One Spike.
One, 70-year-old, rusted spike.
It looks worn, neglected, and a little twisted.
This is just one spike from a temporary railroad that ran 18 miles from Cotter, Arkansas, to the Bull Shoals Dam along the White River, 1948-1952.
Only one Spike out of Thousands.
It was only for only a few years.
It was just a momentary purpose in the scale of time: 4 years.
And then, it was discarded & abandoned; or maybe, it was overlooked.
But, no longer with a purpose?
It had a designer.
It had a creator.
It was forged in the fire.
It was tempered for strength.
It was molded into perfection.
It was one of many.
It was expertly placed into position.
It was designed for durability.
It was critiqued & judged for endurance.
It was driven deep into the wood for stability.
The pounding it sustained.
The weight it carried.
The stress it withstood.
The twisting it endured.
The achievements it attained.
The accolades it never heard.
The praises it never received.
Yet, it still resonates.
The wisdom it still echoes, though seemingly disregarded.
I thought about leaving it and letting nature continue to fold into its covering.
Maybe, I should let it dissolve into the elements.
So, I walked on down the limb-strewn pathway, but I marked its location in the back of my mind. It was a nearby sycamore tree that seemed to guard it with its gnarled roots digging into the rocky river soil. Judging from the tree's size and girth, it sprouted soon after the spike was tossed away seven decades ago.
Seven decades…
As I continued walking down the wooded lane, I felt the familiar tug of my curiosity draw me back to the small discovery along the pathway.
On my way back, I looked in the distance to see if I could locate the single sentinel towering over the spike.
The location was already hammered into my mind.
And then, I heard it.
I heard the spike.
In my mind, the spike was still resonating.
Could I resist the call?
I couldn't.
Oh, I tried.
Lord knows I tried, kind of.
Knowing I have failed this test so many times before, I smiled.
I knew I couldn't resist.
I reasoned to myself that this one spike would fasten and secure my small collection.
Grasping this one steel spike, large flakes of rust started to slough off into my hand. Collecting the brittle fragments onto my shirt pocket, I instantly knew this spike had a new home. knelt down, picked up the spike, and cradled it in my hand. Oh, the pleasure to hold a forgotten fragment of history.
Grasping this one steel spike, large flakes of rust started to sluff off into my hand. Collecting the brittle fragments onto my shirt pocket, I instantly knew this spike had a new home.
Driving away from the river that afternoon, I looked at the crimson rust stains in the palm of my hand. I marveled at the glory of small finds and discoveries.
Never despise small beginnings.
Never despise small endings.
There's more worth here than we realize.
One Spike.
This one spike.
One rusted spike, 70-years-old.
It has a new purpose now.
It speaks volumes if we only listen.
Maybe, we should all search for our own elusive spike.
Maybe, we should listen to something fallen by the wayside.
They're hidden everywhere.
Maybe, it's lying in an area so gnarled & twisted it overshadows our real treasure.
Let's forget about the twisted landscape.
Let's look for what calls out to us.
Do you remember the location?
You've passed by it before, right?
Has it stained your hands?
Can you hear it?
It's there; just listen.
Oftentimes, we identify with this old rusted spike pulled out of history riddled with a forgotten past.
No accolades, no achievements, no glory?
Beaten, stressed, twisted, and neglected.
No, my friend, it's not true.
We have a Creator and Designer.
Maybe, we should surrender ourselves in the palm of His hand once crimsoned stained.
We have been forged in the fire.
We have been tempered for strength.
We have been molded for a purpose.
Your discovery is so close.
It is resonating.
Are you listening?
