, and Harry is reluctant to answer “Elizabeth’s” first letter. Yet, in spite of his misgivings, Harry writes Elizabeth.

The story alternates between scenes of Elizabeth’s family and the soldiers who are preparing for the first “battle.” Harry’s division is part of the Blue Army that will fight against the forces of the Red Army, stationed farther north along the Red River. On the day before the battle begins, the weather turns foul, with a tropical storm settling over the southern half of Louisiana.

As Harry’s unit takes its battle position, he observes various events that tell much about the army and its men. We follow his unit as they march north, and Harry realizes that in spite of his dislike of military life, he is the type of soldier others look to in battle. This portion of the story reveals Harry’s growth from self-centeredness and self-pity to one of duty and discipline.

Back at his company’s bivouac after the first battle, Harry receives two letters in reply to his earlier letter to Elizabeth. The letters, both addressed to Harry, are in different handwritings with completely different messages. The first tells him “she is not interested in writing” and asks him to cease writing. The second letter (written by the matchmaking grandmother) warmly invites him to visit their church in Bundick the next day. Of course, Harry is confused, but the photo contained in the second letter wins out—it’s a school photo of a striking young teacher and he cannot get it out of his mind, in spite of his unease.

The next morning finds Harry hitchhiking to the crossroads community of Bundick. When he arrives at the church, the plot thickens as he is introduced to Elizabeth by Ben. As the day unfolds, everything that can go wrong does.

Even though this first encounter with Elizabeth and her family and neighbors (especially her family) seems like a disaster, the defining moment of their “first date” is a community singing on the porch of the Reed homestead. In spite of their diverse backgrounds, Harry and Elizabeth discover they have a mutual love of music.

Elizabeth’s family tree is full of musicians, with her instrument being the fiddle. After she plays an old mountain tune, Harry takes her fiddle and plays a classical waltz. The instrument he’s holding is no longer a fiddle; it’s now a violin. It’s the first time since leaving Milwaukee that Harry has touched a violin, and his playing sets loose emotions in both Elizabeth and himself. As he finishes, Elizabeth’s father sums it up, “The violin sings, while the fiddle dances.”

The only question is if whether the beautiful music developing between them can survive the future’s uncertainty. The next day, the Battle of Shreveport begins and Harry’s company joins the fighting. During their movement north, Harry observes what the “fog of war” does to soldiers and officers. This section reveals the humorous and touching true stories remembered by the soldiers who took part and the civilians who watched it unfold.

After five days of marching and battle, a truce is called, ending the great Louisiana Maneuvers. As officers evaluate the results, the soldiers are given a well-deserved furlough, allowing Harry to return to Bundick to see Elizabeth. This visit allows him to deepen his relationship with Elizabeth and her quirky family.

While there, a tragic accident occurs: an army truck strikes Ben, who dies soon after being rushed to a nearby hospital. Harry observes how this simple country family’s shaky yet solid belief weathers a crisis. He is especially touched by Elizabeth’s mother and her complete forgiveness of the soldier who struck her son.

Ben’s death is also the catalyst for both Elizabeth and Harry’s revelations of their past secrets. Elizabeth became pregnant while away at college and gave her baby up for adoption, something not even her family is aware of.

Harry’s secret is that while driving drunk in Wisconsin, he caused the death of two innocent people. Ben’s death opens up the still fresh wounds of Harry’s accident. In spite of Harry’s deep regrets over his past, he begins to see how his life can be different, especially as he looks at his future through the dark eyes of this beautiful country schoolteacher. As Elizabeth shares the source of her faith with Harry, she realizes the most difficult part of repentance is often forgiving oneself from past mistakes.

During this time, both discover that families draw a circle around themselves—not to keep others out, but to keep family in. Harry also realizes that God works the same way, as he recalls Ben’s earlier words to him, “You’re in God’s circle of love and can’t get out.”
Their relationship is cemented through this time of crisis. When Elizabeth must visit her school classroom to remove items from Ben’s school desk, Harry is the one who goes with her. He walks beside her during the days after the accident.

Harry also faces another conflict: he must choose between being with Elizabeth in a time of special crisis or being AWOL. He rejoins his unit, hours late. He avoids AWOL charges through the intervention of the very soldiers who’d most tormented him.

As army units begin breaking camp, the greatest obstacle to Harry and Elizabeth’s relationship now becomes time. Harry’s division has returned to Camp Livingston, near Alexandria, before heading back north. He uses every free moment to see Elizabeth, who is eighty miles away.

During the days leading up to his unit returning to Wisconsin, Harry proposes to Elizabeth, both shocking and delighting her. Initially, the shock is greater than her excitement, and her reply is evasive and careful. Harry believes he has ruined the relationship by pushing too hard, too soon. However, on his next visit, he is greeted by her question, “Do you think I could get a teaching job in Wisconsin?”

They eagerly make plans. With Harry’s discharge date approaching in just over one hundred days (February 2, 1942), the future looks bright.

However, their plans, as well as the plans of millions of Americans, are disrupted on Sunday, December 7th. As Elizabeth and Harry learn about the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor, it becomes evident that all bets are off as to the future.

Against most everyone’s advice, Harry and Elizabeth are married. A Spent Bullet ends with their brief and happy honeymoon at the Hotel Bentley in Alexandria. Now, it’s off to war for Harry and back home to teaching for Elizabeth.

Only the future will reveal what happens next, and that future awaits readers in the next book of the series, As You Were.

The plot of this story is woven together from true stories told to me by the many “Harry and Elizabeth’s” who met, fell in love, and married during the 1941 maneuvers.

Email your comments to curtiles@aol.com.

2009-10-18T19:02:00.000-07:00

Kojak the Fireman

The last two nights I've had dreams from my years as a school principal. I always wonder why I still dream of events of nearly twenty years ago. (In one dream I had an office full of students in trouble as well as angry parents waiting outside; Last night's dream had something to do with driving a school bus full of teachers and students while pulling a log truck behind it. Go figure.)

Maybe those dreams were why I thought about "Kojak" Williams today.
(The real reason was that I sat in a Sunday School class taught by his older brother.)

Kojak and his brother "Buckwheat" were real characters who fit well into the rural character of East Beauregard High. They were country, fun, friendly, and never dull.

Especially Kojak.

One of my major battles was with students smoking. It was an ongoing skirmish that never ended.

I have many stories I could tell, and students could definitely tell stories on me. (The most popular urban legend was that I once climbed a tree, while wearing camo, near the student parking entrance and caught students smoking as they drove in.)
Gabi Guillott Perry commented on your wall post:

"I remember you 'climbing the tree.' Everybody fully believed you did that!" - from Gabi 10 19 09

That story is not true. I stood under the tree and I was dressed in my coat and tie. I'd warned students repeatedly to "put out their smokes" before crossing the cattleguard where school property began. (East Beauregard was probably the last school in America to have cattleguards at its entrance. They were needed when stock still roamed "open range.")

Anyway, my battle with the smokers was always interesting.

One day, two of my favorite smokers came in to the office. They were covered in white powder and very upset. I asked what'd happened and got their answer, "We were in the stalls in the boys bathroom and someone sprayed us with a fire extinguisher."

As I realized what'd happened (and made sure they were OK) I wanted to laugh. They explained that evidently someone had climbed up on the sink and "sprayed over the partition down on us."

I sent them on the way promising to investigate. Before leaving the office, I sat down and had a fine laugh, already figuring out what'd happened.

In the restroom the evidence was all there: an empty fire extinguisher, white powder in the stall area, and two cigarette butts in the commode.

It didn't take too long for the grapevine to lead me to my major suspect: "Kojak" Williams.

Calling him in, I shut the door to my office. "Kojak, did you spray those boys?"

"I sure did, Mr. Iles. We guys were tired of them smoking up the bathroom for all the rest of us." He grinned, "I just decided to put out their fire." * See below for what we was singing as he went into the rest room.

Handling discipline at a high school calls for all kinds of decisions. This day was no different"
I made a decision not to make a decision.

I just told Kojak, "Don't do it again. Let me be in charge of dousing the cigarettes."

If I remember, Kojak cleaned up the mess. It seems as if the custodians did it for him. They'd heard the story too and were proud of him for taking care of the problem.

I'm not sure if it was my legend of being up in the tree,
or Kojak's fireman duty that day,
or when we shortly thereafter put teachers patrolling the restrooms during break time,
but smoking was never quite the problem again that it'd been.

I'll always believe the improvement against "smoking in the boy's room" was due to Kojak and his fire extinguisher.

The statute of limitations has run out on Kojak's offense.
They can't fire me (bad pun) for not taking strong action against Kojak. I left the school system in 1992.

But I still laugh when I think of Kojak's story.

Today at Friendship Church, I should have asked his brother what Kojak is doing now. I thought I'd heard he might be working for a fire department somewhere.

Naw, that couldn't be true, but I'd sure write him a good recommendation letter if he wanted to apply.

"Teacher, don't you tell you none of your rules.
'Cause everyone knows that smoking ain't allowed in school."
-"Smoking in the Boys Room" Brownsville Station.

Cough, cough.
C.I.

A Postscript from Kojak's classmate, Michele Simmons Chapman:

*Oh, Mr. Curt I remember the day that happened and how funny it was!! I have even told my kids that story and how he went in singing the song "They Call Me The Fireman". Kojak was and still is a character!!"

2009-10-15T15:50:00.001-07:00

Hurricane Season is winding down.
Hooray.
Hallelujah.

I know it's not officially over until November 30, but it's safe to say this will be a below normal season, especially for our battered Gulf Coast.

Shown are two of my favorite hurricane items. One is my can of Baptist Beer. I write the name of every hurricane that affects our area on this 2005 souvenir. You can read the fun story about what Baptist Beer is later in this blog.

At the end of this posting is the short video on the book, "Everything Good About Hurricanes." The book shown is a special prize of mine. You'll laugh and understand why after viewing the video.

Let's thank God for a quiet hurricane season. It's a blessing. Many have asked Him for this so let's "follow up" with sincere gratitude.

Tim Tebow when he helped dismantle my LSU Tigers last Saturday night sported eye black that said, "I Thess. 5:18" It's a neat verse, "In everything give thanks..."

Let's be thankful for the things that don't happen. Like hurricanes.

To see the video clip on the book: "Everything Good about Hurricanes"
click here to go to You Tube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qfoLUNKOWg

Baptist Beer

It's lunchtime at The City of Hope. It is the first Saturday after Katrina. Our evacuees have been with us for six days now and we are getting to know each other well.

The watchword of the latter part of the week has been, "When is FEMA coming? When will we see the Red Cross?" There is an undercut of tension that our shelter, being in an extremely rural location and not being an official Red Cross shelter, will be passed over and forgotten about.

In the middle of lunch someone cries out, "The Red Cross is here!" Outside the east window a red and white van pulls up. Three workers get out and are greeted by evacuees. Everyone quickly discovers they've not come with $1500 debit cards but rather supplies of food and water. Still they are greeted with warm smiles and handshakes.

I've been amazed all week that whenever any official comes, even if they have no pertinent information, they are greeted warmly. For all of the belly-aching about FEMA and the Red Cross, individuals from these groups are received respectfully. Most of them quickly tell the assembled crowds that they are "worker bees" or "lower echelon" and have no big news. But it is still reassuring to see someone in uniform. Another thing I notice is that every worker I've met from these groups has been extremely helpful and concerned.

I meet the Red Cross workers and then return to my meal. Suddenly someone charges over to my table, "Bro. Curt did you know they're bringing in cases of Budweiser water?" Someone grabs a six-pack off the dolly and delivers it to my table. Sure enough the white can is labeled "Drinking Water; packaged by Aeunhueser Busch, Cartersville, GA.”

