I love coming home to the quietness of my small one bedroom apartment, I guess that is if you can get past the hustle and bustle of the never resting highway no more than 30 yards from my front door. I love the ME time I get to take advantage of so often.
Tonight as I sat, my mind wandered into so many of my childhood years, most of which were spent with my grandparents in Albany TX, a town you’ve probably never heard of… you know…like the one’s in all the sad country songs….and yes, everyone knew our names. My grandparents attended a small pentecostal church on the outside of town. Faithful to every service, my grandaddy was sure to remember that big black bible, the one with the initials “EBM” engraved into the side. Occasionally I would attend with him…that is until the time Sister Belinda forced me to sing Jesus Loves Me in front of the entire (17 people) service. After that, I checked out with the Penies… no thanks guys.
It was the story of my life.
I loved my grandparents probably more than I’ve ever loved anyone else in my life. I adored them in every way my small little childhood heart could. The point of my story isn’t to reminisce something you could probably careless about, the point of my story is that I sat at home tonight with the realization that two of the people I cared most about in my life, two people that had the hope and love of Jesus Christ in their life, or even just the knowledge of those things, never once offered that to me. Never. Their life reflected actions of a religion, instead of a relationship. And now, it’s nothing more than a sad story.