Seasons of Life

edited and illustrated by Dan Hardison

written by George W. Jones

Seasons of Life

words by George W. Jones

photographs and art by Dan Hardison

additional photos from Epiphany Mission,

Sherwood, Tennessee, 1940s and 1950s

designed and edited by Dan Hardison

a Windscape book

Forward

Spring

Summer

Autumn

Winter

Epilogue

Death and Resurrection The Gardener The Cathedral Ghost of a Garden

Contents

For ward

In a small valley of the Southern Cumberland Mountains of Tennessee lies the

community of Sherwood and Epiphany Mission. The Rev. George W. Jones served as the Mission�s first priest from 1932 until his death in 1952. A mission church providing for the needs of the people during the turbulent times of the Great Depression, World War II, and the failing economy of a remote mountain region. Among the many ways Father Jones gave to the church and the people of the valley was his gift of writing. Nature and its interaction with mankind were a popular theme in his writings.

In Seasons of Life we follow four of his poems: �Death and Resurrection�, �The Gardener�, �The Cathedral�, and �Ghost of a Garden� as he observes the changing seasons in the valley and equates the seasons of nature with the seasons of man.

Springtime is birth time, the time of quickening; Summer is the time of growth, of fullness; Autumn sees maturity, ripeness, and passing; And Winter is death.

To illustrate Seasons of Life, color photographs are provided that were taken in the Cumberland and Southern Smoky Mountains that reflect the area surrounding Epiphany Mission. There are photographs of flowers that represent the Mission Garden that was built by Father Jones and the Mission�s young boys. Also included are actual black and white photographs of the Mission, its garden, and the people that made this valley such a special place. Dan Hardison

Death and Resurrection

Spring

T was in April

although the day was a bitter day �

smacking of winter rather than spring.

Sharp gusty winds, icily cold,

seethed and stormed beneath bleak heavens.

F orward, and a bit froward,

greenness and bloom

recoiled remorseful and penitent.

Human kind appeared frost bitten

and animals stood with lowered heads.

The elements were neither lovely

nor kind that April day.

A nd I was ill with a ghastly headache

accompanied by devastating nausea.

Toward evening

I lay on my bed utterly exhausted.

The day�s display of nature

on a cruel rampage

would alone have shaken good courage.

N ot seriously ill,

I was nevertheless racked with pain.

My mind was greatly disordered.

I felt as though death was quite near.

Through the windows

I watched the dying day

that had hurt me.

B y now the wind barely whispered,

as if the Master had spoken

�Peace, be still.�

The murky silver gray skies

were fading to darkness.

Everywhere nature seemed

so obviously sorry

to have been wicked,

seemed so contrite, so subdued.

A s full darkness

withdrew all things from my sight,

I found that I too was subdued.

At last the Master�s hand

was upon my brow �

He had spoken to my turbulent spirit

�Peace, be still.�

N ow I felt no pain, no discomfort,

only serenity, tranquility, peace.

Travail and burden bearing

now lay behind.

After storm . . . calm,

after pain . . . anodyne,

after labor . . . rest,

all things seemed finished.

H ow passing sweet!

�Lo, I go with Thee Lord,

my hand in thine.�

And by his side I went down

and down into deepest darkness

and fell asleep.

And this was as death!

A nd then, resurrection, a new day!

I was awake, alive, conscious,

without an ailment in the world.

The new day was as miraculous

as resurrection � foreign to winter,

skipping spring, smacking of summer.

Clear bright sunlight warmed my soul

to the depths of the wellsprings of gladness.

T rees decked in tender green

beckoned to come out and live.

Utterly forgetful of yesterday�s bitterness

filling the world with rare

and magic perfume that, like incense,

went up to God with the prayers of saints.

H appy birds from swaying treetops

sang solemn Te Deums.

Today the wind was a tender lover,

warming, caressing,

and begetting one�s love.

Surely I had entered

the edge of Heaven.

S o I believe is death

and such is the assurance of Easter.

To that end were our Lord�s incarnation,

precious death, and mighty resurrection.

To die is to pass through darkness �

the night of weeping �

to reach the morning of song,

to enter the gates of Heaven.

A lleluia!