I don't know whether to laugh or get mad. They quickly reverse the unloading of the high stack of Budweiser water and reload it for destinations where Baptists aren't in charge. Later I find out they inadvertently left two cases behind. I quickly commandeer them and begin planning some fun with them.

We Baptists have a well-deserved reputation for being teetotalers when it comes to alcohol. We like to say we are dry. In Beauregard Parish there is only one small area where alcohol is sold. In fact we are presently in the beginning stages of a liquor election created by a loophole as decided by the state supreme court.

I'm against the sale of alcohol for a very simple reason: I've seen it hurt too many families. I've helped bury way too many young people whose lives were snuffed out by someone driving while intoxicated. I've never seen alcohol do any good but I've seen it destroy many a man, woman, and family.

In spite of this, I still have a sense of humor about things and these Budweiser waters are passed out to every Baptist preacher I know when they drop by the camp. We have lots of fun with it.

Folks even start calling it “Baptist beer.”

It brings me back to the allegorical story I once read in the newspaper. It seemed in Texas they were having lots of trouble with the Johnson grass in their crops. The local sheriff had confiscated a huge shipment of moonshine whiskey. He came up with a novel way to dispose of the moonshine and eradicate the Johnson grass. He simply poured the whiskey on the Johnson grass and the Baptists ate it down to the roots.

Being a Baptist I'm used to being the butt of jokes like that and can laugh as loud as anyone.

My father-in-law, Herbert Terry, has a friend named David Patton. Although Mr. Patton, a former state legislator, is well known in north central La, his dog “Bo” is better known than he is.

My father in law told of going to David Patton's house and the dog being told, “Bo, Mr. Terry has come to go hunting, go get him some boots.” Soon the dog obediently returned with a pair of boots in his mouth. Then the dog was instructed, "Mr. Terry doesn't have a gun, go fetch him a gun.” Sure enough Bo came back dragging a gun in a carrying case.

Then he told him, "Bo, it’s hot today-- go get Mr. Terry something to drink.” Quickly old Bo comes back with a can of beer in his mouth. Mr. Patton then scolded the dog, "Bad dog, you know Mr. Terry's one of those Baptists. Now take that back." With that the dog left and returned, this time with a can of Diet Coke.

I didn't see this but my father in law is a good man and I know if he said it, it happened. In fact I'm so sure of it, I'll bet you a case of Baptist beer it happened.

P.S. Another new story from my current research (1941 La. Maneuvers in our area.) A customer from outside our area came to DeRidder's Royal Cafe during 1941. He asked the waitress for a "shrimp cocktail" with his meal and she curtly answered, "I'll have you know Beauregard Parish is dry and we don't serve no alcohol here."

As a fiction writer, I'm amazed daily at how it is impossible to make up anything better than the truth.

(Below) My can of Baptist Beer, side view showing 2008 hurricanes. Lord willing, I won't be adding to the names in 2009.

"Everything Good about Hurricanes" copyright 2006 Wise Printing, Sulphur, LA

2009-10-12T18:15:00.001-07:00

More on planning and planting for the future.

Beth Koop is one of my Dry Creek Camp friends. Her parents are a classic example of a lifelong good marriage. Beth shared this concerning the future and tree planting.

"My daddy was talking about planting a tree a few weeks ago. My mama asked why he wanted to plant a tree because he is 89 yrs. old & would not get to enjoy it. I reminded her that he's been saying "I won't be around much longer" for at least 10 yrs. now. We all had a laugh. He's still planting a garden & she's still canning & freezing."

My goal: still to be planting trees at 89.

Lennie Hanchey told me the story last week about her father in law, K.R. Hanchey, planting a huge tract of pines in the late 1950's. Dry Creek legend has it that the seedling pines were burned by woods arsonists the first two years, but Hanchey kept planting until they survived.

Mr. Hanchey said, "I'll never see these trees grow big enough to cut, but they'll pay college for my grandchildren. Lennie added, "Not only have those trees paid for college for the grandchildren but now they're doing the same for great grandchildren."

True vision always looks beyond our own needs and life.
It looks ahead.
It plants trees under which we'll never enjoy the shade.

2009-10-12T11:00:00.000-07:00

We get things done over time by working hard and showing persistence.

A wise quote: "People overestimate what they can do in five years and underestimate what they can do in twenty years." -Ligon Duncan

i.e. The twin powers of time and patience can crack mountains. See the Creekbank blog for more.

One of the best pieces of advice I ever received came from a simple country house painter named "Sonny" Green. In about 1994 we stood in front of Dry Creek Camp's "White House." I was seeking his advice on how to paint this huge tall building. As I shared my dreams, frustrations, and ideas, he put his hand on my shoulder.

"Son, remember this: Rome weren't built in a day."

His advice was simple. His grammar left room for improvement. His quote was definitely not original. Sonny Green wasn't famous.

But his wise words in that situation made a huge impression on me.
The right words.
From the right man.
At the right time.

Dry Creek's "White House" aka "The Old School"

From 1912 until 1962 this was Dry Creek High School where my grandfather and father attended. It is now a 26 room conference center belonging to Dry Creek Baptist Camp.

Sonny Green's been dead a long time but his wisdom lives on.
If you've got a big job to do, take it a bite at a time. It'll get done but don't expect it to happen overnight.

Thanks Sonny.

A closing quote:

"Best time to plant a tree: 20 years ago.
Next best time: Today."

2009-10-02T17:28:00.000-07:00

A Prophet has no Honor in Dry Creek

This story is nearly too good to be true, but it actually is. The funniest things in life are not fictitious, but real events that take place all around us.

My next-door neighbors in Dry Creek are Mark and Mitzi Foreman. The Foremans, and their two children, Mavy and Mark, Jr. operate Foreman’s meat market at the intersection of Highways 113 and 394.

Curt and Mark Foreman September 2009 @ Bayou Writers meeting
Photo from The Times of SW La. Oct. 1, 2009

This story is not meant to be a commercial, but if you’ve never eaten boudin or sausage from Foreman’s, you haven’t lived. They are known far and wide for their wonderful Cajun-seasoned meats. My son, Clint, loves to get his mom’s shopping list and add, “Buy plenty of Foreman’s sausage.”

Famous all over our area also are their huge stuffed pork chops and chicken breasts. These delicacies, filled with boudin or sausage, are a feast by themselves. You can also get a greasy paper bag full of fresh fried cracklings, which are authentic crunchy pork skins.

The Foreman’s opened their Dry Creek store in 1993. They’ve been very successful due to a great location, a quality product, and lots of hard work. Mark and Mitzi are talented business owners and deserve every bit of the success they’ve had.

However, this story is not about them. It’s about their son, Mark, Jr., better known in Dry Creek as “Boom Boom.” For the sake of simplicity, I’ll call him Mark, but if you come in Foreman’s Grocery, ask for “Boom Boom.”

Mark Jr. is a businessman and sausage expert just like his dad. Presently, his responsibility is making cracklings at the store. He can also discuss, in detail, the fine points of red pepper, casings, and correct sausage cooking times. My boys sat with him on the school bus and loved to relate how he constantly sketched out notebook drawings of improved sausage making equipment. I predict Mark will one day be rich and famous as an entrepreneur, far beyond the confines of Dry Creek.

This specific story happened when Mark was about ten years old. At this age he began attending Catechism, which are the lessons where Catholic doctrine is taught. The very first lesson, from the Old Testament, told about the early patriarchs of the Bible. As the teacher introduced the stories of Moses, Abraham, and Isaiah, she asked this question, “Do any of you know what a prophet is?”

The children looked at each other waiting to see who’d answer first. However, they shouldn’t have waited, because Mark Foreman already knew the answer and was excitedly waving his hand back and forth.

The teacher asked, “Mark, tell us what a prophet is?”

Without any hesitation, Mark replied,

“A prophet is the money you have left over in your business, after you’ve paid all of your bills.”

Fully satisfied with his excellent answer, this future business tycoon sat down.

I’m not sure if he passed Introduction to the Old Testament, but I’ll bet you a bag of hot cracklings he'll pass Economics 101.

Mark Foreman Jr. is now a partner in Foreman's Meat Market. He is a wonderful father, husband, and gifted writer. I'm proud of him.

2009-10-02T06:24:00.000-07:00

How to pray in October

One of the best things about the Internet and social networks is how it is a great vehicle to share news and events. I want to use it this month (October 2009) to share a great prayer need in my life.

I'm scheduled to lead a revival in North Carolina from October 25-28. I'll be with one of the greatest influences in my life, Rev. Bob Evans. He was pastor of Dry Creek Baptist Church during my formative teen years. He's been at First Baptist Church of Granite Falls, NC for over 35 years.

As you probably know, I'm not an ordained minister but simply a man who is always ready and willing to share a word for our Lord. I always feel over matched when called on to lead a revival, but God has always shown His faithfulness.

The theme of this revival will be "Encouragement and Faithfulness." Bro. Evans has asked me to share about my journey through depression as well as what God is teaching me in my life.

I feel led (at this point) to share about Elijah's Cave Time in I Kings 19 (The "Ds" of Discouragement and the "R's" of Renewal) the Role of Encouragement in the Christian family, The Compassionate Lifestyle, Finishing Strong, and whatever else God leads on.

Here's the main focus of prayer: Last week in the Granite Falls area, a young pastor took his own life. It has brought to the forefront the subject of depression among Christians, suicide, and
many other related difficult questions.

Needless to say, I've realized why I've been called to share with this church at this time. However, I know I must have the Holy Spirit's power in me and upon me. I cannot do it, but I do wish to be a pipe of God's Living Water.

Always, when I share about my depression journey, God uses it to bless others. I'm thankful that the worst time of my life has been a blessing to so many others. I can honestly state, "Going through the deep valley of depression was the worst time of my life but everything God brought out of it has been good."

As I share deeply about my journey, it always takes a great deal out of me, so I'm aware that I need to be prepared in every manner both before and after this revival.

I'm trusting my many friends and readers to pray for FBC Granite Falls, the neighboring church that has been shattered by the suicide of their pastor, and for me.

Trusting in God.
Depending on your prayers,

Curt Iles

2009-09-28T05:34:00.000-07:00

On Being "A Friendly Hermit."

Coming home from very lonely places, all of us go a little mad: whether from great personal success, or just an all-night drive, we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen.
- John le Carre

My writing/speaking nickname is "The Friendly Hermit." It's because I wear two hats and live two often separate lives.

In my public life of speaking, I enjoy being among crowds and sharing stories. I love people and want to be among them to encourage and influence my world. During the coming week, I'll have four speaking opportunities.

Then there is my private writing world. To write one must get away from life's wonderful distractions. Therefore, I spend part of my week alone, writing, thinking, dreaminig, visualizing.

I love both the solitude and the people. I'm thankful for both.

My prayer: Jesus, teach me to have balance in my life. The balance between "walking slowly among the crowds" as You did, and stepping aside as you commanded. "Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest." (Mark 6:31 NIV)

Teach me Lord.
Amen.

This week's speaking:
Today, Sept. 28 Funeral for Ruby Moses Sherer 2:00 PM
Tuesday, Sept. 29 Dry Creek Camp Sr. Adult Day 10:00 AM
Sunday, Oct. 4 First Baptist Jennings AM and PM services

2009-09-27T15:15:00.000-07:00

Opening of A Spent Bullet

Below is the prologue and two epigraphs from my current novel in progress, A Spent Bullet. I'm about half through (50,000 words) the first draft.

Read over it and give me feedback. I have several questions below the prologue.

Thanks,
Curt Iles
curtiles@aol.com

Prologue

Folks say the herds of wild horses still running free near Folk Polk are remnants of the U.S. Calvary units from the 1941 Louisiana Maneuvers.

These beautiful horses were part of the September war games—before the real war started that December.

