April 17, 2022

Holy Week arrived along with war crimes. The evil of the event on Calvary is matched today, right now, in Ukraine. We have seen it again and again, in Vietnam, Cambodia, Rwanda, Bosnia, the Sudan, North Korea, Afghanistan. It is happening elsewhere, without headlines. The ending in Ukraine is unknown, but we understand it will change the world forever. It will happen again somewhere else. That also is the legacy of Calvary. Even now, at Easter, we struggle to grasp its meaning. Meanwhile, we are seeking grace.

We find it by acting. We drove to the boondocks past the rich green pastures and planted fields through outlying forestland. The quiet open spaces of the northwest corner of South Carolina unfold along rural roads unused to traffic other than tractors and pickups.

We turned onto U.S. 11, which skirts the boundaries of Georgia and North Carolina, passing the sheer rock faces of Table Rock and Pinnacle. The highway bisects the northern one-third of the state, separating the mountains from the piedmont. It vectors southwest past Walhalla then ends abruptly, the asphalt petering out just across I-85 at Lake Hartwell.

The lush scenery has a calming effect. This place is full of history pocked with tragedy: slavery, white-on-black violence, endemic “states rights” politics, and the legacy of all of that.   

Neighbors are out seeding, mowing, and so on. And most folks face the responsibility of earning a living, which usually comes before road trips and yardwork. Work, along with seeing new places or sprucing up the presentation of the house, apartment, flower plot, somehow can move us forward. Then too, some are working for the good of others, those who have less. The need, which is a mission, in fact, a crusade, is always present.

The point is attention paid to concrete achievements. We approach these things as the needs and exigencies of our lives. They help us confront the spasms of evil we see now, the war crimes and the rest, including the fundamentalist “end times” pronouncements that periodically emerge from dark corners to assign guilt to all of mankind. The attack on civilization in the assault on Ukraine is fully rational in its brutality, not a parable or an echo of an Old Testament allegory.

The Easter miracle meanwhile is the abundance of grace, which is no more and no less than the conquest of fear. The enduring lesson of the Gospels, the reason they were written and the reason they have been preached for two millennia is their promise of victory over the pervasive reality of fear: that is, the condition of human existence untouched by truth, the nearness of salvation and redemption.

That message may sustain us through the ordeal of reading the headlines and trying to think ahead. We’re looking at trips to Nashville around Memorial Day, then New Hampshire and Wyoming in June. In Music City we’ll drive by the house we owned in the cute Vanderbilt neighborhood until 1986, when we packed up three little kids (the fourth had not yet arrived) and moved to Jersey. It’s been five years since we visited. I think about ringing the doorbell and asking if I can get a look at how the place has changed. We sometimes wonder what life would have been like if we hadn’t cut and run.

New Hampshire is the big college reunion. The Wyoming trip is the Bighorn trail run. We’ll see family and old friends, maybe make some new ones. The plan now is to drive, visit new places, see some things we haven’t seen.  

The point of all this is to move on, taking with us the Easter reinforcement of hope. We talked about the trips and went back and forth on whether to commit to them, or instead sit home and watch the grass grow, as the saying goes. Things could still fall apart. Covid is back as Omicron BA.2.

Carrying on, marching forward in hope. It’s what we see in those heartbreaking, sacred funerals in the ravaged cities, of the fallen Ukrainian soldiers, the elderly, the women and children. Family members hold each other as the priest leads them in prayer and says a blessing. They pray for their loved ones and for each other, for their country in its struggle against evil. They pray in hope, for victory for their country. We join them in sadness and hope, for their salvation, and ours.

April 11, 2022

We swooped into Traveler’s Rest for an afternoon to see what the excitement is all about. We walked along Main Street, ordered food in a pizza joint and looked from the sidewalk at a historic home. We stepped into an antique clothing shop and browsed for ten minutes. We dodged cyclists on the famous Swamp Rabbit Trail. As we walked we listened to deafening traffic noise along Main Street, which also is U.S. 276, a major commuter thoroughfare. 

