Appifiny of the Unwashed

#1745  All things by immortal power,
Near or far,	30
Hiddenly
To each other linkèd are,
That thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling of a star; -Francis Thompson

Henry Kissinger once said, "The boundaries of history have been marked by the masses of the unwashed."

This writer never takes a shower, never turns a faucet in the kitchen, without thanking God for water. What water means to life, both animal and plant. The fact that water has made the determining factor of almost every event in history. 70% of the Earths crust is covered by water, and makes up 70% of any animals body weight, water determining all plant life (mystery of the ages, routes in the soil, and the magnetism involved in water traveling even to the top of the tallest tree).

I never get out of the shower, without thinking that my ancestors never knew what it was to have a decent bath... The unwashed. 

This world traveler has seen unwashed people, the world over In Africa- Asia, Hundreds of men and women in rivers, beating their dirty clothing against rocks, washing their laundry in a river. 

From one side of the world to the other, people spending their day, with great jugs many times on their heads, transporting water from a creek to their home. 

As with characters in the bible, as with our ancestral forebears, to understand them, we must put flesh and blood on and in their bodies. I fully realize that today and in the 21st century, their are children born who never know their  parents, or knew their grandparents. 

Please God forgive those who do not have "precious memories," who do not have "family ties" to hold onto. 

I have all the empathy in the world, for the unwashed masses whose life is a struggle, in remote corners of the world, which God has blessed me to visit. I must remember, however, my own family. 

In-between the ancient farm homes of both my mother and father, my grandparents, and great- grandparents before them, a distance of about two miles, a curve in the dirt country road. In the grave yard at that curve, are the tomb stones of these, "saints of old" who I want to remember. 

Their were very few photographs back then, most of their ephemera (paper products), destroyed in their activity and just survival of daily life. People just did not prize old things. Every time this world traveler was near a monastery, I thought of the monk who found the sisters in 

Saint Catherine's Monastery

 at  Mount Sinai, burning old biblical scrolls, just trying to stay warm.

We think that God is tough. My ancestors were really tough. Think of their horror story, before leaving England, flaying to keep their Christian belief. Crossing the treacherous Atlantic in a small ship... Sick, some buried at sea. Landing on the shores of this promise land, near Morris town, NJ 1677. Battered by the sea and the New England winters. Think of what they encountered with their very few possessions, clothing- food- tools- medicine. But they eek out of existence out of the soil of New Jersey, founding Morris town. Then the hard working farmers moved south to North- Carolina. 

To show how tough they really were (and only a few family members know this). In my lifetime, few automobiles, cousin Barney, who owned a car, drinking liquor, drove his car into the ditch right there at the graveyard. His family had built our church in 1874, still there- still beautiful. His own family "kicked" him out of the church for drinking. So many times I wanted to tell his beautiful Christian wife and children (now dead and in Heaven), that story.

how things have changed at the church house, the school house, the court house, and all my relatives houses. Places which have had such a tremendous influence on my life. 

I still want to meet a perfect man, other than my blessed lord. My own "warts," "sins," though forgiven, still bother me. But even though we fail him, he never fails us. 

Not only did those folks buried in that graveyard, never have a decent bath, how they suffered from disease, not only wants but needs, at the one room school-house, which even my own mother attended, my grand-parents along with NC education governor Charles B. Aycock, they had to go to the woods and cut wood for the stove. Also buried in the graveyard, aunt Catty, the teacher... Uncle Turner, who once a year would go into a nearby town, and buy ice for everyone's once a year treat, ice-tea and ice-cream (July 4th celebrated at the school house). In the graveyard is my mothers 2 year old brother, who died from a dread disease. Until her death, my grand-mother thought every young boy looked like Seth. 

There is a long line of those in the graveyard who I can remember from stories which were told to me. Such stalwart ancestors, who knew nothing but handwork-hard times, and the all preserving power of God, will keep those of us who had it much easier, from complaining. They never heard a radio, but heard the voice of God from beautiful birds in the trees. They never saw a television set, but saw the hand of God in the lives of the sick and lonely. They never tasted "fast food" but knew the thrill from healthy- green- real food. They did not worry about diet or exercise, because farm work, walking most places, kept them in shape. 

In a world of political correctness, were the price of a soul is so cheap, God help us to remember the values of real Americans, real "Christ like" individuals.