This story is not just about the horses; it’s about the men and women who watched them parade by, followed by miles of armored tanks, and endless lines of dust-eating infantrymen on western Louisiana’s dusty roads.

This story is about a young schoolteacher who saw it all, and was never the same.

“I want the mistakes made down in Louisiana, not over in Europe.
If it doesn't work, find out what we need to make it work.”
– General George C. Marshall,
Chief of Staff, U.S. Army
Spring 1941

“Monday I go to Louisiana.… The old-timers here say we are going to a God-awful spot complete with mud, malaria, mosquitoes, and misery.”
– Col. Dwight D. Eisenhower, August 5, 1941

Questions:
What do you think this novel will be about?
What interests you about this story and time?
How would you make the prologue "grab the reader" better?

2009-09-24T18:26:00.000-07:00

My former student, Kay Campbell Fox, commented on my recent blog about a newlywed couple running through the lobby at the Denver Marriott.

It's a wonderful story.

From Kay:
Two weddings - one day - Just shy of 21 years - all to the same man. You see, Nick and I were married at 2 pm and 4:30 pm....on the October 1, 1988 with different ministers (two came from the church we attended in college to perform the 2 pm wedding). It was raining that day and both slipped away during the reception to return home, which was in Lake Charles and DeQuincy. We weren't paying attention because we were busy at the Dry Creek Baptist Church celebrating our wedding with our friends and families. It was only when we stopped long enough to sign the marriage license that we realized that no official from the ceremony was present. The concerned call went out to our friend and minister who also attended the wedding, Bro. Kermit Soileau, who gladly returned to the church in his suit to perform the final and most important ceremony of the day. And as he performed the ceremony again, he stated that "this wedding was just as important as the first." And he was right - I was less nervous and remembered more from it than the earlier ceremony.

I too, believe that marriage only gets better. And I'm grateful that God has blessed us with a special relationship that can be celebrated twice in our lifetime.

Curt, thanks for sharing memories.

2009-09-24T18:08:00.000-07:00

The Ripple Effect continues

I received three journeyman prayer cards yesterday.

They were from Micah, Erica, and Lydia.

I've never met Micah, but I love him and am proud of him. His mother, Debbie Walley, was one of my closest friends through the Baptist Student Union at La. College. Micah is going to Kenya as an International Mission Board "journeyman," a 2-year program for single college grads. Micah is answering the question a veteran African missionary asked me, "Where are all of the Southern boys? (Over 80% of "journeymen" are journey-girls, or J-girls.)

Micah's mother reminded me of the part Dry Creek Camp played in her spiritual growth and missions vision.

Erica and Lydia are both "Dry Creekers." They've been part of our summer staff program at Dry Creek Camp. They didn't know each other until they were recently in training in Virginia. One of them had on a Dry Creek t-shirt (found all over the world) and they connected.

I can't tell you the countries these two girls are going to. They're traveling to closed countries where they'll face many challenges.

They each sent a letter detailing how their years on staff at Dry Creek influenced the missions direction they are following.

That's why I believe in the ministry of our Christian camps, especially a place I love called Dry Creek.

Pray for Micah, Lydia, and Erica.

Curt Iles

2009-09-24T17:33:00.000-07:00

Dolly is the horse's name

Below is a draft passage from my current work in progress, A Spent Bullet.

The scene: a barn in Bundick, La. September 1941. 18 year old Butch struggles with his decision to join the military as war clouds loom. His father, a "Great War veteran" (what WWI was called then) is opposed and attempts to use this "teachable moment" to explain why he opposes the war.

The Passage:
Poppa and Butch had many mutual loves, their love of horses being probably their strongest bond. Neither man looked at the other. Poppa knelt down, checking Dolly’s foreleg. “I’ve always been bothered by the fact that a horse dying disturbed me more than the death of a man next to me.”
“Poppa, you’re talking about the Great War?”
There was a silence that allowed both men's minds to drift.

The barn’s strong smells of horse sweat, hay, and fresh manure was an atmosphere both men felt at home in.
"I am. I've seen war up close. It's a terrible thing, son."

2009-09-23T14:30:00.001-07:00

This is a press release from Ricks Institute in Liberia. This is the school we worked with in July.

The iMacs in the Ricks Library. The Liberian flag is shown in the background.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Brand New i-Mac Computers Installed at Ricks

September 23, 2009, Ricks Institute, Virginia, Liberia–Fifteen (15) brand new i-Mac 20-inch computers with wireless access have been installed in the main library of the school for students and staff use.

The new i-Mac computers were a gift from the First Baptist Church of San Angelo, Texas and an anonymous donor from the United States. The donation was coordinated through the kind heart of Mr. J. H. Law, Site Coordinator of Christian Men Job Corp, San Angelo, TX. After two short-term visits to Ricks Institute, where he coordinated in-service training with teachers and students, Mr. Law became motivated by the challenges and possibilities at the Baptist related school. Mr. Law shared his experience, and the various needs at the school, with several of his friends and colleagues.

The 15 computers, one network wireless printer and accessories, valued at US$27,000, which were installed through the technical assistance of friends from Passport Camps (Birmingham, AL) and Brookstone School (Columbus, GA) in May 2009, were officially presented to the Ricks community the second week of the 2009-2010 academic year.

Making the presentation at the regular morning assembly, the Principal and Chief Administrative Officer reminded the Ricks community that, “these gifts are evidence that so many friends of Ricks want you to have access to relevant educational means even in midst of our post-war conditions.”

In a statement associated with the donation of the i-Mac computers, Mr. J. H. Law wrote, “If Liberia is the phoenix of Africa, then Ricks Institute must be the phoenix of Liberia. A civil war, which devastated Liberia, wrecked havoc at Ricks Institute as well. Under the leadership of Dr. Menjay, Ricks Institute is rising from the ashes of war to point the way forward to a new day in Liberia.” Mr. Law, a member of the First Baptist Church of San Angelo, TX, further stated, “During my visit to Ricks Institute in 2008, Dr. Menjay suggested that a computer lab would make it possible for students there to develop computer knowledge and skills which are critical in the 21st century. My wife and I are gratified to know that along with a number of other people we have been able to contribute to making the dream of a computer lab become a reality. “

The second grade class, taught by a United States volunteer teacher, was the first set of students who begin to use the newly installed computers. For 100% of the 2nd graders, it was their first time using a computer. A 12th grader, who has less than seven months to graduate, confessed that this was his very first attempt using a computer. Dr. Menjay expressed his sincere thanks and appreciation to Mr. Law and the donors for this applicable 21st century gift, which will provide effective and efficient education for the Ricks community. “This gift made us special and placed us on the cutting edge at Ricks. They were not used computers. They were brand new, first class, apple computers.”

Since 2008, the main school building on Ricks campus has become a hotspot, where those with laptops can enjoy the internet, using the schools free wireless access.

About Ricks: Ricks Institute (K-12), established in 1887, is a dynamic and comprehensive learning center that attracts students from all over Liberia and beyond. Since 2006, the institution remains the only private school in Liberia offering free primary education to its students. As a community and nationally recognized school in Liberia, 40% of its 607 students are residential students. Additionally, it operates a free Accelerated Learning Program in the afternoon with 125 (over aged) students. The school is located in Virginia, Liberia on some 1200 acres of land. For more information, visit www.ricksonline.org.

–30–

--
Olu Q. Menjay, PhD
Principal/Chief Administrative Officer
Ricks Institute
teaching, learning and servicing since 1887
Providing Free Primary (K-6) Education
Please visit us at: www.ricksonline.org
Mobile: +(231) 771-RICKS or +(231) 6561809
Email: omenjay@ricksonline.org

2009-09-22T02:59:00.000-07:00

Running through the Lobby: 8 short minutes;30 years ago

It's nearly midnight-- Mountain Daylight Time on the last night of a great Writers' Conference. I'm sitting on the floor in the Marriott Denver lobby. (I'm close to an electric plug for the laptop and on the floor because I can spread out "my gear.")

I'm doing what I love best: writing. It's quiet. Everyone with any sense has gone to bed.

I'm glad I'm up because if I hadn't been I'd missed them.

I heard them before I saw them. A young couple in white, running and giggling. She was in her beautiful wedding dress (carrying her slippers) and he wore a white tuxedo. They were running (as much as you can run in a wedding dress) toward the elevator.

Visibly deeply in love. Laughing. Full of emotion of a special day that'll live on in their hearts.
They didn't see me but I couldn't resist, "Congratulations."

They both smiled and waved. I added, "My wife and I just celebrated thirty years. Believe me, it only gets better."

They both replied. "Then congratulations to you." I heard the elevator door open, then shut, and they were gone.

I was so glad I saw them for that brief moment in time. My prayer is that they'll feel the same way in thirty years that DeDe and I do.

I thought back to that Thursday-- August 9, 1979.

We got married in her parents' living room. I have a photo of us as a newly married couple with the mantel clock behind us. It reads 2:08 PM.

Our wedding took eight minutes. However, a knot can be tied securely in less than eight minutes. It's a matter of the heart.

8 minutes.
30 years ago on an August afternoon.
Brought back to me by a running giggling newlywed couple in the lobby of the Denver Marriott.

Long live love.
Life is good.

C.I.

2009-09-22T02:14:00.000-07:00

3 am, 40 miles, 4 trucks, 2 cups of coffee

I left home this morning at 3:00 am, on my way to the Houston airport, then Denver for a writing conference. On my forty mile drive from Dry Creek to DeQuincy, I only meet four vehicles—all trucks.

The road is quiet. The woods are dark. It’s peaceful. Out my car window I visit with old friends: The Hunter, The Big Dog, Pegasus the Horse, and the Seven Sisters. These are winter constellations, still low on the southern horizon. Their presence, just like the shorter days and
recent cool spells, are reminders that our season is changing.

With the few houses, and fewer lights, along highways 113 and 190, I have a good view of these stars out my window. For the millionth time in my life, I thank God I live in the country.

I’m not alone, even though the road is empty. I poured two cups of coffee before leaving home. Both now sit in console cupholders. I recall the words of T.W. Hunt, the author of The Mind of Christ, “Sometimes when I’ve not felt as close to the Lord as I wish, I’ll pour a second cup of coffee and take it with me to my back porch table. Setting the second cup down, I’ll say, ‘Lord, I just want to invite you to have a cup of coffee with me. This morning—today—I want more
than anything to just visit with you.’”

I’ve never forgotten Dr. Hunt’s story. The act of that second cup doesn’t bring God’s presence to us. He’s already here. It simply makes us aware of this presence. That’s what fellowship is : enjoying being in the presence of Someone you love and admire.

Honestly, my second cup of coffee was poured so I wouldn’t have to stop before Vidor, Texas for more. But in the drivers seat of our Oldsmobile, in the darkness of an early morning, it reminds me to just talk with the Lord as I travel south and then west.

It’s ironic that my drive to the Houston airport takes longer than my flight to Denver will.
As I near Houston on I-10 traffic picks up on the inbound lanes. Cars, trucks, and 18 wheelers pass as the first pink light of another day dawns behind us.

They’d find it odd that I started my drive at 3 am, drove forty miles and only met four vehicles, and had two cups on coffee with seemingly only one occupant in the car. They think I'm driving solo-- no HOV lane for me, but I'm not alone.

It’s going to be a good day.
It already is.

2009-09-21T13:35:00.000-07:00

After the Conference Ends: “What to do when the circus leaves town.”

“Turn out the lights, the party’s over.
They say all things must come to an end.”
-Willie Nelson

I’ve read many excellent articles about preparing for, and attending, writing conferences. However, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one on what to do after the conference.

What a writer does after the conference may be more important than what happened during the event. As an avid conference goer, I’ve thought about several items essential in the hours and days after the conference ends. Here are some thoughts:

1. Plan some time for introspection and reflection. Leaving a conference means returning to our busy worlds at home: family, phone calls, jobs, and responsibilities. If we don’t have a plan for both written and mental reflection, many of the things we’ve learned will fall through the cracks. If you’re flying, take time to journal, set goals, and during your waiting and flight time.