The city of 5,000 souls calls itself “South Carolina’s Coolest Small Town.” It’s about 20 miles from the northern reaches of Greenville and about that far from our place. We’ve passed through it a few times, since it’s hard to miss if you’re heading almost anywhere north from here.

After we landed in S.C., we went for a ride up the interstate to the touristy town of Waynesville, N.C. To get home we jumped on 276 in Waynesville and rode its hair-raising ups and downs and twists and turns through the Pisgah National Forest. It dumps you in Brevard, another tourist spot near the N.C.-S.C. state line. You grip the steering wheel to climb back into the southern stretch of the Blue Ridge, then down, down the scary highway with a spectacular view of the mountains, if you’re brave enough to look. Soon you’re on Main Street in Traveler’s Rest.

The history of the place isn’t complicated. In the early 1800s the state built a road from Greenville to Asheville that was used by pioneers heading to new homesteads in the Blue Ridge and beyond. The spot now called Traveler’s Rest allowed them to rejuvenate before getting into the mountains. The road now is 276.

We wanted to see the place that every local real estate agent pitches to prospective homebuyers. Our daughter urged us to take a look when we house-shopped. We drove close one day past a couple of homes, nothing clicked. Then we found the place we’re in, a suburb like Traveler’s Rest, with a downtown we seldom visit. No bike trail, no cyclists.

It was a sunny springtime afternoon and we thought we’d take a ride to see the trees turning green, the azaleas in full, brilliant bloom, the pretty pink dogwoods. The local roads out of the city orient towards Traveler’s Rest. We took a roundabout route that with a couple of U-turns got us downtown. And in fact there’s a big sign with a blue arrow pointing to “Downtown.” We drove past a brewery and parked in a lot near the trail.

We got an appetizer at Sidewall Pizza. We were the only customers. The chain has two locations in Greenville. The waitress said the Traveler’s Rest site was the first. We chatted with her about nothing in particular. “They gave the staff a menu test Monday,” she said. “We all failed.” I wondered. The menu didn’t look complicated, pizza, salads, sandwiches.

We slipped off our stools and walked onto the Swamp Rabbit Trail, which extends from Traveler’s Rest south for 20 miles to a park in Greenville. It’s an asphalt path, not a trail, mostly gentle in slope, aimed at walkers, cyclists, and joggers. We strolled past a few shops and a couple of bars. We sat on a trailside swing and rocked for a few minutes, enjoying the sunshine. This was nice, I thought, the kind of thing old folks getting past health problems should be doing. Maybe we’re hitting our stride here.

We ought to do more of this, I keep saying. It doesn’t matter how old you are. You never know when you’re going to stumble on something in a small town in America—some piece of local history, some artifact, some nondescript old house—that resonates in memory and teaches some lesson, something important, about life.

We saw a couple of other pedestrians, an older guy, then a mom with a stroller. We walked past the Spring Park Driving Range, which is mentioned on the town website. It’s a driving range much like any other driving range, a few people were hitting balls at a field. We passed a large Victorian house ringed with yellow tape. A sign explained that the house was being renovated—that’s all, we saw no one working.  Suddenly someone yelled behind us, we jumped to the side and a pack of cyclists with their funny helmets and colorful form-fitting leotards flashed by and disappeared up the trail. We stood and watched until our hearts stopped racing.

We stepped out of the way for more cyclists, then more after that. The trail veered left, we went right onto a local street and kept walking. We passed some small frame houses behind chain-link fences and the backsides of small businesses, some under construction or repair. At the next corner we regained the trail. We passed a sushi place and the Flop House consignment shop and stepped inside. Racks displayed what looked like Roaring Twenties-vintage women’s clothing. We looked around, but saw no other customers nor any employees, and backed out.

Across the highway, between the cars racing by, we spied a place named Sinclair’s in green and red lettering, which reminded us of the old Sinclair oil company. The place looks like it may have been a gas station, but we saw a sign, “Charlie’s Southern Rustiques.” We didn’t visit.

