Recently I returned home. I went back home to my Mom’s place in Alabama for the Memorial Day weekend

My mom is 85 years old now. She is still in great health physically and mentally. She still has a kick in her step, a smile on her face and is still quick with a little lighthearted zinger. The grandkid’s call my mom “Bumbum”. So her little quick witted darts have come to be known as a “Bumbum Burn”. When you least expect it, she will hit you with a funny little “Bumbum burn” tomahawk and laugh about it. You can’t help but laugh too even when you’re the one getting the burn.

There is an old cliche, “Home is where the heart is”. This place, my mom’s place is where our collective heart is.

This place where my mom lives was my father’s last great build.

When men are young they build muscles and swag. They flex and build reputations. They build themselves really. From undefined hard marble stone, like Michelangelo’s “David” , they chisel out the statue, the form of who they are to become. Then finally they find their footing and start a career. They find themselves and set off to seek their fortune, to find their love.

Later in the life they build families and focus on building what his family needs. They become protectors and providers. Task oriented. They become outward looking. They grind. They build. They achieve.

Men love to take something raw and untamed, something that is bare and base and built it into something MORE. They visualize something and see it not as it is but what it could be. Men are builders. Even old men.

Old men will plant a tree knowing they will never see it grow to its full potential. They will plant a grape vine knowing they will never eat its fruit. Still they till new ground and plant nonetheless. Men build things.

Old men want to build something that will last. They want that last great build. They think about their legacy. They want to leave something that stands, that grows even after they are gone.

When my dad was in his mid to late fifties he bought the property my mom still lives on today. It was his last great build.

My dad built a house. He built a pond. He tilled land and had a garden spot. He built fences and bought cattle and became a gentleman cattle man. Something he had always wanted. His father before him raised cattle.

On my mom’s property are a couple of ponds. A place my dad would fish. A place for the cattle to drink and occasionally cool off in the heat of the summer.

Back in the woods in the head of the upper pond my dad built a sanctuary. A Memorial.

Oaks, populars, willows, pines, and sweet gums stand like a fortress surrounding a clearing that only a handful of people even know exist. It’s a place only family has ever seen. My dad didn’t build it for show. It was meant to be something MORE.

That clearing, that place my dad built is a Memorial. It is it is sacred. It is Holy Ground.

It is our Gilgal.

It’s time for a Sunday School Lesson.

In the bible, when God parted the river Jordan and the Israelite’s entered the Promised Land, Joshua told the elders of each tribe to gather a large stone from the river bed to build a memorial. This is what Joshua said:

Joshua Chapter 4: 4-7

Joshua called together the twelve men he had chosen—one from each of the tribes of Israel.

He told them, “Go into the middle of the Jordan, in front of the Ark of the Lord your God. Each of you must pick up one stone and carry it out on your shoulder—twelve stones in all, one for each of the twelve tribes of Israel.

We will use these stones to build a memorial. In the future your children will ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’

Then you can tell them, ‘They remind us that the Jordan River stopped flowing when the Ark of the Lord’s Covenant went across.’ These stones will stand as a memorial among the people of Israel forever.”

Joshua built a memorial at Gilgal , east of Jericho to honor of what God had done at the river Jordan. To honor what God had done, what God was continuing to doing and to honor what God would do in the future. It was a lasting memorial.

My father when he was an old man, built this sanctuary. This place is his memorial. His Gilgal.

In this sanctuary, in the midst of this stand of hardwoods, is this clearing defined by an oval shaped wooden fence. My father build that fence. At one end is a wooden cross. Its base buried in the soil. My brother in law, Michael, made that cross for my father. It’s is inscribed with words in Greek,

The Cross is inscribed with these words;

ΧΡΙΣΤΟΣ (Christ)

ΟΔΟΣ (Way)

ΑΛΗΘΕΙΑ (Truth)

ΖΩΗ (Life)

My Mom and my wife Linda sit and talk down by the cross.

The stones placed along the fence represent my dad’s family.