2. Take time to follow up on relationships you’ve started and continued. Being a professional writer involves building relationships with other authors, and industry doorkeepers (agents, and editors.) As soon as the conference ends is the perfect time to solidify these friendships by:

A. Follow-up up with emails or notes to all of the business cards you’ve collected. A good plan is to use a glue stick to attach the cards in your journal or event program. Jot notes of details about this person. Follow up with an E-mail, Facebook invitation, or Tweet. Adjust your email signature where it includes a small photo of you. This will allow recipients to remember who you are.

B. Building relationships is a privilege of being a Christian writer. It’s also one of our responsibilities. Networking is a key ingredient in building a writing career.

C. Don’t forget the power of a personal note. E-mail is great, but a hand-written personal note is one of the most cherished things you can send a speaker, conference host, or award winner.

To read my article, “The Power of a Personal Note” click here.

D. Send a thank you email/note even to professionals who may have turned down your proposal. This shows Christian grace and class and is the sign of a professional writer. Never burn a bridge on the road of life, especially with writing doorkeepers. As my mother reminded me, “You can’t have too many friends.”

3. Make time to follow up on all requests for proposals, book ideas, and requested information. I’ve heard agents and editors relate how many times they never receive requested materials from authors. Don’t miss the chance to walk through the door of opportunity.

4. Set written goals to send requested materials. A common disease after conferences is “WritersDoubtSyndrome.” You’ve gone to the conference with that next bestseller firmly in hand. After sitting in seminars on the craft of writing and receiving critique feedback, you feel the need to start all over on your novel or project.

Even if a doorkeeper requested a sample or proposal, the tendency is to rework it until we feel it is editor worthy. This is good unless it leads to never sending until we think it “is perfect.” Enlist the support of fellow writers and friends who will hold you accountable to update and submit your work by a certain date.

5. Make a folder of materials you brought home from the conference. If you attend the conference next year, it will be a valuable resource.

6. In this folder prepare a “L.B./N.T.” file. In a ministry I formerly led, we had a “Liked Best/Next Time” form. After each event, every employee wrote what they liked best about the event as well as what we’d do differently next time. It was an invaluable aid in planning and preparing for the future.

Going to a writing conference is a thrill and privilege for all authors. Our investment of time, travel, and money is worth it. By developing your own follow through plan after the conference, it will result in the greater benefits.

Copyright 2009 by Creekbank Stories Curt Iles
Learn more at www.creekbank.net

2009-09-21T11:31:00.001-07:00

Working Title: The Power of the Note

Sub title: Living gratefully/Living compassionately

By Curt Iles

Recently when meeting a former student of mine from my earlier years as a high school teacher, he pulled out his billfold and showed me a dog-eared letter I had written him years ago. The fact that he had kept this short hand-written note reminded me of the power of personal correspondence. This written note sent during a difficult period in his life had still meant something to this student decades later.

Connecting

When it is all said and done, our success in camp ministry will rise or fall according to our ability to build and maintain healthy relationships with our guests, staff, board, and donors. John Maxwell calls this ability to build relationships, “The Law of Connection.” Maxwell wisely counsels, “You can’t move people to action unless you first move them with emotion. The heart comes before the head.” There are many ways to build relationships by connecting with the hearts of others, and one of the best is the habit of writing short hand-written notes.

“High tech, yet high touch”

In our camps and conference centers we should strive to be on the cutting edge of all communication technology. However, in striving to be “high tech,” we should never neglect the importance of personal communications, or being “high touch.” This “high tech/high touch” balance is essential in our ministries.

In his excellent book, The Tipping Point, author Malcolm Gladwell shares about how the explosion of e-mail and computer generated communication has created a need for personal correspondence. He writes, “The fact that anyone can e-mail us for free… creates immunity… and makes us value face to face communications all the more.”

Even in the New Testament we see examples of the power of the handwritten note. The Apostle Paul evidently dictated his letters. At the end of each letter, he would add his personal signature and a closing remark. An example of this is found in the closing words of 2 Thessalonians 3:17-18 (NIV) I, Paul, write this greeting in my own hand, which is the distinguishing mark in all my letters. This is how I write. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all.

I communicate primarily through e-mail and the telephone which are quick and efficient ways to stay in touch. However, when I really want to thank someone or express a deep thought or inspiration, I get out a pen, a small card, and an envelope. A note connects with people and the result is many times both a deeper relationship and a cherished item that will re-read over and over.

The time taken to personally encourage and thank others is not time wasted, but rather time invested. Some may say they cannot afford to spend this time. My reply is that they cannot afford not to. Time invested in connecting with others is never wasted.

At Dry Creek Baptist Camp, where I served as the director for the past fourteen years, we learned about the power of concise handwritten notes. During this period the camp went from being deeply in debt to having donor gifts averaging over $200,000 for the past five years. Our staff realizes this is completely due to God’s blessings and the generosity of friends who believe in Dry Creek’s ministry.

However, this wonderful growth in giving correlates to when we began personally signing every donor receipt and memorial gift. The time taken to jot a short note of appreciation on a typed letter is one simple way of saying thanks. In doing this, we are not writing notes to ask for more funds, but to show our appreciation for the giving of our friends and supporters. It is simply common courtesy mixed with gratitude.

The innovative book, Permission Marketing by Seth Godin, is written on this premise: “In business we are seeking to turn strangers into friends, and friends into customers.” Personal communication helps the wise camp leader make this leap from stranger to long time customer/guest/donor. Notes of appreciation shows folks that we value their involvement.

Notes of appreciation

The writer of Proverbs, in chapter 3:27 (NIV) wrote, “Do not withhold good from those who deserve it, when it is in your power to act.”

When we have the opportunity and words to bless someone, we should not hold back our gratitude, concern, or encouragement.

Another thing our staff observed is how the great men and women God uses nearly always are writers of notes of appreciation. We continued to be amazed at how many well-known busy speakers and musicians found time to write a personal note of thanks to our staff. Sharing these notes at staff meetings, it was very touching to see the reaction of our key staff who work behind the scenes. A quote from Mark Twain comes to mind, “I can live for six weeks on one good compliment.”

One of our favorite speakers, Dr. Bill Thorn, told me of his longtime habit of writing at least three encouraging notes per day. Over the course of a lifetime countless relationships have been built on this discipline he has built into his daily life.

Former president George H. Bush is also known as a great note writer. According to a Readers Digest article, throughout his career Bush has followed up virtually every contact with a cordial response. One surprised person received a warm, calligraphic back pat for lending Bush an umbrella. If a busy president can find time for note writing, any of us can too.

In camp and conference center ministry we are dependent on volunteers. These folks who serve without pay are the lifeblood of any organization. What a great opportunity to show our appreciation with a well-timed concise note of appreciation.

Another group needing our appreciation and gratitude is our staff and co-workers.

One of the keys to staff morale is saying thanks to our workers. Whether it is on a paycheck stub, a card, or note, staff needs to know we appreciate the second mile work they do. These sincere timely notes will let them know you value them and recognize the work they are doing. .

Notes of compassion

One of the best times to write a note is when someone has had tragedy or sorrow befall them. At Dry Creek we receive many memorial gifts in memory of loved ones. We send a letter of acknowledgement to both the donor and family. It is a privilege to write a short note on the letters, especially to the family member who has lost someone special. Kindness doesn’t have to be expensive. Just letting folks know we care and are praying for them is important…and there is no way to better express this than with a note.

Conclusion

Finally, I personally know about the value of notes. During an intense difficult personal period in my life in 2000, I began to receive cards and notes from friends and churches. I taped these sweet notes of encouragement on the windows of our home’s sun porch. Soon the windows were covered with notes and cards of all sizes, colors, and shapes. I still have those notes in a large manila envelope. Behind each of these notes were affirming words, scriptures, and the ongoing prayers of my friends. I call them “my bundle of prayers” and will cherish them for the rest of my life.

In camp ministry, it is the little things done daily that add up to great things for God’s Kingdom. As Mother Teresa stated, “We can do no extraordinary things, only ordinary things in an extraordinary way.” Making the consistent habit of blessing others by writing notes of appreciation and encouragement will benefit others as well as enrich our own lives. The wise camp leader will ensure that part of their ministry includes the simple, but essential, task of writing notes.

2009-09-14T16:10:00.001-07:00

It's all about influence.

I'm very privileged to write and speak full time.

This is a fine royalty check I got last week for $1.04.

It's never been about the money.
Of course, it allows me to make a living and hopefully a difference.

To me, it's about influence. Recently, my friend Gary Hahler wrote of success, "Success is the ripple of your life going as far down the lake as possible."

In 2006 I quit my perfectly good job as manager of Dry Creek Baptist Camp. Lots of folks thought I'd lost my mind (they were quick to tell me.) DeDe and I both knew the Lord was showing me my mission at the Camp was closing. It was time for the next part of the journey.

That summer I received a phone call that's still ringing in my heart. A quiet male voice said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I read one of your books in prison. God used it to change my life. I'm just calling to say thanks."

I didn't get his name.
I remember he said the book was my first one, Stories from the Creekbank.
He didn't know how the book got to Angola, and I sure had no idea.

I only know the thread of the influence of my writing and influence reached inside the walls and fences of a prison. God's the Living Water. I'm just the PVC pipe through which He travels.

It's about influence.
It's about living.
It's about doing what we're called to do.

Royalty checks for $1.04.
Surprise calls from a changed parolee.

2009-09-14T12:50:00.001-07:00

A horse by any other name...

I'm gathering names for a plow horse in my new novel, A Spent Bullet. See nominations below and read the passage that relates to this horse.

(Curt) My grandfather had two horses: Dallas and Sam. (Dallas is Joe Moore’s horse in The Wayfaring Stranger and he makes an appearance in A Good Place.

My Papaw, Lloyd Iles, on "Dallas." Circa 1967 Dry Creek, Louisiana.
"I don't care how long your grandparents have been gone, you still miss them."

Interested readers have suggested these names for my horse. Read the passage below and tell me which names fit best.

Gus, Gussie, Duke, Bud, Mule, Horse, Ben, Red, Jenny, Blue, Blackie
Pearl, Mr. ED! or Rosco, jim, skeeter, nanny, tom, dolly ,Old Duke , Blossom, Buttercup, Big John, Ol Dan, Mable, Maude, Claude, Shorty, Murk.

This is the rough draft passage (I've left it rough on purpose. It was written this morning. I'll insert one of these names.) It is from my new novel, A Spent Bullet, set during the 1941 Louisiana Army Maneuvers.

It is told through the POV (point of view) of Butch Reed, a 17 boy itching to join the military as America nears joining in the European War. His Poppa, a veteran of the Great War (what they called WWII in 1941) objects passionately. They had a 'knock down drag out' fight several days before this scene.

This scene from their barn reveals why Poppa was so opposed.

A Spent Bullet by Curt Iles Copyright 2009 Creekbank Stories.

As Butch carried his stool and milk pail from Bessie to Flo, he eyed his father’s meticulous grooming of __________ HORSE NAME NEEDED. Poppa loved all animals, but horses were his favorite. He’d grown up in the horse culture of the piney woods where they were the main form of transportation and work. Horsepower meant something to his father.

“It was the screams of the horses that tortured me the most.” Butch heard Poppa’s words and glanced over thinking he was talking to him.

Silence returned to the barn except for the squirt squirt squirt of milk into the pail and the horse’s movement.

“I’ve never got their dying screams out of my mind and it’s been a bit over twenty-year.” Poppa said in the same even tone, his eyes on the horse’s flank.

Butch stopped his milking. “Poppa, are you talking to me?”