Beyond the highway a huge apartment complex is going up, the buildings Soviet-style in uniformity. There’s a Hampton Inn and a Best Western. Just off 276 on the U.S. 25 bypass a strip mall borders a Walmart, across the street is a Burger King, with a Hardee’s on the opposite corner. There’s an Arby’s, a Chick-fil-A, and a Wendy’s.  A block away is a Starbucks, McDonald’s, a Waffle House, and Pizza Inn. Walking the trail works up an appetite, I guessed.

The Traveler’s Rest website advertises a farmer’s market, a summer concert, and under “nearby adventures” mentions Caesar’s Head State Park, which is about 20 miles away, and Lake Jocassee, a long 40 miles away. It cites a science museum in downtown Greenville. In 2018 the town annexed the land occupied by nearby Furman University, which adds some academic weight, I guessed. North Greenville University is in Tigerville, just up the road.

Somehow, I felt we missed the Coolest Town. The website, with its colorful links, cleverly blends boosting the town’s attractions with regional and state tourist promotion. I could appreciate that, the city makes the best splash it could. Our walk took us past—not much. We got to a point on the trail where we saw nothing ahead except traffic. It was a weekday, off-peak for tourists, with spring just showing up. We squinted in the afternoon sunlight. More cyclists were bearing down, and fast. We headed for the car.

April 4, 2022

I drove by Saint Rafka’s Maronite Catholic Church on U.S 14 in Greer a few times on visits here, even before we moved to South Carolina. It’s easy to miss, a low, squat brick building resembling a ranch-style house, maybe a farm outbuilding. A modest outpost for one of those half-dozen flavors of Catholicism out of the Middle East, I guessed. I didn’t give it a second thought. When we arrived we thought about the local churches, but not St. Rafka’s. You stick with what you know.

Right now Lent, the season of atonement and preparation, is racked with despair: Russian war crimes, men, women, and children dying, cities leveled, a nation ravaged before our eyes. We await the solemnity of the Resurrection but witness the pervasiveness of evil. We await a reason for hope, a sign to persevere in faith. We search for it around us, we search for the presence of God. It is there, to be discovered, or rediscovered.

The story of St. Rafka’s emerges from the tragic, fascinating story of the East-West schism. In 326 the Roman emperor Constantine moved the seat of the empire from Rome to Constantinople. Even earlier, the Christian Church struggled to fight heresies that tore at Christian teaching, setting off generations of bitter political and cultural antagonism. In 451 the Council of Chalcedon issued a declaration on the Church’s vision of Christ and decreed the See of Constantinople, which governed the Eastern Catholic churches, would have the same authority as the Roman Pope.

The Maronite church had been established about 410 by followers of Maron, an ascetic hermit who lived in remote mountains in Syria. He created a spiritual movement that spread to Lebanon and built churches and monasteries. The Maronites’ practices and teachings were attacked by the heretics of the early Middle Ages. Muslims persecuted the church. Around 700 the Maronites retreated into the mountains for 400 years.

The first Crusaders, on their way to seize Jerusalem, discovered the Maronites between 1050-1100. They emerged to support the Crusades and affirmed their allegiance to the Pope.

St. Rafka or Rafqa (1832-1914) was a Lebanese Maronite nun who spent her life in prayer and service. Eventually she lost her sight and became paralyzed. She was canonized by Pope John Paul in 2001.

Today St. Rafka is the patron of Maronite parishes here and in Livonia, Mich., and Lakewood, Colo. The church is officially the Syriac Maronite Church of Antioch with its home near Beirut, Lebanon. The Maronites, although affiliated with the Eastern Catholic Church, also accept the authority of the Roman, or Latin Church.

This is Billy Graham country, there’s a Baptist church on nearly every corner. Catholics may have to drive ten miles or more to find one. While in the apartment we headed first to St. Mary’s in downtown Greenville, an easy trip. When we got the house in Greer we bounced back and forth between the big parish three miles away and an even bigger one ten miles away.

