Searching for Roy Jones’ Grave

Who am I to give advice concerning something like doubt? I’ve been struggling with doubt more than ever before these past four and a half years. I’m apprehensive to say I’ve gained some wisdom about overcoming doubt. I feel as if I’m a a fool standing before you pointing with a trembling finger. And I’m saying, “I might be lost and full of fear you should follow me anyways. I’ll show you the way out of the dark and mirky woods.” 

I think Hunter S. Thompson said it best in respect to giving someone advice,

“To give advice to a man who asks what to do with his life implies something very close to egomania. To presume to point a man to the right and ultimate goal — to point with a trembling finger in the RIGHT direction is something only a fool would take upon himself.” — Hunter S. Thompson

So here I am like a fool, taking it upon myself to point my trembling finger in the right direction.

The story:

Sitting near the entrance of the trailhead on the way up to Roy Jones grave is a dried-up mountain spring. It’s an ominous greeting, but a hopeful one. Moving past the former mountain spring and on up the trail, the Junipers begin to transition into Ponderosa Pines. The trees were talking with one another as we headed up the trail to our destination. I could hear them sharing stories about a time long past. Their words served as a reminder we aren’t alone in this world.

Along the dirt path are alpine leafybract and western mountain aster; it’s delightful to see them dance together in the sunlight. The beauty of the surroundings are easily distracting, but it’s important to keep one eye open for horse scat and mountain lions.

Now I must stop and tell you who Roy Jones is first before you get the idea we were looking for the famous country singer’s grave, which we were not. The Roy Jones we were looking for was one of the first homesteaders of the Ochoco Mountains in Central Oregon, sometime in the mid-1800s.

The reason we were looking for Roy Jones’ grave.

I was a pastor of a small church in a small town near the Ochoco’s. My family and I had just moved to this area from a much bigger city and a much bigger church in Northern Colorado. During this time I had gathered a ragtag group of guys for a weekly Bible study. We all had ADD, so we picked a different spot each week to have our Bible study—it so happened that the past three weeks, including this particular day, was spent looking for Roy Jones’ grave. It was a serious Bible study to be sure.

I was feeling uneasy concerning this outing, and like I mentioned we had tried to located Roy Jones’ grave before. But each time we became lost in the various trails of the Ochoco Mountains. Plus, we were aided by the miss-guided directions given to us by a friend.

Another reason for my uneasiness was things weren’t going so well at the church. I was struggling to lead these godly saints in the direction they desired, and it was affecting my family life and my physical health.

And on this day, I was physically not feeling one hundred percent. I had been experiencing symptoms earlier in the week. Symptoms like chest and shoulder pain, shortness of breath, sore jaw and headaches. I was only 43 and believed I was just over worked, over anxious and over stressed. I told no one other than two of my young adult children in passing one day.

There was something else wrong with me, and I was ashamed of it: I was doubting in my abilities as a pastor, a man, a husband, and as a dad. Even more disheartening: I was doubting that God cared about me or my struggles.

I wasn’t so sure God regarded much of anything anymore. God seemed distant and cruel. It was like God didn’t cared about what my family and I had sacrificed these past twenty years serving him, the church and the kingdom. I was beginning to think God either didn’t exist or that God was a no-show.

…

As we neared the summit of the hill, the smell of sagebrush filled the air with the aroma that runs the whole length of the mountain top.The aroma reminded me of the piece of cornbread I had tucked away in my rucksack. One of the ingredients of the cornbread is crushed sage. We made it to Roy Jones’ grave, and paid our respects by putting a penny on the grave. We were told by an old timer that’s what you do when you find Roy Jones’ grave.

That’s when the first of three successive heart attacks hit me, but at the time I told no one. We began to make our way out of the mountains, and I was bargaining with God in my head about getting out of the Ochoco’s. We made back into town and I had the guys drop me off at home, I didn’t want to go to the hospital, I’m little stubborn and dislike places that represent places of sickness and death (I reneged on my bargain with God).

Not too long after being home I was taken to the emergency room, where I was life flighted to another hospital in the next town over because our local hospital doesn’t have a cardiac unit.

I survived the three heart attacks and two surgeries. My marriage survived, my kids get to see me grow to be an old man even though I’m only 45 now, but my ministry and our time in the little town did not survive.

We ended up buying a coffeehouse in the next town over and moved to that town. We don’t go to church every Sunday like we didn’t for the past twenty years, but me and God have an agreement: We’ve agreed to believe in each other even when we piss each other off. Well to be honest, God has never given up on me even in my unbelief.

Something else I’m taking to heart during this dry and lonely season of life: My doubt matters to God. There have been so many obstacles daring me to give up; It’s as if God wants me to doubt. I hear God whispering:

“Go ahead, doubt me. I dare you. I’ll show you how much I care for you, and you’ll see there’s no doubt too big or to off the wall for me to handle.”