When his father looked up with misty eyes, Butch saw a stare he’d never seen before. He knew without acknowledgement that the words were directed at, and for, him.

Moving the bucket where the cow wouldn’t kick it over, he walked to the far side of the
HORSE. He knew this was his father’s conversation. His tone revealed it wouldn’t be an argument. Butch also knew he job was simply to listen.
Each stood on one side of the horse as if they needed this physical barrier to break the emotional one between them. Butch began stroking _________’s mane and the horse shivered at the attention of its two owners.
Poppa and Butch had many mutual loves; their love of horses being probably their strongest bond. Neither man looked at the other. Poppa knelt down, checking _____ foreleg. “I’ve always been bothered by the fact that watching a horse die disturbed me more than the death of men next to me.”
“Poppa, you’re talking about the Great War?”

The strong smell of horse, feed, and manure. No answer was needed as Poppa continued. “I was so excited to get out of these woods and go serve my country—to see this big world across the ‘Big Pond.’ Even we they told us about the trenches, the machine guns, the artillery barrage, I wasn’t that scared.

“But when we marched through the connecting trench to the front lines and I heard the first horse screaming, I knew I was in a bad place. I’d been around horses like ol ____ here for all of my life, but I’d never heard such terror-filled sounds. I wasn’t even sure what it was at first.”

Butch looked over ________ withers down at his dad. “What’d happened?”

“The horse was pulling an ammunition cart when a shell struck nearby. The explosion had knocked it and the cart to the ground; shrapnel had cut it up badly. It lay there. The only word I know to describe it is ‘screaming.’ It was screaming in pain and terror.

“No one could go to it because of the ongoing artillery barrage. Finally a muddy veteran in the main trench sighted his Enfield on the twisting head and with two shots put it out of its misery.

That ended the horse’s tortured pain, but I’ve never got it out of my mind. I realized that day the cruelty of men against men, and how we’ll take animals God made and subject them to that same cruelty.”

“Did you see many men die, Poppa?”
He looked up at me. “Everyday. And everyday I expected to be the next one.”

He resumed his work on ________ ‘s leg. “I can’t talk about it: the gas attacks, laying flat in the mud full of fear as a box barrage neared your location, the lice, the mud, watching men beside you die both quickly and in agony.”

It was the most Butch had ever heard his father talk about the war. The look on Poppa’s face made him understand why. “Butch, I’m still bothered by how the sound of a dying horse on my first day on the front lines affected me way more than the men I saw die daily after that.”
“It’s because of how you—how we—love horses, Poppa.”

“Yeah, but I should love people a lot more.”

“You do. It’s just different.” Butch hesitated after saying this. He was commenting on something he didn’t have the same degree of experience as his father.

Poppa stood to his full height, bright _____ eyes staring across the horse’s flank.
“Can’t you understand why I don’t want you as part of any war?”

“I can, but…”
Poppa, cut him off. “And can’t you understand, just a little, why folks like me agree with Lindbergh?* We’ve been to Europe and seen firsthand what war is like. Because of that, it’s to be avoided whenever possible.”

A day before, Butch would’ve argued but now he softly said it, “But what if that war can’t be avoided?”

“Well, right now it can be, so let’s do what we can to keep it that way.”

“Poppa, I’ve nearly made up my mind to join up. They’re gonna draft me sooner or later anyway. I thought I’d just beat them to the punch.”

“Your mind’s ‘nearly’ made up?”

“Really, it’s made up.”

“I understand although I don’t want to hear I was about your same age in ’16 when I signed up. I won’t stop you—I can’t stop you, but I would like to suggest something. I’ll call it a ‘compromise’.”

“What is it?”

“Let’s go to the house for a cup of your momma’s coffee and talk about it on the porch.”

Father and son walked side by side from the barn, with only a milk bucket now between them. They were silent; the only sound being the contented neighing of a good plow horse named __________ back in the barn.

My mind is spinning with the compromise Poppa's going to offer. What's your idea?

* Charles A. Lindbergh was America's greatest hero of this time. He was as famous as either Michael (Jordan or Jackson), Bill Gates, or Neil Armstrong. He passionately opposed American involvement in the European war as spokesman for the Isolationists "America First" group. This made him a divisive figure and enemy of FDR's administration.

When the war started, Lindbergh served as a pilot in the Pacific.

2009-09-08T18:47:00.000-07:00

"Some people go to their graves with their songs in them; let this not be said of me."

Mr. Tiger's Song

I met Mr. Tiger today at the Southeast La. War Veterans Home in Reserve.

We had a great time telling stories to the veterans. Best of all was hearing their stories. Nearly all are WWII and Korean vets and had memorable and touching stories of their service to our country.

As I left I encountered Mr. Tiger playing his bongo to Cajun music. According to the workers, he spends lots of his day playing. I thought about the saying quoted above. "Some people go to their graves with their songs in them; let this not be said of me."

See his song at YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b3-DmQ0EGpo

Or scroll down to view the video here:

Mr. Tiger is playing his song, and it appears to me that he's going to play it to the end.

I told DeDe when I arrived home tonight. "When you send me to the nursing home one day, send send my conga drums and a CD player and I'll be fine."

I plan to be like my new friend, Mr. Tiger: playing my song... telling my story to the end.

I laughed when I saw the poster at the Veterans Home. (I did not tell them I was an 'awesome story teller!')

There are five war veterans home in our state. I've now visited two (Jennings and Reserve.)
They are new, fresh, and there is a spirit of dignity and respect for our veterans. I encourage you to drop by the one in your area.

Learn more at http://www.lalegion.org/forallvets/laveteranshomes.html

2009-09-05T20:40:00.001-07:00

Folklore from Africa and Louisiana

One of the best parts of our Liberian trip was being with students at Ricks School.

I worked with them on using symbolism in writing.

Majoe drew this picture and explained it. Here is what I learned:

The Kola tree (from which the cola nut comes that is used in our sodas) is considered very special in Liberia. Every home plants one in their yard.

When a child is born, the navel string (I had to ask Majoe about this: it's the umbilical cord) is buried at the foot of the tree. This is a tradition, especially among the rural folks.

I've studied rural folklore all of my life, especially in my home state of Louisiana. The following passage is from my upcoming novel, A Good Place. It tells of the Southern tradition of planting a cedar tree where the first/oldest grave is in a cemetery.

With the building straightened, we looked at the lone cedar tree in the center of the graveyard. It had lost several limbs, which we began sawing up. Momma and Colleen straightened up some of the wooden grave markers knocked over by the limbs.

Momma turned to Colleen. “This cedar tree was planted when they put the first grave here. With its year-round green leaves, it represents eternal life.”

“What’s ‘eternal’?”

“It means forever—without end.”

I think knowing about our folk traditions is a part of our heritage. Whether it's Louisiana or another continent, there is so much to learn.

2009-09-05T10:59:00.000-07:00

A Good Place is coming soon.

Listed below are the covers on our upcoming novel, A Good Place.
November 15 is the projected release date.

Click on the covers for a closer look.

Look over the covers. If you have any suggestions on wording for the back cover, we still are making minor changes. Give us your feedback.

Writing for a reason.
Curt Iles

2009-09-02T19:54:00.000-07:00

My grandson Jack Iles explores a hollow log. When I told him there might be a coon or possom in the log, he had to go inspect it.

This was taken during a day hike he and I took last week on the Wild Azalea Trail.

"Don't you know that the laughing hole ain't there
just for the kids and the bears." -Jerry Jeff Walker "He was the Kind"

"I'd rather drink muddy water and sleep in a hollow log
than to be here in Atlanta get treated like a dirty dog."
- "T for Texas" Jimmie Rodgers

2009-09-01T06:12:00.000-07:00

More thoughts on Work: "Work is not a four-letter word.

"L.T.W.B.T.Y.F.I"*

*Leave this world better than you found it."

Our work results in a world that is better than when we found it.
Whether it's a weed-filled garden, the open mind of a child, or a Bible shared with a grieving friend, it's our work and calling.

From my friend Beth Koop
"There's something about pulling weeds that I like!! Maybe it's the thought of ripping out the bad, harmful things that choke out good, inspiring things."

2009-08-31T04:27:00.001-07:00

Earlier this year I blogged a story about how the bookmobile affected my life as a boy in rural Louisiana. My friend Alda Clark, who writes for our local papers, penned her story. Here it is for your enjoyment.

Recently I was reading Brother Curt Iles’ Blog when I came across a story about the Bookmobile Beauregard Parish had back in the late fifties and early sixties. The Bookmobile was a traveling Library, which made stops in the rural areas so country children would have access to books in the summer.

I was a preteen back then and would just as soon go to school year round, than spend a long, hot boring summer without my friends. But once the Bookmobile started coming the summers were some of my happiest times. Once every two weeks my brothers, sister and I would excitedly wait for the sound of the bookmobile coming. After running to the country road near our house where it would stop, we would climb on and stay as long as we were allowed. The ladies running the Bookmobile were so nice to us and would allow us to check out a whole stack of books. After the first visit I always made sure I checked out enough books to do me until they returned.

That is the summer that began my love affair with books. After all these many years of my life I still remember some of the books I read back then. I never remember another boring summer. My life was filled with one story after the other. As soon as I finished one book I was ready to start another one. The joy of reading a good book is still one of my favorite things.

After all these years my brothers, sister and I still read. They read occasionally but I read something every day. If not a book, I find some of the Blogs on the Internet very good reading, like the one I found the story on about the Bookmobile. I also love reading newspapers from other states, and as any person who loves to read does, I have read my favorite book, the Bible cover to cover.

I find it very hard to believe when someone tells me they don’t like to read, but my husband is one of these people. He is a very intelligent person with an IQ much higher than mine, but he has never been a reader. Maybe he never had the chance to visit the Bookmobile. After many years of trying to find a book he would read I finally introduced him to Curt Iles' Creekbank Stories, he has read every one of them and looks forward to a new one to be published.

I’ll never forget the long hot summers I spent reading books checked out from the Bookmobile. I just wish all the country children today had the same privilege. I know they would find a book there that they would enjoy and maybe start a lifetime of enjoyment.

Alda Clark

2009-08-30T03:52:00.000-07:00

I have the privilege of speaking at so many events. It is a joy to share stories, encourage others, and always put in a "good work on the greatness of our God."

The clip below is from Camp Pearl's newsletter.
Visit their website at www.camppearl. com to find out more about this wonderful camp near Reeves, LA

SENIOR CITIZEN’S DAY….
Thursday, September 10, 2009
September 26, 2009 8:30a.m.

Join us for our Senior Citizen’s Day on
Thursday, September 10 as we enjoy a
great time of fellowship together around
a great lunch.

Curt Iles will be here to
share his latest book and tell some of his
fascinating stories! You’ll enjoy coffee and donuts
beginning at 10:00am followed by our program at
10:30am. A delicious meal of baked ham, baked
beans, potato salad, Caesar salad, Mississippi Mud
Cake….will be on the menu! Plan now to join us!

CHECK OUT OUR FANTASTIC WEBSITE
www.camppearl.com FOR CURRENT UPDATES!

2009-08-28T14:10:00.000-07:00

Trelvis and Phil Thomas. The inspiration for
this story from The Wayfaring Stranger.
Miz Girlie's Prayer Tree

Scene: Irish immigrant Joe Moore has arrived in western Louisiana and has been befriended by Miz Girlie Perkins, an old widow.

Joe slept each night on the porch. Miz Girlie gave him an old quilt and moss-filled mattress to lie on; aside from the mosquitoes, it was a fine place to sleep.

Every morning about daylight, he’d hear the old lady leave the house. She’d be barefooted and trying to slip out quietly, but invariably he’d hear her footsteps.

