There’s an old song some of you might have heard of … “Country Roads.” It was made popular many years ago by John Denver.
“Country roads take me home to the place I belong – West Virginia, Mountain Momma … take me home, country roads.”
Well, I’m not from West Virginia — the country roads of Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina, to be more accurate. But a few months ago, that song was definitely running through my mind.
Through work, I had an opportunity to attend a meeting in Charlotte, NC … since I had family in the area, my boss gave me the okay to take some personal time and drive in for the meeting from Iowa to North Carolina — that way I could visit with family and friends. (Thanks Roger!)
I had a wonderful time visiting with my Dad and his wife, Argent. I hadn’t had the opportunity to see them both for a some time. I was blessed with the opportunity to go to church with them one Sunday and hear one of the pastors from my childhood, Bro. Jaynes, and visit with his wife, Karen (and hear her sing in the choir.) Sitting by my Dad in a church service, hearing Sis. Jaynes’ beautiful voice praising the Lord and Bro. Jaynes’ booming voice delivering the Lord’s message … well, it brought back so many wonderful memories, I found that there were tears in my eyes.
But it wasn’t quite the same as it use to be … I wasn’t home.
When I drove from Kingsport to Charlotte, I decided to swing by Valdese, North Carolina. My paternal grandparents — both with the Lord now — lived there. I wanted to go by and visit their house — long since sold to strangers. I had so many wonderful memories of spending time there during the summer — of Grandmother freezing corn and making me rice for breakfast; of Grandfather feeding the squirrels and having some of them get the peanuts right out of his shirt pocket! I took pictures of the house and street side that bears the family name. But there was no one there to greet me on the porch … I didn’t have the right to walk around to the back patio, sit and listen to the breeze in the trees.
It looked similar, but it wasn’t the same … I wasn’t home.
After my work meeting, I decided to drive from Charlotte over to Atkins, Virginia. That’s where my mother grew up and where she’s buried. I turned off of the old Lee Highway on to Rocky Hollow Road. I passed my Aunt Skinny’s house on the right — it now has strangers living in it. I thought of all the times I had sat at the table and had Skinny’s fried chicken, fried potato patties, and Brown Stone cake. I thought of all the times, on Sunday afternoons, when we had all piled on Aunt Skinny’s bed to take naps. I thought of seeing my 95-year-old Granny sit on the front porch, reading her Bible and singing hymns of praise.
I drove just a little down the road and came to Aunt Det’s house. I turned into the driveway. There aren’t any strangers there … the house is owned by Det’s daughter, my cousin, Rita June. But no one was living there now. I looked in the door at the side porch and saw the wood burning cook stove from the old home place. I could almost smell the Dodger bread and taste the fried apple pies Granny use to make. I walked around the house and snapped some pictures. I thought of the times we cousins would play in the backyard, of the times Rita June would play the piano and we’d sing the old hymns. I thought of the times Aunt Det would help me learn to crochet and make me wilted lettuce.
But neither Aunt Skinny or Aunt Det was there … I wasn’t home.
I drove on up the road and turned off the pavement to rough road (lane, really) that would lead me to the old farm. I cried as I drove, flooded by so many wonderful, poignant memories. The farm, house, out buildings are all gone now. But parts of the stone fence remain. 
However, I could picture where everything once stood. I spotted the old, huge tree that the grandkids all climbed and played around. I pictured the old porch swing and smell of the root cellar. I saw and heard all the cats that use to run wild. I thought of Granny in the kitchen cooking, Grandpa lying in his bed and “cousin” Dan skinning the rabbits and squirrels for family dinner. I walked up the road a little further and saw the little family cemetery. I took pictures of the homemade headstone for my great-great-grandparents, handprints of my Grandpa and great-Grandpa. I looked out on the hills and fields I used to play and thought of so many adventures we cousins took, remembering the laughter, skinned knees, silly fights and love.
But the buildings were gone and no one came out to hug me … I wasn’t home.
As I was leaving Atkins, I swung by the cemetery where so many of my loved ones are buried: Aunt Skinny and Uncle Woodrow, Aunt Det and Uncle Clyde, Grandpa and Granny, and … Momma. I stood at Mom’s grave and told her I was so glad to have had her as my Mom. I told her I loved and missed her. There was a kind of peace when I stood there, but something was missing. I looked at the headstone and saw my Dad’s name engraved, reminded that some day he’ll join her. The freezing, pouring rain seemed to match my mood at the moment.
Yes … something was missing — Mom wasn’t really there to hold me and comfort me. I wasn’t home.
I drove away. I stopped to visit the house in which I lived for 18 years. It was the only home I had as a child. As I drove there, I was thinking of the huge backyard, the front porch where Mom and would sit on the stoop in the morning, the street where all the neighborhood kids would ride their bikes and play. I thought of the laughter, joy and tears shed in that house … of the love that flowed in every nook and cranny. But when I got there, I almost cried. It just wasn’t the same — it looked old and run down. It showed the passage of time. I couldn’t just walk in the front door and come home …
Because it wasn’t home anymore.
I made one more stop on my journey … I went to visit the childhood church: Anderson Church of God on Wagner Road, Virginia. Other than the parking lot being bigger and a larger sign, the outside of the grounds and building looked so much like my memories. I walked to the doors and — yes, they were all locked. I so much wanted to go inside … I hadn’t been in that building for almost 20 years. I snapped some pictures and had resigned myself to simply driving back to my Dad’s. As I was unlocking my car, another car entered the parking lot. It was the pastor. I introduced myself, explained why I was there. Pastor Gary smiled warmly and invited me the doors of the church. He urged me to make myself at home and visit as long as I liked.
I walked all through the building. To old classrooms — I saw my Dad leading the “Jet Cadets;” I saw my Mom doing flannel graph lessons; I saw Greta Easterling teaching Sunday School. I remembered the sitting up and taking down the folding chairs in the fellowship hall. I pictured the altars where, with my Mom, I knelt down and asked Jesus to be my Savior and Lord.
Then I wandered down to the newer addition — the new sanctuary. I pictured LP Trivette leading worship and Jimmy playing the piano. I found the pew dedicated to my Mom … the sanctuary she never lived to see. On the other pews, I read names of the saints that used to attend — who are up in Heaven. Pastor Gary joined me in the sanctuary and we started talking about folks who still attended.
And I cried … I was home.
It struck me that of all the places I had visited — each place where I had so many wonderful memories — each place where I knew was loved … those buildings were now locked to me and/or the people that filled them with love were gone.
But not the church. Pastor Marlin welcomed me and so did Pastor Gary. It just reminded me that’s the way it is with God, His love and mercy. We are the ones who are guilty of leaving … He’s never left us. His arms are always opened to receive us … always willing to forgive … always wanting to wrap us in His love.
When the journey gets long … when you think you’ve lost you’re way … when you feel tired and alone … remember, you can always go home — go home to Jesus.
Now, that’s a home-coming!
“Come unto me all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke and learn from Me for I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls.” (Matt. 11:28-29)
May everything we say and do be pleasing and acceptable in His sight.
And He Speaks to Me... 