For a young boy at the tender age of eight, living three miles up the holler on a dirt road in the Kentucky hills in the fifties was a challenging time.
Sitting on the front porch, looking down on the holler road, he could see a good quarter of a mile. Then, coming up the road as his practice every Saturday morning in the summertime, he watched for the sight of his grandpa walking up that road, for that meant Grandpa was “coming to get him.” Grandpa lived a half-mile away. No matter, distance meant nothing when he was with Grandpa.
Hand and hand, they walked back to Grandpa’s to climb the hill behind Grandpa’s house. In the mountains, we call them benches. Benches in the mountains are flat spots on the side of the hills used for planting and growing.
Behind Grandpa’s house, near the top of the mountain, was a large bench. At times, while climbing up the hill on a beautiful, sunshining morning, with the wet of the morning dew, my grandpa would stop and say, “Let’s catch our breath,” take off his hat, hand over his heart, look to the heavens above and say, “Lord, you are sure showing off this morning.” I would also look at the heavens above, knowing well I would see Him.
On Grandpa’s bench was an orchard—not just any orchard. This orchard had a cool mountain spring surrounded by thick, green moss all around. Grandpa called moss “God’s carpet.” Conveniently located by the spring was a little strawberry patch, with apple and pear trees nearby. Grandpa said, “Adam and Eve had an orchard like this.”
Climbing down the hill to the bottom, Grandpa would always stop, look back up the hills and say, “Thank you, Lord. It was worth the walk.”
Spending my Saturday and Saturday night with Grandpa meant getting up early Sunday morning and walking to church. And walking to church meant three miles down dirt road, catching the railroad tracks, walking four miles of railroad tracks and then a mile of highway. Total miles to church were eight miles. And after church, the same eight miles back home.
My grandpa, during the church walks, always wore an old tan, double-breasted suit coat—the only coat he owned. At times during our church walks, a spring or summer rain would move through. I distinctly remember Grandpa opening the ole double-breasted coat, pulling me inside with his arm and coat. I felt like the safest and luckiest kid in the world.
I also remember, in our eight-mile church walks, Grandpa would always talk about the Lord. At times, I kept looking to see Him walking there with us, just knowing He was there.
Finally arriving home, it was always a treat because Grandma always had a dinner ready. With a warm smile and love, she would ask Grandpa the same question each Sunday: “Was it worth the walk?” Grandpa’s answer was always the same: “The Lord, no matter what, is always worth the walk.”
It never fails. On a Sunday morning when it rains, I feel the spirit of my grandpa. It is then I know that it is his way of reminding me it was, and still is, worth the walk.
