A Weekend at a Barn

A prodigious speckled rock appeared on our left with words chiseled giving glory to God. It perked our road weary interest as we rounded a corner announcing the entrance to your farm. A serpentine path matched our treads as it weaved around placid ponds and grey herons stealing your fish. We arrived after a time at what we thought might be your home, but could also have been your barn. Turns out it was both.

The iced tea made us feel at home while the fifty foot rope swing in your living room made our kids wish it was. We sat and spoke of God's ability and love and grace. Wisdom danced across the brick floor where a waiting couple scooped it and placed it in a safe place.

We gathered at your table and sang a hymn as foreigners still becoming acclimated to such unfamiliar inclusion. A brisk after-dinner walk along the granite lined path to the edge of your drive made flapping noises with my inappropriate footwear. I tasted what it was like to "walk along the way", and silently decided to do this with my sons and daughters.

Early that morning as my children slept around me and the only sounds I heard were their breathing in our lofty bedroom, I reached out to the beams of wood that held us up, marveling at the legacy you were leaving behind; faithfilled decendants that would march on long after those logs would rot away and be forgotten.