When the pandemic arrived we stayed home as covid indifference ravaged the state. For almost a year we watched Mass on a computer—from Arlington Va., Asheville, churches in Florida and Arizona. Strange, but safe. Then one Sunday we broke out the masks and went to St. Rafka’s.

The tiny church, about one-tenth the size of the next-closest Catholic church—or any church—wasn’t crowded. The images of St. Maron and St. Rafka look down from behind the altar, the size of a kitchen table. Three priests presided over the High Mass. The pastor, or abouna, led prayers in Arabic and English. A cantor sang in lilting, lovely Arabic. We knelt, we stood with the congregation. The priests lit the pungent incense. We thumbed through the Arabic hymnals. The Mass was beautiful, transforming.  

We learned. More than 100 years ago a few Maronite Catholics migrated to the area to work in textile mills. For generations they tried to find a priest, for generations local bishops resisted. The locals could find no Maronite priest able or willing to move to the South. The Maronite church in the U.S. is headquartered at the Eparchy of St. Maron in Brooklyn, N.Y. 

In the late 1990s the local community found nearly 700 Maronite families in the state, in Charleston, Columbia, Spartanburg, and Greenville. Then Maronite missions set up in Florida, Georgia, and North Carolina. Maronite priests began visiting Greenville, saying Mass at the downtown Roman church, St. Mary’s, then leaving.

In 2006 a Maronite priest, a Father Bartholomew Leon, arrived in Greenville. St. Mary’s served as a Maronite mission. The mission then moved to the Monastery of St. Clare in Travelers Rest but continued services at other local churches. Three years passed.

In 2009 Father Leon asked his people to look for a site for a permanent church. A member drove by a Church of Christ church in Greer and saw a “For Sale” sign. A local Baptist church already held a contract, the contract fell through. The congregation raised $100,000 against a mortgage. St. Rafka’s bought the property and renovated the building. Father Leon said the first Mass in the church on Easter Sunday 2010 for two hundred people.

Our parish nearby picked this week to remove the pews and refinish the floor, a chore that would take three weeks. “Let’s pray it’s done by Easter,” someone said. Why now, I wondered. The church was closed. If you want to attend morning Mass this Lent, you go to St. Rafka’s.

A priest and deacon from the Prince of Peace parish shuttle over. A small mix of Roman and Maronite Catholics gathers in that humble building in the early darkness. We stand for the prayers. A deacon reads the Gospel. The priest steps forward. He speaks to us, and to the world, of war and peace, of despair and joy, of loss and salvation. He turns and glances at the icons of saints. We feel the presence of Maron and Rafka across the centuries. They remain with us. We file out, into the new morning.

March 28, 2022

It was time to go back to Black Rock. Late March can be bonechilling cold in western North Carolina. Mountains are pretty much all you find out there. The old Virginia running group, Paul, Chris, Kevin, Kirk, Archie, and I heard conflicting forecasts in the days before the run. I hoped for better conditions than last year, when I failed just below the 5,800-foot summit, my arms and legs stiffening and shivering.

That day in mid-March a fast young man named Mike gave up his place in the field to help me stumble back down from the spot where I stopped moving to meet a volunteer, who packed me in an ATV and drove me to the finish. Mike had returned for his fourth go-round here.

Black Rock, between Waynesville and Sylva, is one high point in the jagged western end of the state, and not the highest. Mount Mitchell, just north of Asheville, is the tallest mountain east of the Mississippi, at 6,684 feet. The Blue Ridge then stretches west to the Plott Balsam range near Sylva and counts four 6,000-foot-plus peaks, Waterrock Knob at 6,292, then Lyn Lowry, Browning Knob, and Yellow Face. The Great Smokies loom over Plott Balsam to the north and west. Just south are the Great Balsams, with nine peaks above 6,000 feet.

The Black Rock course starts at around 3,000 feet and builds in 2,700 feet of elevation gain over a winding three and one-half-mile ever-climbing rock-strewn double-track trail. Nearly 100 runners gathered near a warming fire at the start. I looked up at the trail as it fades into thick forest, recalling hours on the Foothills, Table Rock, and Paris Mountain trails. I wondered if all that pain would make any difference.

