Finding a Way Home

  

  When my dad was growing up in the hills of Eastern Kentucky, every day was an adventure. One of dad's favorite things to do was to tell stories about his childhood. He was the son of a coal miner, sharecropper and alcoholic. His stories were often told with tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat, but also told with the hope that his stories would impact the listeners’ lives in a positive way. One story went something like this:

     “When I was a youngster, my father drank way too much. He drank some during the week but always managed to get up before the sun rose and head up the mountain with the other miners to work in the coal mines. But on Saturday afternoon, when he got paid, he would go to town and gamble and drink until his paycheck was gone. Early on Sunday morning, he would head home, still blurry-eyed and stumbling. The only way he could find his way was to get to the railroad tracks and follow them home. The tracks led to the shack just outside of town where we lived. My mother would get up early on Sunday morning, not to take us to church, but to go outside and look down the tracks to see if she could spot my dad, weaving on and off the cross ties as he “tracked” his way home.”

     “As soon as momma would see him coming, she’d run down and meet him, help him off the tracks so he wouldn’t be run over by a train, then lead him back to the safety of our house.  There on Sunday morning dad would sleep it off in his chair and always wake up just in time for the cornbread and beans mom made for Sunday dinner. That was our life, repeated every week until I left home.”

     I grew up hearing this story and remember I was always amazed at the enduring love of my grandmother. My father never mentioned her yelling at him or berating him in front of the children. His only portrayal of her was of a loving, kind and patient spouse who did everything within her power to “save” her husband from his own self-destructive habits.

     As a teenager I began to attach spiritual significance to these stories, for many of them were my dad’s way of passing on wisdom to his children. This story in particular always pointed me to a Savior who knew my patterns, knew, that left to my own devices I would be the victim of life's "trains." He has reached out to me over and over to rescue me from the tragic result of sin. His interest is not in scolding me or humiliating me. His purpose is to save me, redeem me, recreate me in a way that will lead me down another path…one of significance not destruction.