My father gathered stones from this land and placed them along the fence, near the foot of that cross. These stones represent his family. Himself, my mom, his children and grandchildren. Large stones and smaller stones.

He and my mom planted flowers and fauna. Over the years adding more along the way. Cuttings from funeral and holiday arrangements.

Near the foot of the cross are several metal boxes. Originally it was only one box but over the years more boxes have been added. Boxes my mom picked up along the way in her junk store adventures. On this Memorial Day Weekend we added a new box.

These boxes look like little treasure chests. That is exactly what they are. These boxes are filled with treasures. More precious than gold. Worth more than fortune and fame.

These treasure chests are filled with prayer rocks. My mom will pick up an ordinary stone on her walk and take it home. Then she will take a red or black permanent marker and write someone’s name on it. Sometimes an individual, sometimes a couple or maybe an entire family of names on the stone. She has done this for years.

Often my mom will walk down to the cross, sit and pray for that person or persons or family she has written on the stone. Then when she is done praying she will drop the stone in one of her prayer boxes. Each box is overflowing with rocks. Names written on each one in her own handwriting.

While home this past Memorial Day weekend I went down to the cross.

First I went alone. Delivering a new belated Mother’s Day gift from her children. She said she wanted, “A new bench to sit on down at the cross.”

The old bench seat beautifully crafted years ago from wood by my other brother in law, Alan finally gave up the ghost. So we got Mom a new one.

I delivered the new bench and set it up close to the cross and then just sat. Taking in the presence of this place.

Since my father’s passing 10 years ago this place hasn’t been maintained like he would keep it.

The board fence is in disrepair. Grass and weeds have grown up around the stones.

The Greek words on the cross are now faint.

I sat there in the stillness of the early morning. The rising sun burning off the fog and the birds warbling and chortling.

This place feels sacred. In this place I feel a closeness to God. I can feel a closeness with my dad. In this place you can visually see what he built. You can feel it in your soul. This is Holy Ground.

You can see something More. Something that has lasted long after he has left us.

The fence maybe falling apart. The weeds may be growing over the stones. The words of the cross may be faint.

But here,,,, HERE there are things that will last generations. Forever maybe.

On top of the heap in one of the prayer boxes was a stone. I picked it up and held it in my hand. On it written the names in red, “Jared, Amanda, Porter and baby boy.

My son Jared and his wife Amanda are expecting an addition to the family. A boy. Yet to be named. Porter is going to be a big sister. They are due in early September.

I am an old man now myself. I dream of building things. Something that will endure. Something that will last forever.

I look into the future and try to see things not as how they are but how they could be. How things may be in the days ahead.

I sat holding this stone in my hand in this sanctuary and for the first time in a while whispered a prayer. “Oh God, hear my prayer.”

A prayer for baby boy Johnson and family.

Then I sat in this place my father built, this Memorial, this acknowledgment of what God has done, what God is doing and what God will do in the future. I imagine things to come.

In the future I see a young man lean and muscular, full of swag. I see him trying to find his footing in life. A young man wanting to seek his fortune. A young man who may be lonely and may have lost his way. He may be unsure of himself.

I can see a young man that reach’s up and takes a memento off his shelf and sits on his bed holding it. A memento of his past, his present and his future. A treasure worth more than gold. A stone kept to become a memorial. A remembrance.

I see a young man with his stone on his hand. With words written in a handwriting he is not familiar with. Words written with a thick red permanent marker.

The words ,,,, “Jared, Amanda, Porter, and baby boy.”

He sits holding the stone and for the first time in a while whispers a prayer. “Oh God, hear my prayer”

My father and my mother built a memorial.

It was my father’s last great build. Something that will last forever.

“In the future your children will ask you, “What do these stones mean?”.”

— Joshua

God Loves you, friends.

I love you too. Always remember that.

Happy (belated) Memorial Day

Happy Father’s Day. I miss you Dad. ❤️

I Will Not Go Quietly.

“What Do These Stones Mean?”