After the third day of watching her leave each morning, his curiosity got the best of him. When she returned an hour later through the tall pines, she greeted him as she got to the porch. Joe didn’t know if it was the early morning sunshine or something else—but her face seemed to have a glow to it.

As she ascended the front step, he asked, “Miz Girlie, now I ain’t trying to be nosey or nothing, but, uh, where do you go each morning?”

The old woman smiled. “Baby, you come with me and I’ll show you where I go. It’ll be a sight easier to show it to you than tell you about it.”

They walked out of the yard and into the tall longleaf pines. The shafts of sunlight shone through the tall canopies and Joe Moore was reminded of why he already loved the Louisiana piney woods.

Miz Girlie led him to an old twisted pine that was obviously in its last stages of life. The woodpeckers had drilled holes all up and down its thick trunk. Under the tree was a homemade bench that showed evidence of long use.

“Joe, this here spot was what my momma called her ‘prayer tree.’ It was where she started her day all the years I can remember. It didn’t matter how cold it was—raining or August hot—she came out here every morning.

“Son, it was her place to start the day with the Lord—under this here prayer tree—just her and the Lord, and a cup of coffee. When she passed in the year 1827, I just adopted it as mine. It’s now my prayer tree—a place where I meet every morning with the Lord, and we jes’ visit.” She smiled in a way Joe would always remember, “It’s my place to meet with God.”

Joe had been at Miz Girlie’s for over two weeks now. He decided it was time to go looking around and scout for some land of his own. When he told her of his plans to leave, her disappointment was easy to see. She had come to depend on him and enjoyed his company. However, she understood his need to explore and made him promise to come back.

As Joe walked down the trail away from her house, Miz Girlie Perkins wondered if, and when, she would see Joe Moore again.

Mrs. Trelvis Thomas took me to a tree on her land and showed me the prayer tree used by her mother. Her story became the inspiration for Miz Girlie's story.

2009-08-28T05:27:00.001-07:00

2 Stories on Ted Kennedy

I've never been a Ted Kennedy fan. Most of his politics are 180 degrees to the left of my beliefs.
However, two stories I read many years ago built a grudging respect for him. One is humorous. The other is poignant.

Once during a visit to a coal mine, Ted Kennedy was approached by a grimy short fiesty miner.
"Senator Kennedy, is it true you never worked a day in your life at a real job?"

Taken aback, the senator finally answered, "Yes sir, I guess that's true."

Supposedly the miner shook his head, broke out into a grin, and said, "Well, let me tell you something. You ain't missed a thing."

Secondly, on Sept. 11, 2001 as our nation reeled from the terror attacks, Ted Kennedy went to the White House to sit with Laura Bush. (As you probably remember, President Bush was in Florida, then Louisiana, at the times of the attacks.) In spite of political differences, it showed a human side of this man.

2009-08-27T04:06:00.000-07:00

The Best Part of Writing and Living: Relationships

Shown above is my nephew Adam Terry. He's showing off a copy of "God's Timing" a poem I wrote. (See end of blog for reprint of poem)

Adam is congressional aide for Rep. U.S Congressman Rodney Alexander.
He and and his wife Jenny live in the Washington D.C. area and are faithful followers of my blog.
DeDe and I are extremely proud of them.

Also shown in one of my "daughters in the Lord," Evan Adams. Evan and her partner in crime, Hailey Guidry, traveled with DeDe and I to South Africa in 2008. Both of these "African Queens" are going back for a month of orphanage work after their HS graduation in 2010. If you'd like to support their trip, I can put you in contact with them.

Evan helped recently at Books a Million on cover ideas for A Good Place. You can see the result below.

Click on image for larger view

Special thanks to Chad Smith at The Touch Studios for this great cover.

* God’s Timing is Always Right

God is very seldom early

But He’s always right on time.

When the need must be met by midnight,

He’ll supply at 11:59

Just as Moses stood in the water

At the edge of the Red Sea,

God waits until the very end

To supply our every need.

If you wonder why He has this habit

Of waiting till the end,

He does it to remind us

He’s the one on whom we must depend.

For if we worked it out early

And provided in our own strength,

We’d think we all did it

And not realize it was from Him.

All God really wants from us

Is to trust Him everyday

And to always say, “Thank you”

As He directs us along life’s pathway.

Yes, God is very seldom early,

But I’ve never seen Him late.

In faith we can completely trust Him

To meet our needs in His own time . . . and His own way.

2009-08-21T04:07:00.000-07:00

From the cover of my lost (and found) journal: PASSION: Dream it. Dare it. Define it. Do it. Get into it!

I once was lost, but now I'm found.
The adventures of journal #47.

Pictured is Books a Million associate Anna with my journal. Bonehead Iles left it at the Lake Charles store last week.

Anna found it and kept it for me. She commented, "I really liked the statement on the front, 'Dream it. Dare it. Define it. Do it. Get into it!'"

Those are my passion "D" words.

Thanks Anna for keeping something very precious to me: my current journal #47.

2009-08-20T08:25:00.001-07:00

Thoughts on being spiritually dry.

I'm part of a wonderful writers group called "Ripplers." Our founder and mentor is Houston-area novelist Diann Mills. Our question for the day came from Diann, "What do you do when you're spiritually dry?"

Here is my short list.

I guess because I've been spiritually dry plenty of times, I have a good list.

-Take a walk with DeDe.

-Go to the Appalachian Trail.

-Be with uplifting friends and family.

-Rest. Many times my spiritual dryness is the result of lack of rest. There are two quotes I've heard:

"Sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is go take a nap." -Bill Britt

"Patience is one of the fruits of the spirit. It's also one of the fruits of rest."

-Write prayers and thoughts in my journal.

-Be with my grandsons.

Resting in Him,

Curt

2009-08-19T08:05:00.000-07:00

I'm planning an October Appalachian Trail hike. (I don't want to hear any jokes about that South Carolina governor. He gave all of us A.T. hikers a bad name!)

I pulled out this poem from Stories from the Creekbank. It's always been a favorite of mine when I get the wandering fever.

Jesus was a walker. . .

You ask me why I’m a walker

Up and down these country roads

It’s not real easy to explain

So I’ll give an example to you.

You see, Jesus was a walker.

That’s the only way He knew to go.

He walked on dusty roads and traveled in the hills.

He hiked through the mountains,

Where the view is nice and real.

Jesus knew a secret

That I’ll now share with you:

When you’re out walking in nature,

You can feel God speaking to you.

As you walk where it’s quiet and peaceful,

The world’s troubles will soon disappear

And you will feel God’s peace

As He draws you near.

Yes, Jesus was a walker.

He even walked out on the sea.

And as I walk through these woods

I feel Him walking with me. . .

Solvitur ambulando "The Difficulty is solved by walking."

2009-08-18T12:57:00.000-07:00

Draft copy of front cover of A Good Place

Current draft copy of back cover copy. Your input is always appreciated.

“Deep in the Louisiana piney woods is a good place.”

It’s called “No Man’s Land” and is where Mayo Moore begins his story of growing up during the turbulent years of the Civil War. Through the inspiration of his parents—the Irishman Joe Moore and his part-Indian wife, Eliza—Mayo learns that the love of family is stronger than any challenge.

“Families stick together through the storm and come out stronger.”

More than a coming of age tale, A Good Place recounts the enduring love story of Joe and Eliza, as told through the eyes and heart of their feisty oldest son, Mayo.

When a surprise hurricane devastates the area, it is only the first in a series of storms to roll over the Moore family and their Ten Mile neighbors. The coming storm of the Civil War threatens everything the family believes in.

“Looking back at the night of the hurricane, it was memorable in another way—under the sturdy kitchen table with my family, when all we really had was each other. Now, as then, I realize that that’s enough.”

This inspiring story will make you laugh, cry, and be glad to be alive. Mayo’s tales takes readers along the creeks, woods, and into the hearts of memorable characters such as Joe and Eliza, “Unk,” Miz Girlie, Bo, and Uncle Eli.

“Daddy, an Irish immigrant, loved Louisiana’s clear creeks, tall trees, and the freedom it offered—and called it ‘a good place to be.’”

Continuing the story that thrilled readers in The Wayfaring Stranger, Curt Iles shares more about Joe and Eliza Moore’s lives. A Good Place, the second book in the “Westport Series” is written in the warm and humorous style loved by readers of Iles’ first six books.

“My mother always described Ten Mile as a place where ‘life was good but never easy.’”

2009-08-18T02:43:00.000-07:00

Our cover is being designed by Chad Smith of The Touch Studios. The painting is by my uncle, Bill Iles.

A Good Place tentative release date November 2009

Below is a draft of our Back Cover Text. It is still "too wordy." All suggestions and input are appreciated. What would you take out? What would you refuse to remove?

Deep in the Louisiana piney woods is a good place called “No Man’s Land.”

It’s where Mayo Moore begins his story of growing up during the turbulent years of the Civil War. Through the inspiration of his parents, the Irishman Joe Moore and his part-Indian wife, Eliza, Mayo learns that the love of a family is stronger than any storm that threatens to tear apart a family.

“Families stick together through the storm and come out stronger.”

More than a coming of age story, it’s a recounting of Joe and Eliza’s love story, as told through the eyes and heart of their oldest son, Mayo. Whether a devastating 1862 hurricane, the challenges of pioneer life, or the looming storm of the Civil War, we learn of the Moore family’s trials and strength.

“Looking back a lifetime later at the night of the hurricane, it was a memorable in another way—under the sturdy kitchen table with my family, when all we really had was each other. Now, as then, I realize that that’s enough.”
Sharing about the enduring love of his parents, this inspiring story will make you laugh, cry, and be glad to be alive. Mayo’s tales takes readers on a journey along the creeks and woods and into the hearts of memorable characters in his family as well as his eccentric neighbors.

Follow Mayo Moore into the wild and untamed piney woods of 19th century No Man’s Land—the pioneer land between the Sabine and Calcasieu Rivers.

“Daddy loved Louisiana’s clear creeks, tall trees, and the freedom it offered—and, until the day he died, called it ‘a good place to be.’”

Behind the retelling of these adventures are stories of the heart—lessons often learned through difficulty and destruction. Through this, Mayo learns of the true strength found in family, faith, and the Westport woods.

“It was a place where life was good but never easy.”

Continuing the story that thrilled the readers in The Wayfaring Stranger, Curt Iles shares more about Joe and Eliza Moore’s enduring love story A Good Place, the second book in the “Westport Series” is written in the warm, tender and humorous style loved by readers of Iles’ first six books.

2009-08-13T13:55:00.000-07:00

If I could live my life over, I'd invest it in young people."
-John R. Mott

Today I was in Lake Charles at Books a Million studying book cover examples for A Good Place. There I saw one of "The African Queens": Evan Adams.

She and photographer Chad Smith ( The Touch Studios) worked with me on ideas for the cover. See more below.

Evan and Hailey Guidry went with DeDe and I to South Africa in 2008. I nicknamed the two girls "The African Queens" after Katherine Hepburn/Humphrey Bogart's classic movie of the same name. (If you haven't seen "The African Queen," order it on NetFlix. You'll enjoy it.)

Evan and Hailey begin their senior year tomorrow at South Beauregard High. They're seriously contemplating taking a "Senior Trip" after graduation to the Zululand orphanage we worked in last year.

That is why I love being around young people. They can teach us so much about life, passion, and ministry. Two young women who, instead of thinking of a Caribbean cruise or Destin's beaches, want to go work in a crowded orphanage full of HIV positive babies and children.

Lord, here is my prayer.
Allow me to stay around young people for the rest of my life. Don't let me ever get old in my heart, and the best way I know to keep a young heart is to be around young people. Keep me close to them Lord, Keep me close to you. Amen.

This wonderful painting by Bill Iles is one of the cover ideas we're considering using for A Good Place.

These six books are similar to the type of look we're looking for in A Good Place.
In the weeks ahead, we'll be asking for your input on cover ideas.

