Home

We said good-bye to him the other day.  The services were in his home church.  As I waited, sitting  there, looking out the window at the rows of graves, my mind saw a different picture.  I have visited his birthplace many times.  It is one of my favorite haunts when I hike in the Refuge.  A tall chimney with an open fire place beneath stands guarding the few remaining logs that were the walls of his first home.  There is something intriguing about visiting an old house site.  You can feel the memories crowding around you.  The road that curves around in front of the house seems to echo with sounds of wagon wheels and horses and eager footsteps as the family returned home at the end of the day.

Was there snow on the ground that Christmas Day when he was born?  Did he open his baby eyes and see the fire burning bright in the fireplace?  Did his brothers and sisters get to hold him and welcome him to their already large family?  I am always amazed at how our small Ozark cabins seem to have sheltered and fed and nurtured so many at one time.

His wife left us a few months ago.  It was in the fall.  But still he was able to continue to live in their home, just down the mountain from where he was born. 

And now, here we were, ready to say good-bye again.  It seems only fitting that he lies now near where it all began over 95 years ago.  What a long and fruitful life he led.

I wonder too, how it would be to live my life within a few miles of where I was born.  Even though we yearn to travel and see new places, the siren song of home is strong.  We all want to come home.  And that is where he is. 

Welcome home.