The Gardener

Summer

L ord,

you made me a gardener

in your Sherwood garden.

I've toiled through the seasons

and the years.

Many souls

that had their roots in cinders

now grow in soil

that fertile richness bears.

B ut Lord,

some of my plants

that should be a rose or violet

persist in growing up

obnoxious weeds.

Lord, I pray,

make all plants in my garden

grow to Thy glory

and to fulfill Thy needs.

M y son,

since the day of good earth's creation,

Mine it has been

to sow some good seeds of grain;

Mine the wisdom

to send the proper seasons;

Mine to send

the sunshine and the rain.

T hroughout the ages

I've yearned for each plant

to reach perfection,

to provide the means

to every end I go.

B ut I have never forced

a single plant

to please me.

I've never even forced

a single plant

to grow.

The Cathedral

Autumn

T he love of God

constrains His child

to conceive that the mountains

have walled Sherwood

into a vast cathedral

with the arch of the firmament

its dome.

The mountain

squarely west

becomes the high altar

of the cathedral.

T he trees

holding half their leaves

are bright red gold,

the corn is ruddy gold,

and the warm light

filtered through autumn haze

is pale glowing gold.

Fallen leaves

carpeting the temple

and raked into a hundred mounds

by a hundred thurifers

make incense.

A nd the smoke rises thick

before the mighty altar

and dims the great cathedral

as it climbs, spirals, weaves

upward and upward

into the celestial dome.

T he earth smells of ripeness –

ripe harvest,

ripe apples,

ripe fodder –

spicy and sweet.

The last warmth

of the aging year

is tenderly caressing.

T he day is breathless.

There is neither speech

nor language

but nature is very clear,

“Be still. Know God

in the work of His hands.”

T he sinking sun all day long

veiled by golden haze

at last becomes visible,

then portentous,

as the huge disk

above the mountain altar

sinks lower, lower

to the altar throne

and into the far-flung monstrance

of golden sunset clouds.

A ll the daylong

the heavenly dome

and all its roof

has declared His glory.

And then day is done

and the shadows of the evening

as the vanguards of night

steal across the sky.

T he sun,

through the haze of incense

the color of blood,

even His precious Blood,

is the symbol of the Host

in benediction.

The gates of heaven

seem open very wide

to man below.

O Jesus,

now the day is done,

with Thy tenderest blessings

of calm and sweet repose,

put Thy weary people to bed

like little children all.

The great altar is dark

and it is night.

Winter

Ghost of a Garden Ghost of a Garden

T he garden at midnight,

in the season of this writing,

has been found as a gossamer thing

just as the waning moon

cleared the eastern mountain

to plow through the stars.

T aking away the material

substance of the garden

and leaving it an ethereal thing.

The real garden gone �

only the soul of the garden real.

T he garden at midnight

brought to memory a visitor

who once came to the garden altar

and knelt and prayed there.

She exclaimed . . .

W hen the Mission's last picture is painted,

when all now living have passed from work to reward,

when the garden altar and walls have crumbled

and cockleburs grow on the ruin �

let us ask God to let us come back some Christmas

to the ghost of this garden

for a glorious midnight Mass.�

�

O n that recent midnight,

there was only a ghost of the garden.

And in the ghost garden midnight Mass

at the garden altar at some point in eternity,

it seemed as rational as immortal life.

P erhaps it is childish

to dwell on that Mass,

even in fancy,

but it is a sweet and lovely vision.

A bit of heaven once of earth,

come back to earth again.

A ll the acolytes

the Mission ever had,

all who were ever numbered

with the Mission

or the Greater Congregation.

A ll the children,

assembled with the angels

in the Mission garden.

A ll to whom faith was natural

and all to whom faith was a struggle,

no longer needing a creed

in the light of mutual knowing.

E very voice lifted in heavenly paeans.

The ghosts of all the candle flames

that ever graced the Mission altars,

the ghosts of all the incense ever offered.

P erhaps behind the garden altar,

where now stands a statue of Holy Mary,

she might really come and stand

with the ghosts of all the roses

that ever bloomed in the garden.

A nd she might actually hold in her arms

no less than the eternal Christmas Child.

While all the stars of the heavens

gathered of their will for her diadem,

pale in His blinding glory.