The race director sounded a horn and we bolted through the gate. Some of us bolted. Not my style anymore. The field quickly stretched out, the young greyhounds and some not so young sprinting up the first climb. The middle of the pack pushed forward, mostly leaving me as I leaned into the trail, getting my breathing sorted out.

I maneuvered along the edges of the trail, left-right then right-left, avoiding the rocky center, watching my steps then looking forward, measuring the trail as it curled higher, then higher. The pack was now out of sight around the first bend and probably the second. The trail snaked around and up one steep ridge, then another, then another. Two runners labored along a hundred or so yards ahead. I closed on them, they moved ahead, I drew closer, they moved on again.

I gripped the straps of my hydration pack and leaned into long strides then short ones, then long ones. I felt stronger, warmed to the pace. I knew the trail well from my “did not finish” (DNF) last year. I got through it a month later with Mike, who returned to haul me to the top (posts May 17 and March 29, 2021).

I sipped water, recalling the doc’s warning about hydration and kidney stress, a bit more critical since my high creatine reading two weeks ago. Creatine, the enzyme that powers muscle tissue, collects in the kidneys to be flushed from the body. Not enough water risks kidney injury. I recall, always, an unlucky run of February 25, 2018, my birthday, when I ran short of water during a trail event then ended up in the hospital for three days. I recovered to run a couple of ultras, but disease showed up that summer. Fourteen months later I lost the kidney.

So I guzzled, pushing forward. The folks in front of me slowed and I hoofed past them at the two-mile point. To the south the peaks of the Great Balsam stretched into the haze of the Blue Ridge that stretches for 100 miles. The surrounding vistas lift the runners’ spirits to the indefinable, exhilarating sense of living, simply being, surrounded by God’s sharp, rough beauty.

Around two-point-five miles the trail levels out, as if the mountain is tired of climbing. Mike flashed by on his return, we bumped fists. Chris was well ahead. Paul then steamed by. “Staying upright,” he yelled and disappeared down the trail.  I passed the intersection with the descent, a volunteer smiled and offered water, as the fast people already down from the summit raced past and turned onto the descending trail to the finish. “One mile to the top,” the volunteer yelled.

I picked up my pace. Minutes later I saw the turn onto the final one-third-mile, a tight 30-degree grade single-track to the base of the summit. I stepped up, balancing by grabbing rocks and branches. Kirk, Kevin, and Archie were maneuvering down, done with Black Rock.

As I slogged in “granny gear,” the folks whom I had passed ten minutes ago lumbered past me. I stayed with them then paused, caught my breath, and drank. The trail, heavy with mud, twisted left then right, obscured above by gnarled underbrush. I measured my progress in yards, then feet across the thick roots and over the boulders. One more rock climb, then another, and I was in the clearing below the summit, where I turned back last year. I lurched forward.

The forest thinned a bit and the trail wound sharply down into shadows around house-sized rock formations. The wind howled and rushed through my two thermal shirts. Last year the hypothermic chill paralyzed me. Now I moved up, then down, around the massive boulders.

Sunlight broke through suddenly and I was at the summit. I crawled up onto the surface and took a deep breath and looked out at the pale horizon, the mystical, intoxicating spectacle of endless mountaintops. The Smokies stretched to the west, the Great Balsams to the south. I gripped the rock for a quiet moment, then turned and slipped back to the trail and headed to the finish.

March 21, 2022

Lent arrived promising spring. The sun shone and the backyard turned green, but the war ground forward. History is staring at us. We are reliving 1940, when the country didn’t want war, but Yanks went to England to fly with the RAF.

I went to an early weekday Mass. The elderly priest read the Gospel, then paused and spoke: “When things aren’t going well we always say ‘Pray.’ Maybe that sounds like a cop-out. But I don’t believe any prayer is wasted. They are answered, maybe in ways we don’t expect.” I heard him talking about Ukraine.

