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I Once Was Lost...

Running.  Faster and faster.  I keep stumbling over branches and roots.  I don’t know where I am.  Why can’t I find Him?  Where did He go?  

I’m exhausted, so I lay down on the damp grass.  Any glimpses of light have already faded from the sky.  Only a still, bleak darkness remains.  

I’m lost.  And I’m the only one.  Whimpering and weakly calling over and over to Him.  Will He come for me?  Will He come look for me?  I don’t know if He will.  It’s all my fault anyway, I ran away.  I didn’t mean to in the first place, I just meant to step away a bit.  The other side looked so much easier, I just wanted to go over for a minute.  But then it turned into a day, a week, and as everyone else kept moving on, I stayed farther and farther behind.  I thought I was together.  I thought I was fine - a pretty good thing.  But somehow, I strayed off.  And here I was, trying to find comfort in a dark, cold land.  

I knew I would never be able to find the way by myself.  But I just kept on trying to hope - He WOULD find me, wouldn’t He?  

I called out to Him, over and over.  Praying He would come pick me up and put me in His arms - the place that I would be safe forever.  "Please, please," I would cry, “find me please." 

With my last ounce of strength, I whispered, “Father, I am yours.  And nothing can ever take me away from You.  You will find me."  

And all was dark.  Silence. 

But then, I felt His arms.  He came and cradled me - wrapping me in His soft cloak.  

“It is not the will of your Father that one of these little ones should parish.  You are mine, and I will not ever loose you.  I will protect you and keep you safe.  Even when you’re frightened, you will know that I am here because I will say so."

I was found. 

—-

“What do you think?  If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them goes astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine and go to the mountains to seek the one that is straying?  And if he should find it, assuredly, I say to you he rejoices more over that sheep than over the ninety-nince that did not go astray.  Even so it is not the will of your Father who is in heaven that one of these little ones should parish." -Matthew 18: 12-14

My Land.

I loved my land.

The place where the soft purple flowers bloomed on the hills every spring. Where the neighbors would go visit each other riding on their blue, red, green, or yellow tractors.  How with every wisp of wind, the long grass would flicker and dance from luscious green to soft silver, from warm gold to brilliant jade.  No fear could find us as we would walk along the lonely roads—dodging the gaping holes, looking over the low bridges to stare deeply into into the nearby creeks and rivers.  Birds could be heard singing softly through the trees: bringing in every sunrise and laying down every sunset.  The warm, musty, smell of the earth clung to every bare foot and shirt.  Admired the lightening, gloried in the thunder, and praised for the rain.

I loved my land.

Here I could rest content, leaning against his side as we rode to the back in our tractor.  Feeling the supportive arm wrapped around my waist—assuring me I wasn’t going anywhere.  Loving the uncontrollable laughter at the peculiarity of the animals.  Raising our voices with every “Ho Cow!" and “Hey!": calling the animals in for their daily bread.  We would always sit on the back porch talking of the work and drinking sweet, iced tea—talking about how the grass grew and the new calf born.  Just me and him.   Sometimes my brothers, sister, or mother: all talking to our Papaw and “Dad."  We would build fences and make hay, dig ponds and catch fish.  Telling stories ‘round the campfire and jumping from behind trees: yelling and giggling at the surprised faces and squeals.  Loving the family, loving the food, loving the laughter, and loving the land. 

And then, he was gone.  Gone forever from the land he fostered and built.

And for some reason, I didn’t love the land anymore.  Never walked down the quiet roads, never went to the back.  Stayed away from the pond and shunned the cows and chickens.  Stopped watching the sunrises and forgot the song of the birds.  Put on the socks and shoes and left the beauty of the grass.  

Because he was gone.

It wasn’t just my land, it wasn’t our land—it was his land.  His land we stayed on, played on, lived on, worked on.  And I couldn’t stand it.  For without him, I felt lost: living in a place I barely knew.  For every small whiff of the land wreaked of the pain embedded deep within our hearts.  And so, I forgot the land.  We still took care of the cows and chickens—but with a mechanical movement devoid of feeling and emotion.  

So, time went on.  Leaves changed and fell, air moved from cool to cold.  Christmas came and went.  Happiness was felt, laughter was had, but tears were shed too.  We could no longer hold hands and pray without remembering his missing voice and talk of blessings.  The new year came, the earth came alive from its long sleep, and we lived on.

And then, it was spring.  

And with new life, brought new hope.  Slowly but surely, the love returned.  Still marred with tears, pain, and sorrow, but filled with glimpses of hope and flutters of true joy.  We walked the roads, cut the grass, planted the flowers, and sang our songs.  Stayed up long and talked of memories.  Learned to love and let love live.

Yes, he was gone forever from this earth, but his life and legacy remained in every blade of grass, new calf, and old wooden fence.  His songs and the soft strums of the guitar could never be heard, but the words didn’t change—even if the voices did.  No words can be said, no thoughts can be shared, but life was here.

I loved the land.  But more than that, I love the people who live on the land.  The people who built the land.