2009-08-13T06:03:00.000-07:00

God’s Timing is Always Right

God is very seldom early

But He’s always right on time.

When the need must be met by midnight,

He’ll often supply at 11:59

Just as Moses stood in the water

At the edge of the Red Sea,

God waits until the very end

To supply our every need.

If you wonder why He has this habit

Of waiting till the end,

He does it to remind us

He’s the one on whom we must depend.

For if we worked it out early

And provided in our own strength,

We’d think we all did it

And not realize it was from Him.

All God really wants from us

Is to trust Him everyday

And to always say, “Thank you”

As He directs us along life’s pathway.

Yes, God is very seldom early,

But I’ve never seen Him late.

In faith we can completely trust Him

To meet our needs in His own time . . . and His own way.

From Stories from the Creekbank by Curt Iles

I wrote this poem during a particularly discouraging time in August 1998. We had dug the footings on the new snack shack/gift shop at Dry Creek Baptist Camp.

As we got ready to pour the slab, the costs on the concrete and electrical preparation had skyrocketed. We didn’t have the money we needed to start this project. Volunteers were scheduled to come in September and I really didn’t know how we’d be ready.

Then just before the day to pour the concrete, a huge rain washed in all of our footings. So on a scorching August day we began to re-dig, by hand, all of the ditches and chain walls. It was very discouraging to be redoing a bad job.

This poem, inspired by one of my special friends, Mrs. Rhedia Skiles, came to me as we dug in the red clay. Now a year later as I look at the beautiful building that was completed on time with all the money available each step of the way, I can only bow my head and say how great God is.

2009-08-11T17:18:00.000-07:00

Photo: Displaced Persons Camp in shadow of volcano Goma, Congo

In Defense of Hillary

My blog is not a political site. There are plenty of good blogs of that type available.

My writing is more about being a good news reporter with stories of the common people who make the world better.

So why in the world am I stepping on the land mine of not only mentioning Hillary Clinton, but actually defending her. Here’s why: She deserves a pass on her now infamous remarks at a press conference yesterday in Kinshasa, Democratic Congo.

If you haven’t seen the clip, you can view it by clicking here.

Mrs. Clinton, in her role as U.S. Secretary of State, is in the midst of whirlwind tour of Africa.

A question was “mis-translated” (*a good story on that later) and offended her concerning its implication of asking for “Mr. Clinton’s opinion” of a recent huge Chinese loan to the Congo.
The student asking the question asked about “Mr. Obama’s opinion” but that’s not the way it was passed on to her.

You can see for yourself on video that it was not her best moment. It obviously ticked her off.

However, I want to offer a defense.

The video obviously shows someone having a bad hair day. Literally, you can see the results of jet lag on her face, in her hair, and body language. Only those of us who’ve traveled throughout Africa understand the challenges of airports, time zones, surprises, electrical outages, and no hot water.

It’ll test anyone’s mettle.

Today, (Tuesday, August 11) Secretary Clinton bravely flew to eastern Congo to the city of Goma. It’s the epicenter of an ongoing civil war commonly called “Africa’s World War.” It is such a dangerous area that she didn’t fly in on her U.S. jet, but hitched a ride on a UN plane.

To read about Goma and Clinton's visit there.

I was there in April, but I didn’t fly in either. We were told it was too dangerous. So instead of flying from Kinshasa to Goma, we flew through Kenya to Rwanda and drove across the border to Goma.

While there, I watched the UN planes come in low from the mountains over Lake Kivu for quick landings at Goma. I’m glad she made it fine and I’m glad I wasn’t on the plane.

As her plane came in, I’m sure Mrs. Clinton saw the smoke flume from Mt. Mount Nyiragongo, one of five active volcanoes that periodically erupts lava on Goma.

Hillary Clinton was there to visit the Displaced Person Camps outside Goma. It is where hundreds of thousands of Congolese are staying while rebel armies fight in the mountains. It is a sobering sight to see what conditions these people live in and hear their stories.

One of the main subjects she addressed was the stigma of rape against women as a tool of war in Africa. It is a subject that burns into any compassionate heart.

I’ve now been in several war-torn areas ranging from Ethiopia (Civil War 20 years ago) to Rwanda (Genocide in 1996) to Congo (ongoing) and Liberia (decades long war ended five years ago.)

The two things that horrify me about African war are these: First, the systematic rape of women and girls. Second, the prolific use of child soldiers by rebel armies. Either of them is terrible. In tandem, they are despicable and tear at the very fabric of any country.

I do not understand why and how soldiers choose to use rape as a tool of terror. My understanding is that it is used as a tool to maim, terrorize, and destroy.

Much of Central and Western Africa’s wars have been about control of land and territory. Whoever controls the gold mines, diamond fields, iron ore deposits, or rubber plantation controls the money needed to buy arms and carry on war.

To seize land, you must drive out the people. Using rape against females and capturing teen and preteen boys as soldiers is an effective way to get people to flee. The fortunate ones make it to the squalor of the camps built on volcanic rock near Goma.

The unlucky ones don’t. In African society, a rape victim is often rejected by her husband, family, and even village. Many times their injuries are so horrific to scar them for life. It’s not a pretty picture.

That’s what Hillary Clinton is in Goma about. Urging the people of the Congo—and Africa—to rise up against this dehumanizing kind of war. To call for the arrest and full prosecution of those condoning these deeds.

I firmly believe the destiny of Africa rests in the hands of Africans. Especially young Africans. It’s not the job of Westerners to “straighten out” Africa. We have a pretty sorry track record there.

However, it is our responsibility as Americans to encourage and help in any ways possible. That’s what Hillary Clinton is doing there. Whether she’s of my political party (she’s not) whether I voted for her (no) doesn’t matter today. She’s trying to help make the world—specifically Africa—a better and safer place.

Because of that, she’s on my side, and I’m on hers for this.
So cut her some slack on flying off the handle in the Congo. It’s easy to get confused (and humbled) in another culture and continent.

It’s also probably frustrating to be asked in twenty-eight tribal dialects about “your husband’s success in going to North Korea” when you’re working hard in Africa. (A lifetime of answering questions “About Bill” could also be a credible defense in addition to jet lag in getting bent out of shape.)

As my old uncle used to say, “Cut her some slack on the plow rope.”
It ain’t never easy in Africa. That’s why the acronym “T.I.A.” is so well known: “This Is Africa.”

It’s a place I love.

Ahmed’s story: Child Soldiers

I met Ahmed in the west African country of Liberia. He is a gifted teacher at the school we recently worked in. As my wife and I got to know him, he told his story. Passionately, but without bitterness, he began by pulling his shirt aside to reveal a large burn scar on his shoulder.

“The rebel army came to my village and grabbed all of the young men. They were going to make child soldiers out of us. I told them, ‘Go ahead and kill me, but I won’t be a soldier.’ I was surprised that they didn’t shoot me.

“Instead they took me with the others. When a battle broke out, they used me as a human shield. A soldier knelt behind me, firing his AK-47 over my shoulder. That’s how I got the burn—the barrel got that hot. It was also a long time before I could hear out of that ear.

“I fell to the ground and heard their voices.
‘Go ahead and kill him.’
‘No, he’s already dead. Leave him.’

Ahmed with Curt
Monrovia, Liberia

Ahmed somehow survived the war. As stated earlier, he was one of the fortunate ones. Many others of his age died in the war. Others who fought and lived through the war are scarred by what they were a part of. You can see them roaming the streets of Monrovia.

Ahmed is now a teacher in what is arguably called “The best school in Liberia.” He’s part of rebuilding his country where rebuilding always takes place: in the hearts and minds of students.
An imparter of knowledge, reconciliation, and restoration.

My observation is this: The future of Africa depends on the life-changing power of God in people’s hearts, the education of the young, and the strengthening of healthy families.

My friend Ahmed is part of all three of these keys to the future.
It’s a future we must believe in.

*On 'Mistranslation'

Only someone who has spoken using an interpreter can understand the challenges and fear. Here is a neat story from our recent Congo trip.

I sat by my friend Bill, as he got ready to speak in a church. Just before the message, the Congolese Christians danced and sang with such joy for long time of music. These folks- victims of a war and much else—were poor but had a joy that cannot be bought or taken away.

With their drums, dancing, clapping, and singing, their joy filled the small plastic-sheeted dirt-floored church. As Bill stood to preach, I whispered to him, “Son, if you can’t preach after that, your wood’s wet.”

He laughed and stood beside John, his interpreter.
When Bill started, I knew he was in for a rough beginning. “Folks, I loved that singing. If you can’t preach after that, your wood’s wet.”

John, who was very proficient in both English and Swahili, looked quizzically at Bill.

Bill repeated himself. A little slower and louder. “If you cannot preach after that, your wood is wet.”

John shrugged his shoulders as he looked from Bill to the crowd and back again.

I’ve heard the “if you can’t preach… wood’s wet” all of my life in a hundred and eight sermons, but it just doesn’t translate well into either Swahili or Volcanic rock-dominated eastern Congo culture.

Finally, Bill gave up. He preached a wonderful sermon to the church. It was expertly interpreted by John and the best interpreter of all, the Holy Spirit.

We all laughed about the translation misunderstanding.
It can happen to anyone.
Just ask Hillary Clinton.

2009-08-11T10:38:00.000-07:00

A Good Place

I'm finishing up the final draft on A Good Place. Below is a passage from Chapter 1. It describes the Moore family hunkering under their kitchen table during a surprise La. hurricane in August 1862.

Mayo Moore, then twelve years old, relates the story years later. Here's my question for readers: Is 'impending' the best word to use in this passage? I'm thinking along these two lines: a 12 year old country boy telling this story years later circa 1920.

Actual passage:

“Daddy, are we gonna blow away?” Colleen asked. I glanced up at our creaking roof, wondering the same thing.

Before he could answer, Momma pulled my sister closer, “Baby, this house was built ‘horse high, bull tough, and pig tight,’ by your daddy and it’ll stand up to anything any storm throws at it.”

Colleen nervously burst out giggling at Momma’s saying, causing us all to laugh in spite of our fear. However, our smiles soon faded as the storm intensified and the rafters lifted and shuddered with every strong gust.

“I feel—I feel so helpless.” Momma said, holding Colleen closer.

Daddy repeated. “We will get through this. Together, we can do it.”

At that moment, I hoped he was right.

Sitting under the table as the wind roared, it was hard to believe this day had started so quietly. Looking back over it, we’d missed several signs—omens of the impending storm.

2009-08-10T14:16:00.000-07:00

I'm studying the word Integrity this week. It's one of the "6 Strong Words" I want in my life.

I'd be interested in hearing from readers as to how you define Integrity as well as people of integrity in your life. With your permission, I'll use your input and feedback on this blog as well as in the study.

You can comment on this blog, email me at curtiles@aol.com or contact me through Facebook or Twitter.

Thanks.

I'm re-reading (on audio CD) one of the greatest novels in American Literature, Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. I'm simply amazed at her word play and artistic ability to paint scenes and characters.

Atticus Finch, the father of story narrator "Scout" is a man of integrity in his hometown of Maycomb, Alabama. Finch, an attorney, defends a negro in a criminal case and this makes him ridiculed in town.

He explains to Scout about integrity in Chapter 11:

"This case, Tom Robinson's case, is something that goes to the essence of a man's conscience-- Scout, I couldn't go to church and worship God is I didn't try to help that man."

When Scout says that most folks think he's wrong on this and they're right. Atticus replies,

"They're certainly entitled to think that, and they're entitled to full respect for their opinions," said Atticus, "but before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one things that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience."

Folks, that is integrity. I've heard integrity described this way: "It's who you are when no one is watching, and what you'll stand up for even if you're standing alone."

