The Rod and Staff

Writings from a shepherd of Christ's flock

Tag: Hope

Fall, for a Moment

December 15, 2025 / / 0 Comments

Wormholes may or may not exist between the galaxies but one definitely exists on my drive to work. Every fall, the oranges, purples, and yellows of the Virginia maples and oaks form a Kubrickian star gate that transports me to November 7th, 1999 on the Cumberland Plateau of the Appalachian Mountains.

My cousin had tied the knot the day before at The University of the South, where he and his new bride met in Sewanee, Tennessee. I had driven there from Birmingham where I was still in college and was set to drive back on Sunday. Someone told me that I had to go see the Memorial Cross before I left. Dedicated in 1923 and perched on the overlook of the plateau, this 60-foot cross memorialized those from the school and county who died in World War I. [ . . . ]  [read more]

The Last Thing Sufferers Need to Hear

December 30, 2024 / / 0 Comments

“If one more person quotes Romans 8:28 to me, I’m going to punch them in the face!”

I almost choked on the cookie this elderly sister had brought to Bible study. These were strong words from such a sweet lady. She was recounting the gutting experience of losing her son in his 30s many years earlier. Well-wishers assured her God is in control and her son’s death was part of his plan. [ . . . ]  [read more]

The Sting of Death

April 20, 2022 / / 2 Comments

When we talk about the early 2020s in decades to come, those younger than us may be surprised to learn that death never lost its sting, at least, not in the particulars. “A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.” Allegedly Joseph Stalin said that, a man who created plenty of tragedies and statistics in his generation. As our generation’s horror—the COVID-19 pandemic—nears its statistic of a million deaths in the United States, this loss en masse has done nothing to inure us to the single serving stories of the end of life.

Yesterday we learned that Roger McGee, Minister of Music at Alexandria First Baptist Church, was released from the equipment keeping his body alive and into the glorious presence of Jesus. Or perhaps he was already there once his brain functioning ceased. I don’t know how it works exactly. We asked the same questions when Silvia Escamilla lay at INOVA Fairfax a month and a half ago on a breathing machine. Silvia, in her mid-30s, was there because of a brain aneurysm. Roger, in his mid-60s, was at a family cookout the Friday before Holy Week and had a choking episode. Now they—by which I mean their spirits, that intangible essence that defines them more than hair color, country of origin, or occupation—are with Jesus. [ . . . ]  [read more]

A Place to Call Home

April 29, 2019 / / 0 Comments

First published on April 19, 2015. Three months later I would take my first trip back to Logan, WV in 12 years. A local funeral director informed me that J.T. passed away two weeks before I arrived.

My outing with J.T. first tipped me off that I am a nomad. Over the clatter of his replica Model A the spry, elderly man pointed out the creek that delineated the holler his family inhabited for generations. On this land his great-grandfather, Devil Anse Hatfield, organized his Logan Wildcats for guerrilla attacks on the Union Army. On this same land J.T. raised his family. Whenever he took them to Myrtle Beach, where the other coal miners vacationed, he grew nervous and uneasy the farther away he traveled and relieved when he returned. His sense of place entwined with his sense of identity. He was not fully himself when removed from the hollow of those West Virginia mountains. [ . . . ]  [read more]

Sorrow Undone: A story in progress

March 11, 2019 / / 0 Comments

I originally wrote this in September 2012.

Michael was one of my groomsmen, and his wife Emily one of Rachael’s bridesmaids. These were not honorary positions but acknowledgements of deep friendship. During our early college years, Michael and I prayed much together. He joined me on weekend trips home to Atlanta and fast became an honorary Davis. We did ministry together, and we ministered to each other. As Michael shared more of his painful family history–along with the contorted view of God those experiences handed him–our times of tears and anger and unanswered questions and scripture and just doing something were the early indicators that God was making me a pastor. [ . . . ]  [read more]

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