It is every morning, now for 25 mornings:  Zelensky’s and his countrymen’s nobility in the face of barbarism lifts our spirits, and we move forward. An HVAC technician came in to test the furnace and air conditioner. He looked at our dirty air filter, frowned, and recommended a high-tech air-purifier system for $2,500. I stuck his estimate and business card in a drawer. I then poured a tall glass of water. The nurse at our doctor’s office had called to say the blood she drew last week showed that my creatine, an enzyme that collects in your kidneys, is too high. Drink more, she said. They want to see me again.

In late afternoon we walked down the steep slope our street takes. A few doors away a sad-looking dog approached, Sandy petted him. The owner, a senior citizen standing next to his car, snow-white hair flowing down his back, said, “Hi, I’m Mike, my wife’s Lois. I used to walk this hill getting better after my surgery. I’d walk up, rest, then do it again.”

I asked him about the surgery. “Open heart,” he said. “I had eleven stents put in.”

I introduced myself. “So you’re Mr. Ed—I’ll remember that,” he said with a grin. “Well, that dates you,” I said. “See ya, Tom—what was it again?”

“It’s Mike. But call me anything, just don’t call me late for dinner.” 

We said hi to Mike again on our way back up the hill. I said his yard looked good. “I got a guy to take care of it after I got sick,” he said.

As we plodded on I mentioned that next week will be our one-year anniversary in the house. We said the usual things, like we can’t believe how the time has flown by. We looked at the front lawns along the block, most were in great shape. These people all have a lawn service, Sandy said. I answered that I’d never thought of hiring someone to cut the grass. “The service takes care of the weeds, too,” she said.

On the next street, in front of a stranger’s house, we saw it: a kind of low-slung chest with a sign taped to it marked “Free.” I stopped, Sandy stopped, we stared. The finish gleamed as if new—well, almost new. It was about four feet long. I noticed a few tiny dings. Tiny, but noticeable.

We had searched over months without much enthusiasm for some kind of chest or small table to hold plants. We looked at furniture stores, we looked at online sales. Then we gave up. The plants, the ones still alive, sat in vases on the floor near the back door.

I thought: I don’t really want something someone else is throwing away, something the owner now considers junk. Do we want to furnish our home by scavenging? Shouldn’t we be looking for a classy, beautiful piece, a shiny antique from a fashionable dealer, something we could pridefully show off to guests? But then, we don’t have anything else like that.

I thought about all that as I looked at the chest. As we cleared out our Virginia house I had dragged a few pieces of marginally serviceable furniture to the curb, hoping they’d disappear. I was pleased when they did. The homeowner who had stuck this chest on the curb probably had just spent real money on brand-new furniture and now wanted this thing out of his house.

We looked at each other, and at the chest. I walked around it. It was OK. And OK is about the speed we’re at right now. I had lost interest in slogging through furniture stores. Actually I’ve never had much interest in furniture. Not when I got my first apartment, not when we got married, not ever. Furniture was Sandy’s department.

“Well—what about it?” I asked. It’s all right, she said. At that moment, her heart wasn’t in shopping for furniture either. It’s inertia—you move into a place, spend lots of money on painters, plumbers, electricians, you arrange the furniture you’ve got, then rearrange it—then you run out of steam.

“The van is around the block,” she said. I set off for home. A few minutes later I backed the van along the curb close to the chest. It wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t light. I spread a quilt on the asphalt and stood the chest on one end. Slowly I maneuvered it, end-up, around to the van’s back gate. Grunting, I lowered it carefully on its side and slid it in. I gasped for breath and grabbed hold of the van door and waited for my heart to stop racing.

I glanced at the house. It was still broad daylight. The owner probably was standing at his living room window peering out at us and grinning. Got rid of that junk, he was thinking.

I didn’t care. This thing would do for the plants. It had two shelves, where we could cram odds and ends. We’ve got plenty of those. We could wipe it down, clean it up. Some furniture polish might take care of the dings. Or they might be visible forever. But then—how much company do we really have? Who do we know who’s going to look at this thing and smirk?

I pulled the van back in our driveway thinking I’ll haul it in tomorrow. That’s what I did.