Integrity.
I'm going to be studying it this week in the life of my hero, Joseph in Genesis 37-50. Why don't you join me.

Growing,

Curt

2009-08-07T06:27:00.000-07:00

What is true success?

If your success is not on your own terms, if it looks good to the world but does not feel good in your heart, it's not success at all. -Anna Quindlen

Last week I inquired of my Facebook friends, "How do you define true success." I've been blown away by the wisdom in the following responses.

I've also been reminded of how many special friends I have who "have their head on straight."

At the end of these comments, I've posted a story "Most Likely to Succeed" from my first book, Stories from the Creekbank. I believe you'll enjoy it.

Curt's definition of success: "To be a man God can use, be respected by my wife and sons, and be used to make this world a better place." (This isn't original but "cobbled together" from others. )

Here are comments I received. To add your definition to the list, use the comment section at the end of this blog entry or email me at curtiles@aol.com

From Sharon Ritchie Hahler:

HI Curt, I thought your question very interesting and as I pondered it for the day I actually heard someone else's definition that I really liked. Sorry that we got in too late to post it on facebook but here it is: "Success is how many people you are discipling to be like Christ." This was stated by Dr. Gerald Harris who writes for the Ga. Baptist newspaper

Brian Bond commented on your status:

"In a word success is faith. In believing God's promises I believe that through Jesus I already am who God created me to be, so any attempt at success on my part is worthless."

Krista Duhon commented on your status:

"It is not easy for me to articulate "success" ... it is an emotional thing. It can be measured in another person's smile ... a child's insight ... and a million other unexpected places."

Marcia Wood Evans commented on your status:

"Finding and doing God's will for your life....a true success story!"

Mary Yeates Allen commented on your status:

"Making a difference in eternity."

Sherri Mashburn commented on your status:

"Happiness"

Kim Dickens Brannon commented on your status:

"Success to me is to fulfill God's plan for me on this earth. His plan is for me to go and share the Good News of His Son to a lost world. His plan is for me to follow the leading of His Holy Spirit."

Pam Kermit Soileau commented on your status:

""Well done, good and faithful servant..." ~ The Master...Bro. Kermit"

Brian Bond commented on your status:

"In a word success is faith. In believing God's promises I believe that through Jesus I already am who God created me to be, so any attempt at success on my part is worthless."

Carolyn Schales Simmons commented on your status:

"Success to me is having the assurance that you have Jesus in your heart and know that one day you will be with him."

Bill Robertson commented on your status:

"Success is having said about you what is written about you in God's word. When Jesus died He said, "It is finished!". What was written about him could be said of him. My prayer is that when I come to end of the trail that what is written can be said of me. If so, then I will be a success."

Ginny Cobbs Henderson commented on your status:

"my personal definition of success is a happy, healthy family."

Success - Romans 12:1 "offer up your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God. This is your Spiritual act of service.""

Gale Gill Willis commented on your status:

"Success, "Enter in my good and faithful servant.""

Ruthie Shirley Huckaby commented on your status:

"My personal definition of success- To raise my boys to become Respectable, Successful men and for them to raise their children the same."

Greg Baggett commented on your status:

"To live my life in such a way as to magnify and honor Jesus Christ. To die to self and live for Him. Galatians 2:20."Most Likely to Succeed

Most Likely to Succeed

"If you measure success by large bank accounts, titles before and after names, or worldly fame, I’m not much of a success. But if true success is measured in feeling you are making a positive difference... and having a small part in seeing God work miracles in people's lives, then I guess you could say I am very successful."

It was Saturday in the middle of the busy summer camp season. After a great week of youth camp I was enjoying lunch with some of our summer staff. Across the dining hall a group was having their 10 year HS class reunion. I enjoyed watching them as they laughed and visited after being apart for ten years.

All of these guests were former students from my years as a high school teacher and administrator. As I observed them my mind drifted back to so many warm memories of seeing them grow up.

A group of these former students came over to me with an old tattered red yearbook. They giggled as they showed me a picture from twenty-five years ago. There I was sitting on a stack of encyclopedias in my early 1970's bellbottoms. Under the picture of me and one of my lifelong friends, Colleen Ford Tyler, was the caption:

Senior Boy and Girl voted Most Likely to Succeed

The staffers sitting around me really enjoyed the picture. Especially my long hair!
I'm still amazed at pictures from that time period when I realize how long we wore our hair then. It was hard for this group of staffers to believe their bald middle-aged director once had long hair and bangs!

Well, the former students left, laughing, hunting someone else to embarrass. All of the summer staff returned to eating what was probably our twentieth hamburger lunch of the summer.

Then I couldn't help it.... I turned to these staffers and said, "Well, can you believe someone selected "Most likely to succeed" by his classmates would end up being just an old camp manager?"

Their reply was immediate and impassioned. It was best stated by Wendy, our recreation director who has worked at Dry Creek for four years: "Bro. Curt, what could be more successful than being involved in seeing lives changed daily by the Lord?" One by one they chimed in on the opportunities we have at camp to be a direct part of what God is doing.

I smiled at their reply... Because I felt the same way. More than anything to me, success is being part of where God is working... and I've never seen a place where He works more consistently than camps. I recalled the past week when over forty young people accepted Jesus as their personal Savior and many others made life changing commitments.

I thought about Wendy. How I've watched God work in her life through camp over a period of years. As a result of this experience she is in seminary seeking God's will on a vocation in the camping ministry.

Then I thought back to an event in my life that happened about the time of my bell bottomed long haired picture. I was at summer camp youth camp at Dry Creek the same camp where I now serve as director. God really spoke to my life and heart concerning giving my vocational choice to His will. During the invitation time, in a moment that is still clear in my mind, I went to the front of the Tabernacle and simply told God, "I'm ready to do whatever You want me to do. Just lead and I'll follow." Little did I know that decision would eventually lead me back to manage the very camp I grew up in.

If you measure success by large bank accounts, titles before and after names, or worldly fame, I’m not much of a success. But if true success is measured in feeling you are making a positive difference... and having a small part in seeing God work miracles in people's lives... and watching the Wendys of this world grow into Christian leaders, then I guess you could say I am very successful.

I'm so thankful God has given me the privilege of being part of the camping ministry. What a joy to be on the cutting edge of what He is doing! Each day I get to serve Him. Yes, most of the time it is not glorious and sometimes frustrating but I'm in a place where I know He is working and I have the awesome opportunity to be a part of it all.

2009-08-06T19:14:00.000-07:00

Thoughts from a good day.

"Isn't life amazing, we go somewhere seeking to be a blessing. Instead, the folks we've 'come to help' are the blessing to us. It's a paradox of giving that always amazes and humbles me."

I had the privilege of speaking today at the Southwest Louisiana War Veteran's Home in Jennings. It is a first class facility honoring "Louisiana's Heroes."

Top picture: I met Jean Stipes of DeRidder who was visiting her husband.

Right: My Aunt Margie went and performed on the piano. She is shown with veteran Jeanne Ryan. Jeanne is the mother of SW La. artist/McNeese faculty member, Heather Ryan Kelley.

Aunt Margie played the service song for each branch of the military. The veterans waved or stood on their song. It was very moving to see the smiles of these men and women who preserved our freedom in past wars.

Curt is shown with new friend James Tecson. James is an Air Force veteran from Hawaii by way of Texas.

The best part of writing and speaking is making new friends like James.

I want to thank Marilyn LeJuene and the staff at the Veteran's Home for making me feel so welcome.

The Joy of Music (and Grandchildren)

We've had our oldest grandson, Noah Iles, this week. Noah, 3, has been so much fun. He loves music and I took this shot of him on the porch at The Old House.

He is holding one of the fiddles played by his great-great-great grandmother, Theodosia Wagnon Iles.

It's the legacy of family and things passed down: fiddles, land, photos, keepsakes, stories, memories. It all is woven together in a thick cord that connects our heart to the past, gives hope to our future, and gives us a foundation for life's journey.

I'm thankful for my Dry Creek heritage.

Scroll down to view neat (but sideways) video.
Instructions: click on screen to view.
If you have a laptop, turn it sideways.
If you're viewing on a PC, cock your head to the side. (Just kidding on both counts.)

I apologize for the video being sideways. (When I figure out how to change it in Quick Time, I'll rotate it.) It's Aunt Margie playing "a duet" with Noah. I love her rendition of "The Sting" aka "The Entertainer."

The look of joy of both Margie and Noah is what I love.
Music forms a bond.
Music brings joy to our lives.
Music is one of God's best gifts to we humans.

"Most men die with their song still inside them. Let that not be said of me." -Anonymous

2009-08-06T17:32:00.000-07:00

Prospective Cover for A Good Place
This is my 201st post on Creekbank blog. To all of you who read, encourage, and comment I extend my heartfelt thanks.

This beautiful painting by my uncle, Bill Iles, hangs in the living room of my sister Colleen's Dry Creek home.

It reminds me of nearby Crooked Bayou and the area called "The Wash Spot."

It is one of the cover ideas we're working on for the cover of A Good Place, our followup novel to The Wayfaring Stranger.

I'd love to hear your ideas.

Curt

2009-08-04T15:11:00.000-07:00

"We sang 'til the cows came home."

I can't recall a better time than what we had at last Saturday's "Clayton Iles Singing." I've posted photos below and links to YouTube videos (of some of the performances).

Be sure to visit You Tube to see Vance and Tim "get down" on Dueling Guitars.

No one can tickle the ivories quite like my Aunt Margie Nell. For a sample of her playing "Tara's Theme" and "Ashoken Farewell" click here.

To hear another Iles pianist, click here.
My sister Colleen Glaser plays a stirring rendition of the songs our dad was best known for: "Wayfaring Stranger"/ "The Ninety and Nine"/"I will Arise and go to Jesus"/ and "Stand by Me.'

Aunt Margie cut her teeth playing at family singings. Here she is circa 1950 playing with her father, Lloyd Iles and great grandmother Theodosia Wagnon Iles.

Florence Campbell sings and plays in her beautiful original style. Flo and her husband Tom have been close friends our family for a lifetime.
To see her son Jody (my brother-in-law) playing "I'm Proud to be an American on YouTube, click here.

One of the highlights of the singing was Tim Campbell's original composition, "Clayton Iles." To hear it on You Tube, click here.

Dry Creek's musical Campbell Family is a local treasure. Tim Campbell and his son Timothy play a touching guitar version of The Beatles' "Blackbird." Click here to view it.

Kimilee Taylor sings "The Wayfaring Stranger" as her grandfather Julian Campbell plays. To view it on You Tube, click here.

Music is such a gift and playing music together builds lifetime relationships that only become fonder as the years roll on.

2009-08-01T13:18:00.000-07:00

Liberian Grass Cutting- A lesson in Perseverance.

This video shows the Liberian method of grass cutting. It was really neat to see the skill and hard work of these men who used this cutting tool to mow literally dozens of acres at Ricks Institute. Click play button to view video
(Above right)
My grass cutter I brought home.

Click on play button to view.

Below is a video showing the process of sharpening the blade.

Ricks/Liberian friends- I apologize for not getting the name of this worker. I enjoyed visiting with him each day. E mail me his name (at curtiles@aol.com) and I'll add it.

One of my current favorite words is perseverance. It's a neat word that describes the simple act of staying with a project until it's done.

It is the foundational word of most successful people in this world.

In Liberia, you see perseverance in action all around you. None more so than watching the grass cutters at the sprawling grounds of Ricks Institute. Each man has his specific area to keep cut and they work long hours to keep the grass down during the six month rainy season.

Amazingly, a yard cut by hand looks just as neat and even as the machine mowing we see in the U.S.

Perseverance.
It's how mountains are moved.
And how mountains are climbed.
It's how books are written (and most importantly finished).

It's an underrated trait that produces great results and changed lives.

Keeping on,
Curt