Eight years ago today, we crossed the Mason-Dixon for the last time…we were moving back home. We had spent the previous ten years on the mission field in the frozen tundra of northern Ohio. Those were ten glorious years for sure. We made many life-long friends and saw God work in ways I still cannot truly comprehend. But that chapter of our life was ending.

The day before was on a Sunday. I had preached for the last time at our church, and said our bittersweet goodbyes. That was a hard day. After church, we finished packing the final pieces of our life into a Budget truck and our van in below freezing weather. Then said our final goodbyes to our neighbors, our home, and our life for the past ten years. I was numb physically, mentally and emotionally. But I pressed on. A ten hour trip lay before us, and we needed to get on the road.

Each mile seemed like it lasted forever as we pointed our vehicles south. Denise and our Scruffy Dog was in our van, following me in the Budget truck. We had two-way radios so we could keep each other company. The day was already late, which compounded our exhaustion. And I had run out of coffee. But we were going home, and that gave us all the motivation we needed for pushing through. We wanted to get as far down the road as we possibly could, but the harder I pushed that truck, it seemed like home was being pulled away from us.

We made it as far as Terre Haute, Indiana. I couldn’t drive any farther. I was totally spent. There were big sporting events that weekend at Indiana State University, which meant that every possible hotel room was filled. We managed to find a place to lay down, in a dirty, disgusting motel on the outskirts of town. Once we got inside, it was obvious why the vacancy was available. And to make it more frustrating, there was no room to park our moving truck. I ended up maneuvering it into a tiny spot in an already jam-packed parking lot adjacent to the motel. It was hard to sleep that night.

As the dawn began to break, we were already on the road. With a McDonald’s Egg Biscuit and a cup of lukewarm, nasty coffee, I had my foot stuck as far up in the carburetor of that truck as it would go. The hope of home was building…

I remember when we crossed the Mississippi River, there was this ‘weight’ that seemed to be lifted off. I knew we were close. That’s when the miles grew shorter, the sun became brighter and it’s like I got my second wind. Nothing can describe the aura of the Arkansas Delta. The sights, the sounds, the smells … all distinct to this place I call home. Just a few miles after we crossed the bridge, I saw the one thing that could bring a calm to my spirit. On both sides of the road, as far as the eye could see, were cotton fields, proudly showing the remnants of last season’s harvest. The images in my rear view mirror were fading…

Here we are, eight years later and that cold day in February seems like a lifetime ago. It seems like our enemy has thrown everything he could possibly find and think of, at us all in an attempt to derail us. And so many times, it almost worked. Almost…

Today, I find myself, not only home in the Arkansas Delta, but in a place where I call, ‘home home.’ I have been blessed and humbled to be called back to Jackson County Arkansas…the place of my roots and my raising. Today, I get to pastor an awe-inspiring church, that loves Jesus with everything they have, that is 18 miles from where I spent the first 18 years of my life … 6 miles from my family’s burial plots. Back home-home, where I know the lay-of-the-land, the people, and the true heartbeat of what goes on around me. I sincerely never thought this would never ever be possible…

I don’t know what tomorrow might bring … in fact, I’m not even guaranteed tomorrow. But what I do know, is that we serving a loving, gracious God that watches over, protects and provides for His own even and especially when we don’t deserve it. And sometimes, He answers ‘Yes’ to the prayers of an an ole boy that grew up in the cotton fields of the Arkansas Delta, and calls him back home…